Chapter Text
WARNING! This is a mature story meant for adult readers! If you're the squeamish type that cannot take in distressing physical or emotional situations or are easily triggered, this story is not for you! It contains themes that deal with rape, abuse, and torture. (It's a story where the main characters are the Boltons, so that should give a mild indication that it's not going to be fluffy although there will be no main character deaths, mutilations, or grotesque gore since this is a gift fic hubby is writing for me, and he knows what I like! ;) As a side note, I'm a sucker for redemption, so although Ramsay has a long hard road ahead of him, the end goal will be reformation. Anyways, enough of my babbling, enjoy! =D
Audio version: https://app.box.com/s/ur2w8fvmuax9ce76is08g4gyueh4soqm
Chapter One
Betrayal
The wind howled over the stony edifice of Winterfell, which solemnly met the snow that swept in from even further north. For generations those rocky walls stood stoically against one winter after the other, a bastion against the cold for those that dwelt inside. For generations those that ruled the North from that keep had been of House Stark.
No longer, however. The blue banners depicting the dire wolf sigil of that once great House were nowhere to be seen now, having been replaced by the flayed man banners of House Bolton. Through treachery and deception the Boltons betrayed the Starks, despite having been bannermen to them for over a century.
Roose Bolton had been dubbed the new Warden of the North by the Lannisters of King's Landing, whom he had conspired with to murder Rob Stark and all of his family at the event that had come to be called the Red Wedding. The one time King of the North had been filled with bolts and then beheaded on a day that had been meant for celebration.
In one night of blood and villainy Roose had secured more for his House than any before him had ever accomplished, but as he stood upon the parapet of that monolithic structure, looking out at the vast reaches of the frozen tundra he was now Warden of, he still let out a despondent sigh. It didn't matter that the Lannisters promised him security.
They were a thousand miles away over treacherous terrain and winter was coming. It didn't matter that Rob Stark was dead; he still had living kin. Jon Snow was a bastard true, but so was Roose's only living heir Ramsay; a bastard could yet carry the torch when there was simply no one else to do so. Roose glanced back along the stony halls behind him.
Back within his chambers his relatively new wife Walda Frey, now Walda Bolton, lay advanced in pregnancy, and the Maester promised Roose a boy, though it was yet too early to know for certain. Ramsay had surprised Roose, both in his initiative and his ambition, and done much to secure the Bolton's residence within this frozen reach.
When he had been the only heir, of course. Jon Snow was now the only heir to the Stark legacy, along with his sister Sansa Stark, whom Ramsay had foolishly allowed to escape from Winterfell. And Jon Snow was now acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Roose had no doubts as to where Sansa would have gone after her daring escape from the Boltons.
Would Jon Snow rally the Night's Watch against Roose? Was that even possible? Roose scratched at his thin wispy grey beard as he thought. He didn't actually know much about the Night's Watch, other than that they were stationed at the Wall to defend against Wildling raiders. He would imagine that they wouldn't wish to be embroiled in politics, but Roose wasn't certain what code they lived by. And Jon was Lord Commander.
He was Lord Commander and they were sworn to follow his command, so if that bastard decided to march every single one of the Wall's defenders south to take back his ancestral home from Roose Bolton, it would seem they would be obliged to do just that. Roose's spies had informed him that the Wall was lightly manned these days.
With all of the sudden losses due to the treacherously cold weather of the far north along with the resurgence of persistent Wildling attacks upon the defenders, the Night's Watch had maybe a hundred seasoned men capable of waging war, with little else to pull from save ill-trained stewards, the old, and the ill.
There had been unsettling reports most recently, however. Apparently Jon Snow was brokering peace with the ancestral enemies to all Northmen. While it was good that his doing so could very well alienate him from all of the other Houses of the North, Roose had no idea how many Wildlings such a move could add to his ranks.
And of course there was Sansa Stark. Apart from Jon's efforts at the Watch she could use the very birthright that Roose had wanted to secure for the Boltons against them. She could rally every other House in the North under her banner if she proved the mettle for it. Roose didn't know if she did, but he knew what the other Houses felt of him, and he had never been in so much danger.
The fucking Lannisters… Tywin had been murdered by his own son and now his fool daughter promised him security, but Roose knew better. He had overplayed his hand, and now he was going to have to struggle just to survive. His gloved hands traced the stonework before him absently as he thought; had he brought the Bolton House to ruin? Would Roose be the one who ended their legacy?
Marrying Sansa Stark to Ramsay had been a desperate gambit to placate the rest of the North, but even in doing that it had never felt like it would be nearly enough. Especially seeing as Ramsay had adopted a particularly cruel streak in dealing with those that were now their subjects, which did not endear him or the Bolton name with the locals.
Of course, that had been before Sansa had escaped. Her departure meant that not only was that card no longer on the table diplomatically, but once the other Houses found out how Ramsay had mistreated her, they were going to be on even worse terms with the others. House Bolton, despite centuries of service to the North, was now a pariah to it.
Enemies on all sides. For certainly once Cersei had learned of Roose's bold move in marrying his son to Sansa, whom Cersei hated and considered a traitor to the crown, she would see Roose also as a traitor. His only boon in that particular burnt bridge was in the fact that Cersei was in just as poor a stance to march north to attack him as she would have been to aid him.
Besides all these woes, though, nothing concerned him as much as the actions of his eldest son, Ramsay Bolton. Roose had hoped that by having him naturalized that Ramsay would in some way change for the better. The boy had always fawned over Roose's attention, ever since he had moved into the Dread Fort back when he was around ten years of age.
As he'd grown to manhood, Ramsay had shown a keen love for the darker side of House Bolton, embracing some of the measures taken by Roose's forbears and indeed by Roose himself with an uncanny zeal. Roose had always seen torturing his enemies as a necessary tool that could be satisfying if one truly hated one's enemy.
Ramsay, though… he relished hurting people, even people whom he had no reason to find quarrel with, and he seemed always looking for a new victim. Roose had wished that with added responsibilities and power that Ramsay would mature away from his violent games, perhaps learn from the father he so avidly emulated.
But the young bastard had always seemed to lack the ability to see the bigger picture. He tended to react to any given situation based on how he felt at the time, and while he clearly had the ability to lay cunning plans when needed, he rarely bothered to think past the satisfaction of whatever short-term goal he currently attended.
Roose warned him time and again, yet his words had fallen on deaf ears. Was it too late? Could the Boltons even pull themselves from the mess all this treachery had landed them in? Roose had summoned Harold Karstark, son of Robert Karstark of that great House. Rob Stark had beheaded the man's father for treason during his war with the Lannisters.
If anyone would be set against the possibility of Sansa Stark mounting some sort of resurgence of her House in the north, it would be Harold. At least, that was what Roose had to hope. With the Karstarks on their side, Roose might yet convince the Umbers to join him in solidifying his hold upon the north, saving the Boltons from inevitable collapse.
He let out a long breath, steadying himself for the meeting to come. He needed to put fear aside; now was the time when he needed to be more than his apprehension, more than his concerns. He needed to be sharp and discerning if he wanted to save his House tonight. Roose watched as the vapors of his breath froze upon the chill air around him; it was going to be a cold night.
Roose knew that Harold was within Winterfell; from his viewpoint atop the parapets he had beheld the Karstark lord and his armored entourage long before they had broached the gates of the keep, their sun banners whipping above them in the chill wind. He knew that by now the young lord would have already been waiting for his arrival in the war room.
That was expected; Roose liked to have the other lords wait for his arrival. It showed them that he did things on his own time, and would not be rushed to action for the convenience of one of the other lords of Westeros. What Roose was not expecting was that his son Ramsay would arrive early to the meeting, which was very much not like Ramsay.
The Warden of the North glanced at both men and then entered, taking a casual stance before the war map that was situated in the very center of the room. A detailed portrayal of Westeros lay upon a sturdy oaken table there, with ornately crafted stone pieces atop of it at various locations, the carved imagery of other Houses denoting the locations of potential enemies.
So many enemies, and on all sides of the flayed man statues that represented House Bolton. Roose took a moment to remove any traces of concern he might have felt over this before turning his icy blue eyes upon Harold. The Karstark, like his son, had chosen not to sit and yet remained standing, so Roose decided to conduct their meeting on his feet as well, forgoing any urging for them to sit.
As usual, Roose allowed his guest to do most of the talking; he had always found that a man learned more by listening than speaking. He learned of the more recent movements of his potential enemies, and had just begun to properly scold Ramsay for his recklessness when they were all interrupted. It was a shame too, because Roose had finally decided to properly chastise the boy.
The annoyance at having the Maester intrude upon the small war meeting faded quickly at the words that passed from the portly man's lips; he was officially the father of two sons. Roose's entire day brightened; all of the dark brooding thoughts he had held for so long at least temporarily held at bay by such a fantastic prospect.
Ever since Roose's only legitimate heir had died of illness, the aging Bolton had prayed to any of the gods old or new that might yet grant him another son, one whom would unquestionably carry the Bolton birthright into the future. He had long since given up at the task, and only recently began to try again with Walda.
Of course, Roose had held no real hopes that she would take seed; Walda was young enough, but Roose had been fairly certain that he himself was past the time of fathering children. Yet here it was, the baby had been born without fatal complication, and a boy at that… an heir at last! Roose's delight cooled considerably when he finally took note of Ramsay's demeanor.
A moment before, Ramsay's face had registered annoyance and slight mollification at his father's stern reprimand concerning Ramsay's bold ideas about storming Castle Black and taking the fight to the bastard son of Ned Stark, but now that had fallen away entirely as the revelation of what Roose's new child's birth brought to him.
Roose felt suddenly sorry for the boy. After all, Ramsay had spent many years faithfully abiding at least most of Roose's commands, ever eager to prove himself a good son, so as to earn himself some modicum of status. He had gained more than any bastard Roose could think of, yet it must still sting to know that he might be second to a more legitimate heir.
The Warden of the North approached his naturalized son, placing his arms upon Ramsay perhaps more warmly than he ever had in all of the entirety of their lives together, making sure that Ramsay could look him in the eye as he spoke with a reassuring smile, "You shall always be my firstborn son." He leaned in then, hugging Ramsay as affirmation of his words.
What Roose expected was for Ramsay to be stiff and uncomfortable with the expression of fondness; after all they had not once ever done anything so familiar, so close as hugging one another. What Roose did not expect was the blade. Roose heard his son say something in his ear, but the only thing that his attention could rest upon was the gleaming knife that stabbed for his heart.
It all happened in a flash, and Roose let out a startled grunt at the feeling of the knife impacting his torso. In the briefest moment of time many things about that day became clear to Roose Bolton. He knew now why Ramsay had arrived uncharacteristically early to the war meeting; he must have been laying down his own plans with Harold, whom seemed unsurprised by Ramsay's treachery.
Also, a few days before Ramsay had offered to have Roose's armor cleaned for him; not an unusual offer, as Ramsay often did his best to attend Roose in any way that might curry favor. He was almost like a needy puppy at times with his eagerness, and Roose had thought nothing of it. Ramsay had wanted him unarmored for this eventuality.
When Roose's arm shot out and his calloused hand gripped Ramsay by the neck his son's eyes bulged in surprise. He had looked a little sad in his moment of ultimate betrayal, Roose noted, but now only shock dominated his features. Ramsay would have stammered out something in response to this unexpected outcome, his hand dimly registering that his knife had not bitten into flesh.
At least, he would have, but the fingers wrapped around his throat stopped that before it could start. Ramsay would also have glanced down if his father's gripping hand had not been blocking any attempt to do that from the vantage he was in, but even without looking he knew that Roose Bolton was unscathed from the surprise attack that his son had just launched.
The Warden of the North glanced over at Harold and his Maester in turn, both clearly taken aback by this outcome, the Maester likely because he didn't know of the impending threat any more than Roose had, and likely Harold because he had expected Roose to die today. Roose's other hand had clamped solidly upon the wrist in which Ramsay held the offending blade.
With a painful, tight twist, Roose wrenched that arm until Ramsay let go of the knife and it fell clattering to the stone floor. His other hand still holding Ramsay by the throat as Roose regarded his son with coolly burning blue eyes, "You have betrayed your father, your House, the very name that you sought to validate you have driven into the mud today."
Roose glanced at the Maester, "Call the guard, my son is to be imprisoned below until I have decided a suitable form of punishment fitting the crime."
The portly Maester nodded, clearly uncomfortable with not only what had just transpired but also the fragile air of menace within the room among the three men. He hurried away to comply.
The room was swept up in a pall of absolute silence then, just before Roose gave Ramsay a solid push that sent him careening back into the war table. Carved figurines clattered and skittered across the stone floor as Ramsay doubled partly backward as the small of his back collided with hard oaken furniture.
Harold took a step back and froze when Roose glanced his way. The Warden returned his attention to Ramsay, whose eyes continued to shudder between Roose and the knife that he had dropped upon the floor.
"Go for it, boy, prove to us all that you are absolutely full of bad ideas. Was betraying me once not enough for you?"
Ramsay's jaw worked as he held his father's intense gaze for a few moments, but then his own eyes fell to the floor, unable to face the challenge of Roose's glare. A few moments later any chance for Ramsay to continue his attack evaporated like the morning mist, as four soldiers burst into the room, grabbing ahold of Ramsay and giving Harold menacing looks.
Clearly the Maester had possessed the necessary sense to find guardsmen whom would more likely favor Roose than Ramsay during this attempted coup, and two of them hauled Ramsay away as had been originally commanded as the other two remained to make Harold feel uncomfortable for whatever part he might have had to play in it.
Of course, Harold had not actually had any real part in Ramsay's machinations, though he had been aware of it, but this part as well he did his best to play down under the glowering scrutiny of the Warden and his guardsmen, "I had a feeling that bastard's half-assed effort would yield such a result… once a bastard always a bastard… right?"
Roose only continued to level a scathing look at the current 'Lord of the Karstarks', his hand absently trailing to where Ramsay's knife had scarred the thick leather baldric under his shirt and scratched the chainmail behind that. Roose had decided to wear his spare armor today because of his meeting with the Karstark boy.
He had never imagined that it would have to serve him against his own son. He dropped his hand, not wanting Harold to see his reminiscence in his actions, "So what did my son tell you; that you were to gain some share of my holdings in return for your lack of action in his coup? I invite you into my home to speak openly, and you betrayed me before I entered the room."
Harold stood up tall, mustering his resolve to stand against the accusation, "We were not yet allied, and I can hardly help if you had so little control over your own family… since you seem to have that in hand now…"
The Warden's lip curled in disgust, "With this as testament of how far I can trust you? Leave while you still retain feet to leave with."
Clearly Harold took umbrage with this statement, but he also knew the reputation that the Boltons had and clearly didn't want to test it, so he bottled up what he wanted to say and instead left hurriedly.
Roose stood there a while longer, staring at the rumpled war map. The two guards that had come in with those that had taken Ramsay away remained, and they likely thought that Roose must be planning on what to do now that his options for allies had just become even narrower, but all Roose Bolton could think or feel on now was what his son had done.
Yes, Ramsay was no prize; he had often acted belligerently, unruly, ungratefully, and selfishly, but never had he shown so much as the smallest measure of actual malice for his father. Roose tried to think back on the last things they had spoken of, trying hard to glean where their relationship had changed so violently.
He had not so long ago regaled to Ramsay the story of how he had spared the bastard son when he had been but an infant. Ramsay's mother had brought Ramsay to Roose, perhaps thinking that by doing so he would gift her in some way, and Roose had swept the child from her arms and walked straightaway to do the only logical thing the situation merited.
Which was to drop the unwanted progeny down a well. Plenty of lords bore bastard sons, but they always brought shame to the House regardless of this fact, and Roose knew the peasant mother of his bastard hated him more than enough to spread tale of his fatherhood and… how he had fathered Ramsay. So the best option was to kill the infant.
He couldn't do it though. People could say what they wanted about Roose Bolton; he was most certainly a murderer on occasion, when his blood had been up, or when he had been extracting bloody vengeance, but he was no child killer. When he looked into the blue eyes of the baby he held outstretched before him, he saw himself.
What kind of man murdered his own progeny, bastard or no? So he had told himself that day that all of those north men who held so tightly to the traditions concerning bastard children could just go fuck themselves. Of course, he had not relayed all of the feelings he had that day to Ramsay when he'd told him; he'd only expressed that he had spared Ramsay because he was clearly his own son.
Perhaps Ramsay had not taken that accounting as Roose had intended, which was to gain an appreciation for the chance Roose gave him every day to not only live but thrive. Maybe Ramsay had instead taken the tale as another example of how little regard Roose held him in, that his father would have considered killing him in the first place.
Reflecting now in the attitude of complete self-honesty, Roose had to admit that he had been rather stern with Ramsay in nearly every meeting they had held since the boy had moved into the castle. Roose had told himself that treating Ramsay as an upstart from the beginning would challenge his bastard son to rise above his muddled bloodline.
But Roose felt doubtless as to what Ramsay had actually taken away from all of those tough lectures, all of that aloof parenting; he had clearly assumed that Roose actually felt disdain for him as a bastard. If Roose reached deep down inside himself, as he now did, he could in fact realize that some core part of him did aspire to some of the same prejudices that his father before him had held towards fatherless children.
Perhaps Ramsay had seen that ugly truth more than Roose had known, and now was convinced that his father had only ever loathed him, keeping him around only because he had no other options… was that what Roose had been doing? As Roose stood there leaning into the table, his brow furrowed with under the gaze of truthful self-scrutiny, he wondered just how many mistakes he had made of this nature.
Of course, Ramsay would remember every incident with the clarity that can only be attributed to the youthful and eager, no matter how trivial Roose might have thought an off-hand comment to be, Ramsay would have taken it all to heart… how much of a hand had Roose had in creating the horrible monster that his son had become?
After all, Roose was opening the vault on honesty in this self-analysis, so it was time to truly accept how terrible Ramsay had become. His actions towards others weren't simply 'zealous' or 'impassioned', he was in fact a homicidal maniac, and he had been for some time now. Ramsay didn't just carry out some of the crueler traditions of House Bolton; he had invented quite a few new ones.
And if that was what his son truly was, then it was now Roose's obligation to do something about it. Roose felt a pang of self-critical guilt and shame in that it had taken his attempted murder to really give the situation he had with his son the thought it deserved. He felt suddenly like not only a terrible father, which he had always thought he might be, but also a foolish lord.
So what now? Roose reached a hand back and ran it calmly through his thinning hair from the receding hairline at the top of his skull to the back, wanting the whole time to grab a tuft of his own hair and yank at it savagely in the height of his frustration. But he could not give in to such showy displays of emotion; his guards were still watching, even if they looked like they weren't.
Roose could not allow himself to fall apart, not even in the perceptions of those that observed him. He tapped a finger to his light, greying beard as he thought. The first solution that came to mind would certainly have fit the operations of the former Warden of the North; to behead Ramsay publicly for his crimes.
However, Roose was no Stark, Ramsay was still his son bastard or no, and the Warden could not help but feel at least partly responsible for the mess he was in. His own father had often counseled him that no man fell into a trap completely at the whim of fate; that man first had to put his own feet in the wrong place. Roose would be a fool to discount his own liability in Ramsay's creation, so it was his duty to at least try to fix the problem before resorting to an easy execution, which would reduce him to one infant child and felt like running from the problem rather than facing it.
No, Roose was going to need to approach the problem as a situation that needed repair, rather than shear his already dwindling House further. Standing up tall as he decided upon his resolution, Roose turned on his heel and marched down towards the dungeon. It was about time that he made his best effort to get Ramsay Bolton to take his father seriously.