#House Bolton

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (duty)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Paring: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself)

- Previous part: the wolf's teeth

- Next part: to prove something

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The dining hall of the Dreadfort is as cold as ever, the fire in the hearth doing little to chase away the chill that seeps through the stone walls. The long table is laid with modest fare—venison stew, crusty bread, and a pitcher of sour ale. You sit at one end of the table, Ramsay across from you, and Roose Bolton presiding at the head. Lady Walda sits at Roose’s side, her rosy cheeks glowing in the firelight as she picks at her food with small, dainty bites.

The air in the room is charged, as it always is when the Boltons gather. The scrape of knives on plates echoes louder than it should, filling the silence like a dirge. You cut into your meat with slow, deliberate movements, your expression calm and detached, ignoring the undercurrent of unease that hums through the air.

Roose is the first to speak, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the stillness. “It’s been some time since your wedding.” He doesn’t look up from his plate, his pale eyes focused on the food before him. “And yet, there’s been no news of an heir.”

The words land like a stone in the middle of the table. You don’t flinch, your movements measured as you place a small piece of bread in your mouth and chew slowly. Ramsay, however, stiffens visibly, his grip tightening on the knife in his hand.

“My lord,” Ramsay begins, forcing a smile onto his face, “these things take time. We’re… settling into our roles as husband and wife.”

Roose looks up then, his expression unreadable but his tone laced with disappointment. “Time is a luxury we don’t have. Lady Walda is already with child.”

At this, Lady Walda smiles nervously, her hand drifting to her swollen belly. “The maester says it’s a strong one,” she says softly, her voice hesitant but warm. “He believes it will be a boy.”

Ramsay’s smile falters, his eyes flicking to you for a brief moment. You continue eating, unbothered by the conversation swirling around you. The stew is hearty, its warmth a small comfort in the otherwise frigid hall.

“And should it be a boy,” Roose continues, his voice calm but pointed, “his claim to the Dreadfort will be stronger than yours. Stark blood or not, your position is far from secure without an heir of your own.”

The tension thickens, and you feel Ramsay’s eyes burning into you, though you don’t look up.

“My lord,” Ramsay says, his voice tighter now, “you know I’ve always been loyal to you. My position—”

“Your position,” Roose interrupts, setting his fork down with deliberate care, “depends on more than loyalty. It depends on results. A Stark bride is only valuable if she gives you a Stark heir.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. Lady Walda shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her gaze darting between the three of you.

You finish your bread and reach for your cup of ale, taking a slow sip as though you haven’t heard a word of the conversation.

Ramsay’s knuckles whiten around the handle of his knife. “She’s… difficult,” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes locked on you.

Roose raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to you. “Difficult, is she?”

“She doesn’t…” Ramsay hesitates, clearly struggling to phrase his thoughts without sounding weak. “She doesn’t make it easy.”

You finally look up, meeting Roose’s gaze with a calm, unreadable expression. “Perhaps your son isn’t as persuasive as he believes.”

Ramsay’s chair scrapes loudly against the stone floor as he stands abruptly, his grin forced and strained. “Shall I be persuasive, wife?” he asks, his tone light but his eyes burning with barely contained fury.

You take another sip of ale, unfazed. “You’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.”

Roose’s lips twitch faintly, the closest thing to amusement you’ve ever seen from him. “Ramsay, it seems your wife is more formidable than you anticipated.”

Ramsay’s jaw tightens, and his smile sharpens into something more like a snarl. “She’ll learn her place.”

“Will I?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

The room falls silent again, the air thick with unspoken threats. Lady Walda shifts awkwardly in her seat, her eyes fixed firmly on her plate.

Roose leans back in his chair, his gaze settling on Ramsay. “Consider this your warning, Ramsay. Should Lady Walda give me a son, your position will be… reconsidered.”

Ramsay doesn’t respond, his knuckles white against the wood of his chair.

You place your cup down with deliberate care, the sound soft but resonant in the quiet hall. “If there’s nothing else, I believe I’ve had enough for the evening.”

Without waiting for permission, you rise from your seat and leave the hall, your footsteps echoing against the cold stone.

Behind you, you can feel Ramsay’s fury radiating like heat, but you don’t look back.

For the first time, you leave the table with the quiet satisfaction of knowing that, for all his cruelty, Ramsay Bolton had been rendered powerless—if only for a moment.

The air in your chamber is cold, but it feels like nothing compared to the chill of Ramsay’s presence. He leans against the doorframe, his pale blue eyes fixed on you with an unsettling mix of calculation and irritation. His grin is faint, but the tension in his shoulders betrays the tightly leashed frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed facade.

You sit by the hearth, a book in your lap, feigning disinterest. The fire crackles softly, its warmth doing little to combat the cold weight of his stare.

“Do you intend to ignore me all night, wife?” Ramsay finally asks, his voice light but carrying an edge.

You glance up briefly, your expression calm, before returning to your book. “You don’t often bring anything worth listening to.”

His grin sharpens, but there’s no humor in it. He steps into the room, the sound of his boots against the stone floor loud in the quiet. “You’re quite the stubborn little wolf, aren’t you? Always so defiant.”

“I wouldn’t call it defiance,” you reply evenly. “Just… disinterest.”

The flicker of irritation in his eyes is quick but unmistakable. He moves closer, his hands clasped behind his back, as though trying to present himself as composed.

“Do you think this is a game?” he asks, his voice dropping into something softer, darker. “Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

You close your book deliberately, setting it aside as you meet his gaze. “And what am I doing, Ramsay?”

His grin vanishes entirely, replaced by a cold intensity. “You’re testing me. Pushing me. And while I enjoy a good game, this one is wearing thin.”

You lean back in your chair, your expression calm. “You’re mistaken. I’m not testing you. I just have no interest in pretending this marriage is anything more than a farce.”

Ramsay’s jaw tightens, and he steps closer, his shadow stretching across you. “It’s not a farce, wife. It’s a bond. A bond that you’ve so far refused to honor.”

“Honor?” you repeat, a hint of dry amusement in your tone. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His hand slams against the mantle of the hearth, the sudden movement making the flames flicker. “Do not mock me.”

You don’t flinch, your gaze steady. “Then don’t insult me with talk of honor.”

For a moment, the tension between you is thick enough to suffocate. Ramsay straightens, his expression smoothing into something eerily calm, though his eyes remain sharp.

“Let me be clear,” he says quietly, his voice carrying an unmistakable threat. “You will do your duty. One way or another.”

“And let me be clear,” you reply, your tone steady and unwavering. “You will never have me. Not willingly. You can force me, if that’s what you want, but it won’t change anything. You think taking what you want will break me?” You lean forward slightly, your voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ll only make me hate you more.”

His smile returns, sharp and humorless, but there’s a flicker of something behind it—uncertainty.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, almost to himself.

“Should I be?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

He chuckles, though it lacks his usual mirth. “Everyone’s afraid of me, little wolf. Even my father.”

“Then perhaps that says more about them than it does about you,” you say calmly.

His grin falters, his pale eyes narrowing. “You think you’re untouchable. You think you can outlast me.”

“I don’t think,” you reply, rising from your chair and stepping closer to him. “I know. You want to know why, Ramsay?”

He says nothing, his jaw tightening as you take another step forward, standing so close that you can see the faint flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Because you need me,” you say softly, your voice like steel. “You need me alive, you need me intact, and you need me to give you what your father demands. But I don’t need you. You can hurt me, you can try to break me, but at the end of the day, you’ll still be a bastard pretending to be a lord.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Ramsay stares at you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For the first time, you feel the faintest ripple of satisfaction—you’ve rattled him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says finally, his voice low and tight.

“Perhaps,” you reply, your gaze unyielding. “But you’ll find I’m very good at games.”

He watches you for a moment longer before turning abruptly, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he strides to the door.

Before he leaves, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “You’ll regret this, wife.”

“Perhaps,” you say again, your voice calm. “But not tonight.”

The door slams shut behind him, and you let out a slow, measured breath. The fire crackles softly in the silence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a flicker of triumph.

Ramsay Bolton may be the monster of the Dreadfort, but tonight, he walked away. And that, in itself, is a victory.

The woods surrounding the Dreadfort are quiet but alive with the rustle of wind through barren branches and the crunch of snow underfoot. The hunting party moves through the frozen forest like shadows, the breath of men and hounds misting in the cold air.

Ramsay rides at the front, his grin as sharp as the dagger strapped to his hip. Reek trails behind him, hunched over and shivering despite his heavy cloak. You ride just behind Ramsay, your expression stoic as your horse navigates the uneven terrain. The air is thick with anticipation—the kind of tension that always accompanies Ramsay’s games.

“This will be good for you, wife,” Ramsay calls over his shoulder, his voice carrying easily through the stillness. “A chance to prove you’re more than just a stubborn wolf.”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the path ahead.

The hounds bark suddenly, their noses to the ground as they pick up the scent. The kennelmaster shouts commands, and the dogs surge forward, dragging their handlers with them.

“Ah, there it is,” Ramsay says, his grin widening. “Our prey awaits.”

The group slows as the hounds come to a halt, circling a small clearing. The deer is cornered, its wide eyes filled with panic as it struggles to find an escape. Its breath mists in the air, its body tense and trembling.

Ramsay dismounts with practiced ease, drawing his bow as he approaches the edge of the clearing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, his voice low and almost reverent. He turns to you, his pale blue eyes glinting with something dark. “Why don’t you take the shot, wife? Let’s see if you’ve got Stark blood in those veins after all.”

You slide off your horse, accepting the bow one of his men offers. The weight of it feels familiar in your hands—a reminder of Winterfell and the lessons you’d had in the Godswood. Ramsay steps back, watching you with an expression of eager curiosity, like a cat waiting to pounce.

You step forward, your movements deliberate and controlled. The deer is still, its chest heaving, as you notch the arrow and draw the string.

The world narrows. Your breath steadies. You release the arrow.

It flies true, striking the deer cleanly in the heart. The animal staggers, its legs buckling as it collapses into the snow. Its death is quick, merciful.

The clearing is silent for a moment, save for the soft growls of the hounds and the murmurs of Ramsay’s men. Then Ramsay laughs, the sound loud and grating in the stillness.

“Well done, wife!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together. “It seems there’s a hunter in you after all.”

You turn to him, lowering the bow. “It wasn’t difficult,” you say simply.

Ramsay’s grin sharpens as he steps closer, his men watching from the edge of the clearing. “Oh, but it was,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Control like that… it takes skill. Precision.”

Before you can respond, he grabs your chin, tilting your face upward. His lips crash against yours, rough and possessive, and the taste of him—salt and cold metal—makes your stomach turn.

You shove him back, your glare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t touch me.”

Ramsay laughs again, softer this time, his grin unwavering. “Oh, but you like this, don’t you? The games, the hunt, the chase.” He tilts his head, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re teasing me, little wolf. Do you want me to take you here? In front of all my men?”

The laughter of his men echoes behind him, low and cruel. You straighten, your voice cold and biting. “Do it, then. Show them what kind of coward their lord really is—only capable of taking what isn’t freely given.”

The laughter dies instantly, and for a moment, even Ramsay is silent. His grin falters, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re clever,” he says softly, his voice laced with menace. “Too clever for your own good.”

“You’ll find I’m far more than clever,” you reply, your tone unwavering.

For a moment, he looks at you as though he’s deciding whether to strike you. Then, with a sharp exhale, he steps back, his grin returning—though it’s tighter now, more strained.

“You’ll do your duty, wife,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Sooner than you think.”

He turns abruptly, striding back toward the group, his men parting to let him pass. The tension lingers, thick and oppressive, as you stand in the clearing, your heart pounding in your chest.

Reek shuffles forward hesitantly, his eyes darting between you and Ramsay. He doesn’t speak, but there’s something in his expression—fear, pity, or perhaps both.

You ignore him, turning back to the fallen deer. The blood stains the snow a deep crimson, vivid against the white.

For now, it’s the only blood that’s been spilled. But you know it won’t be the last.

[laurellerual]

Our Blades Are Sharp

[ophelias-lamentation]

Jeyne Poole ‘Arya Stark’

[targaryen-dynasty]

THIN, MINIMALISTIC HOUSE SYMBOLS DIVIDERS.

TARGARYEN.

STARK.

BARATHEON.

LANNISTER.

BOLTON.

MORMONT.

ARRYN.

GREYJOY.

MARTELL.

TYRELL.

Please like or reblog if you use.

[bumblesimagines]

The Wolf's Guard

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The love between a wolf and their darling is unbreakable, even if that darling is a Bolton.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

~~~

If the Starks were known for anything, it was their honor, duty, and family values. Everyone in all of Westeros knew it, from the poor to the rest of the Great Houses, as many had bore witness to those traits at play. The wolves of the north, the pack that'd once been called Kings, had bent the knee willingly during Aegon's Conquest and from then on, were known as Wardens of the North.

The glorious House Stark of Winterfell. Robb still vividly remembered the days in which he and his bastard brother, Jon Snow, were taught the history of their ancestors. Brandon the Boisterous, Cregan Stark, Rodwell Stark, Rickard Stark... Robb knew their names well, knew the significance of their importance to his bloodline. They were his ancestors, warriors with wolf's blood coursing through their veins, and blood that ran through his. Just like them, Robb is heir to Winterfell, the firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. And while Robb's heart valued honor, duty, and family over all else, there were times when he wished he hadn't been born first.

The first time he took his mind off his duty as heir (a duty everyone constantly reminded him of every waking moment) was when Roose Bolton brought his second-born son, (Y/N) Bolton, to Winterfell when they were children to become a ward under Eddard Stark. He'd heard about the stories and rumors surrounding the family and their ancestral home, the Dreadfort. Their history was as lengthy as the Starks, with their own ancestors having been once called the Red Kings. While Starks were honorable, Boltons were cruel, cunning, and dishonorable with a tradition of flaying their enemies that they were forced to give up upon being bannermen for the Starks. However, there were rumors they still flayed their prisoners after days and weeks of torture.

Robb and Jon exchanged whispers while their father spoke with Roose Bolton, an unremarkably ordinary-looking man despite the eerie aura that surrounded him and his sons. His eyes were striking, a color so pale and odd that they made shivers run down the spines of the two boys when he looked in their direction. But the prickle of uneasiness that poked at Robb vanished when (Y/N) looked toward him. Jon immediately ducked behind the barrel they'd chosen to hide behind but Robb held his gaze and was rewarded with a grin. 

"Robb," His father had called out, "Come."

Robb immediately obeyed, jumping out from behind the barrel and striding over to his brother. At the age of seven, Robb knew his place as heir very well so he made every attempt at showing everyone the manners and way of nobles he'd been taught. Ned placed a comforting hand over his shoulder and smiled down at his son. "Why don't you show (Y/N) around Winterfell, Robb? His father and I have much to discuss." 

"Yes, Father." Robb nodded, his auburn curls bouncing off his forehead. Domeric Bolton, eldest son of Roose and heir to the Dreadfort, similarly set his hand over his younger brother's shoulder. (Y/N) peered up at his father and then at his brother, lingering even after Roose gave him an approving nod. 

"Go on," Domeric murmured gently and (Y/N) looked back at Robb with a growing smile. 

Robb spent the rest of the day showing (Y/N) around Winterfell, his chest puffing out with pride each time (Y/N) seemed impressed about something. Jon and Theon trailed after them, providing input that (Y/N) largely ignored in favor of giving Robb his full attention, something surprisingly made him squirm. He finished the tour by introducing (Y/N) to his mother and his younger sister, Sansa. Catelyn greeted (Y/N) politely, more kindly than she treated Jon at least, and offered to get some sweets for them after dinner while Sansa clung to her skirts and watched them.

It wasn't until a few days later, when the boys were giggling on a stack of haybale after their latest mischief that Robb had a thought that would continue to emerge: 'I wish he were a girl.'

As they grew and reached their fifteenth name days, they both began showcasing the faithful traits of their house. Robb grew gentler, less mischievous, and showed a strong sense of honor. He continued reading his histories and studied faithfully under the septa, training nearly every day with Ser Rodrick Cassel and accompanying his father whenever he ventured out on hunts or to meet with others. (Y/N) seemingly grew a taste for blood, something that emerged during training. He went easier on Robb than the others, incredibly apparent as Theon and Jon would end up bruised and bloody by the end of each session. But despite Theon's complaints and Jon's worries about (Y/N) fatally injuring someone, Robb could never shake the astonished, fluttery feeling whenever he saw (Y/N). 

"Come on, boy," Ser Rodrick called to the staggering Jon and Robb couldn't help but wince at the trickle of blood going down his nose. Jon wiped it away, his black hair clinging to his dirt-speckled sweaty face. Nobody had to look at Theon to know the boy likely looked pale as winter snow. (Y/N) pointed the - thankfully - wooden sword at Jon and cocked his head to the side, a wide grin across his face. 

"What's wrong, Snow?" (Y/N) taunted, and Jon glared at him, throwing aside his sword and marching right up to (Y/N). The Bolton laughed when Jon grabbed the sides of his chest armor, his teeth digging into his bottom lip before he rammed the end of the sword into Jon's temple. Jon cursed loudly and released him to grab the side of his head, the blow working as intended when (Y/N) slammed his foot into Jon's chest piece and knocked him back. 

"I believe that's enough, aye, lad?" Robb straightened up at the sound of his father's voice, craning his neck to watch Ned step out of the nearby building and approach them with a grimace. He gently clapped the back of (Y/N)'s shoulder to congratulate him, his eyes remaining locked on his bastard son's panting form. "Go see Maester Luwin, Jon."

"May I have a word in private, Lord Stark?" Ser Rodrick asked, earning a curt nod in response. (Y/N)'s eyes followed the two older men as they walked further away from them, their voices drowned out by the hustle and bustle of servants working and guests chatting. His lips formed a noticeable pout, one that made Robb chuckle as he helped take the chest piece off him. 

"They're going to send me home." (Y/N) muttered bitterly.

"They won't," Robb assured him, handing the piece off to a nearby servant and giving them a thankful smile. (Y/N) huffed, the air coming out in a small cloud, and he tossed the sword aside into the dirt beside them. Robb caught a brief look at the knitted brow, sullen expression on his face before (Y/N) turned on his heel and stormed away. Immediately, Robb followed without a second thought, keeping his eyes focused on the boy until they reached the Godswood. 

"Leave me alone, Robb." (Y/N) muttered grumpily, slumping down on the ground beside the water and roughly tugging blades of grass from the ground. 

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Robb responded, taking a seat beside him and gazing out into the water. The Godswood had always been a place to seek peace or advice from the Old Gods, a place Robb could visit to clear his mind or simply escape for a brief moment. (Y/N) pursed his lips and Robb smiled, pressing his fingertip against (Y/N)'s cheek and gigging softly when he swatted at his hand. "Come on, tell me." 

"Nobody here likes me. They're scared of me." (Y/N) said quietly, tugging more grass out of the dirt. "Lord Eddard is going to send me home to the Dreadfort, I know he is. Father's going to be mad at me but at least Dom will be there."

Robb stared at him, noticing the way he pressed his lips together to stop them from quivering. "I like you." He revealed softly and (Y/N) tilted his head toward him, eyes flickering between Robb's vibrant blue eyes. Robb's stomach twisted and turned, heat rising up his neck and covering his ears like fire. 

"How much?"

"A lot." He admitted, the branches above them gently rustling together with the wind. The sound eased his nerves, eased the dread threatening to bubble up and consume him. "If you were a lady, I would ask Father to let us wed."

(Y/N)'s lips curled up at that. "The Old Gods do not care if we're both men, Robb." He reminded him, that familiar grin working its way onto his face. Robb smiled again, setting his hand over (Y/N)'s and putting an end to his constant grass tearing. "Would you kill for me, Robb?"

"To protect you, yes," Robb answered immediately, no poundering needed. He'd kill to protect any of his loved ones. His parents, Jon, Theon, Sansa, little Arya and Bran. His father spilled blood for his late sister, Lyanna, during the rebellion and Robb doubted his father wouldn't do it all over again for her. "Would you?"

"If you asked." Then, (Y/N) leaned forward and clumsily mushed their lips together, sending a jolt down Robb's spine and a heat throughout his face. He'd kissed a young lady once or twice in secret and out of curiosity but despite his brief experience, he moved nervously and just as clumsily. 

Things rapidly changed from then on, behind closed doors at least. To the servants and residents of Winterfell, the two remained the same close friends as always, but away from prying eyes and curious ears, they were inseparable lovers. Robb's lingering stares grew and any ladies his mother asked him about were brushed away for one excuse or another. The sneaking around, the subtle touches, and innocent gestures, it was all exciting for them but Robb grew to prefer how hungry (Y/N) always seemed for him. It felt good to be wanted, felt good when he whispered loving confessions and laughed at (Y/N)'s eye rolls and flustered smiles. 

Until, as quickly as their relationship began, they were just as quickly swept away from each other. 

Not long after (Y/N) sixteenth name day, news arrived at Winterfell of Domeric Bolton's death. An illness in the stomach, the first letter from Maester Uthor read, but the letter from Roose informed him of a new family member who'd potentially caused the death of his brother: a half-brother by the name of Ramsay Snow—a bastard of the North. With Domeric dead, the title of heir fell on (Y/N)'s shoulders and took him away from Winterfell and back to the Dreadfort. Jon and Theon eased with his absence but Robb's heart broke into pieces. As a secondborn, (Y/N) could do as he pleased and remain by Robb's side forever if he wished, but as an heir?

As much as his absence pained him, Robb ensured to write (Y/N) many letters, most with secret messages only the two of them could understand. He detailed any events that'd gone on, small or big, silly or tragic. He wrote to him about the pups found by Jon and the one he'd claimed, about the royal visit at Winterfell and his father's new position as Hand, Jon joining the Night's Watch, the saddening news of his sister's wolf being killed. The letters stopped when Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell called the bannermen to war. 

Robb focused on the war, on avenging his father and bringing his beloved sisters home before they could be harmed by the Lannisters. The Bolton's joined the effort, of course, but Robb hardly saw (Y/N) during the start. They both had their duties, their own men to command, and many more things to worry about. But, the reunion had Robb nearly collapsing. 

He'd seen him, caught a brief glance during a battle with Lannister's army. It'd been enough to make him fight even harder, and they'd won in the end, returning back to camp to treat their wounded and count the dead. Robb had been swept away, his new title as King of the North forcing even more responsibilities onto his lap, but he managed to keep his racing mind focused enough to manage the tasks at hand, nearly forgetting about the glimpse until that night. 

Dragging the wet rag over his sword, Robb thought about his father. He thought about all the things Ned would say to him, the advice he'd give to him. His father knew of battles and rebellions, he knew of war. Robb only knew what he learned as the war progressed. Sure, there were many older men who'd fought alongside his father, who still had the taste of war in their mouths, but none would compare to the knowledge of Eddard Stark. He sighed quietly, gazing over his reflection and failing to hear the person entering his tent. 

"King of the North, aye? Has a pretty ring to it." He tensed immediately, first due to surprise and then because of that familiar voice. His head whirled around, eyes wide and heart pleading. (Y/N) grinned at him, splatters of blood still covering his skin and clothes from a battle the Boltons and few others had ridden out to, but it suited him perfectly. The sword fell with a loud clatter and Robb darted up from his seat, unable to restrain himself from flying into (Y/N)'s embrace. "Missed me, hm?" He laughed.

"Of course, I missed you, you bastard." Robb exhaled, leaning back to grasp the sides of his face, disregarding the blood that smeared onto his palms before he crashed their lips together. An almost animalistic growl-like noise emitted from (Y/N) throat and he kissed him back more roughly, as were most things with (Y/N). The Bolton backed him up until Robb fell back onto the bed, briefly knocking the air out of him. (Y/N) hovered above him, eyes glinting with a familiar look that sent heat rushing to his stomach.

"Sorry 'bout Lord Eddard, Robb." He murmured, dipping down to brush his lips over Robb's cheek and down to his throat where he dug his teeth lightly into him. 

"I heard of your half-brother, (Y/N)." Robb sighed again, the familiarity of it all making him lightheaded. His beloved had always been all tongue and teeth. (Y/N) snorted softly into his throat, a short chuckle leaving him at the mention of Ramsay's demise. He'd died in his sleep, or so Lord Bolton had said. 

"Never liked him, anyway." (Y/N) told him, rising back up to press their lips tightly together, teeth digging into Robb's bottom lip and tugging lightly. "I have news, Robb."

"Can it wait?" Robb knew the answer but he hoped pulling (Y/N) closer would change his mind. (Y/N) chuckled again and moved his hips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face when Robb cursed softly under his breath and reached down to fumble with their pants. 

"No, My King."

"Gods, you're the worst."

A sadistic little bastard but Robb loved him anyway. (Y/N)'s amusement faded away and he inhaled heavily, planting his hands on the sides of Robb's head and staring down at him. The seriousness made Robb straighten up, despite their rather compromising position, and he nodded for (Y/N) to continue. "My father plans on betraying you, Robb. Your rejection of Walder Frey's girls gave way for Father. He plans on marrying one of his daughters for an alliance. He wants to kill you." Robb's blood ran icy cold. War always had its fair share of traitors and cowardly, slimy men.

"Are you certain?" Robb sat up in the bed, forcing (Y/N) to lean back and stand again. A traitor in their midst and Walder Frey's ego. Two problems Robb hardly had time to deal with. (Y/N) reached out, fingers dipping under Robb's chin and tilting his head up.

"Give me your command and I'll bring his head to you by early morrow." 

[cleanbutsalty]

”I saved her… I saved the girl…”

[havenlyd]

Aegon III and Barba Bolton, by Jota Saraiva

Read more about them here

[tabsalad]

Roose has no feelings, you see. Those leeches that he loves so well sucked all the passions out of him years ago. He does not love, he does not hate, he does not grieve. This is a game to him, mildly diverting. Some men hunt, some hawk, some tumble dice. Roose plays with men. You and me, these Freys, Lord Manderly, his plump new wife, even his bastard, we are but his playthings.

[asongoficeandfiresource]

"I know the Dreadfort. It is a strong castle, all of stone, with thick walls and massive towers. With winter coming you will find it well provisioned. Centuries ago, House Bolton rose up against the King in the North, and Harlon Stark laid siege to the Dreadfort. It took him two years to starve them out. To have any hope of taking the castle, Your Grace would need siege engines, towers, battering rams …” - Jon IV, ADWD

A Song of Ice and Fire Calendar 2025 || The Dreadfort by Eddie Mendoza

[robynnnn311]

roose and ramsay bolton

[shugister]

Old love today ❤

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (to prove something)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Paring: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene, blood, Ramsay being himself)

- Previous part: duty

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The chamber is cold despite the fire crackling in the hearth, its warmth doing little to banish the chill that clings to the stone walls of the Dreadfort. You sit in the chair by the window, staring out into the dark expanse of the North. Snow falls in soft flurries, illuminated by the faint glow of the moon. The silence stretches, heavy and unyielding, save for the occasional pop of the fire.

You know he will come.

Ever since the wedding, Ramsay had avoided your chambers, his nights spent elsewhere—in the kennels, perhaps, or tangled in the arms of his whores. He hadn’t dared to come to you since your failed attempt on his life, but tonight feels different. You’d seen the way he’d looked at you during the hunt, the way his frustration simmered just beneath the surface.

Tonight, he will come. And you will be ready.

The dagger you’d hidden after the wedding night remains concealed beneath the cushion of the chair, its blade dull but still sharp enough to kill. Your fingers twitch as you think of it, the weight of it familiar and reassuring.

The sound of heavy boots echoes down the corridor, growing louder as they approach your door. You straighten slightly, your heartbeat steady but strong. The handle turns, and the door swings open, revealing Ramsay’s silhouette.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. His grin is faint, but his pale blue eyes gleam in the firelight. He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey.

“Wife,” he says softly, his voice almost a purr. “You’re awake.”

You meet his gaze, your expression calm and unyielding. “I knew you’d come.”

His grin widens, and he steps further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate. “I thought it was time we… talked.”

“Talk?” you echo, your tone flat. “Is that what you’re here for?”

“For now,” he replies, his grin sharpening. “You’ve been difficult, little wolf. So very difficult. And I’ve been patient. But my patience has limits.”

You tilt your head slightly, your voice steady. “If you were truly patient, you wouldn’t need to remind me of it.”

The grin falters for the briefest moment before returning, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you enjoy this game we’re playing, wife? This dance of defiance?”

“It’s not a game,” you reply, rising from the chair slowly. “It’s survival.”

He watches you carefully as you step closer to the fire, your shadow flickering against the walls. “You wound me,” he says mockingly, his tone light. “Do you truly think I mean to hurt you?”

“Yes,” you say bluntly, your eyes locked on his.

He laughs softly, though there’s no humor in it. “At least you’re honest. That’s something.” He takes another step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “But you’re wrong, wife. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to make you mine.”

“I’ll never be yours,” you say, your voice calm but firm.

“Oh, but you are,” he replies, his grin widening. “In name, if nothing else. And soon, you’ll be mine in every way.”

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You don’t flinch, though your skin burns with the urge to recoil.

“You’ve been avoiding this,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with menace. “Avoiding me. But that ends tonight.”

You take a step back, your hand brushing against the chair’s cushion as you speak. “You’re a fool if you think this will end the way you want.”

He tilts his head, his grin faltering. “And what do you think will happen, little wolf?”

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the dagger, your grip steady. “You’ll learn that even predators bleed.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the dread crackling like the fire in the hearth. Ramsay watches you, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you think he knows.

Then he laughs—a low, grating sound that echoes through the chamber.

“You’re remarkable,” he says, his voice filled with dark amusement. “You truly believe you can win, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe,” you reply coldly. “I know.”

His grin sharpens, and he steps back, his pale eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place. “Not tonight,” he says softly, his voice almost tender. “But soon.”

He turns and strides to the door, his boots echoing against the stone floor. Before leaving, he glances back at you, his grin as sharp as a blade.

“Sleep well, wife. You’ll need your strength.”

The door closes behind him, and the silence returns, heavy and suffocating.

You sit back down in the chair, the dagger still clutched tightly in your hand.

Not tonight, you think to yourself. But soon.

The bitter wind bites at your face as you walk the length of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Snow falls in soft, silent drifts, blanketing the Dreadfort in its usual shroud of quiet menace. It’s late, the sun long gone behind the jagged peaks of the North, but you can’t sleep. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on you.

The stillness of the night is broken by the sound of boots crunching in the snow. You pause, turning toward the sound, your hand instinctively brushing the hilt of the knife hidden beneath your cloak.

Myranda steps out of the shadows, her dark hair framing a face twisted with a grin that is all malice. She’s dressed in simple leathers, her breath misting in the cold air as she strides toward you.

“Lady Bolton,” she says mockingly, her voice laced with venom. “Out for a midnight stroll?”

You stiffen, your expression hardening. “What do you want, Myranda?”

She chuckles softly, circling you like a vulture. “I wanted to see how the mighty little wolf is doing. All alone, in this cold, empty castle.”

“I’m not in the mood for your games,” you reply coldly, your hand never leaving the hilt of your knife. “Go back to whatever hole Ramsay dragged you from.”

Her grin falters, her eyes narrowing. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Strutting around, acting like you’re better than the rest of us. Like you belong here.”

“I don’t belong here,” you say flatly. “And neither do you.”

Her face darkens, and she steps closer, her voice dropping into something low and dangerous. “You think you can talk to me like that? You’re nothing, Stark. Just another one of Ramsay’s toys. He’ll tire of you soon enough.”

Your grip tightens on the knife, but you hold your ground. “Is that what you are, Myranda? A toy he got bored of?”

Her hand flashes out, striking you across the face. The sting is sharp and immediate, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you look back at her with cold, unyielding eyes.

“Touch me again,” you say softly, your voice like steel, “and you’ll regret it.”

Her lips curl into a snarl, and for a moment, you think she might attack. But then her expression shifts, her grin returning as she steps back.

“You’re nothing but a nuisance,” she spits, her voice dripping with contempt. “And nuisances can be… dealt with.”

You stiffen as she pulls a small dagger from her belt, its blade glinting in the moonlight.

“Ramsay might keep you alive,” she says, her voice low and venomous. “But he doesn’t have to know about this.”

She lunges.

You sidestep her easily, your hand darting beneath your cloak to draw your own knife. The clash of blades rings out sharply in the still night as you block her next strike, her movements wild and fueled by rage.

“You’re predictable,” you say through gritted teeth, deflecting another blow.

“And you’re pathetic,” she snaps, her eyes blazing.

The fight is quick and brutal. Myranda is fast, but her anger makes her sloppy. You sidestep another wild swing, your knife slicing across her arm. She cries out, her dagger clattering to the ground.

You don’t hesitate. You press forward, slamming her against the stone wall of the courtyard. The point of your knife digs into her throat, and her eyes widen with fear.

“Go ahead,” she spits, her voice trembling but defiant. “Do it. Prove you’re no better than him.”

Your grip tightens on the knife, your breath coming in sharp bursts. For a moment, you hesitate, her words echoing in your mind.

But then you think of everything she’s done—her cruelty, her threats, the way she’s tormented you since the day you arrived. And you think of Ramsay, the way he thrives on chaos and pain, the way he’s twisted everyone around him into something broken.

You press the blade deeper.

“Goodbye, Myranda,” you say softly.

Her eyes widen further as the blade slices cleanly across her throat. Blood spills over your hands, hot and vivid against the cold, and she slumps to the ground, her lifeless body crumpling in the snow.

You step back, your chest heaving as you stare down at her. The snow around her turns crimson, the stark contrast making the scene almost surreal.

The silence that follows is deafening.

You wipe the blade on your cloak, your hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline begins to fade. You know what you’ve done. There’s no going back.

Turning away from the body, you stride back toward the castle, your knife still clutched tightly in your hand.

Ramsay will know. He’ll find out. But tonight, for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel a flicker of satisfaction.

Myranda is gone. And the wolf is still standing.

The fire crackles softly in your chambers, its warmth doing little to dispel the cold that seeps through the stone walls. A simple meal has been laid out on the table before you—roasted meat, a hunk of bread, and a goblet of wine. The quiet is comforting, a rare reprieve from the chaos of the Dreadfort, and you savor it as you cut into your meal with deliberate care.

The knife glides easily through the meat, the aroma rising with the steam as you take your first bite. You chew slowly, the flavors grounding you in a way few things can.

The door opens without a knock.

You glance up, unsurprised to see Ramsay stepping inside, his grin sharp and feral as always. He closes the door behind him, the soft click of the latch echoing in the stillness.

“Wife,” he says, his voice low and playful. “Enjoying your meal?”

You swallow your bite, setting your knife down with calm precision. “I was.”

Ramsay chuckles, striding toward the table with slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t sit but leans against the edge of the table, his eyes fixed on you.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, his grin widening. “Or rather, the castle has been busy. Everyone’s talking, you know.”

You pick up your goblet, taking a slow sip of wine. “About what?”

He tilts his head, his grin never wavering. “About Myranda.”

You meet his gaze, your expression calm and unbothered. “What about her?”

“She’s missing,” Ramsay replies, his tone light, almost sing-song. “Disappeared. Vanished. Poof. No one’s seen her since last night.” He leans in closer, his grin sharpening. “And you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, wife?”

You place the goblet back on the table with deliberate care, your fingers brushing the rim as you look up at him. “No.”

The single word hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding.

Ramsay watches you closely, his grin faltering just slightly before returning. “You’re very calm for someone who just lost her husband’s… favorite plaything.”

You pick up your knife again, cutting into the bread this time. “If she was your favorite, perhaps you should have taken better care of her.”

He laughs, the sound low and grating. “Oh, you are good, little wolf. So sharp. So clever.” He leans in even closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But you can’t fool me.”

You pause, your knife stilling mid-cut as you meet his gaze. “What do you want me to say, Ramsay? That I killed her?” You tilt your head slightly, your voice cold and steady. “Would that make you feel better?”

His grin widens, his pale eyes shining with amusement. “Better? No. But it would make things more… interesting.”

You pick up a piece of bread, tearing off a small chunk and popping it into your mouth. “You already find everything interesting. Why should I add to it?”

Ramsay straightens, his grin softening into something more dangerous. “Because I’m your husband,” he says lightly. “And husbands are entitled to… certain truths.”

You chew slowly, swallowing before speaking. “Are they? I wasn’t aware you were entitled to anything beyond my name.”

His eyes narrow, the grin tightening into a thin line. For a moment, the animosity between you is palpable, the air thick with unspoken threats.

Then he laughs, the sound loud and unexpected, breaking the silence like shattered glass. “You’re magnificent,” he says, shaking his head. “Absolutely magnificent.”

You don’t respond, reaching for your goblet once more.

“You know,” he continues, stepping back from the table, “I should be angry. Furious, even. But I’m not.” He pauses, his grin returning as he tilts his head. “Do you want to know why?”

You glance up at him, your expression unreadable. “Why?”

“Because you’re exactly what I wanted,” he says softly, his voice almost reverent. “Strong, clever, ruthless. You’re a wolf through and through.”

You take another sip of wine, unbothered by his words. “And yet you still think you can control me.”

His grin sharpens, his pale eyes narrowing. “Oh, I don’t think, wife. I know. One way or another, you’ll do your duty. It’s only a matter of time.”

You set the goblet down, folding your hands neatly on the table as you meet his gaze. “And until then?”

His laughter echoes through the chamber as he steps toward the door. “Until then, we’ll play.”

He opens the door, pausing to glance back at you one last time. “Sleep well, little wolf. And if you happen to find Myranda…” His grin widens, his voice laced with dark amusement. “…do give her my regards.”

The door closes behind him, and the silence returns.

You turn back to your meal, your expression calm and composed as you take another bite.

Ramsay may have his games, but you have yours. And you intend to win.

The snow outside has settled into a relentless storm, howling against the high windows as you make your way toward the library. The stillness of the castle is deceptive; even in moments of calm, the weight of Ramsay’s presence lingers like a predator stalking just out of sight.

Turning a corner, you nearly collide with a figure coming the opposite way.

“Ah!” Lady Walda’s startled gasp fills the air, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her round face lit with surprise. She clutches her cloak tightly around her swollen belly, her nervous eyes meeting yours.

“Lady Walda,” you say, stepping back slightly to give her room.

“My lady,” she replies, her voice soft but warm. “Forgive me. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

The corners of her mouth twitch into a nervous smile, though her eyes flicker with unease. She’s kind, you know that much, but her presence here has always seemed like an accident of fate—a lamb surrounded by wolves.

“You’re out late,” you remark, your tone neutral.

“I needed to stretch my legs,” she admits, glancing down at her stomach with a small, sheepish laugh. “The maester says walking is good for the baby.”

Your eyes drift to her belly, rounded and heavy with the promise of new life. For a moment, an unfamiliar pang cuts through your chest—not jealousy, not anger, but something quieter.

“Does it help?” you ask, gesturing toward her belly.

She smiles faintly. “Sometimes. Mostly, it just makes me feel less… trapped.”

The word lingers between you, unspoken but heavy with meaning. You understand it too well.

“You’re brave to walk these halls alone,” you say after a moment, your voice softening.

Her expression falters, her smile fading. “It doesn’t feel brave,” she admits, glancing toward the darkened corridor behind her. “But what else can I do? Roose says I should be strong—for the child.”

You fold your arms, leaning slightly against the wall. “And what do you think?”

Walda hesitates, her round face creasing with uncertainty. “I think… I think I don’t have a choice.” Her gaze drifts back to you, her eyes filled with quiet desperation. “But you—” She stops herself, biting her lip.

“What about me?” you prompt, your tone cautious.

“You don’t seem afraid,” she says softly, almost to herself. “Not of Ramsay, not of Roose. How do you do it?”

The question hangs in the air, and for a moment, you don’t know how to answer. It isn’t courage that keeps you standing; it’s something colder, something born of loss and necessity.

“I’ve lost too much to be afraid anymore,” you say finally, your voice low. “When there’s nothing left to lose, fear loses its power.”

Walda’s eyes widen slightly, her hand drifting to her belly again. “I envy that,” she whispers. “But I have too much to lose now. If anything happens to this baby…” Her voice trembles, and she doesn’t finish the sentence.

You study her for a moment, the weight of her words settling over you. Lady Walda is no enemy, no Myranda or Ramsay. She’s a woman caught in a web she didn’t weave, just like you.

“Your child is your strength,” you say quietly. “Hold on to that. It’s the only thing they can’t take from you.”

Her lips part as if to respond, but before she can, the sound of footsteps echoes down the hall. Both of you turn toward the noise, your bodies tensing instinctively.

It’s only a servant, carrying a tray of something steaming. He bows quickly as he passes, his head down, but the interruption lingers like a ghost.

“I should go,” Walda says hurriedly, her nervous smile returning. “Thank you for speaking with me, my lady.”

“Of course,” you reply, watching as she turns and hurries down the corridor, her steps quick and uneven.

You remain where you are, your gaze lingering on the spot where she disappeared. Her fear is palpable, her hope fragile.

And yet, in her own way, she is surviving.

As you turn back toward the library, you feel the faintest flicker of something you haven’t felt in a long time. Not hope, exactly, but the knowledge that even in a place like this, kindness can still exist.

The hall of the Dreadfort is as cold and oppressive as ever, the winter light filtering through narrow windows to illuminate the long table where Roose Bolton sits. He’s clad in his usual muted colors, the fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders doing little to soften his stark, almost spectral appearance.

A servant silently pours wine into his cup as Ramsay strides into the room, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor. He carries a stack of rolled parchments in one hand, their edges crinkled and stained with travel dirt.

“Father,” Ramsay greets, his voice light and mocking as he approaches. He stops just short of the table, his grin sharp as a knife. “I bring news.”

Roose looks up slowly, his pale, unreadable eyes fixing on his son. He gestures toward the table with one hand, silent but commanding.

Ramsay places the parchments down with a theatrical flourish, unrolling the topmost one. “Reports from our men,” he says, his grin widening. “There’s still resistance in the North—small groups of fools clinging to the memory of your good friend Eddard Stark.”

Roose’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze, a shadow of irritation. “What kind of resistance?”

“Oh, the usual,” Ramsay replies, waving a hand dismissively. “Raids on supply lines, ambushes on our patrols. A few minor lords refusing to pay their dues. They think they can hide in the forests and mountains like ghosts.” He leans forward slightly, his grin sharpening. “But ghosts bleed like anyone else.”

Roose picks up the parchment, scanning its contents with deliberate care. The firelight casts specters across his face, making him look even more severe. “And what have you done to address this?”

Ramsay’s grin falters, though only slightly. “I’ve sent men to root them out, of course. A few fires here, a few flayed corpses there. That usually gets the message across.”

“Usually,” Roose repeats softly, his voice cold.

Ramsay’s grin tightens, his fingers tapping idly against the table. “The North is vast, Father. These rats can scurry for a long time before we catch them. But we will catch them.”

Roose sets the parchment down, his eyes narrowing as he looks at his son. “Your efforts have been… insufficient.”

Ramsay stiffens, though his grin remains plastered in place. “Insufficient? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“Have you?” Roose’s voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that cuts through the room like a blade. “You’ve spent more time tormenting your wife than securing the North.”

Ramsay’s grin fades entirely, his eyes darkening. “The little wolf isn’t a threat. She’s exactly where she needs to be—under control.”

Roose leans forward slightly, his expression unreadable but heavy with meaning. “She’s a Stark. Her name alone carries weight. If she’s under control, prove it. Give me results, Ramsay. Bring me stability.”

Ramsay’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I’ve flayed half the men who dared to rise against us,” he snaps. “How many more corpses do you want, Father?”

“As many as it takes,” Roose replies calmly, his voice steady as stone. “Until the North remembers its place.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ramsay stares at his father, his grin gone, replaced by something darker and more volatile.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice low and sharp. “I’ll give you your corpses. I’ll make the North scream your name.”

Roose doesn’t react, his eyes fixed on Ramsay like a hawk watching a wounded animal. “Do not mistake chaos for control, Ramsay. Fear only lasts as long as you enforce it. Fail to do so, and it will turn against you.”

Ramsay straightens, his grin slowly returning, though it’s more strained now. “Of course, Father. I won’t fail.”

Roose nods once, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “Go, then. Show me what you can do.”

Ramsay turns sharply, his boots echoing once more as he strides toward the door. He pauses briefly, his hand on the latch, and glances back over his shoulder.

“They’ll remember the flayed man,” he says softly, his voice carrying a dark promise. “And they’ll forget the wolf.”

Roose doesn’t respond, his gaze already returning to the parchment before him.

Ramsay leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving the hall silent once more.

Roose lifts his cup, taking a slow sip of wine as the fire crackles in the hearth. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s a faint shadow in his eyes—a hint of something that even Ramsay’s cruelty cannot erase.

The North remembers.

[zarinfix]

[trupniy]

Ramsay 😨

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

What a Bolton bride would wear

[kraehenkunst]

Lord Bolton and his cupbearer 🩸