#window in domer

[expectopatronope]

Roofing Gable Denver

A mid-sized gray, one-story, mixed-siding arts and crafts design is an example.

[barbreypilled]

integral part of subway au is that Theon, Kyra and Domeric were all within a couple years of each other at the same high school and were all in musical theatre together. when their school did Hunchback Barb had to shut subway down partially bc they were always in rehearsal but also bc she had to drive Domeric there and back

[dyannawynnedayne]

Which character parallel do you like the best?

Euron and Bran: art by @seaworthit (1, 2)

Propaganda is encouraged!

Euron and Bran

Flying Dreams

“When I was a boy, I dreamt that I could fly,” he announced. “When I woke, I couldn’t … or so the maester said. But what if he lied?” Victarion could smell the sea through the open window, though the room stank of wine and blood and sex. The cold salt air helped to clear his head. “What do you mean?” Euron turned to face him, his bruised blue lips curled in a half smile. “Perhaps we can fly. All of us. How will we ever know unless we leap from some tall tower?” The wind came gusting through the window and stirred his sable cloak. There was something obscene and disturbing about his nakedness. “No man ever truly knows what he can do unless he dares to leap.”

AFFC, The Reaver

“Fly or die!” cried the three-eyed crow as it pecked at him. He wept and pleaded but the crow had no pity. It put out his left eye and then his right, and when he was blind in the dark it pecked at his brow, driving its terrible sharp beak deep into his skull. He screamed until he was certain his lungs must burst. The pain was an axe splitting his head apart, but when the crow wrenched out its beak all slimy with bits of bone and brain, Bran could see again.

ACOK, Bran II

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Jon and Ramsay

Heir After Their Trueborn Brother

“Mother.” There was a sharpness in Robb’s tone. “You forget. My father had four sons.” She had not forgotten; she had not wanted to look at it, yet there it was. “A Snow is not a Stark.” “Jon’s more a Stark than some lordlings from the Vale who have never so much as set eyes on Winterfell.” “If Jon is a brother of the Night’s Watch, sworn to take no wife and hold no lands. Those who take the black serve for life.” “So do the knights of the Kingsguard. That did not stop the Lannisters from stripping the white cloaks from Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Boros Blount when they had no more use for them. If I send the Watch a hundred men in Jon’s place, I’ll wager they find some way to release him from his vows.” He is set on this. Catelyn knew how stubborn her son could be. “A bastard cannot inherit.” “Not unless he’s legitimized by a royal decree,” said Robb. “There is more precedent for that than for releasing a Sworn Brother from his oath.”… “Jon is the only brother that remains to me. Should I die without issue, I want him to succeed me as King in the North. I had hoped you would support my choice.”

ASOS, Catelyn V

“Ramsay killed him. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor says, but I say poison. In the Vale, Domeric had enjoyed the company of Redfort’s sons. He wanted a brother by his side, so he rode up the Weeping Water to seek my bastard out. I forbade it, but Domeric was a man grown and thought that he knew better than his father. Now his bones lie beneath the Dreadfort with the bones of his brothers, who died still in the cradle, and I am left with Ramsay. Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?”

ADWD, Reek III

[playshrp]

i am not here for revenge . i am here to bring justice . || @wolvesballad

" of course, " domeric tries to sound casual, searching the features of the girl before him. she reminded him terribly of her brother, she was an echo of his visage. he wonders if she has any memories of robb in this room, growing up. the ancient stone must have seen generations of starks before her. oh, how the mighty have fallen.

" i am sure you'll take no pleasure in your justice, " domeric's musing is draped in sarcasm & he casts his gaze far from her. it's a thing of discomfort, looking at sansa. it was almost like robb's ghost was coming to haunt him. he knows better, though. she is flesh & blood & ice & teeth. his reckoning is on the horizon & he had no doubt that it would be by her hand. until then, there was work to do.

" i hold no love for my brother. it is not difficult to assume that is a shared sentiment, " he focuses on the way morning light bleeds through the window. even the sunlight here was cold, it ate at his bones & made them ache. domeric wonders if sansa misses the sunlight of king's landing, or if she was glad for the wretched snow that blanketed her home. his next words burn as he pulls them out of his chest. they are quiet, as if those old walls were listening to them, " perhaps there is 'justice' to be shared. "

[ravellaarryns]

who: @mountainvroyce​ where: the reception chamber of queen ravella arryn within highgarden, prior to the departure of the knights of the vale back to the vale of arryn to deal with the influx of mountain men attacks

there were swirling rumours of further tensions increasingly in the northern court, as addressed not only by the ambassadors the vale had insisted on being part of the northern court upon the formal declaration of their alliance, but even from the words the winter queen spoke softly to her sister. they were two sisters with crowns upon their heads, two very different heads - one remained so very alive, and one felt so very dead. 

whilst her own focus alongside domeric was on getting to the bottom of what had occurred between the three sisters and the manderly fleet, and stripping the three sisters of any taxation relief in order to pay what the north was sending to the iron bank, the north had to deal with who had exposed the wealth of the manderly ship itself. 

and now, there were rumours that the north were thinking of packing up and returning home. it seemed as though both of their lands, almost mirroring their volitile geography and harsh landscapes, were keen to rip themselves apart - only, those mountain clan savages were not part of their world. not part of civility, not part of society, and would be pushed out. pushed off, the cliff, pushed off the face of history if need be. 

“come in, my lord.” the audience chamber was empty, and ravella remained sat beside her window; gentle rains pattered against the window, sticky summer heat that did not agree with the swell of her stomach. she preferred her rain thundering, crashing, as he would know all too well. 

it would take years, decades, centuries, but she had faith it would be done. their world was one of dragons, of magic and of fantasy - knights of the vale could and will once again cleanse the lands that stand tall against them. she remained silent as she looked upon him. the ghost of runestone. there was an empty smile on marble features, as though she acted as if nothing at all were wrong. why was it wrong? 

“there are stirrings in the north. our alliance calls for military support, should it be needed. i will draw the line - valemen are needed within the vale. unless you mean to tell me we can spare some.” they could not. surely. 

[domericstone]

THE IRON EYRIE

During his time working with the Iron Bank of Braavos and the Vale’s natural understanding of funds, Domeric Stone has been able to use of one many establishments owned by his mother’s house and convert it into one of the first banks of Westeros.

THE BUILDING (The Old Sept)

Nine thick, round towers just short of being the tallest in Gulltown are connected and strengthened by firm walls made of sandstone. The stained glass in the windows has been changed to a darker obsidian to discourage people from trying to glimpse in any windows close enough to the ground. The gate is sizable with giant wooden doors soon to be replaced by doors of steel once men can start building again. With this former sept being built on the cliff edge the only entrance is through the front gates. The vaults of a great sept are enough to hold coin, assets and other items will men work on finishing underground cave system inspired by Domeric’s notes of Mole’s Town.

LOANS & SAVINGS

Approaching the bank with a request for loans requires one to arrive with their notes in order and an idea of how and when they will make these payments. Domeric Stone is not intent on creating a charitable system for people with bad reputations in regard to repaying loans nor is he in the business of giving loans to those who cannot pay unless he sees a bust out. A bust out will allow him to take ownership of property that equates to the loans and accrued interest. Lords are strongly encouraged to use the bank Gulltown will lead the example with House Grafton not only donating a sizable amount but announcing that taxes collected will go to the Bank (after all amounts are paid to the crown).

CUSTOMER RELATIONS

Surprisingly, customers are valued, and potential clients are courted. Taking notes from the Iron Bank, Domeric keeps an eye out on any who can clear up the debts of another for the price of what that person has lost. For example, landed nights losing land due to another lord assuming their debt. If/when loaning to other regions within Westeros the nature of their treatment depends on alliances. Though, if you’re a poor house from the Crownlands, for example, this is not the loan for you. Domeric will take everything you have.

SECURITY

There are guards at the gates, on the wall, in the sea, and within the bank herself. No one enters the bank without an appointment, and no one leaves without being searched.

| @ravellaarryns | @rememberences |

[dracharenae]

✹ —   RHAENYS HAS HALF A MIND TO LUNGE forward and try to kill domeric bolton herself. as he stands within her chamber, patronizing smile upon his lips. yet it would do her no good, would it ? ? ? certainly her escape attempt had proven fruitless, as well as damning. cold water was poured over her fireplace, her window left open to allow the cold air within. it is the price she pays, though she cannot find herself to regret it. it had been impressive, she admits, how she had managed to escape from her guards, how she had managed to kill the stable hand . . . how she had stolen a horse, managing to escape the dreadfort. but she was caught all too quickly, knocked from her horse and landing in the cold, hardened mud and snow. she had been brought back . . . and now her guards are doubled, her resources minimized.

and roose bolton's heir taunts her.

“I saw you fall… are you alright?” asks @xfindingtrouble.

rhaenys does not immediately reply, instead choosing to cast roose's son a most scathing and burning glare. hatred resides in her gaze, fiery and unrelenting. she spits, then, at his feet. " go to hell, " she says. " it would be wise of you to execute me now. i assure you, if you leave me alive, it shall only guarantee a slow and painful death for yourself and the whole of your house. "

[luxmaeastra]

Trystane leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the table. One of his siblings needed to be here whenever any of Walder's children entertained his guests. He picked at his teeth watching Remelle watch the window for her uncle.

Perhaps he was also interested to see this cruel uncle Rhaegar had told him of once. He lowered his feet at his aunt's glare and stood to his feet.

Allura brushed past him frowning at her son.

"Oh darling what happened to your hand?"

Lothar looked up from his reports and frowned.

"Is he going to loose it?"

Allura tisked at her mate and Ramsay made a small noise as she prodded the greening skin.

"Domeric dared me to reach my hand in some of the pig's scat. He must have laced it with something Ma!"

Domeric stepped into the room and rolled his eyes at his brother.

"Not my fault he is so easily fooled Mama."

Ramsay and he bickered more but Trystane tuned them out. Remelle had shifted at the window, he was here.

--------

Keir walked up the gray castle, storming as always. He walked across the bridge stepping inside.

Lothar waited introducing his two eldest sons. Keir didn't spare them much attention but he did smile at Allura kissing her hand.

His tongue switched to the Old Tongue.

"You are looking as beautiful as ever Lady Allura."

Allura's lips twitched and Lothar rolled his eyes. But he wasn't threatened Keir used flattery like he breathed.

"Whike your flattery is welcomed and appreciated it is not needed. Look your niece is here."

Keir noted she spoke in the language of the Fae. Perhaps she wished Remelle to be included - good. Keir gave his niece s cursery glance before he looked back to them.

"She looks well, thank you."

Lothar gestured them all to sit. Keir waited till they had all drank their first glass of distilled Soulspirits.

"I have heard rumors from Rhysand that It has wakened. When I pressed he told me is bound to the Carynth's son-in-law."

Lothar leaned toward him.

"Why does he still breathe Keir? Surely you know he has -"

"While his loss wouldn't be entirely tragic, my brother is fond of him. I rather not cause anymore instability to my house."

Lothar snorted and fell back in his chair.

"Doesn't he have many of those little Nightlights running around? Surely he won't miss one?'

He wouldn't dare call Remelle out to ask if she was missed. She was a member of the royal family. Trystane would be well within his rights to kill him for the insult alone.

Keir shrugged. He wondered if Remelle thought of him the way her brothers did. That he was cruel and uncaring. But then she'd debuted in Hewn so maybe she understood that specific type of beauty like he did.

"The only reason he didn't come to check on his daughter was because I have the blood-ties here not him."

Ramsay coughed into his hand.

"Distantly."

Keir's eyes narrowed and Lothar side eyed his son.

"Something to say Ramsay?"

//Keir wanted to give it a special title but couldn't think of one. But he says the Valg desperately want in their hands. They see it as one of their own.//

It was honestly nice to see a member of her family, even if for the last few months, she had swapped letters with her mother and sisters, it did not make up for their absence. She wasn’t going to be ungrateful though, the welcome she had received from her new family was more than she could have asked for her. She was welcomed and treated fairly; she was given freedom she hadn’t expected.

Quietly she stood and awaited her turn alongside her beloved, her hands clasped in front of her as she stood tall. The Old Tongue, she had learned a few phrases and words over the years, she had started to strengthen that knowledge since she came to Rask. Though she was thankful for Allura, that they were including her by now cutting her out of the conversation.

She followed everyone else, sitting herself near her uncle so she could hear what was being said. It wasn’t hard to see the look of disdain that crossed her face at the mention of Rhysand, though she knew better than to vocalize her own feelings against her brother. “My father may have many of us, but it is my mother who would be the one to worry about if something happened to any of us,” she spoke up before sipping her drink. “She is slightly overprotective.”

Not that she intended to call her mother out, but it was the truth. Their father was the mind and charm of the pair, their mother was the brutal strength and the heart. Maybe that was what made them work so well, they balanced each other out. She hoped that was something she could maybe find with Trystane, a balance between them.

Remelle adjusted in her seat, she didn’t like how Ramsay trying to throw his weight around with her uncle. “Uncle Keir, you say you have blood-ties, I would love to know more.”

[barbreypilled]

Roose and Walda going on a hot date to a gentrified brewpub in the beaches and eating objectively bad tacos Roose is wearing a button down with a quirky pattern that Walda bought him feeling like he’s in drag Walda is wearing dark wash jeggings and a Fun Sweater and a statement necklace, probably polymer clay earrings and ballet flats. The waitress asks how they’re doing and Roose says ‘hungry!’ and Walda laughs and the waitress (Holly? Holly.) wants to fucking die. They’re both getting drunk off their asses and they’re going to go home and try to fuck but Roose had too many Quirkily Named Beers to get it up so they just cuddle and watch Frasier. Barb drives Domeric home from his closing shift and accidentally sees Roose going down on Walda through the window and has stress dreams about it for a week to the point where she can’t sleep. Theon comes into subway one day and sees her looking haggard and asks if she’s okay and she just stares at him for like 30 seconds then just says ‘hungover don’t talk to me’. why was he wearing socks and nothing else. why did Walda get that tattoo there

[neoncrowpen]

Domeric had contacted you as soon as Ramsay, your ex, sent out his SOS. A thousand thoughts ran through your mind. Was he hurt? Did someone kill him? Is the mission compromised?

You slipped into the apartment window. It solely belonged to Robb Stark. Notes of whiskey and cologne filled the air. Wooden finishes were everywhere, but no sign of Ramsay Bolton himself. You walked through the seemingly empty apartment carefully. Just because Robb was your target doesn’t mean you should underestimate him.

The bedroom door was ajar. You slowly opened it to reveal your ex-boyfriend tied to the headboard of the bed. His shirt was open and he was heavily breathing.

A wicked smirk appeared on his face. “Hm, just like old times. Eh, sweetheart?”

[mercysought]

@praeludio​​ . ‘ most people would say i’m the fuckup . ’ ( theon @ anora ) . you ( novel ) . selectively accepting

She had barely recognised him. 

The only thing that really had stopped her in her stride was his voice which she did recognise. The horror is indescribable and that too is a surprise. Given the events in the past week Anora doubted that the world could throw anything more shocking than what had already transpired. That the world would hand her anything more horrific than what she had already done to handle.

And yet there she was. Dear Gods, what has happened to you, Theon?! 

   “Look at me.” it starts with a shake as she moves closer to the thin stick of a man, staring at his own fingers. Bright hair, fidgety hands and eyes. Missing fingers, rotten clothes. My Gods. Anora’s steps pick up until she stands in front of him, leaning to catch his eyes and her rough hands resting on his shoulders. He flinches and she too takes a step back. For a second, a single second as she takes his face in “We all have made mistakes.”

He looks so old.

   “Theon.” both hands come to rest against the sides of his face, forcing it to look up. Even as she did, his eyes ran from hers.

The shock weights on her down like a heavy blanket. Heavier than the mourning clothes, heavier than the snow outside, but it wears thin at the edges. She feels it burning as the anger starts its climb “Look at me.”

And he does. But she barely recognises the boy she had grown up with. For a second, a foolish one, she wonders if he recognises her.

   “Did he do this to you?” her hands move away from his face and she takes a step back, hearing her steps echo against the cold stones of Winterfell. Now so different than all other times that she had visited as a child with her father and mother. No more Starks lived within those walls, only those in the tomb remained. He breathing shortened and her head grew colder. Not from the snow outside or the open windows that overlooked the courtyard “Did that bastard do this to you?...“

She felt her head become lighter. Slowly.  Her teeth bite down on her lip and her hands close into fists. Oh she could absolutely break herself into pieces with the strength of the anger that she felt. Her blue eyes look beyond the walls to the walls laced with the proud emblem of the Boltons. And Lord Roose had been fine with this? 

Fascinating. The lady’s teeth grind as she breathes in the cold air slowly.

Her feet are heavy as she turns around, back to the corridor towards the main hall “Come.“

An order because she was sure, regardless of his state, that if her hand was to land on his arm she would have crushed it. She had half of a mind that if she was to find Ramsay along the way that she might even get her bare hands dirty and clean his nose straight off.

   “Lady Ma —“ she barges in, her hand almost banging the wooden door against the side of the wooden wall. The guard stands with mouth agape, word mid air when Anora’s light eyes find him after looking around no room. No Domeric, no piece of shirt vermin. All the pity.

   “Where is the vermin that fancies himself a Bolton?“ 

The question hangs in the air, with other nobles within the room raising their eyes out of their slog to see the commotion. The seconds stretch and Anora’s anger only does when the guard seems either too stunned or too out of sorts to know what to really answer. It was quite a simple question, one that should have a pretty simple answer given that he had been the one in charge of Winterfell in Domeric’s or Roose’s absence.

Perhaps he was simply unwilling.

   “I will find Lord Domeric.“ a promise and a threat “Pray to the old Gods and the new that I find him before I find the piece of shit that thinks himself Lord of this castle.” 

She turns on her heels with her sword swinging at her hip. Leaving Theon beneath the wooden frame of the large door. Her steps feel heavy, so heavy that they should live as big of an imprint on the stones as they did in the snowy slush within the courtyard. Her voice is heard as she walked “Get Theon to a Maester now!”

[playshrp]

038. within a quiet corridor of a castle during a lavish ball a raucous northern-y feast . | from Lyarra @caointeag!

domeric usually loved this sort of thing. parties, being surrounded by others. it left him with a sense of connection he often felt was lacking, weeding out the seeds of loneliness he had always carried with him. but he was quickly learning that to northmen, a party was not just that. it was rougher, louder & he had partakenv. tb in perhaps a bit too much to drink... he had severely embarrassed himself by spilling a flagon of ale on lord forrester's eldest son. domeric had apologized & taken it as an excuse to stumble into the darkest corner in winterfell he could find to regather himself.

whether he was pitted against the world or his own drunkenness isolation was a wall he could throw up to protect himself. even as the burn of the ale faded in his chest he scarcely wanted to return to the party... so he had situated himself on the edge of a window seal, casting his dark gaze to the sky.

it was fine if he made a fool of himself in front of the moon, he mused. me might have laughed at his internal joke if he did not hear footsteps. when he see's the source, he sits a little straighter.

" lady stark, " domeric speaks before he registers her presence entirely. his stomach twists in a knot, though it would be difficult to tell. he feels too aware of the hair in his face, the wrinkles in his shirt. he forces out a breath, " what are you doing here? "

[ramsayboltonsmuse]

Thrill of The Hunted

Chapter 1: Of A Body’s Desires

Pairings/Characters: Ramsay Bolton/Original Female Character, Ramsay/Myranda, Roose Bolton

Summary: The story of Roose Bolton’s last living true-born daughter Annette Bolton and her half brother, the infamous Ramsay Bolton. It is a tale of power, control and a forbidden dark devotion.

Warnings: Half-sibling incest, Smut, Dom/Sub, Violence, Noncon, Ramsay is his own warning 

Links to other chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2A, Chapter 2B, Chapter 3A, Chapter 3B, Chapter 4 A+B

Ao3 link

“Ramsay.” 

Annette did not turn from her bedroom window when she heard him step into her room. Perhaps heard was the wrong expression. She never heard him, not at first. She felt him. An odd injection of twisted air that set a heavy weight about a room’s ceiling. She would feel space tighten around her and the atmosphere press down into her core, trying to flatten her until she was forced to slip through wooden floorboard cracks and drop down down into the hideous waxlit light of the dungeons. 

That was when she knew he was there. Annette tried to inhale a steadying breath, but already her oxygen was lead.

“Little sister.” 

Ramsay’s voice was honeyed venom and it never ceased to make Annette’s skin crawl. She heard him slide the heavy wooden door closed and fasten the iron bolt across it. It was a beautiful door, masterfully made and quietly daring any to attempt an intrusion into the bedroom of Roose Bolton’s last living legitimate child. Tragically, the door was purposed more as a solemn promise to keep Annette in, and the demons with it. 

Annette grimaced. “Half-sister”. Her voice rang the word out expressionless. She knew better than to tempt his rage yet she could not ignore that with each passing day, she had a little less left of her. She clung to her words, the last thing that seemed to have any power. 

When she had been a young child, the ladies of the Dreadfort had whispered about the impossibility of such a precious sweet thing born to Roose Bolton. They had clapped their hands when she spoke and sang and said her voice was the loveliest sound in all the North and her words the most beautiful. Years had passed since that time, hard and informative years, and Annette had learned to keep expression from her voice, especially around Ramsay.

He was hand-carved it seemed to exist in the Dreadfort, and his movements complemented every beam and curve and stone of the place. She didn’t hear him approach until she felt him snake his hands around her waist grabbing the sharp bones of her hips through the expensive dress fabric she wore and leaning in to whisper into her ear.

“Oh sister, you wound me so.” He smirked against her cheek. “You know how much it saddens me that we’re not full blood siblings. I know it saddens you too. If we were, I couldn’t do this.” Ramsay swept his hand lightly across Annette’s left breast, pinching her nipple through the dress.

Annette whirled around and pushed him, but he didn’t move, her skinny frame no match for his toned and muscled build. Annette’s pupils dilated and her eyes grew wide glancing around the room frantically for a way out. Ramsay grinned and stepped closer. Annette’s hands shot up trying to hit him, but he grabbed her wrists and roughly backed her into the wall, the cold stone making harsh contact and pressing against her back as she writhed about trying to free herself. 

“Let go of me!” Annette managed to kick one of his legs and Ramsay’s smile dropped.

He pinned her hands above her head with one hand, twisting her wrists until she cried out in pain, while the other shot out and grabbed her neck squeezing.

“Don’t test me sister dear.” Annette struggled against him trying to free herself as she gasped for air. Ramsay’s grip tightened and her face turned shades paler. His blue eyes locked on hers. As her vision turned fuzzy, Annette could see only them through the haze as everything else faded, those intense blue eyes. 

From the day that her father had introduced her to his bastard son, Annette had been amazed by his eyes. They were the color of a winter’s sky during a northern snowstorm, when the air was bitingly cold and your eyes spilled tears from the pure carnal desire of the wind. Annette’s own eyes were hazel, a watercolor of green and grey and chocolate that Ramsay had been drawn to as much as she had been drawn to his. But for a different reason. For Annette’s eyes were the eyes of a true-born Bolton, the eyes of their father.

Ramsay dropped his hand from her neck as quickly as he had grabbed it causing Annette to collapse to the floor, straining to get air into her starved lungs.

“You will not try to strike me again Netty. The next time you do won’t be as pleasant.” 

Netty. It was the nickname Ramsay had given her when they were children. Annette was eight and had wanted to go hunting with their father and didn’t understand why she could not. So she had slipped out of the captivity of her septa and rode her pony out into the woods to play her own game of hunting. 

She had been gone for only an hour before she dismounted to inspect a curious-looking rock and fell into a large netted trap that lifted her into the air, swinging from the branch of a huge tree screaming. She had been terrified and thought she would never be found, succumbing to the cold or some other horrible danger. 

It had been Ramsay that found her. He was 12 then and already strong for his age. When the castle began its frantic search for the missing child, Ramsay had taken a horse and ridden out into the woods, knowing she would have gone there. He found her pony’s trail and followed it to her. Annette remembered how he laughed when he found her. 

“How did you get yourself stuck up there?” His blue eyes filled with mirth. 

“Ramsay, get me down!” She had called. “Stop laughing. Please! Just get me down, please!” 

Ramsay hadn’t stopped laughing, but he had lowered her down carefully and released her from the netted bondage. Annette had been shaking with fear from her hours tied up and alone, and Ramsay had taken off his cloak and wrapped her up in it before pulling her flush to him. “You’re cold. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm.” He had lifted her onto his horse and rode her back to the Dreadfort still smiling at how she had managed to be caught like a silly rabbit in that net, and calling her “little Netty”. 

Annette remembered thinking him her hero, even though he had laughed. She had fallen asleep on the ride home, curled back into the boy who kept her steady on his horse. When they had arrived at the Dreadfort, she was still sleepy and Ramsay had carried her from the stables into the Great Hall where their father sat stoic, waiting for one of his men to come back with his little daughter. 

“You found her.” Roose’s voice had woken Annette and her eyes opened, her small form still cradled by her half-brother. 

“Yes father.” Ramsay had set her gently on a chair as her senses began to return to her. Ramsay stood up, meeting his father’s gaze before making to turn and walk back out to the servant’s rooms where he slept with the other orphan and bastard boys. 

“Wait.” Roose commanded and Ramsay stopped and turned. Roose stood and walked over to the boy. “Do you know what the most important thing is?” He asked.

“No father.” Ramsay stood taller as Roose approached. “The most important thing is the survival of the Bolton line.” Ramsay looked away then, shame filling him as the word bastard bastard bastard invaded his mind. 

“Look at me.” Ramsay’s eyes snapped back to Roose. “You have done the family a great service by finding Annette. She is a valuable possession for our enemies and you found her before they did. Before my own men did. With Domeric dead, Annette is even more valuable to the right buyer.” Roose sifted through Ramsay’s eyes for a moment. “You will not be sleeping with the servants anymore.” Ramsay looked shocked. “You will have a room here, in the family’s quarters.” Annette had remembered the look on Ramsay’s face. It was the happiest she had ever seen him. 

“Thank you, father.” Roose had nodded and instructed the maester to make the arrangements. 

Ramsay never left Annette’s side after that day, not for very long. Wherever she went, he went. The only time she did not feel his shadow was when she slept. She would learn that he used those dark hours for other pursuits. She felt him watching her always and as year after year passed his gaze grew hungrier. 

Annette’s thoughts returned to the present as her lungs found breath again. She stood up, regaining her composure. Ramsay had made himself comfortable in one of the rich leather armchairs in the room. He had grabbed a bright green apple from the table and was peeling it with his knife. These moments of Ramsay testing his power over her were growing more and more frequent.

“Why did you do that Ramsay? You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Father wouldn’t like it.” Annette tried to hide the fear in her voice. It seemed with each passing day that Ramsay grew more bold. She was not a fool. Ramsay enjoyed playing his games, and none so much so then with his little sister. She worried when the games would turn more violent or worse.

Ramsay huffed, halting his peeling to look her dead in the eyes. “Father won’t care. Not anymore.” He paused, a big smile spreading across his face. Annette saw the smile and his bright eyes and held her breath. If Ramsay was happy about something, it didn’t spell anything good for her. He stood suddenly and strode over to her, knife still in hand. 

“You’ve reminded me why I’ve come sweet sister!” Ramsay pointed the knife at her. “You are no longer father’s only true born child. Oh you are going to love this.” Ramsay dropped his knife holding hand to his side and used his other to tenderly tuck a long brunette curl behind Annette’s ear. He leaned over her and kissed the top of her head. Annette shivered.

Ramsay drew away, looking into her eyes. He spoke down to her, having trouble keeping a smile from his face as he told her the news. “I’ve been legitimized.” 

Annette felt her stomach drop. She backed away slowly, involuntarily, from him. But he matched her movements. He watched her eyes as they shifted between dread and anger and sorrow and then back to fear, the most beautiful vision on her, he thought. Annette was horrified as one of his signature grins spread across his face, his blue eyes locked on her eyes and seeing her through to her bone. He knows me better than I know myself, she thought, and shuddered. 

“My dear dear little Netty. Don’t be so glum!” He clapped his hands together, making her jump. “We are going to have a lovely time as brother and sister, truly. And when I inherit, we’ll have even more fun! But don’t you worry sweetling,” Ramsay’s expression turned suddenly deeply dark and Annette felt her skeleton shiver, “We don’t have to wait that long.”

***

Ramsay had not come to her rooms again after telling her about being legitimized for a full week. There was so much changing that Annette couldn’t keep track. Ramsay was constantly meeting with father’s men and preparing for gods know what his new position entailed. Annette was glad for that at least. It was the most time she had had alone without his shadow in years. 

Ramsay’s absence wasn’t the only change however, and that was where the good news stopped. It seemed the entire castle had internalized Annette’s reduction from Roose Bolton’s only living legitimate child to the status of younger daughter, and younger to the dreadfully feared Ramsay no less. She was suddenly vulnerable to much more without her father’s intense unspoken protection following her everywhere. And as more men took notice, they withheld their impulses less. 

Walking through the corridors of the Dreadfort, Annette heard men whisper how beautiful she was. Women would snicker in the kitchens about how long it would be before Roose’s daughter would find herself in an unguarded hallway. And Ramsay’s much-loved bed warmer Myranda was very vocal in her gladness. 

Myranda had never dared to speak to Annette before, but had went out of her way to serve her dinner just so that she could speak to her. “I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been replaced my lady. But don’t fret. You’ll be married off to a lord somewhere far from here before long, now that Lord Bolton doesn’t need to have you here for safekeeping.” Annette had stared at the girl but said nothing, knowing her silence would annoy her more than her words. Myranda loved Ramsay, Annette knew it, and she was intensely jealous of the time Ramsay spent with his little sister. Take him, please, Annette thought. But she stayed silent. She was still Roose Bolton’s daughter and she wouldn’t let Myranda feel more powerful than her. Seeing no response, Myranda had twisted her face angrily and paced out of the room, unsatisfied. 

The most shocking change was her father. And it frightened her more than anything. 

Annette was having dinner in the Great Hall with her father and Walda. Ramsay was off meeting with different lords under the Warden of the North’s command, cementing alliances and loyalties. The dinner was silent until Roose spoke as Walda, the last to finish eating, finally put her fork down.

“Lady Bolton, would you leave us? I have some matters to discuss with my daughter.” 

“Of course Lord Bolton.” Walda stood, curtsied at Roose, and smiled at Annette before waddling off. 

The room was empty.

“Come here.” Roose beckoned and Annette dutifully stood and glided over to the other end of the table, where her father sat. 

Roose stood as she approached. 

“My daughter.” Roose circled around Annette as she stood still, her eyes on the floor. Her father had always intimidated her immensely. Ramsay frightened her, but she could read his moods better. Her father though, her emotionless solemn serious father, she did not know what he was thinking. “You are very beautiful.” Roose stopped his circle in front of her again, inspecting her carefully. “It won’t be difficult to find a strategic match for you.”

Annette nodded. She had expected this conversation.

Roose drew closely to her. “You realize that your situation has changed with Ramsay legitimized as my heir.” 

It was less a question and more a statement. 

“I will use you to secure our alliance with the Lannisters in the South. I have it on good authority from Tywin Lannister that his son Jaime will be removed from the Kingsguard soon. When that happens, you will become his wife.” 

The South, Annette thought. Far from Ramsay, far from here. 

“But until that time you will stay here, in the Dreadfort, for safekeeping.” Annette nodded. “You were always a well-behaved child. Very disciplined.” 

That’s what I wanted you to think, Annette thought. She was lost in her thoughts of her childhood for a moment, inwardly smiling at how effective she was at convincing everyone she wanted to that she was the perfect lady, when her father’s hand on her arm brought her quickly back to the moment. His grip was tight. Annette looked at his hand on her arm, confused. 

“You’re still a good girl aren’t you.” His fingers dug into her flesh and Annette winced. She had never spent more than a few minutes alone with her father before and she felt shock fill her as his eyes roamed her pretty young body. “You’re not going to marry Jaime Lannister for several months. Ramsay is going to be kept very busy, and you,” He looked at her hungrily “you are going to stay right here by my side without the eyes of your brother or your intended or my men to ensure your purity. No one is looking at you anymore. I am finally going to get to enjoy you.” 

Annette was frozen in place. Her father had never said anything like this. Only ever Ramsay, Ramsay with his games and his promises of ownership. Her father hardly glanced in her direction.

“I -- I don’t understand.” Annette stuttered.

Roose released her arm and walked back to his chair, seating himself.

“No? Well perhaps I was wrong to trust in your intelligence. Let me be clear. You are very beautiful and very desirable. You either know this or you’re too foolish to see it. If you’re marrying Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister and all the Lannister men will have no idea what I’ve done to you - they’re thousands of miles away. So I’ll be enjoying what I’ve been wanting for years now. You look much like your mother you know. But far more beautiful.”

The sound of a heavy door opening and boots shuffling invaded the room. A man called out “My lord, news from the Karhold” and Roose’s notice of Annette completely dissipated as he turned toward the incoming men. She backed away slowly before turning and hurrying out of the Great Hall as quickly as her feet could carry her.

Annette started running through the halls, bumping into several servants as she bolted for the familiar wood and iron that promised to protect her. When she got to her room she rushed in panting and sealed the door with the large bolt before collapsing onto the ground against a wall and holding her knees to her chest, rocking and silently spilling tears from her eyes. Nowhere is safe nowhere is safe nowhere is safe, she repeated in her head.

That was where Ramsay found her hours later.

***

There was a time in her childhood when Annette believed she loved Ramsay, with all the loyalty that a sister could have for her brother. She didn’t care that he was bastard, it had meant nothing to her. For several years really, after Ramsay had removed her from that net, Annette had loved him dearly.

He had taught her archery and taken her hunting for rabbits. She had loved the wildness of it all, the carnal desire that she felt in stalking something and the elation when she caught it. She always looked to Ramsay for approval. His attention became an impossible need for her, and she wanted to please him with her hunting.

She had grown up with little companionship of children her own age and her only family, her father, scarcely seemed to look at her. Only once, after Domeric had died, did he pay any real attention to her. Even then, it was only to ensure her wellbeing and safety. Once satisfied, however, he retreated from her life once more, though Annette had remembered several nights when a dark shadow was watching her sleep. It was too big to be Ramsay then and she had decided it was only nightmares. Though she remembered faintly servants in the kitchen whispering about the abnormality of a father going into his daughter’s room late at night. After that, Annette recalled new kitchen servants and an end to those strange nightmares. 

But within those strange and convoluted childhood memories, Annette could remember the exact moment when she had begun to despise Ramsay. She could not forget the way he ripped her heart out and revelled in the pleasure of her pain, simply because he could do it. She had been unable to understand why the boy who had protected her had suddenly and violently decided to hurt her. 

But as much as she hated him, she could not deny the simple truth that he always seemed to find her when she was in trouble and save her. When it wasn’t trouble of his own creation.

I need to get out of here, run as fast and quick as I can Annette thought, still with her head buried in her knees.

“Annette?” Fuck. Adrenaline shot through her veins. She had forgotten that Ramsay had moved to the bigger and more luxurious chambers connected to her own room, chambers that once belonged to her true brother Domeric. She hadn’t locked the door between the two rooms.

Annette raised her reddened teary eyes to look up at Ramsay. He truly was quite a specimen. He stood towering above her, his shirt in hand, chest exposed. His strong jaw-line, dark hair and powerful build made it obvious why all the girls in the Dreadfort fawned over him. Until they realized what he wanted to do to them. Annette could tell he was about to take a bath as her eyes swept over fresh blood splattered over him. It wasn’t his blood. 

His eyes were angry. She was certain that he was going to hurt her, the rage emanating off of him was so intense. Ramsay knelt to her crumpled form on the ground. Annette decided right then that she wouldn’t struggle, she knew it would make it worse. She resigned herself to her fate and met Ramsay’s gaze waiting to see what he would do to her.

But he was just looking at her, sweeping his eyes over her body, looking for any signs of harm. “Netty, what happened?” He was angry she realized not at her, but at the unexplained ominous “they” who made her cry.

Annette let herself sob then. She sobbed and a few final tears fell down her face, but she was out of tears then. She had cried them all.

“It was father.” 

Ramsay’s eyes hardened. “What happened?” His stare bore into her. Annette just shook her head, unable to say it. He read it on her face.

Ramsay slammed his palm into the wall above her head.

“He touched you didn’t he!?” Ramsay hissed. Annette shook again, terrified at his sudden outburst. He realized then that he was scaring her, and tried to calm his voice. “I’ve known what he wanted for years Netty.” His face hardened looking at Annette’s beautifully vulnerable form collapsed on the floor. “I’m not going to let him have you though. Not you.” He grabbed her chin and tilted her face up to look at him. “You’re mine.”

It was those words that did it. She felt it falling away then, the hatred and disgust that she piled as high as she could, because she didn’t want him to know, she didn’t want anyone to know - she didn’t want to know it herself. The horrible truth of it all. 

And so she let him pick her up, lying still in his arms, and carry her from her bedroom into his, laying her down and covering her up with the soft furs on the large bed. 

“I won’t let father touch you, sweet sister.” Annette smiled faintly as his fingers traced her jaw line delicately.

But then he drew his hand away and his voice turned cold as he stared down at her.

“I own you.”

Conflicted thoughts and emotions grabbed her from every direction, but she was exhausted. Annette couldn't stop her eyelids from falling, seeing him strip down and climb into the hot bath in the distant corner of the room as she faded into sleep.

**** 

The first sensations that Annette became aware of as she regained consciousness were that she had slept on her side and that her body was numb with cold. She remembered being tucked deeply into the many furs that ordinarily covered the Dreadfort beds, but she could make out in the dim early morning light that the furs were now strewn across the floor. As is my dress Annette noted with horror. She realized then that she was wearing only her thin white slip, her lean body completely naked underneath the barely-opaque fabric. Annette shuddered as she registered the reality that Ramsay must have taken her dress off after she had fallen asleep. The image of him unlacing and peeling it off while she lay as still as a corpse chilled her further, goose bumps breaking out over her smooth skin.

The second sensation that Annette became aware of was a firm bulge pressed up against her backside. Ramsay. Instinctively she froze, every pulse in her body trying to silence itself so as not to wake the monster who lay so close. 

Ramsay was a hunter through every nerve and muscle in his body, and he felt that tiny movement when her body woke from its sweet sleep. Although not yet fully awake, Ramsay’s body activated with predatory instinct and his arm curled around her soft belly and pulled her taught against him. 

“Good morning little rabbit.” Ramsay purred into Annette’s neck. He is so warm. Annette thought as her body was pulled completely flush against him. Not warm, but hot, hot like a fever, she thought, a terrible white fire fever that pulsated from him and into Annette, thawing her icy body. “You’re so cold.” Ramsay nipped at her ear lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll warm you up.” He trailed his hand from where it had pulled her stomach close to him over to her hip kneading the sensitive flesh there. “You’re just too skinny.” She heard his breathing hitch, unaware that his imagination was currently at work tying her to an X-shaped cross and running a cold knife over that skinny body, a little nick here and there and pretty bright red ribbons trailing over her sharp hips and ribcage. 

She did feel his cock harden against her and the hand on her hip squeeze tighter, his fingers digging into her delicate skin. 

“Ramsay.” Annette was surprised at how small her voice sounded. “You’re hurting me.” She tried to squirm out of his grip, feeling his fingers press hard enough to leave bruises, but the feeling of her perfectly curved ass moving against his cock only served to excite him. 

“Oh, Netty.” Ramsay inhaled sharply. “This isn’t hurting you, you stupid girl.” Ramsay bit down on Annette’s exposed neck making her yelp before flipping her over onto her back. Annette put her hands up to push him away but Ramsay roughly grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head smirking before leaning down and hungrily biting and kissing her neck making Annette cry out. 

“Ramsay stop!” 

The slap shocked her. 

He had struck her so quickly that she didn’t see the blow, only felt her face stinging painfully. Ramsay loomed over her. When he spoke, his voice was dark.

“You do not give the orders here you slut.” He spit the word at her and it cut her deeply. He was livid. Annette started shaking. He was not yelling, but his voice was so measured and laden with hatred that she would have preferred a million times over that he scream at her. “I let you sleep in my bed and how did you repay me? By questioning me?” Ramsay’s stare bore into Annette’s eyes and stabbed at her soul ruthlessly. “You can sleep in the dungeons from now on. Or better yet, the kennel. Get out.” 

Annette didn’t move, she couldn’t move. Her body was frozen. “GET OUT!” Ramsay roared, seizing Annette’s waist and hauling her off of the bed before throwing her body full force toward the door. She hit the stone floor and felt a wetness on her cheek where the cold stones had made contact. Her head was ringing from the fall, but somehow she managed to stand. Still shaking, she touched her cheek, drawing her hand away to see it coated in blood. She looked at Ramsay, her eyes widening and her head feeling dizzy as she stared at the bright blood dripping gingerly from her fingers. Ramsay looked at her, standing there in her white slip with her long brown curls and naive hazel eyes and that gorgeous blood pooling and clotting on her beautiful face. But the only expression that passed across his eyes over and over like dark storm clouds was pure anger. He looked like he was going to kill her.

Annette’s bloodied fingers found the door to the hall and pushed it open before stumbling out and starting to run down the halls. She didn't know where to run to, so she just ran, a lovely phantom in a white dress now stained from her bloodied hands clasping its long train as she bolted down the hall. 

READER’S CHOICE:

Annette decides to run → go to Chapter 2A

Annette decides to stay → go to  Chapter 2B

[ravellaarryns]

♟

there was a genuine level of uneasy fixation that seemed to cross over her orbs: orbs that once would appear glazed over as though the soul had long since departed to another realm, and yet ravella continued to be living, breathing creature. when there was any emotion in her orbs, it were either anger, or this - a strange fascination that blended into fixation, seen only in the slight way her head tilted in processing and hearing the information granted.

"i wish to see one. have it arranged." ravella ordered, her words almost laced in a sense of excitement; she wished to see the action done, somewhere where she could check on the expiration process with ease. outside of her window in a courtyard, for example. her hand nodded in understanding of what it was she was saying, the true implications of it; if domeric wished to keep his head, he would not be able to venture to the north - pulling wool over the orbs of the king of the north was something she found amusing, but would find it less so when he lost his head for it.

"given to them." ravella responded; whilst she understood the historic struggles between the vale and the north for the sisters, there could be no mistake made here; it was being given out of will of the line of arryn, and for none other reason. "i will hear and entertain no talk of conquering."

his last escape from the north was one of luck, done in the dead of night and in pursuit of the king's watchmen; this one would not be a pursuit, for there had been a clear warning giving. again they would part ways, and find themselves in one another's presence in months, perhaps half a year should the deal with the sisters be wrapped up in time.

"it would do well to teach them a lesson and wash their blood of us. subjects grow restless too easily…i would like to completely remove their roots of belonging." perhaps some would expect her to be more possessive of lands of the vale, but there was a vindication to ravella arryn. she were angry, and in response to their lack of faith in her, she would force them to bend the knee to an all out savage. owen stark was just that, regardless of the crown that sat on his head.

and then her leg came back up to cross over her skirts, obviously, her hand resting upon her neck as though she were thinking. and she was thinking. "the prince has returned to us. tell me what you want to now, and then never again, my lord hand."

"They die from exposure. Some die from infection, others last long enough to starve. Those that last for such a time period, it's impossible to cut them down without killing them." Domeric almost smiled but he didn't. It was too much to show such an enjoyment when it was not a time to explain the smile. One who could create such horrors and perfect the misery it was possible for humans to inflict.

Domeric nodded, taking the news in. He would have letters sent to let them know of the Queen's arrival. His scribe would be sure to add everything required for a letter of sorrow. Domeric would take care of the letter for arrival. And perhaps have word sent to the Lord Commander. Domeric Stone was not welcomed in the North. He would not be joining his queen.

"The North would rejoice to have the Sisters returned to them, even through coin, and the Sistermen will mourn the day they betrayed their protectors." Domeric watched her, moving to take the seat her head tilted to. He took a seat and looked over map. It would do them well to wash their hands of this nuisance. Be rid of the Sistermen and their issues.

Domeric nodded his head. "Little need to dwell on the past. It is unfortunate we've no one to stand before the King. I hear tale he is a man in need of many things."

[ladyoflosgar]

asoiaf au - vampires vs werewolves - sansa x domeric

He met her at the club. It had been a theatre once, and an opera house before that. It had been there forever. And it always had good music. 

He’d been playing there for years. After his set the bartender sent him his usual drink and he sat down in his usual seat.

She was new. She was next. Her singing was so beautiful. Florian and Jonquil. It was an old song. Her, he thought. Her. His next bride. Father, I found her. Her hair was red, and her cheeks were red, and her lips were red. She was red and beautiful and red.

I want to live with her forever.

***

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow isn’t good. The day after works fine, though.”

“Then I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

She shut her apartment door. Out on the street, he sat in the Mustang and watched her window. I want to see you every day.  He loosened his grip on the steering wheel. Easy. You’ll have all the time in the world. He started the car and drove into the nearly full moon.

***

“Go steady with you?” she asked. “That’s an old fashioned thing to say.”

“I’m an old fashioned kind of guy.”

“You’re a silly kind of guy,” she said. She nuzzled her nose into the hollow of his neck and sniffed him like a dog would. Beneath her skin her blood sang to him, all warmth and thundering beats like a bass drum struck too fast. Alive. That’s what she was. Alive. And her eyes are blue. “Yes,” she said.

When forever comes, I’ll miss your blue eyes.

***

She was all nervous energy as they drove out to the scenic overlook. Makeout point? You really are old fashioned. Her fingers tapped his thigh with all the speed of a pianist trilling the keys.

“It’s a shame it’s so cloudy,” he said, as he unpacked her dinner. “We’ll miss the sunset. And they said the moon would be full - ” 

“It’ll come out.” Not a pianist trilling the keys, a nervous dog, pawing at what it could. “I have something to tell you,” she said.

But her voice sounded far away, and Father’s call seized whatever it was that had once been his soul, and his awareness was filled with the screeches of bats in flight. Domeric. The werewolves are near. My son, you must leave. Now! Leave!

It was dark now, but cloudy still. He looked around and saw many canine eyes, many long fangs, reflecting the light of the distant stars. Growls. Growls and snarls.

Domeric, get out! Ramsay is flying to you. Ramsay and his brides. My son --

“I said, I’m a --”

But the moon came out, and her face shifted. No, she can’t --

The wolves, they lunged, and Ramsay and his brides descended.

He shifted too, and the air was filled with dark screams.

It was not clear who was bitten first.

[kee-writestrashh]

To Marry a Bastard

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

summary:  Before there were the Bastard’s Bitches, the Black Sheep, the Wicked Ones, and the Red King’s to worry about there was only the Bastard’s Boys. Before there was a bun in the oven there was a possessive, obsessive love. There was raw emotion. There was a rowdy group of men who frequented a small, hole in wall, bar…. There was something evil behind that smirk. But there was also something needing and wanting behind those cold blue eyes.

**prequel to Guns for Hire

Chap 1 || Chap 2 || Chap 3

Chapter 4: And so the Story Begins....

"You're late." Domeric said, looking up from his paperwork when Ramsay entered the office.

"Pft," Ramsay huffed with a haughty sniff. "And the problem is? I had shit to do."

Domeric set his pen down and examined his younger brother for a moment as he sat across the desk from him. Something seemed to have his feathers ruffled. Not that it took too much to get under Ramsay's skin, even if he wouldn't admit it. "Everything alright?"

Ramsay shot a cold glare at Domeric but his usual smirk cropped up soon after. "Of course. Everything is always alright."

"How'd court go? I haven't seen you since then." Domeric said slowly, as if choosing the words carefully.

Ramsay gave a shrug, "Dropped the assault charges. I'm sure father had something to do with it. But I was assigned six more weeks of anger management bullshit, and they added another day of therapy. So instead of seeing that old bitch once a week, I get to see her two times a week. Woooo." He added the last part in bitter sarcasm with an eye roll.

Domeric nodded a couple times before looking back at his paperwork. "I asked you to come by because I seem to be missing something. Father says that upon running final numbers last week for the last three months, it would seem that four of our larger shipments seemingly disappeared. I don't understand?"

"You and me both. I brought it up to father the first time it happened. It's hurting sales because guns keep going missing. Father said he'd look into the matter, but never said anything else to me." Ramsay said, idly biting a nail and leaning back in his seat.

Domeric frowned at the paper on his desk and gave a sigh.

"That's really all you wanted?" Ramsay asked, raising a brow and feeling irritable with his older brother. "You wasted my time to come into the office on my day off to talk about ghost ships? You could have fucking text me."

"Yeah... I guess." Domeric shrugged, tearing his pale eyes from the paper and looking back at Ramsay. "Sorry. I just thought maybe you knew more about it. If father already knew and you two had discussed it, why would he say anything to me?"

Ramsay gave a bewildered shrug and scrunched his face, "Fuck if I know how his mind works. Are we done here?"

"Yeah I guess. Since you seem in a hurry."

"Good. Because I have a couple things to buy real quick like. If you need anything just... text me."

----

"Think he'll actually show up to take me out?" You asked, looking over at Olyvar.

"He'd be a fool not to, dear." Olyvar hummed, wiping down a table top.

It was Wednesday afternoon, and the bar was closed, but Old Man Jones liked to have the bar wiped down and cleaned real good at least once a week.

"It's just a bit weird isn't it? I mean, he didn't even give me a name. What if he's like some serial rapist killer or some shit?" You sighed, walking into the back employee room to grab your things.

"Then don't go if you're worried about it. Make sure you have mace or something? I don't know what you want me to say (Y/N). You've been out of the game way too long." Olyvar said, following you and grabbing his coat.

You slid your coat on and pulled your keys from you pocket and gave a small shrug. "Yeah I guess. I'll text you and let you know how it goes!"

"Don't forget the condoms." Olyvar winked, slipping out the door.

"I'm not gonna fuck him!" You called after him, feeling your cheeks warm a bit. You shook your head slightly, exiting the building and locking the door behind you. Olyvar, he was so bold in everything he said. No shame.

You reached the landing of your apartment and were slightly startled to find a dress bag and a box on the ground outside your door.

There was a note on the box. You stooped down and picked it up:

For dinner tonight. I will meet you at front at 7:00 exactly. -R.B.

You gathered up the items, quickly unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside, closing the door quickly behind you. Your heart pounding in nerves and excitement as you made way to the tiny kitchen table you had. Okay, so it was more of a plastic party table, but it did it's job none the less. You set the note and box on the table, hanging up the dress bag on the handle of the freezer door of your refrigerator. You pulled the zipper and found a navy blue dress. It wasn't flashy, but it was still elegant. You removed the dress from the bag and held it to your front. The top dipped a little dangerously, but the length was respectable at it's mid thigh. At least you wouldn't be showing your ass.

Draping the dress over your arm you turned your attention to the box and removed the lid. A pair of strappy black high heels. The kind you would sometimes look at when you passed by shop windows, but knew you could never really afford. It made your jaw drop slightly. Your mysterious no name had left expensive gifts for you to wear on a date with him, and he had done no more than give you the initials R.B.

It somehow made you excited for the date all over again. You were now overly curious of this mystery man, and curiosity killed the cat. You had to know who he was. You had to know what his interest in you was. Why you?

So you spent the remainder of the afternoon getting ready for the date. Makeup, hair, the dress, and finally the heels. You turned from side to side to examine the dress as it clung to your body in all the right places. A last glance over of yourself in the mirror before finally prying your eyes away and checking the time. Five to seven. You took a deep breath, looking back at your reflection. The young woman staring back at you was not you. It felt like some first awkward meeting with someone in yourself you weren't aware was there until you put that dress on. Like some magic illusion. You took another deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Alright, (Y/N). You got this. It's just a date with a cute boy. That's all." You said to your reflection. If things go bad, they go bad. It wasn't that big of a deal, right? But he had provided you with your evening attire... Probably just to get it off of me. You thought with a falter to your smile, turning away from the mirror at last. You walked into the kitchen, grabbing your small clutch purse and sliding your phone inside. You made sure you had your keys and your wallet, tucked the clutch under your arm and stepped out of the apartment.

You made your way down the stairs and stepped outside into the crisp night air. Winter was fast approaching now that November was here. The lobby door closed slowly behind you, as if sealing your doom. Your nerves starting to get the better of you as you glanced up and there he stood. It wasn't exactly what you had been expecting. Sure, the sharp dinner attire, but the car was not what you had expected. You assumed some Lexus or other business casual rich man car. Though you weren't exactly sure why, other than he had bought you expensive dinner clothing, which obviously meant he wasn't hurting for money. No, the car was a classic muscle car. An old Camaro, blacked out and shone like a black diamond under the street lights.

You snapped your eyes to him, taking him in. He was rather... okay, he was fucking hot. That was all you could think in the moment. Not very modest or ladylike, but it was what it was. He cleaned up nice, as opposed to his bloody get up from Halloween. But those blue eyes were still as bright and haunting, even without the fake blood to bring them out. His pale complexion in the dim light making them sparkle like forbidden pools in some enchanted garden.

Forbidden pools. Enchanted gardens. What was this? Some Prince Charming fairy tale? Get a grip on yourself (Y/N).

He flicked his cigarette away from him and pushed off the car he had been leaning on. Eyes glancing at the watch on his wrist before back to you.

"You look nice." He commented, opening the passenger's door for you.

"As do you." You said, unsure what to say and immediately deciding what you had said was probably stupid. But you said nothing to try and salvage the confidence you just botched rather stupidly. You took the invitation, sliding into the car, feeling your nerves scream as you walked past him. How nice he smelt. How being so close to him was... you really had been out of the dating game for too long.

He closed the door and you glanced around the pristine leather and interior of the car as he slid into his seat. He gave you a sideways glance, watching you run your finger tips over the smooth, black dash.

"Sixty seven?" You asked, turning your eyes to him.

He gave a tiny smirk. "Yes. I rebuilt it myself. My first car." he nodded. "I'm impressed you knew what she was."

"My dad. He's a muscle car fanatic. Anyways, enough about what I know. You seem to know quite a lot. Like where I live. What size dress I wear. What size shoes I wear." You said, cutting straight to the point.

He gave a chuckle and a innocent shrug. "I make it my business to know people, doll."

"Well, mister-make-it-your-business-to-know-people, it is Wednesday, I am at your mercy on the way to a date I agreed to. I believe you owe me a name." You said, raising a brow.

"Yes. I do. You can call me Ramsay." He nodded, his coy smirk still in place.

Ramsay. That was a rather odd kind of first name. "With an E or an A?"

"A." He said almost at once, in a defensive sort of way.

"And is there a last name to go with it, Ramsay with an A?"

"Bolton."

"Bolton." You repeated slowly. You knew that name... but where did you know it? And then it hit you. It all suddenly made sense. The money and fancy getup. You gave a tiny gasp of comprehension. "Like the gun company?"

"That's the one." He nodded again. "My father is Roose Bolton."

You gaped at him, as if waiting for someone to jump out and scream 'April Fools!' This was all some joke. There's no way someone like him would ever be caught dead with some lowly bartender in school to be a cop. Ramsay seemed to know what you were thinking because he shifted in his seat at the red light and pulled his wallet from his back pocket, handing it to you. Cautiously you took it and opened it. And there, plain as day was his face and name. Ramsay Bolton.

Dinner passed pleasantly. The restaurant was nice. beyond nice in your opinion. The food was perfect, the wine was perfect, and your date seemed to be the cat's fucking meow. He was funny. His dry sense of humor made you giggle. He was very charming in your opinion. He seemed to know all the right words to say to keep you talking and gushing about yourself. If he kept it up, and the seemingly bottomless wine glass stayed in front of you, Ramsay was likely to know your deepest darkest secrets before you walked out of this place.

You spoke about coming to the city, finding the job at the bar, starting college, your life in the city so far. But you avoided the topic of where you came from. Your family. It was still too soon to admit to yourself that you were in the wrong about how things had went. But you had been 18 and 18 was a stupid age, no one could really fault you, right? But he didn't press for any information. He didn't seem too inclined to talk about his own beginnings either. You did manage to pluck up the courage and ask him why you were here with him on a date when some arm candy, made up, upper east side bitch could be here with him instead.

"They're boring." He said simply with a small shrug. "You're different." He added as an afterthought, helping you from your seat. Your legs a bit unsteady as the wine finally all hit you.

You grabbed on to his arm, regaining your footing. Cheeks burning to find yourself so close to him. His eyes held yours for what felt like a lifetime. As if he could see into your soul right through your eyes. And maybe you imagined it in your overly tipsy state. Maybe you wanted to find something wrong with Wonder Boy. But you could have sworn you saw a dark shadow cross those startling blue eyes.

But the next thing you knew was he was helping you up the stairs to your apartment, and fitting your key in the lock after you had managed to drop the key ring about seven times. Through the door and you were too drunk to care that your tiny flat was drab and mostly empty. You were hardly ever here save to sleep, shower, and study. Most of your days were spent at school or at the bar. Usually the bar. You didn't care if he turned up his nose at your 'poorness'. You were clean at least. You tossed away your clutch and clumsily stepped out of the heels as Ramsay took in every inch of the living room. The TV. The couch. The coffee table covered in textbooks and your laptop.

"You're free next Wednesday?" He asked, turning those cold eyes to you.

"Does this mean I get a second date and more wine that costs more than my life?" You quipped with a small giggle.

"Yeah, I think so." He replied with a half grin. "You'll be okay then?" He asked before turning to the door and opening it.

You felt a small twinge of hurt as he opened the door. You had fully expected at least some awkward kiss or passing innuendo. Some kind of outwardly sexual suggestion. And you would have invited it gladly, even if you had told Oly you weren't going to do that. Be that girl. It was the 21st century. Men didn't see women safely back to their apartments and just leave. There was no modesty in this city. No modesty past the age of 20. No chivalry and charm simply for the sake of it. But, he wasn't forcing himself on you. Had given no small suggestion to get you out of that dress. His eyes hadn't even lingered too long on your overly exposed cleavage during dinner.

You gave a small smile. "I'll be just fine."

"Goodnight then, doll." He said and gave a nod, letting his eyes look you over one last time, and just like that he was gone.

What a charmer. Maybe you should have know it was an elaborate trap. Even if you had yet to kiss him... you were all his. He knew it. If only you had seen it then too.