Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ramsay woke from a particularly vivid nightmare, in which he was being torn apart by cruel bites, to find himself warm and cosy beneath heavy furs upon his featherbed. A warm body was nestled in beside him, soft and relaxed in repose, and for a blissful minute, Ramsay assumed it was Myranda. Before he remembered she was dead.

That thought woke him entirely, and he rolled onto his back to open his eyes. He was confronted with the familiar dark stone ceiling of his chambers at the Dreadfort. It took him a very long time to be disturbed by this fact. Sitting up sharply, Ramsay took in the room of his boyhood. Exactly as it should be, though there were a few unfamiliar additions- namely two large, high-backed leather chairs beside the fireplace. And a bowl of fruit on the small table where he usually broke his fast.

The body beside him stirred a little in sleep, with a series of indistinct mumbles, before the whore became silent again, having not yet woken. Ramsay stared at the unfamiliar man in some surprise. He’d laid with two or three men before, out of idle curiosity. But he'd never brought them into the Dreadfort, where his father could discover it. And he’d certainly never fallen asleep beside them. Nor would he have considered himself the sort of man to allow a whore to sleep in his own bed.

Frowning, Ramsay gave the whore a solid shake by the shoulder. In a longer response time that he expected, the stranger rolled over to face him. He opened one sleepy eye, unimpressed.

“What is it?” he yawned, evidently expecting to be allowed to sleep on.

Ramsay bristled at the lack of respect. But he supposed it was natural of him, to have concealed his real identity from the whore. Yet the room in a castle must have rather given the game away. And this young man wouldn’t last long, if he didn’t know when to play humble.

“Don’t you think it’s time you were on your way?” Ramsay suggested, through gritted teeth.

His anger (on a short leash at the best of times), was already simmering on a low heat, due to his confusion. The boy whore didn’t seem to care. He opened two big brown eyes, beguiling with their supposed innocence.

“Why, where are we going?” He asked in a soft murmur, lifting his head to better take in Ramsay’s expression.

“We?” Ramsay repeated, in askance.

Surely the brothels didn’t make a habit of employing whores that were this dumb? Before he could state so, the young man reached up one hand, and lightly stroked the side of Ramsay’s face. It took considerable effort not to flinch away from the touch. But Ramsay was not prepared to show fear in front of a stranger, so remained stoic.

“It’s too early for games, love,” said the boy, before surprising Ramsay with a peck on the cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

Then he promptly rolled over, and proceeded to do so himself. Ramsay heard his gentle snores, before he himself even had the presence of mind to close his hanging jaw.

*

Rasmay had half a mind to take his knife to the stranger in his bed, because there was never a moment that couldn’t be improved by a game. But curiosity stayed his hand. The overly-bold whore treated him like a favoured customer, as if they were well-known to one another. Yet Ramsay was certain he had never seen the man before, and that stoked his interest at the sheer audacity. Was it possible the boy had gotten him drunk and tumbled him to gain favour? If so, what use did pretending they were well-acquainted have?

Perhaps a spot of flaying would provide the answers to this conundrum. But Ramsay was rather tired himself, his shoulders and legs aching from what was surely a good tumble. He couldn’t be bothered to set about getting the implements he needed, when it was clear the boy whore was correct: it was too early to begin the day.

Ramsay’s cruel musings were interrupted in the most unimaginable manner possible. When the door to his chamber creaked open, he thought nothing of it. There were plenty of reasons servants could be disturbing his rest: everything from tending to his fireplace to a summons from his father. Nothing that peaked his interest overmuch. He continued staring at the blank wall ahead in consternation, wondering where he could have acquired this mouthy whore, and more disturbingly, why he couldn’t remember it.

The whore’s familiarity with him smacked of multiple interactions, but where Ramsay would have found the time or inclination to bother with such frivolities baffled him. He had a Kingdom to rule, an errant wife and her rebellious bastard of a brother breathing down his neck from one direction, while the lions growled at him from t’other.

Father was dead, his counsel gone with it. Killing Roose had been the hardest death Ramsay had to endure committing. Though there wasn’t much that bonded them together, Ramsay realised that there had been an underlying love there, only once he had resolved to do it. He’d been trembling by the time he embraced his father to check him for chainmail, but no amount of last-minute misgivings could stay his hand over the necessary kinslaying.

Father hadn’t been a good sire, by any man’s estimation, but he had protected and taught Ramsay in his own way. His death was regrettable, but inevitable, the moment he announced Walda was with child. Ramsay had no doubt in his mind that Father would have killed him, or more likely, let him die during some battle, to ensure the North’s loyalty to his trueborn heir.

“I know you’re busy stewing in your filth and bitterness, but never have you been quite so inattentive to me,” said the voice of a ghost; “I’m really quite sore about it.”

Ramsay leapt out of the featherbed, unheeding of his bare skin. The cool air meeting his sweaty body chilled him to his core, or perhaps that was merely due to being confronted by his long-dead brother. Dom stood not more than three paces away from him; as solid and real as the last time he had been sturdy enough to stand on his own two feet without assistance. At the sight of Ramsay’s bare self, Dom’s brows flew toward his hairline, a long-forgotten smirk springing to his lips.

“Honestly, Ramsay, I know you’re always pleased to see me-”

His teasing was cut short as Ramsay broke into a quick stride that was almost a run, before flinging himself at his elder brother, trapping him in a clinging embrace. Half-convinced that Dom would disappear as a cloud of smoke when they touched. But aside from rocking back onto his heels to absorb the blow of the enthusiastic hug, Dom remained as solid and dependable as he had always been in life. Chuckling over Ramsay’s keenness.

“Did you miss me so, little brother?” He laughed.

Dom was unprepared for Ramsay to remain suspiciously silent, nestling his head into the hollow where Dom’s neck met the furs about his throat.

“Ramsay…?” Dom pressed, stroking a soothing hand down his hair and the bare skin of his back.

But Ramsay said nothing, too busy re-learning the feel and scent of him, the hard-edges of Dom’s leather armour no deterrent. Their embrace was almost a choke-hold, such was the strength of the squeeze. Dom let out a string of nonsense hushing noises, rocking Ramsay gently as he fiddled with the straps of his cloak, until at last the leather buckles came undone, and he could settle the heavy furs about Ramsay’s own shoulders. He burrowed into them as Dom lead them toward the two high-backed armchairs beside the dying fire. The furs smelled strongly of his brother; earth and blood and something unnameable.

Dom deposited Ramsay into the first chair, kneeling afore him when Ramsay’s clutching hands clung to him, claw-like and desperate. Dom’s icy blue eyes, only a shade darker than his own, peered up at him in undisguised worry.

“I did miss you,” Ramsay admitted in a rasping whisper, raw and honest.

Dom smiled at him, puzzled. “In a few hours?”

Ramsay said nothing. The shade of his brother evidently did not know he had died. Mayhaps that was the way of it, with dead men.

Mayhaps the gods have returned him to me, Ramsay thought for one wild moment. A ridiculous notion, but as he had no other ideas to cling to, it was the one that settled in his mind, easing his disturbed self somewhat. Dom’s gaze flitted across him, unsettled but determined not to show it. Ramsay saw, however. He had always been able to see Dom’s truth, even when others could not.

“How are you here?” Ramsay enquired, utterly perplexed.

“Where else would I be?” Dom replied, equally confused.

Gently, Dom pressed the back of one hand to Ramsay’s brow, to check if he was feverish. Ramsay almost barked with laughter at it. Dom was the one in danger from illness, of the two of them. A sudden icy fear seized hold of his heart, as though an Other had punched through his chest, to crush it in one frozen fist. Ramsay grabbed hold of Dom’s forearm, squeezing tight in fear.

“How long has it been, since you returned from the Vale?”

Dom’s frown deepened. “The Vale?” he repeated, as though he had never heard of the place.

“You spent three fucking years-” Ramsay bit out, before Dom hushed him again, with the press of his free hand upon Ramsay’s cold cheek.

“Forgive me. It’s been many years since I even thought of that time,” Dom replied gently, “You know that. What’s this all about?”

Shivering, Ramsay declined to answer. Something was amiss here, very much so. People he did not know taking such familiarity was one thing, but Dom apparently restored to life, but claiming an alternate history: that was quite another. Dom encouraged him to crawl back into the featherbed before he could think of any probing questions that might provide answers. His brother didn’t seem phased to see the boy already sleeping there.

“He wouldn’t get out,” Ramsay revealed, more petulant than he intended.

Dom only laughed, bright and jolly.

“I should think not,” he said, “It’s bloody freezing and too early besides. I’m only dressed because you wanted to go hunting, but in all honestly, I’m glad we aren’t. I think it’s going to snow.”

Dom tucked him into bed as though he were a green boy, and kissed his brow.

“Get some sleep, sweetling,” he whispered, “You’ll feel better.”

Chapter Text

Waking at a more acceptable hour did nothing to assuage Ramsay's discomfort, at finding himself once more in the same, incorrect castle. The unknown boy had dressed himself, and was breaking his fast at Ramsay’s table nonchalantly. Ramsay resisted the urge to yell at him to get out, and stop flouting the rules of propriety by being so blasé. The boy smiled when he saw that Ramsay was awake, and immediately offered him the plate he had prepared. Churlish, but with a stomach protesting its lack of sustenance, Ramsay yanked on the pair of breeches he found slung over a bedpost, and joined the cheery man. He was pleasantly surprised to find a plate filled with his favourite fruits, a good chunk of ham and soft bread with cheese. Suspicious again that the boy knew him so well, he watched the boy eat and make idle chatter about the unexpected snowstorm, before consenting to eat himself.

The boy in his chambers wasn’t the only new addition to the household. Whilst Ramsay was fully expecting to see his brother again, hoping it hadn’t been a particularly lucid dream, he wasn’t expecting to come across said brother in the passageway, a pretty blonde highborn girl clinging to his arm. When she noticed Ramsay looking at them, she scowled at him rudely. Ramsay returned the glare, mostly out of consternation at a second unfamiliar face in his boyhood home, than anything else. She said not a word when Dom greeted him and mentioned the blizzard.

“Well, winter has come,” Ramsay shrugged, before suddenly realising that the statement might not be an accurate one anymore. Here in this strange realm, where his dead brother pranced about with unknown girls, without a care in the world.

But Dom nodded in commiseration at his words, and that was enough. Ramsay felt himself relax marginally, relieved some truths remained.

*

He managed to avoid his father all day, having correctly surmised that he might also be here. Ramsay glimpsed Lord Bolton striding about the courtyard purposefully from a high window, feeling his stomach swoop in fear. Would Roose remember the feel of Ramsay’s dagger plunging into his heart?

Surely I would have awoken in the dungeons, if that were so, Ramsay reasoned.

He kept to the shadows regardless, and sought out another dead confidant. If all the spectres of House Bolton were somehow alive, then surely his favourite hunting companion was also? But her chambers were empty, and when he inquired the kennel master of her whereabouts, he seemed utterly bewildered. Dom hailed Ramsay, before he had the chance to grow irate with the fool.

“Where are you off to?” Dom asked.

“To see Myranda.” Ramsay replied shortly, unprepared for his brother’s face to fall, his countenance growing solemn.

“Aye,” he said, “I’ll join you. It’s been some time since I paid my respects to my mother.”

Ramsay stopped short, staring at Dom, trying to parse another meaning from his words, but finding himself unable to. Wordlessly, he followed his brother into the bowels of the Dreadfort. Far below the dungeons, and the hidden chambers that were always locked, right down to the crypts. He hid his shock that Myranda, a smallfolk girl, had been buried here. Alongside his ancestors and the beloved wives of Bolton lords long dead. Dom didn’t seem to think there was anything odd in Myranda’s tomb being the next along from his mother’s. Idly, Ramsay traced the letters on her final resting place, in the mysterious, chunky lettering of the Old Tongue. All Bolton tombs were decorated in the same way. But Myranda was not a Bolton; not unless he'd been committing even more sins than he'd been aware of, and she was secretly his father's bastard too.

“Remind me what it says?” Ramsay enquired, sure that he must be expected to know it, if Myranda had committed some feat worthy of being interned here for all eternity.

She must have saved my father's life, the thought. Nay, Dom’s. Mayhaps her death is the reason Dom breathes beside me.

Dom cleared his throat, before dutifully reciting: “Myranda Redbolt, beloved wife and mother. Now her bones rest with the blood of my blood.”

Ramsay turned sharply. The strange House name she had been attributed was nothing compared to the word mother .

Dom lead him from the crypts silently, both of them unwilling to disturb the quietus until they began to ascend from the lowest level. Ramsay wanted to ask how Myranda had died and what had happened to her child, no doubt his bastard. Though perhaps not, if she had married into House Redbolt, whoever they were. No Northern House that Ramsay had ever heard of. Still, there were smaller clans in the mountains and the Neck, only the gods knew what all their names were. He considered going to the Maester’s tower to enquire about it, but before Ramsay could state this intention, Dom said:

“Come with me to the sparring yard. I promised our sister I’d watch her shooting since we delayed our hunt. She’ll be thrilled if you join me.”

Ramsay stopped abruptly and stared at his brother. Then stared some more when Dom cast him an enquiring look.

“Our what?! ”

Dom responded with a hard look.

"No matter where half of her blood comes from, she is still our sister, Ramsay," he chided. "No pretense is needed with me. I know you are fond of her."

Disturbed, Ramsay proceeded to follow Dom to the courtyard.

Their sister turned out to be tiny child of no more than six, with more hair than sense, which she promptly revealed by bowling into Ramsay’s legs and clinging onto him as though he were a prized doll. Ramsay stared down at her tiny form with consternation, entirely unsure how to deal with this circumstance. Supremely unbothered by Ramsay’s lukewarm reaction, the redheaded girl promptly abandoned him in order to give Dom’s knees the same level of affection.

She was frankly terrible with the bow. But then she was very little, her tiny hands not yet suited to the stillness of motion required. She managed to hit a hay target after several attempts, causing Dom to clap encouragingly, while Ramsay watched on in bewilderment. Dom nudged him with his elbow, to which Ramsay offered wide-eyed confusion before realising his mistake. He offered a belated: “Well done,” to the child.

She proceeded to beam at him with a gappy smile, teeth missing due to her youth. Wrong-footed, Ramsay shuffled closer to Dom for guidance and protection against this unfamiliar world, where Myranda was honoured and they shared a small sister. At least Dom was the same man, wholly his brother. As long as that remained unchanged, Ramsay would gather his senses soon. He had to.

*

Ramsay settled into his seat at dinner with the ginger hesitation of an uninvited guest. He pressed his lips into a firm, bloodless white line when he noticed the young man - still unnamed - approach. It was infernal, this dogged pursuit. Ramsay could not fathom how anyone could receive his negative responses, yet remain so determined to stay within stabbing distance. After escaping from his enthusiastic, doting sister, Ramsay had returned to his chambers to dress for dinner. There he found the boy doing the same, in clothes that were clearly fashioned for him, hanging in Ramsay’s closet. Ramsay had proceeded to slam about his rooms, furious and somewhat humiliated. Not just a whore, but a live-in whore. Wonderful news. No doubt his father was thrilled by that development.

Looking at the smiling young man seating himself beside Ramsay in full public view, he was even more annoyed. No man at Winterfell would have dared continually raise his ire and hope to remain unscathed. Not for the first time, Ramsay longed for the uncomplicated subservience of his Reek. These cheerful teases he received from the boy, as though every threatening glance Ramsay made was in jest, were unaccountably vexing. But the boy simply sat next to him at the high table, bold as you please, leaning into Ramsay’s space as if he would be unquestionably welcome there.

“What are you-” Ramsay snarled, before biting back his harsh words, partly due to the realisation he was about to make a scene in front of Father, but mostly because Dom kicked him sharply in the shin.

Big brown eyes turned to him in wounded hurt, and Ramsay fought down the urge to lash out. Knowing Father would be unimpressed when there were ladies present. Instead, Ramsay rubbed his smarting leg and smiled his most dangerous, charming, and ultimately cruel smile.

“What are you after this eve? Hare, or fowl?” Ramsay altered the tone of his question unconvincingly, the young man beside him frowning, before reaching for the pigeon.

The sneering young blonde woman was across the table from them, affording Ramsay frosty looks when she deigned to cross gazes with him. But they were also joined by another unknown guest, an older woman, still handsome despite her age, with long red hair and a charming smile. She doted on his Father, who seemed gratified by the attention.

Ramsay tried to parse who she was by listening to their conversation, but all he gained was her first name. It was possible she was some distant relative - Father must have some relations, after all, he couldn’t just have sprung from a frozen puddle, fully formed. But no one ever spoke of Father’s parents. If Roose had any siblings, uncles, aunts or cousins, he clearly wasn’t fond of them, as he never spoke of them. Ramsay and Dom had certainly never met anyone else claiming to have Bolton blood. As he mused on how eerie that actually was, how odd that Father never mentioned his parents and his sons didn’t even know their names, Ramsay decided the foreign woman must be Father’s mistress or wife. In this world a redheaded wife would make sense, taking into account the new sister he’d gained.

As Ramsay observed how attentive she was, without being weakly sycophantic or deferential, Ramsay recognised that this woman was a better fit for Father than timid, fat Walda. What a waste of blubber she had been. Ramsay should have skinned her and boiled down her fat for lamp oil. Alas, he’d fed her to his bitches before the thought ever crossed his mind. It was a shame that quick decisions were necessary in times of war, but one could not be expected to think of everything.

The dinner progressed as they so often did when he was a boy, with Father leading the conversation in that quiet, contained voice of his. Talking about grain, wax shortages from the lack of bees in winter, and the recent death of Lord Whitehill. Ramsay followed Dom’s lead in false sympathy for their bannerman, smirking when Dom rolled his eyes as soon as Father’s head turned. Neither of them cared what men on their land lived or died, as long as they didn’t make any trouble. A peaceful land, a quiet people: that was Father’s motto. Ramsay certainly didn’t agree with all of that sentiment: he preferred screaming, sobbing people.

After they were done with their five courses, Ramsay alighted the table quickly, but not so quick as to escape Father’s unwanted eye.

“You will stay,” Father glared at Ramsay, before settling his cold smile upon his mysterious wife, as she gave him a questioning look.

Lady Gwyn kissed Roose upon his cheek before taking her leave, Ramsay pleading silently with Dom for support, but his brother offered him a commiserating look, the kind that would look fitting accompanied by a shrug claiming inability.

“You were rude to your…. Companion, this evening,” Father stated blandly, once the hall was empty.

Ramsay shrugged, trying to affect an uninterested air. He highly doubted Father wanted to hear any sordid details, but his heart pounded, being so close to a man he had murdered once.

“Growing bored of him at last, I see,” Father said, infuriatingly condescending. “Well, it was inevitable.”

Ramsay said not a word. He wasn’t sure what he felt for his strange new follower, but already his father’s dismissal was infuriating. The boy had been nothing but dotingly sweet toward Ramsay, if maddeningly disrespectful.

“I will not have it,” Roose hissed suddenly, “Set him aside as your whore, if you wish. But I will not have you disparage a worthy member of this household, nor humiliate a loyal man - of which there are too few in this life. You will apologise, and woe betide if we lose his skills as a teacher to your feeble-minded son.”

Ramsay bristled at that. He now had confirmation that Myranda’s child was his own, and he was sure no boy of his was feeble in anything. And Ramsay was surprised to find himself suddenly furious at Father calling his young man a whore.

It’s acceptable when I do it, because he is so evidently mine, he glowered possessively. Ramsay opened his mouth to argue on behalf of his son, but one icy look from his Father stemmed his tongue.

“I do not wish to hear it. Do as I bid.”

Recognising the dismissal, Ramsay gritted his teeth and stomped out of the hall, stalking to his rooms, fury bubbling and blistering on his skin.

Chapter Text

Ramsay was startled to find his chambers were warm and enticing when he returned to them.

Of course they are, he thought sourly, when I have a little whore always in place to do my bidding.

But the churlish attitude did not last, in the face of his sweet companion, who hurried to Ramsay’s side, and with gentle fingers, removed his surcoat with a deft touch. Then he proceeded to directed Ramsay to one of the high-backed leather chairs, pressing a goblet of wine into his cold hands. Ramsay took a small sip, expecting piss and pleasantly surprised to find it was the sour Dornish red he favoured, but Father would not oft let him drink, aside from at special feasts. There was no cause where Ramsay had come from to break into such expensive casks, save for his recent wedding to the Stark girl. But here evidently, they had some more revenue, or the boy knew how to use his wiles to gain favours on behalf of his master. Sighing heavily, Ramsay leaned back into his chair, enjoying the heat of the flickering fire washing over him.

A soft kiss was pressed to his hair, two strange hands giving his shoulders a short massage. Ramsay opened his eyes to see the young man settle himself comfortably on the arm of Ramsay’s chair, fingertips brushing against his jerkin.

“You seemed… out of sorts today, my lord,” he suggested gently, without meeting Ramsay’s eyes.

Ramsay shrugged, uncomfortable being alone with this stranger, who proposed to know him well. He struggled for some reply that would ally suspicion, and allow him to end an exceedingly trying day in relative peace. The last thing he needed was some whiney whore pressing his patience even further.

“You seemed confident.” Ramsay stated, sure it was true. “You always seem confident.”

“I do?” those big brown eyes widened, settling on Ramsay at last.

“Certainly know how to divest a man from his clothes quick enough,” Ramsay teased with a smirk, to which the young man laughed.

“It’s all that practice I had as your squire, I suppose.”

Ramsay stiffened, staring up at the young man nestled in beside him, with fresh eyes. He had a nicely proportioned face, and though his body held a healthy amount of chub, soft in the middle, he wasn’t truly fat. From what Ramsay had seen, he still had the majority of his teeth. Ramsay had assumed the boy lowborn, due to finding him in his bed. But what lowborn man was ever a squire, even to a bastard? Swallowing thickly, dizzy with the implications, Ramsay ventured to learn more, without showing glaringly obvious gaps in his knowledge.

“You haven’t spoken of your family much,” he guessed, hoping he would be correct. Even if the boy had spoken of his kin, Ramsay was willing to bet it wouldn’t have been recently, so his statement should carry some ring of truth.

The boy gave him an unfathomable look before saying, “You know my mother abandoned me as a child, and my father died not long after. What’s to speak of? Most of the rest of them are gone, too.”

“But surely not all?” Ramsay pressed, suddenly intrigued.

For the first time, he had a vested interest, and paid attention to the boy’s speech. Ramsay found that though he had the makings of a Northern accent, there was a catch on certain letters and phrases, that revealed another beneath.

“Why are you asking me of this?” The stranger asked stiffly, his resolute jollity no longer anywhere to be seen.

Ramsay bit down his immediate urge, which was to reveal the truth of his confusion, and therefore rip his tentative fixture in this castle to shreds. Instead, he shrugged, a far safer alternative.

“I only wondered if you never missed them.”

The boy snorted.

“I barely knew them. Uncle Ilyn came to visit us once, when I was very small. I don’t even remember his face. I just remember being terrified. He was so tall, and quiet. Obviously.”

Ramsay flexed his fingers out of the fist they longed to close into. Uncle Ilyn, an obviously quiet man... it did not take the formidable acumen of Tywin Lannister to work out that must be the famously tongueless King’s Justice, Ilyn Payne. From House Payne, a noble house in the Westerlands. Ramsay closed his eyes, appalled. Seven hells, how had he landed a noble bedwarmer from House Payne, a House in the richest region in Westeros? No wonder Father had been furious of his conduct at dinner, which mostly consisted of Ramsay ignoring his bedmate in favour of his miraculously returned brother.

He couldn’t exactly come right out and ask the man himself how they had met. But surely someone must know the story. Taking a deep drink from the remaining wine in his goblet, Ramsay resolved to ask his boys about it. Dom might cause problems of his own, wondering just what was wrong with Ramsay’s memory that he had to ask strange questions. But his boys knew better than to question his motives about anything.

“I’m going back out,” he said, “There’s no need to ah... wait up for my return.”

“Oh,” the boy sat up swiftly. “Must you? I had thought-”

“I’m afraid I must,” Ramsay said quickly, affecting a charming smile.

The man quirked a single eyebrow at his quick response. Before Ramsay could object, he had slid onto the rug beneath them, to kneel at Ramsay’s feet.

“I think I can convince you otherwise, m’lord.”

Despite himself, Ramsay felt his blood stir at the thought. It had been the while since he had been able to indulge in the base urges of man. Since his wife had escaped along with his favourite plaything, killing his favourite whore to do it, in fact.

“Oh, really?” he couldn’t stop himself from issuing the challenge.

He smirked when the boy leered at him, jerking Ramsay’s knees apart, to seductively shoulder his way between them.

Ramsay breathed heavily through his mouth as the boy serviced him, his wet tongue hot and skilled. Ramsay pressed the top of his crown against the back of his tall chair, as he tilted his head back, moaning loudly in unbridled ecstasy. The boy suckled on the head before taking him deep into his throat, swallowing thickly around him. Ramsay blissfully tangled his fingers into his brown hair, tugging sharply with every swipe of skilled tongue.

When he came down the man’s throat, Ramsay could see why he had chosen to keep him around. Ramsay wasn’t expecting to be immediately yanked forward into a kiss, repulsed at the thought of tasting himself, but despite the strange savageness of it - he’d never kissed anyone with stubble before - he found himself hungry for more. The stranger followed up his enticing kisses with a series of hard nips on Ramsay’s lower lip. But before he could return the action in kind, the man pulled back and away, using one hand to drag Ramsay from his chair.

Leading him by the hand towards the bed, the man gave him a hard look as he said; “You’ve been a grouchy arse all day.”

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed, intrigued by this new side of the demure and dull little twit whose company had been an irritant to him, until this hour.

The young man shoved him unceremoniously onto the featherbed they apparently shared, pulling first Ramsay’s boots and then his breeches off roughly.

“I ought to fuck that sour attitude out of you,” his new lover declared.

Though he tried his best not to show it, Ramsay was certain that a flash of alarm rippled across his face. Whatever this man believed he enjoyed to partake in, Ramsay had never let any man subjugate him that way, and he wasn’t keen on changing that fact.

But the man didn’t push the issue, instead offering him a small smile.

“Or…” he said breathily, carefully unlacing the ties on his own jerkin, before gradually pulling it over his head to toss aside, “Might you be displeased with your favourite tavern wench? And wish him to come service his lord properly?”

Still a mite hesitant, Ramsay nodded. That scenario sounded more acceptable.

The seductor which had somehow replaced the annoying young man crawled on top of him, cupping Ramsay’s face between both his hands for a deep, consuming kiss. Ramsay had never been the focus of such flagrantly loving behaviour before. Myranda had been a sensual creature, but a cruel and callous one, eager to goad him further in his games. Whores were readily available, but they were all poor actors, unable to hide the sneering behind their eyes, their disgust at what they were asked for or thought of him. And the girls he’d played with just screamed and sobbed. No one had ever looked at him with genuine, sexual love.

It was a heady, potent sensation, and as they continued to divest themselves of their clothing, sharing deep kisses all the while, Ramsay decided it was one he might grow to used to.

Chapter Text

The following morn, Ramsay began the day with the satisfied feeling of a man who had successfully tupped the object of his desire and made them scream in ecstasy. It was very strange to draw pleasure from a subdued atmosphere, Podrick sending him small, secretive smiles across the table while they broke their fast. Ramsay had used the suggestion of the game to ask for his lover's name, under the guise of procuring a tavern wench. Thankfully, it seemed the boy gave his real name, as he hadn't objected to Ramsay's continued use of it.

The twit personsa of his lover was back, but Ramsay could see that unlike with his Reek, it was no act. No second person lived in Podrick's skin, that needed to be stripped away to reveal the truth beneath. Instead, Podrick wore his truth on his sleeve, a favour displayed for all to see. He remembered Roose’s dire warnings to make good with his companion, or else let him go with dignity, and Ramsay cleared his throat awkwardly, having little to no experience with genuine apologies. He can’t recall a single regretful action he took in his life, save for the curious hang-over from his nightmare, where the beasts were tearing him apart. In that moment, he had regretted killing his father and newborn brother, certain that House Bolton was extinct with his death.

Ramsay thought it best to keep it simple, that way it would be most sincere.

“I apologise for my conduct yesterday. I was… rude.” He said slowly, testing out the concept.

Podrick rewarded him a winning smile.

“We all have days of fatigue,” he conceded, “When everything seems tiresome. You are forgiven, love.”

Ramsay took a large bite of his apple, pleased with himself. Podrick fixed him with a steely look then, as though aware Ramsay was congratulating himself on his redemptive conduct.

“In future, try to refrain from belittling those with your best interests at heart.” Podrick suggested, rising from his seat, to shrug a thick outside cloak over his shoulders.

Ramsay frowned at the sight. The snows had fallen thick and heavy well into the night; whilst part of the courtyard was protected by the wooden awnings from above, allowing for archery practice from underneath its protection, the majority of areas out-of-doors were off limits.

“I love you,” said Podrick freely, “But not everyone is predisposed to be lenient toward your sulking.”

“I do not sulk,” Ramsay said reflexively, before the entirety of the sentence sunk in.

Podrick leaned over him, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Ramsay snatched hold of his wrist, preventing him from pulling back. He drew Podrick into a deep kiss, enriching it with all the lust he could feel rolling beneath his skin.

“Where are you going?” he asked, pushing aside the part of him that wondered why he even cared to know.

Podrick wasn’t his responsibility, despite their carnal compatibility. If he wanted to freeze out in the snow, or his duties bid him there, it was no business of Ramsay’s. At least, he knew it shouldn’t be, but somehow, he felt compelled to make it his business to know, regardless.

“To feed the chickens,” Podrick said cheerily, “Should you like to come?”

Ramsay’s knee-jerk reaction was an unequivocal ‘no’, as what would he wish to perform menial tasks for? But Podrick’s cheery countenance seemed to suggest there was a distinct possibility of him actually complying with the invitation, and Ramsay couldn’t stem his curiosity as to why. What satisfaction might his counterpart have gotten, from accompanying his lover to do servants work? Ramsay could not begin to fathom, but he intended to find out.

“Verily,” he agreed, “After I finish this.”

He waved his apple, and achieved another indulgent look for it.

“I ought to check on my bitches, anyway,” Ramsay added, as it was true that he had not considered them until now.

They made their way to the lower levels in quiet companionship, Podrick being so bold as to wrap his hand around Ramsay’s arm, as though he were a highborn girl that Ramsay was escorting to a feast. The feel of his arm tucked around Ramsay’s own was warm, and allowed them to huddle together like baby birds, along the draughty corridors of the Dreadfort. So Ramsay didn’t complain, generously allowing the other man to cuddle up to him.

An older child was buzzing about where the base of a staircase alighted into the corridor they had lately walked down. He was hopping from foot to foot, expending energy, or else trying to remain warm.

“Pod!” cried the boy, before running to Ramsay’s companion, taking a flying leap into his arms.

Ramsay blinked at the boy looking at him from Podrick’s shoulder, a boy staring up at him from Mryanda’s face. The child was too big to be carried- in truth, too old to be as enthused as he was. And as Podrick set him back on his feet, he seemed to remember it. Seeming to take Ramsay’s staring as a cue to re-acquaint himself with proper manners, he nodded stiffly.

“Good morrow, Father,” said the boy, “I did not expect you to join us.”

“Nor I,” Ramsay agreed, raising one eyebrow as he assessed the child portended to be of his blood.

The boy shifted under his scrutiny, but did not shy away from him, nor cower in his presence. That was a good sign, Ramsay felt. It would not do to have a craven child. Unlike his supposed sister, the boy had enough sense to differentiate between grown men receptive to their affection, and those to be more wary of. He noticed that although the boy seemed genuinely pleased to see him, he made no attempt to get to close or smother him with affection.

Slowly, Ramsay reached out to run his fingers through the child’s thick head of hair. Dark curls, like Dom. The boy didn’t cringe from Ramsay’s touch, as he might have, should Roose have attempted the same to him when he was a boy.

“Shall we?” asked Pod brightly, and this time, Ramsay freely offered his elbow to him.

They approached the coop arm in arm, with the bouncy child ahead of them, chattering with excitement. With sure fingers, the boy unlatched the necessary gates to get inside the wooden enclosure, and used an old bowl to scoop out a decent amount of grain, from a sack almost as big as him. Pod shook snow from a wicker basket, and set about lifting the wooden lids of the small chicken houses, collecting eggs from the straw nests inside. The plump chickens pecked around the child feeding them, fluttering and flapping joyfully.

One particularly little white chicken hopped onto the boy’s foot, and remained there.

“A special favourite of yours?” Ramsay asked, indicating the bird.

“Carmen,” his son said, “Cook promised not to kill her without my say-so.”

Carmen clucked loudly, giving a flap of her wings as though in agreement. Amused, Ramsay leaned on the wooden fence and watched the domestic scene play out. Snorting with entertainment, as the chickens almost tripped over one another in their race to the grain.

It had taken Ramsay until this moment, to realise the odd feeling in his chest was some form of contentment. Generally, Ramsay had made someone suffer at least once in the hours that had passed, since he had been in this strange dream realm. Briefly, Ramsay considered seeking out the sneering blonde to introduce her to his knife. But he suspected from her interactions with his brother, that she was Dom’s girl. And that was enough to shake his thoughts away. Ramsay had never been jealous over Dom’s toys. Mostly because they shared most things in the first instance. Dom had taught him military strategy with his wooden knights and soldiers, how to charm ladies by playing the harp, how to shoot a bow and the best way to kill a man with a variety of other weapons. Ramsay had never purposely spoilt any of Dom's belongings.

“That’s enough now, Merik,” said Podrick, beckoning the boy to leave the enclosure. He did so without complaint. But only after lifting the complacent chicken, Carmen, into his arms for a brief squeeze, then setting her upon the ladder to her wooden hut.

“I’m for the kennels, now,” Ramsay said, feeling it was usual for a man to inform his lover of his movements in such away.

His son, Merik, probably short for Domeric, bounded over toward him, alarmingly bright-eyed.

“May I join you Father?” he asked, “I should like to check on Betsy.”

Seeing no reason to refuse, Ramsay nodded, taking his leave of Podrick with a brief nod as being over-familiar in public was not an action he was prepared to undertake. Merik matched his swift stride toward the kennels, thankfully without the boyish chatter he was clearly allowed to indulge in.

Ramsay scowled, reminded of Roose’s low opinion of his boy. The child was too cheerful, which was clearly Podrick’s influence, but Ramsay couldn’t bring himself to be too angry over it. It was actually rather mystifying, to discover a version of himself that had supposedly raised a child that was not afraid of him. He wondered if Myranda had died in childbirth, leaving him to deal with the infant alone. It was no mystery why he had sought solace from Podrick, were that the case. He and his boys were not built to mother young, but Podrick seemed at ease with the softness required.

To his relief, his bitches were much the same, though Ramsay noticed Red Jeyne was missing. A casualty of time, it seemed. There were a few he was unfamiliar with, noticeably Betsy, a small, scruffy little mongrel that bypassed him in favour of his son, who immediately called out a familiar command in the Old Tongue.

The young bitch immediately sat obediently at his son’s feet, awaiting orders. Ramsay nodded, impressed. He had never considered himself as a father, nor what a child of his loins might be like. Merik was not a copy of himself, but a small distinct person of his own, with unique mannerisms and interests, and yet Ramsay saw himself reflected in the boy’s upright stance, as he commanded his hound. A wet tongue licking at his fingers distracted Ramsay from his musings, and not knowing how long it had been since they were fed, but not wanting them to suffer in the freezing conditions of winter, Ramsay set about acquiring an adequate meal for his girls.

*

The day passed swifter than Ramsay had anticipated, the sun setting so much quicker in winter. Before long, he was snatching a moment alone with his boys, before he was expected to change for dinner.

Damon was unchanged, hulking and gruff as always; the rest picking their teeth with their knives, or stroking their beards with a grim countenance. The only surprise was Tansy, seated comfortably in Damon’s lap in the little storeroom his boys used to drink and play dice in.

“Run along, Tansy,” Ramsay ordered, giving her a firm slap on the rump, when she passed him to exit the room.

She yelped in surprise, turning to share a look with Damon. Ramsay frowned, but shook it away when Damon said nothing. Since when did his whores look to his men for support in anything? Ramsay stored away the unexpected exchange to ruminate over later. Now, he sought answers to other types of questions.

Chiefly, “How on planetos did I land Podrick Payne for a follower?”

Several pairs of eyes burned into him from across the gloomy room.

“M’lord?” Sour Alyn was the first to speak.

Ramsay stepped into the cosy room and shut the door behind himself, trapping them all in the little storeroom. He strode to the table and relieved Skinner of his flagon of ale, to take a decent swig of it.

“I mean it,” Ramsay pressed, wiping his mouth of frothy residue, “Why does he put up with… this?”

Ramsay waved his dominant hand to indicate the Dreadfort, the North and himself. But his boys only blinked in stupefaction, dumb faces offering him no answers.

“The fucking?” Alyn eventually offered, before shrinking back from Ramsay’s sharp look.

After careful consideration, Ramsay allowed himself a snort of self-satisfied laughter.

“The fucking is impressive.” Then he scowled, considering; “But I’m not the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who knows how to fuck.”

A bristle of movement caught his eye and he looked about the dimly-lit room to find several bemused men.

“What?” he demanded, “Someone ought to spit out something, because you’re starting to get on my nerves.”

Sufficiently conditioned to respond to such threats fasf, Skinner replied: “Tis nothing. Only, you’ve not called it that - none of us has, for a long time.”

“Called what, what?” Ramsay fumed, irritated at the change of subject.

“The Seven Kingdoms,” Damon finally clarified. “Not since Robb Stark became King in the North have you called Westeros such.”

Dizzy from the bizarreness of this world, Ramsay took a small step back. Was it possible that the Starks were still living, having succeeded in taking the North from the Seven Kingdoms, here? It would explain why they were all still living in the Dreadfort.

Ramsay pinched his nose, breathing deeply to retain some semblance of calm.

“Language aside, someone explain to me why Podrick and I- how... What the fuck is going on here?”

Fortunately, his eyes were shut to the alarmed looks that passed between his favoured hunting companions. By the time Ramsay’s icy blue eyes were scrutinising them again, they had arranged their faces to neutrality.

“Podrick is feal, Ramsay,” said Damon firmly, “Whatever you suspect- it’ll not be bad. You have Podrick’s loyalty, always.”

Even more confused as to why Damon should be so adamant about another man’s faithfulness, Ramsay merely frowned. He considered the gentle, teasing man who doted on him and his son both, the way he’d responded to Ramsay’s touch the night before, how quick Podrick had been to forgive Ramsay’s supposed transgression.

“Aye,” Ramsay agreed, “I know that for myself.”

It wasn’t the answer he was searching for, but mayhaps it was the one he needed, after all.

Chapter Text

Ramsay spent a month at the Dreadfort, learning about the life he might have had, if Dom had lived. A great many things were altered here; not least that the Kingdom of the North remained entirely independent, apparently having survived the Second Long Night. Ramsay had stumbled across one of Maester Wolkan’s lessons to his son and his nieces, Dom’s well-bred daughters. The children had obediently answered questions on the Others, who were apparently vulnerable to dragon glass and Valyrian steel. Horrified, Ramsay had settled into the back of the room to listen in rapt, disturbed attention.

After that, he was even more grateful to have woken in this world at the time that he had, but the sheer terror of it had him demanding books from Maester Wolkan regarding the recent war with the Others. Ramsay had never been studious - Father hadn’t thought a bastard deserved more than basic letters and numbers, but Dom had gone over every lesson he received with Ramsay, forcing him to pay attention and write assignments until his head spun. But in truth he had missed it, when Dom had been sent to the Vale, and he drew on those lessons now.

When not researching, Ramsay was thrilled to spend long hours merely talking with his brother, doing his best to mitigate the gaps in his memory of this world, and quite unable to resist drawing his brother into embraces. Dom laughed at him, teasing him for being needy, but Ramsay endured the ribbing in good grace, unable to explain why their time together was so treasured.

Ramsay had forgotten how to play the harp. In clumsy mortification, his fingers bled as he fumbled his way back into some semblance of skill. He’d forgotten how sweet the sound of the melodies were, when played correctly. He’d forgotten a great many things, it seemed.

He grew complacent of his new way of life. Podrick wasn’t a servant, but he cherished Ramsay, with a hundred small considerations that might not be unusual to man with an obedient wife, but were a revelation to a man who had been treated with scorn most of his life. Ramsay grew used to having a son, a child that looked to him for cues on how to behave before Lord Bolton. Less appealing was his goodsister Wylla, whom he shared a mutual hatred for, despite how sincerely she seemed to love his brother. His new mother was far more tolerable, though Ramsay’s brows had flown sky-high when he realised she was Ironborn. Reek’s aunt, no less.

More shocking still, was learning that Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, was no bastard at all, but the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and therefore the heir to the Iron Throne. Ramsay had laughed himself sick, when he learnt that pious fucking Eddard Stark had been hiding a dragon beneath Robert Baratheon’s nose all this time. Oh, if only Ramsay had known! What Father would have rewarded him with, for that information...

But as time went on, Ramsay thought less on the wretched creatures he had left behind him. When he learnt that Theon Greyjoy was the King of the Iron Islands here, and married to his own former wife, it was with barely a frisson of interest. Later, that seemed amusing indeed. But how little Ramsay’s unwilling playthings mattered in the face of a love that was wholly his own, and won without violence.

It should not have been the revelation it was, when he came to understand he had won Pod’s affection without force, incarceration, or threat of any kind. Pod didn’t bat an eyelid to find him in the dungeons, bloody from working over a thief. Podrick Payne - or Redbolt, as they were called here, was capable of loving every aspect of Ramsay, without cause for the suppression of any side of him. The thought was humbling. Ramsay ended most nights in the arms of a man that loved him, and was not afraid to show it. It was rather lovely.

One night, Ramsay rolled off his lover after their latest bout of mating, panting breathlessly, his chest heaving with sweat, Podrick humming with satisfaction beside him.

“That was excellent,” Ramsay said, still in awe.

Podrick made an indistinct noise of agreement, obviously moments from sleep.

“I love you,” Ramsay whispered, for the first time, not yet sure that he wanted Pod to know it.

But when he rolled over to press upon Podrick's mouth a hard kiss, he found willing lips waiting, and that was enough.

*

Ramsay woke with a soft body pillowed atop his. He nuzzled into the tangled hair brushing his face, then froze as a familiar floral scent filled his nose.

“Good morrow, my lord,” Myranda giggled, slithering over him, rolling to face him and take his erection in her silky palm. Ramsay felt a swift and ludicrous urge to hit her, and push her away. Momentarily frightened for his sanity, instead he relaxed and let her worship him, as a lord should be.

Afterward, she dressed herself, throwing coy looks at him the entire time.

“Shall I fetch Violet and meet you downstairs m’lord?” She purred, not noticing Ramsay’s stricken look.

Not knowing nor caring to what she was referring, Ramsay nodded dumbly, then barked at her to hurry up. In the silence of her wake, he lay back on his featherbed, staring at the familiar dark stone ceiling of his boyhood room in the Dreadfort, dim and uninviting as always. The cosy armchairs beside the fireplace were gone. The fruit bowl was gone.

Merik and Dom and Pod were all gone.

“FUCK!” Ramsay screamed, utterly alone.

*

Theon Greyjoy made a pitiful sight, writhing on the floor, held down by Ramsay’s men. Ramsay had forgotten the sight of him, and where before he remembered being proud, of reducing a man to an inhuman wretch, now he felt mere disgust. Violet and Myranda were tittering beside him, waiting for him to make a speech and inflict pain. The gelding knife in his hand had a curious weight. It was an unwieldy, ugly thing.

Theon was screaming as he lashed out, desperate to escape.

Dom wouldn’t have done this, Ramsay thought, with sudden and clear clarity. Pod didn’t mind me interrogating prisoners, but Theon didn’t even do most of what he was accused of.

Swallowing down his confusion, Ramsay sighed heavily, shoving the knife into his belt.

“Get him back on the cross,” he snapped, before stalking out of the room.

From high on the battlements, he could see for miles. The North lay stretched out ahead of him, bleak and beautiful.

“All this can be mine,” he whispered, “It will be, if I let it be.”

*

“I see you played your games with him,” Father sneered, unimpressed, at the sight of Theon Greyjoy, hunched and terrified, tatty, but regularly scrubbed clean. Ramsay found there was little interest in reliving past glories. There would never be another creature quite like his Reek, so why bother with some half-arsed replacement?

“He’s still Balon’s heir,” Ramsay shrugged, “The Ironborn will surely trade for him. Or offer us something we want in return for keeping him alive… and intact.”

Father fixed him with a steely eye.

“Perhaps there is some hope for you after all,” Father conceded.

*

Violet gave birth to a daughter, with icy blue eyes and mousy brown hair. Ramsay took hold of her with ginger hands, careful to hold her to his chest and not drop her. She was heavier than expected.

“My lord-” Violet whimpered, clearly frightened that Ramsay intended to harm the babe.

It had been unprecedented that Ramsay had let a pregnant whore live, and even when she was as fat as a cow, she’d been afraid he would change his mind.

“We’ll call her Ingrid,” Ramsay declared, “A strong, ancient name. Ingrid Snow.”

For my bonny sister, he thought. I’ll never have another like her, but mayhaps I’ll have another brother some day.

*

“You want us to go… to Skagos?” Damon repeated slowly.

“Tell no one,” Ramsay reminded him, “And I swear, when you return, I’ll have you wed to Tansy. Your child need not be a bastard. But Damon… tell anyone of this, including my Father, and I’ll flay her until the babe spills out at my feet.”

Swallowing thickly, Damon nodded.

*

Sansa Stark shivered in his arms, but Ramsay smiled at her gently, and led her to their new bedchamber.

Resisting the urge to fuck his wife was worse than he thought it’d be. It took all of Ramsay’s strength to picture Pod’s smiling face. The gentle way he caressed Ramsay’s stubbled chin, the hot, heated kisses they shared as Pod withstood the most forceful, punishing pace of fucking Ramsay could maintain.

He saw the darkness in me, and loved me regardless, Ramsay reminded himself. Pod didn’t carry the same kind of sickness, attracting like to like, as with Myranda and I. He was his own creature, and unashamed to be so.

Ramsay had long since flaunted his desires, never one to feel shame or the need to reflect on the actions that led him to the path he was currently walking. He simply continued to march onward to his current goal, no matter what form it took. 

He had to endure days of Father chiding him to be gentle with Sansa Stark, the woman he must wed and bed and get a son on, if they were to ever secure their hold on the North.

And Father’s hold over me, he now realised sourly.

With a grandson of Stark blood, Father would have no use for Ramsay himself. He could be easily disposed of in a hunting accident, or lose his footing on the ramparts. Poisoned by our enemies, Ramsay thought with a snort. But no, that would not be his fate. Not ever again. If he wasn’t capable of having her without dying for it, he couldn’t have her at all. The Knights of the Vale were sure to come to Sansa's aid, no matter what power the Lannisters claimed he held. Ramsay knew that brother-fucking whore of a Southron Queen wouldn’t send an army to defend him from the Northmen loyal to the Starks. They’d sooner the North tear itself to shreds, perhaps wiping them out entirely, than sacrifice more men to defend the far-flung territory. And how could they hope to defeat the Others then?

Jon Snow better turn up soon, he thought, I grow weary of these games.

*

When Walda announced her pregnancy, Ramsay feigned surprise, and congratulated his Father with a hug. No chainmail beneath his leathers, but just as before, Ramsay was frightened to act. Still, he forced himself to remember his father would only stand in his way. Roose Bolton would never realise how vital it was to act to secure the North from the Others. And how would Ramsay ever gain the hidden dragon’s trust, if Robb Stark’s killer lived? Jon was unlikely to look upon him favourably as it was.

I’m sorry Father, Ramsay thought, as he plunged the knife into his heart, I owe you much.

Walda and Sansa screamed, a shrill, eerie wailing that echoed off the bare walls, filling the room with their terror. A guardsman started forward, but was beaten back by only a look from Ramsay. Theon was gaping, shivering in shock.

“Fetch Maester Wolkan, Theon.” Ramsay ordered, “My father is dead; poisoned by our enemies.”

Then he turned to his loyal servant. “Damon- bring him to me.”

The room was horribly quiet as they waited for Theon and the old man to return. The Maester gaped at the bloody sight of Roose Bolton’s corpse laid out on the cobblestones. Sansa whimpered, in confusion mingled with fear. Ramsay smiled at her encouragingly, but offered no other explanations. They were interrupted by Damon’s return. He was accompanied by a young man, blinking in the light, not used to it after having spent a long time hiding in the crypts.

“Send word to all the Northern Houses: Roose Bolton is dead. Poisoned by our enemies." Ramsay demanded to Wolkan, "Tell them: House Bolton knows no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Rickon Stark lives, and we will gladly grant him his rightful seat. Signed, Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.”

Maester Wolkan was still staring at them all with mute horror, whilst Walda cried quietly on the floor, rocking back and forth, having fallen to her knees.

“Hello again, King Rickon,” said Ramsay, “Come greet my wife: your elder sister, Sansa.”

Ramsay was quite unprepared for Sansa to throw her arms about his neck, mumbling out her thanks in a hysterical mantra. He wondered if she would be quite so thrilled with him, when she learnt the reason he hadn’t lain with her was so that he could offer her hand to her supposed brother, Jon Targaryen. Binding the Northern Kingdom to the Iron Throne, but still keeping the realms separate. Only time would tell, he supposed.

Hold on Pod, he thought, stay alive, wherever you are. Just a little longer. I’ll find you, I promise.

*