Chapter Text
Tak, clak, thack. Tak, tak, clak, thack-thack.
The distant, slow tapping and clacking of the keyboard keeps Ramsay’s urge to watch pacified. His left ear-bud feeding the steady rhythm of Theon’s movements, or rather the satisfying lack thereof is enough to be content and continue to work.
Click, click. Tak, clak, thack.
Face down, the phone is only a touch away. His fingers twitch and press against the desk to flip the thing over and see, but now isn’t the time. His attention is dividing between want and obligation, muffling nonsense buzzing in his right ear as some employee is droning on about something.
“Considering the embargo, it’d be best to source these materials further north-west of Essos. This supplier we’re currently negotiating with…”
Tak, tak. Click.
A beat of silence fills the ear-bud, the keyboard left untouched for far too long. Ramsay is thruming his fingers, expecting it to pick back up; but a sliding sound of rollers from his bedroom’s computer-chair draws a squint from his eyes.
A scrapping thunk hits the floor, metal begins dragging against wood.
“The purchase and subsequent shipment of—”
“Enough. See that it is done. Don’t waste my time with useless reports of right-shit I already know.”
This poor, Beta employee squirms where she stands, wringing her fingers along the sides of her work-issued tablet. Captive in his office, feet away from Ramsay’s desk, her mouth is agape with wordless stuttering.
His stare holds nothing back of his discontent, which is freezing the dull underling to the floor. That confused, ugly, Beta’s face is cut in half with the afternoon light of day streaming in from the window. Work is almost over, and he loathes to occupy his remaining time by paying attention to the worthless.
“OUT.” Her shoulders jump at his volume, hiking up to her ears, yanking her feet to flee.
Ramsay spares her no other look or thought as those tacky heels scurry out of his office. The snapping shut of the doors is the last thing he cares to register as he's flipping his phone over.
The scene is the same, the exact same as it’s been for days. A wide shot of his whole suite, where the rooms expanding like an apartment. His own world nestling within the Dreadfort. His domain, his belongings. Every piece of furniture, every shred of cloth, and every scrap of metal in there, he’s earned. And simply, the same applies to Theon.
Ramsay darts through the frame, searching. The office nook is empty, but Theon’s laptop is left open and on. By the angle the screen can be partially seen glowing its light.
Metal scraps again, clinking and clacking as the shackles continue dragging over the floor. Threatening to pull taught as the links lead into the walk-in closet, where Theon is out of sight.
A clenching overtakes Ramsay’s jaw, molars grinding harder with each passing second. There’s no reason to be in there, his thoughts ignite an awful spell of reasons why Theon is in there, obviously hiding.
Irritation is simmering, threatening to boil over but before it can, here comes his Seamaid. Waddling out, awkwardly being led by the thick iron-cuff, bolted to his bony ankle. Bruised legs more bare than moments before, and his chest less so.
“I never said you could change.”
Dragging his uneven and ill-weighted legs, Theon’s already thin frame is looking even smaller, and adorably more pathetic. The straining, grimace has yet to leave his face, the pout pulling at his lips is lined perfectly between the growing waves of his fringe.
If he’d worn anything else Ramsay would surely sour further at the sight, regardless of how sweet that face is, it irks him not to be obeyed. Instead, he finds himself gnawing at his inner cheek.
Theon is hobbling back to the desk wearing one of Ramsay’s black shirts over underwear. The V-neck of the collar clings to one shoulder, swooping around the shadows of his clavicle. Hanging on by the peaking edges, contouring the ends of his collarbone. And his feet, those scrawny little things, looking more fatless and small with the way a pair of thick, woolen socks have been pulled on.
Those must be my winter socks, Ramsay is sure of it. There is no other explanation as to their size and drape over Theon’s feet. Ah, the cuffs are shoved right under the iron, so as to act as padding.
“Tisk, tisk.” Ramsay is sucking at his teeth and rolling his tongue as he's watching Theon struggling to find a comfortable position back onto the desk chair. “Spoiled. My spoiled brat.”
Propping up the phone against a block of resin, he makes his own adjustments in his seat. Brushing the hard line of his jaw by the palm, he waits for Theon to stop moving. It takes a few more restless breaths before he sees it done to satisfaction.
Staying where he left him is a prerequisite now, anything less than that is unacceptable. Not tolerated. Ramsay had been too lenient before, he’s learned that now. The ferry and subsequent drive back from Bear Island two days ago had given them much to talk about, boundaries to establish, and rules to set.
Rules that will be respected. He’ll see to that; regular reinforcement would do them both some good.
Tak, clak, thack. Tak, tak, clak, thack-thack.
Both sets of keyboards begin to sound, but Ramsay’s click-and-clacking comes to a pause as he’s reaching out to adjust the resin block. Pulling it and the phone further center under his mounted monitor. Offsetting them, pulling them apart slightly to expose the contents suspended within the cured material.
A lock of Theon’s hair. A fresh, loose, curl.
With Theon, and a piece of him pleasantly in sight, Ramsay can work and watch without interruption and drudge through the rest of the day.
“Theon! Bless the tides! I was worried you’d be too tired to call in. You’re looking well!”
His fist nearly cracks the keyboard. A smashing chaos of letters and numbers char the ongoing report on the computer screen.
“Hi Alysa, aye, thank the Drowned. Of course, I’m fine. My ass has been in bed for days.”
“I’ll have your ass sleeping on the floor.” The grinding of his teeth is threatening to strike a headache. There was nothing on the calendar, no text, no call. No request made, no permission given.
“By the looks of it, not your bed.”
Theon leans back, caressing the side of his cheek with a lazy drag of his palm. The laugh he lets out rolls with a bubbling raspberry. It sounds snide, pulling Ramsay’s ears back but they drop before a full snarl can form.
Relief. A shy look of relief is peeking through that hand. The tilt in Theon’s brows and the sleepy-droop of those big eyes say more than Ramsay can read. His fists go lax, fingers splaying out and still.
“Haha, yeah. Caught me—”
“Looks like he has, your Northerner. He taking good care of you then? Sure you don’t need us to bring you anything? When you said you couldn’t come to Assembly or Circle this week because you weren’t feeling so well, we were all worried a greenlander’s hands would of be no good.”
Theon’s laugh and second blowing raspberry springs up Ramsay’s pride.
“You lot worry too much. I appreciate it, really. You’all always have my back, but— ” He tilts his head up and to the side, eyes locking onto the camera mounted on the ceiling. Unknowingly, or perhaps hopefully meeting Ramsay’s through the digital line.
“— He’s keeping a close eye on me. Uhm… he’s um, really strict and stubborn when it comes to me getting better. So I’m in good hands.”
Agonal wailing, the dragging cries of terrified suffering, he knows them all too well.
He knows the way a person dies with a last breath of fear shaking out from their mouth. Horrifying realization wafting through them as they fall from the edge of resistance; surrendering and plummeting to death, alone. Ferried to another realm by Ramsay’s hand or blade, and the lasting crescent glow of his eyes.
But this? These cries are not made from his hands.
Ramsay has known every flavor of pain. Has savored its taste, lapped and luxuriated in all of its varieties. Above all else, in all his history, he hadn’t known a person’s suffering like Theon’s.
To call what he takes from his Seamaid as intimate would be deficient; intimacy is rudimentary. When flesh, blood and spirit have been devoured and an osmosis of “us” and “self” remains, all words become inadequate. Mine, however, is sufficient for Ramsay. All-encompassing possession. His Seamaid, his Omega, his bond-mate, his wife. His Theon.
But this wailing is not his, and somehow wrought by some foreigner.
That screaming should be his, and only his. Handspun and satisfying in his mouth but the taste of this is bitter; tongue left cauterized and shaking with ash.
Its rancid flavor is soaking through, carrying the weight of Theon’s voice. Ricocheting against the barren walls of Ramsay’s mind. Duplicating on impact, amplifying the in-between of space created by the suppressants. Rippling out, filling the void. Growing in density and swelling its sound.
Louder and louder it’s getting, the wailing won’t stop. That crying is penetrating his head, striking against the insides of his ear drums. The friction is building within the shrinking space, thrumming up against the wall. The pressure is too great, he needs relief.
Call Failed. Call Failed. Call Failed.
A knife, a nail, a pen. Something, he needs something to break through and release the sickening force surging in his head.
Call Failed. Call Failed. Call Failed.
Each attempt is snuffed out, the line cutting at first ring. A whirring, hollow frequency is all that’s given.
Call Failed. Call Failed. Call Failed.
Crying, weeping, wailing. Not his, not his. That foul sound, smothered out by this foreign-something he doesn’t know; it’s eating away at him. To not know, to not hear, to not see, to not control. His thumbs smash and slide over the screen, rushing words out with a mess.
Ramsay: ANsrr me NOW
Ramsay: Pic UP the fuCKnG Phone
Ramsay: DO it noW
No replay. Just blocks of text bleeding its pixel-like ink, the shaking lights blurring into lines as he stares and stares. Waiting and demanding an answer to come.
Seconds are passing, it’s too long. Shoving his free hand into another pocket, the other phone is snatched up and out; Damon answering at first ring. That is of no relief but at least something is being done.
“Rams— ”
“Leave the gates. Drive around east, near Long Lake. Make it through the Wolfwood—”
“There’s no fuck’n roads in the Wolfswood. Yous’ want me to fuck’n what… hike— ”
“YES. Shut-up and get him. I don’t care how or by what fucking means. You’ll find him, take him out of Winterfell!” With his eyes straining at the unanswered text thread, Ramsay’s field of sense is woefully narrowing. Unaware of the measured commands flowing from his father.
“You-yous’ want me to break into Winterfell, ‘nd snatch him out? Ramsay, thats mad— ”
Damon’s words are being taken away, objections thrown to nothing. Touch replacing sound, the airs of auras clashing and pushing rupture Ramsay’s every faculty. His wrist being cuffed by the shackle of his father’s grip breaks the seal of this swirling echo chamber.
The landscape of the room floods into his expanding field of vision. A roaring, rock-slide of steps peter out to pebbles as the sounds of doors are slamming shut hit his ears. The conference room now empty of all Ironborn.
His wrist is beginning to burn as arms snake under his armpits, taking them by the sockets. Time excels as his body regains awareness of the outside world.
His fingers curl and claw around Theon. When all else is slipping through his grasp, instinct will lash out to keep his claim.
The balls of his feet pivot, knees bending and ready to buckle down and throw off the sod at his back. His weight is shifting as his father is manifesting before him, cutting his momentum off by the coldness of those mirroring eyes.
“Enough. Compose yourself and cease this tantrum.” Without breaking eye contact, Roose takes the phone to his ear. “You know who this is, boy. Disregard that order. Head to White Knife and await further instructions.”
Thrashing against Locke, Ramsay spits a dull-roar at the sight of his father hanging up and tossing the phone on the table.
“How fucking dare you—” Throwing his son’s wrist away, Roose’s hand returns striking Ramsay’s neck. The sharp crest of that throat’s burl jabbing into his palm is making it difficult to squeeze; the pads of his fingers pressing and pulling down on what little he can dig into. Thick and straining muscles fill a wide column, leaving little for him to choke. But the Lord does not let his labor show.
“Dare? You where ordering Damon to siege Winterfell. A direct violation of a Great House’s territory. An affront to their sovereignty. Such an insult would warrant consequences you’re too lowly to comprehend, much less imagine.”
Pulling, raging his weight left and right can not break the hold the older Alphas have on him. Ramsay’s strength is duller and lethargic under the suppressants and the radiation of his father.
“Is it no insult to have a Bolton held hostage? For the Starks to lay their filthy-rotten hands over our family, my wife— ”
“Your pet-wife; is all but suffering a bout of hysteria.” Releasing his son’s neck, Roose wrings out his fingers; flicking the sensation sticking to his palm. As he pulls away, a sneer of inconvenience makes it to his lips. “Had you adequately prepared for all probable scenarios. Controlled the flow of information to your Omega, rather than the company he keeps, then we wouldn’t be here wasting time on some weeping maiden and jeopardizing our House’s standing—.”
“You said it yourself, father.” Ramsay bares his teeth, snarling. “The Starks are conspiring against us. And that boy-Lord’s first play is at my Seamaid! What fucking standing will we have if this is left unchallenged. I won’t allow it. I’ll raze the very crypts under Winterfell for touching-taking my— ”
“You’ll do no such thing.” One corner of his lips raise, bumping disgust into his nose. Lord Bolton takes a deep, slow breath; assessing and deflating with an exhale. “I put far too much trust in you, boy.”
Pivoting on his heels, Roose turns, making his way to the table’s edge. Lifting a hidden suitcase from the floor. Once again, the sound of snapping breaks through the room. And again, that small black box comes out. Metal and glass glinting their lights against streaming sun.
Nauseating nostalgia hits Ramsay in the stomach. Sloshing the memories of his childhood consequences right under the echoing weight of Theon’s wailing in his chest. The crack of another ampoule has him gnashing, same as it did when he was young. Held by the scruff of his neck, forced to take his medicine. Too wild, too impulsive, too violent.
Spit sprays and drips form his grunting. Flexing he's trying to bring his bicepts together and break Locke’s hold, but his strength is hollowing out.
“Get off.”
“I can’t do that, lad.” Locke says, straining his chin back, avoiding Ramsay’s back-blow of his head. “You need to calm down. We can get you someone to take your rage out on—”
“I’ll make do with you-if you don’t let me the fuck go.”
“Ramsay.”
The supremacy in his father’s voice is unequivocal, stiffening his body with the call to his name. His muscles do not release their tension, the snarl ripping through his face does not fall, but Ramsay is still. Glaring at Roose and the ready needle held up in his hand.
“No. I don’t need it.” He doesn’t want it. Past sensations of being incapacitated as a child sour and gush in his stomach. Days of lethargy and numbing disassociation forcing autonomy from his hands. “Father—”
“You do. If you continue to refuse, I’ll have no issues procuring sedatives worse than the ones you’re thinking of at this very moment.” Taking three steps closer, he lets his aura and scent loose to oppress his son. “Believe me. You’ll be useless, limp and dumb for the rest of the week. There won’t be a need for locks or restraints, you’ll be slugging around unable to walk. Groaning and howling, unable to speak. Visions will plague you with such hallucinations you may as well be unable to see. The staff will feed you through a tube and clean you of the filth you’ll be lying in. If you are not behaved enough to conduct family business, then I’ll be insured to your compliance. Am. I. Understood?”
The strings are cut. Bulging veins pumping his hot blood recede and dissolve back into straining muscles. Ramsay’s arms go slack, conceding where necessary. His final line to Theon, however, keeps a vice grip. Complying just barely, snarl holding strong towards his father. This is not surrendering, not completely.
To be seen is to be known. An unfortunate truth he’s well aware of, knowing that his father has seen so much of his bastard-now legitimate-son over the years. Decades of information held, saved and filed away for later use. Lord Bolton, at minimum, is a practicing extortionist and Ramsay’s learned how to survive these kinds of games.
Had it not been for the suppressants pumping flimsy indifference through his body already, he doesn’t think he’d have the discipline to bite his tongue as Locke is releasing the hold on his shoulders. To let his heavy arms drop without a punch or an elbow strike.
A flavor for fighting is dancing between tastebuds. To clasp his father’s wrist, to break it as his arm is taken and the needle is pushing into his skin with a soundless pop; like his fingers would when puncturing eye sockets. Getting into the body and disturbing the flesh; it calls to him to harm but at present, this distraction is serving to be the only thing to quiet that sickening estranged screaming.
Cold and slick, the medication is rushing up his arm and cooling his rage. Looking out to Roose, their shared eyes lock with a narrow look onto one another.
“Are you satisfied?” Nose flaring and inhale rasping, Ramsay looks to the entry point of the needle in the arm of his empty hand. The slow flooding of empty space growing inside his mind is loosening the grip on his phone. His words begin to soften subtly, jagged edges smoothing to a blunt end. “I’m taking the next flight back to the North. Stark’s scheming will not go unchallenged, I’ll get Theon myself.”
Old fingers dig into the fat of his forearm.
“No.” Roose is halfway through dispensing the suppressant as he’s twisting the skin around the injection. He doesn’t look for pain in his son’s eyes, he knows not to expect it. “That is precisely what that boy will be expecting. Your temperament will ignite grounds for legal retaliation. You overstep once, and the whole of The North will see House Stark as justified—”
“I am justified! That boy-Lord has coerced my Seamaid into duress under false pretenses. He had falsified copies of the declaration Balon just signed fucking minutes ago! Don’t you see? This was all planned. Stark conspiring with the fucking Greyjoys.”
The syringe is empty. With a disregard for flesh, Roose pulls out the needle, tossing it onto the table. It hits the table with a scratch and a ting of metal and glass. The screech of it is scraping through the room.
“And we’ll deprive them of their chance to act. Remain indifferent, Ramsay. They will be expecting you to charge their lands. Baiting you like the wild-dog they know you to be. There is no doubt, you storming their gates will be seen as an attack, after which they’ll be primed to make their next move.” Hands sliding into his pockets, Roose finally takes his eyes off his son, gazing out the window in thought. “No. You will remain here. We’ll continue as planned, you will see that this miscalculation does not jeopardize our deal with the Harlaws or have an impact on our other affairs.”
“And let them have my Seamaid? Let them fill his head with shit and further drive him mad with what’s gone on with the Greyjoys? Stark tried to convince him to come, tried to pull him away from me, and place him back under Balon’s rule. Over my dead body, I won’t allow it—”
“Will he?” The question comes without eyes.
The suppressants melt away more of his rage, replacing it with a hollow hunger. The screaming is gone, and that is when Ramsay can sense the absence in the quiet. His bond withering, what remains is only dust suspending in a silhouette of what was.
Although not gone, Theon feels so far away.
Squinting, Ramsay breathes with focus towards his father. “What?”
Turning to Ramsay, Roose lets their eyes meet again. “Will he be convinced? Could the Starks, with their words and parchment, convince your Omega to do anything contrary to your approval? Have you chosen wrong? Mated and bonded with the wrong soul? Theon Greyjoy had something of a reputation, a capricious child with a penchant for lying. Is he still disloyal? Could you not train him to be faithful to you?”
Whatever offense that would have roused from Ramsay, comes out as nothing more than a deep, perturbed breath and a squint.
“He is wholly and unequivocally mine.” He says with a grain to his exhale that may say something a little more. “We’re blood-bonded and moon blessed. There is nothing, no greater union beyond what I own.”
His father’s gaze hangs over him. The moment dragging on as Roose ruminates over the spoken words. Time moves forward in measurements of breaths, until a subtle bobbing of his head stops it.
“Good. It’s fortunate all that time wasn’t wasted. I expect you to conduct yourself as an adult and cease throwing tantrums. Now, you will be put on a regimen of suppressants to ensure it. Your maid will keep, be it in Winterfell or elsewhere. Your boys will stand watch. Should he leave, then and only then, will he be secured and taken to the Dreadfort. You will make no other moves—” His eyes sweep over to Ramsay’s phone still clasped in his palm. “This is your burden, Ramsay. You should have anticipated the worst outcomes, and been prepared. Your weaknesses should always be guarded, and you've failed to do so. Never let it happen again. You’re a Bolton now. Act like it.
"The blood of our House has lived for centuries by vigilantly wielding our power and the calculated use of our savagery. The Starks are anticipating you to act like a barbaric-bastard, not a Bolton. Do not prove them right. Once the conference is done, our House will formally demand Seamaiden, Theon Bolton to be released; where the law of our lands and the Old God’s will be on our side. You say you have a blood bond? A marriage that has no equal?”
Despite the fog of artificial calm, Ramsay’s irritation shows through by the way his ears are pulling back.
“Yes.” He replies through gritting teeth.
“Then let there be witnesses to the insult done to our family. The sight of such bonding adornments; unblemished and emanating your union, will cast a shame on Winterfell no Northerner could easily forgive.”
He takes a step back, giving his son his profile. Ramsay’s mouth drops open, words don’t have the time to form as he cuts him off again. This time, as a leisurely thing as Roose is adjusting his cuffs.
“Our dinner with the Martells is in two hours. Go back to your rooms, collect yourself, and wash. You smell of desperation. It’s unbecoming.”
Turning away, Lord Bolton gives Ramsay his back, leaving him behind. The clacking of his shoes marking another notch, one after the other into Ramsay’s reality; there is nothing more that can be done. The door to the conference room banging shut brings finality, that he has no other choice.
The second dose of suppressants has taken so much more than just feeling.
Theon: I’m sorry. It’s too much. I just need a few minutes
Call Failed.
Ramsay: Minutes? You've made me wait hours for a responds. Let me worry all this time, after you what, passed out?
Ramsay: Stark took your phone didn't he? Have they done something? You were screaming.
Theon: Robb showed me. This is my fault, I should have talked to them.
Ramsay: Those documents are fake. Balon and Stark planned all this. Whatever he has, what you saw is not everything. There is nothing you could have done but make things worse.
Ramsay: You were just a pawn to Eastyde. Leverage for a pathetic attempt at regaining power by a pathetic lurch of a man who doesn’t want you past a single use. Don’t waste a single tear or sob on that worthless shitsack of meat.
Theon: But it’s true isn’t?
Theon: He’s exiling the whole covenant because of me. I can’t even talk, I’m so fucked over it.
Ramsay: Then don't speak.You just need to listen me. You’ll be fine once you see and hear me. You’ll settle down for me just as before. Remember? I brought you out of that manic episode the other night. Just be good for me, listen. Answer the video call.
Call Failed.
Ramsay: I can tell you’re still having a fit, giving me work by smothering our bond with these panic attacks. They are making a mess of you, making all this worse. Wasting my time.
Ramsay: Sweetling, all will be fine after you answer the phone. You need to hear me, see me, feel me. You know better than to disobey. I know you don’t want to disobey
Ramsay: It’s alright. It’s hard to endure all this without me, I know. I understand. You don’t mean to be disobedient. You tried so hard to leave. I need you to try again, Seamaid mine.
Call Failed.
Theon: I just want to sleep. Just so everything can stop for a little bit.
Ramsay: Once you're home you may sleep. Don’t stay in Winterfell, it isn’t safe. I don’t want you there. They can’t be trusted and you’ll just get worse if you don’t fucking listen. Damon can take you home first, you need to be in our bed with your pelt and nest yourself in our scent. Try again. Leave. I’ll be so proud of you.
Ramsay: Keep trying, Sweetling. Leave. Leave and then you can sleep. I’ll watch over you just as last night.
Theon: I’m going to sleep. The panic attacks made me so tired, Robb took me to my old room, please don’t be mad.
Ramsay: No.
Call Failed.
Ramsay: Answer me. You need me to take care of you. Whatever the mutt is telling you to make you stay is a lie. You are not safe with them. You are not theirs, you’re mine. Don’t be stubborn now. I’m the only one who knows what’s best for you.
Ramsay: I won't be mad if you leave right now.
Theon: I’m so tired, I’m sorry.
Call Failed.
He says he’s sorry.
The words have been glowing off the screen for over an hour, and he’s been staring at it for just as long. Light contrasting against the dark is stinging his eyes. Making each blink sour, fixing his face into a stiff pinch.
The phone is a touch away from his waiting hands, twitching in the quiet. He can’t feel anxiousness or impatience, those are stuffed far below the dose of suppressants. However, somewhere between mind and body, the message of emotions makes it out every so often. A spasm or an itch, a sudden soreness in his bones, and he knows the truth. He’s far from calm.
Snapping shut, his eyes can’t take the strain anymore. They are dry and stick to the lids until enough moisture can ease the chafing. He has to rip them open though, immediately. The frown and shake of his head is another reaction coming out; one that is burning from the picture he can see with eyes closed.
Opening against the purpling-dusk of the evening is the stamping afterimage of that text. And it’s following him through the room.
I’m so tired, I’m sorry.
Perfectly framed the text is cutting into the cityscape view out the window. A shroud of phantom white superimposed over low-lite buildings and little moving cars. Blinking hard, Ramsay tries to move it away, but the words are now frothy and slowly drifting in a dance.
“I’m sorry”, cuts its black shape over the sky. Fading blue and red outlines seep out from the sides as the words are slipping down just to pop right back into the center of his vision after every blink. Blinking is just becoming a shutter to an animation he can’t get away from. Just replaying, rewinding after every pass of his eyelids.
It would be rage inducing. It is inducing rage within him, but its meaningless. All feelings are without form inside his body, weightless concepts that will find a way out in pathetic little rejections.
He gets the same results even when something should make him feel better.
There was no satisfying relief when Theon’s first text finally came through, nor was there his anger. If anything, his breath would carry some aftertaste of what was supposed to be there. And here it comes again, a pulse in his lungs filling and falling into nothing.
Standing up, Ramsay doesn’t move or take a step away from the desk. The words of the text are blurry and melt over the walls; smearing its translucent light, almost gone. Although, in his lower peripheral, the glow of his phone is still there, feeding the vision.
There isn’t any point to standing, there is nothing more to do but wait. He’s freshly washed and changed with a clean suit on. The task not really registering in between texting and attempting calls after every failing call. There isn’t a thought to getting up, he just does and thus it must be another impulse slipping out.
His jaw is aching. Sliding it left and right opens his mouth with a grimace leaking through the stretch. Something inside wants out, something large. A lump is making its way up from his lungs to his throat, but stops in his mouth. Bobbing at the base of his tongue, then dropping down to his stomach.
It’s uncomfortable, but that’s all it is before disappearing into nothing again. It’ll come back, he knows it.
No knock hits the door but the click of it opening is somewhat noticeable. The aura, however, Ramsay can sense it with immediate accuracy. He supposes there is some benefit to being so heavily drugged, the stench of his father doesn’t bother him in the slightest.
Only one step hits the floor, Roose isn’t coming in.
“Yes?” Ramsay says before his father can ask. Swiping up his phone up, he clicks it off, pocketing it before turning.
It’s been hours since they last spoke, and now no words are needed between their meeting eyes. He knows it’s time to go, time to fulfill his duties as a Bolton and perform.
Restrained as he is, Ramsay still makes his displeasure known as he walks past his father. This is already a gross waste of his time, no need to drag it on.
But drag it will. Silence is towing between them as they make their way out of the villa’s grounds and into their private limousine waiting for them on the curb. Noisy, rousing early nightlife and the shining lights of the streets bounce off of the black car. It’s glossy, and rich, well suited to the surroundings of the bustling downtown.
Palms reaching the sky and lining the streets. If it wasn’t for the mugginess still hanging onto the fading light of the receding sunset, the wisp of ocean breeze swaying the trees would feel refreshing. But as it stands, the air is just moving the heat around.
Inside the car, the A/C is roaring through the cabin to blow away the musk of cooked leather seats. Ramsay can feel the warmth of it tack at his back as the rush of cool air stings his nose. Rubbing it away with the back of his hand, he adjusts his suit jacket open, settling in his seat.
“Any word?”
Roose doesn’t add anymore context, Ramsay knows what he means. So his watching his father similarly settle into his seat as Locke is sat and closing the car door.
Running his tongue over his teeth, he lets the sound of the sucking of saliva whistle before answering.
“Some. He’s expectedly… sensitive.”
Sitting across one another on facing seats leaves little room to escape the scrutiny from his father’s gaze. Fortunately, it isn’t terribly difficult to withstand.
Roose nods slowly and with neutral contemplation. “Precautions are in place. As soon as he is off Stark territory, the men know what to do. Until then, leave it be. Your bond is more than sufficient. Soothe him through it, bring him back to heel.”
Ramsay somewhat laughs with a scoff, pushing air through his nose. “I’ve forged every link of silver in those adornments, scoured scrolls and tomes, spilled blood and sealed a bond under the moon’s greatest blessing. All of that—” the challenging look in his eyes is empty and his pause of effect emotionless. “— And you think I haven’t been trying to do that this whole time. Really, father?”
“As you said this morning, he has been experiencing discomfort. It is your responsibility to read it, his blood runs with yours now. What is it saying?”
“It says nothing.” He says as his eyes drift to the window, “I can’t feel him through the bond.”
Squinting, Roose takes a moment and sighs. “The suppressants then. My formula is made to distance you from all emotional incitement, and bonds are all emotional experiences. Let that be a lesson to you. Mind yourself, or I’ll have it done for you, and your Omega will suffer all the more for it.”
There is nothing to say in response to his father’s threat, silence is enough compliance.
“There is some benefit to all of these dramatics. If the Harlaws were ever doubting any of our proposals, they aren’t anymore. Should Greyjoy make good on his word and denaturalize these Ironborn cultists, they’ll surely need our aid.” Tilting his head in thought, he beckons his son with a stare. “Our plans for them will come easier, but what would be a suitable price for our full support?”
“Exclusivity to trade management should they find their miracle-island. Bind them to becoming our Naval Guard, after Dorne. We’ll finally be able to choke the Manderlys' fleet down to The Bite and hold the entire coast.” He answers, lightly tracing a finger over his brow. A whisper of a headache is flooding behind the bone.
“The Covenant will only hold to their own and to their God. It would be naive to believe they could be swayed to fight for us. Even in their precarious situation, or their new calling, they’re still Ironborn. Stubborn and contemptuous.”
“That won’t be necessary, father. We’ve laid the course, and they’ll follow it like one of their God signs. Let them think we fit into their new way and the work will be done for us. They’ll draw their own conclusions.”
The car is slowing down, turning into the driveway of a lavish carpark. Guarded and gilded by rich designs, luscious foliage, and rigid security; who are waving the driver to follow some pre-approved path.
“Is that how you did it?”
Another turn, another stop. The car’s rumbling lulls, then cuts, the clicks and slaps of doors opening and shutting pop outside. Ramsay gives his father a side glance before opening his own door and stepping out.
He can feel those eyes on his back. Even through the closing door, the force of being watched is pushing his feet to move out and around the boot of the car, where the distraction of socializing await them all.
An entourage of Martels are standing at the ready. Smiles plastering their faces and layers of cascading silk shawls draping over their suits paint a picture in a scene stifling Ramsay’s senses. Night has fully fallen, and still the heat clings to the air. How could these people tolerate this.
His father is already out of the car as Ramsay is coming round to the other side. Slowing his pace, it’s as if he’s giving Locke room to keep the door open. Respectable space for his father to take lead of introductions, and he will look the part. Plastic smile in place, dutiful deference standing behind his Lord father.
He’s just making good use of the position, so many scents and fat auras stuffing his nose. The small distance helps, and his glare to his father’s back won’t be so obvious.
Exchanging pleasantries, giving and receiving niceties. Ramsay is floating through them all and playing his part with hollow effortlessness. Shallow compliments and comments, a handshake here and a bow over there. All standard protocols he’s been through before. Working in international relations has set him up well, and the odd hours to compensate for the time zones has always suited him best as the nightcrawler he naturally is.
Many of these faces are familiar, names matching voices and email signatures he’s long held correspondence with. Each introduction is noted or discarded, not every face needs to be minded. All save for one exception, and the man needs no introduction, everyone knows the face of the Prince.
Annoyingly talkative, suave, and overtly nonchalant; Prince Oberyn Martel is admittedly, effectively disarming. Speaking with slow-care, humor and wit, Ramsay understands the man’s reputation. He just doesn’t care to decipher the Prince’s authenticity, and immediately, he’s finding the act exhausting.
Thankfully, all of these charades can be tolerated by navigating their conversations through food and drink.
Over dinner, it’s easy to manage most of the blathering between wine and bites of food. Unfortunately, Ramsay is sparingly partaking in his meal. The food is hot, regardless of the odd soreness swirling in his gut he’s always up for eating. Considering the circumstances, it isn’t surprising he hasn’t much of an appetite. And hot food in this hot weather is ridiculous.
They’re all sat outside, amongst few but full large tables like their own. Meters apart, the quaint courtyard restaurant is more lush than the gardens at the villa. Fewer water fixtures, sure, but grand in a procured sort of way. Each plant and light swirl into one, glowing its soft-light over the guests and radiating a unique color through the vibrant leaves.
Warm, everything is so warm. Every color is tinted with it, the breeze carries it, even his nose is damp with it.
Smells of steaming red and yellow rice fill large, deep plates dotting with clams and fish that’s wafting up from the table. It’s an offensive mix to his senses. Seafood had never been to his taste, and if fish was something Theon had to have, then two separate meals would had to have been made. Unless of course, it was prepared in a the only way Ramsay would eat it; deep fried with a sauce of his choice. Nothing on this table is fried and it’s disappointing.
The only appetizing sight are the meats. Served grilled and on sticks with unfamiliar chunks of fruit in between. This dish in particular is a pleasant surprise, but one he can’t savor too much. It’s hot, this would be far better suited for an autumn’s night in The North. Plus, the suppressants are robbing him of any joy to be had in eating.
Bitterly, he thinks of Theon. How he would take a picture of this skewer and send it over to have it save and filed away for a feature meal to make at home. To modify and accommodate it to Ramsay’s specific taste.
In his breast pocket, the phone sits silently. It’s nearing the second hour since the last text came through.
Reaching for his bond is a foreign experience under the suppressants. He can’t feel anything, and it’s like waving his hands in the dark. There is no up or down to orient himself, no gravity to keep him grounded; all he has is the thought, the idea of a bond, and that is a harrowing realization.
Once again, some protest in his body wants out, making his stomach churn, desperate to reject the last bite. There is enough control however, and he is able to roughly cough it back down. But not smooth enough to go completely unnoticed.
“Is it not to your liking, young Bolton? Or is it the spices?” Oberyn asks with smiling-interest as he’s setting down his wine.
Lifting his own glass, Ramsay takes a moderate swig before restraining another cough. “Not at all, the flavors of Dorne suit me just fine. I’m quite familiar with your people’s cuisine actually—” taking another sip, this one more gentle. He decides to play up the niceties as he feels his father’s sidelong glance hitting him. Playing a smile on his lips as he spins his own practiced charm “— but I can’t say I’m at all familiar with hot, prickly fruit with meat. What is this?”
With a fork, he lifts up a sliver of yellow flesh, with spiny ends.
“Ah, that is Piña. Or a pineapple as some of the common folk in the mid-lands like to say. Not a very popular fruit outside of Dorne or Essos, for that matter. They don’t appreciate the work it takes to get to the fruit.”
“It’s no wonder then. In all the goods I’ve overseen, these have never made it to any of my accounts.” Casually he takes another bite and swallows. Tasting the flavors is pointless, there is nothing to savor.
“There are Dornish establishments in The North? I did not know this. That some family has slithered into the cold-lands and opened shop.”
Her voice is sultry, rolling off her hand as she is leaning on Oberyn’s shoulder. Ellaria Sand, conducts herself as any highborn at the table. Injecting herself in conversations as if she started them, or is wanted in them. The act makes Ramsay’s ears twitch.
“Not that I am aware of. Although, I can see such dishes gaining much popularity amongst the northfolk. Unfortunately, we haven’t the climate to grow such things, and I can’t imagine the average man who’d fit the bill for such an import. Shame, it’s a wonderful fruit.”
“Then how have you come to be so familiar with our spices?” Ellaria pursues him as she’s taking hold of Oberyn’s wine to snatch a sip where his lips just laid.
His answer is drying out his mouth. “Spices are easier on the purse to import. Your more common herbs and peppers make and keep well enough up north. My Seamaid is a bit of a home-chef—” he’s taking another drink to wet his palette and suppress another cough. “— Maybe you could recommend some of your more novel ingredients. He’s quite eager to explore.”
In the background, muffled twittering of conversations continue. Oberyn and his paramour seem uninterested in those and continue to prod at him.
“Theon Greyjoy, correct? Your Seamaid?” The Prince asks, leaning forward and a rising of his eyebrows. The Ironborn term falling unfamiliar from his mouth.
Ramsay purposefully moves his lips into a smile, conscious of every muscle in his face forming a passable, socially acceptable expression.
“The one and only.”
“The one that was.” Ellaria says with such passive indifference any empathy that may be there is lost to any onlookers.
Snapping over, Ramsay is freezing her solid with the frostbite in his own eyes. For the first time in hours, threads of unnamed feelings are rushing back up his blood. His loud rasp of closed breath quiets the surrounding conversations of their table. All eyes landing on him, and only Oberyn’s mouth opens.
“My apologies. The news of some family… dispute amongst the Greyjoys has made rounds throughout the conference. I am hopeful that your Omega is doing well under these circumstances. Ellaria means no disrespect, you may know that bastardry is of no consequence in Dorne. So the weight of losing a House’s name is not as significant to us as I understand it to be in the Kingdoms or The North.”
The Prince is direct, yet light with his words. Looking to de-escalate rather than letting his lover’s words stir some unintended insult over a meal.
Roose makes a move to intervene, but Ramsay twirls his wine and speaks.
“No apologies needed, Prince Oberyn. She isn’t altogether wrong, however, I’d advise against believing words from the fool Lord who hemorrhages all sense as soon as he’s met with a degree of resistance. Balon Greyjoy is throwing a tantrum against the Eastyde Covenant. My Theon is a devout follower. A resurfaced and rehabilitated Seamaid, who’s held in high regard in the community. He’s merely caught in the cross fire.” He stops for his last sip of wine, maintaining that frigid stare and stretching grin, he looks directly to Ellaria “You’re right, Sand. He’s no longer a Greyjoy, just as I’m no longer a Snow. House Bolton has been growing.”
Waving a lame tilt of the empty wineglass to his father, who accepts it with a stiff nod. The cheers is stretching out the building tension.
“My wife is Seamaiden, Theon Bolton. As it has been for some time.”
Heat rushing through his veins begin to ebb just as the Dornish pairing sit back into their seats. Their touching shoulders moving as one as they share the same look of surprise.
“Well, I believe you are right, no apologies are needed. But a toast! Congratulations are a must.” Oberyn’s frown of delighted surprise is louder than Ellaria’s, and twice as fast to flip into a smile. Together, their glasses lift and turn to Roose, delivering their well wishes to him. “To House Bolton. May you grow and prosper, may the health of your line continue to rise like the rays of the Sun.”
His father’s smile is a cold reception to the warmth being given to their House. Sufficient, it seems, as the rest of the table looks to visibly relax and a shower of clinking glasses is trickling into modest cheers.
“You honor my House, Prince Oberyn. Thank you.” Roose says, finally breaking into the conversation.
“Of course! I only wish we could have sent a proper gift for the wedding—.”
“That chance has yet to pass you by. The date of ceremony is yet to be set.” Ramsay can only sound so perked up, but the tone gets across.
The relief that has just settled is kicking back up. Setting down his now empty glass, Oberyn looks at Ramsay curiously.
“Hm? Engaged then? It is my understanding that one cannot be a spouse without the commencement of a marriage. Or perhaps I misunderstand, after all, the Common Tongue we speak is not altogether the same and The North still holds some of the Old Tongue from what I remember learning. So, betrothed?”
“No misunderstanding at all, Prince Oberyn. My Theon, is well, mine. We Northerners have very, ancient customs. Being we are of the First Men and all that—we have many blessing from the Old Gods. Unaltered, untouched, untainted. Eternal.” He’s forcing a smile, willing that natural expression of sweetened contempt to show. “Our bonding rites are like no other. Our bonds are law. A foreign concept to the Ironborn, unfortunately. They need rules spelled out for them like school children, but such are cultural differences. We do what we can to accommodate and adjust, as you both know. Two unmarried Alphas together, and with shared children? I’m sure there has been much to overcome being fathers with a harem of mothers. The adversity you must face with the Kingdom as Ambassadors of Dorne. You have my empathy, compromising is no easy task with the foreign.”
“Yes.” Slithering his lips into a smile, Oberyn answers slowly, his irritation is not lost on Ramsay. “It seems we have that in common. Working with strangers with strange… opinions. And odder priorities as prying into one’s private life. Your work overseas with Essos has given you an advantage I’d argue not many Northerners have. The Ironborn historically don’t take well to outsiders.”
“The work has surely heightened his aptitude for our House’s foreign affairs.” Lord Bolton cuts in, defusing and rerouting the topic. “Compared to the wretches of Slaver’s Bay, the Ironborn are a fair degree more reasonable. Managing trade deals and securing company acquisitions, Ramsay has become quite accomplished. Least of all, culling those slavers sneaking their way onto our lands. Dorne seems to be struggling with their half of our agreement. Your boarders remain vulnerable.”
Oberyn’s smile is pulling up, stretching out the sneer in his nostrils, and Ellaria is still as stone.
Following his father’s redirection, Ramsay lays down the whole point of this dinner. “Your ports could use reinforcement. We can connect you with the strongest seafarers of the Iron Islands—”
Ellaria scoffs, “Strongest? You’ve just admitted that the Greyjoy’s—”
“Not the Greyjoys.” He cuts her off sharply and without the courtesy of eye contact. “House Harlaw. Lord Rodrick Harlaw and all families loyal to his House are reliable, aligned with our cause.”
“What are you suggesting?” Oberyn asks, shifting his eyes between father and son, and the father answers.
“We propose opening your ports to House Harlaw. A small, agile fleet to circumvent the scores of slavers and spies penetrating your boarders. It would be advantageous to use their own prowess against them. There are no better people than the Ironborn to wage naval warfare. And being that they follow the Eastyde, there would be no fear of treachery. No worry of reaping and raving once the job is seen done. House Harlaw, and the Ironborn of the covenant are the only choice to discreetly solve this problem before all of Westeros and the north of Essos learn of Dorne’s shortcomings.”
“I see. I see why now, your House vouched so passionately for the Ironborn to be brought to the conference. I presume you will seek ample compensation for such a connection. However, Lord Bolton. Be as it may, that Dorne is experiencing a siege of sorts from the likes of Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor. Be it possible that Dorne’s reputation may suffer a stain in due to our boarders, why should I or my brother the King, take your aid. What more than bodies would you be offering which we couldn’t buy or receive from the Kingdom.”
“We all know Dorne wishes to completely untie itself from the Southern Kingdom, with Robert dying and his son to take the Iron Throne, there is no telling the chaos to ensure with a boy-King with such sour-blood. Dorne has little time to fully separate before relations get more complicated.”
“Ingots.” The word pulls their attention to Ramsay.
“What?” Ellaria asks with a skeptical squint.
He ignores her, maintaining his glance at the Prince.
“You asked what we could offer. Ingots. Pure, smelted silverscale, mined from the deepest depths of Old Valyria. The strongest, most diverse and valuable metal in the whole world.”
Oberyn’s stiff grimace breaks into a smile. “All silverscale in existence is known and owned. It is known there are no mines with any left. And no one goes to Old Valyria.”
“It’s the main component of slaver’s chains. What makes their bondings unbreakable and impossible to forcibly deliver freedom to those unfortunate slaves. Those same slaves are thrown into those mines to harvest raw silverscale ore.”
“How can you be so sure?”
The suppressants do all the work for him, hiding and holding in his look of merciless satisfaction. A knowing smile would have hit his ears regardless of his current circumstances. He knows that if he could feel, he'd hate how happy it makes him, that there is an incredible indulgence in knowing how wholly he owns Theon.
“I’ve become familiar with their ways.”
As Oberyn and Ellaria exchange a look of doubt, Ramsay and his father catch each other’s side glance. Again finding some lukewarm grounds of agreement. With that, Lord Bolton takes the conversation into negotiations, steering into the next phase of their private agenda. Setting their House into a stronger position for the next era.
As the night grew darker, the suppressants wilted. That second dose was heavy and took hours to wane. Starting as a dull pulsing, Ramsay could tell his full self was coming back to the surface. Time went on by the beat of his rage slowly swelling in his chest again.
Sitting at his desk, alone in the darkness of his rooms, he’s just waiting.
Sleep took him faster than his surpressants did to loose their effect. Slumping over his arms, his head is lying on the table, with his phone face up. The corner of it, is touching his nose, he didn’t notice when it shook a few hours ago from Theon’s final text.
Underneath the cover of nostrum, Ramsay must have been numb to the exhaustion from his nerves lashing out without a voice or body for half a day. A soul set to drift under anesthesia, and waking from such a state is inevitably harrowing.
It’s like an explosion hits. His eyes are bursting open. Scrambling up, his chair is screeching as it’s being pushed and sliding back. Heels of the wooden legs scrap and cut in the floor’s finish.
“GRAH!” The yell is a roar being choked by a cough. Ramsay’s momentum has him taking unbalanced steps back and to the sides.
His eyes are glowing wild-red with pin-pricked irises vibrating in the center. His teeth are clenching as his lips are pulling up a wet snarl. He’s looking throughout his empty room, wildly searching for something that can be sensed but not seen.
Blazing like a fire, his instincts are whipping flames that leave him disoriented. Moments of heaving and huffing pass as his bearings straighten. Then, coming into focus is his phone, and the fixed feeling of emptiness inside.
The bond is cut, all but the memory of it is gone.
Ramsay is crashing over the desk and picking up his phone, ready to call Theon a hundred times now if need be. But the notification of a single text takes him down.
Theon: I talked to my father, Robb was able to get him on the phone for me. Everything is fucked but it’s salvageable. Damn it Ramsay, he was right. I should have just gone to the conference. All of this shit didn’t have to happen if I’d just left. All I had to do was stay with them for a few days and give him and my brothers a chance to redeem themselves to the Eastyde. I could have helped! I could have built something to reconnect with my father and you couldn’t even let me have that? You had everything else, I gave you everything else and it still wasn’t enough. Will anything ever be enough?
He attempts to call again before he can read the last word.
Call Failed.
The phone hits a couch before thudding over the carpet floor, lucky to not have smashed into pieces. The rest of his suit will not so be fortunate.
It’s five a.m, Ramsay breaks and bleeds over everything in his wake as the rise of first light spills in through the windows.