Game of Thrones: The stag's storm

"Right here, in this room," Gendry said. "Where else did you want to bathe?"

Two powerful Dothraki Unsullied blocked Fake Reek, and his expression froze.

"Is this how Lord Roose raises his son? Sending him here to steal from me?" Gendry asked. "You are merely guests. The castle and the land belong to me, and there is nothing I despise more than thieves. In Westeros, theft costs you a hand. Since you tried to steal the armory's equipment plans, I think taking your heads would be more fitting..."

"My lord, please forgive us. I will leave you all our gold," Fake Reek cried, as though he truly were a young lord.

Gendry ignored Fake Reek's pleas. Grey Wolf handed him the Arakh, and Gendry drew it. Valyrian steel was the sharpest material in the world.

Dark, rippling patterns ran across the blade, the hallmark of Valyrian steel. Its cold gleam seemed to still even the air around them.

Gendry tightened his grip. First he pointed the blade at the false Ramsay, then turned its edge toward the servant who called himself Reek.

"He is Reek, and you are the real Ramsay, aren't you? Snow. Ramsay Snow." Gendry studied the young man covered in urine and filth, who was grinning foolishly.

Ramsay's smile froze at once. He stood rooted to the spot. His ingratiating grin vanished, leaving only cold indifference.

"Time for your bath, Ramsay." Gendry looked at him. Supposedly, Ramsay killed anyone who dared remind him of his birth, either with his hounds or by starving them to death. Before Gendry, however, Ramsay showed calm restraint.

Brutal though he was, Ramsay had not entirely lost his wits. He knew to fear strength.

The Dothraki Unsullied made Ramsay strip, then washed him with cold water to rid him of the stench.

The Unsullied brought several wooden buckets and poured their contents over him from head to toe. The icy water washed over Ramsay's body. Their ministrations were rough, but he had no choice but to endure them. He wanted to draw his butcher's knife, but he did not.

Ramsay stood motionless and accepted the punishment. He began to regret his recklessness. Nothing would have happened if he had simply left things alone. His eagerness to prove himself had brought him needless humiliation.

Still, I am the heir to the second most powerful house in the North. Surely they won't humiliate me any further? Ramsay pondered his fate.

"Put these on."

The Dothraki Unsullied found some clothes in the room and made the now clean Ramsay dress.

Gendry studied the freshly washed Ramsay. He really was hideous, just as he had been in the original novels. It seemed Roose had good reason to dislike him. In any age, looks mattered enormously.

Ramsay Snow had a broad frame, sloping shoulders, and a body covered in flab. His face sported a bulbous nose, a small mouth, and thick, sausage-like lips. His long black hair resembled dead grass, and his pink skin was mottled.

Roose Bolton's tragedy is a fitting reward for his own wickedness, Gendry thought. Roose was no decent man. It was only natural that he should father a rotten son to torment him. Ramsay had poisoned his own trueborn brother.

"You know who I am now, Commander-in-Chief Gendry. How should I address you? Gendry Waters? Gendry Storm? I imagine we can talk in this room now?" Ramsay looked at Gendry. The only thing he shared with his father Roose was his eyes, those pale Bolton eyes that resembled two pieces of dirty ice.

"Do you mean to bargain with me, Ramsay?" Gendry suddenly laughed. "Bring him to his senses, guards."

Gendry disliked Ramsay, but he was still Roose's son. Killing him outright would only create a powerful enemy. Roose had dared send this son because he must have counted on their tacit understanding: at the very least, Gendry would not harm him. Besides, this fool Ramsay was constantly earning House Bolton enemies and sullying its reputation.

The Dothraki Unsullied glared fiercely at Ramsay. Ramsay Snow suddenly sensed that something was wrong.

One Unsullied pressed a shortsword to Ramsay's neck, making him freeze. Another Dothraki stared at his fat face, then struck without a flicker of expression, delivering several slaps to his fleshy cheeks.

The Unsullied's slaps rang out loudly. Ramsay's cheeks soon swelled and reddened, and blood trickled from his lips.

Reek stood stunned. It had been a long time since he had seen Ramsay in such a miserable state.

This isn't the North. This isn't the Dreadfort. This isn't my home. Ramsay abruptly came to his senses. Pain had cleared his head. He knew he possessed a little wit and cunning, but before absolute strength, he felt he had nowhere to hide.

"The first slap was for trying to deceive me. The second was for calling me Waters and Storm. I dislike those names. The third, Ramsay, was to teach you not to bargain with someone far stronger than you, or play your petty tricks. You are not Roose. You are not the lord of the Dreadfort. You have no right to bargain with me." Gendry's voice was icy. Ramsay felt as though he had fallen into a snowdrift. That helplessness was just like what he felt before his father.

So I am not strong. My power comes only from my father, Ramsay thought, disillusioned. Without the Dreadfort's protection, how could he act so savagely? His hounds, his Lads—it was the Dreadfort that protected him.

"Don't hit Lord Ramsay! Don't hit Lord Ramsay!" the servant Reek screamed himself hoarse. Reek had never refused any of Ramsay's commands. He might well have been the most cooperative person in House Bolton.

Gendry thought Reek had probably been thoroughly conditioned. He could hardly judge such a bond. They were simply two of a kind.

Reek even tried to rescue Ramsay, but his fighting skills were hardly impressive. He charged forward with his fists swinging, and two Dothraki Unsullied slammed their sword hilts into his ribs, subduing the stinking, loyal servant.

Gendry watched Reek's wild, brute-force fighting. It seemed Roose cared little for his bastard. Reek, whom he had sent to serve Ramsay, was himself utterly inept. With a man like that teaching him to fight, Ramsay probably knew nothing but brute force either, and he possessed no extraordinary natural strength.

"Move," Gendry said. Ramsay looked at Reek, who was kneeling on the floor and retching bile, and knew he had no room to resist.

Ramsay led Reek out of the room toward an uncertain tomorrow.

Half a failure, half a success? Ramsay thought. Even if I've been exposed, making direct contact with the Mercenary King should help raise my standing in the Dreadfort.

Chapter 100: Reek's confession

Fear haunted Ramsay day and night. He could hear Reek's ceaseless wails from a room nearby. Gendry's soldiers had taken them to a secluded residence and separated them into different rooms. House Bolton's sworn men were not tortured. Only Reek suffered beating after beating.

At last, Ramsay felt that being kept hidden in the Dreadfort by Roose had its merits. At least he would not suffer humiliation across the Narrow Sea.

I will repay this a hundredfold, Ramsay thought. He pictured Gendry's handsome face. Only trampling something so beautiful would bring him greater delight. He longed to trample and destroy those of House Stark and House Greyjoy as well. But how could he repay it? He had to leave this place and return to his Dreadfort.

Ramsay began to fret over his failure to kill Reek in time. Reek knew every wicked deed he had committed, for the two had always been inseparable.

In the sunlit room, the smells of blood, Fireweed ointment, and filth seemed almost solid, stinging the eyes so badly they could barely open. Reek was bound tightly to a chair.

The small, bloody room held all manner of torture implements: pincers, axes, hammers, wooden clubs, saws, whips, and a furnace. Four interrogators wielded the various instruments.

"Can you tell us about yourselves now?" Maester Qyburn sat behind a small table, studying the battered Reek. He was tall and slightly stooped, with many wrinkles around his protruding blue eyes. His hair held more gray than white, and a smile always lingered on his lips.

To others, Qyburn might have seemed no more than a kindly old grandfather. To Reek, he was a demon.

"Reek... Reek knows nothing. Reek is Lord Ramsay's servant." Reek spat blood. Several teeth had been knocked out of his mouth, yet he still refused to talk.

"Look at the state of you, Reek," Qyburn commanded. Gendry had forbidden him to lay hands on Ramsay, but there were no such restrictions where Reek was concerned.

"Lord Ramsay, Lord Ramsay, save me! I'm your poor servant," Reek wailed.

Seeing that these men paid Ramsay no heed, Reek thought of the Boltons instead. His voice faltered. "I belong to House Bolton. Roose... Lord Roose won't let you get away with this."

"Good boy. Just talk, and I will give you a quick death."

A burly interrogator stepped forward. Reek's arms had already been secured to the chair. With pincers, the interrogator began pulling out his fingernails one by one, drawing blood. As they beat him, the interrogators treated his wounds with Fireweed from Myr.

"Aaaah!" Reek screamed with the last of his strength. "Kill me! Kill me!"

"If you refuse to talk, it will be the third finger next." Qyburn watched Reek as the interrogators advanced with their coldly gleaming pincers.

"If you still refuse, we will torture your Lord Ramsay. You will have to talk all the same." Qyburn smiled, a dreadful chill lurking in his expression.

"No! Don't hurt Lord Ramsay! Don't hurt him! I'll talk..." Reek lowered his head. These people feared nothing. The Mercenary King was even more ruthless than the Starks.

The interrogators thoughtfully poured a little warm medicine down his throat so that he could give a complete account.

Reek told them what he knew: how he had met Ramsay, and the wicked deeds they had committed together.

"Young Lord Ramsay is Lord Roose's child. His mother was the wife of a miller on the Tears. Lord Roose raped the miller's wife and killed the miller because he hadn't informed him that he was taking a wife. Lord Roose said he'd violated his right of the first night." Qyburn listened to Reek's account.

Reek dared not say "bastard" or "baseborn," for either word sent Ramsay into a frenzy. Even with Ramsay absent, Reek still did not dare utter them.

"Go on, Reek," Qyburn said.

"Yes, my lord. At first, Lord Roose didn't bother with young Lord Ramsay at all. When the miller's wife came to the Dreadfort, he only gave her a little money, then sent me to them," Reek continued.

"Be more precise! Why did you return to the Dreadfort?" Bringing a bastard back to the Dreadfort suggested that House Bolton had suffered some troubles of its own.

"It was young Lord Domeric. He had been serving as a squire in the Vale. He envied others for having brothers, so he searched along the Tears for his own brother. Lord Roose scolded him many times and told him not to do it. But young Lord Domeric brought young Lord Ramsay back anyway. Later, young Lord Domeric fell ill and died."

"A kinslayer." Qyburn sighed. Ramsay's scheme to wipe out the other heir had been vicious indeed. Domeric's kindness had cost him his life.

"I want to know everything about you," Qyburn continued. With such a cold, savage bastard, Roose was truly blessed. "What does young Lord Ramsay enjoy most?"

"Young Lord Ramsay likes putting naked girls in the House Bolton Forest, then hunting them with a pack of vicious hounds. If a girl gives him a good time, after forcing himself on her, he gives her a quick death and skins her corpse. To 'remember' those girls, he names his dogs after them." Every word Reek spoke made Qyburn uneasy. He had conducted human experiments himself, but his subjects had been condemned prisoners. Ramsay was simply snuffing out lives.

"What about those who refuse to cooperate?" Qyburn asked.

"As for the women who cry and beg for mercy instead of running, they are still raped-sometimes by him, sometimes by the hounds, sometimes by both-then skinned alive. All the skins are taken back to the Dreadfort as trophies," Reek continued. "Young Lord Ramsay loves flaying. He says nothing gives him more pleasure. It's a House Bolton specialty."

"You've done well. And what about you, good boy? Do you have a role in young Lord Ramsay's games?" Qyburn looked at Reek.

"Young Lord Ramsay and I are inseparable. I've always served him. He lets me enjoy myself too. Sometimes with living women, sometimes with dead ones, before they're skinned." Reek answered as he recalled it.

The interrogators' faces grew increasingly livid. When it came to depravity, these flaying fiends truly were rotten to the bone.

"Tell us exactly who the girls who suffered your perversions were. Now." Qyburn stepped forward and seized Reek's face. He wanted desperately to crush the vile creature's stinking face, but not yet.

Chapter 101: Ramsay's nightmare

After waiting a while longer in the interrogation room, until nearly every scrap of information had been wrung from Reek, Maester Qyburn took several written confessions to Gendry's room.

Gendry had already been waiting some time in the quiet room.

"Has he confessed everything?" Gendry asked Qyburn.

"Yes, my lord. Reek said a great deal. He isn't one of House Bolton's sworn men, after all. He isn't so tight-lipped," Qyburn replied.

"What about those sworn men?"

"There's no need to question them. They're Roose's men and know nothing about Ramsay's affairs. Besides, they keep their mouths shut. Roose chose them himself." Gendry saw little value in questioning them. They were probably much like Roose: quiet and calm. Moreover, they answered only to Roose and had no connection to Ramsay.

"Let me hear about Ramsay's fine deeds."

"Kinslaying, rape, murder, flaying... every one of them was cruel," Qyburn said slowly, then handed over Reek's confession.

Gendry read Fake Reek's confession. The contents were genuinely disturbing. Roose was cruel, but Little Skin-Peeler was sadistically depraved.

Although flaying was a Bolton tradition, it had been forbidden for centuries. Ramsay's obsession with it came from his loathing of his bastard status and his desperation to proclaim himself a Bolton.

"The right of the first night, murder... these northerners really are lawless," Gendry said. Roose had killed the miller for a woman, then torn out the miller's brother's tongue to stop him from going to Winterfell and spreading tales that might reach Stark's ears. As for Ramsay, he was a monster of an entirely different order.

"The North has always been bitterly cold, vast, and sparsely populated. The king's word cannot reach so far. The Boltons and Umbers may both retain such cruel customs. As for the Starks, they can only turn a blind eye. Dorne is much the same. Customs are difficult to change," Qyburn said quietly.

Given the realities of the North, it would be natural for separatist impulses to arise in the future.

After all, secession and independence had been the norm throughout the North's history. With the Magic Dragons gone, the northerners had a foundation for breaking away if they truly chose to. The northern barbarians had always been at odds with southerners.

"Is a lord's life truly worth so much more than a servant's? There ought to be one king, one law, one realm." That was Gendry's vision.

The feudal system was cruel as well. Nobles and lofty lords trampled their servants' rights, and whether a realm rose or fell, the common people suffered. Even House Stark's honor could reach only so far, perhaps covering some of its lands rather than all of them. Was Eddard a hypocrite? Not exactly. He was, after all, a great noble.

"Make Reek explain everything clearly. There is no reason to keep him alive." With a single sentence, Gendry decided Reek's fate. Keeping a degenerate like him alive was merely a waste of food.

"As for Ramsay, I'll go see our guest." Gendry rose and headed for Ramsay's room with Qyburn. A living Ramsay did more harm to the Boltons than a dead one, constantly earning their house fresh enemies.

"You've had a fright, Ramsay." Gendry pushed open Ramsay's door. The Dothraki Unsullied stationed outside followed him in. They wore bronze helmets and carried shortswords and shields.

Ramsay looked at Gendry. He hated the young warrior before him.

The fat Ramsay was genuinely unpleasant to look at, all flesh, with lips like enormous worms and long black hair.

"You... what are you going to do?" The sight of those tall men made Ramsay stumble over his words.

The towering Dothraki Unsullied, the towering Gendry. Ramsay felt like nothing more than a verminous creature lurking in the shadows. His power came from the Dreadfort's protection, not from himself.

"Why don't you hear what your good servant has said?" Gendry asked.