Chapter Text
It was strange to look at him. Ramsay Bolton. No. Snow. His name is Ramsay Snow, no matter what.
Looking at him just brought the faint memories of his late brother back to her head and filled her heart with sorrow. Domeric should have been Lord of the Dreadfort. He would have been a good lord; a better lord than his cold father and depraved half-brother. He was not like any other Boltons.
The Boltons were famed for the ancient practice of flaying and their infamously cold eyes. Paler than stone and darker than milk strange like two white moons or two chips of dirty eyes. Dom only had small flecks of that colour in his eyes. His eyes were a rich hazel. Bright and warm like his smile and the songs he loved to sing and play on his harp.
She had spent much time with the young heir and had hoped that her father and grandfather would ask Lord Roose about the possibility of a betrothal. Lord Bolton had not written back. At that time, he had been slain. Supposedly by his depraved brother. Some rumours were heard that Lord Bolton had slain his own son by accident. Roose Bolton may be cold but he was no kinslayer.
He was undoubtedly handsome. His dark brown curls reaching his shoulders and neatly framing his face. His almost boyish smile. If she closed her eyes, she could still see him. But he was just a memory.
Now, here was his half-brother. Their father was plain, Domeric was undoubtedly handsome, but Ramsay was as ugly as the Bolton's truly are in nature. His face was matted with dried blood. Breathing heavily. His wide, meaty, wormy looking lips were split. His pink blotchy skin was red and beaten.
Had it not been for the efforts of their new King in the North Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon, they wouldn't have gotten rid of the Leech Lord and his pet weasels. The North remembers. The North remembers.
As of this moment, she was glad for Jon Snow. Glad that this had been allowed. This was not to be for the faint of heart.
"For the North!!" she and Wylla shouted. But this wasn't just justice for the North. Justice for the Starks. Justice for all the lost Northmen who had been sent to the slaughter by the Boltons. For Lady Barbrey, who was key to their victory. For Domeric. For the life that could have been but never did.
For once, Ramsay was truly a part of the Bolton's accursed legacy. Garthe the gaoler for House Manderly had taken his beloved flaying knife from him and had begun his arduous torture of the "heir to the Dreadfort".
The North remembers, you monster. The North remembers.