04-Conversations

Disclaimer: I do not own HP, GoT or ASOIAF.

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Cataclysmic Moon.

Author's Note: I was a bit late with this chapter, but it is a bit longer than the rest. Enjoy.

*

Jon

He looked at the piece of metal in his hand with a sigh. It resembled a sword, but that was about it. The metal was slightly twisted, the edge was uneven, and he had a feeling that it would most probably break after a few stronger blows. He had tried heating an existing weapon of steel and iron and inscribing runes on it, but that worked rather poorly. Iron and steel were generally bad conductors of magic. The runic clusters on the weapons turned out to be inactive, as they simply didn't hold enough magic to activate the inscription. Pouring magic directly into them barely powered the runes for a short moment, and as soon as he stopped, they fizzled out. Valyrians had weaved each enchantment directly into their steel aided by the ritualistic killing of a slave. A Valyrian steel weapon took three such sacrifices to permanently imbue the enchantments for invulnerability, sharpness and lightness. Not to mention that the elemental properties of dragonglass probably helped ease the process, together with the use of magical flame.

After his half-sister/cousin had fallen asleep, he had headed towards the armoury to try his hand at forging. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious that blacksmithing took a lot of skill to master. And while watching and helping Donald Noye had been an enlightening experience, it had by no means made him a smith apprentice. He had some vague knowledge of metallurgy and he knew he couldn't produce a flame hot enough to make proper steel with simple firewood. Nor did he have enough power to currently use magical flames to melt the iron into liquid. The dragons were too small to be able to breathe fire for more than half a minute.

What he could do was slowly practice, spending a few hours every day, to improve his smithing skill. With enough time poured in, he'd eventually have enough skill and magic to spellforge a weapon he'd use comfortably.

It was time to start focusing on his fire magic and control. Thankfully, his magic seemed to be in flux. On Earth, once a wizard reached seventeen, they would reach their magical maturity, and the explosive period of growth for their magic ended. You could still increase it, but it took far more effort than before. Currently, his magic was malleable and it had not settled as it should upon reaching the age of majority, making his situation slightly similar to the period of high growth during puberty. Jon had no idea how long that would last, but he was going to capitalise on every moment of it. He wasted no time and began practising.

Three small flames were conjured and slowly forced into the shape of a dragon. The fiery dragons began flying around in tandem. Two minutes later, Jon dispersed them. His clothes were soaked with sweat, and he was heaving as if he had run a marathon.

Magic was not dissimilar to a muscle. You had to work and put great pressure on it for it to grow, but if you pushed it too far, you would damage yourself. Magical exhaustion was exactly like a torn muscle.

Casting spells without a wand took a far greater toll on the mind and magic. In order to compensate for the lack of a magical focus, you had to exert stronger intent, which was mentally taxing. It also required much more power compared to using a wand, because controlling a large amount of magic outside your body was generally hard. Additionally, without a precise tool, you would waste a lot of it in the process. Almost all modern spells were created for wand use. Not to mention that in this world, the volatility of ambient magic made everything far harder. But getting a wand was a pipe dream for now, especially considering that he had no magical ingredients and not a wide selection of wand woods. That was beside the fact that he hadn't delved very deep in wand crafting, which meant that he had a lot of experimenting to do even with the correct materials in order to get anything usable.

The list of his daily tasks had grown further. Now, it included sparring, working out, forging, and practising fire magic. It fondly reminded him of the time he spent preparing to face Voldemort.

A bucket of icy water later and he was relatively clean. The cold did not bother him at all. Instead, it felt pleasant. He had no idea why that was the case, but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. If only he had a ready-made recipe for forging like those he learned for potions instead of trying to learn on the fly.

Jon was about to head towards his quarters and sleep, but he realised that there might be a book or two on forging in Castle Black. This was one of the most ancient keeps in Westeros, and, according to Maester Aemon, in the library, there were books that even the Citadel did not have.

Jon headed towards the vaults, where the food storages and the library were situated. In his drowsiness, it took him nearly a whole hour before he could find everything related to forging. He grabbed all the needed scrolls and books and finally headed towards his chambers. He placed down everything he had gathered on his desk, discarded his clothes, and slipped into the bed, quickly drifting into dreamland.

*

Sansa

She tried to hide her terror as the knife carved through her flesh. An ugly face adorned by wormy lips and a cruel and lecherous smile had her waking up screaming in horror almost unable to breathe. It took her a few moments to remember that she had escaped her tormentor. She slowly managed to calm down, but she now acutely felt the chilly air. The two hatchlings nested at her feet were watching her with concern. Sansa attempted to get warm again and fall asleep under the covers but, try as she may, every time she closed her eyes, the thrice-cursed face of Ramsay Snow appeared in her mind and chilled her insides. And it was still dark outside.

After half an hour of futile attempts, she only felt colder and more afraid. Remembering her brother's offer, she stood up decisively, donned her gown, grabbed a heavy fur cloak standing near her bed and readied herself head towards Jon's room. It was a terrible idea, but she knew she could trust him.

The hallway was thankfully empty. She headed towards the only other door on this floor and softly knocked. Hearing no response, she weighed her options for a few moments and pushed the door open. As soon as she entered, a sword was pointing at her neck, stopping her dead in her tracks.

"Sorry, Sansa. I'm still a bit twitchy. The last time I was surprised during the night, I got stabbed a few times in the chest," Jon said with an apologetic voice. The uncaring way that he spoke of his death only served to chill her further. He returned to the bed and placed the sword on the nearby wall, close enough that he could reach for the blade directly if he wished. Afterwards, he gave her a careful look. "Sansa, is something wrong?"

"I...woke up and couldn't fall asleep. And you said that I could come to your room if I had any problems. I'm sorry if I woke you up," she explained quietly.

"I myself can barely sleep from my own nightmares sometimes. Do you want to talk about it?"

Sansa shook her head. "This was a bad idea. I should leave," she mumbled to herself and turned away to go back. When she was only 3 or 4 name-days, every time she had a nightmare, she used to sneak into Jon's or Robb's bed and bad dreams would go away. But she grew up and stopped doing that, knowing that it wasn't proper anymore, and Jon was to be avoided because her mother and her septa taught her that bastards were untrustworthy. Now she was ugly, scarred, broken, and used, and her brother had seen it all. No man would ever want her anymore, not even her brother. Ramsay had made sure of that.

She wanted to run away and hide. Tears started flowing as she rushed back to her room. She returned to her bed and sat down shakily. Sansa was too tired to do anything else but at the same time too afraid to lay down and sleep. Just the image of Ramsay had made her shiver in terror and the chill air in the room had become cutting. She started trembling again. Her whole body felt cold. All the strength in her limbs were gone as soon as she sat on the bed. The fire in the hearth had died out long ago and she couldn't make herself move to light it up again. She wished she would have been able to slip into Jon's warm bed similar to when she was just a little girl, but the overpowering feeling of shame had caused her to waver and run away.

Her world started spinning. She heard someone shouting her name as the ground was suddenly nearing when blackness took her.

*

Sansa felt surprisingly rested. The nightmares hadn't returned. The soft crackling of a fire burning in the hearth could be heard. She was still wearing her gown and felt like she was enveloped in a warm cocoon. She inwardly panicked and just as she tried to move, she heard her brother's soothing voice.

"I did tell you that you can come to me anytime with your problems. Did you think I'll turn my last family away? Finding you fainting with exhaustion and trembling from shock had me terrified." Jon was sitting on a chair near her bed. "I had the dragons sneak in the bed with you for warmth. They are warm, like a furnace. Don't roll around, and if you want them to leave just lift the covers. You should know that there is no shame in your scars, it means you have survived. I have more than a few myself. Do not blame yourself." Jon's soft voice made her relax. But was she truly blameless? She had made a lot of mistakes, ones that cost her dearly.

"When the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. It's just the two of us now. We'll make every single person who wronged House Stark pay. Together." His voice became murderous. And she believed him. Their enemies might be numerous and powerful, while she and her brother were at the Wall, alone, and all that was left of their house. But she believed him.

"Your wounds have mostly healed. But your body needs more rest to recover. Travelling through the North wounded, tired, and hungry took its toll on you. Don't leave bed too often. I'll get someone to bring us food to break our fast. After that, we can speak to Ser Davos to see what he knows and if he's trustworthy. He was an advisor to Stannis; it would be very good to have him on our side."

Jon swiftly left the room. Sansa lifted her covers, and the dragons quickly crawled out. She shivered when the warmth of the hatchlings was replaced with the cold northern air.

Reuniting with her brother was everything she had wanted and more. For the first time since she saw her father's head get brutally chopped off with his sword, she felt safe. She still had this inner worry she and her brother would also meet their end tragically just like the rest of their family. But just as her thoughts started going to dark places, an angry shriek woke her up from her stupor. All three hatchlings had climbed on top of her covers and were looking at her intently. Her brother was a capable commander and leader of men, and he had dragons. She had no idea how fast dragons grew, but the days of their enemies were numbered. Sansa could see it now: Jon would take care of the foes in the open, and she would take care of those in the dark.

The door opened and interrupted her musings. Jon entered with a bowl in one hand and a big wooden tray filled with meat in the other. Some of it was raw, but most were roasted. "Time for eating, little ones," he said to the hatchlings. They hopped off the bed and crowded around her brother. He threw them the pieces of raw meat and she watched in fascination as they roasted it with their fire before devouring it hungrily.

Sansa got up and sat on her bed. Jon handed her the bowl and proceeded to efficiently decimate a pile of roasted meat that could feed several grown men. Jon must have caught on to her amazement because he stopped and explained, "I grew a few inches after...walking out of the fire. Ever since, I have kept growing and cannot satiate my hunger without eating at least this much. You should eat yourself." He pointed to her bowl and continued wolfing down his food.

She drank some broth before asking, "Jon, what happened to Ghost?" She hadn't seen the direwolf since the funeral.

"He went out hunting the day before you woke up. He usually comes back in two or three days." Jon explained before tearing into another piece of meat. Seeing her worried expression, he continued. "Don't worry about Ghost. As a fully grown Direwolf, he's one of the most dangerous things around. And you know how silent he is. If he wanted to sneak around, nobody would find him in the snow with his white fur."

A comfortable silence settled as they made short work of their food.

Just as they finished eating, somebody knocked on the door. Jon stood up and ushered Ser Davos into the room. Her brother sat next to her on the bed, presenting a united front, and spoke up.

"Ser Davos, with Stannis defeated, what do you intend to do now?"

"Lord Comm... Snow, I'd like to follow you if you'd allow me." Sansa almost gaped in surprise, and she was not one who was easily surprised anymore. Of all the things she expected when meeting with the Onion Knight, this was not it. He seemed amicable, but as a former Hand of a stern king like Stannis, she expected someone more...arrogant or stern.

"Please call me Jon, I'm not a lord of anything. And why would you want to follow me, Ser Davos? I'm just a bastard. A nobody from a House with a whole kingdom's worth of enemies. You've been a Hand to a king. Following a nameless bastard is surely a step downwards. Why don't you go back to your lands and live out the rest of your lives peacefully?" Jon asked curiously. She noticed that her brother's voice didn't waver at all at the mention of his bastardy, compared to him being prickly and sulky about it as a child.

Ser Davos took a deep breath and thoughtfully said, "I followed Stannis because he was a just and fair man. I was a smuggler before, and when Storm's End was under siege, I managed to smuggle onions and salted fish through the Redwyne blockade to feed the defenders. Stannis decided to reward me for my help, but cut off the fingers of my left hand as punishment for smuggling." The old knight showed his left hand which had all the fingers missing.

"The good deed does not wash out the bad, is what he told me. Then he knighted me and landed me. Later, Stannis made me his Hand because I always gave him honest advice, instead telling whatever he wanted to hear. I had seven sons from my wife, four of which perished in the battle of Blackwater Bay. My wife has already died and I've no desire to return, only to burden my sons back at home with Tommen on the throne. In my final years, I'd rather follow someone I like. Someone like you. You have always tried to be fair and just and do the right thing, and it even got you killed. Just like you declined legitimization and wardenship of Winterfell and marriage to the wildling princess Val because you felt you were needed by the watch, even though half of them wanted you dead." Sansa took a sharp, deep breath and eyed Jon who simply shrugged sheepishly. But the old knight's next words only raised more questions in her head.

"I heard what happened in Hardhome – you saved thousands, and what you did back there was like a tale straight out of the Age of Heroes. You entered your funeral pyre dead, and walked out alive, along with three hatched dragons. Your deeds speak louder than your words. There is greatness in you; I'd like to see it, and maybe even help you along the way with my advice. My only other wish is to find out what happened to princess Shireen and my fifth son, Devan," he finished wistfully.

"Did you ask the Red Priestess? She left with Stannis for Winterfell," Jon inquired thoughtfully.

"No matter what or how I ask, she won't tell me a thing. That woman...she's not right. Madness–she...her god and their obsession with burning people alive. Ever since she started whispering in Stannis' ear, he started changing little by little, for the worse. And some of the other things I've seen her do...I only remember in some of my worst nightmares," Davos shakily replied.

"Why don't you call her here. I don't like her or her god either, but she wanted to speak with me. Maybe together we can get some answers," Jon simply suggested. The onion knight nodded and left to find the Red Priestess.

*

Jon

Jon watched in amusement as Sansa started to fidget when Davos left. She tried to put on a mask, but her curiosity leaked through. He didn't need to know legilimency to see what she was thinking about. "Jon, did you really decline Stannis's legitimisation, wardenship to the North, and a marriage to a wildling princess?" She finally couldn't hold in any longer and asked.

He ran a hand through his curly hair absentmindedly before replying.

"Aye, but not for the reasons you think. I was indeed very tempted. To be Lord of Winterfell, a Stark. And I did desire Val too, as a man must be either blind, a eunuch, or a sword swallower to not want her. My deepest and darkest desires could be granted with just one word of agreement. But Val herself already had a man, and while I might be a bastard, I am most definitely not a raper. And if I did become the lord of Winterfell, I'd have to let that fire-crazed priestess burn Winterfell's heart tree as an offering to her god, just like Stannis did to the heart tree in Storm's End. That would mean to stand against everything House Stark has stood for since the Age of Heroes. I follow the Old Gods, and there is no way for me to willingly let the heart tree be burned. Not to mention that Winterfell is yours by rights, as the eldest living trueborn child of Eddard Stark. I declined; I thought I'd rather get killed in the Watch than do any of that. They did end up killing me too, but they decided to elect me Lord Commander first," he finished humorously.

Sansa huffed at the joke but continued curiously. "And what's that about Hardhome?"

"I'm not sure if you're going to believe me. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it for myself." He tried to deflect the topic. It wasn't really necessary to burden Sansa with more problems. He remembered her trembling body nearly crumbling on the floor from the previous night. Jon should have recognized all the symptoms when she came into his room–guilt, shame, nightmares. All things he had gone through before. He didn't need to add mythical icy necromancers of legend to her woes.

"I'd rather know now than be surprised later. I will believe you, whatever it is. You've never been one to lie," Sansa replied seriously.

Jon looked at his sister appraisingly. She never wavered from his gaze. He sighed heavily; Sansa had truly grown up. Considering the scars and wounds on her body, it shouldn't have been such a surprise.

"The Night King and the White Walkers have returned. These stories that Old Nan used to tell us? They turned out to be more than stories. Everything they kill, they raise from the dead to fight on their side. For the last couple of years, they have killed every living being north of the Wall, only to add them to their growing army. I only managed to save less than ten thousand Free Folk from Hardhome. The dead they raise we call wights. At this point, they have hundreds of thousands of them. Normal weapons don't harm them, but they are vulnerable to obsidian, fire and valyrian steel." He stopped, seeing that Sansa was looking at him with wide eyes. "Do you believe me?"

Sansa took a deep breath and spoke hesitantly. "You've never been a liar, Jon. As much as I'd like this to be some fairy tale, it would perfectly explain why you let the wildlings south of the Wall. You walked alive out of your funeral pyre with me and 3 dragons. I truly wish it was some sort of jape, but...what can we even do against them?" Sansa's face had turned as white as a sheet, confronted with the realisation of their new mythical enemy.

"The Wall will hold the Army of the Dead for now." Things weren't as bad as she had imagined, so he quickly reassured his sister. "Dragons do breathe fire, you know. And my hatchlings? They have already doubled in size in three days. In a year, they'll be big enough to torch wights by the thousands. I also am in the possession of a Valyrian steel blade. If we manage to find dragonglass from somewhere in the north, fighting them wouldn't be much of a hassle. "Sansa visibly relaxed at his reassurances.

"The First Men beat them back before. We, their descendants, can do it again."

They fell into thoughtful silence. It was soon interrupted by footsteps outside, and Melisandre of Asshai and Ser Davos entered the room. He had avoided the red priestess, partly because of the whispers of her deeds, partly because of Jon's mistrust, and most of all, because he didn't want to deal with her at all. Now that he was close to her, he could feel her magic and it was bloody, dark, and twisted. She seemed to be wearing some sort of glamour, anchored by her ruby choker.

Ignoring everything, the Red Priestess came in front of Jon and kneeled.

"After they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?" Her voice was melodic and he sensed that it was lightly imbued with magic, making people more susceptible to her words.

Jon squinted his eyes in displeasure but simply said, "Nothing, there was nothing at all." He would be extremely stupid to state that he was a soul from another world, especially to a religious fanatic. His changes in character and behaviour could easily be explained away with his death.

"The Lord let you come back for a reason. Stannis was not the prince that was promised, but someone else has to be. All the signs are here."

This sounded way too much like prophecy and divination for his liking. Once you got touched by the threads of fate, there was no escape, and he distinctly felt them in the ritual.

"And what exactly is this promised prince? Tell me everything."

Melisandre rose and spoke reverently. "Five thousand years ago it was prophesied. When the red star bleeds, and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai will be reborn amidst smoke and salt. The child of ice and fire will wake dragons from stone, and with Lightbringer in hand, he will vanquish the Great Other in the battle for the Dawn."

He couldn't help but sigh. "Who is this Great Other? And how do you know that I'm this promised prince?" He wanted to add that he was just a bastard, but he knew better. He just didn't want to admit it to himself yet. He had dealt with being a chosen one in a prophecy before and was not looking forward to Round Two.

"The Great Other is leading the cold ones and the armies of darkness. He seeks to snuff out all life. You woke the dragons from stone, and a falling red star graced the northern sky before you walked out of your funeral pyre. You walked out of the fires more than you were before, I can feel it. Both fire and ice flow in your veins. The king's blood in you is stronger than any other now." Jon cursed inwardly.

A five thousand years old prophecy. He did indeed fulfil all the signs. Divination was always tricky, but he knew better than to underestimate it. But it wasn't too bad. After all, he was going to deal with the so-called Night King anyway.

"You were saying all those things to Stannis before. You said you've seen it in the fire and he believed you. It only got him killed. Your red god was wrong before. And you will not say what happened to Princess Shireen," Ser Davos spoke worriedly.

"R'hllor is never wrong. The fires do not lie. But mortal eyes do not always understand what they are shown. It is I who was wrong." Jon felt a headache forming. She had warned him before about knives in the dark but he didn't listen and had died. He had a crazy fanatical seer that loved burning people on his hands. He wanted nothing to do with her, but he couldn't send her away for no reason. And some enemies were better kept close, so you could keep an eye on them. Who knows what shitstorm she would cook up?

"So, what do you want, Melisandre of Asshai? To follow me?" Jon tiredly asked.

"Yes, to follow and guide you. To offer my skills in your service. To help you win the battle for the Dawn."

Jon looked sharply into her red eyes. They strongly reminded him of Voldemort. He carefully schooled his face into an icy mask, occluded all of his feelings, and asked evenly. "If you want to follow me, you will answer a few questions of mine first."

"Anything for Azor Ahai."

"Do you know what happened to Princess Shireen and Daven Seaworth?"

"The snows trapped Stannis' army. I proposed to ask for the blessing of R'hllor to help melt the snow and bless us in our fight. The blessing required a sacrifice of king's blood to the one true God." Davos looked ready to explode, and Sansa looked ready to puke. "Stannis sent his squire, Daven Seaworth, to bring Princess Shireen. He chose to run away with the princess in the northern snows. The battle was lost."

"You would even burn Princess Shireen?! She's the sweetest little thing. Thank the gods, my son has a lick of sense in his thick head." Ser Davos was alternating between outrage, pride, and relief.

Jon carefully weighed his options. He could keep the priestess around and let her do his dirty work, seeing as she had no scruples whatsoever and claimed to be loyal. But on the other hand, the faith of the old gods was the embodiment of the worship of nature. It was very similar to the old pagan religions. The Faith of the Seven or R'hllor reminded him too much of the thrice-damned headache that was Christianity or Islam. All of them seemed intolerant of magic users, unless they were under their control. As for having someone else do his dirty work or take the blame, that was never truly his style. If he wanted to do something, good or bad, he always did it himself and proudly shouldered the consequences for it.

'Ours is the Old Way. The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword.'

The First Men were wise indeed. But he had a lot of enemies and few trusted people. He finally decided and spoke icily, "You reek of dark and twisted sorcery, red priestess. I can smell it on you. You deceive us further and are hiding your true appearance with that red ruby on your neck. You weave bewitching magic in your voice. This is the land of my ancestors. If you and Stannis had managed to take Winterfell, the ancient Heart Tree would burn, just like the godswood in Storm's End. Even the septs in Dragonstone weren't spared. You somehow managed to convince Stannis Baratheon to try and burn his daughter alive. I care not for your Red God. I follow the Old Gods of the Forest. And I will fight the Night King anyway, prophecy or not."

He could feel his calm slipping and his magic and blood boiling beneath his skin. Jon took a deep breath to calm down and clamped down on his emotions and magic as hard as possible with his occlumency. He stood up and looked into her red eyes. "But if you truly want to help me? Fine! Go take the remaining Baratheon men willing to follow you, find princess Shireen and Ser Davos' son, and bring them to me alive and well. And you're not to burn anything or try to convert anyone to your red god. Consider this your test." He let go of his occlumency and directly merged his killing intent with his magic, pinning the red priestess with his gaze, daring her to act out of line.

His magic was weak now, true. But killing millions of people and demons had transformed his soul, demeanour and aura greatly. The red priestess visibly paled after only a few seconds. "It will be done, Azor Ahai." Melisandre managed to utter, and bowed deeply and quickly left as if on fire. The old knight was speechless and couldn't find his words. Sansa just looked worried. They had had no idea, nor could they even begin to imagine how much pressure Melisandre had been under just now.

"Was that truly wise, Jon? That woman gave me chills, especially after your little speech," inquired Sansa.

"Aye, she's very dangerous. Extremely so. But I doubt anyone else would be willing and able to find the young princess in the vast northern wilderness. The red priestess has a talent for divination. She did warn me about knives in the dark before the mutiny here, and for good or bad, I paid her warning no heed. If Shireen Baratheon can be found alive, she'd be the one to do it. And I'd rather have her nearby and watched and controlled strictly than letting her roam freely. Who knows what disaster she will manage to concoct on her own? I let her know what I think of her and that I can see through her tricks, so she does not try and deceive me."

What he left unsaid was his main reason for not banishing or outright killing the practitioner of the dark arts. He was technically Shireen Baratheon's closest and oldest living male relative. He felt obligated to take care of her, now that her parents were gone, and she would at best get used as a figurehead to further someone else's ambition if she lived. Her parents were dead, her father's bannermen were all dead or had deserted Stannis, and she was lost somewhere in the northern wilderness.

Not to mention, that she was extremely shy and kind, with a big thirst for knowledge. He had no idea how to find her without conventional magic, nor could he leave his sister alone at Castle Black. He would trust the Free Folk with any other task but this. They disliked and distrusted Shireen because of her Greyscale. If sending a zealous dark seer eager to prove herself along with the last leal men from House Baratheon would give her the biggest chance to be found, then he would gladly do so, despite his distaste.

Truthfully, it was very questionable if the princess would manage to evade the Bolton searching parties, or even survive the harsh northern weather with nothing but a young squire for help. It was a callous thing to think of, but after living for more than three hundred years, he had learned to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

*

Ramsay Bolton, Winterfell

Ramsay sat in the high seat in the Great Hall idly playing with his favourite knife. He was finally Lord Bolton. And to think he only had to kill his father, stepmother and newly born half-brother. A wicked grin appeared on Ramsay's face at the memory of the look of surprise on his father's face as he was laying there dying, killed by his son.

But this victory felt a bit empty. Stannis was killed, but not by him. His lover Myranda was also found dead when he returned from the battle. Reek and his wife, Sansa, were gone. Oh, he did not doubt that they had run off to their bastard brother at the Wall. He had sent a letter, taunting them with his latest possession, a gift from House Umber – one Rickon Stark. They would have no choice but to come to him if they cared for their brother. But meanwhile, he was...bored. And as Lord Bolton, hunting smallfolk was now beneath him.

Winterfell felt way too peaceful and quiet without having someone to torture and break. With his favourite toys all gone, and his lover dead it had become nearly unbearable. Ramsay suddenly froze. But that was not the case, was it? Reek was gone, and his wife had fled. But he could always make another Reek. Sometimes they died before they broke, but either way the screams of Rickon Stark would fill his heart with joy. He grabbed his flaying knife and headed towards the dungeons with a wicked smile on his face.