the evil is in his blood

ACCOUNT FOR RAMSAY SNOW OF THE BLOOD & GLORY RP NOT AFFILIATED WITH GRRM

[redhelm]

do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 29th

[tgreyjoys]

At first, Ramsay won’t even fucking look at him and the fury twists even tighter in Theon’s chest. As if Theon wasn’t even worthy of his attention, was not as important as poking a goddamn fire, after what he’s just done… Jesus, but Theon really is this fucking close to punching the piece of shit. He doesn’t give a fuck whose son he is, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – stand for this, it wasn’t –

Then he’s stepping forward with a glint in his eyes that leaves Theon suddenly all too aware that he’s wielding an iron-cast poker. His eyes flit towards the glowing tip, then back to Ramsay and there’s a glint in his eyes that Theon really doesn’t fucking like. He takes a step backwards, but it doesn’t halt the other man’s approach.

You liked it, Ramsay taunts, and Theon feels his cheeks burn hot with indignation. He tries to splutter out denials but there’s no fucking lying to himself – he had liked it, liked the attention that he was so currently deprived of in Winterfell. Liked having the man he’d thought was Reic so eager for his company. His taunts are making him feel extremely fucking nauseous all of a sudden and he’s pretty sure it’s because of how much they ring true. Robb Stark won’t even talk to me. How bloody pathetic he was.

He stumbles back from the poker when Ramsay lays it against his crotch, hands frantically trying to bat it away. His face feels like it’s fucking burning, and he’s no longer sure if it’s with rage or humiliation.

“I didn’t – stop – get the fuck away from me, you sick fucking freak.”

The back of his knees hit the arm of the chair he’d so recently occupied, and he shakes his head, turning away quickly.

“I’m leaving. Don’t you dare ever fucking contact me again, you bloody psycho.”

[redhelm]

He can't stop the smile now. It's cutting his face wide open. It would be more sinister if he could wipe it back, but Ramsay sure as hell isn't doing this for an audience, so what's the use?

Theon stumbles back, practically feminine in his recoil, his shoulders hitched up, spine knotted wire, batting at the poker like a 50s housewife with a spider on the countertop. Ramsay flinches back, careful not to let the burning nib flick back against his leg. When looks back up, Greyjoy's turned away to hide his shame and gather up his belongings. 

It's odd - the juxtaposition. The television still bubbles away in the background, eulogising Ned Stark on and on, ad infinitum. Something comes up against his mouth, some new taunt. He'll wind out the torture like a spinerette. Come on, Theon, he'll say. We're mates. It's a joke. You liked it. Who else do you have in this city? Only then the psycho comes in, like a snake's hiss and a bite all in one word and he feels that smile slide right off. 

"What did you call me?"

His voice is soft, all the energy pushed down into his wrists, his hands. He grabs Greyjoy by the arm, just above the elbow, and swings the poker out and round like a rope. It stops in his palm, pointing out like a rapier over his shoulder line and towards Theon's face. Ramsay can feel the heat off it now - a real, mad heat, glowing bright red - not that aura of fear and embarrassment that Greyjoy puts out, or that he imagines he does.

There's a quiet moment. The newsreader is saying The great man will be sorely missed.

"Say that again," Ramsay says, quietly. "What did you call me?" 

[bloodandglory-rp]

[redhelm]

character: ramsay snow (bio) affiliations: stark group of companies iwan rheon

[redhelm]

do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 29th

[tgreyjoys]

A joke, Theon thinks in disbelief, a fucking joke. Was this kid actually for real? What the fuck was with his stupid little game, what was the fucking point? Theon can see no other than for the sole purpose of making him look like a bloody fool.

He’s not buying this crap about the fact Theon might have shunned him for being a Bolton – okay, it might have been true, Roose Bolton unnerved him even though he’d never actually met him – but he’s too angry to really admit that. Besides, Reic – no, Ramsay – was clearly enjoying this all too much to actually be sincere. Really, Theon can practically feel his glee emitting from him in waves: all because of the fact he’s tricked Theon Greyjoy with an ease that shamed him more than words could say. Manipulated him even, took utter advantage of his loneliness and isolation in the country chocker block full of people that made no effort to disguise that he did not belong. That he’d stolen a ticket off a little girl, a true Scotswoman. Not the son of a bitter rival.

His fingers clench into fists and it’s all he can do not to lunge at the boy, seize him by the shirt and truly give him a piece of his mind.

“My side,” he spits, “what do I care about sides? You tricked me! What the fuck for? What kind of twisted little freak are you to think that this was funny? What’s wrong with you?”

[redhelm]

All the while Theon is salivating up over his own indignation, Ramsay refuses to look at him. He scratches the side of his nose instead, looks down, picks up the poker again and prods at the coals in the fireplace. 

What do I care about sides? he hears, and tucks a grin up into his cheek, trying hard not to crease up. Oh, everything, he wants to reply. Everyone cares about sides these days. Don't act like such a liberal, Greyjoy - there's a goddamn war on. Then comes the 'twisted little freak' - as if he's never heard that one before. Greyjoy can't even summon the individuality to be creative in his insults. Ramsay wonders: maybe someone called him that once upon a time, too, before Robb Stark was around to provide a layer of protective blubber with his legacy and strength. He'd hazard a guess at it, but he's more interested in finding out firsthand. 

"Oh, come on," he starts, clattering in on the jagged forward march of Theon's anger. He balances the poker in his hand, the tip just glowing dull orange from the flames. Ramsay feels it bounce in the muscles of his palm. He likes the weight of it as he steps forwards, like a cane, an additive of purpose. "Don't act like you weren't flattered."

He opens up wide and grins. 

"You liked it. I know you did. Having someone to talk to," his face collapses back into an over-exaggerated pout. "Oh, life's so hard. Everybody's so mean to me. Robb Stark won't even talk to me." He draws up close, close enough that he can feel the thin, hot rage radiating off Theon like a static charge.

Or maybe that's just him... It's been only a few days since he stuck his fingers into Luton's mouth and choked him on his own blood... but a man can get sick off that kind of physical energy, squeezing one's hands up in Life and wringing the sweat out of it. He tilts his chin up, all slow and predatory, and lets the cold end of the fire iron graze the crotch of Greyjoy's jeans. "You liked the idea of me flirting with you. Don't lie."

[redhelm]

do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 29th

[tgreyjoys]

Theon catches the thrown menu with the hand not clutching his drink, even though it’s sort of useless to him. He always gets the pepperoni option, has never been particularly original when it comes to pizza. Unlike Robb, with his weird penchant for unusual toppings that never failed to earn him a look of mild disgust from the unfortunate worker taking his order. The thought just serves to make him more depressed, and he tries to push it from his mind.

He came here to escape. Not to mull over what he was fleeing from.

Reic’s response to him question earns him a surprised glance. Well. That was abrupt. He knows Reic is perfectly normal for feeling that way, should be in no way expected to feel otherwise – he was right, he didn’t know the man. Still, he was Scottish, part of a country that worshipped the very ground Ned Stark walked on, particularly in recent times. Not only that, but he knew Theon had been living with the Starks as of late. Maybe it’s narcissistic, but Theon had thought that might earn him at least a little bit of sensitivity. Not this…bizarrely cheerful attitude.

He’s expecting too much and he knows it. Reic is fully aware Ned was not his father, never has been. He’s not to know that Theon always yearned for him to be, and Theon prefers to keep it that way.

He turns back to the menu on his lap, barely even really reading it, just letting his eyes absently scan the page for something different to look at. He hardly even acknowledges Reic’s comment on the TV, isn’t even really aware that the television is what he’s referring to at first. Honestly, Theon’s kind of wishing he’d turn the damn thing off – Winterfell was bad enough, he could do without the constant reminder things would never be the same again.

All the same, he glances up – it’d be rude to ignore his host’s enthusiasm.

He freezes.

The drink almost slips from his hand in shock, but the menu falls from his lap, unnoticed.

What the flying fuck was Reic doing standing beside Roose fucking Bolton onscreen?

Theon stares, slack-jawed, unable to even speak as he listens, utterly transfixed. This doesn’t make fucking sense, Reic was – Reic was just – he knew he worked for Bolton, but he wasn’t anyone important, he wasn’t –

Roose lays a hand on Reic’s shoulder on the television screen, and Theon’s not sure he’s been able to make sense of any of the words so far, but the ones that leave his lips right then and there are unmistakable.

“My son, Ramsay…”

The eyes, Theon thinks numbly, the fucking eyes. How did I not see it?

He stands, hardly aware of what he’s even doing, turning to Reic – no, Ramsay – practically shaking in indignation. His cheeks are burning with humiliation and he feels like getting fucking sick.

“How could you?” he spits. “Why? Did you think it was fucking funny?  Making me look like a fucking fool?” Bile rises in his throat, and his next words are laced with utter venom. “You fucking bastard.”

[redhelm]

Venom glitters in his blood like the embers at the mention of the word.

That being said, Greyjoy's reaction is roughly what he estimated, so Ramsay counters it in silence. Most people might've let realisation dawn over them, slow and laboured - it's in the English tradition, after all, to seek to dampen confrontation even before it sparks. The Scots have more ire in their blood. Greyjoys: more iron. A boy as course and lost as Theon Greyjoy isn't going to react quietly to trickery.

The heat's spreading in the fireplace now. Ramsay enjoys the bristle between the environments both aft and behind. Likes the way the fire makes his eyes dry out and tempers the steel in his words. 

Slowly, he turns his head just so.

"Hm?"

After this long haul, there's still some mischief left in him. 

Feigning confusion, Ramsay lifts his eyes up to meet Theon's. 

"Oh, don't get like that," he says, rising up to his feet and leaving the poker amongst the flames. He scratches at the back of his neck. "It was a joke."

If he can stretch this out a little more, he can make Theon feel practically guilty for accusing him. 

"I thought you'd tell me to get knotted if I rocked up with Bolton status." Ramsay digs his hands into his pockets. "Come on, Theon, I was just trying to be funny."

It was funny, really. It was funny commanding men to alchemise Roose's dirty work, like controlling shadows to creep through the sunlit city. It was funny seeing Greyjoy puff up like a balloon at assuming superiority over a real member of Stark's business circle. Seeing him cauterise his complaints, sensing he was in the presence of an inferior and then balk at the sick realisation that he'd been a fool all along. 

Bastard, he'd said, all his thin armour clinking together. Such an easy word to grasp at. Ramsay would strike at his arm if he reached for it again.

"So what?" he says, trying more jovially, "Roose Bolton's my father - what does it matter? I'm on your side, aren't I?"

[redhelm]

do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 29th

[tgreyjoys]

The other’s man odd behaviour doesn’t go unnoticed – he seems a little too at ease with what’s happened, and that alone shouldn’t put Theon on edge – after all, who was Ned Stark to him? Just a figurehead for Scotland, a man he saw on the news and not much else, certainly not a man he should necessarily feel obliged to mourn. But it’s the fact he seems almost absurdly pleased with himself, and Theon can’t imagine what the fuck was provoking that exact emotion in him. Had he received some good news? He supposes they haven’t covered much conversational ground thus far, maybe he’d gotten a promotion in work or something. Maybe.

 Something in his gut tells Theon there’s more to it than that, but he decides not to ruminate on it too deeply.

“No, it’s… It’s fine. He’s –“ Anger burning in Robb’s eyes, the disbelief bordering on disgust, all aimed at Theon – “he’s managing the best he can. He was always close to his father… It was never going to be easy on him.” He swallows thickly and hurriedly takes another drink in a desperate attempt to chase away the pain.

His gaze flits back to Reic, marching back into the kitchen in a manner that seems almost jaunty to Theon’s eyes. He frowns, hoping the queer feeling stirring in the pit of his stomach is just his imagination. Maybe it’s hunger – pizza does sound pretty good after all, he’s not even sure he remembered to eat today.

“Sure.” He hesitates for a moment, regarding his companion. “You seem to be in a cheery mood. Receive some good news?”

[redhelm]

Ramsay doesn't cook. He's got a hefty weight of take out menus in a drawer in the kitchen, though, so he finds one from Dominos, treated in bright colours and Kaolinite and stomps back into the living room with it. 

"Here," he says, tossing it in Theon's direction. "Have a look."

The television is still not cooperating. Greyjoy, however, has started to catch on to something being awry. Ramsay doesn't much care how Robb Stark is coping with everything thrown in his path, so it isn't worth even acknowledging. Theon's clearly uncomfortable speaking about it. Perish the thought that Ramsay put him at ill ease. 

He shrugs, nonchalant. 

"No, no. No good news," he says, making an effort not to smile. "Just... y'know. He's dead. He's just... gone. And I didn't even know the guy. I got no idea how I should be feeling."

Arms loose, he turns back to the fireplace. At least that's performing as he he wants and starting to crackle and burn. He picks up the blackened iron poker and prods at the coals until they shed their ashy coats and blister, red and fresh. 

"Members of the Stark Group of Companies assembled Saturday morning to pay their respects and announce a freeze on all transactions..."

Ah. Finally. 

He wonders how obvious to be, subtlety never being his specialty. 

Ramsay twists his head in the direction of the screen. 

"Good speech, that," he says, and leaves it it to catch light. 

[redhelm]

"Are you sure it was Ramsay Bolton?"

[redhelm]

when i am king you will be first against the wall | september 23rd | torrhen karstark & ramsay bolton

[torrhenkarstarks-blog]

The funeral had been two days before. Torrhen had pulled out his black suit from the closet, had laid it out on his bed, staring at the stark contrast of the suits to his crumpled white bedsheets. Murdered, the papers had declared. Conspiracy, the websites whispered. Icarus, Torrhen thought. Daryn had dug too deep or too fast, had made too many waves, had learned too much, and was killed for it.

Brothers shouldn’t go it alone, Daryn had said. Except now Torrhen was.

Eddie, dead. Daryn, dead. Harry, south. Alys, playing her own game. Torrhen had had plenty of time to mull over everything Daryn had said. Was Daryn killed because he was looking into Eddie’s death? Because he was going to London to investigate?

Torrhen had always thought he could trust his countrymen. Alba gu bràth. But with the border sealed, the other men slain for having connections to the great English families, could it had been a Scotsman to join in?

Questions, questions, and more questions. Torrhen could think only of them, of Daryn, of the catch in his throat that wouldn’t go away, of the wetness that would sting his cheeks, his vision going blurry. Everything weighed on him, thick and heavy, his limbs leaden. 

He’s thrown himself into his work, to give his mind no time to think, to speculate, no rest. It’s with single-minded determination that Torrhen works on bringing forth papers, bringing contracts and negotiations and working on the financial strength of Karhold Coal, speculating with a worried tug of his lips at the future of Scotland. 

Torrhen’s shoulder collides with someone as he hurries down the steps, lost in a whirl of contract language, and he turns his head to throw out an apology before hurrying on, when it dies in his throat. Domeric, he thinks at first, wildly, for only the briefest of moments before the large differences in mannerisms, in features, are brought forth. The man glares at him, and Torrhen can only describe his eyes as unsettling. 

Alys’ fractured words echo in his ears, and Torrhen clenches his jaw, before inclining his head, “Hear you’ve been doing your father’s business lately. Bolton, right? Or is your surname different?"

[redhelm]

It's like how Ramsay imagines a schoolyard confrontation might be. The kind caught in detective procedurals investigating deaths and disappearances at posh boarding schools. Nothing like what he went through as the state comprehensive where the playground had plenty of private corners. But really that's the evolution at work, he figures. Roose never sent him to a private school, but he put him in the Holyrood, and the world was almost exactly the same. It was all about who what your father did. What your surname stood for. How old your loyalty was. Robb Stark might have scoffed at the idea of political blood-ties, but dynasty is alive and well in Scottish parliament, and he feels the cool burn of it now.

Ramsay twists on one heel to look the man in the face. He's older than Ramsay, but not by much. He's got a similar look to his sister, face angular and finely-boned with thick dark hair and intelligent eyes. 

"No," he says, plainly, clearing his throat. "You've got it right. Ramsay. But to you, it'll be Bolton."

There are dark rings beneath Torrhen's eyes. Is that from hard work or some other stress? Maybe his sister's mentioned something... Ramsay hadn't much gambled to run headlong into one of the Karstark brothers so soon after his interaction with Robb Stark's PR. He steps forwards a little, attempting to get the measure of him. 

"My father's work is very complex and we work closely with one another," he says, to fill up the windy silence. The packet of papers under his arm has a legitimate weight and he gestures to it, slightly. "What is it you do again?

[redhelm]

do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 29th

[tgreyjoys]

He accepts the glass Reic offers him with a mumbled ‘thanks’, taking a much needed sip and relishing the burn in the back of his throat. He’s gone too long without booze for his liking, especially given the current climate in Winterfell – getting intoxicated while the family grieved hardly felt appropriate.

He lets out a tired sigh, collapsing into a nearby seat.

“S’okay,” he assures him, “I haven’t actually seen that much of it to be honest. As you can imagine, the Starks don’t exactly…you know. Keep hearing about it, I guess.”

He nods at Reic’s remark, gesturing in the direction of the heavy jacket he’s abandoned now, thanks to the warmth of the fire.

“Yeah. Fucking England, feels like we don’t even get an Autumn anymore. Summer just seems to give way to winter immediately, without even any bloody warning.”

Theon’s gaze turns back to the television.

“So what’s the media been saying about the whole thing anyway? As I said… I haven’t exactly been keeping track.”

[redhelm]

He lets Theon ruminate a moment or so. All these fine things happening in such close quarters - best to let them breathe, like wine. Ramsay crouches in front of the fire, pressing newspaper in amongst the reddy coals so that the flames spark up. How like Theon Greyjoy to stay in his little box, never knowing quite the full story enough to gauge a reaction. Always a little lost. Always a little at odds with himself. 

Ned Stark's face burns away in the firepit. The heat eats at his obituary. Survived by his wife and six children, Robb, Jon, Sa... ya, Br... the rest is already ashes. 

Ramsay gets back to his feet again, dusting the soot from his hands. 

"Oh, y'know," he swings back around, a little too jovially, though what's the sense in pretending for much longer? "General depression. Loss of a trailblazer, patron of the nation. Lots of tears, all that." He digs his hands into the pockets of his trousers and hunches a little. The television burbles. Something about the Stark family history, the empress raising them up from the Victorian muck and into high society a century ago, or some such. They must play the reel again soon. His father's speech broke the seal on the professional mourning practice. Scottish Parliament was suspended until the funeral. The companies switched into auto-pilot. Every person in the city curling up quiet and cold and alone in communal grief. 

Ramsay supposed he was like Greyjoy in that respect - always at an odds with the goings on. Perhaps it was a symptom of his ostracised childhood, but any national activity he had to find some problem with. Even as a child of Scotland, he could not particularly find the energy to care about his motherland's freedoms and tragedies. Edinburgh is morose and dark beyond the window, but Ramsay feels giddy, and a little fevered. 

"How is Robb Stark?" he asks, not moving from the middle of the room and making sure to ask with particular care to all the syllables. "Is he-?" He stops himself, pressing his fingers to his lips in disarm. He shakes his head a little. "Sorry," he adds with a half-smile. "It's really none of my business, is it?"

Why is the news not playing the footage? It's getting rather frustrating now. 

He disappears back into the kitchen at a march, careless about how to stall next. 

"Hey, you wanna order pizza or something?"

[redhelm]

the murderers, steep'd in the colours of their trade | september 25th | roose and ramsay

[roose--bolton]

The house was at it’s most pleasing during this time of the day, when the evening light filtered through the ancient glass of the windows, burning deep against the red wood for the long moment of twilight and drowning the house is sanguine before finally slipping into the inevitable darkening stain of dusk. 

It was the silence he valued the most here. The servants had long since learned to restrict their movements to the necessary, and as the darkness consumed the landscape beyond his office windows he often imagined it smothering all else, a steely blanket of silence and stillness eating up the world. And then it was just him, surrounded by the close comfort of nothing, in which he could switch on his desk light, illuminating his workspace as if bringing to life a small sphere of existence while the rest remained drowned in the black. It was a fancy he had often, the deliciousness of pure isolation, but it was merely that, a fancy, truthfully such circumstances would be viciously dull.

His office always brought him a sense of comfort. It exemplified order and conscious  Each item had it’s place and function, both in the most practical sense and for the ambient metaphorical murmer that formed in the minds of those who came here. Wealth but not excess, lineage but not lost utility, foreboding but not dramatic concern. Often times he imaged that this was a center, a well almost, and from it’s depths he stretched out ducts and tracks that poured it’s murky waters wherever he directed: across borders, into closed offices and newsrooms, down gasping throats and into eager ears.

He heard the steps on the stairs well before they approached his door and frowned down at his desk. The presumption was something he’d feared, known it would raise it’s ugly sneering head, he was almost surprised it took this long, but still, it was no excuse and would have to be curbed with care and immediacy. 

He didn’t even knock. 

Dad.

It was objectively quite sad, a clumsy stretch for familiarity. Words crudely formed into the most basic tools for emotional excavation. There had always been too much emotion in him, balanced in the most precarious of places.

The whistle set his teeth on edge and for a moment he was tempted to throw him out but he swallowed it. This was the piece he’d chosen to play, the investment he’d decided to make- foolish to waste it now, at least not yet…

"I am well aware, and it certainly does not require recitation." He put his fountain pen down neatly, “And you will inform me before you make yourself known here in the future, is that—"

His voice trailed as he caught sight of his face for the first time. Even in the shadows where the boy always lurked the evidence was apparent.

"What’s happened to your face?" Roose continued carefully, “Or should I ask ‘who’?"

[redhelm]

Roose's gaze was focused and only half as tenacious as Ramsay thought he merited. Had he not just orchestrated a death, acted like the hand of Fate itself? Had he not come here triumphant? His father perceived him as if he had become slightly bored of ambition. It fanned the hate in him, knotted the contempt tighter. 

He tried to scowl and found it pained the bruises Torrhen Karstark had left behind. Ramsay didn't understand his father's subtitles or slow movements just like he didn't understand how calm he could be on a night like this. Roose set traps, Ramsay set them off - but his father hardly seemed hungry for prey. 

"It doesn't matter," he said, defensively, waltzing into Roose's study and collapsing into a leather chair. It was too small for him - or, rather, he was too large for the space in general. There were too many breakable things, too many tenuous ties."I took care of that too."

He reached out for the desk, picking up an antique paperweight and feeling the drag of it in the centre of his palm. Skinner had been the one to turn up with the information on the league of murderers. Ramsay was down twenty-thousand pounds for the cost of Torrhen Karstark's disappear and Rickard's resulting grief, but he presumed that his finances would be more than cared for now that Ned Stark was dead. 

Ramsay considered his father, one pair of eyes finding its matching set. 

"Aren't you proud of me, dad?" he said, abrasive, daring Roose to step into his role. He felt a snarl at the edge of his mouth, tugging at his torn lip. "Domeric would never have had the guts for this." 

[redhelm]

i had not seen you underneath my skin | robb stark & ramsay snow | september 13

[starkr-archive]

As always when someone mentions a close person to them that passed away, Robb feels painfully uncomfortable. He never knows what to do with that; it’s simply the perfect mood killer to any kind of conversation. So he just tries very hard not to fidget and mumbles, “Oh, sorry to hear that."

Ramsay doesn’t seem sad or awkward, though, carrying on their conversation like he just mentioned a pet that passed away some distant day in his childhood instead of a brother. Robb wonders if he’ll ever talk about that about someone whom he loved and died -Benjen, or Eddie, perhaps- and the thought makes him innerly cringe.

"Leader? You mean… like a Prime Minister? No, not really." He shakes his head with a smile, slightly amused. He always saw himself following his father’s footsteps but this was not something he ever saw himself doing. This was the exception, a crack in the path that made Robb take a turn for the unexpected. His father was the leader but he’d never be one. Here, he could not follow. “I’d make a terrible leader, I think I already proved that by causing this whole mess in the first place. Besides, this isn’t the medieval times, they should not elect someone just because of blood. I’m simply not the right person for it, and someone out there, some day, will be. They will have my vote. Hey, who knows" he palms Ramsay’s shoulder, “it might even be you."

[redhelm]

A slow smile creeps across Ramsay's face, like the proverbial serpent in the garden. He hopes it looks appreciative - self-deprecating, even. In all likelihood, he'd never be able to lead a country particularly well. But that didn't mean he should be robbed of the chance when the time came. 

But that thought could wait. The point of this exchange was not to reveal more about his character, but to endear Robb Stark to the idea of having him as a friend. Or, if not a friend, at least an ally.

He laughs, appropriately, at the suggestion.

"Christ, I wouldn't wish that on anyone," he says, dryly, noting Robb's hand on his shoulder. "You know, America goes in for that whole political dynasty thing. The Kennedys. The Bushes," there are more, he knows, but what they are - he doesn't, "and we are the new land of the free, aren't we?"

Briefly, he returns the gesture, clapping Stark on the opposite arm before pushing through the door ahead of him into the summer sunlight and then letting him step through. 

"And I wouldn't call this a mess, despite what I said before. Well, it's no messier than any other revolution, but that's no one's fault." Oh, but some do not help matters. "You at least had the guts to stand up to Baratheon and light the fuse. If it wasn't you, it'd have been someone else. But I'm glad it was you, all things considered."

[redhelm]

when i am king you will be first against the wall | september 23rd | torrhen karstark & ramsay bolton

The Bastard's life had relaxed into an uneasy rhythm. Walk, work, drink, pay, sleep. Over and over. Ramsay hated the pendulous weight of his days. In spite of it, he knew that this was the build - the crescendo to a cataclysmic fortissimo. Coax Luton and Damon and Skinner into a feeling of support and security, line their pockets with silver and give them cause to fear. But he was a creature of staccatos and dissonance and he fidgeted within himself as the days grew closer. 

Alys Karstark had been a purge of the distaste and discomfit and it had been all too fleeting, even. The blackened, bitter thing within him had been allowed to crawl out a little and scratch at her, but now it had to be contained. He had to be patient. He had to wait, let Theon Greyjoy grow enamoured of his attention, and the Dreadfort accustomed to his shadow. 

He had to be still as a statue, letting the mushrooms and mould grow over his flesh until all the little birds and creatures came crawling into his outstretched hands. 

For the third time in a week, he was summoned like an errand boy to the Holyrood to have Roose bark something at him and send him off again. The glassy rooms flowed with people: aids, interns, assistants and juniors, decked in their uniform of Oxfords and ties. The board of SGOC directors had called on their well-trained and educated sons like cavalry to assist in the heavy lifting and paperwork that was required of a fledgling government. The North was calling in its debts to its children. And Tywin Lannister was about to call in his debt with the North. 

Ramsay ran his pass through the security exit and turned left down the eastern flank of the building, opting to leave via the green lawns than through the Canongate and the thatch of journalists. It had become something of a covert highway - a way to pass in and out of the government without being recognised. If a Manderly was seen coming in, then that meant communications was the topic of the day in Parliament. If an Umber, it was commerce. A Bolton: economy. A Karstark: legislature.

He streaked past the final line of security and through the glass doors. Someone struck his shoulder as he went, passing him at some speed and cuffing him by mistake. Ramsay stopped short when he heard no apology. It sent a jolt through him, made a crack sound in his neck, and that was a new punch to the rhythm. 

He turned back to where the building climbed up over the city's low lines. Torrhen Karstark, he recognised. A pity his elder brother was in London and the younger was deceased. He could have had the full set. 

[hell-and-infinity]

[redhelm]

the murderers, steep'd in the colours of their trade | september 25th | roose and ramsay

The darkness was late coming in, even though summer was stale now and the sun was quick to drop out of the sky. For a long time, the horizon bled a bright, deep blue and the trees in the park were on fire with the amber glow of street lights, all its leaves raised like hands in prayer. A silent vigil for Eddard Stark. Ramsay waited until the day was soaked in black ink and the stars were coming out before he walked across town and made his way to his father's house. 

It wasn't the ancestral estate from Ayrshire, but Roose Bolton had held host there for some years and Ramsay knew the place well from walking around it and past it but never through the door. His palms cracked in the first breath of the autumnal air. He'd scrubbed his hands and beneath his fingernails seven times over at Carrick Knowe before Damon had given him a lift back to the Old Town and he had to hope that clean hands absented him from any suspicion. The night and shadows hid the evidence of Torrhen Karstark's fists still colouring his face with blue and green bruises, but they were deep enough to still earn glances.

He came to the door of the house and knocked. If the staff did not know the arrangement of his features, they at least recognised the glassy, grit-coloured eyes and bade him quiet entry. For a moment, Ramsay stood and took in the dark, military panné of the place. His father had little time or taste for luxury but contained comfort was at least amenable to him. The main stairway was red-stained wood and narrow. When he climbed it, the steps creaked only just enough to announce his presence.

"Dad," he said, hard and smug, when he'd reached the study door. Roose's home office was medieval in its composition, all heavy furniture and gleaming studs buried deep in the leather and oak. 

Ramsay leaned against the doorway. His father did not look up, which suffered to infuriate him in an instant.

"Dad," he said again, the word growing increasingly foreign and strange in his mouth. He whistled, to try and get his attention. "I did it. It's done. He's dead."

[redhelm]

do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 27th

He pours the whisky and the ice cracks, sharp and loud, like finger bones snapping. 

Ramsay reflects, with the muffled sound of the television seeping through the wall, how far he's come. His kitchen is on the cleaner side of cluttered; if it were smaller, it'd be a problem, but since Roose had signed him up to the family business he'd been able to afford more space for messy habits. Bigger kitchen, bigger flat, bigger pay check. 

The country might have been on the brink of economic collapse, but his father did have a way of breeding two coins together between his palms until there was a third to line his own pocket. And Luton is dead. Torrhen Karstark is gone. Eddard Stark is a smear on the pavement. Theon Greyjoy is sitting in his living room, waiting for a drink, and Ramsay has rarely felt so prone to a lightness of being. 

The summer has turned quickly. It is starting to rain outside and there was a frosty edge to the wind as he'd pulled the door closed after Greyjoy when he'd eventually turned up. Ramsay's new flat was in an older building, the monstrous Dreadfort in sight through the window turning the air all the cooler. 

"Here," he says, back in the front room again and handing Theon a glass full of tinkling ice and crossing the floor. He's left the television on in a show of mock concern, the news running a near constant live feed of updates on the fall out of Ned Stark's tragic death. (Bigger flat. Bigger television.) It's only a matter of time until they show the press conference again, Roose decked out in his blacks and grays, calling Ned Stark an honourable man. Ramsay at his side, pale eyes taking in the faces in the crowd. It's only a matter of time. And then Theon will know. 

"Sorry," he says, half-bashfully, scratching his forehead as he gestures at the television. "You've probably had it up to here with hearing about… all this." What would a saddened minion call the death of the guardian of Scotland? Probably the exact opposite of the man who was wiping blood from his hands not forty-eight hours before. The muscles in his face threaten to twitch with a smile. "I just want to know if they find out anything more about what could have possibly happened."

No one's mentioned the cut breaks in the car. It's only a matter of time until that too. 

He prods a foot into the creaky old fireplace, trying to kick some life into the yellowing coals, and turns back to look at his guest.

"Getting cold, inn'it?"

[redhelm]

text message - theon greyjoy - september 26th

[tgreyjoys]

MESSAGE: ??? Okay.

MESSAGE: 7:30 sound good to you?

[redhelm]

Msg: dw its nothing horrible

Msg: c u then

[redhelm]

text message - theon greyjoy - september 26th

[tgreyjoys]

MESSAGE: Change of scenery might do me good - where do you live?

MESSAGE: Yeah, cheers, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.

[redhelm]

Msg: 52 dundas st, near the dreadfort

Msg: if u come by in the next few ours i have sumthng to show u actually

[redhelm]

text message - theon greyjoy - september 26th

[tgreyjoys]

[27th September - 3: 49 PM]

MESSAGE: Hey, yeah, cheers, only got a chance to reply now. Yeah, not exactly the happiest of environments over here at the moment - may have to take you up on that. When you thinking?

[redhelm]

Msg: yea cool, sounds gd. i got a bottle of bushmills here if u want 2 come by mine or we can go soak up th nationl misery at the usual place if nt?

Msg: best wishs 2 the starks