Guns for Hire: Reloading
Ramsay Bolton x Reader
Ao3
Part 3 of The Bastard’s Boys series
Words: 2805
song
Summary: It’s been 15 years since your son was born and the loss of most of those you love. But now old faces are resurfacing, from prison and hiding. But an even bigger threat now lingers on the horizon, and unluckily for the Bolton family, makers of the finest firearms and weapons, sights have been set.
Chapter 1: Revolution
You sat there in the handsome leather chair, leg crossed over the other and elbows on the arm rests. With a sigh you rested your finger tips together and used your foot to rock slightly in the desk chair. “He didn’t take it as well as I thought he would.”
”That’s on you baby girl. I told you not to keep him in the dark.” Ramsay muffled through a cigarette, eyes busy on the gun he was cleaning.
”So why did you allow it if you knew? Hm?” You questioned, turning your eyes to your husband.
He shot you quick glance, smirk as prominent as ever. “I like to watch you struggle. Pay for your mistakes.”
Annoyed by his words you simply tutted and rolled your eyes, leaning back further into the seat. “He has a game tomorrow evening.”
”And I’ve cleared my schedule to be there.” Ramsay replied almost at once.
You closed your eyes and let a small smile tug your lips. Ramsay may not have been a good guy, or even a nice guy, but you could not fault him for what he did for his children. He may not have been a model father or role model at all, but he did the best he knew how. And what was different about it, was that it was mostly genuine. He truly cared for the two tiny humans he had helped you create. Of course, it was also for his own selfish, narcissistic reasons too, but you couldn't change who he was. Nor did you want to. Ramsay Bolton and all his strange little quirks.
"Do we have an actual visual on Euron yet?" You asked, opening your eyes and staring up at the ceiling.
"No. In due time, baby doll. With Cersei back at the Rock, he'll make his grand appearance soon enough. It's not like they're all that old. Like both sixty maybe? I don't even think Cersei is quite that old. Like fifty five? They still got enough juice in 'em to come in guns a blazing." Ramsay said, standing from his seat.
You frowned, hearing the click of metal on metal telling you that Ramsay was done cleaning his gun. "I'm tired of waiting. I've been waiting. For fifteen fucking years." You said rather bitterly, sitting up straight in the chair again. Your eyes turning to the office door as it opened. In walked Abbey and Moose. Old Moose as you now called him. 15 years he'd been a part of your life. Roughly six months older than your son. And now he was nearing the end of his time with the Boltons. A bad hip didn't let him get around as quickly as he used too, and the white on his face made him look as though he well earned the place in front of your living room fire place. But, if one thing still worked just the same it was his tail, which had been the cause of many falling downs of your children when they were learning to walk. You smiled at Moose as he came and rested his enormous head in your lap, looking up at you with those big, tired, chocolate eyes. His tail thumping against the wooden desk. You stroked the top of his head and then gave you daughter a smile.
"What's up, baby?" You asked when Abbey came over and hopped up on the edge of the desk.
"Olyvar is on his way down the drive, and me and daddy are gonna go to the gun range." She said, setting her phone down on the desk, and running her foot gently along Moose's back.
You nodded, "I see. Well, you and your daddy be careful. And I shall see you two at dinner?" You stood from the chair, placing a kiss to Ramsay's cheek and reaching the door before turning back to the pair, "Ab, where's Dame?"
Abbey shrugged, "Last I saw him he was playing games in the den."
You wandered the well beaten path from your husband's office to the den the kid's used to get away from the rest of the house. You poked your head in the door. "Hey, Dame. I'm meeting with Olyvar, and then I would like for us to have a talk. Just you and I. Okay?"
"Sure thing, Mom." Damon said dismissively, never looking away from the game he was playing. How much like his father he was in the tiniest of ways.
You gave a false grin and turned to head for the front door, but met Olyvar and a maid in the hall. You gave him a broad smile and quick hug. "So sorry, I totally forgot you were coming by, or I would have set up a snack bar." You said, leading Olyvar to the kitchen and taking a seat at the bar. You preferred to do your work here, just like old times you always thought.
"No, no. Don't worry. I won't be here long. Just brought the book by so we can make sure the numbers are right and look over inventory." Olyvar said, taking a seat beside you and setting down the large black book he had pulled from his leather bag.
"Ooooo, gotta hot date tonight or something?" You asked with a roguish smile at your friend.
"Actually, I do! Some rich Italian investor guy. He came by the bar last night, and we started talking and... Well, anyways...." Olyvar said, giving his own grin.
You giggled, "Oh Ollie. You are something else." You opened the book and pulled your phone from your pocket to open the calculator.
"So, I take it that you heard the news?" Olyvar asked, sliding a pen from his pocket and placing it on the open book.
You gave a heavy sigh and an ugly frown, "Oh I did. I can't believe it's been fifteen fucking years. What's more, I can't believe they gave her parole."
"Well, the perks of money, organized crime, and plea deals. I still can't get over that she turned in her two little henchmen. Especially the big one, what was his name?"
"Gregor." You said almost at once. Gregor Clegane and Bronn Blackwater. How Cersei tossed them under the bus immediately to shorten her sentence, along with the work of her lawyer Qyburn. You were furious when you sat in the back of that courtroom with Skinner and the judge read out the sentence and circumstances. 'Eligible for parole in fifteen years' he said, and you had felt your blood boil. Even Skinner, always calm, cool, and collected let a look of agitation cross his face, 'And you can damn sure bet they will give it to her' he had hissed to you as both slipped from the courtroom.
"Mm, right. Him." Olyvar said before changing track and pulling a magazine from his messenger bag. "But I do have something else. Very interesting, I might add." He set the magazine down and you glanced it over. A fashion magazine.
You looked from magazine to Olyvar. "What of it?" You asked. Olyvar just motioned for you to look into it. So you picked up the magazine and started flipping through pages. Nothing overly exciting until... "Alayne Stone." You read the name slowly, and shifted your eyes to the picture beside the heading 'Alayne Stone, founder of Stone Madien Ltd. to release an exclusive fall fashion line'. You studied the picture, a woman a couple years younger than you displayed sewing final touches on some model's dress. You studied her face, long dark hair... "such a familiar face." You said under your breath, trying to place it. It slowly started to click together and you gave a tiny gasp, turning to look at Olyvar who knew you were on the same page as him as he gave a small smile and nod. "Sansa Stark?" You whispered.
"The very same." Olyvar said quietly, turning his eyes to the magazine too. "Hiding in plain sight all this time."
"So what of the other one?" You asked, remembering that spirited little racer you once had.
Olyvar shrugged, "As far as I know, no one ever found out. The poor girl was probably kidnapped and smuggled into the underground. She was very young. Probably dead now."
You sighed, closing the magazine, "Probably." You agreed. Such a horrible life, and yet, it was the life of many. There really were no safe places anymore. Not even a church, as had been proven to you firsthand.
---
"Alright then. I'll get the orders put in, and I'll see you this weekend?" Olyvar said, replacing all the items back in his bag.
"Yep. I'll be there." You smiled brightly as the kitchen door opened and your son wandered in. He gave a small wave to Olyvar before opening the refrigerator door and disappearing behind it. You stood from the bar stool and walked Olyvar to the front door and gave him a tight hug before returning to the kitchen. Damon leaning against the counter and spearing a piece of fruit on the end of his fork. You watched him for a few moments before glancing at the back patio. "come on. It's nice outside." You said, crossing to the glass door and sliding it open.
Damon followed you and gained the seat next to the one you took. "Where's Moose?" He asked. Moose was usually hot on the heels when he heard a door open.
"Probably asleep upstairs. Text you father and tell him I'm lazy today and to pick up pizza on his way home." You said, gazing out past the yard, down to the stables and heaving a small sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you watched your son typing away on his phone. You tried to marshal your thoughts and find words to say, but it was hard. Maybe Ramsay was right. You were doing more damage than good by keeping your children in the dark. "I'm sorry." You said, pausing for a moment, "For never telling you about it all before. I just thought... you're so young. You didn't need to know."
Damon set his phone down and turned to you with the same wan smile his father used when he had run himself ragged and tried to assure you that he was fine. "I think mainly I'm just mad at myself, ya know? For never considering it before. I mean, it makes a lot of sense now. Why some people treat me different. I thought maybe it was just because we're rich. People like to use and abuse--" Such words of wisdom you thought "-- and always trying to get good with me. But, I understand now that it had more to do with than just money. But like dad says, nasty filth, dirty world."
"It doesn't make us any different than what we are though, Dame. Remember that. Nothing has changed. You just... know the whole story now. And it was foolish of me to ever think that you would be better off not knowing the truth. The amount of times your father and I argued over it."
"So then, why didn't he tell me?"
You gave a dry chuckle, "Because you're father is a fucking weirdo. Likes to play little games with people. Sit and watch him. Don't listen to his words. Watch his eyes. It's all there, plain as day."
"So, what did all that mean back in the study? With the Lannister woman?" Damon asked, staring off over the yard now too.
"It means we have to be careful. And we have to look out for one another. You, me, Abbey, your father."
"And the others?"
You nodded, "Yes. But there is a rule baby, and you must remember the rule. You, your family, and then anyone else."
"Why would I put myself first? I would always choose Abbey over me." Damon said, giving you a startled look.
"You, your family, and then everyone else." You repeated firmly. "That's how it goes."
You both sat in silence for many long minutes before you stood, patting your son on the leg as you had gotten up. "Now, how's everything else?"
"Good, I suppose?" Damon shrugged, following you back inside. Moose pushed past you both to finally get outside.
"Ready for the game tomorrow?" You asked, swiping a bottle of water from the counter as you passed.
"Feeling a lot of pressure, actually. I'm the only freshman on the varsity team. I feel like if we don't win, it's my fault." Damon confessed. Such a sweet boy he was. Though, he lacked confidence. You would make Ramsay fix that. He helped push you along to gain yours, even if it did lead to a string of very messy things along the way.
"You'll do just fine, baby. You boys will win tomorrow and then off to the playoffs." You beamed. Damon played baseball. While it required a lot of physical exertion, it was a better choice in your opinion than football. Damon had suffered a lot of illnesses in his early childhood, which the doctor chalked up to his premature birth. Nothing out of the ordinary in premature cases. Signs of asthma, heart murmurs, weaker immune system, and so on. But, Damon always came out on top and as he entered late childhood into adolescence he was just like every other young kid around him, mostly. Except the part where his parents were an organized crime power couple. Yeah, so maybe that was a little different, but, it is what it is.
"Will dad be there?" He asked.
"Mhm. He told me before he and your sister left that he would be there." You nodded. You saw the flash of excitement on his face as you confirmed that Ramsay would be there. How important it was to him. Not that it was Ramsay's fault he had been so busy lately. And Damon knew that. But even you had to admit that Ramsay was a bit, off lately. Even Ben, Matt, and Skinner were in agreement with that statement. Though, none of you knew what was up about it, or how to even mention it. "And how's Hope?"
Damon went pink in the cheeks and cleared his throat. He always got flushed and flustered when you mentioned his little girl friend. "Uh... good. I mean, they got all moved and stuff over the weekend, so, you know... good."
"You'll have to invite her over for dinner one day. Maybe go to the mall and take her shopping or something." You said, remembering the cute little blonde girl who had given your son a fleeting kiss on the cheek after school as she hurried off to the bus. "Mm, that reminds me." You said, crossing to the whiteboard on the wall leading into the den, "Buy housewarming gift for the Ashwoods." You muttered to yourself, writing the words on the board and replacing the cap of the pen with a smug smile. Hope's family had been the victims of arson. That side of the city had been targeted frequently by a group who set random buildings aflame. And it was a matter you were now looking into after Damon had come to you in distress that Hope's house was on fire. You refused to have this kind of disorder in your city.
You stepped back from the board and turned to your son, "Well then. Go throw your uniform in the wash and I will have it hung up and ready for you in the morning."
"Right, mom." Damon nodded, leaving you alone in the kitchen.
You dropped your shoulders, crossing the kitchen and pulling a wine glass from the rack. You poured a glass of wine and sat at the bar, staring at the wall across from you. A manicured fingernail tapping the glass as you lost yourself in thought.
Euron Greyjoy, out of hiding at last. For 15 years you had been waiting for those words. But in all that time in between the day he got away and up until you heard those words, never could you imagine a worse kind of pain and suffering for the man. How it ate away at you. At your mind and soul. How you could never be satisfied with your violent thoughts and ideas. He deserved more pain and torture than even you could imagine. Even more than to those you had hurt along the way. He deserved pain and suffering in even more ways than even your husband was capable of doing. The violent, red hot rage that filled you every time you thought about such things could never be relayed in words or actions. But when the moment came, you knew what you needed to do. Because you were a fucking Bolton. And Our Blades Are Sharp.