The North Remembers Her
- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore and death, Ramsay is also a warning just being him)
- Next part: the vow
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround
The wind bites like a blade against your skin as you urge your horse forward through the frost-covered woods. The North is yours—truly yours—and it will not bend to those who wear the flayed man. For days now, you’ve disrupted their efforts to snuff out resistance. Small raids, ambushes, stolen supplies—enough to keep the Bolton forces on edge and struggling to bring stability to a North that hates them.
And they should hate them. Your father’s face comes to mind: the steady grey eyes, the quiet honor in his voice. You cling to that image. To his memory. You are your father’s daughter, after all. A Stark of Winterfell.
But you miscalculated tonight. You see it now.
The flames of the Bolton camp lick angrily at the sky, their outline growing distant as you flee. You’d struck quick, torching their stores, and your band had been triumphant—until they weren’t. Until the Bastard of Bolton’s men came roaring through the woods, too swift, too many.
You glance over your shoulder. The forest is thick, snow falling heavily, but you hear the sounds of pursuit: pounding hooves, snapping branches.
“They’re close,” your man, Aedric, growls from beside you. He’s always been steady—stalwart like the pines you ride through. He’s your shield and sword in these dark days, sworn to follow you wherever you go. “Ride hard, my lady.”
My lady.
You hate that. You don’t feel like a lady. Not anymore.
Before you can answer, an arrow whistles past your face, close enough to graze your cheek. It cuts a cold line into your skin. Your horse rears in fright, and you nearly lose your hold. Aedric curses and wheels his mount.
“They have archers!” you hiss, your heart hammering like thunder.
And then you see him—emerging from the trees like a shadow—Ramsay Snow. Or Ramsay Bolton now, you suppose. He sits atop a dark horse, a twisted smirk curled on his lips. He is smaller than you expected beneath his furs, but there’s something hungry in his eyes that makes your stomach turn.
“Run, Stark,” he calls mockingly, his voice carrying clear over the din of the chase. “It’ll make this so much more fun.”
Aedric spurs his horse toward Ramsay, blade in hand. “Go!” he shouts back at you.
“No!” you cry, knowing his intent too late.
He charges, but Ramsay’s men surge forward first, surrounding him. You turn your mount, heart sinking. You see Aedric swing, cleaving one of them from the saddle—but there are too many.
Ramsay watches the slaughter with cold amusement as his men pull Aedric from his horse. You scream as you hear the dull thud of a blow landing, followed by Aedric’s yell—one of defiance and agony.
“Aedric!” your voice cracks.
You urge your horse forward, but something whistles again—a rope—snagging tight around your torso. You’re yanked from the saddle, hitting the ground hard. The air rushes from your lungs. You scramble to rise, but rough hands grab you, hauling you to your knees. Your vision swims.
When you lift your head, it’s just in time to see the final blow. Ramsay steps down from his horse, blade in hand, and approaches Aedric’s broken form.
“You tried so hard, didn’t you?” Ramsay muses softly, crouching beside him. “Loyal dog. Just like a good little wolf.”
Aedric spits blood at his boots. “You’ll die,” he rasps. “Your house will fall, bastard.”
Ramsay grins, eyes alight. “You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”
And with one quick motion, he plunges his dagger into Aedric’s throat.
You scream, thrashing in the grip of the soldiers holding you. You don’t stop until they’re forced to strike you hard across the face to silence you.
Ramsay stands and turns to you then, his smirk widening. Blood speckles his gloves and drips slowly from the blade in his hand. He walks toward you with deliberate ease, as if savoring the moment.
“Stubborn little wolf,” he purrs, crouching before you. His gloved fingers grasp your chin, forcing your face upward so he can look into your eyes. “I’ve been hunting you for days. Did you think your little games would last forever?”
“Get your hands off me,” you snarl, glaring defiantly.
Ramsay’s grip tightens. His eyes gleam with something dangerous. “Oh, you’ll learn manners soon enough.” He releases your face with a shove, and you almost fall backward.
“You killed him,” you whisper, choking on the words. “Aedric…”
“Was a bore,” Ramsay interjects dismissively, rising to his feet. “But you? You’re far more interesting. A Stark—running about like a common thief, setting fire to my men’s food. Adorable, really.”
“I’ll see you dead for this,” you hiss through clenched teeth.
Ramsay tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “How fierce you are. I wonder—” He steps closer, looming over you. “—how long will that fire last once I take you to Dreadfort?”
You freeze. The words hit you harder than a blow.
“You’ll find the North won’t kneel to your kind,” you spit, trying to hide the fear that gnaws at you.
Ramsay chuckles. “Your kind. My dear—your kind belongs to me now. Everything you are will belong to me.”
He snaps his fingers, and the soldiers wrench you to your feet. Your arms are bound behind your back. You struggle as they tie a length of rope to your wrists, securing you to a horse. Ramsay mounts his own steed, looking down at you with mock pity.
“Careful, little wolf,” he calls as the men tug you forward, forcing you to walk as they ride. “If you stumble, I won’t stop to wait.”
You bite your lip until it bleeds. You do not cry. You will not give him that.
Instead, you look ahead to the dark horizon, to Winterfell—your home—now corrupted. You’ll endure. You must. The North remembers, and you will make Ramsay Bolton regret ever crossing paths with you.
For your father.
For Aedric.
For every soul he’s ever harmed.
And for yourself.
The journey to the Dreadfort is long and bitter, the icy winds gnawing through your torn furs as if eager to flay you themselves. Your wrists ache from the ropes, chafed raw beneath the iron grip of the Bolton soldiers. Snow crunches beneath your boots with each forced step, and every mile feels heavier as the Bastard of Bolton rides ahead, watching you like a hawk watches its prey.
Ramsay Bolton.
You don’t look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, your thoughts turn inward, to her—your direwolf. Somewhere out in the snow-covered woods, your loyal companion roams free. You picture her as she was the last time you saw her: a blur of grey and white, her eyes bright with feral intelligence. She was your shadow, your fiercest protector.
“Your wolf’s out there, isn’t she?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the silence like a jagged blade.
You don’t answer, keeping your gaze fixed on the snow-covered road ahead.
Ramsay makes a low sound of mock disappointment. “So stubborn. It’s almost admirable.” He pulls his horse closer to you, the beast’s breath misting in the cold air as he looks down at you with a lazy smirk. “We’ve been hearing stories, you know. Wolves attacking my men. Tents torn apart. Horses spooked and left bleeding in the snow. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Still, you say nothing.
He tilts his head, his voice softening to a poisonous whisper. “Tell me, little wolf—what’s her name? Hmm? Does she listen when you call her? Or do you keep her like a secret, just for yourself?”
“She’s smarter than you,” you finally bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.
Ramsay’s smile widens. He seems delighted by your defiance. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Smarter than most of my men, too, it seems. But clever beasts can still be caught. And when I catch her…” He pauses for effect, watching your face carefully. “…I think I’ll make her howl for you before I flay her.”
Your blood goes cold. You snap your head up to glare at him, teeth bared. “Touch her and I’ll tear your throat out.”
Ramsay bursts into laughter, the sound sharp and cruel. “There’s the fire! You remind me of a cornered fox. Snapping and snarling, even when the hounds have you.” He leans closer, the reins held loosely in his hands. “But what will you do when the hounds close in, Stark? When they drag her down? Because they will.”
You keep your gaze steady, refusing to flinch. “She won’t be caught.”
“She will.” His tone is confident, mocking. “They always are. They’re predictable that way, animals. And when I catch her, I’ll make a cloak of her pelt. Maybe I’ll wear it when I take you to Winterfell.”
“You’ll wear your own skin before you wear hers.”
Ramsay’s amusement falters just slightly, his lips twitching as if he wants to sneer. He doesn’t. Instead, his expression smooths over into something calmer. Colder. More dangerous.
“You know,” he says softly, “my hounds don’t eat wolves. Too much fight in them.” His pale blue eyes lock with yours, unblinking. “But I wonder… would she eat you?”
You want to lunge for him, to strike him, to wipe that smug smile from his face. But the ropes dig into your wrists, and the soldiers pull you roughly forward again, forcing you to stumble.
Hours pass before the distant silhouette of the Dreadfort rises from the gloom. Its tall walls loom like dark shadows against the bleak sky. The sigil of House Bolton—the flayed man—flutters high above the gates, crimson against white. You force yourself not to look at it. The dread creeps into your chest anyway.
Ramsay dismounts as the gates creak open, his furs and leathers immaculate despite the journey. He moves with unsettling energy, gesturing for his men to drag you forward. You stumble as they push you through the muddy courtyard. The smell here is sharp and rancid—blood, rot, and smoke. You hear the muffled cries of prisoners carried on the wind, punctuated by the howling of hounds.
Lord Roose Bolton awaits you on the steps.
His face is pale and expressionless, as though carved from stone. The Lord of the Dreadfort regards you with his colorless eyes, unreadable in their scrutiny.
“Father,” Ramsay calls as he strides forward, gesturing toward you as if presenting a gift. “The last of the Starks. And quite a troublesome one at that.”
Roose’s gaze shifts to you, slow and deliberate. He says nothing at first, his face betraying no emotion. “You’ve been causing my men problems,” he finally states, his voice quiet, even.
“You’re not my lord,” you say defiantly, meeting his gaze. “And you took land that is not yours to have.”
Roose’s lips twitch faintly—a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That much is clear.” He turns to Ramsay. “Where did you find her?”
“Burning supplies,” Ramsay answers with a grin. “Her and a loyal little knight. He was less amusing. I dealt with him.”
Roose gives his son a sharp glance. “Careless. You should have taken him alive. The North won’t be won with Stark blood alone.”
Ramsay’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flicker with something… dark. He doesn’t answer, instead turning back to you. “The direwolf is still out there,” he offers. “Her pet. Roaming free, tearing at our men.”
Roose raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening on you. “Is this true?”
You press your lips together, saying nothing.
Roose studies you for a long moment before looking at his son. “You will keep her alive. For now.”
Ramsay’s face falls just slightly. “And what of her wolf?”
Roose steps closer to you, his expression cold and calculating. “The wolf will be hunted. And when it is found, it will die.”
You don’t let your face betray you. You keep your chin high, though your stomach twists into knots.
She’ll escape. She must.
Ramsay watches your silence with growing amusement. As the soldiers drag you toward the keep, he calls after you, his voice laced with dark delight.
“She’ll howl for you soon, Stark. I can’t wait to see if you howl back.”
The hall of the Dreadfort is as cold as the stone that forms its walls. Candles flicker weakly against the oppressive dark, their flames struggling to push back the shadows clinging to every corner. There’s no warmth here, no comfort. Only the sharp smell of roasted meat and the heavy silence that hangs between the occupants of the long dining table.
You sit at one end, your wrists finally free of bindings, but the freedom means little. You’re surrounded. Ramsay sits directly across from you, his sharp grin flashing whenever your eyes happen to meet his. Beside him is Reek—Theon Greyjoy as you once knew him, though this version of him is no more than a shell of the boy who grew up with you in Winterfell.
You don’t know what’s worse: the way he refuses to meet your gaze or the way part of you still hates him for his betrayal.
At the head of the table sits Lord Roose Bolton, stoic and calm, his eyes pale and unreadable. To his right, Lady Walda picks at her food. She is rotund and pink-cheeked, her smile small but earnest, as if she doesn’t understand the wolves that surround her. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care.
The scrape of a knife against a plate grates at your ears. Ramsay smirks as he slices into his meat, holding the bite aloft on his fork.
“You’re eating so little, my lady,” he drawls, his voice sweet and taunting. “Surely you must be hungry after a week in our fine hospitality.”
You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on your untouched plate. The food smells fine enough—roasted venison, bread, and boiled greens—but you can’t bring yourself to lift a finger. The air itself seems poisoned, and each bite feels like it might choke you.
Ramsay laughs under his breath. “Such manners. Would you rather I feed you myself?”
“Enough,” Roose says softly. The word is barely louder than the crackle of the hearth, but Ramsay straightens immediately, though the grin doesn’t leave his face.
Roose sets his fork down with deliberate care, turning his pale gaze toward you. “You’ve caused much disruption since the war, Lady Stark,” he begins, his voice smooth and low, betraying nothing. “But you are a daughter of Winterfell. That gives you… value.”
You stiffen at his words, fingers curling tightly in your lap. “I’m of no value to you.”
Roose ignores your defiance. “My bannermen require stability. With the North in chaos, alliances must be secured. My initial plan was for Ramsay to wed Sansa Stark, but I see now that would not be wise.”
Your breath stills. You feel Ramsay’s eyes burning into you even before Roose says the words that steal the air from your lungs.
“You will marry Ramsay.”
The words echo in your ears like a death knell. You stare at Roose, disbelief and fury flooding your chest. For a long, painful moment, all you can hear is the low hum of the fire and the clink of Lady Walda’s fork as she awkwardly sets it down.
“No,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’ll never—”
“You will,” Roose interrupts coolly, his gaze sharpening. “A Stark under this roof lends legitimacy to my rule. Your presence will quell some resistance. For the good of the North, this is how it must be.”
You lurch to your feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor, but Ramsay is quicker. He stands, slamming his palm against the table, his laughter sharp and grating.
“Did you hear that, Father?” he mocks. “She refuses me. How rude.”
“I will never marry him,” you say again, louder this time. Your voice shakes, but you force steel into it. “You can kill me first.”
Ramsay’s grin widens as he rounds the table, approaching you. “Oh, come now, little wolf. You’d be such a pretty bride. Don’t you want to wear white? Isn’t that the Stark way?” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll even let you choose the color of the cloak for the bedding ceremony.”
Before you can answer—or strike him—Roose speaks again, cutting through the moment like a blade.
“Sit down.”
His voice is cold and calm, but it carries an unspoken threat. Slowly, you sink back into your seat, though your heart hammers violently in your chest. Ramsay lingers by your side for a moment longer, letting the weight of his presence suffocate you, before retreating with a smirk.
“This is for the good of the North,” Roose says again, his tone measured. “You may not see it now, but in time—”
“You think the North will accept this?” you cut in, glaring at him. “You think they’ll kneel to the flayed man because I’m paraded as your son’s bride? You don’t understand the North at all.”
Roose raises a pale brow, his expression unreadable. “The North remembers, yes. But memory fades when bellies go empty and fields are burned. Stability is survival. You are a means to that end.”
You feel the weight of Ramsay’s gaze on you again, watching your every breath, every flinch. You refuse to look at him. Instead, your eyes land on Reek, slouched in his seat at Ramsay’s side. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He stares at the table, thin and ragged, as if his very presence is an apology.
Your chest burns as you look at him—Theon Greyjoy. The boy you trusted, the boy who betrayed your family, who took your home and destroyed everything you loved. Hatred bubbles up like bile in your throat, but beneath it is something else: pity.
He feels your gaze, because he shifts slightly, his hands trembling where they rest on his lap. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He won’t.
“You can’t even look at me, can you?” you say softly, the words escaping before you can stop them.
Ramsay’s head snaps toward Reek, his grin widening as though your words have given him fresh amusement. “Look at her,” he orders, his tone mocking and sharp.
Theon flinches, his sunken eyes darting up to you briefly, hollow and ashamed. Then his gaze drops again, staring at the empty plate in front of him like a whipped dog.
“Good boy,” Ramsay croons, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Theon shudders at the touch but doesn’t react otherwise.
You turn away, disgust curling in your stomach as Ramsay resumes his seat.
“This is your choice, Lady Stark,” Roose says evenly. “You can resist all you like, but it will change nothing. The wedding will happen.”
You look at Roose Bolton—Lord of the Dreadfort, murderer of your brother, betrayer of the North—and feel a hatred so deep it makes your blood run cold. Then you look at Ramsay, his smirk carved into his pale face, as though he’s already won.
But they haven’t.
Not yet.
The North remembers. And so do you.
