
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11894010.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Ramsay_Bolton/Arya_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Violence, Modern_AU, Underage_-_Freeform, Torture, Knives, Dark!Arya_-
      Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-24 Updated: 2018-02-06 Chapters: 5/? Words: 5766
****** monsters among kings ******
by pancake_potch
Summary
     arya and ramsay have much in common
Notes
     i couldn't help it. i just had to do this ship as a modern au, multi-
     chap fic. these first chapters come from a one-off crack-ship thing i
     posted here
***** Chapter 1 *****
Roose tells his son to charm the oldest Stark girl because that was a surefire
way to wedge himself into the best position inside Stark Investments. Ramsay
listens, bored, and halfheartedly nods in agreement.
 
Ramsay isn’t interested in the redhead. She’s beautiful in a conventional way,
which he finds remarkably uninteresting. He doesn’t want the eldest girl, but
knows his father is right. Truth be told, he would like to stay in his father’s
good graces until some other opportunity arises.
 
So he finds himself, glass of scotch in hand, at the Starks’ holiday gala. The
ballroom of their mansion is lit most elegantly and is filled with people he
had known most of his life, or at least recognized by face. Although the Bolton
home was large and austere in it’s own way, it didn’t compare to the grandeur
of the Starks’ vast home.
 
Ramsay eyes Sansa Stark. She is a prize, he thinks. But not one he’s interested
in winning.
 
“She’s just like her mother.” Ramsay turns around to find his father behind
him. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
 
“Delicate,” Roose says. “Graceful. Easily broken.” Ramsay knows what he means
by that, but he’s tired of delicate flowers. They provide no challenge-physical
or mental. Too predictable.
 
“Yes,” Ramsay begins, “but, father-“
 
“Do your duty.” Roose says cutting off any further argument. He walks away
after giving a disapproving look at the alcohol Ramsay holds.
 
Rasmay swallows what remains in the glass. He decides to wander over and begin
the wooing of a girl he’s not remotely interested in, when he spies a girl with
dark hair and a silver dress taking swigs out of a flask, nearly hidden behind
a thick curtain. He watches as she swallows and looks around.
 
He literally stops at her loveliness. The girl is thin and pale. An exquisite,
tiny thing. It’s as if someone has taken a blade and pierced his gut, dragging
it upward to his heart. Oh, she is something.
 
It isn’t until he sees Robb Stark approach her and yank away the flask, giving
her some sort of talking to that Ramsay realizes that the striking girl is the
youngest daughter of Eddard Stark.
 
Arya.
 
The dirty, mouthy little girl he remembers vaguely from his youth has grown
into a feisty, delicious young woman. He watches as she rises to Robb’s face,
almost growling at him, it seems. Ramsay can tell they argue before Robb grabs
her wrist to yank her away.
 
He can feel his blood boiling from toe to fingertip at how she’s manhandled. A
rock of fury lodges in his throat. Such a lively thing shouldn’t be touched in
such a way, unless he himself is doing the touching. Ramsay watches with a
steady eye as Arya is whisked away to another room. The glass in his hand
nearly shatters for how hard he’s clutching it.
 
Oh, how he wants this girl.
***** 2 *****
don’t try to fight the storm
you’ll tumble overboard
tides will bring me back to you
 
-Bring Me the Horizon- Deathbeds
 
“Stop laughing. You’re blowing it out.”
 
Arya laughs harder and holds her cigarette tip up to the flame again. This time
it lights, and she inhales.
 
“Why are you here again?”
 
He readjusts himself against the tree trunk and lights his own cigarette. “My
mother died. I know you could use a drink. It’s hard, when a parent dies.” He
doesn’t explain how she died and how his father was responsible. It isn’t
prudent. He was only a small child anyway, and hardly remembers her.
 
Her smile drops and she really looks at him. “Your mother? Really?” Arya turns
and looks off into the distance and doesn’t ask for an explanation.
 
She drags the bottle of ’55 Glenfarclas to her lips and hisses as it burns.
“Where’d you get this? It’s expensive.”
 
Ramsay takes the bottle out of her hands and takes a drink. “My father doesn’t
partake, but he does keep an impressive collection.” It’s true. He keeps a
remarkable cellar, mainly for important guests, but knows his father won’t
notice a single bottle gone.
 
Truly, Ramsay picked this particular bottle to impress her. Arya’s family was
extraordinarily wealthy, and for some reason he couldn’t name the feeling he
has had since he saw her, but he wants to be an important person to her.
 
The only important person to her.
 
 
“So, what? You darted passed the butler and my mother to…”she shrugs, “sneak
expensive booze to an underage girl?” Arya’s fingers tug the sleeves of her
flannel down.
 
“No,” he said, annoyed. That wasn’t it at all. If he wanted under aged girls,
he’d have his pick. He did have his pick, but he found the grown women were
much more entertaining. More of a challenge. The bigger ones always fought
harder.
 
Ramsay looks at her in the waning moonlight in the forest surrounding the
Winterfell estate, and wants nothing more than to push her down into the fallen
pine needles and rake his fingernails across her body.
 
Arya examines Ramsay’s countenance before grabbing the bottle from him. “Okay.”
Taking another swig and a drag off her cigarette she hazily asks, “You know the
Lannisters, right? Cersei Lannister? That tosspot Joffrey’s mother?”
 
He nods and watches as she shifts around, the hem of her shirt hitching up to
expose a sliver of skin near her hip. It takes everything he has not to stare-
or pin her down and smell that skin as he drags his tongue across it.
 
Arya watches him, but not with the longing gaze of the simpering tarts he’s
used to.
 
No. She’s sizing him up.
 
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m sure that drunk fucking cow had something to do
with…” she falters a bit and wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve, “with
my father.”
 
Yes. He’s heard the rumors. “That so?” He doesn’t say more because he wants to
hear it from her.
 
“It doesn’t matter why. I don’t give a shit. But I’ve listened and watched, you
know.” Of course she has. And he’s been watching her. When she’s not burning
like fire- all words and spite and moxie, she’s ice- silent and still and
almost…deadly if left alone in her clutches for long.
 
She crushes the cigarette into the ground next to her shoe. “I’ve overheard
Sansa and that barrister talking about Robert Baratheon dying in nearly the
same way-“
 
“What barrister?”
 
“Baelish. She’s sleeping with him, you know. Mother will kill her if she finds
out.” Her eyebrows lift in amusement. Surely at the thought of her mother
unleashing hell and fury at her older sister.
 
Ramsay snorts and motions for the bottle back. “Petyr Baelish knows nearly
everything. I didn’t know that also included your sister’s virtue.”
 
“That’s vile.”
 
He just shrugs. “What do you plan on doing about it?”
 
Arya flinches. “About Sansa’s virtue? Nothing.”
 
Ramsay turns to face her completely and pulls her elbow so that she’ll meet his
eyes. Oh, he can feel the ropes of her muscles move beneath his hand. “Arya
Stark, what do you plan to do about that drunken fucking cow.”
 
Arya stills. “I’m going to kill her, Ramsay.”
***** 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“What’s this?” He asks, smile on his face.
 
“A list,” she says simply, frowning at him for a moment before waiving the
waitress over.
 
Ramsay fingers the folded over parchment, not yet opening it. “A list of? If
you intend for me to run errands, perhaps you should wait until we’re wed.”
What he says in jest, but there’s a grain- more than-of truth behind it.
 
The fascination he has with her is no longer surprising. Arya is everything
he’s ever wanted in a tiny package. Everything those worthless slits that he’d
wasted his time on had wanted to be.
 
And now, he’s trying to charm her.
 
Ramsay’s own interests trumps his fathers, though he supposed the end would be
the same. An in into the Stark clan.
 
But this is more. So, so much more.
 
“Wed?”She frowns, “You don’t look stupid. Don’t you think I’d have to want to
date you first? Oh! Ale, please.” The second half of what she says is directed
to the girl taking her order.
 
“Ale? You’re underage, are you not?”
 
“I am, though I fail to see why you care. They serve me here, which is why I
wanted you to meet me here.” She follows that with a polite smile at the girl
delivering her mug.
 
Ramsay observes her in all her tiny, lethal glory. Arya pulls a quaff of ale
before fidgeting around her pocket for a cigarette. She finds one and lifts it
up to her pink lips. He leans over the table to light her, and she lets him.
 
“So open it.”
 
Ramsay takes a deep drink of his own pint, eyeing her over the rim. As he sets
it back down, he toys with it a bit just watching her. Watching her hard eyes
and black hair, smoke curling out of those lips he wants to pull between his
teeth.
 
Cersei Lannister
 
Joffrey Lannister
 
Ilyn Payne
 
Polliver ?
 
Gregor Clegane
 
Sandor Clegane
 
“A list. Everyone responsible orin the hunting party that my father was in.”
 
“The question mark?”
 
“I don’t know his surname, but I’ll find him.” She narrows her gaze at the
inside of her drink.
 
“So, my dear Arya…what are you going to do with this,” he waves the parchment,
“I mean, aside from aknowledging that these people are complete degenerates and
idiots.”
 
“Those are the degenerates and idiots I mean to kill.” Arya answers with a
shrug of her shoulders, as if she were responding to a question about the
weather.
 
Ramsay’s heart nearly stops.
 
“Is that so? How did you get it?” He leans back against the booth, watching her
smoke as she looks back at him.
 
“That?” She motions. “Easy. Do you know how many people are willing to help a
wayward intern at Petyr Baelish’s office?” She smiles, “Weird, innit? Just
borrow Sansa’s clothes and wobble around on high heels with big doe eyes…and
there you go. A list of names in the Baratheon file, and coincidentally in the
Eddard Stark file too"
 
He can’t help but smile. She’s absolutely vicious and brilliant. 
 
“So why are you telling me?”
 
She drinks again, and eyes him.
 
Arya leans over the table, resting her elbows halfway. “I’ve heard about you,
you know,” she say quietly, head cocked to the side. The cigarette is still
dangling from her fingers as the smoke wafts over her face. “You like knives,
so I’ve heard. Funny enough,” she continues as she leans so close to him that
only her knees support her on the booth, “I do too. I also like you.”
 
“Do you?” Ramsay breathes.
 
Arya’s eyes focus on his lips. “Very much. But what I want to know is,” her
eyes dart to his, “doyoulike me?”
 
Ramsay leans forward just enough. “Oh, my darling. I more than like you.” The
adrenaline is almost welcome. He hasn’t felt his way in so long. He dares to
reach over to feel that hair of hers and without thinking he tugs at it,
bringing her face only centimeters away from his. He can literally inhale all
her exhalations. “Ilike you so much I’m going to help you…cross all those names
off of your list.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     this is obviously a truncated version of Arya's list based off both
     the show and the books. i just needed to simplify it a little for the
     sake of this story
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Ramsay has a gift for Arya.
Chapter Notes
     When I decided this was going to be a stand-alone fic, I was looking
     forward to longer, more in depth chapters. So, here we are! And,
     we're getting to the meat of the story. Fair warning, we got us some
     torture here, folks.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Ramsay finds Polliver completely by accident.
 
He had stormed out of the house after listening to his father natter on about
his older brother and how perfect he was and how Domeric hadn’t wasted money by
getting kicked out of Eton. Oh no, faultless Domeric would never worry Father
about future prospects or properly carrying on the family legacy.
 
It was nothing new, but he had grown rather tired of hearing it.
 
He had found a seat in the dingy pub and tried to distract himself from his
father’s disappointment. Granted, it wasn’t surprising, but it was quite
annoying.
 
It was then he had heard yells for another round from a back table full of
loud- mouthed men in fake gold chains.
 
“Oi, Polliver! Grab us a few more, yeah?”
 
Ramsay’s eyes darted to the track-pants wearing, nose-picking oaf lumbering to
the bar.
 
Suddenly, Ramsay’s evening became much more promising.
 
--
 
How Ramsay had gotten Polliver to Domeric’s terraced house on the outskirts of
town was easier than he thought. All Ramsay had to do was promise that poor sod
that he knew where there were eager birds willing to please, for the right
price. He had almost regretted his actions when the man began hiccupping and
crying that his wife at home was so frigid that it was like sticking your cock
between two dry pieces of toast.
 
Listening to him ramble on and on nearly made Ramsay kill him himself,
honestly.
 
Though, as soon Polliver had stepped foot into the entry hall, Ramsay struck
him in the back of the head with a vase. He hoped his toff of a brother
wouldn’t notice that.
 
--
 
Ramsay stopped to catch his breath. Dragging that degenerate down the stairs to
the cellar and tying him to the chair had taken a bit of effort.
 
Oh, but it will be worth it.
 
--
 
He takes a deep breath and dials her number, heart racing. She is going to love
this.
 
“What is it?” Arya’s voice is scratchy with sleep, but to Ramsay, it’s music to
his ears.
 
“I have a present for you,” he answers cryptically.
 
“What?”
 
“I have a present. For you.” He says again in a low voice to hide his
giddiness. “May I come fetch you? I’m afraid it won’t keep for long.” He smiles
to himself as he glances over his shoulder at the unconscious man.
 
“I…okay.” She sounds a little hesitant, but he knows her curiosity will win
out. “Meet me outside the gates.”
 
 
He’s buzzing with excitement when she climbs into the car. She’s in black denim
and unlaced boots, messy ponytail flung over her shoulder. She smells like
sweetness and sleep and his fingers itch to roam her body.
 
“Where are we going? You’re not going to murder me in some back alley, are
you?”
 
Ramsay chuckles and wags a finger. “Now, now. Let’s not spoil your surprise.”
 
All she does is raise an eyebrow.
 
--
 
She frowns and steps carefully over the shards of china as she enters. “Where
are we?” Arya doesn’t sound worried, but a little on edge.
 
“My brother’s. Father bought it after he finished Eton, but he doesn’t ever use
it,” He explains, leading her to the cellar door. “I like to think of it as
mine now.”
 
Ramsay is about to open the door, but stops and whirls on her. “Now. This is a
very special gift, you understand.” He slowly backs her against the wall, “And,
I only did it because you are very special to me.”
 
Arya narrows her eyes at him, and he can tell her mind is categorizing and
mapping various exit strategies and perhaps a way to incapacitate him in the
process. But, he doesn’t mind.
 
“I’m not going to hurt you…” He carefully explains. He wants her to understand,
to know what’s in store for her. He presses himself oh so slightly against her
tiny body. “But, I need you to know,” he bends down slightly and whispers,
“that if you accept my gift, it means you’re mine.”
 
Ramsay steps back to look her in the eye, and her face is hard, piercing.
 
“Show me.”
 
He leads her down the stairs, hand in hand, the delicate bones gently resting
in his.
 
“Who the bloody fuck is that? Why’ve you got a man in your cellar?”
 
Ramsay grins and takes big, showy steps as he clamps his hands down on the
shoulders of his prisoner. “This is your gift!” Polliver’s eyelids flutter and
he moans behind the rag stuffed in his mouth.
 
“Say hello to Polliver.” He rips the rag out, and jerks Polliver’s head to face
Arya. ”Polliver? Say hello.”
 
Arya stares at the man in the chair and then back at Ramsay. She looks like
she’s about to say something, until she’s cut off by the shouts of the
drunkard.
 
Why am I here? Who the fuck are you? Get me out of here! What do you want…blah,
blah blah.
 
He finally stops when Arya slowly approaches him. “Are you him? Really?” She
breathes.
 
“Fuck you.” He manages to wheeze out before Ramsay’s fist crashes into his
face, sending him backwards, head hitting the cement floor with a satisfying
smack.
 
Ramsay takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. It won’t do to lose his temper
now. Polliver is still screaming from the floor as Ramsay leads Arya to a
workbench. Carefully, he unrolls the canvass the holds his most priceless
possessions.
 
Arya gasps at what he lays before her. “You are crazy,” she manages to get out,
as she runs her fingers over the several knives tucked away. She stops a moment
at the Bolivian Rosewood fillet knife, but continues until she gets to a
standard hunting knife, Zebra Wood with silver inlay. One of his personal
favorites.
 
She pulls it out, admiring how the steel blade shines from the single light
bulb in the room.
 
Ramsay has never seen anything more beautiful.
 
He directs her attention back to him by gently grasping her chin and turning
her head. “Are you ready, love?” Arya smiles, and it chills him to the very
marrow of his bones. He clenches his other hand to stop himself from attacking
her mouth-her body-from perching her atop the workbench and fucking her until
she screams his name.
 
Because she’s special and beautiful, and more importantly…she’ll be his. So,
instead he lays a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose and reaches over her
shoulder for a pair of pliers.
 
Slamming the chair upright, Ramsay gives his most charming smile. “Now
Polliver, I want you to understand something upfront. You are to treat this
lady with the respect she deserves. You are going to answer her questions
without the foul language.” He squats down directly in front of him and gives
him a look of understanding. “Because we can make this easy, or…” he waves the
pliers in front of Polliver’s nose, “we can make this very, very hard.”
 
Polliver whimpers and gives a terrified nod. “Good!” Ramsay says cheerfully.
 
--
 
Except he doesn’t make it easy, and Ramsay’s patience has run out. Polliver
denies knowing the Lannisters, the Starks, the Clegane brothers.
 
It’s all so exhausting.
 
All it takes is the removal two fingernails for him to even acknowledge that he
does indeedknow these people, but he still doesn’t admit to his part. Polliver
is a tough one, Ramsay will give him that.
 
Ramsay catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and watches as Arya
approaches with slow, graceful steps. The knife is held behind her back with
both hands, and she just looks so…unassuming, and it fills Ramsay with glee.
 
“You knew the Starks, then?” She asks quietly. Polliver doesn’t answer, too
busy breathing through the tears and pain. “Did you?” He nods without meeting
her eyes.
 
Arya stops directly in front of him, pulling the knife out from behind.
Polliver begins to hyperventilate, snot running down his face. What a
disgusting, vile creature.
 
“Did you kill Robert Baratheon?” She asks it slowly, gently. He doesn’t answer
and instead breaks out into heaving sobs, and Ramsay rolls his eyes.
 
“Answer the lady,” Ramsay warns.
 
“I-I-I…”
 
“Did you kill Robert Baratheon?” Arya repeats.
“I-fuck-I-“
 
Ramsay doesn’t hesitate as he stalks up to Polliver, crushing his hand against
the arm of the chair and pulling out another fingernail. It’s quite interesting
how quick and easy they come out.
 
Polliver screams.
 
“I told you. I told you not to use foul language with the lady. Do you see what
happens when you don’t listen?” Confident that he’s got his point across, he
looks to Arya. “Sorry, darling. Please.” He motions for her to continue.
 
“Did you kill Robert Baratheon?”
 
Polliver coughs weakly. “Yes.”
 
“Did you kill Eddard Stark?”
 
“Yes.”
 
As soon as the words leave his lips he begins screaming again. Ramsay blinks,
and realizes the knife Arya had was now lodged behind the kneecap of the man
who killed her father.
 
Ramsay beams. He wasn’t expecting this.
 
“Do you know who I am?” Arya demands, although whether or not Polliver can hear
her above his screams, doesn’t seem to matter.
 
“I can pop your kneecap right off, you know. I will, if you don’t answer.”
Ramsay is amazed at how poised and patient she is. He’s so proud of her.
 
“Do you know who I am?” Polliver manages to shake his head. Arya sighs and
makes sure he’s looking her in the eye. “Eddard Stark was my father. My name is
Arya Stark, and I’m the one who is going to kill you.”
 
She pulls the knife out of his leg with a bit of the struggle and leisurely
makes her way behind him. She braces a hand on his sweaty forehead, ignoring
his pleas. Ramsay watches, small smile on his face, silently encouraging her.
He’d take over if it was needed, but he didn’t think he’d have to.
 
Arya stands, eyes resolutely staring in front of her, knuckles white on the
handle. She grits her teeth, and presses the knife to the razor burned neck.
There’s a slight hesitation before she slices it quickly, and more deeply than
necessary.
 
Any deeper, and she would have lopped his head right off.
The clattering of the knife to the floor startles him out of the examination of
the dead man in his cellar. Arya’s hands are shaking and she’s still staring in
front of her.
 
He goes to her and cups her face in his hands, getting her to focus on him.
“Arya. How do you feel?” He hopes he hasn’t underestimated her. Maybe spooked
her in some way.
 
She steps back a bit and looks down at her blood stained hands. “I did it.”
Ramsay thinks she doesn’t sound ashamed, or horrified.
 
“You did, my love.” There’s a feeling in his chest that he doesn’t have the
words to describe, but it isn’t unwelcome. “I knew you could. You brought
justice to your family.”
 
Arya looks up, quizzical look on her face. “Not yet. Not until I cross the
names off my list. You’ll help me, wont you?”
 
Now, Ramsay full on laughs, “Of course I will. I will do anything for you.”
 
“I guess this means I’m yours,” is what she says before grabbing Ramsay’s hair
and dragging him to her lips.
Chapter End Notes
     I hope I got the characterization right. Arya is eager to get justice
     for her family, yet this is the first time she's been able to do
     that- by taking someones life. I hope I was able to show some
     hesitation on her part, and not make her some crazy, knife-wielding
     revenge machine. The "popping off the kneecap" is somewhat stolen
     from the game The Last of Us, where Joel does the same thing when
     trying to find Ellie.
     And, Ramsay? Well, he's SO MUCH FUN to write.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     I think this seems a little clunky, but I just kind of want to get it
     out there without overanalyzing it too much. It's the product of too
     many pints and listening to this on repeat.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Slitting someone’s throat is a messy business. There’s the slow gurgling of the
dying’s last grasps at living, the time it takes for the person to actually
die, plus the blood.
So, so much blood.
Ramsay has a vague awareness of this, but his attention is focused solely on
Arya. As she kisses him, hot wet tongue darting in and out of his mouth, he
grabs her ass and grinds himself against her.
The pulsing need throbs through his veins, coursing through his body. His cock
is taking the brunt, hard and thick and painful. Arya gasps and he takes
advantage of his free mouth and moves to her neck. A few thick strands of black
hair get caught in his mouth as he clamps down on her pulse.
Her skin smells like adrenaline and fear and blood andpower.He closes his eyes
and just breathes her in for a moment before biting down hard. Arya cries out
and her tiny hands grasp at his back, clenching at his shirt.
Ramsay can hear Polliver feebly clamp his jaw up and down a couple of times
before all movement stops.
Arya is so small he lifts her up and she wraps her legs around him.Tiny thing,
he thinks vaguely. She pulls his head up to meet her again and he reaches with
one hand to pull off her boot and then switches arms to support her while he
pulls off the other.
As gracefully as he can manage, he sinks to his knees still holding her
tightly, unwilling to let her go.No.Not now-not ever.Lowering her onto to the
concrete floor, he moves his hands to pillow her head. Arya looks at him, grey
eyes challenging, threating, welcoming. “Don’t stop.” She says, no more than a
harsh whisper.
Ramsay’s shirt is flung off and there’s no protest when he yanks down her
jeans. The sight of her small cunt with nothing but a pair of white panties
nearly does him in. His cock, already aching, leaks out and he can feel it drip
down his thigh. Ramsay can smell her- her want, despite the coppery stink of
Polliver’s blood that hangs heavy in the air.
---
The sound of the hounds outside stirs him from sleep. His cock aches and he
stills in bed relishing the dream. That’s all it was, despite how much Ramsay
wanted to take her last night. To have her, to claim her from the inside in
celebration of her first foray into his game. Perhaps that would staid the
madness Arya Stark inspires in him. Or perhaps not, it very well may increase
it tenfold, where thoughts of her swirl in a fog, occupying his brain with no
room for anything else.
Ramsay Bolton is a monster, of that he has no doubt. But now Arya Stark is one
too.
He smiles to himself as he runs his fingers over his cock, and shoots hot,
sticky cum all over his bedclothes and hand at the thought of Arya Stark’s pale
breasts flecked with the blood of her enemies.
---
“Why are you pawing through your dead mother’s things?” Roose’s voice is low,
but not angry. Ramsay turns around; hands in a jewelry box in her old dressing
room that hasn’t been opened since she died.
“Well, I wanted-“
“Do you not receive enough from your monthly allowance that you have to rifle
through belongings you have no business in?” Roose comes into the room fully,
hands behind his back and looks at Ramsay expectedly.
“Father, I wanted to give someone a gift, you see. A gift to a girl that will
appreciate the value of it.” Ramsay explains. Sentimentality was something
neither he nor his father put much stock in, but it could be a useful tool when
needed. He suspected Arya wasn’t one for jewelry and such, but he still wanted
her to have something of his-from his family, his blood.
Roose furrows his brows and makes his way to the dressing table; eyeing the
vast amounts of gifts he had given his late wife. “Someone worthy of a Bolton
family heirloom?” He thinks a moment before carefully opening one of the small
wooden drawers and pulls out two pink ivory wood boxes carved with the Bolton
family crest. “These pieces were given by Royce IV Bolton to his wife on their
wedding day-“
“Royce Redarm?”
“Hm,” His father nods, unperturbed at the interruption. “If my assumptions are
correct, one of these might suit you. It wasn’t but two weeks after the wedding
that Royce sacked and burned the Winterfell estate, two centuries ago.” Roose
gives his son a hint of a smile, and Ramsay can’t help but smile back.
One box holds some sort of brooch of some kind, while the other holds the most
perfect gift Ramsay has ever laid eyes on. He takes the box and lifts it
closer. Inside is a pair of simple, drop shaped red garnet earrings.
Ramsay chuckles to himself. How so very perfect. He imagines Arya wearing
these, two drops of blood hanging from her ears while they play their game and
mark names off her list.
“Red won’t go with her coloring, son. Women care about this sort of thing, and
with red hair-“
“She doesn’t have red hair.” Ramsay absently answers, attention still on the
box in his hands.
Roose takes a sharp turn to his son. “We discussed this matter. You were to do
as you were told. I’ll not have you give away heirlooms to some downtrodden
barmaid or whore. With Eddard Stark gone, the walls of their firm will come
crashing down around them. Need I tell you-“
“It isn’t the oldest daughter. It’s the younger one. Arya.”
Roose, despite his eternal unwavering calm, looks startled. “I’ll not chide you
for your entertainments, but isn’t she too young for you?” Roose asks.
“Sixteen,” Ramsay answers with a shrug. “And does it matter which daughter?
Outcome will be the same. Plus, she’s so…” Ramsay trails off and looks at his
father. “She is so very interesting. I find myself more enamored every time I’m
with her.” He upturns the box into his palm, and shoves the earrings inside his
pocket. He goes to leave, when his father gets his attention.
“Be careful, son. If anything were to happen to Miss Stark so soon, tongues
will wag and the authorities will start sniffing about.”
--
Ramsay is too eager to see Arya, and goes straight away. If there were Gods
above, they must have aligned the stars just so for them to cross paths in this
life- the two of them, together- no better match had ever been made, he was
sure. Although his father suspected his motives, Roose is unaware of just how
perfect Arya Stark is. How perfect she is for him.
Let his father wonder and demand and attempt to force his hand for his own
ends. In the end Ramsay knows he’ll do what he wants anyway, and what he wants
is for him and Arya rule this world as the monsters he knows they are.
--
He finds her sitting at a pillowed window seat in her room, one arm wrapped
around her legs, the other hand holding a lit cigarette. Her back is mostly to
him and he watches as she blows smoke out the open window.
“Hello, Ramsay.” She says, still not looking at him.
“Arya.”
“Who let you in?” He can feel anger start to bubble up at her words. No, not
just her words, but the fact the she won’t look at him. He tries to keep his
voice light when he answers. “The housekeeper.”
Arya doesn’t say anything to that and pushes her cigarette end through the
opening of an empty soda can she has balancing against the windowsill. There’s
a hiss as the ember falls to the bottom of the can.
He makes his way to her and perches himself gingerly on the bench next to her.
Arya is still quiet, and leans her head back against the sill, while continuing
to stare out at the trees outside. Now that he’s so close to her, he can see
bags under her eyes, and she’s paler than he’s ever seen her.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” Ramsay asks without thinking.
At this she does turn to him so abruptly that it startles him. He tries to
think on what it is that kept her up all night, so he ventures a guess. “Are
you afraid of getting caught? No need to worry any more on that. It’s all
tidied up and squared away.” He smiles, an attempt to reassure her.
She narrows her eyes at him. “No. You know all about how to…how to take care of
that, don’t you?”
He tries to keep the smile on his face. “I’ve had to do clean up a problem or
two before, yes.” She nods and looks away again.
“Do you really want to know why I couldn’t sleep? What’s been eating away at
me?”
“Of course, love.”
“I liked it,” is all she says.
Ramsay can’t help but chuckle. Whatever tension he could feel between them
suddenly made sense. “Is that so?” He reaches over and grabs her chin, making
her look at him. “Arya Stark, you and I are much alike. I’ve always known. As
soon as I saw you, I knew-“
“Knew what?” She demands, though her voice is low. “Knew that I’m a monster?
That I spent the night awake, wishing that I could face him as he died, so I
could look him in the eye and make sure that I was the last thing he’d ever
see?”
Ramsay pulls her chin to him and kisses her as hard as he can. The words she’s
just said, the dark desire she’s admitted to threaten to shatter the last
vestiges of sanity he holds onto. That last, small bit of humanity that masks
what lies within him. Kissing her again, makes him want to tear off any
pretense and break apart the world bit by bit until she’s happy. Hunt down her
foes and skin them alive-
Arya pulls away. “Ramsay, I…”
Ramsay doesn’t let her finish as he takes her hand and has her stand up, facing
him. “I have something for you.” Her eyes dart around as if he smuggled up a
gift to her childhood bedroom.
“No, no. This…” he shoves a hand into his pockets, and places the earrings in
Arya’s hand and closes her fingers around them. “These are special to House
Bolton, or so I’m told. I want you to have them.”
Arya slowly opens her hand and lifts an eyebrow. “They’re beautiful. I can’t
take these-“
“You can. Remember when I said you’re mine? That also means that I am yours.
When you wear these, it will remind you of what I’m willing to do for you. What
I want to do for you.” He watches as she contemplates the earrings resting in
her palm.
He grins at her as she sweeps her hair away and puts one in and then goes to
put the second one in, when she hesitates. She takes a step toward him and
balances on her toes. There’s a tug and a pinch on his ear and when she steps
back he realizes one of the garnets is there.
“We match now.” Arya says, half smile on her face.
Ramsay laughs and grabs her face with both hands. “You and I are going to burn
this world to the ground. We are going to conquer and we are going to kill, and
no one will stop us.”
Ramsay watches her grey eyes widen, and she’s the happiest he’s ever seen her.
“Together?” She whispers.
“Always together.”
Chapter End Notes
     So, theres a bit of book canon where it mentions that Ramsay
     occasionally wears a garnet earring in the shape of a drop of blood,
     and I thought how fun it would be to include that in some way. Also,
     a sentence or two of Roose's is from the books as well.
     Royce Redarm (according to AWoIaF) also sacked and burned Winterfell
     during the time of kings
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