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Chapter Text

The years had been good to them. Ramsay could not deny it. He knew he had grown soft in these years of plenty. Shown more deference daily, than he had been granted in all the collective days spent in his father’s House. There was little to raise Ramsay’s ire these days, thus he was restless. So Ramsay was forced to go looking for problems to take umbridge with. Personally chasing down tax evaders, and smugglers wheedling their way along his port. Nitpicking at Merick’s conduct, until Podrick stepped in, and kicked Ramsay out of the keep for weeks at a time. He filled his time with long, elaborate hunts for game or poachers to punish.

Ramsay ended up spending such a long time in the surrounding forest and plains, that he and his hunting parties accidentally carved new paths between pertinent spots. It didn’t take much to dig them out further. Filling the newly carved routes with silt from the coast created work for underpaid men. It eased the always notoriously treacherous travel in their corner of the North. And it was a project Ramsay could oversee. An excuse to whip men who didn’t work hard enough.

Pod was occupied with his urchin children. But occasionally, he called on Ramsay to step in, whenever there was a severe issue. A cobbler beating his young workers and starving them, was an excuse for Ramsay to sharpen his flaying knife. The upstart landed knight of House Long, attempting to commandeer their young knight Ser Edd, (who was truly a hedge knight and therefore unaffiliated) called for more drastic action.

Ramsay enjoyed the act of calling his banners, scant though they were, to the nearby small keep. The castle of the cadet branch of House Long, was built on the foundations of a stronghold of the First Men, as the Redbolt had been. House Long weren’t fitted for a seige, and the sight of Ramsay’s mounted men had the opportunistic lord quaking in his boots.

Pod wasn’t about to sede any of his precious children to anyone. And Ramsay was only too happy to act on behalf of his lover, with a justification to discipline those within his purview. The disrespectful lowly lord was put right, when Ramsay returned the favour and ‘borrowed’ his eldest son, for a companion to Merik.

“Fostering fosters good will between neighbouring houses,” Ramsay said with a jolly smile, in response to Pod’s raised eyebrow and crossed arms, when Ramsay arrived home with not only the young man expected, but with a ‘guest’ in tow.

Historically, Ramsay’s hostages had done very well, relatively speaking. (Any unfortunates who managed to find themselves in the belly of the beast at the Dreadfort, were considered mere prisoners.) But technically speaking, Pod had been his hostage. In some ways, he might still be. A hostage of the heart, Ramsay might have said, if he was feeling overly sentimental. He had allowed his rough edges to be sanded down over the years, after all. There was once a time when a lord Ramsay disagreed with, would find himself and his wife short of skin, before Ramsay would feel satisfied that a challenge to his authority was firmly stamped out.

In his youth, Ramsay had often been a representative of the Dreadfort, or the wider North. A soldier in his father’s army, a man fighting with King Robb, and cloaked beneath their protection. He was a brutal administer of their justice; only released in the most dire situations. You did not send an uncontainable attack dog to fetch in a tardy maid, you set him upon your worst enemies. Ramsay was no longer any man’s agent, but a law unto himself.

Yet Robb Stark had already shown that men who did not adhere to his version of justice would find themselves publicly humiliated. Ramsay was in no hurry to be stripped of his new castle by flagrantly misusing his new position. Under the scrutiny of all the Northmen that wanted him to fail, so they could snap up the new port for themselves, Ramsay was conscious of his decisions being judged, in a manner he never had been before.

Father enjoyed to reprimand Ramsay’s mistakes. But he had rarely taken an interest in his actions outside of such, and Dom didn’t care what Ramsay did. Ramsay had only ever answered to himself. He had later learned to take into consideration some of Myranda’s needs, after they were wed. Later still, Ramsay acknowledged Pod’s wishes; once he realised that pushing for his own endlessly, would push Pod away also.

Now, the couple had settled into a comfortable state of affairs; familiar patterns of persuasion and argument and discussion. It was for the best that Pod had an ever changing tide of children, with different talents to channel, and Ramsay went on frequent excursions - lest they run out of new topics of conversation. Merik came clattering in and out of the keep at all hours, always in the company of their hostage fosterling, Duncan Long, the two firm friends. Ramsay rarely checked up on his son’s activities; certain his network of loyal men would inform him of any situations it was necessary for him to know about.

But his mother oft had choice words to say about her only grandchild’s activities.

“Running wild ‘e is,” she would cluck, lamenting the situation with a shake of her head, as her knitting needles clacked together.

She was a permanent fixture in front of the fireplace in her son’s solar, these days. Ramsay occasionally paused in penning his letters or reading through his ledgers, to mind her words. It was better to appear to appease his mother early in her griping, before she worked up a real steam.

“It’s that wife o’ yours, ne’er reining him in,” Mother said, having decided to accept Pod’s presence in Ramsay’s life, by settling him into the familiar shape of the lady of the keep - complimenting Ramsay’s status as its lord.

Ramsay did not bother attempting to explain the complex law of governance Robb Stark had written up, to grant them joint custody of the Redbolt and Sea Dragon Harbour. She did not want to hear it. If Tessa could set Podrick firmly in his place, slotting him in where a lady should naturally be aligned, he was no longer an oddity in her eyes. And they were all much happier for it.

Setting down his quill, Ramsay pasted a sham of a smile on his otherwise disaffected face.

“You take issue with Pod’s parenting, Mother?” he asked, with just enough edge to his voice, to remind her she was gliding along on thin ice.

She huffed, clearly aware of the warning in his tone, and resenting it.

“He lets the boy get away with anythin’, as do you,” his mother said, “and you’ll both live to regret it. Boys need taking in hand, lest they get too feral.”

“And what would you know of it?” Ramsay snapped menacingly, “You gave your boy away.”

She started at those words, almost dropping her yarn when their eyes met.

“I never!” Tessa exclaimed, “Taken from me, you was. I brought you to your lord father to show hows I was needing help, to feed and clothe me babe, and instead of payin’ a stipend for upkeep, he took you from me.”

Ramsay eyed the lying old crone coolly, knowing full well she had probably thrust him at Roose Bolton, and demanded the man take what was his. And had probably promptly forgotten he existed until he turned up at her door, a man grown. But he affected another smooth smile, and told her not to worry overmuch.

“I’m keeping an eye on my sons’ pursuits,” Ramsay said, not entirely untruthfully.

In recent years Merik had discovered the chick of a snow shrike, fallen from its nest and abandoned by its parents. Fascinated by birds since early childhood, Merik had brought the tiny fledgling home and hand-reared it. And the vicious little creature was now found clinging to Merik’s shoulder, or leather vambraces, ever after.

Merik had gleefully shown his father how he had taught the little white and grey bird how to impale its prey, as its untamed cousins did. And Ramsay had certainly been interested in that.

Seeing his bland smile for the dismissal it was, his mother grumbled underneath her breath, and continued on with her knitting rather forcefully. But though Ramsay dipped his quill in the inkpot and hovered his hand above the waiting parchment, he found himself too preoccupied to continue writing. Was Pod truly too distracted to pay their son due attention?

Podrick had always doted on Merik. The two of them were thick friends, with their secret japes and favourite stories. So much so that Ramsay had felt excluded at times. But he could never resent Pod for it. Much like his own father, Ramsay was not the kind of man suited to raising a child alone. Merik deserved mothering, and Pod had always been dedicated to it.

True, their boy was practically a man grown. But he still required guidance. Was Ramsay truly risking their legacy, by not paying enough attention to his boy, if Pod was being similarly inattentive? If so, perhaps it was time they spent a little more time together, as a family.

Ramsay was surprised, and almost hurt, to realise he could not remember the last time the three of them had dined alone. Without fringe family members, or other interlopers, taking up space at their table. It was startling to realise their intimacy was drifting. Ever so slowly slipping from the forefront of his mind.

When had Ramsay stopped noticing his family so, and why hadn't Pod commented on it? What was occupying his time so much, that the growing distance between their family was outside of Podrick’s generally dedicated notice?

Chapter Text

Ramsay contemplated the current state of his House throughout dinner. A lively affair because his indomitable adopted Aunt was in attendance, joined by Dustin retainers, her youngest brother, and her dead husband’s distant cousin. He was the young heir she had chosen to raise up as the successor to Barrowton, much to his parents’ delight. Ramsay quietly considered the only youth at the table (for Merik was absent from dinner along with the Long boy, no doubt up to some mischief in the town’s taverns). Jon Dustin was a polite boy, meek and subservient, just the way his Aunt liked it.

Lady Barbrey was a forceful woman, pleased to have full reign of her household due to her husband’s untimely death. That she hadn’t been ousted by his closest relatives, upon news of his demise, was a testament to her fortitude. She was currently beside herself at being forced to associate with Ramsay and Pod’s maester, Niccos, a competent greybeard they could ill afford to fund the Citadel for. But Pod had insisted Merik required his services as a boy, and they had rather grown used to him, by the time Merik had outgrown them. Niccos continued to make himself of use by tending to Pod’s street rats, and the Redbolt’s ravens, a task much coveted by Merik. When the old man rattled out his last breath, Ramsay knew no one else would be gaining control of the rookery while Merik still lived.

Barbrey refused to so much as eat in Niccos’ presence, demanding he sit at the lower tables when she was in attendance at the Hall. Ramsay had smiled apologetically when the Dornishman turned to him in credulity, the first night she had demanded so. His aunt had shivered as the maester passed her, as though he carried Greyscale and she feared being infected.

“How you can stand to allow a rat to sup at your table…” she had sighed, shaking her head as though at the folly of young men.

“He does very well with the children, my lady,” said Pod mildly, adorning his words with a calm smile.

Barbrey merely huffed, waving away his words with a waft of her aging, liver-spotted hand.

“How many more times must I insist boy? Call me Aunt,” she had demanded of Podrick, and the conversation had moved on.

Later, Ramsay asked Barbrey about her persistent hatred for learned men in chains. Her answer had startled him, by providing him with information he felt he should have taken into consideration long ago.

“We ask them to set aside their names, and dedicate their lives to high learning.” She began quietly, as though imparting a great secret.

“But how can we know why a man entered the Citadel?” she continued, “Many a scandal was swept aside by carting it off. Without a House name, you can never know where a man’s loyalty truly lies. To trust a stranger to one’s private correspondence, and intimate affairs? Never. Pycelle was exposed as a Lannister man, and he was the Grand Maester for forty years. The gods alone know what schemes he hatched or orders he purposefully fudged for the Old Lion’s agendas.”

She sniffed with great dignity; “You mark my words. Push that grey rat off a cliff, before he betrays you to his Dornish overlords.”

Ramsay had given serious consideration to her words; before coming to the sensible conclusion it was not worth following the old man over a cliff edge, if Pod had ever found out he had done such a thing. Pod was very protective over his children. Any denial of the amenities he deemed necessary for them, would be a betrayal of the worst kind in his eyes. It was a headache Ramsay didn’t feel inclined to induce.

Aside from her murderous tendencies against maesters, the irascible Lady Barbrey also took issue with Ramsay’s mother. They were both proud women, from widely different walks of life, and they clashed in their opinions often. Barbrey was unaccustomed to minding the words of other women, and there were no other women quite like Tessa Redbolt, who was decidedly not a lady, but afforded the respect of one. For the sake of appearances, they bit down on their most confrontational attitudes, and affected a harmonious air while in public. Ramsay well remembered the endless bickering between Barbrey and his father’s wife, Gwynesse Harlaw, whenever they shared his father’s castle. He was thankful from a reprieve from a re-enactment of such irritating memories.

At his own table, Ramsay watched his relatives and chosen family bury their resentments behind polite veneers. His mother was attempting to engage the quiet Jon Dustin in conversation, while Barbrey was monopolising Ser Edd, and Pod was humouring Roose Ryswell, her youngest brother. His father’s namesake was a thin beanpole of a man, with a mop of dirt brown hair and a crooked nose that had been broken in battle. Ramsay found him an incredible bore who could potificate for hours. How Pod could stomach his dull voice for more than the span of a single sentence, Ramsay could not fathom.

Curious, Ramsay asked Pod about his inexplicable ability to charm and humor bores, that night as they undressed for bed.

Pod giggled like a much younger man. “He’s really not so disagreeable. Most people aren’t. You, my love, have a very low tolerance for others.”

“You dare besmirch my good name?” Ramsay japed, “I, the font of all mercy!”

Podrick laughed, delighted.

They clambered beneath the covers together, snuggling close in an effort to get warm again. The nights were drawing closer, and winter would be upon them in another year or so. Ramsay kissed his partner deeply, hoping for more, as his hands skimmed Pod’s often cradled love handles. But Pod gentled the heat of their kisses. Ending them with a soft sigh, and a peck on Ramsay’s nose.

Despite being denied, Ramsay found a great deal of contentment from encasing Pod in his embrace. After the other man rolled over to blow out the last candle, he wriggled back into Ramsay's warmth. They slotted together like sword and scabbard. Pod’s back was so soft and familiar against his chest. Ramsay could no longer imagine a life, where each night did not end in some form of the same embrace.

To say then, that Ramsay was startled to round a corner some days later, and find himself confronted with the image of Pod within Roose Rywell’s arms, was a gross understatement. For a long moment, the image refused to be processed by his eyes and mind. Ramsay had exited one of the many sets of doors which lead to the covered walkway level which ran round the edge of much of the castle. But he was still hidden, contained within the shadows of the outdoor corridor which joined the balcony at its end.

Pod and Roose were stood on the balcony itself. Concealed from prying eyes by a jutting stone buttress extending from the wall to strengthen it, and the dingy, rain-predicting weather keeping most inside. Ramsay personally enjoyed a little drizzle. Grey days reminded him of the Dreadfort, and his boyhood with Dom. Ramsay often took a turn in the faint rain to clear his thoughts.

But that afternoon, Ramsay’s thoughts were interrupted by an wholly unwelcome image, when the close stance of his lover and an interloper became a heavy kiss. Roose was the instigator, which even Ramsay could acknowledge, despite the red haze of rage which began to descend over his eyes. He could see Pod’s hands clenched into fists, pressing against Roose’s chest, but without enough force to separate the man from his person. Pod could be forceful when he wished to be. Did he not wish to be, at this moment? Ramsay couldn't help but wonder.

Roose moved from Podrick’s apparently unresponsive lips to his neck, kissing and nuzzling and suckling at spots Ramsay favoured, before Pod had the presence of mind to finally push him away. Ramsay was stabbed again with a red hot poker of betrayal. That it could take so long for Pod to step back, with swollen lips and a shake of his head. He should have fought off the unwanted assault as soon as it began. If it truly was an assault… and not a stolen moment between illicit lovers, among an ongoing series of moments.

Unwilling to risk allowing himself to be discovered, and not yet ready to confront what he had seen, Ramsay whirled around and trudged away with a thunderous expression and clenched fists. He recalled vividly, the night of dancing they had lately enjoyed. When Roose had pressed a kiss to Pod’s hand, as though he truly was Ramsay’s lady wife, and lead him through a set or three on the floor. There had been a time when such behaviour would have Ramsay flying into a jealous tempest. Had he grown too lax? He had never considered Pod the kind of lover that required supervision, to ensure they remained faithful.

Ramsay had been mistaken about a cuckolding before, with disastrous results. For all his growth, he felt the same rage bubbling inside, the same urge to maim and kill. But in many ways, Ramsay had matured past his base desires. He awaited Pod’s return to their chambers, and his look alone was almost enough to cause Pod to provide an explanation without further prompting. With great malice in his movements, Ramsay unlaced his surcoat, having grown warm in his well-tended chambers.

“I didn't welcome his affections,” Pod immediately claimed, “I pushed him away.”

“Eventually,” Ramsay snorted uncharitably.

He was in the rather unique situation of having witnessed the incident first hand. Ramsay suspected that he would never have been informed of it, had he not been. Podrick narrowed his eyes, suspicious that Ramsay’s quick dismissal harboured deeper resentments than this one incident.

“How long were you standing watching me being unwillingly pawed at by another man, without saying a word?” he asked, “Were you following me?”

Affronted by the suggestion that he was insecure enough to harry the steps of his loved ones (who should not require surveiling to ensure they did not regularly betray him), Ramsay rounded on Pod. Turning to face Pod’s furious look, and throwing down his rapidly unlaced surcoat roughly.

“Should I have been?” he snarled, “If I can't even trust you to escape unwanted advances, until well after a man's moved on from your lips to your neck-”

“Stop it,” Pod hissed, “Stop being purposefully riling!”

“And if I don't?”

Pod gaped at him, apparently stymied by how infuriating Ramsay was prepared to be, for the sake of causing unrest and stoking tempers. But he visibly shook off his anger, taking a deep, calming breath.

“I didn't mean to encourage Roose, nor send him a confusing message,” said Pod, “I was caught off guard by his... attentions, so perhaps I took longer than I should have to escape them. That doesn't mean I wanted it, or him.”

Ramsay hummed, unconvinced, and Pod threw up his hands in exasperation.

“What do you want from me? A vow of eternal devotion and loyalty?” he murmured.

His eyes were shining with a convincing show of hurt, that Ramsay could malign his intentions so. Ramsay longed to believe those imploring brown eyes, which in turn made him resentful of their ability to manipulate him.

“Some distance from men who want to paw at you, would be a fine start,” Ramsay sneered sarcastically.

“Don't insinuate his presence in this keep is ought of my affair,” said Pod, “Barbrey is your Aunt. You give her leave to visit us when she will, bringing her brothers and attendants in droves.”

“And should I not open our gates to my kin?” asked Ramsay, “It’s hardly my fault you don't have any to speak of; perhaps if you did, you wouldn’t be so jealous of mine.”

Pod jerked as though he had been slapped, searching Ramsay’s hardened face with large, dewy eyes. For a moment, Ramsay expected Pod to storm away. He seemed on the verge of weeping, and surely wished to lick his wounds in peace. But Pod had never been a craven, running from his issues. So instead of leaving, Pod swallowed thickly and faced his denouncer headlong.

“I have Merik and you, here with me always. I have Dom and Wylla and the girls. That's all the family I’ve needed, these long years. But you’re correct; I do have kin in the far South. Likely they have multiplied in my absence, replacing their fallen. Perhaps it's high time I made their acquaintance.”

Ramsay took an involuntary step forward, automatically blocking Podrick's route of possible escape. As though Ramsay would bodily prevent him absconding, if that was what it took.

“You’d leave me?” he whispered, horrified by the potential answer to his question, and yet quite unable to keep from voicing it.

“Perhaps you ought to tell me, if I should?” Pod replied calmly, “You claim an emotional distance between us, that I too have felt. A physical distance would surely make little enough difference then, if what you claim is true. It might give us a better perspective on this life we have built together, thus far.”

Ramsay snatched a hold of Pod’s wrist, as though shackling Pod with his own fingers, keen to clutch onto him for as long as was feasible.

“There's a gigantic difference,” said Ramsay, “You can't leave. I forbid it.”

Podrick raised one unimpressed brow. “You don't hold dominion over me. You cannot forbid me anything.”

“I forbid it!” Ramsay roared, grinding the bones in Pod’s arm together as his hand clenched, until Pod visibly held in a whimper. Unrepentant, Ramsay refused to relax his grip.

There was some part of Ramsay that was darkly proud of Pod’s ability to rein in his fear. Pod had long learnt to stem the flow of weakness he showed to the apex predator in the room, be it Ramsay himself, or in earlier years, Roose Bolton. Pod’s pink tongue darted out, fearfully wetting his bottom lip, his only concession to sure jangle of his nerves. He met Ramsay’s burning gaze stoically. Bravely, he continued to attempt to explain his conduct.

“I was lonely,” he murmured.

“Lonely,” Ramsay scoffed, “In a keep full to the brim of lowborn fosterlings, with a willing man in your bed every night, if you only thought to turn to him.”

“ ‘Every night!’ You're never here!” Pod suddenly snapped and shouted.

“Always off harrying some poor creature through the undergrowth.” he growled as he continued, “Merik’s cut from the same cloth; but at least he has the folly of youth to explain his reckless cantering all across the North, rock climbing to neck-breaking heights! Both of you, far too busy to spare me a modicum of affection! And Roose was here. He was kind, and I- I grew fond of him.”

"Fond," Ramsay repeated the pertinent word again, with eyes dripping scorn.

Podrick shrugged, apparently unwilling to be shamed. Ramsay squinted at him, real worry opening like a yawning pit in his stomach.

“Are you in love with him?” he barked, wild at the idea.

It look longer than Ramsay was comfortable with for Pod to deny it. The hesitation rankled him, and he made it clear.

“I’m not being indecisive. I’m trying to order my thoughts… Roose is a handsome, unwed man.” Pod said, “And he was attentive toward me. In a way you haven't been, for some time. Can you truly find it unfathomable, that I might welcome some attention? That’s hardly love.”

“You were the one who told me to go. You said I was underfoot, and bullying our son-”

“You were being insufferable. We both needed some reprieve from you.” Pod agreed, “Don't give me such a wounded look- you know full well how peevish you can be. I didn't expect you to be subsumed by your hunts. Now it’s as if you cannot wait to be free of us.”

“Go. Stay. If even you cannot make up your mind as to your desires, how am I to interpret them?”

“Don’t twist my words,” Pod demanded darkly. “The issue is more complex than you would claim it.”

He tugged away from Ramsay’s hold, until the older man was forced to relinquish him, or be dragged along in Pod’s insistence of moving away. Pod advanced to the window, crossing his arms in a protective gesture about his chest. Once there, he stared out toward the inner North, away from the crumbling coastline they occupied.

“Perhaps I have lingered within the Harbour overlong.” Pod sighed, seemingly overcome with fatigue, “Perhaps I should return home for a time.”

“You still consider the Westerlands home?” Ramsay questioned, surprised by the smallness of his own voice. He was unprepared for the unexpected wound caused by Pod’s easy rejection of their years together.

Pod turned to him with wide brown eyes, no doubt similarly shocked by Ramsay’s wounded tone.

“No, my love,” said Pod solemnly, “Truly, you are all the home I have had for many years. I was speaking of the Dreadfort.”

“Oh,” Ramsay said, dizzy from the retraction of the sting. He shook his head, unwilling to consider the idea of a prolonged separation. “No, I won’t allow it. Your place is here.”

“You can hardly prevent me from leaving,” Pod countered sceptically.

“Can’t I?” said Ramsay, immediately belligerent.

“Not if you have any feeling at all for me.”

Faced with such an ultimatum, Ramsay had little choice but to give the idea a longer consideration. But before he could voice his intention to do just that, trumpets sounded, signalling the arrival of guests.

Startled from their private dispute, they both turned toward the noise, knowing the were not expecting anyone. Merik came and went without fanfare. As did the lowly merchants and masterly Houses of the surrounding Harbour, who regularly visited. With a silent look, resolving to set aside their disagreement for a later time, they walked out together, to confront their uninvited guest. They needed no words, to prepare to present their customary united front. Regardless of how fractured they truly were, beneath the thin veneer of respectability they pulled about them, like a well-worn cloak; familiar but a little frayed at the edges.

Chapter Text

Against all sense, Merik was the person the trumpets had sounded so jovially for. Ramsay gnashed his teeth together, further irritated by this indication of his household in disarray. He had half a mind that the stocks were too good for whichever idiot had decided to sound the fanfare for his own son’s arrival. Despite deciding on new House words for the Redbolts, his blade was still sharp.

Before Ramsay could turn away from the party riding in the gates, which was admittedly larger than was usual for Merik and his companions, an chiming female voice called out;

“Brother!”

A rider clad in the blue cloak of House Bolton, with the Flayed Man on the clasp buckle, pulled down her hood to reveal a tangle of flaming red curls. His sister’s freckled, beaming face looked out at him, from amongst the lion’s mane she called hair. Perplexed, Ramsay stared at his sister, before glaring at Podrick, as though he was to blame for her unexpected arrival.

“The raven must have gotten lost,” Ramsay called out, “We were not expecting you.”

Merik leapt down from his grey horse beside her, holding out both arms to his aunt. Ingrid Bolton dutifully swung her legs to one side of the saddle and placed her arms on his shoulders, so he could hold her about the waist and lift her down. She remained within his embrace far longer than necessary, looking up beneath her lashes coquettishly to gaze into Merik’s eyes, which were almost hidden beneath his own mop of brown curls.

“Our son needs his hair shorn,” Ramsay grumbled, “He’s starting to look like a rangy clansman.”

“So arrange to have it seen to,” Podrick hissed back, “The conduct of the inhabitants within this castle is not under my hegemony alone.”

Ramsay glared at him, unused to having his suggestions undercut in such a manner. Then he quickly drew a smile about his face for his enthusiastic sister, who threw her arms about Ramsay’s shoulders.

“Brother!” she squealed again, “It is so wonderful to be here with you.”

She drew back from the embrace rapidly, to bestow the same treatment upon Pod. The man she accepted as her brother-by-law was further treated to a whisper of a kiss on his round cheek.

“Long have I desired to see the home of my favourite nephew, with mine own eyes,” Ingrid cooed, reaching out a hand to Merik, which he gladly took.

He did not point out that he was her only nephew, as Dom's wife had only birthed girls.

“You have been here in your girlhood, though you were very small then,” said Podrick, “And now I see you are a woman grown. Your mother’s letters do not do justice to your beauty, my dear. A true Northern rose in our family at last.”

“Don’t let Rosy hear you say so!” Ingrid giggled, a simpering noise which immediately grated on Ramsay’s temper, “She’s a jealous minx and no mistake. Quite used to being the prettiest girl in the Dreadfort, and some say in the North itself. It’s very tiresome being compared to her all the time.”

“Nonsense,” Ramsay chided, as was obviously expected of him, “Her mother pales beside your own, and I have no doubt their daughters continue that trend.”

His sister was not yet six-and-ten, and Ramsay knew flattery was the quickest way into her affections. Just as he knew there had been no raven, for his father would never have sanctioned her travel so far from home, without the full force of his retainers, and himself also in attendance. But Ramsay only drew her indoors where it was warm, without revealing what he knew. At the earliest opportunity, he intended to speak with Maester Niccos, and have a missive sent to the Dreadfort, to let her parents know where she was.

Ingrid kept up the charade until dinner, when she admitted her impromptu visit had not been endorsed or authorised by their father. But as she had arrived with a token force of Bolton men in tow, she felt quite safe he would forgive her willfulness.

“They were sent after me, once I had set off, and they caught up to me at Castle Cerwyn,” she revealed with an impish smile, quite akin to Ramsay’s own, “I do believe Father had convinced himself I would grow terribly bored with all the riding, and return home before ever reaching so far. I told them my intentions plain with the rider I sent home, but Father is such a stubborn man. I suppose that’s where I inherited the vice.”

She spoke primly, but set upon a chicken leg like a starving, feral cat. Food on the road was seldom very fulfilling.

“It is quite a distance,” Pod murmured, while Ramsay watched him from the corner of his eyes.

Podrick was seated next to Roose Ryswell, practially flaunting their closeness, and it took everything in Ramsay not to reach across the table and strangle his rival until his face turned blue. Unaware of the tension, Ingrid shrugged theatrically, in response to Podrick’s assessment.

“I was determined,” she said, “And once I set my mind to a task, I shall see it done. I wanted to see this young castle that houses my kin.”

Another adoring look at Merik followed this sentence. Her eyes moved to Ramsay afterward, as though to disguise her devotion. Merik returned her loving looks, and Ramsay resisted the urge to sigh heavily. Father would be furious if the affection between them turned into an affair. His only daughter was the apple of Roose Bolton's cold, ice blue eyes.

After dinner, Ingrid imperiously demanded music. She turned to her nephew, who was more like a cousin, due to Merik surpassing her in age.

“Well, aren’t you going to lead me in this dance?” she asked, delighted when he immediately took her hand.

Pod sighed once they were out of earshot, turning to Ramsay with a baleful look.

“She has him wrapped about her finger,” he lamented, probably just as aware of what Roose Bolton’s thoughts would be on the matter.

“Yes indeed,” Ramsay agreed, but said nothing more. He signalled to a serving boy to have his cup of wine refilled, then swallowed it up in one long gulp.

Podrick shot him an unimpressed look, before turning toward Roose Ryswell. Soon after, the tall man lead him out onto the cleared space of the floor, where the other dancers weaved in and out of each other.

“You want to keep a better hold over that one,” said Aunt Barbrey, stabbing her finger toward the table.

Ramsay ignored her, hailing the serving boy once more, and taking the entire decanter from his weak grasp, once the youth moved close enough. He set it on the table in front of himself, and resolved to drink the entire jug.

*

Having Ingrid in the Redbolt, was like having to play host to an untrained pup. She clattered about the place, talking loudly and laughing in her shrill little girl voice, wearing puffy dresses with far too many ruffles, in eye-watering shades of pink, yellow and green.

Thankfully, Ingrid hadn’t brought much with her, as she had been travelling with only a small pack. But she had apparently commissioned several dresses from the famous seamstress, Pod's young protégé Beth, and they arrived in bulk, the day after Ingrid did. Apparently she sent for them by raven, the night she appeared at their gates.

She monopolised Merik and Duncan and Jon Dustin, who were all quite taken with her, and drove Aunt Barbrey to distraction with her flippant, youthful ways.

“I despair, to know that the Kingdom will be in hands such as her’s, when we are all gone,” Barbrey griped, and Ramsay’s mother sounded her agreement. Apparently, the two women had at last found something in common.

Ramsay was more concerned about Podrick’s apparent resolve to return to the Dreadfort. Ingrid’s timing was suitably dreadful; Pod was determined to see her home safely, thus earning goodwill from Lord Bolton, and completing his own goal at the same time. Ramsay was seething in resentment with the world at large, knowing the situation was entirely out of his hands.

Then, one afternoon with weeks of Ingrid’s visit still remaining, Pod charged into his solar and shut the door decisively behind himself. Mother stopped the clinking of her knitting needles, interested despite herself.

Podrick spared her barely a look, before he unceremoniously ordered her to leave.

“Ere!” she howled, “You can’t speak to me like tha’-”

“Get out.” Podrick snapped coldly, unfathomably rude.

Ramsay could feel Tessa’s eyes burning into his skin, begging her to look at him. But he refused to defend her right to eavesdrop on their private conversations. Ramsay had been raised by a despot, and was comfortable conducting his own dictatorship. Summarily banished, his mother huffed and gathered her things. She swept out in a trail of skirts and yarn, with a deadly glare for Pod as she left. No doubt he would have to tread lightly around her for some time, if he ever hoped to return to her good graces.

“That was unusually discourteous of you, my love,” Ramsay whispered, slithering around his desk to stand before his lover.

Podrick did not bother to even shrug away his offensive behaviour, supremely unconcerned.

“I have issues of more import to think on, than your mother’s feelings,” he said waspishly.

“Pray tell me what concerns you so,” Ramsay said, a compassionate, benevolent offer to listen to his grievances. Yet when they came, the issues were beyond anything than Ramsay had thus imagined.

“Merik has been disgracing himself with whores,” Pod said through gritted teeth, “and now one is with child, and begging for scraps at our table.”

Ramsay blinked, entirely befuddled by this news. He just barely managed to restrain himself from asking Podrick to repeat himself. It did not seem possible that Merik, rambunctious though he was, was capable of sullying himself in a brothel. He was always more concerned with his birds than women.

“A pregnant whore is not an unheard of thing,” Ramsay said in puzzlement, “How can she be sure of the father? And why did she not drink moon tea, and go about her business?”

Pod sighed heavily, leaning against Ramsay’s sturdy desk.

“Evidently this girl is not actually from a brothel. She’s a tavern maid. Her father threw her out when she began to grow fat.”

“The point still remains,” Ramsay said with a shrug.

Pod massaged his temples wearily.

“I’ll have her sent up,” he said, “and we shall see what Merik has to say for himself.”

He called for a servant to see it so. When she arrived, the young woman in question was fair haired, with a face and hands dirtied from travel but sweet nonetheless. She looked to be of age with Merik, and terrified to be in the presence of such lordly men. Bella was a lowborn wench, and timid for it. But from her stuttering mouth they garnered that she had been untouched before Merik, and had known no other man. Or so she claimed; but Ramsay was of a mind to believe it. He had ample experience with desperate liars, and this girl did not strike him as one.

Merik’s reaction to her presence at the Redbolt confirmed it, as he grew bashful and withdrawn, but quickly admitted to the affair.

“I’ve no intention of stayin’ to cause trouble. I only need work in the town, and a little money so as to set myself up in lodgings afore then. I can work for it, honest like. But if I cannot pay for board, I’ll have no roof,” she lamented, with big wet eyes that were enough to melt Pod’s heart.

Predictably, he would not hear of turning the girl out into the cold, now that he knew she was not simply an opportunist, digging for gold.

“The maesters tell us winter will be upon us in another year or so,” he said softly, “Babes that are small in winter, are more likely to live out the end of it, in the warmth of a castle. You shall have work here, and the child will be raised with its kin.”

The girl immediately began to blubber, mistakenly believing Pod intended to separate her from the babe. But once he had ascertained the reason for her weeping, he dried her tears with a reassurance they would never do so.

“We have a nursery and many young maids, but Merik was too old to need such attentions by the time we were installed here,” Pod said softly, “It will be a welcome change to have a newborn in these halls. You can care for and raise the babe as you see fit, and they will attend lessons with our maester, and know they are among family here.”

Before long, it was all arranged. But in every controlled movement Podrick made, Ramsay saw how he fumed beneath his coat of calm, and how bitterly disappointed in their son he was.

That night, they spoke on it further, though they had not yet reconciled.

“You have found us both wanting, in recent months,” Ramsay said, with something like regret.

“Yes,” Pod confirmed, sadly.

“You still wish to leave me,” Ramsay continued, knowing it was not a question but a fact.

“I do,” Pod whispered, tears stinging his eyes, and making his voice thick.

Ramsay brushed a hand down his bare forearm, exposed by Pod’s nightshirt.

“Where will you go? To the Dreadfort, as you claim, or with Roose Ryswell?” he asked stoically.

Pod turned to look at him, with glassy brown eyes.

“There was a time I believed you would gut any man who attempted to wrest me from you. That you would pull out his entrails, for daring to encroach upon your territory,” he whispered, almost reverently.

“I will,” said Ramsay, perfectly truthfully, “If you leave me for that Ryswell cunt, I will make him wear his own guts as a necklace.”

“I don’t want Roose,” Pod whispered, pressing his thumb to the corner of Ramsay’s mouth, until Ramsay took it between his teeth in a nip.

It was as easy as breathing, to roll on top of Podrick and kiss him, pushing up his nightshirt enough to settle between his exposed thighs. To push into his familiar heat, mindful of his uncomfortable whimpers, for it had been too long since they had been together for Ramsay to take him without preparation, but he did so anyway.

He lay still, encased in Pod’s heat, his dick settled deep, as though they might never be parted again, until Pod sighed out his name and kissed him properly. Then Ramsay began to rock a little, gently rolling his hips. Podrick carded his fingers through Ramsay’s hair, scratching his scalp as Ramsay built up a slow satisfying rhythm. Pod sighed in contentment at the languishing nature of their fuck; not a rut, but an affirmation. Ramsay thrust into his heat and Pod was near silent, but his approval came in gentle pants and bitten-off moans. They were quiet and contained, Pod more restrained than he had ever been, whilst they were together carnally.

He came with a soft moan, not a yell, and when Ramsay followed him off the cliff, he pressed a kiss to his love’s shoulder and wished it changed anything.

*

Though Pod was reluctant to let Merik travel to the Dreadfort, with Ingrid’s returning party, he recognised the need to foster the continued goodwill within their families. Ramsay had already allowed it, and they rarely undermined one another’s decisions, where their son was concerned. But Pod was determined that Merik should be back in attendance at the castle when his first child was born, baseborn though it may be. It was to be a monumental change in his life, and Podrick did not want him to consider it anything less. Ramsay agreed. Men that were flippant about their bastards lived to rue their existence, as his own father had, many a time, with him.

That aside, Pod had grown quite excited at the prospect of Merik’s child pattering about the halls of their shared home. He drew up elaborate plans for their education, and decorated the nursery with fine linen and blankets. For his part, Ramsay was not yet comfortable with the idea of being a grandfather. He was entirely too young to carry that title with any gravitas, which irked him greatly.

When the day came for his relatives to depart for the Dreadfort, Ramsay watched as they mounted up, with iron control over his facial expression. Eternally uncomfortable with any public show of weakness. He had almost convinced himself that Pod’s enthusiasm for the coming babe would shackle him to their home. But it was not to be. Pod climbed astride his horse and rode North, regardless of Ramsay’s cracking, fracturing heart. He knew it would shatter entirely if Pod chose not to return. But there was nought he could do to prevent it.

Though the Redbolt’s godswood had a mere weirwood sapling for a heart tree, it had been carved by the Child which had ventured south from the Lands of Always Winter, crossing the Wall with Ned Stark. The tiny face was more jolly than any sacred face had a right to be. Ramsay had never felt the urge to carve its smile into a moan of despair more strongly than at that moment. He could not bring himself to pray to the gods, knowing they were more likely to deny his desires than grant them. He had never been a pious man. His black deeds would surely keep him out of the South’s Seven Heavens, but he had enough faith to believe the old gods would not turn him away. Still, he did not think he had earned enough goodwill to beg favours from them. But despite Ramsay’s reluctance to call upon their aid, the gods granted his deepest longing anyway.

Ramsay returned to the keep through the courtyard, just as Pod’s horse cantered into it, slowing so roughly it reared back on its hind legs. But Pod did not seem afraid of being thrown. He leapt down from the saddle of his charger, with the vim of a man half his age. Advancing toward Ramsay with an alarming speed, that he could not help but mirror; fearing the worst about Pod’s dramatic turn back to the Redbolt.

“Are you well?” Ramsay asked, panicked, looking for signs of injury or other indications that their party had been set upon.

“I am,” Podrick panted, breathless from his hurry, “But I have been foolish. I almost made a terrible mistake.”

He reached up and held Ramsay’s face in both of his soft hands, then pressed a firm kiss to his lips.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said, almost choking on the words, “I never want to leave you.”

“So don’t,” Ramsay said simply, and returned the kiss with a far deeper one of his own.

They broke apart, with Pod laughing breathlessly and shaking his head at his own folly. There were tears streaming down his face.

“I love you,” said Ramsay suddenly, “I should tell you more often. I should have told you before you left. Then perhaps you would not have felt so alone.”

“And I love you,” Pod whispered, “I’m sorry I almost left. I’m sorry I allowed Roose to get ideas above his station.”

“Hush,” Ramsay implored, not wanting the moment spoiled by mentions of that man, “Promise me you will not be so foolish as to leave me again, and it is forgotten.”

“I promise,” Pod whispered, and overcome, Ramsay leaned down and lifted him by the thighs, forcing Podrick to hop into his arms, wrapping his legs about Ramsay’s waist.

They were never normally so bold with their affections in public. He could feel the eyes of dozens of servants watching them in awe. But with Pod’s arms about his neck and his body nestled in his arms, Ramsay could not summon the impetus to care. He kissed Podrick again, deep and loving.

“Do you remember that day when we fucked on your father’s desk?” Pod asked quietly when they parted lips, mindful of their audience.

“Vividly,” said Ramsay, with a cocky smile.

Podrick blushed a pretty pink, and continued; “Are you in a mind to re-enact it on your desk?”

Ramsay kissed him again, delighted; “Absolutely.”

EPILOGUE

Robb Stark sent a tentatively congratulatory letter, expressing joy that their House had a new member, and the wedding that he had evidently missed. It was clearly a lure cast out to fish for information, but Ramsay replied with the details so clearly sought out, anyway. In his reply, he reminisced on the late Maege Mormont, and how she had claimed all of her natural daughters, despite having no husband in sight. He asked whether it was a crime if a similarly small House such as his own, claimed the child by a better name than Snow. King Robb promptly replied that it was not, and told them to keep their eyes peeled for a rider bearing his standard.

When the man arrived, he was carrying a pompously garnished scroll, adorned with real gold calligraphy borders, and a plainer copy for their records. Robb Stark had simply removed the issue by sweeping it aside, the way only a King could.

“Fetch Barba’s mother,” Ramsay said to the nursery maid, lifting the hefty weight of his plump grand-daughter into his arms.

It had been a long time since he had held a babe, and she squirmed an awful lot more than Merik ever had. His son had always been content in the arms of whoever held him, a dumpy little weight, like a sack of potatoes. Barba was born malcontented, determined to escape any and all holds. But Ramsay succeeded in wrestling the wriggling babe to lie snuggled into his chest. Apparently comforted by the scent of him, she yawned widely and immediately fell into a light doze.

Her mother gave him a worried look when she entered the room. As though Ramsay might be on the verge of handing her the girl, and turfing them both out of the keep. But the lord merely smiled, as genuinely as he was able to, for someone that wasn’t his kin.

“Tell me, can you read?” He asked.

“A little,” Bella admitted, her cheeks flushed.

Ramsay nodded to the adorned scroll he had left on the table. In his arms, Barba smacked her lips together loudly in her sleep. She let out a sweet snuffle, like a truffling pig. Ramsay turned his adoring gaze upon her, quite taken. Meanwhile, the former tavern wench unrolled the beautiful scroll with tentative fingers, gaping at its ostentation. She skimmed the many words with wide eyes.

“I don’t know my letters enough for this, m’lord,” she whispered, embarrassed by her deficiency.

“No matter,” Ramsay said, busy swaying slightly to soothe the dreams of the girl in his arms, “Can you read the signature at the bottom?”

She unfurled it fully, squinting at the end of the parchment.

“R-Robb Stark?” she stammered, “The King sent this?”

“He did,” Ramsay confirmed, “It’s for Barba. It names her for a Redbolt. No man will be able to call her Snow now, against the King’s own decree.”

“Oh!” cried the girl, falling to her knees in gratitude.

She was still burbling out her thanks repetitively, when Podrick arrived. Pod raised her from the ground, furnishing her with his own handkerchief for her grateful tears.

Pod sent him an exasperated look, no doubt fully aware Ramsay was taking the credit for Robb Stark’s kindness. Allowing the serving girl to believe they had begged this favour of their King. Ramsay’s answering smug smile, was quickly hidden against the crown of his first grandchild, as he pressed a kiss into her downy hair.

All was as it should be.