𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑾𝒐𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝑪𝒓𝒚 𝑶𝒖𝒕

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑿𝑿𝑰𝑰𝑰

꧁CHAPTER XXIII꧂
꧁300 AFTER CONQUEST꧂

꧁RAMSAY꧂

Winterfell loomed overhead, his home he had taken to in the last several months, and yet it never truly felt like it. That's because it isn't, Ramsay thought to himself as his horse continued along the Kingsroad, followed in tow by his Hunters.

Stannis, the false king, had taken to laying a trap out for their force that Ramsay should have seen coming, and yet rode head first right into it with the rest of the Frey forces. His blood still boiled at the knowledge of how fat Lord Wyman Manderly betrayed them at the battle, switching sides almost as soon as it had started. We paid them back in part, Ramsay thought with a wicked grin. The rest of the tab will be paid in fulls soon enough.

With what remained of the force that had managed to escape, they approached the north gates of Winterfell, a Bolton soldier from the ramparts spotting them and shouting for their return.

"My Lord!"

Ramsay near cackled as he gave a mock bow from his horse, a grin on his face smeared with blood.

"My most humble of retainers! Send for my father, yeah? The Lord needs to be informed of what has.."

Ramsay trailed off when he saw that the Bolton soldier was quiet. In fact, the whole courtyard seemed quiet as he glanced around, eyeing the occupants with hushed tongues.

"..happened... What's going on?"

He asked, but no one came to him with an answer. Gritting his teeth and holding back from flipping out, Ramsay climbed down from his horse and stepped to the soldier, who stood trembling in his boots.

"My Lord..your father..."

"What of him? What has happened to Lord Bolton?"

Ramsay grabbed the man and began to shake him.

"What happened?! Reek, get out here now!"

"H-He's gone, m-my Lor—"

In a fit of rage, Ramsay had thrown the man to the ground, mud splattering everywhere as he stormed through into the castle, frightening servants and soldiers alike as he belined for the Great Hall.

"Father!"

He demanded with a shout, reaching the doors. Without hesitation he kicked the double doors open, the doors slamming the walls hard as he stared at the occupants inside. On the table rested the Lord Roose Bolton, his skin pale, drained of color, the little there was to begin with. A few stood around the table, the Maester Wolkan had been prepping the now dead body of his father for burial, it seemed,  Myranda stood with silent tears beside him, head bowed in sorrow.

"Ramsay.."

She whispered as he stepped closer to the table, observing his father on the table. All his life the man before him held little regard to his existence. Calling him "bastard," when he should have been referred to as a son. Well, at least that's what his mother always said. But she was gone. And now with her, the Lord Roose Bolton laid dead just the same.