Eddmina didn't mind the thought of dying. She didn't mind dying at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, succumbing to the wounds he had given her. She did, however, detest the idea of dying by his hands before she had the chance to kill him first.
That was the only thought that kept her going. She desperately wanted to lie down next to Rickon, let their matching arrow wounds carry her away to wherever he had gone. Surely he was with Robb, and their father, and all their other losses, and anywhere they were was somewhere she wanted to be too. She wanted to give in, give up, but how could she until she'd done what she had set out to do? If she didn't kill Ramsay herself, how would she ever know that her sisters would be safe? How would she know that Lyarra would be safe? How would she know that Ramsay wouldn't ride down to Highgarden and hurt the rest of her family - her son, her wolf, her love? No, she had to kill him, know he was dead and unable to hurt anyone else, and then she could lie down and meet her fate. Jon could deal with the rest of the Bolton sympathisers, Arya and Sansa could rebuild Winterfell and honour the memories of their losses, but her work would be done. Ramsay would be dead and she could rest. That was all she needed to do.
It was a task was proving harder than she thought. She was no fool, she knew combat was hard, she knew Ramsay was a trained killer and stronger than her, and she knew he fought dirty, but she hadn't stopped to consider just how unbalanced their fight would be. His nose was bloody, she had cut at his chest with her sword and made him bleed through his own leathers, looser and airier than hers like he knew he didn't need as much defence, and when he had disarmed her of her sword and thrown it aside like it was nothing, she had used her dagger to slash across his face. The sight of him bleeding was satisfying, but it wasn't enough, it wasn't pouring out fast enough to do real damage, and for all his bleeding wounds, she knew he had made double on her. Every time she thought she was gaining an upper hand, she realised he had been playing, he had merely relaxed a little to mess with her head and let her think she could be winning, and then he would strike. That was how he had let her get close enough to have her blade against his throat only for him to spit at her and blacken both eyes, that was how he had let her think she might have winded him when he leant back against the wall to catch his breath, but the moment she moved to him to stab him through the chest he grasped her right arm and twisted it around so harshly she had panicked he had broken it. That was how he had gotten his thin and short little knife through her side, and her shoulder, and though the wounds weren't deep, they still bled, and she was sure he must have given her at least half a dozen more that she hadn't felt.
Every time she was sure he had bested her, sure that he would kick her to the floor and slice her throat, every time he knocked her down and delivered a few kicks to her, she was sure that he would end it. Whether it was with steel or another arrow, she didn't care, and though she felt the stinging agony of failure, the agony of her wounds was enough to make her forget and long for the end. Yet, every time she let herself consider seeing Robb, Ramsay merely whispered out a laugh, stepped away, and allowed her enough time to get back to her feet. She had wondered what he would do if she simply refused, if she stayed on the ground and never stood to meet him once more, but stubborn pride never let her find out. She didn't mind dying, but she was going to do it on her feet, or she was going to keep going until such a thing became impossible. Each interval on the floor seemed to get longer, but his reaction remained the same no matter how long it took, as he would merely watch her, his head cocked to one side and a cold smirk on his face that spread into a grin once she was upright and as stable as she could manage.
Then they would begin again.
Every blow she had gotten had been on purpose on his behalf. He had meant them, and they had not been particularly difficult to deliver. Any blow he had suffered he had allowed. When she realised that he had let her inflict wounds on him just so she could boost her confidence only for him to crush it, it equal parts infurated and destroyed her. It made her want to beat him even more, but it also encouraged the whispers in the back of her mind that perhaps she was a fool who should have stayed behind and let her brother deal with the battle.
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Only A Northern Song ~ Game of Thrones / Willas Tyrell ~
Fanfiction"I cannot sing for you. You want me to sing you the songs of the south, where the pretty ladies fall in love with the brave knights and all is well with the world. I don't know those songs. I only know Northern songs, about winter and wolves, and yo...
