A Need to Suffer

Falling Dominos

Chapter Eighteen

Falling Dominos

Jon inhaled and let go an exasperated sigh; his chocolate eyes regarded Ramsay drearily, “If you’re not going to work with me, Ramsay, I’ve got other matters that I must attend to.” The two had come back from their walk around the perimeter a couple hours ago to which Jon had afforded Ramsay a respite from the dungeon offering to have him work on the list Sansa had requested of him in the library. All of the Stark children had been tutored in the elaborate room of tomes as Catelyn had been an avid reader and had made sure that all her children (even their bastard, Jon, was well read.)

To take in the high ceilinged room shaped in sharp angles and divided by shelves of books on assorted topics from history to cooking again after so long would have been nostalgic had not many of the books been tossed about on the tables carelessly or left in piles stacked on the floor next to the shelves. The display looked as if the room had been rummaged through in hopes perhaps that something of importance might be found hiding within the shelves or books themselves, and upon finding nothing, they had been discarded to the side as otherwise worthless. Apparently care for books wasn’t as top of a priority for the Boltons as it had been for the Starks.

Ramsay had seemed amiable enough when Jon had informed them that they would be going somewhere other than the dungeon, but he seemed less enthused by the location upon entering the library. Ramsay took in the library as if it’d been the first time he’d seen the room; his eyes moved with bored observance across the same scene that Jon stared grimly at and whom was obviously quite dissatisfied by what his sights examined. Ramsay had never found much interest in reading; it reminded him of grueling hours with Maester Medrick, and although the old coot had painstakingly managed to teach him to read and write (not without much frustration from both sides), Ramsay had always rather have been outside doing anything else.

Academics were boring, but Roose had insisted if Ramsay were to remain at the Dreadfort he would learn to at least act like a noble when need be rather than the dirty peasant bastard that he was. The reminder that his tentative hold on any claim to nobility could be easily revoked at any moment should his father grow weary enough of him was the focus Ramsay had needed to take his studies seriously. He garnered enough knowledge to satiate his father into considering he wasn’t a complete heathen, and that in itself had been a mark in Ramsay’s favor. As far as Ramsay had been concerned, if Roose could be mollified with anything he presented to the man, it was a noteworthy accomplishment.

His studies hadn’t all been bad of course, knowing how to read and write was a mark of station and meant you were privy to information those that were uneducated just simply couldn’t grasp, and Ramsay did always like to feel intellectually above of his peers. Also, reading about the history of the Bolton family and tales of conquest alongside the horrible acts of flaying always captured Ramsay’s interest. After all, the art of war, the heraldry of your allies and enemies, and traditions were useful knowledges to obtain and exploit when you were a ruling noble. Ramsay had always seen himself becoming more than a bastard one day even though as the years had gone by, his confidence had waned and insecurities had filled his heart and mind with anger and hate that he’d never be worthy of more than a sigh of disapproval from his father.

Ramsay wasn’t sure why, but just being in this room reminded him of constant failure; it was perhaps the fact that it spoke of his personal inadequacies that he felt towards his own education (he was just passing his twelfth name day when he’d started learning such things,) and generally noble children were far better versed in academics than he had been Ramsay had quickly surmised. He’d gotten in quite a bit of trouble the day that fact had been made painfully obvious by a visiting liege and their seven year old daughter. She’d laughed at his paltry attempts at penmanship with an air of amusement as if Ramsay had been jesting with her about his own abilities. He had not, Ramsay had actually been quite proud to have mastered the alphabet in what he felt was an artful cursive then. He had been trying to impress the girl as Ramsay was rarely allowed to mingle with any nobles. The commoners of the keep had been impressed by Ramsay’s skills as none of them hardly knew how to read or write, and Ramsay’s comprehension of language seemed a marvel to them.