Winter was coming. The damned Stark’s were right about that much.

The Dreadfort was bathed in a thick fall of snow, painting the towers and the cobblestone white, for a time, before men trudged through and corrupted its pale glory. The air was bitter—colder than Ramsay had anticipated. He had lived through a winter before, but this one felt thicker, stronger; more inclined to entice a slow, painful death. Men would freeze in their homes, women would smother their children, darkness would prevail and soak the world in an inky blackness. He pitied those trapped outside the walls, forced to dwell without the comfort of a hearth or a roast - oh wait.

No he didn't.

The bastard of Lord Bolton craned his head back as Reek stood over head, blade poised taut against his cheek, carefully scraping away the coarse hairs that peppered his jaw. It was hard to believe the pitiful boy before him had once been Theon Greyjoy. Heir to the Iron Islands. It didn't matter now, of course. Now that he was nothing. A cockless infidel. A husk of a human being.

“Reek?” Ramsay drawled, looking up at the twitching male, if you could even call him that now, with hooded eyes.

“Yes, my lord?” The blade drifted lower, dragging over the bastard’s exposed throat, but, despite the lad’s trembling bottom lip, his hands never faltered. He knew the consequences of nicking his master's precious skin.

“I’m to be a married man come tomorrow,” he mused, crossing his legs at the ankle.

A married man. Oh, how Myranda had raged.

He had been uncertain too, of course. Weary at the thought of wedding. He had heard stories of her kindness, and even more about her beauty.

Theon drew a damp rag across his master’s flesh, wiping away the remnants of his stubble and leaving his pale flesh smooth to the touch. Ramsay cheerfully rose, tugging at the front of his clothing and straightening away the creases.

“What do you think of that?” He hummed, moving to view himself in a body-length mirror.

“I-I’m very happy for you, my lord.”

“Good!” Ramsay chirped clapping his hands together theatrically.

Tomorrow he would take his bride as his wife, and tomorrow night he would press her into his sheets, paint her hips black and blue with the memories of his fingertips - memorize the curve of her arching spine and the contortion of her features as they twisted into agony-filled-bliss. He would make her forget her own name—she only needed remember his, after all.

“I might pay my betrothed a visit. They say it’s bad luck to see the bride before her wedding but. I’ve never been terribly superstitious,” he rambled, tugging at his sleeves before turning to approach the door to his solar. Shortly, before grasping the handle, the dark-haired man paused, cobalt eyes narrowing darkly as his lips twisted into a snide smirk. “Perhaps, if you’re good, I’ll let you sit in the corner during the bedding?”

The broken man averted his eyes, staring at the cobblestone floor in silence, trembling.

“You’re right,” Ramsay chuckled, even though Reek hadn’t uttered a word. “I’m a terribly possessive man. I don’t like sharing my toys.” With that, he stepped into the hall, the slamming of the door echoing long after he was gone.