Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/763946.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Character:
      Ramsay_Bolton, Reek_(ASoIaF)
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-16 Words: 2122
****** Corruption ******
by gameboysandsextoys
Summary
     When Ramsay first received Reek as a present from his Lord Father, he
     was unsure of how to take the strange, horrendously smelling man. He
     soon grew to understand that a number of vile lessons could be
     learned. Including melding the sport of the hunt with his wild sex
     drive.
"Reek is a gift! From your Lord Father." Ramsay recalled the way in which his
mother chirped, nearly bursting at the seams with pride. The man that lurked
beside her smelt of dog shit and stale vomit; the boy only gave him a curdled
frown. Greasy threads of hair hung limply across his forehead as the stranger
idled in the mud. Torn rags covered his hunched form, his mouth was a
collection of brown and rotting teeth, and his eyes were dark and wild. "He
smells." Ramsay chided and folded his arms across his chest, his mop of dark
eyes falling over to shadow his queerly pale eyes. The eyes of his father. An
open handed slap was dealt across his cheek for his retort, his lack of
gratitude. "This is just the beginning, Ramsay." The woman spoke in a hushed
voice, stern disapproval in her dull green eyes. "Perhaps one day you shall
live in the Dreadfort, the very castle, thanks to all I've done for you." She
jutted a knobby finger dramatically in his face, to which he recoiled slightly.
A muted rage writhed in his belly as he watched her, and red blossomed slowly
across the side of his face from where he had been slapped. Reek stood there,
ever silent, though his focus was intent on Ramsay. The boy misliked it. "Yes
mother." He added meekly as he wiped rainwater from his forehead. Somehow
content with his redemption, his mother trudged off toward their ramshackle
farm house, slamming the flimsy door against its frame as she went.

His pale gaze lingered on the muddy footprints that rounded the yard, pig and
goat and chicken. It squelched as he nervously shifted his weight from leg to
the other, lingering while he waited for Reek to say something. When he didn't,
Ramsay forced himself to equal his intrusive gaze and snorted, "So why are you
here? Are you a fool? An arms master? Why would my father send me you?" Reek
smacked his lips, a crooked smile forming there. "Milord, I am here to teach
you everything you need to know." Dumbfounded, Ramsay blinked slowly, he had
never been called a Lord before. The title swelled in his chest until a smirk
slithered onto his wormy lips. I quite like the sound of that, he considered to
himself for a long moment before serving Reek with a sharp nod. The day was
dreary, grey clouds hung low in the sky, and even while outdoors, one felt
stifled and claustrophobic. Rain had poured that morning, leaving the farmhouse
slumped in the mud while the animals huddled in the leaking barn for warmth. It
may have still been summer, but the North was ever cold. Reek started forward,
a knowing smile done up on his face as he depleted the space between them. The
smell was atrocious, but Ramsay kept his eyes upward defiant, he was a hard-
willed child, that much was clear. Reek's blackened fingertips looped about his
broad chin and jerked his head upward, "Listen to me, and you will achieve
everything you've ever wanted." His pale eyes were still, stern against the
contrasting set before he shoved the man away. He was no more than eight.

As the months passed, the duo became more and more inseparable. Reek took
pleasure in molding young Ramsay, whispering cruel inklings in his ear, to
which his untamable rage took hold. He become an angry boy, violent, and cruel.
He began lashing out as his mother, and igniting physical gripes between them.
But as the anger welled ever more vehemently in his chest with every passing
day, Reek strove to relieve such stress. One morning he approached the boy with
a bow and a quiver of arrows. A cruel spark ignited in his queerly pale eyes,
his breath caught in his chest. "When do I learn to use it?" He yelped, as his
pudgy fingers grasped the fine wood, and traced the details lovingly. "Now."
Each morning, Reek would tow Ramsay into the wood alongside the farmhouse, each
day deeper, further from the babble of civilization. He practiced with still
targets, then moving ones, until finally he began to take down squirrels and
rabbits and chipmunks. With Reek's chided guidance, Ramsay learned how to peel
the flesh apart from the muscle, the dirk trembled from concentration in his
clammy grasp, yet after some months, he began to grow more accustomed to the
delicacy of it all. Ramsay began presenting his mother with the pelts of the
game he hunted and flayed, to which she showed little interest.

The years passed, and soon the influence of Reek of Ramsay and Ramsay on Reek
grew muddled. Both were violent, conniving men, though Ramsay strove to
outshine his odd companion, to earn his father's approval. "You're practically
a Lord!" Reek was chirping as they sat in a hollow of the wood, mounts grazing
idly nearby. Crickets chirped in the damp, hidden places of the brush, and a
fire crackled between them, low and red. Ramsay was poised on a log, carefully
skinning a doe, his plush lips pressed together thoughtfully. He was still a
boy, three and ten, but he felt much older, more entitled than perhaps he
should. His pale eyes didn't jump from where the edge of his knife slid beneath
the pelt, prying it from the thick meat beneath, they would eat well that
eve."And?" He prompted, uninterested in Reek's endless chatter of praise, it
was growing tiresome, even for one as self-obsessed as he. "There was once a
law where the Lord of a land claimed the bride before the groom--" Ramsay cut
him off, "I know this, Reek, my mother never fails to remind me of the terms of
my consummation." He growled lowly, eyes still unmoving from his task. "I was
trying to say, is tha' you should 'ave that same right, milord. To bed who you
will... even if it be taken by force."It was then that his hands paused,
fingers buried within the beast strewn across his lap, and Ramsay raised his
head, pale eyes squinted. "And how do you propose we go about this? It seems a
bit... unimaginative for my taste." Reek flexed his fingers, grinning with that
slimy smile of his, clearly the idea had been stewing in his mind for some
time. "Why not spend time doing two things you love, milord?" The silence that
swallowed their camp was a tense one, but all the while Ramsay's thoughts
churned, his eyes glazed and far off. "Yes, Reek, I do believe I would very
much enjoy the sport of it all."

The first woman to fall victim was a mousy thing. She had long, skinny limbs
and large hands with protruding knuckles. Her face was only slightly more
comely than the rest of her; she had crooked teeth, but a nice smile, save her
lips were closed. The tumble of frizzy hair was a shade of brown that looked
grey, and her wide doe-like eyes were a similar shade of silver. Reek had lured
her from her father's farm several miles to the East, with promises of the
finery she would receive for bedding the trueborn son of Lord Roose. She was
all a twitter, caught up in her own fantasies of being the Lady of the
Dreadfort for her to realize that he was leading her into the forest, rather
than toward the castle. When Reek pulled up his mount, she perched behind him,
the girl looked doubtfully about. "This isn't the castle, where are you
bringin' me?" Her mouth was a spitfire, which would not bode well. Reek reached
back to snag a fistful of her hair in his hand and threw her down from atop to
horse. She yelped out in pain as her body sagged against the assortment of
rocks, sticks, and pine needles beneath her. "What are you doing?" Jeyne
screamed, tears brimming in her eyes as Ramsay rode up, a smile drawn up on his
heavy features. "And who are you? You're not Domeric, you're some filthy
peasant bo--" By then Ramsay had dismounted and sauntered to where she laid,
brimming with confidence. Immediately, he laid a backhanded slap across her
face. The tears flowed steadily now, lower lip trembling, yet she she remained
silent. Jeyne cowered as Ramsay knelt down beside her, "I will be Lord of the
Dreadfort, don't you worry, sweetling. Too bad you won't be alive to see it."

The hilt of his knife was well worn, so comfortable in his grasp that it merely
felt as a deadly extension of his arm. He waved the blade it her face. "Turn
over." He had asked nicely enough, though she remained unmoving, which sent a
spark of rage blazing through his chest. Ramsay snatched a fist full of her
messy brown hair and forced her face aggressively into the mud, he was already
hard, invigorated by the what was about to unfold. His gloved fingers tore at
her skirts until her deliciously curved bottom wriggled before his face. Ramsay
fumbled to unbuckle his breeches and draw his erection forth; he wasted no time
in forcing himself into her. The delicious mixture of screams and sobs only
encouraged him to drive his hips more aggressively against hers, a wicked grin
done up on his brutish features. In a matter of minutes, he climaxed within
her, his chest heaving and Jeyne's eyes violent red from crying. Once he had
pulled his trouser back up around his waist, he turned and began cutting away
the drab, grey fabric of her dress. This resulted in more energetic wails of
anguish, but she made not move to stop him. By the time she was curled, naked
and bruised in the sot of the forest, Ramsay had remounted his steed, looking
already bored by the lull in action."Run." His voice boomed as he went to
restring his bow. "Wha-what?" Jeyne had twisted into a bit of a sitting
position, but she still looked as a crippled hatchling, fearful and dirtied. "I
told you, to run. You have an hour to get as far from this place as you can
before I start after you." By then his bow sat steady between lithe fingertips,
his pale eyes etching intrusively over her nude body. She would have called him
a lair if not for the gleam in his eyes, the feral look of anticipation that
one would expect from a hunting hound. With that, she scrambled to her feet and
took off into the brush, tears seeping from her eyes, bare feet unsteady in her
frantic attempt to escape.

Several hours later, Ramsay sat alone in a low hanging branch of a soldier
pine, legs swinging carelessly as he watched the sun set from between the army
of wood and leaf. Garish red stained his hands up to the elbow, but idly he
began to wipe them away, every last smudge of evidence, with a cloth soaked in
stream water. A song was soft on his lips as he began to hum, working silently
to clean himself while the skin of Grey Jeyne hung limply beside him, already
attracting a legion of flies. Ramsay hoped to keep it, as a trophy of his first
hunt upon two-legged prey. The rush that had swirled within his chest as his
mount thundered through the woods was unmeasured. His fingertips still trembled
from the onslaught of adrenaline to his system.Reek was off, disposing of the
corpse, so Ramsay relished in the quiet breathing of the forest all about him.
House Bolton was known for flaying their enemies alive. He repeated over and
over in his head. The pride that bloated his chest threatened to burst as he
smiled down at his dirk, marred with bright crimson. He had overtaken her in
under an hour, they could hear her sobs from practically a mile off. The first
arrow had punctured her breast, the second her belly. Blood had dribbled from
her mouth as he plucked the arrows mercilessly from the flesh. They squelched
and cracked as the bone was split, all the while she trembled, slate eyes wide
as she watched death approach with that light-footed creep of his. She was
still clutching to life as he began with her face. The knife cut so easily
between the skin and the muscle, though Ramsay found some difficulty where her
limbs narrowed and scraped the bone. Far off, Ramsay heard the lonely howl of a
wolf and tossed the crimson towel from where it was knotted in his hands. One
day father, one day I will show you I'm just the heir you always craved.
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