Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1054449.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Ramsay_Bolton/Theon_Greyjoy
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Abuse, Strapping, Sexual_Abuse, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Blow
      Jobs, Facials, Hair-pulling, Dubious_Consent, Threats, Power_Imbalance,
      Discipline, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Whipping, Spanking
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-22 Words: 2004
****** Sea Bitch ******
by ThramsayLand
Summary
     Written for the Bolton Fic Exchange!
     Theon is sent to foster at the Dreadfort instead of Winterfell after
     his father rebels. At first, Lord Bolton's bastard son is unimpressed
     and uninterested, but soon discovers some uses for the little
     lordling - not to mention how much he ends up enjoying disciplining
     him.
The Lord of the Dreadfort walked at a brisk pace, paying no mind as to whether
the boy was keeping up. Theon Greyjoy followed behind as quickly as he could,
tripping over his feet as he struggled to keep up while swiveling his head to
take in the new and overwhelming surroundings.
“Eddard Stark has charged me with your care, boy,” Roose Bolton began to speak
without slowing his pace or turning his head to acknowledge Theon. “The Starks
are soft, and Ned Stark would have me shield you from the truth of this
arrangement until you are older, but we both know why you are here.”
Lord Bolton stopped suddenly, and Theon, who had been warily eyeing yet another
flayed man sigil to his right, almost ran into the man’s back. He stopped
himself short, stumbling clumsily. Lord Bolton turned to study him with those
piercing, colorless eyes. Theon swallowed a dry lump in his throat.
“Yes, my lord.” Lord Bolton raised his eyebrows expectantly and Theon dropped
his gaze and murmured, “If my father rebels, you’ll send him my head.”
“Smart boy,” there was no warmth in Lord Bolton’s voice. “Now, I don’t have the
time or patience to take large part in your upbringing. Thankfully,” he chewed
on the word with a hint of distaste, “my natural born son, Ramsay, has recently
taken up residence at the Dreadfort. He is still young, but already a man
grown, and will take primary responsibility for you.”
Theon was not sure how to respond or if he was even expected to respond, so he
merely nodded his head.
“Ramsay is,” he paused, sighing heavily, “unusual. I was once young and
foolish,” he sniffed, “Should have never permitted his whore mother to raise
him. Ramsay may be a bastard with bad blood, but he is still my son, and
therefore surely suited to the task of overseeing you.” Theon cringed when Lord
Bolton reached forward and took his chin tightly between cold, slender fingers,
forcing the boy to stare directly into those pale, dead eyes. “Obey my son as
you would me.”
Theon met Ramsay Bolton later that very day. Lord Bolton’s bastard son could
not have seen more than fourteen namedays. He was of average build, but soft,
with slick, stringy dark hair that touched his shoulders.
“What am I to do with the whelp?” He sneered at Theon, “Everyone knows Krakens
are wild and unruly. What if he gets into trouble?”
Lord Bolton sighed, looking bored. “Then you discipline him. I’m leaving his
instruction to you. Do not make me regret it.”
Ramsay’s pink, spotted face contorted hideously as his thick lips twisted into
a cruel smile. “Of course, father. I understand.”
The smile sent a wave of coldness down Theon’s spine. Fortunately, the bastard
of the Dreadfort, as Theon heard servants mutter behind his back, mostly
ignored Theon for some time. Theon had lessons with the maester and practiced
sparring with other children his age under the master at arms. Ramsay spent
most of his days somewhere off with his smelly servant, Reek, of whom he had
unnecessarily reminded Theon several times was his servant and not Theon’s.
It therefore came as a surprise when one day, just over a year after Theon had
come to stay at the Dreadfort, Ramsay marched up to him and roughly cuffed him
against the ear. Theon, who had been concentrating on stringing a bow, looked
up in dazed shock, blinking stupidly with his mouth gaping.
“You’ll come with me,” Ramsay snarled. “Now.”
When Theon did not move immediately, Ramsay grabbed him by the hair and began
to drag him across the yard. Theon yelped in pain, tears stinging his eyes as
he stumbled and struggled to keep up with Ramsay’s longer strides. Few people
even looked up at the fuss. Nobody gave a damn what the bastard and the Greyjoy
hostage were doing. Both were nothing more than a nuisance to most Dreadfort
residents.
Ramsay shoved Theon into the armory, slamming the door behind him.
“Take down your pants and bend over that bench,” Ramsay nodded towards the
plank of wood and began to unbuckle his own belt.
The implication of Ramsay’s instructions and actions were not foreign to Theon,
who had suffered many a thrashing on Pyke. However, while his upbringing thus
far had been harsh, he had never been beaten for no reason.
“B-but I haven’t done anything!” he squeaked, his voice coming out
embarrassingly high in his indignation and panic.
“You lying little cunt!” Ramsay spat at him. “My father knows you’re the one
who almost burned down the kitchens last night.”
Theon furrowed his brow, confused. He racked his brain, but he had no memory of
even being near the kitchens in at least a fortnight. He shook his head.
“It wasn’t me, I – ”
The curl of Ramsay’s lip was the only warning before Theon was backhanded
across the face so hard he fell to the ground, ears ringing.
“We know you did it, you little shit, there’s no use denying it!”
Theon crouched on all fours, instinctively lowering his head. Ramsay jerked his
belt through its loops, pulling it off and folding it in half. He snapped it
menacingly and scowled down at Theon.
“I thought I told you to take off your pants and bend over that bench,” his
voice was quieter and yet somehow far more frightening than when he was
shouting.
Theon scrambled to obey, not wanting to give the older boy another excuse to
hit him about the head. There was clearly no reasoning with the bastard, and he
hoped that cooperation would speed things along. He quickly unlaced his
breeches and pushed them down to his knees before bending forward and resting
his elbows on the workbench. He closed his eyes and braced himself, confident
that he could take a beating from this bastard. Surely it wouldn’t be as bad as
those his father or brothers had dished out.
He startled when he felt Ramsay’s presence close by. The bastard pushed Theon’s
tunic up to his shoulders, and Theon squirmed at the touch. Then, Ramsay
reached his fingers into the back of his smallclothes and began to tug them
down his hips. Theon tensed, squeezing his thighs together in an attempt to
preserve modesty.
Ramsay smacked his now bare arse hard once – twice – three times. Theon bucked
and gasped.
“Stop that! Be still and cooperate,” Ramsay warned, yanking Theon’s
smallclothes down to join his breeches. Theon heard the thin fabric rip and
tear in the process. Ramsay kept tugging until all of the clothing was bunched
around his ankles. “All the way off -" he demanded, "Pick up your feet!”
Theon reluctantly obeyed, permitting Ramsay to peel away his last shred of
protection and dignity. His instinct was to press his legs together, but Ramsay
would not allow it. The bastard’s boots kicked at his ankles until he spread
his legs apart. He stood there exposed, shivering in anticipation,
gooseprickles rising on his naked skin, his arse still stinging slightly from
where Ramsay had already struck him.
“Don’t move,” Ramsay said.
He took a step back before he let the belt fly, snapping it hard across Theon’s
bare cheeks. Theon struggled to keep his legs spread and to stay relatively
still while Ramsay lit into him. The leather cracked loudly against his flesh
again and again. The lashes were unpracticed, causing the edge of the belt to
welt and cut, drawing forth tiny droplets of blood. It felt as though his skin
was being stripped from his backside. In his effort to be still, Theon cried
out as the intensity of the pain grew to unbearable levels.
Ramsay laughed, “You wail like a bitch, Greyjoy. Like a sea bitch!” He snorted
at his own perceived cleverness.
He brought the belt down wildly, the tip stinging the tender place between
Theon’s cheeks and coming dangerously close to striking the small sack hanging
between his legs.
“Keep those legs apart, sea bitch!” Ramsay warned when Theon jerked and tried
to squeeze himself together in response to the painful blows.
Theon whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he obeyed with trembling
legs, and Ramsay gave him several more sharp lashes before finally stopping.
Even over the sound of his own sniffs and sobs, he could hear the bastard’s
breath behind him, thick and heaving.
Theon’s backside throbbed. This thrashing had been so different from those on
Pyke. This had been humiliating, long, and methodical. He desperately wanted to
reach back and rub at his scalded tail, but he dare not move with the bastard
still hovering threateningly behind him.
Ramsay reached out and let his fingers dance along the fresh welts before
cupping Theon’s bottom and giving it a squeeze. He trailed a finger down the
cleft of Theon’s arse, and Theon squirmed, twisting in a desperate attempt to
escape the horrible, intrusive, intimate touches.
“Stop, please!” Theon begged.
Ramsay grabbed a fistful of Theon’s hair and pressed his head down, crushing
his face against the wood of the table.
“Be still!” Ramsay bent over his back, his breath tickling Theon’s nape. He
gave the burning flesh of his arse another squeeze, and then shoved off of him,
backing away and leaving Theon trembling.
Theon waited for what felt like ages before taking the risk to turn his head
and look. Ramsay stood staring at Theon’s abused backside, idly palming at the
front of his breeches. In his free hand, he held Theon’s pants and
smallclothes. Theon eyed them hopefully, wanting nothing more than to be
dressed again.
Ramsay snapped out of his stupor and stopped touching himself, scowling at
Theon. “I should make you walk back to your room without them,” he said, giving
Theon’s clothing a pointed shake. "Should let everyone see just how well their
future lord deals out punishment."
Theon flushed red, terrified and embarrassed at the thought. “Please, please,
no," he whispered.
Thankfully, Ramsay tossed the clothing at Theon’s feet. “You owe me a debt,
then, sea bitch.” He turned and left Theon alone in the armory.
******
That very evening Ramsay Snow got drunk and took Theon up on his debt. He
forced the younger boy to his knees, and when Theon's bruised and aching bottom
made contact with his heels, he winced in pain. However, he was soon distracted
from the discomfort when the bastard unlaced his breeches and shoved his cock
between Theon’s lips, warning him to mind his teeth.
Theon was inexperienced and sloppy, slobbering and choking as Ramsay fucked his
mouth, but the bastard moaned in pleasure, clearly appreciating his efforts.
Ramsay gripped Theon’s hair, grunting obscenely. He pulled out suddenly, slowly
wiping the tip over Theon’s puffy lips.
“Did you know, Greyjoy,” he murmured. “I was really the one who started the
fire in the kitchens, but when my father asked me about it, I blamed you, and
he believed me! My father told me that I had to punish you, since your
discipline was my responsibility. I thought it would be a bother, but I'll tell
you what, sea bitch - it was truly my pleasure.”
He laughed cruelly and thrust into Theon’s mouth again. “Nobody would believe a
word you said anyway. You’re nothing but a hostage, remember? Your shit father
will likely rebel soon anyway, and then we’ll kill you.” He grinned. “Perhaps
my father will let me do it. I couldn’t believe it when my father agreed to
bring you here. I figured you’d be nothing more than a useless bother. Well, it
seems like I’ve found some uses for you after all, sea bitch.”
Ramsay’s thrusting increased in vigor, and he pounded into his mouth until he
gasped and stuttered, pulling out and shooting his seed onto Theon’s face. He
reached forward and smeared the milky substance across the boy’s lips. “Tastes
good, doesn’t it, sea bitch? I bet you miss the taste of salt. Don’t worry –
there's plenty more where that came from.”
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