Chapter Text
Ramsay Snow is in a great mood. So much so, that as he strides across the Dreadforts central courtyard towards the building that houses the kennels and dungeon, he can’t help but parse his meaty lips together and whistle a jaunty tune. The notes he produces are sharp as a knife's edge, and so draw the attention of those few servants who are working outside at present. Upon seeing his lordship’s bastard son, the majority of the servants scramble to finish their tasks so that they can depart before the screaming starts. They know all too well that when Ramsay makes for the dungeons, the only music that will follow is a symphony of wails and screeches. Furthermore, the young Snow is never one to turn down the opportunity to increase his body count, so any unfortunate who crosses him now is apt to end up down there as well.
Ramsay pays no notice to the flurry of activity he inspires though, as he’s far too busy puffing up his ego by replaying the events of the morning in his mind. Earlier that day, a raven arrived bearing a message for him from his father, who is currently enroute to the Twins where he will attend the wedding of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey. The letter confirmed that Ramsay will remain castellan of the Dreadfort while Roose is gone—news he’d expected but is nonetheless happy to receive—and further details regarding an arrangement between his father and the Kingshand.
The information Ramsay received about this latter issue is still too vague for his liking. He does not appreciate being kept in the dark about Roose’s schemes, especially because so many of them now revolve around him. Still, he’s grateful to have gotten any information at all, as it signals his father is starting to warm to him again. The death of his half-brother Domeric was also the death of any good will Roose Bolton showed him, which in Ramsay’s opinion, is so unfair! He’d never laid a finger on Domeric, despite there having been plenty of times he’d wanted to. Convincing his father of that though, is a goal that remains stubbornly out of reach.
Best not worry about that now though, Ramsay tells himself. Instead he should focus on the good things in life, like the pleasures awaiting him in the cell of his favorite prisoner. Last time he’d visited had been several days ago, at which point he’d peeled the skin off Reek’s left little finger and fucked him unconscious. He’s excited to pick up where he’d left off, to see if his pet is ready for him to cut off another digit or if he needs more convincing. Either way, Ramsay knows he’s going to enjoy himself.
Having reached the L shaped building that is his destination, Ramsey reaches out an arm and places his hand against the sturdy wooden door that marks its entrance. Then he pushes it open and steps into the foyer. The room he enters is a small rectangular one made of aged stone, lit only by a couple of wall mounted touches. To the left of where he’s standing is an empty doorway that leads into the cell block that houses the dogs. Back during the heyday of the Dreadfort, these cells held the prisoners deemed less dangerous than the ones downstairs. But as time passed and the number of captives the Bolton’s took dwindled, they’d been converted into a home for the family's numerous hounds. Ramsay is glad of it too, as the kennels remain one of the happiest places in all of Westeros for him, despite their admittedly squalid conditions.
Through the open doorway, Ramsay hears Ben Bones—the kennel master—swearing whilst attending to some business in one of the dogs' cells. “Good afternoon Ben!” Ramsay shouts as he walks over to the door at the far end of the foyer.
Upon hearing Ramsay’s voice, Ben immediately stops what he’s doing and goes to greet him. The two men have an unusual relationship in that Ben is one of the few servants that isn’t completely terrified of Ramsay. This is because Ben makes a living taking care of violent temperamental animals, and so has learned a thing or two about not getting bit.
“And you as well, sir!” Ben replies, once he’s standing in the foyer. “Returning to the dungeons, are you? Going to have another chat with, ah what’s his name, Theon was it?”
The question, while not intended to be offensive, sets Ramsay on edge. “It’s Reek, actually.” he corrects, slowly. “Theon Greyjoy's dead.”
What had started as— No, joke isn’t the right word. Ramsay couldn’t remember why he’d started calling Theon Reek. What he does know is that somewhere between hunting the other man for sport and the dozen other torture sessions they’d shared, it had fallen into place. Something about the decision just felt right. After all, he’d met Theon while moonlighting as his murdered caretaker, and every moment he’d spent at Winterfell had been a little slice of Hell because of it. Now he’s returning the favor by refusing to call Theon anything but Reek, and by forcing everyone else—Theon included—to do the same.
Sensing the negative shift in Ramsay’s mood, Ben backpedals. “Ah, pardon my ignorance then, sir.” he says. “Must’ve misheard.”
“I will this once,” Ramsay replies. “But see that you remember in the future.”
“I will.”
“How are my girls?” Ramsay asks after a beat, his tone lightening.
“The girls are well, sir.” says Ben, hurriedly. Ramsay’s bitches are some of the only creatures he truly loves, and so conversations about them are usually safe. “They miss you, they miss the hunt. They want to know when you’ll go riding with Blood again so they can join.”
“Do they?” Ramsay replies with a laugh. “Well, tell them it will be soon. I’ve just received word from my father that I am to remain castellan of the Dreadfort while he is gone, and may feel like celebrating later.”
“That’s excellent news, sir.” says Ben. “I’ll let the ladies know at once, I’m sure they’ll be excited and happy for you.”
“Oh stop!” says Ramsay, chuckling again. “You and I both know it’s the treats they're after!” Ben laughs as well, and for a moment, the two men experience something that could be friendship— if you squint.
“Right, Ben,” says Ramsay, once they’ve finished. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine, sir.” Ben replies. “Give Reek my regards.”
“Ha!” Ramsay cries, tickled by the idea that anyone wants to tell Reek anything. “I will.”
With that, Ramsay steps forward and pushes open the door that conceals the stairway. Like the room he’s just exited, its walls and floor are made of stone, unlike it though it isn’t lit by touches. The room's only light source comes from the opening in the floor that’s set against the back wall, marking the top of the stairs. From this hole emanates a flickering red-orange glow, a light that’s caused by the wall sconces below, that makes the mouth of the stairs look like the gate of the Seven Hells.
Ramsay strides over to this opening and begins his descent. As he does he starts to whistle again, the confined echoing space making the notes all the more piercing. When he reaches the foot of the stairs, he’s met with the sight of Luton, who’s sitting across the room at the beat up wooden table that functions as the dungeons guard station. Spread out on the table before him, is a game of solitaire and a large pile of nuts, one of which he’s currently selling. Ramsay stops whistling long enough to greet him, then resumes while Luton rises from his seat and goes to unlock the door to the cell block. Once this is done, Ramsay moves over to join him, and the two men enter the prison.
Together they walk down the long skinny hallway that runs between the left and right cell blocks. Midway down the hall, they stop in front of one of the wooden doors that lead into a cell. The door is as nondescript as all the others, made of a thick dark wood, set with iron hardware. But this one is specialer than all the rest—Ramsay thinks giddily, while Luton fishes for the key—-because this one belongs to Reek! Key now in hand, Luton reaches out and inserts it into the doors lock. The bolt moves back with an audible clunk that sends shivers running down Ramsay’s spine. Gods he’s missed this!
“Enjoy.” says Luton, as Ramsay reaches out and pulls open the door.
“I always do!” he chirps back, stepping into the cell.
The door swings shut behind him with a heavy thud, followed by the sound of Luton redoing the lock. The only light in the cell comes in from the crack under the door, so the first thing Ramsay does is move around relighting the various candle stubs. When that’s done, he takes a moment to inspect the space, his eyes searching the gloom for any notable changes.
Early on in his captivity, when Reek was still learning manners, his pet tried to attack him a few times with different objects. Nothing had come from these desperate, and frankly pathetic, escape attempts— other than Reek getting whipped of course. Ramsay is a large, sturdy man, well accustomed to taking a hit, and as such rarely worries about being overpowered. This doesn’t prevent him from being cautious though, because if Reek did somehow manage to get out, it would be a hassle to deal with. Once he’s satisfied that the table by the door still has all its legs, and no rocks have been pried out of the walls, Ramsay allows his gaze to settle on the large pile of hay situated in the far left corner. The hay pile, as if sensing its tormentor’s stare, begins to quiver noticeably.
“Good afternoon, Reek!” he exclaims, joyfully.
Instead of responding the way it’d been trained, the hay pile lets out a single pained groan.
“Starting off on a bad foot are we?” Ramsay mutters to himself. Well fine, he could work with that.
Moving with a surprising amount of stealth for a man his size, Ramsey stalks over to the hay pile and squats down next to it, an act which causes his large belly to strain uncomfortably against the fabric of his doublet. I’m going to beat you twice as long for making me do this, he thinks, at the same moment he reaches out a hand and stuffs it into the pile. Underneath the filthy fetid straw that functions as Reeks bed, Ramsay's hand brushes up against an emaciated hip. The physical contact causes Reek to begin to wriggle around more urgently, as if doing so could save him.
After another second or two of groping, Ramsay finds what he’s looking for, an ankle. His fingers close around the boney limb like a manacle, encircling it entirely, then he heaves himself out of his squat, pulling Reek up along with him. Being so violently pulled from bed and flipped upside down causes Reek to let out a frightened squawk. Ramsay ignores this, turns, and moves towards the center of the room, dragging the struggling man after him the way a child might carry a blanket. Once there, he releases the hold he has on Reeks foot, sending him crashing to the ground.
“I said, good afternoon Reek!”
Groaning, Reek slowly sits up from his prone position, and maneuvers himself so that he’s sitting at his master's feet. “Good afternoon, master.” he says then, his eyes downcast, voice empty. “Have you need of me?”
“Seven above,” replies Ramsay, irritably. Although in truth, he’s incredibly pleased to be correcting his pet. It’s a lot less fun when Reek doesn’t fight back. “You make it seem so hard! You're responding to a greeting, Reek, not getting your teeth pulled out!”
To further punctuate his message, Ramsay reaches out and grabs Reek’s chin. He digs his fingers into the gaunt skin of his cheeks, making his lips bulge out in a fishy pout. “Let's have some enthusiasm, yeah!”
“Good afternoon, Master!” Theon cries after Ramsay releases him, his lips pulling back into a pained grimace that perfectly displays the holes in his smile. Beautiful, Ramsay thinks, he loves getting to admire his old work. “Have you need of me?”
“There we go! That’s the spirit!” Ramsay says, clapping with delight. When he’s finished he adds. “No, Reek, I haven’t need of you. But you certainly have need of me. Did you give any more thought to the condition of your finger?”
“I don’t want you to take it!” his pet stammers back. “Not yet!”
Fuck me, Ramsay thinks then. Something about the way Reek sounds has all his blood rushing to his dick. And the little ‘Not yet!’ at the end? The fact that he knows his body is Ramsay’s to use, he just wants some more time— perfect! Ramsay squats down again so that he’s at eye level with Reek, making his stomach bulge. This time however, the feeling of his clothes straining against his gut doesn’t bother him. No, he’s too busy fondling himself through his breeches to care.
The motion of his hand against the outline of his clothed cock doesn’t escape Theon’s notice. The terrified man stares in wide eyed horror at the display taking place before him. He’s seen such things before of course, and has experience worse—knows that by the end of this meeting he’ll likely be raped again. When alone in his cell, he’s spent an untold number of hours, praying, begging, and pleading to every God he knows—old and new—to put a stop to it. To save him!
None have intervened.
“Really? Are you sure?” replies Ramsay, hungrily.
He releases the hold he has on his manhood and reaches out to grab Reeks left arm. Theon, being distracted by fear and despair, is slow to respond. Too late, he tries to pull away, but by that point Ramsay has got a hold of him. Using his superior strength, Ramsay easily wrenches his arm away from his body, repositioning it so that his injured left hand is outstretched between them.
This close, Ramsay sees that the strips of cloth covering Reeks flayed little finger are caked in dried blood. Hm. He’ll have to have words with the Maester later. That idiot coward knows better than to wait too long to attend to Reeks' needs. Especially after he’s explained, more than once, that his training schedule gets disrupted if his pets wounds go untreated.
That’s a problem for later though, right now Ramsay focuses on wrapping his chubby fingers around Reek’s near skeletal ones, and squeezing down, hard. The action causes the delicate finger bones of Reeks hand to be ground against one another in his grip, further irritating the raw muscle Ramsay knows is hidden under the bandages. The scream Reek unleashes then is a beautiful thing, loud and long, that makes Ramsay’s cock twitch. He knows his pet can do better though, has heard for himself the gorgeous variation of wails and sobs that burst from his lips when he’s under the knife, and is eager to reproduce them.
“But it must be hurting you terribly.” he mocks, as the last echoing notes of the other man's pain fade away. “Here, let me take a look!”
“Ramsay!—- Shit! Master! Wai—!” Theon shouts.
Before he’s finished uttering the syllables, Ramsay’s already adjusted his grip, so that he has access to the cloth protecting the wound. After absorbing so much blood, the bandages around Reek’s flayed finger have dried into a stiff brown casing. Ramsay grabs hold of this outer shell and yanks it off his pet with a single fluid motion, destroying the thin clotting membrane Reeks body created around the injury.
Pain hits Theon's nervous system with the impact force of a marble block launched by a trebuchet. One moment he’s sitting upright shouting, the next he’s staring up at Ramsay’s pudgy grinning face from where he landed when he fainted. Then another shockwave of agony rolls through him, whiting out his vision, and causing what little dinner he’d choke down last night to begin climbing back up his throat. It takes all of Reeks strength to turn his head, so that when he vomits a second later, the grey half digested chunks of gruel don’t choke him.
“Please!” he wails in between dry heaves. “Stop!”
“Oh, it looks like it needs to be cleaned.” Ramsay replies gleefully.
He’s managed to hang onto Reek’s injured hand despite all his thrashing, and is now staring at his flayed digit with sick fascination. Removal of the bandages has caused tiny red droplets of blood to well up from the exposed muscle, droplets which are now running down the back and sides of Reeks hand like crimson tears. Enticed by this, Ramsay yanks his appendage closer to his mouth and begins to lap at the blood with the flat of his tongue.
Theon lets out a revolted sob and begins to cry, his welling tears causing his vision to blur. It’s for this reason, he misses the moment Ramsay’s free hand reaches down into the pocket of his breeches, and pulls forth half a lemon from within. The young Snow made sure to stop by the kitchens earlier so he could pick out the fruit himself and watch the cook, who was oblivious to its intended purpose, cut it.
“You know what the perfect thing for cleaning wounds is?” Ramsay asks around a swallow of blood, his head shifting so that he can look Reek in the eye. “Lemon juice!”
As he says this, he raises the fruit up for Reek to see. The sight of the lemon's glistening pulpy center causes something to snap within Theon’s brain. Ramsay might like to degrade him by calling him slow, but already his mind has put two and two together. One squeeze of those meaty fingers, and boom, lemon gone. Obliterated into a rindy pulp mess, while its acidic juices splatter against the exposed muscle of his figure. The pain would be unimaginable, truly, even after all of the things that he’s experienced down here, he thinks that he would just die. His body pushed past limits it was never meant to.
His only option, if he wants to survive, is to fight back. “You fucking monster!” Theon howls then. “Let go! Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t touch me! I’ll kill you!”
As he says this, Theon draws his boney knees up against his chest and shoves out, striking Ramsay in the knees. This change in position, and the surprise he feels at being struck, gives him the leverage he needs to pull his blood slicked hand out of Ramsay’s grasp. The force he’s using to pull himself free causes him to fall backwards onto the stone flood of the dungeon. Quickly, Theon rolls over onto his side, and starts to push himself up again with his good arm. His bad hand held against his chest, smearing blood against his bare chest in bright red blotches.
Ramsay lunges forward before his pet can fully rise to his feet and tackles him, the mass of his belly driving him into the stone ground of the dungeon, knocking the air from his lungs. While Theon struggles to regain his breath, Ramsay pulls himself up off him enough so that he can turn him back onto his front. Then he sits back down, his thighs straddling Theon's hips. Despite being pinned beneath Ramsay’s immovable bulk, Theon continues to trash and curse, spitting the words at Ramsay with the wounded fury of an animal whose legs have been caught in a trap.
“You pig fucking whoreson! Get off of me! Get off! Let me go! I’ll kill you fuck—”
“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” says Ramsay, mildly, leaning forward to cover Reek’s mouth with his hand. Reek then bites into the meat of his palm with a savagery that’s surprising for a creature who’s lost so many teeth.
Ramsay lets out a pained grunt, and fixes Reek with a glare. “Alright, now you're really starting to get on my nerves, Hold still Gods damn it! I’ve gotta find that lemon.”
With the weight of his stomach holding Reek in place, Ramsay searches the dungeon floor around them for the piece of fruit he dropped during their struggle. After a couple seconds he finds it, a little squared and dirty, but ultimately still usable. Beneath him, Reek’s begun to quietly sob, all of the fight exiting his body as quickly as it arrived.
“I fucking hate you!” he spits, when Ramsay removes his palm.
“Yeah, what else is new?” says Ramsay, then he takes the lemon and squashes it directly over Reek’s hand.
The effect is instantaneous: the second the lemon juice reaches his finger muscles, Reek throws his head back against the dungeon floor, opens his mouth wide, and produces a sound of pain yet unnamed by human language. To call it a scream would be to diminish its scope, as the noise comes from the depth of his soul, the very center of his being. Its waves seem to ripple out across time, permeating and transforming his memories, until his entire life becomes this howl of anguish. At the same time, his muscles begin to spasm uncontrollably, his bladder releases, and finally, mercifully, he passes out. Unconsciousness being the only way his body can protect him from the horror.
******
When Theon regains consciousness sometime later, the first thing he becomes aware of is the sensation of Ramsay grinding his erection into the piss soaked fabric of his pants. At first he tries to ignore it, tries to focus instead on the searing pain in his figure, the back of his eyelids, his breathing—anything besides what the other man is doing to him. Eventually though, the grunting sounds of pleasure Ramsay makes prove too much and he breaks, releasing a palliative whimper from his scream raw throat.
Without missing a beat, Ramsay says. “You like that puppy?” in a voice horse with lust.
“No!” he croaks back. “Stop it! Get off!”
“I’m trying too!” Ramsay snarks, punctuating the statement with a particularly harsh thrust.
“Not you!” Theon cries. “My hand— Fuck! It hurts!”
He opens his eyes then, and sees that the other man is still straddling his waist, a position that causes Ramsay’s ample gut to be pressed into Theon's torso, pinning him to the dungeon floor. With great difficulty, Theon frees his right arm from where it’s tapped at his side, and jabs it into the velvet covered flesh mass that is Ramsay’s stomach. His attempt at self defense only spurs Ramsay to lean forward, bringing his face a mere inch away from Theon’s own. Pale blue eyes—the same cruel color as winter stars—peer out at him through a curtain of black hair, considering.
“Does it really?” Ramsay says then, his lips twisting into a parody of a smile. “I’m sorry, I must’ve gotten confused earlier. Lemon juice doesn’t clean cuts, salt does!”
Theon swallows down a scream. Gods, now he’s done it! Why can’t he just be good? Why does he always have to push his luck and bring more misery down upon himself? He’s acting like a helpless child, the same way he did when he first arrived at Winterfell— No fuck that, even though he was their hostage, the Starks never raped or mutilated him! They still thought of him as a prince, no, a person, and treated him accordingly.
Not like Ramsay, who thinks he’s lower than a dog, and is hell bent on stripping him of everything he has. His skin, his name, his title, family— If Theon doesn’t stop him, the bastard will peel away every layer of his identity, leaving nothing but the raw red insides. He can’t let that happen! No matter what Ramsay says to him, does to him, he’s still a prince! No an Iornborn! For fuck sake, what would his father say if he saw him beg like this? What would Asha? Would they even care? Would they save him?
Would anybody?
“Bastard!” Theon snarls at Ramsay. It’s not the most creative comeback, but it’s the best thing he can come up with given the circumstances.
He regrets saying it almost immediately though, as his close proximity to Ramsay allows him to feel the way the other man's muscles stiffen with tension at the sound of the word. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! he thinks. Why did I do that? Seven save me! Drowned God protect me! I’m not ready to die, not yet, I—
“What was that mutt?” Ramsay asks, slowly. “I couldn’t hear you?”
“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” Theon shouts, spiting the part of himself that wants to cringe away, to cower. “Ramsay Snow’s a fucking Bastard!”
He would have said more and worse, but by the time he’s screamed the last curse, Ramsay’s hands have wrapped around his throat, and are squeezing, squeezing! His fingernails boring into the delicate muscles of his neck that same way they broke through the lemon rind earlier.
“Shut the fuck up!” his attacker bellows, as Theon vision darkens for the third time in so many minutes. “You think you're better than me? Because he picked you? You're nothing to him! Nothing! He doesn’t love you, Domeric! He’s using you! If he couldn’t do that— If you’d slid out of a Millers gash, he would’ve left you to die with that thing just like me! You got lucky! You should be grateful Dom— Thee— Fuck!”
Lost in his fury, Ramsay sees the man before as every man he’s ever been unfairly compared to. Every whinging, pathetic, lordling, cuck that ever dared look down on him, most especially the older half brother he so despised— and loved. Yes, Ramsay had loved Domeric as well.
It was hard not to, he was everything Ramsay wasn’t, or so said their father. Domeric was warm, kind, funny, attractive, legitimate, etc. To make matters worse, after Domeric had learned of Ramsay's existence, he’d immediately embraced him as the little brother he’d always wanted but never had. Insisting that Ramsay come live with him at the Dreadfort in order to make up for lost time, despite the numerous protests of their father. The pair became inseparable, Domeric wanting to show him all the best hunting spots, his favorite swimming hole, the kennels…
It was awful. Ramsay had wanted to hate him, did hate him for everything he had that Ramsay didn’t. It just wasn’t fair! Why should he get a mother who loved him, that didn’t view him as a constant reminder of the worst thing that ever happened to her? Why should he be raised by Roose and not a smelly corpse fucking monster? Why should he get the money, the title, the estate, the power, the tutors, the looks! Why, Why, Why?
And yet, in the face of having a brother who truly loved him—not always perfectly, but still—all of Ramsay’s hatred and envy and hurt had begun to soften. If only it could have lasted, he thinks then, his grip slackening. Oh Dom, why’d you have to go and leave me?
Sitting back on his heels, Ramsay releases his captives neck and watches silently as the other man returns from the brink of unconsciousness. Once he’s fully awake again, his pet props himself up with his left elbow, and begins coughing and rubbing at his throat with his uninjured hand. Even in the low light of the dungeon cell, Ramsay can see the ring of dusky purple bruises that’s starting to take shape around the other man's neck. The sight fills him with a deep satisfaction, even as he remains infuriated by his pets terrible behavior.
“You know,” Ramsay says after a beat. “I'm only trying to help you.”
“The fuck you are!” replies Theon, hoarsely. “May the others take you Ramsay, to all seven hells!”
Sigh. “If you want me to stop, you know what you need to do.” rejoins Ramsay.
“You can’t have it!” Theon snarls back, moving his flayed hand closer to his side. “I won’t let you!”
That makes Ramsay laugh. “You say that now,” he adds when he’s finished. “But you and I both know that by the time an hour’s passed, you’ll beg me to cut it off, just like you did with all the others. Now, if you were a smart dog, you’d have let me do it when I first walked in here and saved yourself the grief. But that dumb bitch brain of yours still hasn’t accepted your place.”
When his pet offers no reply, he continues. “You're not a prince, you’re not even a person. You're my Reek. It rhymes with freak, remember? Don’t tell me you forgot the song…”
“Fuck you and your bloody song!” the other man shouts. “That’s not my name! I’m Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon and Alannys. Brother of Asha. Prince of the Iron Islands. Nothing you do will ever change that!”
“Really?” says Ramsay, amused. “Is that what you tell yourself? Seems you're a little out of the loop.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” asks Theon warily.
“I shouldn’t say…” Ramsay replies, playing coy.
“Ramsay please!”
“You're not going to like it.”
“Tell me!”
“Well since you asked so nicely,” taunts the bastard. “Your father’s dead!”
“What?” says Theon.
Ramsay ignores him. “He took a little tumble off a bridge one night, slipped on a puddle I believe.”
“You're lying!” Theon cries.
“Now one of your uncles sits the Seastone Chair.” Ramsay continues. “I forget which one though, all Iornborn names sound alike to me… ”
A horrible droning noise, similar to the one made by the large black flies that swarm his chamber pot, fills Theon’s head. Ramsay’s lying, he has to be! Theon’s father can’t be dead! Not before he proves— but that would explain why he hasn’t sent for him. And isn’t it better this way? If Lord Baylons dead, that means he didn’t abandon— No, no, he’s not dead! He’s just busy with the war! Someone will come to ransom him, Asha will— No idiot, Asha hates us! But she’d still come wouldn’t she? She’d have to, because—
“But I’m his heir!” Theon protests feebly. “They can’t just replace me!”
“Oh but they can,” says Ramsay, leaning forward again, so he can better see his pet's agony. “Because you're nothing to them. Nothing. How could you be? You're just an old war hostage who should’ve died years ago, so your Lord father could finally slip the Stark’s collar. That’s the only way you’d have been useful to him. But you couldn’t even handle that much, could you? It’s no wonder your sister left you to die at Winterfell. She must’ve already realized what a failure of an Iornborn you are, not to mention a turncloak, childkiller, and faggot!”
He’s right, Theon realizes. How many times has he thought those exact things sitting down here in the dark? Or begged the Gods to end him, to spare him from this pain? He’s not fit to live! He’s weak, an embarrassment! It’s no wonder father let him get taken, Baylon must have known from the start he wasn’t unfit to rule. And the Starks, they knew it too, it’s why he’d always been left out in the cold with John and the other cur’s. All his life he’s been fighting against it, and what has it gotten him? A month sleeping in Ned Stark's bed, pretending to be Lord of Winterfell. HA! He should just let Ramsay take the finger. Why not? In the face of everything he’s already lost, what does it matter if he loses another little piece of his body?
“Fine,” says Theon. “Do it. Take my finger.”
“Good boy.” replies Ramsay cheerfully, before leaning in to plant a moist kiss on his forehead.
Theon grimaces at the sensation of those meaty lips brushing against his forehead, but says nothing. When Ramsay pulls away from him again, he slowly extends his injured left hand out towards his torturer. Ramsay takes the limb gently in his own hand, and positions it so that it’s splayed out flat on the prison floor palm side down. He then reaches at his side to grab the hilt of his blade, which he unsheathes.
The knife in question—which never leaves his person—was bestowed to him by Domeric shortly before his death. A family heirloom, the blade is a part of a set of three other weapons, each of which sports a handle made from human bone. Of these three, Ramsay favors the flaying knife, with its long thin blade made for separating skin from muscle. More than this though, he treasures the knife as a symbol of connection to his family. For by giving him the knife, Domeric had publicly declared his belief that Ramsay was a true Bolten, regardless of his origins.
While Ramsay moves his knife over to rest against the exposed meat of Theon’s finger, the latter man lays down fully and closes his eyes in an attempt to get more comfortable. The sensation of the blade's cool metal edge against his flayed digit is oddly soothing to him, as it promises an end to the constant throbbing pain he feels because of it. Experience has taught him though, that the relief that comes from having his skinned limbs removed is temporary, as it’s immediately replaced with the pain that follows amputation.
“Are you ready?” asks Ramsay excitedly. “I’m going to begin sawing on three. One, Two,---”
The first slashing cut happens before three, as Theon knew it would. Ramsay always pulls that trick, despite the fact that Theon is well used to it by now. The ugly sinking feeling that accompanies the knife as it penetrates deeper and deeper into Theon’s muscle and bone, sends a flash of pain coursing up his arm. Theon does his best to focus his attention on this, and not the renewed hardness between Ramsay’s legs. It’ll be over soon, he tells himself.
It has to be, Right?