Run || Closed

Ramsay was thoroughly pleased with himself. The Ironborn were falling—probably because they were not used to battle upon land—and his men were infiltrating the keep so easy that it was hard to keep the broad grin off of his features. The whole area smelled of earth and blood and it sent electric-like tingles shooting across Ramsay’s skin every time he’d breath in too deeply. The sacking of Winterfell was almost too easy of a hunt and he was craving a little bit more sport out of it. What good was it for him to gather all these men and then have the lackeys of House Greyjoy buckle like this? Of course, the Ironborn had tired to side with him, had tried to hand over Winterfell to him willingly, but he had no need for men who’s loyalties would so easily be swayed.

“Search the keep for any remaining Ironborn and flush them out into the open. Keep the Ironborn heir alive for me,” he told his men as he strode into the courtyard of the Winterfell keep and took a few moments to himself to study what was his. He had become the lord of his own keep. Would this not make his father proud enough to legitimize him? To claim him officially as one of his own? Drawing in a deep breath of air, he grinned to himself as he eyes one of his men chasing after one of the Ironborn. His men were almost as bloodthirsty as he was and it was rare that they got to indulge in the most thrilling hunt of them all.

Now that he was in control, he would certainly be able to indulge himself more frequently in what pleased him the most. And, oh, would he indulge. He knew that the Stark family had its fair share of bastard children and it was said that the twin to Jon Snow was rather pretty. Ramsay had yet to see her, so he’d withhold his judgment of her until them, but he was eager to see what she’d look like. Regardless, she would be a very valuable asset to securing his place within his rightful place and within Winterfell.

---

Rosyn could barely keep herself upright on her horse, but she would be damned if she allowed herself a moments of weakness. She was kicking herself for allowing her guard down enough for those three scoundrels to get the jump on her. The bruises decorating her cheekbone and jaw stood testament of a fight well fought, as was the slowly bleeding wound at her side. Still, she still considered herself rather lucky. Rosyn couldn’t say the same for the men, who now laid in bits just off the roadside somewhere. Not only that, her pockets and saddlebags weighed a little heavier with currency now, which she’d stolen from them. All was not lost, at least if she could patch herself up well enough to not worry about dying.

A tavern to her right was far too tempting, especially with how much pain she was in. Some ale would set her right before she had to take what little thread and a needle she had and try to sew herself back up. Hitching her horse up next to a few others and making sure anything of value was on her person, she stepped into the building—though it was almost more of a hobble. The air in the building was a bit damper than it was outside of it and a few candles lit the area, as if they were expecting night to fall sometime soon. Rosyn no longer had a real grasp on time anymore, not since she left her family’s keep some years ago.

The woman walked over to the barkeep, a clenched fist pressing hard against the wound as she leaned heavily against the counter that separated them. “An ale, please. And a bottle of whatever you’ve got that strong enough to knock me out tonight,” she demanded, dropping a bag of Silver Stags onto the counter top. Soon enough, a flagon of ale was passed to her as was a bottle of some nondescript liquor she could both use to sterilize her wound and then drink herself into a stupor to actually get some rest. Nodding her thanks, the woman turned, beverages in both hands and noted a few soldiers at a nearby table taking their time in looking her over. Her black-rimmed eyes narrowed slightly in their direction, even injured she knew she could take then, before she found her way to a dark table off in a corner.

Her life, as she knew it, would be no more. Her father had been beheaded in Kings Landing two years ago and as the months dragged on, Brielle watched from Winterfell, helpless. Her mother and eldeset brother were off fighting a war she wasn't so sure that they could win - the Lannisters were far richer and had a bigger reach across Westeros. They needed more alliances, more aide from the houses of the North if they wanted any hope of winning the war.

A few days prior, Brielle had been ripped awake by the sound of her handmaiden shouting. The Iron Islanders were attacking, they needed to prepare their defenses as quickly as possibly. Brielle hadn't known what to do - her family's army was off fighting a war, Winterfell was more or less up for grabs. Doing the only thing that she could think of, Brielle had ordered Hodor and Osha to take her younger brothers and run. They could at least have a chance to get away, she knew that she had little hope of escape. Instead, she had made her way to the main clearing of the castle to greet the soon to be guests.

Now, Brielle sat in her quarters, listening to the sounds of yet another battle raging beyond the walls of the castle. She had woken to the sounds and when she peaked out the window, the very last sigil that she would have expected greeted her. The flayed man. The Boltons. The Boltons were attacking Winterfell. Why? She had been curious, certainly, but she didn't dare leave her room. The noises grew louder as minutes ticked by which only meant one thing, the Boltons were winning. Theon, the wretched bastard, was going to be defeated. What that meant for her, Brielle could only guess. She had never met any of the Boltons but she had heard enough about them that she had hoped she never would have to.

Sounds of the castle doors slamming to the ground spurred Brielle to her feet. She pulled at her best dress, tugging it over her shoulders and fixing it the best she could. She wouldn't step out of the room in only her underclothes, not to meet a Lord that wasn't her husband. Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, Brielle ordered her handmaiden to stay behind before heading down to the main clearing.

Brielle's breath hitched in her throat as it came into sight. The clearing was crowded with men and horse alike with one standing out amongst them all. There was no use in hiding, Brielle knew that. So she stepped out from behind the structure she had hidden behind. Her footsteps alarmed the men and bows Brielle to greet her. "Is Lord Bolton among you?" She called, eyeing the group of men warily. The stories that she had heard, particularly of Roose's bastard, were enough to make her want to run and hide from the army. She could only hope that she would deal with Roose, he was older. More mature, a more reasonable man. Right?

---

Sandor Clegane was a man that was far too used to living with the knowledge that there was someone after his head. He'd long since abandoned the idea of caring because he hadn't killed his brother yet. So long as Gregor Clegane lived, so would Sandor. He had always been a stubborn man but given the revenge that he was so desperate to seek, Sandor would not give up the chance. No, not unless a so-called God came down from the heavens to kill him theirself.

He'd gone on adventures to protect the Stark girls. He couldn't place why he cared for them so much, but he did. Sandor would not give that up for the world either. He had no clue where Arya was. As far as he was concerned, she was probably dead in a ditch somewhere. Sandor didn't want to think about it as a possibility but living in dreams had never been Sandor's speciality. He preferred to look at a situation and what would be the worst possible outcome, rather than something happy. Because at least if something good happened, then he was surprised.

Sansa he suspected was still in King's Landing, doing her best at playing the Game of Thrones. Brielle, he'd never met but he could only guess at what situation she found herself in.

Grumbling to himself from the corner of the inn he had chosen for the night, Sandor barely even noticed a woman as she stepped through the door. The only reason he had looked up was the grotesque murmurs that reached his ears from nearby soldiers. His eyes narrowed almost immediately, twisting around in his seat to watch the woman. Not because she was a pice of meat but because he had never shied away from a fight. And Sandor would never back down from defending a woman. Violence against them, even a woman who looked plenty capable of protecting herself, was not something Sandor Clegane would stand for.

Rising to his feet, Sandor tossed back the rest of his ale before stalking to the counter. He ordered another, dropping a few silver coins onto the bar before he turned back around, drink in hand. His gaze swept the room, coming to a stop on Rosyn. Huffing, Sandor approached before dragging the stool out from under the table, opposite of her. He sat, taking a large gulp of his ale before his attention turned to the woman in front of him.

"I don't like how those cunts are lookin' at you. Not with how you're limping around," Sandor muttered, shrugging as if it was simple because to him, it was.

{I'm like writing sandor's part while falling asleep so i'm sorry lol if it's that bad, let me know and i'll redo it}

The sight of spilled blood always made Ramsay a little jittery, like a child who had just received a brand new toy to play with. Conquest and siege, much like what was happening in Winterfell, made for a good opportunity for him to exercise his more…particular needs. Flaying men could be well hidden within the normal spoils of war, not that anyone expected any different from a Bolton—even if he wasn’t officially one, yet. Ramsay was hoping that his successful taking of Winterfell would prove to his father that he was not just a bastard to him, that he had promise as a true Bolton heir.

And just when Ramsay thought it was all about to die down and he would be able to find suitable quarters in the keep for the night, a soft voice rang out and there was a flurry of movement. A woman’s voice, Ramsay surmised, and when his eyes laid upon her, a slow smile curled his lips. The Lady of Winterfell, the beautiful Brielle. Stories of her pleasant countenance did not lie.

Slowly, Ramsay strode out from the line of men, making sure to keep his hands visible so that she did not see him as an immediate threat. “He sends his regards, my Lady,” Ramsay spoke clearly, stopping just shy of her, “and his son in his stead.” He bowed at his waist in greeting, reaching out to gently grasp her hand and lift it to his lips to press an equally gently kiss. Bright blue eyes flickered over her features before he righted himself and let go of her hand.

“I do hope we didn’t frighten you. It was not our intention. We’ve been sent to liberate Winterfell from the Iron Islanders. To return it to those of the North,” he told her a smile gracing his lips.

---

Rosyn wasn’t stupid, nor was she so oblivious that she ignored the comments of the men of the tavern. A woman alone, regardless of the sword at her side, would always be seen as vulnerable, but an injured woman? She was an easy prize for the night and a warm place to wet a cock. There wasn’t much that she enjoyed more than wiping lecherous grins from the faces of unkind men with the tip of her sword.

Her vision hadn’t started swimming yet from the blood loss or the alcohol, but she could tell she would be well on her way toward it if she didn’t sew up the wound at her side and get some decent sleep. Keeping a hand pressed to the wound, she tipped back her flagon and took a few nice swallows of ale as her eyes roamed the dimly lit tavern. The sound of the clank of armor before her got her attention. The burns on his face weren’t what surprised her, but the man himself. She’d been searching for him for months now and now she found him—or rather, he found her.

Blinking a couple of times, she lowered her ale, keeping her expression neutral as to not let him know that she knew him. “Really?” She quipped, her voice low with an edge of a rasp to it. “And what if I don’t like the way you’re looking at me?” Setting her flagon down on the table with a resounding thud, she set her piercing eyes on his, jaw set slightly. “I know your game. You’ll get me to trust you and then try to fuck me over in one way or another.” She nodded a few times, barely blinking before drawing in a deep breath of air.

Her features immediately went from hardened, to pained and she doubled over. Breathing in that deeply wasn’t a good idea. Pain ricocheted up and down her side along the wound and she desperately reached for her ale for another long few swallows of it. Damn the Gods. She had her shot at Sandor Clegane and she had to be all bloodied and injured.

Brielle swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat as Ramsay eyed her. She suddenly felt rather uncomfortable and pulled her furs closer to her form as if to shield herself from his predatory gaze. She had never met any Bolton, she only had stories to go off of. And if she was going off of those stories, she should be utterly terrified of the Bolton bastard before her. But she was the lady of Winterfell and she needed to do what was best by her people. If there was one thing that she had learned from her father, it was that.

She raised an eyebrow as Ramsay took her hand and kissed it, her heart thudding in her chest. Brielle gave the tiniest nods of her heads, her shoulders sagging as Ramsay explained his purpose here. Brielle had been afraid that it was something more nefarious but hearing that it was simply to return Winterfell to the rightful North... that made her walls soften just a bit.

"My people cannot express properly just how much we appreciate your efforts," Brielle said, looking around the courtyard for a moment. It was filled with bodies covered in blood and that was enough to make her want to cry. This was her home and yet it had been completely decimated by Theon; someone she had grown up beside. Someone she had considered like a brother to her. Brielle's face scrunched at the thought as she turned back to Ramsay.

Brielle cleared her throat, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched a soldier eye one of her servants. "I trust that your men won't bring any harm to Winterfell's people. We have lost so much already, to lose anything else..." she trailed off, her voice taking on a bit of a hard edge. Brielle had always been a fierce girl, protecting those that needed it.

Brielle turned back toward Ramsay, tilting her head to the side. "I will have the servants prepare a feast, to be served as soon as it's finished. As thanks for coming to our aid when no one else was able," she paused, running her tongue over her bottom lip. "Do you have any particular requests?"

---

Sandor couldn't help but scoff, rolling his eyes at Rosyn's words. "An' how exactly is that?" He asked, his eyes narrowing as Rosy continued on. He tilted his drink back, his eyes never leaving hers. His back straightened as his grip tightened around his flagon, slamming it back down to the table that separated them. "Seems you know who I am," He added, sniffing as he rolled his shoulders. "Seems to me if you know who I am, you know that I'm not going to take an injured woman as a warm place for my cock. It's better when they beg for it," he spat the words, his anger already spiking.

Frankly, Sandor did not care who Rosyn was or how she knew about him. THe only thing that mattered here at the moment as ensuring that Rosyn was safe. He did not care for rapists, they were very poor excuses for a man if he knew one. "You can worry about whether I'm going to screw you over or not, after you worry about the more immediate threat of one of those fuckin' assholes puttin' his hands on you. Hm?"

Sandor grinned at Rosyn's display of pain because he wasn't stupid. It meant he was winning and she would be safe because if she was in enough pain that she was doubling over like that, she wasn't going to have that much fight left in her. He'd drag her to his room and stitch her up his own damn self if Rosyn wanted to argue.

He stood, slamming back the rest of his ale before he turned toward Rosyn. "Well? What's it gonn' be? The hard way or the easy?" Sandor's hand rested against the pommel of his sword, ha silent threat that Rosyn was coming with him, one way or another.

There was still such a high sense of unease tinging the air and Ramsay knew it wasn’t completely unmerited. The Boltons did not earn the banner of the flayed man by being nice and hospitable. No. They were a bloodthirsty sort and they had just had their…appetites quenched. For the time being, at least. Ramsay didn’t blame the Lady of Winterfell for erring on the cautious side. It was smart.

The Bolton heir—or what he hoped to become—noted the way Brielle’s form relaxed slightly. He’d apparently said the correct things and it brought a grin to his lips. Of course, he’d relish the fact he’d get her to believe their arrival meant returning Winterfell to the Starks. It’d make his true intentions all the more satisfying, once his plans could come to fruition. Honestly, marrying the woman before him wouldn’t be the worst thing he could imagine. She was quite beautiful.

“There is no need for your thanks,” Ramsay told her, watching her closely as she eyed the courtyard around them, “we do not seek any compensation in our endeavors, spare maybe rooms to rest for a while before we take our leave.” There was no denying the decimation of life around them, of the Northern and Ironborn blood that had mingled in with the mud and straw and grass at their feet. It was a gruesome sight, but one that Ramsay was far too accustomed to. Once the woman in front of him entered the castle, he’d see to it the bodies were disposed of.

A thought struck Ramsay, one that would give him more time in Winterfell. “Though, your men have been depleted quite a bit. May I offer our assistance in protecting Winterfell for the time being. I would hate to leave the keep in such a vulnerable state,” he told her. He drew in a breath of air as what she said sunk in. His men would have to mind themselves for the time being and he’d have to remind them of it. “My men and myself do not seek any further ill will or harm, my lady. You have have my word.”

His eyes followed her closely, watching her as she returned her attentions back to him. The sound of a feast appealed to him, as the battle had been drawn on for a few hours, and a warm meal would be a nice conclusion to their day. “Just a couple casks of ale for my men and whatever else you see fit to bestow upon my men.”

There was a sudden bout of commotion from one end of the courtyard and his men dragged an semi-unconscious man toward the two of them. It didn’t take Ramsay long to recognize the sigil of the Greyjoy family on the armor and realize who was before him. “What shall we do with him, Ramsay?” One of the men asked. Ramsay knew exactly what he wished to do with the man, but being that he needed to keep up pretenses and he was not currently the lord of the keep, he’d need to weigh his options.

“Lady Brielle,” he spoke suddenly, turning to face the woman, “what will you have be done to this traitor to your family?”

---

“I may be injured, but I’m not completely helpless,” Rosyn snapped in return, her gaze hard and unerring. "You're looking at me like some injured, fucking creature that deserves protecting." She set her jaw, bright, yet hazy eyes watching his as her grip tightened around the handle of her flagon. The woman merely blinked, unfazed by the man before her. Damn it all. This was her opportunity to make claim on that bounty and she doubted she’d have the strength to face the Hound like she was. Her head tilted to the side as he spoke, her eyes narrowing slightly but she remained silent.

A sharp, bark of a laugh left her at his words, a grimace of pain flitting across her dirtied features for a moment. “I will beg you for nothing but peace, I can assure you of that, you ass,” she said, shaking her head as she lifted her ale back to her mouth and took a long sip of it. It wasn’t easing her pain fast enough, the ale—she’d have to resort to the harsher alcohol shortly. At his words, her gaze found the table of young, lecherous looking men who were eyeing her and speaking in not-too-hushed tones about what they’d like to do to her. “If they think they can put their hands on me,” she spoke, purposefully raising her voice but bringing her gaze back to Sandor, “they’ll lose both their hands and their cocks before they’ll realize they’re gone.”

Laughter erupted from the table and Rosyn merely glowered over at them, her expression full of dark, violent intentions before she grabbed for the bottle instead of the half-empty flagon in front of her. Her attention was brought back to the Hound as he stood, brow drawn together over her eyes as he spoke. The woman’s gaze found his hand on the pommel of his blade and she let out a huff of laughter at the gesture. “I intend on making nothing easy for you,” she told him, her mouth a thin, grim line.

“I’d appreciate if you removed your hand from your sword,” she said before pulling the cork from the bottle with her teeth and spitting it out to the side, “or I will have no qualms removing it for you.” Sure, men would only see her as talk until she proved otherwise. Perhaps if she’d get the chance to prove herself, the men in this gods-forsaken tavern would finally leave her be.