Falling Dominos

Chapter Eighteen

Falling Dominos

Jon inhaled and let go an exasperated sigh; his chocolate eyes regarded Ramsay drearily, "If you're not going to work with me, Ramsay, I've got other matters that I must attend to." The two had come back from their walk around the perimeter a couple hours ago to which Jon had afforded Ramsay a respite from the dungeon offering to have him work on the list Sansa had requested of him in the library. All of the Stark children had been tutored in the elaborate room of tomes as Catelyn had been an avid reader and had made sure that all her children (even their bastard, Jon, was well read.)

To take in the high ceilinged room shaped in sharp angles and divided by shelves of books on assorted topics from history to cooking again after so long would have been nostalgic had not many of the books been tossed about on the tables carelessly or left in piles stacked on the floor next to the shelves. The display looked as if the room had been rummaged through in hopes perhaps that something of importance might be found hiding within the shelves or books themselves, and upon finding nothing, they had been discarded to the side as otherwise worthless. Apparently care for books wasn't as top of a priority for the Boltons as it had been for the Starks.

Ramsay had seemed amiable enough when Jon had informed them that they would be going somewhere other than the dungeon, but he seemed less enthused by the location upon entering the library. Ramsay took in the library as if it'd been the first time he'd seen the room; his eyes moved with bored observance across the same scene that Jon stared grimly at and whom was obviously quite dissatisfied by what his sights examined. Ramsay had never found much interest in reading; it reminded him of grueling hours with Maester Medrick, and although the old coot had painstakingly managed to teach him to read and write (not without much frustration from both sides), Ramsay had always rather have been outside doing anything else.

Academics were boring, but Roose had insisted if Ramsay were to remain at the Dreadfort he would learn to at least act like a noble when need be rather than the dirty peasant bastard that he was. The reminder that his tentative hold on any claim to nobility could be easily revoked at any moment should his father grow weary enough of him was the focus Ramsay had needed to take his studies seriously. He garnered enough knowledge to satiate his father into considering he wasn't a complete heathen, and that in itself had been a mark in Ramsay's favor. As far as Ramsay had been concerned, if Roose could be mollified with anything he presented to the man, it was a noteworthy accomplishment.

His studies hadn't all been bad of course, knowing how to read and write was a mark of station and meant you were privy to information those that were uneducated just simply couldn't grasp, and Ramsay did always like to feel intellectually above of his peers. Also, reading about the history of the Bolton family and tales of conquest alongside the horrible acts of flaying always captured Ramsay's interest. After all, the art of war, the heraldry of your allies and enemies, and traditions were useful knowledges to obtain and exploit when you were a ruling noble. Ramsay had always seen himself becoming more than a bastard one day even though as the years had gone by, his confidence had waned and insecurities had filled his heart and mind with anger and hate that he'd never be worthy of more than a sigh of disapproval from his father.

Ramsay wasn't sure why, but just being in this room reminded him of constant failure; it was perhaps the fact that it spoke of his personal inadequacies that he felt towards his own education (he was just passing his twelfth name day when he'd started learning such things,) and generally noble children were far better versed in academics than he had been Ramsay had quickly surmised. He'd gotten in quite a bit of trouble the day that fact had been made painfully obvious by a visiting liege and their seven year old daughter. She'd laughed at his paltry attempts at penmanship with an air of amusement as if Ramsay had been jesting with her about his own abilities. He had not, Ramsay had actually been quite proud to have mastered the alphabet in what he felt was an artful cursive then. He had been trying to impress the girl as Ramsay was rarely allowed to mingle with any nobles. The commoners of the keep had been impressed by Ramsay's skills as none of them hardly knew how to read or write, and Ramsay's comprehension of language seemed a marvel to them.

It had come as quite a shock that this raven haired girl, from the lesser noble house of Mazin, would not only be unmoved by his efforts but show that what he'd thought was rather good penmanship was to her an object of ridicule. The shame he'd felt to have been almost twice her age and have her be so much better than he was at anything rubbed Ramsay the wrong way. She hadn't laughed long though as laughing at Ramsay had cost her. In a fit of rage, Ramsay had violently stabbed her in the hand with his quill tip once she'd realized his writing truly was that awful and had made a point to condescendingly demonstrate the proper manner in which to write. House Mazin did not stay at the Bolton keep long especially after Ramsay had been completely unapologetic.

Roose had been rueful to a point of agitation on behalf of his son scornfully blaming the incident on bastardly blood. Later Ramsay writhed, strapped to a chair with several leeches attached in various places on his chest, stomach, and arms. He screamed for their removal not because they hurt (although the bites had an irritating sting) but because he was being forced to relinquish to the treatment due to his apparent abhorrent lineage. Such reminders were always a worse punishment than any Roose did to him physically, and the old man was well aware of this too.

After the maester let the parasites gorge themselves to the point of voluntarily releasing to roll away fat and contented on their own, Ramsay was left to sit strapped in place alone for hours, bleeding out through the many open wounds that continued to weep due to the anticoagulant in the parasite's saliva. The sight of the streaks of pooling blood gathering in the creases of the curvature of his muscles, his navel, and soaking his breeches had been increasingly alarming as the lack of blood had pushed him into a state of near unconsciousness. Ramsay's thoughts had become estranged to the point of incoherence; it was not unlike the feeling of hearing while underwater and just as disorienting as his head grew more clouded and his body took on a chill from dehydration. Roose followed the maester's return with another jar of bloodsuckers, and the sight of them then was reason enough for Ramsay to weakly apologize. Having such leave of his faculties was terrifying and made Ramsay feel weak and out of control, a feeling he fought tooth and nail to avoid at all costs.

The leeches were said to drain the bad blood from him, but all they did was infuse Ramsay with a further need to play the role he needed to; it was an abject lesson not to disobey Roose's wishes. Roose had not scolded Ramsay that what he had done was wrong, in fact, he mocked house Mazin as no more than providers of goods and men when needed. Roose had informed Ramsay that house Mazin, although of a lesser house than House Bolton, they provided more as an alley than he could as an illegitimate son. House Mazin held worth because they knew their place and their function in the grand scheme of things, and Ramsay would do well to learn his.

Ramsay's cursive became much better after that incident.

Jon was staring at him Ramsay realized, and then Jon had told him that he'd had better things to do other than helping him with his list. It was understandable Ramsay knew as all he'd done since they'd taken to the task was to rewrite what he'd written the previous day and grudgingly shoot down Jon's gentle prodding to list more through asking him relentless questions about what Ramsay could do in terms of work that Ramsay frankly saw as beneath him now. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty and work hard, he was never one of those nobles and actually preferred to do much on his own, but he'd also come a far ways from shoveling horse manure out of stables (and he'd done so along with many other servant labors in his youth for his father's fort), but the thought of 'serving' others that he had no respect for in such a manner was a revolting prospect. Ramsay didn't bow and scrape for anyone (other than Sansa, and that was only because he equally feared her wrath and wanted her affection), but for anyone else, Ramsay was amicable to provide a service yes, but he had no intentions of becoming slave labor.

The insinuation that Jon had duties of far greater importance than him cropped an instant flare of annoyance in Ramsay and set a tone of a burgeoning bad attitude projected by the glare that Ramsay now fixed Jon with as he spat in a huff, "Work with you? What I would impress upon you is that your recommendations are hardly worthy of my skills. Perhaps if you made better suggestions I wouldn't find the need to be so disagreeable, but you've only proposed tasks that a simpleton servant boy could mindlessly do! Surely I can offer these people something better than what every known able-bodied commoner can do?"

It was Jon's turn to display his frustration as his mouth contorted into a thin line of displeasure, "Do you see yourself so far above them that you are incapable of doing that work now?"

Ramsay smirked leaning back in his chair as he twirled the quill between forefinger and thumb, "Depends on your perception of being above them. We can both deduce I'm capable of the work, but whether or not such labors would be appropriate compensation when I have far more useful skills to bring to the table… well, it seems a bit of a waste. Don't you think?"

Jon only glowered for a long moment soaking in the grin Ramsay casually wore. The man was incredibly belligerent and rather narcissistic to think any of the houses he'd wronged would want him to relay any sort of knowledge let alone trust him, "I think you are a fool, Ramsay. These people want compensation, and as you so candidly wrote on your last parchment, they would as soon clamor for your death. Do you really think they would want you to teach their children how to ride a horse or tips on training hounds?"

Ramsay found himself pleased that Jon had mentioned the hounds (it was one of the skills he'd added the first day but had stricken from the list. Ramsay had reconsidered it though and had added it more to vex Jon by their mention) although to be honest, the hounds were one of the few pure joys that he had discovered when he'd come to the Dreadfort. He'd spent much of his time wandering the halls, nooks, and crannies of the Dreadfort exploring as any child would, but it was finding an abandoned pup too weak to survive that had rolled away from the rest of the litter that had built a passion in Ramsay for this particular animal. He'd meant to kill the weak creature, to practice his skills of flaying on its squirming form when he'd first plucked its whimpering mass from the ground. It was Myranda that had changed his mind, a bold youth a little younger than he with a fierce disposition.

She'd asked him what he would do with the pup, and when Ramsay had stated simply that he'd planned to skin it, she hadn't balked in the slightest, instead she only quipped, "You could, but the beast will serve you well if you show it mercy."

Her words had intrigued him, and in spite of himself Ramsay shrugged responding with, "We will see then, if not, I'll show you no mercy."

The girl did not rile or shrink in fear of him as many did; Myranda only countered, "Leave the pup with me, I will teach you how to make it serve you best."

Ramsay had, and from that point Myranda and he had become forever entwined. She was the first to teach him of the ferocity these dogs could have when commanded to attack, and as Ramsay's first bitch grew to maturity he was more than pleased to be the voice that commanded her to rip and rend any animal unlucky enough to catch Ramsay's sights and too slow to escape his hound's eager maw. (He'd secretly named the dog Bethany, after his step-mother that he knew reviled him for the death of her son, Domeric. He fancied commanding her as he did this bitch. Roose was of course was never made privy of his first hound's name; Ramsay was more than sure his father would have killed the beast just to spite him for naming the bitch after his wife.)

True to Myranda's word, Bethany was loyal to him and him alone. Myranda had shown Ramsay that such animals could and would serve him faithfully even when Ramsay had been provoked by other things in his life and had kicked them. They cowered, but they returned to him crouched on their bellies and completely subservient. This devotion Ramsay appreciated wholly, and with it he grew quite fond of them (even more than he liked people which wasn't saying much, but it was something.)

Ramsay tutted at Jon's words, "You have a dire wolf by your side, surely you needed help training it. Why would offering such a skill not be seen as compensation to these noble houses?"

Jon stood suddenly having heard more than enough of Ramsay's quips for one day, "Get up. We're returning to the dungeon where you can continue on your own. You've made it more than clear that you're not taking anything I say seriously, and I've spent enough time catering to your less than true attempts to rightfully substantiate what little you provided yesterday. I would say that I was disappointed if I'd not already expected such a lack of cooperation from you already."

Ramsay's mouth hung agape, and his eyebrows furrowed with incredulity at Jon's statement. He found himself both worried where this might lead (his ass twinged at the sudden reminder of Jon's previous disappointment) and insulted that Jon admitted that he'd expected Ramsay to fail. Ramsay scowled, "Just like that? You're going to call it quits? I can cooperate! Maybe I've not been as amiable to your proposals as you would have seen me to be, but that doesn't mean I haven't weighed them with serious consideration!"

Jon leaned against the table peering down at Ramsay his expression showing a mixture of weariness and exasperation as he sighed, "Other than training dogs, you've not added anything more to the list in all the time we've been here. You've made it apparent that all you wish to do is grouse about the fact that you don't want to be put to work doing anything other than what you want to do to make it up to these people. That's not the restitution my sister is looking for you to make, Ramsay, that's selective and indifferent to those you've hurt in order to keep yourself comfortable in the tasks you're willing to complete on their behalf. I don't understand why Sansa even gave you this task; she should have made the list herself because you're not man enough to put yourself out to truly make amends to these people. You simply don't care what you've done to those you've hurt, and if left to be made accountable, you'll dodge responsibility for your own self-interest every time. You wrote down death yesterday and when asked to explain, you stated it was because you would die a hundred times over for your crimes if it were up to you. When you said this, I felt that remorse may have been the reasoning for your words, but now I more so think it's because you are a coward that would rather be put out of your misery rather than suffer the indignity of righting your wrongs. I never would have thought I would agree with Sansa about not killing you, but now I see that to live for you is a far worse punishment for your highly inflated ego to endure."

The words Jon said to him continued to compound on one another until Ramsay was barely containing himself his face pouring hatred at Jon now and against his better judgement he leapt from his seat. He was tired of playing nice with this man who thought he knew him and what he stood for. Ramsay didn't care now whether he was run through or beheaded in retaliation, he could no longer stomach the words that spewed from the Stark bastard's lips. Ramsay thundered, "You have no idea the mettle I have, bastard! I was the undoing of Stannis Baratheon, I took Moat Cailin with my own cunning! It wasn't by my father's hand, and if not for the Vale, I would have seen your head on a pike outside these very same gates!" He was no coward, and he'd prove it now. Meaning to blind Jon, Ramsay grabbed the bottle of ink from the table and threw its contents at Jon's face before lunging forward to knock the man to the ground as his eyes fervently scanned for any sort of weapon.

Ramsay was not as surefooted in his wrath as he would have liked to have been, and as the ink flew out of its well, Jon raised his arm to shield his face having caught Ramsay's intentions before the liquid could fulfill its purpose. As an immediate answer, Jon used that same arm to lash out and violently backhand Ramsay. Ramsay's own forward momentum worked against him now as Jon's hand crashed harshly into the side of his face spinning him in a downward arch to the floor. This didn't stop Ramsay as he ravenously scrabbled to get back on his feet to attack once more. He'd barely made it off the ground to continue his assault when strong arms were felt cinching around each bicep followed with Ramsay being slammed viciously onto the tabletop.

In his fury, Ramsay had forgotten about the two men that had been quietly accompanying them throughout the entirety of their visit. Cecil and Temeric had vaulted into action to secure Ramsay before he could make good on any further assail against Jon. They held Ramsay in place as Ramsay did his best to buck from the two men's grasp. Feeling desperate now as the reality of the trouble he likely just made for himself crashed down upon him, Ramsay was not unlike a rabid animal trying to bite at their fingers while kicking and stomping at them with his feet.

Jon wiped at the ink that coated his face, and his chest heaved in and out a swirling rage that fought to unleash itself on the pinned man before him. The anger that exuded from his person was palpable as both of his fists clenched on stiffened arms that shook furiously at his sides wanting nothing more than to pummel Ramsay into unconsciousness. Jon imagined taking his head clean off of his shoulders, but as he calmed and continued to watch Ramsay thrash about on the table completely out of control of himself, he understood further why Sansa chose to strap him like an unruly child. That was exactly what Jon saw now, and he found himself just shaking his head.

After a few minutes of exerting himself in this way, Ramsay lay panting on the table eyes wildly darting about and finally coming to settle on Jon with a look that spoke of unbridled vehemence wishing to be released, but he remained quiet now as the wheels in his mind turned to the fact that his attempt was a failure that would no doubt be met with a swift reprise of punishment.

Seeing Ramsay finally calm enough to be reasoned with, Jon asked flatly, "Are you done now?"

Ramsay tightened his jaw as he seethed out a long exhale. His eyes narrowed at Jon baring his teeth as he spat, "Does it matter? I suspect the end result is going to be the same regardless is it not?"

Jon's brow furrowed in disbelief as he shook his head once more, "Most people would see that they've fallen in a hole and look to the sky to find a way out whereas you, Ramsay, you obliviously continue to dig deeper and deeper. I had hoped after last night's punishment and a reminder of where you stood this morning during our walk around the perimeter that we could have moved past the bantering rooster complex that you cling to so fiercely. Again though, you manage to surprise me with your level of insolence and stupidity. It truly is stunning." Jon took a step back and motioned to the door as he addressed the guards, "Bring Ramsay back to the dungeon, have him strip, and chain him face down on his mattress. I'll be down to address him once I've had a moment to collect myself."

The guards hauled Ramsay off the table, and as a last ditch effort of disrespect as the guards dragged his struggling form away, Ramsay spit in Jon's face, "You fucking cunt, bastard!"

Jon pursed his lips wiping at the spittle that hit his chin pushing back the immediate thrill to retaliate but knowing that was exactly what Ramsay wanted him to do. If he beat Ramsay into a bloody mess, Ramsay would win because Jon would have lost his cool with him and become just as uncivilized as he had been. Ramsay swore and cursed at the men dragging him away, and Jon listened until the sounds of his voice was only a faint echo against the stone walls.

Looking about the library now at the stack of books that had been toppled and scattered across the floor and the spatters of ink coating the table in blotchy streaks from Ramsay's struggles left quite a visible telling of the altercation the two had just had. Jon pulled out his chair to sink into it with a tired thud as he ran a hand through his hair. He didn't understand why Ramsay held such a grudge against him and his bastardly status. They were both bastards were they not? It wasn't as if Jon had not felt the same sting of contempt and derision of those that saw him as a stain to his noble house. So why was it that Ramsay fervently adhered to that fact as an insult against him? It boggled Jon, but then Ramsay as a whole was alien to Jon even more so the fact that Sansa found him not to be completely detestable let alone worthy of a chance at redemption.

Sansa had told him that there was more to Ramsay than what Jon had seen, but as it was, Jon simply could not fathom it. It wasn't his place to judge that though as he'd already given that right to Sansa to determine Ramsay's ultimate fate, but in her absence, Jon was Ramsay's warden, and as such, Jon would be damned if he didn't instill a little respect in Ramsay. Jon would have rather had that respect come from mutual enlightenment, but if Ramsay couldn't be bothered to regard him as a peer than he would learn to fear his lack of tolerance for such behavior.