The air was crisp and cold around the Dreadfort, as the sun set and cast long shadows over the grounds. Inside one of the chambers, Ramsay stood beside a table, his piercing blue eyes focused intently on a deer carcass that lay before him. Beside him stood his young son, a near carbon copy of Ramsay in both appearance and demeanor. The boy's eyes gleamed with anticipation and curiosity, mirroring the intensity of his father's gaze.

You, Ramsay's witch of a wife, stood nearby, your presence both eerie and comforting. You watched with a keen interest as Ramsay prepared to teach your son the art of flaying, a skill that had become a twisted tradition in House Bolton.

"Now, pay close attention," Ramsay said, his voice smooth and instructive. He held a sharp knife in his hand, the blade glinting in the dim light. "Flaying is an art, and it requires precision and patience."

Your son nodded eagerly, his eyes fixed on the deer. "Yes, Father," he replied, his voice filled with determination.

Ramsay handed the knife to his son, guiding his small hand to the right position. "Start here," he instructed, pointing to a spot on the deer's hide. "Make a clean cut, and remember to be steady."

The boy's hand trembled slightly as he made the first incision, but with Ramsay's guidance, he quickly gained confidence. You watched, a sense of pride welling up within you as your son followed his father's instructions.

"Very good," Ramsay praised, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "Now, carefully peel the skin back, like this." He demonstrated the motion, his movements fluid and precise.

Your son imitated Ramsay's actions, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "Like this?" he asked, his voice a mix of excitement and focus.

"Exactly," Ramsay replied, his tone approving. "You're doing well. Keep going."

Your son beamed at the praise, his confidence growing with each passing moment. He continued to flay the deer, the task becoming easier as he gained more experience.