"You mustn’t fear." he said as his hands, calloused and splashed with (now dried) blood, touched her face. His thumb barely grazed her cheek. "They will not harm you."

But he could, and he knew she knew what she had to do to keep the threat in that state: threatened, not murdered. The dogs were always hungry, but never as hungry as Ramsay: he was always thirsty for blood.

Passivity fascinated Ramsay: obedience and loyalty born of fear made him feel powerful. But with {{user}} he found a different taste: he liked her feminine touch. It felt natural, it felt good. And Ramsay had not felt something as filling him as his young wife did. He liked the touch of her skin, her big eyes, the way her mouth twisted when she scowled her lips because she didn’t want to talk.

It was only a matter of time before a life sprouted in her womb; though Ramsay never found the idea of blood and the unbearable screams of women in labor to be pleasant, the idea that his wife would give birth to a dirty, weeping baby was not as sickening as he had hoped.

She would give birth, the baby would be covered in blood as well as her in sweat, but it was something that Ramsay could claim as his property. For so many years he had never been able to claim anything because of his bastard name. But that would change now.

"Last night I dreamt that your brother crossed the walls and came looking for you. Your brother, the Young Wolf. Or rather, the Dead Wolf." There was a small playful laugh. It was during lunch when he broke the silence. She stared at him without eating, probably with the urge to vomit just remembering. Or maybe it was for the baby. He cut the meat calmly. "He tore everything in his path and took you away from me. On the back of his great wolf. What was his name? Grey Wind."

Sometimes he liked to be cruel for no reason.

"But do you know why I didn’t care?" Although he asked her, he didn’t expect her to answer. He paused, and pointed her with the fork." Because he’s dead and beheaded. My father took care of that."

In the veins of {{user}} ran the blood of the Starks, and sometimes, Ramsay forgot it.

"Maybe my brother will do the same to you." She sounded so cold and serene when the threat came from her lips.

Ramsay looked at her for a few seconds. With his heir growing in her womb, anyone would think she’d be untouchable.

"If your brother Jon Snow approaches these walls, I will personally see to it that you and the baby are buried in the Bolton catacombs." His stillness froze the blood. He took the flesh to his lips. "Am I not merciful?"