Chapter Text
"When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things: one part of me wants to take her home, be real nice and treat her right; the other part wonders what her head would look like on a stick."
-Edmund Kemper III
The girl is sixteen, Ramsay guesses.
She has dark brown hair, pale skin and clear blue eyes. Her frame is tall and slender; with full, pert teats and a narrow waist. Her perfect face holds a blank expression and a polite smile- a very good forgery.
The man who calls himself her father, that utter toad Littlefinger, is spinning his silver lies in that damned soothing tone that makes Ramsay want to rip out his tongue.
Whether or not his lord father, sitting and staring at his guest with a face that could be carved out of wood, actually believes all his nonsense about 'forging an alliance between the North and the Vale' Ramsay doesn't know.
Probably not.
Roose Bolton, if nothing else, is more cunning then a fox and an expert at hiding his true thoughts.
"The Starks held on to the old ways and foolish notions of honour for too long, it is time that the North is governed by a firmer, more practical hand," Littlefinger concludes, that horrible little smile of his firmly in place. "The crown is in full agreement."
Ramsay bites down a laugh- he couldn't give a fuck what the crown does or does not agree with, and neither does his father. Roose, however, nods and rises graciously.
"Well said, Lord Baelish." He replies, with an almost sincere grin. "And might I add, a refreshing surprise; I had thought you might hold resentment after Lady Stark's death."
Littlefinger's eyes give him away, and the briefest tinge of bitterness flashes like a torch.
Ah so, Ramsay thinks, the giant of the Vale has a weakness after all. Well done father.
"The past," the small man replies carefully, "would shackle us all if we would allow it."
His father lets it go, he doesn't like to toy with caged animals.
"Indeed. And now I believe I haven't been introduced to your companion."
Littlefinger nods and beckons the girl forward, obviously happy at the change of subject. The girl- highborn and raised a lady, Ramsay is sure- walks torwards his father and demurely offers her hand. The light from the fire casts a glow on her neck, and he wonders what her skin would look like on his floor.
"Lord Bolton, may I introduce my natural daughter Alayne Stone. Alayne's mother recently passed, so I have taken her under my wing." Littlefinger recites his speech with aplomb. " I find I long for company as I reach my twilight years, and my girl is a wonderful travelling companion."
Alayne smiles sweetly as his father kisses her hand, and Roose gives her a kind look, the one he reserves for women he may have to kill.
"Charmed. Is this your first visit to the North, child?"
"It is, my lord. I was raised in the Vale and it's my first time away. Your lands are truly beautiful, I feel lucky to have seen them."
A pretty speech, she almost sells the part of a simpering lamb.
His father gestures towards him now, and Ramsay steps forward, playing the dutiful son.
"As we are making introductions, Lord Baelish, I don't believe you've met my son, Ramsay Bolton." The last name is emphasised subtly, but firmly, and he grins inside.
Littlefinger shakes his hand, "I have not had that pleasure."
His grip is weak and moist and Ramsay wants to stab him in the eye.
Alayne simply curtseys and returns her gaze to his father, expectantly. Lord Bolton does not disappoint.
"But you must be tired, my dear, from your journey." Unfailingly polite, as ever. "Ramsay, be so good as to escort Lord Baelish's daughter to her chambers, her father and I have much to discuss."
The tone of Roose's voice hides the unspoken command; Behave yourself.
Ramsay nods curtly and leads his guest away. She follows him through the halls of Winterfell with barely a sound, her steps almost silent and her hair brushing against the silk of her dress.
It's dark in the corridors of the castle, and the wind screams mournfully in the distance.
Winterfell is mourning the loss of the Starks, it does not like it's new masters.
If Alayne is unnerved by this, however, she does not show it. Indeed, if the girl's betraying any emotion at all it's.. sadness? Or longing? He isn't sure.
It occurs to Ramsay that he hasn't met a woman who wasn't afraid to be alone with him in a long time.
"How do you find Winterfell, my lady?" He asks, disappointed that she does not startle.
"Alayne, please. I'm no lady, Lord Ramsay." Her voice is sweet as ever, but her eyes are steely. " I find it very well. And you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"How do you find it? I understand House Bolton has only recently taken it as it's seat."
She offers him a demure look, which doesn't fool him for a second.
Ramsay takes a moment to ponder his response, before he settles on honesty.
"I don't like it at all, the rooms are too small, the training yard too large and the damned godswood ought to be chopped down for fuel. But it's the principal that matters, not the building. Winterfell was once the Stark's-"
"-and now it is the Bolton's." She finishes his sentence in a way that sounds almost bored.
It appears that Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of the Lord of Harrenhal, cares as little for the symbols of power as he does.
They turn a corner into the east solar, the one with the particularly low door. Ramsay only just remembers to duck in time, he's knocked his head on the edge more times then he can count.
Alayne bows her frame in one smooth motion without a glance. She moves forward, but then comes to halt and turns back suddenly.
"What happened to the Ironborn?"
He's startled and forgets his manners, his rely a short, sharp "What?"
Alayne, to her credit, doesn't flinch. She just keeps that same calm, inquisitive expression.
"I was told that Theon Greyjoy led a party of Ironborn and captured Winterfell." She explains, her voice steady. "That he killed the Stark boys before the Boltons liberated it."
Ramsay recovers himself. Of course, he realises, Littlefinger was in love with the mother, wasn't he?
"That's true." He concedes.
"So what happened to them?" She pushes on, "After you arrived, I mean."
He pauses for a while, a little longer then would be comfortable.
"Robb Stark offered them amnesty, in exchange for the surrender of Winterfell and the safe return of his brothers. After Theon refused, my men took the castle by force and killed them. It was, sadly, too late to stop them burning the castle, or to save the boys."
It's the official story of events. In a perfect world, Ramsay would hang his banners from the ruins of this ancient heap. He'd burn and salt the surrounding lands and tell everybody what really happened here.
Look at this, he'd say, look at what I did.
But his father is right. The Northern lords barely tolerate them as it is, and only because there are no more Starks to rally behind. The pretence that they had nothing to do with the Red Wedding is just that; the thinnest of fables that no one really believes.
If the world knew the truth, if the Umbers, the Mormonts or even the Karstarks were given any excuse to rebel- it would all crumble.
"Did you flay them?" She asks, brightly.
He laughs, a barking sound. "Oh, you heard about that, did you?"
Again, Alayne offers him a small smile. "My father took the time to educate me on all the families we would be visiting."
Ramsay saunters towards her, head cocked. "Well they didn't die quietly, I can tell you that much."
She nods her understanding, before turning to gaze out the window, down to the fields below.
"And Theon?" She asks. "Did you kill him too?"
Ramsay takes his time to look her up and down, noting the set of her shoulders, her exceedingly long legs and her gown; dark blue silk with fine embroidery, demurely cut, but leaving tempting glimpses of the flesh underneath.
What a strange little lamb you are, he thinks; resisting the urge to bite down on her neck.
He wonders whether or not to tell her about his pet. If her father intends to stay a while, he supposes, she's bound to find out anyway.
"No." He grins, satisfied by her look of surprise. "He's still here."
Ramsay comes towards her once again, so close he can count her eyelashes. Alayne doesn't move away.
"Would you like to see him?"