The next morning I woke up with Rose's mouth wrapped around my cock. She'd learned fast, eyes up, tongue swirling, no teeth. I groaned, grabbed her hair, and fucked her face till I shot down her throat. She swallowed like a champ, coughing a little. "Good bitch," I muttered, slapping her ass as she crawled off the bed.
Sun was up, filtering through the arrow-slit windows. Dreadfort smelled like smoke and dog shit. Perfect. I dressed in black leather, strapped on a dagger, and headed for the great hall. Time to play smart.
Roose was already at the high table, picking at bread and blood sausage. A couple of his captains lounged nearby, hungover from last night. I slid into the seat across from him.
"Morning, Father. Sleep well?"
He didn't look up. "You didn't. I heard the kennel girl screaming till dawn."
I grinned. "Practice makes perfect."
One of the captains, some fat prick named Locke snorted. "Boy's got his father's stamina."
Roose finally met my eyes. "The feast is tonight. Northern lords. Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys. Robb Stark's bannermen. You'll smile, drink, and keep your cock in your pants."
"Unless they offer daughters," I said.
Locke laughed. Roose didn't. "We need alliances, not bastards. Walder Frey's sniffing for a match. His girls are ugly, but his bridges are useful."
My brain lit up. Red Wedding. I knew the date, the plan, the poison. But I couldn't spill it all yet. Had to drip-feed.
I leaned in, voice low. "Frey's a snake. Trust him and we're rat food. I had a dream, rivers of blood at a wedding. Rats in the rafters."
Roose's fork paused. "Dreams."
"Vivid ones. Like the old gods whispering." I shrugged, casual. "Could be nothing. Could be everything."
He stared. I held it, let the crazy sparkle in my eyes. Ramsay's eyes. Finally he nodded, slow. "We'll watch Frey close."
The day crawled. I toured the kennels, rows of snarling hounds, some missing ears from "training." The master, a wiry fuck named Ben Bones, showed me the bitches in heat. I picked one, had Rose hold her down while I let a big male mount. Educational. Rose blushed crimson. My dick twitched.
Afternoon, I slipped into the armory. Grabbed a crossbow, practiced on straw dummies. Headshots. Heart shots. Crotch shots. I pictured Joffrey, Tywin, Robb. One bolt each.
Locke found me there. "Lord wants you in the yard. Sparring."
I grinned. "Let's dance."
The yard was muddy, ringed by guards. Roose watched from the balcony. Locke tossed me a blunted sword. We circled.
He swung first—big, sloppy. I ducked, cracked him behind the knee. He stumbled. I followed with an elbow to the nose. Crunch. Blood sprayed.
"Fuck!" He roared, charging.
I sidestepped, tripped him into the mud. Pinned his arm, blade at his throat. "Yield, piggy."
The guards cheered. Roose clapped once. Approval? Maybe.
Locke spat blood. "Little cunt's quick."
I helped him up, all friendly. "Gotta be. Wolves at the door."
Later, bathing in a copper tub, Rose scrubbed my back. Steam rose. I told her about the feast. "You'll serve wine. Naked under the apron. If anyone grabs, smile and spill on their lap. Distraction."
She nodded, scared but wet. I fingered her under the water till she came quietly.
Dusk fell. The hall filled—long tables, roaring fires, banners of flayed men. Lords in fur and mail. Ladies in wool and jewels. Smell of roast boar, ale, sweat.
I sat at Roose's right. Rose poured, tits brushing arms. Some lord pinched her ass. She "accidentally" dumped ale on his crotch. Laughter.
Music started—drums, pipes. Servants brought course after course. I ate slow, eyes scanning.
Greatjon Umber—huge, drunk, roaring songs. His daughter was here, a thick redhead with massive tits. Future harem candidate.
Harrion Karstark, grim, nursing a grudge over his dad's execution. Useful if I turned him.
Lord Manderly, fat as a whale, pie stains on his beard. Secret Stark loyalist. Dangerous.
Roose leaned over. "Frey's man is late."
I nodded. "Told you. Snakes."
A horn blasted. Doors opened. In walked a weedy prick in Frey colors Waldron, I think. Smirking.
"My lords," he slurred. "Lord Walder sends regrets. Bridge repairs. But he offers his daughter, Roslin, for young Lord Ramsay. A union to bind houses."
Murmurs. Roose's face stone.
I stood, wine cup raised. "To Roslin! May she be as fertile as the Twins are treacherous!"
Laughter. Frey's man flushed.
Roose shot me a look. I sat.
Later, drunk lords pissed in corners. I slipped out to the godswood—snow-dusted weirwood, red leaves like blood. Quiet.
Footsteps. The Karstark girl Morra, maybe. Following me, tipsy.
"Lord Ramsay," she whispered. "Heard you're… wild."
I turned. She was close, breath fogging. Big eyes, bigger tits.
"Wild's one word." I stepped in, backed her against the tree. "What do you want?"
"You," she breathed.
I kissed her hard. She tasted like honeyed wine. Hands under her skirts warm, wet already. I spun her, bent her over a root. Hiked the dress, shoved in. She gasped, pushed back.
"Quiet," I growled, pounding. Snow muffled the slaps. She bit her fist to stay silent.
I came inside her, pulled out fast. Cum ran down her legs into the snow.
"Tell no one," I said. "Or I'll flay your tongue."
She nodded, dazed, stumbling back to the hall.
I stayed, breathing cold air. Two conquests in two days. Small fry.
Roose found me later, in the corridor. "Frey's man left angry. Good."
I smirked. "Told you."
He studied me. "Those dreams. More?"
"Loads. Robb's marching south. Thinks he's a king. Lions waiting."
Roose's eyes narrowed. "We'll talk tomorrow. Alone."
He left. I grinned into the dark.
Back in my room, Rose waited, naked on the bed. I fucked her twice once in the cunt, once in the mouth. Fell asleep planning.
Tomorrow: plant more seeds. Get Roose hooked on my "visions." Start building the legend of Ramsay the Prophet.