"Who is Bolton's bastard?"
Gendry wore a black studded vest, black breeches, and black riding boots. A sharp sword hung at his waist, while his Arakh scimitar was carried by the captain of the Guard, Greywolf.
He stood tall and straight, his short black hair like polished obsidian, his blue eyes deep as the sea. There was a presence about him, something that belonged only to the most outstanding of youths, a surge of raw, vibrant vitality.
Ramsay recognized him at a glance. So young, so handsome. Even dressed plainly, he carried the bearing of a hero, effortlessly commanding attention.
So this is Baratheon blood, Ramsay thought.
He had never seen King Robert. Roose had kept him hidden away like some shameful thing, never allowing him beyond the lands of the Dreadfort, much less into the presence of great figures. But the traits of House Baratheon were unmistakable: tall, broad-shouldered, black hair, blue eyes.
"Why? Why?"
Ramsay burned with anger and hatred. Now he understood why he despised them. That bright, youthful radiance, like the sun itself. He had never possessed it. All he had ever known was the company of Reek and Lord Roose's cold disdain.
He hated people like this. Especially the dazzling young ones. While he himself was ugly and fat.
They were both bastards. Why was this one so much more beautiful than him?
He wanted to ruin them. Every last one of these shining young men and women. Just as he had ruined his own brother, Domeric.
"Not now. Endure it."
He repeated it to himself. Next came the performance of the real and the fake Reek.
"Yes, my lord. I am Ramsay Snow, son of Lord Bolton. I believe there has been some misunderstanding."
The real Reek spoke eagerly, almost fawning.
"We only came to inspect the grain. We meant no offense."
"Leave. Now."
Gendry looked at the two men: one Reek dressed in fine clothes, and the other a filthy servant curled up in a corner of the inn.
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
The well-dressed man carried an inescapable, sour body odor, as though he slept in a pigsty. As for the servant in the corner, he had deliberately smeared himself with urine and filth. The stench from him was enough to turn the stomach.
"Who is he?" Gendry asked the well-dressed man, who stood stiff and uncertain. He pointed at the fat lump in the corner, the one claiming to be a bastard's servant.
"My servant, Reek," the real Reek said shamelessly. "Forgive him, my lord. He lives in a pigsty and never bathes. It's only natural he smells a little."
Good, Ramsay thought, silently grateful for his loyal servant.
"Lives up to the name," Gendry said with a faint smile. "But you need a bath too, Reek."
"Thank you, my lord."
The fake Reek bowed his head humbly and made to leave.
"Here. In this room," Gendry said. "Where exactly were you planning to go?"
Two strong Unsullied stepped forward and blocked the fake Reek's path. His expression froze at once.
"Is this how Lord Roose raises his sons? Sending them to steal from me?" Gendry's voice hardened. "You are only guests. The castle and the lands belong to me. And I do not tolerate thieves."
"In Westeros, stealing costs a hand. But trying to steal the blueprints of a military workshop? Beheading would be more appropriate."
"My lord, please forgive me! We'll leave all our gold behind!" the fake Reek cried loudly, speaking as though he were truly some young master.
Gendry paid no attention to his pleading.
Greywolf stepped forward and handed him the Arakh.
Gendry drew it. Valyrian steel, the sharpest metal in the world.
Dark rippling patterns ran along the blade, the mark of Valyrian steel. A cold gleam shimmered over its edge, and even the air seemed to fall still.
Gendry tightened his grip on the longsword. He first pointed it at the fake Ramsay, then shifted the blade toward the servant who called himself Reek.
"He's Reek. You're the real Ramsay, aren't you? Snow. Ramsay Snow."
Gendry's gaze settled on the young man drenched in urine and filth, grinning foolishly.
Ramsay's smile froze at once. He stood rooted to the spot. The ingratiating expression vanished, leaving behind nothing but cold indifference.
"Time for a bath, Ramsay."
Gendry looked at him calmly. It was said that anyone who dared to remind Ramsay of his birth would end up dead, fed to the hounds, or starved. Yet in front of Gendry, Ramsay showed restraint.
He was cruel, but not stupid. He knew when to fear strength.
The Unsullied forced Ramsay to strip, then began dousing him with cold water to wash away the stench.
Buckets were brought in, and water was poured over him from head to toe. The icy stream ran down his body, harsh and relentless. The Unsullied handled him roughly, offering no courtesy, and Ramsay could only endure it. He wanted to reach for his slaughter knife, but he did not.
He stood motionless, accepting the humiliation.
Regret began to creep in. None of this would have happened if he had kept quiet. He had only wanted to show himself, to assert his presence. Instead, he had invited disgrace.
Still, he was the heir to the second house of the North. Surely they would not go further than this.
"Get dressed."
The Unsullied fetched clothes from the room and tossed them to the now clean Ramsay.
Gendry examined him anew.
He was indeed shockingly ugly, just as described in the original account. Perhaps Roose's distaste made sense. In any age, appearances mattered.
Ramsay Snow had a broad frame and sloping shoulders, his body thick with flab. His face bore a bulbous nose, a small mouth, and heavy lips like swollen sausages. His long black hair hung like dried straw, and his pink skin was blotched and uneven.
Roose Bolton's misfortune suits his own cruelty, Gendry thought. Roose was no good man. Siring a monster to plague him was only fitting. Ramsay had poisoned his own trueborn brother.
"You know my identity now, Lord Commander Gendry," Ramsay said, looking straight at him. "How should I address you? Gendry Waters? Gendry Storm? I believe we can speak properly in this room now?"
The only thing Ramsay shared with his father was his eyes, those pale Bolton eyes, like two pieces of dirty ice.
"Are you trying to bargain with me, Ramsay?" Gendry let out a short laugh. "Help him clear his head, guards."
Gendry disliked Ramsay, but he was still Roose's son. Killing him outright would only create another enemy. Roose had sent him here precisely because he knew there was an unspoken understanding between them. At the very least, Gendry would not kill him.
Besides, Ramsay was a fool who constantly made enemies for House Bolton and dragged its name through the mud.
The Unsullied stared at Ramsay with hard, merciless eyes. A chill crept up Ramsay Snow's spine.
One Unsullied pressed a dagger against Ramsay's throat, holding him still. Another Dothraki studied his plump face, then raised his hand and struck him several times across the cheek without expression.
The slaps rang out sharply in the room.
Ramsay's cheeks quickly reddened and swelled, and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Reek stood frozen. It had been a long time since he had seen Ramsay brought so low.
"This isn't the North. This isn't the Dreadfort. This isn't my home."
The pain cleared Ramsay's head. He had always prided himself on his cunning and slyness, but in the face of absolute power, he suddenly felt exposed, with nowhere to hide.
"The first slap was for trying to deceive me. The second was for calling me Waters and Storm. I dislike those names. The third slap is a lesson. Ramsay, don't try to bargain with someone far stronger than you. And don't play your petty tricks. You are not Roose. You are not the lord of the Dreadfort. You are not qualified to negotiate with me."
Gendry's voice was icy.
Ramsay felt as if he had fallen into a drift of snow. The helplessness was familiar, the same suffocating pressure he felt in front of his father, Roose.
So I am not strong after all. My strength only comes from my father.
Without the shelter of the Dreadfort, how could he act fierce? His hounds, his boys, all of it depended on the protection of the Dreadfort.
"Don't hit Lord Ramsay! Don't hit Lord Ramsay!"
Reek shouted himself hoarse. He had never refused any of Ramsay's commands. Perhaps he was the most obedient man in House Bolton.
Gendry thought the man had been thoroughly broken in. What kind of bond this was, he could not say. Perhaps it was simply two like-minded wretches clinging to each other.
Reek even tried to rush forward to save Ramsay, though his skill was nothing special. He charged wildly, only for two Unsullied to smash their sword hilts hard into his ribs. The foul-smelling loyal servant collapsed, finally subdued.
Gendry watched the way Reek fought, all reckless force and fury. It seemed Roose did not care much for his bastard son after all. The man sent to serve Ramsay was a useless brute himself. If this was who had taught Ramsay to fight, then it was no wonder he relied only on blind aggression. And Ramsay had no natural strength to back it up.
"Go."
Ramsay glanced at Reek, who was half-kneeling on the floor, retching from the blow. He understood he had no room to resist.
He led Reek out of the room, stepping toward an uncertain tomorrow.
Half a failure, half a success?
Even if he had exposed himself, forging a direct link with the King of Sellswords might still raise his standing at the Dreadfort.