Fear shadowed Ramsay day and night. From a nearby room, Reek's screams never seemed to stop.
Gendry's soldiers had taken them to a secluded manor and separated everyone into different rooms. The Bolton men had not been tortured. Only Reek endured wave after wave of beatings.
For once, Ramsay found a grim sort of comfort in having been hidden away in the Dreadfort by Roose. At least across the Narrow Sea, he would not be the one suffering such humiliation.
I will repay this a hundredfold.
He pictured Gendry's handsome face. Only by trampling something so bright and beautiful could he feel true satisfaction. The Starks. The Greyjoys. He wanted to grind them all into the dirt.
But first, he had to leave this place. He had to return to the Dreadfort.
He began to regret not killing Reek sooner. Every vile deed he had ever committed, Reek knew. The two of them had been inseparable.
...
Sunlight streamed into the room, yet the air was thick with the smell of blood, Fire Herb salve, and filth, so heavy it stung the eyes.
Reek was bound tightly to a chair, ropes cutting into his flesh.
The small chamber was filled with instruments of torture: pincers, axes, iron hammers, wooden clubs, saws, whips, and a brazier glowing with coals. Four interrogators stood nearby, each holding a different tool.
"Now, shall we talk about your business?"
Maester Qyburn sat behind a small table, calmly observing the battered Reek. He was tall and slightly stooped, with protruding blue eyes framed by deep wrinkles. His hair was more gray than white, and a faint smile lingered on his lips.
To others, he might have seemed like a kindly old grandfather.
To Reek, he was a devil.
"Reek... Reek knows nothing. Reek is Lord Ramsay's servant."
He spat out a mouthful of bloody foam. Several teeth had already been knocked out, yet he still refused to speak.
"Look at yourself, Reek," Qyburn said softly.
Gendry had forbidden him from laying a hand on Ramsay. Reek, however, was another matter.
"Lord Ramsay! Lord Ramsay, save me! I'm your poor servant!"
Reek howled.
Seeing that these men did not fear Ramsay, he grasped at the name of Bolton instead, his voice breaking.
"I belong to House Bolton. Lord Roose, Lord Roose won't spare you!"
"Good boy. Just speak, and I'll grant you a quick death."
A broad-shouldered interrogator stepped forward. Reek's arms were fixed to the chair. The man took a pair of pincers and began pulling out his fingernails one by one.
Blood ran down his fingers.
They beat him as they worked, then smeared Myr Fire Herb salve onto the wounds to keep him from dying too quickly.
"Ahhh!"
Reek screamed until his voice nearly broke.
"Kill me. Just kill me."
"If you refuse to speak, we'll move on to the third finger."
Qyburn watched calmly as the interrogators approached again, the cold metal of the pincers catching the light.
"If you still won't talk, we'll bring in your Lord Ramsay and torture him instead. You'll speak then."
He smiled, and there was something deeply chilling in it.
"No. Don't hurt Lord Ramsay. Don't hurt him. I'll talk..."
Reek lowered his head.
These men had no restraints. The Sellsword King was even more ruthless than the Starks.
The interrogators thoughtfully poured a warm potion down his throat so he could speak clearly and completely.
And so Reek began to confess.
How he had met Ramsay.
All the crimes they had committed together.
"Young Lord Ramsay is Lord Roose's son. His mother was the wife of a miller by the Weeping Water. Lord Roose raped the miller's wife and killed the miller, because the man failed to inform him of his marriage. Lord Roose said the miller had violated his right of the first night."
Qyburn listened quietly as Reek spoke.
Reek did not dare use the words bastard or lowborn. The moment those left his mouth, Ramsay would fly into a rage. Even with Ramsay absent, he still avoided them.
"Go on, Reek," Qyburn said.
"Yes, my lord. At first, Lord Roose paid no attention to Young Lord Ramsay. When the miller's wife later came to the Dreadfort, he gave her some money. And he sent me to them."
"Be specific. Why did you return to the Dreadfort?"
Bringing a bastard back into the castle suggested there had been trouble within House Bolton.
"It was Young Lord Domeric. He had been a squire in the Vale. He envied other men who had brothers, so he followed the Weeping Water in search of his own. Lord Roose scolded him many times and forbade him to do it, but Young Lord Domeric still brought Young Lord Ramsay back. Not long after, Young Lord Domeric fell ill and died."
"Kinslayer," Qyburn murmured.
Ramsay's move had been ruthless. Domeric's goodwill had cost him his life.
"I want everything," Qyburn continued. "A bastard this cold and savage… Lord Roose is truly blessed. Tell me, what does Young Lord Ramsay enjoy most?"
"Young Lord Ramsay likes to strip girls naked and release them into the forests of House Bolton. Then he hunts them with packs of fierce hounds. For those who pleased him, after he forced himself on them, he would grant them a quick death before flaying their bodies. To 'honor' them, he named the dogs after them."
Each word made even Qyburn uneasy. He had conducted experiments on human bodies before, but they had been condemned criminals. Ramsay destroyed lives openly and without restraint.
"And those who did not cooperate?" Qyburn asked.
"The women who cried and begged and refused to run were still violated. Sometimes by him. Sometimes by the hounds. Sometimes both. Then they were flayed alive. All the skins were taken back to the Dreadfort as trophies."
Reek swallowed.
"Young Lord Ramsay enjoys flaying. He says it is when he feels most alive. It is a tradition of House Bolton."
"Well said." Qyburn's voice remained mild. "And you, good lad? Did you have a part in Young Lord Ramsay's games?"
"Young Lord Ramsay and I were never apart. I always served him. Sometimes he let me share in it. Sometimes the women were still alive. Sometimes they were already dead. Before they were flayed."
He spoke as though recalling an ordinary memory.
The interrogators' faces had grown ashen. Whatever darkness they themselves carried, these flayers were rotten to the core.
"List the victims of your perversions clearly," Qyburn said, stepping forward and gripping Reek's jaw. "Now."
For a moment, he felt the urge to crush that filthy face in his hand.
But not yet.