We Can Do This ((Private))

Woo, alright! I'm literally just about to go to bed, and I'll be at uni all day tomorrow, but I'll try and get something written when I get home! c:

Do you want to start, or should I? I'm not really sure how to start this... ^^'

Alright, thanks! ^^

Nah, I'm fine with you playing the others if you want- I'm usually better at just RP'ing one character at a time, anyway c:

ooc: Sorry this took so long, and if it sounds a bit stitched together- I've been writing random paragraphs whenever I get the chance over the past two days, not always in the right order, and I've just kinda put them quickly together now ^^'

Ic: The first true signs of winter's arrival had come that night in the form of a vicious snowstorm which had blasted the sturdy fort of Winterfell in ferocious gusts of blinding snow and stole what remained of Autumn's living breath, casting all in sparkling statues of cold dead white. Even now, as the pair of Stark girls floated in on their fine mounts whose hooves crackled and crunched through the crusting of snow, the sky was still swollen and bloated with foreboding purplish clouds; the atmosphere was so thick with the promise of snow that it felt as though the mere action of removing a dagger from its sheathe might rupture the belly of the beastly blanket and send forth a fresh suffocation of the cold white rain. How fitting, perhaps, that the first true snow of winter hailed the arrival of what were presumed to be the last of the Starks, renowned for their ominous words, 'Winter is coming'. Now winter was well and truly here, and here returned the Starks along with it.

There was a spattering of mutterings among the men of the crowd, who had come in witness and celebration of the looming wedding of Ramsay Bolton to the young Stark girl Charaphenelia; they murmured of omens and the petty wrath of long gone gods, but none such nonsense concerned the Lord of The Dreadfort's wild minded son. In fact, as he had stood irritably awaiting the delayed arrival of his wife-to-be and her sibling, listening to the hushed whispers echoing around the courtyard, Ramsay had issued a silent promise that he would later teach such cowards in the crowd that the wrath of the gods was nothing compared to the bite of a Bolton's blade.

The girls approached on light feet, confidently yet with a slight hesitance which only a man with a keen eye for such could hope to notice- unfortunately, Ramsay Bolton was one such man. Yet, despite knowing this, it was not disappointment which curled at his lips but a cruelly humoured smile. He drew deep enjoyment from the smallest sign of pain in another, no matter be it physical or mental, for he knew that all it took was a slight kink in one's armour, one small weakness, through which he could burrow his blade to cause a whole world of agony.

As the two halted before his father, Ramsay listened only vaguely to Roose's formal introductions; he was much more interested in the two fine specimens before him. His flinty ice-blue eyes consumed them from head to heel, boring into both with a deep and unnerving scrutiny. One of the girls was tall and graceful, with flowing curves which not even her thick winter woolens could conceal, and a stunning set of bright blue eyes in a beautiful face framed by thick locks of lush auburn hair. She spoke politely and prettily, and looked breakable like a snowflake of a flower. The other, he noted, remained silent throughout- she lacked the stunning beauty of her sister, and stood in a way which lacked the perfect primness of the former, yet she served to catch his curiosity to a greater extent.

He had never before met either of the two Stark women, so naturally he had no incentive as to which it was he would be marrying. The pretty one was pleasing on the eye, yet he saw little promise in her of amusement- soft, she seemed. More pliable. The game was never so fun when they bowed to one's hand without even a little beating into shape. The entertainment came from breaking them.

Ramsay himself was dressed in his finest doublet of pink satin slashed with red beneath a fine black leather jerkin. A thick pale pink cloak draped loosely about his shoulders, trimmed with fur against the chill of the air which nipped at any bare extremities with sharp teeth, and was clasped at his neck with the grotesque flayed man which symbolised his father's House. Despite the man's cautions, Ramsay wore plainly upon his hip his yellow bone-hilted falchion, dagger and flaying knife- a threat, a warning, and a promise. He stepped forward as he was introduced, black-gloved hands clasped idly behind his back as he peered down at the two with a sly smile.

"So, which one of you is the b*tch I am to wed?" He questioned with a complete and utter lack of respect- one which he was sure his tight-arsed father liked not one bit, but he didn't give a d*mn for what the Lord had to say. He was his own man, and he saw little need for the idiotic rules of his father.

ooc: Also, sorry it's a bit long- I tend to write a lot on my first post XD

ooc: Yeah, I had thought about asking but you mentioned something about her resembling Arya more, so I just assumed that she was closer to her in personality and appearance. Thanks for clearing that up! c:

So in terms of his character, I think I'm gonna keep Ramsay a bit wild and disrespectful, lacking in a lot of the manners associated with nobility, but with a hint of cruel charm. Does that work? Definitely toning him down, though XD I think it would be interesting to keep to his history in the books, though, of growing up on a farm/mill until recently. It might give for something to work into the plot, if Chara were to learn about it?

Ic: Ramsay allowed a smug smile to worm across his lips at his father's sharp rebuke yet, despite his apparent disregard for his father and his rules, it could be noted that he did not further play with his father's drawn temper; As much as he sorely wished they could be done with such silly formalities and polite niceties and customs, it was clear that he daren't rebel outwardly against his father for reasons that were all but hidden, and it seeped forth in the form of a slightly soured expression.

"Yes, father, she's got a bit of a bite, doesn't she?" He smiled with as much good humour as he could muster, though nothing could hope to mask the bitterness which bit his lips and flashed furiously in his pale, pale eyes after her utterance of that single filthy word; the flinty, icy orbs left Chara for not one instant as he jested gently, a soft laugh escaping his lips in reassurance to his disapproving father that he was merely being humorous, "I wonder, does she come with a muzzle? Or will I have to have one made as a bride's gift?"

There were a few mirthful chuckles from the Freys who looked on with conceited smiles, and the Bastard's Boys cared little about concealing their raucous amusement, yet the majority of the Northmen merely looked on with sealed lips or glanced to one another warily with disquieted laughter. Ramsay looked to his men in praise and approval, yet on catching the cold look in his father's chilly eyes the small smile was replaced with a skulking scowl, and he reluctantly did his best to ease the minds of the men who were crucial to his success if he were to win over the North.

"It was a jest, you fools. You're supposed to laugh. I wasn't being serious... clearly," Ramsay lied lightly, sighing heavily and giving a roll of his eyes before quieting their worries with a reassuring smile. A few more relieved chuckles rumbled forth at that, yet it was still a chilly reception.

He decided it was best not to tarry any further, and stepped forth to meet his bride. She was more to his taste, to be sure, yet one simple word had served to spoil any kind of high regard he might have held toward her. Anyone who was familiar Ramsay's company knew these few things well and without a doubt: one must never displease him, never mock him, and never ever call him 'Snow' or 'bastard' within his hearing unless you wish to lose more than just one's head.

"My lady Charaphenelia, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm sure, as my father says, we will be fast friends," He smiled politely, attempting to put what little had stuck in his head of manners into play, and offered the pretty young lady the crook of his arm so that he might escort her, "But let us be out of this cold, hm? You must be frozen."

He raised a hand to brush his gloved fingers against her cold-flushed cheek with deceptive tenderness, though of course he could not feel a thing through the thick leather. Then he leaned forward with an impish smile, as though to whisper some mild-humoured jest into her ear. His dark fringe fell across his face from the gentle movement, shadowing the unnervingly colourless tones of his eyes as he whispered softly; his hot breathe steamed in the chill winter air and condensed wetly against the porcelain tones of her cheek, his damp lips mere millimeters from her flesh.

"You're going to regret calling me that, dog. Perhaps you haven't met my Reek yet- a pretty thing he was, rebellious too- a bit like you- before I had his handsome smile smashed to splinters and his skin fed to my girls or sent as souvenirs... But no worries. I'm sure we could arrange some shared lessons for the both of you. He sleeps with the dogs, I'm sure he wouldn't mind another."

And then he had resumed a straight posture, gazing humorously her as though they had just shared some private joke, then looked briefly to his father before leading the Stark girl inside.

anc wrote:

she couldn't help but to think perhaps his obsession with torture and pain was due to overcompensating for something he lacked.

Me: Mental stability? Basic human kindness? A soul?

Ic: The sudden laugh which had burst forth from between the young girls lips in response to his threat was mildly irritating to Ramsay, yes, but also satisfyingly promising. When he looked into her tea green eyes, he saw not an ounce of fear residing there, only a startling strength of will and wild determination which was a rare and delightful thing to find among his captives. It was always so fulfilling to watch as the fight and fire drained from their souls to leave naught but a cracked and quivering shell, and the more fiery they be to begin with, the more reward he gained from their downward descent into the grovelling and fearful rodents that they all were, deep down.

So, he maintained his smile as she took his arm, playing along with her false sense of strength and confidence for the time being. Soon enough he would have the pleasure of snatching it all away from her, and the certainty of that alone was enough to keep him playing along with his father's farce for the time being.

As the procession proceeded inside the cold burnt remains of Winterfell's main keep- it had taken a while for his father's men to refurbish the hall, stables and bedroom quarters to make them inhabitable after the raging fire which Ramsay himself had set not so long ago- Ramsay kept a close eye on the shifting facial expressions of his wide-to-be. Upon entering her childhood home, he was amused to see some lucid childish delight sparkling briefly within her eyes. Evidently, she was not so cool and composed as she desperately wanted to appear to be, yet her composure was regained almost immediately and a chillness froze her lips in a tight line. His father's voice however, sounding from behind him where the Lord and the Lady Sansa trailed closely at their heels, served to snatch some of the mirth from his mouth which curdled into a curt scowl.

"Dear father, what do you think me: a barbarian?" Ramsay smiled crudely, his eyes two cold gashes in his face, perfectly aware of whom his father were truly talking to and at what he hinted; he continued in a murmur and a squeeze of Chara's arm which would appear gentle in all outward appearances yet which dug painful fingers into the Lady's arm, "As if I could dare harm such a lovely thing as she. She deserves all the love and attention in the world." He gazed adoringly at her then, and the sincerity of his words seemed so genuinely spoken in every single way, an unbelievable tenderness uttered into every syllable, that it could almost be mistaken as truth despite anything anyone already knew about the man. Of course, it was all utter tosh, but he hoped his father would appreciate the sentiment and quite breathing down his back quite so infuriatingly.

"Well then, I think that's it settled," He chirped with a puckish smirk at Chara's words 'to be himself' and Roose's subsequent scowl, "I promise you, Chara, that you will not be disappointed. If you wish me to be myself, then I intend to do just that, my love." However, Roose's sudden interruption, as always, dampened his mischievous mood with the effectiveness of a candle-snuff extinguishing a flame. He looked to his father with a small nod and more than a little resentment in his icy eyes.

"Of course, father. You know I always appreciate our little talks." His voice was stiff, and he said nothing more as the four swept through the heated halls of Winterfell and to the women's quarters where they could change and prime themselves for the day ahead. Ramsay left them to do such with a final departing glance of warning, before reluctantly meeting the ire of his father. He did so hate his father's eerily soft voice and irksome whining about appearances and- what was that line he so readily liked to use?- 'a peaceful land, a quiet people'. Pathetic. Yet it could be noted that there was something similar to a hint of fear glinting in his sharp eyes as he awaited his father's bitter counsel.

ooc: Tbh that's the kind of thing that I like in a character, though XD

Ic: Before he left, Ramsay listened a few moments at the door. There was nothing interesting to learn other than what he already knew- the younger girl was much more timid and fearful, while the elder showed only spirit and determination despite half knowing what it was she was getting herself into. When talk turned to dresses and jewels, however, Bolton's bastard leaned back from the thick wooden door with a resigned expression. He would hear nothing more of interest for the moment, and delaying a scolding wasn't going to make it go away. Twisting his lips into a bitter scowl, he shot one last parting glance at the door to the ladies' chambers before stalking off down the corridor.

Winterfell was a wondrous piece of architecture- not that Ramsay would appreciate such- and was heated year-round through the feeding of boiling water from hot springs throughout the thick walls to keep it constantly comfortable in terms of temperature even in the dead of winter; yet after the castle's fall, gaping holes gulped a biting breeze into the belly of the castle, and despite the mens' efforts there were still large areas which were bitter cold and largely unprotected from the elements. Due to such, Ramsay still wore his pale pink blood-spotted cloak about his shoulders to shrug off the faint chill in the air, its thick material billowing about his legs as he rounded the corner into the room in which his father awaited him.

Ramsay paused in the doorway, then ducked through with slow, casual steps into the chamber. It appeared that the servants had failed in remembering to light a fire in that room, the frozen ash-littered stone of the hearth gaping wide, black and empty, so there was a certain crispness to the air which could not quite be abated by the warmth of the walls. Ramsay stared darkly into the depths of the lifeless fireplace a moment, the leather of his gloves scrunching audibly as he tightened his hands into fists, relaxed them.

"You should have the servants whipped. I didn't think you stood for such tardiness," Ramsay stated curtly, "If you don't have the stomach for it, of course, I would be perfectly willing-" He was cut off by Roose's words, and the son pursed his lips into a tight line and he listened in frustration. He did not speak until his father was quite done, but he made several faces and mutterings throughout do show his displeasure.

"Oh, are we really having this pointless talk again? And here I thought you had asked me here to share tender words and encouragement on the eve of my wedding," Ramsay retorted coolly, turning his back on his father and sauntering toward the stone mantelpiece where a half-empty bottle of wine sat abandoned and forgotten. He idly reached to pick it up, sloshing the half-frozen contents briefly before uncorking the bottle and raising it to his nose to take a short whiff. Wrinkling his nose, he replaced it upon the mantle before turning and strolling across the room to a scarred wooden table. He pulled out a chair, its legs protesting in a muffled scream as they dragged complainingly across the rushes strewn over the stone floor, then- ever so slowly- eased himself into the chair. He leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest with a sigh of supple leather, then stared his father down with challenge in his eyes; despite their sharpness, however, none could hope to beat the unflinching shrewdness of his father's own.

"I do not need reminding- you have prattled on at me about it so much that I fear I'm hearing your droning warnings in my sleep," Ramsay stated finally, languidly rocking back in the chair which creaked precariously, "You have made yourself perfectly clear..." A moments pause, and then he sat forward in the chair and lowered his hands to clasp them upon his lap, eyeing Roose dangerously, "...But tell me, was slaying everyone's favourite wolf boy Robb Stark meant to gain you the support of the North, too? It seems to me that you can murder and stab all you like, yet I'm not allowed a simple bit of fun in bed lest I offend someone with my ill manners? Face it father, you're a bloody hypocrite." He screwed up his face in distaste, then leaned back in his chair with a huff.

ooc: Sorry if any of this is a bit confusing or badly written, I was finding it hard to concentrate on what I was writing because my parents have the tv on in the background and I can't hear myself think *melts*

Ic: "It's not fair," Ramsay muttered darkly, glowering at the ink-spattered surface of the oaken table as though it had greatly offended him, listening little to his father's reasoning in his mild spite; he had released his sharp yellow bone dagger from its black leather sheathe as Roose talked, and had begun moodily gouging small splinters from the thick wooden tabletop with misplaced ire, "Why does killing one wolf pup win you a war, but killing another will lose you one? I am not scared of those fools. I might dig my own grave, but it will not be me who ends up dead in it- anyone who dares stand against me will learn that, slowly and painfully, I assure you." Despite his petty complaints, however, Ramsay knew with reluctant realisation that his father was right- as always. As spiteful as he was, though, he did not admit such- yet anyone who knew him would be able to judge from the sulky silence which followed that it was what he thought, even if it did not leave his lips.

When Roose's gaunt hand splayed across the table beside where Ramsay was irritably chiselling away with the dangerous tip of his dagger, the former's invasive action demanding the latter's full attention, the dark-haired male lifted his eyes to meet the deathly serious stare of his father. He matched Roose's unflinching gaze, expression unreadable yet increasingly ominous. Slowly, after his father had finished speaking, he dropped his hands back onto his lap and replaced the dagger in his belt. His narrow lips contorted in irritability, but moments later he sighed deeply and sprawled back in the chair once more.

"As you wish... but I do hope that, once all is said and done and the girl has popped out an heir of mine, you will not deny me the luxury of skinning myself a wolf's pretty pelt," Then, deciding by himself that there was nothing more to be said, he pushed himself from the stiff wooden chair and stalked to the door without another word, jerking it open and slipping through in sinister silence.

The talk with his father had left Ramsay in a wicked mood, and he keenly wished to work out some of his troubles upon some poor unsuspecting sod, yet knew that now was not a good time. Despite his reluctant reservations, however, he did not possess the astounding self-control of his father which would yield basal urges to common sense, and undoubtedly never would even if he were to try, so- although he did his best to refrain from his sick games for the moment- it meant that he was exceptionally irascible with an even greater tendency to snap than usual.

And so it was that he came across Charaphenelia as she strolled calmly through the halls. It had to be admitted that he did not initially recognise her for the woman whom he had met outdoors, who had been so bundled in furs and flushed from the cold. After second glance, however, it came to Ramsay's attention that that was exactly who it was. He was pleased to see that she actually cleaned up even better than he had ever hoped, and was certainly a rival in beauty to anyone who could be set before him. As little as he cared for beauty in general, he did appreciate a comely face; it made the bedding infinitely more palatable.

"My Lady," His voice carried across the cavernous corridor, hushed by whispering echoes which closely followed each of his words. It did not take long to catch up to her with powerful strides, and soon enough he was drifting by her side like a dastardly shadow, hands clasped lightly behind his back. The ruddy red glow cast by the writhing flames of the wall sconces set the bloody droplets upon his cape to glinting devilishly, revealing them not to be blood specks at all but vicious scarlet garnets embroidered into the fine fabric of his cape, "I was about to send for you. You must be famished after your journey, and I am told the cooks are just now preparing a feast for your arrival. I am sure they would not miss a thing or two to keep your hunger satiated until dinner."

He spoke quite politely and softly, with not an ounce of malice to be heard; apparently he was attempting to heed Roose's cautions, despite disliking doing so. There was a short stretch of silence, and he added with an appreciative look which roved over her body from head to heel.

"You look very beautiful," He appraised her casually, a handsome smile haunting his lips, "You will make the the entire kingdom jealous, dressing so ravishingly. I am a very lucky man, indeed." His words and tone were charming, to be sure, but there was something slightly unnatural to them, coming from his lips, which hollowed them somewhat.

ooc: Rushed before work, sorry! I'll be gone a while, but I should be able to get in another reply after I get back c:

Ic: "Then what is it that my Lady would like to do? Reacquaint yourself with some of the other noblewomen? Watch the entertainments in the Great Hall? Or continue to wander these halls like a lonely ghost? I am sure your return here must be unearthing some long buried memories- perhaps you would care to give me a tour. I would be most interested to hear about your wonderful past here." Ramsay offered an affectatious smile, and was almost humoured by her own show of false sincerity as she acted honoured by his small display of flattery.

As they walked, they met few people wandering the castle as they were; he did not doubt that the majority of the men and women were huddled in the Great Hall where there was a wealth of warmth, drinking and nibbling on snacks out of celebration, nervousness, or simply for the sake of stuffing their gluttonous faces. In fact, Ramsay had expected his men to be there too, and was slightly surprised to see Sour Alyn and Grunt loitering ahead as himself and the Stark girl rounded a corner. Upon seeing him, Sour Alyn split his lips wide in a putrid display of grinning rotten teeth and gave his 'master' a bobbing nod of his head in greeting before turning his ogling eyes upon Chara- lingering them longest upon her proud chest as though stripping her bare- while Grunt simply glared unnervingly at the girl. Ramsay gave the two a brief glance, but walked on past. He needed them not for now, and did not want for them to get in their way. As they disappeared out of sight, however, Ramsay could not help but get the feeling that they had still not entirely left them.

Chara's seemingly innocent question served to occupy Ramsay's drifting suspicions, however, and he turned his gaze upon her once more. He showed no hesitation as he answered gently.

"Of course not," The corners of his lips tugged upwards, pale eyes watching her searchingly, "A husband and wife should keep no secrets from one another, is that not true?"

They came to another ruined section of the castle, grey bricks burnt black by the raging fire which had once consumed all in swirling scarlet flames. Unless they turned back the way they had come, they would have no option but to pass briefly into the courtyard and along the slippery paths to the next building. Ramsay led his future-bride onward, passing a couple of guards with a brief nod as he unclasped his thick woollen cloak from his shoulders and draped it about Chara's bare neck before stepping into the cold. The clouds seemed to have finally ruptured, spilling forth a new spattering of snow which drifted with increasing thickness through the air. As they passed beneath the hulking burnt remains of several keeps, however, it was difficult to tell what was simply snow and what was in fact fluttering ash.

ooc: Aaah, sorry this took so long, I started reading up on the history of the Boltons and then I started reading about Night's King and I got a bit carried away and forgot about this XD Sorry I left you waiting.

(Also, I've not proof-read this, so there's probably tons of spelling mistakes and bad grammar!)

Ic: "Don't be ridiculous," Ramsay lied pleasantly, "I would wish for nothing more than to get to know my future bride, and this is as good an opportunity as any." Truthfully, he followed so that he could keep an eye on her; he did not trust the wench not to conspire against him, and so long as she was in sight he could be fairly confident that she did not get the opportunity to do so. After all, anyone in their right mind who had heard of Ramsay could hardly be enthusiastic about meeting him, let alone wedding him, and naturally would only do so if there was something to get out of it themselves. Ramsay just needed to figure out what it was- something which was made decidedly more difficult by his father's ban on any forms of torture regarding the girl for the time being. Then again, perhaps she was forced into it... yet even so, aware of Ramsay's unsavoury habits as she appeared to be, it could be assumed that it was only a matter of time before she resorted to some kind of treachery to save herself.

The wind was bracing and bit to the bone, yet Ramsay was a man of the North- no matter his bastard blood- and greeted it with fond familiarity. The thickly falling snow served to muffle most sounds, encompassing the two in utter silence other than for the soft crunching of fresh snow beneath their feet and and the eerie whistling of the wicked wind through the hollow structures of the crooked soot-blackened towers looming high above. By now, the snowfall was so heavy that it all but obscured everything more than a few feet in front, so even the lookout guards upon the walls could not see nor hear them unless the two passed directly beneath- and vise versa. Despite the cold, Ramsay slowed their pace; he had lead her here so that they might move unheard and unseen by any passersby... and anyone who might have been tasked with following him, as he had no doubt that his father had seen to. The man did not trust him not to mess things up with his often reckless behaviour, and he had every reason to think that way.

Charaphenelia's reminiscences served no interest to Ramsay other than as some snippets of personal information which may come in useful at a later date, yet he listened attentively nonetheless both to keep her talking and hence get more information out of her, and also to take his father's advice for the time being. Chara's memories of her childhood seemed so sweet and carefree, surrounded by family and friends... it made a bitterness rise in the back of his throat which was something akin to jealousy.

Ramsay had never had any family he could speak of as such, not in his early life before being taken in by Roose and even less afterwards, and friends had come few and far between throughout his life. An only child with an absent father whom his mother only spoke ill of, he had lived out the majority of his childhood working alone on a mill with only the bitter musings of his mother as company- musings which spoke of his father as a wealthy Lord from whom the title should eventually fall to young Ramsay, she claimed, and who was paying her far too little for her troubles.

With his mother reinforcing rumours of his self-importance and his 'birth-right' in her resentful ramblings, Ramsay had grown up unruly and conceited, believing himself from a young age to be better than the other peasant-folk who sought to include him in their games. In his false sense of superiority, the wild young boy had treated the others as nothing more than throw-away playthings, and became increasingly vengeful and cruel as and when they treated him as less than he saw himself to be. He had come to think that it was acceptable to hurt others for imagined slights, to punish them, and gradually he had come progressively to find some sick enjoyment from it which, perhaps, had always been waiting somewhere deep within his gut, dormant, a vicious ball of resentment and anger and pain which intermittently tore itself screaming from within.

As he had grown, this darker side of Ramsay emerged more and more, until finally his mother had reached out to the man whom she hated for help. That was when Roose had gifted Ramsay with his first friend and servant. It had been a jest, in truth, a spiteful gesture toward the woman whom he cared nothing for and payed only to keep quiet, yet the offering of the unruly and stinking serving boy 'Reek' was perhaps the one thing which was the Lord's greatest undoing. Ramsay and Reek had become inseparable, and he remembered the many misdeeds and brutalities carried out alongside his Reek with fond and savage pleasure. The two had been a bad influence on one-another, everyone said, and rather than dampening Ramsay's lustful fits of barbarism Reek had done nought but bring out the worst in him until 'cruel and cunning' was all that Ramsay could be said to be.

Chara cleared her throat, and Ramsay was snapped back to the present. He grit his teeth, jaw clenching, then glanced calmly to the Stark. Snow had stained his dark hair with white, and small flakes clung loosely to his lashes as he gazed at her with ice-coloured eyes. His face was slightly flushed from the cold, but otherwise was blanched and ghostly pale as his father's. Her daring question surprised him to some extent, and as such was not quite so quick to reply. Her subsequent explanation provided a cover for him to gather his thoughts, deliberating how he might reply. Truthfully, what surprised him more was the fact that she claimed to understand and even admire the things he did, and was a little uncomfortable when the thought of Reek returned to his thoughts- not his new Reek, of course, not that little game. No, it put him in mind of the true Reek, for only he had ever genuinely accepted what he did. Certainly, he did not compare Charaphanelia Stark to his old servant and friend in any other way, and whereas Reek had exulted in the pain they caused he very much doubted that this wolf felt even slightly inclined toward such levels of sin, yet strangely enough the connection had been made in his mind. Ah, how he was coming to regret having the stinky little weasel killed...

After she had grown silent, Ramsay paused a moment to make sure that she was quite finished before replying. During that time, he had cast a searching glance about the blurry white scene surrounding them, watchful of any lurking figures.

"...Yes, I want this marriage," He stated finally, quite surely and firmly. There was another short interlude of quiet, listening to the soft crunching of snow underfoot as he strolled slowly along, and he eyed her with scrutiny, reading her face for any flashes of thought behind her green eyes, "Does that surprise you, my lady? Let me explain. No, I am sure you're quite aware that I do not marry for love- but nor do I marry for Roose. Yes, he has the right idea, and his plan of marrying you to me for power over the North is something I strongly back..." He came to a complete stop. The snow fluttered against his form, and the two of them were all that could be seen or heard amid the whiteout. He faced her directly, now, a black shadow blurred by white.

"But I am only playing along to his tune until such time as we are wed and you bare me an heir, after which point I plan to take my time in slowly flaying that pasty skin from his rotten bones and feeding his flesh to my girls. He does not rule me. No one does. You would be better learning that now, little wolf, for you are not and never will be my equal... You're bargaining amuses me, but it will eventually get old if it continues, and if it does you will soon find yourself bargaining against a blade." He smiled then, something nasty and crooked but somehow still representing pleasure, and he was about to continue their walk when he added briefly, "Oh, and if you dare mention any of this to my father, I will kill you slowly and without hesitation. After all, there is always the other one to wed- that pretty sister of yours- should you experience a... mishap." He walked on, letting her follow or not, and soon enough the rusty glow of lanterns came into view up ahead, promising warmth and shelter once more.