THE BLOODS OF BOLTON | GAME OF THRONES

CHAPTER 5

DEEP IN THE WOOD, Ramsay collapsed against the tree trunk and gasped for the breath he'd lost during the escape. His throat burned with thirst. His feet ached with every step. Heavy, his legs had become so heavy from fatigue, but he had to keep moving because the flayed men were after him. Pink and red. Everywhere he went, all he saw was pink and red, and the flayed men never abandoned the chase. 

They came on horseback, dozens of men armed with swords and whips and flails. The huntsmen brought their dogs: large, ferocious beasts with a taste for human flesh. Ramsay dashed through a shallow stream when he heard them approaching, and then he fled into the southern wood.

In his hand, Ramsay still clutched the knife, sharp and covered with blood. Her blood. The Bolton girl. Her sweet, sweet blood was all over him: on his clothes, on his face, in his hair. He could taste it on his tongue when he licked the deep gash on his lower lip. She'd busted it open during the struggle. Her tiny fist flew up and smashed against his mouth, knocking a few of his bottom teeth loose. She was stronger than she looked, much stronger. Years it had been since he'd suffered such a painful blow, but it was a pleasurable kind of pain. It awakened something inside him, a part of him he thought long dead.

Frankly, he'd grown bored of his game. His past playmates had never put up much of a fight. They ran and hid like frightened children, and they cried for their mothers when the game was over. The Bolton girl never cried; she never begged for mercy. She fought him 'til the very end.

But then their game was interrupted, and his prize was stolen from him. More than anything, he wanted to finish the game and claim the victory he'd earned.

When he thought back on that night, he could still see the fear in her grey eyes, and the anger which smoldered underneath. The anger, that was what stuck with him, and now, as the memory of it started to fade from his mind, a single question remained. 

Why, when he looked into her eyes, did he see his own staring back at him?

Unable to answer that question himself, Ramsay pushed the thought to the back of his mind and continued on. South he was heading, as far south as he could get, far away from the Boltons and their flayed men.

As he was trudging across the plains with the wind against him, Ramsay came upon an old man leading a horse-drawn cart. The man was a farmer who served House Bolton, and he was returning home from a visit to the castle.

Right away, the farmer noticed the boy's blood-splattered clothes. "What happened to you, boy?"

"My family was attacked," Ramsay lied as he fingered the knife he kept hidden behind his back. "They came in the middle of the night while we were all asleep. They murdered my mother and my father and my brothers. Cut them down one after another. I barely managed to escape with my life. Been runnin' ever since."

The old man's brow wrinkled. "Must've been quite the struggle from the look uh yuh."

"Yes, it was. I'm lucky to be alive."

"I'll say." He reached beneath his cap and scratched at his itching scalp. "Well I can't in good conscience leave yuh out here alone. If the cold doesn't get yuh, somethin' else will. Come now, the house isn't far from here. We can make it before nightfall."

And so Ramsay went with the old man to his farmhouse. Along the way, the farmer shared stories of his past travels and the fascinating people he'd met on the road, like a ship cook who claimed to have sailed to Skagos, the most feared island in the North, and had a deadly encounter with the Skagosi:

"Said his ship was lured to its barren shores by mysterious lights in the night, and the Skaggs were waitin' for 'em. Dangerous folk, those Skaggs, little better than wildlings if yuh ask me. As tall as giants they stood, and they carried great axes and spears caked with blood. They captured the men, all of 'em, burned their ship and then brought 'em to their mountain village. The captain and the first mate, the Skaggs sacrificed 'em both to the gods. Cut their throats and drained 'em dry before the weirwoods. As for the crew, some they roasted over a fire that very night. The cook and the others, they had to sit 'n watch while the Skaggs tore at their flesh, slurped on their bones, and licked their fingers clean. Of the survivors, half were killed and stored for the coming winter. The others were kept as slaves."