Some fools say that monsters only come out at night. Whatever old crone thought that up, was as ignorant as could be. Ramsay knew that monsters lived everywhere at a young age. His mother had told him of the evils of the world. She'd spoken about the cruelty, magic, and brutality that ran the world. She'd told him of highborns, and their powers. She said Lords could order entire civilizations destroyed. Bannermen were the vassals of the highest born Lords, and he was the son of a Stark bannerman. The Starks were the fiercest, but fairest highborn clan. After all, how could his mother be wrong?

She weaned Ramsay on his rights as a son of a highborn. She told him of the wealth he could have, of the food and warmth that awaited him. He grew up dreaming of a better way of life than helping her tend the ground, and skin the animals he trapped. He wanted to live in the great castles. He wanted important people to ride to his gates. He wanted it all, and he would do anything to have it all. However, time has a way of getting in the way of dreams. Childhood turns to adulthood, and the metamorphosis kills dreams. Ramsay went to his father after his mother died. There, he was called bastard as if he were nothing. He went from being loved to being hated and dismissed. There, in the stone halls, he learned just how wrong his mother was. Sure, he was the son of a Lord, but he wasn't the son of a Lady. Even though the gown wearing dolls weren't useful for anything other than breeding, no man got respect without coming from those highborn cunts. Thus, Ramsay was less than a foot soldier to most of the men that came to the Dreadfort. He was scum, and he hated it.

Ramsay was no fool. He knew many useful things when he came to his father's house. He knew how to track, hunt, kill, and dress game. He knew how to build shelters, and grow food. He knew how to throw blades, and shoot arrows. He even knew a bit about swords. He couldn't read or write, and he couldn't speak any other language other than the Common Tongue. He couldn't speak pretty words, or bow just so. However, he could read people. He could sniff out a weakness. He could pretend to be anything or anyone so skillfully, that sometimes he believed the illusions as well. Thus, Ramsay knew how to plan. Thus, as he became companioned with his half-brother, Ramsay saw an opportunity. His father had no other heirs. Elimination was an easy option. Thus, Ramsay waited. He learned how to read. He learned how to kill with anything he could lay his hands on. He learned how to torture (as highborns weren't meant for such lowly tasks) anything out of anyone. He acquired a taste for blood and misery. Every cry. Every scream. Every death. It all worked together in a medley of misery, to produce a euphoria that he had never known.

He began to crave it.

He needed blood to crust in the hair of his arms. He wanted the ache in his neck from bending over a victim too long. He longed for the sweet scent of fear as he flashed his blade or played whatever game he decided on.

He did all this, and then he killed his brother.

It wasn't like they had been raised as siblings. In reality, Domeric had seen Ramsay as a stupid little servant. Underestimating prey can get a predator hurt. Underestimating a predator will get the hunter killed. Ramsay was more like a rabid wolf than a man. Domeric shouldn't have turned his back. Ramsay only did what came naturally. He killed his competition. Roose Bolton's wife had died long before, so no more heirs would be brought forth. Thus, Roose was forced to start accepting Ramsay Snow a bit more.

Ramsay thought that by eliminating Domeric, he would be given his father's affection. He was never more wrong. Roose wasn't sure of what had happened in those woods. Maybe Domeric did fall into a cave, only to die of a broken neck. However, Roose Bolton had a cruel streak. His took pleasure in making living representations of his house flag. He could see when another person longed for blood and pain. He knew what Ramsay was becoming. Really, the bastard was more a Bolton than the trueborn heir had been.

With no proof, Roose let the bastard stay. However, Roose was a much better hunter than Domeric, and the Lord knew never to turn his back on the rabid animal that prowled in human skin. He watched the bastard grow older, and become exceptionally skilled in warfare. The bastard could command well, and the man knew his tactics. Bolton couldn't help but be impressed. Yet, the emotion was never expressed. Roose would never show any warmth to Ramsay, no matter how hard the man-child worked to gain his father's approval. Perhaps that is what made Ramsay's madness spiral downward so rapidly.

Whatever the reason, Ramsay came to love hunting people. They were much more fun than animals. Animals were good at keeping quiet, but they didn't put up much of a fight. Humans could be tracked easily, and he could never tell what the little prey animals would do when he cornered them. Some would beg. Some would scream. Some would try to kill him. The list just went on and on, really. He loved it. Thus, whenever he had to deal with bandits or rebellions, he made sure to keep a few as hostages, or playthings. No one missed them. If anyone asked, he killed everyone at the battle…took no prisoners.

Maybe he hoped that Lord Bolton would take special notice. Maybe he thought that his sire would notice how great his control over the people was. Who knew what Ramsay believed? All he knew was that Roose could barely stand the sight of him, and blood made him happy.

When Ramsay was seventeen, he came upon something wonderful. He found out how much sweeter the fear was after he gave the rats hope, and then took it away. He did it over and over, playing different games, dangling freedom before their eyes, only to take it away at the last moment. Sometimes, he only did it once. Other times, if the prisoner was particularly entertaining, he did it quite a few times. Some were incredibly entertaining, and the look of elation crumbling into ultimate despair never lessened with each game he played. Unlucky for those rats, he kept them alive much longer.

Blood became part of the game. It was no longer the game. The game became hopelessness. He wanted to destroy someone so much that he could completely change them to suit him. He did it a few times, but most had at least a little backbone, and wouldn't completely forget life before the torture. He had to kill those.

Yet, time went by, and Ramsay found his favorite plaything. Reek, once known as the proud Kraken, the traitorous Theon Greyjoy. He didn't love any game more than the one he played with Reek. It went so well! He could have Reek pretend to be Theon, and Reek never even considered the possibility of it being real. Sometimes, Ramsay couldn't believe his skill.

Hell! He had even gotten the rat to profess love for him!

Then again, everything began looking up once Robb Stark declared war. Ramsay gained command of many men. He was allowed to do whatever to prisoners. He could create any story he wanted. He still wanted his father to at least care if he was alive or not, but the only proof of that was that Roose finally legitimized him. Ramsay Snow became Ramsay Bolton. He loved it. He was getting everything he always wanted, and he was getting even more. He would become Warden of the North once his father died, but there was no need to hurry that along. He still had a lot to learn about lordship, and no one else could teach him. No one that he would trust not to poison his food, anyway.

When Ramsay turned twenty-one, he father began speaking of a bride. Apparently, it was time that Ramsay stopped finding sadistic whores to warm his bed. At least, that's what the Warden of the North said. Ramsay wasn't all that interested in finding a wife he couldn't play with, and having children. He wouldn't know what to do with children. With time, Ramsay had realized how stupid his mother had been. He couldn't treat his children as she did. His father only legitimized him because the Lord had no choice, time wasn't on his side. Plus, Ramsay would probably just kill any other heir. He couldn't treat his children as his father had. He wouldn't know what to do with children at all. Thus, he had no interest in bringing the brats into the world.

After the first altercation between father and son over the matter, Ramsay wasn't privy to many of the letters his father received on the subject. Thus, he was rather surprised when he was called to his father's solar late in the evening. He walked into the room, not bothering with courtesy. However, he froze at the sight of a strange man with a small beard sitting with his father. Well, that was a bit odd. He moved slower, and his father looked at him with just a bit of distain, but that was normal.

Lord Bolton stood up from his seat before the fire, as did the man. His father gestured to the man in a long cloak and tunic, "Ramsay, this is Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Eyrie. He is here to discuss a proposal."

Baelish nodded towards Ramsay, and he quietly returned the gesture. Apparently, pretending respect was a big deal to highborns. That was something his mother had never known, one of the many. The Lord before him sat down, and Ramsay sat as well. This was probably going to be about some stupid marriage.

Petyr smiled at them and asked, "So, have you heard of me?"

Ramsay shook his head, but Roose spoke, "You're the man that knows more than he should."

Baelish smirked, and Ramsay noticed that the expression only made the man's eyes harder. The Lord Protector relaxed in his chair and continued to smile wickedly, "Then you know just how bad of an enemy I can be." He looked around the room, "Well, good. I have some information that you might like to know of. I have a bastard daughter living at the Eyrie. She needs a husband. I planned to marry her to Harrold Hardyng, but recent information about the boy has me rethinking that decision. However, I promised my girl a ladyship. I plan to deliver, with a very sizable dowry. With her would come support from the Eyrie, and my information."

Roose looked at the man before them, clearly weighing the pros and cons. Finally, the Warden nodded, "Done."

Ramsay wasn't thrilled at all. He had worked hard to become a Lord! He didn't want to marry some stupid bastard girl! She was probably pox ridden and had slept with everyman in the Eyrie! Yet, a sharp look from his father kept the man's mouth shut.

Baelish smiled dangerously, and Ramsay wondered about the man. That expression was one that he had worn many a time, and only when someone else was in pain. What was this strange lord up to? Yet, Lord Bolton had already signed the betrothal contract. Whatever. What could the stupid girl do? If she was too unbearable, he could always just kill her. Maybe he could make her run from his favorite girls!

Baelish stood, the contract tucked in his cloak. He tightly smiled at the men and turned to leave, "I'll be in touch."

Once the lord was out of the room, Ramsay turned to his father, "Is there a reason I'm being married to a bastard?!"

Roose snorted and looked at his son, "You're a bastard too. No matter what your last name is." He stood and got a cup of wine. He sipped from the goblet and stared at his son, "Baelish is one of the most dangerous men in the seven kingdoms. You can't flay him. You can't kill him. If he wants the girl out of the Eyrie, she probably knows something that she shouldn't. We can use that."

Ramsay turned to leave the room and glared at the doors. Whatever. He thought he might have said it out loud, but he wasn't sure. He was too angry at being called a bastard again. He couldn't even kill the man who said it! His father. He couldn't kill the man…yet.

Petyr couldn't keep the smirk in as he rode through the night. The fools. He had loved Catelyn, and he had sat in the solar of the bastard that had killed her! The bloody imbecile had actually believed that Baelish wanted to give a daughter to his son. No. Sansa had gotten rather good at the Game. She may even surpass him. However, for now, they were partners. Partners that wanted vengeance. Roose Bolton would rue the day he raped the miller's wife, when Sansa manipulated Ramsay into killing the fool. It shouldn't take more than a few months. Then, he would arrange for the little sadist to meet a sad end by some wildlings. Then entire thing wouldn't take more than a year, and they would have killed the family that betrayed the Starks and took the North.

Petyr looked at his men, all hurrying through the snow. Some men were very foolish. Hunters always seemed to forget that they weren't always the biggest monsters in the forest. Soon, the fools would allow a direwolf into their home, and she was hungry for blood. He had helped her find that wolf blood again, and he had shown her how to use her claws and teeth. Now, it was time to a bit of a trial run. If it didn't work, he could always get the nitwit Harrold to go save the damsel from the bloody Bolton clan. It really wouldn't be hard at all. But, Petyr preferred a more muted way of doing things. It's hard to kill something you don't know exists. The leader of an army is just a bit too obvious.