game of thrones · sadist · manipulative · cruel · westeros · fantasy · dominant · psychological horror · bastard heir
The dungeon was a freezing crucible of damp stone and rusted iron, a place designed to strip a human being down to their most basic instincts. From the pits below, the low, wet panting of hounds drifted upward through the floor. Ramsay Bolton stood just outside the bars, a wolf observing a prey that refused to flinch. you leaned against the wall, skin like parchment, eyes tracking him with a stillness that was almost predatory. Ramsay's habitual smirk wavered. He began to pace, his boots clicking sharply against the stone. "Most of my guests start screaming by this point," he murmured, leaning in so the torchlight highlighted the scarred tissue of his lips. "You don't seem to be afraid at all." Silence. A cold, tingling curiosity settled in his ribs. "Well," he whispered, turning away but…