After waiting a while longer in the interrogation room and seeing that Reek had been squeezed for nearly every scrap of information, Maester Qyburn took the written confession and went to Gendry's chambers.
In the quiet room, Gendry had already been waiting.
"Has he confessed everything?" Gendry asked.
"Yes, my lord. Reek talked a great deal. He's not one of House Bolton's diehards, after all. His mouth isn't that tight."
"And those Bolton diehards?"
"No need to question them. They're all Roose's men. They know nothing about Ramsay. Besides, Roose chose them personally. They won't speak." Gendry saw little value in those men. They were probably as cold and taciturn as Roose himself. And they answered only to him, with no connection to Ramsay.
"Let's hear about Ramsay's good deeds."
"Kinslaying. Rape. Murder. Flaying. Every one of them cruel," Qyburn said slowly, then handed over Reek's confession.
Gendry read through it. The details were enough to make anyone uneasy. Roose was cruel. The Little Flayer was something worse, twisted in a way that went beyond cruelty.
Flaying was a Bolton tradition, but it had been forbidden for centuries. Ramsay's obsession with it came from his hatred of his bastard status and his desperation to prove himself a true Bolton.
"First Night. Murder. These Northerners really do act as if the law doesn't exist," Gendry said. Roose had killed the miller over a woman and torn out the miller's brother's tongue to keep him from running to Winterfell and letting rumors reach the Starks. As for Ramsay, he was in a league of his own.
"The North has always been harsh and barren, vast and thinly populated. The king's word rarely carries that far. House Bolton, House Umber, perhaps they all keep such brutal customs. Even the Starks can only turn a blind eye. Dorne is much the same. Customs are hard to uproot," Qyburn said quietly.
Given the reality of the North, it was only natural that, if the day came, it would pull away.
In the North's history, secession and independence were the true tradition. Now that there were no Dragons, the Northmen had the foundations to stand alone. Northerners had never quite fit with the south to begin with.
"Is a lord's life truly worth so much more than a servant's? There should be one king, one law, one realm," Gendry said.
The feudal order was brutal. Highborn lords trampled the rights of those beneath them. In times of prosperity or ruin, it was always the common folk who suffered. Even House Stark, for all its honor, how far did that honor truly reach? Perhaps only across certain lands, not the whole of the North. Was Eddard Stark a hypocrite? Not exactly. He was, after all, a Great Lord.
"Have Reek clarify every detail. After that, there's no need to keep him alive." With a single sentence, Gendry decided Reek's fate. A creature like that was nothing but a drain on food.
"As for Ramsay, I'll go see our guest."
Gendry rose and went with Qyburn to Ramsay's room. A living Ramsay did more harm to House Bolton than a dead one ever could, forever drawing hatred onto the family.
"You've had quite a fright, Ramsay."
Gendry pushed open the door. The Dothraki and Unsullied outside followed him in, bronze helmets gleaming, short swords at their waists and shields on their arms.
Ramsay looked at Gendry with open loathing.
He was unpleasant to behold, thick with flesh, lips heavy and damp like some bloated worm, long black hair hanging loose.
"You… what are you going to do?" Ramsay stammered at the sight of the tall figures.
The towering Dothraki and Unsullied. The tall Gendry. Ramsay suddenly felt like an insect skulking in the shadows. His strength had always come from the protection of the Dreadfort, never from himself.
"Shall we hear what your good servant had to say?" Gendry asked.
Ramsay's thick, moist lips pressed tight. Reek had told them everything.
"Kinslaying. Murder. Raping women. Flaying. Ramsay Snow. Every one of your crimes is reason enough for me to kill you," Gendry said, each word measured and clear.
"Where is my Reek?" Ramsay asked.
He faced his fate directly. Nothing else concerned him. What he hated most was being called Snow.
"Reek will be executed by me," Gendry said with a smile.
Ramsay drew in a harsh breath, snatched up a wooden stool, and swung it at Gendry in a wild frenzy. He had never received proper training. His fighting amounted to nothing more than reckless flailing.
Thud.
Gendry sidestepped easily and drove a heavy kick into Ramsay's stomach. Ramsay staggered back and crashed to the floor, his insides churning. In strength and speed, he was hopelessly outmatched.
"I'll flay you alive, bastard."
The Unsullied stepped forward and pinned down the Little Flayer's hand. A heavy boot came down hard on his palm. He let out a shriek like a slaughtered pig, his pale, indifferent eyes locked on Gendry.
Gendry looked down at him.
"Let's play a game, Ramsay. Don't you love setting hounds on people?"
Ramsay lifted his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. He rolled on the ground, uncertain whether this was real.
"From now on, you may try to escape this courtyard. But if I catch you, the punishment will be worse. Now, begin."
Gendry left the room with the Unsullied.
"Loosen the watch, but not too much. Let him run. Every time you catch him, beat him hard. Just don't kill him," Gendry instructed.
"Yes!" the Unsullied replied.
Silence settled over the room. Even the Unsullied seemed to have vanished. A ripple of panic crept through Ramsay. Was this truly happening?
Enduring the pain, he waited until he could stand properly, then slowly pushed the door open. The noise outside was gone. The Unsullied guards were nowhere in sight.
Summoning his courage, Ramsay stepped out. There was no time to think about Roose's diehards. Those men had never been loyal to him. When he saw no one blocking his way, tears of relief welled in his eyes. It was real. He bolted forward.
He had barely made it past the entrance of the manor when two Unsullied appeared and seized him, dragging the overweight Ramsay back into the courtyard. A fat worm could not run far.
Thud. Thud.
The Dothraki and Unsullied watched him without expression, then brought the hilts of their short swords down on him again and again. It was a savage beating. They would not kill him, but they made sure he suffered. When they were done, they threw him back into the room. Food and Myrish fire herb had been left inside to make sure he did not starve.
It felt as though he had fallen into an endless night. At last, Ramsay understood the suffering of those he had once hunted, beaten, and killed. The girls he had tormented. Now he endured the same pain and humiliation. Sword hilts smashed into him. Open palms struck his face. They shamed him, the heir of House Bolton.
He longed for everything at the Dreadfort. His hounds. His good lads. He had to live. Only by living could he escape this hell.
The courtyard remained deathly quiet. The Bolton diehards had been imprisoned somewhere unknown. Reek was nowhere to be found. The Unsullied dropped off meals, then waited outside, ready for the next round of their cat-and-mouse game.
Ramsay tried every way he could think of to escape. He climbed the courtyard walls. He forced at the gates. He even tried to bribe the Unsullied. He had thought about death, but he could not let go of the Dreadfort, of his hounds, the girls, his good lads.
Yet every attempt ended the same way, with harsher, more suffocating beatings.
Day or night, dawn or dusk, Ramsay's escapes led nowhere.
Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Each time Ramsay ran, he was dragged back and beaten.
What was hope? He began to wonder if he had any chance of surviving at all. He wailed. He trembled in fear. And beneath it all, there was a hollow loneliness. The Unsullied never spoke to him. They only beat him. They did not share a language, and they had no interest in trying.
As long as Ramsay attempted to flee, the Unsullied's iron fists would fall without mercy. Shields and sword hilts crashed into him again and again before he was hauled back to his room.
No servants. No soldiers. Like a fish caught on a hook, Ramsay felt trapped in an endless cycle of pain.
"I won't run. I won't run again."
He curled into a corner of the room, no longer daring to step outside.
"Home…"
He truly felt like a fish on a line, hooked through the flesh. No matter how far he struggled, he would always be reeled back in.
At one point, he even stopped eating. The meals the Unsullied occasionally tossed by his door remained untouched. He feared that even reaching for them would earn him another beating.
"Who are you?"
Gendry pushed open the door and stepped inside.
He looked at the desolate figure before him. Ramsay's long hair hung in disarray, draining what little spirit he had left. Those once filthy-ice-cold eyes had dulled. The light inside them was gone.
"Ramsay. I'm Ramsay Snow."
Ramsay looked up at Gendry and burst into tears. Snot and tears ran together down his face, making him look utterly miserable. To him, Gendry was an insurmountable mountain. Every attempt to resist had only brought harsher punishment.
"Still want to run, Ramsay?" Gendry asked.
"No. I don't dare. I'll never run again. I'll never leave!"
Ramsay shrank in on himself, not daring to meet Gendry's eyes, not daring to hear his voice. To him, Gendry was a demon, a butcher.
"Power is power, Ramsay."
Gendry looked down at him. Ramsay even tried to crawl forward to lick his boots, but Gendry stopped him.
"If I do not give something to you, you cannot take it. You cannot escape my grasp."
"Yes. Yes," Ramsay answered quickly.
"Write down everything you've done, Ramsay."
"Yes, Gendry, my lord."
Ramsay crawled forward on the floor and took the pen and paper from him. If those pages ever spread, he knew Roose would cast him aside without hesitation. But he had no choice. He was afraid. Terrified. He only wanted to live.
"Who am I?" Gendry asked again.
"You are the King," Ramsay cried instinctively.
But when he saw Gendry's expression, he hurriedly changed his tone.
"You are my master. Ramsay will always be your servant."
He wailed as he spoke, forcing a fawning smile onto his face. Kneeling there, he looked like a dog begging its master for favor.