Fox Hunt

BY : Little_Kink_Riding_Hood
Category: G through L > Game of Thrones
Dragon prints: 10228
Disclaimer: I do not own GOT. It is the property of George RR Martin. I receive no financial gain (only personal satisfaction) from this story. This is for entertainment purposes only.



Chapter 3: The Flayed Man and the Fox



“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” – GOT



                As the gates of Winterfell opened, Fyona was met with over a hundred Northern eyes. She knew the sight she had to be. Hair all over the place, half naked and bloodied. Though the signs of their struggle were obvious, Lady Rorstark held her head high. Ramsay smirked wickedly behind her, clearly amused at the people’s wide-eyed stares and hushed voices. The castle’s sadistic young lord had gone out on a hunt and returned with an exotic beauty. Soon the sea of gossiping whispers parted and they were greeted by a man that Fyona recognized quite well. Roose Bolton was the loathsome fuck who betrayed her family. He helped murder her aunt Catelyn, her cousin Robb and his wife and even their unborn child at the Red Wedding. It was a tragic gathering that she was secretly thankful her immediate family did not attend. Her mother had a knack for sensing trouble and so the Rorstarks stayed home that night, safe in their stone castle surrounded by waterfalls. Lady Walda’s face was one she knew, but not well at all. In her younger days she was never permitted to play with the Fray girls. Not through any fault of their own, mind you. Her parents often mentioned that they were quite sweet. It was their father, Walder Fray, who made the Lady Rorstark wish to vomit. Dismounting their horse, Ramsay’s massive erection had yet to die down. He swiftly positioned her to cover it as they stood to meet his lord father. This beast either actually had a shred of modesty within him…or he was simply trying to antagonize her. She forced herself out from his hold and with narrowed eyes, she huffed a lock of hair out of her face.

“I am Lady Fyona of House Rorstark. I demand to know the whereabouts of my cousins.”

Roose took stock of the tattered young woman before him with her Stark/Tully features and foreign eyes.

“My apologies, Lady Rorstark. The whereabouts of your cousins are not known to me or anyone else in my company. Bran and Rickon Stark escaped with a maid and a simpleton during the Ironborn’s siege.”


“Yes. Until my son took it back from them.”

Fyona jumped as Ramsay pinched her ass, “You can thank me properly later.”

Roose changed the subject. “I’ve been informed there is to be a wedding tomorrow night, Lady Rorstark. Yours and my son’s.”

Fyona scoffed. “I’m sure you realize how much choice I had in the matter…Lord Bolton.”

Before the tension could fully mount, Lady Walda interjected. “Why don’t we get you inside, my lady? You must be cold and tired from your…long journey.”


                Led through familiar corridors, a kind maid with short copper hair called Ylva showed Fyona to her quarters where she helped her get washed up and measured for a new dress. “In the meantime, this should suit you.” Ylva wrapped her in a bright purple dress with flowing sleeves and wooden toggles. When the fur-lined hood made her feel more like a wolf than a fox, she instantly recognized the gown as one of Sansa’s. She had worn it for Fyona’s 15th name day. Ylva noticed a tear escaping through Fyona’s thick lashes so she reached for a hairbrush and patted the seat to a large vanity. “I doubt your cousin would mind about the dress, my lady.” It wasn’t about borrowing the dress. They both knew that. It was the memory of Sansa and the other Starks. It was the pain of absence. Fyona gladly sought the comfort and sat in the chair where the young maid proceeded to brush her inky black tresses. Fyona’s eyes closed almost instantly and her head moved along with Ylva’s hands. She giggled. “Have you always loved the sensation of someone playing with your hair so, my lady?” Embarrassed, she snapped awake. “It’s quite alright,” Ylva laughed. “I have a sister back home just like you. She loves the feeling so much that she chases her family around with a brush.” Both women exchanged hopeful glaces and for the first time since arriving, Fyona didn’t feel dread. Ylva’s skilled fingers braided her hair to one side, leaving many stray pieces to bounce. Before taking her leave, she touched Fyona’s shoulder. “The North remembers, my lady. You have friends here.”

                Ylva’s words encouraged her beyond belief. Despite all the horrible things she’d seen, if she just played the Bolton’s game…she just might make it home to her family in one piece. Entering the gloomy great hall for supper, she saw all three members of her new Northern family awaiting her. By the looks of it, Ramsay was already a few goblets in. He instantly startled her. “Ah! My beautiful Southern bride! Come! Sit with your new parents and husband-to-be!” Reluctantly, she willed her feet to move and find the seat beside him. Smiling, he placed a silver cup in front of her and poured her a glass. “Allow me.” She nodded in response, but refused to pick up the glass until Ramsay stood to make a toast.

“A toast, to our wedding, my dear.” He gulped his down and poured another while she pushed hers further away on the table. “And to the unreliability of ravens.” Another toast he drank to.

“What are you talking about?” Fyona asked with visible irritation.

“Ah! I’m so glad you asked. You see, your father had written to your cousin’s maester about your coming here. Obviously not knowing to whom he was speaking to, I responded to the good Lord Rorstark as maester Luwin. Now here we are! Engaged to be married!”

“You’re mad…” Fyona gawked.

“Not mad, my betrothed. Cunning.”

“What exactly did you tell them?”

“I simply said that we’d assure you had a calm and happy stay, away from all those revolting suitors from lesser houses. No, my lady. You will marry into the North. A Lady of the Dreadfort! And you will give me heirs to continue our proud Bolton line. Your family will be so proud.” Fyona scoffed but Ramsay chose to overlook it when a new game walked through the door to serve them more wine. Roose was preparing to tell his son that he’d had more than enough to drink already when he shouted again. “Ah! Reek! There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Though you may have known her back when you were still a Greyjoy. Fyona, this is Reek!” Ashamed, Theon tried his best to obey his master and look Fyona’s way, but he couldn’t look her in the eyes. Of course he remembered her. She ought to remember him too, being each other’s first kiss. The Rorstark girl had dared him a thousand summers ago. “Theon…?” she whispered. She could just barely recognize him, but that there was once the great Theon Greyjoy. “Ah, good!” Ramsay cut in. “So you do remember! That should make him the perfect person to give away the bride. Don’t you think, my lady?” Before Fyona could respond, Roose approved. “Yes, yes, very good. And while we’re on the topic of happy subjects, Lady Walda and I have some news as well.” Roose looked to his rosy-cheeked wife and she smiled, “We’re going to have a baby!” Roose added, “And by the way she’s carrying, the measter assures us it’s a boy.” Ramsay’s smile died, and Fyona’s couldn’t have gotten any wider. She turned to Walda. “I’m very happy for you both.”


                Fyona hadn’t left her room at all that day. In fact, the only human she even allowed to enter her cambers was Ylva. “It’s me, my lady. I’ve been sent to help you get ready for tonight.” She sighed. Ylva’s presence was a comfort, but it only meant her time as a Rorstark was getting shorter. “It’s ready, my lady!” Ylva called. Behind a large folding screen, Ylva had drawn her a clear, steaming bath floating with blackberries and lush green leaves. “The berries were at Lord Ramsay’s request, my lady. He says that you’re fond of them.” Fyona tried her best to ignore that last bit of information as she slipped out of her robe and into the tub. Even more tension started to melt as Ylva gently combed her wet hair. Fyona nearly cried when it was time to go back out into the cold to dry off. After sitting Fyona down in front the massive vanity, Ylva retrieved her gown. “Lord Ramsay had this dress made for you after your arrival last night. He threatened to kill the seamstress’ family if she didn’t finish by sunrise...” Fyona’s reflection was horrified. “Oh but don’t worry! She did! Her family is fine, just fine…” Relief washed over her, but the guilt of wearing such a garment certainly weighed heavy. Ylva held the dress open and Fyona took a deep breath before slipping in. It was a silvery gown that clung to her body as if she were soaked to the bone. The neckline scooped just above her cleavage and the sleeves came to a sharp point in the middle of her delicate hands. Although the images were subtle, the dress had been completely and symmetrically embroidered with sigils of the flayed man in a thread that glittered like starlight. It was strange how soft the images were now as they danced over her skin. She looked into the mirror. Her endless black rivers of hair had been loosely braided and artfully pinned, dripping like waterfalls around her face. As a final touch, a gorgeous fox fur shawl was wrapped around her shoulders and was held by a rose gold clasp in the shape of the same animal. Fyona was hit by a brief spark of family pride. Ylva kissed her head before whispering, “Good luck, my lady.”


                Pacing in her room, a humble knock came at the door. There stood Theon, lantern in hand, dressed in a lovely black doublet. “I’ve come to escort you to the Godswood, my lady.” Fyona nodded slowly, watching her skin-tight sleeves shimmer as she looped her arm through Theon’s. She glowed like the moon on a cloudless night next to his dark leathers. Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls before stopping at the castle doors, both hesitant. “…I’m…I’m so sorry,” Theon whispered. “…are you ready, Fyo- Lady Fyona…?” While Theon corrected himself, she forced her head to nod again. Stepping out into the calm winter’s night, a long, lonely path of flickering lanterns guided them to the weirwood tree. Fyona tried to imagine the forest empty, but to no avail. The service was lined with attendees, armed guards and beneath the tree stood two Bolton lords and an old chest behind them.

                The groom was dressed in fine black leather armor with matching fox fur atop his cloak and wore a blood drop ruby earring in his left ear. He looked on at his gorgeous bride. “Mine....” he muttered under his breath. Jealousy wasn’t a common emotion in Ramsay, but he could certainly feel a rise in temperature as he finally noticed all the other men and women who had their eyes fixed on his new trophy. Fixed on his trophy’s full lips, buxom chest, and cat-like eyes glittering with defiance. Fixed on the way her wide hips and juicy backside moved in that clinging dress... His pants grew tighter.

                Roose Bolton was a great many things, but blind was not one of them. He could see the lust in his foolish son’s eyes and knew it would come to cloud his judgement. He would have a talk with the boy. But first, finishing up with this charade of a ceremony. Not once in Roose’s life did he ever have the need to clear his throat before he spoke. It was always a stone tunnel, though maybe not as polished as Ramsay’s.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

The Ironborn steadied himself, “Fyona Rorstark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

‘I’m not a bride…’ Fyona’s mind wandered as Ramsay stepped forth.  

“Ramsay of house Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell. Who gives her?”

“Theon, of House Greyjoy, who was…who was her uncle’s ward.”

“Lady Fyona,” Roose asked, “do you take this man?”

Arms heavy at her sides, she trembled. ‘…I’m a hostage.’

 “Fyona?” Ramsay urged, his voice was laced with fury but his expression rivaled ice.

Standing there, heart pulsing in her throat- a fox surrounded by drawn bows, “…I take this man.”

                Her new husband then smiled so wickedly that she could swear he was going to gut her right then and there. Instead, he simply turned to open the chest and she let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. Inside was a folded sea of crimson and gold. He motioned for his new wife to come closer with a ‘come hither’ gesture. He commanded more authority with that one finger than most generals had in their entire being. Still smiling, and with a touch of violence, Ramsay jerked open her shawl, ripping the warm fur from her shoulders and tossing it over the chest’s lid. Startled by his roughness, Fyona watched the fox clasp fall loosely to the ground at her feet. Seeming rather pleased, he unveiled the long, bright red cloak with a flayed man embroidered in a series of golds. Each tendon delicately woven and every muscle alive with clever stitching. After briefly examining the work, his eyes fell on Fyona. Her breath caught in her throat again as he approached her. The young man standing before her was utterly terrifying, but no one in Westeros could say he wasn’t handsome. Guilt flooded her veins as she found herself admiring his ice-blue eyes and square chiseled jaw. He’d be blind not to notice the hungrily approving look in her eyes. Smirking with a gruesome sort of confidence, Ramsay cloaked his bride. Cheers echoed throughout the empty woods, but the walk back was all a blur to her. Yet not before thinking to grab her shining symbol of hope off the forest floor.


                Inside the great hall, Fyona was seated beside Ramsay at the head table, bathed in enemy colors. ‘…Fyona Bolton...’ The name echoed constantly and sent chills down her spine. She just couldn’t shake it. She wanted to scream or slap the wine out of her smirking husband’s hands. Anything. The night seemed to go on for decades. She had received several compliments and even some looks of sympathy from the more loyal northerners in Winterfell’s service. She’d even begun to drink a bit herself and Ramsay certainly took notice. His new wife was clearly nervous of what was to come later. With her cheeks already blushing from intoxication, Fyona began to fidget with her fox clasp on the table. Her long fingers gracefully turning it on its tail. Ramsay frowned. She must’ve picked the damned thing up before making their way to the great hall. Fyona knew his eyes had fallen on her. She felt so naked yet so costumed wearing their banners. She was dressed with Bolton threats- she was a message to her family. A flash of anger rose within her. She turned her head towards Ramsay, who was already either undressing or flaying her with his eyes. “You love this, don’t you? Covering me with your sigil.” He grew still, then took a long swig from his goblet as she continued fidgeting with the clasp. Suddenly, without any warning at all, he stabbed a nearby fork into the table where her hand had just been moments ago, pinning the rose gold fox between the prongs. He then whispered darkly in her ear, “I’ll drench you in it before the night is done.” Keeping her breathing steady, she held her index and middle fingers tightly in the napkin on her lap. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he made her bleed or seeing just how greatly he had startled her with his outburst. She tried to distract herself with the festivities and it surprised her to see this many northerners still having a good time. The intoxicated groom was as handsome as he was obnoxious. He smiled wickedly as he gazed about the hall. It was a lovely affair through his icy blue eyes. Gentle flames flickered throughout the room from great chandeliers of stag horns, illuminating the great feasts and countless laughing guests…but a few of them seemed…not so entertained. Ramsay frowned at this. He smirked with a cruel thought. “Why don’t you sing for me, Fyona?” He boasted loudly. “Why don’t you sing for your new husband?” He asked it so joyously and with a smile so fiendish that it frightened her. She looked down, embarrassed. “Ramsay, I don’t want to sing…” His smile fell into a flat line. He’d already called too much attention to them to take it to the fullest extent, but he wouldn’t dare lose. Unparting his full lips from their furiously neutral position, he ordered again harshly, under his breath, “Fyona. I said. Sing for me.” From the enormous pile of gifts that they were bestowed, a finely-crafted crossbow laid among them. Ramsay reached for it out of sight from the other guests and slowly strung it with a silver bolt. He propped it up over his thigh. “Fyona.” He whispered again darkly. “Sing.” Shaking, yet still defiant, she stood, arms heavy at her sides. As she licked her lips, Ramsay shifted in his seat. Her voice was melodic, like a chorus of birds each full of exotic tones. 

Et nous ramerons de nuit 

vers les côtes de Dorne 


"In English!” Ramsay shouted. She flinched with a jolt of anger.


I will rise above

Those who subdue me


With my Dornish blood

I will rise over thee

She flashed him a look of pure hate. He flashed her one of pure lust. Reek! More wine!” Fyona frowned. Ramsay was quite drunk enough already, but his hand had no trouble finding the hem of her dress while the other found its way into her hair. She felt his rough fingers traveling up between her smooth legs and could feel herself growing wet from his touch. Mortified, she looked about the room to see if anyone else had noticed. He drew slow, soft circles around her clit and she shuddered. “Please Ramsay, don’t...not here...” He smirked, pressing his nose into her fragrant locks, “You’re so right, sweet wife.” He rose from his seat and addressed the room, “I believe my wife and I have waited quite long enough! Time to see the happy couple off for the bedding!” Fyona’s blood ran cold. With a shaking hand, she gulped down the last of her wine and set her cup down with a nervous ‘clink’. Ramsay loved every second of it.





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