(Warning! Dark fic! Rape/non-con, anal sex, bondage. This fic is a lovely gift from my fantastical hubby! He loves me so! I'm floating on cloud nine! =D This takes place at the end of S6E9 a little alternate ending for those who wanted to see Ramsay get a little more comeuppance than he did *evil grin*)

Too Easy

Ramsay Bolton raised his head slowly, pain blossoming in several locations throughout his face. He could taste the coppery, salty mix of his own blood and noted quickly that he could not fully open his left eye. John Snow had pummeled him into the ground with a fury borne of his loss at Ramsay's hands, and Ramsay recalled only dimly why he had stopped short of breaking his head open upon the cobblestone of the castle courtyard.

She had been there; Sansa Stark.

John had taken one look at her and the hate in her eyes and he had stopped. Ramsay had taken in a glimpse of that deep loathing before, when she had promised him that he would die today, out on the field before the battle yesterday. He had not realized then that it was no empty threat, but a prediction based on knowledge that she kept even from her brother so as to ensure Ramsay's defeat on the field.

Ramsay's eyes wandered around the room he was in; steel bars blocked the way in front of him in the form of a massive gate. To his sides were smaller doors, each also barred, allowing him to look inside at the shadowed forms lurking there, watching him with eyes that reflected the torch light that leaked into the room through the gate from sconces on the walls outside.

Hay lay strewn about here and there, as sometimes his hounds would track it into the main room of the kennel upon their paws. It was dark, so he had to assume that he had fallen to unconsciousness for some few hours, since his combat with Snow had been in the morning.

Then he realized that someone was standing out in the courtyard beyond the gate. Not just anyone, either; it was her.

"Sansa," Ramsay croaked, clearing the blood from his throat so that he could speak, "Hello, Sansa."

She didn't say anything, and her face was impassive, hiding the hatred he had seen in her before. He smiled; she was trying not to let him get under her skin. They all tried not to let him get under their skin, his victims, but he always managed. He had a reputation to uphold; there was a reason the Bolton banner depicted a flayed man.

He glanced around at the kennel, "So this is where I shall be staying now…?" He shook his head, "No… I think we shall be parting ways soon… but you should know you can never kill me; I'm part of you now."

Sansa replied quickly but coolly; a statement ready for him, perhaps, "Your words shall disappear… your house shall disappear… your name shall disappear… all memory of you shall disappear."

Ramsay looked to his right as he heard a growling sound. The room filled with similar growls and his brow finally creased with real worry. Fortunately, the kennel doors were closed, but as he watched the starving hounds paw at the space under them he began to realize what fate Sansa had planned for him.

Ramsay looked back at her with a smirk, "Going to take my idea with the hounds and use it on me, then? I suppose I have to admit that it has that fanciful twist of irony and all, but it also seems rather unimaginative; couldn't you come up with something on your own?"

Another voice pierced the dark as another face presented itself on the other side of the gate, "Actually, she is not alone in deciding your fate tonight."

The gate slowly lifted and Ramsay could see in the growing light that there were a number of people standing on the other side of the gate. The man who had spoken was tall and large, with a thick mane of red hair and a bushy beard. He spoke in an accent that marked him as a Wildling.

Ramsay frowned at the newcomer, "I remember seeing you at the parlay before the battle, but do I know you, or is Sansa recruiting Wildlings to come up with clever things to say in absence of her wit? Though it can only be a measure of her intelligence that she would seek Wildlings for such a task, of course…"

The big man stepped forward casually and backhanded Ramsay. His head snapped to the side and he tasted blood once more. He smiled and started to say something, but the man immediately struck him again, forcing his head back in the other direction under the force of the blow. This happened twice more before Ramsay stopped trying to speak, only glaring up at the Wildling hatefully, his mouth closed in a tight line.

The Wildling nodded, "Now we have met; I am Tormund, and I am here tonight to hurt you more than anyone has ever hurt you."

Tormund watched him a moment, as if daring him to try to say something sarcastic in reply. Ramsay swallowed his blood, working his jaw and wondering if his nose was broken. He finally said the only thing he could think of at the moment that wouldn't evoke another skull-shaking blow to the face, "Hello, Tormund."

Tormund paced in front of Ramsay as he described the last few hours of the day, "Lady Sansa Stark has informed us all of the things you have done, both to her and others, to give us all a ballast of understanding in why she wanted to see you ripped apart alive by your own hounds."

Ramsay smiled, "Oh, I'm sure she…" His head flew to the side as Tormund struck him again and his vision swum, pinpricks of light dancing in front of his eyes.

Tormund gave him a moment to recover before continuing, not bothering to elaborate on why Ramsay had been hit again, "But we free people laughed that she felt the need to explain. You see, your fate concerning your own hounds was manifest the moment you threatened us with the same. For us there could be no other way."

Tormund put a hand on each of Ramsay's arms, supporting his weight on the chair Ramsay was tied to as he leaned his grizzled visage in close, "No, our only objection was that she was being far too merciful to such an underserving cunt as you. I saw how you think in that battle, killing your own men just to trap us like that, to kill us slow."

Ramsay didn't say anything; he knew now that any attempt to gain leverage in conversation would be met with violence, however he couldn't stop the cruel smile that spread over his face. So the Wildling liked his little game back on the battlefield did he? He liked the idea of the fear Tormund must have felt when he was smashed into that herd of dying men.

Tormund only watched his face a moment and then he responded with his own cruel smile, and despite his best effort Ramsay found his own smile faltering in the face of that open malice, "You will die tonight, ripped to pieces by your own dogs, because that has been your destiny for some time. But…"

Tormund stepped back, drawing a knife from a scabbard on his hip, "…you like to torture people, so we have some special treatment for you. By the time we finish, you will be wishing for death."

Ramsay felt it then; the first icy tendrils of the fear that he enjoyed seeing so much in others. Of course, he did not enjoy feeling this fear himself. He had spent most of his life living in fear, fear of rejection, fear of his father's drunken moods, or that he would lose his very name to a male heir.

His jaw worked as he tried to think of something to say, and to his own ears his reply sounded far too familiar to what his victims often said in the first hour of torture, "I am no stranger to pain, brute."

It was true; Ramsay had a threshold for pain that only an abusive parent can bestow, but he had played with the pain of others enough to know that everyone had limits, even him. He had come to the conclusion that he was going to die today, so there was no hope of surviving this; his only win now would be to die unbroken.

That would be a trick if this Wildling knew anything of the art of suffering, so Ramsay immediately grasped for his only real option; to enrage the barbarian enough to get him to kill Ramsey, "You had best kill me before I get free of this chair; I doubt even this number of you untrained savages would stand a chance against a real soldier."

Tormund smiled at him and stepped forward menacingly with the knife. He attempted not to, but Ramsay flinched anyways, Tormund smiling at him a moment before reaching down to cut Ramsay's bonds.

The Wildling stepped away again and handed his knife to another of his kin before turning to Ramsay, who stood rubbing his wrists and looking at them all warily, "Well come then, soldier. If you could dispatch all of us I am certain you will have no trouble with just me."

Tormund waved at the others and they stepped away from the gate, "You like to play games, don't you? There's the exit."

Ramsay looked at Tormund and the others, most of whom smiled at him in a cruel way that reminded him of the way Myranda looked when he took her on his hunts with him, just before the hounds caught their prey.

Myranda had been very much like him, and he hadn't realized how much he missed her until he had found her broken body in the courtyard the day that Sansa Stark had escaped Winterfell. But now these wildlings wore that look of expectant glee, the sort of joy that can only be found in the thrill of a game in which the prey don't actually have any real hope of escape, when all you're really waiting for are those final moments when they finally realize that.

But Ramsay knew it now. He didn't know how Tormund planned to play the game, but he knew that open door wasn't a way out. Despite this, he stepped towards the opening to see what would happen. Tormund stuck a hand out and shoved him, sending him careening backwards over the chair to land hard on the stone.

Ramsay took a few moments to get his breath back, taking pained, deep winded gasps of air in. He stood shakily to see that Tormund had taken the chair and placed it outside of the kennel's main compartment.

Ramsay looked around, but there was nothing else he could use as a weapon except perhaps the hounds themselves. Tormund followed his lingering gaze to the cages and scoffed, "Hungry as they are now after seven days without food, so you said yourself, they are as like to rip open your throat as the first meal they see than follow any command you offer."

Ramsay gulped, running the thought over in his mind; Tormund was right. They were fiercely loyal beasts, but conveying commands to them alone and at such close proximity in his weakened and bloodied state might hasten the end that Sansa promised, and he knew from lengthy experience that being ripped apart by blood-thirsty dogs was a painful and slow way to die.

No, he knew that the open gate was a game he could not win, so he focused instead on the one he might still succeed at; getting Tormund to kill him quickly. With a cry Ramsay threw himself at the warrior, doing everything he could think of to cause anger; biting, pulling hair, eye-gouging, and attacks to the crotch.

To his surprise Tormund countered every one of these underhanded tactics. When he tried to bite he got a fist to the teeth. When he reached to pull the bearded man's long hair his arm was painfully twisted until he let go. When he tried to gouge Tormund's eyes, the warrior closed them and head-butted him in the face. Tormund moved aside when he tried to hit him in the genitals, moving in a smooth arc before returning his own punch solidly into Ramsay's groin.

With a gasp Ramsay crumbled to the floor, unable to remain standing against the excruciating pain of the powerful punch to such a tender area. Tormund was no knight to be surprised by dirty fighting, Ramsay realized belatedly. The big man mocked him as he rolled over in agony, "No wonder you did not wish to face John Snow in real combat; you fight like an angry toddler."

There was a burst of laughter behind him and Ramsay looked up to see Sansa Stark was smiling at him, at the way he scrabbled about on the ground. He put all of his will into standing, anger surging through him that she was getting satisfaction from this.

This was certainly not the plan. It made him even more angry when he looked into Tormund's eyes; he was trying to make the Wildling angry, but he had only succeeded in getting upset himself… he had let Tormund under his skin.

Ramsay cleared his countenance; clearly this brute was cleverer than he had initially given him credit. With a face devoid of expression Ramsay straitened, dusting himself off, "So are we to continue rolling around in the dirt bare-handed like Wildling pigs or is someone going to arm us and make a real fight out of this?"

Ramsay cast about, giving everyone there a challenging look, hoping that someone would take enough offense at his audacity to comply. Instead they laughed at him again, and Tormund bellowed out a raucous guffaw, "You are the only one rolling about in the dirt little pig, and no one here is going to arm you so that you can take your own life like the spineless coward you are. Besides, you have already been told how you are going to die today, so we can't have me killing your weakling ass, right?"

Ramsay's eyes flitted across those still laughing at him as his heart sank; that was his last real option for a quick death. Tormund was obviously not going to allow Ramsay to manipulate him, and as brainless as the Wildlings were, they had enough sense not to fall for such an obvious ploy. With a sudden burst of speed he fled towards the furthest cage away from Tormund, reaching out for the latch that would let the hound inside loose. He might die a horrible death this way but there was a chance he could take Tormund or maybe some of the others with him, perhaps die by the blade in the ensuing fight.

At the very least, he wouldn't be playing their game on their terms anymore, and that was what he needed the most. One dog would likely not be a sufficient threat to a warrior like Tormund, but one could distract enough for him to get to the other cages…

Ramsay cried out as a sudden pain erupted in his leg. He crashed to the ground before he could reach the cage, glancing back to see an arrow protruding from his thigh. There was more laughter as Tormund pushed him down, roughly ripping the arrow free from him with a wrench that made him cry out, "Did that seem familiar?"

Pain teared up his eyes, causing his vision to swim as he looked back to see a wildling lower their bow. They had been waiting for him to run, had been waiting for him to think running would do him any good, just as he had done with Rickon Stark.

Ramsay reached up weakly, desperately trying for the arrow shaft in Tormund's hand, but the big warrior hit him squarely in the face and his world went dark.

When light came to Ramsay's world again, the first thing to greet him was an ache in his head, followed by a dull throbbing in his thigh. He shifted, moaning his discomfort, and his eyes opened wide at the realization that he was completely immobile.

He could turn his head and sit up from the table he was on only slightly, but his arms and legs were bound tightly in a spread-eagle fashion. Trying to make sense of the position he was in he peered up at his arms and then down at his legs. His arrow wound had been expertly bandaged, and he was not on a large table as he had at first thought but on one of the Bolton family crosses, but instead of hanging upside down upon it vertically as was the tradition, the cross had been laid upon a smaller table so that he now rested on it on his stomach.

He continued to look about, recognizing the room he was in. This was the room where he played with prisoners who needed interrogation, or who simply had made the mistake of falling into his bad graces. He had neutered Theon Greyjoy in this room.

Several racks stood nearby, an assortment of tools on them designed to make grown men scream like children and beg for death. He swallowed hard, licking his lips as a tremor of quaking fear rolled through him. They were going to use his own tools on him.

He jumped at the sound of a voice just behind him, "We thought this would be the best spot to put you in your place, Ramsay Snow."

Ramsay bit his lip, but couldn't keep his frustration in but for a moment, "Bolton! I am Ramsay Bolton!"

A powerful hand ran itself over his scalp and suddenly grabbed a fistful of his short hair, pulling his head up so that he was looking back at Tormund's bearded face, "No, you don't even get that anymore. In fact, I wouldn't even deign to call you a Snow; you aren't even worthy of a bastard's title. I think I'm going to give you a new title. You're new title is 'Bitch'."

Ramsay laughed coldly, "Say whatever you want, wild man; your words are as empty as your head." He felt the distinct edge of a cold blade and froze, his eyes widening as his breathing quickened. There was a ripping sound as Tormund dragged a knife down his trousers, cleaving them neatly. With a single yank he left Ramsay bare-bottomed upon the cross.

Ramsay's ass-cheeks tightened apprehensively at what Tormund might do next. Would he cut his shirt from his back and begin the awful process of flaying him alive? They had promised that he would be eaten by dogs, so that seemed unlikely.

The thought that Tormund might be about to cut off his balls came to mind. After all, he had just given him the title 'Bitch', and might want to put him closer to that description. Tormund laughed at how he tensed, "Look at how quiet you've become now. I wonder how many more things you will say before you beg me to call you 'Bitch'.

There was the sound of Tormund's knife being sheathed, and Ramsay let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. The rustle of cloth caused him to look behind himself, however, and he gasped openly at what he saw there.

Tormund had unsheathed his cock, and was giving Ramsay a wicked smile as he jerked himself hard, "I'm not going to use these instruments on you sissy boy; I came packing the only tool I need to put you in your place."

Ramsay bucked against the restraints, feeling the futility of the action even as he did so, "No!" he croaked, "You animal; you fucking rutting pig!"

Tormund only laughed at the crack in his voice, the first sign of true horror that Ramsay had given in to since all of this had started, "That's right; you're going to get fucked in the ass by a rutting pig; how does that feel, Bitch?"

The Wildling leaned over him and Ramsay could feel his hot breath on his neck, as well as the hot weight of Tormund's dick pressing against his ass, "I wonder; will you squeal like a piglet, or moan like a true bitch. I know that before we are done you will beg me to stop."

Ramsay threw himself around on the cross wildly, "I'll bite my own tongue off before I do such a thing!"

Tormund laughed again and grabbed Ramsay's hips roughly, placing himself against the other man and listening a moment to Ramsay's panicked breathing, "You are a torturer by trade I hear; you should know that isn't a real option. Even if it was, I think you are too cowardly to face the pain of it, or give up your ability to run your little mouth, for that matter."

Ramsay might have had an answer to that statement, but Tormund suddenly shoved himself forcefully inside, and Ramsey let out a pained, surprised gasp instead. Any chance that this has been a cleverly conceived mind-fuck went out of the window as it became painfully clear that it was in fact a very real fuck.

Tormund kept ramming himself against the smaller man to get his massive girth all the way inside, Ramsay shrieking out in dismay with each push. Once he was in to the hilt Tormund smiled at Ramsay's squirming, "I'm glad you don't like it too much, Bitch; it's more fun when you wriggle like a fish on a hook."

Ramsay felt a lump in his throat as tears stung at his eyes, and he stuttered as he spoke, barely able to get the words out around the feeling of the foreign intrusion, "You're sick; a sick disgusting pig…"

Tormund smiled again, "Now isn't that the kettle calling the pot black? Don't forget that we haven't really started yet… this is going to be a very long night for you, Bitch."

Ramsay gasped again as Tormund pulled out and then rammed home again and again, Ramsay crying out uncontrollably as he pounded into him savagely, "N-no… stop!" Only laughter greeted his first plea and Ramsay realized he was playing into Tormund's game as much now as he was at the beginning.

Whatever he might tell himself and despite knowing where it was all going, Ramsay continued to do exactly what Tormund wanted, even now. He screamed in a fit of rage, kicking his feet against the restraints there and working his elbows around, but all he succeeded in doing was causing painful rope burns on his wrists and ankles, yet more discomfort to add to what Tormund did to his forbidden entrance.

A thick hand grabbed his hair and his head was pulled back once more, "How does it feel getting raped, then? I hear this is something you liked to do, maybe even did to Sansa Stark, eh? I think I'll let her know how I deflowered you next we meet."

Ramsay frothed at the mouth his anger was so great, his humiliation clouding out all thought and making it impossible for him to maintain any semblance of his composure, "I'll repay you a thousand times a thousand times for this! You will suffer as no man ever has!"

Tormund answered by ramming into him even more deeply and roughly, causing Ramsay to cry out in renewed pain and discomfort, "You shouldn't make promises you know you can't keep. Since you're stuck on this thousand times thing maybe I can do one better…"

Tormund leaned in and whispered in Ramsay's ear, seeming to relish the un-comfortability the intimate gesture created in Ramsay, "Once I'm done fucking your asshole, Bitch, I'm going to send in my men one at a time to do the same to you. Don't worry; I'll tell them to change it up on occasion so that you don't get too bored with it all."

Ramsay paled and Tormund laughed again after a few moments had passed, "Finally speechless, Bitch? You know, we free folk believe that we all create our own story by what we do in our lives. You wrote this chapter in your story, Bitch, you've been writing it all along."

Tormund finally shuddered to a halt, yelling, "Take it, Bitch!" He rested against Ramsay a moment, the smaller man feeling tears run unwanted from his eyes, for the first time in a lifetime exposed for the small, weak person he really was inside.

He was going to get his army of Wildlings, still hundreds if not thousands strong to rape him, perhaps standing in a line leading out into the courtyard, waiting to take their turns at despoiling his anus.

Then Tormund began pushing into him again and he moaned out in agony and horror. Tormund was grinning at him as he looked back fearfully, "Oh I've got another round or two in me, Bitch. One thing you're going to realize about us free folk; we have stamina. I told you, Bitch; you're going to beg to die before you get anywhere near the option."