Ramsay Snow-Bolton (age 18), District 12

**Ramsay is his own warning. He's an unstable character, to say the least. But he's very interesting and rather unpredictable in his temperament; also I want to try to write something that captures his personality without being overly graphic. Warnings in general for language and rudeness.**

My name is Ramsay. My father says my name is Ramsay Snow. I say my name is Ramsay Bolton. We compromised to Snow-Bolton because our yelling would make my step-mother Walda cry and threaten to leave. Me? I couldn't care less about the fat bitch.

Father does, though. Father says she's pregnant--no idea how you could tell. And he wants a son. A real son. My half-brother Domeric--he was his real son--he died when I was a little kid. All I remember of him was he was sort of nice. He'd carry me on his shoulders sometimes. And he'd share his food with me. We never have enough to eat, to this day.

How the fuck was I supposed to know he'd starve to death? It wasn't my fault! I never asked him to give me food, believe me. I never wanted people to give me handouts. Not even when I was five.

When I cried the day Dommy died, Father yelled at me. He said I didn't deserve to cry since he wasn't even my real brother.

And that's around the time I stopped caring. About anything.

Father's not a cruel man. I make him sound like he is; fuck, think what you want. I don't love him, but respect is just as good. He brought me--a worthless bastard--into his house and fed, clothed, took care of me. It's more than I deserved. I'm not going to lie. I was a wretch.

"Ramsay!" Father growls from downstairs. "You better be up!"

"I am!" I call back. When I sit up, waves of cold air hit me. Our house isn't heated. I laugh bitterly: how fucking poor we are. Barely any food, no heat... And today is my last Reaping. I've taken tesserae for four people--since the bitch is pregnant, Father thinks it's all right to risk my life some more--but next year I won't be able to.

I wrap a threadbare bathrobe around my skinny body and head downstairs, jumping two stairs at a time. My father narrows his eyes when he sees me.

"Look at you, boy. Coming down in such a state of undress."

"Roose, it's all right." Walda lays a flabby hand on Father's bony arm.

"I've come to see if I can have warm water for a bath." I say coolly. Father raises an eyebrow.

"You want a bath? Now?"

"It's a special occasion." I cross my arms and add after he's silent, "The Reaping, Father. Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"Of course I haven't." he snaps, and I can't help but wonder if that's the truth. Probably not. "You can't wait until after the Reaping though, boy?"

"No, I very well fucking can't." I hiss, clenching my fists. Father looks surprised at my change: finally. It's the only way he'll notice. "I might not return today, seeing as I put my name in twenty-eight times! But you wouldn't care...wouldn't care if I went in, if I died.."

"Ramsay..." Walda starts softly, but Father silences her not unkindly.

"Ramsay, go back upstairs. One of us will bring hot water up for you." he says softly. I glare at them before nodding tightly and climbing the stairs. My vision swims slightly. It's so, so cold. I grab the wash basin and pull it into my bedroom. I hear some fucking rich people have bath tubs in their bathrooms. Well we have a basin. Whoop-de-doo.

The door opens.

"Thank you, Father." I murmur. My heart beat has returned to normal; I'm calmer now.

"I'll tell him you said that." Walda says softly, and I look at her in distaste. She sets the pot of hot water on the ground and wipes her hands on her apron. I lift the heavy thing with ease and pour it into the basin; I'm pretty skinny, but strong.

"Are you worried?" I look up sharply, and she winces. "For the Reaping."

"Why do you care?" I snap. She looks surprised.

"We're family, Ramsay. Of course I care."

I snort and look away. "We're not family. You'll never be my family. Even if I consider Father family... he hates me. So I have no family."

"That's not true." she says firmly. "Ramsay, we love you."

"You don't. You think I'm a freak."

"I think you're troubled, and you need a friend." she murmurs. I look at her incredulously. Friends? I don't have friends! The closest thing I ever had to a friend was Domeric when I was five, and that had to be at least thirteen years ago.

"I'm fine." I say shortly. "I don't need friends."

She raises her eyebrows. "If you say so, Ramsay..."

I'm silent as I tip a few fingers into the hot water; at least it's still hot. Walda smiles sadly at me. "Well, I can tell you don't want to talk. Good luck today."

"I'll be fine." I snap. "No thanks to you or Father."

She looks pained. "Some of that food is going to you too. Honestly." she frowns then. "You're very ungrateful, you know that?"

"Ah." I lean back on my heels to look at her, smirking bitterly. "The truth comes out. I'm a worthless ungrateful little bastard, huh?"

"You're not. But sometimes you act like one." she opens my bedroom door. "I'll leave you now." she rests a hand on my shoulder but I jerk away from her touch. Sighing, my step-mother shakes her head and leaves.

I strip and quickly get in the steaming water. It's not hot enough to be painful--that's how I like it--but it's hot enough. I scrub at my arms and legs until my skin is raw, from that and from the heat. I get my hair wet. And I even use a bit of soap (not in my hair though).

I'm fine. I've been fine for my whole eighteen years. Walda was wrong: I'm not troubled or lonely. I have no one, and no one has me. It's good that way.

Finally I dip my face under the hot water. Today will be a good day.