After some time in the interrogation room, seeing that Reek had been nearly drained of all useful information, Maester Qyburn carried written confessions to Gendry's room.
Gendry had been waiting quietly for some time.
"Did he confess everything?" Gendry asked.
"Yes, my lord," Qyburn replied. "Reek spoke freely; he isn't a sworn Bolton retainer, so his mouth isn't so tight."
"And those sworn Bolton retainers?"
"No need to ask. Those men are all Roose's personnel. They know nothing of Ramsay's private affairs, and their mouths are tightly shut—chosen by Roose himself." Gendry understood immediately: these retainers were of little consequence. Obedient and sullen, they had no personal connection to Ramsay.
"Let me hear about Ramsay's 'good deeds,'" Gendry said dryly.
"Kinslaying, rape, murder, flaying… every single one is cruel," Qyburn said slowly, then handed over Reek's confession.
Gendry read through the document. The contents were horrifying. Roose was already cruel, but the Bastard of Bolton had surpassed him in sadistic cruelty.
Though flaying was a traditional practice of House Bolton, it had been forbidden for centuries. Ramsay's obsession with flaying stemmed from his resentment over being a bastard and his desperate need to prove himself as a Bolton.
"The right of the first night… murder… these Northerners are truly lawless," Gendry muttered. Roose had killed a miller over a woman and silenced the miller's brother to prevent rumors from reaching Winterfell. Ramsay, however, was even more extreme.
"The North has always been harsh and sparsely populated," Qyburn added quietly. "The King's word doesn't reach such distant places. Houses Bolton and Umber may preserve cruel customs. House Stark can only turn a blind eye. Dorne is similar. Traditions are difficult to change."
Indeed, in Northern history, secession and independence were not unheard of. Now, with no dragons to enforce obedience, the Northern lords could easily imagine seceding. The North had always been culturally incompatible with the South.
"Are the lives of lords truly more valuable than those of servants? There should be one king, one law, one kingdom," Gendry reflected.
The feudal system was inherently cruel. Nobles trampled on the rights of servants, and the rise and fall of kingdoms always brought suffering to the common people. Even House Stark's honor extended only so far. Eddard Stark may have been a noble man, but even he had limits.
"Have Reek explain everything clearly, then he has no reason to live," Gendry said decisively. A perverted man like him alive was a waste of resources.
"As for Ramsay, I will see our guest," Gendry added. A living Ramsay was more dangerous than a dead one—his cruelty constantly tarnished House Bolton's reputation.
Gendry and Qyburn moved to Ramsay's room. The Dothraki Unsullied were stationed outside and followed silently. Bronze helmets gleamed under the light as they carried short swords and shields.
Ramsay looked at Gendry, hatred burning in his eyes. The plump, fleshy man was truly unpleasant to behold: broad, soft, with thick lips and long black hair.
"What do you want?" Ramsay muttered, panic and confusion in his voice.
The tall Dothraki Unsullied and Gendry loomed over him, making him feel like a tiny insect trapped in the shadow of giants. His strength had always come from the Dreadfort, not himself.
"Why don't you listen to what your good servant has to say?" Gendry asked calmly.
Ramsay's lips tightened. Reek had indeed told everything.
"Kinslaying, murder, rape, flaying… Ramsay Snow. For every one of your vile deeds, I could kill you," Gendry said clearly. Ramsay heard every word.
"And my Reek?" Ramsay asked, panic rising. He hated being called Snow most of all.
"Reek will be executed by my order," Gendry said with a cold smile.
Ramsay panicked. He grabbed a wooden stool and swung it wildly at Gendry. His attacks were chaotic, untrained, mere hacking motions.
Thump! Gendry easily sidestepped the swing and delivered a heavy kick to Ramsay's stomach. Ramsay stumbled, his body rebelling against him. He was far weaker in strength and speed than Gendry.
"I'm going to flay you, bastard," one Unsullied growled, stepping forward to pin Ramsay's hands. Boots stomped on his palms. Ramsay squealed like a pig, staring up at Gendry with defiance melting into terror.
"Let's play a game, Ramsay," Gendry said. "Don't you love chasing people with your hounds?"
Ramsay's eyes flickered with a strange, desperate light. He tried to roll and flee, but whether it was genuine or feigned, it was impossible to tell.
"From now on, you may try to escape this courtyard. If I catch you, the punishment will be harsher. Begin." Gendry left the room with the Unsullied.
"Keep his guard half-loose, half-tight," Gendry instructed. "Let him escape, but each time he's caught, punish him. Not too far, though."
"Yes, my lord!" the Unsullied replied.
The room fell silent. Ramsay felt panic rising—could this truly be happening? Slowly, he pushed open the door, finding the courtyard empty. The Unsullied were gone.
He began to run. But before he could go far, two Unsullied appeared at the mansion entrance, dragging the fat man back into the courtyard. Ramsay, like a trapped insect, could not escape.
Thump! Thump! The Unsullied struck him repeatedly with sword hilts. He was beaten, humiliated, but not killed. Each time, they returned him to his room, leaving food and Myr gunpowder ointment so he wouldn't starve.
Ramsay felt trapped in an endless night of suffering, finally understanding the pain of those he had once tormented. His cruelty had returned to him tenfold. He longed for the Dreadfort, his hound, his "good boys"—anything to survive this purgatory.
Repeated attempts to escape ended only in harsher beatings. The Unsullied did not speak; communication was impossible. Each try reinforced the inescapable loop.
"No more running. Never again." Ramsay curled into a corner, terrified to step outside.
When Gendry opened the door, Ramsay's long hair hung lifelessly, his icy eyes dull and empty.
"Ramsay," Gendry said. "I am Ramsay Snow."
Ramsay looked at him, tears and snot mixing together, utterly miserable. Gendry was an insurmountable force. Every escape attempt had led to heavier punishment.
"Do you still want to run?" Gendry asked.
"No… I don't dare. I will never leave!" Ramsay wailed, kneeling, fawning, a dog before its master.
"Strength is strength, Ramsay," Gendry said. "Everything I hold, you cannot take. You cannot escape my grasp."
"Yes… yes," Ramsay whispered.
"Write down your deeds," Gendry commanded.
"Yes, Lord Gendry," Ramsay replied, crawling across the floor to take pen and paper. If this record escaped, Roose would abandon him. Yet he had no choice—fear and desperation compelled him.
"Who am I?" Gendry asked.
"You are the King!" Ramsay shouted, then quickly changed.
"You are my master; Ramsay will always be your servant," he wailed, kneeling like a beaten dog, desperate to please his master.
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