Chapter Text
Taren’s injured hands were gentle as they raked through Ramsay’s hair, carefully snipping away black locks. The taller man sat stony eyed in front of the fire, hands folded in his lap. He had not said as much but Taren knew it pained him to cut his hair, even if he had been the one to suggest it.
“People will recognize me.” He said, glancing in the water he was using to clean his wounds.
“Not like this.” Taren said. “You look like a wildling.”
“You’re not wrong.” Ramsay agreed, wincing as he wiped blood away from his face. He had been in a sorry state when he first arrived at the cottage, one eye nearly swollen shut, a split lip, and too many bruises to count. Even cleaned up a bit he looked a mess. The Tully soldiers had not shown him any kind of mercy; the fact that he had been able to find his way all the way to the cottage was a miracle.
“I’d have thought you’d be long gone by now.” He continued, running a damp cloth over his arms and hands. “If I had known he were still here I would not have come.”
“Where else would I be?” Taren asked, gingerly applying salve to the mess of cuts that covered Ramsay’s back. The dark haired man hissed at the contact but stayed still.
“I don’t know. Home, with your father and sister perhaps.”
“There’s nothing for me there.”
“And there is here?” Taren shrugged. Ramsay remained quiet for a minuet, deep I thought.
“I’ll leave tomorrow then.”
“I doubt you’ll be standing by tomorrow.”
“I’ll manage.”
“This is your house.”
“My mother’s house.” Ramsay corrected him. “And not anymore.”
“Stay.” Taren said, trying to keep his tone casual. “I’ve an extra room.” Ramsay shook his head.
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe.”
“Would you like to see?” Taren asked as the last inky strand fell to the floor. Ramsay nodded stiffly, taking the offered mirror. He stared at his reflection silently for a moment, fingers running through his now short hair.
“It’s different.” Taren nodded.
“You don’t look like a Ramsay Bolton anymore.”
“Why Taren?” Ramsay had asked some time later as they sat down to a supper of rabbit stew. The white haired man shrugged.
“I didn’t think Joffrey quite suited me.” Ramsay couldn’t help it; he laughed loud and long and, much to his own surprise, Taren found himself laughing along with him. They talked then, until the candles dwindled to stubs and the moon shone through the open window. When at last they retreated to separate rooms Taren found himself wishing he could run his hands through the taller man’s short black hair, knowing it was as soft as it looked. One pale hand slipped down the front of his pants, softly palming the empty space, a reminder. And he hated himself for ever laying eyes on Ramsay Bolton.