Talking Body
Chapter 1:
Sansa despised her mother sometimes. Almost, but not fully. It was quite awful being made to attend these pretentious parties, with so many judgmental people giving her piteous stares. That's all people did after her father and brother died. Everyone knew her mother had not been "all there" after their deaths, and Sansa was the one who had to pick up the slack. She did everything from making sure they had their lunches packed for school, to taking Arya to fencing practice, carting Bran to and from his therapy sessions for his legs, and making sure Rickon was read to every night before bed, just like her father had done. She was actually supposed to be watching them now, but she had decided they had been through enough in the past few weeks, so letting them wander off and act their age wouldn't matter, at least for one night anyway.
As she tipped her champagne glass back, she thought about her mother, who was across the room laughing with her sister at something Mr. Baelish said. Lysa Arryn was the reason for her mother's absenteeism. Having been a widow herself, Lysa took it upon herself to "help" her sister through the difficult time. Sansa internally scoffed at the thought of her Aunt Lysa helping anyone other than herself. She had done nothing but take her mother away from her children when they needed her most. Lysa thought manicures, pedicures, and taking spontaneous spa trips was what her mother needed, not even thinking of the grieving children she was leaving behind every time she left.
Sansa wasn't angry for herself, but for her younger brothers and sister. She was twenty-one, and could take care of herself and handle the grief. Arya, however, was seventeen and worrying about college and boys, while Bran was fourteen and struggling to come to terms with the fact he may never walk again after also being involved with the crash that his father and brother were killed in. And then there was Rickon, sweet little Rickon. He was the youngest of them all, just nine years old. He was struggling with the idea of never seeing his father and brother again. He didn't understand, and Sansa wasn't sure how to help him other than be there for him.
Every one of them was going through something, and in addition to the grief of losing two people they loved, they also seemed to be losing their mother. When she wasn't with Lysa, she was at home, hand almost permanently holding a glass full of wine and watching mind numbing soap operas, taking naps every now and then on the chaise in the living room. So I guess this is what it feels like to be a full fledged adult, Sansa thought, as she drained her glass and looked around to make sure her siblings weren't getting into any trouble. The responsibility that was thrust upon her was starting to wear her down already, and it hadn't even been four months since everything changed.
After grabbing another glass of champagne, Sansa made her way outside to the abandoned patio. It was November and a little too chilly for people to be lounging about outside, but between the champagne and the annoyance she was feeling towards her mother, Sansa was feeling overheated.
The Lannister's patio was as beautiful and grandiose as one would think it to be, with custom made granite tops on the bars, a large pizza oven that hadn't been used yet, and a large wall fountain. Her heels clicked against the stone as she walked towards the darkened gazebo that had to be at least two hundred feet from the end of the patio. She climbed the few stairs there were and plopped down on the bench that wrapped around the interior of the gazebo. Sansa let her head fall back as she dangled her glass between two fingers, relaxing as the bitter breeze travelled over her body.
"And here I thought I would be getting away from everyone if I came out here," a voice startled Sansa, and she jerked her head back up, squinting to see who the voice belonged to.
The voice belonged to none other than Ramsay Bolton.
Ramsay Bolton. Son of Roose Bolton and some high-end stripper from one of Mr. Baelish's establishments, mostly likely long dead. Roose had a car dealership on the northeast side of Westeros, mostly luxury vehicles. Everyone whispered about Roose possibly being involved with the infamous Frey family, who were a part of an organized crime syndicate, also located in the northeast. They were most likely how Roose got some of his inventory actually. But getting back to Ramsey. His father largely saw him as a disappointment. Usually getting into trouble, usually because of fights and sometimes drugs.
But in the past year he had seemed to cut back on all of that, seemingly preparing himself to come into his father's business, which he never seemed to want before. Sansa only knew that because she still spoke with Theon Greyjoy every now and then, or "Reek" as he was called by his group of friends, which included Ramsey. Sansa herself had only spoken to Ramsay a few times. He was older than her by at least 5 years, and she really didn't think they had much in common. Where she was all bright red hair and bubbly personality, at least before she lost her father and brother, he was dark and solemn. She didn't think he even knew how to smile, only seeing him smirk the multiple times she had seen him. The smirk that was on his face now.
She looked at him apprehensively, "I'm sorry, I can go." As she went to exit the gazebo he stood and blocked her way.
"No, it's alright. I could use the company anyway," he said, smirk still on his face. "You don't mind sitting with me for awhile do you?"
Obviously she couldn't say no, now could she. That would be rude. And where would she go anyway? Inside, to drink more champagne and stew in annoyance over her mother and aunt tittering over Mr. Baelish?
No. She would stay right here. And she would talk to Ramsay Bolton.
****So there's my first chapter! Please review! If it's absolutely awful please tell me! I know my grammar is probably not up to par, but I have no Beta :( I will be going back as I write to change things but I wanted to put this out there to see if anyone would like to read a story like this. If not, I'll write something else!