Written for Day 6 of Jon x Sansa Fanfiction's 15 Days of Valentine's challenge.
Lady Sansa Stark cocked her right arm behind her and prepared to let fly her last dagger.
An arrow whistled past her. Sansa heard the soft thud of its tip burying itself into one of the trees behind her. The arrow's feathers had come within an inch of her left ear.
The arrow's proximity made Sansa hesitate for a fatal moment. That was all it took for her to notice just how many men surrounded her. All of them were raising a bow or sword in her direction. A few of them held knives to the throats of those few of her father's men who had remained with her after their party had been attacked by ruffians on their way north the prior day.
Sansa bit the inside of her lip to bleeding. Of all the rotten hands chance could have played her, this one surpassed even yesterday's skirmish, which had nearly cost her her life. Oh, how the saints must have been laughing every time she had prayed to them for the past several weeks, she thought bitterly, and finally lowered her arm. One would have thought that even their anger at whatever sins she had committed to make them play wither her so had abated after more than three-quarters of her guard had fallen victim to the ambush. Not a one of those who had lived had escaped without wounds, and Sansa herself had suffered a sprained right ankle, although that hardly mattered now. That was more than could be said for the gold and silver they had piled so carefully into the carts before leaving Winterfell Castle a week before. The thieves who had attacked them had made off with all but a few bags.
"Lady, we have taken your men." A young man with piercing blue eyes stepped forward. Each of the men around him stepped out of his way as he did so. Clearly this was their leader and therefore the man with whom Sansa would have to treat in order to keep the rest of her men alive.
"You have nowhere to go and no one to fight for you, so I advise you to yield," continued the man. "Do you yield, then?"
Sansa's voice had gone from fright, so she took a moment to regard the young man more closely. He and his men were fitted with fine leather jerkins, and the chain mail that gleamed from below several of their tunics indicated that they served a lord of some standing. That was a promising sign, for once she informed them that she was a lord's daughter, they would be much likelier to treat her with some modicum of respect than the ruffians who had attacked her yesterday, and perhaps even to offer her and her men respite at their lord's home while they recovered from their wounds.
"Who asks?" Sansa managed, and raised her chin as far as she dared. Her eyes darted to her left to assess the burly man walking one step behind his leader. He alone of the men around him bore a shield, and Sansa's heart plummeted when she saw the red letter X outlined in white painted across its face. The Bolton family's coat of arms was known and feared by everyone in the northern shires. Its current head, Lord Roose Bolton, was the most vicious and warlike vassal of Lord Rhaegar Targaryen, Earl of Leicester, and rumor had it that his son, Sir Ramsay Bolton, was even more vicious. Rumors had circulated as far north as Winterfell Castle that Lord Roose and Sir Ramsay allowed, even encouraged, their men to raid the farms of neighboring lords for sport. Far worse, whispers ran rampant of both men's love for torturing captives whose ransom had been paid before letting the poor men go. They were said to have flayed other captives, and even some of their own vassals, alive before feeding the remains to the ferocious hounds they kept in their kennels. If they did not guard such an important part of the borders of Lord Targaryen's vast lands, many said, he would have dragged them before the king long ago, or even taken Sir Ramsay hostage in his own court to bring Lord Roose to heel.
Sansa gulped but kept her chin up, although she could not help but stare at the large knife the blue-eyed man brandished as he approached her. He twirled it carelessly in one hand like a child's toy – almost, thought Sansa with mounting dismay, as the cooks did in Winterfell Castle's kitchens. He looked as though he really could flay a man quite easily. It was all Sansa could do to stand her ground.
"Sir Ramsay Bolton, son of Lord Roose Bolton," said the man, stopping within two feet of Sansa. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering, even as she tried to talk herself out of believing all of those silly rumors she'd heard. They could not possibly be true – not all of them, at least. And in any case, she was the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Earl of Norfolk and one of the most powerful lords in England. Ruffians might not be particularly discriminating about their victims as long as the victims had something of value, but lords, especially lesser ones like the Boltons, were usually loath to provoke bloodshed by assaulting the family members of other lords.
"Has the lady been struck dumb?" The sneer on Sir Ramsay Bolton's face had slid easily into his voice, and Sansa shuddered. Clearly, he had asked her a question which she had failed to hear. She gave her head a shake to clear it. The men around her laughed – except for her own men, of course, all of whom by the looks on their faces had heard just as many rumors about the Boltons as Sansa had.
Sir Ramsay Bolton twirled his knife again. The tip of its blade stopped not two feet from Sansa's breast. She pushed her toes downward into the mud beneath her shoes to keep from shuddering. Having been sheltered heavily during her childhood, she was not nearly as adept at reading people, especially men, as were her father and mother, but she needed only one look at the leer of the man in front of her to know that he was the sort who would pounce on any sign of weakness from her.
"Who, I said," the man repeated, stepping half a pace closer to Sansa, "roams so freely through the lands of Sir Ramsay Bolton and asks for his name?"
The tip of the knife had drawn to within a foot of Sansa's cloak. She drew herself to as tall a height as she could manage.
"Lady Sansa Stark," she said, narrowing her own blue eyes at his, "daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Earl of Norfolk."
Sir Ramsay Bolton raised an eyebrow and took a step backward. Sansa breathed an internal sigh of relief.
"Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark?" he repeated, and turned in a semicircle to glance at each of his men.
"The same," Sansa replied coolly when he was facing her again.
He lifted one corner of his mouth. He was sneering at her, Sansa realized, and she felt as though someone had rammed an icicle down her throat.
"The same Lord Eddard Stark who now sits hostage with King Robert at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor?" The sneer sharpened in Sir Ramsay's voice. "The same Lord Eddard Stark who languishes in prison with his son and heir until his people can ransom him, if they ever manage to pay their portion of King Robert's ransom first? The same Lord Eddard Stark who will then no doubt let that dumb as an ox son go free in his stead so he can rot in prison while he lets his wife die of grief?" His tone was light, but when his men laughed, their laughter sounded like Sansa had always imagined demons must. She silently prayed to the Virgin for help as she spoke.
"The same, Sir Ramsay," she said. "Furthermore, I would have you know that my people have raised our ransom for the king, my father, and my brother as well. I and my men were bringing it out of the north to London when we were set upon yesterday by a band of thieves. You may yet find it more than worth your while to apprehend them, for if you do our family this service, I am sure my lord father would gladly reward you with a share of whatever you can recover." As she spoke, she asked the Virgin for forgiveness, for she knew how loath her father would be to part with so much as a copper in favor of the Boltons, even if they somehow found it worth their while to aid her in recovering his ransom.
Sir Ramsay Bolton's grin widened. "We may indeed recover it," he said, "although that will only happen if you are telling the truth, my lady." His voice savored the last two words, and Sansa had to dig her toes into the mud again. Sir Ramsay shrugged innocently and gestured to his men.
"After all," he said, "how do we know you are in fact Lady Sansa Stark? You could be any village wench playing at being a lady, for all that we know. No, my lady, I think you must return to my father's house and stay until we can send word to your family for one of them to travel here and test your word. Whom would they send, I wonder?" He looked back over his shoulder at his men. Their laughter grew louder. Sansa shuddered while his back was turned.
"Your sister, Lady Arya?" Sir Ramsay's tone was light and playful, but Sansa thought only of a cat's playing with a mouse. "No, she is entirely too spirited and disobedient to follow orders. Your brother, perhaps? Brandon Stark, the cripple? No, it would take him twice as long to be carried here." He shrugged. "Perhaps your lady mother would be willing to climb out of her sickbed and make the trip on your behalf?"
The men's laughter began to break over the trees like so many vicious waves. Sansa dug her toes into the ground until they cramped.
"That will not be necessary, my lord," she said quietly. "You may keep all the ransom you find, and let us pass."
Even before Sir Ramsay emitted a laugh that would have sounded like a mother tut-tutting over her errant child had it come from a less frightening person, Sansa knew her efforts were futile. When he did laugh, the icicle that had been rammed down her throat earlier melted all the way to the base of her spine.
"Pass?" he said. "You wound me, my lady. Why ever would you refuse such an offer of hospitality, especially with so many wounded men about you?" He actually made the tut-tutting noise at which his laugh had just hinted, and Sansa had to bite her tongue to keep from squealing with fright. "Besides, there are many dangerous men about, as you have already told me. My men and I would be only too glad to guard you and your virtue – assuming you still have it, of course."
Sansa's teeth stopped mid-bite. She no longer had to keep her tongue from doing anything, for her tongue, like the rest of her body, had frozen solid.
"I imagine," Sir Ramsay continued, "that I would be doing your future husband a favor to ensure your virtue is still intact. Your father might appreciate that." He shrugged to his men's uproarious laughter.
"My father – " Sansa's tongue unstuck from the roof of her mouth. She felt her face redden. Surely Sir Ramsay did not think Lord Eddard Stark would stand for this. Surely he would not risk it.
" – is across the ocean and many mountains away," answered Sir Ramsay lightly. "And I have heard that many ladies these days are willing to be persuaded out of their virtue by the right lord, Lady Sansa Stark." His tongue hovered over the "S" sounds in her name, almost like Sansa thought the great serpent might have when he had spoken to Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Her tongue froze again.
"Of course, if you are not a lady but a common wench, then you have no need of virtue," said Sir Ramsay. He shrugged again. "I know more than one of my men who would be happy to win your favor in that case. We have been away from my father's house for days, and they have no camp follower to attend to their needs."
Sansa's head felt light, and she let out a loud gasp in spite of herself. She had heard whispered conversations among Winterfell Castle's serving girls about how lucky they were that Lord Eddard was so strict with his men, punishing them severely if they caused harm to even the lowest-born woman in the castle, whereas girls at other castles were often set upon by two or three men at once with no recourse. She had never thought she would come any closer to that horror than overhearing a conversation.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, she whispered desperately. Only when Sir Ramsay Bolton began laughing in earnest did she realize she was saying the words out loud.
"Ah! A devout lady as well as a religious one – " Sir Ramsay began, but he was suddenly interrupted by the pounding of many hooves. Perhaps ten men rode into view, all clad in black. The smirk slid off of Sir Ramsay's face as the men rode into the clearing and dismounted. One of them, a dark-haired man perhaps Sir Ramsay's age, strode up to within a few paces of Sansa and Sir Ramsay. He stared about him for several moments, his brown eyes narrowing as they settled on Sansa. Sansa bit her lip again and felt blood flowing from it.
"Sir Bolton," the man finally said. "Well met. What have we here?"
Sir Ramsay's eyes narrowed into slits. "A matter internal to Bolton affairs," he finally replied. "We have but apprehended a few vagabonds about our borders. You and your father need not concern yourselves." His eyes shifted slightly about the clearing, as if he were taking stock of his men. Sansa thought they outnumbered the other party by perhaps three to one.
This, however, did not seem to cause the other man alarm. "If I am not mistaken," he said, "we have a lady here and some good knights, not vagabonds. That was not what I expected when I agreed to ride my father's borders with you."
"So she claims," returned Sir Ramsay. "She says she is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell Castle and was bringing her father's ransom to London to be shipped to the Holy Roman Emperor, but for all I know she is but a pretty wench playing with a lady's dresses and a few coins. In any case, she has trespassed on Bolton lands. My father and I are perfectly able to sort out the matter of her identity ourselves."
The other man's jaw tightened, and he stared at Sir Ramsay for several more moments. Sansa could not tell whether he wanted to burst into laughter at Sir Ramsay's words or run Sir Ramsay through on the spot. She bit her tongue and felt blood there too. She thought she saw him glance sidelong at her for a moment, but if he had, he had turned away quickly.
"If she is indeed Lady Sansa Stark," he said coldly, "it is a matter of my concern, for my father is in negotiations with hers."
Sir Ramsay looked dumbfounded for perhaps two seconds before the smirk overtook his face again.
"Your father? Negotiating with Lord Eddard Stark? For your hand for his daughter?" Sir Ramsay sneered again, but his expression slackened when a tall, burly man with the most enormous red beard Sansa had ever seen planted himself next to the strange man.
"If Lord Jon Targaryen tells you something, you'd best believe it," he bellowed. Sansa took an involuntary step backward. Lord Jon Targaryen was the second son of Lord Rhaegar Targaryen, and indeed such a lord as Sansa's father may have sought for her had his family not had bad blood with the Targaryens. That, however, concerned Sansa far less at the moment than why the younger Lord Targaryen had lied about her to Sir Ramsay's face, especially when he had no reason to do anything other than leave her with Sir Ramsay and be on his way. Unless, perhaps, she thought, he wanted her for himself and his own men. She took another step backward, and then another as she realized both Sir Ramsay and Lord Targaryen were staring at her.
Finally, Lord Targaryen sprang into action. He strode past Sir Ramsay and took Sansa by the elbow, although his touch was less ungentle than decisive.
"If she is indeed my intended," he said, turning to Sir Ramsay, "she will stay with me, and I shall do as I please. If she is not, she shall face my father's justice." He nodded sharply at the red-bearded man. "Lord Tormund, see to it that Lady Sansa's men are attended to. We will camp next to the stream yonder." He inclined his head ever so slightly at a point further into the forest, away from the road. Lord Tormund nodded, but only when Sir Ramsay had put away the knife and given his men the order to release Sansa's men did he sheath his own sword. He and Sir Ramsay's guard, whom Sansa had forgotten about up until now, both began barking orders to their men.
Without another word, Lord Targaryen picked Sansa up in his arms. She immediately began striking him about the shoulders, but he only gripped her more tightly.
"Quiet, girl!" he hissed. "Don't attract more of their attention. Just do as I say."
Sansa opened her mouth to scream, but Lord Targaryen clapped a hand over it. The breath she had been taking was stifled in her throat, and she gasped for another, to no avail.
Pray for us sinners now, and in the hour of our death, her mind gasped before everything went black.