All is in shadow. The air is thick with a smoke that fills lungs with an acrid, debilitating film. Coughs become bloody with effort to dispel them of such filth. The wind breaths sudden icy blasts from beyond the gray walls, throwing spears of ice from rooftops and sending needle-like particles of snow into people's garmets. They pull the garmets closer, just a little closer for there is only room for a little. But in vain. The cold has gotten into their bloodstream.
Like reptiles they clamber for warmth and heat, but the sun has hidden itself away behind the clouds. The poor people sit quietly around dim fires, and poke them with old bones from horses. An occassional sputter, a somber mumble. It will be better soon, they reasure each other, and bob their heads like chickens.
Inside the fortress a girl-turned-woman dresses in gowns and furs of the most elegant of her culture. A tremble is on her lips and she cannot seem to quell it. A man stands behind her- her husband, her foundation. Her torturer. Sansa Stark Bolton smoothes her hair back behind her thin shoulders and buckles a pendant around her throat with porcelain fingers.
"Very pretty," Ramsay purrs, leaning against the doorwway of their bedroom. Perhaps he is protecting his lover's privacy, keeping someone out. Or perhaps he's keeping someone in.
Sansa makes no remark, nor does she flinch at his voice, which inwardly is pleasing to her. She exhales, her breath a soft white puff. She looks down at the gorgeous brown and gray furs, brushing them lightly. Her father had worn a similar cloak and dress once. A time not so long ago in years, but lifetimes ago in her heart. Her father had been very proud. She had also been proud of him. She starts to smile at the memory, but the smile drops flat. It's good that he's dead, she thinks bitterly. Or else he would surely die of a broken heart, seeing me this way.
Sansa turns and acknowledges her husband's comment with a short curtsy.
"Before the day is over that robe will be in pieces," Ramsay says, wiggling with a wicked eagerness. "And you will give yourself to me, and I will have you all night long."
Sansa keeps her head down, swallowing a hollow lump.
Ramsay licks his grinning lips and opens the door. Reek is pulled into the room, for a chain binding his hands is latched onto the door's knocker.
"Ah, Reek, so wonderful to see you."
Ramsay's voice is damn-near genuine and could fool the Old and New Gods themselves, but Reek and Sansa have learned never to trust rats that squirm in the dark, no matter what kind of berries they hold in their teeth.
Reek glances into his captor's eyes and winces.
"Thank you, my Lord," he says gently. He shuffles his weight off of his broken leg, which is bandaged but poorly. The bandages beg to be changed by turning themselves crimson, then brown, then begin weeping crimson tears when changing has been denied. The pain is a dull one, and Reek has adjusted to its consistency.
Ramsay unhooks the chain from the door and gestures to Sansa.
"Come, it is near time for your lording, my beloved." Ramsay smiles with white teeth.
Sansa walks forward. The coats of her father and furs of wild beasts sweep the ground behind her. Her feet make light sounds on the wooden floor. A deer marching its own trail. She takes Ramsay's arm as he extends it. Ramsay holds tight to Reek's chain with his other hand, and the three of them make their way through the halls. At every step, the coldness from outdoors creeps closer, crawling through cracked window frames, through doors not-quite shut. It bleeds from Sansa's heart, filling her stomach with an icy bile, flooding her lungs with ghosts of white fear. She breaths them out but her heart simply adds more.
Not much longer yet, Ramsay thinks, and I shall be the Lord of Winterfell.
This pain... Reek cringes as he walks, his leg oozing a fresh wave of slow, burgundy blood. He stares at his cuffed wrists with intense focus, seeing the drops of blood and scabby crusts, trying to distract himself. The chain link rattles. It is not the worst. Do not limp, or he will punish me. I can bear it.
Father... I wish I could do something, but I cannot. I am sorry to have failed you. Sansa tries to hold back her tears, but they roll from her eyes and down her cheeks easily. Ramsay doesn't notice.
It is too cold, the people outside think and whisper. They look up at the sky and shudder. Black crows let out violent cries. They perch on chimney tops and on the borders of the walls, wiping their razor beaks in the snow. Every so often, a single crow takes to the air and soars above Winterfell, as if showing the citizens how easy a life one can have when free.