The Chamber Below the Dreadfort
Chapter One: The Match
Disclaimer: GRRM and HBO can haggle for ownership, I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Author's Note: Originally written for the ASOIAF Kink Meme. This is a retelling of Angela Carter's short story, "The Bloody Chamber," aka the feminist addition to the Bluebeard myth. I highly recommend it—if you search for "The Bloody Chamber pdf" in Google, it should pop up as a word document. That said, reading Carter's story is not required, it just adds extra references and twists.
In addition, this fic is based in the show's canon, with background supplied by the novels. The show's more thespian take on Ramsay is as fascinating as it is creepy. Obviously an AU. Content warnings include some gore, references to torture, creepy sadists, a few choice swears, mildish sexual content, underage marriage, and kinda-sorta dubious consent.
Sansa Stark remembers that day how she trotted on her palfrey in a tremulous if cheerful state of excitement. Her heart pounded in time to the horse's hoof-falls as it bore her to the serrated battlements of the Dreadfort, and into the unexpected and unguessable life as the lady of Ramsay Bolton.
She is thinking of her mother, after they parted ways at Winterfell. Her mother remains there with a contingent of King Robb's men and a new household recruited from Torrhen's Square. Her brother wants his home again. Sansa rides with her new husband, his guards, and a few servants. In the midst of her excitement she also feels a pang of loss. She had just been reunited with her mother and brother when she was standing before a septon with a new cloak around her shoulders, Robb's bid to placate the North.
Sansa never thought a Lannister would save her from another Lannister, or that she would leave King's Landing without her brother battering down its gates. She never thought she could be married off to the former Bastard of Bolton. But these are strange times in Westeros.
The Kingslayer has returned to King's Landing. Sansa would not have recognized him if not for his voice, as she stands at the edges of the throne room. The coldly slaughterous lion she last saw is a half-starved beggar, his shoulders jutting out from rags and only a beard keeping his face from cadaverous. She looks closer, alarmed—his sword hand is gone. His companion is likewise a strange sight. She is the tallest woman Sansa has ever seen, taller than the Kingslayer, and she wears full armor like a Mormont woman. Sansa scours for a sigil, hardly paying attention to her soon-to-be good-brother, even though her marriage in two days makes her stomach writhe in dread.
Her nerves are flayed raw when the Kingslayer—Ser Jaime, she reminds herself—visits her chambers later that evening, the homely warrior woman in tow. He has bathed but his clothes sag and hang. Sansa remembers Jory; she never saw the body, but she knows the Kingslayer stabbed him through the eye.
The woman falls to one knee, distracting her from her dull rancor. Sansa flinches back at the clatter of her armor. This close, she notices her large blue eyes.
"Lady Sansa, I am here on behalf of your mother." Her elocution is highborn, puzzling Sansa more. "We have sworn an oath to secure the return of you and your sister."
Pain and treachery have made her wary. Stepping back, Sansa tries to decide if this is a trap. Does the infamous lion not serve his sister? The Kingslayer's mouth twitches as if he's trying to hold his tongue. She stares at her hands, fingers twining uselessly. The woman is...unusual, she decides. But she has a solemn, plain dignity in her voice that makes Sansa answer honestly, if still neutral with her words.
"My lady, Arya vanished when King Joffrey arrested my father. I fear she is dead. And my lord, I am to marry your brother the day after tomorrow."
He cannot hold it in—the knight starts laughing, his unsevered hand massaging his temples. To Sansa it sounds more aggrieved than amused.
"My lady Brienne, will disrupting my father's politics at last raise me above your contempt?" His voice is quieter than she remembers, scraped raw by too many days in pain.
Lady Brienne—of Tarth, Sansa thinks, the name niggling in her memory—looks up at him in surprise and rises. "You would do this, Ser Jaime?"
His mouth is sour. He won't meet her eyes, but he looks down at Sansa. She sees the lion there, appraising and weighing. Weighing his own cost?Lady Brienne said he was fulfilling an oath, but her father always said Jaime Lannister had less honor than humility.
"Only if you leave tonight," he says at last. "I know most of the guards now. Perhaps not the ones tomorrow."
"But Lord Tyrion…" It is not out of any desire to stay, but an illogical thought he might suddenly remember his brother's engagement.
"It would not be the first time I've dashed his chance at romance." Jaime tries to sound indolent, but she hears his bitterness. His eyes narrow on hers, not angry, but as if he senses every false note in her heart. "Though I suspect not yours. Not the first time I have spoiled my father's politics either."
Sansa does not understand these conflictions, and with her feelings close to choking her, she does not dwell. She merely listens, as the Kingslayer and the daughter of Tarth argue out a plan. In the end, they set out that night. Ser Jaime accompanies them to the city gates, menacing them past a few over-inquisitive guards. Sansa knows not what he risks, but she bids him good luck. Brienne looks morose, until she turns in her saddle to offer Sansa a small smile. They have gold and supplies, but also a long way to go before they reach her brother's camp.
Sansa knows escaping the Lannisters does not free her from marriage obligations, but neither did she expect talk to turn so soon. It began the day Roose Bolton arrived on a crow-black courser, his fur cloak hanging off the horse's flanks like heavy wings. He looked at her before addressing his king, his gaze canny and cool as a lynx. She remembers Lord Bolton from a lifetime ago, when she offered condolences for his son, Domeric. He had accepted them with cold grace and void eyes.
She shares a tent with her mother, close to Robb and his new wife's quarters. King's Landing gave Sansa a shameless habit for eavesdropping—it was the only way she could learn something not couched and tailored for her ears. She lies on her camp bed, playing with wall shadows as she listens.
"I propose my son, Ramsay." Though their voices are muffled by the tent walls, she hears Roose's dagger-precise inflections.
"Your bastard?" Catelyn's voice is shocked and cold. "You cannot think—"
"He is a Bolton now, heir to all that I own. Legitimized when he returned from Winterfell."
"After he let Theon Greyjoy escape?"
Sansa knows of her foster-brother's treachery, and his likely murder of her sweet brothers.
Bolton pauses. "When he secured Winterfell after your kraken-ward's carnage. He commands the Dreadfort admirably in my absence. Your Grace, would you fault your natural brother for his birth? Ramsay is a skilled commander and huntsman, cleverer and franker than most."
"Is he not the widower of Lady Hornwood?" Catelyn ignores that he purposely addresses Robb.
Sansa smiles; her mother is Lady Stark, answerable to no man but her king.
She thinks Lord Bolton wants to snap at her mother, but his voice merely holds more steel. "He was her gracious husband. She disappeared well after he returned to the Dreadfort, as she wished to stay in her own lands. A tragedy, but one my son could not have prevented." He sighs—it sounds intended to Sansa, whose ears have grown sensitive to court-speak. "Your Grace, you must see the contention around you, especially after the Karstarks. A Northern match will reassure your people. Your sons will rule Winterfell, your nephews will rule the Dreadfort. This is not a poor proposition."
A legitimized bastard? No, Robb would never agree to that. She tucks her knees to her chest, remembering with queasiness her last bastard betrothed.
Robb answers after a long pause and Sansa squirms. "I will consider it, but I give you no more than that."
She has fallen into a restless sleep by the time her mother comes to bed, but the young king discusses it the next morning as they break their fast. Sansa remains a maid, if only by a day and because of a strange Lannister. Her marriage will help her family. Speaking to her as a king, Robb keeps his voice impassive.
"Sister, I will not force you into this. But consider meeting him. Ramsay can catch up to our host. Whatever your answer, I will respect it."
Her mother's eyes are wary, her pride offended. But perhaps she merely thinks of Jon. Sansa nods without hesitation, even though her stomach is uneasy. She will never forget the day she railed against her father, when he planned to break her engagement to Joffrey. If she had just listened to anyone not wearing red and gold.
"If it helps the North, I shall."
As Sansa learns, they were en route to her uncle's wedding at the Twins, at least until Lord Bolton brought word from the Freys. They have postponed the nuptials due to Lord Walder's poor health. Robb can do little but fortify his camp by Oldstones and prepare to make for Riverrun. Bolton's bastard—Ramsay, she tells herself—will arrive any day now.
That day comes buried in clouds and pattered by rain.
Sansa misses Shae. The woman could be coarse and cagey, but her advice was sound. Unmaidenly so. What if she is hurt, for my escape? Surely the Kingslayer will take the fault.
A camp is hardly a place for meeting a suitor, but her brother wants it decided. From prodding her mother, who remains in wary opposition of the match, Sansa knows if she accepts they will marry here, and then Sansa will go with her husband to the Dreadfort while Lady Catelyn takes men to Winterfell to rebuild. They meet today; her family and the Boltons wait in Robb's pavilion. Roose had informed her mother that Ramsay raced ahead of his men to get there early, but Catelyn only asked what virtue there was in riding a frothing horse.
After Sansa has finished arranging her hair into a Northern style, she tells herself bastard does not mean boorish. Jon was always as kind as Robb.
But Joffrey is also a bastard. The thought makes her chest go cold, chillier than the damp morning as she walks the short distance to Robb's tent. Joffrey did not look savage. She found him beautiful once, but that was long ago. Her father always spoke of Lord Bolton as a sensible man. But also cold. Calculating. A stone throw from treacherous, says her mother. Sansa enters the royal pavilion, its flaps spread wide. What if he—
"Good morning, my lady."
Sansa breaks off her unraveling thoughts at the unfamiliar voice. Her brother stands at a large table, Catelyn and Roose beside him. Between her and her family is Ramsay Sn—Bolton. She looks at her suitor as she would a King's Landing courtier, her face passive, but her mind racing to put together an impression. Without thinking she returns his greeting.
She feared Lord Bolton's son would be a brute, but he is just a young man, with a strong jaw and a compact build. Not so much taller than she, dark-haired like his father. He wears a dark cloak with fox fur at the shoulders. Sansa does not think he grew up in the Dreadfort. A life of little denial pins itself to the bones as a permanent quality. Some claim this stamp is noble heritage, but her half-brother Jon has the same cast. This polish merely comes from less hardship.
Sansa thinks him striking more than beautiful. Except his eyes. They would be large and expressive even on a girl. And the color—not a stormy blue like her Tully kin, but icy and pale, ringed in darker cobalt. He lacks the affixed smile of most courtiers addressing a lady, but he studies her with quiet mirth.
Somewhere, amidst her thoughts, she hears his father's introduction. Her mother watches like an eagle; her brother watches with trepidation. Then she realizes they are looking at her, faces querying, as if—
As if wondering how much King's Landing has damaged you. Her near-marriage to the Imp caused her mother to blanch…Sansa does not want to tell her that was hardly the worst of it. Lady Brienne has heard her stories though. The patient lady-knight is kind without being soft, and told Sansa she was braver than she ever expected.
But then Sansa made a fool of herself her first night in camp, when she stumbled into a knight. When she is surrounded by walls, the clatter-clank of armor sets her nerves and teeth on edge. At the Red Keep, the sound meant blood and bruises. As she stumbled, Robb's bannerman clapped a mailed hand on her shoulder. Her shriek set the pavilion to silence and her mother to horror. Gods, a little fool. She hates their pitying, overly gentle looks, like she's lost all her Northern heart.
And so Sansa arms herself with her courtesy, smiles graciously, and welcomes Lord Bolton's heir.
"Are you sure you wish this match?" Her mother looks strained.
"I wish to help our family."
Catelyn tries to smile, fails, and sighs. Sansa takes her hand. Her mother has missed her. Sansa feels a wonderful fool for thinking it was only she who steeped in loneliness. When she turned twelve her mother began taking her into her confidence, and it remains the sincerest moment Sansa ever felt like a woman.
"My defiant, foolish son almost lost the war for love. I am loath to make you pay for his mistake."
"Robb did not make me."
Her mother sighs again. At last she takes out an early gift to her daughter—a deep-brown, sable-lined cloak, better suited for the North than the torn thing she arrived in. It will match her new gloves. Catelyn talks about sundry happenings, pausing when she realizes Sansa is lost in her own thoughts, her hands buried in the soft cloak.
Sansa cannot help thinking of yesterday. Her mother is not the first person since her return to offer a gift.
They finally have a moment alone. The North is not so strict as the south regarding chaperones—a man is expected to have honor, not be forced into it, a seemingly strange concept for southern Houses. Her mother made an exception for Ramsay, finding odd things to fill her time while Sansa attempted to speak with him. She kept Lady Brienne close too.
Because of her suitor, Sansa cannot tell her mother why wants to be alone—Joffrey was his best-mannered when their parents were near. She will not fall for those mummeries again.
Then at last the rain stopped. She has watched his eyes slide sideways, narrowing, knowing full well why Lady Catelyn remains. Sansa admits he has reason to feel mildly offended. Her half-brother had the same. In an effort to please her mother, she knows she was cold to Jon. Someday, Sansa will visit him and pay the kindness he deserved when they were young.
She is the one who suggests they take a walk near the sepulcher of King Tristifer, and Ramsay shoots her a surly, eager look like a tiger in a cage. They leave with her on his arm. Her mother scowls, but Sansa smiles back at her, hoping she understands. She will not choose lightly.
The air is cool and damp; Sansa breathes deep, knowing the tender ladies of King's Landing would think it miserable. She is glad to be rid of the sticky, salty heat of the capital. They reach the weathered sepulcher of Oldstones, a ways from the noisy camp. Sansa almost sputters when Ramsay vaults onto the chest-high tomb, careless of the king beneath. He holds out an expectant hand. Picturing her old septa's aghast face, she accepts after a moment, and he lifts her up. While she straightens her dress, he takes out something wrapped in black velvet.
"A gift, Lady Sansa. Winter is coming." Her House's words are spoken with jest, but she misses hearing them regardless.
Smiling, pleased if perplexed, she gently unwraps it. Gloves? A pair of leather gloves, lined with rabbit fur. The craftsmanship is simple but the cinnamon-dyed leather feels softer than kidskin.
"They are beautiful, my lord." She will ask her mother what animal it comes from.
Ramsay smiles, his incisors uncommonly sharp. Deftly, he takes the gloves and slides them onto her hands. They are warm and soft, fitting her like a second skin. Too soft for a hunter or soldier, but not a lady.
He squeezes her fingertips and finds the leather snug. "Good, they fit. You have long fingers."
Sansa finds his eyes fascinating—grave and mirthful, appraising and chaffing. "All the better to play the harp with," she teases, starting to blush.
Perhaps bastard children do not grow up with the same tales of wolves and woods. Instead of answering, he kisses her, mouth warm over hers. Pulling away, not apologetic in the slightest, he raps on King Tristifer's ancient face.
"Isn't this the Mud King?"
When she tells of King Tristifer Mudd, he looks amused. He is quiet—not reserved, she thinks, but with no desire to carry on like a lordling at the Red Keep. Lord Bolton is clever and calculating though. Perhaps he told his son not to act like the allies of her jailors. Or perhaps Ramsay is just different, raised in a different world. She finds frankness more desirable since leaving the North.