When Winterfell had fallen to Stannis' men, they had locked Ramsay Bolton in an unpleasant cell down in the dungeons. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the same cell he had been locked in when he had first arrived. Or maybe it wasn't. One cell looked very much like the next, especially from the inside. He spent the first few days of his captivity plotting his revenge, imagining all the horrible things he would do to the men who had dared to lock him in here. He was Ramsay Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort, and the Lord of Winterfell. They could not treat him like this. They would all pay, soon enough.

He had no doubt he would escape. He had been born lucky, his mother had always said. For his whole life, things had gone his way. He had been locked in here before, and had escaped then as well. Of course, at that time, he had been released…

He grit his teeth. He wouldn't think about him. He needed to remain calm. He couldn't cloud his mind with thoughts of that traitorous wretch, running off with his whore of a wife…

"Stop." He said aloud, his fists clenched so tight his nails broke the skin in several places. "He's dead. She's dead. They're dead." Saying it made it seem true. After all, they had left in that storm, and without those wildling sluts to help them. And even if they had miraculously survived, that was not the issue now. He would have plenty of time to find them after he escaped and reclaimed what was his. Stannis could never hope to hold Winterfell. Those loyal to House Bolton would come. Then Ramsay would show Stannis how useless the fire demon he worshipped was. Perhaps he would burn parts of the false king off. It would be ironic.

He was pulled from this cheerful thought by the sound of footsteps. He looked up, and could see a torch approaching. It was nowhere near the time they usually fed him. Frowning, he craned his neck to try to see who was coming. Only one set of footsteps –whoever it was, they came alone. Unlikely to be rescue, then. How disappointing. They stopped in front of his cell and stood in silence. Ramsay squinted in the bright light, trying to make out the bearer of the torch.

"You!" He let out a sharp gasp. He had not recognised her at first – it seemed she had not escaped the snowstorm unscathed. He assumed that it had been the cold that had taken her nose, ruining what had once been a quite pretty face. He had never hurt her face.

She placed the torch in an alcove, and just stood there staring at him. The way the light hit the jagged hole where her nose had been made her look like some sort of ghoul. But even in the poor lighting, and even with her newly disfigured face, Ramsay could see the familiar fear in her eyes. She was still his.

"What are you doing here, Arya?" His voice didn't sound as intimidating as he would have liked, but she still flinched back at the sound of it. "Well? Answer me!"

She took a step back from his cell, eyes fearful, and held something up. He squinted, trying to make out the bulky object in her hands. It looked like…

"What are you doing with that?" He narrowed his eyes at her. She didn't respond, she merely lifted the crossbow up, aiming it at him through the bars. He clenched his jaw, unsure of what to say. He couldn't feasibly hide from her, not in this tiny cell. So he just stared her down. He wasn't scared of her. The thought of fearing this whore was laughable. She was scared of him. There was no way she would shoot. Even as he thought it, she lowered the crossbow. He could see her trembling. Yet she didn't leave. She didn't turn to run away. Someone had let her down to see him, and someone had provided her with the crossbow, he realised. He scowled. Apparently Stannis's sense of justice was not extended to his prisoners.

"What are you doing here." He asked again. Still she refused to speak. She merely glanced down at the crossbow in her hands. "Did the cold take your tongue as well as your nose, whore? You should have stayed with me, I kept you pretty at least." Her lower lip trembled, and she opened her mouth as though to speak, but no sound came out. Ramsay frowned. "Look, Arya, if you're not going to speak, than you should leave. You're boring me."

"Jeyne."

She spoke so quietly that Ramsay wasn't even sure she had spoken at all. "What?"

"N-not Arya. Jeyne." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and it sounded like she was crying.

"Shut up." He snarled. "You are Arya Stark, you are my wife. And when I get out of here, I will make you pay for betraying me."

"I am not Arya!" Her shout surprised Ramsay. He realise that she was pointing the crossbow at him again. "My name is Jeyne!"

He heard the crossbow go off, and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He stared at the bolt sticking out of him, dumbfounded. She had actually shot him. Disbelief overshadowed any other emotion. He looked up from the bolt to give her an incredulous look, when he heard the crossbow go off again. This time the bolt buried itself in his chest. She was actually going to kill him. No, that was unacceptable. He wouldn't die here. Murdered by his own wife in the damp dungeon of his own castle. It was too much. He opened his mouth to call out, but all that he as capable of was gurgling up some blood.

"Y-you won't hurt me. You won't hurt Theon. I won't let you." She had reloaded, and she fired off another bolt. It hit somewhere around his torso, he wasn't sure where. The pain from the first two was hitting him hard, and he couldn't really focus on anything else.

He heard the clatter of her crossbow hit the ground, and the last thing he saw was his wife's face. She was smiling. He had never seen her smile before.