The Price She Paid
The moment Sansa Stark saw what was left of Theon Greyjoy huddled in a dog kennel, all of her plans exploded like wildfire. The first, most overwhelming shock had been that of seeing a man she'd thought dead for years, the man who murdered her brothers and displayed their carcasses in a deranged bid for power over the North. Racing in on its heels was the sudden knowledge of what must have happened to Theon. She had thought Joffrey was the worst the world had to offer. What was surviving a minor traitor compared to that? She should've known Starks didn't get that lucky.
He lifted his eyes to hers. What Sansa saw there was, in retrospect, what had really made her turn and run. The kennel wench, Myranda, had disappeared, leaving no doubt that this reaction was exactly what she had intended. Sansa didn't care. She hadn't stopped running until she'd reached her bed, where she could muffle her sobs.
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She thought of that now, as he led her through the godswood. Even cleaned and finely dressed, even seen only from behind, he was unmistakably the creature she had already come to think of as "Reek". All traces of red had been banished from her eyes by the time of their second meeting. Then, as now, she'd known she couldn't let them see her weakness. She stared over Reek's shoulder as the wedding lights swam into view, struggling not to blink. It was a trick learned at King's Landing.
The heavy brocade of her bridal gown swept the snow as she passed over it, wiping away her footprints. Hopefully it wasn't an omen. The funereal silence that greeted her as she approached the weirwood hopefully wasn't either. She was still glad she'd skipped dinner when she spotted her groom, the scarlet leaves of the tree reaching toward his head.
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Ramsay Bolton had seemed unusually pleased with himself at luncheon, the day she learned of Theon's continued existence. That should have been a warning. Sansa had been reserved but calm, exchanging polite words with Ramsay's stepmother. Then the past had stepped out of the shadows. Theon... Reek. As Ramsay "reunited" them, Sansa had fixed her eyes on her plate and tried to figure out how he knew. Had Myranda told him? Had Theon? Had a Bolton spy seen her flee the kennel? They were all equally possible. Her head spun.
Still, it hadn't been until he'd suggested Reek give her away at their wedding- in place of her murdered brothers- that the full realization of what she'd gotten herself into had hit. It wasn't that she'd expected any son of Roose Bolton to be nice, of course. He'd seemed chivalrous enough, though, handsome, even taken with her. So as planned, she had teased, flattered, shown strategic flashes of leg. As planned, she had spoken with several familiar Winterfell faces, showing them the same love and compassion she'd seen her father show them in her childhood. And here she was engaged to another monster.
Sansa had realized everyone was watching her, waiting for her reaction. What could she possibly say? What would Littlefinger tell her to do?
"That sounds splendid."
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She gave Ramsay a mirror-practiced adoring smile as he stepped forward to meet her. The time to deal with Littlefinger seemed so far in the future, she couldn't even picture it. A flush came to already frost-pinched cheeks. Royal summons or no, he had to have known he was leaving her alone in a nest of vipers. There was no doubt of that. What was truly unforgivable, though, was the false sense of security he'd left her with. "He's already fallen for you," was all she could hear as the wedding vows droned.
With shocking speed, the ceremony was over. Sansa, on the other hand, found her feet moving progressively slower as she approached the bridal chamber. Maybe he would be gentler than expected. Maybe he would show mercy and she wouldn't have to do what she was planning to do.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was foolish. That was a vestige of the old Sansa, the little girl who believed in fairy tales. If she was to survive her new world, the old Sansa had to die. Still, her feet didn't move any faster. Ramsay mocked her reluctance in a way that could be mistaken for playful, if you weren't paying attention.
She hesitated before crossing the threshold of what was intended to be another in a series of prisons. There had never been any real possibility of turning back, but this step felt symbolic. She lifted her chin and took it.
As her new husband gently touched her cheek and brushed her lips with a kiss, the wild hope that the course of action she had been backed into might be unnecessary resurged, stronger than ever. She might not like being married to the son of a man who had betrayed the entire North, but she could live with it, if only, if only... And then she heard the words. "Take your clothes off."
Sansa's throat was suddenly as dry as a Dothraki's boots. She looked at Reek and he turned to leave. "Oh, no," Ramsay Bolton imperiously commanded. "You stay here, Reek. You watch."
There it was. She had suspected he would try to hurt her in this way, had counted on it, even. Yet she couldn't help it; she swallowed. His eyes flicked to the bob of her throat and lit up.
Sansa gave him what she desperately hoped was a seductive smile. "You're right, of course. We should have a witness. You first."
Ramsay frowned. "What did you say, darling?"
"You're not ashamed to show your bride what she has to look forward to, are you?"
Now he was visibly agitated. He grabbed her wrists, hard enough to force a wince from her, and pulled her close. "Do I need to ask a second time? I hate asking a second time."
Her face became the impassive mask that she'd had too many occasions to perfect. "No, my lord."
And the most awful smile she had ever seen spread slowly across his face. For the first time, he was showing her his fully unmasked self. She turned her back on him, taking the moment to steel her resolve as she fumbled with the laces at her wrists. He was out of last chances.
Ramsay was impatient, though. He tore open her dress, leaving red welts across her back. Sansa allowed him to bend her stiffly over the bed. As he took his time with her skirts, one hand snaked forward and retrieved a knife from the space between the bed and the wall. She hugged it to her chest. Her eyes glittered coldly as she stared across the room at a candle, envisioning the faces of her father, her mother, her sister, her brothers in the flame. Now, more clearly than ever before, she knew that she was their last hope for justice.
The clatter of a belt buckle dissolved into the rustle of trousers dropping. One last moment of hesitation, then Sansa spun and plunged the knife as deep into his throat as it would go. He hardly reacted at first. They were just frozen in their poses, staring at each other. Then she twisted the knife and pulled it out, instantly drenching the front of her wedding gown. Ramsay's mouth stretched into a shocked O.
She pushed past him and lunged at Reek, smearing blood on his hands. There was only time to register horrified eyes, but when she turned, Ramsay was already slumped against the bed. One hand was clutched to his throat, the other groped at his waist- only the sword wasn't there. It had been discarded in preparation for his wedding night rape.
Sansa kicked it away, then dropped the knife and pried his hand away from his throat. She placed her palms flat over the wound, as if trying to staunch the bleeding. His face registered confusion, but it was Reek's eyes she was meeting. "HELP!" she screamed.
Sansa sat in the familiar antechamber to the Great Hall, hands clenched tightly in her lap to keep them from shaking. She stared down at the reddish-brown sediment beneath her fingernails. Someone had given her a cloth to clean her hands with, but her dress and fingernails were still stained with the rust color of dried blood. If someone had told her before this whole nightmare started that she would become knowledgable about what dried blood looks like, she would have thought they were insane.
At long last, she was called in to tell her story to Lord and Lady Bolton. Reek had grown increasingly agitated on the way back to the bridal chamber. As the marriage was being consummated, he had pulled out a knife and stabbed Ramsay. She'd tried to protect him but Reek had attacked her and torn her dress. At this point, she turned to show them the scratches and ragged fabric. Lady Bolton gasped. The knife had somehow ended up on the floor during their struggle, and without a weapon, he had suddenly seemed to realize what he'd done. He shrank back into himself. Sansa, naturally, had tried to save her lord in the only way she could think of, but it was in vain. He was dead.
By the time her tale of woe reached its end, her cheeks were soaked with the tears she spent most of her time holding in. Cries of "Not me! Not me!" preceded the forced entrance of Reek into the Great Hall. She clamped her hand over her mouth and pointed a shaking finger at him. They believed her, of course. Why wouldn't they? He had every reason in the world to want to kill his hid her elation behind a tumble of red hair as Roose Bolton personally ran him through.
"I can't," she gasped and fled to the antechamber, where she donned an old, ragged cloak that, at a glance, made her look like a servant. It also served to cover the blood-stained dress. With a candle in one hand and a flint in the other, she set out for the Broken Tower. Her "disguise" wouldn't fool the keep's guards up close, but Winterfell was her home. She knew there were other ways in and out.
Slipping through the shadows of the narrow streets, she was once again overwhelmed by the feeling she'd had when she first rode through the gates of the Bolton-controlled city. Winterfell's scars were terrible, but underneath were the same places that still warmed her dreams. It hurt to have to leave again. She held the red-smeared candle up to the light of a torch and allowed herself the tiniest of triumphant smiles. Whether he'd intended to or not, it seemed Littlefinger had taught her an important lesson after all. Always have a backup plan.
From the top of the tower, Sansa Stark could see almost all of the city that should be hers by birth. She lit the candle and began to scan its streets. Orange lights streaked to and fro, more activity than she'd ever seen here before. It wouldn't be long before all of Winterfell knew what had happened. There was grim satisfaction in imagining Myranda hearing the news. She leaned forward as she noticed something happening by the service gate. They were opening it. There was a glitter of metal, but it was the shock of blond hair that identified the person who...
Her jaw dropped. It was unmistakably Brienne of Tarth, her mother's old sworn sword, who was now bashing and slashing her way toward the Broken Tower. She couldn't help laughing at the irony. As she ran down the steps to meet her new protector, a name sprang into her mind: Lady Stoneheart.
