Sansa stared blankly at the back of her husband's head, letting a few more tears escape. How did she get here? Lying on their bed in her home, still wearing a torn wedding dress and feeling a deep soreness down below that made her ill to think about. She didn't bother to move after the act. She hadn't even bothered to roll onto her back. It hurt to move. It hurt to think about why it hurt to move. She didn't want to feel anything, she didn't want to see the blood that had no doubt stained the furs, and she didn't want to see if Theon (she refused to call him by his pet name) was still there, but she was pretty sure that she'd heard him leave when it was apparent that Ramsay was asleep.

Ramsay was snoring loudly and she could bet that this was one of the best sleeps he'd ever had. There was no doubt in her mind that he was fairly comfortable and content with their wedding night, and all she wanted to do in that moment was strangle the life out of him. He was probably smiling right now, reliving that entire scene in his dreams, and it made her want to vomit. She never thought that she could loathe someone more than Joffrey, but she was proven wrong. So. Very. Wrong. She stared holes into the back of him, wondering what it would be like to yank those dark locks of hair out of his head until he had no more. Until he was reduced to a screaming creature with a bleeding scalp. When she finally had enough of him in her sight, she moved onto her side—facing opposite of him, of course—and scooted as far away from the sleeping man as possible. She made a silent wish for his death before closing her eyes.


When Sansa woke, she was immensely disappointed. She was hoping for a dream of Ramsay's end. Something gruesome like being burned alive, mauled by beasts, or being torn in half by a giant like the ones in Old Nan's stories. At the very least, she could've been given the moment that they received the news of Walda's pregnancy again. She smiled faintly at the memory.

"Maester Wolkan says it looks like a boy."

But she had no dream of the sort, and now she was to open her eyes to a new day in a Bolton-infested Winterfell. Sansa sighed and sat up. It seemed fairly dark in the room despite it being morning. Maybe she'd woken up in the middle of the night? She liked the thought of having another chance to dream of her husband's demise, but before she could lie back down, she heard footsteps outside the door.

They stopped. She tensed. Then there was a whisper.

"Sansa…"

Her eyebrows furrowed and she leaned in a bit to try and hear whatever came next.

"Sansa, come outside," the person said.

She thought about replying, but decided against it in fear that Ramsay would awake. Sansa slowly turned her head and glanced to the other side of the bed, but to her surprise, there was no one there. There was no need to worry now.

"Who are you?" She asked.

"Outside."

"What do you want?"

"Outside."

Sansa sighed and rolled her eyes. Who was playing games with her at this time? She carefully slipped out of bed, still severely sore from Ramsay's treatment, and removed her dress…or at least what remained of it. She found some garments that would be acceptable to wear outside for now (at least they provided her with clothing if nothing else) and made her way to the door. She hesitated to open it.

"Sansa, come on," the person whispered. It sounded like a man, but it was faint enough that she couldn't tell whom.

This could be someone trying to hurt her. Maybe it was a Bolton who was planning on taking advantage of her. Or maybe it was someone trying to take her away from here. Away from these terrible people and this place that used to be home. Either way, nothing could be worse than what she was already being forced to endure, so Sansa opened the door.

Who greeted her on the other side was not whom she was expecting and definitely not someone she wanted to see. Her stomach dropped.

"Finally," he said. "Hello, my dear wife."

Sansa shuddered when Ramsay smiled.