1
Gentle Mother, strength of women,
Help our daughters through this fray,
Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,
Teach us all a kinder way.
"Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy"
I should be running. Far and fast and down from the spiraling tower that imprisons me. I should be following Theon.
NO! My mind shouts against the mistake, no matter how internal. Reek. That is his name. Do not forget his name.
Out into the storm he keeps bidding me, eyes wide and shining with something beyond the fear I've come to know in him. There is terror, oh yes, but there is also the gleam of another emotion. Something foolish. Something he should have discarded long ago.
Hope.
There is no hope here, not anymore, not as there was in my youth. My home is a shell of Winterfell, gutted and burned and ridden with betrayal. The walls, once every semblance of strength and protection in my eyes, now trap me, encasing me in a tomb from which I will never leave. When Ramsay finally grows bored of me, as Myranda threatened, will they have the decency to bury me outside these walls, in the vaults of my forebears? Will they decide to lay me there? I could be the last Stark of Winterfell, finally reunited with my family.
A fantasy, I know, even as I dream it. My death is a wish which will never be granted that easily. I will suffer many years in this tower.
"Come, Sansa. You must come now," the creature coos again, trying to be comforting, I think. But he only manages to disgust me. His roiling, acrid appearance finally matches the murderer within. How could he believe I would ever follow him? The arrogant prince who burned my brothers, the coward who betrayed the family that loved him as one of their own?
"Get away!" I hiss, shuffling further into my corner, my ankle chain thumping loudly against the floor boards. I flinch at the sound. You mustn't be too loud, I remind myself. Noise brings attention. My bastard Lord Husband wishes me to remain hidden, tucked away until the battle's end. Tucked away, and guarded by his Reek until he can return to us and revel in the Boltons' victory by stripping me of myself again. He is most vicious after the throes of victory.
Wind buffets the window pane, a hard, huffing gust of snow and ice. The storm has risen. I can feel its power thrumming through the wall at my back, whispering at me to remember. Winter is coming…. winter is coming… The words are my only strength.
Reek's hand is still extended, his bottom lip now quivering in that way it often does. At last afraid, it seems, but why? As much as I loathe him, cannot even bear the pretense of looking at him unless commanded to by Ramsay, it is impossible to ignore the strangeness of his actions. Perhaps it is a test, this beckoning me to come away, to run into the storm with him? How Ramsay loves to test me, to lure me into mistakes which are punishable.
"I'll go nowhere with you!" My ability to trust others left me long ago, blown away on the winter winds that both chill and bolster me.
"My Lady… please. I have the key!" He pulls a silver chain from beneath his rags, the key dangling and glinting in the firelight. "Let me release you. I will help you."
His voice has risen to a plea, a desperate cry to be understood. But the emergence of the key and the sickening flicker of want that flares up in me at the sight of it have steeled my suspicions. He has brought me back to the beginning, when I still believed a life-debt and a candle in a tower window could save me from my world of agony.
The old woman's body, flayed and glistening red, floats before me… the haunting reminder I can never manage to push away. Perhaps it is good such a gruesome reminder exists.
I decide once more. There is no truth in this creature: he is trying to destroy me with false hope. I pull my heavy chain towards me, gathering a loop between my shaking hands, preparing to strike.
Reek shuffles back immediately, hands retracting as if burned, the key disappearing as if it was never there to taunt me. The threat of pain has branded him so deeply that even my pathetic warning makes him flinch. He is no Ironborn prince.
And you are no longer a Stark either, not really. Not like this.
"Just leave me!" I nearly shout, heady with panic and confusion. I want him out of this room and far away. He can run into the storm himself, if that is what he truly wishes. But he will not pull me from my prison. He will not lead me into painful ruin.
"Sansa…" he murmers, sounding more lost than me. "I thought… I thought, you wanted to leave? Why won't you leave?" He is on his knees before me, rocking back and forth, staring at the chain I have made a weapon.
"There is no leaving. You know this. I know you have come here to torture me!" I swing the chain out at him, not sure if I mean to hit or miss, but glad when he scurries back and whimpers. I continue forward, rising to my feet, breath heavy with fear and rage and exertion. Get him out. Get him out!
"If this is another trial – if Ramsay wants you to persuade me into deception – I hope he hurts you for failing. I hope he peels you! I hope there is less of you on the morrow!" I shriek as I bear down upon him, tears blurring my vision.
The chain clanks with my next heaving swing, thudding and coiling on the floor as I miss my target. My ankle is pulled taunt. I have run out of more slack to swing. But it does not matter; Reek is already opening the chamber's inner door and there is too much space between us to continue my attack. He slips behind the thick slab of wood, head peaking back into the room, eyes riveted on my own, gaping and glazed like those of a dying fish.
I have terrified him… and though I loathe myself for feeling it, there is an undeniable flash of triumph in my chest. There is power in pain, and I have felt the effects of the bitter end for far too long. Wielding such power gives me a sick sort of glee. Perhaps I am truly meant to be the Bolton bastard's wife, enjoying such torments?
Sinking to the floor, sweat caking my brow and tangling my auburn locks around me, I hiss, "Leave my sight, betrayer. You cannot save anyone, not even yourself."
His eyes drop, submissive, broken in spirit once more, and the cruel words finally seem enough. A gust passes over me as the door closes. I let out a long sigh, pulling my knees to my chest, shaking from the terror of almost being mislead. Of nearly being pulled into a ruse. The outcomes of my life are absolute. I no longer have the luxury of changing my fate. I must remind myself of this constantly.
The fire crackles, dancing my meager shadow up against the far wall, making me appear much larger than I feel. Like a curled up dragon, or a kneeling giant. I am not that powerful though, not any longer. Perhaps not ever.
Has Jon ever seen giants at the wall? I vaguely wonder. Thoughts of Jon riddle my mind often, even as I push them away. But there is little left of me but my mind and its foolish inclinations to reminisce. Ramsay made a point to tell me: Jon is now Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. My closest living relative… though not so long ago I would have denied him that title. How proud and cruel little Sansa Stark was then, avoiding the bastard of Winterfell, as her good mother instructed. Arya never heeded mother's warnings, but I had. If I saw Jon now I would cling to him like the closest of kin, wrapping myself up in the comfort of his protection and familiarity. I think he would welcome me as well, despite our differences. His heart was always quick to forgive and forget. And he loved our father fiercely. We could share in that loss, drawing solace from one another.
The candles at my bedside are beginning to gutter, ushering in the night. I should sleep and gather my strength for Ramsay's return, for he will return. I have no doubt of House Bolton's advantage in the coming battle, not because my bastard husband finds immense pleasure in dissecting the weaknesses of Stannis Baratheon's army, but because of Winterfell itself. Even as a broken, beaten castle, my home can still withstand legions. My father and Old Nan told tales of past sieges with such reverence, that Winterfell took on an eternal, living quality to me and my young siblings. As if the walls could buffet attacks by shear will, winter snows strengthening them, blinding and freezing foes as they stumbled about outside.
I imagine the banners of Stannis Baratheon: his sigil, a rearing stag engulfed by that strange flaming heart, snapping on flags before the gates of my home, drowning in the white of this furious storm. I see the fire of his rumored red priestess flickering out in the face of such cold resistance. They are foolish to even try.
My head finds the floor, knowing it will please Ramsay much more to find me sleeping here than in his bed, like the beaten direwolf I now am. But there is comfort to be found on the floor. A strange sense of connection, as if my former home and I are close once more. Lovers reunited, pressed close and hard, with little space between us. Winter is coming… Is it the vibration coming through the floor boards that whispers the phrase? Or is it simply the drums booming outside, barely discernible above the roar of the wind? It does not matter. The deepness of night will end this war before it truly begins; the coming day will betray any remaining survivors. And my existence will resume, steady and terrible.
I can only pretend to be Sansa Stark in sleep, so I let myself go there. Much too quickly to discard the pains that splinter through me, or the bruises that cover me, or the fear that hovers over me like a constant ache, I slip into another, darker world.
The thrum of battle courses through me, and I'm sure, amidst the fog of incongruity and strangeness, that there is a herd of deer outside my window, down below in the court yard. They stampede and buck, throwing their proud heads about wildly, antlers blazing with flame. They are many, and they are fierce, but they do not frighten me. Somehow, I am sure they are here to save me.