SALT IN YOUR WOUNDS

Missing chapter from Taming of the Mad Dog

There was constricting on her throat like weight sucking her very breath. She sighed; her once tranquil face welcomed a slight struggle.

Slowly, it tightened.

When her lungs heaved to cough, she pried open her eyes and stared at the unspeakable horror that loomed above her. It was her first awakening after the hiding on the woods. Last thing she remembered was Brienne's fist against her face and the sight she now bore made her pupils dilate even in the dark. A hand hovered on the delicate flesh of her neck, callused fingers wound around like poison ivy on a pillar.

No candles were lighted and the room was swathed in shadows but Ramsay's eyes burned like midnight torches, and Sansa could clearly draw the loathing that spiralled in them. But there was something else: something she began to shiver for, something that resembled abhorrence, and worse, frustrated...desire.

His right hand pushed weight down on the pillow and beside her ear, and his left above her throat. His knees were apart with her thighs between them. A chill crept on her pores and she realized that the wolf pelt blanket had been slipped off her, exposing the grey satin night dress which had become the only barrier against him.

Sansa basked on the tension that was firmly built on his body. All of him tonight, the perspiration that glistened on his brows, the thick and sultry inhales, the alcohol that clung to his breath, the cold and trembling hands told her one thing: his foundations are fury and pain, and it all dripped as venom to her chest.

And still she looked at him without a hint of fear or recoil. She was trained to mask panic with apathy the day they cut off her father's head. The way she did not give in to fear only spurred on his ire. The fingers around her neck forced deeper. Sansa parted her lips to try and draw in air. He wouldn't be serious.

"Where did you go, little wolf?" his deep dark voice echoed on her ears. Still, her fingers haven't moved to force his hand off her neck. Instead she eased her body and closed her eyes as if she welcomed Death like an old friend. Go ahead...she told him in impossible telepathy, which seemed to have penetrated his psyche.

The fingers loosed. A tense and tired release sent the slightest whiff of air through her lungs.

Sansa turned her head to the side as she coughed, and inhaled until her heart paced normally. It must have, for she felt it pound again the second his fingers spread on her collarbone and his weight fell on her. She took the pressure abhorrently, as he had shielded her from the world in the dead of night.

Ramsay clearly smelt of mulled wine. His face was buried on her oiled hair and he drew her in a deep breath.

"Sansa..." he whispered hotly against her ear whilst the hand that once choked her started to graze slowly from her throat down between her breasts, sending a swell of riot in her mind. She could scream. She could call the guards, but they were as afraid of Ramsay as they were as loyal to Roose. It would be futile.

She managed a small voice. "Stop."

"Let me..."

"You drank too much."

Ramsay laughed and Sansa could feel the rising and falling on his shoulders. "What does it matter?"

His fingers clutched on the fabric that concealed her chest, trying—threatening—to yank it off. Sansa was played with the most horrid worries. She hoped he would not feel her trembling as it would only add fuel to his fire.

"This isn't wise...my Lord,"

Ramsay pressed his face below her ear and inhaled deeply. "Why? We would have been married,"

"It is bad luck..." tears began to break on the edges of her eyes. "To consummate marriage before the vows."

"Words are wind," Ramsay protested. Sansa bit her tongue when she felt his right knee burrow between her legs and remained there. His hand thrived down to the flat of her belly and his fingers slowly tangled itself between the ribbons that held her gown altogether. She was corrupted with fear but would not show it, even when he pulled the edge of the string and sent her disgust with the touch of his palm on her bare stomach. Through it all she could still smell the hesitation that reeked out.

"Be it as you may," she consented, taking advantage of the dithering that Ramsay couldn't hide. "As ill omen, my womb may be shut off. And your heir will never take his first breath."

She succeeded in his pause and was grateful for it. Something stirred in his mind and she was sure it held him down as his hands remained where they were. He laid on top of her still and she was beginning to think he slept. And if he did, she would creep out of the chamber and bathe off the invisible loathing that clung to her like mud.

Instead, he moved his face down, took her collar between his teeth and pulled down almost gently. When her shoulder was bared, he smelt her once more and she almost bit her tongue when his lips rested on the flesh.

Sansa's blood slowly froze, but her skin heated like an acid spring. The warmth around his lips spread across her helplessness, and when he started to suck, she could almost part with her soul. It was so peculiar, this thing...this...whatever this he's doing. It was ungodly, and it made her feel polluted, but try as she might describe hatefully, she found it enticing as he was almost as gentle as a summer cloud and his lips felt like the folds of blood red rose.

So she lay there as a doll under a spell, staring at the small cobweb that hung on a crevice on the ceiling, as Ramsay selfishly took in her warmth but she wouldn't fight and she did not know why.

When he began to stir, he finally let the skin free from his lips. He began to climb off her, and Sansa could sense the familiar dejection that settled in him.

She moved a hand to touch the spot he kissed—or was it a kiss? It was warm on her fingers, like the flat rocks by the river that sank in the sun's heat. Ramsay sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing her. A grim aura radiated around him, something that slipped a little melting on her conscience.

"An heir won't serve me," he spoke as dark as the dour night. Sansa turned her sight to him despite not having it in return.

"What?"

Ramsay looked at the void before him. "My stepmother's pregnant."

She brooded surprise. The bastard showed his cracks again, clear as daylight. It oozed bitterness that drowned his lungs and Sansa was sure to have tasted it. Security was everything to him, Sansa considered; his name was all he cared for. It all explained the drunkenness, but it hasn't explained his hesitance to force himself on her. But she was grateful nonetheless.

Ramsay stood, and slowly walked to the door.

Sansa could only listen to his fading footsteps but the scent of the alcohol remained. She touched her shoulder again, her fingers secretly hoped to feel the peace that lurked when his lips remained still on the flesh.

A/N: Reviews are love. xx Valar Dohaeris, Valar Morghulis

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