All is Fair in Love and War

by spankingfemfatale

Alt ending for S6E9 where at the end of the battle, things go a little differently for Ramsay, and Sansa gets her revenge by taking Ramsay and claiming him as her spoils of war. WARNING! For Mature adults only!

1. Turn the Tides

Alrighty! So, my dearest hubby loves me so, and this story is a product of said love (yet another spin on poor Ramsay losing the battle where Sansa comes out on 'top' story (because that's where I like to see her and even more so where I like to see Ramsay! *evil grin*) For those that have read Too Easy (the other Ramsay story hubby wrote for me), he's not going to write that harsh in this fic! Hubby knows what I like and is catering this more in the vein of A Need to Suffer (since I like Sansa to end up being nice after she's been so mean… I'm a mess in case you didn't get that already! LOL!) This fic is my reward for dedicated exercise each day where I earn 4 paragraphs a day, so updates should be steady if not take a couple weeks in between! (One mention, if you have read Too Easy, hubby reused two or three paragraphs from that fic for a scene he was too lazy to rewrite LOL! *snerk*)

Okay, on to WARNINGS! This story is not for the faint of heart and will contain nonconsensual themes of rape, bondage, spanking, pegging, and many other darker themed types of sexual and emotional triggers; you have been warned!

Chapter One

Turn the Tides

He sat frozen in his saddle, his mind taking overly long to soak in the details of what he saw because it did not wish to see these things. He dully listened to the clarion call of the enemy war trumpets, not wanting to hear it any more than he wanted to see the advancing troops. Wave after wave of riders charged their horses down the small hillock that Sansa Stark and her reinforcements had suddenly appeared on and began to scythe into the back ranks of his carefully laid trap for Jon Stark's forces.

He was slack-jawed, still trying to comprehend how this had happened as those riders cut a wide swathe through his men, laying waste to his armies in moments as the knights of the vale expertly circled his lines and victimized his foot-soldiers, who were unable to face the new threat to any degree with Jon's men still on their flanks. His advisors had already fled he realized belatedly. His survival instinct kicked in then, and he spurred his horse into a retreat, but the entire ride back he felt numb with surprise.

His men seemed eager to close the massive gate that guarded the castle wall, and Ramsay supposed he couldn't blame them, seeing as most of the enemy forces arrayed against them were cavalry, leaving them little time to get ahead of the bloodbath that would surely follow if Ramsay Bolton was caught out in the open with so few defenders.

As the huge wooden beam that barred the door was slid into position, Ramsay's only remaining soldier of any rank who yet lingered nearby approached him with a look of concern on his face, "We are to take on a siege, milord?"

The sound of doubt trilled in the soldier's voice, and Ramsay frowned at his obvious cowardice. With soldiers like these, no wonder he had lost the field, "Jon Snow's army is destroyed."

The soldier dared to reply, "As was ours."

Ramsay grimaced in irritation, "We have walls and food; they don't have the men to lay siege."

At that moment a great booming sound followed by the crunch of wood splintering startled both men, and Ramsay's face paled in dread as he saw a massive fist plow through the very doors he had just laid his trust in.

Even though arrows and spears harried and hurt that giant hand, it nonetheless proceeded to rip the door asunder in a few hard pulls, revealing Jon Snow and his forces beyond. Ramsay retreated more quickly this time, hoping to move faster than his pursuers could notice. All he had with him were the few useless advisors who had fled the field before him and were likely hiding inside the castle basement and closets, and those handful of his personal guard, who would be falling to the far larger force of Jon's group any moment now.

He scrabbled down to an armament rack, snatching a bow and quiver from it. He had but one notion of how he might still yet be victorious; he would kill Jon Snow. Then he would die, of course, but better to spite Sansa with this last action than die groveling in a closet like his cowardly advisors would. First though, he loosed an arrow into the giant's left eye, to insure that the great raging brute would not interfere with its long stride.

The giant died the moment the shaft pierced its brain from Ramsay's expertly placed shot. Now secure in his position fully thirty paces from Jon and the soldiers behind him Ramsay paused to sneer at Jon, "I have reconsidered; let's fight it out amongst the two of us." He nocked an arrow, still smiling at the fact that this frustrating worm who had managed to wriggle out of two death traps on the field would now finally die as he should.

As he had raised his bow, though, Jon lunged forward, sweeping a shield from the ground that had been dropped by one of Ramsay's personal guards as the giant had stomped him to death. Barely in the nick of time he raised the shield, blocking his face and continuing to advance on Ramsay with a seething glare on his face.

Ramsay's smile widened as he thought that Jon must be thinking of his brother and how Ramsay had shot him through the back with similar bow so very recently. So fitting that Jon should die the same way, his rage obviously clouding his judgement, since moving closer only made it even easier for Ramsay to place a shot between his eyes.

He drew and fired, his smile faltering as Jon threw the shield before his face again. His smile turned into a concentrated stare as he summoned the considerable reservoir of focus he maintained as a skilled hunter to fire again, but once more Jon blocked. Somewhat vexed at the continued blocks Ramsay decided he should probably aim for his face and then switch to his legs as the shield came up; after all, Jon would be blind at that moment.

However, as Ramsay calmly loaded another arrow into his bow from the quiver he realized a split second too late that Jon was picking up his pace in that narrow window and that he wasn't going to have the time needed for another shot. His composure was lost as he cried out in dismay as Jon charged forward, swatting his weapon away with the shield as he tried desperately for a final shot. Before he could react to the swing Jon brought the shield savagely forward, slamming it into his middle.

As the shield collided with his sternum Ramsay felt the air rush out of him and he gasped, falling backwards under both the force of the blow and under Jon's weight as the armored man tackled him to the ground. Ramsay had never been brought to the ground in combat before and in fact had little experience in this sort of fighting at all. Before he could apply himself to what he might do, though, a gauntleted fist smashed into his nose, deriving him momentarily of all sense.

All ability to think whatsoever was robbed of Ramsay, and he couldn't even raise his hands to guard himself as Jon rammed his hands into Ramsay's face over and over again. He didn't bother defending his face at that point, trying to smile up at Jon defiantly but having that beaten by a punch that broke his nose. Jon showed no sign of slowing his bludgeoning attack, and as Ramsay saw lights flash before his vision he realized that he was going to die this way.

He saw her just briefly through the haze of distorted vision and the blood in his eyes; Sansa Stark had arrived to see what Jon was doing to him and as he rolled his head back to look at his attacker once more he realized groggily that Jon had ceased hitting him. He was so far gone now he had failed to notice that the painful bludgeoning had stopped… he didn't have time to ponder the reasons, as the soft caress of unconsciousness fell upon him, to which he readily gave in.

Ramsay Bolton raised his head slowly, pain blossoming in several locations throughout his face. He could taste the coppery, salty mix of his own blood and noted quickly that he could not fully open his left eye. Jon Snow had pummeled him into the ground with a fury borne of his loss at Ramsay's hands, and Ramsay recalled only dimly why he had stopped short of breaking his head open upon the cobblestone of the castle courtyard. He recalled now how Sansa had looked then, the hatred etched on her face. Ramsay had taken in a glimpse of that deep loathing before, when she had promised him that he would die today, out on the field before the battle yesterday. He had not realized then that it was no empty threat, but a prediction.

Ramsay's eyes wandered around the room he was in; steel bars blocked the way in front of him in the form of a massive gate. To his sides were smaller doors, each also barred, allowing him to look inside at the shadowed forms lurking there, watching him with eyes that reflected the torch light that leaked into the room through the gate from sconces on the walls outside.

Hay lay strewn about here and there, as sometimes his hounds would track it into the main room of the kennel upon their paws. It was dark, so he had to assume that he had fallen to unconsciousness for some few hours, since his combat with Snow had been in the morning. Then he realized that someone was standing out in the courtyard beyond the gate. Not just anyone, either; it was her.

"Sansa… Sansa Sansa…" Ramsay croaked, clearing the blood from his throat so that he could speak, "Hello, Sansa." She didn't say anything, and her face was impassive, hiding the hatred he had seen in her before. He smiled; she was trying not to let him get under her skin. They all tried not to let him get under their skin, his victims, but he always managed. He had a reputation to uphold; there was a reason the Bolton banner depicted a flayed man.

He glanced around at the kennel, "So this is where I shall be staying now…?" He shook his head, "No… I think we shall be parting ways soon… but you should know you can never kill me; I'm part of you now."

Sansa replied quickly but coolly; a statement ready for him, perhaps, "Your words shall disappear… your name shall disappear… all memory of you shall disappear."

Those words echoed horribly in the room, accompanied only by the low sound of the snarling dogs. She smiled when he didn't respond, and Ramsay grit his teeth as he realized that Sansa had not only noticed that he realized what she was likely going to do to him now, but was enjoying the nervous look it created in him. "Don't worry, Ramsay. I only wanted you to think that you would be eaten by your own hounds today; how does it feel to be victim to your own sort of game?"

Ramsay snarled as viciously as one of his hounds, but didn't say anything. What would he say, after all? He had already betrayed that she had managed to get under his skin instead of the other way around by the anger that was so clearly evident on his face. He cleared his composure as best he could and did his best to level her with an icy glare.

Sansa, for her part, did not seem to be affected by his attempt at quiet and subtle intimidation, instead continuing her own project, "No, I am not going to erase you that way; I'm going to erase everything you are with a variety of punishments you so amply deserve, until you are no better a man that the creature you turned Theon Greyjoy into."

Ramsay's eyes widened before he could regulate his countenance, and his breathing quickened. So, she meant to torture him after all before the end. In fact, she wasn't just promising to simply torture him; she was promising to break him, sunder his will to live and make a groveling, sad specter of his psyche that would never again resemble the man he used to be.

He gulped but still did not reply; he knew from years of experience that a torturer only felt they were gaining ground when they received feedback from the tortured. Sansa had a cold, humorless smile on her face and a sadistic gleam in her eyes that reminded him of Myranda, which was ironic seeing as she could only have become this way from the naïve girl he had married due to his own efforts, just as Myranda had.

"Have it your way, Ramsay Snow; you'll be screaming loudly soon enough. I'm sure that I will tire of your pitiful pleas in the days to come, so I shall enjoy the silence for now…"

Ramsay felt a rush of anger and knew that his face must be reddening with it despite his careful control of his features. 'Snow'. She had called him that just to get a rise out of him, so if he were to buckle into his desire to lash out at her then he would of course be playing into her hands. Though the way she had worded it might have seemed like she would enjoy his silence, he was still fairly certain his ire would please her more, give her power over him.

So he continued to remain quiet despite what she had said, despite the fact that in almost any situation since he had become a Bolton in name that any person would dare to invoke his bastard title he would have been swift in his retaliation. He would just have to settle with punishing her for it later should she be so foolish as to consider him broken later, letting that thought console his roused ire.

Sansa for her part watched him, seeming to drink in the details of how he reacted, no doubt probing him for weaknesses. She turned and spoke to a soldier in the courtyard but they were too far away for their low conversation to be heard by Ramsay. He only managed to hear his name and the word 'cleaned'. Then the portcullis door grated open and two big wildling men entered and cut him from the chair, pulling him from it none to gently and half-carried him from the kennel.

Ramsay looked around quickly as they traveled through the courtyard towards the castle proper, noting that the main gate stood open. His chances of escaping these two wildlings and the men that likely stood outside of the walls were slim to none, but less so were his chances once they had him inside the stone keep. Ramsay suddenly kicked the guard to his left in the shin, pulling right as he twisted his wrist in the grip of the other guard, already lunging forward to begin running.

The soldier whose shin he kicked snarled in pain but he did not release his tight grip on Ramsay's arm. Likewise the other soldier proved resilient to Ramsay's attempt to twist free, so both pulled back, completely stopping his forward momentum, so that instead of a run for freedom he received a vicious elbow from one side and a swift knee from the other which drove the wind from his lungs.

Consciousness once again threatened to flee from him, and he could hear Sansa as if she spoke from a great distance, "Don't kill him; he deserves far worse than to simply be beaten to death. I don't think he'll be so stupid again, but ready yourselves to make him pay for such imbecile action without actually ending him. After all, he might be trying to make you angry so that you will spare him the fate I have in store for him."

The soldiers murmured their reluctant acquiescence, and then proceeded to carry Ramsay by the arms into the keep, his feet dragging on the ground behind him. He was half of the mind to feign unconsciousness and then try once more to escape, but as they passed under the arch of the door and he felt the stabbing pain both in the back of his head and his ribs where he had just been struck, he decided that the pointless gesture would only allow them another chance to brutalize him, and offer him no reward for the attempt whatsoever.

They carried him down familiar corridors towards the lord's quarters of the castle. Ramsay knew the layout well; after all, he had lived here for some time when he had moved in with his father, after Roose Bolton had taken the keep by betraying House Stark at the Red Wedding. Father had his man knife the pregnant bride in the womb of her unborn child right in front of the groom; Ramsay had always thought that was a nice touch.

Ramsay had to wonder why they were headed for such chambers instead of going down to the dungeon below or at least to the storage room where he had tortured Theon Greyjoy. But no, the guards instead took him into the master bedchamber where Ramsay's father had recently slept and where he had even more recently slept after murdering his father and seizing control of the Bolton estate.

He supposed on reflecting that before that it would have been Sansa's parents' room, and would likely now be Sansa's room as the Lady of House Stark, since Jon could not be Lord on account of him being both a bastard and a member of the Night's Watch. So why were these men taking him to the bedchambers of Sansa Stark? Perhaps he had read her all wrong and she had become addicted to his sort of love, and wanted more…

He must have been smiling at the thought, because one of the two wildlings carrying him suddenly took offense, "Give you something to smile about you shit-heel…" Ramsay recoiled to the force of a swift punch to his gut, and was thrown roughly onto a table, where the two made quick work of tying his arms and legs to the legs of said table with rope. Once done one waved a servant over as Ramsay watched on with a confused look etched on his face.

The servant first used a bowl of water and a cloth to gently clean the blood caked upon his face, then she drew a knife and Ramsay flinched, wondering who this servant was that she was going to be stabbing him now… was she perhaps an old fling that he had forgotten about? Maybe one of the few who had managed to escape his hunts, back for revenge? There were so many, it was hard to remember them all…

She moved forward and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sharp sensation of the knife piercing his side or stomach, since that would be the most painful way for him to die from a stabbing and his own personal choice when he knifed people; in fact, he had knifed his father in the gut on the day that he had ascended the Bolton family tree, and watched for hours as the man quietly bled to death.

But he didn't feel the tell-tale sensation of a knife entering his bowels or kidneys; instead, he heard a ripping sound and peeked with one eye to see that the servant woman was cutting his shirt away. He frowned, watching as she methodically went about the task of washing him once more now that the bloody shirt had been removed, scrubbing him over thoroughly.

Then she drew the knife again and cut along the seam of his pants. He smiled, bewildered, "I think you have gotten confused, woman; there is no blood down there, or are you just trying to get a look at my cock?" The woman cast him a single look of mild annoyance and then cut the rest of his garment cleanly apart, leaving him naked on the table, "I would have you know that I could have taken those off to give you a view…"

A sharp cuff to the ear interrupted his witty remarks, and Ramsay glared at the wildling who had hit him, "I was only informing this simpleton servant that those trousers were probably worth more than any of you lot have ever seen, and…" Another slap to the head, this time a little harder. The guard didn't even look irritated; he just had a passively aggressive expression on his face that dared Ramsay to say something else.

So Ramsay stopped talking, instead resorting to his own thoughts to pass the time. Well, his own thoughts were likely to provide more intelligent conversation anyways, he thought, his words and wit were likely wasted on these heathens. So Sansa wanted him naked… he watched, bemused as the servant cleaned his lower half in a way that one might prepare a corpse before burial.

Perhaps that was what the Stark heiress had thought to do; to intimidate him again with the prospect of imminent death. Well, that wouldn't work; he was becoming desensitized to the idea of dying now as he allowed the fact to settle within himself, and frankly was less afraid by the moment as he contemplated the methods that would have to be used to kill him.

Hanging, most like. For whatever reason, most Houses of Westeros were big fans of death by hanging, even considered it somehow more civil than other means of execution, and being that Sansa Stark had few allies and a need to rally the north, she would almost certainly need to hang him to present the best political representation of his death.

That thought niggled at his mind, though; it didn't seem right. He frowned more deeply as he thought about it. This couldn't be an intimidation tactic; Sansa had promised him a long and unhappy life to the extent of telling him that would be made into the image of his own victim Theon Greyjoy, so execution was off the table entirely. He mulled over the thought on how much Sansa must hate him to keep him alive when so many must clamor for his death.

A smile crept over his face at the thought of Sansa being unable to kill him. Likely he had cowed her in ways she herself did not fully understand, and so she could not bring herself to kill him; instead choosing such petty intimidation tactics because she could think of little else with her fear gripping her so. He liked that thought; Ramsay had always enjoyed inspiring fear, it was his greatest joy to do so.

Also if that bitch thought she was going to get anywhere by leaving him naked on a table she was barking up the wrong tree; Ramsay had never been the bashful type and bore no shame in his own nudity. No, she was going about all of this wrong, but she didn't have his experience in these sort of things, or his will.

Silly Sansa; she should know better than to try to be a predator when she was so obviously the prey. Ramsay laid back and made himself as comfortable as he could, at least as comfortable as one could make oneself on a hard wooden table. He glanced over to see that his guard didn't seem to enjoy either his company or his attitude or perhaps both.

He smirked; he didn't much care what the wildling thought, and in fact relished the idea of causing the other man any form of annoyance. After all, the brute had the audacity to strike him in the face; something Ramsay would remember. Should the opportunity to drive something sharp between that guards ribs present itself he would take it, even if it would cause him pain; it would be worth it.

His smirk cost him as the guard slapped him across the face in retaliation for the expression. "Try to remember that you are about to be tortured beyond your ability to endure, shit-bag," said the guard, "I assure you that whatever it is that Lady Sansa has in mind for you, it isn't going to be pleasant." The wildling smiled at his obvious anger in response to the slap.

The guard continued to speculate on what exactly it was she might be considering, "I think maybe some shards of glass shoved under the fingernails might be nice, or perhaps a foot screw." He leaned in to give Ramsay a menacing smile, "It's this great big nail we slowly drill into your foot; very painful." Ramsay didn't need the guard to tell him what a foot screw was; he had used one on Theon not too very long ago.

The wildling guard went on with his litany of awful things she could subject him to, "There is of course flaying; I personally think it would be ironic and fitting for the only remaining lord of the Bolton bloodline to be flayed alive as is your family's sick tradition. There are even more gruesome ways she could end the torture too, you know; have you ever seen an intestinal rack?"

Ramsay paled a little at all of the suggestions made. He had personally seen what these wicked contraptions and techniques did to their victims, as he had used all of them on someone at some point. Of course, at that point, he had never considered them being used on him… Sansa Stark didn't have it in her to use such cruel forms of punishment, did she?

No, he thought. Not Sansa… he still remembered the first time he had laid eyes on her. He had known, even then; she was naïve. A spoiled little princess who went where the wind blew her because she had no strength of her own. He thought of the look she had given him at the kennel, her promise to erase him as a man.

Also unbidden the memory of how she had glowered at him out upon the field surfaced in his thoughts, "You will die tomorrow." That was all she had said, giving him a look so full of certainty. He hadn't recognized her in that moment, but he had assumed it to be the anger the prey usually felt before it gave in to the inevitability of its defeat…

Ramsay frowned. But Sansa had not been defeated, nor her brother. They had won the day and Stark banners now fluttered once more from the archways of the keep. The symbol of the dire wolf now replaced the emblem of the flayed man that his father had his people drape over every entryway and high profile wall throughout the castle grounds and even without.

He tried to push this fact away from his thoughts but it ate at him; both at his sense of pride in the Bolton name which now resided with him, a naked man strapped to a table surrounded by enemies, and in his presumptions of Sansa and her inherent weakness. He had assumed that Theon had somehow grown a pair and whisked her off to safety before, but now he wondered…

Had young Sansa Stark actually convinced Theon; loyal, broken Reek, to betray him against or perhaps despite his training and better judgement? If that had been the case that would mean that Ramsay had grossly underestimated her. He ground his teeth together as he thought on how servile he had made Reek in those final days before they had escaped together.

He had allowed the cowed Theon Greyjoy to shave him in front of his father, taking blade to throat and shaving closely so as to prove to his old man how thoroughly and artfully he had broken the man. That Theon, that Reek, would have never betrayed him of his own accord. So it was Sansa, that cunt, that snake in the grass, only ever pretending to be weak until she was ready to strike.

It enraged and humiliated him to think that perhaps she had been patiently waiting to show him her hand all that time; that she might have feigned that naiveté he had thought he saw in her just to lower his guard against her long game. His expression grew thoughtful… what was her long game? He frowned again; of course, it was to return to her father's land, and feel him out, find out what they were working with…

His heart hammered with surging hatred as he thought of that, that she had only been offering her hand in marriage to the Bolton house in order to avenge her brother's death at the Red Wedding, to see what military forces they commanded so that she might then leave and summon her allies in the Vale, the same ones who had supposedly been vying for favor with his father by arranging the marriage.

Snakes, all of them. Though it still didn't all seem to fit in his mind; like he was assembling a puzzle and the pieces seemed to match but didn't quite align. He was missing something, but he knew he may never realize what it was; such was the nature of the puzzles one found in the greater game of life. For now he felt secure in the knowledge that perhaps he had in fact erred.

As much as he would rather think of her as a weak fool, Ramsay was too rational and level-headed to dismiss the notion that he could have made a critical misjudgment that had led to his current state of affair, strapped nakedly to a hard table and awaiting unknown tortures as he was. So if Sansa was in fact some sort of master infiltrator and strategist, why did she have him on that table naked and cleaned?

He didn't know where to go with that, his mind drawing a frustrating blank as he tried in vain to summon an impression of what she was doing. Nothing. He must have fidgeted both with his discomfort of body and unease of mind, because his closest guard noticed and once more made comment, "Looks like you might finally be getting smarter…"

The guard flashed him a malicious smile, "…mayhap you're thinking about all the things that might be happening to you, soon. I bet the only reason she's taking so long is that she's going to council on what to do to you, and there are too many options given. I for one hope she elects for them all…" The guard kept smiling, seeming to take genuine pleasure in seeing Ramsay's dismay at his suggestion.

Ramsay turned his gaze away from the annoying smile on the guard's ugly face. Yes, he would certainly be killing that man at some point in the future. Nonetheless the guard's words got to him, despite his best attempts at convincing himself that they were the ramblings of a moron, he could not deny the possibility that lay in what the other man said.

Silence stood between them for a long time after that, as Ramsay pointedly ignored his guard, not even looking at his antagonist so as not to give them fuel for further irritating jests or jibes. Instead he relaxed or at least attempted to relax himself, doing and saying nothing and keeping his face as perfectly impassive as possible, a skill he was actually quite versed in.

Then she walked in and Ramsay felt his heart flutter at the sight of her despite himself. He worked expertly to keep his feeling from his face as he regarded her with his most cool expression, the one he usually had reserved for his father. That man had often caused him to feel things he did not want to feel, and he had needed to try equally as often to hide those unwanted emotions.

Sansa herself also was wearing a mask of cool regard, looking Ramsay over indifferently as she entered before turning to the guard, "Did he give you any further trouble?"

The guard shook his head, "No, ma'am; I think a few blows to the head and gut learned him better since we were in the yard."

Ramsay couldn't help but frown at the guard's bragging. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to remind all present whom they were dealing with, "My grandmother used to hit me harder… I chose to stay because I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see if Sansa has learned anything at all from the time she stayed with me."

Sansa only returned his comment with a stare at first, leaving Ramsay guessing as to how she would react to his reference to all the awful things he had subjected her to, rape not the least among them. Finally she replied, "Guard, I think I would like to speak to Ramsay alone; please leave us until I call out for you."

The wildling guard clearly did not approve, frowning at Sansa as he replied, "But he is a killer and a coward; I do not think being alone with him is best…"

Sansa gestured to the restraints holding him to the table, "He isn't going anywhere. Tied spread eagle upon that wooden table I do not think he offers threat to my person. I will be careful; thank you."

The tone and manner that she stated thank you made it clear to the wildling that she had made up her mind and that he would not be convincing her to maintain an escort, so he simply nodded, moving out of the room through the single door that they entered it from, which served as the only entrance and exit barring the two windows.

Ramsay assumed he likely took up position just on the other side of that door, ready to enter should he hear anything suspect or if Sansa called for him. The door closed and Sansa walked up beside him, taking a long moment to look over the length of him, top to bottom. Ramsay gave her a crooked smile dripping with sarcasm, "I get that from a lot of women… so am I tied up like this so you can have a look?"

Sansa didn't reply, still just looking him over as she walked around the table slowly, as if to take her time in doing so. She still wore that look of indifference though now it was possible that amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth. Of course, it was also possible that was what she wanted him to think, since it was now very clear to Ramsay that he wasn't the only one playing mind games.

When she did speak he felt a shiver run down his spine after all the anticipation; if this situation had been on slightly different terms Ramsay might have really enjoyed it, but as matters were he disliked it greatly, resenting that she wasn't nearly as interesting before when he had her in his custody… "They say that the best punishments fit the crime, but we have a problem in that…"

Ramsay looked over to her new position over his shoulder, doing his best to regulate his breathing evenly and keep a neutral expression on his face, as if he could care less for what she had to say but listened instead out of boredom, "…is that you have committed so many murders and other awful crimes that killing you for one of the ones that led to fatality…"

She put her hands on his shoulders casually and Ramsay fought the urge to jump at the sudden unexpected touch. She only rested her hands there, not throttling him or even gripping him uncomfortably. Ramsay would have thought that she would be loath to touch him, so the fact that she did so in such a nonchalant manner left him feeling ill at ease about her state of mind.

She left her hands there, speaking down to him as if he were an old friend than was being taken into confidence instead of a mortal enemy who was soon to be tortured, "…would most assuredly not be in any way fair. You deserve to die a thousand times over and therefore do not deserve the mercy of death but instead a life of suffering in which you are made an example to those who might think to be like you."

She leaned down to whisper to him almost conspiratorially, despite the fact that they were in the room alone and that even if they weren't, none would care what Sansa said to the Bastard of Bolton, "I don't actually know what it was that you did to Theon that would make the man into being someone he wasn't, and I am fairly certain you aren't going to share your techniques with me…"

He could detect the slightest hint of a smile in her voice, "But that is fine, as I do not at all mind a lengthy process in learning how best to hurt you, as it will only give me option to be imaginative as well, perhaps coming up with some things even you would not have dreamed up. That would be great, I think, to best you in the art of suffering with my own brand of righteous punishment."

Ramsay snorted, "So you are righteous, then? You're a backstabbing slut and a lesser snake in a roomful of snakes… the person I should really worry about is probably Petyr, since he was obviously the brains behind your ploys. I should enjoy seeing you making a fool of yourself trying to do what I do best; please understand that no matter how nicely you ask I won't be giving you any pointers…"

Sansa did not seem at all angry concerning his scathing remarks, which Ramsay found somewhat troubling and annoying; after all, that had been some good insulting. She took her hands from him and walked across the room, fetching a large oaken chair and dragging it across the floor so that it faced the area of the table where his head rested.

Once the chair was placed firmly, Sansa moved around it and sat down, regarding him with an expression that was still unruffled. Well, he thought, it was probably easy to feel on top and unfazed when the person insulting you was strapped nakedly to a table. He had to wonder now if perhaps that was the reason she had him put up like this…

Sansa's face was still a head and a half over his despite sitting, as the table was not particularly tall. Not that it would have mattered; Sansa stood a head taller than Ramsay normally, so he was used to her being taller than him. He had to wonder what Ned Stark had been feeding his children that they all ended up being so big.

Of course, Ramsay always asked himself this and things like this when someone was taller than him. A casual observer might say that Ramsay was detracting from the fact that he himself was simply a short, small man, but none ever had, as doing so would have likely led to the observer, casual or not, having his eyes painfully removed with a spoon.

She spoke after the awkward silence had extended past the point of manageable tolerance, "Poor Ramsay Snow… Jon must have rattled your brain; you of all people should realize that not only am I going to make you tell me whatever I want, the process of getting you to do so will certainly have you weeping with grief and begging for death."

She watched him intently, apparently waiting to see if he had another witty comment about her inadequacies to throw in reply to her very direct statement. It was a challenge, Ramsay knew, and whatever front he might put up in front of her now, he was not so foolish as to think himself so different from the hundreds of souls he had broken; eventually she would get what she wanted…

Which left the problem in facing her challenge in the way she was essentially daring him to do; not only would it be an even greater loss of face once he did finally succumb, such open defiance would almost certainly lead to a great deal of suffering at an accelerated rate. For now, Ramsay had no choices about what was happening to him but in this, so the only wise choice…

Instead he chose another track, refusing to be cooperative, as that would be a defeat in and of itself, but resisting in a more passive fashion than his former blustering, which could only serve to make future escape attempts more difficult, "Oh I'm sure you can get a man screaming; like I told you before, I'm a part of you now, and I'm almost anxious to see how much of me is in you…"

Sansa stared at him as a slow smile spread from cheek to cheek. Ramsay could not say he much cared for that sort of sinister smile, and he found it ironic really to be faced with such after mentioning his own sadism 'rubbing off' on her. He had already misjudged her once… was it possible that Sansa had already been a cruel person not unlike him before all of this?

"My dear husband…" she started. Ramsay had almost forgotten they were still married by Westeros law. Funny that he would forget, he thought, not so long ago he himself had mentioned to Jon before field of battle that he so looked forward to having his wife back in their bedchamber. He supposed Sansa might have arranged this scenario for that very reason.

He certainly didn't entertain the idea of returning here with her as a positive activity anymore, and was given yet further reason to view Sansa with new eyes; she certainly wasn't the girl he had thought her to be. After taking a moment to run a finger along his arm and over his shoulder, Sansa continued, "…If I were you I would worry less about you being in me, and more of me being in you…"

Ramsay blinked; that response was a stretch from any reply he might have expected her to give him. What did she mean by that? Sansa seemed to enjoy the look of confusion she had evoked both from her statement and from the suddenly sensual way in which her hand continued to caress him. She ran her finger along the inside and outside of his thighs, along his abdomen and over his chest, tracing his shape as a lover might.

Ramsay raised an eyebrow; she didn't actually want to fuck him, did she? He had only been joking and attempting spiteful play on the situation when he had made such insinuating remarks about her wanting to see him naked before; never would he have imagined that she would actually desire to lie with him as husband and wife after everything he had done to her and her brother…

Maybe he was just that intoxicating? Ramsay's lifted eyebrows and slight frown might as well as said 'Why not?' He wasn't a particularly endowed man, and while he was certainly athletic, he didn't boast the bulging muscles of a Westeros hero, but he did pride himself on being exceedingly handsome; in fact, he often posed in front of a mirror hours at a time just to admire himself.

And let's not forget his endearing personality; most people were rightfully afraid of him, but those few like him, like Myranda, and perhaps even like Sansa were drawn to him like a moth to flame. After all, he had the sort of powerful personality that any right-minded woman who was willing to take a risk or two wouldn't be able to resist.

He smiled at her as she kept smiling down at him. She must have gone through all of that trouble to stage her revenge against his father, only to have him kill her nemesis and take his place, all while she fell in love with him even as she pretended to be revolted by his actions, like the proper princess she was faking that she was.

Ramsay's smile widened a little further as he sat up as much as his bindings would allow, "Well then… if I had known you were actually enjoying it when I was taking you back then, maybe all the rest of this would have been unnecessary…" She placed a hand on his chest and shoved him down; she wasn't pushing anywhere near as hard as she probably could, but her leverage made him hit the table fairly hard.

Ramsay did his best to take deep breaths, feeling winded from the sudden unexpected shove. Sansa was still smiling despite the unexpected violence, "Oh you've still got this all wrong. The longer it takes for you to figure out what I have planned, the more enjoyable I find it to be. But make no mistake; your wretched little cock will never again pierce my womb."

The look of confusion reappeared on Ramsay's winded face as the feeling of breathlessness finally faded. He tried to think of what she might mean but he came up with nothing. Was this all some sort of odd game; a tease of sorts? He remembered that he had invited several whores to get Theon excited before he had cut off the man's dick…

Thinking this in conjunction with her comment about never penetrating her again caused his face to pale as he considered she might be contemplating having him castrated. Sansa for her part laughed at his loss of control over his countenance, and he struggled to regain a neutral face. Sansa didn't know about him castrating Theon, did she? Well, he supposed it might have gotten around…

Ramsay failed horribly at trying to return to his poker face; the thought of losing his manhood was just too much of a threat to dismiss or hide from. Would she be having his own hounds eat it? He wondered. After all, he had threatened the possibility of that same exact fate to those who had assembled to meet him under banner of parlay out on the field before the battle…

If she did it that way, would she just allow a hound at his nuts, then; perhaps hold the mongrel by a leash and give it only just enough slack to reach his groin as he was bound spread upon the ground? He might have done something like that… and until recently he might have though Sansa the milder sort of person, maybe thought she would just have him clipped with a knife.

After that he might have imagined that she would then feed his genitalia to his hounds, perhaps even go so far as to make him watch, but nothing more depraved than that. Only now would he think her to be truly capable of the afore thought act, brutal and vicious in the style that Ramsay had become accustomed to in his own forays into his darker side.

But, he thought, if she planned on keeping him alive the first option would be risky, as the chance that the hound would wound him irreparably so that he ended up bleeding out on the ground would be quite high. In his own case that wouldn't have mattered since he never promised his victims that they would be surviving the ordeal. Well, unless he felt like lying…

Getting one of his plaything's hopes up that they might actually live through what he did to them was a taunt that Ramsay had often enjoyed. In this scenario he realized he had several times now assumed that she would spare him because she had told him he would not die. Was this just one more thing that he was being proven wrong on?

As all of these thoughts raced through Ramsay's head, his tormentor simply sat in her chair across from him, watching the dilemma of his mind play out on his face and Ramsay had to work very hard to bulwark himself against letting her read his face like an open book. Apparently she saw enough, though, as a slight smile creased her lips as she watched him.

Seeming no longer able to hold her actual intention back from him, even if only because she was eager to see his reaction to it, Sansa called a servant into the room from the hall outside. A young woman appeared, already carrying something in her arms and so apparently already versed in what Sansa would be needing from her. Ramsay strained to see but could not get a good look at it from where he was.

He heard a few telltale sounds though that gave him hints of what the strange object might be; a soft clinking sound like metal on metal and a leathery scraping sound from leather moving over leather. A harness of some kind? Ramsay had used many types of harnesses in his own craft; there were all sorts of restraints that made torture easier on the torturer…

However Ramsay was already bound… did she intend to unbind him simply to move him to a better position for certain painful activities? Perhaps they planned to bind him up to the bedposts to be whipped, though it was rather unprofessional to do such dirty work in one's own bedroom; a good whipping could lead to blood on her fine linen sheets.

This could mean that Sansa was being amateurish in her choices of course, or it could mean she was a real freak who wanted to sleep in a bed anointed with his blood… either way it was still going to be an experience Ramsay would rather avoid. He decided he would stay cooperative until they loosened his bounds to relocate him, then he would make another escape attempt.

He braced himself for it; he would have to make this one count… either he met upon the thin chance that he could at least escape this room, or he died trying to do so or out in the hall beyond. If he could, he would attempt to kill Sansa and or the guard outside, depending on how things played out. Sansa never called the guard inside to remove his bindings, though…

Instead he heard her still playing with the apparatus, and he glanced over, curious what she was up to… would she be trying to undo his restraints herself? If she did, then that would greatly increase his odds of escape from this particular… Ramsay's thought froze in his mind as his eyes widened in eventual realization of exactly what it was that Sansa was doing.

She was strapping the harness to herself, which comprised of leather straps that looped around her thighs and waist, securing a ring that rested over the front of her hips. Once she had tightened the straps so that the ring was tightly held against her, she adjusted the object that was attached to that ring until it was comfortable; a huge phallic item shaped like a massive cock.

She noticed that he had seen the strap-on, and smiled down at the open disgust and surprise in his face as it became clear to him at last what she had planned for him all along, "While you were unconscious I had a lot of time to think on what exactly I would like to see done to you. After giving it much careful thought and having a long discussion with a skilled smith, I decided the first thing that I must do before all else."

She moved close, Ramsay's face moving away from her fake metal member as it nearly touched his cheek, "You need to have done to you what you have done to others; I am going to rape you. I'm going to shove this huge metal cock into your asshole and pump you with it until you cry for me to stop, and then I will probably fuck you some more…"

Ramsay's expression was one of horror; there was no longer any point to pretenses… if Sansa planned to go through with her stated objective he would lose more than his life. He tugged hard at his restraints, stopping as he felt the roped chafe his wrists painfully, "Let's be reasonable, Sansa; we both know that if you do that you would be lowering yourself down to my level…"

Sansa merely raised an eyebrow at his statement, and though it felt ridiculous to speak about himself in such a manner, Ramsay didn't know what else to say to try to avert such a grisly fate, and evade it he must, no matter what he had to say… "You're a Stark, and next in line to become Warden of the North, no less! What would the others say if they realized what you are up to?"

Ramsay grimaced as she moved forward, placing the metal cock on his cheek. He had already moved his head as much as his restraints would allow, so he could do nothing to stop her from the blatant action. She continued to smile down at him as he squirmed in discomfort, "That would be your only hope, wouldn't it? That I would be so worried about the opinions of those that refused to aid us in taking you down that I would fail to punish you as you deserve."

Ramsay felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt blood rush to his face, could feel heat on his skin where she placed the contraption she had made for him. How dare she?! She wasn't going to stop, he realized, and he was probably only giving her what she wanted by trying to squirm free of what she was doing, but how could he not try?

Even now she toyed with him, and despite his considerable self-control, Ramsay could not keep his rage and humiliation at the situation from bursting free in his voice, "You fucking cunt! You so much as touch me with that thing any further and I will make being torn asunder by my hounds seem like a summer dream to you!"

Sansa smirked at him as she moved the cock along his face, bumping over his chin, gliding along the nape of his neck and then trailing past his shoulder before the vile contact at last ended as she moved to the foot of the table. He knew that wasn't where she planned to stop though; whatever misgivings he might have had about her personality before, he was coming to realize that she didn't make threats she didn't intend to follow through on.

Sansa ran her hands along the insides of his thighs again, just as before only this time there was far more sinister meaning to the apparent display of affection. No, it wasn't affection; it was ownership. She was caressing him the way he had caressed and fondled so many of his own victims. Her hands declared with their possessive grasping that she could do anything she wanted to him.

She turned her head and shouted for the guardsman on the other side of the door. The burly wildling was through the door in less than a moment, "You called?"

Sansa nodded, casually pointing at Ramsay and ignoring the wide-eyed stare the guard gave her strapped-on cock, "I would like you to untie him and put him on the bed, tied to the bedposts."

The wildling guard smiled knowingly at the situation, moving around to Ramsay's head and untying his hands as he leaned down and whispered into Ramsay's ear, "Not at all a suggestion of council I'm sure, but if anyone should be her pussy I would think it should be you…"

Ramsay glanced up at him with an unreadable face, looking forward in a docile fashion as the guard tied his hands together and then moved to untie his feet.

As soon as his feet were freed from the bonds, Ramsay brought a foot up hard, trying to kick the guardsman in the face. If there ever was a time to avoid the awful fate of being sodomized by Sansa Stark, that time was now, but he was going to have to be quick and vicious. He would have to strike so fast that it caught the wildling by surprise…

Except that the guard was not surprised. After all, he had every reason to believe that if Ramsay was ever going to fight back, it would be just before not doing so would lead him to a state of the most ultimate of humiliations. So it was that the wildling did not at all buy into his carefully staged act of complacence, never mind the fact that it was uncharacteristic of Ramsay anyways.

Ramsay tilted onto his back as the momentum of his failed kicked rocked him backwards on the table as the guard casually batted his strike to the side, allowing Ramsay's own attack to rock him off-balance. The wildling surprised him then with his choice of retaliation; Ramsay prepared himself for a powerful punch to the gut or nose but that never came.

Instead of breaking his nose with a straight to the face or winding him yet again with a hook to the gut, the guard simply slapped him full across his cheek, driving his head to the side under the stinging impact of his flattened hand. Ramsay reeled from the sharp retaliation as the guard explained to Sansa, "Don't worry, ma'am; I won't do any permanent harm to your whore here."

Sansa replied immediately, catching on and enjoying the game the guard started right off, "I do thank you; I want him to remain pretty for my pleasures… since he is so small and weak despite being a man, I'm sure we can all avoid hurting him too sorely when he steps out of line and needs to be put back into his place."

Ramsay scowled bitterly, glaring hatefully at the guard as the other man chatted so flippantly with Sansa, simply resting a large hand on Ramsay, as if to let him know how easy subduing him would be if he tried escape once more. He felt a swatch of burning pain on the side of his face and was glad that the only mirror in the room did not face him.

If it did, he was almost certain that he would see a meaty red handprint across his noble face, so not seeing it was better if only to avoid that possibility. He glared at the man, gnashing his teeth as he spat out, "For you I will save some of my best work; you will die slowly and mourn living, but if I can help it you will live forever so…"

The wilding smiled, baring his teeth at Ramsay, "You know, as a reputed torturer and all, I would have figured that you would know that a man who feels the need to make threats is a man who isn't prepared or able to back them. Save your sweet talk for your mistress behind me; I'm sure she plans on helping you clean up all of that sass."

"Speaking of which," piped up Sansa from behind the wildling guardsman, "I am eager to begin my ministrations of justice both personal and on the behalf of others if you would be so kind as to elevate him to his required place." The guard glanced back and Sansa and nodded, grabbing Ramsay and hauling the other man to his feet in one swift, powerful motion.

Ramsay laughed as mockingly as he could muster, "As if you were doing so; those lords and ladies of the other courts will never have you lead them when they find out what you're getting on to in here… you'll be the laughing stock of every House, spoken of only when someone has a bit of wine and decides to select a person of ill repute of which to gossip!"

The wildling pushed Ramsay until he stood at the foot of the bed and then he placed one leg behind Ramsay's and shoved him hard from the torso down so that Ramsay's upper body slammed into the mattress of the bed. He could hear the guard's voice, imagine that he was nodding toward the table behind them, "Please hand me those ropes, ma'am."

Ramsay had been about to say something else to elaborate on his point that Sansa was going nowhere in life do to her awful, foolish mistake here, but being forced onto the bed so suddenly and unceremoniously had driven the words from him. Instead he growled at the treatment, clenching his teeth worriedly as he heard the guard's words.

The wildling guard took his time securing Ramsay, often having one hand at his back and sometimes leaning his weight down on the other man as if to remind Ramsay that he could pin him under his superior weight at the slightest hint of resistance. He looped the rope first around each leg, tying both separately to one of the two bedposts at the foot of the bed.

Once this was done, the guard moved around and took Ramsay's hands in his own, untying them only to retie each hand separately to the two posts at the head of the bed. So it was that Ramsay was tied spread eagle again after a fashion, only this time he was on his stomach, which rested on the mattress of the bed as his legs and feet hung down from it just enough for his feet to touch the floor.

But that was only because the bed was so high off of the floor, thought Ramsay; the Starks had originally built that particular piece of furniture, and they were of course all freakishly tall, perhaps with exception to Jon Snow, who was shorter than most of them. Perhaps whatever whore had been his mother had been a person of more normal height, he pondered.

Ramsay was only allowing his mind to wander like this because he did not want to focus on what was happening here, but even so he was still failing at it. Also, Sansa did not seem interested in doing this quietly, pulling his thoughts to the situation he was in with her words, "Are you comfortable, Ramsay? After all, I want you to be able to concentrate on me fucking you…"

The guardsman laughed; a throaty, menacing chuckle, "You have far bigger things to worry about than what's going to be said by those boring, soft nobles of your southern courts, shit-stain. For instance, there is that great big cock she's intent in placing up what is soon to become her own personal lady-hole…"

Sansa grimaced at the wildling's choice of words, but she understood that he was just saying what he could to make Ramsay uncomfortable, which was the goal, so she didn't say anything against the crude statements; after all, she did start it by being so very open with her intentions for Ramsay, "If you don't mind, I'd like to handle this part alone."

The wildling nodded, "Of course…" though he was obviously disappointed; he had very much wanted to watch her cause him such a deep level of humiliation firsthand, but seeming to content himself with the notion that he would at least know it was being done and perhaps even hear it was good enough for the time being, and he set off to stand outside again.

Once they were again alone in the room, Sansa turned back to look at Ramsay, who peered back at her as best he could over his own shoulder. She loved that he strained just to see her face; it showed how worried he was becoming over her intentions concerning what happened next between the two of them in that room.

His brow was creased with the anxiety his voice struggled so hard to hide as he craned to look at her. Sansa moved closer behind him, both as a threat and to make it even harder for him to see what she was doing, which only predictably increased his worry, "He is right; you had best save your energy for what I plan for you..."

She ran a hand along his leg and he shuddered to the touch of it. She smiled; she had felt the way he felt now while under his ministrations, not so long ago… she had reacted much the same way to what was happening, the bad touch. "I'm not the girl you thought me to be and I assure you that you have bigger problems than concerning yourself with what happens to me."

She brushed a finger lightly over his skin at the small of his back, tracing that finger along his spine with the barest of touches until it reached his neck. His skin practically rippled under her touch; he was getting goosebumps from her efforts, recoiling but also unable to go anywhere, unable to stop what was happening to him, just as she had been unable to stop what happened to her.

"No, you need to focus on what's happening to you; if only because I want you to feel everything that I do to you fully… I will certainly make you do so, one way or the other…" Ramsay still didn't reply. She could see the side of his face from her position as he laid his head upon the mattress of the bed; his jaw was working. He had things to say, but he was holding back.

He knows where such things lead, she thought. He had raped her many times and done many other unspeakable acts at her expense; he had the privilege of knowing from having watched many victims break under his steady hand to know exactly what the future held for him, exactly how many options he hoped to entertain.

Whatever options I give him, Sansa thought with a smile. Like Ramsay's options, none of them would be good ones, something that Ramsay once again held advantage of knowing first hand. So the trick to their little game, to punishing him in the most thorough way possible, was going to be in the details; surprising the unflappable torturer.

He might know many tricks that he had picked up over the years in how to cause a person suffering and dread, but Sansa knew from her time with him that he still wasn't as subtle and imaginative as she could be; she would continually shock him with her choices, use what she knew of him to keep him guessing. She could tell that he was unhinged already, and she liked it.

She stepped closer now, doing everything slowly so as to give Ramsay time to accumulate a sufficient level of dread about what she did next. Sure enough, she could see in the muscles of his naked thighs and legs, his abdomen and even his clenching ass that he was already imagining her pushing herself into him with her prosthetic cock.

"You're being so very quiet, Ramsay. I had thought that you would have so much to say to me now that we have finally returned to our marriage bed… I'm sure that if things had gone your way you would have spent long moments gloating over your victory before you attempted to rape me yet again. But here we are… since you are acting sufficiently cowed I suppose we may as well start…"

Her goading worked despite being so obvious a trick in getting him to speak when he would rather endure his torture quietly, if only because Ramsay could not allow a statement of him being cowed to be met with the seeming assent of silence, which of course they both knew, making Sansa's words that much more of a bur in his side.

All attempts at pretending to be in control had long since fallen to the side, and despite the fact that he was giving in to emotion and in that way allowing her to control him, Ramsay could no longer push down the swell of burgeoning rage that pulled at him so hard that it made his stomach knot and churn under its tidal pull.

"Just know you serpent harlot that I will be annulling our marriage and murdering you in the future, but if you put that thing in me I swear I will make every waking moment of your life until I do nothing but a litany of regret for this moment so strong that it defines your very existence!" He frothed at the mouth his rage was so great.

Sansa only smiled down at him patronizingly, knowing that he could not miss how pathetic such threats were as they were being shouted over his naked shoulder as he lay there, tied to the bed under her, "That was very poetic, Ramsay. Also more than a little ironic, as I do intend to do something very similar to you."

Sansa leaned down, putting her head close to his in an almost intimate way as she whispered directly into his ear, as if to express with the maneuver how helpless he was to take his rage to any physical level against her, "…I will of course make you forever regret every single thing you have done to me a thousand-fold, and will remember those pretty words as a guideline for doing so."

Ramey's whole body clenched as he struggled hard against the ropes holding him in place, but seeing that doing that only caused him more rope burns and chaffing, he stopped, panting with both the expended, futile effort and with his equally futile anger. He wanted to say 'We shall see', but he knew that would lead to her showing him what there was to see…

No matter how angry he might be over the awful sting to his pride all of this represented, deep down Ramsay was pragmatic, and knew that he was only raging in the first place to buy time away from her doing what she had announced she would do, even though he also knew that there was nothing that was going to happen to change that.

Thinking on that particular fact stung him and struck a blow to his rage, smothering it down to an ember of what he had stoked it up to be; no one was going to be coming for him, so what was the point of delaying the inevitable? Sansa was obviously enjoying his display, perhaps even craved it, and this distraction only made the experience better for her and her alone.

He realized he had gone quiet again and looked back to see that infuriating smile on Sansa's face; he knew without doubt that she must have openly seen the anger he was feeling so obviously quenched by the rising tide of his despair. His entire body flushed with heat, and he turned his head away from her. Ramsay did not know what this alien feeling was…

Ramsay didn't know what caused his skin to prickle, or what made his stomach tighten in such an unhappy way, but Sansa did; he was feeling shame. Ramsay was perhaps finally realizing how fucked he was, she thought, or perhaps it had just taken this long to finally punch through the shell of his massive ego.

Either way, she drank it in deeply, a first in what she would ensure to be a long and uncomfortable series of unhappy discoveries. Feeling that it was time to expound on what he was feeling, she jammed the head of her phallus against his ass-hole, causing Ramsay's head to whip up, his eyes wide as he made a strangled, surprised sound.

Ramsay's entire body locked up rigidly then, stiffening in response to the sudden invasion of the entrance to his forbidden place. Sansa took hold of Ramsay's hips with both hands and rammed at him, shoving the fake cock deeper into his anus. Ramsay let loose a choked cry and she smiled at what he must be feeling.

From the way Ramsay squirmed on her artificial member after she pushed it further inside, he must have just become aware of the fact that all of his reactionary shifting and tensing was in vain; he was at her mercy and no physical effort on his part was going to push her out or even keep her from pushing further in.

Sansa paused there like that for a few long moments, the head of her dildo having penetrated him but going no further, only hesitating so as to give him more time to squirm and anticipate what came next, "Are you ready for me to take your virginity, Ramsay? You took mine, so I think it only fair that I take yours…"

Ramsay's chest swelled with his heavy breathing as he let go of a held breath and did his best to steady himself in a situation where there could be no center of calm for him. He glared back at her, pouring all of his hatred into that glance, as if the look itself might be given the power to slay her for the brazen act she committed and the venomous words she dared speak.

As if to answer his bold declaration of enmity… no, thought Sansa, definitely as an answer to his futile animosity, she pushed again, enjoying how the physical act caused the hatred to slip from his face to be replaced with emotions she much more enjoyed seeing him enthralled to; shock, discomfort, anguish and despair.

She rammed at him a few more times, Ramsay turning his face away from her, apparently realizing too late that he would be unable to put on a brave face while she was plowing him with her crafted cock. Each time the phallus went a little deeper into his backside, until she could feel the flesh of her thighs press against the heated skin of his ass.

"I'm all the way in. How does that feel, Ramsay?" She had paused again, only shifting around by the smallest of degrees to continuously remind him that what he was feeling was in fact a fully engorged cock in his ass. She could only imagine the distress he must feel at the games she played with him while taking her pleasures from it.

Ramsay gasped out something too low to be heard; most likely a curse muttered under his breath. He was staring straight ahead now, his eyes distant as he turned all of his mental efforts to being somewhere else, because Ramsay simply could not allow that what was happening in that room to him was actually happening.

Sansa wasn't going to allow him to do that, though. Instead she laid over him as she reached down and grabbed ahold of his hair, pulling his head roughly back as the fingers of her other hand bit deeply into his thigh as she pulled the cock all of the way out and then thrust it right back in, all the way to the hilt once more.

Ramsay gasped, his eyes widening again as it became clear that she was making it impossible for him to be anywhere but where he was, feel anything less than what he felt in that moment. Sansa gave him a smug grin as she continued her motion of pumping him with the full length of her phallus, "Isn't this everything you imagined it would be?"

Ramsay replied with anger and hostility again because that was all he had left; it was clear to him now that she was going to be able to interrupt his best efforts at pretending he wasn't being molested in such a fashion, so the only place he had recourse to return to was his deep and seething hatred towards her for what she was doing.

He didn't dare challenge her now, so he remained silent, but he had to keep the fire in himself stoked; he had to stay mad or give in to despair. At the very moment that he let that happen, he will have lost the unspoken contest between them and she will have begun the progress of breaking what was left of his will.

But anger and rage did not under any circumstance last indefinitely. As the slow progress of time wore on, and she continued pumping into him in that most humiliating gesture of dominance that act itself could only provide him so much heated indignation of the sort that would allow him to grit his teeth and take it quietly.

After that point, he will have burned himself out of anger, and then all would remain would be the emotion that had to be present in the background of such a display; anguish. He knew he would fight against the overwhelming despair for a long time as well, as did most of his victims when he had played the part of torturer before.

But in each case without fail, that anguish, that despair, it had finally begun to wear a hole in the ego of the tortured, until self-pity replaced resistance and a desire for release from misery replaced pride. The mere fact that he knew this would be the case was making it that much harder for Ramsay to hold himself together; the fact that he knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

He couldn't help but wonder how many of those he had hurt had managed to come to the conclusion he just came to themselves before he had broken their spirit. Is this what all of those women he had taken pleasure from had felt on the nights that he had pulled his own sort of joy from the wails of sorrow they made when he fucked them?

Sansa was getting into what she was doing to him now, thrusting harder into him, so hard that it caused Ramsay to rock back and forth upon the bed, the loud knocking of the bed's wooden frame slamming against the far wall filling the room. Ramsay was reminded by the noise that there were people listening outside.

Did they hear the sound of the bed's movements, or the sound of Ramsay's anguished grunts of discomfort and seething rage? He tried to be quieter, but simply having to only made him angrier in the moment; if he had been more lucid he might have realized that the reason for this was because the idea of others knowing made him even more humiliated.

Ramsay's flesh was heated red with embarrassment over the idea that news of what she did to him might be spreading beyond the room, perhaps even to everyone of import who mattered and those who did not, lords and servants all. Sansa's skin felt hot for a different reason; she was really exerting herself now, sweat beading on her skin as she fucked him.

He glanced back and immediately wished that he had not. Seeing what she was doing to him was far worse even than simply knowing it was happening. The image of her pulling him up onto her dildo as she fucked him doggy style into the bed was its own class of humiliation, and Ramsay had about all he could take; he screamed out his rage, his fury.

Of course, once he had raged and screamed, bucking against his restraints with the force of his unbound fury for minutes that felt like a lifetime of bitterness and resentment, his throat raw and his voice hoarse from the power of his yelling, he was left with nothing else to throw out. Now that he was spent in that department he could only lie in his restraints.

He did so almost quietly, the majority of the sound in the room was of the woman behind him, as her hips made a wet slapping sound as she soundly fucked him. All the rage burnt out of his body, leaving him hollow so that the only remaining emotions he could be expected to feel seeped in to take over as expected.

His bottom lip quivered as he was forced to simply take what she was still dishing out without even being able to summon the energy necessary to rage, to scream, to froth at her for her actions, as wave after wave of humiliating thoughts crushed him under their iron soles. What she was doing, who would know of it, the fact that it would never stop until she decided to stop.

An unlikely thing to happen anytime soon; she was out to break him and if he had learned anything at all recently about Sansa, the real Sansa, not the Sansa he had thought to be meek and powerless, she wasn't going to stop until she reached that goal. All his years as a torturer now worked against him; how much harder it was to face this knowing the end result…

Instead he found himself whimpering, pathetically as any of the many persons that he himself tortured and then had mentally and sometimes verbally mocked for such a display of weakness. He had thought on those days that he himself was somehow immune to such a state, as if being the one administering the pain made him invulnerable to it.

Deep down he had known that he was as frail as any person, and if he had understood himself better or had a proclivity towards wisdom Ramsay might have known that a large part of the reason that he himself had ever gained joy from putting himself in such a state of dominance was because until that servant named Reek had come along…

He had been called Reek, because no matter whether or not he bathed he smelled of decay, perhaps a curse from the gods for his strange attraction to the dead and the perversions he committed upon them. His father Roose had sent Reek to Ramsay and his mother because he couldn't be bothered to involve himself any further than that, and everyone at the Bolton estate hated Reek.

Reek was what he had named Theon Greyjoy after having broken that man, because secretly he had needed another Reek. Theon's betrayal of him cut more deeply than he would have ever admitted due to that attachment alone: Ramsay needed a Reek. Because Reek had told him what a noble lord he was, even when he was still just the bastard son of a Miller's wife.

That was what Reek did to everyone, of course; he told them how amazing they were and raised them on pedestals, because Reek himself had such low esteem for his own worth that he was for some reason driven to have others see him in the same lowly light. Ramsay was a boy when they met, though, and before Reek had arrived…

Ramsay remembered it now; he was lonely… and a bastard. No one wanted him so he acted out constantly, becoming a problem child for his mother and everyone else around him. This of course only caused his mother to resent him even more than she already did for being the progeny of the man who raped her and murdered her husband.

This cycle continued for some time unabated, Ramsay continually finding crueler ways to try to feed the emptiness inside of him that had threatened to consume him, and then Reek had arrived. Reek of course lavished praise upon Ramsay as the lord he could be, and Ramsay drank all of the flattery, all of the adulation as if it were water and he a boy dying of thirst.

Reek told Ramsay he could be anything and do anything he liked, because he was better than all others, and Ramsay treated Reek like the lowly filth that he was. Ramsay remembered the day Reek died; he was executed for crimes that Ramsay had committed; Ramsay had fallen to gross murder and rape with Reek as his only mentor, and when it came time to pay for those crimes, Reek was also his only ally.

It had felt perfectly natural to let Reek take the fall for the awful things he had done to those people, and at the time, Ramsay had felt no remorse whatsoever for pointing a finger at Reek and letting them have him, only relief in the fact that he himself had not been implicated for the crimes and strung up to hang as a murderer and rapist.

But later, when the absence of that servant had begun to set in, when he was no longer complimented incessantly by the cowering servant who was always smelled and seen, and Ramsay had no one left who would speak to him but his overbearing father who seemed to consider him a nuisance at best and his mother, who avoided him as if he were the plague.

Then he realized in his heart of hearts how truly alone he was. He had sought companionship in the daughter of the Kennel Master, and for a while Myranda had amused him, distracted him from that hole that once again gnawed at his core. She even went on hunts with him, much as Reek had once done, but it was never the same.

And then she had died. He had of course assumed that Theon had killed her, but now, under the light of the many different revelations he had come to concerning the true nature of Sansa Stark, it was entirely possible that she had murdered her as well. Perhaps even killed her on her way out of the keep specifically to spite Ramsay. He cried out mournfully at the thought.

Sansa of course caught the outcry, hearing the note of sadness and indignation to this particular sound, "Are you finally starting to learn your place here, Ramsay?" She rocked into him a few more times, adding insult to injury. Ramsay's face reddened with hatred for Sansa despite all of the rest as he clung to the memory of Myranda.

"I've known my place all along you swine; if you think that mounting me with erase what I've done to you then you are wrong. What I did was special, and you will never remove it from yourself no matter what you do…" Ramsay wore a forced grin that spoke of his open malice, letting her see that he was yet ready to spit in her face, that she had not broken him yet.

Sansa lost her smile, and Ramsay felt a little thrill of joy in the victory that represented; he had finally gotten under her skin. She suddenly pulled the contraption out of his ass, causing him to gasp with the movement. Had he succeeded in angering her enough to kill him? It was truly a sad fact, but Ramsay could only hope so.

Sansa began unbuckling her belt, loosening all of the various straps that held the fake cock to her hips until it was loose enough for her to slip her legs out of it one at a time. She set it on the table and went to the door, where she spoke in hushed tones to the guard who was there. Ramsay strained, but he could not overhear the conversation.

Ramsay craned his neck to look back at her and saw only Sansa, who moved to take a seat across from him on a nearby chair. The guard whom she had spoken to was nowhere to be seen. Sansa, for her part, wore an expression that betrayed no emotion whatsoever, leaving him to guess as to what she might be thinking.

If she was to order his death, surely the guard would have come in by now, wouldn't he? Perhaps she has asked for a weapon with which to personally kill him with? Either way, despite the appearance of outward calm she now showed, Ramsay was now completely sure that he had managed to get under Sansa's skin.

The idea that his bold pronouncement had sent her reeling made him glad, especially with how sorely he ached to hurt her for what she did to him. He imagined that if she wasn't already seriously considering killing him a valid option to quiet his words that he could get her there with only a little more goading.

"Are you thinking about all of the fun we had back then, on our wedding night and on many of the nights that followed?" Ramsay sported a sick grin, letting himself find his center again after how low she had dragged him with her domineering and raping. Sansa surprised him by replying without malice, "Yes, actually, I am."

She gave him the slightest ghost of a smile, "I am reminiscing about each and every event where you spoke cruelly to me or physically abused me and even each instance where you did your best to intimidate me. I want them to all be very fresh in my mind as I test your theory." Ramsay frowned, "My theory?"

Sansa nodded, "Have you forgotten already? You just said that I could not remove the stain of you no matter what I do. I not only intend to remove the stain of what you did from me, I will also remove it from you, so that you will shake and quiver in fear at the thought of what you once did, spending all of your waking moments trying not to remember."

Ramsay's brow furrowed. That had not been what he thought was going on at all, and caught him entirely by surprise. He felt a cold feeling run down his spine at the gravity of her slow statement as she said those words. He realized now what that meant; he had graduated to a different sort of torture, one that Sansa clearly thought worse than rape by a woman.

This news made the wait that proceeded her comment long and full of gnawing anticipation. He tried his best to quell the feeling, knowing full well that it was exactly what she wanted, but even the notion of being able to deny her that wasn't enough to silence his inner turmoil concerning the mystery of what horror next awaited him.