A/N: references to violence.


Blood of My Blood

"I'm angry that horrible people can treat good people that way and get away with it."


He brings the whip down, hard on her hip. She can feel the metal tip tearing at her skin. Rose grits her teeth, trying not to cry out, but the scream comes anyway. Ramsay grips the back of her hair, pulling her head back, his fingers scratching her scalp . . .

Rose presses her lips shut, sweat and tears dripping down her face. Ramsay reaches around and sinks his fingers into the thin wound on the back of her thigh. She wriggles against the sting, clenching tightly onto the chains . . .

Ramsay looks her over, leaning close to her, and she feels his face brushing against her neck. Rose grimaces, feeling bile rising to her throat. Abruptly, he nips at her ear, and she gasps at the sudden pain . . .


Her wrists are in a vice-like grip against the bed. She struggles against whatever is holding her back, her throat raw with screaming, her cheeks streaked with tears. Someone is shouting her name, a familiar voice that makes her eyes snap open.

The tent is dimly lit with the morning sunrise. Sansa sits over her, her breathing laboured from wrestling to keep her still. Quickly, she releases her wrists, watching as Rose straightens up into a sitting position. The cold air washes around her, cooling her burning skin. She shudders, violently against it.

Her sore eyes flutter upwards to meet Sansa, who gazes back at her with a knowing grimace.


In the early afternoon, with nothing to do and time to be wasted, Jon and Rose swing their swords at one another in the open field, amidst the scattered men and tents. Although her body is mostly healed, the disturbing recollections of her nightmare prevent her from performing at her best — she is half standing there, with a sword in her hand, and half back in that room, with Ramsay doing unspeakable things to her.

Luckily, Jon seems reluctant to put her in even the slightest danger, his brow furrowed as he blocks her blows without swiping at her, once. "Everything alright?" he asks, after a while.

Rose staggers backwards, wiping her brow. "Just wondering when your skills started slacking," she teases, giving him a grin.

Jon smiles too, but it looks forced. "Sansa told me about your nightmares."

Rose rolls her eyes. "That girl could not keep a secret to save her life," she murmurs, raising her sword to swing it again.

Redthorn clashes noisily with Longclaw, the wielders pivoting on their feet to strike out. She spins around to slam her sword into Jon from the side, but he blocks it, forcing the blade back down with a loud scrape. "She's worried about you, is all," he pants. "I am, too."

"You don't need to be," Rose snaps, through gritted teeth. "I'm alive. After everything that's happened, I should be grateful."

Raising her sword, she swings it again, harder this time. He quickly blocks the blow, but she lashes at him with such ferocity, he finds himself staggering backwards. She only stops when the tip of her blade nearly catches him in the throat.

"You sure?" Jon asks, chuckling, nervously. "Come at me any harder, and my head will be rolling across the damned field." Ignoring him, she swings, and their blades clatter again as their feet move beneath them, circling one another. "If you want, we can drop the swords and talk," he continues, between pants. "Like a real brother and sister. There are better ways to sound off than this."

"Talking isn't your area of expertise," Rose hisses.

Jon frowns, raising his sword to defend herself as she swings hers, over his head. He manages to duck in time, but feels the steel brushing against his hair. "I know you've had a hard time. I'm only saying—"

"I said I'm fine!"

As the words leave her lips, her sword slices against his leg. Jon hisses in pain, staggering backwards, clutching the thin wound. When he pulls his hand away, it comes back bloody. Rose holds her breath, utterly horrified with herself. His eyes meet hers, and he lets out an exasperated sigh.


Rose stands over the table, looking down at the wide, illustrated map spread across it. Her fingers dance over the Northern regions, a frown on her face. She glances up when she hears soft footsteps entering, her sister rubbing her hands together against the cold.

"I keep thinking about what Littlefinger said," Rose says, quietly. "About Jon, about Riverrun." She bites down on her lower lip. "I'm his wife. The Knights of the Vale are mine, as much as they are his." She looks up, grimacing. "Do you think it was irresponsible of me to turn him away?"

"You did the right thing," Sansa insists. "He can't be trusted. Not after all he's done."

Rose stares back down at the map, with a sigh. "Smaller houses who haven't declared for the Boltons are more likely to be convinced if they believe we have a fair chance of winning. With the Knights of the Vale at our backs, we'll have a better chance of saving Rickon, taking back Winterfell, and uniting the North."

Sansa shakes her head. "It's a risk. Littlefinger isn't a man who wears his intentions on his sleeve. If we rely on him now, he could use this against us in the future. To try and manipulate us further."

"I know what he wants, Sansa."

She circles the table to stand in front of her. "He's playing us into his hands again. We can't fall for it."

"Even if it could save the North?"

"His schemes come with a price. A price we'll have to pay."

Rose clenches her fists, which rest against the table. Her chest constricts when she looks down at the small painting of Winterfell, her finger stretching out to brush against it.

"When I was Ramsay's prisoner, he asked me why I married him," she says, in a small voice. "I didn't say a word. How could I? If he knew the Vale would back our claim to such an extent, he would have locked his army behind Winterfell's gates and never goaded us into a fight. Starved us out, like animals." When she looks up, Sansa is gazing back at her, her brow creased. "I'm concerned that we've turned our back on our greatest hope . . . maybe our only hope . . . for the sake of our pride."

Sansa presses her lips together. "He may have a funny way of showing it, but Littlefinger adores you," she says, struggling to keep the disgust out of her voice. "That much is clear. Call on him and his army, and they'll come running to the rescue. If you truly believe it's the right thing to do."

Rose tilts her head. "And what do you believe?"

Sansa smiles, dimly. "I believe in you."


Rose pulls her nightgown over her head, yanking it down to her legs. Instinctively, she finds herself glancing at her reflection in the long mirror, and feels sick. Her ugly, jagged wounds — each of them holds a horrid memory; how they'd gotten there in the first place, and the violent recollections tear through her mind. It had been a while since she last assessed them, and now they had morphed into lasting scars across her body.

Quickly, she picks up her robe to pull it on, but it's too late. Her eyes remained trained on her damaged skin.

Burn marks across her back . . . she flinches at the tearing sound as he rips the fabric, easily with his hands . . . jagged cuts on her arms and legs . . . reaching down, he unsheathes a dagger from his belt . . . harsh, crimson welts lines covering her hips . . . a scream tears through Rose's throat, the pain blinding and instantaneous, like a stab of a white-hot knife . . . and the lingering ache in her body . . . without warning, he shoves his hand up her shift and thrusts two fingers inside of her . . .

Her heart is slamming against her ribs, her chest constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Rose rubs at her throat, sucking in as much air as she can muster. Her hands feel strange and tingly like there should be goosebumps all over them.

At that moment, someone ducks into the tent. She catches the alarm on his face before she quickly shoves on her robe, wrapping it around herself. Spinning around, she tries to compose herself, forcing a smile.

Jon averts his gaze to the ground. "I came to say goodnight," he murmurs.

Rose sniffs, folding her arms over her chest. "Did you?"

"No." Jon steps further into the room, watching her like she's wildfire about to explode. "I'm not good at this, Rose. You know that. But, I don't want you to feel ashamed, or . . . or feel that you need to — you know . . ." he stammers over his words, his face turning red. He huffs, frustrated and tries again, "If you want to talk, I — I'd like you to talk about it—"

Rose frowns. "Why do you need to hear it at all?"

"Because I need to know how badly I failed you," he snaps, so suddenly it makes her flinch. Finally, his eyes meet hers, and he shakes his head, looking oddly angry. "Any other brother hears his sister is locked up in a torture chamber, and they'd go running to the rescue. What did I do? Where was I when you needed me the most? Both of you."

Rose blinks, bewildered. "You were a brother of the Night's Watch, Jon. They would have killed you if you tried to leave. Even if it was the noble thing."

Jon's eyes drift shut. He takes a few bracing breaths, then opens them again. "Stannis offered to naturalise me," he says, flatly. "To give me the Stark name and Winterfell if I bent the knee. I refused." He swallows, thickly. "I could've saved you. I could've saved Sansa. I chose not to."

Rose stares back at him. For a split second, she is filled with indignation. Something she has never felt for the man standing in front of her. For her brother, who she adores. It makes her wince; how potent it is. Quickly, she forces herself to come to her senses.

"You didn't see what happened on that field," she whispers, hoarsely. "Ramsay crushed Stannis and his men. He would've crushed you, too. Keeping your vows was the right thing to do."

Jon gazes at her. He takes a few bold steps towards her, his breath trembling. "I am so sorry."

Rose shakes her head. "No one forced me to leave the Fingers," she says. Although she doesn't want to cry, her voice betrays her as it shakes, the vision of him blurring against prickling tears. "I did that of my own free will. Everything that happened to me was of my own doing."

"It's not." Jon puts a hand on her shoulder. "Rose. It's not."

She looks up at him, into those sincere, brown eyes, wishing she believed him. Before he can see the tears sliding down her cheeks, her arms circle his waist and she nestles against him. His arms wrap around her, his hand stroking the back of her hair, and she is taken back to Riverrun . . . to Robb holding onto her, her brother, and the overwhelming feeling of being home again.


A/N: I was kinda mad when they didn't have a little playful sparring scene between Jon and Arya in the final season, so THAT scene was, admittedly, for selfish purposes. Anyway, Rose is second-guessing sending Littlefinger packing. Will she call on him and his army? If she does, what will he expect from her in return?