Sansa
The silence of the hallways that Sansa could once practically walk blindfolded and backwards if you asked that of her felt eerie now and set a chill upon her cold bones. Winterfell's eerie silence gnawed at Sansa's insides, hanging in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground.
The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything, but to listen to the deafening sound of nothing. For there was nothing that could truly describe nothing, now, was there? No. There wasn't. At least if Lord Tyrion were here, they would no doubt be conversing, and maybe even expanding upon her list of peoples' beds to sheep shift.
She stifled a smile at the thought of that, how she wondered if she could even get away with doing it to Ramsay's bed, or maybe find out where that wench Myranda slept and do it to her. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and actively averted the gazes of several of Bolton men, soldiers, all of them, and though she did not look upon them, she could feel their hardened stares burning holes in the back of her skull like hot branding irons for cattle.
Sansa faltered in her footing as the strange scent of pine and old spiced wine filled her nostrils, and with it her brain flooded with pictures of Tyrion. Her husband's face just as handsome as she had remembered it, his cobalt blue eyes twinkling mischievously with laughter and his teeth glistening whenever he smiled, which he seemed to do more so around her.
She did not know how long she had remained within Winterfell's walls, feeling utterly alone, and it felt as though all Sansa had left of Tyrion was her wedding ring and the occasional fleeting memory. But she had lost the sound of his smooth languid voice and the touch of his hand upon hers. Her chest ached as she thought of what she had lost, and no one, especially not Ramsay, the bastard, could replace him.
And no one ever could. Sansa swallowed heavily past the lump in her throat and intertwined her fingers together and continued her walk, not really sure where she was going. It lingered in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket. Wherever Sansa moved, that silence followed, always watching never fading. Her own, personal dark shadow.
She paused, wondering if it would do her any good to visit the library. Reading was like an escape from reality for her whenever she could not sleep, which was increasingly often these days. Whenever she would pick up a book and start reading, she would become so engrossed into it that Sansa would quite forget any of her surroundings. Her imagination takes over and she was free to fantasize about whatever she wanted without worrying that people will judge her for reading of knights and dragons. It's like she could create a little world in her mind and imagine what the characters would look like and how they act.
She thought it crazy how much something as casual as reading can leave such an impact on you. Her mind made up, she turned on her heel towards the left and headed down the stairwell, intent on visiting the library and finding something to read.
A few of the serving wenches threw her sympathetic pitiful glances, all except the one from earlier, Myranda, who seemed to hate Sansa for reasons she did not know, but she wanted or needed not their pity or a shoulder to cry upon. She wanted a friend, someone who would help her escape from this place, and for Tyrion to come.
Sansa knew she had wanted to leave from the moment her boot had alit from Littlefinger's horse. She wanted to plead with Lord Baelish to turn around. But he hadn't, and she had stupidly agreed, thinking it to be the only way to save Lord Tyrion's life, so, for better or worse, here, she was.
The silence continued to be poisonous to Sansa in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring just how vapid the conversations around her had become, of which Sansa had only caught snippets of. The silence was eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong.
It clung to Sansa like a poisonous cloud that could at any moment choke the life from her lungs, though not that you would find her complaining. It seeped into her every pore, like a poison that slowly paralyzed the young noblewoman from either speech or movement. When all she wanted to do was run.
Just flee the place and make for the woods to try to find Tyrion.
To see how far she would get before Bolton would send his hounds after her. Bereft of any wind, the leaves outside, what few of them were left on the barren dead trees of winter hung limp until they fell of their own accord, and there was no whispering or rustling.
It was as if nature herself conspired to keep Sansa in the dark, not daring to whisper into the shell of her ear the reassurance she so desperately craved in this foreign place. Then hurried footsteps as she lingered outside of the mess hall and the squeak of the wide pair of double oak door's hinges gave a horrible creaking noise, alerting Sansa to another presence in the room, and brought her heart racing as fast as an arrow that had been fired from a crossbow.
At that mental image, she felt a tremor of fear go down her spine, for it had not felt like all that long ago that she had stared Death in the face, staring at the loaded tip of an arrow, that crossbow held by none other than King Joffrey, right before that childish boy had demanded his king's guard to beat her senseless within an inch of her life. Were it not for his uncle, Tyrion Lannister himself interfering when he had, well…
She might not even be here were it not for her husband.
At the thought of Tyrion, Sansa felt her brow furrow into a frown. Lord Tywin and Cersei had practically guaranteed his safety and she hoped to be seeing him soon.
Of the entire family of wretched lions, Tyrion had been the only one of the Lannisters to treat her with any decency and a modicum of respect, and for that, she cared for him, and hoped to see him again soon, because she could not—would not allow her husband to come to harm on her account, and nor would she allow Ramsay to lay a finger on her when she was already a married woman, and more importantly than that, she knew Ramsay Snow did not seem to be a man capable of treating whomever he married, whether that be her or another woman, with any inkling of kindness and respect.
At least Tyrion, when the time came for them to consummate the marriage whenever he arrived here in Winterfell, she knew that he would be kind to her. Gentle. Understanding. She swallowed back the lump in her throat at the thought of She could acknowledge that much, her hatred and disdain for that entire family aside for right now.
Right now, a brand new problem was staring her directly in the face, and that problem's name was Roose. Sansa swallowed the lump forming in her throat and quickly dipped into a low graceful curtsy. "Milord Bolton, I—I apologize if I have disturbed your work, I—I did not e—expect anyone to be up late at this hour, b—but I could not sleep. I was looking for the—the library a—and got…los," she mumbled, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks as her gaze drifted down towards the man's boots, not wanting to meet Lord Bolton's eyes, for fear of what she might find there.
To her surprise, which admittedly made her fear deepen and raise her hackles in defense, prepared to flee if she must, Lord Bolton broke into a wide, seemingly genuine coy little smile that suggested he knew than she did. Sansa wasn't quite sure if she should be flattered by his smile or unnerved. She had never quite recalled Lord Bolton ever smiling once.
"How does it feel, milady? To be back home?" Lord Roose asked, pulling out a chair at the great table. He was seemingly interested in making conversation, and she could detect not a hint or trace of malice in his deep baritone voice. "I hope that you find your quarters to your liking. It must be strange for you to be in such a foreign place after so long away from home."
Sansa felt her brows knit together in a light scowl and her lips pursed into such a thin line that she was quite certain they probably disappeared.
"This is my home, where I grew up, Lord Bolton. It's…I—I've been looking for the—oh." Her voice cracked and faltered as the doors swung open for a second time and the younger Bolton entered the room. Ramsay's blue eyes lifted slightly and met hers, and Sansa inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she repressed the urge to shiver. She would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing just how much his son unnerved her, and nor would she discuss the intimate details of what he had attempted to do to her back in King's Landing.
She wanted to know if it was true. If he had really hung one of the kitchen wenches for coming to Ramsay stating she was pregnant. A quick glance towards the closed door as the younger Bolton man quietly closed the door to the mess hall quickly confirmed everything that Sansa needed to know. That these men had no intention of letting her leave. She swallowed and looked to him.
When she dared to meet Ramsay's gaze, she felt drawn to those blue eyes yet again, for reasons she could not quite explain. The icy blueness she saw in them generated a feeling like she was being pulled into a frozen lake of emotions, like all the shades of blue that she could think of swirled together. Sansa could tell by Ramsay's body language that he did not like her, or perhaps didn't trust her, maybe a combination of both.
Either way, those flickering azure orbs confirmed her thoughts. She was in serious trouble if she could not think of a way to talk herself out of this situation. Sansa did not fancy being trapped in the mess hall with these two, though she doubted Ramsay would throw himself at her with his father present in the room, but she was not about to test that suspicion. Not so long as she valued keeping her tongue, for she knew if she spoke out against the Boltons, she would likely lose the appendage.
There was a cold burning to Ramsay Bolton's rage. An ice that scared Sansa if she was being honest with herself. She'd seen that look in other men's eyes before, more notably the former King Joffrey Baratheon. It was how she had recognized the growing look of hostility in Ramsay's eyes.
It was how men like him and little boy-men like Joffrey showed their hatred, dominance, and imparted fear on those who followed them. Men like Ramsay were easily provoked, Sansa knew. Any provocation, any insult, no matter how big or insignificant, and the man's fuse would blow, and their tempers would ignite like Wildfire, scorching and burning anything in their pathways that stood in the way.
And right now, Sansa Stark was standing in Ramsay Bolton's way.
Ramsay was a violent man. She wasn't stupid, she could tell this was a bastard who derived sick pleasure by beating and torturing anyone smaller and weaker than himself to a pulp if they so much as looked at him the wrong way and it pissed him off to that point where his temper flared, but then, Bolton would use his silver smooth-talking tongue to get out of trouble with anyone bigger or stronger in a better position of power.
Sansa visibly flinched as Ramsay's mouth stretched wide into an unnaturally wide white smile as he laid eyes upon her, and he had moved so fast to stand by her side that the man was practically a blur that she had no time to blink. She felt her lips part slightly agape in a look of shock. The young redhead bit her bottom lip in a slight pout and steeled the muscles in her jaw as she felt Ramsay's lips touch her cheek. All his lips left was a little wet mark, a shallow pool of saliva on Sansa's left cheek.
But when he planted that little kiss there, she felt an incredible heat spread through her limbs and her mind felt a horrible, red, raging buzz.
"Milady," he murmured, his voice low and heavy with desire. "How kind of you to visit me when you can't sleep," he breathed, in a voice that sounded…excited. "You did not answer Lord Bolton's question," Ramsay replied, his voice undertaking a rather childlike tone. He was mocking her, speaking to Sansa as though she were twelve years old, not eighteen. "Answer him."
Coming from him, it was not a request. Sansa swallowed and nodded. "Home is familiar," she heard herself saying in a voice that did not quite sound like her own. Her tone in the moment sounded cold and flat. "It is the people who are strange," she retorted, unable to keep that all-too familiar hot fire seed of anger from raging deep within the pit of her stomach, and even Sansa was surprised at the acidity in her tone, the rage.
Sansa wasn't sure if she should be relieved at Ramsay's smile as it widened even more, if such a thing was possible. She fought back the urge to scrunch her nose in disgust and make a face. Oh, how everything about this situation was so horribly awkward!
She wanted nothing more than to offer the men a polite little curtsy and flee, but she could tell by that indignant look in Ramsay's eyes, he had no intentions of letting her leave. At least not yet. No, she was trapped here. With him. Was there no end to this insufferable torment? Were the gods really this cruel that they would leave her fate in the hands of his man? Apparently, they were, and Sansa could not help cursing them.
It seemed an eternity before Ramsay spoke again. "You are lost?"
"Mmm?" Sansa blinked once or twice, confused by the man's words. And then she remembered. "O—oh," she stammered, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks. "I—I was just looking for the—the library, milord. I um…I got lost," she confessed, suddenly wishing that a hole would open up in the floor beneath her feet and swallow her whole and not let her re-emerge until Lord Roose and Ramsay had well and gone, leaving her.
Ramsay let a dark little chuckle escape his lips and something akin to amusement seemed to ignite a light in the Bolton man's blue eyes. "You are…lost," he said slowly, letting the words roll off his fluid tongue. "This is your home, Sansa. How can you be lost?" Sansa watched out of the corner of her eyes as she turned away, clutching herself and shrinking into her gown as much as she could for warmth, shivering and clenching her jaw. The young woman could not help but notice how startled Ramsay looked, as though the admission had caught him off guard. "You like to read," he breathed, lowering his voice an octave. Sansa flinched as she heard Roose's footsteps fade as he politely excused himself. "Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to the library, then?"
Ramsay held out his arm and offered her that dazzlingly charming smile that Sansa knew might once have made her swoon, back when she was naïve and younger, but not anymore. After spending so long in the company of the Lannisters, she had matured and learned much of the world and the vicious ways of men.
She knew Ramsay had but one thing on his mind when it came to her and that was what rested between her legs. Sansa bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, her hand outstretched as she hesitated, not wanting at all to take the man's arm, considering what he had done to her back in King's Landing, but seeing no other alternative, judging by that hungry look in the man's icy blue eyes.
She was not going to go to the library alone unescorted, it seemed. Sansa drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she intertwined her arm around his strong arm, feeling revolted she was touching him. A quick glance upward, having to crane her neck to do it as Ramsay was at least a few heads taller than she was, she could see the smug look of triumph in the man's icy blue eyes as he escorted her at a leisurely pace to the library.
A pace that felt like it crawled at its petty pace, and then she realized that he was parading her around her own home, showing her off.
Like she was nothing but a prize that he had won, and her made sure keep her left hand over top his, so that the other Bolton men and men at arms could see the brilliant yellow gold of the simple but elegant ring that Tyrion had given her. Sansa could not help the shudder of revulsion that traveled down her spine, though she made a point to not let her disgust show in her eyes. If she were disgusted, Sansa feared that she could not help it, given the dire nature of her current predicament that in little less than two days' time now, she would be wed to the Bastard of Bolton himself. Gods… Disgust.
It was an emotion all men and women felt, Sansa knew this. She had thought once upon a time that her disgust could climb no higher than for the vain pig of a boy man-child that was Joffrey Baratheon, but those feelings she had felt for King's Landing's boy-king was nothing—nothing—compared to what she felt for the man holding her arm now.
What disgusts you, Ramsay? Sansa mused, studying the young twenty-two year old out of the corner of her eye, carefully gauging his reactions. Every so often, he would shoot her these longing glances, and get that predatory look in those cobalt blue eyes before quickly averting his gaze. Why do you not listen to that little voice of repulsion in your head, Bastard? Sansa though, feeling surprised that her pure curiosity was overwhelming her fear as they continued through the dank dimly lit corridor towards the library. If even you have one, maybe, just maybe, it is there for a reason, Lord Bolton. So, tell me, my bastard, what makes your skin crawl? Does anything repulse you? Are you afraid of the dark? Is that why there are so many lit torches along the way to the library? What is repellant to you, Bolton? Do you enjoy it, and if you do, why?
All of these questions and more were swirling around in Sansa's tired head, and she flinched, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, feeling the beginnings of a splitting headache coming on.
"Are you well, Lady Sansa?" came Ramsay's voice, still sounding cold and distant to her, and when she lifted her head blearily to gaze at her intended, her insides curdled like milk with lemon. Were he a kind man, then Sansa would have perhaps been overjoyed to marry Ramsay, for there was no denying that he was a handsome man, but he revolted her.
Sansa knew the type of man Ramsay was. A beast, a monster, evil.
She liked to think that no detail missed her eye, ever, and even now as they continued their stroll, at long last nearing the library, Sansa heard herself exhale through her nose, though the incredible tension in her shoulders did not leave her body. She figured her body would not be able to relax until Ramsay left her alone in solitude.
The very sight of Ramsay made Sansa sick from the ends of her red hair to the nails on her delicate toes. She considered herself not the type to hate easily, but she knew evil when she saw it. She knew. Sansa blinked, not realizing he had asked the question again.
"I said," he repeated, though with a slight tone of annoyance to his voice, losing that charming tone from before, his voice growing clipped and hard, "are you feeling quite well, milady?" Sansa nodded mutely, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak that she might vomit. Her stomach gave a painful lurch of fright as she felt his strong hand come up to grip her left hand, turning her palm over in his hands, studying the plain yellow gold ring that she wore on her ring finger. "Your fingers are like ice, milady. Allow me to warm them…"
She let out a hiss, feeling the bile coating the back of her throat, as he took both her hands in his and brought them to his lips for a surprisingly gentle kiss. Sansa cared not what he thought of her anymore. Letting out a tiny squeak of fear, she let out a gasp of surprise as she felt her hand instinctively pull away from Ramsay's ironclad grip, and his smile faltered. Sansa immediately dropped her gaze, not wanting to see the wrath in the man's glacier blue eyes and felt a lock of auburn hair drift in front of her face, effectively shielding her gaze from her future betrothed's stare.
When at last, Sansa determined that she could no longer hide from Ramsay any further, she lifted her chin, hating the slight tremble in it, for she was afraid of what she would find in his eyes. Ramsay had turned away from her for a moment, but when he finally turned back around, Sansa desperately wished the man would have kept his gaze on the wall. Deliberation was over. He had judged her already and in his blue eyes Sansa only saw cool hatred. He'd had that same look towards her earlier.
"In the…in the courtyard," Sansa whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. Unfortunately for her, Ramsay Bolton's ears were better than any of his hounds, and she watched, horrified, as his ears perked up at the sound.
His head whiplashed sharply up, and his blue eyes narrowed to slits. Sansa swallowed, feeling her breath catch in her throat. A hateful disdain lingered on his face, creating lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove near his mouth that did not flatter his handsome features, but it was more than that. There was a tenseness he wasn't even trying to mask. She backed away, fumbling for the doorknob of Winterfell's study. Nothing about this was making any sense to her.
Not his curling fists or the anger that radiated from his pale skin. Those cobalt blue eyes of his were like a knife in poor Sansa's ribs, the sharp point digging even deeper.
There was a horrible emptiness in his eyes, like a black void of sorts, but not in any kind of vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with this void, Ramsay had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with—raw anger, and this anger was directed towards her. The unmoving glacier blue gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like he was fighting something back within and he was losing.
"Milord Bolton, i—if you will please e—excuse me, you seem…busy. I can walk myself to the library on my own, thank you," she mumbled, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. Sansa actively averted the man's gaze, wildly looking to the left and right for any means of escape.
And then she remembered what she had been looking for all along.
Dipping her head in acknowledgement, she turned on the heel of her boot and made to turn her back on Ramsay to retreat to the safety of the library, where at least the door had a lock, when a strong hand caught her wrist and gave a rather hard and violent squeeze, hard enough to break it if he was of a mind to.
Letting out a pained gasp, she inhaled sharply and she wasn't even aware she was holding in her breath until she felt herself exhale a shaking, pained breath as Ramsay cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her head slightly to the right, forcing the young Lady of Winterfell to meet his stony, cold gaze.
There was no warmth there that she could see. Sansa flinched and shirked back slightly from his touch as the pad of the man's thumb and forefinger delicately stroked her cheek, with almost a surprising tenderness that she was not quite sure what to make of it. "What's your rush, little dove?" Ramsay crooned, sounding offended. "I did promise to show you to the library, but you only just got here…"
Sansa let out a tiny moan of pain as his fingers curled into a protective fist over her wrist and she felt her body being propelled backwards, until her back was pressed against the cold gray stone wall of the corridor. "I…I should go, milord, for the—the hour is late, and you seem…" But her voice trailed off as she felt her chin being tilted upward again as he cupped her chin in his hand and once again forced to look upon him.
Sansa couldn't bring herself to complete her sentence. Ramsay, however, had narrowed his eyes in intrigue and seemed to have other ideas in mind for the young redhead. His grip tightened and she could briefly smell the wine on his breath. The Bastard had been drinking.
"Hmm?" he encouraged, sounding more amused than anything. "I seem what, Sansa? You can talk to me now. Don't be shy. You're to be my wife soon, after all, little dove. We mustn't keep secrets from each other." His tone still carried that inflection of slight mocking in it.
Sansa swallowed nervously, fighting back her urge to scream, for she knew that if she did, Ramsay would hit her…or worse. Sansa blinked back briny tears, not wanting to think of what 'worse' would mean for her if she were to make a scene here and now with the man who was to be her husband. It would likely not bode well for her at all. And besides, those other men—Bolton soldiers—they obeyed the commands of their liege, and she knew that she could not look to those men for help.
She inhaled sharply as she felt his strong hand drifted to her hip, settling there and pulled her closer to him, so that she was resting against his lean, firm, and surprisingly warm chest that was chiseled to perfection.
Sansa breathed out slowly, willing the tension in her body to leave her, though it remained firmly put, refusing to leave until he was gone. "What…" Sansa bit her bottom lip, feeling how chapped it was and caring not. "Our union. Do you even want this for yourself, milord? Has anyone asked you? What is it that you want?" she asked softly. There was no malice in her question.
It was a genuine, honest inquiry. What he wanted of her, she needed to know. She wasn't quite certain where that little outburst had come from, but she knew the moment the words escaped from her lips that her words had hit their mark, and he looked stunned, and she felt his grip on her wrist slacken.
Sansa watched, stunned, as he took a few faltering steps backward. She took advantage of the opportunity to bolt, heading towards the library, not caring what his answer to the question that she had asked would be. The man was a beast if ever there was one.
Such a monster would never be able to be tamed, this much Sansa Stark knew to be a certainty. Sansa hesitated just for a fraction of a second, risking one glance over her shoulder as she made for the library's entrance, surprised to see Ramsay staring after her, his blue eyes wide and round with disbelief and awe, as though he could not believe what he had heard. Perhaps that had been the first time someone had asked such a question of him.
Something about the man's blue eyes gave her pause. How they were…almost melancholic.
So, the monster feels after all, how endearing, Sansa thought meanly, unable to keep the swirling vortex of evil black putrid yet sweet blissful thoughts of Ramsay suffering in the forefront of her mind, and she quickly set her face to 'perfect impassiveness,' and turned away, showing Ramsay she was not afraid.
Which was a bold-faced lie. Inside, she was terrified of the man that was to be her husband in just a few days' time, but she could not show it.
She was a Wolf of Winterfell, and wolves were not cowards, nor was she. Sansa turned away and headed for the door, a hand outstretched, reaching towards the knob as though it was her final lifeline, that precious pathway to sanctuary, which in a way, Sansa supposed that this was. Sansa was surprised when Lord Bolton asked of her a question that she did not expect.
"You are married to the Lannisters' freak Imp, were you not, milady?" Now, Ramsay merely sounded curious. "Did you…enjoy it? Did he…satisfy you?" There was a low purr to his voice, seductive and husky, as the realization of what he was asking hit Sansa.
She startled, her hand fumbling as it faltered trying to grab the door. She knew what Ramsay was doing. He was stalling her to keep her here. Still, something about his tone compelled Sansa to answer. "More than…yes."
More than you ever could, you beast, she thought angrily. But that little thought, she dared not speak aloud, or else… Sansa didn't want to know what 'or else' meant in this case. Presumably, nothing good. Sansa's hand gripped onto the doorknob, deciding it would be in everyone's best interest if she were to calmly retreat from the situation before things escalated and got beyond her measure of control. It wouldn't do to draw attention to herself. Not now, like…this.
Sansa let out an understated sigh and made to enter into the library when the harsh bark of Ramsay Bolton's voice rendered her immobile.
"Do not walk away from your future husband, woman," Ramsay snarled. He's beginning to sound like his old self, Sansa thought angrily, her jaw muscles clenching rooted shut and a muscle behind her eyelid twitching. Gone was the charm whenever he was around Lord Roose Bolton, or Lord Baelish, or any man with an authority of power over Ramsay. Ramsay continued, his voice growing harder and clipped. "You have not been dismissed, Lady Sansa. Do you even know to whom you're speaking, girl?" he growled, breathing in a sharp breath that seemed to suck all the rest of the air in the corridor along with it.
Sansa couldn't breathe. Suddenly, she could feel the all-too familiar hot spark of anger welling deep within the pits of her stomach, as it had been whenever she'd been forced to endure Joffrey's company during the final days of his miserable existence, and she bit back her tongue in an effort to quell to several dozen remarks that were swirling around in her exhausted head, and before she could stop herself, the words just…poured out.
"I know exactly who you are, Lord Bolton," her voice steel as she taunted the young lord Bolton, that bastard man, through gritted teeth, as she balled her hands into fists by her side, feeling the muscles in her back go rigid and tense. "You, Ramsay Bolton, are a miserable maggot, a whining, whimpering weasel who seeks nothing but death at the hands of yourself and your father's approval. You're weak. You are nothing, Snow."
Sansa knew the minute those words tumbled out of her mouth, resonating in the air like a deathly poison, that they'd hit their mark, for Ramsay Bolton was clearly a man who was not used to having someone—let alone a woman, no doubt—speak back to him as she had.
She whirled around and bolted for the door, wrenching it open violently with full intent to slam the door in the dark-haired bastard's face and lock it and as a result of how her mind reeled, she did not hear the footfalls shuffling behind her. She was too busy fumbling for a nearby torch when a pair of strong hands pushed her into the wall in front of her—Ramsay's hands. It stung and sent swells of pain throughout her entire body. His chin rested upon her shoulder, and he breathed into his ear.
"You're rejecting me," Ramsay breathed, whispering it into the shell of her ear, causing a wash of cold to travel down her spine towards her toes. "Unfortunately for you, your little act of defiance has…piqued my interest," he growled, and it was only when he shifted, pressing his body further into hers that she felt the back of her leg grind against his growing hardness. "I've taken an interest in you, sweet Sansa, and I always get what I want in the end. No one's ever talked back to me as you have, my love," he sneered. "I think I like you, and for that, I promise you, you will enjoy what comes next."
That was when Ramsay's lips clamped down onto her right ear. They were light at first, and then the bastard bit down harder. Sansa stifled a moan and squirmed against the wall, which only encouraged Ramsay to behave rougher, goading that monster that dwelt within.
Bolton bit down harder, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Sansa. The teeth turned into a tongue, sliding over the rim of Sansa's ear, causing her to cry out. She felt her entire body begin to tremble beneath his touch. His two hands slid down her sides and landed on her waist, gripping almost painfully tight. Sansa blinked back briny tears, not knowing what to do. "You asked me what I want," he breathed, his speech slightly slurred as he whispered it into the girl's ear.
"I want…" You, is what Ramsay wanted to say. To feel you inside of me, screaming my fucking name for the whole goddamn North to hear. I want you. Naked, ravaged, afraid of me. To see you bleeding. You. "You know what it is that I want," he growled, one of his hands drifted upwards and tugging on her gown.
White knuckles from clenching her fists too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, her rigid form exuded an animosity that was like poison—burning, slicing, and potent. Sansa's already pale face was absolutely white with rage and shock at what he was demanding of her, and when Ramsay Bolton reached up a hand to brush back a lock of red hair over her shoulder, Sansa Stark swung back and mentally snapped.
"N—no l—let go of me, you—you horse's ass!" she screamed. "How dare you!" Sansa shouted, ducking underneath Ramsay's arm and turning on the heel of her boot, taking a few faltering steps away from her intended, clutching at the skirts of her dress defensively, as if she thought that would prevent the Bastard of Bolton from whatever it was he was about to do next, and what that would be, even she didn't want to think of it, though she could tell by the wild unhinged look in those blue eyes of Bolton's that the only thought in his mind was of ravaging her.
Raping her, taking her over and over again until there was nothing left. Ramsay seemed to be rendered speechless as she shoved him backward, poking a finger in his chest as he advanced upon the girl. Like a wolf stalking its prey. He had not anticipated the girl to be so strong, and Sansa knew as he looked at her, that he could not find words.
"You might be a lord, and I a lady, you might have control over my family's home and our lands, but you must be completely insane to think I would do any such thing, no matter what you think of me. I am still married to Tyrion, Ramsay. I would rather die than ever willingly lay with you!" Sansa screamed, gritting her teeth in anger.
The girl swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat as he approached her once more, and this time, Ramsay did not restrain himself. Slamming his hand into the wall behind Sansa's head, he grabbed her jaw violently and forced her to look him dead center in the eyes. Sansa swallowed hard as she looked into the Bastard's eyes, how Ramsay's wide open eyes reflected everything and yet, saw nothing.
Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day stubble on his jaw was not a good sign. Sansa had been hoping to get through this little stroll to the library without incident. Actually, she wasn't entirely sure what she had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness for whatever it was she had done to upset him prior to this, but the beginnings of a tentative understanding.
They were, after all, due to be married in a few days, though Ramsay had made it explicitly clear that he wanted Lord Tyrion to be here to watch the wedding ceremony. He's planning something, Sansa thought wildly. He means to hurt Tyrion!
Now, however, Sansa simply hoped that he would let her go without giving Ramsay a reason to hate her all the more, but she knew that as she looked into the man's eyes, those blue eyes holding total anger, it hurt. The way his blue eyes squinted when Sansa defiantly lifted her chin and glowered at Ramsay reminded the girl of a pit viper's slit-like pupils. She gulped nervously.
A burning animosity was developing in those cobalt eyes of his, and Sansa could tell she was likely the root cause of his problem. And, if judging by the hungry look in his eyes, Sansa was about to find herself in a spot of trouble she wasn't quite sure she'd get out of.
Very. Deep. Trouble.