Sansa

Sansa awoke blearily to the frigid cold of an unfamiliar chamber that smelled horribly of mold, water, and something coppery, like…like blood. The time felt like it passed slowly and then stopped.

There was a horrible tightness in her throat, her lungs feeling like they were sagging instead of contracting for the next breath.

Wherever she was, it was dark, with only one sound to be heard, the sound of her own pulse throbbing in her ears. A narrow stream of light gracefully maneuvered through the room, and a dark shadow quickly followed. She was scared.

Sansa held her breath, daring not to make a sound. Each second seemed to last an eternity as she lay peacefully still, listening to the footsteps of the intruder in her room, which had muted the pounding of her pulse. Her nose filled with the musty scent of the room and in the almost blackness, her eyes strained for the dark figure.

She needed air to return to her lungs, but by the light of the seven, the exertion only brought on even more breathlessness, like the air in her chambers around her were devoid of oxygen. Her ribs heaved up and down, but no benefit came to her, only dizziness, and…and…she could have sworn she felt his hand on her thigh earlier, in her sleep...

"Who—who brought me here?" Sansa whispered hoarsely.

"I did," answered a cold voice from in front of her, shrouded in the shadows, though there was no mistaking that voice. Sansa let out a terrified squeak and jumped at the noise. Ramsay Bolton. There was no mistaking that wild pair of glacier blue eyes, mere pinpricks, watching her from the shadows.

She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat. Sansa wondered why he was here with her, if he was finally going to claim her for himself, now that he had finally got her alone when she was feeling at her weakest, feverish, everything ached, and vulnerable.

The figure moved, still remaining shrouded in the shadows, and for whatever reason, Sansa could not help but feel like either Ramsay was afraid of her (which she doubted) or he was merely doing this to intimidate her as some sick and twisted form of psychological punishment for daring to try to escape on the night of their wedding.

Probably the latter, and Sansa hated to admit to herself that it was working. He seemed to slink in the shadows, almost like that of a snake, and she gulped.

From the darkness stepped Ramsay, and at first, his face was obscured by the dim moonlight but then he shuffled forwards and the feeble light from the moon streaming in front of the window was enough to illuminate her future lord husband's features. That bluish hue made him all the paler, but it was clear he was tired, and his expression angry.

Ramsay turned slowly to Sansa, unsmiling, and gestured towards the elaborate room Sansa now found herself in.

When she glanced down at the covers of the bed she was laying in, she was covered with the softest goose feather down blanket she had ever felt in her entire life so far.

"Do you like it?" he asked, gesturing towards the room with a wide flourish. His voice was almost…childlike, which gave Sansa pause.

What exactly was she dealing with here? Ineptitude for social graces?

Clearly, her future lord husband was not right in the head, and if Sansa wanted to survive for yet another night, she was going to have to play along. "I—yes," Sansa whispered feebly. "I—I do, milord Bolton…"

"Good." He nodded, though he did not look at her. "I want you to be happy." At his last word, he faltered in his resolved but recovered.

"You ran from me, Lady Stark," Ramsay growled. "For that, Sansa…" He let the syllables of her name roll off his tongue, and Sansa felt a tremor of fear go down her back. She hated this.

What exactly did Ramsay want with her? What if he had brought her here to defile her body, to finish what he had tried to start in the library's corridor a few nights ago?

If he hurt her, tortured her, killed her? Would anybody in Winterfell even find her body once he had his fill of her and disposed of her remains?

He regarded the young redhead with something akin to amusement in his cold blue eyes. Sansa flinched and stared at the young man's eyes, which had grown almost unnaturally wide and round.

Almost as if the Bastard of Bolton could sense her thoughts, he grinned and ran a hand through his tuft of dark wavy hair. "No one who's ever been in this room with me has lived to speak of it, Sansa."

When his voice rose an octave, Ramsay seemed to lose all traces of seriousness.

"You would have been next, which would only be appropriate, given that you tried to run away from me," he growled, turning serious for a moment, and looking away from her, "But…." His voice trailed off.

Sansa wasn't sure if she wanted to know what 'but' meant in this case. She gulped nervously and stared up Lord Ramsay Bolton, this monster.

Ramsay, at least in this dim light, was far too skinny, like he hadn't eaten in a couple of days, and for all she knew of the man, he hadn't.

Sansa's mind was flooded of images of her future husband suffering a grim death, and the snort of amusement escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it as she saw Ramsay's head whiplash sharply upwards, his blue eyes narrowing and becoming slits.

"You think this is funny, Sansa," Ramsay breathed, his breathing rate increasing as he moved to stand next to her, and Sansa drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs and held it, waiting with bated breath and trying to control the tremors as he reached up a strong hand and stroked the pale column that was the hollow of her neck. "Well, my darling, I am afraid it's not going to be funny for much longer, you see. You ran away. The truth is not always an easy thing to swallow, Sansa Stark. I understand how…hard this must be for all of you, to be home in a place that does not feel like home, forced into a marriage that you do not want." Ramsay sounded like he was feigning concern for her condition.

Sansa frowned. She could detect no hint of malice or deceit in his tone, and this further confused. What in seven hells did he want, then?

The pounding in her head ached and throbbed, and Sansa quite felt like its prisoner, helpless in her cage of pain, unable to think of anything but the pain. She was blinded with flashing colorful spots and craved the darkness of her chambers, which to her dismay, someone, probably one of the maids, had let what little moonlight there was into the room by drawing open the curtains back.

Her pains throbbed so violently around her skull that she wondered why it didn't just crack open already, then.

Whenever she was around her future husband, it was always the same. A crushing pain just on one side of her head that came and went in a pattern, only providing her with some small semblance of relief whenever Ramsay Bolton left the room.

One of her eyes would water on the painful side and her nose felt like it would run. Or maybe that was her tears. She didn't know. She hated it.

A flash of black appeared out of the corner of her eyes and Sansa felt her head whiplash sharply to the right.

Ramsay! She felt her lips part slightly in a silent scream, feeling her stomach lurched and she bolted upright, quickly realizing that was a mistake as she tasted the bile coating the back of her head.

Ramsay sat next to her bedside, back up against the rest of his chair as he poked her side with his finger and broke into a charming white smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Sansa gulped nervously and repressed a shudder.

"How long have you…have you been sitting there?' she whispered, moving to gingerly pull his hand away from her thigh, and instead she found her hands drift towards the scratchy woolen blanket, where her fingers curled into a protective fist around the thick thing, the only barrier between her and Ramsay's likely assault of her body, which she wouldn't put it past him to try, given the fuming look in his eyes.

She swallowed as his blue eyes narrowed. Sansa knew what he was thinking. Here she was. His. Her beauty, her flaming red locks like winter fire.

Sansa knew Ramsay had been expecting her to be screaming and crying at the top of her lungs, begging for someone to come to her aid, to save her from the Bastard of Bolton. But no one was coming.

Ramsay shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. Sansa stared, fixated on his blue eyes. She knew she wasn't going to get the chance to be brave this time. She would be afraid of him one way or the other before the night was out. Whether or not they would still be married tonight for sure, only her future lord husband knew the answer.

"You can scream if you want," he drawled lazily, not relinquishing his grip on her thigh on top of the blanket. "But I've ordered no one to come check on you, milady," he said, his tone sounding clipped, hard.

Sansa found herself unable to avert her gaze from Ramsay's and she jumped as a kindling crackled in the lit hearth in the fireplace across the room. She flinched and guilty turned towards it to look.

One glance over at Ramsay and down at his hand confirmed her suspicions. The edges of his fingers were covered in soot. Dirty. "Y-you lit that fire, milord?"

Ramsay rolled his eyes and scoffed, though he finally removed his free hand from her thigh and brushed them on his simple black linen shirt, which hung open slightly to reveal the hollow column of his throat.

Sansa stared, not even caring that she was staring. However evil the man sitting next to her might be, there was no point in trying to deny that he was a handsome man. She bit her lip and waited for him to speak.

"Yes." Sansa flinched at the coldness of Ramsay's simple response.

"But…why? Could not have one of the maids done it? You did not need to trouble yourself, Lord Bolton," Sansa whispered meekly. "Why?"

Ramsay had seemingly chosen silence as a response, and this greatly unnerved her. How was she to know what it was that he wanted of her now and what he was going to do to her if he wouldn't even talk to her?

Is that his game? Is that it? Sansa wondered, and shuddered as he offered his bride a seemingly genuine smile, kind and almost…gentle.

"Because I did not trust Maester Wolkan to care for you in the way that you...deserve." His voice, while kind, had a slight edge to it. One she recognized.

Though Sansa was not fooled. She knew the truth about Ramsay. It was a miracle she opened her voice to speak, and nothing came out but a tiny, breathy squeak as she looked around for any sign of Hilda or any of the other maids. "Help," she whispered, glancing around for an escape.

But it was as Ramsay had just said. No one was coming to help her.

His wolfish, predatory grin merely widened, and she could not help but feel an enormous sense of fear. It paralyzed Sansa, rendered her frozen to her spot, unable to bolt from her bed and make for her front door.

"No one's coming for you, Lady Stark. It's just you and me. I think we should have a conversation, now that we're married, you and I, yes?"

His words chilled her and turned her blood to ice. Married? But…she hadn't been awake.

Had the ceremony somehow commenced while she'd been unconscious for only the gods knew how long she had been out?

Trembling, she lifted her left hand to study it and even she could not help but to admire the sheen of the simple yellow gold band that rested on her ring finger.

Fuming, feeling her muscles in her jaw lock up and tighten, she turned towards the man whom she knew now to be married to. For better or worse, Lady Sansa Stark was now wedded to Ramsay Bolton.

"Why? H-how could your lord father allow this, milord? I—I wasn't even awake. What have you done? What did you do to me? Did you…" she demanded, not even caring if he heard the trembling.

Her voice trailed off as she fought back tears, and to her surprise, he shook his head. She felt her shoulders sag with relief that he hadn't gone that far.

Though judging by the look in his eyes, Sansa liked to think she knew him well enough by now to know that for that, he wanted her awake and alert to feel it. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking back tears. Ramsay spoke up, his voice surprisingly quiet, though taught with rage.

"To ensure that you did not attempt to leave me again, beloved," he growled. He leaned forward in his chair slightly, and Sansa automatically recoiled and scooted towards the other side of the bed, flinching and letting out a pained gasp as Ramsay's arm shot outright, effectively wrenching her arms above her head and pinning them to her pillow. Sansa recoiled and clenched her eyes shut. She could smell the wine wafting off his breath. He had been drinking. Again.

When she reluctantly opened her eyes to look Ramsay in his listless eyes, they flashed with such indignance and anger, much like lightning would on a pitch black night. Sansa swallowed hard as she felt his body weight crush hers and clenched her eyes shut as Ramsay buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and pine from the woods.

"Where did you go, wolf?" he murmured, and Sansa shivered as his lips began trailing surprisingly gentle kisses down the column of her throat. "You fled from me," he growled, sounding much like a young boy pouting because he did not get his way, though that did not stop the fear from overtaking Sansa's body completely, nor the immense shaking.

Sansa let out a breathy squeak as he paused, locking her eyes with his, and was given no time to react as she felt Ramsay's fingers drift downwards, the pads of his fingers lightly ghosting over her collarbones, tugging at her shift. "Wh—what are you doing, milord?" she whispered.

"We're married, and you're mine, my wife," he growled angrily, fumbling with the buttons of her shift. "You owe me an heir, Lady Sansa. Two or three sons, even." Sansa tried to open her mouth to speak, but nothing came out except a violent coughing spell. She had expected Ramsay to be angry with her as he bolted upright, but if she wasn't mistaken, and she liked to think about reading people, she usually was.

She watched as something within Ramsay's cold, unreadable expression softened. "Here," he sighed wearily. "Sit up, Sansa."

Sansa frowned, quirking her brow at him, not sure if she trusted him fully. Ramsay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and exhaling slowly through his nose, as though exhausted.

The young woman watched, her eyes wide and fearful, as he poured two chalices of water, keeping one for himself, handing her the other.

When she made no move to lift the rim of the cup to her lips, he frowned. "Drink," Ramsay commanded, his tone clipped and hard. "I've not poisoned it, you know. If I wanted you dead, Sansa, you would be."

His words chilled her insides, and her throat felt like it was on fire, and it was only after she watched her lord husband lift his own cups to his lips and drink heavily that she decided to follow suit.

She really was thirsty. Sansa felt her arm shoot out as if to stand, and she winced as she felt Ramsay's fingers curl around her forearm, helping her to stand, though she ignored his touch as his fingers drifted towards her hair, absently playing with a few of her red locks. "Why?"

Sansa did not need to elaborate.

"Because we are married, Sansa," Ramsay growled. "What kind of husband am I to my lady wife if I kill her on our wedding night? What do you think of me, Lady Sansa?" he asked, sounding sincere in his asking.

Sansa had not anticipated the question, and she would have fallen had Ramsay not wrapped a firm hand around her waist. Her lord husband's eyes were filled with an utter rage, and his voice sounded distant, muffled.

"Evil," she gasped out, feeling like she couldn't quite breathe all of a sudden. She watched as the blue of his eyes darkened to an almost cerulean hue, and violently jerked out of Ramsay's ironclad vice grip.

She stumbled towards the corner of the room, and with each step her stomach tightened and ached all the more. She kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what, she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest. Sansa lost the color from her pale face.

It was as if her heart had suddenly stopped beating and all the blood had run down into her slippers. She swayed for just a moment before Ramsay caught her and surprisingly gently, lowered her to the ground.

He was talking to her, asking if she was all right. Sansa could not understand his words, he sounded as though he were underwater. With a hand against the cold stone wall of Ramsay's chambers to steady herself, she slumped against the wall and huddled in the corner of his quarters.

"Don't make a sound, Sansa, or you'll regret it," he warned, leaning in from behind her and buried his face in her hair, trailing gentle kisses down her neck. "You know what you do to me," Ramsay growled through gritted teeth.

Goddamn you, Sansa thought wildly, though it was becoming harder and harder for her to resist. Gods, she felt so sick, and everything was blurry, her vision hazy and white. She struggled against him, her hand accidentally grazing against his growing hardness and he covered her mouth with a passionate kiss.

Sansa spat in his face when he broke apart, defiant and furious. She kicked him, but it was to no avail. Hot blinding rage filled Ramsay's vision and there was a horrible ringing that echoed in his eardrums. Momentarily aware of what he was doing, Ramsay grabbed Sansa's arm and shoved her against the wall of their bedroom.

"I will never love you, Ramsay!" she shouted, letting out a startled scream as he wrestled her to the ground, her head hitting the cobblestone street harder than he intended. "GET OFF OF ME! LET GO!" Sansa bellowed, but it fell on deaf ears.

"Who are you going to love, hmm, if not me?" he challenged, feeling his voice go dangerously soft and quiet. Ramsay reached up a gentle hand brushed back a lock of redhead hair behind her ear. "You're mine," he growled. "You're not going anywhere, and you belong to me, pet," he threatened, shifting so he was practically crushing her under his body weight. Ramsay leaned down and kissed her, his kiss rough and demanding. "I warned you, didn't I?" he snarled, his voice low. She momentarily stopped struggling against him to stare up at him, her eyes wide in fear. "You've not done as I asked of you, now you pay the price."

"Milord, please," she begged, hating herself as her tears came, but it was no use. "Don't do this to me, please, if you've any respect at all…"

Ramsay unsheathed his knife and watched, noticing the catch in her breath as the redhead fell silent. He intentionally slowed his movement as he brought the dagger to her neck, relishing the fear in her eyes.

He held her head in his hand and placed a small gash on her right cheek, her cries of pain bringing fire to his groin. Blood formed instantly and pooled over his fingers as he cradled her head in his hand, kissing her roughly. He moaned when the taste of her blood hit his tongue.

Sansa was unsettled by all of this, what kind of man would do this to someone he claims to love, that he was now by law and rights married to?

The sting of the fresh cut soothed with his movements. Ramsay withdrew and pulled her in for a kiss, slow and deep, the surprising gentleness catching her completely off guard.

"Hush now," he soothed. "You still have a chance to make things right, my love," he murmured. "The…reminder I gave you will heal," he reassured her, enjoying it immensely as her energy drained from her the longer she fought against him. He ran a hand underneath her skirts, feeling her smooth, lean legs and shivering.

"Do whatever you're going to do and just kill me, Ramsay. I would prefer it!" she snarled through clenched teeth, hating him. "Go to hell!"

He decided he liked this change in Sansa.

She was feisty, willing to fight back against him for once. There was a fire deep within her, burning hot and bright in her soul.

Ramsay grabbed hold of her bandaged hand, squeezing it hard. Blood soaked through the bandages from when she had fallen earlier in the woods, and Sansa bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

I won't give him the satisfaction, she thought angrily.

Ramsay liked it when she hurt. It was better that way. In one last act of defiance, she leaned up and bit his hand hard enough that she drew blood when he reached up to caress her cheek.

Ramsay shouted obscenities at her as he wrestled her onto her back, ignoring her threats. Grinning wickedly, he allowed his lust for her to overtake him completely, ignoring everything else but her.

Ramsay didn't want her imagining she had any measure of control over him at this point in their game. His hand wandered beneath her skirts, running his hand over her legs, occasionally brushing his fingers between her legs, not yet entering her, wanting to savor the pleasure of finally entering her at last.

I should have taken you for myself years ago, he thought, and growled. "Say it," he urged, his eyes blazing. "You know what to say, Sansa."

"NO!" she hollered, spitting in his face. "I won't!"

"Say it," he repeated, his anger reaching toxic levels, reaching up to cup her chin in his hand. "If you don't, I'll kill all your fucking friends who helped you escape. I will find out who helped you, Lady Sansa."

Sansa glowered at him, wincing at the pain in her shoulder as one of the stones dug into her skin. Someone, please help me, she pleaded, but no one was coming.

As she stared up at Ramsay, her eyes wide and fearful, she knew she had to do this to stay alive. Sansa fought back her tears and swallowed hard.

"Please," she croaked, her voice cracking. "Ramsay, don't do this to me, I'm begging you. If you truly love me, let me go. There must be some good still inside you. Please."

"Please what?" he teased, reaching up a gentle hand to wipe away the blood from the cut on her cheek. "You know what to say, my love. Say it," he commanded coldly.

Sansa glared at him, her eyes going numb with dull acceptance.

"Please take me," she hissed angrily, knowing his body demanded hers, and if she didn't let him do this, he'd kill her and still, Ramsay would go after Ser Aleyn and Brienne and would murder poor Theon.

"A polite whore, little wife," Ramsay remarked, the sound of her delicate begging going straight to his member. He withdrew his hand from between her legs abruptly and she groaned at the loss of his touch but watched in horror as he drew his fingers into his mouth, his eyes shut, as he tasted her.

"Almost as sweet as you," he half-whispered, and Sansa shivered at the look he gave her, his look lacking any warmth or kindness, nothing but darkness and lust for her.

Absolute power and control. Ramsay guided himself to her entrance, entering in one sharp thrust, and she was warm, so warm.

Just like I always imagined her to be, he thought. Her walls were impossibly tight, and she cried out only once, biting her tongue to keep from screaming.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Sansa glared up at Ramsay and inexplicably began to laugh. Ramsay paused, surprised by her cruel laughter.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth, thrusting into her hard enough that she flinched, but still, she continued laughing at him. When she opened her eyes to look at him, the look in her eyes was…amused.

How dare she find this funny?

"Thanks to you, I'm no longer a maiden," she laughed, squirming under his body. "You might have taken that from me, but I will never love you, Bastard of Bolton. How could I, after all that you have done? Are doing? You are scum, worthless," she taunted, a small part of her enjoying the way he jerked at that name, as if in pain. She laughed wickedly, seeing how uncomfortable that made her.

"Nothing."

"Did you not hear me?" Ramsay growled, pulling her up for a passionate kiss. She wrenched away, an interesting gleam in her gray eyes. "I told you, wench," he snarled. "No other woman save for you has tempted me the way you do. How could you not have heard me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she mocked, "I didn't know I was supposed to engage in a conversation with my lord husband. I'm just a poor little defenseless wife," she hissed. "Forgive me," she teased. "I was so preoccupied with thoughts of killing you and slitting your throat in your sleep, I hadn't been paying any attention to you, could you repeat that?" she joked weakly, laughing at his rage. "Milord."

Ramsay groaned at her tightness, thrusting into her violently, fisting a hand into her redhead hair. "Does it hurt?" he demanded angrily.

"Yes," she answered, her voice reluctantly pained.

His eyes were burning at this, rage and desire for her building together, consuming Ramsay in waves. "Shut the hell up! Be quiet!" he ordered, not sure where her sudden shift in attidude was coming from.

It's unlike her, he thought.

I have the upper hand here, despite what he's doing to me, Sansa thought wildly. I have power. Power to make Ramsay hurt, to make him suffer, to make him see what he's done to me is evil.

"You...you're nothing. You're evil, you don't love me! How could you? Look what you're doing to me! This isn't love, Ramsay, this is lust. Your love for me is nothing but a conquest!"

"SHUT UP!" he roared, but it only fueled her fire.

Sansa laughed, holding no more shame in her veins. All that remained was a hot burning hatred boiling her bloodstream, loathing for Ramsay, desire to make him pay for what he did to her, what he took from her.

"We'll see how much disgust I can make you feel," he warned, withdrawing almost fully before violently thrusting into her again, savoring the pleasure of ripping her open. "Face it, Sansa, I've ruined you for anyone else."

The forcefulness of his movements caused her to cry out, willing her body to relax while Ramsay continued his movements, studying every flicker of pain that painted her beautiful features until gradually her body stretched to accommodate him. He sighed, feeling her change.

Sansa glared at him, moving to bury her face in the crook of his neck to avoid looking at him a second longer than she had to.

She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry and beg for him to stop, even though what he was doing to her burned, an intense fire she'd never felt before in her life and she wanted it to end.

Sansa clenched her teeth shut and ground her teeth so tight from the effort to keep from screaming, but he tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her back.

"No," he growled. "I want to see you. Look at me." When she wouldn't, he felt his temper swell. "LOOK AT ME!" he shouted, beside himself.

Reluctantly, Sansa looked. She had such a look of revulsion in her eyes; he knew she was imagining hundreds of ways to kill him.

His coarse tongue licked at her skin, Ramsay's fingers curled in her time she closed her eyes, he bashed her head in against the floor of their room, demanding she open them. I don't want to, she thought, letting out a tiny groan as she felt something wet trickle down her neck.

The coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils. That's mine, she thought, slightly panicked, clenching her eyes shut and praying he'd finish soon.

Anything, rather than watch his face light up with power and lust. Ramsay became angry, his force less controlled until finally blood ran from the back of her head and onto the floor and she felt herself losing consciousness.

She was awake, but only just.

I wish he'd just kill me, she thought, anguished. Let me die and bleed out here, it'll be good for me. Anything but this. Sansa let out a sharp cry as he quickened his pace, her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. I should have brought my knife. If I had, you'd be dead now.

"Seven hells," he cursed through gritted teeth, wrapping his hands around her throat, and beginning to increase his pressure, hard enough to cut off her airflow, his pace faltering as he released within her.

Ramsay captured her lips and kissed her roughly, imagining draining the very life force out of her. His reverie was broken as she abruptly pulled away from his demanding kiss, trying to get what little air she could.

Ramsay maintained his position, riding out the aftershock of his release in half-thrusts, but she dug her nails into his shoulders hard enough that she drew blood.

Ramsay slowed to a stop, releasing her at last, wrenching himself off of her, but not before holding her wrathful defiant glare for several minutes. Sansa gasped and coughed for air that wasn't there, glaring at him as she held a hand to her throat.

She's bruising already, he thought, admiring his work. But that's what the witch does to me; I can't control myself whenever I'm around her. She ignites my baser desires.

Sansa continued to cough for air, color slowly returning to her face. "I hate you," she whispered, trembling as she forced herself to kneel to her knees. Her face had gone white with shock as Sansa struggled to accept what just happened to her.

How I wish I could commit this to my memory forever, he mused, smirking. You'll make a wonderful wife to me, my love. Our children that we sire together are going to be fucking wolves. We're conquer the North, you and I, as its King and Queen.

"I don't care," he retorted coldly. "I'm a part of you now, pet, forever. You and I should have joined a long time ago. You'll always remember this, won't you? I know I will," he crooned, a truly evil smile on his lips. "You're my new favorite. I like you, little wife, and I think I'll keep you."

"Go away, Ramsay! I never want to see you again! I will never love you!" she shouted, erupting into a coughing fit as she still struggled to get what air she could.

Ramsay laughed. "I just showed you what happens when you cross me," he snarled, bringing his face in close to hers. He grabbed her arm and wrenched her to her feet. "Are you going to do as I ask now, hmm? Say no, and you'll very much regret it," he warned.

"No," she hissed and spat at his feet.

Ramsay clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. "You don't do this, and I'm killing Theon. There's no going quick for this kid. He killed your brothers, shouldn't you want vengeance. I'm going to gut him like the fucking little weasel that he is, and I'm going to make you watch as I take his head, and then you're mine," he growled. "I can give you so much more than you really deserve."

"RAMSAY, GO AWAY!" she roared. "I will never love you!"

"If you want him alive, you'll do as I say. Your name-day party is coming up, my darling. You'll be obedient, won't you, my dear? Your…friends' lives depend on. I'm warning you, Sansa, I can be a good friend to you but I can also be a terrible enemy, and as your lord husband, I should want my wife to be happy. I'd much rather be kind to you, Sansa."

When she didn't offer her thanks, Ramsay raised his hand threateningly. Sansa winced, lowering her head, and mumbling her gratitude only half-heartedly.

"The next time my hand flies, Sansa, I won't be so forgiving. Soon, this will all be over. You will love me, as I love you, and you will provide me with an heir. You'll see." Recognizing he had broken her spirit, he laughed and stormed out of their bedroom.

Sansa nodded, feeling her tears well in her eyes, unable to stop them. She remained rooted, frozen to her spot on the floor of their chambers long after Ramsay had left her alone. She shakily tried to take a few steps forward and collapsed, too weak to walk.

Sansa flinched as she touched a hand gingerly to the back of her head. Her fingers came away bloody. She glanced down, assessing her now ruined white silk robe and her condition. Other than the back of her head, the cut on her cheek, and her wounded pride, there was no other sign that she'd been attacked.

She lifted her head to the heavens and cried. By the gods, someone help me. But as usual, her prayers were meant with silence.

No one was coming to save her. She was on her own.

She began to scream.