He'd been here before. Several times, and each time seemed to stretch on forever into eternity. The nightmare was more of a night terror because it felt as though Ramsay might die from the pain in his brain as he stared into the eyes of the Beast.
The one that he could not tame. He was desperately trying to wake up, screaming for help, for the wild dog to heel, but it would not, and nobody came for him. The thing was massive, black in color, fangs bared and foaming at the mouth, ravenous, starving, lunged, and he awoke, same as always with a start, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
"Seven fucking hells!" Ramsay cursed, growling it through gritted teeth. He panted and gasped for air, though no benefit except for dizziness came to him.
Glancing down and removing his feet, where his muddied boots had left traces of dirt upon the long rectangular wooden table in Winterfell's library as he had leaned back in his chair upon dozing off, his feet propped up on the wooden table, mud splatters leaving brown markings near the several red X's, the Boltons' plans for laying waste to Stannis Baratheon's fucking armies visible for anyone to see who dared to look upon the map. Ramsay winced, as he felt his chin, thinking that he would need to shave soon. He valued being clean shaven. It was better for the women in his life that way.
Reek used to do it. At the thought of his pet plaything, Ramsay furrowed his brows into a frown. Sansa Stark had not taken the revelation that Theon was still alive as well as he would have hoped.
However, in the span of the few weeks the girl had been with them already, the Stark woman had vested a great interest in ensuring the Imp arrived to Winterfell save and unharmed, and would barely even glance Ramsay's way if she could help it.
Ramsay scoffed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he forced himself to his feet and headed towards the mess hall, madly in need of water to quell the burning fires in his throat.
His ears perked up as he heard a noise, his hearing better than that of any one of his hounds and his nostrils flared as the scent of honeysuckle and lavender wafted through his nostrils.
It was her. To avoid the girl spotting him, he ducked behind a pillar and carefully poked his head out. Anything to get a glimpse of Lady Stark. He drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs as his gaze lingered on her backside, her figure quite eye-catching in a purple silk gown with matching purple coreset, the train of her dress a foot long and seemed to glide behind her whenever she walked down the corridor. It took him a moment to realize what he was smelling was her hair, and his cobalt fiery eyes traveled upwards and settled on Sansa's red hair.
The aching in his skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain was always there. He understood at once why they called it a hangover, for it felt as if the blackest of clouds were over his head with no intention of clearing until the morrow.
Ramsay watched as the girl gingerly pushed open the doors to the mess hall and went inside. He furrowed his brows into a frown.
How the smell of the wine earlier this evening had been almost intoxicating, yet right now, it only added to his nausea. His brain felt like it would swell beyond the capacity of his skull and now his dehydration was entirely too much to ignore.
He needed water. He had ventured down from the library with intent of heading to the mess hall in search of a flagon of water.
Normally, he'd ask one of the serving girls or Reek to bring him a flagon, but he wanted to clear his head as it was. For some insane, maddening reason that was beyond Ramsay's ability to comprehend, he'd not been able to stop thinking of Sansa Stark of Winterfell. He had not expected nor anticipated to find her in the mess hall too, the second time that he had run into the young woman on her own alone.
Surely, it was fate. The gods were kind to him, were they not? He was blessed.
He had fully intended to take the Stark woman for himself tonight, just what he needed to cease the fire in his loins. Ramsay had not anticipated the reaction she would have as he had escorted her to the library, not intending to let her linger there. He knew this woman's game, how she played it.
Well… Sansa would not win. And now, it would appear that Sansa Stark had bested him, for this time, it was he who was a complete loss for words, much less able to form a cohesive thought.
Ramsay Bolton stared at his future bride, not able to form any coherent words as to what this woman had just done.
She had to be the insane one, not him. To put it rather bluntly, Ramsay had never received such a response before.
In fact, he doubted that, given his status as a young lord, no one had ever rejected him. He was utterly shocked at her outburst.
He could tell that Sansa did not know what to do, given that he had literally pinned her against the wall near the exit.
Ramsay watched, mesmerized, as he stared at Sansa Stark. The red of her hair was the first thing he saw, how her hair cascaded in loose curls, the tips of it ending at her breasts. Ramsay loved to watch her hair as it moved along with the girl's movements, but it was not the best thing about Stark. It fell in ringlets about her pale skin, so striking that it was the only thing anyone in this godforsaken castle ever seemed to comment on.
But Ramsay barely noticed it. He could drink in her words like a strong wine and enjoy feeling tipsy. He watched the girl like she had the stars in her hands and soft petals at her feet.
He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and never let Sansa go. But first things first, Ramsay needed to know which one she intended to marry. Him.
Or she would somehow find a sneaky way to stay married to Tyrion fucking Lannister, and Ramsay prayed it would be him, and his nerves were so bad at asking the one question that plagued his mind that he practically shook at the very thought.
She was a beauty, there was no point in trying to deny that. Everything about the girl was beautiful. Her purple gown eye catching to her figure, and her hair highlighted her pretty features.
A much better sight than Myranda, he thought, and felt his lips curl into a sneer, and that was when he heard himself speak. "How kind of you to visit me in my...lonliness, Lady Sansa."
Sansa pursed her lips and made a quick scan of him, scowling. "I—I was lost, milord. F—Forgive me, Ramsay, please." Her voice escaped her in almost a whisper. "Don't…" Sansa felt her lips part open slightly in shock as Ramsay closed off the gap of space between the two of them, grabbing the candelabra nearest him on a little side table, and he watched as the girl turned her head to the side as he unceremoniously shoved the Stark woman up against the side wall.
Sansa's eyes were squeezed tightly shut. No doubt she was blinded by the light, which he had deliberately thrust into her face, but also fearful of what was going to become of her here, trapped alone in the estate's library with only Ramsay for her company.
Ramsay smiled maliciously, satisfied at her obvious discomfort. Good. She ought to be scared. He felt Sansa flinch as the candle burned dangerously close to her skin, but she barely moved because of his iron grip.
She had supple flesh for a woman well past her bloom. Sighing exasperatedly, he gave a weary, sideways glance at the map still sprawled about the entire half of the table.
As much as he enjoyed making his women suffer, he was also an impatient man, and he wanted to get this over and done with. He would discover for himself her answer of whom she wished to marry and if she chose to stay married to the fucking little cretinous dwarf that was barely even half of a man and a foot shorter than Sansa was, he would punish her however he saw fit and then be done with the girl and able to move on with life. She was guilty of driving him insane.
Of that much, he was certain. Lowering the light in his hand, he turned his gaze lazily back towards the beauty in front of him, and nearly dropped the candle. Her two almond shaped eyes stared back at him, widening in shock as he stared right back. Ramsay blinked and Ramsay could feel his throat beginning to tighten and constrict.
The Stark woman was breathing heavily, her bosom rising and falling, and he could feel her trembling beneath his ironclad grip. She wasn't much in terms of height; her delicate little nose barely reached the top of his shoulders. The girl reminded Ramsay of a bird in a cage, a creature teeming with life.
It was those eyes…they had seemingly ensnared Ramsay. He'd been about to start his speech, the usual nonsense where he would threaten her, chastise the girl for walking about the castle un-escorted at night, force her to do something, just to frighten her. Ramsay had been expecting to see fear in those bright azure eyes, but instead, what he found within her irises was amazement.
Perhaps even curiosity. Not the way that countless debutantes looked fascinated when they stared at him in court. Not the way the lords looked at him whenever he journeyed outside of Winterfell and dipped in society a little, for reputation's sake.
No. The girl looked at him as if he were some odd, foreign creature that she had discovered, not a man of noble society. Sansa was eyeing him as if he were some odd, foreign creature that she had just discovered, not a young lord.
Any other young woman would have looked away, blushing with embarrassment or at least fear, but this woman's gaze was so steady and unyielding.
It was as if she knew exactly what lay beyond his own gaze, and yet she did not flinch at whatever she saw within.
It was unsettling to say the least.
This Stark girl, whoever she was, was most peculiar. Not that Ramsay really gave this a second thought. He brushed aside this nuanced observation just as quickly as it had first entered his mind and turned his attention back to the woman standing in front of him. She really was a beauty. Ramsay tightened his grip ever so slightly and hardened his gaze.
She no doubt got his intended message, that she was not going anywhere he did not want her to, because the curiosity which seemed to radiate from her eyes a minute ago quickly dissipated, and was replaced by that of bland resignation and a lifeless acceptance. Ramsay felt himself relax, and yet oddly disappointed at her change of expression, although Ramsay could not understand why.
Ramsay marveled at how she could be so timid at the sight of him, how much to more when he would finally take her for himself.
"Lost?" he chuckled darkly. "This is your home. How can you be lost, milady? I think you are lying to me, little dove."
Ramsay watched the girl breathed in nervously and licked her lips to moisten them, and just that simple gesture was enough to cause a ravaging heat to overwhelm him between his legs, and he practically growled with the effort to restrain himself.
They were so close now, and to him she was even more beautiful up close.
When Sansa spoke, her voice was timid, meek. "I apologize. I'm sorry to have bothered you, milord. You seem…" Sansa shifted slightly, recognizing where it was that they were, and did not meet his gaze. "Distracted."
Her voice was hoarse and weak. Ramsay noticed how unsure of herself she sounded.
"Your fingers are frigid, Lady Sansa." He shifted her weight and rose her slightly so she was resting on top of the table, and he could have sworn he heard the Stark girl whimper a little as he pinned his hands on top of her thigh, preventing her escaping, and steadily rested the piece just above the picture.
And it abruptly ended when Sansa shook their hands off and violently wrenched her hand away from Ramsay's, as though his very touch burned her skin, her cheeks spotted with rosy color, her cobalt eyes disturbed.
Ramsay looked away in frustration, his emptied hand forming a fist.
Sansa cleared her throat, and still, with her head facing away from him, turned sharply towards the left, she spoke curtly.
"Leave. Me. Alone. You forget that I am a married woman. Your advances are and shall always remain unwanted, Ramsay Bolton."
Ramsay silently seethed, jaw rooted in anger. There was something disgustingly noble about the way the Stark woman was behaving towards him, that Ramsay began to feel unpleasant bitterness at the back of his throat and anger rise within him now.
Who in the seven fucking hells did she think she was? A saint? An angel? A gift from the gods?
He stifled a low warning growl at the back of his throat and stared at Sansa, whose gaze remained unabashed and unwavering.
"What is your rush, little dove? I did promise to show you to the library, and we just got here, after all. Do you not think we should…take the time to…get to know one another," Ramsay whispered in selfishly.
Whenever he was with Myranda, she smelled of fire and ash.
Sansa closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, suppressing a sob. He traced the concave of her waist with light fingers, his lips still on her ear. "You're so beautiful, Sansa…"
"You can let go of me, milord," Sansa hissed through gritted teeth, blinking back briny tears, and steeling herself for Ramsay to lose his temper. "I have made my decision, and it is not you, sir. You forget that I am a married woman, and nothing you can say or do to me will convince me otherwise."
So, there it was, then. Sansa Stark had chosen to remain married to the fucking little cunt of a dwarf, and not him.
He growled with the effort to restrain himself. Sansa's eyes were fixated at a spot behind Ramsay's head, unfocused and glassy, almost lifeless.
The lifeless, almost disinterested gaze with which Ramsay was met with did not suit Sansa Stark at all, for she was a beautiful young woman and to see this look of utter disinterest and disgust upon her pretty features was a sin. Sansa had turned her head away from Ramsay, not wanting to look at him, no doubt afraid of what was going to become of her.
The handsome dark-haired young lord could not explain his sudden shift in attitude as he let his hand slowly slide off her hand that he had rather unceremoniously grabbed in a vain attempt to keep her from leaving his side, before stepping backwards,and hearing Sansa let out an audible sigh of relief.
Ramsay, for reasons he could not identify, could not help staring at Sansa. Her white, supple, unblemished skin.
Sansa Stark had almost translucent skin, thin, and without discernable pigment. Sansa was fair, almost like that of the finest porcelain, yet she did hold at least a little bit of pink in her cheeks, currently flushed high with color at the unexpected contact.
He bit his bottom lip in a slight pout and drifted his hand upward, his fingertips grazing her cheek delicately, as if any harder than that, she would break.
So soft, so fragile, he thought ecstatically. He wondered just how much resistance the she-wolf would have if he were to try to kiss her and he wanted.
The moment, however, was immediately ruined, his good mood dissipated the Imp's wife let out a surprised gasp and backed away, her back pressing further against the wall until she was well pressed against it.
Ramsay felt the inner beast within his chest tug and strain on its chain as he stifled a low growl in the back of his throat, his blue eyes flashing angrily, their hue darkening to a cerulean color. It was probably due to the fact that Sansa had not felt what he had just then. Gritting his teeth, he stared at her bitterly.
Was he really that despicable? The fair-skinned beauty was breathing heavily, her breast rising and falling, and he could feel her shake.
Blinking owlishly at the young woman whose wrist he currently held captive in a vice-grip, Ramsay quickly realized who he was.
A young lord of these lands. He could have any woman he wanted. Most women would happily lift their skirts and show him a bit of ankle (or any part that he so chose) and gladly bed him for the promise of jewels, titles, the potential to be his wife.
And he most certainly did not need to think of that fucking little Lannister man's feelings. He did not give a damn about etiquette and proper edict as far as Sansa Stark was concerned, and it was then that his gaze drifted downward and settled upon her left hand, and he froze.
There on her left ring finger glistened a simple but elegant yellow gold wedding band. Had she chosen him instead, Ramsay would have seen to it her wedding ring was made of the finest gold and at least had a diamond in it, but the girl seemed quite content with the simple and rather quite plain piece of jewelry.
Ramsay ground his teeth in anger and locked his jaw, and the girl let out a low whimper, and this only fueled whelming ache and fire between his legs. "Shh." Ramsay whispered it into the shell of the Stark woman's ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe. He did it again, as much to soothe girl's nerves as much as to calm himself. "Shush, love. You will enjoy what comes next. You have chosen the Imp. I see that now, but…doesn't mean the two of us still can't have a little fun, right?" When she favored a stunned silence as a response, Ramsay took that as his opportunity to continue.
"Milord, I…please don't do this, don't do this to me," she whimpered.
Her begging only spurned him on, and he grinned. "I won't hurt you. Too much," he added, almost as an afterthought. "You are to be reunited with your little lord husband in but a few precious days, milady, I know that, Stark. You think that I didn't notice" he added, jerking his head towards the gold ring upon her finger, almost as an afterthought, and let out a shuddering breath as his hand wandered of its own accord, no longer taking direction from his mind as it came to rest upon the column of her pale, perfect white throat and he squeezed. "It is a shame, milady. I am the better choice, but since you will not take my word for it, then…I guess I'll just have to prove it to you," he whispered into the shell of her ear.
So soft, he thought, parting his lips slightly, imagining for a moment to envision the girl's eyes widening in shock as he squeezed his hands around her throat and slowly drained the life force out of his brother's future princess, watching the light dim in her dark eyes. And yet…even that thought troubled Ramsay.
The thought of Sansa Stark, easily the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, the belle of the ball, dead at his hands. There was a scream from deep within that forced its way from his mouth, it was as if his fuming soul had unleashed a horrible shadow demon.
It was rumored that the girl's father had been in league with a witch who dabbled in the arts of black magic, and Ramsay wondered if the Stark woman standing before him by now had put him under a spell, as if by witch's curse. Ramsay wondered how much of it was true, and if it was merely a falsehood spread by the vicious peasants.
Regardless, he knew only at this moment how he felt—how this woman who trembled at him beneath his touch, which was surprisingly gentle, was making him feel. The only Ramsay could feel was anger and humiliation at the girl's rejection of him. That he did not want to trust anyone, because it would be easier for him…safer.
Oh, he knew he was hiding truth from himself, of how much this really had to do with scars that just simply would not heal, and his sadness. Ramsay shook his head violently to clear his mind of such weak-willed thoughts, his hands curling into tight fists and his teeth locked up once the sound was out. He would deal with his…feelings later.
If Sansa would not have him, then there was always Myranda. Ramsay felt Sansa trembled beneath his touch and that simple shudder of revulsion stopped the man dead in his tracks as he stared into her surprisingly warm and pleading blue eyes. In the Imp's wife's cobalt hues was her soul, with the kind of beauty that expanded a moment into a personal eternity, heaven he wished to be a part of.
Sansa Stark's blue eyes were bright and burning with anger and fear. Ramsay felt his frustrations well deep within his chest and he thought he was going to explode, and he felt himself exhale through his nose in sleep, deep, and slightly shaking breaths, still violently maintaining his ironclad grip upon Sansa's delicate, birdlike wrist.
He took another deep breath, wanting nothing more than to scream at the girl, how she was making the wrong choice by choosing Tyrion fucking Lannister over him, to have a tantrum and raise his hand to her, and yet…behind those fearful azure eyes of hers that had seemingly once again found a way to trap Ramsay in the depths of their endless gaze all on their own, much like that day in the courtyard, and now there was a pleading that lingered in her orbs, sadness, and shock, as well.
She anxiously looked toward her left and right. Ramsay did not blame her for being unreasonably terrified. He could see how terrified she would be as this memory would come back and play on her mind over and over again.
It would repeat. He knew this, for he had experienced the same thing again with…Reek, who lingered deep in the dungeons below their feet. It was just too easy for Ramsay, for him to be cruel in the moment and then the damage was done.
So many times in life, especially towards Father, he had wanted to unsay things, to take them all back, he didn't mean them. He was learning how to deal with it, but slowly.
It was one of the reasons Ramsay had taken a liking to Sansa so much, because whenever he was around this fair-skinned, auburn-haired beauty of a winter rose, he did not feel the incessant urge to kill propelling him forward. Ramsay continued to gaze into those dark eyes of his brother's pretty little bride, and he felt his anger slowly begin to dissipate, though the pleading, desperate look she was currently giving him did nothing to quell the overpowering whelming in his groin. He swallowed past a lump forming in his throat, feeling his eyes begin to moisten.
The ember-haired winter rose in front of him, her eyes, even when afraid, showed the unfamiliar kind of gentle concern that he always hoped Father would show him one day, though much to his disappointment and hatred, Father always saved his praise and looks of proud adoration and love for Domeric instead.
Looking down his nose into Sansa Stark's eyes, the emotions in the girl's eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of a sunlit surface, even here on the outskirts of the North, with seemingly endless brutal winters, and it was only end of November. Her eyes had a thousand shades of brown within them.
Mesmerizing and bewitching. Just like you, Sansa, he thought. Ramsay knew that Sansa believed of him that his designs of her were for him to take her for himself, to take her away from the Imp, marry her, impregnate her with an heir, maybe even two or three. And yet, while that had been his intentions originally, he knew now that he did not want this. Not in this way.
Not like this. No… Ramsay had not anticipated the Stark woman's rejection when he'd demanded of her to stay put because no female had ever rejected him before until now. All of them, were his. Even now, as the Stark girl stood there, cowering underneath his weight, and staring up at him with wide, fearful eyes, Ramsay realized that this was not what he wanted.
This celestial being, the dwarf's new lover, and Ramsay's soon-to-be wife, whether she knew it or not, this woman, for reasons that were foreign to Ramsay, she did not see what every other woman in Winterfell saw whenever they were forced to meet the nobleman's wrathful and sometimes lustful gaze.
This strange creature, she did not see a young lord and future Warden of the North full of promise and potential. Instead, Sansa Stark saw him. Exactly as he was and he had, miraculously, for a moment, made him forget that he was who he was. What he was.
It was clear to Ramsay now. Sansa was afraid of him, reviled him as some form of beast or monster rather than a handsome young lord, and it was clear by the incessant way she kept fidgeting with her gold wedding ring, almost tenderly so, that she cared for the accursed little Imp who was nothing more than a wretch. Maybe she even loves it. sneered angrily. Ramsay could feel the sweat drench in his skin from the adrenaline coursing through his veins and there was still the matter of the almost unbearable heat pooling between his legs, and he felt like he was going to implode if he did not do something soon to remedy this little problem.
"Tell me, beloved, answer me this one question for me, darling, I'm just dying to know, and don't even think of lying to me," he sneered, in a last-ditch effort to control his urge. Her leg shifted against his thigh, and he almost growled with the effort to restrain himself. Ramsay rested his chin on her shoulder and whispered his next question into his future bride's ear, desperate to hear the Stark woman's answer.
"Wh—what it is it, milord?" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His hold on her hips tightened, and he growled again restraining himself. His promised bride was as fragile as a dove. But he too, recognized her courage to stand still, standing proud and tall, despite her obvious fear, despite witnessing the defamation of her home, and the agreement to marry one of the sons of the bastard who betrayed and murdered her mother and kidnapped her brother. Sansa Stark was tougher than anyone had thought.
"Are you foolish like your little lord husband is? Do you believe in love?" There was no malice in his voice. He questioned it out of the void, resting his forehead behind her left ear. Her answer would help him cease the madness wild between his legs and resist his dark urge. There was a silence, and Ramsay felt that fire seed of anger begin to resurface, despite his best efforts to quell his swelling temper. He had thought perhaps his brother's little bride was not answering him simply to spite him, rub salt in the already tender wound inflicted upon his heart by learning Sansa had chosen him.
But then he blinked, and Ramsay quickly realized that the young woman had not expected such a question, and him asking it of her had caught her off guard and therefore, she did not respond. Ramsay lifted his chin and jutted it out slightly, turning to face Sansa, who was panting heavily, her heavily lidded blue eyes downcast, twisting her fingers together, nervously fidgeting with the plain gold wedding ring the dwarf had given her, currently resting idle on her left ring finger, and Ramsay resisted the great urge to smack her hand away.
Ramsay could not help but notice how the fingers of her right hand continuously weaved in and out of her knuckles. She was nervous. He swallowed heavily past the lump forming in his throat.
Ramsay could feel the throbbing of his own eyes, the thumping of his heart against his chest. He felt his fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into the skin of his palm as he clenched and un-clenched his hands, unsure of what to do with them, honestly. He was…nervous. Since when did he, a lord, ever get fucking nervous? Ramsay could not hear his rapid breathing as his breaths quickened, but he could feel the air flooding in and out of his lungs as he waited for his little brother's bride to answer his question.
Hesitantly, his blue eyes looked towards Sansa Stark. The inexplicable and sudden fear he felt welling deep within the uncomfortable pit currently forming in his stomach tortured his guts, churning his stomach into tense cramps. His fears engulfed his conscience, knocking all other thoughts aside. Her answer to his question would make things quite plain and perfectly clear to him whom she loved. It overwhelmed his body, making it drastically exhausted all of a sudden.
However, most of all, the fear of the ambiguity of not knowing Sansa's answer was making it calm and it scared him badly.
That was what scared him most of all, and it did not help his situation that the power of speech seemed to have rendered his brother's lover mute. She blinked owlishly at Ramsay, staring into his bright blue eyes burning with anger, and her heart fell silent. "ANSWER ME!" Ramsay roared, spittle flying from his lips. But the foolish woman could not force her lips to move.
As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he pointed a shaky finger in her face. "Do you have nothing to say on the matter, Stark? I asked you a question, Sansa, now tell me what you're thinking!" Ramsay watched as the girl flinched at the harsh bark in his voice. But her mind was blank and blue eyes wide as she stared at the humiliated and rejected man in horror, how the man was silently seething, utterly fuming.
For her. Because of her. His blue eyes desperately searched hers…waiting for her to answer. She just had to say something! Sansa wildly searched her mind for something reasonable to say, but to her surprise, her heart answered for her.
"Yes. I believe in love. And I am fortunate to have it with…" Tyrion, is what he knew she was about to say, and he felt his blood boil, though the fire and ache between his loins immediately dissipated at hearing Sansa Stark's words. Her voice was a soft susurration, like a soft breeze in the summer.
And that was when he let her go, relinquishing his grip upon her wrist. It was clear to him, judging by the fear in his future bride's eyes, that she only saw the monster, the beast inside. And of course, she was right. He felt the fire in between his legs dissipate almost instantly, the overwhelming urge to take her right there and then in the castle's library against the wall leaving Ramsay. Oh, he would eventually, of this he knew, but not yet.
Not in this way. "Go then. Leave me," he croaked hoarsely, feeling moisture in his eyes as he released her, shoving her forward slightly, albeit surprisingly gently so, and not violently, as she expected it to. Sansa stood frozen on the spot, mouth slightly agape in shock, her soft, luscious lips parted, still glancing up at Ramsay, her eyes fearful of Lord Roose Bolton's bastard, and what he had almost done to her.
She was staring at him as she had that moment in the courtyard two weeks ago upon first laying eyes on him and his twin brother. That look of insatiable curiosity, almost a thirst. Ramsay could not stand it. He wished for nothing more than Sansa Stark to disappear and not look at him. Not as he was at present. A mess. Sansa stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard on it, clearly hesitating. "Sansa."
Ramsay felt his voice drop and become dangerously low and soft, and the girl flinched, though she had by this point, turned around on the heel of her boot, preparing to flee the library and make for the stairwell that led to the second floor of the castle, undoubtedly to the East Wing to head to the safety of her chambers where they both knew existed a lock on the door to her bedroom.
Ramsay's voice was low and soft, but powerful enough to send a chill of fear and…something else through Sansa's body, sending an incredible heat coursing through her body, setting her blood on fire. His voice was deep, whenever he spoke, because of his status as Prince, every head in the room would turn. Ramsay Bolton had that rich, smooth, melodious tone, just like Tyrion. The kind of voice a man ought to have, Sansa thought, nervously biting the wall of her cheek. Both men, whenever they spoke, spoke as if they controlled all corners of Westeros, every region. Their experience seeping through with just a few choice words, and a look.
Both men reminded Sansa of a stormy, dark day.
"Don't." Ramsay's warning escaped him as a low growl.
"Don't what, milord?" She bit down on her tongue, tasting iron, and she quickly realized she bit her tongue hard enough that it bled. It was a miracle that Sansa could even find her words, after what had almost transpired here. Tyrion would be furious once he learned of what happened. Or rather, what had almost happened.
"Don't believe in it. In love," he answered, and when Ramsay saw Sansa knit her brows together in confusion, a frown playing upon her beautiful features, and he returned the look. For one wild inappropriate moment, he wanted to see what her smile looked like. But Ramsay Snow knew better.
"Why?" Sansa felt like her head would likely explode. The moment she realized she had misinterpreted Lord Roose's son's actions, his expressions, and his words, and her heart gave a lurch. It seemed to take ages for Ramsay to find his voice.
Now, the silence lay upon her skin like a thick poison. It seeped into her blood and paralyzed her mind. Her pupils had become dilated and there was a tremor in her hands. She gingerly rubbed the wrist Ramsay had almost broken, and already, Sansa could see the beginning purple bruises of the markings she knew that she did not want but would bear them regardless. Tyrion, when he arrived, was going to be livid. Ramsay's face as she lifted her head to gaze up at the distraught man silently fuming in his anger and disappointment was one of awkwardness, not even hurrying to save her feelings, to fill the void between them that hung in the air like a cold chill.
This void was a cruelty Ramsay had inflicted upon Sansa unintentionally, but had he been aware, Sansa knew he would not have cared a wit. He picked his eyes off the floor, where he had been staring at the hem of her simple green linen gown with the weariness of one who was fatigued with the whining of a small child and raised his eyebrows, glowering at young Sansa Stark. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid their conversation had become.
The silence was eerily unnatural, and both Ramsay and Sansa decided that they hated it, though neither knew what to say yet.
Finally, Ramsay shattered the silence, his voice low and sounding immensely disappointed. "Because…I do not have it." He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as though he were fighting off a migraine. "If you stay with me, Sansa, then I will kill you bit by bit. I cannot lie to you, milady. That is what I do to those who claim to love me," Ramsay growled, restlessly beginning to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind his back, actively averting her gaze. Sansa was stunned into silence and could only blink. "Why? Seven fucking hells. I don't know," Ramsay snarled. "If I have enough power over you, it puts me in control. Having control makes you strong, Sansa, and we Barret men don't like weaklings. It gives me satisfaction. Almost like…it is the thing that drives me. The thing that I would do any goddamn thing for. You have chosen this life, by marrying the fucking Imp, Lady Sansa, by not realizing what kind of life he will give you. What Icould have given you. What kind of life I will give you, Sansa. I promise."
Sansa's lips parted open in shock, and she was struggling to find her words. There it was again. That inquisitive, curious look. Ramsay could not stand it, for her to look at him this way. "Go. Leave me. Do I need to say it a second time? I really hate saying it a second time. GO!" Ramsay roared, looking down at his boots in defeat, causing Sansa to visibly flinch and shrink away.
The young woman did not need to be told a third time. For which Ramsay was grateful. If she had, she would have met the back of his hand, given how temperamental he felt. Quickly ducking under Ramsay's arm, Sansa picked up the skirts of her purple gown slightly and fled as quickly as she could into the library, the closest room in the hallway that would separate her from Lord Roose's bastard and slammed the door.
He let out a haggard sigh as he heard the click of the deadbolt.
Neither of them unable to believe tonight. Both parties, it should be noted, were unaware of Roose lingering in the shadows.
He had seen everything…