Tyrion

Vicious bastard cunt. Those were the only three words Tyrion could think of to describe Lord Roose Bolton and his whelp of a son as Ramsay Bolton entered the mess hall, dark hair disheveled and a strange flushed pinkness in his cheeks, and an insufferable grin on his face, and he especially didn't like how he was looking at Sansa, as if she were nothing more than a prize to be won by him.

If Roose Bolton noticed the exchange, the Warden of the North said nothing. He merely shot Ramsay a dark stony glare and coughed once to clear his throat as Ramsay seemed fixated on watching Sansa, his icy gaze unabashed and unwavering. Tyrion inhaled a sharp breath of cold air that pained his lungs as he felt Sansa's hand underneath the table drift over and settle upon his lap.

The sound of the Warden coughing to clear his throat as much as to command Tyrion's attention away from that of his son and Sansa Stark. "As I'm sure you can tell by the weather outside, Winterfell is snowed in," remarked Roose Bolton, his voice almost a lazy drawl as he smirked at Tyrion over the rim of his goblet, his gaze flitting between that of his son and Sansa.

Tyrion mutely nodded, shoving his bowl of lumpy porridge away, resisting the urge to crinkle his nose in disgust.

The stuff was more lumps and water than edible food. Intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above, each flake swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carried it toward a group of wandering dogs, scouring the streets for scraps.

Glittering snowflakes fell soundlessly, taking their time before they reached their destined places of rest, enveloping everything in a calm, silent coldness that was comforting in its own special way. He suppressed a shudder, crossing his arms and shrinking into his thick linen shirt for warmth as much as he could.

Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the far-off distance. Even his own breath seemed to die as soon as it left his mouth. "What do you propose we do about it, then? The doors of Winterfell need to be cleared."

Roose gave a curt nod, his expression was impassive. "Agreed. I think it best if Ramsay and his…servant help us down the side of the building. From what Ramsay tells me, the boy is…quite a climber," he added, casting a dark look towards a shadowy figure hiding behind one of those mess halls columns.

Tyrion blinked and had to squint, leaning forward in his chair and he quickly realized it was Theon. He felt Sansa's fingers turn into a claw and rake down the side of his leg. He winced as he could have sworn he felt her nails dig and puncture a hole in his pants leg, though he made no comment.

He saw her posture tense and become rigid and Theon gingerly stepped out from behind the pillar, eyes downcast, and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. It did not escape Tyrion's notice that he was afraid to look Sansa in the eyes. "Y—yes, M—Master," Reek mumbled, his voice breathy and barely above a whisper. He watched as he moved to stand behind Ramsay.

Ramsay snorted and took a long swig of his wine. "I caught Reek here trying to escape by scaling the walls of Winterfell using climbing spikes, milady," he spoke up, having noticed Sansa's brows furrowed in confusion as she shot a dark look at Reek. "But don't worry, milady. I punished him for it," he added, shooting Sansa and Tyrion a charming little grin that sent a tremor of revulsion down his spine.

"Indeed." Roose's voice was droll, clipped, and hard. Tyrion knew well enough from spending time around his father that Roose and Tywin were of similar mindsets and similar temperaments and were able to recognize when someone's temper was about to implode.

He watched as Roose heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I think that it best if your little pet helps everyone down the side of the building on the second floor, outside on the east side of the castle's balcony terrace, boy."

If Ramsay looked surprised by his father's plan, the bastard gave no comment. He merely blinked a couple of times and then quickly nodded.

Tyrion scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line as dozens of images, possible scenarios for enacting vicious and sweet, blissful revenge on Ramsay Bolton for what he had done to his wife flitted through his mind, each more gruesome than the next.

He was surprised when Ramsay spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "We should lead a team of two men. Reek here can…escort us down." He coughed to attempt to hide his poorly disguised laugh, a fact which only made Tyrion bristle in his chair, and he felt Sansa's hand move from his leg and rested on his hand currently clutching his fork into a vicious ironclad grip.

Kill you. Kill you, kill you all, kill them all… It was all Tyrion could think of. Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek and met Sansa's gaze, whose face remained impassive, though he as her husband was not fooled.

She worried about Winterfell and the people who helped keep her family's castle running.

"The people outside," she whispered. "If we cannot clear the snow, then the soldiers and others who work outside are apt to freeze to their deaths," she whispered, her cobalt blue eyes glistening with unshed moisture. "We cannot allow that to happen, milord. We have to help. I think this plan sounds like it might work."

Tyrion nodded, though her words did nothing to quell the sudden unease that he felt forming in the pit of his stomach. "And what of the women, Warden? We cannot have them working out in this kind of inclement weather." He furrowed his brows into a frown and reached for his wine.

"No, we cannot." Roose agreed with Tyrion, something of a miracle, he thought. He glanced towards Sansa and then back a petite little young blonde who entered the mess hall and moved to stand behind Sansa's chair. He scowled and glanced back towards Tyrion and Ramsay. "Perhaps the women can work indoors and begin to prepare spaces for the poor souls outside that cannot get in. Once we clear the doors, our soldiers and other hands will come in droves. And I don't know what our situation is in the kitchens, I admit," he confessed, glancing towards the little blonde, who gave a grim nod of her head, confirming what the Warden suspected to be true, that they were understaffed. "If that is the case, then perhaps Lady Stark and…what is your name, girl?" he asked, lifting his chin to glance at the blonde, who looked mortified and upset.

"P—Phoebe, Your Grace," she murmured, averting her gaze, and actively looking at the man's boots. A light pink blush speckled along her pale cheeks.

Roose Bolton nodded and dismissed the girl's name with a curt wave of his hand. "Perhaps you and Lady Stark can assist us and Maester Qyburn inside with lighting our halls as best as possible. The chandeliers have a pulley system. Qyburn and Maester Wolkan can show you where, after which, you will assist whoever is in the kitchens with preparing supper if they need help."

Tyrion felt his blood boil. Sansa was a Stark of Winterfell, and to demand, not even to ask, that his wife work in the kitchens like a common kitchen wench that was well beneath her was uncalled for. He opened his mouth to retort and violently protest this idea but was not given a chance to as he let out a yelp of surprise and felt a sharp swelling pain on his arm.

Tyrion glanced down and quickly realized that Sansa had pinched his arm. She gave a shake of her head, silently communicating with him to remain silent on this matter. Sansa lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly in order to meet the Warden of the North's piercing and listless gaze. "I would be honored to help."

Tyrion watched as the Warden regarded Sansa in silence for a moment, and then broke into a seemingly genuine smile and rose from his chair.

"Excellent. That's our plan then. I'll give everyone a few minutes to prepare themselves, but I think we should meet by the stairwell in fifteen minutes, men assembled and ready to clear out the snow from the doors. It's going to be hard work."

A new voice coughed once to clear their throat and both Tyrion and Sansa swiveled in their chairs to get a glimpse of whomever it was that spoken. Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek as Maester Qyburn stepped from the shadows, having seemingly been listening to the Warden's plan regarding clearing the snow.

"A fine idea, Your Grace. Might I also advise that should you begin to perspire; it is best to shed your layers immediately. The last thing we want is anyone freezing to death. All of your lives are much too valuable. For it would be a shame if anyone of you," Here, Qyburn let his gaze sweep over the room, and Tyrion could have sworn Cersei's maester's gaze settled upon Ramsay, "froze to their deaths."

His voice was curt and hardened, though it softened as he tore his gaze away from Ramsay and settled upon Sansa and the little blonde.

"If you feel yourself growing hot, find a way to come inside immediately and come to me," Qyburn commanded, seeming to shrink into his thick set of black robes as much as he could for warmth as a cold gust blew through the hall. The men gave a nod, and everyone rose to their feet, ignoring the serving girls as they bustled throughout the mess hall, clearing away everyone's plates.

That's the last fucking thing I'm going to do is come to you, snake, Tyrion thought darkly, as he watched Qyburn's backside as he moved in tandem with Lord Roose Bolton, the pair of men conversing amongst themselves in low tones, entirely too low for Tyrion to make out, but he supposed it didn't matter. Tyrion moved to exit the banquet hall but was stopped by the touch of Sansa's hand upon his shoulder. He emanated a tense exhale and paused as everyone else filed out of the room, noticing Ramsay shoot the pair of them a dark glowering, fuming stare, though he made no comment and left the room.

Tyrion felt the familiar rising of hot anger deep in the pit of his stomach.

Bastard, stay the fucking hell away from my wife. If he touches her again, I swear with the gods as my witness, I'm going to kill this cunt. No matter what happens to me. He touches her again, he's a fucking dead man. I swear it by the old gods and the new.

Hatred burned in his heart so deep that it was ingrained in the tissue. Red. Everything was turning red. His vision blurred as a flame curled in the pit of his stomach. His brain went on overdrive as it picked over every unpleasant memory he'd ever associated with Ramsay or Qyburn. The memories weighed down on him, but instead of breaking, even more, his heart turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as his mind took complete control.

The flames in his stomach rose up to his chest and crawled through his veins, taking over the rest of his body. Waves of fury rolled off him as the blood rose to his cheeks. Too long have you haunted my wife's footsteps; you snake. You touch her or go near her again, and you'll be sorry.

Here, this precise moment, this exact second, memories that would haunt him forever were formed. Tyrion had seen and done things that made him sick to think of, they would follow him for the rest of his life and would only bring him pain.

There would be no escape from these memories, it wasn't an illness that could be seen or cured, and the pain was to be his punishment for all he had done.

The term anger barely touched the tip of the surface. The need for revenge on Ramsay for cornering his wife and trying to kiss her was like a rat gnawing at his soul, relentless, unceasing. It was like an abscess on the skin of his soul that could only be cured by the cruel steel point of revenge. Festering like a septic wound, and the only effective remedy for this was cold, hard revenge. Savage. Spiteful. Unforgiving. He would bear a grudge until he died or took revenge, whichever came first. Settling old scores. Brutal. Callous. Satisfying. Empty, pointless. Mean-spirited. All these thoughts appealed to his twisted and dark sense of humor.

He was grateful when Qyburn spoke to him, startling him out of his anger that had been sure to erupt at any given moment.

"The men are ready when you are, Lord Tyrion," Qyburn spoke up softly, offering a sly little smile towards Sansa Tyrion wasn't sure what to make of.

"In a minute," he snapped harshly, his voice gruffer than he meant it to sound, though his mood still had not improved, and having Ramsay in such close proximity wasn't helping matters in that regard, either. He turned to his wife and as he looked at her, his expression softened. Tyrion gently reached up a hand and brushed a stray wisp of red hair behind her ear. She smiled, her eyes twinkling sadly as she reached over with her hand and held his hand as it rested on her cheek. Sansa sank into his embrace, loving the closeness, feeling every crevasse of his body.

"You will be safe?" she whispered, her smile faltering suddenly.

"Always," he promised, pulling her close for a gentle kiss.

"Swear it," she whispered, her voice wavering slightly.

He was surprised at the pain in her eyes. "I swear it. I promise, love, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be fine, this storm, it's nothing. A minor inconvenience is all that this is," he joked. "It's you I worry for," he said solemnly, his tone turning serious again. "You aren't sleeping. I want you to take it easy today, love. No exhausting yourself. If you feel tired, rest. And if Bolton, either one of them, or anybody else for that matter, tries to give you any more trouble, come get me, love."

Sansa nodded, pulling him tight for another quick peck on the cheek before reluctantly relinquishing her hold on her husband. She glanced back at him one more time as she allowed her new handmaiden Phoebe to lead her away and begin the daunting task of lighting the hallways. There was so much to be accounted for, and never enough time.

There's never enough time, is there? Sansa thought darkly and could not help the feeling of unease that formed in the pit of her stomach as she followed Phoebe and Qyburn, the two of them chatting animatedly to themselves. She lagged behind on purpose and watched as Tyrion followed Roose and Ramsay and Theon, and her cheeks flushed pink as Theon dared to glance back over her shoulder, and she let out a hiss and bit the wall of her cheek in pain.

Sansa could only stare as a light blush speckled along Theon's cheeks and he promptly looked away and pretended to focus intently on something Lord Tyrion was saying something. She scoffed and resisted the urge to spit in his face. Traitor, snake, he betrayed my family. Sansa felt her fingers curl into fists.

"Come, milady. We must hurry," urged Phoebe, gingerly tapping Sansa on the shoulder so as to not startle her. Sansa blinked, momentarily startled out of her feelings of immense distrust towards Theon and back towards Phoebe.

The little blonde shot her a kind smile and it was enough to ease the tension and she shot Tyrion one last glance over her shoulder before allowing herself to be led away by her new handmaiden, following Qyburn.

Tyrion watched his wife go, feeling a strange tinge of melancholia and a sudden sense of unease that caused his stomach to churn that he could not quite place as he watched her silhouette as it gradually faded and then vanished from view. He let out a sigh and glanced out the window at the raging blizzard.

It was an eerie sort of tranquility, so instead of being soothed; and it allowed for his senses to become heightened. He felt like the prey even though no predator could be detected. The houses of the townspeople of the smallfolk wrapped in the snow's cold embrace were covered in a massive white blanket.

From the mess hall's window, the outside world raged a blizzard so strong that the familiar sight of Winterfell and its grounds had almost become eradicated, consumed in a thick blanket of snow and ice. The snowflakes fell in an angry vortex and the air was practically still but was so thick it obstructed Tyrion's view and range of sight for miles. All he could do was watch and pray.

As he stared out into the grounds, the blizzard removed the illusions from his eyes.

With his sight, he realized he was not alone. He was one of many in their vast world and the world before was full of interesting things to see, to touch, to feel, to keep his mind anchored in the present, and from dwelling in the dark recesses of his mind for too long. But as the white flakes whirled around him, he felt more alone than ever at the moment, as alone as he would be in the bleakness of the heavens and cold, so cold.

Tyrion reached out a hand to guide his way, but his hand was swallowed before he even walked a few inches. To save his eyes from the blinding white light, he narrowed them until they were almost forced shut, all the while the wind raged with no sign of ending, only reducing its ferocity long enough to gather the strength for another attack.

All Tyrion's heart could do was beat warm blood around his veins in a faint hope that this raging storm would end soon, but he knew that the storm had only just begun. It had rolled in from the east earlier this morning, but the damage had only just started, and it was only about to get worse.

If only he could have known how right he was.