RAMSAY

Ramsay stifled a low growl in the back of his throat as his wife showed no signs of appearing by his side that night at dinner. Though, come to think of it. He had more or less yelled it at her earlier. Seven hells…what had he been thinking? His father had been right. He was nothing more than a bastard, so why should he even pretend to be anything else but? "Where is Lady Sansa? She is running behind," he growled, hating the clipped tone in his voice.

"She will be here, milord," piped up Myranda, standing dutifully behind Ramsay's chair, half her face shrouded in shadow, the other bathed in light, though the kennel bitch had long since perfected a look of perfect indifference.

Though Ramsay was not fooled. The bitch had always been a bad liar. The young lord could see it in her eyes. She was jealous of his pretty little wife, and rightfully so. Even he had been surprised to admit it, but Sansa was much prettier than Myranda, though quite a delicate little thing. Every night since their wedding night, when he mounted her, feeling her inside of him as he moved fluidly with each thrust, she felt…warm. So incredibly warm.

Like her insides were lit with Wildfire, giving Ramsay the warmth that even he knew he had craved since he'd been old enough to learn how the different anatomies worked. He'd fucked his first girl when he was fifteen years old. All of the girls he had lain with since then had felt strangely…cold. Cold and empty. He'd begun to wonder if this were how it was always to be, if it would leave him feeling unfulfilled afterwards, cold, desolate, and…alone.

But now… Sansa was giving him something, albeit however reluctantly whenever he forced apart her thighs so that he could enter her and her incredible heat that she gave off, that he had not known he'd missed. Or wanted.

And now that he had claimed her for himself and himself alone…he could not bear to lose this…thing, that which made him feel so complete. He did not know if what he felt for his lady wife was lust or…or…the beginning of an emotion which he had previously not thought himself capable of feeling, one that Father would chastise him for.

Dare he even think it? "Love," he sneered, raising his goblet to his lips and smirking at Reek cowering in the corner of the mess hall with the wine flagon, shrouded in the shadows and shrinking into his filthy rags as much as he could for warmth and security, as though he could somehow that would magically make him disappear into air. The wide oak double doors to the mess hall opened and in came his beauty herself. His Sansa Stark. His wife.

"Mine," he breathed lowly, exhaling slowly through his nose as he set down his wine goblet and half-rose from his chair to greet his wife, giving her a gentle but chaste peck on the cheek. He felt Sansa stiffen involuntarily at the gesture, and his face drained of color and his facial muscles tensed as he helped her to sit back down. "Black is a good color for you, milady," he complemented, hoping it would entice Sansa to say something—anything—to him.

He was, perhaps for the second time in his life, being truthful with his words, and so far, the only other being that had the capability of pulling the truth from his thin lips was staring coldly at him directly across the mess hall's table.

Roose. Ramsay swallowed nervously and returned his attentions to Lady Sansa, who had, for reasons unknown to him, chosen to wear a gown of black velvet, her red hair pulled up into an intricate braided bun, though a few loose wavy tendrils had escaped to frame her tired face, and she was looking much too thin for his comfort. Not eating…

"You are looking…well," Ramsay began, lying through his teeth as he spoke the words, hoping his face remained impassive, though the words that tumbled from his mouth in an effort to force his wife to speak more than two words to him sounded strained, even to him. "Eat," he commanded curtly, not even bothering to wait for Myranda or Reek to fill his goblet again. They did not need to be told what to do. They knew all too well what would happen, or they would likely meet his balled fist. "We did not invite you to dine with us to see you starve."

She scowled, knitting her brows together in a light frown and promptly pushed her plate of venison and bread and cheese away without so much as taking a single bite. "I should eat when you start treating me with respect."

Ramsay felt as though he had slapped her. His brain stuttered for a moment as his eyes took in more dim light streaming in from the windows of the mess hall than he expected as his mind struggled to process Sansa's words. Every part of him felt like it went on pause while his thoughts caught up, his fork clutched in a vice grip. He was half of a mind to shove the goddamned utensil into her pale and perfect hand which was resting dangerously close to his. After a wash of cold, he abruptly coughed once to clear his throat and barely glanced at Fat Walda or at Roose.

When he spoke, he could hear the venom dripping from his words as they tumbled from his mouth, and he balled his other hand into a fist and brought it beneath the table, where it came to settle surprisingly gently on her lap. He barely stifled his bemused grin as he heard his wife's little gasp of surprise as his hands wandered beneath the skirts of her gown, feeling her legs until his fingers came to stroke the folds of her entrance. "Please," he growled.

Sansa stiffened at what he was doing, though Ramsay could tell there was something else in Sansa's cobalt blue eyes, though what it was, Ramsay was having trouble discerning his wife's emotions, what she thought of him. And that troubled him.

Her face was currently one of beauty as her lips parted slightly, and her breathing rate increased, and thank the gods Fat Walda had engaged Roose in useless conversation that directed Father's attentions away from his bastard son and his she-wolf of a wife.

Good, he thought, almost growling with the effort to restrain himself. All he could think of was escorting Sansa Stark back to their chambers and fucking her until his balls were drained dry. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, hard enough to bleed, which sent a flaming, aching fire to his loins. Sansa let out a hiss as the silence of the mess hall lay on her pale white skin like a deathly slow acting poison.

It seeped into her blood and paralyzed her brain, her pupils became large and round as she smacked Ramsay's hand away when he attempted to insert a finger into that place where he ought not, especially not in front of present company, it was…highly inappropriate. Though she could not deny the strange feeling of heat that he gave off, a heat that she thought for a split second, that she liked and wanted more of, the most he was willing to give.

Glancing off to the side, Sansa bit down even harder on her bottom lip at seeing Ramsay's expression. One of malice, one of hate, and…and…pity? Self-pity? He felt sorry for himself, so he was taking it out on her, was that it? Ramsay knew his face was one of awkwardness, not even hurrying to save Sansa's feelings at what he was doing, to fill the awkward void between the two of them with a non-committal statement of appreciation or validation.

Sansa hated to think it, but given the two were married now by law, he had every right within himself to attempt to seduce his wife, procure an heir…and…it was working. The void of silence was a cruelty Ramsay inflicted unintentionally, but had he even been aware of it, Sansa believed that Ramsay would not have cared for it a wit.

He reluctantly removed his gaze (and his hand) from Sansa and towards Lord Roose, realizing his father had said something to the pair of them, with the weariness of one who was fatigued with the whining of a small child and raised his eyebrows. "I do beg your pardon, Father. Forgive me." Ramsay bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Lord Roose snorted over the rim of his goblet and exchanged a knowing little smirk with Lady Walda. "Yes, yes, you seem much…ah, shall we say, distracted, my son. I was saying that, Walda and I have some good news to share. Since we're all together." He smirked and looked towards his wife. "Why don't you be the one to tell them?"

Walda nodded, the beginnings of a kind and excited grin forming on her face, though Ramsay could not stop the involuntarily shudder of revolt that traveled down his spine as he looked at the fat cunt that Lord Roose had married. The sunlight stopped at her skin, but the jibes went right to Fat Walda's heart.

All anyone saw was poor self-control, someone so weak willed as the allow themselves to become disfigured. Her gait had become awkward, she felt so hot in the summertime and always she walked in a toxic cloud of judgement. People didn't think she noticed how they turned to stare in the courtyard whenever Walda walked the grounds, some pointed, some didn't care if she did see. Some folks used alcohol as their vice to cope with stress, other men had whoring.

But hers was too obvious to miss, she wore it like a thick overcoat everywhere she went. Walda was well aware of her looks, but how could she walk about the estate of Winterfell with their staff's incredulous stares boring into her? This vice that began in childhood, always being given food when she cried, was now so ingrained. When she was sad, she ate, when she was anxious, she ate, when she was stressed, she ate. All the fucking time, Walda ate.

All that pain, all so visible, all totally ignored.

"We're going to have a baby," she breathed, either completely oblivious to Ramsay's immediate discomfort, or she chose to ignore it, her kind eyes instead choosing to focus on Lady Sansa Stark's face to gauge her thoughts.

Lady Sansa, much to Ramsay's hatred, broke into a kind smile, though her blue eyes looked…victorious.

Seething, Ramsay kept his hands balled into fists in his lap, desperate to control his sudden shaking tremors. His blood felt like ice in his veins.

"Congratulations. I'm very happy for you," Sansa complimented, breaking into a wide white smile, and her smile only widened even more when Lord Roose claimed that Maester Wolkan believed by the way Walda was carrying, that it was a boy.

Ramsay chose silence as perhaps the only response to this unexpected news, feeling his jaw clench in anger and his teeth grinding as his hands gripped his wine goblet, his blue eyes swiveling towards the back of his head in a distressed sense of a headache.

He tilted his head and stumbled from the mess hall, trying to leave the room as he took a long swig of the dark substance that affected him. He sighed as the walls around him became distorted, changing their figures in the blink of an eye. "F—forgive me, Father," he growled darkly, swatting away Sansa's hand as she rose to stand. He did not wish for her to see him like this, though even he couldn't quite explain it.

"If milord will please excuse my husband, he is…tired and needs to rest," Sansa mumbled half-heartedly as she gripped onto Ramsay's arm, her fingernails curling tightly into a fist on his arm. "Move, Ramsay," she whisper hissed into the shell of his ear that once again set the fire to his loins, though even though he wanted to fuck her now more than ever, in any way that she wouldn't fight him on, he doubted he could even make it up the stairwell.

He nodded, knowing all too well that his breaths were the underlying cause of the smell of the alcohol that entered into his nostrils, and his mouth was on fire and sore, burning from the amount of wine he'd poured down his throat. He cleared his throat as he attempted to stand up straight at his full height of six foot three, just to fall back down onto a hard cot in an unfamiliar looking cloister cell of sorts, one that Ramsay did not recognize.

Ramsay stood again, despite Sansa's quiet protests under her breath that he remained seated and staggered towards their bedroom once she had helped up the stairwell, one step at a time, going at a fucking snail's pace up the stairs. He rose in the entryway, staggering towards their marriage bed, gripping onto shelves and tables to the room. The harsh scent of drink could be smelled on his person. Ramsay knew it, Sansa knew it, as did the other staff.

They all saw Ramsay Bolton struggling to keep his balance, and even he knew he was struggling to keep it.

It felt like some strange…out of body experience that he was witnessing for himself. Sansa's voice sounded muffled, as though underwater. His legs refused to work as he commanded them to. Neither did his hands, or his fingers. Somewhere, deep inside, Ramsay knew his mind was sending signals to his body, telling him what to do.

Whether or not it was actually listening to him was a different story entirely. He could feel it moving, and his body could feel it doing what it wanted, despite Sansa's fruitless efforts to help guide Ramsay towards the bed.

Could he stop it? He felt like they all knew the answer to that. It was doing as it pleased. He tried to walk out of the chamber, but his legs were telling him otherwise—swaying—left and right. No matter how many steps he took, he was no closer to where he wanted to be.

And then…he focused on her face, and things felt a little bit clearer. Sansa was looking at him with a mixture of pity and sadness in her eyes. She knew, as well as he did.

"I—I'm drunk. So very drunk, wife," he slurred, not even caring that black spots were dancing in front of his vision. "An heir will not save me now," he growled darkly, "not with this fucking news," he shouted angrily.

At least, he tried to say that, but was Sansa Stark even listening to him? Ramsay blinked once or twice as he felt her gentle hand grip onto his shoulder, and with more strength than he'd thought possible of his wife, steer him away from the entryway of their bedchamber and back towards the bed. "Come," she urged quietly. "Sleep…"

Ramsay let out a content little sigh as he allowed himself to be guided towards the bed, his hazy gaze fixated on Sansa as she pulled up a chair to sit next to the bedside. "Wh—what are you thinking?" he gasped out hoarsely.

Sansa sighed, toying with a lock of her hair before deciding to fidget again nervously with her wedding band. "You say that you are drunk but then I look into your eyes and they look sober to me. It feels to me as if you're looking for an excuse, to give me the impression this is something you weren't waiting for, for weeks, to catch me in your nest like spiders do, for you surely are like one, spilling sweet words in women's hearts to get them closer, and then letting them destroy themselves when you turn them away, milord. It is…most upsetting, to hear of this behavior. And it feels to me as if me saying I had a goblet of wine too many is an excuse as well, for I don't want to admit to myself I got caught despite promising myself I would never let you get to me. So, then, we are both drunk, but not really, using drunkenness as an excuse so that we don't have to admit we have the thought of each other running through our veins, so that we wouldn't let each other see who we really are and what we really feel.''

Ramsay startled, feeling like a rabbit that had jumped out of its skin as Sansa made a sudden grab for his arm as she helped him out of his jerkin. The one that was covered in dozens—no, hundreds—of angry little red scars. His heart skipped a beat. Sansa did not react.

Did she know already? He had to wonder how much of his past and his mistreatment at Father's hand she knew about, for the walls in Winterfell had eyes and ears, as well as the woods.

"How long?" It was all his wife asked of him. Ramsay let out an agonized groan and closed his eyes, collapsing against the pillow. Sansa did not press him for an answer, which surprised him a little, if he was being honest with himself.

"You know," she whispered, the pads of her fingertips ghosting across the dozens of jagged pink and white lines, knife markings, made by Roose's favorite dagger, as well as a few burn marks too. "Your heart's intentions show you where you are going and the physical scars you bear on your body show you where you have been." She paused, turning away, though Ramsay could not see it because his eyes were closed. "Despite…what you have done," she growled, though she swallowed hard past the lump in her throat, past her thoughts of anger, "I do not believe you to be a monster, milord. I think that…given the…right circumstances, there is hope for you."

Ramsay felt his eyes fling wide open and he sat upright on the bed, not even minding that he was shirtless. He turned, for the first time, and perhaps really regarded his wife in a new light and took in all of Sansa's appearance. Her tall, willowy frame. Her pale, flawless, and perfect skin that he had left unblemished. Her slender nose.

But in her, Ramsay Bolton saw an unprecedented beauty, and there was a part of the Bastard of Bolton that despised it. He hated and reviled her beauty, and craved it as well, wanting to guard and keep Sansa for himself. That such a celestial like creature could be his wife felt like a dream, one he did not want to wake him. Sansa Stark was perhaps the only good thing in his life, and it was then that her words in the mess hall resonated within.

If he did not start treating her with even a modicum of respect, then Sansa Stark was apt to flee Winterfell again. And that…he could not allow. And in Sansa Stark, his bride, Ramsay Bolton saw nothing else but her beauty. Her eyes, that rich hue of cerulean blue that stole his breath away while looking straight through to Ramsay's soul. Her hair was like a fiery waterfall that tumbled down her back in thick wavy locks, and he let out a content sigh as he felt his hands drift upwards and loosen her hair from its bindings, grabbing a lock of it in fistfuls and pulling her closer, ignoring Sansa Stark's quiet yelp of surprise as she practically fell on top of him, her hand accidentally brushing against his thigh, which re-ignited the growing flame of passion in his now-growing hardness.

Her hands, as they continued to fidget though stilled their movements as Ramsay caught her right hand in his and brough it to his lips for a gentle kiss that sent a shudder of pleasure, however, unwanted, down Sansa's spine, it was enough.

And her mouth…oh, how Ramsay longed to kiss her luscious, pink lips and really feel how she moved in a kiss. Ramsay knew she did not love him back, not in the way that he had hoped, over time, she would come to care for him, but he could not resist. His grip on her wrist tightened as he leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Ramsay heard her audible gasp of surprise, and that only ravaged the whelming ache in his legs more.

Seven hells, he couldn't fight against the thoughts that were going through him now. Sansa's very smell was flooding his senses now… His lips brushed against Sansa's unexpectedly, giving his wife no time to react or pull away, though he thought she would explain her slip in balance at any moment, which was what he expected of her. His kiss to Sansa was fiery, passionate, hot, and demanding. Sansa wanted nothing more than to pull away before she lost her sense of self, but she could not seem to… the moment his lips met hers, her senses had become seduced.

She could no longer think straight, and Ramsay knew this. "Sansa…." He whispered slowly, prolonging each letter of her name as if to savor them. "Would that I were kind, perhaps I might treat you better, but…" He hesitated and looked away, suddenly not certain how to phrase what was on his mind. "Why?" he asked.

The Bastard of Bolton hated hearing the dip and the warbling crack in his voice, but he had to know her answer. Ramsay did not need to elaborate on what he meant, and he could tell by the dulling ember in Sansa's blue eyes that she understood what it was that he was asking of her. He shuddered as she reached up her finger and brought it to his lips, the pads of her fingertips tracing the outline of his lips in a way that Ramsay could hardly stand it.

He loved the way her small body melted into his, the way she relented as he loosened her hair and let it tumble down her back in loose waves, holding her tighter, closing off the gap of space between the two of them.

"Because…I do not believe you to be so unkind, milord," she whispered, her gaze unabashed and unwavering. "You have saved my life. Twice. Which is no small feat, so there is some small part of you however minuscule that does care for me, in your own way, I believe, but you would not let yourself truly feel it. It is my job as your wife to make you realize when you are wrong, and in this regard, milord Bolton, you are so very wrong. And drunk."

"You do not approve?" Ramsay's blue eyes narrowed and his grip on her wrist tightened even more. She flinched but dare not pull her hand away, for she knew that if she tried, he would be likely apt to break her hand.

Sansa let out a tired sigh and cupped his chin in her hand, tilting it slightly and forcing him to look at her. "I know that you hate me," she whispered, and suddenly she looked and sounded incredibly small. "Do not try to deny it, but…like it or not, I am your key to maintaining the Bolton's hold over Winterfell. The entire North."

Ramsay stirred, shifting her so that she was practically straddling his lap, both of his hands coming up to grip almost painfully tight on his waist. He chose silence again as an apt response, wondering where she was going with this.

Lady Sansa, sensing his hesitation, continued, biting her bottom lip. "You need an heir," she spoke matter-of-factly, and just that last word was enough to send his blood boiling into a rage at the thought of the fat bitch his father fucked siring a legitimate heir, which would upend his entire claim to the north unless the cunt died. "I can…I can provide that for you," she whispered, leaning down so the ends of her auburn hair tickled his neck.

Ramsay stared, hardly willing to believe what he was hearing. "You would…willingly lay with me?"

Sansa nodded, though he could also tell that she was in awe of her own words, and of her new resolve. "If you start treating me with the respect and kindness I deserve, then…yes." She whispered; her voice barely audible. "I shall lay here. I shan't fight you in any shape or form. I promise not to kick you." Sansa bowed her head and smiled, a ghost of that smile tugging on her lips, and Ramsay could not help but feel drawn to it. He wanted it to stay. As her soft lips stretched into the smile that did not quite meet Sansa's eyes, they were lit with such a familiar sadness.

One that Ramsay was all too used to seeing within his own reflection, though he vehemently attempted to deny feeling such an emotion, thinking it beneath him, though the forced expression of the contrary on Sansa's mouth would have looked quite comical to Ramsay if it did not currently make his heart feel heavy as he laid there. For a few moments, as he stared at Lady Sansa, he was almost quite certain that his wife's expression mirrored his.

It broke his heart, what little heart he did possess to begin with. Suddenly, he did not want her to leave. Ramsay did not want to turn into a random image that floated deep within the recesses of Sansa Stark's memory one day. He did not want to be the smile that squeezed her chest somewhere far away when he died in battle, attempting to lay siege to Stannis Baratheon's fucking armies. Ramsay Bolton did not want Sansa Stark to leave him behind.

He did not want her to go. He wanted Sansa and her beautiful smile to stay. She noticed him looking, and smiled, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout, quirking a delicately shaped brow Ramsay's way.

"For tonight…can we not at least pretend to be in love?" she whispered into the shell of his ear that elicited a tremor of pleasure as it snaked its way down Ramsay's spine. "Have you ever made love, milord? It is…quite different than your usual methods. Humans are not beasts mating, Ramsay. We are not wild animals. I—I want you to have me. Like you aim to pleasure me. As your wife, not as one of your fucking servant wenches. Like you wish for me to stay," she said, her lips parted slightly as she whispered it into the shell of Ramsay's right ear. "Convince me to stay, if that is what you wish. Plead for me to stay...Please."

It was the use of the world please that did it. Her hand alight on Ramsay's face, moving down past his bare and prominent collarbone. He let out a growl as her gaze drifted downwards towards his chest, at the dozens of angry red scars, courtesy of Roose, on his torso.

Already, his brain felt like it was on fire. Sansa Stark with the hair like winter fire was his angel, his beautiful angel with the fingertips of flame that the Bastard of Bolton knew he did not deserve such a delectable creature in his life.

The cold room already felt warm as Ramsay heard Sansa gasp as her fingertips traced down his hundreds of scars.

"You're staring, Lady Stark," he commented, stifling a bemused smile as she blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze and made to turn away, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as she squirmed on top of him, attempting to wrench herself off of him and move away, but his hand slid out and slid across Sansa's hips, stalling her movements. "I never claimed that I did not like it, wife," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Ramsay let out a groan as he could hear the hoarseness and desire in his own voice for the angel that straddled his lap on top of their marriage bed, as his free hand not gripping onto her waist slipped underneath the skirts of her black gown, his fingers trailing along her smooth inner thighs.

She was warm already beneath his fingers, her body instinctively reacting to her husband's tender touch. He ran just the tips of his fingers over her entrance, finding a more sensitive point, and he only knew this by the way Sansa reacted to his surprisingly tender touch just then.

"Touch me," he urged, his voice low and husky. "And trust me…" he urged, closing his eyes as Ramsay felt Sansa jerk her hips away with a sound that might have been a cry of pleasure before her voice trailed off quickly. Ramsay growled and reached for that spot again, increasing the pressure until there were tears gathering in Sansa's eyes. "Show me," he encouraged, his fingers tightening on her thighs, raking down alongside her legs. "How you want it," he urged, hearing the desperation in his voice, relishing in Sansa's groan as Ramsay drew his hand away, just too soon, when she was trembling but not quite at her climax yet. "Together," he whispered, as her lips lowered and captured his, albeit not roughly like he was used to doing in times when she would resist him.

But…gently. Ramsay groaned again as she shifted on top of his weight and slowly mounted him, her movements slow but…tender, and almost…loving. The cold bedchamber already felt warm. It was hard for Ramsay to hold back, to make the special moment last.

Wasn't that the way, so caught between the intoxication of his climax and extending a moment with Sansa Stark that he never wanted to end. He loved the way Sansa moaned and writhed on top of him, the beads of sweat gleaming on her skin as his hands fumbled, ripping the bodice as her dress crumpled in a shredded heap on the floor. He loved the way his wife was tight and hot and drew him in.

The way that her mouth was soft as she panted for breath. Slowly, Ramsay ran his hands down her body. Her skin was so flawless, smooth and perfect, soft on her hips, and she cried out only once as Ramsay flipped her beneath him, continuing with his efforts to please his wife the way that she claimed to want, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his own.

Sansa's breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as she climaxed, the stars becoming novae in her blue eyes. She twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe, and whispered something to Sansa.

Something for her ears only, the promise of what was coming next. When she kissed Ramsay, his brain lit on fire and the warmth spread throughout his entire body, the heat that she gave off scorching. After that, he was addicted, he couldn't bear not to be with her, and in the moment, Ramsay felt like he could barely breathe when she was around. Those kisses were his salvation and his torment, his purpose, and his anguish. Ramsay lived for them and he would die with the memory of them on his lips. He dedicated his life to being with Sansa Stark of Winterfell from the moment of that first kiss, for he knew that if he lost her, he would lose himself.

She was the half that made him whole.