SANSA

Strange. Strange and maybe even a little bit…frightening. These were the first thoughts Sansa had while she descended the tower's stairwell to venture out into the courtyard for some much needed air.

She had to lift the hem of her skirts of her gown a bit to avoid her boot's heels catching on the hem of her gown. Her thoughts were on that of her lord husband and how, in the month following their conversation in the chamber, and he had made love to her for the first time, he had seemed like he was much changed. How it was strange—frightening even if she stopped to think about it a moment.

How Ramsay Bolton went from someone who she had greatly feared and reviled, and who had been something of a complete stranger to her, to then becoming tolerant of them and eventually, as the months passed and the longer the two of them remained in each other's company, completely infatuated by the man, and wondering how it was that she was ever able to live without the bastard.

Because she sure as hell could not imagine being without him now, now that he had changed, or at the very least, was attempting to make the effort for her. Because of her. Just that thought alone was enough to send an overwhelming heat throughout Sansa's entire body, warming her against the cold.

This feeling to Sansa was so strange. It stretched throughout her whole body. It was overwhelming to the young woman, yet somehow, it made her feel complete, and she had a sense that were her mother and father still alive, Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard would have been proud of what she had done. Rumors were already running rampant through Winterfell's halls among the servants how Sansa Stark had tamed the wild Beast of Bolton, that bastard, that demon, that monster. If this was to be the only good thing in her otherwise mundane life she would accomplish, then she was glad to do it, really.

What she felt for Ramsay these days had no bound nor length or depth, it was just absolute. It felt as though she were in a dangerous fire, yet she felt completely safe at the same time. It felt as though when Ramsay had finally let her in, that someone had given him, (and to a lesser extent, her) peace.

Whenever he looked at her and offered that coy little smile that was honestly more of a smirk, Sansa, it felt as though her heart were dancing around in her chest, and a hole she was never even aware that was there to begin with, had been filled, strange though it may have seemed. She felt…light, almost…happy. Like she felt like she could dance on top of the world, yet her heart was constricting, and it felt as if there were no air that was coming to her lungs. Ramsay was her one stability in this place, in this place full of chaos, and now that he was much changed, she rather liked it this way.

Sansa hesitated, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout as she noticed Lord Roose lingering in the courtyard, seemingly gazing interestedly at the white roses in the gardens, which thrived in the winter here at Winterfell, though the moment the Warden sensed he was not alone, his ears practically perked up like that of one of Ramsay's hounds as he sensed her soft footfalls drawing nearer. "And what brings you out here on this damned frigid winter's morning, my child?" he asked.

Sansa swallowed nervously as she approached, fidgeting with her gold wedding band. "The—the cold does not bother me, Lord Bolton. I have come outside for a different reason other than fresh air, milord. In fact, I was hoping to—" she had started to say, but felt her resolve leave her the moment Lord Roose held up a hand to stop Sansa Stark in mid-sentence, thereby effectively cutting her off.

"You were hoping to speak with my son. I am afraid your husband has been called away upon a scouting mission, my dear," he exclaimed quickly, sounding apologetic, though if Sansa looked carefully, as she was doing right now, she could have sworn she saw the briefest flickers of rage dart through his cold cerulean eyes. "My men and our scouts are close to raiding Stannis Baratheon's camps. My son is one of our best and most ruthless, and he will ensure what needs to be done."

"Oh." Sansa felt her shoulders slump in defeat and sag as she lowered her head and nodded in acknowledgement, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks. A loud tolling, mournful sound filled Winterfell's square and the surrounding lands of the estate. "Milord, I am…sorry," she whispered.

For Lady Walda had died during childbirth, the babe as well, never taking its first breath of air, dead upon emergence from the womb. The strain and stress of childbearing had been too much for Roose's wife and she had died from massive amounts of blood loss and sheer exhaustion.

Roose's jaw gave a twitch and he nodded; his hands clasped behind his back. "As am I…" he glanced towards Sansa, something mysterious in his eyes twinkling as he regarded his bastard's wife.

Sansa looked away, exhaling a slow, slightly shaking breath through her nose. For reasons she could not quite identify, Ramsay's lord father frightened her. When she would exhale, a visible puff of air would form in front of her mouth and she shivered, clutching herself as it was growing fairly cold.

Lord Bolton snorted. "You are not dressed appropriately enough, milady. You are apt to catch cold if you wander the grounds…like that," he commented, quirking a white brow Sansa's way.

She glanced down at her dark blue gown, realizing she had quite forgotten her cloak in her haste to appear at Ramsay's side. "I…must have forgotten it," she mumbled. "Father always taught me growing up that to embrace the cold would mean I would survive it. To bathe in ice water daily."

Roose snorted again, seemingly bemused by Sansa's sudden admission. "And did it work?"

Sansa did not bother to hide the small half-smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. "I am here, am I not?" she quipped, biting her bottom lip, and turning away from Lord Roose, not wishing to linger any further in the grieving Warden's presence. "I dare not keep you any longer, milord. You need not hear my mindless ramblings, Lord Bolton. I shall go, but if you should see Ramsay, please—"

"He shall be back in a week, but I shall inform him you seek his company, milady, should I see him before he departs," Roose interrupted, finally turning away from Sansa Stark, and walking away.

Sansa hesitated, watching the Warden of the North depart from the courtyard, his silhouette eventually becoming faint until he rounded the corner and completely disappeared from her sight. She let out a tired sigh and continued her walk in the rose gardens, not entirely sure where she was headed. With each stride as she headed for the godswoods, her mind became clearer, more resolute. She wanted nothing more than to entomb the bad memories she had of Ramsay and the way he had first treated her upon her arrival back home in a thick wall of ice, but the thought of him leaving her on the morrow did not sit well with the Lady of Winterfell. Then, Sansa abruptly paused to close her eyes, and took in a deep breath of crisp winter air, steeling herself to only think of her future.

A future that they would mold, build together, Ramsay and her. Then, with each stride after that, Sansa felt more in charge, in command of her own body, mind, and soul. She was a woman walking towards her own destiny, that rested at the heart of the white heart tree, that lay squarely in his hands.

Sansa heard her audible gasp of surprise before she felt it leave her lips as her bright cobalt blue eyes rested upon Ramsay who stood underneath the heart tree's canopy, shielded from the early morning sun. When he spoke, his voice sounded…quiet, and dare Sansa think it, almost…shy.

"You," he breathed. "There is she is. My wife," he murmured, snaking his arms around her waist, and resting his chin upon her shoulder. "I had thought perhaps that…you would not come for me."

This was also something of a surprise. Sansa had received a written note left on her pillow when she had woken, in Ramsay's own handwriting, telling her to meet him here, to bid him farewell and luck in his efforts to lead the Bolton armies towards Stannis Baratheon's encampment nearby.

"Me," Sansa answered, feeling the beginnings of a soft smile, a genuine one, tug at the corners of her mouth, which quickly evolved into a wide grin as Ramsay unfastened his cloak and laid it upon the ground like a blanket so that they could sit. "Would you care to join me? I know the hour is early, when most are still asleep in their beds, and yet…even these days I do not sleep much, I'm afraid."

One glance over at her husband was more than enough for Lady Sansa. The prominent purple bags underneath his eyes and how he still appeared very pale was enough to confirm her suspicions that he was not sleeping much these nights either. Ramsay appeared to be having trouble finding his voice as he looked upon his wife, and when Sansa looked away to look out into the river, he was more than tempted to cup her chin in his hand and force his wife to look him square in the eyes, forever.

Sansa shifted slightly, turning in his clutches so she could read the emotions on his face. She reached up and traced his lip lightly with the tip of her finger. It pouted slightly, and Sansa had such an urge to bite it, to kiss it, to wrap themselves up in Ramsay's cloak upon the cold winter earth and listen to their gentle breathing, watching the garment ripple like skipping stones and sharing playful smiles. His lip felt slightly chapped underneath Sansa's feather light touches, but she simply could not bring herself to give a damn. Sansa bit her bottom lip and gazed so intently at each divot of Ramsay's lip, as if it could map out ancient seas and warlord's plans for conquest all of the seven kingdoms and tell Sansa everything she did not already know. And Sansa knew in this moment she did not want to look up.

Because if she looked up, she may find herself at the mercy of Ramsay's questioning eyes. Pleading with his wife, begging her to know what exactly it was that Lady Sansa was doing, and she was not at liberty to say because she herself simply did not have an adequate enough answer for him.

"Do you love me?" Ramsay asked, after what felt like an eternity in the heavens, him by her side.

Sansa blinked, not at all having anticipated his question. Do I love him? She felt her lips part open slightly in shock, unable to formulate a response her lips because she was so focused on his. In Westeros, falling in love was considered perhaps one of the worst of crimes. Marriage was an obligation, a ring given, words promised, and that was that, or so it had seemed that way to Sansa. She knew the two of them need only exchange a glance, the lightest of touches, warmth—no more.

Yet for this, there was no forgiveness. She had tamed the wild Bastard of Bolton. For Ramsay, she would take a dagger to the heart, and though that the people of Winterfell could judge what they could not seem to understand, how one of the last Stark women could fall in love with a member of the Bolton family, who had so brutally murdered many of her family members. Such a concept was beyond their simple minds. Sansa wondered how long it took a person to fall in love. A second? A month? A year? It was like asking someone how long it took them to fall asleep.

Some people were asleep the minute their heads lay collapsed back against their pillows. Others, as Sansa had done when she had married Ramsay, lay in wake for hours and it was only when her mind stopped churning for a while that sleep snuck in and dragged her under, as did her feelings for him. Sansa knew as she felt Ramsay's strong hand cup her chin and tilt it upwards, forcing her to meet his gaze and not look away, that Ramsay Bolton had somehow cast his spell upon her—as he had done in times past to many other women.

Sansa did not want to accept or admit to herself that he had done it. For she could not bear to be like all the other girls that Ramsay had so cruelly cast aside and discarded once they had served their purpose. Sansa wanted her husband to feel differently of her. But Ramsay even know as he sat with her, awaiting her answer that she had yet to give, radiated with nothing but an elegant sort of understated grace, and had momentarily captured her enthralled.

Her husband was mesmerizing in every way. The faint glimmer of the early morning sun ghosted over his pale skin and eyes as deep as the heart of the seas. And when those very eyes shifted yet again and finally acknowledged her presence, a surge of understanding had calmed and further mystified her at the same time. From the moment she first laid her eyes on Ramsay Bolton, she knew he was hers.

"Yes," she answered simply. Sansa bit her bottom lip in a slight pout in hesitation. She had to know his answer, for he had asked it of her, and now, it was his turn to answer a query of her own. "And you?" She bit down even harder on her bottom lip and waited for Ramsay to answer her.

Ramsay's little strange half smile hesitated, and a glimmer of something mysterious darted through his cerulean eyes.

"When I first met you…I'd already lost my entire world, wife. For how could you hang onto something so…so incomprehensible? If what we share together is love, then I shall keep it. That day in the courtyard…there you stood, in all your natural beauty gifted to you by the gods, and I hated you for it." His tone at first was cold, but Sansa's expression softened as she heard the crack in Ramsay's voice. "There was something then in your eyes that even now, is beautiful. Safe. Warm. I…desire it for myself, for it is something within my own life I feel that I lack. I know what I am. There is no changing me," Ramsay growled darkly, suddenly sounding ashamed of what he was, shuddering, as Sansa's fingers traced underneath his sleeve and around one of the jagged pink lines given to Ramsay by Lord Roose.

"And now?" Sansa prodded, careful to ensure her voice remained soft, her expression neutral, though she knew Ramsay was not fooled. He could see in her eyes that she had steeled herself, prepared fully to be disappointed by the answer he was giving off. "What do you think of me?"

Ramsay hesitated, looking away before returning his attentions to his wife, and he startled. He wondered if Sansa was even aware that while she clung to his arm, she was also quite literally hanging onto his every word. "I feel…home. Do not ask me to explain it in detail, for I cannot. I am...not good with emotions. Th—that night, when we…talked," Here, he cringed, remembering the full extent of their conversation following the news of Walda's pregnancy, "I reached out to the gods for help, and like they had arranged it themselves, I think…you fell for me, just as hard as I for you. When it was just the two of us. I can still recall every single word uttered, the conversation in its entirety, the feeling you gave off. You did not know it then, Lady Stark, but that night…you saved me. So...I thank you."

It was probably as close as she was going to get. Sansa decided that was good enough for her.

Ramsay's voice trailed off as Sansa moved her head closer to his. He sat on the forest floor, back resting up against the wood of the heart tree, frozen from both fear and excitement.

She leaned in, so that her forehead rested against his, closing her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered in barely a whisper.

He stared incredulously, though he knew Sansa could not see it with her eyes closed. "For what?" he asked, his voice low and husky. "I have done nothing, wife," he murmured, his voice soft, quiet.

"Yes, you have," Sansa insisted. "You've done everything right. At least, since you started actively listening to me," she added, almost as an afterthought, which earned her a scowl from Ramsay, though his blue eyes were twinkling with just that hint of mischief she had come to recognize over the months.

"How?" There was no mistaking the crack in his voice, or the dip as she recognized their conversation was headed into a possible sensitive topic, as Ramsay rarely discussed his true feelings.

"You have learned to accept me for who I am. Not for who everybody else wants me to be. And…for being you," Sansa whispered breathlessly. Her voice wavered, exhilarated from the tension between them, as she gently leaned in and kissed Ramsay's warm lips, before pulling apart quickly.

Ramsay let out a low growl from the back of his throat, unable to contain himself anymore, and held Sansa's head in his hands and pulled her close into a fiery and passionate kiss. He let out a moan as her delicate hands worked their way around his body, feeling each crevasse, each line along his perfect physique. She let out a gasp of surprise as he gingerly shoved her backward onto the cloak.

Never mind the damned freezing temperatures. Ramsay cherished the heat that Sansa gave off, the only warmth he needed in his wretched, miserable world.

She lay on her back at her husband's insistence and wordless urging, allowing his hands and his kisses to do the talking for him, what he wanted of her, as he matched her body's form. Ramsay's hands ventured over Sansa's curved body, exploring. He reluctantly pulled apart at the moment that Sansa's eyelids slowly fluttered open.

They stared at each other, deep into each other's eyes. Ramsay's eyes full of wonder and awe, Sansa's full of curiosity and passion. No words were spoken between them, but a story worthy of them was communicated by just that one look. Ramsay leaned in and laid soft kisses up and down her neck. Sansa let out a tiny whimper of anticipation as Ramsay worked his way back up to her tender, smooth lips. As they kissed, she rolled him over with surprising strength, more than either of them thought possible of Stark, and lay on top of Bolton's strong, muscular form. She ran her lips up his neck and finally landed a loving and intense kiss upon his lips.

This was not at all what Sansa had thought would happen when her lord husband demanded she meet him hear underneath the heart tree, asking her for 'a word,' but she certainly was not going to object. His lips were warm and tasted slightly of wine, but not so much that he was drunk. His hands were gripping almost painfully tight upon her waist and when they finally broke apart for much-needed air, she rested her forehead against his. Ramsay Bolton's smirk told Sansa Stark everything she had ever wanted to know of his feelings.

And so, she smiled back, sinking into his hold. "Sansa?" Ramsay breathed, sounding winded, as though he could not quite believe what he was about to confess.

"Mmm?" she asked, laying a gentle trail of kisses upon his neck before pulling apart to gaze into his eyes.

"Yes." There was no malice in his answer, no hint of deceit, and Sansa did not need to ask him to elaborate.

Her response to his answer to her original query was another kiss. It was good enough for her. In moments, the soft caress had become firmer, Ramsay savored her lips and the quickening of her breath that matched his own as he slanted her head and deepened his kiss as his lips captured hers.

A kiss like this was a beginning, a promise of much more to come.