A/N: I feel like I re wrote this part several times over and didn't realize just how long it was until I uploaded it and realized it was over 7k words O.o, but neither did I feel like dragging the plot out too terribly long and decided to get the ball rolling with Roose's plans. (insert evil laughter here!) Hope you enjoy! :)
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SANSA
Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown as she watched Maester Wolkan pace the floor of his healing chambers, becoming increasingly annoyed with the man's persistent habit. She had requested this appointment in private, wishing to speak to the man of a strange bleeding she had been having that ceased to let up over the course of the last several days, and to see the maester in such an agitated state, well…she wished he would just come outright and say whatever ailed him.
"If it persists, come to see me again, child," Maester Wolkan, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Such bleeding like this is not quite…normal, and if it is what I should suspect it to be, then ensuring you receive the appropriate treatment for it is absolutely critical to ensure your health and the health of the…" he began hesitantly. "Especially if it is not your moon's blood. There is every possibility that you are with child, milady," he said, at last turning to meet his gaze to meet the stunned Lady Stark's gaze, to see her lips parted open in shock slightly, her hands twisting painfully together, digging into her lap.
She glanced around at Wolkan's workspace. The maester and healer was clearly obsessively compulsively neat, and it showed. Row upon neat row of dustless jars labelled in the same neat script with even strokes of the quill, every label facing forwards. On closer inspection they were categorized according to the content and then alphabetized within their categories. Brooms, cloths, and feather dusters all lay stacked neatly against the wall.
Thick oak chopping boards leaned against the white painted wall, an array of shiny stainless steel knives from scalpels to huge chopping blades are lined up next to a chipped basin on a rickety wooden old table intended for washing of the hands and the cleansing of equipment, in order of size, each one looking cut-throat sharp. Golden old fashioned weighing scales with an assortment of weights sit next to the knives, and Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, wishing for water.
She had done it, then. She was hopefully to sire an heir for Ramsay, a healthy baby boy. Or rather, they had done it. Sansa swallowed again, her throat feeling quite dry, and immediately wished that she had a chalice of water nearby. She licked her lips, trying to wet her mouth, her tongue swiping across her lips again as she struggled to find the right words.
"Th—thank you, Maester Wolkan," she stammered, the heat creeping to her cheeks as she rose from the man's examining table. "I shall return to you if the bleeding persists, and of course, I shall inform milord husband at once. I am certain that he will be overjoyed to hear the news, as will his lord father, I hope." She dipped her head in acknowledgement and made to head for the door, the skirts of her dark blue gown rustling behind her as she moved, when the maester called out to her.
"Lady Stark." Something about the man's tone gave Sansa paused, and she froze, a hand outstretched towards the door. She bit the inside of her cheek as she turned around slowly, but much too slowly to be normal, and she was surprised as she lifted her chin to meet the maester's gaze at the look of hardness within the man's eyes. He was…angry, though she suspected his sudden shift in attitude was not directed towards her.
"Were I you, I would take much better care to whom you divulge your information to," the aging maester breathed. He cast his eyes to the left and right, as though expecting someone else to listen in.
Sansa blinked owlishly at the man. When she spoke, her voice trailed slowly, like her words were unwilling to take flight. There was a sadness in her eyes, the blue entirely too glossy. "You think that he would not be pleased with this news?"
Maester Wolkan hesitated, clasping his hands together and bringing his arms to rest behind his back as he strode towards Sansa Stark. "Lord Bolton has…not been the same since the passing of his wife and child. He is…much changed, and not necessarily in a way for the better. My dear, you must take better caution to whom you reveal your news. Tell your lord husband if you wish, and ensure that Ramsay tells no one else," he whisper hissed it through gritted teeth, laying a hand upon Sansa's shoulder, and giving it a warbling little squeeze, though it was difficult given how much his hands shook.
Sansa stared, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing from one of Lord Bolton's most trusted healers. "You think that he would try to…" her voice cracked and trailed off as she was unable to complete her sentence, but she didn't need to.
"Yes." His one-worded answer was more than enough for Lady Sansa.
The moment she realized she had misinterpreted Lord Roose's actions, his words, his expressions for the past several months during her time spent in Winterfell with the Bolton's…as if he had been speaking some language that she could not quite understand…the moment her words failed her a she met Wolkan's gaze was the moment that her heart broke, and then it all became clear to her of Lord Bolton's intentions.
Yet, at the same time, Sansa was able to establish it as a good breaking, for if she could learn more, she could divulge what little information she would be able to learn to Ramsay, and perhaps, maybe, just maybe, he could take her away. This was a good breaking. The type that she knew would lead to healing in its own time and new ways onward, sometimes, the loss of words was enough. Sansa swallowed hard past the lump in her throat and finally found her voice.
"Maester Wolkan, I know that milord Roose trusts in you completely, but if you know something—anything—that would be detrimental to either my health or my lord husband's, I should have you tell me completely." She bit the inside of her cheek and fell silent as she waited for the maester to answer her, though it looked like he was about to do so with no small amount of conflict that was currently waging war within his mind. "Tell me," she urged desperately, though not unkindly. Sansa watched as Maester Wolkan glanced upward, his thin mouth pursed but slightly open and loose.
His eyes were fixed as if the wizened old man was looking at something behind Sansa's head, perhaps a spot on the wall, it was hard to tell. She exhaled slowly through her nose in slight agitation and called his name.
Maester Wolkan blinked once, twice, three times, and then refocused. "It should not be my place to speak ill of your lord husband's father, however, I fear for Lord Roose's sanity, Lady Sansa. The man is much changed, not himself, and I overheard him talking to someone the other day, one of his soldiers, I think, I did not catch his name, however, I believe he is one of the ones intended to leave with Lord Ramsay on the scouting party to head towards Stannis Baratheon's encampments. I fear an attempt on his life will be made. I tell you this and no one else because I believe you to be the sole individual within this entire estate that Ramsay will listen to, milady."
Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and curtly nodded, practically feeling the color drain from her already pale face, and her stomach lurched, and she thought she might vomit, though she knew it had naught to do with her new condition. These many months in Winterfell, most of them brutal, some of them beautiful, she had thought she had earned Ramsay's father's trust, for she had never strayed from Ramsay, betrayed, or abandoned his bastard son, not once in their marriage.
Sansa believed that she had shown her bastard husband's father over and over that now that Ramsay was changed, that she would do anything in this world to keep Ramsay safe, yet still, his father mistrusted Sansa, and disliked her even more for marrying Ramsay, and yet, she felt his disdain towards her was unwarranted, for Roose had been the one to agree to it in the first place.
Now, as she heard the words that she knew to be truth from Wolkan's lips, Roose had shown Sansa (and to a lesser extent, Ramsay!) his hand, the game that he was playing at, all Sansa felt was a horrible numb betrayal that started within her chest and created a horrible, deep sinking feeling, a pit in her stomach that sent swells of nausea throughout.
Roose had misread Sansa during her time here within Winterfell's walls, and then felt bitter, angry, though all the while, Sansa had been doing what she could to ensure her survival while she lived underneath the House of Bolton, the flayers. Sansa swallowed nervously, feeling that her heart still beat, feeling like it was pounding against her chest, but against a chest that now felt empty and hollow, for the thought that a father could inflict such cruelty upon his own son, bastard or not, was beyond Sansa Stark's ability to comprehend.
Perhaps it was because she had grown up with her own parents and raised in a loving environment, taught to forgive, and show grace and mercy towards those both more and less fortunate than she. Lady Stark blinked, her eyes still seeing and her ears still hearing the faint whispers of Maester Wolkan's voice in her ear, yet the world that seemed so close around her yet seemed so far away. Sansa could feel her mind beginning to shut down, unwilling to think anymore.
Perhaps this was shock at Maester Wolkan's confessing at overhearing Roose's conversation as he ought not to have, Sansa could not be entirely certain. All she knew in regard to this unfortunate development was that she had to find a way to communicate with Ramsay before he left on the morrow.
I must go to him. Track him down if I must… Sansa swallowed, thinking it a miracle from the gods above she could even so much as find her voice in all of this. "Th—thank you, Maester Wolkan," she murmured courteously, offering a curtsy in response. "I will not forget your bravery. I thank you for telling me the truth. I do not yet know how, but I will ensure that milord husband learns the truth immediately."
The healer gave a curt nod of his head, his expression quite grim, and he turned his back on her. "It is…not my place to say, and you did not hear this from me. But…" Maester Wolkan clasped his hands together and folded them in front of his middle. "Were Lord Roose not currently in his position of power, it should be you and your lord husband leading the people of the North. Now that your husband is also much changed, admittedly for the better," Here, he allowed the tiniest ghost of a smile to dance across his face, "in no small part thanks to you, Lady Stark, and your efforts to tame the mad beast within, I think that there is hope for Ramsay, and were it up to me, I would see you both rule Winterfell in Lord Roose's stead. Lord Roose would watch the entire North burn to the ground if it meant that he could be king of the ashes. I do not believe the North will last while under his reign."
Sansa nodded, blinking back briny tears, and swallowing hard. To hear such words coming from someone here in a place that at times still felt so foreign to her despite the fact that it was and always would be her home, was incredibly validating. She took a step forward and clasped her hand over Wolkan's and gave it a gentle squeeze, careful to be mindful of the old man's shaking limbs.
"I will do what I can, Maester Wolkan, for you and so many others in this place have been kind to me, when others have not. I long to take back my home too, though while Roose remains seated in power within Winterfell's walls, I fear there is not much hope for my lord husband or myself. I have heard the rumors of his ruthlessness," Sansa whispered, feeling her heart sink to the pit of her stomach as she allowed the words to tumble from her mouth unchecked, though the time for careful words in current company was now long gone, "And be that as it may, Maester Wolkan, for I cannot make good on my promise yet, I will ensure Ramsay receives your message, and I can tell you already now, he will want proof of his father's misdeeds. Ramsay is a man of action, but he will also want to see evidence. I do not know what course of action my lord husband would take in regard to the matter of dealing with his father, but…he needs to know."
Maester Wolkan nodded, smiling, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes. Sansa dipped her head in acknowledgement, offered another fleeting little curtsy, and wrenched open the wide double doors of the healer's chambers, and gingerly stepped out into the hallway, careful to close the door behind her. Sansa barely felt the walk back towards her chambers. It felt as though the millions of tired thoughts were swirling around in her mind.
She was walking unusually slowly, almost…stiffly, as if she were in some sort of magicked trance, as if her mind were struggling to tell each foot to take the next step. It was as if she were in a stupor, as if someone gifted in the arts of black magic had placed her under a spell, and Sansa felt as though her body no longer was taking directions from her mind. Sansa shivered, wrapping her arms around her middle as she hurried, her red tresses fluttering in the cold breeze that wafted through the drafty hallways. Her blue velvet gown seemed to cling to her body, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Sansa could feel the cold wind stroking her skin, wanting to rip her dress off of her and ravage her as though she were winter's enemy. As a few teardrops appeared in the corners of her eyes as her mind ruminated and mulled over the healing maester's words and the revelation that she was possibly expecting, Sansa continued walking, heading towards the godswoods, where she had last spotted Ramsay, not stopping for anything. Her determination to reach Ramsay drove Sansa Stark down the stairwell and out into the courtyard.
Sansa paused at the edge of the woods, biting the inside of her cheek and then her tongue as she struggled to determine which way Ramsay and his scouts might have gone. For he had not exactly been forthcoming with Sansa in regard to his plans to lay siege to Stannis's camps.
He had been…distracted, and she the main cause of his distractions. She sighed in frustration and froze. She gulped nervously as a large, towering shadow engulfed her from behind. Sansa dared not turn around, for she believed she knew who it was that lingered behind her like that of a vicious predator stalking its prey. Lord Roose.
The only announcement of Roose Bolton's arrival was a slight drop in the air temperature and the descent of absolute, eerie silence that in its own strange way, was deafening. Without even having to turn around or part her lips to speak, Sansa knew he was there. She recognized the soft susurration of Lord Bolton's footfalls. She could feel his presence, pale in the shadows of the godswood. His voice came, high-pitched, cold, and quite calculating.
"Where are you off to, little wolf?" Sansa swallowed nervously, wanting to spin on the spot before Roose could vanish from her line of sight, to take in the bastard's betrayer's face once more, so that she could paint a portrait of it for their wall in their marriage chambers, but instead, she bit her tongue hard enough that the coppery, tangy taste of blood formed and settled upon her tongue, though it tasted to her quite bitter. Perhaps it was Roose's betrayal she tasted.
"A walk," she answered coldly, feeling her back muscles tense and stiffen involuntarily as one of Roose's spindly fingers alighted upon Sansa's exposed neck, cold as a cadaver. He ran it from behind her ear to the edge of her gown's neckline, and audibly sniffed like a wine connoisseur taking in a fine Dornish red wine. Then he withdrew.
"The hour grows late and the night cold. A noblewoman such as yourself ought not to be wandering out late. You never know the types of men you will run into." Roose's tone was cold and flat, his gray eyes listless.
Sansa swallowed nervously as the Warden of the North approached her. Through a swirl of sickening fears came Lady Catelyn's voice, casual and light. As usual, Sansa could not hide her problems for more than a few seconds, but what more could she do? The fear traveled in Sansa's veins but never made it to her facial muscles or her pale skin. Her complexion remained pale, her blue eyes steady as her gaze remained unabashed and unwavering as Lord Roose advanced upon his bastard wife, a ravenous, slightly unhinged gleam in his gray eyes.
The man's eyes reminded Sansa of ashes and smoke billowing in the wind, coming from a wildfire that burned everything to the ground in its path. They were intense, coming from that fire that burned deep within Roose Bolton's soul. For a moment, a moment that Sansa cursed herself to the gods for, she lost herself in Ramsay's father's eyes. They glistened brilliantly, cold, and metallic, rivalling the most excellently polished suit of armor. The sclerae that surrounded them were pristine, untouched by red. His eyes were pure. They were cold. They were beautiful.
Before Sansa could stop herself, the words poured out of her mouth before even she knew what was transpiring.
"You mean…types of men such as yourself, milord?" She spat the words, hatred, and black vile spewing from her tongue, poisoning her thoughts until she could envision nothing but flashes of the man's violent, bloody death.
Hatred, Sansa knew, was the devil's path, and she should leave its ash-strewn surface without a single footprint. Sansa inhaled a breath of cold winter air and exhaled a slightly shaking breath as she slowly backed into something hard, and let out a breathy squeak, realizing the Warden of the North had entrapped her against one of the rose garden's stone column pillars. There was nowhere for her to run, and she could see no one coming to her aid.
She bit the inside of her cheek and wondered if now was the right time to reveal her hand, that she knew of Roose's betrayal, though without Ramsay here by her side to protect her, she wondered what good it would do her. If she confessed, Roose might just kill her, and then do away with Ramsay without so much as batting an eyelid. Sansa swallowed nervously and she felt the knife before she saw it.
She looked into the eyes of its wielder, this man who was her lord husband's father and proclaimed, in his own way, to love his bastard son, but now, she knew this not to be the case, for there was no love in this man's heart. The eyes that were once filled with so much determination and purpose, at least she felt it had been the case upon her arrival to Winterfell, given she was their key to unlocking the North and ruling its stead for the next thousand years or so if they played their hands right, were now replaced with such a bitterness and hatred, and something else that the young woman could not identify.
Sansa decided that she did not want to. The knife that Lord Roose Bolton held in his hands sat precariously against Sansa's skin, against the pale column of her throat, soft enough not to pierce her neck, but hard enough to enforce the much older man's intended message: Cooperate or else. The harsh metal should have been cold against her bare skin, but her numb body could not feel a thing except for the excruciating pain of Lord Roose's betrayal.
There was no way that Lord Bolton could have known where Sansa had intended to go, unless…unless…
He told him, Sansa thought wildly. O—of course! I should have seen it; how could I not have? "Theon," breathed Sansa, feeling her heart sink to the pit of her stomach as she lifted her chin to meet the Warden of the North's gaze.
Roose merely favored silence and a twisted sneer that looked more like a grimace as a response, which only confirmed the young redhead's immediate suspicions that Theon Greyjoy had broken at last.
Sansa had always believed the man whom she had once considered a friend and ally to her would have been a tough nut to crack, but gazing into the listlessness of the Warden's eyes, she knew now that this was not the case.
All that was left was Reek. Her throat and heart held in a silver grasp, and all Sansa could do was stare lifelessly at the man's gray eyes, at his hand that held the blade and a terrifying coldness in a man that she had never seen before, not even within Ramsay.
Trembling, Sansa tipped her chin up into the sharpened edge, tempting the Warden of the North to just end her anguish already, half hoping that Lord Roose would do so, to save herself the sheer embarrassment and heartbreak of looking into Ramsay's eyes one last time, and seeing the anguish and sorrow there that lurked within.
A small stream of crimson blood trickled from the feeble gash placed upon her collarbone that she could not feel, and Roose did not flinch nor avert his gaze from Sansa's, a cruel smile stretched upon gaunt features that made the Warden look quite deranged.
Sansa gulped nervously, feeling beads of sweat begin to form upon her brow, knowing whatever was coming to her would not be kind, and her muscles tensed as much as they could, but the knowing still did not soften the blow as his other hand not clutching onto the dagger in his hand drew back and cracked across Sansa's left cheek. The slap was as loud as a clap and stung her face. It had been an open-handed smack and it had left a red welt behind. Just below her left eye was a small cut where his ring had caught her.
Sansa let out a muffled cry of pain and staggered backwards, clutching at her face, her eyes watering like mad. Sansa's frozen heart shifted at the sight of the merciless Warden's gaze, her legs almost failing beneath her, but she could not show just how terrified she was, for if she allowed her face and eyes to betray her, then it was over.
Roose's steadfast grip upon the polished jeweled weapon shifted, causing more crimson liquid to flow from the small but efficient raw wound he had inflicted upon his bastard son's wife. "At last," he breathed, and Sansa visibly cringed and attempted to free herself from the Warden's ironclad grip, pitifully clawing at his hand around her throat with her fingers, though it was to no avail.
The coldness that lingered in Roose's tone was frightening.
"You thought you had outwitted me, my child. You must have taken me for a fool, Lady Stark. But I take it I need not remind you that patience is one of my many virtues…and your husband's little freak led me here. He has told me everything that I wish and need to know. I know my son was responsible for the deaths of my wife and child," Roose growled threateningly, though if this rumor was true, he did not seem particularly grief-stricken.
Sansa swallowed nervously, cringing as the simple act caused her to feel the tip of the Warden's dagger, still holding her throat hostage with no intentions of letting up until Sansa either begged Lord Bolton for a quick and painless death or surrendered and succumbed to the Warden's sick demands and did as he asked of her without questions.
Of which, Sansa would do neither. Sansa jutted her chin out slightly defiantly and dared to meet the Warden of the North's inquisitive gaze, who had cocked his head to the side and was regarding Sansa as though she were an exotic animal in bars behind a cage, nothing more than a fascinating and beautiful specimen to gawk at.
She scowled, knitting her brows together in one last defiant glower. "Ramsay has already left for Stannis Baratheon's encampments. You shan't catch up to him, milord Bolton," she spat venomously. "And what of Theon? What did you do to him?" Sansa demanded hotly, stomping her foot, a release of frustration. "What have you done with Theon Greyjoy, Warden?" she asked, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout.
In Lord Roose Bolton's arrogant triumph, the Warden smirked. Just a small pouting of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of his head. It was so subtle, it was even more infuriating for the Lady of Winterfell, who caught a glimpse of it after making the foolish mistake of asking after Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay's whereabouts.
Sansa swallowed hard and blinked back salty, briny tears as she watched, eyes widening with horror as the Warden snapped his fingers, and a pair of guards came forward, one of them was the one she had met during her first few days back home, the archer. Ser Aleyn.
"No…tell me it's not true..." she whispered, her voice cracking as it warbled. Her tears threatened to spill over as she recognized the young man drag a struggling figure throughout the snow, ignoring his muffled whimpers and yelps.
Poor Theon was grotesque in appearance even on a good day, but now…his eyes were swollen shut and already bruising purple, his form slack. His brown hair had recently been shorn brutally short, it was practically stubble, though tangled with congealed blood, and his face was drained of color, rendering a pallid look that resembled that of a corpse upon his features.
As the trusted archer of Roose's somewhat reluctantly dragged Theon into view, Sansa let out a hiss as the pair got closer, almost not recognizing poor Theon of the Iron Islands anymore.
The pair of men were still too far away, and Theon's gait was all wrong. He walked lopsided at that. As the archer dropped the beaten and broken boy at Lord Roose's feet, he cast an apologetic glance towards Sansa.
"I am sorry that it had to come to this, milady. He…" The archer bit his bottom lip, casting a wary look at the Warden, whose face remained impassive and stoic, his expression quite unreadable. "He threatened my family."
Sansa bit the inside of her cheek as she felt a million retorts bristle within the confines of her chest as her head whiplashed sharply upwards to regard the Bolton's family's brightest and best of their team of archers.
"You're sorry?" she shouted, momentarily forgetting her fear at her current predicament as she somehow managed to free herself from Lord Roose's clutches, bolting to Theon's side, the only indication of life still left within the broken man from the Iron Islands as he lay in a crumpled heap that was slowly staining the pristine white snow blood-red was the steadily slow rising and falling of his chest. She stifled a half choked sob of misery as she lifted her chin to meet the archer's gaze.
The eyes that she believed once to be filled with much potential and purpose was now replaced with a horrible-looking bitterness and hatred. The only thing that showed any resemblance to the new friend that she had thought she had made in the courtyard that fateful day, Ser Aleyn, who had helped her to escape on the eve of her wedding to Ramsay, was the shell the bitter soul driven by greed and revenge that was inhabited.
Her friend, what was left of Aleyn, was gone.
She felt an insurmountable anger, hotter than any flames a dragon could breathe, work its way up from the pit of her stomach and into her throat. "Ser Aleyn, you are a betrayer to the Starks and Bolton families alike," Sansa announced, fixating her gaze on the young archer, who was having trouble meeting her gaze, though she could tell the coldness of her words, the lack of warmth in them, was hitting their mark. Good. He needed to hear this.
"That day in the courtyard…it would have been kinder just to kill me," Sansa whisper hissed through gritted teeth, her hot tears stinging and blurring her vision, but she swallowed past the lump in her throat and angrily blinked them back. "If it would not wound your family so badly, then I would see you buried six feet under this very dirt beneath our boots for what you have done, and I would walk away without shedding a single tear. I would not mourn you, and neither would Ramsay. Once he learns of what you have done, the man is apt to kill you. I am the girl whom you met in the heart of the godswoods near the courtyard, the one with a heart now so consumed by a hatred I never knew could took root. But here it is. Here I stand. My hatred for you does not ebb, Ser Aleyn, it multiples. I never wish to look upon your face again. You have betrayed me, Theon, your Lord Ramsay. All of us."
Sansa bit her bottom lip and allowed her tears to freely fall as she gathered Theon into her arms, using the crook of her elbow to support his head as his eyes opened and he blearily tried to focus his gaze a few feet in front of himself, though it was costing him greatly, much pain, Sansa could see. His eyes were swollen shut.
Theon wouldn't be seeing out of either one of them well enough if they both lived through whatever Lord Bolton had in mind for them. Theon's face bore signs of dried and congealed blood, his own, and his tattered and worn brown tunic was an utter crimson mess, stained with his blood, and gods, the smell.
Sansa crinkled her nose in disgust and fought back the urge to vomit. Then…Theon tried to say her name, his lips cracking and bleeding at the first syllable, but he did not need to. Stifling a choked sob at the back of her throat, Sansa cradled Theon's head in her hands and tried to force her friend to look into her eyes.
If this was to be the last time Theon Greyjoy would look upon her face, then Sansa wanted to make it count. She leaned down and whispered into the shell of Theon's ear.
"I forgive you, Theon…" She pulled apart slightly to study his face. He murmured something incoherent and his closed eyelids fluttered slightly, but the broken, beaten man in her arms gave no indication that he had heard her. Sansa turned back towards Ser Aleyn, seemingly having forgotten for a moment that her and Theon and now Ramsay's fate rested within the hands of Lord Roose. She felt the knife before she saw it, this knife of betrayal in a man who she had once believed to be a friend to her.
"You…you horse's ass!" Sansa bellowed, having only eyes for Ser Aleyn, who was looking just as beaten and broken as Theon, if not possibly more, if such a thing was even possible. She wondered what Roose had done, his silver words of persuasion that he had used to coerce Ser Aleyn into the mistreatment of poor Theon.
But it mattered not. Not anymore. The damage was already done, and the heartbreak it caused Sansa irrevocable, as was her trust in the young archer. She sat up straighter, her fingers curling into a protective fist around Theon's middle, the other hand not wrapped around his waist gently stroking his hair, completely ignoring the fact that when she pulled her hand away, her palms were stained crimson.
"How dare you! How dare you beat him within an inch of his life? Have you no regard for your own honor, Ser? You were Ramsay's brother, a friend to him! He spoke highly of you! Now you are nothing to us, you witless worm, you mere slither of worthlessness, you snake in the night!" she screamed, the bitter cold wind tossing her hair like winter fire about haphazardly in the breeze.
Her grip upon Theon's limp form tightened considerably as Lord Bolton drew nearer, closing off the gap of space between them. "I trusted you, Aleyn! I liked you! I considered you to be a friend to Ramsay and I! And this is you how repay us? Get out of my sight, archer! I never want to look upon your face again. You are relieved of your duty to the Bolton family. In the absence of my husband, I invoke the right to appoint and dismiss members of staff as I see fit, and I take advantage of this opportunity now. I would rather you take a knife to my heart than speak words so cold to me, Ser Aleyn. I will not cry nor grieve for you, betrayer, for you stole yourself away the moment you betrayed mine and my lord husband's trust. You took the friendship you offered the pair of us and locked it back inside that cage you dare to call a body. You will never know, never find out what our friendship could have meant to you, Ser, and neither will I. GET OUT!" She growled, rising to her feet, and struggling to help Theon to stand, draping an arm over his shoulder, grunting, and wincing with the effort to pull the young man to his feet.
Sansa jumped, startled, as Lord Bolton cleared his throat, a look of severe annoyance that almost bordered on boredom in his gaunt features.
"Be quiet, Lady Stark. You fool no one, Sansa Stark. You have rendered my son weak, and that is something I simply cannot allow. I need Ramsay's iron will and strong stomach to turn the tides of this waging war to our advantage, and with his mind distracted with thoughts of you, Stannis's fucking armies will lay siege to Winterfell, and his men are apt to slit our throats in our sleep, girl," the Warden commented in a drawl, clasping his slender fingers together, the garish glint of his red ruby ring catching in the blinding white light of the early morning winter sun.
Before she could open her mouth to yell at Lord Roose, he drew back his hand and slapped her a second time. Sansa let out a pained gasp and staggered backwards, away from Theon's body.
The pain of what Lord Bolton had done was increasing in waves, small lulls giving false hope an end in sight. Each peak robbed Sansa's ability to speak, sending her crashing to the courtyard ground, groveling at Bolton's feet.
It was as though her blood had become acid at the betrayal of now not only Ramsay's lord father, but the archer underneath Ramsay's command as well. And she could tell by one look in the archer's cold, listless eyes that her husband's days were numbered if she could not find a way to warn him of the impending danger ahead, somehow.
Lord Bolton approached, his thin lips curled up into a twisted, cold smirk of his that by now, Sansa had come to learn was a habit anytime he was about to flay someone and smiled wickedly at the last Stark woman of Winterfell.
For a brief moment, Sansa thought of Arya, and hoped that wherever her younger sister was, that she was safe.
The Warden of the North gave a curt snap of his gloved fingers again, and Sansa's heart sank to the pit of her stomach as a second guard, this one's name and face known to her, stepped forward. She gulped nervously, having to crane her neck just to take in all of the brute's appearance.
The soldier that now stood towering in front of Sansa was on the shorter, stockier side, muscular, with square shoulders and a square back to match, and black, close cropped hair. He had a somewhat handsome face made slightly uneven by his nose, which looked to Sansa as though it had been broken at some time in the past. Her blood rendered to ice in her veins as Roose spoke his next words, flatly, with no emotion.
"Mikael, escort Lady Sansa back to her…new chambers," he drawled, cupping Sansa's chin in his gloved hand and tilting it sharply upwards, forcing Sansa to meet his gaze. He leaned in and whispered into the shell of her ear, "Perhaps…my dear…this will help you to better think over my offer of what I am about to offer you. I would seek to ensure you thrive here in Winterfell, and if you remain wedded to my bastard son, you life is already in shambles and you've no future, and your family name will forever be tainted. But…"
Sansa's eyes widened as the realization of what Lord Roose was about to offer her set in and she began to understand. "You would…have me marry you?" She was unable to keep the disgust and hatred from her tone. She tried to shirk away from Bolton's touch, and he let out a dark little chuckle as he relinquished his grip upon her chin. "NEVER!" she shouted, balling her hands into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms, at her sides. "M...milord, this is insanity. But if you could hear yourself speak of such slanderous thoughts! What you are suggesting is unforgivable! Such talk of respect," she spat, disgusted with Roose's proposal.
"We shall see just how much disgust you feel when I am through with you, Stark," Roose growled. He turned towards Mikael, who stood at attention and was awaiting his next orders. "Escort my son's wife inside at once, Mikael. We cannot have her catch her death out here."
"And of that one, sir?" the guard asked, gesturing with a jerk of his head towards Theon's unconscious form.
Roose snorted and rolled his eyes. "Ah, yes. Ramsay's little plaything. What do they call you, again? Ah. Reek the Freak, isn't it? Well, no matter. This one still has his usefulness, so he shall remain alive. For now. Take him, my bastard son's little pet," here, Roose spat at Theon's feet and kicked aside his unconscious body with the tip of his leather boot, taking great care to bring his boot down upon Theon's nose, and Sansa clenched her eyes shut and winced as she heard the unmistakable sound of bone snapping. Roose had broken his nose, "back to the dungeons as well. Make sure neither one can leave their respective cells, Mikael. Do it."
The guard gave a curt nod, and without so much as a word to Sansa, seized hold of her forearm and violently wrenched the young woman to her feet, ignored Sansa's muffled cry of pain as his fingers curled tightly around her arm, already knowing that the sheer force of his ironclad grip would leave markings she knew she did not want.
"What of Ramsay?" Sansa managed to gasp out through her tears, barely flinching as the guard named Mikael wrapped a strong around her waist and held her throat hostage with a knife. She flinched as the tip of the blade made contact with the pale column of her throat. "What of your own son, milord? What is it be his fate?" she pleaded, biting her bottom lip and crying out only once as she felt the guard begin to drag her back towards the castle's dungeons.
Sansa bit her bottom lip and watched, frustrated, as she dug the heels of her boots into the frozen earth, fighting the guard with what little strength and energy she had left in her vain efforts to return in haste to Theon's side, who had been lifted to his feet by none other than the treacherous betrayer, Ser Aleyn, himself, an arm slung over the unconscious younger boy's shoulder, and was being escorted towards the dungeons, in the opposite direction of Sansa.
Now she would never get to tell him in person that she forgave him…
There had been hope for her, before. And Ramsay. Just a tiny flicker against the wind. But now, there was nothing left. She continued to struggle with the guard called Mikael, determined not to avert her gaze from Lord Roose, whose face remained neutral and impassive as he watched his bastard son's wife fight tooth and nail to escape. She tried again, one last time, desperate to reach Lord Bolton and receive an answer on Ramsay's fate.
"Your son, Lord Bolton. What will become of my husband? What are you going to do to him?" she screamed. Sansa swallowed nervously as she met the Warden of the North's gaze. The cold, flat look reflected on his face chilled her.
His hands were closed tightly around the hilt of the dagger resting in its sheath strapped to his thigh. Ramsay's lord father seemed to have no sense of humanity. His heart, if he even had one, seemed to be made of stone, the way he had so brutally ordered Theon Greyjoy to be beaten within an inch of his life, and now, was about to order a hit on his own son. Sansa knew she would never forget the evil glint in his beady eyes, narrowed to mere slits.
How Lord Bolton had smelled of blood. Of danger. He fixed his bastard's son's wife with a cold glower and the next words that poured from his lips chilled her blood.
"No more than you would do to me," he growled. "I know all of your pathetic little plans, everything, Lady Stark. You thought that you could deceive me. I think not. You, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, are rumored to possess the talents of black magic, and have therefore plagued my bastard son's thoughts and mine own as well with wicked thoughts of lust and temptation. You have evaded capture for the suspicious death of His Majesty King Joffrey Baratheon of which you are suspected in playing a role in, Lady Stark. You must face the justice to answer for your crimes. You are therefore guilty of the treasonous betrayal of your fellow northerners and everyone within Winterfell's borders and should you refuse to accept my offer, will be sentenced to death by immolation at twilight on the morrow. And, if by some miracle presented by the gods, my bastard son should escape his fate in those wretched woods…" Lord Bolton let out a guttural growl from the back of his throat that sounded more animalistic than any human noise should ever be, "then he is therefore guilty of the same sentence and should share your fate. Burn. I have seen enough. Get her out of my sight, Mikael. Do it. NOW!" he yelled.
Sansa stifled her choked sob, biting down hard on her bottom lip to escape the muffled sob that threatened release as she allowed the guard to drag her away, her hands now bound together in a pair of manacles, the harsh metal which cut and dug into the fragile skin of her wrists.
Seven hells, would the gods really be this cruel to her? Was this her fate? The tiny flicker of hope that had dulled to a mere flickering ember within her chest went out almost instantly.
Sansa allowed Mikael to escort her into a cell in the dungeons below Winterfell's foundations, feeling her shoulders slump in defeat as he violently yanked her forward, causing her to stumble every few feet.
She walked, unaware of how much time had passed, just staring into the abyss, this desolate pit of her cell that was her new world. No thoughts came to her except that her fate was sealed.
And Ramsay, gods, Ramsay…. Sansa knew herself to be now hopelessly in love with her husband, bastard of Bolton or otherwise, that mattered not to her. That's the worst part of all of this, she thought, silently crying as she raked her knuckles along the iron bars of the door to her prison cell.
Whatever good Ramsay sees in me is going to disappear tomorrow evening. At her pyre. Sansa had maintained the company of Lord Bolton well enough that by now, she knew that the wretched man would want his bastard son to bear witness to his wife's demise, to watch him suffer as the one good thing in his life was painfully removed from his clutches, and then, and only then, would Ramsay truly be his again.
For with no thoughts of her to preoccupy his mind, Sansa knew that her lord husband was the type of man who would quickly whiplash from despair to destruction in an instant, and in his grief-stricken rage, he would be unstoppable, a sheer force to be reckoned with.
With Ramsay by her side, that little flicker of hope had been all that Sansa needed in life. With the open eyes of a naïve girl innocent of the cruel ways of man, she had reached out to that Bastard of Bolton, her fingers extended. He had taken her hand, but it had been Roose who had so violently wrenched each other from the other's grasp.
In that moment, Roose had a choice of kindness or cruelty. It had taken the Warden no time at all for him to decide. He had seen that dying ember within Sansa's cobalt blue eyes and brought the winds to a cold howl. How was it that his thinking was so different from Sansa's? So foreign?
How was it that Lord Bolton, Warden of the North, father to her lord husband Ramsay, could see the suffering within his son's wife's eyes and choose to make it all the worse?
Sansa lowered her head and cried. Sansa Stark allowed herself to sit in the pit that had become her world, the only decorations her own nail marks on the cold stone slabs of wall that she could not scale, and she could not escape this cell without the door's key.
Though she knew there was light at the top, it felt to Sansa Stark a million miles away, and were it not for Ramsay being down here with her, in the confines of her own imagination, Sansa wouldn't even bother to try.
Every time she reached out with love to someone, someone she hoped would be able to throw her a rope, the floor sunk a little bit lower, jolting her body as it stops—crushing Sansa with a new pain, a new abandonment.
First it had been her parents. And then Arya. Now Ramsay's life, the tether binding his soul and body to the earthly coil was about to be severed, cut from him by the very hands of a man, the archer, whom he had once called friend. Sansa sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the back of her dress's long trumpet sleeve and blearily looked around.
Perhaps now was the time, limited as it was, for her to realize it was not herself she was supposed to get out, but him.
And so, Sansa closed her eyes and allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness Ramsay had dwelled within for so many years prior to her entering into his life, to see that intermingled with the markings of her own nails were his too, older, though, the blood long dried. And then, Sansa knew that Ramsay gave up…
Because there was nothing else for him to do, and that the best day of his life was when Sansa fell into this horrible pit of despair with him, their tears running together. Sansa clenched her jaw shut. "I'll get you out. I promise. If this is to be the last thing on this earth that I do. I will," she promised to Ramsay in a whisper.
Though she knew he was likely miles into the godswoods by now and could not hear him, there was a part of her that hoped that somehow…he could. She would get him out. Because that was how Sansa knew that she could love like she was born to, that she could put her own husband first, even when her cold winter was it its darkest.
Exhaling a shaking breath, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the cold, unforgiving slab of stone that was part of the wall of her cell.
All she wanted right now was to speak to Ramsay, for thoughts of her lord husband was perhaps now the only thing that would keep the darkness at bay.
"My love, come as close as you can to the prison walls and whisper sweet nothings into the tiny cracks. I can forgo the golden beams of light, I can suffer nothing but bleak walls for company, but love I cannot live without. Tell me of the days to come, the ones where we walk in meadows, a feast of color for eyes that have seen nothing but gray for so long. Tell me of how we walk hand in hand to the river and wash our weary feet. Tell me of how we will feel the warm light of the sun on our skin and hug like our love is eternal. Tell me of how we'll watch the fish make their way through cool waters before heading home to rest in each other's arms, always knowing a fresh dawn will come. Tell me. Speak to me."
Sansa felt the tiny ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she allowed herself to drift into an uneasy sleep, her body exhausted and taxed from the sheer stress of the day's unexpected developments.
If she listened closely, she could hear Ramsay speaking to her…
You the sunshine of the eternal dawn within, the one that makes it safe for my soul to breathe anew. You show a courage I thought long extinguished from the world, yet here you are. It is because of who you are that I feel this way, that your touch is like Wildfire and all that you are is home. I trust you even when the cold winds blow; I hold to you when sinister whispers speak ill, for I saw your soul one precious night under the stars, and it lives with me still. So, for all the time there is a me, I am yours: mind, body and soul, Sansa Stark. I am yours…and you are mine.