SANSA/RAMSAY
The fear coursed through Sansa Stark's veins but never quite made it to her facial muscles or skin. Her complexion remained pale; her eyes steady as she wrapped her knuckles around the iron grilles of her cage in Winterfell's dungeons. She crinkled her nose in disgust and made a mental note to ask someone about possibly overseeing renovations to ensure more humane conditions for their prisoners. She had screamed and shouted herself hoarse at Lord Roose and his guards until she lost her voice. He won't set me free. I'm trapped in here and going to die. For all I know, he is already dead.
Surrounded by four walls of stone, there was nothing else to do but stare at them. To look at the cracks in the dungeon that had been gouged by other prisoners—anything to pass the time, slowly going mad—she theorized absurd meanings from the wall's blank staring.
"Roose!" she shouted, not even bothering with proper edict by addressing the bastard's father by his proper title, her knuckles white as she clutched onto the bars of her cage. "I know you hear me, Bolton! Let me free right now, or I swear to the seven hells below that I'll kill you and you'll rot in hell for all eternity, I swear it!"
She was met with naught but silence. All Lady Stark could do was sit slumped against the cold stone wall of her cage, though it felt more like this pit of despair had become her new little world.
Sansa Stark was well and truly trapped. She had nothing left to live for with Ramsay likely dead at the bottom of a ravine somewhere in the heart of the godswoods, and she would be damned to a hellish life if she was forced to suffer a painful death via immolation, or an even worse fate by marrying Roose Bolton. She wouldn't. She couldn't. Lord Bolton had taken everything good away from Sansa, and the young redhead was not going to give the man the satisfaction of watching it.
Sansa hung her head, allowing a lock of fiery red hair to fall like a curtain in front of her face, effectively shielding the rest of her pitiful cage from her view. She did not wish to look upon anything but his face. Her Ramsay. Her husband. Her love. She shivered, clutching herself as it was fairly cold in here, and she could feel the cold and slimy fingers just crawling up her spine and squeezing her neck with all the strength they had, suffocating Sansa until she could not breathe well.
Fear. It was an emotion that was so human. The tightness in Lady Stark's throat constricted as she reached out a hand to steady herself. It felt like ever since Lord Roose had confessed everything to her at the edge of the godswoods, upon learning that Ramsay, that Bastard of Bolton, the Skinflayer, had grown to love something and someone other than himself, that she couldn't breathe.
Her breaths came to her in short, shaking breaths, like her muscles were ready to give up the fight on their own. The darkness, that demon inside her head, began to close in, whispering wicked thoughts to her of wanting to slit Roose's throat the next time he came back. Maybe it was the coldness, maybe it was the shaking of Sansa's limbs that caused every muscle in her body to seize and tense up stiffly. Sansa Stark did not know for certain. All Sansa did know for certain was that what she was feeling right now robbed her very ability to breathe, just like it seemed to rob away the encroaching dawn as the sun peeked over the horizon. But a few more hours and she would burn.
Standing shakily and going to stand over next to the barred window that allowed her to gaze out at the horizon, at the godswoods' edge, Sansa had to strain to see into the darkness to see if she could spot any signs of Theon or of Ramsay. Nothing. She let out an anguished cry of agony and sobbed.
Lord Bolton had taken away the one man she had grown to care for, and even love, in her own way, and Sansa did not think she could bear it if she allowed further harm to come to Ramsay.
She would save him, even if it cost Sansa her own life. Ramsay as well as a few others had become quite fond of telling Sansa at every opportunity that only death may pay for life, and if that was what Sansa had to do so that Ramsay would live to see and fight another day, then so be it, then.
Sansa would die for Ramsay if it came to that. The She-Wolf of Winterfell felt the dread creep over her spine like a spider leaving a careful trail of silk. She never should have allowed him to leave.
Sansa blinked as she could swear she could hear her lord mother and father's words echoing and ringing in her eardrums. "You can save him," Lady Catelyn's voice whispered into the shell of her ear, exhilaration in her mother's tone. "Your lord husband will be just fine, daughter. Do not fret."
"How?" Sansa wailed, and she could hear the audible crack and dip in her voice as she wavered on the only word she could manage to utter. "I—if something happens to him because of me, of what I am, then I…I am the one who deserves to burn, not him, I would not forgive myself, Mother," she cried, burying her face in her hands, anguished. The darkness swirling around in Sansa's tired head had fueled within her an unquenchable fire that threatened to burn down anything Sansa's cobalt blue eyes came into contact with. As she heard learned, the hottest fires always burned blue.
She blearily lifted her head from her hands and swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. Ah, but gods, she must be going insane, to converse with the spirits of her mother and father, as though both her parents were seated right next to her on the damp, moldy floor of this pit of despair.
"H—how do you know?" she whispered, her frightened voice wafting through the empty cell.
"Because," Lord Eddard answered stoically, and Sansa clenched her eyes shut as she felt a strange squeezing pressure upon her shoulder, and she could imagine her father here with her, giving the appendage a gentle, reassuring squeeze, as if to reassure his eldest daughter that everything was going to be all right, "He has you." Sansa blinked owlishly and glanced to her right and to the left.
Nothing. She faltered in her resolve for a moment, her confidence that had until just now previously soared to unheard of levels, thanks to her father's final parting remark, faltered and vanished as Sansa realized that the hardest part lay ahead of her. Confronting Lord Roose over what he had done. This thought was still on her mind as she waited for one of the guards, probably Mikael, to come and fetch her to escort her towards the square, where no doubt, a pyre was waiting for her.
Sansa decided that if she lived through this, she would ask Ramsay if they could have a second home built for them, a summer home, perhaps, in the thicket of the godswoods. Make a clearing.
Have a home for just the two of them, and…their baby. And that thought ignited the small spark of hope within Sansa's chest, that Ramsay was going to be safe, because he would find a way to return to them. She felt her hand instinctively drift towards her flat abdomen and felt a surge of over-protectiveness and a newfound determination to life, if not for herself, then their child, take over.
That same spark of hope ignited a tiny flame deep within Lady Stark's chest, just a flicker against the bitter Northern breeze, but it was enough for the distraught young redhead to find her inner resolve. "I'm going to save us, Ramsay," she swore underneath her breath. "I can promise you that."
A tiny muffled noise reached Sansa's eardrums, like the sound of something shuffling along the dungeon's stone walls. Her back was still turned, facing the window, and it wasn't until Sansa heard the sound of Ramsay's voice reaching her eardrums, and her ears perked up at the beautiful noise.
"Are you o—okay?" he asked the question smoothly, the baritone of his voice reverberating through Sansa's bones as she stood, remaining rooted to her spot in her wretched prison cell, exhaling a shaking breath as the sound of jangling keys turning in the door's locking mechanisms reached her.
The low rumble of his voice was comforting as it wrapped around Sansa and carried her off into a world where the sound of her lord husband's voice was the power that could change everything wrong in the world. Could it be? No, her inner demonic voice that did not sound like herself growled, stronger than that little voice of hope that still resonated within the confines of her mind.
But still…hesitantly, Sansa turned around felt her blue eyes widen. Ramsay stood in the entryway of her prison cell's door, looking on the brink of collapse, supported by Theon's weight.
He had come home to her.
Ramsay blinked. There she was. His cobalt-eyed, beautiful angel of a wife with the fingertips of flame that scorched and burned his skin every time she dared to touch his scarred skin, and the hair like winter fire. He swallowed hard and blinked, quite certain that Sansa Stark standing in front of him was an angel. He had thought for certain the entire walk back over here that Roose had killed her.
He and Theon hadn't gone the rest of the way without encountering…difficulties. They had run into Myranda, and Ramsay, under false pretenses of rekindling what they had once had, had coerced Myranda into confessing everything. He had intended to let her go, but that final smirk of hers had been the kennel bitch's undoing, and Ramsay had not hesitated to stab the bitch in her fucking heart. No one, especially not Myranda, would keep the Bastard of Bolton from his wife, and now, if the words Theon had uttered back in the woods were true, their child. His child. His son. Or daughter. It mattered not. What did matter was reaching Sansa before his lord father to make sure that she was safe. And she would be, as long as Ramsay ensured his wife remained by his side.
Where the both of them knew that she belonged. Forever, if he would have his way, and Ramsay always got his way. He had been about to open his mouth to apologize to her, when the sound of barreling footsteps pounded through the prison's small cell as she ran to him, flinging her arms around Ramsay's neck and covering his mouth with hers in a passionate kiss. He broke it off first and stared at her in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument between them.
Their glances battled each other, until tears arose, and both found themselves crying. He was surprised as he could not recall these goddamned wretched tears ever escaping from his eyes. Ever. "By the gods," he sniffed, turning away, and blinking it back angrily. "See what you do you to me, woman?" Ramsay growled, his tears rolling down with the same quietness in fast tracts down his deathly-white cheeks, and Sansa was given no time to react as he cradled Sansa's head in his hands and passionately pressed his lips to hers.
He pulled apart first. "Why did you do it? You—you should have told me the truth, and I would never have left your side. That you're expecting. You should have told me, Sansa. Why did you not?" Ramsay demanded angrily, tears rolling down with the same quietness. He sighed, wiping his own tears, before looking away from him and wandering toward the window with a curious slowness. His hand was curled around his stomach and he staggered in mental and physical pain.
Sansa felt an urge to do something to comfort him, but also herself. In a moment she pressed her lips against his, felt his body loosen and arms touch her shoulders. Lady Stark chuckled beneath her salty tears as they flowed in graceful tracts down her pale face. Without a word, she pressed her lips to his again, her kiss slow and passionate this time. "That is your answer as to why," she whispered.
"Because…I could not let your lord father hurt you anymore, milord. I think that…" She hesitated, biting her bottom lip in an adorable little pout that were the topic of conversation not so serious, Ramsay might have laughed her. "I didn't mean to…to chase you away," she whispered softly, her voice so faint that her husband had to lean forward slightly to hear her better. "I-it's just that…I didn't think that I deserved your affection after what Roose tried to get me to do, and I did not know how you would take kindly to my news," she responded, a pained look in her blue eyes. "B-but I…I really do like you, and do not believe you to be so cruel. Not anymore," Sansa confessed, reaching up a hand to caress his cheek while simultaneously brushing back that one stubborn lock of dark hair out of his left eye. "I like you a lot. And I never…" Her voice trailed off, as she looked away as he took her hands in his, caressing her fingers with the pad of his thumb gently. "I never want to hurt you. I never meant to hurt you, Ramsay…" Sansa swiveled her head back to face him again, seemingly not wanting to meet his eyes, and it was only when she felt his finger on her chin, cupping it in his strong hand she felt the familiar tilt upward as he forced her to look into those brilliant blue eyes.
"Tell me. I want to hear you say it," he urged, the desperation in his voice almost too much.
"I think I…I think I love you," she whispered shyly, biting her bottom lip again in that adorable pout that was currently driving him crazy, if only she knew just how much.
Ramsay stared deep into her eyes. His other hand shook slightly, still cupping her cheek in his hand, his mind screaming at him to pull away, to stop this before it was too late. Don't do this, don't do this… But the sound of his heart was beating so loudly that he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything else. It felt like he was going to implode if he didn't do something. Finally, after much hesitation on his part, his lips touched hers, gently at first.
The dungeons felt like it was slowly disappearing around the two of them, along with all of their worries, their troubles, and problems. For a moment, he forgot about his bastard betrayer of a father, or the fact that she was somehow here with him, which meant that she had escaped his father's wrath.
Sansa made Ramsay feel like none of that mattered. It was a small yet warm kiss. He honestly never knew a kiss so innocent could be so incredibly intimate and such a bringer of warmth, sending an incredible heat throughout his body, changing his blood, coursing through his veins.
Her lips were moving in perfect sync, his hands feeling her waist. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, slightly more passionate than before. Ramsay felt her hands on the back of his neck play with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on his face as it started to tickle.
Finally, they pulled apart, and he reluctantly took a step or two backward, loosening his grip on her waist. Immediately, something was wrong, he could tell. Her face was deathly white, far too pale to be considered healthy. Crimson stained her left ribcage, and she let out a breathy little squeak. The blood flowed thickly over her fingers, warm and sticky, garish.
"NO!" Ramsay screamed, watching as his wife's legs began to crumple and give out beneath her. He reached up with stained crimson palms that were trembling and gingerly pressed one of his hands over the wound in Sansa's side. "Don't go to sleep. Fight it. Y—you must fight it. You're going to be okay, I promise," he whispered, leaning down, and brushing aside a lock of her hair to whisper it into her ear. "You are a Wolf of Winterfell, Lady Stark. You wolves do not go down easily, Stark. Then be a wolf. Be strong. Do it for me."
He blinked back cursed briny tears that he let freely fall, and it was only when a dark shadow loomed over the pair as he cradled her limp form in his arms that he became aware of his father coldly wiping his dagger with a white pristine handkerchief that had stained it blood red. The violent red of her wound stained Ramsay's shaking hands as he adjusted her head, so that it lolled back slightly against his elbow.
The first thing he noticed was how white she looked and how fragile Sansa felt. She was like glass and now she was broken, not whole. The crimson color burned in Ramsay's mind along with what Roose had just done. A sickness crawled within him as he swallowed past the lump in his form and blinked back his briny tears. A small sob worked its way out of his throat as he brushed back a lock of red hair from her forehead as her eyes closed, the color rapidly draining from her face. Sansa's eyelids fluttered open and she let out a tiny groan, her own hands clutching onto the wound.
"Hurts," Sansa whimpered in a voice that was barely soft, if Ramsay hadn't already been hanging onto her every word, then most likely, Ramsay would have missed it. "Ramsay, I…"
"I—I know it does," he croaked hoarsely, completely ignoring the cold scathing look in his lord father's eyes as the tall imposing Warden of the North towered over his bastard son, who had slumped against the wall of Sansa's prison cell for support, careful to support her head in his arms, using his thighs as a means of support to hold her lower body. "I—I'm going to save you. Y-you're…home," he whispered, the pads of his fingertips caressing her too-white cheek.
"Home?" Seven hells, but her voice sounded much too faint. Sansa was fading, and fast.
"With me," he pleaded, choking back another sob.
"Home," she repeated, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at her lips.
"You can…you can stay up here. With me. Forever. Stay…"
"I don't think…Forever?" she asked, smiling when he nodded, unable to seem to find the words to speak. "You're…you're such a good man, Ramsay, and a good…" But she didn't get to finish her sentence as a violent coughing spell overtook the young woman's lungs, and she struggled to breathe.
There was no amount of horror that could prepare a person for seeing the life force ebb from another, the hopelessness, the tearing at the soul that was the departing of the other. That's how it felt for Ramsay as he watched the color rapidly drain from Sansa's face as her eyes closed, her head lolling to the side. It seemed a moment before Roose spoke again.
When the Warden did, his voice was cold and emotionless. "Is the Stark bitch dead?" he growled, coming to stand next to his bastard son and place a surprisingly tender hand on Ramsay's back. "Well?"
Ramsay let out a low guttural growl from the back of his throat as he felt his grip tighten on the young redhead's corpse. He was only briefly aware of the sound of running footsteps and the horrified yells and cries of outrage as Theon came barreling back into the torture chamber, having darted outside to deal with a pair of guards, the balcony. "Because of you," he snarled, no warmth left in his voice. Not anymore.
There would be no love for the man who he had once considered a father. Ramsay wondered if he could lose his humanity in a single moment. If humanity were something that could leave forever. Or if it had a deep place inside of everyone, even when he swore that his wasn't there? Some of them showed it more than others, perhaps.
Others blocked it out, just as Ramsay felt himself doing now. He was hardly human. Not anymore. The only thing left was a monster. Did he still have humanity? Did he still have a soul after this? He had been human once. Maybe…he had been human the entire time, but…
Maybe he had blocked all his humanity out so he could taste the only thing he craved now: Revenge. A human stopped being a human when a human loses its humanity, and in the moment, Ramsay knew as he cradled the lifeless corpse of the beautiful angel in his arms who held his heart that he would never love again, and it took Winterfell's Bastard of Bolton, the Skinflayer exactly five minutes for him to lose his.
All that was left was… A monster. He choked back another sob of anguish and continued his light caressing of Sansa's red hair, his hands finding purchase in the back of her hair. He felt that familiar spark of anger ignite deep within the pit of his chest as his gaze drifted down towards her lifeless pale face. "You killed her." It escaped from his chest as a hissed whisper.
"It was my duty, my son. The girl made her choice. Now we can finally go back to the way things were. Your mind will be set free from the confines of her tempting ways and her distractions, boy," he breathed, exhaling a shaking breath, his ironclad grip upon Ramsay's shoulder tightening a little.
"No." His voice deepened, as did the growl rumbling in his chest. "Things will never go back to the way they were, Father. I had done everything that you ever asked of me without complaint," he snarled. He spat the word 'Father' as though it were poison that had settled on his tongue. He slowly stood, gingerly placing Sansa's body on the ground, hardly noticing as Theon and one of the kitchen women, Hilda, for she was quite on friendly terms with Lady Sansa, he thought her name to be, knelt to check for a pulse. With one last glance, one look of distraught anguish over his shoulder at her lifeless corpse, still so beautiful, even in death, he felt the worst of his temper flare as he turned back around to face Lord Roose Bolton. "What is it of me that you hate so much, Father? WHY DO YOU HATE ME?" he growled.
"You'll see," responded Roose, unfazed by his bastard son's growing temper and ignoring his son's final question. "At last, you are free of this girl's evil spell. I have saved you. The poison that was corrupting your eternal soul has been vanquished alongside her. Now that you are free, your mind free of distractions, we can go on, as close as once we were, my dear son, here in our home. Just you and I, against the world and we shall conquer the entire North, and Stannis Baratheon and his men will rue the day they dared to challenge the Bolton family name. No man alive will oppose us, son."
"HOME?" shouted Ramsay, rising to his feet, and looking at his master, an incredulous look in his normally kind and bright blue eyes. "There is no fucking home, Father! Not without her!" he bellowed, waving an arm to the lifeless redhead currently cradled in Theon's arms, who was crying silently.
"It was her choice, Ramsay. I could have helped her, but she… she did not love you, my boy. Not in the way that you had hoped."
"Love?" hissed Ramsay through gritted teeth, balling his gloved hands into fists. "What do you know of love? Who have you ever loved?"
Bolton's gray eyes flashed indignantly, and then something seemed to shift within the distinguished Warden and his expression softened momentarily. "I loved…I loved Domeric! And my wife…"
"You? Love them?" Ramsay could hardly believe what he heard.
"Yes, as I tried to love and teach you! I thought I change you. But you are wicked, weak! Evil!" Spittle practically flew from Roose's lips the more enraged he became.
"No," Ramsay growled, striding towards his father in two quick strides, cutting off the gap of space between the two men, leaning in so close that the tip of his nose was practically touching his master's. "You are the weak one. You're the wicked one!" He stood up straighter to his full height of 6'3, and even then, he towered over the Warden. "I would have butchered the whole fucking kingdom of Westeros, if that would but make you love me!" he bellowed.
Ramsay's gaze flitted to the dagger that lay in Warden Roose Bolton's hands, in a ready stance, prepared to plunge the hilt of his dagger deep into Ramsay's chest, and that was when the boy finally snapped. The throbbing pressure of the dark voices whispering evil words of malice, thoughts of harm, in Ramsay's head finally exploded, along with a blood curdling scream and a gash on Warden Roose Bolton's neck as he seized the Warden by the column of his pale throat, the blue veins throbbing and sticking out prominently as the Warden's gray eyes went wide with fear.
A series of memories rolled within Ramsay's mind and with it, it earned his father a swift solid upper cut to the man's chisled jawline, over and over again...
The years of abuse at Father's hand, every time his hand raised against Ramsay in anger, killing his hounds. And cobalt eyed Sansa Stark, the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him…Sansa ascending the stairwell of Winterfell, the beautiful young redhead in a gown of rich blue velvet. Her fiery red hair kissed by the sun, like winter fire, red against such pale skin, how her skin was ticklish at the nape, her dazzlingly kind and sweet white smile.
"Y-you don't want to hurt me," Roose choked out in one last desperate pleading gash, turning his head to the side, and spitting out a mouthful of crimson blood, his white teeth stained a horrible garish red.
Yes, you do, the demons inside his head whispered, and at the sight of Theon gingerly lifting Sansa's lifeless form in his arms, his rage rekindled, and he let out a primal scream that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life and plunged his dagger deep into Roose Bolton's chest, at his heart.
Ramsay let out a growl at looked at the man's stupid, surprised eyes and gave it a deep twist for good measure, grinding his teeth in anger. He shoved his father aside as he rolled to one side, groaning, and gurgling as he bled out, his skin graying as the life force left the Warden's gray eyes.
Panting heavily from the exertion at the horrible deed he had just committed, though he desperately wanted to believe it was a necessary evil, he hung his head, bathed in crimson and torn, dirtied pale skin. His shoulders began to heave in release of his entire life's worth of anguish and unspeakable pain, his throat screaming and aching for relief. Hot tears marred his vision and behind him, he could hear the catching of Theon Greyjoy's and Hilda's breaths inhale sharply as they too, looked upon the horrified scene before him: the Bastard of Bolton had at last killed his own father in cold blood.
He'd always sworn that he would, but never could the Bastard of Bolton imagined it like this.
Ramsay looked towards the entrance of the dungeon's torture chambers. A place that he had once cherished and frequented, now he abhorred this place and avoided.
Theon stood, being careful to support the girl's head as he carried her body in his arms, bridal style, a look of distraught on his kind, lined face. Theon and Hilda's faces crumpled, looking like they were fighting back tears. Ramsay rushed to take the unconscious redhead from Theon's arms. "She—she's still alive, M—Master," breathed Theon hurriedly.
"There's a pulse. We think she'll make it," exclaimed Hilda, watching as the boy's face twisted and contorted with a mixture of grief and relief.
"Here," he said immediately, gingerly shifting Sansa's form to his own, effectively relieving Theon of having to carry her weight. She weighed practically next to nothing in his strong arms.
"Be sure to support her head," advised Hilda quietly.
He shot the cook a glowering look as he, using the dungeon's cold stone wall as a brace, gently lowered himself to the floor, cradling her in his arms. He just wanted her back so badly that it ached.
To watching Sansa go from vibrant, full of life and alive, to this. It played repeatedly, as if his brain was unwilling to let the images go and its attempts to analyze them, made Ramsay see them all over again, when he just wanted Sansa back, the way she was, for their lives to go on as they had been.
He knew the more he tried to repress it, the more it would just play again, but he couldn't help it. Streaks of fire burned his cheeks as he cried. Each new wave a hot trail of agony as he gently rocked Sansa back and forth in his arms, as if he could force her to wake up that way. Fire of shame and anger at his failure to protect the woman most important to him burned just underneath his pale skin and a deep emptiness filled his heart as the sentiments brewed over and boiled past the seams he could no longer hold together. There was no hope for a man who cried to his death, drowning himself in the tears of his personal hell. "Look what he's done to you," he wailed, burying his head in her hair.
He was grateful she wasn't awake to hear him cry like this. She'd always hated it, and it was rare that he did, and he reviled the act, considering it a sign of weakness during times of immense stress, but this definitely counted as a stressful situation, and he felt that it was highly warranted this time.
I'll get you out, Sansa. I promise… A stray tear slid down Ramsay's cheek. He was crying for her. The first time in perhaps his entire fucking life, he was crying for a woman that he loved. He cried, and Sansa wasn't even awake to mercilessly tease him about it. Ramsay gingerly raised a hand, smoothing back a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. Sansa's spirit was gentle, and her very presence was like the sun itself, and without it, his miserable life was nothing.
How could he be expected to continue, when he would never see her smile that beautiful white, infectious smile that lit him up from the inside again? Lifting her limp form just so, burying his face in her hair, allowing the sweet scents of lavender and honeysuckle to fill his nostrils, his jaw rooted shut.
Clenching his eyes shut, his teeth rooted in the effort to stay calm. But he just couldn't. The dam broke, and suddenly, he felt his tears begin to slide down his face. It was more than just crying. It was the kind of desolate sobbing that came from a person drained of all hope.
He was only vaguely aware of Hilda wrapping her arms around his middle as she knelt on the floor, doing what she could to convey some small measure of comfort. He cared not for her blood from her various cuts and bruises that soaked his tunic or stained his palms. His gasping screams echoed around the otherwise empty prison. The pain that flowed from Ramsay was as palpable as the frigid autumnal air and soon the only other being at his side was Hilda, struggling to keep her own tears silent, looking down at her. Ramsay had to believe that she was safe somehow, comfortable.
"I…" His voice broke. Ever since they'd begun listening to each other, he could not bring himself to say the three words since their first night together. It was far too intimate a saying for him to just say every day like he saw other couples do, sometimes he wondered if they truly meant it, like he felt for Sansa, and he meant every word. But if there was a chance that saying it would bring her back to him… "I love you, Sansa," he whispered, choking back a half-sob.
There. He'd said it, the thing that he never thought he would utter once from his lips in his lifetime. Hard, wracking sobs shook his frame, yet he no longer gave a damn. He was only barely aware of the sound of the cook saying something. "She…she…" But he could not make himself say the words. Not again... He didn't care if Hilda saw. The look of heartbreak in Hilda eyes was almost too much for Ramsay to bear to look at.
Sensing Ramsay needed a minute, Hilda quickly escorted Theon out of the room, promising to fetch Maester Wolkan immediately to tend to both their wounds and give the girl a proper burial.
He let out a hiss through clenched teeth and rooted jaw as his fingers curled into fists in her hair.
Ramsay was not certain he had ever experienced a grief this bad before, though now, it snuck up behind him quietly and took him under its arms in a fucking instant. He felt so fucking lost, so alone.
He was lost mostly because he had lost a part of himself that he knew he could not get her back. Yet he wanted her back so bad as his very life depended on Sansa being by his side, but it was gone.
She was gone. Vanished. At first, Ramsay thought as he buried his face in her hair, fighting back his tears, that grief was something so fucking depressing and bad that it took him ten feet under the earth, but right now, he learned that it was just the price he had to pay for daring to learn how to love someone.
His eyes flung wide open as he felt the slightest shift of movement within his eyes.
"I love you, too."
Sansa drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware that she was being lifted into a pair of very strong arms and carried back inside and laid upon a mattress. Their bedchambers, she recognized it by the soft blanket of goose feather down that someone—probably Ramsay—had placed over top her.
The pain throbbed in Sansa's guts, it's deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It felt like someone had their hand in there and were squeezing her organs either gently or as hand as they can. When it waned, she could move, when it returned, she could only hold still and breathe, breathe slow and deep until it has passed. Something wet and sticky was leaking out of her side and staining her gown, and she realized then it was her own blood.
Every breath she drew in felt like a nail exploding in her innards. If it wasn't for Ramsay, she'd curl right up here in Ramsay's sleeping nook and let it take her away to the next life, but she had foolishly gotten herself into this mess, and it would be up to her to get her out.
A tiny glance down at her ribcage was more than enough for her. "Oh," she squeaked, and Ramsay's head whiplashed upwards. She felt her blue eyes go wide and round with shock. A deep wound was sliced in the flesh of the right side of her ribcage. Not fatal.
At least, not if they could get her the help of Maester Wolkan, and soon. It was heavily oozing out blood and there's a bluish-purple bruise forming around it. Sansa lightly pressed her index finger against the center of the cut and sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spiraled across her body.
Colorful spots contoured the sides of her eyes and she had to bite her lip from the pain of it all. Ramsay was looking down at her as though he could hardly believe it. Sansa opened her eyes and blinked tiredly, awaking to the frigid cold of the bitter winds of winter that wafted through the air. Her body felt heavy again. She blinked again and struggled to sit up, trying to focus her gaze more than a few feet from herself as her sight slowly returned. How long had she been out?
She raised a pale hand and rubbed away the sleep that clung still to her eyes. Sansa groaned, finally fully aware of the stiffness that had settled in her bones and her joints. Yet, she did not wish to move. Stillness felt too welcoming.
So, she settled back and allowed her head to burrow deeper into the pillow that lay beneath her head, turning just so that her right cheek nestled within the downy fluffiness. Her eyes drifted shut, welcoming the beginnings of sleep again. She did not realize how tired she was until she had fallen into the oblivion of darkness from pain. A sudden intake of breath, one that was not her own and sounded like a low groan, startled her awake, her pale blue orbs flashing wide. Immediately, she searched for the source of the sound, her eyes flitting across the dimly lit room, still unable to sit fully upright.
"Sansa?" her husband questioned; his eyes still half-lidded from sleep. Still not releasing her hand, he lifted his free hand and slowly let it ghost down the features of his face, the tips of his fingers trembling slightly. Suddenly, just as his hand reached the tip of the gash, his hand suddenly stilled, and his eyes widened a fraction in realization. "Sansa!" He immediately dropped his hand from his face and shifted her limp form in his arms. "Do you want to sit up?" he asked gently, his voice soft. She nodded. "Here," he answered simply, fluffing the pillows, and gingerly helping her to sit up. She did not protest as he held her in his strong arms.
If anything, she liked it this way much better. He lifted his free hand that was not currently wrapped around her waist and smoothed her bangs back away from her forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "You're awake," Ramsay said, sounding immensely relieved. He was gazing at her as if he had never seen anything quite like her before, like…like she was the most beautiful thing in all the world. "Seven fucking hells, but the gods are kind. I thought…that I'd lost you. You're alive," he cried.
Sansa grinned widely and returned his kiss, unable to help but laugh when she pulled away, noticing his face that was much too pale for her liking. "I am. I-it would…take…more than a…stab wound for that f-fool of a Warden to get rid of me. " It was all she could say, really.
Ramsay suddenly frowned, stilling his hand that had found purchase in the back of her hair, absentmindedly playing with a few of her strands, his expression falling from joyful to pensive, his eyebrows furrowing. "Ramsay, please talk to me," she pleaded, still struggling with her arm. Whoever had stabbed her in the ribcage wanted to make sure she wasn't going anywhere for a while. She grunted in frustration with the flaring pains that shot up her arm.
She was well and truly trapped without help. "Please, Ramsay, just tell me what's wrong! I—I can help you, but you must let me in. Talk to me. I'm with you, remember?" she said, a fond little smile creeping onto her face. "What's wrong?"
A strong arm suddenly shot out and wrapped underneath her shoulders, lifting her up and pulling her right shoulder into the crook of another. The hand that clutched her own in an iron-like grip let go for only a moment, only to be replaced with the other, his left where she could still see the poor man was trembling. Hard. Sansa let out a tiny squeak as she found herself free of the covers from the waist up and clutched firmly in Ramsay's hold, her head tucked just underneath his chin, his chin resting on top of her hair.
She sat still for a moment, bewildered. Then, though not fully understanding why her intended was in such a state, she freed her hand from his and wrapped both arms around his neck, combing one of her hands through his coarse dark brown hair on the back of his neck in a way that was sending a pleasant tremor down his spine, what little comfort she could provide to him in this moment, she would do whatever it took.
Sansa whispered soothing remarks in his ear and gently rubbed small circles on the small of his back, trying to relay as much comfort as she could, in the hopes of calming his distress and quelling his sadness. It should have come to her as no surprise, really, Sansa realized. They both had been through so much in the past few days. It was a wonder, a true ordinary miracle that they had survived. Hot tears soaked through the shoulder of her ruined brown dress she was wearing.
Sansa briefly wondered if she had any spare clothes, but for now decided to let it go. He needed the comfort. Ramsay had gone to such lengths to care for her, to protect her, and it only seemed right that she tries to do the same for him. After all, she loved him, and it hurt to see him in such pain.
So, she held him firmly to her and rubbed circles into the small of his back and his shoulder and stroked his hair, whispering that she was fine, and all was well, though she had trouble believing her own words. She needed to hold him and love and let him know that no matter what, she would not abandon him. He needed her, just as she needed him. They would get through this and be stronger for it.
"Ramsay, stop this, this behavior as it is not you. Bolton men are not weak, you've said it yourself," she whispered. Sansa was unable to prevent her voice from cracking and she inwardly winced at the sound. "I'm right here. I am here. I'm not leaving you. I am safe. I'm safe, and you are safe, Ramsay." She felt his fingers grip almost painfully tight on her waist, clutching onto the back of her dress for support. Another sob found its way through him and he shook violently. She could not tell if it was fear or relief or sorrow, he was feeling. Perhaps a combination of all three, plus more.
He had gone through so much the last few days.
They all had. "I'm so sorry," he whispered hoarsely into the shell of her ear, still wrapped in her embrace, not willing or perhaps he was unable to let go of her, for fear she would vanish right before his eyes. His voice was trembling, and his body was still shaking. "All of it. I'm sorry."
With her head still tucked firmly under his chin, Sansa shook it disagreement. "Ramsay, please don't. There is nothing to apologize for. None of this was your fault, not for an instant. The fault lies with Bolton."
He must have disagreed with her because his next words sent chills of fear through her, rendering her blood to ice. "But it is!" he snapped, feeling the very anger seep into his tones. She pulled back slightly and craned her neck upwards to look her love in the eyes. "I—if you had not known me, none of this would have happened. Sansa, you shouldn't have come here, to Winterfell. If you'd stayed away from us all, you'd be safe. You would not be hurt, because of me! You would be better off without me!" he shouted, fresh tears spilling down his face now as he spoke.
"Stop this!" she admonished; her voice came out far sharper than she intended. Sansa pulled away and though she knew he needed to hold her; she was not going to let him talk to her like this. She looked up as his red, tear-stained face and the sight nearly had her reeling back in tears of her own. Yet she held them back.
For his sake. "How dare you speak to me like that?" she yelled, brushing away her own tears with a sharp flick of her finger. Sansa did not realize how shocked and hurt she was until she heard the wounded tone in her normally shy voice. "You saved my life. Were it not for you, I would be dead, Ramsay…"
If her words had any effect on him, Ramsay did not let it show. A fact that was beginning to frighten her. "I would rather you never have known me than to have you laying here injured and ill because of my existence," he spat bitterly. Now his tone was full of self-loathing.
It felt as if Sansa's heart forgot how to beat and the icy feeling from before returned tenfold. She gazed at him, wide-eyed in shock and horror. "Excuse me? W—what are you saying? You don't mean that!"
"Your life," he said quietly, encircling both his arms around her in his protective embrace and reached up one of his hands to tuck a wisp of red hair behind her ear, smiling softly at her, though it did not reach his eyes. "Means more to me than my own miserable existence, Sansa. Knowing me has only caused you great pain and hardship. I swore to myself that I would be cautious, that I would not be careless and allow It to hurt you." He paused painfully, tears welling up in his blue eyes once more, and, at this moment, he lifted his head to meet her piercing gaze. "But I was not able to. I failed you. What kind of husband am I be to you if I cannot—"
"Okay, I'm going to stop you right there!" she shouted, willing for him to stay this madness, to stop talking crazy, but he cut her off.
"NO!" he shouted firmly, his eyes ablaze with anger. "It was because of me that you are hurt! Because I exist, you almost died! I don't deserve to have you in my life!"
The young woman gazed at him in bewildered shock for several moments. She looked as though he had slapped her, understanding just what his words meant but choosing rather not to believe them. Then, for perhaps the first time in her life, Sansa felt genuine anger and fury towards him. She was angry with him.
"Don't you dare!" she growled, her blue eyes blazing. She clenched her fists so tightly, the skin of her knuckles turning bone white. "Don't you dare speak to me like that! After everything that has happened, how can you still think you are the cause of what happened here tonight? You're safe, and I am alive. That is good enough for me, my love, and so it should be for you as well. Is it not?"
"Sansa, I…" he tried to placate, reaching for one of her hands. Yet she pulled away from him, far too angry with him to be soothed.
"What was I supposed to have done? Allow Roose to kill you? Just stand by and watch?" she sobbed, shaking her head no. "No way."
"You should have stayed well away from me, Sansa…. because…because… Because I cannot lose you again. You've given me no other choice," he replied softly, no longer looking at her. Instant guilt flooded her, and Sansa looked away and hung her head in shame for making such a fuss. Yet, at the same time, she knew it had to be this way.
"Ramsay," she said slowly, raising her head, her expression much gentler and her tone no longer harsh. She leaned forward and carefully cradled his head in her hands, gently guiding him to look her in the eyes. "I am alive. I'm safe, for now," she added, scrunching her nose as a twinge of white-hot pain shot up her injured side.
Then he lifted his blue eyes to her, and with the greatest of ease, took both her wrists in his hands and pried them away from his face.
Turning the pale, tiny appendages in his hands, he said, "All my life, I have been told that the world would never see me for anything more than a monster. A creature of darkness, one content to spend his life in the shadows. How is it that you saw past that?"
Sansa opened her mouth to explain, to give him the answers he sought, yet he shook his head, implying he was not yet finished.
"When I caught you, just before you…almost died," Ramsay continued, his voice cracking and tears welling from the corners of his eyes again. He reached across the space that divided them and drew her close to him, closing off the gap and folded his arms around her. "It was the most frightening experience of my life. "I could not bear a world without you in it by my side, Sansa Stark, and never ask me to. Do not ask that of me, ever, for that is something I will not do."
Sansa sighed softly and burrowed her face in his chest, holding onto him just as tightly. "You don't have to anymore, Ramsay. I am right here with you still. I will not abandon you. Ever. I love you, remember?" she whispered, teasing him a little.
As soon as the last syllable escaped her lips, they found themselves locked in a kiss. The tender touch they shared made the room around them disappear. There was not anything else in the world except the burning flame of their love. Something about this feeling made them both feel like everything would be okay in the end.
When they broke apart, they rested each other's foreheads against the other and just sat on the bed, just holding each other. For how long, who could say? They did not speak, just sat together with their arms wrapped around the other, relaying comfort and love in the only way they knew how. Ramsay breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, but the feeling quickly faded as he glanced down at her face, still cradling her in his arms.
Her eyes have frozen over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth. She's still in there, he knew it, but it was like she just took a huge step back from life. He wanted to reach in and tell her it wasn't hopeless, that they were going to get out of this, but even Ramsay knew she wouldn't believe him. Ramsay wanted nothing more than to rekindle her heat, but her insides were too damp with un-cried tears.
Ramsay always knew she had pain inside, but now it was visible on her face and in the seeping flesh wound that was staining her dress, and he wished it would go away. Ramsay knew that was a selfish want, people have a right to their pain, they don't ask for it - it just arrives like the gift you never wanted. But…he had won.
Lord Roose was dead and Sansa was alive, with Theon having been officially released from Ramsay's service, though Theon wished to stay in Winterfell out of loyalty to Sansa. Ramsay, sensing she needed comfort, pulled her close and allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder.
"I'm right here, Sansa. I'm not going anywhere. I promise," Ramsay whispered, leaning over, brushing a lock of her red hair over her shoulder so he could murmur it into the shell of her ear, and then, he did something bold, but something he had wanted to do for the longest time. Looking into his eyes, Sansa saw deep pools that displayed his very soul. His lips touched her cheek. Time stopped. Her heart gave a few flutters before coming to a complete halt.
Her breath caught in her throat. Their fingers locked together, like puzzle pieces. A perfect fit, she thought wildly. He and I are meant for each other. He is mine…and I am his. Forever As the soft skin of his mouth left the side of her face, the exact spot where they had come into contact burned and tingled. A hot blazing fire pulsed through Sansa's body, warming her. A tiny grin crept onto her face and her cheeks flushed a bright pink. Ramsay pulled away silently, but their eyes locked, having a private conversation of their own. Somehow, Sansa knew, as long as she was with Ramsay and he was right by her side during her healing, that she was going to be fine.
And he knew it too.
NINE MONTHS LATER
There was a muttering of thunder from the blackened summer night sky as the wind tore the leaves from the tree. The rain lashed down, torrential, and unforgiving. July crawled with a petty pace towards its end. The thunderstorm was coming. There were growling, ominous dark clouds billowing in from the east, gathering and looming over the balcony of Winterfell's battlement.
There was a sudden downpour and through the rain drenches came the first long low rumbles of thunder. The wind was violent and unforgiving as it raced through the estate. Sansa wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, smiling softly to herself as she felt her husband come up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, burying his face in her neck.
"Come inside," he whispered, his voice low and husky. Gently, he took her by her hand and led her back into the warmth of their bedchambers. She looked at him with love in her eyes. In all the months they had been married, almost over year now, ever since that fateful conversation underneath the heart tree in the godswoods,
Lord Ramsay Bolton, new Warden of the North, had treated Sansa with nothing but love and adoration in his simple gestures. He kept his promise and never hurt her, never laid a hand on her when he was angry, which was seldom. Ramsay was a simple man, but she loved that about him.
There's a lot about you I love, Sansa thought. She loved so many things about him. Sansa loved the way he smiled at her. His world-weary eyes never failed to shine with benevolence upon her whenever he looked at her with his amazing beautiful blue eyes. His eyes were genuine, encouraging, and healing. When he smiled at her, she would quite often forget her own troubles for a moment.
Sansa loved the way her husband held himself. Tall and upright. Proud but noble. He walked taller, more confident than before. He behaved like a man wholly devoted to the people. Ramsay had a quiet confidence about him that spoke clearly of his worth. Sansa often found herself straightening her posture whenever he was present, inwardly challenging herself to become more like the graceful man before her. She loved his dignity.
Complete submission and love for her. He understood that she did not need his protection, but he offered it, nonetheless. All these things he did in silence, completely unaware how his actions spoke for his newfound sense character and much better judgement than in days past.
With him, it had never been some colossal deed or declaration that had captured her heart and caused her to love him. No. He never strove to be anything more than what he was in her eyes. He never had to. His love for her had never been about causing the butterflies in her stomach as he looked at her or causing her heart to skip a beat and feel like she was having a heart attack.
No, those things all came on their own. His love for her was expressed by the little things he did for her—things that spoke unmistakably of his love and unwavering devotion for her. It had always been the simple things. That was how she knew she loved him.
Her husband noticed her looking at him, for he glanced up from the letters he had been reading and smiled softly at her, his eyes twinkling. Putting the parchment paper down, he came over and wrapped his arms around her and their unborn baby, enveloping her in a deep hug. She winced as she felt their child stir and kick for what must have been the hundredth time that night.
Sansa would be glad when their child was finally born, and she would be free of the pains in her stomach. Her pregnancy had been hard, but Ramsay had been there beside her for all of it. "You should be resting, beloved," he spoke up quietly, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "It's late."
"So should you," she responded. "But our child seems to be as much of an insomniac as you. I get little sleep these nights." The sound of a gentle rainfall on their roof as the nights were beginning to get cooler as the summer season approached had almost caused her to drift off into a slumber, but the baby had woken her. Sansa had not slept well the last few nights. It showed.
There were dark circles underneath her eyes, and her face was ashen from lack of sleep. Ramsay whispered something inaudible to her, holding her tightly and she lost herself in his embrace, leaning against him and feeling the warmth of his bare chest soak into the shift she wore. For a moment, neither spoke. Then she did. "Ramsay, is there something wrong?"
"Why do you ask?" he responded, kissing her neck.
"You've slept so little these past few nights." When he gave her a quizzical look, she added, "Your child wakes me up more often enough than I can tell. I can tell you have night terrors. You toss in your sleep and are talking to someone. What's going on?"
He flashed a charming smile at her that made her heart melt, and for a moment, she forgot her troubles. "Oh, so it's my child, now?" he teased, his teeth glinting in the light. "And here I was, thinking it wasn't."
"You are avoiding my question, Ramsay," she answered with mock sternness, but softened her tone once she saw his expression. "Whatever ails you, you can tell me anything. You know this, milord," she muttered, closing her eyes for a second.
"I know," he said softly. Ramsay sighed and turned his gaze back to the balcony and watched as a bolt of forked lightning streaked across the sky in the last of the late summer night storms. Autumn would be here soon, and hopefully by that point, they wouldn't get so much rain. Sansa counted the minutes until the rumbling thunder followed. Once it had ceased, her husband spoke again.
"My dreams have returned. I don't know what to do about them."
"The ones about your father?" she asked quietly, laying a gentle hand on her stomach. "Are they frequent?"
Ramsay nodded silently, the expression on his face saying all that she needed to know. On occasion, whenever he was worried about something, he dreamed of his father, of Roose. Sansa knew that were her parents still alive, they might not have had approved of the match, but she liked to believe that they would have, and wondered if, now that he was a changed man, if her parents would like him. She knew for a fact her mother most likely would have, and her father would have appreciated the fact that Ramsay treated her wonderfully. Despite him being happily married to the woman of his dreams, his nightmares had become rare. She knew that he must be particularly troubled for them to return and haunt him so. She had an inkling of why he was so disturbed.
Glancing down at her swollen stomach, she knew it was a present reminder of how close her time was. Another few days, and their child would be born.
Sansa looked up at him, a bead of sweat on her brow. "You are nothing like your father, Ramsay. I know you will be a wonderful father to our child. Roose Bolton was every bit the bastard, whereas you are not. You are nothing like him and you never will be. Heed my words."
A smile as brief as the lightning flashed across his face at the thought of becoming a father to their unborn child. His smile faded as he stared off into the distance. She knew he would be a good father. He doted on her, and she had no doubt that when their child came, he would do the same for him or her. He rested a gentle hand on her stomach. "I know," he responded softly. "I just…" his voice trailed off as he wondered what to say next. "I just don't think I can take it if I turn out to be like him."
"You won't be like your father," Sansa reassured him. Ramsay was quiet. His father had been abusive. What had hurt him the most growing up wasn't so much the scars or the beatings, but rather, what hurt him the worst was the insecurity. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to terrible abuse can experience. His mental scars were a tapering factor in the serenity of domestic life. They caused him agony that could only be seen on the inside. The pain that no one else but his wife saw because no one else cared.
"He wasn't always so bitter," he murmured.
"There's no need for you to defend him," she said, an angry edge to her voice. Sansa would never admit it to her husband, but she hated the fact that he still so desperately wanted his father's approval, even after his death.
Sansa could tell it still pained Ramsay whenever he spoke of Roose, and how he had treated him growing up and well into adulthood. It infuriated her to think that anyone would treat her husband in that way, even more so when Ramsay justified it. Taking a deep breath to calm her temper, she closed her eyes and tried again. He glanced down at her, his face pale in the flickering light. The lightning flashes were coming more frequently now in intensity, the thunder even closer.
"I'm not angry with you," she said in hushed tones, and Ramsay felt his face relax. "I only wish that you could allow yourself to feel it. I know that you loved your father, in your own way, despite your differences. Just as I knew, in his own misguided way, that Roose loved you. He spoke to me once of you, and I could see it in his eyes. He cared for you. He did." The two of them fell silent again, and for a while they listened to the rain as it pounded harder and harder against the glass window.
When Ramsay spoke again, she was surprised to hear a waver in his voice. "I am afraid," he admitted. "I do not wish to become like my father, but I fear at times, I can't avoid it. I am his son."
Sansa placed a gentle hand over his and stretched up to kiss his jaw. "Ramsay, you will be a wonderful father to this child," she whispered, her blue eyes twinkling. "And any other that might follow. What shall we name our son?" she asked, desiring to turn his attention elsewhere. "We should decide on a name soon, if these kicking spells are anything for me to go by, he'll be arriving any day now," Sansa, planting a gentle but brief kiss on his nose.
Ramsay gave her an amused look, his smile radiating warmth and a contagious kindness that she'd always loved. "What makes you think we will be having a son? We could very well be having a daughter, my love."
Sansa rolled her eyes and laughed, her laughter music to his ears. "It still applies," she said, grinning. She could feel the baby begin to kick again, this time with even more intensity, and her husband felt his eyes widen in wonder as he moved a gentle hand across her abdomen. The kicking intensified at his tender touch, and she smiled. "You see? Our baby already likes you," she teased, smiling at her love. He smiled back, and she couldn't help but adding, "If the look on your face now is any indication, I cannot believe that loving him—or her—will be a problem for you."
Ramsay kissed her ear slightly, sending a shiver of delight down her spine. "It won't be, beloved. How did I ever manage to find a woman as wise as you, and one so beautiful?"
Sansa smiled gently. "If I am so wise, it is only because of your influence," she retorted as she turned towards him. He kissed her forehead, and then gently bent his head down until his lips captured hers in a passionate kiss. A reverberating crack of thunder startled them both, causing them to break apart in alarm. He laughed and pulled her even closer, kissing the tip of her nose playfully before resting his forehead against hers.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Sansa was puzzled. "For what?" she asked.
"For being so wonderful," came his answer.
She smiled and rested a hand against her cheek, stifling a yawn. "Only because you bring out the best in me," she replied before kissing him again. "You and I, my love, we complete each other. Never forget that, not for an instant. I'll remind you."
Her husband wrapped his arms around her waist. "You give yourself too little credit, wife. You've done me good for me and my life than you'll know," he said as he took her arm and guided her back towards their bed. She did not protest as he helped her gently get into bed and climbed in after her.
"As do you," she responded sleepily, pushing away a lock of stray hair away from his face as he propped himself up on one elbow to look down at her. Sleep was catching up with her quickly now, Sansa would never admit it out loud, but this pregnancy was exhausting her. "I love you," she murmured quietly as she closed her eyes and her breathing evened.
Ramsay gazed down at his love for a long moment, smiling as he smoothed her red strands away from her forehead. He hoped that their child would look like her.
"I love you too," he whispered as he gently lay down next to her carefully to not disturb her, draping his arm around her abdomen. "Both of you," he whispered as the thunder died down to a nearly inaudible rumble and the rhythm of the rain against the roof slowed until, coupled with his wife's soft breathing, it quickly lulled him to sleep.