Chapter Two

She hated him. Oh gods, how she loathed and despised him. Each step of her mare causing her stomach to clench uncomfortably, the bile slowly rising in her throat. She bit back a sob. Stop it, Sansa. She scolded, clenching her jaw in ire, trying to maintain some semblance of control. If only outwardly, at least. Wolves do not cry.

Yet, here in the quiet tranquility of the godswood, she felt all composure and dignity slip and ebb away. She was no fool. A beauty, yes, but never the fool. She had heard the whispers, the stories. Always spoken in hushed tones and behind the security of closed doors. She had seen the fear that the Bolton name invoked. No one would dare call himself a Northerner without hearing of the Flayed Man...and trembling with abject horror.

Lord Father wanted an alliance and a union between the two ancient houses. After thousands of years of death and warfare, Father wanted an end to the feuding and a lasting peace. Of course, what better way to ensure the North's stability than through marriage? Being both beautiful and the eldest daughter of Ned Stark, Warden of the North, she was the ideal bargaining chip.

She should be content, she supposed. Their political union was sure to bring about a lasting truce throughout the realm. Should war ever erupt and the Northern lords were called upon, with their joined houses and bannermen, victory would all but be ensured. If nothing else, Sansa would take pride in that small bit of comfort. Her sacrifice for the greater good…

Her Lady Mother oft said that a lady's duty was to her house. "Duty and honor," Mother would recite the Tully words over roaring fires, while gentle hands oiled and braided her hair. "A lady must always remain loyal, first to her lord husband, and then to her children, and finally, her house. Always." The brush stilled, a soft hand turning her chin to face her, sapphire blue meeting turquoise. "Do you understand, sweetling?"

Yes, Sansa understood. All too well. She understood what marriage to Roose Bolton's newly legitimized son would mean for her house and the North. She understood perfectly. When her Lord Father summoned her to his solar and informed her of his designations, Sansa remained impassive, giving nothing away. It was only in the solitude of her rooms that the mask gave way and the tears came-quickly and freely.

She wanted to die. Gods, how she wanted to die. To walk into the godswood pond and never resurface, only letting the peaceful lull of the water take her whole. Was Father's loyalty to the North so unwavering and steadfast that he merely saw her as an expendable pawn in an ever changing game? He was a good man, Lord Father. An honorable man, one of the many reasons Catlyn had fallen for him.

Surely-surely-he was mistaken. He was not so stupid as to have turned a deaf ear to the stories of the monster in human flesh that was Ramsay Bolton. Sansa was not without allies, though. Her staunchest being in the form of her elder brother, Rob, and her younger sister, Arya. Rob, with his pretty auburn locks, so like her own, and ever gentle spirit. As soon as he heard, an unwavering anger consumed him and he vowed to speak to Father and beg him to change his mind, to reconsider. Her brother's devotion to his sister so unwavering that he had even offered to relinquish his title as heir and future lord of Winterfell if it meant his sister's happiness and safety.

Sansa smiled at that, albeit briefly. Arya, her fierce and wild wolf, had threatened to gut Ramsay at the first opportunity. Whispering, in the quiet darkness of the night in their shared rooms, that all Sansa had to do is "speak a word," and the problem would be dealt with. A sharp and deadly gleam in her eyes, Needle, glinting and gleaming at her hip. Once the engagement had been announced, the news had spread far and wide, reaching even her aunt Lysa Arryn in the Vale and her great-uncle, the nefarious Blackfish, in the Riverlands.

Aunt Lysa had been outraged, cursing her good brother for his stupidity and offering Sansa sanctuary in the Vale. "How dare you do this to your daughter, Catlyn?" Lysa seethed and raged, shaking in righteous indignation. "May the gods damn you for eternity for condemning your daughter-your flesh and blood-to this death!"

The Blackfish, Ser Brynden, only shook his head in disbelief, unwilling to believe that his beloved niece (his favorite as he had oft boasted) would so willingly acquiesce to this absurdity. Surely Catlyn had more sense than this? Sansa was a beauty, a rebirth of Tully, with her deep autumn hair and sapphire eyes. The Rose of Winterfell, travelling bards called her, praising her incomparable beauty and spirited nature. Old, yes, but Bynden was not deaf as to not have heard the songs. His great-niece was in no short supply of suitors and admirers alike. Even the Baratheon king had sent ravens, voicing his interest in the Stark girl for his son, the golden stag….The Blackfish understood none of this.

Ned remained quiet. Shamed. He never wanted this for his beloved daughter. He remembered the day she was born, that glorious spring morning sixteen years ago. The bells had tolled from sunrise until dusk for a week, sharing in his exultation. He loved Rob, Arya, Bran and Rickon, yes, without question, but it was Sansa who held his heart.

The moment the engagement had been announced and the ink dried, Ned felt ill and would often retreat to the godswood to devote himself to prayer, seeking both absolution and clarity.

I am sorry, sweet girl, for my broken promises. I am sorry that I am unable to keep you safe. I am sorry I failed you. Forgive me. Forgive me. Oh gods! Forgive me. If only there was another way-

The wedding was in a moon's time from now, on a midsummer's day. Soon, Sansa Stark would be Lady Bolton, and would forever be the reluctant and unwilling wife of that madman. He was handsome, Sansa decided, upon their first encounter. Not long ago, when she had been a stupid girl with stupid dreams, she would have thought herself in love with such a man. Handsome with his curly brown hair and warrior's body.

Yet, it was his eyes that had given he pause. Of pale ice and equally cold, they were the eyes of a monster and bespoke of unimaginable cruelty. And whenever he had kissed her hand upon their first meeting, her demons screamed with revulsion and horror. This was wrong, this incongruous pairing. This was so damned wrong…

A twig snapped in the distance, jarring Sansa from her thoughts. A welcome respite, she assumed. Her mare snickered a warning, but it was too late and all in vain. Quickly looking up, she was met with the sight of two large men-wildlings, she deduced, from their strange garb and unshorn hair. A nobleman would have known better.

The largest, a giant of a man with flaming red hair, stood in front of her, blocking her path. His companion, slightly shorter, with dark ebony curls and piercing gray eyes, flanked her rear, effectively trapping her. "Are you lost, milady?" The gray-eyed wildling asked, his voice a low rumble. Had it been under different circumstances, Sansa would have though his voice pleasant.

Yet, before she could utter a reply, Sansa felt a strange sensation overtake her person and soon, she was quickly succumbing into oblivion. The wildling's steel-gray eyes the last image she saw...