Author's Note: A very special thank-you to athenares for agreeing to be my beta for this story, my 2nd GOT story for the fandom. This story like all my others is pretty close to my heart, and I have enjoyed writing it thus far. I hope you lovely readers find this unusual story of love, lust, and redemption for Ramsay Bolton worth the read and that you enjoy it!
The artwork featured is also not mine, found on Tumblr, though if you know the artist, please PM me so that I may give proper credit!
WINTERFELL'S castle walls were the strongest thing for miles around, and yet when Sansa Stark looked up carefully at her home, she noticed the stones. It was built of stones of various shapes and sizes, each one of them unique.
From a distance, the towering and intimidating structure was a uniform greyish hue, but from up close, it was a mosaic of humble rock, each one of them nobody would think anything were they loose by the roadside. But together, they made up Winterfell, the crown of the North and protector of her people.
She was going home, and yet it did not feel at all like it. Winterfell was no longer her home, not with the snakes in the night that had laid siege to the once-great castle and had claimed it for their own, and now, she was to be wedded to one of those very snakes. Revulsion spurred in her stomach as it churned in dread. Only the firm gloved hand of Lord Baelish resting on the small of her back kept Sansa propelling forward, though every fiber in her body screamed at her to turn heel and flee, to dig the heels of her boots into the steed's side upon which she rode, and be smart enough to not look back. But it was too late to take back her words, for she had already assented and agreed to Lord Baelish's match.
He had set it out to her like she had a choice, as vengeance for her family (may the seven bless their souls), though she was beginning to feel that she had no choice left available to her at all.
Awe and trepidation nestled deep in her bones alongside the bone-laden chill of the frigid cold. She was going home. She was having trouble coming to terms with the notion, after all this time.
But…Winterfell no longer felt like home, and it had not for the longest time, though that was technically what the castle was. Or, rather, it had been, once upon a time, back when she was a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learned her stupid place in this stupid world dark and cruel to women.
Sansa had to crane her neck to see and was not at all surprised to see the windows of the various towers and parapets boarded up tight in hopes of keeping the snow and ice out, the curtains pulled tightly to allow not even a crack of the faint winter sunlight to stream inside.
The gates, rusted and leaning with decay and rot, were locked, though a pair of guards barked orders to lower the portcullis to those up top once Lord Baelish and Sansa approached the gates with their horses.
Sansa willed her racing heart to relax, though the feeble quivering muscle that pounded relentlessly against her ribcage hard enough that it began to hurt was now slowly creeping its way up into her throat as she approached where the current acting Warden of the North waited to greet and assist her and Lord Baelish upon their arrival.
Roose Bolton.
Just the mention of the man's name as his image seared itself into her retinas stuffed the chills down her throat and caused a violent shudder to waft its way down her back that had nothing to do with the chill. As she was guided forward towards Lord Bolton, she felt her feet move as if by memory, walking the familiar path of the Courtyard and there was uneasy silence to Sansa's soul, what little of it if any she still had left. She was the fall leaves under the frost.
She felt the chill in her blood, the coldness bringing her brain to a complete utter standstill.
Part of it was a pain, she could recognize that much, one that she thought she could sleep through night after night without the comforts of false hope. To come home was her winter, and Sansa still clung to the hope of spring and the chattering of birds in this eternal winter.
She and Lord Baelish came to stand a few feet from Lord Bolton, and when Lord Roose parted his lips to speak to her, the man's voice was a dull baritone, yet underneath there was a hint of silkiness that under different circumstances might have once been attractive if this man had not played a key role in the slaughtering of her family. Sansa felt the edges of her mouth pinch and turn down in a frown and a chill ripped through her body as Lord Roose's pale and lifeless grey eyes made a quick scan of her body covered in her black leatherette traveling gown and came to linger and rest on her hair.
Sansa knew that she should open her mouth, to return the acting Warden of the North's attempt at a cordial greeting, if not a bit flat, though as she parted her lips to speak, nothing came forth.
Her cheeks burned and stung as she felt the burn of Lord Baelish's gaze at the back of her skull as he had stepped back a few paces to allow her space.
She knew it was expected of her, despite the disgust and hatred that spurred in her veins for this man and any man, woman, or child who wore the Bolton name. However, ever mindful of her feigned courtesies, by a miracle of the Seven themselves, she somehow regained control of her voice and even managed to bend her right knee and sink into a low, graceful curtsy.
"Lord Bolton," she returned in a demure purr, though even she could hear the reluctance in her tones and she knew that Lord Bolton did not seem at all convinced, though he was good at hiding it.
An uncomfortable silence began to stretch between the three of them, and the crowd of servants and those loyal to House Bolton that had gathered in the Courtyard to witness the arrival of Ramsay Bolton's future bride. It was Lord Baelish thankfully who stepped forward and rested a hand on Sansa's left shoulder, giving the appendage a delicate squeeze and breaking the silence by speaking, directing his attentions towards the Warden of the North.
"Her betrothed, Lord Bolton, perhaps the two would care to meet and become acquainted with one another?" Lord Baelish furrowed his brows and Sansa thought she saw the beginnings of a shadow of anger and suspicious pass over the man's angular features as the edges of his beard twitched unbidden as his gaze swept over the crowd that had gathered behind Lord Roose Bolton. "He is where? It was our hope that he would be alongside you to greet us," he questioned in the event that the youngest Bolton had just arrived.
Sansa chewed on the wall of her mouth as she flicked her gaze towards the man who was to be her future father-in-law once she and his bastard son Ramsay Bolton were wedded in the eyes of the gods and attempted to gauge the man's reaction.
She thought she saw a kernel of distrust ignite behind his eyes, though as fleeting as the moment had come, it was gone the moment Lord Bolton blinked and he recovered quickly enough.
He eyed the coloring of Sansa's cheeks with almost critical interest, though the Warden quickly looked away for it not to be too strange, and addressed Littlefinger when he spoke, however, he slowly swiveled his gaze back to look at Sansa then.
"I am afraid that my son is…not quite ready to meet with you just now, he is…indisposed for the moment."
A strange glossy look ignited to life behind his lifeless eyes once more, and Sansa was stricken with the sudden suspicion that there was more to his son's absence than the Warden was letting on, however, he continued, seemingly in the mood to convince.
"However, Lady Sansa, if you would please see me the moment you have settled in, I would be more than happy to make the appropriate introductions myself," Lord Roose began, somewhat stiffly.
Sensing the furrow of confusion between Sansa's brows deepen as her confusion and worry worsened, he parted his lips to say something more in hopes of supplicating her somewhat.
However, before the Warden of the North could so much as utter the first syllable, there came a loud resounding bang from behind the crowd gathered around their Warden, everyone eager for an eyeful of the beautiful yet disgraced daughter of the traitor Ned Stark.
"Where is she, Father? Where is my beloved bride? Where is Lady Sansa Stark?" came a voice, a man's, quiet, hoarse, and yet throughout the soft tones there was the unmistakable twinge of mocking, and it sounded so natural.
Sansa slowly turned, as did Lord Baelish and Lord Roose, to look in the direction of the voice that was accompanied by the sound of crunching snow underfoot, and nearly felt her resolve falter, and she immediately wished that she did not look.
Her eyes widened in disbelief and her thinly plucked brows receded so far up onto her forehead that they almost disappeared into her hairline. Her cheeks flared red in embarrassment and shame.
Surely, this could not be Ramsay Bolton. She almost turned to run at the sight of a dark-haired man stalking towards them, shirtless, and his entire upper body was covered in blood that did not appear to be his own, for the young man did not seem wounded. Even the fact that his skin was bathed in blood and he seemed to wear it proudly as though the blood of another person or animal were a war paint, it did little to disguise the fact that his form was surprisingly taut and muscular. The man's abdomen muscles rippled as he almost angrily snatched a loose linen shirt and a jerkin from a passing guard who could not summon the courage or the strength to be able to meet the man's gaze and made an almost lazy show of attempting to wipe the blood off of his face with the back of his hand to look respectable.
The dread and misery were written plainly on Sansa's face as she turned to look towards Roose, who was looking upon his bastard son with disapproval, his lips pursed into a thin line, and then she turned to look towards Baelish. Lord Baelish grimaced. He had not wanted Sansa Stark to discover the identity of her future husband in this manner and wished that Lady Stark would have had more warning for the bastard's tendency to cause a spectacle. He tried to look comforting and gave Sansa what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though he felt his cheeks' reluctance to be molded so falsely, and Sansa could tell the man's smile was not genuine, for it did not reach his eyes. He leaned forward to whisper in her ear.
"Ramsay is an honorable man, Lady Sansa, once you look past...the most questionable aspects of his character," Lord Baelish whispered into the shell of her ear, keeping his voice low so only Sansa heard.
Sansa's expression was one of utmost disbelief and she looked sick as she turned and found herself directly in the unnerving gaze of Lord Roose's bastard son, Ramsay.
Surely, Littlefinger was not serious. Nothing of this man seemed honorable.
However, she had known few moments in her life when Lord Baelish was anything but serious.
She could only gape in disbelief, stripped off her words, as Ramsay Bolton strode forward, thankfully fully clothed, though the blood that adorned his face now still invoked a cringe from her, to which he paused and scrubbed at his face hard yet again with the heel of his hand and spoke.
"T'was the pigs, my lady. I was...butchering the latest hunt to ensure the rest of the castle has enough to survive this winter," he purred, his voice a smooth buttery purr that immediately set Sansa on edge and had the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
Nothing of what he'd just said to her sounded sincere. Sansa ground her teeth in anticipation as Ramsay moved to close off the gap of space between them. Before she could protest or recoil, he leaned forward and she stiffened, squeezing her eyes shut and bit down hard enough on her tongue that she tasted blood as the man pressed his lips to her cheek in a tender kiss. His lips lingered for a moment too long, longer than was necessary, and it seemed to take Lord Bolton's son an eternity to pull away. When he did, his deep blue eyes were twinkling. It was clear to her that he derived enjoyment watching her fear.
"It is an honor to meet you, my lady. Welcome home. I hope that you and I will be...happy together."
When she turned her blue eyes up to him, still unable to form a coherent reply, his own steel blue eyes met hers, winter against winter, though unlike hers, his were twinkling and smiling.
She lifted a shaky hand to her cheek and the pads of her fingertips came away bloody. Sansa numbly nodded and lowered her hand. She looked to Baelish. Sensing her hesitations, he spoke lowly into her ear, keen to give her advice while there was still time.
"Need I remind you, Lady Sansa, that this marriage is your best choice? A wife yields to her husband's desires and wishes. If you wish to remain alive and unharmed and home, give him all that he wants."
Sansa did not dare look at Lord Baelish as long as Ramsay Bolton's penetrating stare was fixed on her, for fear of how it would seem to him, and could only comply as Ramsay's hand lowered and found her own, his un-gloved hand slipping into her gloved hand, and even with the leather glove separating the skin of his hand from hers, she could feel his warmth practically pulsating.
Sansa tasted bile. She had only been home five minutes, and already, she was beginning to fear the worst.
