Upon her lips, a thousand lies were spread in sweet gloss.
Her kiss was like a storybook from ancient history.

~rp

THE night was warm instead.

His pallid eyes stared on at the leaves of the godswood: red and shimmering with the melted snow. It looked exotic and fiery like a midnight candle in the shadows. This weirwood is quite smaller and less lush, he calculated, the weirdwood back in Dreadfort looms half twice this one but thicker, gruelling, and surly; firmly standing in the deep middle of the forest that frames their menacing castle.

A figure nudged beside him. Ramsay. His bastard gave him a wan look before bowing, "Father."

Roose Bolton gazed at his son, and still, the boiling on his blood ensued though not as quite as years before. He was not looking at his son for now, he was looking at the murderer of his heir. Domeric Bolton was his pride, his trueborn who only loved to read and ride horses and whom Roose wanted to protect against the practices in Dreadfort's torture chambers. But when his boy crumpled with fever and bleeding in the gut, he instantly knew who should be blamed. And that dawn when Domeric died, Roose stormed into the Bastard's chamber, and without delay, strike the bastard's face again and again until his knuckles were sore and smeared with blood.

But it was, of course, futile to flay the slayer. Ramsay was close to Domeric in age, and in Roose's advanced years, it would take a millennium to breed another trueborn. So resentfully he took to his side Ramsay Snow to continue raising as his own but harsh as opposite as his care for Domeric.

Yet there was something in Ramsay that he needed to mend as well although he knew he can't. When the boy looks at him he still sees the hateful eyes back when he was a child: small and gaunt and trembling with tears as he first held that flaying knife with scrawny fingers.

And he was aware, too, that succeeding the Bolton's name and giving Sansa Stark would not suffice the angst that Ramsay has grown used to.

He hates me, Roose thought, he still hates me. He will die hating me.

So he decided that tonight he will be proud of his son at least on his wedding. He smiled and held Ramsay by the shoulder and with it poured his delight that he was to be married and to fulfil his duty as the heir of the Warden of the North.

Tonight his son looked regal, fully dressed in black leather overcoat that ran down to his knees, a longsleeved crimson undershirt within. In his collar was fastened the brooch of Dreadfort. His high boots were well shined as his hair, and Roose was almost looking at his younger self, except that his eyes were grey and Ramsay's were an electrifying blue. "A grown man, indeed. Aye, you will be a stronghold of our house."

He felt his son stun at his complements but was good at hiding it. "I will uphold our honor, Father. Our banners will be flaunted to the edges of the realm."

Everyone was there now. His wife Walda stood beside Maester Wolkan, probably almost starving as she is believed to be pregnant, but Roose was careful not to be sure yet. He looked around to see faces from the garrison he reared, the same faces that attended last night's agenda. The same faces that saw how Sansa humiliated Ramsay. The same faces that withheld Ramsay from burning the castle afterwards, ranting and screaming and breaking all he could, the walls at least. And Roose stared on, apathetic. He knew that bastard deserved it all. He liked Ramsay deserving it all.

"My Lord, it's taking quite a while, don't you think?"

Maester Wolkan was beside him. Roose looked towards the lane that was lamp-lighted where the bride was supposed to float over and be given away.

"She will come."

Both turned to Ramsay, both unaware that he smelled their worry. The groom was looking on the lane, his eyes beginning to grimace.

"I hope your talk this morning turned out well," said Roose. Ramsay tensed.

"You disgraced yourself at dinner, remember that, parading that creature in front of the lady,"

"We sorted it out," Ramsay snapped.

"And the kennel girl?"

"Forget her."

Father plainly nodded. They waited on. Some of the lamps on the lane begun to flicker and die for the wind has sped up. The women were beginning to tighten their black capes. Still nothing.

Beside him, Ramsay moved to look behind. Roose followed his stare and it fell upon a flaxen-haired soldier standing behind an amused Myranda. That soldier is an archer, he recognized, one of the skilled and indispensible men. The archer looked at them too, handsome purplish eyes staring like an untold story. Ramsay nerved and turned away.

"My Lord, she should be here," Maester Wolkan repeated. Ramsay fell silent as an owl.

Roose raised a finger to call for the Smalljon.

Umber stepped forward and as soon as Roose finished speaking in a hushed tone, he began to enter the lane, his boot prints messing the snow that glittered in the lamp lights.

But before he went halfway, a shadow appeared from the entrance to their wedding place. Roose would have gladly taken it for Sansa Stark in her white wolf pelt and silver gown. But hope died when it was a small serving girl coming with dread passionate on her face. She went past Smalljon and straight to the groom.

Roose's hand fell on his sword hilt as the serving girl fell to her knees, trembling.

"My Lord...L-lady Sansa...she's gone."

Metal and boot sounds slashed the silenced along the hallways up to the winding stairs to Sansa Stark's chamber.

Roose Bolton almost panted, disbelief carved in his face. He looked around the room for himself. The three-pronged candle holder on the table still burned above an untouched flagon of warmed wine. The smell of perfume still lingered in the air, the windows were closed, and the cinders on the fireplace still breathed before a wolf-pelt rag.

Ramsay went in with the serving girl and Father saw the tepid look on his blue eyes. How could he be calm? Their key to netting the North has gone astray their grip.

He watched the abandoned groom, still stately in his wedding guise, stare at the beauty lain on the bed. Ramsay neared the silver gown neatly resting on the mattress and his fingers slowly swept across the silk. It glittered under his skin, he picked it up and squeezed it below his closed eyes, inhaling calmly and moving the cloth across his face.

It gave a jolt of wonder to Roose to see him this way. When Sansa Stark slapped him in front of his men and step mother, Ramsay would have hit her back as what he does with the children who played with him. Now his bride has ran away and he was there, elated on the mere smell of the silks that she should have worn as if she was there and he was stripping it off her. No, his son was a vengeful soul. Ramsay's silence meant more.

Men flooded in the room and two weakly and beaten-up guards were thrown on the floor, hands tied behind them, their teeth and blood splattering the rags. The men, led by Umber, held them up wobbling on their knees. "Winterfell guards on the back gates. Said they haven't met anyone."

"Is this true?" Roose asked. Ramsay walked beside his father, the gown still in one of his hands.

"We swear, m-m-milord," one of the guards panted, his purpled lips quivered, there was an angry bulge on his brow which oozed blood, "None came...none go,"

"Where were you?" Ramsay was one to ask. There was silence as the two merely bowed their heads in fear and shock.

"Found drunk and sleepy," said Smalljon Umber. Ramsay slowly bent to squat and look at the two in the eye.

One of the guards with his beard caked in mud spoke in a gurgling sound, "I—I wasn't, milord, was p-pissing when they come,"

"Still drunk and sleepy. Bad choice to have Winterfell men guard that gate on my Wedding night," Ramsay commented, standing.

"But I—we swear milord, none came, none went. Y'can inspect the locks, milord, they's un—"

The man fell with a pained scream and a thud as Ramsay's boot smashed his face and remained there. Everyone in the room tensed.

With gritted teeth and blazing eyes he raised his boot and crushed in on the face again, and again, and again until an eye popped off its socket and the crack of skull was heard. Roose could not count the number of stamps flogged on the face because he looked away. When the man's brains spilt on the floor and soiled his boot, Ramsay stopped the tantrum with ragged breaths. Everyone felt the stab on his glare and they let him pass through towards the three-pronged candle and grabbed it with an angry fist.

"Ramsay..." Roose tried to soothe him. But when Ramsay was in the midst of paroxysm, there was no one calming him. Ramsay threw the live candles on the fireplace and along it, the blood-splattered silver gown. Roose was aghast at the waste. The cloth was a memorial gown, passed on from one bride to another of the generation to still the line and agreement of houses joined in the North.

Everyone watched as the silk caught the flames and started to smoulder.

Roose shook his head, "That was unnecessary, Ramsay, it is difficult to find one with the likes of it,"

"She will be married naked for all I care," Ramsay spat and turned to the men still appalled, "She wore that shit before she left, she had her scent on it and believe me someone came in to convince her." He moved past them towards the door, and Roose knew he was unstoppable.

"Milord," one of his boys interrupted, pointing to the other guard whose companion has just had his head quashed on the floor, his blood making a dark pool mixed with pieces of his shredded face.

Ramsay gave a half-grin, "My hounds will have a tedious search tonight, they would need a snack."

"Mercy, milord! Mercy!" the battered man began to wail helplessly as they dragged him but Ramsay was deaf.

"Have Reek ready my horse. And a flagon of wine please," his face was now in full-smirk, the flames reflected against his icy stare, "This evening has just gotten lovely, gentlemen."