Silver eyes
Hoping for paradise
I've seen it a million times
Cry

~t.n. silver

A crunching sound left from underneath and her foot was on the snow-blanketed cobblestone. It was a bleak, cold dusk, and Dreadfort was as leaden as the darkening sky.

Sansa Stark suppressed a breath as she looked at the trail affront her, and every second left her chest heaving with woe. This isn't right, she thought in utmost obscurity, this is not at all right. Her face was beginning to crumple, leaving her nose blushing with stifled sobs. Every inch of her protested but none can twist time and spiral her back to her haven.

"Lady Sansa,"

She looked up at him. Roose Bolton was waiting with an outstretched gloved hand. She reconciled he was waiting there for some time. Sansa gulped and exhaled as her trembling hand reached out to Roose's. He took it politely and inserted her arm around his. It wasn't until he moved forward that Sansa was pulled back to her gaping demise.

She wore a robe as white as the snow that loomed around her. It covered her neck with ruffles, and down her sleeves it widened. Its brocade glittered glamorously with every step she took. On her shoulders were silver leather pads that held the thin, long satin cape that gloriously rippled as she walked. It wasn't as pretty as the frock that she was supposed to wear at the foiled wedding back in Winterfell. But she wore it with such elegance that made it seem worth a chest of gold. The only jewel that hangs from her was a silver necklace with a pendant the shape of a direwolf's head. Her hair was in a large braid behind her neck, around it a thin string of small diamond replicas adorned.

The trail was studded with lanterns. And as Sansa and Roose passed, it equalled hopelessness in her face. The red weirwood tree looked aflame from their distance. She wanted to see Arym, at least, but knew he was not at hand. The Boltons were as cunning as snakes, and she was emerging the loser in the game she set.

In the gap finally appeared a small group of people. She could only name Walda, Roose's wife, and when a man in grey turned to look at her, her stomach churned.

Ramsay's eyes were fixed on her. Solely her. As if the world had become devoid of women and she was the only one left. The dark grey leather looked virtuous in him; it almost melted the bastard look on his gait. His eyes were electric blue, and Sansa would have sworn she saw a speckle of blush momentarily appear high on his cheeks before he looked away.

"Who comes before the old gods this night?"

A deep voice resounded from a burly man in maester's robes. It wasn't Wolkan, Sansa recognized. Probably a castellan of the fort, a septon, rather. He had balding hair, and abysmal grey eyes, and truly uncallow, which almost reminded her of grand maester Pycelle back in King's Landing.

"Sansa of the House Stark," the practiced reply came forth from Roose Bolton, "Comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. To be one with mine own kin." Sansa took her arm off her and since then looked down with her nails digging on her palm. Her ghost, her ghost does. She doesn't exist anymore.

"Who gives her?" the presiding septon asked again.

"Roose of House Bolton, who is her father's successor as the Warden of the North,"

Sansa's skin pricked and bile corrupted her throat. Treacherous snakes and murderers... she kept chanting on her head. It was a lie. This was all lies, all political pageantry and blasphemous rise to be on power. If not for all these people, she would have had a family instead.

"Who claims her?" Roose asked, a question directed to the obvious.

Ramsay stepped forward, "Ramsay, of house Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell."

Monsters...monsters...

Sansa fought the tears that begged to be freed and her hallowed breathing stretched her throat until it hurt.

"Sansa Stark,"

She looked up quietly, and all would have noticed the revulsion in her face as they stared aghast with her expression. Even Roose Bolton lost the vigor in his face and replaced in it was a cautious mask of fury.

The septon cleared his throat to distract the people from the rising whispers, "Will you take this man?"

It was then it hit her. There was no escaping this. She knew it then when she was locked in the litter that ramified her from her home. She knew it then when the drawbridge shook the ground and she passed across the portcullis of Dreadfort. It was a dark place, this castle. With dark walls, and dark fires, and cold too.

Again her childhood looked at her like a forgotten soul, and she smiled pitifully at it for all the dreams of being married in beautiful summer gardens have lost its taste. She looked around at the guests that she didn't know. It would've been mother or father among the people, it would've been Bran and Arya, and Robb and Jon, and Rickon too. And all of them are missing on her wedding night, all shadows beyond a fire that had even stopped burning.

Sansa stared at Ramsay who was beginning to feel tensed as he narrowed his eyes on her. She stepped forward to ease his discomfort, and in a quick response, she stated. "I take this man."

It was as if a great weight was lifted off Roose, marked by how he exhaled and then he stepped off. The people gave their blessings to them, one which Sansa was not welcome of taking. She saw Ramsay, though, as a serving girl appeared between the crowd and served a goblet to the groom. Ramsay took it, stared for a while, and took in small drops. She haven't even seen him gulp, but who cared for now? Ramsay had always been a slave to wine, and remembering that feat made her touch her shoulder again, the flesh that was tattoed temporarily with his heat.

"Ramsay Bolton, will you give your token of promise to Sansa Stark, as a signature to her and her house." The septon announced. Sansa's face dropped briefly. Has tradition began to fleet, she asked. This was no part of the ceremony as she could remember.

Ramsay stepped toward her and looking through her eyes had given her a squeamish feeling. And Sansa thought he had beautiful cobalt eyes for a bastard, his fraud husband. He removed his glove and held her cheek and her heart leapt. But then before he could move, he took a sight to his father, who, with humourless liking, gave a slow nod.

Sansa half-closed her eyes when Ramsay touched his lips on hers. The people around them gave an almost boring applaud. It wasn't quick, she noted. He was still on her face and his lips were like sunset. Then there was the taste of mint that dissolved in her mouth. When Ramsay parted, he wasn't quick to do so too. Again he kissed her almost gently, before pulling off and sighing into her lips like he was courting them the most romantic way. The taste was much stronger this time. He opened his eyes to catch her already opened ones before moving to press his lips on her on the forehead.

She entered the chamber and warmth and the smell of Honeywine greeted her like a friend. The serving girl that led her, bowed and left. Ramsay had not followed. She remembered him wiping blood from his nose before she was taken here.

Shadows played hide and seek among the bricked walls as torch fires flickered. Cinders glowed on the hearth where a bear pelt rug lay in front to. A five-pronged candle holder was lit on the table, beside a slice of grain cake and a tin decanter of wine dark as night. On the wall hung a tapestry of galloping horses, their hooves crashing on mud and water. And her eyes fixed on what gawked underneath it. The bed was staring back at her: a wide sea of vair and fur and silk. At this her insides coiled and looked away, feeling little bullets of sweat shimmer on her temples.

"Do you like it?"

Sansa looked behind. She did not know how long Ramsay had been staring at her staring at the chamber. He was leaning on a door post, and had a change of clothing from grey to black. There was no smile on his face. No amusement. No excitement. Nothing evil. And Sansa was even more alarmed at that. She looked around again, before nodding.

Ramsay then moved to lock the door, and the heavy thud sent Sansa swallowing.

"Good." His voice echoed. "I want you to be happy." At his last word he wobbled lightly but immediately took stand.

"Are you alright, my Lord?"

Ramsay waved her off instead and went to the table, took two flagons and filled half each, and handed one to Sansa. She was hesitant, but took it nonetheless as he watched him stride past her and onto the window.

Ramsay finished the wine in a gulp, still not facing her. "What do you think of me, Sansa?"

She shivered at his query, and despite herself trying to contain her honesty, she couldn't. "Cruel."

She saw him unmoved. And he placed the flagon on the window sill. After which, eased his hands off the leather gloves.

"Then perhaps," he spoke, loosening the buckle on his collar, and cracking his neck, "I could be crueller still."

She froze. A blast of nausea made her skin shiver and left a ringing on her ear, leaving the last words inaudible. Her brows twitched and she looked at him. He was already facing her, watching her, and teeming with anticipation. "I..."

"What?" He asked, angling his head to the side.

Sansa was struck with another wave of queasiness that left almost half her brain unconscious. She heard her anxious breathing, and her knees trembled badly until one of them collapsed and she jerked forward. The ringing on her ear was louder this time.

"Are you unwell?"

She heard him again but his voice was muffled as if he was speaking underwater. She shook her head, beads of sweat began to glitter on her scalp. Gathering enough strength on her throat, she managed an answer. "No, I-I'm fine,"

"Yes, you will be,"

The flagon slipped from her fingers and she felt the tin material vibrate as it clinked against the floor. Even the wine that spilled seemed to move slowly and seeped through the hem of her gown. Heat dragged spasms across her body, wave after wave.

Her vision blurred and everything in the room seemed to revolve. She could not even hear herself, just the stillness of the ringing on her head. She wanted it to stop. Her stomach heaved a pressure she was so unfamiliar with and before she knew it, her hip hit the table where the rest of the wine lay.

One hand held her steady against the furniture. Another clasped on the throbbing on a side of her temples. Her forehead was sheen with throng of perspiration.

And then she felt his arm circle her small waist and almost gently pressed her against him. She has not even recalled him standing from the edge of the table and walking towards her. He has magically appeared close, and she abhorred it.

"Let me g... ah," Sansa shoved him. She shoved his chest, she was sure, strong and harsh, she was sure. But it all seemed futile as Ramsay was still clinging on to her, untouched and unmoved and never flinching. Her breathing had become filled with panic. No. Please. No...Her tongue felt thick and when she tried to speak it was like a gag on her mouth.

"Shhh..."

Sansa felt his searing breath on her earlobe. The fine hairs on the back of her hair bristled. She did not understand. "Poison..." she whispered, not weakly, not harsh as well. She gave another slight push, but Ramsay closed in on her, one hand on the back of her head, pressing the side of her face on his shoulder, and the other arm hungrily wrapped on her waist. He was so calm it made her sicker. She knew it. That little exhibition on the heart tree, his lips on hers, that minty taste. There was a hallowing on the bridge of her nose that spilled slowly on one nostril. She didn't have the strength to wipe it off but she need not wipe it off to confirm it was blood.

Damn you...curse you...

She was sure to die. The Boltons have poisoned her. They have rooted her away from home, from Winterfell, wed her, and now killing her. She was dying. I'm dying...

When it occurred to her that she was slowly passing out of the world, it almost sent her insane.

I'm dying...and I will be home...soon. To Winterfell...to mother. And father...

She was grateful, though, that at least, of all the deaths that stole her family, hers was the most peaceful one. At least, she thought, she did not lose her head, or slit her throat, punctured her heart, nor burned her skin. She was to meet her family, Mother and Father, as the totality of herself: in her wedding dress, in the arms of her Lord Husband who has made her believe she was cared for.

She will leave the realm as the last wolf who drank the bitterness of love, who was betrothed to the inbred, married to the ugliest man she'd ever seen, and now murdered in her own wedding night.

I go now... a tear slipped from her eye, sombre and peaceful. She was almost smiling. The last thing she saw was a moth that had gotten into the lantern that hung on the wall. She could hear it buzzing and see the shadow of its wings as it beat against the glass.

A/N: Apologies for the late update. But I've posted two chapters to compensate for the lack. Feel free to click on the next. Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris. xx.