Grace is just weakness

Or so I've been told. I've been cold. I've been merciless.

But the blood on my hands...

scares me to death.

-J.Y. I'll be Good

Oh she missed him.

She missed him so bad her insides twisted and heat clamoured under her skin at the rattle of Winterfell's portcullis. Her mind snapped with mad excitement like a sailor's wife about to ease the turmoil of years apart from her sea-voyaging husband. Her soul began to magnet its shattered pieces back together and claim a self-repair. She missed him so bad she trembled at nights in irate tears curling on her bed and touching her lips mimicking how Ramsay used to ransack her mouth. She touched her own body imagining it were his hands on her perked nipples until it hurt the way she wanted it, on her moist and aching privates the way she wanted it, until she'd reach the vortex and taste blood from the walls of her mouth: screaming and panting and moaning his name like salvation. And then she'd wail like a banshee on loose.

Still, no matter how she pleaded and whispered like a lunatic for him to materialize beside her, she knew his soul had gone out to the Stark bitch.

Ramsay Bolton is finally married. And oh gods she could only smell poison in the air they breathe at that fact. No, she closed her eyes, he's mine and I'm his... only I could please him... But no, she does not only crave for his sexual sadisms. Myranda is in love with him she'd kill a generation of Starks to rewind time before Sansa crossed their once-impregnable dimension.

Myranda stood frozen at the ramparts, her fingers almost glued to the bricks and watery eyes staring down on each rider galloping in the courtyard. Her chest hallowed like a dry brook and her tongue swelled, one leathered rider, another, and another...until her pupils widened at the glimpse of his dark hair and she writhed behind a pillar. She pressed her back on the cold coarse bricks and sighed embracing herself. A gruesome chill swept through her.

She did not want him to come home.

Not now when Roose Bolton sits agitated waiting with his claws scorching and ready to flay his son alive.

The Warden was sleepless and brutal with words. Three days and nights he walked restlessly, mouth tight and eyes burning, and heaven could not please him nonetheless, neither was the pellet tucked in Lady Walda's belly. Finding Rickon Stark invisible on the cellars sent a dozen guards to the flaying poles and the castle drowned in tumult. Myranda herself was beaten as castigation to the loss, and for plainly being there idle at the time the child was taken. Lord Bolton promised gold and silver, even a seat on the council, to whomever takes the Stark boy back.

Only death awaits Arym and Reek now, their traitor's crosses have been furnished a great deal of effort. All these, added by the raven that perched two nights before that Lord Glover was still breathing, rests in Ramsay's bloody head.

She sniffed and sighed on her palms as if it would have made anything less godforsaken. Once more she twisted her neck to catch sight of her love descending from his horse flaccidly. His hair had gone untrimmed perhaps since they left Winterfell to be wed. Dark stubble sprinkled above his lips and chin and making him look as if he'd aged three summers in a night. She noticed the dark shades under the rims of his eyes, and his cheekbones had surfaced beneath leaned jaws. He was lightly moving and she credited it to the pounds he lost. She could almost smell the anxiety hormones that perfumed him, and her body twinged to comfort the distress that he was radiating. Had Sansa been refusing him...? No, she could not...she wasn't stupid enough to defy an obligation, would she? Myranda almost smiled at the lies she wanted to placate herself with. Even if she were to die as Ramsay's bedwarmer she'd dig a thousand graves to be so.

When the wheels of the litter rolled in, the men stirred. Myranda shivered at the hasty envy that stabbed right through her chest. The litter halted with the horses' sniggers, and Myranda swallowed the hurt when Ramsay turned his neck to see the litter door open. She pressed her lips when Sansa Stark—no...Sansa Bolton—emerged out of the carriage in a thick gown of moss-green, trimmed with Myrish lace as pale as foam and was immediately wrapped in furs by the maids. In the disarray of horses and bannermen and stable boys, Sansa was a regal tulip which stirred them more. The men secretly stole glances as she passed through, but Ramsay's eyes were cemented on her like she was the only existent being in Westeros. They never talked, nor exchanged glances. She was every inch a hardened young lady. No emotions dropped from her eyes and her lips were shut tight with every spin of her heels until she disappeared behind the arched entrance to the apartments. A flower stripped off innocence, Myranda sighed. Ramsay had been enjoying her too much he must have forgotten himself for her.

From where Sansa entered came forth Small Jon, all in black capes, mail, and boiled leathers as dark as the expression on his fair face. He was almost a feet higher than all the heads that moved and Myranda almost wanted to close her eyes for fear it would be one she dreaded most. Small Jon inched towards Ramsay, almost surprisingly, and leaned forward to whisper to the Bolton's ear. Ramsay paused and afterwards pulled his head away as if Small Jon had the worst of news.

He wasn't wrong. Myranda watched the color slowly ebb from Ramsay's face. He stuck two fingers on his high collar and pulled to let in air as he cracked his neck and wet his tongue, his cold eyes getting deep and almost turquoise. His face had become a graveyard while sweat began to glitter on his brow in a sigh. Myranda wanted to reach out to him, to warn him of...no. Warning him wouldn't make anything less easier.

Oh Ramsay...

Her fingers touched the gold flecks on the semi-smooth surface of the pendant with eyes unable to part from it. A ray of afternoon sunshine beamed like lasers from the window and she raised the stone to bask it in, eager to see the transformation from coal to gold and purple. And like a dream she again heard the breeze speak to her. Her chest was beginning to tighten. She missed her friend, his sad glassy stare, his betraying motives. Was it true... gratefulness mapped on her wounded veins, Have you set my brother free?

The whispers around the castle walls aroused her and despite the scorn that choked her smile, she couldn't stop the glee that set her eyes wide and grateful. Arym was so true to her she felt like kissing him if only he were there. The thought of it made her cheeks warm as if she'd just had her first sip of sweet summer ale. Silly girl.

And then she sighed...how could she be so selfish to put his—their—lives at the gaping gates of death. The Wall is too far for Rickon and she hoped Arym had thought of taking with him at least a courser to make the travel faster. There were many things she hoped: that they arrive safely, if not to the Wall then wherever Arym could take them; that Rickon was in one piece; that he wouldn't be too much of a heavy weight along the travel; that the Bolton search party be extinguished at the cold; that the gods would lead Jon to their aid. Indeed, many, many fantasies. Now she would spend the next of days looking through the horizon, waiting for a black bird, or dreading for the capture of the escapees...

The horizon looked farther now, and she realized the strange walls that now surrounded her.

She had moved chambers. From the gloomy one where she used to sleep as a child and a maiden, she chose one among the towers on the south of the castle. It was smaller than the usual chambers she slept in but less dingier for daylight could easily be trapped. She'd spend solitude while enjoying Ramsay's oath to hold himself off her. He had been treating her nicely since the travel from Deepwood Moat, sending her bacon and chopped eggs with peppers while he broke fast and dined on nuts. Suddenly her eyes widened and her mind ran with wild imagination and fear, counting days since she last bled...it was funny though, she laughed at herself, she'd been bleeding almost every night at the Dreadfort. It was near to impossible.

Her new chamber would testify the best comfort she could ever offer herself. She imagined sending in scrolls after scrolls and books where the great songs Old Nan used to sing to her were sealed. She'd resolved to keep her tiny world a paradise only she could penetrate. She could sup alone on lemon cakes, or black berries and autumn pears, or embroider throughout afternoons for all she cared. And no one will touch her in her little utopia. It wasn't too far, though, it could only take heartbeats to reach the halls. The winding stairs consoled her. Ramsay wasn't used to climbing steps given on drunken nights. She hoped she was right.

A maidservant poked her head in through the door, startling Sansa as she clutched the pendant within her palm and dropped her hand to her thighs. She gave an uncomic nod to the serving girl who brought in the freshest linens and vair. More wenches poured in the room, looking glum and bloodless, placing wax candles on bracket sconces sticking from the wall while another gently lay a brittle jar of potpourri beside the window. The scent of rosemary brought Sansa back to Queen Cersei's pavilion on warm mornings, marauding her with how a lady wife should treat her husband. The memoir irked and pushed her to the winding stairs, hearing the whispers and seeing the glances the servants rain on her as she flew past them and off the tower.

Snow began to film the muddied ground again and Sansa turned heels to walk along the bricked alleyway. She could save ruining the hem of her frock, at least. She slipped on a velvet robe dark as dried blood it almost turned black in the shadows, wide at the shoulders so her clavicle peeked under pale skin, and long sleeves fitted on her thinning arms. She thought herself stupid not to have pulled the ermine scarf she saw hanging by the door, around her shoulders; though her thick long curls would serve curtains around her neck.

Undecided where to go, she led to the kitchens to slip away a slice of almond pie or two, and pumpkin soup. It made her mouth water and her stomach churn, which quickly dried off when, at the oaken doors of the great hall, she sighted three of Ramsay's boys, and slowed her steps. The door was half agape and one concealed in after whispering to the others.

She must have thud her heel heavy enough when they turned heads to see her, and she halted. Sansa saw the distress warped on their eyes, but her face fell still as if apathetic to the world. She wanted to ask, but held back her tongue she might laugh at an ill news plaguing the Boltons. Unbowing and unstirred, she sucked in a breath secretly and resumed walking past them, although tempted to take a peek across the door.

She turned to the open hallway towards the kitchens, raising curtain after curtain, recalling once how Bran toggled beside her asking for a tart. The kitchen was cold and lifeless like manned by mute cooks. No one seemed to see her and if someone might have, the eyes need none to care for aside from the black pans that needed scrubbing. The place was aired with butter, and she could see the white quail meat piled in a basin.

A burly woman with bulbous nose appeared affront her, red coarse hair matted off the bun behind her head and she was wiping fat fingers like sausages on her bloodied and floured apron. When she spoke, Sansa smelled the breath of onions from yellowed teeth and her nose cringed.

"What do you want dear?"

Sansa pursed her lips. For an elephantine woman, the head cook was as gentle as a moth. She answered with a stare and deep within, her lungs felt punctured with intense curiosity on what was happening at the Great Hall.

Slowly she gathered her skirts and twisted her heels to scurry off, leaving the head cook frowning.

Corridors to the Great Hall have become dim. Once upon a time, the line of flambeaux used to flicker bright as sunshine and chased shadows off the bricked tiers. Now it was as if the crypts have rebuilt itself in labyrinths and extended here. Sansa shivered, looking side to side like there were claws waiting to snap her spine in half. Near the edge she heard the voices echoing from the arched side entrance, and they weren't meek...

Sansa receded her footsteps to allow the voices more audibility. By then she could recognize it. A deep voice callused by ire, graceless and livid. Roose Bolton.

She rested a palm on the wall and a sudden chill stabbed her and pulled her away from appearing on the scene. Hiding was pointless, she sighed, even behind the wall she could perceive the chasm and fury that hung on every crevice. Her brows began to crease as the intense perfume of outrage filled her pores.

Sansa counted two—three men within, perhaps more, but would not exceed a dozen. She could envision Roose Bolton walking to and fro, talking and ranting, arms waving. Her shoulders leapt at the bash of chalice against the floor and she imagined the wine that spewed like hurricane in all directions. Amidst her thumping heartbeats she risked inches towards the entrance to weave more sense of the scene.

"I gave you this chance, you witless fool!"

Sansa wet her lips with an almost drying tongue.

"I gave you this chance and you made a laughing stock of me! Now the NORTH IS LAUGHING AT ME!"

Another blast of gloved fist crashed on the table and reverberated on every brick and every fold of banners that hung from the mezzanines.

Finally the voice she anticipated to hear filled in, calm but accented with doubt. "I'll take care of it—" "HOW?!"

Heavy footsteps from leathered boots. "HOW?!"

Chainmail rattling. Gloved fist on a collar. Shaking.

"ANSWER ME, BASTARD!"

"I'll figu—"

"YOU. DO NOT. KNOW. HOW!"

A rumble. Fist smashed on jaw once. Sansa swallowed. Boots swept on the flooring but halted.

"ALL I DID FOR YOU!" Knee on groin. A cry of pain. "TO YOU!"

Heavy breathings. One off of delirium. Another off suffering, sprawling on the floor: helpless like a pruned sheep, and coughing. Sansa leaned her back on the icy bricks that concealed her. She closed her eyes. All the ruckus swept her off to the court of King's Landing with her gown stripped half from shoulder to navel, a sword's hilt jolted on her belly, the side of metal whipped against her back, Joffrey's maniacal laughter…beat her! Beat her!

She could now hear the same walking to and fro, but in an increased pace, and a more dangerous inclination.

"I thought I've made a man off you...!" seethed Roose, "I've made a man off you when you cut the meat off the whore that RETCHED your miserable life!"

What…? Sansa's eyes flew open. Westeros has crashed on her and her tight throat began to hallow. Indecipherable as it seemed, she felt that curtains to answers of a mystery had began opening before her. And she didn't want to see the horrific spectacle. Needless to do, her fingertips shook feebly and a cold air swept under her skirts and seemed to seep to her toes. All she could see before her were blood and ash.

No…

"S-stop…"

Sansa bit her lower lip as if she had been the one who voiced the plea. Oh gods…it couldn't be…

Roose Bolton went on. "You ARE as useless as her. Crying for her like the dog you are now. Hounds have better use than you!"

"Stop…"

Oh Ramsay… She suppressed a stressed sigh, a magnificent whirl of anger and pity scoured her innards.

"I should've let you watch the hounds rip off her flesh and throw her bones at your bastard head!"

"Pleeease… stop pleeease…"

By now a tear trailed uncontrollably from Sansa's eye to chin without her commanding will to sorrow. She has never heard of this Ramsay, never heard of him plead as if the air had turned to venom and began to fill his lungs and spread across his body. And she swore it wasn't him, the shaky wails and sniffing wasn't her monster of a husband. This was a man whose ghosts of childhood had caught up to him and torching him in a boiling cauldron of nightmares as their laughter rung in deep overlapping echoes…

"It would have awakened that watery brain if there were any…it would have served better sport than you with the knife and stupidly crying for a useless whore…" Roose Bolton went on without pauses. She could imagine him with veins traced on his temples and spittling as he spoke insanely.

"Stop…stop…stop…" Ramsay's gasps cut through.

And then she heard it. The sob that came from the devil himself being punished, crippled with agony and solid with pain that undermined a thousand spearthrusts to the heart. She could see him behind closed eyes gasping for air and clawing out a memory that clung to his shadows. I flayed a woman once... she recalled her husband's threatening voice behind her as he swept the cold bathing rag on her shoulder.

Gods be damned. That woman was his mother. Ramsay Bolton was forced to flay his mother.

A/N: I know...I know and I'm sorry. :( Was supposed to make it longer but I'm afraid my time won't quite agree. It's like progressing one sentence in a week. I hope you'd still leave me reviews despite the suckish length of time updating.

Valar Morghulis. xx