Hell gets lost inside this heaven we've made.

- HB (OST)

Sansa awoke running amidst trees in incontrollable speed. The frosty wind seared against her skin, making her eyes tear and her mouth dry. She leapt over felled wood and pointed crags, over mossy rocks and damp interwoven roots. Crows squawked flapping their wings in frenzy as she prodded twigs along her zigzag; rats and rabbits hid in holes on the ground or crevices on a pile of rocks. A mystical power was surging over her with every twist and ever turn and for once she was at full command of her body.

When thirst had finally slowed her lean legs she followed the scent of a nearby brook. The water was cool to the mere sight, its placid surface rippling serenely along a row of stones.

She carefully padded towards the brook, eager to plunge a taut jaw. And she looked at the reflection of a sharp snout sniffing carefully, at the deep bronze round eyes surrounded by an outline of dark fur, at the two sharp ears on either side of her head.

As she began to lap at the icy water then a shadow emerged underneath – a gauche figure of a woman whose dead white eyes gazed as wide as her blackened mouth; her lifeless fingers reaching out about to yank her tongue.

Sansa drew a shrill breath, the candelabra on her ceiling coming clearer in view. Her fingertips had gone numb and an undulating chill moved around her every nerve. It had been a while such dreams had visited her, seeing herself a soul confined in the four-legged body of a beast, and the familiar vision of the wraithlike woman she had been accustomed with.

It hadn't taken long before Sansa had bathed and pulled over a frock of light fabric. The daylight was clear and snow has not fallen for some time; Sansa drew the ledges of her chamber window to ventilate. As she sat on the edge of her bed her hands roved between the pillows and pulled out the pendant which embodied Arym.

She closed her eyes clutching the purple stone on her chest and mumbled a fleeting prayer for Arym and Rickon, wishing fervently of news that may concern them. If there were any, the Boltons were keen to keep the details from her.

A strident rapping on her chamber door snatched her mind and sending her quickly squirreling the stone back to where it used to be. She straightened her dress of black ivory while approaching the door and the view of two Bolton soldiers loomed at the entrance.

"Lord Roose Bolton seeks you in the courtyard, my Lady." The voice was gruff and unfriendly. Sansa merely nodded before closing again only to pull her dark cape around her.

Across Winterfell's portcullis, Roose Bolton stood patiently with a few men behind him, two of their banners proudly sticking up high on air. She deemed it a familiar scene when she rode past the gates to her strange home alongside Petyr Baelish, only to be introduced as the promised bride.

As she approached along the muddy path, Roose had already turned to her with a smile that mismatched his grim eyes. Sansa could not find herself smiling back and the act had rather made her swallow.

"You're up early," Roose Bolton acknowledged, "Which is favorable today. May I ask that you join us in the waiting of an important arrival? Most especially for you."

Sansa was deprived off excitement and zeal and was instead drawn with horror. She primarily thought of Rickon being carried back from his alleged escape.

"Is there something wrong, my Lord?" Sansa fretted with her fingertips intertwining. Roose Bolton faced her with furrowed brows and a rather surprised sentiment at her anxiousness. He half-smiled before looking away. "Nothing, lady Sansa."

She nodded, forcing to repose herself and only wished he were saying true. Looking around she intended to see someone who can assuage her in the agonizing wait. And as if she was an open book, Roose easily read her script. "Ramsay took off with a band earlier, out hunting. But you need not be upset; I made clear instructions that they return early for a small council gathering."

Sansa felt her cheeks sting. "They've been hunting for days…"

"They have," Roose sighed, "We need more reserve for an approaching raid."

She looked away, up the greying skies and found herself hoping for a safe return. She would be lying to herself if she said she did not miss Ramsay. Theirs had been an awful beginning but there was a small part of her, down in the quarry of her heart that ached for his presence. It had been days since they shared a meal after the night all sorts of warm emotions came crashing on her in the confines of his arms.

Feeling the awkward silence she stirred another conversation. "How fares lady Walda, my Lord?"

She felt Roose Bolton flinch and did not desire to look at her. "She was rather sick. We hope to ease her discomfort by the end of the day."

"I hope she will be alright, my Lord." Sansa could only respond without withdrawing another word from Roose.

It did not take long when men on the gates began to rouse and announce an incoming. The portcullis rattled in iron and chains, rising before a band of men in silver armor and ringmail and between them a landau. Sansa squinted at the banner – falcon volant and a crescent moon on blue field – her blue eyes alighted. Petyr!

Despite the distress Sansa felt over Petyr Baelish's conferral of her to the Boltons, there remained a trivial delight she felt at the approaching knights.

The horses pranced to calm and the door of the carriage opened. Yet there was no Petyr Baelish and his cocky smile. In his stead a young woman stepped down and Sansa's heart leapt to her throat. She had dark muddy brown hair tied at the back of her head, long and rippling; had a long but kind face, with amber eyes and thin lips. The way she looked around bewildered reminded Sansa of her own person when she came back after weary years from King's Landing to the Eyrie, to Winterfell.

Their eyes fell to each other and Sansa was almost catching her breath. Immediately she opened her arms wide anticipating the same sweeping embrace she was about to receive.

"JEYNE!"

Sansa was more than exhilarated, rubbing her cheek against the ear of a dear friend she had been separated with mysteriously for over years. Jeyne Poole's shoulders were heaving equally as hers, sobbing in her neck. In her lips rasped the same name for as many times as she could. "Oh Sansa! Sansa!"

They briefly looked at each other's faces, unmindful of the tears that wrecked their cheeks and their unruly hair, before getting back in the embrace. The men around them passed without gazing at a sweet reunion. The girls found themselves giggling as their 10-year-old selves, ecstatic and over contented about yet almost in disbelief.

Roose Bolton neared, wearing a content smile almost pleased with himself. The girls parted still with their arms clutching at each other.

"Welcome home, lady Jeyne."

"How did you…" Sansa could not conceal the jovial smile and loss of words, "Thank you, my Lord. Thank you."

"Ramsay and I were hoping you would like this meeting very much. By the looks of it you weren't disappointed."

"No, of course not! Jeyne… we had been childhood friends and…" Sansa's words died realizing how the high spirits in her almost forgot her manners. She shifted into a less blissful version of herself, plain smiles and curtsy, "I owe you very much, my Lord. I couldn't be happier."

Roose Bolton nodded in approval before commanding the men to escort the ladies to where they wanted to rekindle their lost years.

Arm in arm, Sansa and Jeyne sat in an elongated stool after filling in their hearts' content the memories they shared around the castle. They spent hours running around every room and every hall, refreshing on their practices of needlework under the tutelage of Septa Mordane, braiding their hair, and stealing lemon cakes. Sansa has almost forgotten years of blatant suffering in the company of her dear friend. Jeyne Poole had become her answered prayer – a piece of shred of her old life. With Jeyne she felt as if the demeaning news of her family's demise had become less sorrowful.

"So what was it like?" Jeyne asked, her head lain on Sansa's shoulder. Sansa had become taller a few inches apart from the olden days they used to stand on the same height.

"What was what like?"

"Well… you, being lady Bolton. Married."

Sansa held her breath. She had come to wonder what news of the Boltons' treatment of her had reached the houses of the North. A sketch of sadness overwhelmed her, fleeting her back to nightmares and the wedding night she reproached, the horrors of shredded dresses and discolorations on her body. How could she ever tell a perplexing tale of antagonism and a one-sided insatiable sexual tension between her and her husband.

"I heard he is quite the charmer," Jeyne commented. Sansa could almost feel her friend blushing.

"He is," she replied, "On the right moods."

"I can't wait to meet him,"

Sansa would have protested. Meeting Ramsay Bolton would not be too dandy as she might be expecting. Sure they've shared their interests in knights when she herself was smitten by the brown haired ser Loras while Jeyne was head over heels for ser Beric. But times have changed and reality was too gore.

"Jeyne," Sansa veered the theme, "How did you… end up at the Eyrie?"

Jeyne Poole paused and suddenly Sansa felt remorse over her question. The excitement that ebbed out of Jeyne told Sansa it had not been well at the Lannister claws. Jeyne took Sansa's cold hand and squeezed. "One day I may be able to tell you. I haven't seen you for years and wouldn't want to spoil this lovely reunion. What matters right now is we're here."

Sansa quailed but had the decency to be discreet. Jeyne was right. They have many years to make up without the spoilage of miserable past pages. All she was left to do was to feel sorry for her unsaid story and wish she could have done more for her, for her father Vayon Poole, and her sisters.

The first dust of snow began to settle on their hair and Sansa looked up. As soon as Jeyne felt the icy trickle on her hands she looked at her friend with a smile that seemed to have made her won a valuable prize. "Snow's here. Why don't we grab something from the kitchens like we used to when we were younger?"

Sansa smiled back in consideration, standing until both found themselves sauntering in the pavilions and onto winding staircase down the kitchens. Jeyne was ahead of her, telling old tales when they were little, and how she used to hate those staircases. Sansa was all too eager to listen, both approving and condemning childish deeds they have once done.

When the smell butchered mutton boiling heavily filled the air, Sansa was slowed by a queasiness in the pit of her stomach and her nose decided she could no longer attempt to go further. She held the cobblestones on the side, repulsed by a bitter reflux from her throat. Jeyne held her by the shoulders. "Sansa, Sansa are you alright?"

Sansa gagged but could not dare to bring anything up; she remembered not having to break her fast. When the nausea cleared she exhaled a few more times and straightened her gait with the help of her friend.

"Would you like to see the Maester?" Jeyne suggested all vexed and in the brink of hyperventilation. She had always been the edgy one. Sansa swallowed and sighed, "Perhaps I might."

"Here let me take you," Jeyne began to tug. Sansa could only halt her. "No, I – I could take myself. The Maester, he's new. And so are the kitchen wenches but you could tell them I would like to request some lunch for the both of us."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I suppose hunger has caught up with me," Sansa could only reason before stepping up and out the staircases and the trapped mutton flesh. Jeyne nodded, "We'll bring the food to your chamber."

"Thank you, Jeyne. If you ought to see baked apples, I would like some." Sansa tried her best to sound as well as she could, and until she was out in a terrace then she hungrily breathed the icy air and wiped the thin blanket of perspiration on her brow. Bolton men were stealing glances at her, some had begun whispering for all she cared. She moved her legs towards another set of stairs up Maester Wolkan's private study – the same room where Maester Luwin had been.

As the double oaken doors loomed she raised her fist to knock but was surprised the Maester had already opened half the door. He froze at her presence, looking rather agitated and white faced. He held rolls of soft white linen and herbs and about to run to some crisis.

"Oh, lady Bolton, I mean… lady Sansa… Bolton," Maester Wolkan stammered, "What can I do for you?"

Sansa studied the man for a while – his trembling hands and fretted grey eyes told her he was spoken for something. Two Bolton soldiers came from behind them, wearing the same exasperated look. "The Warden demands for you, Maester, you've taken too long."

"Yes, yes, I was about to…" Maester Wolkan squirmed, closing the door and turning back to Sansa, "My lady, I'm afraid I would have to see you later…"

Sansa stepped aside, shaking her head convincing the Maester he needed to attend the more important matter. The Maester's sigh was enough to tell Sansa how grateful he is for her toleration. "I – I have to go then, my Lady, lady Walda Bolton, she's in great pain…"

"Go, it's alright, I shall come to you in a more comfortable hour," Sansa bid willfully even before the Maester scurried away with the men; she herself in concern of the Warden's wife. Lord Roose Bolton's hopes of lady Walda's relief had been disappointed, and as apathetic as she acted to her own father-in-law, she would not hope of lady Walda's misfortune.

Sansa vested herself to remain in one piece as she strolled curve to curve to reach her tower, passing by soldiers whose eyes never failed to land on her. If Ramsay thought Sansa could never detect the secret espionage of his boys to her every move, he was wrong. The men's cold eyes are too palpable for her to notice; it was as if there were eyes on the walls and the dank air.

It were just seconds passed when her thoughts drifted on her husband and at the entrance to a row of vestibule he had suddenly appeared.

Ramsay Bolton paused, from a face that was too preoccupied it inched to a speculative daze, seemingly lost in hesitance whether to walk past her or run. Her heart heaved the way Ramsay looked at her, like she was caught stealing and was about to face hours of flogging. He had unruly hair; his hunting vest smelt of animal fur and the forest, a dark browned sable embraced his shoulders across his right chest, his breeches were damp and the soles of his boots muddy, dirtying the cobblestones he stood on.

Sansa swallowed, trying to brave his scalding stare.

"Are you running?"

Sansa inhaled, "No, my Lord."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

Sansa heard him sniff as he scratched the stubble near a jaw, leaving a smudge of blood on his cheek again making her stomach coil. But there was another that caught her eye as Ramsay moved his other hand from behind him and handed over what seemed to be too peculiar to be true: a mussed posy of scarlet frostfires, springroses bright as the sun, and carnation gilliflowers clamped together in a fist. She stared at the unruly means the stems had been zagged from blade. Half the blossoms were crushed ungraciously the way it tucked between the preys, and half was splattered with animal blood. And still its scent was so distinct it took her back to happy thoughts and rooftop gardens.

Her lips were agape with disbelief. If there were many things Ramsay Bolton would do to impress her, handing her over such beauties would never have been an option. He might have presented her stag antlers, or bearskin to dry as pelt and rags. But this was not at all Ramsay. This would make him a fool. And the fool managed to ride to a hunt and bring her something for the potpourri in her bedchamber.

The posy looked too funny a gift – a mess of blossoms and weed leaves and roots hanging from the edge as Ramsay tried to pull them off awkwardly, leaving them on the floor. Again he handed them nearer to her, in fact shoving it to her but Sansa was too dumbfounded to even move a finger.

Ramsay must have noticed her staring at the blood splatters, annoying him. "T'was the rabbits."

"Oh." Sansa was almost smiling at the cringeworthy way he had to explain the mess.

Ramsay heaved and pulled the flowers back with an irate mumble, "Fuck it,"

"No! I-I'll have them…!" Sansa protested, quickly jutting out fingers to take from his hand the posy. Ramsay's eyes widened and looked away as he released it. The thrill she had been feeling made her fingers tremble and as she took the flora warm to her chest, a faint blush stung softly on her cheeks. "Thank you, Ramsay…" She said in the girlish spirit she always had back when she was a stupid girl with stupid dreams. "They're beautiful."

It wasn't even near as beautiful as bouquets she used to dream being offered to her by knights in intricate suits of golden enameled scales, it weren't the red roses and lotus and blue irises she so loved to sniff in the sunrise when the morning dew made them glitter. But it was Ramsay and his sudden eccentric behavior, this wounded man she had been married to.

Ramsay wet his lips and cleared his throat. She caught a glimpse of him, his uneasiness made the blue gems of his eyes sparkle. Even with the unshaven face and the blood smudged on his cheek he was handsome, hardened by the grim shadow of his past and recovering fully. She watched as he stepped back and turned away, wordless, quickly striding and making the taps of his boots reverberate through the hallway. Sansa felt herself smile, watching the muddied boot prints filth the floor.

A/N: As you have asked for a little Ramsay-Sansa. Felt awkward but totally worth it. *grin*. As always, thank you for the reviews. Keep them coming. I'm open for suggestions. Good night for now.