I loved and I loved...

and I lost you.

(Fleurie)

The hearth was warm with glowing cinders and Sansa perched herself in a pile of feather and wool pillows on the stiff carpet below her bed. She watched the red glow breathe through the edges of the coals and in her hand a small flagon of wine stilled. She wasn't a drinker, she knew for sure about herself. But tonight it was as though her veins pulsed at the thought of feeling somber. And for the first of times she was thrilled by the scent of grape alcohol.

Any time now…

Sansa could not lie to herself the waiting. She knew he'd come. For the past few days it felt as if he had become a part of her, inside her body and soul, and it was a pleasant feeling. The castle glooms over the painful death of the Warden's wife amidst scheming an attack on Stannis' troops, and yet she was as calm as the sea after a squall.

She let out a sigh as the oaken door opened behind her and slowly shut again. She never looked back but she could feel the eyes draped over her. Her heart beat faster suppressing the need for more air. Her chest was pounding with contained excitement.

"You're drinking,"

Ramsay's voice was flat and drained and she hungrily absorbed every bitter decibel.

"You don't approve?" Sansa looked behind her shoulder. She saw him leaning back against the door, arms folded on his chest. And as her eyes drifted back to the cinders she saw him move towards her. Ramsay lowered himself to sit by the carpet and his minty scent filled her nose. Their shadows danced behind them and Ramsay unbelted his weaponry to lay them on her bed. Sansa stared at it.

"How long?"

Ramsay ran a hand over the tangled mats of his raven hair. "Days… weeks… not that it matters. Give me a toast to my death." He said it with such ease that it made Sansa's stomach curdle.

"Don't say that," she muttered and Ramsay chortled. "My father could only wish for it," he continued acridly, "At least it would be… that the Bastard of Bolton died a hero… wouldn't that be poetic?"

Sansa hinted the sharpness in his voice which she was used to hearing from him, the same wounded boy seeking his father's approval. She lowered her lashes and her blood rushed as her hand made its way to his even without her bidding. His fingers were cold and hesitant.

"Can we at least pretend…" Sansa faced him to see his eyes were already locked on hers. It was the wine finally taking over her senses. "…I could still see you tomorrow." Ramsay chewed on the wall of his mouth, his lips in a straight line. Sansa felt electrified by the sad blue gems that were his eyes. She stared at him melted by the want to take him against her chest and heal his pains. Before she knew it her face was only an inch from his and she mustered the courage to close her eyes.

They decided to linger in the anchorage of their warmth – their foreheads leaning, their lips in a near lock, and their fingertips touching – Ramsay broke the silence begrudgingly.

"I came to say –" "Don't." Sansa was calm but quick to comprehend. "Don't say goodbye… stay with me tonight and if you need to leave do not rouse me. I shall wait for you."

"You would want that?" He was in disbelief. "You hate me."

"As you hate me," Sansa was half smiling, her memories drifted to when she heard the words from his own mouth the night she was lost in insanity. "And tonight we pretend we are in love."

Ramsay almost laughed and lifted his hands to her warm cheeks. "I'll be back. You have my word."

Slowly she damped her warm lips on his and he was more than willing to welcome them. Ramsay ran his hands on her red tresses and held her behind the neck before pressing his weight on her further until they lay on the wolf pelt.

Sansa woke to the silence in the chamber swathed in the shadows invited by locked windows. Her senses had not yet come to life, and she stirred at the space beside her. Only when her fingers felt nothing but the empty space on her bedside did she open her eyes to recognize she was alone. There was a profound sadness that settled in her heart and she slowly rose to sit on the edge. The blankets and vair slowly slipped off her naked body and she clutched the sheets to cover her breasts and in a jiff the memory of last night warmed her.

She could still feel him. Her fingers slowly traced her neck and she closed her eyes wishfully imagining the way his lips kissed her below the ear – the warmth of his breath making her moist between her legs. She could remember his hands over her shoulders deftly uncovering her skin and how callused they were as he stroked every sensitive part of her. She could practically hear the way she moaned, the way he made her roll her head back, and flashes of shame blotched her cheeks. Ramsay was not gentle, and she perceived he could never be by the fresh bruises of grips he left on her skin. Yet if it meant finally living the rest of her life in this ascent then she was more than willing to let him have her the way he wanted.

As she unlatched the sill, her eyes squinted even at the diffused morning light. The men far below her tower had lessened and all that was left behind were leftovers of last night's uproar. She looked far towards the grey horizon, in some way hoping to catch yet a glimpse of Ramsay's men disappearing through the woods. Guilt crept across her in the subtle way she prayed for his return while hundreds of widows and fatherless children he made of the countless random murders were sacrificing lambs to ask the gods for his quick and fierce death.

Sansa felt the familiar spoil in her stomach which was beginning to rise to her throat. And before she closed her window to prevent the soft trickles of snow coming in, she saw the open window far across hers. A grey figure was standing – austere and almost rustic. She looked further only to identify who it was. Roose Bolton was gazing straight at her, momentarily stopping her breath, and in the blur of snow and wind Sansa could not fathom the other figure behind him. As bile rose out of her lips she finally locked the window, quizzical if her eyes had not mistaken her – that it was Myranda in the Warden's chamber.

Sansa strode past the empty halls. Everything seemed monochromatic, like the castle had suddenly painted itself gray overnight. Every now and then few women passed her by in their black grieving frocks, whispering inaudibly. She heard the funeral was to be held in Winterfell but there remains a dispute that lady Walda's corpse was demanded to be traveled back to The Trident and into her old weasel of a father. But the road would be too dangerous, Roose had said. Snow could get as thick at any time of the day, making them vulnerable to thieves and imminent ambush.

A graceful hand shot from nowhere and wrapped itself around her arm. Sansa drew breath seeing Jeyne Poole grinning at her and placing half her weight on her shoulders.

"I love this morning," Jeyne spoke, eventually making Sansa gape at her and slow down their tracks.

"Jeyne," Sansa faced her, "It's a funeral. Men are at war."

"Against Stannis?" Jeyne was half smiling, "Haven't you heard? He is marching south to claim the throne."

"And that would mean giving up the North to him," Sansa's tone condemned.

Every inch of glee fell off from Jeyne's face as she pulled Sansa to the side where empty benches await them.

"Are you listening to yourself, Sansa?" Jeyne Poole looked around warily before turning to her friend. Sansa Stark's face was but a reflection of confusion. "Jeyne, this is our home. It belongs to the North."

"It was. And now it belongs to murderers and traitors," Jeyne apprehended, silencing the other. Sansa had begun to wonder what had suddenly made Jeyne Poole too concerned about patriotism and politics. Now her silence had spoken for her.

Jeyne dropped her hands from Sansa's arms, "You couldn't be, can you?"

"What?" Sansa's brows crumpled. Both shut their mouths and looked in separate directions as two soldiers lazily passed them by. As soon as the men were gone, Jeyne held her friend's cheek with such concern.

"You're in love with him," Jeyne was almost smiling. Sansa felt the color drain from her face and since then fretted uncontrollably. She neither knew how to laugh or condemn the thought. Of course, she was not. It was not love, she began to torment herself, it was only a spur of a moment. Cold, apathetic, and temporary.

"What?" Sansa mused whilst steadily trying to contain the reddening on her face, "I'm notin-love with him."

She said the words as if it were genuine but the way she stood and searched for an escape had actually spoken a different story. And there she swore Jeyne's means of staring straight at her wasn't tethered on the mood.

"Then don't start to."

Sansa measured the words. She wasn't sure if she'd heard it right, or if it was Jeyne who actually spoke. The calm and serious manner it was dropped had left Sansa dormant and probing.

"What do you mean?"

Jeyne's silence ignited the fire that rose on Sansa's head. It was not her friend to have this morbid remark on Sansa's preferences. When they were still girls with big fat braids, Jeyne had always the most saccharine thoughts on Sansa's choices, from tart flavours, to the color of their dresses, and to the knights they wished would sweep them off their feet. She remembered Jeyne on the melee in King's landing, fanning herself and feigning swoons when Ser Beric Dondarrion eased himself on his warhorse.

Her face reddened.

"You don't know him," Sansa heard herself spiced and offended, "You've heard stories of him, Jeyne, I know that. But you don't know him, what he's been through..."

"Sansa..."

"You don't know the nightmares he was forced to see, the fear and struggle..."

"Sansa, stop it..."

"No, you stop it!" Sansa's voice escalated and her throat hallowed when Jeyne reached out to embrace her. Even Sansa herself could not explain the sudden need to be defensive and hurt.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Jeyne hushed her, rocking her with her arms draped protectively like a mother. Sansa was shaking her head incredulously, even she herself was nursing shock at her own tantrum. There was still the slightest whiff of hope that her life with Ramsay Bolton would not turn out to be a calamity but something that she could finally settle in. She closed her eyes. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of false hopes.

"Sansa," Jeyne finally broke them off and wiped Sansa's face with her sleeves, "Sansa if you think this is the best life offered to you now, you are wrong. You are a wolf in Winterfell. The last wolf, and we need you."

Sansa's eyes were red at the rims, and puffy too. Her brows creased, "We?"

Jeyne sighed.

"Jeyne?" Sansa confirmed. There is something her friend is keeping from her. From everyone else.

Jeyne Poole looked at her intently and when her next words fluttered, Sansa was sure there was nothing of it that resembled entertainment.

"Listen carefully," Jeyne shifted to come nearer as if there were a thousand people listening to them though they were only two in the hallway. "Would you be a fool to believe I was sent here without a reason?"

"Sent?"

Jeyne nodded. Sansa remembered the day Jeyne Poole stepped off the carriage on Winterfell grounds. "But Lord Bolton… he called for you."

"And it was the perfect opportunity. It was as if the gods have made it happen. It was a great burden lifted off Lord Baelish's shoulders – "

"Baelish?" Sansa cut her off. "All along you had been kept with Lord Baelish?"

"He saved me, Sansa,"

"He saved you and threw me in a pit of monsters?" The air around them seemed to dense, "This was his plan all along?"

Jeyne Poole sighed. "Sansa, it is difficult to take this all in right now… but here we are, to rescue you. Men await you at a definite place altogether, bearing the banners of The Vale."

"Stop…" A tear fell Sansa's lid, "I don't think I have the comprehension for this now." She took a step back, shaking her head and grasping for cold air. The sour memories of her enduring the clutches of the Boltons had began to roll on her head – ones that she had survived and is surviving alone. And when she had given up hopes for rescue and honor then here it comes crashing like a tidal wave. She turned her heels and began to walk away, leaving Jeyne unable to call out for her in defeat.

Almost a week had gone by and Sansa has not left her chamber. She had eaten, yes, and altogether gag it out in an indefinite time of the day. Not that the castle was concerned at all. Only Ramsay would care to pull her out of her room if needed be, if he were here but no news had come or it was only that she was kept from it. And she was surprised not to even care whether her husband was alive. Lady Walda was burned in a pyre, one which did not please the Freys, and might have to even cause another war.

As she sat by contemplating the misery of the days since she last spoke to Jeyne, a firm rapping came by the door, and with it a man's voice. "Lady Sansa."

At this her heart pounded. Could it have been news from Stannis' battle? She could only hope not. Not yet.

Sansa opened the door enough so half her face could be seen. A Bolton soldier stood, and without further curtsy nor introductions he delivered a strange message.

"The Warden asks you to dine with him tonight."

Roose Bolton's private den was dimly lit. Sansa recalled this used to be a spare study room which she and her brothers never had fondness to discover. She came in to find herself alone, as the escort left he told her instructions to wait for the Warden. A meal was set on the table and no matter how its aroma stuck around like a whore's perfume, it never aroused Sansa's appetite.

No sooner had she touched the edges of the dingy furniture then Roose Bolton appeared at the door wiping his hands.

Sansa straightened her gait, "My Lord."

He only nodded in recognition and strode past her to sit after serving himself a flagon of mulled wine. He motioned her to occupy the chair across him and between the meal. Sansa could only comply.

"How fares the Lady of Winterfell?" Roose Bolton asked coldly.

It occurred to Sansa she was not in place for company tonight, most importantly with her own father-in-law. "I'm alright, my Lord. I'm sorry for your loss."

"I had been hearing of your seclusion," Roose continued in usual monotony without giving a thought on her offer of condolence. Sansa could not put her finger on how such a simple means of speaking could make the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Ramsay made her cringe, but Roose… he was different. He had an air of monstrosity that was very carefully hidden, an ability to unshackle one's darkest secret within only a second of conversation.

Sansa looked away, unto the paperweights carved in Bolton sigil – the flayed man. The Boltons were never a pleasant news, she could recall, and yet a name would not have to be her demise. She remembered she owed the Warden an answer.

"I wasn't feeling well, my Lord," Sansa managed, and it did not bother Roose at all. He was looking at her like she was such a disappointment. Like he knew something of her that she herself could not discover. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he replied immediately.

Sansa lowered her lashes, "I know I should have acted more properly."

"Spare me the rehearsed answers, Lady Sansa," Roose Bolton sighed. Sansa watched as the Warden took a spare flagon, gently placed it on front of her, and filled it with wine. "Speak out your true intents. I will not take it against you."

"Intents?"

"Has my son been treating you well?" Roose cut off impatiently. "Ramsay… he had never been a creature easy to love."

Sansa thought long, "…nor be loved."

The edges of Roose's lips curled as he exhaled in agreement. "It is unthinkable of him to be gentle in marriage, more so be loyal at such."

"Then why?" the question slipped off her tongue smoothly, snatching Roose's eyes to her. Sansa would have wanted to take back the query, but it was too late. "Why the waste of marriage?"

"It was never a waste. You are an asset in the right place but on the wrong hands."

Sansa looked away, sick of the thought she had always been regarded as a prize. "At least I am home."

"Aye," the Warden seconded, "It bothers me the low opinion you repute yourself."

She gave him a curious look.

"Your home is everything to you, is it not? Despite having to tolerate a rabid dog for, let's consider, the rest of your noble life."

"As far as I could recall I was never given the chance to choose between a nobleman and a rabid dog." Sansa shot, astonished on where she had been acquiring the gut to speak too straightforwardly.

And there was something in the glint in Roose's almost colorless eyes that afflicted her. "I agree. You did not. I was married then. And my son, well, my son was the only choice."

Sansa Stark had the sudden instinct unready to hear the next words.

Roose Bolton went on, "And now he's not."

She clenched her teeth behind straight lips. Even without her bidding for enlightenment, Roose was at the mood to convince.

"Would you really have thought I would marry that bastard to Ned Stark's heir had I not already been spoken for?" Roose Bolton's words seared Sansa like flaming arrows, making her fingertips numb and her mouth dry. And yet the Warden had not shown an inch of embarrassment at his own honesty.

As the air around Sansa clamped, she had but forced herself to stand making her chair scrape against the floor. "Excuse me my Lord," she left the room in such a haste wrapped in fear of the way Roose Bolton's eyes followed her to the exit.

A/N: Three freaking months and more - again, I might have lost most of my readers and I understand. It had been a difficult three months past. My pregnancy and work had taken so much of my energy thus I was forced to apply for a maternity leave a month earlier. Right now we await my giving birth and I decided to continue this even if there's less hope readers would be back. Big thanks to those who would still come back. I hope you had a good Christmas and New Year celebrations. I wish to hear from you soon.