The coldness made her numb.

Sansa blinked a nearly frozen tear, awakening from a quick dream. In that virtual world, she was squeezing herself between trunks of dead trees beneath murky skies. Ice was frozen beneath her paws. The titters of weasels and weak breeze echoed on her ears as they pricked and twitched. And she padded along, sniffing at the scent of a man so familiar but not one that roused the rumbling in her belly.

She came to an forest opening and saw him, his very image making her irises deflate…

Ramsay. Her Ramsay looking straight back at her. He was clad for hunt, bow and arrow in both hands, mussed up hair, bright blue eyes like cloudless summer sky. An arrowed boar lay squealing to its death between them. And they paused yet he could not recognize her, just stared back like a frozen goat. She willed to run into his arms and press her ear into the beating on his chest, to kiss his lips and stay, just stay into a dimension where he was alive. But nothing happened. Until the flapping of wings came from above them did he move to strike arrow at the bird. Then Sansa ran off against her will.

No! Stay! Let me stay!

She was screaming at herself, at the feet quickly jumping past overgrowth and felled trunks. But it sent her in the bitter waking world instead.

It felt so real. The memory of her husband felt so real and she was almost to touch him but the gods were as cruel denying her the right.

The litter came to a stop but her mind was still floating over the evanescing images.

"Sansa,"

Jeyne was handing her a stone-hard thing called bread. She was swathed in layers of blanket and pelt that her hands couldn't fumble its way to take the food. If it were any food at all. In her dreams she always had her fill of meat of fox and hare. But in her human self, her belly remained clamoring in emptiness. At times she managed to down a mouthful, but most oft manages to rumble back to the throat. Her only comfort was water dripped with lime.

"Where are we?" Sansa weakly asked, bulked up like a newborn babe. Jeyne looked around but returned to shrugging her shoulders, "Can't see through the mist… but we can't be too far from the harbor now."

The White Harbor. Sansa recalled, other than the happenings of when they slipped past the underground caverns of Winterfell. When the horns that called for battle sounded, she and Jeyne scrambled beneath the crypts away from eyes that have now been shaken from an incoming slaughter. Her skin crawled at the screeching of black rats when light of their torches touched their dark lairs. They held their backs against a cold wall when the sound of the portcullis groaned and rattled with immense force.

"Hurry, hurry," Jeyne led her, their breaths fuming mists in the dank cobblestones. Sansa had never known such a path existed below their home, a narrow winding gap between hallways, filled with webs and the stench of death itself clinging upon the walls. Midway their torches died down and as if the air had gone along with it, Sansa heaved, coughing at the dust, calling Jeyne's name in panic. But the other went on, moved fast like a well trained puppet. Jeyne held her hand and both stretched their lives at the risk of traps and suffocation.

But the will to survive pressed on, and Sansa fought the beasts trying to claim her sanity. Until the first light appeared and the found themselves climbing towards the open, from underneath the roots of a monstrous withered sentinel. A man pulled them up to an awaiting litter concealed in piles of leaves and snow.

Sansa looked behind the small hole they had just survived through, cobwebs still adorning her hair. "How did you come by this…?"

In a distance they could hear the uproar and debacle coming from the castle. Her home is once again to be left a feast for crows. The screams and clashes of steel pounded on her chest and came about as tears brimming in her eyes.

"I'll tell you everything when we get there," Jeyne held her hand as the carriage was ready. Before they went in, Sansa could swear she saw the accent of the Vale at the cape of the man they were with.

"You still haven't told me anything," Sansa spoke back in the present, a full two days after their departure. Jeyne was but smiles and Sansa was getting sick of the secrets. She only wanted to make sure she wasn't going back to the confines of Roose Bolton. "Jeyne," Sansa sighed, removing herself from the stilled litter and onto the misty open, "I would have rather walked alone than be another man's captive at your bidding."

"Sans…"

The litter door creaked and shut before Jeyne could even finish. But what was wrong with knowing? She was tired playing the role of the discarded Stark passed from one Lord to another in the hopes of tightening their grips on what her family name is entitled to.

The air was cruel even absent wind. Above her snarled icy teeth hanging from empty twigs. She could feel her skin almost splitting, her lips cracked and the tip of her nose turning livid purple. The trunks about her felt alive with prying eyes. Every now and then she'd gasp at what seemed to be somebody coming after her.

She followed along the trail of the arctic White Fang so wide she could not margin the other side. The soft flowing sound of water blackened by depth sent her cringing… but there was something else – a distant clangor of steel and wood, and men. Sansa craned her neck towards the seeming source, making do of what the mist was trying to conceal. A little more and she finally saw it, the laboring of a couple of ships. Monstrous vessels being raised by a few men poised at the pulleys lifting planks, the carpentry and smithies.

A hand pulled her elbow and shoved her by the nearest pine. Jeyne was glaring beneath a show of worry. "Are you gone off wits, Sansa? What if you're lost!"

"These men are Lord Manderlay's!" Sansa whispered furiously, "We could ask them to take us – ."

"NO!"

"Jeyne, the Manderlays are sworn to my father –…"

"As they are of your husband's! Roose Bolton is the Warden of the North now, not your father. Wyman Manderlay is naught but a fat craven who kisses the feet of any creature sitting in Winterfell as long as his castle remains untouched! We enter the harbor and yet remain unseen by his men, off to better protection and one which won't sell you off!"

The last words were enough to convince Sansa, sending her adrenaline southwards and finally shutting her mouth. She had not known Lord Manderlay herself. But back in King's Landing she heard when Robb had fallen in the red wedding, the Manderlays withdrew and began throwing their dice on the man who pushed the blade through her brother's heart. What great a gift she would be, should Lord Manderlay take ahold of her, wrap her in gold and glitters and present her back to a frustrated rapist.

Jeyne once more tugged her by the arm, leading her back to the path nearly lost. Along the trail back, Sansa was looking behind and around, confusion taking toll. The path seemed to double on distance.

"Are we on the right way?" Sansa muttered.

Jeyne sighed, "You really did not know you've walked too far, so abandon thoughts of ever leaving my side again."

The dark frame of the litter came to view, increasing their pace when at once the whip of a noose raised from the ground and Jeyne shrieked.

Sansa was as mortified. The man who served driver was struggling in the air, a thick straw rope coiled tight around his neck. She had not even spoken to him since they met for the purpose and now she was watching him die – sputtering blood and slaver, the bones of his neck cracking like shells.

A petite woman revealed herself, young and pale, with muddy brown hair, red cheeks and high bosom. She removed the scarf once across the bottom half of her face. Sansa had seen her before and her stomach churned. That girl Myranda, once Ramsay's lover and bedwarmer… now smirking easily like a hunter to its cornered prey.

"I've come to escort you back to Winterfell, my Lady," Myranda curtsied. Behind her, five other shadows emerged with pockmarked faces and suffering windburns.

"Myranda!" Jeyne appealed, stepping back and stretching her arm before Sansa. Above them the man now hung still. "How could you…!"

"You told her, Jeyne?" cried Sansa, "You told this to her and could not even breathe a word to me!?"

She watched the color drain from Jeyne's face, "W-well you were cross with me… and she came… I didn't know she could do this!"

"Oh, perhaps we could settle your dispute once we get you back home?" Myranda interrupted, the smug grin on her face just stirring more of the revulsion Sansa held for her.

"You mean Lord Stannis is defeated?"

"I am NOT going back there!" Sansa barked, cutting Jeyne's nonsensical query. "I know what Roose Bolton is. I know what he'll do to me…"

"Roose Bolton?" for a time Myranda's face fell, her brows raised and mouth opened but had suddenly taken back words as if a better idea robbed her off. "We'll see about that – "

"SANSA RUN!"

The nearest man bellowed as Jeyne revealed a small dagger under her cape and plunged it in his chest.

As he fell, Jeyne pushed Sansa and both ran with the measly strength they have left, leaping over jutting wood and stone as wings over them flapped with the ruckus… farther, farther and faster and still mindful to keep an eye on the other.

But it had not taken them far. Sansa heard the hellish barking of a hound and she saw how Jeyne crashed against hardpacked soil and snow, screaming with an arrow buried on her thigh. She shouted Jeyne's name and before she could even reach out for her, a grubby hand wrested her back before her cheek was clubbed with callused palm.

"Down," Myranda was in the midst of laughter at the sport. She came sprinting after the man who struck her, the others followed with horses, minus one fallen. She looked at their eyes and squirmed at the similar malice they held in Roose Bolton's the last time she encountered him. A bow remained in Myranda's hands, arriving near with pure hostility about her poorly hidden behind smugness. Sansa was choking back the sobs watching Jeyne writhe in pain on the ground, turning pale with the blood slowly draining from her. Her face now dirtied with viscid tears, hair sticking on skin carelessly. She tasted iron. Her cheekbone was reeling from hard batter.

"She's really pretty, your friend…" again Myranda teased, "…and really brave too. I mean why… why is everyone willing to die for you?"

Myranda whistled and the hound came forward, shaking with the heat of grotesque excitement seen in the foaming mouth. Red eyed, the bitch paced back and forth with tail whipping.

"When you're just as weak a meal like her…" Myranda patted the dog's head before screeching, "RIP HER!"

Sansa's blood turned sour. The details began etching on her mind – screams turning to whistle, scalp flayed apart from skull, sharp teeth closed around Jeyne's neck. Sansa could never imagine Ramsay sharing this sick twisted form of pleasure with Myranda before… but once upon a time it was his recreation too.

"Have you ever seen a body after the hounds had been at it? Not so pretty…" Myranda asked before turning back to Sansa with an arrow stretched in bow and aiming between her eyes…

Despite the tip of death winking at her, Sansa could not look away at what the hound was making of Jeyne, her dear companion and savior, staring back vacantly with bloodied eyes. Her maimed body lay helpless as the beast tore off a chunk of flesh from the already yawning throat. More blood sputtered and stained the white-flecked tree roots and Sansa heard Jeyne's last breath pluck off her mouth. A ringing began to screech on her ears and her heart was almost bursting against her ribs; she was feeling it – a drop of rage now fevering and spreading like she never felt before. Her breaths were half-mad, falling out of control. A strange itch ruptured on her jaws and had begun wringing in her mouth.

"I suppose you could still see it with one eye, though."

The last taunting words fleeted Sansa's discretion. She felt herself running, running so fast the wind slapped against her face but none was the sting of cold.

The last thing Sansa remembered were her eyes rolling back as her spirit leapt from the twigs in a low growl coiled with hate and hunger... then came the scream of man, and blood, warm sticky blood skimming around her mouth… there was chaos, there was shouting. For the first time she could smell everything over the piney scent – man skin, sour breaths… and terror. How it smelled sweet like mo. She had never known herself to be a savage but in that very moment she raged and ravished, bared her fangs, tore an arm and lashed at a throat. Unsatisfied with the miniscule use of her power, she leapt on another and clamped on his face again and again until an eye was yanked violently.

She could hear the female screaming – Myranda, wretched succubus. Sansa's mind scuttled with pure rancor and she went snapping after the wench, successfully tearing down an ankle and had her screeching in pain. A sudden gash hollered on her side. The hound was fearlessly biting on her leg and Sansa met the smaller beast with a furious chomp on its neck. The grey bitch whimpered as she furiously tossed it side to side before hurling its broken body against a trunk.

An arrow pierced across her ear and she yelped, immediately lurching towards Myranda who was but now mounted on her horse and whipping the reins. The image of horse galloping away and dissipating behind mist reflected on her hazel eyes, wide as saucers. When at last she perceived her heartbeats slowing at the carnage around her, she began to fade away.

Sansa deeply inhaled in her own body, her cracked lips opening and fingers clawing at the air so her lungs could swell again. She fell against the red stained snow, her body thudding slowly awakened her senses as she moved her eyes at the horror around her – mutilated carcass still warm and bleeding, an empty eye socket, shards of skin and flesh, and an overflow of crimson. She rose from her lying place, the usual fright settling from what was once a murderous glory.

She screamed, shuddering away from the massacre, realizing the moments before was real and that she had been a hand in this.

But when a four legged furred beast came padding towards her, even with the great size and bloody muzzle, all traces of fear began to evaporate. Sansa held out towards the creature, a Direwolf of brown stripes and not a stranger to her. She found her arms around the wolf's neck, crying against its moist cold fur with the memories that came sliding past her mind, the only relic she could hold of her little sister Arya, impish and scornful as such, but dearly missed as the rest of her family – and she named her Direwolf Nymeria.

Nymeria. Exuberant and playful Nymeria. Sansa repeated the name over and over like it was her own, last seeing Jeyne's corpse before her consciousness began to ebb at the sound of boots and scuffling cloaks coming for her aid. But even in the embrace of black, a dull pain began festering from her womb.

A/N : It had been my long obsession to turn Sansa into a warg. Lol. Sad they killed off her Lady.

Stay safe xx