Sansa/Ramsay
Sansa was halfway her cup when she decided to take no more. The taste of honey lingered on her mouth, thickening her tongue and drawing thirst for water.
"Must it be this sweet?" She asked the good Maester whose name she failed to recall. The grey and balding man smiled with soft nods. Sansa had taken her first cup the night before and dismissed the saccharine beverage as mistaken slip of too much sugar. It was a dark small pool, like Mother's tea on colder afternoons. Only that the tea's blandness was as inversely proportional to how sweet hers had been made.
Maester Helliweg was too gentle it reminded her of Luwin. She took another sip unwillingly, cringing as the liquid sloshed past her throat.
"I am sorry for the discomfort, my Lady," the Maester pronounced shyly, "It could, perhaps help to think of the precious little life inside you and draw strength from it. After all, you survived harsher things than a weeny cup of medicine."
He had a point, Sansa sighed. The notion of a tiny human tucked in her belly still made her flush. Her fingers found their way above her stomach, and within the recesses of her joy came in the melancholy of having to revel in childbirth alone. If only he was here… Sansa closed her eyes. She opened them to find the Maester still watching her as if on guard. Caught unaware in her nearly happy fantasy, Sansa cleared her throat.
"I—I will finish it, I promise. It's the sweetness," she awkwardly traced the line of her neck, "The sugar. It thickens the throat… I prefer not to drink at once."
It took seconds before the Maester was convinced, though she saw a momentary kernel of distrust in his eyes, "Yes. Please do."
Sansa briefly smiled at the last second he spent gawking at her. When he finally left, she stared at the remaining drink and decided to down it at once. Old Nan used to tell them taking a full gulp could end the ordeal quicker than that of lapping drops. She brought the cup near her lips, quelling her breath at count down only to be distracted by a pair of flapping wings.
A falcon perched itself by the windowsill. It was small, and had scrawny bluish feathers parched by the mountain winds. Its sharp talons scraped the wooden sill and drowned out the roar of waterfalls way down below. Sansa watched it pace the length of its landing, curious at its complete ignoring of her. If she had a bow and Ramsay's skill, with one arrow the bird could fly down with a single arrow in its heart… though of course it was impossible now.
But the longer she looked at the wild bird, an odd string of connection was beginning to brew. She could sense its want to leave, to spread its slim yet sturdy wings and go. But it also felt like she was able to stop it from fleeing… commanding it with her mind. It was a similar perception with the wolf she had claimed to have saved her and which Baelish had disproved.
Putting down the cup, Sansa pushed her tray to the side without keeping her eyes off the tiny winged creature. She hung her legs by the edge of her bed, unmindful of the cold that crept to the soles of her feet as her toes touched the cold cobblestones. The bird let out a whistle. Sansa closed her eyes, summoning whatever force there was that linked her soul to that of the wolf dreams she had.
Doubts started clouding her focus. This was a falcon. She only used to see herself in wolves and what if it only occurred in wolves? An ominous ringing filled her ears and suddenly everything was dense. She could her breaths run slow and deep… and shaky, the way they were underneath the hidden pathways of the crypts, like passing through an eyestorm and miraculously emerging in one piece.
When the ringing died down she began to open her eyes. But the bird there was in the sill had gone. Instead it was a more petrifying sight.
Sansa felt small, and light like air. But gods, since when had her sense of hearing been this sharp? Every swish of breeze and the ramshackle in the crevices of the mountain seemed to fit in her tiny head. Every scuffle of prey spiked her hunger, every bubble underneath the mighty river called out for hunt. It was a newfound capability. Instead of clammy hands she felt stiff feathers. In place of frozen ankles, she felt the talons on her feet… she was clutched on the windowsill but with perfect balance. And Sansa, for the first time, had seen herself—outside herself—just sitting there like frozen corpse…
Her eyes were purest white.
"It was an ambush."
Ramsay's attention floated from beyond the breaking dawn back to the lonely raspy voice that belonged to Ser Davos. The old fart held a bowl of soup, stale but warm it almost felt like haven. Shadows from the hearth concealed half his creased and tired face. A blanket of bear pelt was draped across his shoulders. He did hold the bowl, but could not move his good hand to take the spoon. His head hung like that of a massive idiot's—
"The scouts we sent to Torrhen's Square had given us away."
"Why would they do that?" Ramsay asked, his voice crisp as fire.
"Lannister gold." Davos finally had the strength to look at him, watery eyes emphasized by the coals, "Lions steer the Riverlands now. There we were, barely passing through the Barrowlands when the fiery arrows fell. A quarter of the army gone in a snap, taking down the food and firewood. We retreated by a cliff gods know only where."
The sigh that strung from Davos' throat was exasperated.
"I urged Stannis to push back here. But the king would only growl and scowl after attempting to break my nose, stubborn as a weed."
If anything, Ramsay would have scoffed. Nothing bids the loyalty of paid mercenaries better than a higher amount. How stupider could Stannis get, only pulling Winterfell closer to its damnation. It won't take days before the first threat infiltrates the hills surrounding them. It could even be a matter of hours by count if not for the frosty road. He drew near the chipped mug of beer to his lips. The cellars had run dry. Damn it, dying sober was worse than dying a bastard. The amber liquid was bubbling as he upended, so strong it stung the eyes. The moment he swallowed cringing, Davos was handing him over a piece of parchment half crumpled, half wet.
"That night he came to me, not to mention still unapologetic… yet conceding. He would let half the remaining army, the good half, slip in the dark back here with his daughter. I knew he knew…" Davos shook his head, "His chance was slim… and yet he would not go. 'Fight to the end' he said. Gods, the only land he'd conquered now is the muck his corpse is lying on. Here. He is sure to curse me if this doesn't get to you."
Ramsay took the parchment with cold fingers. He could almost feel Stannis' frown stamped across the paper. But he had every right to frown; he hadn't saved his 'good army'. He'd only brought them back to Winterfell to either starve of get trapped.
"The red woman?"
"Went off least than expected," Davos' tone was bitter, "Good though. She knew I'd have strangled her coming here. Last thing I heard she rides back to the Wall. Damn that deserter. The forests could have her for all I care."
Soon as the Onion knight sat back to his sad, sad soup, the door creaked open for an old woman leading a little girl. A sadder thing, Ramsay thought, as the fire illuminated the bristly part of her face. Shireen offered a polite smile with little to no acknowledgement for Ramsay.
"There you are," Davos forced a gleeful welcome as he stretched his free hand and offered the bowl on the other, "Tidied up and warmed, little one? Here's something for that empty belly."
Shireen quietly sat beside the old man before tightening the fringed cloak around her.
"That looks good on you, dear," Davos was smiling.
The glint in the girl's eyes was unmatched, "They said it belonged to a lady who lived here. They said she was so beautiful. And I'm sure she was, to own something this pretty."
"Well we can't be sure unless we saw her, silly," Davos grinned, nudging her shoulder gently.
"They said she had hair of warm fire, but her eyes were icy blue, and that she was tall… and graceful. Like a proper princess… like the ones I read on the books, like Rhaenys or Visenya, but their hair were platinum, so perhaps a little closer to the lady Lyanna. She was a Stark, wasn't she?"
At this Ramsay's mug was stuck midway towards his lips, his world freezing at the visual image Shireen had painted for him. The Onion Knight shot a look, immediately on cue about what petrified the bastard. Davos returned to patting Shireen's head, "She was. And one day, you will be too."
"I can't," Shireen shied, "There was never a pretty lady in the books who had half her face ruined."
Ramsay snorted, drawing attention. His cheeks were becoming ruddy from the alcohol — "Those are the books," he shrugged, "They wouldn't dare say those princesses' breaths smelt like dog's piss or they were born with six toes in a foot, or had pockmarks in their skinny bums."
They stared at him awkwardly, with the old man's scruffy brows questioning why in seven hells did he have to ruin the girl's moment. Ramsay bit his lower lip and eventually evaded their eyes. He clicked his tongue.
"The 'princess' you said, who owned that cloak," Ramsay redeemed himself on a sullen mood, "She's my wife. Her name is Sansa. And she really is lovely."
He was unable to see how Shireen's face lit, but heard the soft delighted gasp, "Oh can I meet her? I would very much like to see her."
"Of course," He stood to make leave towards the door for a whiff of cool air. Remembering Sansa was not a good way to establish rapport. Her name conspired both rage and aching, so much it was beginning to spiral him down to madness… again.
"So when can I see her?"
The bastard's hand touched the latch of the door and stopped. He looked over his shoulder towards the girl, and Davos mitigated as a form of indirect apology for a question sensitive to Ramsay.
"Well, Princess, Lady Sansa is on a visit to her… uh… maternal family…" Davos nodded, "When the Kingsroad gets cleaned off the muck and snow, and the weather gets better, she will arrive."
The grin that crossed Shireen's face was heartbreaking. "Just like mother and father?"
Both men's jaws clenched. Ramsay observed how Davos opened his mouth and shut it as quick. A thick discomfort ruptured within their confines, making their throats dry and painful. Truth was a bitch, Ramsay recalled. But to have a lonely little girl be torn to pieces by it in this dire time… he found himself vexed.
Davos sighed long, bowed his head and held Shireen's shoulders gently as a brittle vase—"Princess," he begun, the edge of his voice quivering, "I want you to listen very carefully yes? King Stannis… I mean, your father… and your mother…"
"—Will get on the road as soon as they can, like you said."
They turned to Ramsay. He threw a fleeting glare at the Davos, almost near to a threat to just keep quiet and let it be. A debate would ensue later that evening for all that he cared but this was definitely a forgivable time to lie. The Onion Knight contemplated hard as he chewed on the wall of his mouth, and when Shireen turned back to him for affirmation, it took few conflicting seconds before he huffed a sigh and gave a reassuring nod. Comforted, Shireen wrapped her arms around Davos' neck, who guiltily patted her back.
When Shireen parted from the embrace, the sadness in her had returned.
"I just had a thought. Would Lady Sansa want to see me?" the girl lowered her eyes, tilting her head so wisps of her hair could conceal the scales that shimmered on her cheek. Ramsay shared a brief but knowing gaze with Davos. Pursing his lips, he walked towards Shireen to bend a knee before her. He saw the fear that grazed her eyes as she tried to retreat from his suspicious gait.
"Do you know what truly made Sansa beautiful?" Ramsay muttered, "She gave her love to someone like me."
He noticed the small lump that bobbed down her throat.
"I—I've done terrible things… to people… to her, and yet," his voice trembled, "She saw through who I was to the man I could be. And know that if she was able to love a devil as I am, just imagine how she would treat an angel like you," And like a bolt Ramsay stood flustering as he stormed out of the room to free the torturous pounding in his chest. He swiftly passed the halls towards the ramparts where the men on watch immediately dispersed upon his arrival. He paced back and forth with the drilling anger burning through his mind, fueled by the alcohol he had been too careless to meter. At this point he reckoned he might have just lied more to himself than to Shireen…
'She will arrive.'
Coals from a sconce shattered against the film of snow after his boot struck it down. He was in one of those moods swearing that when Sansa returns, he would snap her neck as punishment for the infidelity rumors and for leaving him alone with his monstrous thoughts, or rush off to hold her tight and literally never let go. When at once the burst of wrath subsided, Ramsay shut his eyes to breathe the searing air and exhaled it as a stream of vapor from his lips. He opened them to the mess he caused, along with a banner of the stag with its fiery heart—the image which recalled to him Stannis and his parchment. Ramsay pulled the paper from the folds of his cloak and unrolled it to a rushed, unruly penmanship. His eyes began to scroll—
To Ramsay the bastard: If this reaches you, know by now I am dead without the prospect of being buried with dignity. But also know I went with a sword in hand and ambition intact only ruined by treachery. If you think this has surprised me well let me tell you, not at all. I have roused war and in war nothing is ever right. There is blood on both sides, and death on both too. I surmise Davos had already told you what happened. In all things, believe him. If he says you are being a pig, trust him. He could be the best you have left. A loyal scum, he is, and we were never on the best terms but I loved that man. A man of humble birth, who reminded me of duty when I only had thoughts about my rights. I had the cart before the horse, he said, and many more things, but I would not listen to reason and in desperation, resorted to burnings. Again, trust him.
I once told you I'd recall the very day I saw you. I had been reserving myself for that moment when you arrive in King's Landing. I am sorry. That future is lost. But let me fulfill telling the story at least—
I encountered you by the riverbank myself that morning. The sun had only begun to tease its scanty warmth. When daylight spread, it made the black of your jerkin easy to find in snow. Though I highly doubt you to be alive, I wanted you dead. You could be a spy playing lifeless. But as my men drew their arrows, we witnessed a bizarre sight: that of a wolf, freakish, with a glare like coals, coming to your side. We had thought the beast would tear you for meat and yet it had pulled you off the water, sniffing, licking. Later your head lolled, and that ridiculous cough that came after then convinced me you'd be special—a sign, I said. That wolf being the beast of Winterfell to your aid, you, even turning out surprisingly a Bolton.
Well what you and that wolf would have had could be coincidence. I highly even doubt now there was something special of it, knowing I'd be dead by the coming hours and the red woman whose magic I believed in, ran off. Many are mysterious, as you are and what could have kept you alive. It was always a wonder to me, a curse even, why the gods had not endowed me a son. Though you loved him, I have to remind you your father was a cunt. How we'd rule, had you been my son; Davos would lose his hair quicker. I would never know, but what I learned with what was given me, was far valuable. As I sit in my contemplations, I now know Shireen is worth beyond a thousand realms. I had been blinded fighting wars to give the world to her when she was actually the world to me. You had every right to reject my offer of titles. I was but a fool to give you something I never owned for Shireen was all I ever had from the beginning. By all means, care for her. Tell her I died apologetic, that I had the world by grasp, a darling little girl, and yet one I ignored through the rage and revenge I wanted for myself. Care for her, or damn you. Not a crevice in Death's realm will save you from my fury should you fail.
A few more things from a man in death row—I wanted you to find your wife to hold power over the North, but now I want you to find your wife because she is the world to you. You've a greater duty to her than anything else. Command your love to abound further than your hate. You would not understand now, but when you are as near to dying, you'd have no regrets by then. Again by all means, I entrust the 'good' half of my army to you. They listen to Davos; gain his trust and they'll listen to you. You dare not try one stupid trick. They answer to house Florent, whose blood happens to run through my daughter's. See that she is well cared.
I regret not having been able to spend more of this miserable life we had. We could have more stories told in hell. Stannis Baratheon. Protector of the Realm.
The words had reached its end but Ramsay's eyes kept still and undiminished from the paper. At the back of his mind he could picture Stannis Baratheon on a lonely cold corner of a poorly erected tent, the dim light leaving his sentences in crooked lines and with ink stains heavy on the edges. He wanted to laugh at him hard, at the loss that would be his epithet —Stannis the failure, it would seem. But the laughter he ought to summon turned into warm water brimming in his eyes. His chest was undulating with pressure which vented off as a sob he was trying to swallow down but couldn't.
The parchment crumpled within his fist, and Ramsay cursed under his breath at the last sniffle and heave. A stupid, stupid man, Stannis was. They hardly knew each other, but towards the end he held his last words which drilled deeper than many of Roose's false endearments.
A prattling noise hooked his attention from below where a number of his soldiers began to accumulate. One was shouting out behind the closure, things Ramsay could not decipher. But from the looks of the men, this wasn't any good news. He could hear footsteps scraping from behind him.
"M'lord—"
"What is going on down there?"
"Uh," the voice squeaked, "There's a man on the gates m'lord."
"And?"
"He's seekin' audience…"
"Alone?"
"I-it seems, m'lord."
"And you cannot interrogate him without causing that much noise?"
"He, uh, he wanted to see… uh… the warden m'lord."
"He has a name?"
"He di'nt want to say, m'lord."
"Then tell him to fuck off." Ramsay spat before striding past the trembling man.
"But…"
Ramsay had not stopped either, not until his eyes threw open at the wrenching detail—
"He has Myranda, m'lord…"
When Ramsay appeared from the vestibule, the crowd surrounding the gate immediately parted. There were actually more down there than expected, men who met his strides with cynical gazes and whose hidden hands were around the hilts of their swords. Men who could be hatching schemes just like his own father did. The bastard shoved past them carelessly though, and the unflinching manner he walked still silently declared his manic superiority.
He stopped a good distance before the petite woman standing just above the risen portcullis. Its iron claws reached near the top of her head that it appeared a set of teeth ready to tear her down. Ramsay studied what became of Myranda. Her skin was cracked and bruised, hair stiff and coarse; a fresh plaster of red surrounded the edge of her windburned lips. She had obviously rolled in a shitstorm but her eyes were still afire the way she was when he first met her. Myranda's wrists were bound, the tight rope leading towards a man of great height shrouded in worn-off cloaks.
"What do you want?"
Ramsay's threatening tone spurred a quiet shrug from stranger. He took two steps near, pulling the rope slightly and forcing a jab of angered pain on Myranda's expression. The rope chaffed her skin badly, suggesting she had been his prisoner for quite a time.
When the man spoke, it was a voice coming from a man of age—hoarse yet acrid, filled with abhorrence.
"Is it true?" He asked, "Roose Bolton is dead behind these walls?"
"What does it matter to you?"
The man scoffed. "So it is true."
Ramsay's teeth clenched. From his side appeared Davos Seaworth. News of Roose Bolton's death spreading was quite the discomfort. He pushed the issue aside by a quick glance at Myranda and back to the man. "Why do you have her?"
"Oh, her?" As if forgetting he even had a captive, the stranger looked at Myranda from head to foot before a benign chiding. He stepped closer to the shivering girl and pulled out a small stout knife.
"I needed a ride," he cut the ropes to their relief and pushed Myranda towards Ramsay, "Would have killed her back there, she was good as dead in the storm. But she might be some godsent apparition who happens to be going back to Winterfell too, so I kept her alive, and no, I had no shares in those beatings. Found your wench as she was, except for the rope bruises of course."
Ramsay was holding Myranda by the shoulders as the other man finished. She melted in his arms but he had only in mind now ridding off a probable Lannister spy who succeeded moving through the walls. There was an unhinging effect to this cloaked man. He was tall and lean behind the covers, and moved deftly, and Ramsay knew this was no ordinary wanderer who was now drawing even nearer to him.
"I heard Roose Bolton was cleaved by his own bastard," the stranger murmured as if in secret and Ramsay's blood went sour. "I have never seen the boy but why do I my guts say it's you?"
White knuckles appeared from Ramsay's balled fists. "Who are you?"
The stranger finally pulled down the hood of his cloak, dissipating the strength from Ramsay's knees. Beside him Davos turned pale in turmoil, "Ramsay, that's—"
"It's you, isn't it? Good," the revealed man had not smiled. Wisps of grey hair fell around his head as the cloak went away to unearth the sigil of a leaping black trout on his chest. He wore the face of a warrior, scathed from pursuit, but even as the years took toll on his youth, his eyes were burning with a passion to kill. The men around them rose in whispers but had not dared touch a blade. Even in such freezing air, Ramsay could feel his temples moisten. Before him was an outlaw, a nemesis of the throne, a living testament of his father's treachery. "I ought to rip your throat right here in favor of the pig that was your father, but in exchange of lessening the burden, we might actually have a chance for an alliance don't you think? And oh, since we share a relative… you can call me grandpa."
And time stood still as the defamed Brynden Tully crushed his forehead between Ramsay's eyes: an insane form of greeting which sent the bastard down the snow-flecked ground with a broken nose and a bloodied grunt.
A/N: Happy New Year, everyone. Hope you had a blast. This came in very difficult to write, I started down around October midway the stressful school projects and PhD studies. I hope all is well, by the way. I would especially like to thank QuilAteara for contributing much in this chapter. And the rest for holding on :)