Chapter Seventeen

Seeds of Doubt

As they walked together down the halls, presumably back to Sansa's quarters to retire for the evening, Ramsay felt the insurmountable need to address his curiosity about what had happened, despite the dark look that Sansa had given him last, "I was wondering; why have a trial of any sort at all if you just plan on executing him for murder?"

Sansa glanced his way, letting out a long slow sigh as she rubbed one arm with the other, a sign to Ramsay in his long time spent by her side that she was feeling torn over something, "I'm not like you, Ramsay; I'm not just going to slit the man's throat in private. If I must execute him, it should be public, after a trial. He is politically invested in the Vale, and we want them to know exactly why and how this all happened."

"Why do you care?" he shrugged his shoulders indifferently, "Your brother Jon is not only the master of this keep but also the King of the largest of the seven kingdoms. My father made a habit of reminding me that the North is larger than all of the other kingdoms combined. Why would you worry about the opinions of a few brooding nobles?"

Sansa shot him a sour look as they walked, clearly annoyed by his statement. Ramsay looked away; he really hadn't been trying to put himself further onto her bad side. He knew where that could lead. "Jon isn't just concerned with what we'll have to do about Cersei; he knows that an army beyond imagining is marching here to destroy us, and I don't want what allies we have bickering over anything unnecessary."

Ramsay snorted, "Do you really believe that the dead are marching for the wall? That they will somehow scale miles of ice, defeat the Night's Watch, and overwhelm all of the seven kingdoms? That they even exist in the first place?"

She stopped walking to turn and face Ramsay, her eyes narrowing, "You mean you don't believe Jon about the things he saw himself?"

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling; it seemed that Ramsay was still treading dangerous waters with Sansa, so he gave what he hoped would be taken as a casually dismissive shrug and spoke as diplomatically as possible, "Well… I thought that if I were trapped on a frozen wall for life without warmth or women…"

Sansa gave him an incredulous look, "You are telling me that you don't believe Jon at all? That he marched an entire army of the Watch and Wildlings here just to put his boots up somewhere warmer?"

Ramsay put his hands up, palms open in a gesture of peace, "I'm not trying to call him a liar, but I imagine those on the wall and beyond it wouldn't need much convincing to march this way…"

Sansa shook her head at him, frowning and giving him an expression of sad frustration, "How you do not realize that your scenario of Jon convincing Wildlings and Crows to work together for those reasons is far less possible than an army of the dead is beyond me. Before we defeated you, there was an enormous army of hostile soldiers here that we had to deal with to even enter this keep."

He shrugged in response, "He's very charismatic, your bastard brother, I assumed. I don't know him, and I sure as hell don't know those crazy wildling people, but I am more inclined to believe this is all the work of men as opposed to falling prey to children's stories."

Sansa sighed once more and then seemed to decide that she didn't wish to argue the point any longer, "Your opinion is noted. Keep it to yourself."

She turned and moved back towards their quarters, beckoning Ramsay to follow with her usual subtle nod of her head that he jumped to comply with nonetheless. Sansa did not like to be kept waiting, and Ramsay had decided some time ago that he no longer wished to cause her to become irate over trivialities; he had enough to deal with.

His dreams that night were plagued by terrible nightmares involving Sansa. Strangely, it wasn't visions of her punishing him in a variety of ways that left him distraught, but rather it was being ignored. Sansa was punishing Petyr now, and Ramsay had been told to go into a small cage, from wherein he could hear and see what she did to him.

At first, she was thrashing him as he squirmed, tied to a torture rack that was an exact replica of one of the flayed man racks that the Bolton House used to flay their victims. She was using a whip at first, brutality beating him as he screamed and thrashed in futile efforts against his restraints. Then as Ramsay moved to the bars of his cage he saw that was not the case.

No, she was not whipping him with his body turned upside down upon the flaying rack as he had thought but rather she was spanking him across the ass as he lay pinned against the rack upright, her hand making small motions that nonetheless created large impacts, the sound of her leather strap resounding against his flesh as he shouted in pain.

Ramsay felt himself blush in shared humiliation, for the first time in a long-time empathizing with another human being on the subject of pain. He had a moment before been almost excited by the prospect of seeing Sansa tear the flesh from Petyr's back, but now he actually felt a little sorry for him. Not a lot, but a little sorry.

He squinted as he pressed his face against the bars, trying to see clearly the commotion across the room through the filter of darkness. The fire in the hearth had burned down, and everything was blanketed in shadows, making it hard to see. No, wait… she wasn't spanking him at all. The rack wasn't a rack but was the curtains of the far window.

Sansa wasn't hitting Petyr with a strap either; instead her hand was tracing erotic, jagged paths back and forth across his cock, and Petyr's head was thrown back as he cried out in ecstasy rather than pain. As he watched, bewildered, she placed her mouth to his member and began to pleasure him even further as he took her head in either hand.

Ramsay's chest suddenly hurt, and a sinking feeling in his gut made him instantly sick at the sight before him. He wasn't sure why he should object or if he had the right to do so, or even if he wouldn't get himself into serious trouble by interrupting, but Ramsay's heart hurt, and for reasons he could not fathom he cried out, "No… stop!"

But they didn't stop. In fact, things became even more fevered between the two as they continued sharing intimate acts of sexual congress, all the while ignoring Ramsay's ever more desperate cries for them to stop, pressing hard against the unbreakable bars of his cage, reaching out to wave his hand at the cavorting couple but unable to get their attention.

She didn't even notice him, despite his loud screams. No, worse; she was ignoring him entirely. She could hear him just fine, and as her and Petyr changed positions so that he could enter her in yet another manner, she looked right at Ramsay, rather, she looked right through Ramsay, her gaze not even halting on his tortured face.

Sansa saw him but could not care less that what she did caused him this terrible pain. She heard him but to her, he was as rain in the background, the sight of him no more noteworthy than the furniture. Ramsay roared his pained fury at the helpless feeling that this instilled in him shaking himself against the hard metal bars.

But he wasn't going to be able to free himself of the cage any more than he could free himself from the burning sensation in the center of his chest. Why did he feel this way; what about Sansa choosing to take Petyr made Ramsay feel this way? He did not know; he spent most of his time convincing himself that he despised Sansa…

That wasn't the case, though. Obviously, she had warped him around herself in some fashion through her various actions. He tried to steady himself, to make his breathing stable and shut out the sound of the coupling even as he turned his eyes away, squinting them shut hard against the terrible images he had seen that still burned in his head.

They only grew louder, though, as if they were building ever more into some great sexual crescendo, a terribly loud affair of lovemaking as the whole sorted business reached its apex. He covered his ears with his hands, but he still heard them, and even if it wasn't for this he could still see them, in his mind's eye, for it was the only thing his mind's eye could see.

Miserable and defeated, Ramsay sank against the bars of his cage, sobbing as he slid to rest in a sad heap upon the floor of his prison, wishing that there were something within with which he could kill himself. At this moment, Ramsay woke from his slumber panting at the terrible nightmare that had plagued his sleep.

He took several unsteady breaths as his mind began the slow process of convincing him that what he had just seen was not real. Sansa lay quietly next to him, but he could see in the failing light of the dying embers in the hearth that her eyes were fluttering open, perhaps wakened by his sudden surge upwards in the bed they shared.

Slowly she also rose, placing a hand upon his chest and commenting, "Your heart is racing; were you having a bad dream then?"

He only nodded. Normally one might be compelled to share what the dream was about after such a question, but Ramsay was uncomfortable with sharing it considering the content of this particular nightmare.

She noticed that he had chosen not to elaborate, and whereas before she might not have been as concerned with the happenings of a dream, his withholding clearly only made her more curious, "You're sweating as if from a fever; that must have been a very vexing nightmare. I have to wonder what it takes to scare someone like yourself. Were you dreaming of one of your victims?"

Ramsay thought a moment before responding carefully, in as obtuse a fashion as possible, but remaining close to the truth so as to make it easier to say naturally. He knew from experience that Sansa could be quite harsh when he was caught in the act of lying to her, "Yes, in fact I was…" After all, Sansa had been in his dream…

She nodded somberly, "Well, I hope it was jarringly frightful for what it's worth; you need to learn some empathy for those that suffered under your rule before, and guilt is as good a route as any to obtain the skill."

Ramsay remained quiet, allowing her false assumption of what his dream might have related to take form unhindered.

Instead, he changed the subject as quickly as possible while still remaining relevant to the questions that burned in the back of his mind after his terrible and confusing nightmare, "Sansa… you aren't planning on keeping Lord Petyr Baelish alive; are you? I mean… I know I questioned you about immediacy before, but I didn't think to ask if you planned on pardoning him."

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, "That's a strange question to ask so suddenly; why would you care? Also, he is stripped of his title by Jon's sovereignty; Petyr is no longer a lord."

His mouth dropped open in astonishment that she hadn't immediately said no, "After all of the things you listed right there to his face, you would let him walk free of consequence?"

She shook her head, "I never said that, but I don't see why this continues to be a concern of yours." She cocked an eyebrow at him, "Are you feeling a little jealous at what you perceive to be Petyr getting out of the bind he has put himself in with his treachery when you did not manage to escape from yours?"

Ramsay shook his head vigorously, "No, of course not… I suppose that you have roped my curiosity; there isn't much else for me to set my mind to."

Sansa watched him quietly for a few more moments, leaving Ramsay to begin to feel a little uncomfortable with what she might say next, perhaps still a fading remnant of that awful dream that had left him so perturbed. Finally, she spoke, "I suppose I shall remedy that. As to Petyr Baelish, you should really concern yourself less with things that don't concern you."

Sansa glanced at the darkened window, "It is very late and not the right time for such conversation anyhow. You have been whiling much of your days away doing little, but I am taxed too much by my position as Lady of the House to go for too long without proper uninterrupted rest. Perhaps finding a worthy task for you will help you rest at night better as well."

With that she rolled over and pulled the fur blankets up to her neck to lock out the bitter embrace of winter that managed to seep in through the stone floors of the keep, and Ramsay was left with a strong impression of finality concerning their conversation. Disgruntled but not so bold as to take things further he rolled himself over in a huff, also hunkering down against the cold.

He had for a moment there almost felt like he could pat himself on the back for how cleverly and skillfully he had evaded her questions concerning his nightmare, as well as dodging having to explain why he did in fact care whether Petyr Baelish lived or died for his sins. But then she had just as quickly avoided giving him direct answers, leaving him guessing.

She hates him, he thought. The things he had seen in his dreams, odd and surreal now that he looked back upon them, they were far too ridiculous to ever actually happen. It was just a strange nightmare born of his own unmet sexual impulses he told himself; after all, Sansa had locked him up for some time now, and of course he hasn't had any in a while.

Ramsay told himself that as he did his best to reassure himself to sleep, and eventually slumber took hold of him and he returned to further dreams of Sansa and Petyr, though fortunately for Ramsay, this time at least he was aware that it was a dream. He tried his hardest to wrest control of the events of the dream, but it always played out the same general way, to his annoyance.

The following day found Ramsay following Sansa as she busied herself with preparing for the trial of one Petyr Baelish. She had to speak to a surprising number of people. Ramsay of course had always carried out sentences as needed to those that broke his father's laws without the proceedings of anything resembling a trial.

He found it fascinating how much time could be wasted on the silly notion of keeping things 'fair.' After all, to his mind, Petyr was already a doomed man whom had made the deadly mistake of crossing the lord or such of the castle within their own domain and without support or power. Why drag it all out with some farce of a show when he was already fated to die?

Sansa first went to see Maester Wolkan, whom was actually the same Maester whom had served his father Roose Bolton. That man had witnessed Ramsay murder his father in order to coup his title of Warden of the North. Since then the Maester had only ever glanced at Ramsay with cold indifference as he set himself at the task of serving Ramsay's former enemies.

Several times during her conversation with him, the Maester had suggested that keeping Ramsay along with her was a terrible mistake, always leveling Ramsay with a vindictive glare as he said so, but Sansa merely shrugged off such statements assuring him that Ramsay was 'under control.' The Maester's job in Petyr's trial apparently was simply in the recording of it from what Ramsay heard.

Once he had been notified of the time and place through his constant unwanted suggestions to perhaps try Ramsay for his crimes, they moved on, and Ramsay was happy to leave the self-righteous fat man behind. At least, this is how Ramsay perceived him. Sansa for her part kept glancing at him, perhaps considering the man's words.

After that they visited the commander of the Vale forces stationed within the valley just outside of Winterfell keep, every single noble or minor noble that happened to be residing with or visiting Sansa's domain, a knight named Brienne, whom was apparently some sort of beefy woman bodyguard to Sansa, and many others.

Once this huge entourage had been notified of the meeting later that day Sansa visited the cells where Petyr was being held, not to visit the man, but to inform the guard watching him there that he was to secure aid and move Petyr to the trial location at dusk. After doing that she returned to the great hall where it was to happen and sat.

Ramsay glanced out over the empty space of the otherwise unoccupied room and then turned back to Sansa where she sat placidly. He blinked, and then finally addressed her, "Sansa… we aren't due here for hours… why are we here?"

Sansa glanced over at him, "I have much to think on, and a room full of clamoring voices is less inductive to thought."

He nodded, moving to take a seat next to her, "Well, I suppose that makes sense, though we might just be here for a…"

Sansa looked upon him as he moved the chair, giving him a small frown, "That is not where you will be sitting."

Ramsay froze, still halfway down to the seat, "Surely you don't expect me to stand…?" Her silent stare continued, and he rose again in uncomfortable silence, staring out at nothing.

He would have given much to know what it was that Sansa was thinking at that moment, but since she wasn't forthcoming with any reasoning as to why he was being treated this way, he had nothing to go on. All she did was sit there and stare out at the empty hall, her face a perfect mask of neutrality of emotion. Was she considering Petyr's crimes this carefully?

Ramsay wasn't certain exactly why, but he felt annoyed by the prospect of Sansa fretting over the trial for her father's potential murderer so very much. He himself had never worried himself to any degree with the matter of guilt or the technicalities of such when he had been tasked with ferreting out those who might have betrayed his father's House.

He had simply visited the potential disloyal subjects, laid upon them a plate of punishments that felt suitable at the time, and watched as he was rewarded with appropriate amounts of both fear and loyalty. He found Sansa's hang-up over the trial to be unmerited when she could have just taken care of the matter personally in mere moments.

If she had wanted it to be public, she could have just killed him publicly, with very little extra time or energy devoted to that worm of a man. He supposed that was ultimately why it truly bothered him that she was taking the issue so seriously; Ramsay didn't like that she afforded Petyr so much attention despite everything he was accused of.

He shook his head, willing himself to let go of the lingering resentment towards Petyr Baelish. He even let himself have a nervous smile over the whole line of thought. The reason he was at all worried over how she felt about Petyr could only be related to Ramsay's nightmare concerning the two of them, and there was no use fretting over such things, right?

After convincing himself thoroughly that such a notion was ridiculous, that Sansa wasn't sitting there daydreaming about how best she might accept Petyr's cock. He began to wonder at the alternative lines of thought that might drive her current behavior. He smiled wickedly; maybe Sansa was taking a moment to enjoy her revenge.

He couldn't say that he had never set aside time just to enjoy a victory over those who underestimated him, though he found her timing odd in doing so before Petyr's body had yet had time to grow cold. A bit premature to celebrate victory before killing your enemies, and Ramsay's father would have condemned such a thing, but Ramsay supposed that Petyr was as good as dead, so what was the harm?

Still, it bothered him more than he would care to admit that Sansa would not allow him to sit with her now, and he wondered if she was going to make him stand there behind her throughout the trial. Such a worry finally bade him to speak, "Dear wife… have I done something recently to afford this punishment in being unable to sit?"

Sansa was deep in thought, and took a moment to shift her attention to him, "You aren't being punished at the moment. Trust me, if I were punishing you, you would know it."

Ramsay frowned, "But you made a show of placing me beside you at the supper table, so that all might know we are married equals…?"

Her sharp glare at this statement caused Ramsay to bite his lip, "I made the statement in placing you to my side that you are my spouse, but at no time did I declare us equal."

That stung Ramsay's remaining ego quite fiercely, and his lips puckered at the insult, "I see. You don't afford me any rights as a lord, as you have stripped me of such, despite giving me your surname."

"Exactly. Doing so would be forgiving you of all of your crimes, which even if I wanted to do so it is simply not within my right to try. You shall stand behind me in this important matter of court just as you have with every other matter, just as any person serving the House would who does not bear the rank of nobility."

Ramsay shifted uneasily, and his jaw worked to show that on some level he was hurt and angered by her decision, but he said nothing.

They continued this way in silence for the better part of the remaining time before Petyr Baelish's trial. When the designated hour drew close, and the sun had waned in the sky, sinking with growing speed towards the horizon, all of the persons that Sansa and Ramsay had visited before and many more began to flock into the room.

The other nobility took seats to Sansa's right and left, but leaving her quite a bit of space at the head of the table. Ramsay stared at the empty seat afore him again with the same look of disdain he had been wearing during the wait for things to get started. Soldiers lined themselves along the walls, all of them Vale soldiers, Ramsay noted.

He hoped Sansa knew what she was doing, going without any sort of personal guard in this particular situation. If the soldiers of the Vale turned out loyal to Petyr after all then this could become a bloody coup before anyone from the remaining Night's Watch or the Wildling camp outside could hope to react. The prisoner himself was led down the center of the hall.