Chapter 24: Deeper Water
They walked back to Sansa's quarters, Ramsay feeling like the sounds of his own footfalls within the last corridor to her door resonated in his ears, like the final beats of the drum at the end of a somber performance. Each step took him closer to an uncomfortable conversation he wasn't ready or desirous of having, after all.
He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic as Brienne moved to open the door ahead of him, her guarded form stepping back to allow the smaller man room to go inside ahead of her. His brow knitted in annoyance; did she think he was going to run for it? He had tried that route to great failure before, so she must think him either very dull or very cowardly.
The feeling was lost quickly though as Sansa loomed into view, approaching the two as they entered. She glanced at Ramsay's clothes and sniffed the air for a moment, also taking in the bag that he carried with his tools in it, "Set those by the door; you will be needing a change of clothes and a bath. You smell like the stables."
Ramsay frowned but did as instructed, glaring over at Brienne occasionally as the culprit behind his becoming unsuitable for mingling in noble company. Sure he had gotten a bit of dirt on him camping during a few long hunts before, but never had Ramsay smelled so thoroughly in a way that could only come from a full day's labor.
When Brienne fixed him with her own steely gaze though he quickly returned his eyes to the ground, not wishing to wrestle with that beast again. Even the thought of challenging her made him cringe and squirm in sympathetic pain in those areas her brutish hand had so thoroughly applied itself to him. Ultimately his expression remained an unhappy one.
Sansa took him firmly by the arm and led him over to a wash basin that had been prepared, most likely by Sansa's servants. A small fire had been stoked underneath the tub so that the chill of the fiercely cold winter would be removed from the water. She tugged at his tunic, saying simply, "Disrobe yourself. I'd see you cleaned."
Ramsay began the process of removing his clothing but apparently Lady Sansa did not deign him fast enough, because she began to assist him from his garment, quickly removing him of all of his vestments until he stood there nakedly before the two women. Ramsay had never been one to be ashamed of his own nakedness before, but his relationship with these two made him feel oddly underdressed.
The Lady of Winterfell urged him to enter the tub and Ramsay was only too happy to slip into the warm waters that awaited him there. He sighed at the surprising pleasantness of it, feeling as if his muscles had begun to unwind themselves from knots he had not even been aware that they were tied in. A hot bath after such work was paradise, he thought.
He jumped at a touch from behind as Sansa leaned forward to take a cloth and vigorously scrub at him. She worked at it in a methodical enough fashion, but for some odd reason Ramsay found the unexpected service made him feel uncomfortable. Many a time had he commanded, coerced or forced someone to do something like this.
But when Sansa's gentle yet firm grip slid over the contours of his body he felt ripples of electric feeling course through his veins, and the feeling of it made him restless. He tried reaching for the cloth but Sansa pulled it away when he tried to take over the washing. Finally he huffed at her a bit irritably, "I can wash myself!"
He had turned to glare at her as he said this, but his blood ran cold when he saw the look she gave him in return, and he turned to sit quietly as she continued her task of bathing him. Her voice floated down from behind and above him, "I'm well aware that you can and you know that. I am thoroughly tired of your attitude and understand entirely why Brienne was fed up as well."
Ramsay's eyes widened at the irate way that Sansa said this, and his heart returned to the hammering it had done before he had started the bath. He berated himself silently for allowing himself to forget so quickly that his mistress was angry with him and that he was already slotted for an uneasy conversation at the very best. He needed to watch that he didn't make it worse.
So instead of the barrage of annoyed banter Ramsay had been prepared to launch himself into, he chose instead to meekly lower his head and cast his eyes away from the reproachful look that Sansa otherwise burned into him. His shoulders slumped and he did his best to relax and enjoy the fact that he was being washed, but the tension remained.
Mostly due to the fact that Ramsay knew this quiet little exercise in cleanliness was just a precursor to the less pleasant things he would have to deal with directly afterward, so no matter how much he tried to put his worries from his mind and unwind he found that he could not. His muscles remained knotted in a state of tense apprehension.
Sansa was thorough but quick, and shortly after the scrubbing had begun she commanded him, "Stand; I'll towel you dry now."
Once again this was something that Ramsay was more than capable of doing, and again he felt irritation over the fact that she kept insisting on doing these things rising in him. Why was she doing this?
On mulling the thought over, no real answer came to mind, but Ramsay was bothered by the feeling that her closeness in dealing with him in such a hands-on way felt all too similar to the way that she touched him when she… had him over her lap. Even now Ramsay blushed in heated embarrassment and squirmed uncomfortably before standing.
With brusque, concise motions Sansa toweled him until he was completely dry. When you lived in the North you learned to get yourself as dry as possible when exiting the water of any sort of bath, and Sansa was as careful and detailed in removing any excess water that she could as Ramsay himself might have been.
He often wondered when she showed so much courtesy to him in manners like that why it was that she cared to be so compassionate with him in those small ways, when Ramsay had piled nothing but malice and sadistic mind games upon her when he had the in the position of being her lord. So many opportunities she passed by to make him unhappy.
And he would deserve it too. That was the part that nonplussed him the most; after all he had done none deserved her vengeance more than he, and yet she still took such pains to ensure that he was comfortable. In what had to be a large dose of irony, the fact that she took the time to make it so made him uncomfortable.
Maybe that was why she did it? Ramsay frowned at the thought; it didn't feel right. As much as he might like to think that maybe Sansa was playing some sort of long-term mind-fuck, he had come to know her rather well both before and even more so after the war. She was a Stark all right, but she wasn't the sort to toy with her prey.
Not like him. Not like what he had done with her back when things had been so incredibly different than they were now. He was thoroughly dry now, which was rather important in a climate like that of the lands which Winterfell resided upon, especially given how very cold this particular winter had become, apparently due to the Night King's resurgence.
Sansa moved to the bedroom, taking Ramsay gently by the arm to guide him along with her, then sat upon the large bed that the two of them shared. Still holding his arm with a light touch, she glanced across at him, for Sansa wasn't much shorter than he, even sitting, "I'm going to release you, at which time you are to lay yourself upon my lap."
As promised, she let go of him, but Ramsay only stood stunned, his mouth hanging open for a long awkward moment before he could find the voice to protest, "W-what?! I thought that perhaps you wanted to speak… why am I being punished… have I not yet suffered enough indignities?"
She raised an eyebrow at his response, and her lips quirked in an almost imperceptible way that Ramsay had come to recognize as annoyance.
Out of the frying pan and into the water, he thought. He was treading dangerously close to making matters worse, and he knew the reason was due to his refusal to do exactly as she had instructed immediately. A worried part of himself urged him to hurriedly comply, but he also knew what doing so would lead to.
His hesitation cost him of course, as Sansa frowned in a manner that suggested she had expected he would not readily do as she asked, but was disappointed nonetheless, "I would have hoped that after all this time with me you would have better learned that not doing as I say results in uncomfortable results for you."
She gave him a sideways look as she cocked her head at him, seeming to evaluate what she thought of his position, "I'm going to give you one last chance to choose to willingly submit to what is coming to you. The why of the matter can be explained during the process of obeying my command, but do not presume to stall…"
Sansa leaned in, glowering at him in a fashion that made Ramsay cringe a bit more than he would have liked to, "…because if you truly choose the path of resistance I will forcibly punish you all the same, only it will be far worse for you than it otherwise might have been. Do you wish to test me today as you have tested Brienne?"
Ramsay shook his head at her, his face a picture of conflicted thoughts as his humiliation warred with his fear of further humiliation. His muscles bumped out a pattern of confused half-compliance, as he shakily laid himself over her lap but not actually setting himself down upon it. Sansa grunted in annoyance and gave a tug, hauling him the rest of the way.
Once in that terrible and terribly familiar place Ramsay moved his hands to cover his face in shame, as if doing so would somehow mask his id from seeing what would be coming next. It had been some time since Sansa had punished him this way, and he had apparently fallen into a false sense of security in thinking that he would not have to endure it again.
He had told himself that it was a simple matter to avoid Sansa's ire really, and that as long as he was careful, their strange relationship could continue indefinitely without any more of the awfully disconcerting and ego-damaging 'punishments' that she would dole out. After all, she had made it clear that he had to 'deserve' them first.
But it hadn't worked out that way at all in the end, and all the interim between the last time an event like this one and now had done was instill a unmerited bravado within Ramsay, making him somehow feel like he was in the clear, when all along he needed to be just as cautious as he had promised himself he would be in the beginning.
Suddenly he was jarred from his thoughts by an all too familiar stinging sensation, grunting in a fashion that ended in a pained hiss of displeasure as Sansa's hand collided with the naked flesh of his upturned ass. He squirmed nakedly in her lap, wishing that something was different about this encounter. No… he wished that a lot of somethings were different about this encounter.
He wished that she wasn't spanking him at all in this humiliating display, but rather exchanging words instead. He could parse words any day; he was good at that. But he had little recourse in how to respond to the repeated sting of her continuing swats. He wished he wasn't so nude, though he wasn't sure why it mattered.
Ramsay supposed upon giving the matter momentary thought that it must be on account of the physical vulnerability that was present in a person, even a person like Ramsay, when one was nude. Given that the act of punishing him in such a corporal manner was also so closely physical, he had to conclude that it made the act even more disconcerting.
With the vibration naturally caused by Sansa's rapidly descending hand and Ramsay's own understandably discomfited movements in response to her sharp swats, he began to slide a bit from her lap, and she reacted by reaching out to almost casually hoist him back onto her hips, pressing his hips against her own by looping her hand around his waist.
Once he was thusly solidly secured she returned to slapping him in the same measured manner as before, her face a solemn and difficult to read thing. Ramsay continued to hiss and grunt in chorus to the rhythm she set, his mind reeling from the predicament but also racing for something he might say to soften Sansa's mood on the matter even if he was beyond thinking anything he could say would stop this.
Nothing came to mind, though. At least, nothing that would actually help. Sansa and he had been doing this dance for some time now and she had made clear had little patience she had for his games. He might have some modicum of success in his little ploy with Brienne, leaving off the results of that ploy anyways, but from this vantage games were dangerous.
The trouble he was in now was substantial, of course, evidenced by the pain administered to his backside as he took a deep breath, letting it out in a jagged exhalation in his efforts to mediate what she continued to do to him. But he wasn't fool enough to think that this was the extent to which she would go if he tried something duplicitous.
So all in all, he did nothing but lay there, feeling helpless despite the fact that he was fairly sure that should he really try he might wrest himself free. No, he was held there by implication; by what he and she both knew would happen if he resisted in such a fashion. Despite the pain and soreness that screamed in his mind to flee he remained.
And it was hard. Becoming harder with each painful sting administered to his tender underside. He grit his teeth and gripped both the bed and Sansa tightly, so tightly in fact that his knuckles turned white for the effort. If he was causing Sansa discomfort by holding her so she either didn't notice in the heat of the matter or simply didn't mention.
He wished for a time that she would say something, anything for which to allow his mind a distraction from the steady beat of the humiliation applied to him, something to let him dwell on other than the nature of his suffering. It hadn't really even been that long, he knew, but already he felt like he was at his limits.
To his great relief she did finally speak, seeming to have merely deigned to allow him time to stew in his own thoughts in the interim, "I hope you realize, Ramsay, how surprised I was to find Brienne punishing you in the square like that. Surprised, and very disappointed. I had thought that perhaps you may have learned your lesson, but suddenly I question your conviction."
In some other position Ramsay might have thought of something clever to say in his defense, or perhaps even some amusingly witty response to take the edge off of the situation for the both of them, or at least to make things more entertaining for himself. But in this position he wasn't in a place to be entertained, even by his own charm.
On top of that, the repeated slaps to his backside made concentration difficult at best, and hindered even creative thought, so his own words drawled out far more lamely than they might otherwise have done, "W-why is that? I… I thought to regale you with my side of that story, but I knew before the words could leave me that you would value her word over mine…"
Sansa raised an eyebrow at him and her hand ceased its descent for the time being, instead resting upon the small of his back, "Are you telling me that you won't try to justify yourself in light of what actions Brienne accused you of because you view my judgement as being marred by favoritism?"
Ramsay gulped; he was getting himself into hotter water by the moment he knew, and not only on one account. On one hand, Sansa was taking the pitiable statement he had cobbled together to save face rather poorly, and if he didn't continue to follow this course to a more adequate answer for Sansa, his day was going to become worse. On the other hand, keeping on this track against Brienne led him to an entirely different dangerous set of options.
After all, should he annoy Brienne or somehow successfully sway Sansa to believe he was the victim in the affair at the courtyard, Brienne would certainly make good on her threat to reveal the deception he had been responsible for earlier on, of which Sansa was still blissfully unaware. Sansa's eyes hardened and he knew that he was screwed either way.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn't, so he might as well try… "W-well, milady, I do not wish to pit you against your champion in these trying times…"
Her eyes narrowed, "Oh no you would never do anything like that, would you?"
He gulped, taking a nervous breath before continuing, "…b-but I think that she can be far rougher than she realizes, and over-estimated my… ability to handle a large amount of tough labors. I was only tired and worn from a long day of work and desired some rest. I meant no disrespect! Though I know she resents me and therefor took it differently… this is all a great misunderstanding!"
The pause in Sansa's hand continued, and she gave him a quizzical look, "You mean to tell me that Lady Brienne was incorrect in her judgement of you? This is the second time you have accused her of such, and while I allowed for the first instance based on the fact that my guardian had perhaps seemed hasty, I find this happening twice unlikely."
Sansa leaned in to narrow her eyes at him, "I shall speak to her, and if I feel that you are saying this simply to save your hide, I will tan said hide far worse than I had already planned."
Ramsay visibly relaxed at her words even as worry began to gnaw at his gut. At the very least, her words meant a reprieve of some duration, likely tomorrow or…
These sentiments slipped away when he realized that Sansa was not releasing her hold of him, instead calling a servant over. Ramsay hid his face in shame as the peasant girl he didn't even know took in the sight of him bent over Sansa's lap. He was certain news of what was done to him within Winterfell had likely become common knowledge by now, but still he felt shame.
The Lady of Winterfell gestured to the young girl, "See yourself to Lady Brienne of Tarth, and let her know that her mistress has need of her."
With a short bow of the head and a word of acknowledgment the girl turned on her heel to send word, and Ramsay lay with mouth agape, knowing that his words had stalled nothing.
It didn't take long for Lady Brienne of Tarth to arrive having received Sansa's summons via the small sure-footed girl that had undoubtedly ran across the keep as quickly as possible. From Ramsay's point of view, she had been entirely too energetic and enthusiastic in her speedy relation of Sansa's ill-omened tidings.
In any case, he was made to lay there upon Sansa's knees as they waited for Brienne's arrival, with Sansa not so much as moving to cover his exposed posterior. Her hand merely lay gently upon him, as if awaiting its next chance to begin punishing him anew. He might have felt overly cold from what bit of the biting wind from outside slipped in, but…
But his lower half had been exceedingly warmed by the thorough slapping that Sansa had given him. He glanced back to take into account the damage she had done and immediately regretted doing so. His cheeks were pale normally, but now the lower halves were almost as red as cherries, with splotches of bruising here and there.
Welts shone all throughout the area, some even bearing shapes that suggested the curves of Sansa's hand, mostly her long fingers. Seeing his trembling flesh laid bare like that and knowing that not only had Sansa summoned a servant girl to bear witness to it but that Brienne herself would also be seeing it made him feel sick. Though in Brienne's case he supposed she had played a fair part in the making of it.
Speaking of that particular demon dressed up in full plate armor, the towering form of Brienne entered the room, and the metal fittings of her armor giving her away long before Ramsay actually saw her form fill the doorway. He looked away, feeling acutely self-conscious over the state that she had found him in, regardless of how little he should care of what Brienne thought.
He wasn't certain, but Ramsay could almost swear that he saw the very corners of Brienne's mouth twitch upward ever so slightly in the barest of smiles at the sight of him over Sansa's knee as he was, and the thought that she might be taking amusement in his further shame incensed him, Ramsay's teeth grinding in annoyance.
Brienne nodded to Sansa, "You called for me, milady?"
Sansa nodded in turn, lifting the hand she rested on Ramsay to gesture toward him as she spoke, "My ward here has stated that there might have been a misunderstanding concerning why you punished him only a short while ago, and I would have your thoughts on the matter."
Ramsay glanced back over his shoulder to look at Brienne, his breath stalling in his lungs at what she might say; there was no way Brienne wouldn't defend her punishment of him. Really he was doomed to have Sansa finish her own punishment, and now his chief concern was in how much worse things could get. It turned out, things could in fact get much worse.
Brienne's countenance took on a dark aspect as her brow drew down upon hearing Sansa relate the matter to her, and her stance changed a bit, spreading her feet to lean back stiffly with her hands folded in front of herself, head held high. The bearing she wore spoke of a certain rigid, very official air as she spoke, "Did he?"
Her gaze slipped down to Ramsay, whom looked elsewhere to avoid the penetrating nature of her eyes with him in such a vulnerable state. He did his best not to look anywhere or do anything at all, imagining that he was playing the part of the poor misunderstood victim. But Brienne knew better, of course, "Milady, since Ramsay has been so bold…"
She gestured behind herself to the door and presumably what lay beyond it, "…I had ousted him for foul play concerning our previous incident, and I admit milady I made the poor choice of keeping it to myself in hopes that Ramsay would behave himself knowing that I could unveil him should he prove troublesome."
Ramsay's heart dropped into his stomach and Sansa perked up, "Oh? You mean that nasty affair with Petyr I take it?" Her eyes grew hard as she glanced down at Ramsay and he for his part squirmed uncomfortably to receive such a look from her in the position he was in. "Meaning to say I take it that he was in fact involved in some plot as you had guessed?"
His heart, now located within his stomach, began to fire off rapidly, pounding so hard he had to wonder if Sansa didn't feel that beat against her legs, or even hear the sound that thrummed in his ears as his blood rushed to his head at the thought of what Brienne might be about to say. She shook her head slightly, "Not a plot between the two of them so much…"
Brienne gestured to Ramsay's prone form, "…the entire ordeal was actually a charade created by Ramsay with the sole purpose of making it seem I was overly zealous, milady."
Sansa's eyebrow arched high as she glanced at Ramsay with a pointed look as he solemnly looked away, "Is that so? Funny; it would seem that is what he accuses you of now…"
The armored woman nodded, "Yes, milady; I had spoken with Ramsay before whilst in the company of Petyr Baelish, making clear to him that I knew of his games even if I had no solid evidence to prove that he played them. Lord Baelish made clear that he would testify on account of Ramsay's duplicity, of course."
Ramsay had heard enough, and felt now that he needed to chime in on the conversation in his own defense, despite the awkward position he had to do so from, "Of course Baelish said that; he is feeling hurt over your treatment of him before and merely wants me to join him in suffering. You cannot believe anything that he says!"
Sansa scowled at Ramsay, "And I suppose you would have me disbelieve my chosen champion as well?"
He opened his mouth and then closed it, his face betraying that he understood implicitly the trap such a statement set, and that there really was no right answer anymore. Attack Brienne's credibility or judgement further and earn Sansa's ire, or roll over and accept the righteous anger that she will cultivate from him admitting wrongdoing.
Instead he gave a rather lame response, "I'm not saying that Lady Brienne is lying… only insisting that she might have become mistaken…"
Brienne shook her head, refuting the statement, "Ramsay already incriminated himself to my face; there is no mistake here. Only a fool digging a hole for himself."
Ramsay flushed red in the face at her insulting words and he bit his tongue, his mouth a thin line of irritation and worry. More than that though he watched Lady Sansa of Winterfell, for her weigh in on what was said was the most pressing, as the fact that he still lay upon her lap in humiliating pose with her offending hand resting upon him was not forgotten.
Sansa looked from Brienne to Ramsay and back again, her face placid as she clearly deliberated, "Thank you for your time Lady Brienne, and thank you for sharing this last bit of news with me. I ask that in the future you tell me of all of your concerns about Ramsay's intentions, as knowing such helps me decide in what ways I need to guide him."
Lady Brienne stiffened a bit, possibly at the fact that even in this small way she was in fact being scolded for not being forthcoming with what she suspected so strongly of Ramsay's earlier intentions, and it was clear that she took the matter seriously enough that even these words stung her a bit. She nodded at Sansa in a simple manner that conveyed understanding.
"I apologize for not sharing the matter with you immediately, milady. After the incident with Lord Baelish…"
Sansa raised a hand in a manner that suggested letting the matter go, "I understand completely, Lady Brienne. At the time I am certain that you might have wondered if I would doubt you."
She leaned forward and placed a hand upon Brienne's own gloved hand, "I would have you know that you have dispelled all such notions many times over by this time to me. I'm only sorry that I did not take your instincts concerning Ramsay's behavior earlier more seriously. Could you be a dear and fetch that hair brush from my dresser?"
Ramsay shifted uneasily at this last request, his heart pounding in his chest as their conversation made it clear to him that Sansa had already decided that he was very guilty. He doubted intensely that Sansa intended to use the brush to comb through her hair, not with him sprawled across her lap as he was. He didn't know what he could say now, so his words trailed to nothingness, "Sansa, please…"
Lady Sansa shook her head at him, her one arm roping around his middle and adjusting him against her own hips as the other gripped the hair brush tightly around the handle and lifted it high in the air over the squirming reddened ass below, "It seems you have been busy undermining everything that I had thought we were building here."
She paused, watching as Ramsay's breath hitched and caught in his throat, both in apprehension and perhaps even a little hurt over Sansa's tone of clear disappointment with him. Then she brought the implement down, causing Ramsay to hiss loudly as he strained against her grip, his hands taking hold of Sansa's leg as she stepped back into the rhythm she had discontinued before.
Except now that same rhythm was much, much worse, and Ramsay's eyes widened and watered at the sheer, terrible sting of it. It didn't help that he had been made so tender in those areas already by the ministrations of both Brienne and Sansa, back to back. His ass received everything it took very poorly now, from an item that was already going to pain him greatly.
He wheezed out a series of grunts, making faces as he strained this way and that. It took everything he had not to do the unthinkable and try to wrench himself from her grasp. He might be able to, should he try hard enough, especially with the pain she delivered as an excellent motivator. But should he try such a thing, within sight of Brienne even, he had no doubt things would become worse still.
So instead of trying anything as rash as making a predicament he had already worsened even more calamitous, Ramsay grit his teeth and strained against the pain, enduring it as best he could as muscles trembled and back arched at the terrible sting delivered. Sansa finally gave voice to the feeling that hung between the two of them, heavy in the air.
"I am disappointed, Ramsay. In all of this time since the last time I needed to punish you in such a fashion, I had honestly come to believe you had learned your lesson…"
She paused for a moment to regard the panting form on her lap, as he glanced back with desperate blue eyes to meet her gaze.
"…But clearly you have not yet caught on to your place within these halls, in that you once again believed yourself so clever as to play your games again, to ply those old habits again, and with the audacity of thinking that I would not become wise to the fact that you have not changed as you had at first seemed."
Ramsay licked his lips, his mind quickly working to formulate an eloquent response to such a statement, some manner in which he might use honeyed words to pave over some of the damaged feelings he had caused in her, but she had begun to raise her hand to resume striking him with the brush within it, and instead he panicked.
So instead of saying something formulated to put Sansa's mind at ease in a manner that might seem dignified, he instead yelled, "I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Sansa… please by all the gods I am sorry!"
Sansa's mouth quirked, and then her frown returned, "I wish that I could believe you, but now after what happened in Petyr's chambers I have reason to doubt any words you speak."
She stopped hitting him with the brush abruptly and handed the implement to Brienne. Then she grabbed ahold of Ramsay's bicep with the now freed hand and hauled him up so that he could turn his legs a bit and be sitting with her. Her hand remained firmly clamped on him even as her voice firmly admonished him, "You lied to me, Ramsay. Right to my face you attempted deceit."
He wasn't certain why this accusation caused him such a plethora of mixed feelings, but it did, and Ramsay found himself squirming again, both from that boiling pot of emotional response that he could barely contain from his face, and the agitated way his rear felt as he tried to sit the way Sansa was silently demanding him to sit.
At first he attempted to meet her gaze, but after glancing up at the fiery way she regarded him, and worse yet seeing the disappointment so clearly painted upon her features, he dropped his own eyes quickly to the floor, feeling wave after wave of blistering shame burn away at him, heating his face and making him feel ill to his stomach.
All that he could manage was the lamest of replies, "I… I'm sorry." Ramsay realized how far he had come from the man he had once been in saying such so easily, and even more importantly, sincerely. He didn't bother hiding the way he felt from his eyes anymore, Brienne be damned; the fact that Sansa was so disappointed in him hurt more than all the rest.
More than the greatest of humiliations or the worst of nettling pain, her disapproval cut deeply. Ramsay had been wrestling with how he felt about Sansa for some time now, but at no time as much as this one was it clear to him that he not only cared what she thought, but that he deeply worried over her state of opinion concerning his person.
Sansa allowed the pall of silence to hang in the air for a good while before deigning to finally speak again, only watching as Ramsay shifted uncomfortably beside her, her hand still locked about the muscle of his arm with a tight grip, "Now I face another conundrum as well; you have caused me to punish Petyr Baelish unjustly, and this must be remedied."
Ramsay blinked at her dumbly for a moment, not having expected that Sansa would care about that, at least not really, "But… you were already punishing him… didn't he already have it coming?"
She shook her head, glowering at Ramsay fiercely in a manner that made him shrink away from her as best as he could, "I punished him for the wrong reasons, and worse I was manipulated into doing so. It must be set right."