Sansa stared down at the Stark sigil drying on the letter. Her insides were wrought with turmoil and nerves. And nausea threatened to erupt in a cascade of chucked up food. But despite it all, she refused to allow guilt to rise to the surface. Writing this letter was absolutely essential for them to survive.

Their attempt to rally Northern houses had not gone as well as they had imagined it would. Although they had the Mazins, the Hornwoods and the Mormonts on their side, major Northern houses had turned them down, such as the Glovers, the Manderlys, House Cerwyn. Plus there was the problem of the traitorous Karstarks and Umbers. It all boiled down to them having a shortage of men. They had half of Ramsay's number which would not do at all.

Sansa wasn't sure if Littlefinger would reply, but she was banking on his need to have her rely on him. Rescuing her would fuel the hero complex that he thrived on when he was around her. She hurried out of her tent, walking briskly to where the ravens were kept. As the raven set off with her scroll attached to its leg, all Sansa could do was hold on to that bit of hope that refused to die. It was humiliating to have to rely on Littlefinger again, but she couldn't dwell on it. Not when all of their lives depended on him rallying to her side with the Knights of the Vale.

Jon mustn't know. Of that much she was sure of. He couldn't plan his battle strategy around a wild card that might or might not come through. If he relied on the Knights of the Vale and Littlefinger failed them, the consequences would be catastrophic. Sansa was convinced that a surprise ambush was the best way to utilize this possible wild card. That way Ramsay couldn't be tipped off and their chances of failure would be dramatically decreased.

She was aware that a great number of men would die before the Vale army arrived, and she mourned their impending deaths just as she mourned Rickon's. But she knew that this was a sacrifice that had to be made because if they failed, the North would bleed. Ramsay wouldn't only punish her, he would punish everyone.

To keep her mind calm, Sansa busied herself by helping to skin some of the prey that were caught. When the blade accidentally cut her finger, she barely flinched, simply holding up the injured finger and staring at it as the blood welled and oozed. A vacant look had overtaken her eyes as if her mind was somewhere far away; lost in another time. And when she returned to her surroundings, Sansa realized to her surprise, that her finger was being treated and wrapped. She turned her head slightly, to find Jon's eyes on her, an unsettled look on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jon kept asking her if she would rather stay at base while he went to meet with Ramsay pre-battle. She turned him down. When they reached the open fields, Ramsay and his men were small specks in the horizon that increased in size the closer their horses rode, both sides riding forward to close the gap between them.

Jon turned to her again when they stopped at the neutral half way mark, waiting for Ramsay and his men to reach them and halt. "You don't have to be here," he told her

"Yes I do," Sansa confirmed. She turned her attention forward, steeling herself as he drew up and stopped a mere few feet away. The memories threatened to overwhelm her as her insides suddenly felt cold. He was staring at her and she hoped that her body wouldn't betray the faintness that was creeping up or the slight trembling hidden beneath her heavy dress. She took a few calming breaths, her eyes growing frigid as a smirk broke across his face.

"My beloved wife. I've missed you terribly," he greeted, his voice pleasant, his eyes cold and taunting.

Sansa felt a chill, but Jon moved his horse closer to hers, offering silent support. She braced her shoulders and held her head high and regal as she studied Ramsay in a dispassionate manner. The longer he spoke, the more a cold, detached, calmness spread throughout her body. She stared at him and all she could picture was his death. She listened as he taunted Jon, observing calmly as if witnessing the scene from a great distance. She unhurriedly skimmed her gaze over Ramsay's men, making sure that she saved a scathing look for the traitorous Smalljon Umber and Harald Karstark.

Her attention snapped to Jon when she heard him challenge Ramsay to a one on one. Foolish Jon. You search for honor where there's none.

Ramsay was too confident for her liking, but she supposed that his smugness was a good sign for her. He didn't suspect anything amiss or any possible tricks up their sleeve. If Littlefinger backed her with the Vale army, the ambush of Ramsay's forces would be spectacular. Sansa masked her smirk and barely contained the urge to roll her eyes when Ramsay threatened them with Rickon. As if she actually believed Rickon would live past this battle if he wasn't already dead. "How do we know you have him?" she humored. She stared back at Ramsay as his icy blues locked on hers.

She could see the fury in his eyes although his expression remained nonchalant. He turned and gave a nodding signal to one of his men and a few short second later, the severed head of a direwolf landed between the two opposing sides. Sansa's breath caught as she stared at Shaggydog's head. She hadn't doubted Rickon's imprisonment, but it hurt to witness the fate of his fierce, proud direwolf. She only hoped that Shaggydog was reunited with Lady wherever they may be.

"Now if you want to save your — " Ramsay began, believing that his little action had granted him leverage.

Sansa quickly cut him off, getting satisfaction from the shocked widening of his eyes.

"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," she promised. "Sleep well." She turned and rode off, the wind hitting her face as she raced back to base, trying to put as much distance between her and him as possible. She stopped at the river near the tents and took a dip, wanting to cleanse the soiled feeling that Ramsay's presence arose. Alone in the river, the tears ran unchecked down her face. She really couldn't say why she was crying. The emotions that whirled within her were too great in number to attempt to analyze.

The reckoning was here. Tomorrow would alter her future. Would she lose the only family figure that she currently had? Or would she be able to take back Winterfell and keep Jon too? The uncertainty frightened her but she was powerless to change it.

Sansa was back in her tent when Jon and the few lords that had accompanied him arrived, along with Lyanna Mormont. She wanted to ask him what was said after she rode off, but decided against it.

Soon after the men returned, they feasted on seasoned squirrel stew. With an impending battle on the morrow, there was an energy around the fire that was unmatched by any previous occasions. After feasting, Jon retreated into his camp with Ser Davos and Tormund to rehash their battle strategy.

Sansa stood in the corner of the tent silently wondering how they could be so daft and ignorant of their opponent. They plotted to approach Ramsay as if he was a reasonable person. He wasn't. He was a mad dog who would fight dirty. She let Jon know her opinion as soon as the others had cleared the tent, and instead of heeding her advice, he immediately became defensive. "Aye, that's good advice," he mocked after she warned him against playing into Ramsay's trap. "You think that's obvious?" she snapped.

"Well it is a bit obvious," Jon said.

Which only sparked Sansa's anger more.

"Battles have been won against greater odds," Jon finally stated.

Sansa turned and started to leave, knowing that she had made the right choice in contacting Littlefinger. She paused, as she turned back to Jon. "If Ramsay wins...I'm not going back there alive." She stared at him, letting her words sink in.

"I won't ever let him touch you again," Jon swore. "I'll protect you. I promise."

But Sansa had heard enough empty promises in her lifetime. "No one can protect me," she retorted. "No one can protect anyone."

She spent the night turning and tossing about, unable to settle her mind. And when morning came, there was a soreness in her lower belly and a stickiness between her legs. Her moonblood had arrived. Isn't it fitting that on the morning of another great battle that governed her life she would bleed from the safety of her tent while the men bled on the battlefield. Just like the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

Sansa quickly cleansed herself and inserted a thick cloth into her smallclothes before dressing and hurrying outside. But Jon and his forces had already ridden out while she slept and she worried her bottom lip, wondering when Littlefinger would arrive.

"Are you worried?" a voice questioned.

Sansa turned to see Lyanna Mormont standing next to her. "A little," she admitted.

Lyanna nodded. "So am I. But we will win. I just wonder how many men we will lose in the process."

Sansa didn't have a suitable reply.

"When the battle's won, I will reward all of my men with new armors for their bravery and courage," Lyanna told her.

"I will make sure that your men are adequately rewarded for their loyalty," Sansa promised.

"We serve the Starks and will always serve the Starks," was Lyanna's reply.

Sansa smiled, warming up to the little fierce soul beside her.

"Does Ramsay really have Lord Stark?" Lyanna asked.

Sansa sobered. "Yes, he has my brother...Rickon will not live past today."

Lyanna's eyes were filled with more knowledge than a child should know about how it felt to lose her family. She placed a comforting hand on Sansa's forearm. "The Boltons will pay."

A guard walked up to Sansa a while later when she was alone and handed her a sealed letter. She anxiously grabbed it, knowing who it was from and retreated into her tent. She opened the letter with shaking hands and quickly skimmed it before exhaling in a great whoosh. Littlefinger had told her where to meet him, and with the activity about the camp, it would be easy to slip away.

Sansa quickly went to where her horse was kept, quickly readying him. "I am going for a ride to clear my head. I need some solitude as I seek solace during this battle," she told the guards. She quickly took off, riding swiftly to where Littlefinger had written for her to meet him.

The spot was empty when she dismounted, but she knew that someone was watching her from a hidden place, making sure that she arrived alone. Sansa huffed and crossed her arms impatiently.

"Don't be impatient, sweetling."

She heard him before she saw him. Her face was impassive as he walked into view. "Where's the army?" she asked suspiciously.

"They are stationed close by, Sansa. I wouldn't fail you," he replied, stepping close to her.

She decided not to reply to his statement. "When can we go?" she questioned.

"In due time. It wouldn't do to risk the Vale army before Ramsay's forces are weakened," he reminded her.

"I don't want Jon to get hurt," Sansa admitted.

"He may be dead already. As brave as he is, charging foolishly into battle," Littlefinger replied.

"Stop it!" Sansa snapped.

He gave her a slight bow, a smile playing on his lips. "Come, my dear. Let me take your mind off of battle for a few minutes."

She followed him as he steered her deeper into the wolfswood.