Sansa had taken to wandering about the castle like one of the ghosts of Winterfell. When she first arrived, Sansa wanted to explore every nook and cranny shielded and guarded behind these castle walls — what was different, what was the same, what still had imprints of her family on it. The direwolf banners had been replaced with that of the Bolton's flayed man and the faces of the stone wolves had been smashed in as well. If Sansa was being honest with herself, it was hard to figure this to be her home from long before. No one within the castle were the same employed when she was a girl. Most of it was still being rebuilt. There were no other Starks besides herself now. But, it was still her home, and she would make sure to never abandon it again.
These days, she now roamed to distract herself. She wasn't in the company of the Boltons very often. Several days after Petyr had left, she had gone to the brothel in the winter town with Roose Bolton. It was a short, though uncomfortable journey with the lord and if not for the nature of what was being done to her, Sansa would have been relieved to be away from his presence and with that of the brothel keeper. As Sansa stared up at the darkened ceiling and resolved herself to being poked and prodded in a place she had thought she would never be poked or prodded in, she wondered if this was the brothel her brother Robb had visited with their half-brother Jon and the traitor Theon. That was a long time ago and surely this hovel wasn't servicing any lords from Winterfell now. The outcome of her virtue had been relayed to Roose and they had returned to the castle with as few words as the last time.
Even though she had listened to what Petyr had told her, Sansa was still unsure of how to make Ramsay Bolton hers. How to control a man, whereas she was a girl who had hardly no control over her own life throughout most of those days she had been alive. She understood the tact with bringing her intended over to her side, she had seen how Margaery benefitted from it, and Sansa understood in the long run how it would help her, help her survive amongst those who had betrayed and murdered her family. But she just didn't know how to do so. Sansa didn't have the confidence that Margaery showed. Never good enough, always being told to marry one person or another, until she didn't serve their purposes anymore. And here I am again, being married off to someone else.
She wasn't avoiding him, but Sansa had little more contact with Ramsay then that of his lips on her hand when she had first arrived. Petyr had told her nothing of him, nor had she heard any whispers of what his character might be. Though, she didn't hear very many whispers within the halls these days anyways. Besides work and daily chores, no one seemed privy to wanting to talk more then they had to. As Sansa mulled these things over in her mind, her feet led her down the familiar path she often found herself going to. She spent much of her time now down in the crypts. More candles had been found throughout Winterfell, which she had stolen down for her ancestors to bring light to the black halls. Like when she would play with Robb and Arya and Bran and even little Rickon, this was a place she could hide and often not be found. Even if amongst all the people here, she felt alone, this was a place she could truly find peace.
As she routinely lit the candles in the crypt, Sansa now thought about the old woman who had, at first, showed her to her room when she arrived here, but now also had come to her again. The old servant had told her that she still had allies in the North, that should Sansa ever need help, only light a candle in the highest window of the Broken Tower and someone would heed her call. Sansa couldn't help but scoff. Of her family's bannermen, who really would come to her aid? I guess at least I have one daft, old fool to protect me. To that, Sansa smiled grimly. No, no one would come riding in on a silver horse, ready to fight for her honor and virtue. She wasn't a silly little girl who still believed in knights in gilded armor or any of those sorts of things. She had been so distracted in her thoughts and occupied with trying to make the wick take light, she hadn't heard the footsteps approaching.
"I had never expected to find you in a place like this. What with it so dirty and dark," she heard a voice speak only now and turned towards the direction it came from. "Very creepy too, I might add." Ramsay Bolton gave her a boyish smile though. She had lit far more candles then when Petyr had come to find her and it cast dancing shadows across his face.
"Well it is a crypt. There's literally only hundreds of dead people around here," Sansa couldn't help but retort.
"Who knew you keep company with the dead," Ramsay mused, soft again like it was only for them to hear. Sansa turned from him to continue trying to light the candle perched in the hand of some other dead Stark. She took care of those related immediately to her, the dead she had never even met, but those family her father mourned, and slowly Sansa had been making her way throughout the other ancestors she would never come to know.
"Yes, well," Sansa said, finally able to get the wick to catch. She moved to the next Stark statue, soft steps following behind her. "At least the dead leave me alone." She heard him chuckle and couldn't decide whether to take offense or not. It was one thing to actually think of her as humorous, but Sansa couldn't tell if his laughter derived from that reason or because he thought her stupid and silly and drivel. Like most. She turned to sneak a look behind her at him and saw that he had picked up a broken piece of candle and toyed with it. He noticed her and bared a grin this time. It was different from all the smiles he had given her before. Those that had seemed young and innocent, yet always somehow out of place. He was always excited to give them to her though, although Sansa could not know what that meant. Play with him, Sansa. Do as Margaery would do!
Yet she still didn't know how to make the first move. Perhaps the gods had somehow heard her for once and took pity, because Ramsay moved closer to her now. Sansa blushed prettily, though she didn't expect him to be able to see it and averted her eyes. Still shy, still young, still inexperienced Sansa. She had been courted before by many and married once before, but this was one game she still didn't understand. But that's not an excuse.
She had watched Ramsay take her hand closer to his and brought his broken piece of candle over to light from hers.
"Here," he said, "let me help you light the remainder." Both of them stared in rapt fascination of the conjoining of the two wicks, how the fire had overtaken both of them. Sansa felt the heat from Ramsay's hand, the one that gently held onto hers. On the two occasions that Ramsay had touched her, he had been warm. Sansa wondered if it was because he always ran a high temperature or if his hands had just previously come out of gloves, like the first instance. Looking into those ice-blue eyes, it was hard to imagine him, or any other Northmen, being anything other then cold. She just noticed how close they were now when she had peered down to look at him. They weren't quite eye to eye; Sansa was taller then him, by a small amount. She had ended up being taller then most men around her - taller then my last husband too.
Although the heat very well could just be coming from the fire held between their fingers. Sansa hadn't noticed at first, but because Ramsay's candle had been angled towards hers, the wax had started to drip. They had been quiet, engaged only in what was happening right in front of them, but removed, detached. Testing each other out and trying to guess about the other person. His broken candle was lit, but not taken away. The wax had begun to drip onto her hand now. They both turned to stare now at the warm pool that had begun to form. The stinging heat from the wax was not unlike that of Ramsay's hand; it was shocking and a bit difficult to bear, but in a way, Sansa liked it, though she couldn't place finger onto why that was. It still was uncomfortable and though the wax was a tad painful, she wouldn't let him know otherwise.
What had seemed like ages, did Ramsay finally tilt his candle back up and hold it alight, his other hand falling away from hers now as well. In reality, he had not let the candle drip onto her for very long, but they both had been too captivated in it to notice.
"I'm sorry, Sansa," Ramsay said, giving her that grin again. She was more in tune with noticing how he had called her by her given name and nothing else, then she had been of the wax. Improper. She dug at the pool on her hand. "Did I hurt you?"
"No, my lord," she answered. "It didn't hurt at all." He took her hand again and scratched at the hardened wax, not completely gently either. This time, the boyish smile returned.
"Please, Sansa," he called her name again. "Call me Ramsay. We are to be wed soon."
"Of course," Sansa paused, as if playing around with the weight of his name, "Ramsay." She noticed that he actually looked pleased by her calling him that. Something swelled in her. Is this how easy it is to play the game of a man's heart? He brushed off the remaining wax on her hand, holding onto it for only a second longer before he let it go.
"Shall we light the remainder of the dead's candles?" Sansa nodded weakly.
It had only been a couple of days since her encounter below in the crypts with Ramsay. Sansa had seen him around, of course, but they had hardly spoken to each other anymore then they had before. They had missed each other once, in the kitchens when Sansa had gone to break her fast, and in passing Ramsay had said they should all dine together soon for supper. She had politely agreed, almost forgetting to use his given name, though when she hadn't, Ramsay seemed all the more pleased again. She had almost wanted him to stay longer, would have invited him to eat with her, but besides it being obvious he had already had his fill, Ramsay was off before she could say much more.
Sansa had the idea that her betrothed was avoiding her. Most could see the state of the castle and it would be obvious to declare that those going about it generally tended to avoid Ramsay, but she had never thought it would be the case where he went out of his way to avoid someone else. It wasn't something she was certain of and very well could just be something she was making up in her head, but she used it as an excuse anyways to keep some distance between them until she figured out what her next move was.
As it had become her custom, Sansa went about Winterfell after having eaten a breakfast of some bread, hot from the ovens, an overripe peach, already too juicy and quite small in size, compared to the ones in King's Landing she had gotten used to, and the smallest amount of honey, golden in color and taken from the comb. It wasn't a very remarkable breakfast, nothing like the meals Gage used to cook for the castle. She frowned. She hadn't thought of Gage in so long, though suddenly his name came back to her. He used to make me lemoncakes whenever he could get his hands on some. She couldn't imagine she would be getting any lemoncakes again anytime soon. The glass garden had yet to be fully repaired and there were few stores of fresh fruit or vegetables, all of which would most likely be used up soon. If they relied on those in the south, it was possible a few lemons might find their way up here, but it was not a useful ingredient in Northern foods.
Sansa had been lost in her thought has she made her way across the grounds, through the main courtyard, when she found herself by the First Keep. Had she meant to go to the crypts again? She surely spent a good deal of her time there these days. She looked around her. Below the First Keep was the lichyard. This was a place that had looked mostly unchanged, amongst the stranger of Winterfell she often wandered through. Father said he was going to have Lady lain here. For the second time within the hour, Sansa thought of those ghosts of Winterfell she had not afforded herself the proper attention. It had been so long since she had let herself think of Father, of her lord father, not the head she had been forced to keep her eyes trained on. Of sweet Lady, proper, good Lady, with the kindest demeanor of the bunch of direwolf pups. If she closed her eyes, Sansa might feel her fingers running through Lady's soft, gray fur again, like nothing she had ever felt before.
She opened her eyes, but nothing was underneath her slightly raised hand. It dropped, clenched, to her side and she turned away. She moved in a dream, blindly, unwittingly, floating. Following her own footsteps in a daze, when she looked up, Sansa scaled the height of the Burned Tower. It was still broken, though no more then it had been before. A useless fixture adorning the walls of Winterfell, though no one had ever bothered to take it down or build it back up again. No one bothered with it at all. Bran had fallen from it's height here though. Bran, who could have been called Bran the Climber, Bran young and sweet, who hadn't even named his direwolf when she had left, who hadn't even opened his eyes when she had left, who had died -
"I like your dress," she heard a voice and turned. A girl, only a fair few years older then her had appeared next to her. Sansa's eyebrow furrowed and she scanned the newcomer. "Who made it for you?"
"Uh, I made it myself," Sansa replied, lifting up the fabric of her cloak and glancing down at what she was wearing exactly.
"Really?" The girl said in almost disbelief, before dropping her head and keeping her eyes trained on the ground before her.
"Who are you?" Sansa questioned. She looked up Sansa for a split second before lowering her gaze again.
"I'm Myranda," she said, nodding at her own name in affirmation of some kind. "I'm the kennel master's daughter." She gave a sort of shy smile and looked back towards the other girl. Sansa looked back up the expanse of the tower. "May I?" Sansa returned her gaze to the other girl, the girl Myranda, who couldn't be much older then herself, with her arm outstretched, clearly wanting to touch the fabric. Before she had given her consent, the other girl reached for the sleeve of Sansa's dress, running her fingers along the fabric, delicately tracing the stitching and softly admiring it. Sansa's eyebrows drew close together a second time.
"Who taught you?" Myranda asked. Sansa pulled back her arm.
"My mother." Again, the girl dropped her head, posturing to the girl with the highborn status in what Sansa had come to feel was almost mockingly. Myranda apologized, giving condolences to another women she didn't know, who's mother she hadn't know, and Sansa accepted it.
"It's good," Myranda finally looked up. "That she taught you. It was a gift. And now, every time you where something you made, you'll remember her."
"I'd rather have a mother," Sansa said. It was a childish thing to say. She was suddenly reminded of her younger siblings, pulling on the skirts of their mother's dress. The other girl never looked up though, just staring at the ground, the peculiar smile she wore that didn't match the intention in her words. She spoke condolences again, offered words of understanding to level with Sansa, connect with her and try to make her feel better. Told her to remember. As if Sansa could ever forget.
"I," the other girl spoke up again suddenly, her tone shifting, "almost forgot. There's something else. To help you remember." Myranda had that peculiar smile fastened on her face, tight-lipped, like she was hiding a secret but couldn't wait to spill it. Girlish, almost innocent and had Sansa not had any instinct, she would have thought nothing of it. Sansa was safe though. She had to be. She was in her home, she was to be married to the lord heir, and certainly the kennel master's daughter, who didn't even know her, couldn't do anything worse then what she had already been through.
She followed Myranda, who looked behind her periodically to see if Sansa was still tailing her. A giddy excitement was in the older girl's expression and it was evident every time her face appeared over her shoulder. Myranda had only come to Winterfell recently, Sansa was sure of it, but she weaved expertly through the vast expanse of the castle and through the many courtyards, most busy in a flurry of activity. What is she going to show me? This is my home, anything here of course reminds me of before. Sansa had half a mind to march off on her own, to return to her bedroom and fall with an ungraceful heap onto her bed, find Jeyne Poole and steal some lemoncakes from the kitchens, brush Lady's fur and press her face into the soft grayness of it, work on her needling. She couldn't do those things anymore so instead, she just continued to walk behind this odd girl, gloved hands pulling at the needle on her necklace.
Almost unsurprisingly, Myranda brought her to the kennels. Perhaps this is the only place the girl knows. She pulled the gates towards her, the hinges groaning with effort and gave an open gestured indication to the inside of the kennel.
"Down there," she said, this time, her chin was held high. She was proud, to prove something, have found something, to play a move in the game against Sansa. She thought she had the upper hand. "At the end."
"What is it?"
"That would spoil the surprise," she bared her teeth now, in a full grin. Sansa could hear the hounds doing the same, lips curled back, growling in the back of their throats. "Go ahead. It's perfectly safe. You won't believe it when you see it." She moved in closer, just a hair's width, to whisper those last words, like she was divulging the world's greatest and little known secret. Like they were best friends and giggling in the night, telling each other about knights and who they fancied.
The kennels had always been dirty and dusty, but it seemed like it had given way to fall even more into disrepair. To Sansa, who had never spent much time in the kennels anyways, it was disgusting. She walked slowly, measured, almost tentatively past her, wondering if Myranda was going to play a cruel joke like Arya would and lock her in the kennels until someone found her, leaving her to shake and rattle at the barred gates well into the cold night, but the other never moved. Just smiling from behind. The dogs were at their gates though, up on their hind legs, barking, bounding forward to see new life, the locks holding them back jangling, metal on metal. These dogs seemed wild, riled up at the sight of her. Farlen had never raised Winterfell's dogs like these beasts. Sansa wondered if this is what she wanted her to see, if she was trying to frighten Sansa with this display. She turned back to look at the entrance, to gauge a feeling from Myranda, but the girl was gone. Sansa didn't know why she didn't just turn and leave at that moment, perhaps curiosity drove her forward, to make it to the end. She felt the need to conquer whatever it was this girl wanted to throw at her. If she could do that, maybe she could also survive this place.
The last cage on the left had it's gate swung open. Perhaps it was nothing at all if it didn't need to be locked in. Despite that, Sansa still felt her palms sweating in her gloves. She reached to hold onto the door of the gate closest to her, as if to steady herself, or bar her from whatever it might be. It woke up, startled by the incessant noise the hounds were making, though Sansa couldn't understand how it hadn't heard all that racket before. Perhaps he had sensed her though and that is why he had woken up with a wide-eyed terror painted on his face. Sansa couldn't control her breathing, shallow breaths, taking in the stink of the kennels. They couldn't take their eyes off each other.
"Theon," she said finally, because even under all those dirty rags, the greasy mop of hair, the stench, the missing fingers, she would always recognize him. Though he shook his head to her declaration and tried to curl into himself even more, hide more of himself that had already been damaged beyond repair. Then, he looked up again, slowly with a sadness she couldn't place. Was it for her or for himself?
"You shouldn't be here." If he was trying to warn her, Sansa already knew that much. She was angry. When she removed her hand from the gate, Theon scurried away, afraid of her, like she was going to beat him like an ill-tempered dog. Maybe she wanted to, but she stormed away with a huff, past the other dogs behind their cages. Sansa was revolted, irate, some at that girl Myranda, some at Theon, though most at Littlefinger, who wasn't even here, though no less a part of it. He had thrown her to the dogs, just as it seems Theon had been, and left her to fend for herself, amongst traitors to her house and crazed bastards who toyed and peeled pieces of humanity away. What was she supposed to do by herself?
She was just a young, stupid, stupid girl who trusted someone enough to be taken from the jaws of the lions and allowed herself to be thrown into another mess entirely. More then anything, Sansa was angry at herself.
AN: Hi, it's my first author's note. If you didn't already know, my name is Erica and thank you so much for taking the time and reading my fic. I do apologize for the slow start and the general rehashing of what's already been done before in the show, but I hope by next chapter it will become more interesting for you and definitely after the wedding things will start to pick up as well. If you couldn't tell already, I'm trying to upload once a week, every Sunday, always after Game of Thrones airs on TV, EST. I would greatly appreciate any sort of thoughtful review you might have, questions or concerns, or even where you might see this fic going.
Sorry, I write business emails all day so I feel like this is kinda a stiff introduction, but please let me get to know you all better and thank you for continually supporting me!