His father was marrying him off like a noble bitch in fine, silken skirts. He had been mistaken to be the Bolton highborn daughter by Roose Bolton apparently. Nothing good could come of this. If his father liked fat, ugly, unmarriageable girls so much, he could take this one too. Ramsay had no business being married, and whatever he had told Myranda, like fucking seven hells he would ever marry her either.
If they couldn't hold the North through fear, then he had been giving out daisies up until this point to the other lords. It was obvious they didn't need Tywin Lannister and his pacts, marriage to sustain their hold, or any other damned plot his father came up with for him to, for all intents and purposes, be bent over and fucked in the ass.
That had been what Ramsay had though before.
Before Sansa Stark rode into the courtyard of Winterfell. Before he saw the pale whiteness of her skin that shone even against the snowy backdrop, framed by raven-black locks and draped in clothes that only helped enhance her features. Before he saw the daggered look to her brilliantly clear blue eyes that she gave to his father. How delighted he felt, like a butterfly crush fluttering in his stomach, when all that venom she possessed was aimed at his father, the dark malice a swirling aura around her, only to drop instantaneously and a pretty coat of pleasantries and courtesies had replaced it. Even if she didn't mean it, her killing intent radiated warmth in these first snows, and Ramsay didn't know if that had excited him more or how quickly her fangs could retreat and reveal a sweet smile instead, soft and strange enough to keep even Roose Bolton spellbound.
She was far from fat or ugly and Ramsay was pleased his father had a Fat Walda Frey, because the son got something better. Ramsay was sure Roose Bolton wished he had traded in all his wife's weight in silver to snatch up the pretty young Stark girl, all long limbs and cool apathy. Her incredibly long neck he couldn't wait to bruise kisses into and dance fingers around. His father had never given him a present before, but Sansa Stark certainly made up for all the years past of neglect. Well, perhaps he still might hold that against the old man.
He had promised Littlefinger he would never hurt her, and Ramsay had half a mind to do so. Her skin like porcelain, partly afraid his touch might shatter her and he might wake up from a delusion that she had ever been there in the first place. She was the most exquisite thing he'd ever been able to look upon and he knew he didn't deserve her, though had they not already been agreed to be married to each other, Ramsay would have found some other way to have taken her. There was a vulnerability to her, as strong a front she tried to put up, as many courtesies she armored herself in, Sansa couldn't shake it off and it showed in a haunted look beneath those vivid blues. If anything, it made Sansa Stark even more beautiful and Ramsay was determined to bring out more of it.
He had heard she went to the crypts often. It was a place untouched by the Ironborn scum that had burned this placed down and equally left alone by him and his father. In truth, Ramsay had never stepped foot into the crypts. Little interest in dead Starks staring at him, if nothing else, especially when there were plenty of other amusements within Winterfell. Though now, the crypts suddenly piqued his curiosity and he couldn't think of a better place to meet his intended if not alone amongst those lifeless and cold. When he had found her there, she looked half a spirit herself. Her night-black hair was loose, untied for the first time that he had seen, and framed her face like a dark curtain. She wore the ebony clothing she had arrived in, feathers sewn into the expanse of her dress, reflecting blackened-blues by the light of the numerous candles she had already lit. Only that of her face and hands shone pale amongst the pitch darkness; her fingers, long, delicate, elegant, looking almost like white spiders daintily carrying fire from one wick to the next. When the flame danced in a certain light, her high cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut a man who dared come too close. In these shadows, Sansa looks a Queen to these Starks long gone. She could be wife to the god of Death.
When Ramsay had taken her hand, it wasn't cold like he half-expected it to be. Still warm, still pumping blood to chase through her veins, still something to cut open and bleed. They watched the hot wax drip onto her hand, his attention paid to her only, studying her, guessing what she might do. Drawn like the ocean is pulled by the moon, he moved in closer as she continued to do nothing. Though not a harsh pain, the hot wax could be uncomfortable enough, yet she was unfazed. She stood only slightly taller then himself and from here, he could see Sansa's lips were not kissed blue, but in fact quite lovely, her bottom lip had a slight pout and they were hued rosy with life. Ramsay wished he could take her first kiss. To take her right here, bend her over the iron swords that lay across the laps of those dead Starks, have their eyes give audience to their joining.
The familiar tightness in his pants cued him to steer away from the direction his thoughts were heading and he broke their concentration. He could play the good highborn heir. Ramsay could prove his father wrong, that he wasn't such the mad dog everyone likened him to be. He had restraint. He told himself it would be sweeter when he could have it for true on the night of their marriage. A fragile, gentle, noble, virgin lady deserved to be broken after her wedding.
She had called him by his name and it would be enough for him. He would find Myranda, even though it wasn't what he wanted.
With their one meeting in the crypts, Ramsay had gone out of his way not to meet with her again. Myranda had only served to get on his nerves and push his desires of Sansa closer to the forefront of his mind. Though, in this situation now, he couldn't avoid her or pretend not to note her presence. His father had been the one to have him call Sansa for them to all sup together. They had never taken meals together since her arrival in Winterfell and it was rare for even his father and him to dine at the same time. Roose Bolton had even come to find Ramsay himself instead of pass along the message.
"You've been rather," his father had said, once finding him in his bed chamber, "behaved lately." He had been getting dressed, having Reek lace up the front of his shirt, when his father had come in. Ramsay didn't even try to hide the roll of his eyes.
"Well that is what you told me to do, wasn't it father?" Ramsay swatted Reek's trembling fingers away, while normally the slow and clumsy way he was handled things amused him, in front of his father he became annoyed at his ineptness. He smirked though when the other man cowered into himself as usual and went to finish the laces on his shirt himself. The slight gratification Ramsay got from his abuses to Reek did nothing to lighten the mood between him and his father. He met the ice-cold stare of his father, with eyes so like his own, if anything paler and more unforgiving.
"Yes, I did," he said, "and you'll continue to do so. You will treat the Stark girl right. I will not be hearing about her ill-treatment by your hands from other lords of Houses. For the other lords that oppose us, that will be enough fuel for them to turn to the Stark's side." To Ramsay, it was like asking a small boy to not play with his favorite toy.
"I hardly think we need to give two shits what those fat lords hear or don't hear," Ramsay retaliated. "You're Warden of the North and they're not. We hold power here." His father never wore emotions on his sleeve, his face a mask, and now was no different; what tales of Roose Bolton others heard would be hold true still, even in front of his own son, as they always were. He only stared at his son with those eyes that did not betray the thoughts hidden behind them. They stood in a space of a silence that had almost become deafening. Ramsay shifted in his feet, only tearing his eyes from the pair ahead of him to look at his Reek, another who was avoiding the eyes of his father.
"Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy," Roose finally said after awhile. "Your intended wife knows this. It would be best if you learn by her example if you ever hope to rule." He watched his father turn around to leave his bed chambers. Without turning around to face him, he said, "Invite her to dine with us." and left.
The old man was playing games with him, he knew it. Restricting him, trying to keep him on a leash, chained up. He was not the baseborn son to hide away in a castle, to reprimand for his existence. If he was not to play with Sansa Stark, he would have to find some other amusements for the time being. Reek shuffled in the corner and Ramsay smiled to himself. He would have his fun, in spite of his father's rules. He had walked into this dinner with a plan already formulated.
"I trust you'll find your chambers suitable, my lady," his father said, after some time. His fat wife was too busy stuffing her face to make conversation and Roose Bolton seemed to sense the need to fill the air with some. Happy to play his part, Ramsay put on his best look and dutifully poured his betrothed more wine. She answered his father with short, clipped responses, sullen, eyes trained on her cup and his overreaching arm. When he pulled away, her eyes flitted up to meet his for a fraction of a second.
"Mother," Ramsay said, offering to fill her cup as well now. The woman in front of him smiled kindly, almost proudly at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sansa reaching for her cup, though not to drink from it. His father kept his gaze trained on him the entire time, those eyes lighter then stone looking at him in a subtle disapproval, almost daring him to make a scene. Who am I not to do as my father asks of me? He carefully tried to move back his chair with as little noise as possible, though not totally managed. With his glass raised, Ramsay turned to Sansa.
"My lady," he addressed her, but no sooner had he said that did Sansa turn away from his gaze and look down at her plate again. He was suddenly disappointed. Ramsay had wanted her full attention on him throughout the dinner, had even hoped she would throw her pointed words at his father again, only for him to receive pleasantries and smiles. It would be a victory over Roose Bolton, taming the she-wolf and using her against his own father. He had wanted her to look at him with more then her face of apathy though, for the first time, Ramsay wishes to see or evoke true emotion from Sansa.
"We are all a family, we Northerns," he continued, hardly skipping a beat. "Our blood ties go back, thousands of years. So I would like to drink to our wedding. May our happiness spread from Moat Cailin to the Last Hearth." He had seen his father's eyes go between himself and Sansa, spying her reaction, though there had been none. He heard his father's quick response, the dumb cheer from his stepmother, and the resolute sound of Sansa's cup being firmly placed back on the table and pushed away from her. Ramsay drank deep from his own. This time he paid no mind to the sound his chair made as he made his seat.
"Your wedding is so soon now, are you excited?" Walda asked. Sansa turned to look at Walda with the most saccharine smile.
"Oh yes. I'm hopeful no one will die at this wedding," she replied in turn. It took everything for Ramsay not to laugh out loud at her dumb face, mouth gaping open like she was trying to catch flies. His father didn't even acknowledge what Lady Sansa had said, only a mere flick of his eyes up from his plate and back down again.
"It must be difficult for you," the stupid cow continued speaking, a pitiful attempt to make move past the prior awkward conversation, "being in a strange place."
"This isn't a strange place. This is my home," Sansa said. Oh, he could have kissed that look right off her face. Every bit the highborn girl she was raised to be, Sansa looked down on Fat Walda Frey, scathing, fiery, with contempt. He was even happy his stepmother had opened her dumb mouth. "It's the people who are strange." Sansa didn't even bat an eye, a game of dominance until Sansa won with the lowering of Walda's own gaze. Why had he ever wanted to avoid her? The Lady Sansa was too amusing for her own good. Ramsay turned to her and finally she treated him with her own hardened look. He was reminded of the stone sepulchers where he had met her, the face of a dead Stark staring back at him, uncaring, unmoved, uninvolved. Who couldn't help but smile.
"You're right. Very strange," Ramsay said, and finished his wine. Before he had even set his cup down, he called for more.
Ah, it was his pièce de résistance, in every sense. His finest handy work come to serve in, up until now, his crowning moment between the triangle of himself, his father, and his betrothed. With the hobbling shuffling he'd come to love, in came Reek, particularly ripe, particularly broken, and particularly disgusting to Sansa Stark. Ramsay had the courtesy to dress Reek up of course though, he had listened to his father. When he had sent Myranda to Sansa with the late Lady Stark's found garments, he'd kept something for his Reek too. It wouldn't do for Reek to serve Lady Sansa in his old rags, oh no. She had been looking towards the entryway, expectant, but averted her gaze quickly, as if turning a blind eye to him would make Reek go away completely.
"I heard you two had been reunited," Ramsay said, in some sort of vain effort to keep her drawn to what was happening before her. He was rewarded with Sansa's attention turned back to him. He even pretended like it mattered not to him, almost theatrically looking up at the ceiling. "A fitting place for it." With an almost innocent, juvenile-like excitement, he looked over to gauge her reaction. Her attention was completely on him, her face frozen in her in what was becoming her typical glare.
"I like to imagine," he continued, "that the last time you spoke was in this very room." Only when Reek came to fill her already full cup, did Sansa turn away from him. He could strangle Reek for it. For grabbing her attention, even when she wanted to look away, did Sansa study Reek. Her eyes didn't wander; they were trained on him, like they hadn't been on anything before.
"Are you still," there was a soft pause, "angry with him after," more theatrics, anything to get her attention back on him, "what he did?" Ramsay stared pointedly at her, saying the last words like it was a struggle to do so, like he felt any kind of sympathy to her plight. "Don't worry, the North remembers. I punished him for it. He's not Ironborn anymore. Not Theon Greyjoy anymore. He's a new man! A new person anyway," he couldn't help but feel giddy, thinking she might share the same feeling with him, but his was still met with the grave-faced Stark. Even less then the girl he had met down below in the crypts. Ramsay turned his attention to Reek instead. Good Reek, loyal Reek, Reek who would surely never disappoint him, who would always give him what he wanted.
"It's that right, Reek!" He was answered with cheerful joys from his most favorite pet. "That's his new name. Reek," he stressed it to her.
"Why are you doing this?" Finally Sansa turned to look at him. What he had been waiting for. It wasn't the poisoned look she had given his father upon meeting him, he was almost sad to say. Ramsay had wanted to be on the receiving end of one of those, hoping to feel her heat from it. It wasn't curious disgust she graced Reek with, though he didn't quite want that either. It was scrutinizing. Purely quizzical. Purely seeking answers to his nature. And she couldn't turn away from him.
"Because Reek has something to say to you, don't you Reek?" It was his favorite game. Torturing Reek. Tormenting those around him. His father had not said a word since and his wife was too dumb to say another more, after her first failed attempt. It was his game. This is what he's best at, and even his father couldn't take this away from him. Good, properly trained Reek came to his beck and call, with a twitch of his own finger. Ramsay let them suffer through Reek's bumbling apologies, choking on his words and forcing him to heave them back up. He forced Reek to look at Sansa, and in Reek's reaction he could almost see her face reflected in it. Callous, Ramsay thought she might be, hostile, he thought she might be, merciless, he thought she might be, eyes rimmed red, he hoped she might be. For Reek's surely were. With the last of the apology strangled out of him, only then did Ramsay allow himself to look at his intended.
Her eyes were closed to him. Those around him had turned away from him. All but his father, who's eyes of the palest blue had been trained on him from the beginning. As if he had been expecting him to do this all along. He broke the tension. With the sound of the table against the floor, his father's lips parted, a nonexistent sigh for his antics to be over with. Ramsay didn't miss the quick wipe across her cheek as she hid the tear away. For some reason, it hadn't given him any satisfaction to see it. He could only joke to mask the feeling.
"You know what, my lady." Here it comes. The climax of his little scheme. What Ramsay had been planning all along, ever since his father told him no. He almost didn't want to put it in motion, but he'd laid the tracks down, it was too late to back down. "What with him having murdered your brothers, and the rest of your family gone. Reek here, is the nearest thing to living kin that you have left." He couldn't help himself. Ramsay had to look at her again.
"Reek! You will give away the bride," the apprehension he had had before saying the words, had all gone now. It was beautiful, dizzying. Her face stunned, mouth opened, lack of air, lack of understanding. Sansa Stark was truly exquisite , an absolute delight, the perfect gift from his father. Ramsay couldn't be happier. He didn't even try to hide his grin.
"Good?" He questioned around the table. "Good?"
"Yes, yes, very good," his father's voice came above his customary whisper, but only slightly. It was a warning. A tight-lipped smile directed his way should have let him know for sure. Ramsay shoved the feeling aside, returning to his all but forgotten cup of wine. "Walda and I have some good news as well." There is was, that look. His father was up to something. "Since we're all together." He even tried to come off as good natured.
"We're going to have a baby." That oversized bovine just couldn't keep her mouth shut. The half-wit had to go and spoil his good mood. It was his games they were playing, not his father's, not the imbecilic-
"I'm very happy for you." Armored with her courtesies, wasn't she? Sansa also wore a tight-lipped smile, but something in those vivid blues had real mirth in their depths. She was still stunning, all the while amused by the situation. Like she didn't understand the position it put him in, like she didn't care to know how it effected the two of them, together. In equal parts he wanted to bruise his hands around her and steal soft kisses from that smile.
"From the way she's carrying, Maester Wolkan says it looks like a boy." His father spoke to him as if he was simple. Like he didn't understand how it effected his claim. His father spoke in airs like he had had this trump card up his sleeve the whole time. That anything Ramsay said or did neither effected or troubled Roose Bolton in the slightest, because he had this. A new baby boy to be the Bolton heir, to be lord of the Dreadfort and lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North and whatever else he damned well pleased or wanted, because that baby boy was probably gonna get it. If he waited around a few more years, maybe that baby boy would get his Sansa Stark too.
"Aren't you happy, Ramsay?" He felt a small, dainty hand reach for his own resting on the arm of his chair. He hadn't expected her hand to grasp for his, curling fingers around the shape of his, tucking them underneath the palm of his hand. He wanted to drown in his cups, but instead Ramsay found himself look towards her. Sansa's smile was radiate. She seemed sincere in her feelings, candid in her caresses, heartfelt in her words. Who could ever think of Sansa Stark of the demon she-wolf who killed a king and framed another? She was a girl, perfect and innocent and sweet to the touch.
Ramsay's grip turned to crush her own. Sansa smiled brighter still, very much lucent in the drab background of the North. She squeezed her hand to his, returning his favor, like it was something all lovers did to show their affections. Had this been what his father had meant? Sansa Stark's power over him seemed sweeter with all her comity, her amiability, her civility, her armor. She didn't remove her hand and he didn't let go.
"Very."