I'm not a stranger
It's just a strange land
It's getting louder, I leave when I can
Danger here is so quiet
Water here is the fire
Stranger is the fire
Water in the night
It's in me, it's in you too
Only she could know me
But we haven't met before
I'm feelin', feelin'
She think she knows me
I don't give a fuck at all
I let them all in, they all wanna stay
I'll tear it all down if that's what it takes
The danger here is I'm higher
Falling further to find it (ooooh)
Stranger in the fire
Lay with me tonight
It's in me, it's in you too
Only she could know me
But we haven't met before
I'm feelin', I'm feelin'
She think she knows me
I don't think she know at all
Face down, can't breathe
It's cold
Just don't need it
Face down, can't see
It's cold
Just don't need it
Face down, can't breathe
It's cold
Just don't need it
Face down, can't see
It's cold
Just don't need it
It's in me, it's in you too
Only she could know me
But we haven't met before
I'm feelin', feelin'
She think she knows me
I don't give a fuck at all
It's in me, it's in you too
Only she could know me
But we haven't met before
I'm feelin', feelin'
She think she knows me
I don't give a fuck at all
- "Stranger" by Mothxr
She was a vision. With the red having finally returned to her hair, she was everything he imagined her to be. Sansa Stark was not a girl styled after the North, although she completely belonged here. He thought on what her wedding might have been like to The Imp. Surely, she would have been dressed in summer silks, her hair done in a southron fashion, a red Lannister cloak draped over her shoulders, doing nothing to compliment her auburn hair. Dressed in all white, cast against the snow, her hair stood out now. It only cemented the fact that she was, indeed, who she said she was.
The apples of her cheeks were flushed red, an attractive sight against the delicate porcelain of her white skin. Though a man of few words already, even he was at a loss for them. In spite of her wedding dress and beneath the furs that covered her from him, he could tell that the shape of her body was pleasant. He had noticed her form before. When she had first arrived in Winterfell and stood by to wait for her. The way her chest curved outward, a gentle blossom of her hips, the lengthiness of her neck, to which she always seemed to be looking down onto him coldly. Sansa was nothing like his wife. She was the winter rose in the garden amongst all these dead brambles.
Roose Bolton moved forward to receive her. Tonight, there was total blackness in the godswoods, save the lanterns they had made to light the way. The heart tree loomed over them, bearing witness to this forced marriage. Her stark face, pale as the moon, in contrast to the night around them, stood out to him. Fear, confusion, hate? Perhaps Roose had expected these to grace her features, but she was devoid of any emotion, only pure apathy. Her mask. He imagined this is how she had been able to survive them yet; how the sweet singing bird had been tossed to the lions and bested them, to be able to come out alive at all. Had she shown a shadow of a doubt, perhaps Roose would have called the marriage to a stop, right then and there. He had plunged the dagger into Robb Stark's heart, could he truly send another Stark to their grave? In sight of the gods, he wed them.
The small wedding party made their way to the Great Hall, for what would be a small reception feast. He had not wanted one at all, did not care to be around the other Northern lords who detested him and secretly wished him dead, but Ramsay had insisted. Any excuse to eat and drink his fill. Winter had come, yet not in regards to the feast to be laid out tonight. They would only have to worry about their dwindling stores come morning. He was only worried about the girl before him. His eyes trained on her. On the way her body moved, slowly, carefully through the snow, head level, always looking forward. He noticed the chill that came from her exhales, he noticed the soft snowflakes, resting in her braids, sleeping on her lashes, he noticed Ramsay's hand reach to grab hers and twine their fingers together. Their hands had both been ungloved, as the majority of the hosts had been, and now they could find warmth in each other. Roose almost half-hoped she would snatch her hand away from his, but he knew to not expect any visible malice from Lady Sansa. She herself had reached for his son's hand at dinner. For all one knows, Sansa and Ramsay may truly be infatuated with each other.
Not for the first time tonight did Roose think to enact his rights for first night. Sansa Stark was a waste on his son. The boy was crude; him who played with his whores and hunted them, who's only joy was peeling people apart. He had given his son a virgin Stark bride, miracle that is was Tyrion Lannister had not taken her maidenhead before. Roose wondered what kind of strength the dwarf had to keep himself away from her. She was still growing, that much was obvious. A girl of seven and ten would grow only a little more, but he wondered just how much more. Sansa Stark must have her father's height; she was taller then most men gathered here today, certainly taller then any woman, taller then his own short, squat wife. He imagined how long her legs might be underneath that dress, how they might match in color to the gown, how they might look wrapped around his own hips.
The serving girls had laid the feast out already upon their arrival to the Great Hall. It was small in regards to the occasion, though fair more then they could afford to serve right now. Typically, the union between two great Houses would warrant more food then this, more drink then this, more sworn bannermen then these among them. But Roose was ill at ease by these numbers to begin with. A peaceful land, a quiet people. He spied the other Houses around him, the Umbers, the Manderlys, the Karstarks, even the Lady Barbrey Dustin had made the effort to leave her castle and join them, though he had wished she had not. The woman talked far too much and was far too curious. Though she was a fan of her own story of how late Brandon Stark had took her maidenhead. One need only mention the name "Brandon", even of a different person, and she'll discuss him at length. He keeps her by his side now, to entertain her and keep her sweet. The new Lady Bolton had been sat next to the other Lady Bolton, a sour attempt to placate the younger. Even Roose could see the anger and envy in those twin pools. If Ramsay had enough smart to entertain and adore his new lady wife, instead of drinking with his boys, maybe the tension would ease later tonight. Though, knowing his bastard, he was sure to spoil the mood in some other way.
His thoughts turned to the bedding that would occur later this evening. Roose was half-surprised Ramsay had not carried her to his bedchamber straight from the godswood. He had never known his bastard to have patience. The boy was quick-tempered and self-indulgent. Ramsay was still a child, overly eager to collect his prize and play with new toys. Roose wondered how damaged this one would be or how quickly his son would want to throw her away. Without a doubt, he would torment the girl somehow when they were alone together tonight. The castle would turn deaf ears to it, but Roose would still hear about it come the morrow, somehow. He had sealed Sansa Stark's fate and for that, he should bear witness to every hurt and downfall. Perhaps that was to be his own torture.
He noticed Sour Alyn make his way to where Theon was. Tonight, the Greyjoy boy had given away the bride, just as Ramsay had wanted. It was only by his word that he looked and smelled well enough to do the task. If it were up to Ramsay, his pet would have been stinking this whole hall, only another terror he could bestow on everyone else tonight. No matter how lordly Theon looked now, the dread in those eyes had not left him. He was scared to give Sansa Stark away, he was scared to be amongst all these lords and ladies, he was scared when Sour Alyn approached him and gave him direction. He was scared to approach Lady Sansa and bring her to her fate. The girl, with looks so much like a porcelain doll, resigned herself to lie among monsters. He spied his son, eyes so very like his own, trained on his bride. It was then that Roose realized that he had not ignored Sansa the entire evening. Yes, they had not talked nor sat next to each other throughout the feast, but he had always been looking at her, always hopeful she would look back at him. He had saved her from the bedding ceremony, perhaps another act of good faith, perhaps another act to vie for her attention. Roose had no idea his son was a romantic.
Ramsay made to get up from the table. Damon Dance-for-Me whistled as immature men are want to do – or those drunk in their cups – while his own son rolled his eyes.
"Promise to save me a piece of the bloody sheet, Ramsay!" Skinner had called after him. Ramsay made no notice of the request, but Roose noticed his son grimly sucking at his teeth, a trait the boy always had when he was annoyed by something. With the bride and groom now gone from the Great Hall, the feast would not last much longer. Roose would make sure of it. There would be no need to further this engagement. He called to the other lords of their Houses to draw them away and discuss Stannis's approaching army.
AN: So this really is a bit of a mini chapter. It's the shortest one to date, yaaaaay, haha! I had wanted to extend the wedding a bit and always kind of wanted it from two different, outside perspectives. I'll be working hard for Sunday's update in the meantime, which will finally move forward with the story. Thank you for always being patient with me and my penchant for slow-burn.