Ramsay woke up before his wife. Beneath the furs they shared, her body was hidden from him. Sansa lay with her back turned to him, on the furthest side of the bed. He stretched, creeping out of the bed so as not to disturb her slumber, and made his way to where Reek had curled up. His pet had done everything he had been told to last night, well, with the exception of leading Sansa by her arm into the godswood. Though what had transpired before would probably be punishment enough for Reek. He wouldn't want to spoil the mood the day after his wedding.
He hadn't wanted to leave Sansa cold and refrained from grabbing a cover, so he crouched naked in front of Reek. His eyes were puffy, no doubt from all his incessant crying the night before. As if the other could feel his gaze on him, Reek awoke with a start. Ramsay smiled.
"Reek," he whispered softly, "you can go now. Don't you know a man should be alone with his wife the morning after they've been wed. That's very rude of you to disturb us." Trying to make haste, Reek scurried to get up, clamoring to his feet. He always had a noisy, clumsy way about him, which Ramsay found amusement in usually, though today he could find little humor in it. He held an index finger to his lips in a signal for silence, which Reek nodded anxiously in compliance. He hobbled as quietly as possible, though fruitless in his attempt with the act of opening and closing the bedroom door. Ramsay sighed, running fingers through his hair, and padded back to the bed he now shared with his darling wife.
She was awake now, though pretending not to be. Her body was stiff beneath the furs, breathing controlled and even, similar to prey trying to remain hidden during a hunt. He crawled back into bed to be with her, pulling the covers off her body, watching the goosebumps erupt to meet the chill in the air. Sansa did not respond other then her body's involuntary reaction.
As it was customary in the North, the weak sun tried to burrow through skies of slate gray. Had it not been for the hot springs that ran through the walls of Winterfell and the dying embers of flame in their hearth, they would have no other warmth, not from the numerous candles previously lit and certainly not from the sun. Sunbeams strained to make their way through the window, feeble as they were, though it still provided Ramsay enough light to look upon his wife. What he had originally thought in the darkness of last night was perfect, smooth, beautiful, ivory skin, proved to be wrong. In the morning light, he saw the discoloration of old bruises and hurts, scar tissue puckered. He peeled the wolf pelt further down her body, revealing the defects that littered her body. He found the red stain dying the inside of her thighs, his memento. Still, there was not even a hint of movement from her and had it not been for the steady rise and fall of her breathing, Ramsay would think her dead. Her face is perfect and pretty, a picture. Sansa Stark's body was flawed, marked, beautiful, a snowy white expanse still. Ramsay moved closer, hugging her body close to him. He crushed a kiss into her back, on one of her imperfections, one, two, another and another. There was a sharp intake; Sansa showed signs of life.
"Don't," she said, her voice low, something he strained to listen to. Ramsay ignored her. His lips were soft against her skin, marred, lovely, but his hand was hard at her hip, grip forceful, pulling her as close as he could to him."Stop it, Ramsay." Sansa did not bother to raise her voice any louder then it previously was, though her tone became more commanding. He moved to turn her over, to face him, reaching to bite and suck at the delicate flesh of her neck, down to her shoulders. She fought him now, all her effort to push him away or claw at him with her fingernails. Ramsay met her with equal fervor. She finally looked down on him with the same murderous venom she bestowed on his father. Eyes were dark, swirling sapphires, feral and angry. He kissed her on those roseate lips. She growled, shoving soft hands forcibly against his face.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" She sounded the part of a spoiled little girl, but she didn't cry. Sansa fought against him with wild fury, though her attacks were weak and half-hearted. Ramsay clutched her face between one hand, the other moved south, fingers looking to dip into the heat between her legs instead.
Without warning, the heavy wooden door was pushed open. Myranda stood in the entryway. Both husband and wife glared daggers at the unexpected guest. Ramsay released his hold, though Sansa did not make any attempt to move from him.
"I'm to draw a bath for Lady Sansa," Myranda said, eyes not meeting his. Ramsay flopped onto his back, with a roll of his eyes. As if he were to believe that. Knowing Myranda, the cunt purposely wanted to interrupt them. Her jealousy games were going to be annoying.
"Well, go on then, get to it," Ramsay drawled. "Don't make my lady wife wait." He gave Myranda a pointed look, one she caught this time as she left the bedchamber. Ramsay rolled over again, draping an arm across the front if his wife's body, feeling her secure against him. The points of her hip bones poked at him and he lazily began to trace shapes and swirls around them. Again, Sansa became dead to him. Ramsay stared at her, while she bore holes into the ceiling of their bedchamber.
She would always be breath-taking to him. No matter the pains she went through, no matter the scars that marked her body, no matter what torture he would undoubtedly force onto her. Her face was innocence and an angel, hardened ivory mask that it was, but one only had to peer through her cracks to meet the soft interior. Ramsay would never be able to control himself around her.
Myranda returned with pots of boiling water, other handmaidens accompanying her. One drug the bathing basin from across the room to ready it for the bath. Next to him, Sansa covered her body with the wolf fur. Methodical, meticulously, a girl after another came with heated water to fill the tub, each averting their eyes to him and his wife, except Myranda. She stared at him unabashed, a silent strength to prove her worth. Ramsay would play her game, for a moment. He laid there, possessively holding onto Sansa though eyes were not on her. Even if she was covered by the pelt, Myranda would not miss the movement of his hand. His middle and ring finger were rewarded with a warmth, though dry upon entry. He thumbed at the pearl hidden in her folds. Sansa squirmed and moved to cover him with the blanket as well, her other hand went to remove him from within. Finally, Myranda bowed her head and stormed out from the room. Even if Sansa rejected him, Ramsay smiled.
The bath stood steaming in the middle of the room. The girl from before had moved it close to the fireplace, also taking the time to light the fire anew. Though the early morn, the water would cool fast from the winter chill. Once the basin had been filled, Myranda returned, as was her duty. Avoiding his gaze, she moved to the side of the bed his wife lay. She offered a hand to help Sansa out of bed. Worse then the look she gave him, worse then the one she gave his father, Sansa wanted to kill with the poison in her gaze.
"Do not touch me," she spit venom to the other girl. Ramsay barked a laugh, his hold still on her. He nooked his face into the crook of her neck and gave her another lovebite. Sansa was too preoccupied to give fight against him. "Don't ever touch me again. I'll bathe myself." Myranda's hand dropped to her side as Sansa flipped the pelt off her body and rose from the bed. She shined with her abuses, radiated with the blood between her legs, glowed with a savage rage. Ramsay crawled to her from his side of their bed, cradling her from behind, face pressed into her backside. She pushed his hold off of her.
"You can leave now," Sansa said, to whom he was uncertain, though Myranda followed her orders regardless. Once the other girl was gone, his wife went to close the door, unabashed by her lack of clothing. She slammed it shut. Sansa made her way to the tub and sunk beneath the waters. With a renewed sort of passion, she began to furiously scrub at her skin, copper tainting the waters already.
Ramsay studied his wife. The abrasive rag that had been left for her ran red marks across her skin, attempts to rid herself of his touch he knew. Sansa tried to cleanse the place between her legs, to ease the hurts he had dealt to her, to purge the ghost of him inside her. Silent tears fell uninvited from the stormy blues. Red rimmed eyes met the pale ice of his own. Without looking away, Sansa sunk beneath the water.
Without his wife's gaze on him, Ramsay left the comforts of their bed. He wondered how long she would stay under and moved across the room to where the tub sat. His fingers rippled rings across the surface of the water. It was still warm, inviting, and he stepped in it. There wasn't enough room for the both of them and Sansa scrunched up to the opposite side to accommodate him. She made to rise from below the water. Ramsay held her head, denying her access to the surface. He felt her kick against him, thrash and batter in the water, but to no avail. The wilder her movements became, the more steadfast he held onto her. At last, when he didn't think she could take it anymore, did he release her. She broke through the water, a gasp for air, noisy, sucking in what she could. He leaned forward to take that breath from her, stealing more kisses. She bit at his lips and he smiled.
"Turn around, Sansa," Ramsay said, their lips still in contact. She obeyed him, the fangs she sank into him gone, and presented her back to him. Ramsay sat down, his legs moving to fill the space in front of her, wrapping around her waist, as she made room for him. He reached around to take the rag from her hands and wrung it out, moving it across the expanse of her back, tender as any lover would. His hardening length pressed into her from where they sat.
Everyday since their wedding night, Sansa dressed in the white dress of her bridal gown. The fur has been ruined as well as the laces in the back, but she repaired the dress almost as good as new. They shared their marriage bed every night, and every morning Sansa looked the bride again. She alternated withering looks or blatant ignorance when their eyes blinked the sleep away, sometimes lenient to his touches, other times fighting with him in fury. She left their bedchamber in the same way everyday, an ache between her legs and dressed a blushing bride. From the bottom of her dressing chest, she dug out an off-white colored cloak, fine had it been once he was sure, though no longer the case. It was painted with someone's blood.
His she-wolf didn't answer him when he questioned who's it was, only pecked a kiss to his lips and left their room. She moved around Winterfell as a specter, matching the snow that fell daily onto the grounds. She gave her courtesies to all she met throughout the castle, pleasant to his father and stepmother, the household guard, an old lady, to him. All except Myranda, which he could never understand why, nor cared to discover the true reasons. He wondered where she went, though he was quick to find out. Sansa only moved from beneath the crypts of Winterfell or within the godswood.
He found her there, often enough, praying underneath the heart tree. He would not approach her, only inspect her from behind. Her autumn hair looked out of place amongst the white around her, though even the weirwood tree had red leaves. Her eyes were always closed, but Ramsay had the sense that she could see him. He always felt watched in the godswood, though he didn't know if it was his imagination playing tricks on him or the unnerving bloody gaze of the tree she sat near. The red sap that cried blood matched the stains on her cloak. It made them both seem more vicious then they were.
For one week he studied her this way, never coming too close, though he wasn't sure if it was for her consideration or his nerve. On the day he went to her, the snow had turned icy and his footsteps crunched when he moved. Her eyes did not flutter open as he expected they would.
"What do you pray for, Sansa?" Ramsay stood in front of her. Offhand, he thought he could name any number of things she might pray for. Her dead family wished back to life, death to him and his father, true freedom within her home, the clocks to turn back time. Any were fair, he admitted.
"I pray for my lost innocence, Ramsay," Sansa said, eyes closed still. He sat beside her, close enough for their bodies to be touching, shoulder to shoulder, and unfastened his cloak to drape it across her body.