Sansa woke in the height of the night to see Polaris, once again, roused by the native sounds of Winterfell. He was on the windowsill, perched on his haunches, glaring out over the Godswood. She pulled herself upwarsd, clutching the quilt to her chest. "Polaris, what's wrong?"

"Our kin on four legs are restless tonight, Red Wolf," he mentioned simply, though his eyes were glowing and on high alert. "Can you not hear them?"

Short mournful howls overlapped by vicious barks filled the air and the hairs on Sansa's neck stood on end.

She was swift to get to her feet and dress herself into her outdoor robes. "We'll take Nymeria into the Wood."

"I overheard the cook's gossip earlier today," he added, watching her get ready and he was aiming for the door as soon as she was. But he delayed. "The dead are coming, they'd said."

"Hush. I've heard the old stories of walking dead men before," Sansa brushed it off quickly, shoving him further ahead of her. "Folktales. But if it were the dead scratching at our walls, we would know it. Death follows them wherever they go, and our land hasn't been doing anything but thriving. We do not need to fear that now."

Sansa, Polaris, and Nymeria were drawn forward by the endless barking that didn't sound quite right and they stopped abruptly at what they saw. Someone, a man, was running towards them, herded in their direction by two snarling hounddogs. One of the dogs actually gained enough speed to lunge at him, biting into his boot. The stranger grunted, kicked the hound off, and came stumbling to the ground in front of them, falling on his hand and knees.

"My gods!" Sansa gasped. "Theon?"

Why was he here? Where did he come from? What did he want?

Theon himself, dirty and scraggily from head to toe, snapped his head up at them, eyes rounded and ablaze with acknowledgement—both Sansa and Polaris approached him, helping him to stand upright. Though the word "Run!" was all he managed to get out before he pushed on ahead and started to drag Sansa behind him. Polaris followed while Nymeria dashed off down the side trail.

More hounddogs appeared over the hill simultaneously, as many as seven or eight of them, and they were now tracking them, yapping and growling behind them, coming up fast. Polaris could outrun them surely by himself, but the hobbling Theon slowed Sansa down. She wasn't willing to let go of him either just to get mauled.

"Hurry!"

The three of them relinked together, soon reaching the main river that weaved in great curves all the through the Northern Realm. Polaris, again, got across the current with great ease, jumping the logs, whereas Theon and Sansa had to lower themselves into the water and wade through it; the floating ice chunks chilled their bones with each step they took. They made it in one piece nonetheless, as the hounds were left there whining behind them, wandering back and forth on the sloppy bank, too afraid of the freezing river.

They didn't cease running until Theon had eventually jerked Sansa under the veil of braches of a pine fallen tree, telling her to stay down. Shivering, she conformed, staring at him, nodding. She was too curious and too stunned to tear her eyes away from him. Polaris crawled in with them and wrapped his arms around Sansa, rubbing her back. She leaned into his warmth, resting her dazed head on his shoulder, still looking aside. "Theon…," she panted under her breath, "...what's happening?"

"You must go." Theon's whole body was shaking like hers, though it was from more than just the cold. It was also from his blind terror. "They're coming for me."

"Wait!" Sansa struggled and grabbed his wrist. "We won't leave with you."

"You can, and you must," he hissed, trying to be polite of all things before he pried her hands off him. "Lord Bolton knows I ran from the caravan to come back here and look for you."

And the next they knew he was unsheathing a heavy dagger and clutched the hilt for dear life. Glancing over his shoulder through the creaking branches, he slunk out to confront the incoming threat alone.

It made sense to her then. Theon wasn't by himself. It was an ambush, a search party. Someone had been after him, trying to find him before he'd find her at the fort, and they'd boldly trespassed into Northern territory to do it too.

Now the intruders on horseback were there, surrounding Theon mercilessly as he put on an act, covering for her.

Those are Bolton flags.

"Fool," they heard one of the enemy-servers laughing. "I can't wait to see what part of you Ramsey will cut off next."

And, with his dagger slicing into flesh first, Theon and men scuffled.

Suddenly, more hooves struck the pathway on the opposite side of the clearing like beating drums and two additional figures in armor emerged, their swords drawn high for the recuse. With that, Nymeria's Moors Pack had just arrived behind them, sprinting up with snow flying out around their paws. They leapt and charged into the fight, tackling the hounddogs as they went.

Soldiers were cutting fervently into each other. Helmets rolled. Blood spouted to the ground. Wolves tore into dogs.

And when the last cry of pain was muffled by a deadly blow, Sansa and Polaris gradually crept out and observed the cluster of wounded bodies, then peered at the two apparently-heroic champions presently huffing and puffing beside Theon with great interest.

The wolves licked their chops, retreating somewhat, and they began to circle them purposely, safeguarding Sansa.

The largest person among the trio in both mass and height—remarkably the woman—gazed directly back at Sansa, and stepped up respectfully, kneeling low before her. "Milady Sansa."

"Queen Sansa," Polaris corrected.

"...My Queen…," The woman-knight attuned, seemingly amazed to hear of Sansa's official crowning this soon. "…I offer you my services once again. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if needed. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Gladdened, Sansa immediately knew she wanted to keep this particular knight at her side. "And I...I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth," she recited slowly, recalling the words of favor by heart, "and meat and mead at my table. I pledge in return to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. Now rise."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

The traveling trio was guided back to the fort, the wolves flanking them the whole way there. Podrick kept watching, staring at them in question, and even tall and wide Brienne couldn't help to flinch if one of them pranced too closely to her.

"Haven't you ever seen a wolf?" Polaris asked her.

"Not so many at once," she confessed, trying to sound calm and nothing else.

"If you don't bother them, they won't bother you," Sansa cautioned as she contained walking by.

Sansa had finally asked Polaris to light a fire for them as she fetched Gendry to help bring Bran into the hearth room first, while she could go wake Jon as well.

And after they were all reintroduced, judged, then settled in the warmth of the lively fire, Theon had commenced his tale of tattered dreams and regrets. "Ramsay wants to break you. Rip you apart." He had further explained how he got tangled up with the Bolton Company as well. "You really think you can just chase them into the wilderness, take back Winterfell, and they'd leave quietly without a single protest? Ramsay can't lose while he is alive yet to fight it. That's how his mind works. He plays with men and woman like they're toys. I've seen what he does. He's tortured me...shamed me, amongst many others...he's raped women in front of me. He'll pull at your seams, mocking you, unraveling you till you can't put yourself back together again."

"And you left to warn us about his scheme to come back?" Jon assumed, staring, watching Theon's hands twitch. So much despair was coming off him in waves. It was pitiful. Jon frowned.

"He knows about Rickon," Theon revealed at last, refusing to look at Bran. "He knows Rickon's out there and not under your protection. I'm sorry—I never meant it to go so far—I tried—I was sent to kill your brothers, but I when—I couldn't, so—so I killed two boys who looked like them as trophies to bring back to them. But they've heard Bran's here now. They found out about I've done, and I was about to executed and pinned up on a wooden cross for treason if I hadn't ran off when I did."

"He'll make certain he'll find Rickon out of revenge," Squire Podrick confirmed. "He'll bring you to battle that way or another."

"Or your sister," Brienne agreed.

Sansa's stomach flipped. She regarded the woman-knight with new optimism shining in her eyes. "You've seen Arya?"

"When?" Gendry piped up, wondering out loud in Sansa's stead.

"She'd left with a man." Brienne clarified remorsefully, for she could not give them a reliable location. "I don't think he hurt her. Or stole her away. She didn't want to leave him, and he didn't want to leave her behind. It was intentional."

"You don't know that she sailed to Braavos?" Sansa's previously-hardened voice began to crack over the last few syllables, and Bran had considerately reached out to take her hand in his own. "Or what she was doing on that ship?"

Brienne looked downwards. "I spent three days looking for her after that. She just…disappeared."

"How'd she look?" Bran had to ask as Sansa breathed in and out, her heart constricting once.

"She looked good, young prince. Alive. Fed daily. She wasn't exactly dressed like a lady, though."

"No, she wouldn't be."

"Theon," Sansa called out, walking up to his free horse being watered and prearranged for travel. "You're leaving?"

"I have to. I cannot...stay here now."

"And where could you go?" she inquired, biting her lip.

He quivered, "Home."

Jon made Commander, had gathered up Winterfell's scouts on Sansa and Bran's suggestion, and searched for any sign of Rickon. It couldn't be ignored any longer. Winterfell had Sansa, its new queen, but a Stark brother was still out there by himself, unaware. He was a part of them, a piece of memory of their childhood, and certainly it was time to find him again before tragedy would hurt him first.

That was set and decided nearly a full month ago already. The full moon was tomorrow and Sansa's Wolf blood was boiling to life again, howling far beneath her skin. Bran could sense it. So could Polaris. All of their nerves were on edge.

But now, as the gates were reopened and a flood of dark stallions from Castle Black came running through, led by Jon, a Giant, and a Red Witch, Sansa stood soundlessly in the Square with Brienne, aching, hoping for news.

Jon looked different, in his time being gone. His jawline flaunted a distinguished beard now—more manly looking, older—his hair appeared less disheveled and was pulled back. He was a handsome face to represent their homeland. The very sight of him walking gradually towards her over the snow, that soft expression of his longing for home, and with no Rickon tucked under his arm, made Sansa hiccup in her throat and she jumped into his arms.

Sansa made sure Polaris busied himself entertaining (reassuring) Bran…not that she really needed to. They had bonded as good friends well enough regardless of her sisterly pushing or not. They sunk into their own little world of Elláda stories and related wolf tales. In the meantime, she let them be in order to converse privately with Jon about something else.

"Sansa?" He was waiting at her open door soon enough, knocking once on the wood.

"Jon, come in," she said smiling.

He obliged, pointing out, "Is that a new dress?"

"How does it look?" She smoothed out the front of her long skirting. "I made it myself."

"Well...I like the wolf-head bit you have there."

"Good. Because I happened to make something for you too while you were away."

"For me?"

Silently, she nodded and began tugging at something that had been stuffed into the back the large oak wardrobe Ned and Caitlyn once shared. All he saw was a flash of dark cloth and fur before Sansa turned again, throwing her surprise over his head, adjusting the straps. When it was fixed just right across his shoulders, she backed away, admiring his appearance. "There."

Jon looked down at his chest now baring a series of fancy buckles and leathery twists. It was a lord's cape, that was clear. Then he noticed that wolf-head emblem on it, identical to hers, glinting in the window's light.

"How does it fit?" She urged. "I tried my best to make it just like Father's."

"Ah," he started, merely in awe of her willing generosity. "Thank you, Sansa."

They'd had felt the tension before, yes, though it was more like sibling-like tension, common familial tension between them; it was nothing like Lannister tension or Frey tension. It had nothing to do with direct power over the other. Their eyes met, night-black connecting with icy Tully blue, and in that instant, it still felt comforting. It was meant to come to this.

Her smile simply broadened. "You're welcome."

"Send the word out," ordered Sansa while she sat proudly on the silver bench, continuing to braid and stitch Bran's lord's cape together. "The Starks will go into battle if need be."

Brienne was not too sure of this plan. "I shan't leave you alone. I vowed to never stray."

"Jon and Bran are out having meetings with the new lords we're bringing into our circle as my Commander and Right Hand. And I can't leave when my Northern people beg conference with me. So it must be you." Sansa objected conclusively. "Besides, I'll be safe. I have Polaris, remember? He will respectfully watch my back until you return."

Candles danced under the cloaking shadows.

It was just her, with Polaris, and their bare skin colliding, coddled among the pillows after the heat of lovemaking.

He breathed steadily with her as he rested his head along her ribcage and her fingers fondly combed through his black-black hair. She could see the small gagged lines her nails had made upon his back prior to this, shedding off all her stress and rigidity that had been coating her limbs lately.

They were in sync. Their passion could be written into a song using howls. She was Sansa of Winter again. The Red Wolf. The girl the who ran with Ragna and Nymeria over the wild moors. So beautiful and beastly and free.

Polaris kissed her hand and muttered, "It's Lupa's Moon night, you realize."

"So it is," she whispered.

"Want to go for a run?"

Sansa chuckled and looked down at him shrewdly—suddenly shifting away and she jolted for the open widow. Polaris bolted to his feet after her.

They climbed out over the ledge and they fell towards the snow, landing on their paws, dashing through the frosty trees together with the Moors Pack until first light.

It was five days later when Jon had approached her royal chair, seeming grim. In confusion, Sansa batted her eyes up at him. "What is it?"

"Ramsay Bolton has Rickon."

"You don't have to be here," Jon warned her, giving her every opportunity to turn back now if she wanted to. Sansa had previously rode in on Nymeria to meet Ramsay Bolton once more in person after Jon's men took off.

"Yes, I do," she replied evenly. "What sort of Queen would I really be if I fled? The North is always watching us."

Bolton's party thundered ever closer on their spotted white steeds and they lugged the reins to a piercing halt.

"My lovely wolf-rider," Ramsay greeted Sansa foremost, flashing her that vile grin of his. "Such a pretty face, but such a soured expression." Then, he instantly glanced focused on Jon next. "Thank you for speaking with me. Now, dismount and bow before me, hand over your ranks, and proclaim me the real Lord of Winterfell and praised Warden of the North."

"But you're not," Jon said.

"Oh, come now, wolf-bastard," Ramsay countered far too sweetly. "I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these sad lords for betraying my House. We both know you don't have the men, or the horses, and you practically cheated the first time claiming Winterfell yours from us. You drove my people off with wild animals, not honorably with swords or arrows. Your hold on the North is still new, and that makes it raw. Weaker and fragile. Why lead these poor souls to the slaughter when I'm a man of mercy? There's no need for a battle. Just surrender."

"You're right," Jon smiled lightly in return. "There's no need for a battle, Bolton. Thousands of men don't have to die. Just one of us." All eyes snapped to him and then slowly flittered back to Ramsay. "So let us end this the old way. You, against me."

Ramsay snorted dimly. "I keep hearing stories about you, wolf-bastard. The way people in the North talk about you...you're apparently the greatest swordsman who ever walked. And maybe you are that good, though maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you for sure, but, I do know that my army will beat yours. I have 6,000 men in counting as we speak. You and your sister have what, half that? Or even less than that?"

"Aye, you may have the numbers," Jon thankfully was not missing a beat in their banter. "But will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"

"Oh, he's good at this. Very good." Ramsay broke into another harsh laugh, pointing at Jon. "Tell me. Will you let your littlest brother die because you're too proud to back down today? We've already killed the woman he was hiding with."

"How do we know you even have him?" Sansa retorted coolly this time. Jon glared.

"Indeed." Ramsay granted her, before he smugly turned and snapped his fingers, ordering the knight riding in back of him to come forward with their token of validation, in which he had tossed at Nymeria's paws below her. It was Dire's head. Shaggydog's head. Nymeria growled in her chest, her neck hairs rising. Both Sansa and Jon now gaped at the head, coldly, disgruntled.

"There. You two have your proof, and if you want to save him—"

"—You are going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton," Sansa professed abruptly, with an equal amount of hatred and poise. "Sleep well, enjoy you're last meal." And she stared right into his eyes, letting her own shine a little more golden before Nymeria spun around and bolted back for the Godswood with her.

"She's an adequate woman, your sister," Ramsay mused, trying to egg on Jon more. "Maybe when I take back the North, I can look forward to having her in my bed."

"She's already spoken for," Jon shot back, squaring his shoulders. "So don't count on it."

Ramsay laughed again. "Ah, that won't matter to me. For her, I'll make an exception. Until the eve, then, wolf-bastard! A goodnight to you and all your fine gentlemen!"

Everyone was back to feeling strained and jostled all over again; Jon and his men continuously bent their heads over battle charts and maps spread across their grand table, chatting out an effective plan solely based on what-ifs and if-thats.

"If he was smart, he'd distance himself from our walls and just wait us out," Jon proposed as the previous hour ticked by.

"That's not his way. He knows the North is watching and wants to face us directly."

"It's crucial that you let him charge at us. For the pincher move to be successful. Then we'll have him surrounded on three sides."

"So what about Rickon?"

"Rickon is bait, to make you fear him. Fear is Ramsay's only source of power."

"His own army is feeble because they're forced to fight for him. Nothing more than thinning loyalty holding them together."

"To survive this revolt. We'll need great patience."

"No. To survive this revolt, we need Winterfell," Jon repeated himself, tone rising, "and to keep Winterfell, we need more men!"

The room went still. Even the flames outlining their beards and daggers on their belts hardly flickered any longer.

"Then we should sleep on what we've got." Tormund affirmed, narrowing down on the consensus. "Rest, Jon Snow. No matter what happens, we'll need you sharp tomorrow."

And the instant the men sighed and retired for the mean night ahead of them, Sansa observed Jon's reactions from her noble seat nearby, next to Bran's and Polaris'. Jon raked a hand through his hair, jammed his knife into the map they last studied, and sunk into the chair opposite of theirs. Finally she spoke up about it and stood, wandering around the table. "So…we've all met up with the enemy, drawn up some fighting plans."

"Aye," Jon breathed out, "for what they're worth."

"...And yet we've only known Ramsay Bolton for the space of a two conversations, today and the day the wolves had chased his caravan out. You and your trusted advisors sit around here, making these plans on how to defeat a complete stranger..."

"You're the one who said we have to fight!" Jon argued. "What else should we be doing? Pray tell, what are we doing that sounds so wrong to you, My Queen?"

"Did it ever occur to any of you that I might have some insight?" Sansa sliced him skin-deep with her words, only briefly. "The Boltons don't sound that different from the Lannisters. Not really. Ramsey reminded me of the Lion Queen today. And for a long time, I was a wolf living among lions, surviving, learning their tactics and their tricks quietly. I know those people. His type of people. I know how they like to hurt people. I've been there. And if you think he's going to fall into your trap, I can guess he won't. He's the one who lays the traps."

"He's overconfident!"

"You heard what Theon had said. He plays with people, Jon! He's playing with you right now, getting you all nervous and flustered before battle, and you can't feel that? He's just better at these games than you are! He's been doing it all his life."

"Oh, aye, and what have I been doing all my entire life? Playing sword fights with broomsticks? I've fought beyond the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton. I've defended the Wall from far worse than Ramsay Bolton!"

"Still, we have to be smarter than this!" Sansa repeated, assertively. The few wolves that were nested about in the room stirred and they snarled softly, reacting to her mood. "We are the ones who need to push to be better than we are now. We can't just settle."

"Alright, fine," Jon cut in, "then tell me. What should we do if not this plan? How do we get Rickon back?

"It's risky," she admitted, unsure whether or not she should meet Bran's anxious gaze then. "Rickon is Ned Stark's trueborn son, like Bran, which makes him a greater threat to Ramsay than you being a bastard, or me being a girl who just became Queen recently. As long as he lives, Ramsay's desired claim to Winterfell will be openly challenged, and so, Rickon may not live at all."

"Sansa!" Bran objected. It has the same effect.

"We can't give up on our brother," Jon finished for him immediately.

"The both of you, listen to me, please!" she growled, her Wolf Within resurfacing with her anger. Jon glared, backing away two paces. She sighed, soothing herself when Polaris moved to her side. "Just listen. He wants you to make a mistake."

"Of course he does, sis." Bran acknowledged. "But what should we do differently?"

"I don't know. I don't know much about battles...but as Queen, I have to learn fast, and I am not ready to lose. What I do know know for sure is...Jon can't do what Ramsay wants him to do. Do not move your men inward towards the fight unless you actually can corner Ramsey first."

"That's all?" Jon rolled his eyes. "That was good advice."

"You don't think that's obvious?" she emphasized.

"Well, it is a bit obvious, aye!"

Sansa clenched her teeth, her keen expression flickering from one brother to the next. "Jon, have you ever watched Ghost hunt, watched wolves track their prey? If we don't defend our territory from all sides and from a safe distance beforehand, our Pack will never be safe. Rickon won't be safe if we leap too fast, too soon."

"All I'm saying is...," Jon considered, apprehensively, "...battles have been won against greater odds."

Sansa's shoulders sagged, tears of hurt and rage brimming her eyes. "But if Ramsay wins, he's not going to take me alive. Do you understand me? If we fall, I'll take Bran and Polaris and we'll run. We'll run into the trees and up the mountains and we will never be seen near here after that, ever. I can't have that life again, Jon. I can't be caged and beaten again. Wolves don't do well in closed walls."

"Sansa, I've promised you." He didn't like that look on her face. It was worse than the look she had before. "I promised to protect you. I won't ever let him touch you, not once."

"You can't protect me when you have to protect yourself."

And she turned away then, closing the doors behind her. As usual, Polaris was the first to trail after her.

Much later than that, when the stars were at dazzling their brightest and the light grey walls of the city turned absolutely black under the midnight hour, Sansa stood there outside wrapped up snuggly in her heavy royal attire, next to the stump where Bran was settled likewise by Gendry. They were silent as the serene wind the night kissed their cheeks and Ghost howled from a muddy mound across the way. They heard Nymeria call back once from beyond the Wood.

"I don't want you to fight tomorrow," she finally said, meaning it, similar to a mother talking to a helpless fledging.

Irked, Bran snapped his head at her. Gendry was staring, too. "But, Sansa—why? I can do something. Rickon needs—"

"—I want you to gather the wolves with Polaris after Jon leaves with the men first and then lead them in."

Blinking, Bran glanced towards the trees towering behind them. "You want them to fight?"

"They're ready. They'll know what to do."

It was the dawn before they'd set sail to Westeros, and not the Dragon Queen's heart was torn in half by her success and the one real love she had to sacrifice and forget.

The Imp sighed deeply and looked to her as she lowered herself beside him under the great temple's steps. "Are you afraid?"

Without a sound, Daenerys nodded, though curtly, as if she couldn't exactly say why out loud.

"Good."

This wasn't looking good. Broken arrows and splintered shields littered the valley. The Bolton army conquered Winterfell's front-liners, and now they had the upper hand, forming a solid defense circle around Jon's men, Polaris, and their wolves. It wasn't looking good at all, because unfortunately, Jon had leapt too fast, too soon anyhow.

Bran, riding his Dire like her, went to urge Summer down the hill, longing to help their brother, to face the action, but Sansa forbade him to move from her side.

"They're in trouble," he'd said in soft desperation.

She set her jaw. "You're not going to help them by getting yourself into that trouble."

All hope was rapidly draining from his face, along with its color...but, abruptly, a blaring sound rang out and drowned out the Bolton war chants.

It was genuinely pleasing to her ears in their great time of need. Though they all wondered where it was coming from.

Both armies stayed their bloody swords, hesitating, gawking towards the hilltop where Sansa was, bathed in sunlight.

And then, they were were. A proud overflow of blue and ivory from Vale, rode in straight for Jon, trampling down the Bolton collections. Sansa and Bran watched as a smiling Lord Baelish appeared over the horizon on a decorated horse that matched the knights'. He aimed for them swiftly upon the icy embankments overlooking the battle.

"My dear Queen Sansa." Lord Baelish hailed, a bit dramatically, "I heard everything once the news spread. I knew that you were looking for a larger force. So I offer you the Knights of Vale."

Bran peeked at Sansa.

Though for the moment, his sister smirked. "Lord Baelish. What a surprise."

After the Giant was slain, after the squires were cut down, after the Bolton flags were shredded, after the Knights of the Vale secured their wall's overpasses above, and after Ramsay had aimed three threatening arrows straight at Jon's shield, and after Jon threw Ramsay into the red snow and the dirt, beating him till his nose bent and his cheekbone was smashed in, the banners of House Stark blew beautifully in the breeze upon their iron poles, and there they'd stay.

Jon had been reluctant to pull away. He had wanted to finish it, finish Ramsay off for having Rickon murdered. However, as soon as he noticed Polaris, Gendry, and Bran were gazing intently from the doorway, he stopped and his hard grip on Ramsay went slack. It was only when Sansa had shown herself, sauntering towards him, with a glare stable on Ramsay, had Jon remembered to breathe again and he moved to his feet, blood coating his hands like gloves.

Now, while the whole battle subsided, Jon was utterly fraught and exhausted as he was forced to readdress the issue of Rickon's corpse brought back to them, and Bran tearing up behind him as Sansa remained steel-cold on the surface in comparison . "...We'll bury my brother in the crypt," Jon decided, hand squeezing Bran's arm, "next to our father."

"Jon," Sansa called suddenly, spotting two Knight of Vale hauling Ramsay away from them. And her voice alone sent a single chill up their spines. "Where are they taking him?"

She was heading for the dudgeons, with the wolves trotting on her heels, when Baelish slipped from his waiting chair, sitting under Brienne's guard. "My young Queen in North, may I discuss some things with you?"

"Not now," she snapped, passing him by completely to descend the cellar stairs. "We'll talk tomorrow, before you go."

She gradually reached the iron bars, scowling at Ramsay. It was honestly satisfying to see him broken and chained up like so.

"Oh, Sansa," he noticed her stalling there after he coughed up more blood and his head had rolled back. "Pretty wolf-riding Sansa. Is this where I'll be staying now?"

"No," she answered him indifferently. "Definitely not."

"So my time looking upon you is about to come to an end," he rasped out. "You can't kill me, though. Not really. My blood was shed over this land and it'll sink into the soil you call sacred. The North always remembers, anyway...does it not? I'm part of Winterfell now."

"Your words will not be remembered. They will disappear." She drawled out, endangering his theory. "Your House will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you here and far will disappear."

When she finished, she casually turned the key and pushed his cell-gate ajar before she paused and stepped aside to expose the Moors Pack lingering within the surrounding shadows. Nymeria gnashed her teeth at him and the rest of the wolves followed inward, catching the scent of Ramsay's blood and Ramsey looked back at her one final time, grudgingly horrified, and he began to moan and scream as they devoured him alive.

Sansa retracted, strolling off just as slowly as she arrived, and her own pointy teeth bursting through her hidden smile.