WARNING FOR GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND SEXUAL ASSAULT. IF YOU WISH TO SKIP THAT PART, SCROLL DOWN TO ***
Behind her, a rustle stirred the stillness, pricking Sansa's senses with alertness. Halting in her steps, she pivoted, half-expecting the familiar sight of one of the direwolves, yet found nothing but the quietness of the woods. Likely just a woodland creature, she reassured herself. Continuing onward, her gaze fixed on the path before her, ensuring her footing remained steady, she suddenly felt a gloved hand clamp over her mouth, another encircling her waist.
"Now that's a good girl. Don't say a word. We don't want anyone to hear you, do we?" The voice, though known to her, sent shivers racing down her spine.
Fear surged within her, a torrent of apprehension flooding her veins. What did he intend? Beat her? Rape her? Kill her? Flay her? At least as his wife, he had restrictions for his own gain. Out here, he was murdering people. The possibilities, each more gruesome than the last, flashed through her mind. As his wife, she had at least some semblance of protection, but here, amidst the shadows of the wilderness, he held sway, a predator unleashed.
"Aren't you a vision, my dear?" Even his words dripped with menace, the foul odour of him assaulting her senses. Blood and sweat, a reminder of the darkness that lurked within him. She had barely recovered from his prior torment, thanks to Jon's intervention, and now, he had returned. She prayed fervently that her loyal men would soon arrive and arrest him as planned.
Sansa knew she had to act, to resist. Concealed beneath her sleeve lay a dagger, placed with forethought for just such an eventuality. The notion of his capture had been a calculated contingency, even a hope. She had envisioned herself brave in the face of his return. Yet, as his presence loomed over her, panic threatened to consume her, especially with the distant baying of his hounds echoing through the woods.
Ramsay's knee jabbed into her back, the force nearly expelling the breath from her lungs. "Even if you were to scream, my dear, I doubt your men would come running to your aid. Most of them are under my command now. Those few loyal to House Stark? Dead, all of them," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper in her ear. "My men made sure of it, and my hounds finished them off. They're probably still enjoying the spoils as we speak. But fear not, my dear Sansa, you won't be joining them in their feast today. Such a shame, really. Sansa is such a lovely name. I had half a mind to name one of my bitches, Sansa. Alas, I have my orders, strict ones at that."
Sansa couldn't decipher whether this revelation offered any solace. True, she wouldn't meet her end on a pike or as fodder for his hounds. Yet, the thought of enduring further brutality at his hands lingered like a shadow over her.
Tugging at her hair elicited a sharp pang in her skull as Ramsay released his grip on her mouth and dragged her towards the dense thicket of trees. Panic surged within her. Was this the moment? Would he defile her, leaving her with no choice but to seek refuge within Lady's consciousness? The thought of consuming moon tea to expunge any unwanted consequences flickered through her mind. She had honed her warging abilities, albeit crudely. She could linger within Lady's form for a time, so long as the direwolf remained idle by the fireside.
The absence of his hand over her mouth hinted at a lack of nearby listeners. Yet, what of Ser Barristan? Had Ramsay's reach extended even to him? The questions remained unspoken, buried beneath the weight of impending dread. She would endure, she decided, waiting until Ramsay had found whatever twisted pleasure he wanted from her.
Dark soldier pines loomed overhead, blocking out the grey skies above, a sombre backdrop to Ramsay's evil intentions. He yanked her away from prying eyes, swiftly gagging her and binding her hands tightly behind her back, followed by securing her ankles together. It was during this manoeuvrer that his hand encountered the concealed dagger within her sleeve.
"Think this little toy could do any harm to me?" he taunted, his voice dripping with scorn. "You're a fool if you believe so." With a rough shove, he sent her sprawling to the ground, delivering a vicious kick to her ribs. "Perhaps I should use it on you instead. I've been instructed not to mar that pristine skin of yours permanently, but who is to say your husband hasn't been carving you up? He's a bastard himself, after all. Surely he knows the satisfaction of leaving a mark or two. A few scars here and there couldn't hurt."
Tears streaked down Sansa's cheeks as he tore away the furs, revealing one of Jon's black linen tunics. She had taken to wearing them in his absence, a token of his presence amidst the turmoil. Some still bore his scent, though this particular one had been laundered since he last wore them. Now, she found solace in its cleanliness, grateful for the absence of her husband's scent. She would need Jon's embrace, his essence, to cleanse away the stain of Ramsay's touch.
With a cruel flourish, the Bolton bastard sliced through the fabric, exposing her breasts. His eyes gleamed with a perverse hunger. "Exquisite," he murmured, seizing one breast in his grasp and suckling at her nipple. Sansa fought back waves of revulsion. His tenderness was almost as repugnant as his brutality, though she knew the latter would soon follow.
"I wonder, does your bastard brother suckle at your breasts? Does he feast on your juices as you come from him using his mouth? Does he fuck you?" Ramsay's voice, almost saccharine in its sweetness, dripped with malice as he severed her smallclothes, laying bare her most intimate self. "I wager he does. Or perhaps you're too prudish for such pleasures? Let us explore whether I can coax that sweet nectar from you." He lowered his head to hers, his breath hot against her skin. "I'll be sure to tell him before I sever his cock, and offer him up as a feast for my hounds."
Something within Sansa snapped. Her own safety became secondary; the thought of Ramsay inflicting harm upon Jon was intolerable. She thrashed and struggled, attempting to scream and kick, yet her efforts proved futile.
Ramsay, perched on one knee, idly twirled her dagger between his fingers. "Now, where shall I carve you, my dear, where it won't be readily visible but will linger as a memento of our time together?" His gaze roamed her form, predatory and calculating. "Beneath your breast, perhaps? Or nestled close to your cunt? Although, I should inspect that particular area first, see if it's as enticing as your lovely face. A shame I can't fuck you. But then again, nobody said I couldn't take you in the arse."
With a deft hand, he stripped away the layers of her trousers and breeches, leaving her smallclothes intact. His gaze, filled with lecherous hunger, roamed over her exposed form. "Oh my, such a vision of beauty. I believe a beauty mark is in order, wouldn't you agree?" It was not a question but a declaration.
Ramsay's fingers toyed with the blue ribbons of her smallclothes, loosening them, baring her to the elements. His grin widened into a manic leer. "This should conceal any mark, but you'll always know it's there."
The cold bite of the dagger pressed into her flesh, nestled among the fiery curls between her legs. With a swift motion, he dragged it across her skin. Sansa's attempts to scream were stifled by the gag, only a muffled cry escaped her lips as agony seared through her.
"Shut your filthy mouth, you brother-fucking whore!" Ramsay's voice spat with venom as he delivered a brutal blow to her face, the impact sure to leave a bruise blossoming around her eye.
"Ah, you're positively radiant," he sneered, striking her again, this time targeting her exposed ribs with a vicious blow.
Silently, relentlessly, he continued his assault, each strike landing with ferocious force in different places across her battered body. The world blurred around her, dulled by the relentless agony coursing through her.
Ramsay had never subjected her to such a merciless beating before, though his usual methods of torment were no less cruel. Through half-open eyes, she caught sight of the nearby horse, its nervous whinny barely registering amidst the chaos.
Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, the pain threatening to engulf her entirely. And then, in a moment of cruel respite, the world fell silent, everything fading into oblivion around her.
A weight pressed heavily upon Sansa, accompanied by laboured breathing and the sensation of fur against her skin, keeping her warm. Slowly, she parted her eyelids, greeted by the sight of Ghost's massive form draped protectively over her.
"Ghost," she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely more than a breath.
The usually silent direwolf stirred, nuzzling gently against the crook of her neck. His crimson eyes locking onto hers in a rare display of communication. She sensed Jon's presence in him, like she had done over the last few days, presumably him practising his warging skills. "Jon, is that you?" she inquired, her heart pounding with hope.
In response, the wolf licked her face, a silent affirmation of her husband's presence beside her. "You must leave," she urged, each word a struggle against the pain radiating from her battered ribs. "Ramsay seeks your demise."
As darkness threatened to claim her once more, Sansa drifted into unconsciousness, only to awaken later to the murmur of voices, albeit muted. The world around her shifted and swayed, the rhythmic jolting of a cart beneath her.
Furs enveloped her form, shielding her modesty from the leering eyes Ramsay had so callously exposed her to. At her side lay Ghost with her husband's spirit dwelling within him, a comforting presence amidst the turmoil.
Straining to make out the voices, she strained her senses until she recognized the familiar timbre of Robb's voice. In the distance, a lone wolf's howl echoed through the night, a single mournful tune amidst the cacophony surrounding her.
Upon awakening in her own chamber, Sansa immediately recognized the familiar scent and feel of her own bed, a reassuring sign of sanctuary away from the clutches of the monster who had tormented her. Beside he, lay Ghost, her guardian and husband, for she knew Jon wouldn't leave her. Yet, a gnawing uncertainty lingered: where was Ramsay now?
Once more, the hushed tones of conversation reached her ears, and this time she distinguished the voices of Maester Fell, Robb, and Sam. Their discussion revolved around her, igniting a mix of curiosity and apprehension within her.
"Are you certain she wasn't violated, Maester Fell?" Robb's voice held a note of concern.
"Absolutely certain. There are no indications of such activity." Maester fell agreed.
"But the blood..." Robb said, his worry palpable.
"It stemmed from a small dagger wound, the one she was carrying," Maester Fell explained. "It's a minor injury, albeit in a rather... inconvenient location. I'll need to tend to it and administer milk of the poppy for the pain."
"I can fetch that for you, Maester Fell," offered Sam dutifully.
"Thank you, Sam." Maester Fell said, as Sam left. "There are no lasting scars, no broken bones," the Maester returned to his conversation with Robb. "She was fortunate."
"Fortunate?" Robb's voice echoed with sorrow. Sansa couldn't help but wonder about the extent of her injuries. How severe was her condition if even Robb's voice carried such a weight of sadness?
"They'll fade within a fortnight," Sam reassured both Robb and, unknowingly, Sansa herself. "She'll bear no visible marks. And the pain should subside within a week."
"Robb," Sansa attempted to say, her swollen lips distorting the name, it sounded more like Wobb.
Robb's gaze darted to her, and he hastened to her side, gently clasping her hand in his own. "Sansa, I'm here." He murmured soothingly.
Sansa was able to pry open one eye, the other sealed shut, likely the aftermath of Ramsay's assault. She winced as she attempted a smile, the pain too intense to bear.
"Your Grace," Maester Fell intervened from behind Robb, his tone grave. "I advise against moving too much at present. The discomfort will be considerable, but there's no lasting harm, just surface bruising."
"Did he..." Tears welled in Robb's eyes, his anguish palpable. "Maester Fell says there's no proof he... violated you."
"He didn't." Sansa's words were muddled by her swollen lips, but her meaning was clear. "Where is he?" Her tone turned more insistent.
"He's in the dungeon," Robb replied, his voice laced with a mixture of fury and determination. "Under strict guard by our men and the Freefolk."
"She needs to rest now." Maester Fell insisted, his concern clear in his voice.
"You need rest too, Ghost," Sansa murmured, leaning her head against the massive direwolf. "I love you, Jon." With effort, she managed to press her lips together and plant a kiss on his snout. Robb shot her an odd glance, but turned his attention back to Maester Fell as the maester resumed speaking.
"I'll administer some milk of the poppy to ease your discomfort while I clean and stitch your wound," Maester Fell explained. "We must guard against infection. Then, you can rest for the night. I'd prefer not to have too many prying eyes around whilst I'm working. It is in a delicate place."
With a silent understanding, Robb placed a gentle kiss on Sansa's forehead before rising to depart. "Goodnight, Sansa." He whispered, leaving her alone with the maester.
Once the door closed behind Robb, Maester Fell waited for Sam to return with the milk of the poppy. "I had to give some to Ramsay," he confided. "He fared far worse than you. I'm surprised Ghost and Greywind didn't tear him apart. Whichever one caught him only to sever his foot. It prevented him from leaving."
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
"Only me." Sam's voice called from the other side.
"Come in, Sam." Maester Fell responded, welcoming the young man into the room.
The door creaked open, admitting the rotund figure of Samwell Tarly into the chamber, bearing a small leather bag which he handed to Maester Fell. "Thank you, Sam. You may go." The maester dismissed him.
"Goodnight, Maester Fell. Goodnight, Your Grace." Sam bid his farewell, receiving a nod from Sansa in return. Speaking was too arduous a task for her weakened state.
Maester Fell offered Sansa a cup of water. "Drink this. It's important to stay hydrated, especially since you'll be unconscious for a while, and it took us several hours to find you." With a gentle touch, he supported her head, allowing her to sip the cool water. Thirsty beyond measure, she attempted to gulp more, only to have it spill down her chin.
"Be careful, Your Grace," the maester cautioned. "I'll apply some salve to your lips to ease the discomfort. Fortunately, none of your teeth were knocked out. Thank the Seven. However, drinking and eating may be a challenge for the next day or so. You must remain in bed for at least three days, though limited visitors are permitted. For, speaking will be initially difficult. By the third day, you should be able to receive guests without issue. I found no broken bones, therefore, within a week, you'll be nearly back to normal. At most, a few stubborn bruises may linger for a fortnight."
"By the time you see your husband, any evidence of your ordeal will be minimal." He reassured her. "I'll need to shave the area to stitch the wound, and it must remain shaved for about a month until the knife wound has fully healed."
"Thank you," Sansa murmured with a nod.
"I know I mentioned there was no evidence of violation, but as a precaution, I'll still offer you some moon tea. However, we can wait until it's more comfortable for you to drink. There's no rush, especially since there were no indications of such activity on you or the Bolton bastard," Maester Fell explained, as he uncorked a small vial. Sansa simply nodded in acknowledgment.
"Now, open your mouth as wide as possible. This is only milk of the poppy," he reassured her.
Sansa followed his instructions, allowing the maester to administer the soothing liquid. As the medicine took effect almost immediately, she settled back onto her soft goose-feather pillow, drifting into a deep and dreamless sleep.