Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/868574.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Scott_McCall, Isaac_Lahey, Peter
      Hale, Jennifer_Blake
  Additional Tags:
      Unrequited_Love, sterek, Humor, Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, in_last
      chapter, Anal_Fingering, Anal_Sex, Blow_Jobs, Fun
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-03 Completed: 2013-07-06 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 12356
****** Who are you , really? ******
by Laugh_at_the_girl_who_loves_too_easily
Summary
     From the prompt :. All I really want to see is Stiles and Peter
     genuinely enjoying each others company and them being sassy with each
     other and Peter flirting in his kind of creepy way and Stiles gets
     really sexually frustrated by him? And maybe with some Stiles
     defending Peter and himself for kind of liking him and spending time
     with him to Scott or someone?
Notes
     Written for http://haleashes.tumblr.com/
     All mistakes are mine
***** Chapter 1 *****
The music was booming throughout his room all the way through the house, paper
was all over the floor , most of it trampled on and crumbled up, pens and
pencils of assorted colours spread everywhere and all Stiles could do was
scream at his laptop. Probably disturbing his neighbours. He ponders why he
left his homework for every subject this semester to the last minute? Because
of the impending doom of the Alpha pack. Maybe. It had only just begun as well!
The amount of detentions, warnings and shouting ats he got from his dad seemed
to double this year.
He wacked his head hard off of the keyboard of his laptop causing it to beep
odd noises ,finally fed up of working nonstop all through the weekend , the
only breaks being toilet breaks. It was a Sunday afternoon and he hadn’t slept
since Thursday night nor seen anyone, other than his father briefly this
morning when he got his stuff to go on a fishing trip with a few of the guys
from the station. So Stiles was alone for three days. Not like he spent much
time with the others anyway, Scott was busy with either his new best friend
Isaac or Allison, Lydia was distracting herself with any man available(everyone
but Stiles apparently) and well it’s not like he could hang out with Derek or
Boyd , they didn’t really like him, same as Erica. And well he couldn’t really
hang out with Peter, there was a bit of an age gap, however Stiles had
accidently found out where Peter had gotten a part time job. The town library.
A place where Stiles spent a lot of time so unintentionally he had started
spending time with Peter because he would come sit near him when he was reading
and also bring him hot chocolate (not coffee because apparently he is already
hyper enough)which he sipped whilst he studied and strangely Peter knew how he
liked it. So unintentional time with creepy Uncle Peter wasn’t too bad but that
doesn’t mean he would invite him to spend time with him.

So he was alone.

Or so he thought.

Scott had very ungracefully (for a werewolf) climbed through his window with a
massive grin on his face.

“Did the cat get the milk?” Stiles chuckled; Scott looked confused like a lost
puppy. “I couldn’t think of any wolf related things” Stiles fake pouted.

“There is a pack meeting, at the bowling alley and Derek’s paying.” Scott
bellowed in happiness. Oh.My.God. Derek is taking us bowling...where is the
real Derek?

.........
When they arrived with Allison and Lydia in tow, everyone else was already
there. Boyd had Erica on his lap who was messing around with his cheeks making
him pull weird faces, Isaac looked like a lost puppy without Scott but Cora was
trying to keep him occupied , Peter was sat by his smug self at the bar nursing
what looked to be a scotch and Derek was sat next to ....Ms Blake. Oh. Not a
kick in the gut at all. Nope. Doesn’t hurt at all. None.

So Stiles may have had a small teeny tiny crush on Derek Hale, who hasn’t? It
sort of developed more though when they started the competition of saving each
other’s lives, so seeing him with his English teacher. And holding hands,
fingers entwined. Wow. That seemed surreal. Derek actually showed public
affection. It hurt a lot.

He could feel the bile coming up and he blamed it on not eating proper food
since late last night. It was a lie. With a tap on Scott’s shoulder to indicate
he was going somewhere, he ran to the bathroom to throw up. Pathetic. He had
hardly gone ten strides before his shin was caught in some mysterious fashion,
and he was no longer running, but flying with inconceivable rapidity through
the air. He saw the ground suddenly close to his face. The world seemed to
splash into a million whirling specks of light, He felt so dizzy and he was
pretty certain he was going to be unconscious soon but he noticed that instead
of hitting the floor he was raised back to his feet by arms wrapped around his
waist. He blinked trying to get his head to stop spinning and so his vision
could be clear so he could see his saviour.
Peter.

Stiles scrambled out of his arms and practically crawled on the untidy floor to
the bathroom as the bile was now burning his throat. He’d regret it later
because he would look stupid and weak plus his trousers would be unclean. Not
because Peter caught him but because of the falling motion and Derek. Stiles
wrapped his arms around the bowl of the toilet and braced himself as the bile
flowed out of his mouth in a continuous motion. The bathroom door squeaked open
and swung shut. And then the stall shifted as someone lent against it.

“You do not look so good, little one” Peter chuckled a slight ounce of concern
slipping through the sass. Stiles took ten deep breathes as his stomach settled
before he stood up and turned the taps on to clean out his mouth and wash his
face. When he faced Peter, he slipped him a mint with a smirked plastered on
his perfect face. Stiles stuck his tongue out at him.

He placed his hand on the small of the younger mans back guiding him out of the
bathroom and to the bar where he brought him a coca cola and a packet of salted
crisps before he walked with him back over to the rest of the group.
When Stiles had finished his go all together ,as he went second, having played
two games and everyone else was on their last go he made his way over to the
pool table which he wasn’t that great at playing but just wanted to not look at
his teacher flirting with his crush. What was with him and not getting what he
wanted? First Lydia, then Derek. Stiles slipped a dollar into the machine and
began to set up the balls and grab a stick when a man at least four years his
senior came over and invaded his space.

“Look you seem nice” And drunk. Stiles mumbled nervously. “But I’m...” Stiles
was interrupted as a hand from behind him grabbed his ass and squeezed him
tightly causing him to make a very unmanly squeak.

“He is here with someone so back off” Peter growled in a very passive
aggressive way, his hand still on Stiles’ ass even as much as Stiles protested
and his face was turning a lovely crimson colour to the tip of his ears. The
drunken man grunted and gargled as he slumped away back to his friends who were
laughing at him, he mumbled something about ‘jailbait’ and ‘cradle robber’.
Peter patted Stiles ass gently before he went back over for his alcohol leaving
Stiles dumbstruck with his plump mouth wide open and the rest of the group
staring at him. He rolled his eyes before he began practicing his pool skills.
He was pretty certain his ass would have finger shaped bruises tomorrow
morning.

It was going vaguely smoothly until he felt a hard body press against his, a
crotch pressing very strongly into his ass and hands gripping onto his own
guiding them into the proper position in pool.

“You seemed to be struggling” Peter smirked as he either purposely or
accidently (purposely) ground into Stiles ass gently erupting a small whimper
from him. Stiles breathe was getting caught in his throat and his mind was
going to extremely bad places.
Peter threw him on to the empty pool table spreading his legs wide like a whore
as he climbed on top of him and ground his whole body into him. Peter sucked on
Stiles neck like a vampire leaving drastically purple bruises in his wake. And
Stiles was moaning viciously thrusting upwards wanting more. Wanting to be
filled with his huge thick cock. The tables were turned and Stiles was above
Peter before he shoved his trousers and underwear down to his ankles. Stiles
looked in awe of the massively thick cock. He took the member into his warm
cavern sucking nearly painfully hard, Peter whimpered below him as his cock hit
the back of Stiles throat and he took it all without gagging.

Oh. My.God. Get your mind out of the gutter.

He was pretty certain the majority of the werewolves could smell his sudden
arousal for the elder Hale. He was confused of it himself, I mean he still
wanted Derek but he was a teenage boy who was just ground against by another
extremely hot Hale. Who would complain?

Stiles pushed back against Peter, who he was pretty certain was smelling the
air around Stiles, and darted out of the bowling alley. Luckily he had already
given the shoes back so he wouldn’t be stealing. He clumsily fell into his
truck and leant his head against the wheel trying to will away his half
hardness.

He hoped to the high god none of his Dad’s co-workers were at the bowling alley
to see him engaging in public frottage with a man at least twice his age.

...........

It was a heavenly morning, the dry and glittering air full of that peculiar,
crisp sparkle which mounts to one's head like champagne. The pale blue sky had
not yet taken on the pitiless ultramarine hue which comes with the brazen noon.
Stiles didn’t go to school today for two reasons; one he couldn’t face the
embarrassment and two he was actually (not lying) sick. Again and not due to
food or Derek. He kept having cold and hot sweats and everything was spinning
in a haze.
At first he said nothing, thinking that his eyes might quite conceivably be
playing him tricks, that this apparently moving figure might possibly be a
figment of his brain, due to lack of sleep. But the figure moved closer to him
and pressed a hand lightly to his forehead. The next thing he knew the figure
had left and came back with a wet flannel, a thin sheet and an empty bowl. The
shapeless figure pulled off the duvet and placed the sheet gently over Stiles,
not too tightly so he wouldn’t get too warm but enough that he wouldn’t get too
cold, then it laid the wet flannel onto Stiles forehead before he put the bowl
in a reachable place. Stiles ended up falling asleep as the figure stroked his
hair in a motherly caring way.
He didn’t know if it was real or not but it wasn’t dangerous so he drifted into
a peaceful sleep that he would hopefully feel better from.
 
Peter nervously licked his lips as he leaned over the small, motionless form.
He was more than just pretty; he was breathtaking. His hair lay cast about the
mattress in a dishevelled mess ,he defiantly looked better with longer hair,
and his full pouty lips were slightly parted and moist looking. He leant in so
close that he could feel Stiles’ breath against his face. He closed his eyes
and took in the boys scent. Luckily he only smelt a little bit ill not deathly
sick. Peter enjoyed caring for Stiles, he use to look after the young ones when
they were sick...he missed it. Surprise.
Peter slipped off of the bed silently trying not to awake the sleeping ‘angel’
and made a nest in Stiles’ desk chair as he hacked into his laptop and began
some research.
Stiles’ eyes fluttered open and everything finally came in to focus. He felt a
lot better. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed Peter casually on
his laptop.
“You seem to look a lot less like death now” Peter inputted without turning
around.

“You’d know” Stiles mumbled. Peter chuckled as Stiles tumbled out of his bed
dressed only in his underwear.

Peter’s eyes looked Stiles up and down like he could eat him. What big eyes you
have, all the better to see you with. What big teeth you have, all the better
to eat you with. They way Stiles dressed did not flatter his body shape. The
young boy was actually very physically fit, not like Scott or Danny but not as
stick thin and weak as everyone sees him to be because of him covering himself
in many layers. Stiles one eyebrow was higher than the other as Peter’s eye ate
him all up.

“I need to take you shopping, you need clothes that showthis more” He gestured
with a grin from ear to ear. Stiles shivered he wasn’t sure if it was from the
attention or well Peter being creepy Uncle Peter. “Are you hungry?”

Stiles nodded expecting him to go out and get food but all Peter did was shut
the laptop and climb down the stairs. Stiles shoved a black t shirt over his
head and struggled to put his legs through his jeans quickly enough to see what
Peter was doing.
In the kitchen was a lot of clatter.
As soon as the bacon was well under way, he carried the cloth ,cutlery and
glasses into the dining area and began to lay them with the utmost éclat.
Stiles’ jaw was practically touching the floor. This was a side he had never
seen of Peter. The older man guided him over to his seat and offered him a
glass of orange juice before he smiled at him.
Stiles decided he liked it when Peter smiled like that, a genuine smile with no
ulterior motives or malicious intent behind it. It changed his face, lighting
up his blue eyes, and actually made him look a bit younger. A bit more human.
When the eggs and bacon and toast were done he placed them on two plates and
brought them over to the table where the cutlery already was. Stiles was very
confused at ... everything but surprisingly spending time with Peter wasn’t
actually too bad.

“And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.” Peter
randomly interjected into the silence bar the clanging on the cutlery on the
plates, startling Stiles. “Edgar Allan Poe, a fascinating but depressing man.
But I think this quote goes very well with you, little one”

“Okay stop calling me little one, I’m taller than you! I’ll call you old one,
don’t think I won’t” Stiles quipped.

........


"Oh yes." the words slipped from his throat before he could stop them. The
electric flash of pleasure raced over his and he rubbed the swollen small nub
harder and his hips thrust to get more of the feeling as he began to shake. His
body wanted this and now so did he. The feeling was strangely addictive, he
wanted more of it the stronger it got, and as a heady feeling of delight washed
over him he began to shudder uncontrollably. “Peter” he moaned.
Fuck. Stiles awoke with sweat sticking his sheet to him. He could no longer
sleep because Peter was invaded his mind.
The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There
was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned
impenetrably black. Everything was still except the faint creaking of the
stairs under Peters tread, and the slight movements in the study/dining area
from Stiles.
“I have a door , you know” Stiles announced not taking his eyes off of the
report his dad left scattered around the house, to do with the sacrifices.
“Window was open, not very safe you know and if you thought it would help
you...your room still smells of arousal.” Peter taunted causing the younger boy
to flinch at his words and his skin to turn a pinker shade.
“Quick question, this isn’t your handy work is it?” Stiles interjected showing
Peter one of the mutilated bodies. With an exaggerated eye roll Peter studied
the photograph in great detail.
“Nope. I am much more...creative” Peter slurred seductively. Sure you are.
“Any ideas then, Sherlock?” Stiles scoffed before a yawn over took him. God he
was tired. Peter flicked through the sheets and sheets of paper. The boy's
expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness yet he still was not
fully convinced of Peter’s innocence.
“You are very much your father’s son, its cute” Peter chortled ,offending
Stiles by calling him cute. Peter patted him on his thigh.
His touch seemed to thrill Stiles, who breathed heavily and then turned towards
the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek.
“Once I came here wanting to kill you. Back when I wasn’t me” Though his
shoulders were wide enough to bear a small vehicle on them, his expression was
confused, as though he was unsure of what he’d gotten himself into. “But I
can’t imagine harming you, and it kills me to see what I’ve done to you
already. Messing up your life throwing it into upheaval.”

Stiles was very puzzled and slightly scared by Peter’s revelation. No anger. No
fight. Just confusion and silence.

Fists formed. Peter hissed through his teeth. Rage emerged and flooded his
system. Stalking the floor from door to wall, he resisted the urge to growl, to
howl out his frustration. Stiles just sat there inert.

“I never want to be an Alpha again, sure I know more than Derek but I never
want to be that thing ever again. Yet I did nothing wrong...because it wasn’t
me” He couldn’t hurt him. He…he cared about him.
 Impossible! He is just a normal teenage boy. 
Difficult to argue with his rational inner voice. And yet, Peter knew, heart-
deep, that he did feel genuine concern.
Stiles was…why, he was his. Yes, to claim him felt right. He rubbed a hand
across his chest and stopped over the pounding beat within. This young child
belonged to him for he felt him in his heart. It was as though he occupied him.
His mysterious scent lived in his nostrils and his taste filled his mouth and
body. Instinctually, he wanted him.

And yet, did he return the sentiment? There was something there and Peter was
willing to find out the natural way not through manipulation.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Just a pointer I have a kink of Peter biting stiles wrist so it will
     probably be in every fic I ever write.
“I don’t trust him” Isaac snorted crossing his arms like a child.
 
“No one trusts him” Derek sighed as he gave evils towards Peter who was already
getting bad looks from Cora. He just smiled through it all.
 
“I’m not going with him” Isaac whined. Derek growled. He should do what his
Alpha ordered.
 
“Oh my god, I’ll go with him” Stiles exaggeratedly rolled his eyes ,sighed, and
gripped Peter wrist dragging him out of the room and towards the elevator.
“Such children, lord.”
 
 ....................
 
What if this whole trek through the woods was for nothing? As they crept
farther and farther into the forest, Stiles once again felt the uncanny and
eerie sensation that the trees surrounding him were alive. Of course, he knew
they were alive in a plant like kind of way, but this was more of a locomoting
kind of way. They groaned and creaked, sighed and bent, their branches waving
and lowering, raising and brushing one another.  His back burned as if hundreds
of eyes dug into it, wooden eyes, ancient eyes. Unconsciously he moved closer
to Peter.
 
 
The night was dark and tempestuous; the thunder growled around; the lightning
flashed at short intervals: and the wind swept furiously along in sudden and
fitful gusts.
 
The streams of Beacon Hill forest babbled in playful melody no more, but rushed
on with deafening din, mingling their torrent roar with the wild creaking of
the huge oaks, the rustling of the firs, and the hollow voices of the storm.
 
The dense black clouds were driving restlessly athwart the sky; and when the
vivid lightning gleamed forth with rapid and eccentric glare, it seemed as if
the dark jaws of some hideous monster, floating high above, opened to vomit
flame.
 
And as the abrupt but furious gusts of wind swept through the forest, they
raised strange echoes--as if the impervious mazes of that mighty wood were the
abode of hideous fiends and evil spirits, who responded in shrieks, moans, and
lamentations to the fearful din of the tempest.
 
“Oh for Pete’s sake...get it?” Peter snarked as the wind and storm got
stronger. Stiles rolled his eyes. He gripped Stiles’ wrist as he noticed
something in the distance that Stiles couldn’t see yet.  In a flash Peter had
picked Stiles up and carried him a mile or so in a few minutes and they were in
front of a wooden cabin. Oh how cliché. They were soaked through and through
and now they were in a cabin. Next they would be naked under a rug by a fire.
When they got in, Peter started to look for something to start a fire with. And
when he got it all together he put it next to the fireplace and just stood
there as the rain droplets fell and collected on the floor.
“Do you need a hand?” Stiles murmured as he walked over to Peter investigating
his expression.
“Not a big fan of fire” He whispered under his breath. And that pang of guilt
hit pretty hard in his gut.  Stiles set the wood in the fire place on fire. A
small fire not one that could go out of control because why is there a fire
place in a building made of wood?!
This had to be someone’s summer home or something because it was all furnished
but there were no signs of life. Who has a summer home in Beacon hills?   Peter
had left when Stiles was making the fire and he grabbed two towels and two
blankets.  He gently passed Stiles the towel, averting his eyes away from the
fire before he himself stripped out of the soaking wet clothes that were
clinging to his form.  His very hot form. Peter strangely had the courtesy to
turn away from Stiles at an angle as he took off his clothes but all Stiles
could do was watch Peter undress. For a thirty something year old man...lord
his body was in shape. The muscles on his arms were huge; the tightness on his
stomach...was perfect. And the way the light amount of chest hair scattered
along his body. He didn’t have abs like his nephew but for someone who was in a
coma for 6 years he was making Stiles drool. Whether he liked to admit it or
not he had a little bit of a new obsession with his hip bones and belly button.
 
Wow, Stiles way to give a man privacy.
But none of his body could win against his smile. His genuine smile that didn’t
mean anything else but happiness and joy.
The older man wrapped the dark towel around his hips and then sat on the two
seated sofa that was in front of the fire with one of the blankets wrapped
around his shoulders.  Stiles was still in his soaking underwear because he was
too busy getting vaguely aroused by Peter. He wrapped the lighter towel around
his waist before he slipped off the underwear and burritoed himself in a
blanket as he sat next to Peter on the two seater.
A crack of lighting cause Stiles to nearly jump out of his skin and practically
onto Peters lap.  Peter would be lying if he didn’t admit it cause a small
chuckle to escape his throat, yet he started stroking Stiles wet hair that
stuck to his hand to try and calm him down. A realisation hit Stiles, it was
Peter who cared for him last night! He just thought he was just using his
laptop for the sake of being annoying. Love was for people who possessed the
capacity to care. Could Peter experience love? Someone who was burnt and
broken, but was he fully burnt and broken?
What the hell? He didn’t want to hurt Stiles. He wanted to hold him close and
fall into his arms. Which was a strange thought in itself, because Peter was
the furthest thing from romantic. He didn’t have relationships.
To lay on Peter all day would be the ultimate luxury. To not think about a
thing. To not worry or have to communicate with the world.
Peter’s hand had grasped Stiles’ wrist and he was caressing it until he brought
it near his mouth before he placed a chaste kiss on it. Stiles’ heart skipped a
beat and he was certain Peter heard it. But this reminded him of when Peter
offered him the bite. He placed another kiss on the wrist this time looking
into Stiles’ eyes as he did so. What Stiles saw there startled him. Compassion.
It was such an unexpected expression.
He drew him into his arms and smoothed his hand over the back of his head. And
though Stiles wished to push away and run and bury his face in his hands and
cry, he clung to Peter’s giving openness and opened his mouth to sob.
Everything was so messed up. The reason they were in the woods to begin with
was because they were looking for clues about the sacrifices. Sacrifices for
god sake. It’s the 21st century there should not be sacrifices.
“I understand,” he said. And that’s all Stiles remembered of that night.
 
The blush on his face when he awoke lay on top of Peter who both had very loose
towels on and one blanket covering them both was incredibly vibrant. The man
below him smiled a beautiful but weary smile. His hands rested on Stiles hips
underneath the towel, slowly loosening it. Until the younger boy jumped off of
Peter gripping his falling towel tightly, giving the older man evils. It is not
that easy to get into Stiles’ pants, or lack of pants.
“Let’s get you home”.
 
Relief over arriving in his own home, a place that had once provided sanctity,
loosened Stiles’ tension. A tension he’d not realized tightened his muscles,
until his body decided to let go.
As his neck relaxed, his head dropped. Knees shaking, he rushed forward, aiming
for the bedroom to collapse on the bed. But when he reached the bedroom, his
stomach pushed up its contents, and he veered into the bathroom. Settling
against the bathtub and slinking down to rest his head against the outer edge
of it, he began to cry.
 
Please. Don’t be ill.
 
Before the afternoon Scott came running to his house, worry plastered on his
face.
 
“Dude, you never came back last night, I thought Peter may have kidnapped you
or worse.” Scott snarled when he said Peter’s name.
 
“You know he isn’t that bad. If you give him a chance.” He wearily pointed
out.  Scott looked at Stiles like he was suggesting to go swimming with
piranhas. “Whatever buddy, can I see your mom? I’ve been feeling ill lately.”
Scott got worried way too easily. But when Stiles’ mom died of a terminal
illness it’s not really unnecessary.
 
 ..................
 
“Stiles, I’ve checked you over twice now and without blood tests, I see
absolutely nothing wrong with you” Melissa concluded as she packed her
equipment back in its bags. The thought of blood tests alone made Stiles
queasy, actually getting one would knock him out cold. Stiles shock his head
violently and slowly backed out of Scott’s living room and out of the house
with Scott in tow.  What could be making him feel ill then? Then it clicked.
Lack of sleep and stress affects the immune system.  With a manly bro hug
Stiles gave Scott he thanked him and announced that he’d see him at school
tomorrow.
 
Never did he think that when he got home Peter would be sat at his dining table
with his own laptop and one of his dads beers.
“You don’t live here, Spider, and I am not getting in trouble for you drinking
one of my dad’s beers.” Stiles jested then added. “Without getting a sip
myself.” As he sat down and brought the bottle to his plump pink lips Peter
watched every movement with desire.
 
“So why am I a spider?” Peter laughed as he snatched the alcohol back.
 
“Spiders are not invited into our homes but yet here they are, plus they are
creepy and had weird movements” Stiles babbled with such confidence in his
theory that he stuck his tongue out at him. This became a thing whenever he was
with Peter whether it be at a pack meeting or the library, they played a game a
flirting tennis.  Peter was joining in because it was entertaining to see how
easy it was to make the younger boy blush, plus he liked him.  And Stiles, he
wanted to see what buttons he could push. 
 
So it began.
 
Stiles dragged his bare foot from Peter’s bared ankle slowly up his denim
covered leg, slower over his thigh until his toes were a hair breadth away from
Peter’s crotch.  Which was when Peter grasped his foot tightly and pulled him
on his chair closer towards him. The younger boy gulped as Peter made eye
contact with him, his eyes flashing blue. What happened next Stiles didn’t
expect, which is probably why Peter did it.  He brought the soft skinned foot
near to his face where he began sucking on his big toe seductively.  A shiver
went all the way up Stiles spine and the kid look traumatized, his once
triumphant smile gone.   But now Peter had a triumphant smile as good as the
Cheshire cats.
 
“So have we learnt our lesson?” Peter drawled as his eyes went back to his
laptop. Stiles nodded wearily and collected his homework out of his school bag.
It was a very silent two hours they spent together yet somehow Peter silently
helped Stiles with his homework by grabbing a pencil and writing things down as
well as pointing out mistakes.
 
 .................
 
All night long he had sat in the little bedroom of his, thinking and thinking
and thinking. He could not sleep, although he had tried hard, and most of the
night he spent pacing up and down from window to door turning over the amazing
situation in which he found himself. Did not help with feeling ill, if he still
wasn’t sleeping. He was falling in love with Peter Hale! It was difficult for
Stiles to analyse him own feelings. He knew that Peter was wrong, monstrously
wrong.
 
“Peter, can you teach me some self defence against werewolves?” Stiles randomly
blurted out when he was sat next to Peter at the library. “I know self defence
against humans because you know dad is sheriff”
“Stiles, you cannot fight off a werewolf with bare hands” Peter snorted. Stiles
kicked him in the shin.
“So teach me with knives and bats and stuff” Stiles begged with puppy dog eyes.
And Peter will just about do anything for him, he didn’t need to pull faces to
get it.
“Sure if you can even hit me, I’ll heal anyway” Everyone needs a bit of
motivation.
“I am part of an online community that battles mythical creatures, I can hit
you”
He felt the blood pulse through his neck, pounding behind his ears. His hands
tightened into fists around the butterfly knife. Peter had driven them both in
Stiles’ jeep, whilst Stiles did homework, to the burnt out shell of the Hale
house. Peter was stood a few feet in front of him, with a taunting face getting
ready to pounce on his prey.
Ten minutes into the trainer, Stiles had already been thrown on the floor six
times, thrown into a wall three and pinned to a wall twice. He had luckily
strike Peter six times though yet they were just scratches not enough to
disable a wolf.
 As expected Peter was stronger, faster and much better trained, so after only
getting one strike at Peter and slicing his arm, Stiles was pinned to the floor
with a playful growling werewolf above him.  Stiles began to struggle and
writhe under the man.
Anger flashed through him, hot and wild. That shocked him however what happened
next shocked him more.
 
There was a gasp--surprise and outrage mingled--and something warm touched his
skin, covered his
wrist, grasping tightly, like before Peter brought it up to his lips and kissed
it but this time ,an urge took over,his sharp fangs embedded into the soft pale
skin. The pain was unbearable to begin with as his fangs broke the skin and
poked a vein, the blood bubbled out into his mouth and over his chin. He sucked
hard until a moan erupted from Stiles’ throat and his hips thrust up to meet
Peter’s. A small gasp escaped Stiles at the reaction his body was having
towards Peter. The older man released the boy’s blood and saliva covered wrist
to stare in his eyes. This moment reminded Stiles of the night Peter nearly
killed Lydia, the way the blood ran down his chin...it was so arousing and it
shouldn’t be. But everything about this shouldn’t be.
 
Today was obviously a surprise day. Because Peter’s mouth covered the smaller
boys, begging for entrance of which he got pretty easily. Peter took nearly all
of control as it seemed he was trying to suck Stiles’ soul out of his body.
 
He was desperately clinging to him, trying to pull his body into his own.
Stiles is losing his breathe very easily as he forgets to breath out of his
nose. Peter buries his nose in his neck, allows the boy to pant for air below
him, inhaling his scent, stifling back a moan he so desperately wanted to set
free. Stiles’ eyes are half lidded and boy of his hands are entangled in Peters
no longer slicked back hair. And he can tell Stiles is hard in his lacrosse
shorts that he chose to train in. Peter then moved in again. Heat sizzled along
their lips, shooting down from mouths to groin. Stiles’ head spun, dizzy with
need and lust. The older man's hips already thrusting, working his hard dick
along Stiles’, rubbing over him through their trousers. Hands grabbed hold of
Stiles’ hips as he bucked up against Peter, holding tightly as he fucked him
right through their trousers. They thrust frantically against each other,
shuddering as the tender undersides of their shafts are pressed together,
rubbing and sliding in the growing wetness. Stiles’ thrusts grow insistent and
sharp, and then with synchronized quick exhalations he comes. Peter groaned
when he realized what was happening, and started to hump against him faster.
Stiles thrust up against him, trying to feel it as he shot, cursing the thick
material between them that kept him from sharing in his orgasm.  Peter eyes
changed back to their normal non-luminous blue as his collapsed onto the
younger boy whose clothes would not be covered in ash, dust and come. They were
both panting for air, gasping.
 
Peter didn't make a move to get up right away, but he didn't say anything
either. The quiet stretched out into several minutes until Peter placed a very
passionate kiss on Stiles’ perfect plump lips before he stood up and helped
Stiles get his footing too. The boy was still slightly convulsing from his
first orgasm caused by someone else. He still hadn’t said anything.
 
Was he trying to figure out how to tell Peter exactly what kind of twisted
pervert he thought he was, right before he walked out and refused to have
anything to do with him ever again? He hoped not.
 
Stiles’ stomach was twisting itself into tighter and tighter knots as Peter
stared at him with the smile that he loved.  But Stiles couldn’t get his head
around what just happened so he did the first thing that came to his head. Run.
Into Beacon hills woods.
 
He felt his breathing speed, heard the sound of his heart pumping louder than
was usual as he ran further into the forest before he collapsed on to his
knees, which will probably be cut as something dug in very hard, and stared at
his bitten wrist. He closed his eyes and remembered Peter's amazing lips on his
as he brought his lips to his wrist a placed his lips where he was bitten. 
'Crap.I think i may love him.' And not just because he had a sexual encounter
with him but everytime they kissed ,there was a spark. 
 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     all mistakes are mine.
But he did not care to be told what to do, or how to live his life. Did he not
deserve some respect for his wisdom, for having walked this earth much longer
than Derek?
 
Apparently Derek was not happy of his choice of spending too much time with
Stiles. Little did he know what he had done with him. The small moral part of
him regretted it but the rest of him wanted him. All of him. Not just his body
but his heart as well.
 
His arrogance rubbed Stiles the wrong way. His gentleness seduced him. He was
constantly pulled and pushed away because of it. He knew what he was, what he
was capable of, but a large part of him began bending. He started to look
forward to seeing him everyday even if he didn’t enjoy the attention his
presence brought him. It was weird to sit in the library with a guy who could
be your father and the reactions he got in the diner were much worse. It was a
small town people talked and when the Sheriff’s son hangs out with a creepy
looking but very hot guy, it spreads fast.
“Stiles what is this about you hanging out with a creepy looking man, three
times your age?” That was the problem with gossip it got exaggerated. His dad
looked quite angry but more confused.
 Now, there's no use in denying that Stiles’ brain how never worked so fast to
think of an excuse.
“He is my shrink ,he is related to a friend” Stiles smiled an uncertain smile
before his dad sighed, concern in his eyes but not wanting to push it so he
walked down stairs to the kitchen leaving Stiles alone in his room.
“Well that was interesting. We have rumours” Peter chuckled from his seat on
the window sill. This was the first time he had seen Stiles since there little
incident. That neither could get out of their head. Stiles would be lying way
too much if he didn’t admit that he had jerked off to that memory. Many times.
Stiles ended up falling off of his chair and clambered over to close the door. 
He didn’t listen to that little voice that incessantly tried to keep him out of
bad shit – he never did. Number one, because he was an idiot. And number two,
because he was glutton for punishment. So when his voice told him to leave the
room shout or tell him to leave. He didn’t listen. He just stood up with a
blush rising on his face.
“So how are you?” Stiles stuttered. He held in a groan. Why did he have to
sound so stupid? Why was he so nervous? Because it was Peter freaking Hale in
his room.
“Stiles, I’m going grocery shopping. Do you need anything? Considering the
whole time I went fishing you brought nothing but ate everything” His father
bellowed from the stairwell. Stiles replied with a teeth gritted ‘no’ before
his father left.
Peter smirked they were alone. He took the opportunity of distracted Stiles to
push him and pin him on his bed. Stiles mind went straight to the thought of
Peter having his way with him.
“Would you like to go to the cinema with me?” Peter asked cheerfully as he
embedded his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck inhaling his scent like there
was no tomorrow. Stiles was surprisingly not fighting back. He nodded.
 
Peter looked around as they entered the cinema foyer; it was quite busy for a
Wednesday evening. Stiles occupied himself with the list of films showing as
Peter bought the tickets. They were seeing a thriller. God he was worried about
being seen with him. Stiles chose the biggest box of toffee pop corn he could
find, filled a bag with pick and mix sweets and ordered two large cokes.
“Stiles, you’re going to be sick if you eat all that.”
“Shhsh” With that Peter dragged Stiles to the back, which nearly made Stiles
hyperventilate because as a teenager going to the back of the cinema means
making out and sex.
“Technically you’ll have a better view if you sit somewhere in the middle”
Stiles gulped.
 “You are going to talk. A lot” Peter whispered into his ear as he pulled him
onto the seat next to him. The other people in the cinema consisted mostly of
people round about Stiles age. Peter smiled it was the perfect atmosphere, now
if only he could keep Stiles quiet for a bit.  The boy was very nervous he was
constantly watching Peter’s hand so he didn’t stick his hand in the popcorn
when he did. His feet slammed against the floor when Peters hand gripped his
upper thigh, a few inches away from his crotch. The next row over was an
annoying couple who would not stop sucking face. But that was as far as Peter
went whilst watching the film; he kept his hand there the whole time. The
weirdest thing he did though when they finished the popcorn he took a hold of
Stiles’ hands and suck his fingers clean of the toffee. It may have made the
blood travel downwards a little bit for Stiles. Stiles eventually nearing the
end of the film Stiles decided to link fingers with Peter like Derek did with
Ms Blake. Stiles didn’t actually talk that much, he mostly just whispered to
himself not wanting to annoy Peter. And just before the lights turned back up,
Peter made Stiles squeak as he placed a kiss on his cheek that was all smile.
.....
“Lydia isn’t talking to you” Allison announced as she stood behind Stiles who
was at his locker.
“Um, okay why?” Stiles questioned as he grabbed his books out of his locker.
Scott looked like a lost potato.
“She said she saw you at the cinema with Peter, apparently you were holding
hands and he had some weird kinks which you partook in”
Stiles jaw dropped. What was it with people and over exaggerating?!
“No.no.no.no.no....okay yes I went to the cinema with him, he invited me, and
yes I may have held his hand but we did nothing weirdly kinky. She was the one
dry humping a dude she had probably just met in public” And that was when Lydia
decided to walk past. Thank you, universe. Lydia gasped in shock then stomped
over to Stiles and slapped him right across his cheek where Peter had kissed
him.
“At least I am not sleeping with a psychopath paedophile” She shouted at him,
catching nearly the whole corridors attention. Then again everything Lydia did
grabbed everyone’s attention. Whether it be jealousy or admiration. The drama
was the best though. Scott still seemed really confused but he was now angry at
Lydia for hitting Stiles and well Allison wasn’t sure what to do. She was
trying to calm Lydia down but as if anyone can do that.
“I’m not sleeping with him! And he is not a psychopath or a paedophile.”
“He tried to kill me and he is twice your age, what the hell does that mean,
Stiles? Huh? Are you in your own stupid little world?” Stiles loved Lydia still
or better yet he loved the idea of her but wow right now he wanted to call her
a whore. 
“Seriously Lyd , don’t do this” Don’t snap.
“I just can’t believe you, do you have no brain? Or are you that desperate
you’ll take a crazy older guy to fuck you.” Now she was a bitch. Stiles wanted
to hit her but according to sexist crap he can’t. Surely you can’t hit someone
just because you shouldn’t, not because of their gender? Scott growled at her
now and Allison was attempting to drag Lydia away. Should he hit as low as she
did or just walk away humiliated and now apparently a gay whore in front of the
majority of the school? Deep breaths. Ten. Nine. Eight. Count down. He felt the
urge to cry at what Lydia had said, lately they had become quite close but that
was gone.  
“Whatever Lydia do whatever makes you happy, if it’s meaningless sex with
strangers because Jackson left you then fine. And I’m going to do what I want
which is now none of your bitchy ass business” Stiles snarled before he slammed
his locker shut and pushed past everyone so he could go to the counselling
office to calm down. That could have gone better. Much better.  Scott had
followed him.
“Dude ,do you feel like explaining?” Scott pleaded, worried but not wanting to
push Stiles as he had noticed how angry he was.
“I’m still a virgin but apparently I’m a whore, how does that work?” Stiles
choked on his anger, his nails digging into his soft hands. “I shouldn’t have
to explain. This should just be easy” Scott nodded in agreement.  “Peter has
been courting me, I think, we’ve spent a lot of time together and he is
different. Scott he cares. He cares about me. I actually enjoy being with him
and I may even...it’s doesn’t matter it is stupid.”
“Loads of people care about you Stiles” There was just silence. “Look I don’t
trust him but I’m...I’m willing to spend time to get to know him if it makes
you happy. I would have hit her if I was you, you do deserve to hit her, all
the crap she has put you through” Thank you, Scott. Summer improvement has
worked well for you. You are now a better best friend. Stiles smiled at him
through weary eyes. The day had just begun and he wanted it to end.
Stiles ended up leaving school early and sure his dad would be annoyed at him
but Stiles was certain he’d rather his son commit truancy not homicide. So
Stiles finally for the first time went to Peter’s apartment down town.
When Peter opened the door, he was stood there shirtless and in just a pair of
lovingly tight jeans which made Stiles’ gaze only go to two places. Of which
you can guess. Stiles immediately wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and
attached his mouth to the others. The older man was breathing heavily through
his nose as he pushed Stiles against the wall, allowing the door to slam.
“It isvery nice to see you too, Stiles” He said as he placed his hands on
Stiles waist and lifted him up, as the boy wrapped his legs around Peter’s hips
their mouths joined again in a crashing motion. Peter inhaled very deeply then
stopped everything causing Stiles to whimper at the loss.  “You’re
angry...extremely angry. Not doing this when you are filled with hate. It’s
distracting and wrong.”
“You can’t get me horny with your hard body pressed against me then leave me
hanging!” Stiles cried, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Oh, little one, of course I can~” The smirk on his face was near psychopathic.
“Look as well as angry, you smell tired, so why don’t we take a nap together?
At least I didn’t do anything wrong last time, apparently” He led Stiles to his
bed room and stripped him out of his hoodie and shirt before he dropped his
jeans standing there in just his boxer and jumped into his bed.  Stiles stared
at the magnificent figure on the double bed.   Just UNF! Stiles shimmied out of
his jeans and crawled into the bed with Peter where Peter spooned him. His half
hard erection pressing into Stiles’ ass. Yet they didn’t do anything, Stiles
just snuggled into Peters arms, loving being in such close proximity.
He finally realizes heis in love. Now he is like all those stupid little girls.
Love is blindness. There is no warning.
Lately he felt like he couldn’t breathe when Peter wasn’t near him. And it
honestly sucked to depend on someone.
 
When Stiles awoke he ran his finger along Peter’s jaw, followed by wet kisses
up and down his neck. The scruff of Peter’s facial hair scratched his lips in
the most delicious way. Pushing Peter onto his back, Stiles climbed over him,
straddling his legs so that their hips are pressed tightly together, and rocks
experimentally. His face breaks into a delighted grin when Peter responds with
a moan instead of pushing him away.
“Now now. As good as th..is feels. I’m sure you’ll Dad will be expecting you”
Lord those motions. Stiles pouted like a child that had dropped his ice-cream.
“Maybe if you say please”
“Please.Please.Please. Oh my god please” Stiles was acting like a hyperactive
three year old with very different intentions.
“Nope, Come on” Stiles looked devastated as Peter threw him off of him before
he picked him up and plonked him next to his clothes. He wandered around in his
underwear to the kitchen.
“Derek, Nephew so lovely to see you” Peter smirked.
“I wish I could say the same but your smell is hurting my nose and traumatizing
me” Derek snorted as Peter’s arousal stank up his nose.
“If you are here to moan about Stiles ,I suggest you just shut up and leave”
Peter passive aggressively laughed.
“He is here isn’t he?” Derek seemed disappointed, but he wasn’t allowed to feel
disappointment towards Stiles he practically drove him towards Peter. Peter
grin psychotically and smugly before Derek clawed his face. That would take a
while to heal. Peter didn’t react he just rolled his eyes as Derek left. 
“Is what we are doing really that wrong?” Stiles asked as he padded along the
floor towards Peter with a first aid kit.
“Yes it is. But do I ever do anything that right?” He chuckled trying to make
it into a choke. But all he got was an evil stoic stare. Tough crowd. “Do you
want feeding or not?”
 
 
Stiles was going to be exhausted tomorrow, but he felt so far from sleep that
he knew it would be hours before he could relax. He might as well do his
homework and get it over with. Maybe it would help him take his mind off things
he’d rather not think about. Such as his father finding out. And how wrong what
he was doing is. He rolled off the bed and stumbled to the computer on the
otherwise empty desk. It took a few seconds for the screen to glow to life, and
another few seconds to open the program. He began his homework but half way
through he was distracted by a thought so he messaged both Scott and Peter to
see if they would like to play video games tomorrow. It never took him that
long to do his homework when he didn’t want to think about other things.
 He went back to bed, put a pillow over his face, and tried to think of nothing
at all.
....
The sound of police sirens and Stiles cursing filled the house as Peter walked
through the front door. In the living room Scott and Stiles had already made a
man nest out of pillows, blankets and the couch. They had popcorn, marshmallows
and crisps and other junk food. And they were too distracted by Saints Row that
they didn’t acknowledge him.  When Scott shot Stiles to death, Stiles sulked as
he waved an extra controlling in front of Peter. Peter leaned forward and
grabbed the control before he sat behind Stiles who unconsciously and
automatically leant back against his chest and enjoyed sitting in between
Peter’s legs. Scott looked a little bit lost and maybe slightly traumatized. He
did want to bring Allison but decided it was a bad idea as she had not forgave
him yet. Scott said something about him getting to know his first before he
begged her to consider.
He briefly toggled between perspectives, choosing third-person and slowly
turning the joystick with his thumb to survey the surroundings whilst Stiles
and Scott shot at each other again, then other civilians. That didn’t seem like
the point of the game. But the younger boys seemed to enjoy bashing buttons and
killing each other. Peter wasn’t really enjoying the game yet he did like
spending time with Stiles and apparently Scott wasn’t that bad either.  The
older man began nibbling at Stiles’ neck slowly leaving a trail of saliva from
his collar bone up to his ear. This distracted Scott a lot. It was made worse
when Stiles turned his head to face Peter who placed a simple kiss on his lips.
“Guys .Dude. So not ready for the public displays of affection yet...but if it
makes you feel better... idon’tquitehatehim.” Scott mumbled at werewolf speed
so faster than Stiles could understand but Peter heard every world and smiled
against the back of Stiles’ neck. 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     The finally people! i dontknow if its too standards but i enjoyed
     very much writing it.
 
In the end Scott left for a date with Allison because they were starting again
and Stiles just stayed in between Peter’s lap, his arms wrapped around his
stomach.
 
“You know I told my dad that you were my shrink...how are we gonna explain
whatever this is to him?” this was Stiles way of asking if they were dating or
not.
 
“Stiles, would you like to be my boyfriend?” Peter chuckled as he placed his
chin on top of Stiles’ head.  Stiles nodded violently and ended up whacking
both of their heads together. “And towards your other question, I believe we
wait until you are eighteen. So we keep this a secret from him for a year.”
Stiles’ eyes were wide with shock. How was he meant to do that?
 
“Shall I take you out on our first official date?” Peter questioned as he
snuggled into Stiles’ neck like a dog.
 
.....
 
“So what shall we do first?” Peter asked as he held Stiles’ hand, entangling
their fingers. Stiles was embarrassed about it as people kept looking but Peter
was insistent as he could smell that Stiles enjoyed it.  Stiles used his spare
head to point to the ‘Twister’ ride he wanted to go on. He ended up dragging
the older man over; forcing him to pay the $3.00 it cost to get on per person.
They got to choose their seat, not that it mattered. It was nice that they were
able to sit next to each other though.  When it began it was slow turning in a
clockwise rotation and spinning round the whole platform. Then one of the ride
staff said on the overcome ‘Scream if you want to go faster’ of which Stiles
did, hurting Peter’s ears in the process. But the teenage girls annoyed him
more with their incessant screeching like they were being murder.
 
‘As if they knew what that was like’ Peter thought to himself as the ride began
to do a full upside down turn and sped up.  Peter’s face was very grumpy which
the younger boy noticed.  So he tangled there fingers together whilst they sat
on the ride, it seemed to cheer him up a bit or at least bring his attention
back to Stiles who was having too much fun. Adrenaline. He lived off of it.
 The boy could not stop wooing. It’s always a bad idea to do the best thing
first because then the rest of the day sucks. Peter had his work cut out for
him.  When they got off of the ride Stiles’ legs were wobbling and his hands
were shaking, he was clinging to Peter’s arm as his posture was just fine.
 
“Ice-cream?” Stiles asked with his bottom lip stuck out. For a boy whose mental
age was older than he was, he did use childish ways to get what he wanted.  In
the end they brought two double ice creams one mint choc chip and the other
vanilla because when you get older you get boring. Stiles noticed Peter’s
fascination with his mouth and attempted to lick the ice-cream seductively.
Believe it or not ...he failed. The boy ended up tripping over a slight bump,
smashing the ice cream over his face that then dripped onto his shirt.  Peter
let out a full belly laugh before he passed Stiles a napkin. He wiped
everywhere else on his face bar his nose which temped Peter to lick it off. It
made Stiles turn pink and squeak at a very high frequency.  But he turned even
pinker when Peter took off his own shirt and passed it to Stiles for him to
wear. Stiles heart was doing little flips as he slipped his shirt off and but
Peter’s larger one on. Wearing someone else’s shirt was an intimate act. And
now Peter was shirtless as he shoved Stiles soiled shirt into the backpack he
brought , which Stiles kept looking at weirdly because Peter with a backpack?
It’s just strange.
 
“Is that Stiles...and Peter?!” Allison asked her voice going high in shock.
Scott jumped as the tightness on his hand increased. They were at the top of
the Ferris wheel when they noticed Stiles and Peter by one of the ball games.
 
“Stiles is with PETER? I thought Lydia was lying” Allison was allowed to be
shocked its normal but she was hurting Scott’s hand now.
 
“Well I guess yeah, I was going to tell you but I knew that you weren’t a big
fan of him...” Scott looked really timid; he didn’t want their relationship to
be wrecked already. “Can we concentrate on our date not his?”
 
“Look everyone knows even us that we are getting back together, now this is the
only proof I will listen to if you let me eavesdrop on them.” She was serious.
Completely serious. And so the stalking commenced. Peter knew they were there
straight away, he was the one who bit Scott yet he wasn’t going to burst there
bubble, he’d just try to ignore them and pretend they weren’t there.
 
Stiles had one eye closed and his tongue popping out between his plump lips as
he concentrated on throwing the baseballs at the tin cans stacked on the shelf.
He was determined to win a big Spiderman plush toy. He had three chances to
knock them all over. First try, bust. Second try, he knocked one over. Third,
he hit the one he knock over off the shelf. Fuck, he sucked. He pouted; he
didn’t win his Spiderman making Peter roll his eyes as he pulled some change
out of jean pocket and shoved it in the stall handler’s hand. First ball, bust
(on purpose). Second ball, he knocked them all off of the shelf. The stall
handler was shock obviously the game was rigged but he passed Peter the
Spiderman which he then passed to Stiles who was giving him evils.
 
“No wolfie powers” Stiles cried out as he hugged his Spiderman toy that was
half the size of him.
 
“We won didn’t we?” Peter smirked as he headed over to the beer tent. Stiles
stood outside of the tent looking angrily at the sign that said ‘No under 21’s’
,yet when Peter came out he had two pints of Alcohol in his hands. Stiles
looked very puzzled.  Peter out his finger to his mouth and shushed him with a
smile forming underneath his finger. He passed Stiles one of the cups as he
drank his, plonking himself under a tree with the Spiderman plush toy as a
pillow as Peter rested his head on it and Stiles rested his head on Peter’s
bare chest and drank his alcohol with a straw. Woops, Peter may have a kink.
 
“He is letting him drink?!” Allison nearly wailed. It did seem a little
irresponsibly but any teenage party you go to has alcohol so which is more
careless? Scott was getting bored of watching his best friend get lovey-dovey
with an older man.
 
“Are we really doing this?” Scott begged trying to gentle pulled her away.
 
“Are they really sun bathing together?” Allison giggled like a little fan girl.
Scott sighed exasperated collapsing onto his back, attempting to sunbathe as
well as he had nothing else to do.
 
Stiles pulled his Nokia Lumia phone out of his pocket and attempted to take a
photo of himself lay on Peter’s chest as well as getting Peter in the photo.
Unfortunately Stiles forgot that Werewolves do not do photos well. It only took
a moment for Stiles to think of a way to fix it, he leant over Peter’s body his
ass up in the air (the only thing Peter could look at) as he rooted around in
the bag, pulling out some black sunglasses. However he never accounted for what
Peter did next.  The stinging on his ass would probably be there for hours.
What an asshole.
 
“Was that necessary?” Stiles shrieked, tear drops were threatening to come to
the surface. Did he use his Werewolf strength to slap his ass? Allison was
shocked her jaw was nearly touching the floor. Scott was laughing his ass off.
So was Peter.
 
“I’m sorry little one, I could not resist when you were wiggling it in the
air.” He showed his fangs as he smiled.
 
“Rude. Anyway put these on” He passed Peter the sunglasses as he lay back on
his chest getting the angle of the camera right, taking it straight away after
Peter put on the sunglasses then he took another one forcing Peter to smile.
“There now I am happy”
 
“God that took long!” Peter drawled jokingly causing Stiles to punch him in the
chest.  Stiles rolled on top of Peter staring up at Peter his head still
resting on his chest, Peter grabbed Stiles’ ass’ rubbing it better’ he said.
Liar. In return Stiles dragged his teeth across Peter’s chest, so he could feel
his beating heart. Plus the fact he loved Peter’s attempt at not reacting even
though it went straight to his groin.
 
“Dance with me.”
 
“Excuse me, wha..?”Was all Peter was able to say before he was dragged to his
feet and over towards a group of people who were dancing. Stiles didn’t care
about anyone else and he was dancing like a prat but he wouldn’t let go of
Peter’s hands because he knew he would run away.  He shouldn’t have given him
alcohol. Yet it was fun. 
 
“I love you” Stiles whispered under his breath not really wanting Peter to
hear. But he did. And he placed a small kiss on his forehead.
 
“I love you too”
 
To Allison and Scott it was weird to see Peter like this. Allison wasn’t even
sure it was Peter. Scott was just happy that Allison had now stopped stalking
them as she trusted that Stiles knew what he was doing, she just wished she had
someone to fangirl with (Lydia won’t as she hates Peter for an eternity and at
the moment Stiles, Erica hated her due to the arrows, Cora...it was her uncle
and well none of the boys were really the fangirling type) She was just happy
for Stiles for now.
 
 
 
.......
Peter growled out his need. He wanted to take him right now. No sane man could
hold back the burgeoning want.
It was happening, and it was so wrong. But Stiles couldn’t summon a single
protest. Because it didn’t feel wrong. Not physically. Desire, long muffled and
shoved aside, began to unfurl.
A wanting need he’d once fed, but had learned to starve, gasped. Hell, this was
not something he wanted to fight. This man knew his body. There wasn’t a touch,
glide, lick or kiss that didn’t hit the centre of the target.
 
They were both naked and they sweat covered bodies were sliding together as
Peter pinned Stiles hands above his head before began a trail of love bites and
werewolf bites down Stiles body from his jugular to his inner thigh.
 
“My god you are perfect”
 
The boy, who panted below him, stuck out his tongue and winked before he licked
his lips seductively.  An invitation for Peter to bite at them after his tongue
explored his mouth again. He ground his bare cock onto Stiles’ revealing in the
noise that vibrated into his mouth. God he was glad they chose to do it here,
he would be able to smell Stiles for days. Their cocks rubbed messily against
one another, spreading their leaking seed between them as Peter ground himself
down against Stiles.
 
He rolled Stiles over onto his stomach and lifted his hips. His predator drive
kicked in seeing Stiles so vulnerable and open and willing, but also so
intimate and precious. Stiles wiggled his ass when Peter stared too long. Peter
snarled playfully. He lubricated his fingers before he slowly rubs it into
Stiles ass, then he slipped two in. Stiles tightened around his finger.
Watching Stiles fuck himself onto Peter’s hand was better than any fantasy he’d
ever dreamed of. Peter barely had to move as Stiles rocked his body forward and
back to get what he wanted. Peter continues to rub his fingers in slow circles,
listening to Stiles’ breathing. He pulled them out and nearly got drunk on
Stiles’ whimpers. He lined up the head of his thick cock.
 
As he slowly pushed the head in, he could already feel the tightness of the
boy’s virgin hole. When he got the whole of his length in, he didn’t move until
Stiles pushed back on him. Begging. And pleading for more. He could tell that
Stiles was hurting at the moment so he knew he should take it slowly. Even if
his wolf didn’t want him too. He also felt bad that he was still pinning Stiles
because his claws were digging into the flesh and blood was seeping out.  Peter
began thrusting slowly, not going in fully yet and leaving just the head in
when he pulled out.
 
“Please Peter.” He groaned.
 
That was all he needed for him to have only an ounce of control left over his
wolf. He took his whole member out pleasure by the whimper Stiles let out, to
then thrust it back in to hit Stiles prostate. The moan. It erupted and shook
his whole body. From his head to the tips of his toes.
 
“Do. That again”
 
Gladly. The noises the boy made only come make Peter come. His thrusts became
much faster and more shallow. He was grunting and panting, mostly he was
groaning into Stiles’ shoulder werewolf teeth embedded well because it was
midday on a weekend and he lived in an apartment. He had neighbours.
 
This was much better than stiles ever imagined. Finally Peter let go of Stiles
hands so he could grip Stiles ass with his claws, Stiles grabbed Peter’s hair
and he would be lying if said he didn’t pull it. Peter began moaning in his
mouth as he thrust even harder. Stiles’ toes curled and his whole body felt
like an eruption, Peter removed his mouth so he could hear the boy’s first
proper orgasm cause by someone else and so he could watch the way his mouth
shaped as he came over his own and Peter’s stomach.
 
Peter was hardly moving now it was more like he was humping him before he came
inside the boy,a loud howl filling the apartment. Stiles breathe was shaking as
he gasped and Peter collapsed on top on him pulling out before he did. The bed
sheets were sticking to them both as they were covered in come and a hell load
of sweat.
 
“That was Amazing”
 
......
 
Stiles sat up in bed and stretched out him arms. His legs ached and his wrists
were sore from Peter pinning him down as he’d slaked his lust. He hadn’t minded
being pinned down. In fact, it had turned him on more than he’d thought
possible.
 
They ended up falling asleep together and it was four am when they woke up
again.
“Shower?”Stiles yawned before Peter dragged him into the bathroom not even
caring about closing the door.
The tile was cool, a sharp contrast to the heat of Stiles’ skin, the almost
too-hot water that Peter had pouring over his back. He pulled Stiles to press
another kiss-- hard and hungry-- against those lips, and Stiles made a soft
moan at the feel, shivering at the temperature differences. Peter pulled back
to lick at the side of Stiles’ throat, and he felt his canines erupt the moment
that Stiles tilted his head back.
Stiles’ hands touched his back, and then slowly, hesitantly, they slid around
to pull him close. Peter smiled at the sensation. He couldn't remember the last
person who had been so gentle with him, who had treated him as though he might
break. He had control of himself.
Stiles slid down, breaking the kiss as he sank down to his knees. Peter leaned
against the wall, his lips parted slightly as he looked down at Stiles, watched
as he first licked at the very tip of him, and then slid his mouth over Peter’s
length. God the kid had a mouth that was made for blowjobs.
Peter couldn't stop himself from tangling his fingers in Stiles’ wet hair, and
when Stiles started to suck, started to move over him, Peter's eyes slid
closed. Stiles held the base of him with one hand, careful to take no more than
he could actually handle. Even if he had no gag reflex (purposely) Peter was
pretty thick. Peter was nearing his climax when he forced Stiles to stand up,
as he placed his back against the wall.
He got Stiles’ legs around his own hips. He pushed inside, and Stiles made a
low noise against him. Lord , he was still so tight. Stiles would have moaned-
- Peter could feel it bubbling up-- but he buried his face in Peter's shoulder,
muffling it as best he could. It was four in the morning. Yet that didn’t stop
Peter’s knew goal to make Stiles moan extremely loudly when he came. He thrust
heavily into Stiles that it made the boy dig his finger nails into his
shoulders.
“Oh god Peter, Stop please stop” Stiles panted water getting into his mouth as
the spray ran over them both.
“What’s wrong, hon?” His breathing was delayed and deep.
“Too much, going to be so loud. Don’t want to be”
The smirk on Peter’s face could not be re-enacted by anyone else. “It’ll be
fine” He began thrusting again this time not as hard but faster. The moans that
came rambling out of Stiles’ mouth echoed in the acoustics of the bathroom.
Stiles tried to mouth the words ‘I’m going to come’ but he was so exhausted and
unable to breathe he couldn’t. And with one more thrust Stiles came, the water
dripping it all over there lowers bodies. Peters name was tainted on his lips
as he gripped Stiles’ hips as he came inside of him. The slumped against each
other breathing in each other’s scent as the water ran over them getting rid of
all their ‘dirt’. 
“I think I need Scott’s old inhaler” Stiles gasped as Peter carried him out of
the shower wrapping a towel around each of them before they both fell on to the
bed.
“For a young inexperienced boy, you defiantly get me fucking exhausted.” Peter
chuckled in between breaths of air.
“Yeah, well... you are old” Stiles giggled like a teenage girl before he was
rolled over and pinned to the bed, Peters canines digging into his neck drawing
blood.
“Don’t call me old” He said in between licking up the blood he had made bubble
out.
“Can we sleep for like ever?” Peter hummed in appreciation as they both
entangled their legs and Stiles lay his head on Peter’s bare chest. 
“I’d prefer not to, I’ve slept for too long”
.....
Peter was lay on Derek’s couch with Stiles in between his legs. Derek kept
giving them evils. Everyone in the pack was there watching a Scott Pilgrim Vs
the world on Derek’s new television that Isaac forced him to buy. Even Jennifer
was there. Boo! Half way through the film the tension got really bad and Peter
and Derek went outside the apartment for a ‘discussion’.
“Look you knewhe liked you, how could you not? Everyone knew. It was your
choice to be too afraid of being gay to make a move” Peter growled at him. “Now
he is mine for as long as he wants to be.”
“Fuck you, Peter”
“What you want Stiles’ sloppy seconds because you can’t him anymore?”
“Leave.”Derek’s eyes turned to their alpha red and his canines retracted.
“Gladly.”
.......
“Stiles, did you pop your cherry the other night?” Erica asked loudly in the
hallway as she passed Stiles who was on his way to the lunch room.  His mouth
opened and closed like a fish out of water. “Aww you lost your cherry to creepy
Uncle Peter”
“Shushhh” Stiles panicked as he covered her mouth with his hand. She just
licked his hand causing him to remove it. She walked off laughing, clinging to
Boyd’s arm.  Danny who was in his locker nearby was staring at Stiles with a
smile that he gave him when Stiles dropped the XL condom. 
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!

Theon thought of how much she had grown. The girl he had once known was almost
a woman now. Maturity and grief were etched onto her face. He knew they would
never leave, but it somehow made her morebeautiful. He remembered how, when he
was a man, he had hoped Lord Stark would marry him to one of his daughter’s.
Sansa had always been beautiful and it would have made him a true Stark.
How foolish he’d been.
You’re Reek. You’ve always been Reek. You’ll always be Reek. Always. Forever.
If Master heard you thinking these things, he’d take a toe or…or he’d do
that…that thing again…
Reek whimpered at the thought.
I should go to her a small voice said.I should go and tell her the truth and
beg her forgiveness. She won’t forgive me…but…but maybe…
Reek whined louder that time at the sound of Theon’s desperate plea.
To his horror, Sansa’s eyes snapped open and locked with his from across the
pool. Her blue eyes hardened as she realised who he was. “What do you want?”
She hissed loud enough for him to hear.
Your forgivenessTheon’s voice whispered.
How dare he be here, in these woods, where her father had sharpened the Starks
ancestral sword? Where she and Jeyne had gossiped. Where Arya and Jon had
played. Where Bran had climbed. Where Rickon had laughed. Where he and Robb had
rested after training. How dare he…
Sansa continued to glare at him as he stepped out from behind the trees. Sansa
had never truly dared to glare at someone she hated before. But Theon was
different. He was already broken. He couldn’t hurt her. “Lady Sansa…” She
realised it was the first time she’d heard Theon speak. Until now it had been
Reek. Reek she could bear, but Theon…
“May I speak with you, my Lady?” He wrung his hands together nervously.
“I have nothing to say to you Theon. And I do not want to hear another word
from your lips. I don’t even want to see you.” His eyes were downcast but she
could still see the pain in them. It wasn’t enough. “I wonder what Ramsay would
do to you if he knew you were speaking to me? Perhaps I’ll tell him. Then we’ll
see.” She could not stop a smile coming to her lips as Theon morphed into Reek
once more. “Much better.” She breathed.
Sansa wrapped her cloak around her tighter and headed back towards the Keep. If
she had chanced a glance over her shoulder, she would have seen Theon fall to
his knees. She didn’t even hear the sobs that tore through him.
He was nothing to her now.
Chapter End Notes
     So I want to do one more chapter before the wedding, but I'm not to
     sure what/who it should include. So I'm going to open it up to the
     floor. Whose twisted mind do you want to see into or more of? What
     should Sansa do with her last days of freedom? Who do you want to see
     her interact with? More Theon? More Ramsay? More Walda? More Roose?
     TELL ME! :)
***** Player or Piece? *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek and Theon argue. Sansa receives a message and a warning.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It hurt too much to watch her as she walked away from him. Somewhere in his
mind, Reek was attacking Theon with a force he didn’t know he possessed. She’s
going to tell Master! She’ll tell Master, then Master will be angry, and
he’ll…a toe…or…or something worse…
Reek doubled over on the cold earth, trembling and biting back cries of pain
and fear. It was some small consolation that Theon was gone again, at least for
now, but Reek knew it was too late anyway. Sansa had seen him. Sansa had spoken
to him. Sansa had hated him.
In that moment, Reek realised he hated her too.
Theon might pity her and fear for her, but Reek did not feel what Theon felt.
Reek did not remember before. There was no before for Reek, only Ramsay and the
Dreadfort and his new home. And now this stranger had arrived and was going to
tell Master. She was going to make Reek hurt when it hadn’t even been him! It
had been Theon. Stupid, disloyal, arrogant Theon. And now Reek would have to
take the punishment for him and all because she would tell.
As the pain subsided, replaced by an anger Reek had never felt before, he stood
up on his shaking legs and began to follow Sansa’s tracks towards the Keep.
Somewhere behind him, Reek heard someone whisper Theon. But Theon was gone and
Reek did not turn around.
You have to know your name.
It was no warmer inside than it had been in the Godswood. Sansa couldn’t help
but notice that, as she neared her chambers, the halls seemed to get colder.
She hoped Myranda had remembered to put a fire on. When Sansa opened the door
to her chambers, all thoughts of warmth evaporated. Fire was the least of her
worries.
When he heard the door open, Roose Bolton turned to face her and met her gaze.
Sansa forced herself to smile, curtsey and mutter a greeting. Roose did not
reply and continued his walk about the room. That was when Sansa noticed the
note. Had she not been half-heartedly hoping for one, she may never have
noticed it. A small corner of parchment peeked out beneath the pillows on her
bed precariously. Whoever had left it there had not been expecting a visitor.
Out of instinct, Sansa hurried towards it, then froze as Roose Bolton’s gaze
settled on her again, an eyebrow raised, questioning her sudden movement. His
thin lips stretched across his face in what could have been a smile. Sansa
swallowed nervously. “These chambers are comfortable enough for the time being,
I assume?” Roose Bolton’s voice was so quiet, Sansa wondered if he had spoken
at all. She took her chances. “Yes my Lord. I am quite comfortable here.” She
assured him, trying not to look at the note that seemed so obvious to her now
and she feared Lord Bolton would see it from the other side of the bed.
“Whose room was it? Before?” She wasn’t sure if he knew or if he was just
trying to make polite conversation.
“It was my brother Robb’s room, I think.” Sansa’s voice was colder than she had
meant it to be. She knew she needed Roose Bolton to see her as a vulnerable
girl, but seeing him in Robb’s room, asking her questions casually as though he
had not been the one to thrust a knife through her brother’s heart, it angered
her. As if to make things worse, Roose moved towards the bed and gently stroked
Grey Wind’s fur. She moved forward then, instinct demanding that she snatch it
from his grasp. She managed to steel herself just in time. “My son gave you
this as an engagement present, did he not?”
“Yes. It was most kind of him. The nights are cold here.” She pretended to
absentmindedly play with one of the cushions, covering the corner of the note
in the process. Roose’s cold gaze never left her and she could feel the hairs
on her arms stand on end. “No. It was tasteless of him.” Roose insisted. Sansa
looked up then, confused. Surely he had come here to torment her too. The
confusion swept her away and she was suddenly fearful. She wasn’t ready to face
a player like Roose. Ramsay was straight-forward, Theon was broken already and
Walda was easier still. None of them are players she realised. Even Ramsay.
That’s why he plays his little games, because he can never understand the games
being played with him as a piece.
Roose was a player though and under his gaze she felt like a piece again. One
slip and I am dead.
“As you say my Lord.” She muttered meekly. If a piece was what he wanted, a
piece she would pretend to be. Roose studied her for a moment. Sansa kept her
eyes downcast, continuing to fiddle with the edge of the cushion. “I suppose
you are wondering why I am here? It was rude of me to intrude, I know.”
“You are the Warden of the North. You can go where you please my Lord.” Sansa
assured, never meeting his gaze.
“I am here to talk to you about your marriage to my son.” Just the words made
her shudder. Hearing them said aloud seemed to make it all the more real. “You
understand what this union means, don’t you?”
“Yes, my Lord. Ramsay will become Lord of Winterfell and I his Lady.”
“And you will become his.” Roose added. Sansa looked up then. The tone of his
voice held a warning, one that made her all the more fearful of her upcoming
wedding. She recalled when she had been told that she was to marry Lord Tyrion.
She had been disgusted and distraught. She’d thought she would marry Ser Loras
and have Highgarden and sons called Eddard and Bran. Yes, Sansa had despised
the thought of marrying Tyrion. But had she been fearful? Not as much as she
was at the prospect of belonging to Ramsay. Life is not a song sweetling.
“A wife is the property of her husband. Everything she owns becomes his, as
does she.” Roose carried on, driving the nail in deep.
“I understand, Lord Bolton. I am loyal to my beloved Ramsay…” The words sounded
ridiculous to her now. Wrong. They were all wrong. They were not what Roose
wanted to hear. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, as though he were laughing at
her. We’re all liars here, and every one of us is better than you.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone call Ramsay their beloved, Lady Sansa. I
admire your attempt.” If the man wasn’t so cold, she was sure he would have
laughed. “Make no mistake. My Bastard is too cruel for his own good.” It will
get him killed. The words remained unsaid, but they lingered in Sansa’s mind,
alongside the image of Reek. What had Ramsay possibly done to turn the man that
had betrayed her brother into that? “No one could love him, so don’t even try
to fool yourself into doing so. I do not need two lovebirds.” Roose moved
around the bed then and came towards her, sure of stride. Sansa gasped as he
took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look into his
icy gaze. “You know what I do need?” Sansa forced a tear to roll down her
cheek, though it didn’t take much persuasion.
“Me to have a son, my Lord?” Roose continued to stare at her for a moment and
Sansa feared she had answered wrong. Then the could-be smile returned and his
grip on her chin loosened a little, though he did not take his hand away.
Instead, he trailed his forefinger along her jawline, sending shivers up and
down her spine. “You know what that means, don’t you?” He asked, still smiling.
“Yes…Lord Tyrion and I never…but the Queen told me…” She spluttered, blushing
at the thought. Of all the people she could speak of this with, Roose Bolton
was not one of them. “Good. I doubt you’ll be fully prepared but in some ways
perhaps that is for the best.” Sansa sighed when he finally took his hand away.
Roose started for the door, turning just before Sansa could believe the ordeal
was over. “Just do whatever it takes to please him.” All amusement was gone
from Roose’s voice now. It was an order. He was commanding her. “Good day, Lady
Sansa.” Just as he was about to leave, he paused. “Or should I call you
daughter?” She could hear the amusement in his voice again.
I am not your daughter. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and Lady
Catelyn, heir to Winterfell. The flayed man does not command the wolf.
Sansa stood a little straighter. She remembered the clasp on her cloak and
began to outline the silver direwolf head with her finger. Once his footsteps
could no longer be heard from her chambers, Sansa turned back to the bed and
pulled out the note, clasping it as though it were some precious jewel she did
not want to lose. After a moment of treasuring it, she unfolded the note and
drank in every word:
                      I have not forgotten you sweetling.
                              Enjoy your wedding.
          Do not accept my gift. Give it to your new husband instead.
Sansa frowned. What gift? A sudden memory of the necklace she had worn to
Joffrey’s wedding came to mind.
Petyr’s gifts are always so thoughtful.
It was her turn to be amused now.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks everyone who helped with this chapter! It was really fun
     reading all of your comments and I hope this chapter pleased you.
     Thanks Tommyginger for the awesomely awkward conversation idea, it
     was such fun to write XD
***** Don't Lie to Me *****
Chapter Summary
     I'd like to help you suffer less, not be so locked up in your
     thoughts, afraid of love and all under the sun.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The night before her wedding, the world fell quiet. Snow was the only thing
that stirred outside. Sansa was as restless as the weather. No matter how hard
she tried, she was unable to force her eyelids shut. Images flashed through her
mind. She saw herself walking arm in arm with Theon through the Godswood,
leading her towards Ramsay. Handing her over to him. She saw Ramsay’s hand
gripping hers far too tightly, waiting until he heard the bones click. Then she
saw them kneel before the Weirwood tree, on the spot where her father used to
sit.
A wife is the property of her husband. Everything she owns becomes his, as does
she.
Sansa stood up, abandoning the slim hope of a peaceful night’s sleep. She
didn’t even pick up Grey Wind’s fur as she padded over to the window and flung
it open. The moon was blindingly bright and lit up the Northern moors so that
they turned a brilliant white as the snow thickened. She stared out towards the
Wall, hoping to see Jon come galloping across the moors to save her. To take
her somewhere safe. It would be good to see him again. She would apologise for
all the times she had turned away from him or refused to give him comfort when
he was upset and he would forgive her. It sounded like a song. Sansa used to
like songs.
She turned away from the window and looked around the room. The fire had died
out again but she did not notice the cold. Sitting down at the dressing table,
Sansa was shocked to see how pale she was. The moonlight cast the only light
and so her skin looked like silver, shining like polished metal. I truly am
made of steel now. She wanted to smile but found that no smile could reach her
lips. The silvery light of the moon made her seem ghostly now.
A ghost among ghosts.
She could stand it no longer.
Picking up her cloak, pulling on her boots and lighting a candle, she headed
out of her chambers to wherever her feet would take her. The rest of the castle
was quiet. Waiting. Sansa met no one as she made her way outside. Not
surprising really. She was sure it was late, probably past midnight. Outside,
only the horses in their lines made a sound; shuffling and huddling closer
together to keep warm. Tents had been set up for the soldiers. All the rooms
that were habitable had gone to the Lords and the knights had taken refuge in
the more sheltered ruins. Winterfell had become cramped over the past week as
more and more Lords and soldiers arrived. Yesterday, a number of knights and
soldiers had arrived bearing the sigil of House Arryn. That had been a welcome
sight. Sansa had never seen so many people in Winterfell, not even when King
Robert had come to visit.
Now though, in the dead of night, Sansa was alone. An overwhelming sense of
abandonment swept over her, and drove her towards the one part of Winterfell
she knew she could never be lonely. The one place where she was not the last of
the Starks.
It took a while for her to get all of the rubble out of the way. She was sure
the sky had started to lighten and her candle had burned down to three quarters
of its size. She would have to be quick. Looking over her shoulder, she saw no
one. Winterfell was inhabited only by ghosts tonight.
As she descended the slick steps, the air seemed to grow warmer. It welcomed
her presence. Sansa had only been down here a few times as a child. It had
always scared her and there were rats down there. Old Nan used to say that at
the very bottom of the crypts, the rats had grown as big as dogs and that they
ate human flesh. Now though, such stories sounded ridiculous. She was not
afraid of rats. She had seen too much to be afraid of such things. Besides, the
darkness that surrounded her now felt like home.
Sansa wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to remember how far down she had to go,
but her heart took control and led her there. She passed the old Kings of
Winter, whose faces had begun to crumble away, leaving them looking strange and
disfigured. Sansa tried to remember their names, but she had never paid much
attention to their tales. They had all seemed dull or brutal at the time. She
realised now that their tales had just been the truth, and the ones she had
listened to were the lies.
The further along she went, the more names she remembered.
Rickard…Brandon…Lyanna…
Sansa stopped; her shattered heart pounding in her chest.
She had not been sure if he would be here, considering everything that had
happened since. But here he was. His face was stern and serious, but still held
the loving father she remembered. Sansa collapsed to her knees as grief and
pain ripped through her. In the darkness of the crypts, beneath her stone
father, she began to weep. These were old tears. Tears that she had been
holding back since the day Joffrey took her father’s head. They say you can
only truly cry when you are amongst those who have shared and can understand
your grief. Sansa felt that now. She rested her head on the base of her
father’s likeness and felt a release. She did not have to hide here, but with
that came painful memories and agonising guilt. “I’m so sorry.” She cried, her
tears creating a puddle at Lord Stark’s feet. “If I hadn’t gone to the Queen…if
I hadn’t told her…you might be alive…” She looked up at her father. He did not
look back, just continued his stern gaze towards the wall opposite. That hurt
more than she could say. He could never accept her forgiveness.
Sansa stood up and wiped away her tears. Tears could not help her, nor could
her stone father. She looked over at the places where her family’s bodies
should rest. There were no likenesses there, only gaping holes, still waiting
to be filled. Would they? Would the bones of her brothers and sister ever be
found and brought to the place where they belonged? Sansa doubted it. The
spaces would remain empty. The bones of the Bolton’s wouldnever rest amongst
those of the Stark’s. Sansa looked back at her father and raised a hand to cup
his rough, cold cheek. “I swear to you, father. I will avenge them. No matter
what it takes.” Lord Stark looked neither proud, nor sad at her words. He just
looked right on through her. But that no longer mattered.
Sansa turned back the way she had come. The crypts seemed colder now, but she
embraced it. It seeped into her bones. Her blood froze in her veins and when
she emerged from the crypts, she was Alayne Stone once more.
With a lack of fingers, the clasp was a struggle. The edges seemed to dig in
and bite at his fingers. After he dropped it for a fourth time, Lady Sansa ran
out of patience. “Give it here, I’ll do it.” She said, not ungently. Theon
watched her, feeling empty and pathetic. He couldn’t even put a clasp on
properly. “Are you ready?” He asked her quietly. She fiddled with the cloak,
pretending not to have heard him. He could hear the musicians Lord Baelish had
sent strike up their instruments. Sansa continued to adjust the cloak,
absentmindedly flattening every crease. “You…you look beautiful, Lady Sansa.”
And she did. She looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
It felt as though they should say more, but Theon could think of nothing.
Actually, he could think of a lot, but the words refused to come. So he lied,
like he had been trained to. “Lord Ramsay will be a good husband. He’ll be kind
to you, if you…”
“Please him? Is that what you do Theon? Is that why he was kind enough to
relieve you of your fingers?” The words did not drip with venom like they
should have done. They were just cold. Her voice was indifferent. “Don’t lie to
me Theon. I’ll know.” The icy voice sent a shiver down his spine. That shiver
illuminated something inside of him. A mere spark. A mere spark that suddenly
burst into flames. “I lie because I have to. You don’t understand, not yet.
He’ll take a finger or a toe, or…” His voice trailed off and the red cloud
cleared. Sansa did not look shocked. She didn’t even look angry. His words
didn’t seem to make her feel anything. “A toe.” She said at last. “A finger.
Are those what are most precious to you? You tell me lies because of that?” He
flinched away from the cold. “I had to lie too. I had to say that my father, my
mother and my brother were traitors. I had to declare my love for King Joffrey,
all in the hope of saving my family. But they died anyway.” Theon knew where
this was going and felt the anger begin to rise again. “Yet you stand there and
tell me you have to lie because you are afraid to lose a toe? You killed two
innocent young boys, a cripple and a six year old, my brothers, yet you are
afraid to lose a finger? The Gods must have been making a jest when they
decided what to do with you. Perhaps they simply rolled a dice.” She swept past
him then and stood in front of the door, waiting for him to open it. Theon
didn’t move. “Come on. Take my father’s place. It’s what you always wanted,
wasn’t it? To be a Stark?”
“I didn’t kill them.” He couldn’t raise his voice higher than a whisper, not
with Reek clawing his way into his throat, desperately trying to pull Theon
back. “What?” Sansa didn’t seem to hear him.
“I didn’t…kill them.” He fought to make the words louder that time. As Sansa
turned around, he felt Reek slowly start to lose his grip. She stared at him in
disbelief, her icy exterior melting away before his eyes. “My brothers are
alive?” She gasped. He could see her fighting tears. Theon only managed a nod
before Reek somehow managed to regain control. “Come, my Lady. Lord Ramsay
awaits you.” With what little strength remained, Reek pulled the reluctant
bride out of the Keep and into the Godswood.    
Chapter End Notes
     I was supposed to be working on the Purge, but that trailer...seven
     hells!
***** A Mummer's Farce *****
Chapter Summary
     Sansa is left shaken after Theon's confession and she struggles to
     play her part. The wedding does not end how she'd hoped it would.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The mist weaved its way through the Godswood; its cold fingers caressing their
clothes. Eventually, the fingers curled into a fist and soon enough only the
yellow light of torches were left to guide them through the trees.
Sansa noticed none of it.
Had it not been for Reek’s arm linked through hers, she wouldn’t have known
where to go. She may not have even moved at all.
They’re alive. Bran and Rickon are alive.
It had disorientated her. Drunk on confusion, fear and hope, Sansa stumbled
over a root, almost bringing Reek down with her. With a strength spurred on by
fear, Reek dragged her back onto her feet. Sansa clutched his maimed gloved
hand, forgetting herself. “Do they know? Do the Boltons know they are alive?
Did you tell them?” Her voice rose so much that Reek was forced to hush her.
Sansa could tell she would get nothing out of Reek, but she continued to cling
to his arm all the same.
All too soon, faces began to appear through the mist. A small part of her
recognised the Northern Lords, but it was overrun by the fog that had invaded
her mind. She flinched away from them, eyes wild, her hold on Reek’s arm the
only thing preventing her from turning around and fleeing. When Ramsay called
out, Sansa muffled her fearful cry until it was a mere whimper. “Who comes?”
His voice cut through the mist like a knife. “Who comes before the Gods?” Sansa
could just about make out his figure, yet it gave her no reassurance. He was
simply a black shape amongst the mist. Faceless. Her instincts screamed danger.
“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered,
trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to
claim her?” It was the sound of the mummer at her side that cut through the fog
in her mind. She suddenly remembered where she was and why. Sansa refused to
tremble, but her heart tremored in her chest. Theon is playing his part, as
must I. “Me, Ramsay of House Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. I claim her. Who
gives her?” Mummers. All of them. The faces of the Northern Lords were nothing
more than a masked chorus; a representation of the masses. “Theon of House
Greyjoy, who was her father’s ward.” He was a mummer. A piece. As was Ramsay.
As was she. Sansa looked about frantically, seeking out the player. Their
puppeteer. Their Master. When she met his gaze, his eyes implored her to
continue with his mummer’s farce. No. I won’t. I don’t want to!The little girl
inside her screamed. “Lady Sansa?” Theon’s voice tore her away from Roose’s
gaze. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?” Wrong. It was all wrong. Her part
was supposed to give the Boltons Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell.
Wrong. It was so wrong. How could they not see? How could they not know? That
was Bran’s title. He was alive. Bran was Lord of Winterfell…
“Lady Sansa?” Sansa turned to him. Reek lied, but Theon’s eyes screamed and
begged. The one truth amongst this mummer’s farce. Don’t do it. It is not his
title to take. Say it. Tell them all. Do not give them what they want.
Don’t give them what they want.
Sansa’s breathing grew ragged and she was sure she would faint. Theon’s hand
tightened around hers. Avenge them. She had promised her father. Avenge them.
If she told them all the truth, what would happen? Would she be killed too?
Avenge them.
She couldn’t do that from the grave.
“I take this man.” Her voice was loud and clear and as cold as the Northern
wind.
The chorus sighed in perfect unison. The mummer at her side released her hand
and stepped back and another took his place. Ramsay seized her hands,
smothering them with his own. She could see anger in his eyes.
She’d almost ruined their performance.
He led her towards the Weirwood tree. It seemed to be laughing at them now,
enjoying the folly; the comedic masks of the chorus, the mummer who had almost
forgotten her lines. Sansa smiled back. Ramsay’s hand clawed her shoulder,
forcing her to her knees. As the mummers prayed, Sansa planned. She still
smiled when they stood up. Ramsay’s icy gaze never left hers. She watched his
mask begin to slip. The puppeteer should have employed a better performer. One
with more endurance. As the direwolf slid from her shoulders, the mummers mask
slipped completely, revealing the horror beneath. As Ramsay slipped the flayed
man about her, his look was a promising one. It did not promise to protect and
defend. Quite the contrary. She would be punished for her poor performance.
Sansa’s mask never faltered. A Shewolf does not need her mate to protect and
defend her. Her teeth are just as sharp.   
Sansa did not show surprise as he lifted her in his arms; his grip around her
was tight, possessive. Sansa simply smiled, armouring herself with courtesy.
With no more songs to sing, the mummers made their exit.
The pain of sitting amongst her enemies may have been eased with more than two
cups of wine, but Sansa wanted to keep a clear head. Images of Cersei on the
night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay filled her head with every sip she took,
forcing her to settle the cup back down on the table. Her husband clearly did
not share her lack of enthusiasm for drink. It did her a kindness really. The
more he drank, the merrier he seemed to become, though Sansa wondered if it was
their upcoming bedding that lightened his dead heart. Either way, she was
pleased that she did not have to endure it in silence. She recalled her
previous wedding; how Lord Tyrion had been so drunk he could barely stand. And
how Joffrey had threatened her. Apart from that moment in the Godswood, Ramsay
had shown no evil intent towards her so far. She answered his questions with
courtesy. She spoke to him with courtesy. She was sure she could beat him to
death with courtesy if she tried hard enough.
She didn’t though. Instead, Sansa looked about the room, searching for the gift
that was promised to her. Perhaps a hooded man in a shadowed corner, a dagger
smiling at her, hooked through his belt. She saw no such gift. I have not
forgotten you sweetling.
When Roose stood up and called for silence, Sansa settled back in her chair,
chancing a quick glance at Lady Walda. Her fat face was lit up with a pleased
smile. As Roose began to speak, Sansa turned and watched Ramsay, preparing
herself for her entertainment to begin. Her eyes never left his face as Lord
Bolton spoke of Stannis’ forces at Castle Black. She watched her husband join
in the cheers of the Northmen. All it took was a look from Roose Bolton for the
hall to be silent again. “And now for more good news.” He began. Sansa’s smile
widened as Ramsay frowned. “My lady wife has just informed me that she is with
child.” The hall was silent. So silent, in fact, that Sansa could hear the
blood start to boil in Ramsay’s veins. His pale face flushed red with wine and
irritation as he struggled to keep his mask in place. The Frey’s began
cheering. Their fellow chorus members joined in, though they had missed their
cue. Sansa turned away from her infuriated husband and smiled at Walda, giving
an approving nod.
Then the puppet master introduced new characters.
A head tilt was their cue. The cheering rose as two huge pies were wheeled into
the great hall, heading through the lines of tables, straight to the dais. “For
you, Lady Sansa.” Roose said, looking down at her. “A gift from Lord Baelish.”
Sansa felt her heart start to race as the cook held a knife towards her, ready
for her hand to wield.
“But Lord Bolton, as kind as this gift is, it is not mine to cut. Nor to taste.
Lord Baelish means this grand gift to be given to my Lord husband. He shall be
the one to cut it, and it is his decision whether or not I eat it. What’s mine
is his, as am I.” Roose smiled approvingly and looked over at Ramsay.
“I have got you a fine wife, Ramsay.” He said, sitting back down. Ramsay
scowled in reply and staggered to his feet. Sansa watched as he drunkenly made
his way around the table, clinging to the backs of the other chairs to keep his
balance. The cook leapt out of the way as Ramsay snatched the knife out of his
grasp. With a violence to rival Joffrey’s, Ramsay sliced one of the pies open
with one savage stroke. There were no doves, but then that was not what Sansa
hoped was inside. The chorus cheered again as a portion of the pie was cut and
handed to Ramsay. Had he been the kindly man that Theon had promised, he would
have offered the first slice to his wife. But her husband was no such man.
Instead, he turned and wolfed down the slice as though to spite her. Sansa did
not need to force a smile.
That was when all courtesy left her. She no longer wore her armour. The battle
had been fought and won. As though to make mockery of her last kill, Sansa held
his goblet up and filled it. “That pie looks dry, my Lord. A sip of wine will
wash it down.” An uneasy hush settled over the hall. No doubt the Northern
Lords had gotten word of the events of King Joffrey’s murder. But Ramsay, with
a mouth full of pie and a head full of wine, did not seem to notice the sudden
silence. He snatched the goblet away from her, sloshing half its contents over
the table, he swallowed it all in one. Then Sansa waited.
And waited.
The uneasy hush quickly evolved into an expectant one. Ramsay continued to
polish his plate. Sansa continued to wait.
Her heart sank as the final crumb was lifted to his mouth. He smiled at her
then. Do not accept my gift. Give it to your new husband instead.What could
Petyr have possibly meant if not poison? Perhaps it needed more time to take
effect? Panic seized her as she realised she had no time left. Ramsay gave her
one final smirk before turning to face the chorus, his mask in place once more.
“My Lords, despite what my Lady wife says, the pie is well done. You all must
continue to make merry. Eat. Drink. Let no crumb go to waste! Now, if you’ll
excuse me,” Ramsay turned back to face Sansa “I have a bedding to prepare for.”
Chapter End Notes
     So I read somewhere that it was possible that Petyr would do the pie
     thing. Seems pretty cool, even though I miss Lord Manderly. Petyr has
     got one reason to hate the Frey's, but that reason has driven him
     from day one. Only Cat.
***** Let Me Under Your Skin *****
Chapter Summary
     Mouth thumping, it's late.
     Dead silence, black space.
     I've been patient for too long,
     I just can't wait to get under your skin.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sansa quickly abandoned her idea of keeping a clear head. She ordered another
cup of wine, downed it, then held it up so it could be refilled. She watched
her husband as he staggered down the aisle, roaring for the doors to be opened.
No one instructed her to follow him so she did not. The cupbearer scarcely left
her side. My previous husband would be proud if he saw me now. She found
herself suddenly longing for it to be Tyrion she was sharing a bed with. She
would gladly lose her maidenhead to him now, after she had seen what a true
monster looked like.
At least it isn’t Joffrey. That was some small comfort, and she clung to it as
tightly as she was clinging to her cup. Some of the Northern Lords looked up at
her with pity in their eyes; the foolish little girl who had dreamed for her
monster to be struck down before he could do her harm. How stupid she was. The
eyes on her reminded her of what she was. I thought I had learnt my lesson. I
thought I was stronger, but I’m still the stupid little girl with stupid dreams
that never learns. It was not I who was strong, it was Petyr…
Petyr.
She didn’t even want to think about Petyr.
Music and merriment began to fill the room with its stench. It assaulted
Sansa’s nostrils and made her want to retch. People nearer the back started
dancing and it slowly moved its way forward. Some Lords even looked towards
her, wondering if they should ask to dance. Sansa hoped they would not. She had
not danced in a long while and her mind was already so murky from the wine she
doubted she’d be able to walk straight, let alone dance. Mychel Redfort was the
first to summon up the courage. “Might I have the honour of dancing with you,
my Lady?” He called from beneath the dais. Sansa willed herself to smile, but
her jaws felt as stiff as wood, her teeth locked together. She managed nothing
more than a shake of her head. Mychel smiled sadly, bowed, then abandoned her
there. Her rejection seemed to deter everyone else. Sansa was left alone on the
dais, with only Lord and Lady Bolton for company. None of them seemed to feel
like stirring up a conversation.
After a moment, Sansa felt a shiver go down her spine. The hairs on her neck
stood on end as she felt new gazes fall on her. They had no intention of
dancing, that she was certain of. Sansa looked around, seeking out the
predators. A gang of men were watching her. She had seen them a few times
before; they seemed to be good friends of her new husband. They were no friends
of hers though, their looks said it all. Suddenly, someone was pushed out of
the gang. Reek started towards her. Head down. Eyes to the floor. She could see
by his stuttering pace that he had also tried to drink the night away. They
both knew it had been a false hope.
Sansa did not look at him when he stopped next to her chair. She settled the
empty cup back on the table, the wine churning in her stomach at every
movement. “Lady Sansa, come. It is time you did your duty.” I’m at a loss to
explain what I’ve been doing so far she would have said, had her courage not
fled her. She stood and started to follow him out of the hall. If the Lords saw
her leave, she did not notice. It took all her concentration just to walk. She
thanked the Gods for Reek’s missing toes then. Her feet felt like lead and
every step was torture. Had he been left with able feet, she wouldn’t have been
able to keep up.
As they crossed the snow-carpeted courtyard, Sansa realised they were being
followed. She had to stop to turn. Ramsay’s friends were close behind and
getting closer still. “Come, my lady.” Reek urged. Sansa needed no secondary
instruction. She suddenly felt as though she were being herded; like a lamb led
to the slaughter. “Why are they here?” She asked him, refraining from reaching
out and clutching his arm. He did not reply. The men began a chorus of laughter
and bawdy jokes. One sang ‘The Northman’s Daughter’. Another claimed he would
receive a piece of the bloodied bedsheet.
Bloodied bedsheet?
Everything Cersei and her mother had taught her about this night had fled her
mind the moment Theon had made his confession. She couldn’t remember if blood
was the norm. I’m not afraid of the pain, not after what Joffrey’s done to me.
She was afraid though. She was terrified.
I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave.
But she wasn’t a Stark anymore. The cloak that was draped about her shoulders
seemed to grow heavier, reminding her of the name she now bore.  
When they entered, Ramsay was sat beside the hearth. Despite the fire, the room
was still cold. He did not look up when they entered. “Leave us lads.” Ramsay
was unusually quiet. Still he did not acknowledge them with his cold gaze. The
sigh of relief caught in her throat. The predators may have gone, but they had
just delivered her into the jaws of their Alpha. “Reek. Stay.” He barked. Sansa
did not need to look to know Reek had obeyed. She flinched as the door slammed
shut. Still Ramsay did not move. She wanted him to stand up, roar at her,
threaten her. Throw her on the bed and be done with it.
But she knew that tonight was not about what she wanted.
Save yourself some pain girl, give him what he wants.
“Did the feast not go as you had planned?” Ramsay’s voice cut through the
silence as savagely as he had cut through the pie. “Was your gift from Lord
Baelish a disappointment?” The bitterness of it made her tremble. Sansa
responded the only way she remembered how. “The feast pleased me greatly, my
Lord. Lord Baelish was most generous, as was your father. I…” The sight of his
hands clenching around the arms of the chair made her falter. “I am so
grateful.” A lie. A feeble lie as transparent as glass. “Such a courteous thing
aren’t you? A fragile bird singing her little songs to please.” He spat.
“Courtesy is a lady’s armour, my Lord.” Her own words frightened her. They were
too bold. Yet they seemed to amuse him. “Really? Well, as your husband,” He
stood up and moved towards her. “I command you to take it off.” He did not
smile. His eyes pierced hers, then they moved down. Further and further, he
undressed her with his eyes. She could feel him crawling under her skin. It was
not the cold room that caused the hairs on her arms to stand on end. “My Lord,
I...I don’t understand.” She stuttered. Did he mean for her to undress? His
look told her nothing. “Take off your armour.” He hissed. He brought his gaze
up to meet hers again. She could feel him slipping his way into her
bloodstream, invading her body. And all with a look.
Ramsay took another step towards her. Instinctively, she tried to take a step
back. A yelp escaped her as a hand lashed out and took hold of her arm. “I want
to see her.” He growled.
“See who? Please, my Lord. I don’t understand!” She couldn’t look at him. Not
those eyes. Those eyes that pierced and invaded her very being. Searching.
Peeling her back layer by layer. “You are not who you pretend to be, Sansa
Stark. So sweet. So innocent. Yet you aren’t alone. Like Reek. I can see it. I
can always see it. Don’t try to hide her from me.” Sansa looked over at Reek,
who was all she could see. There was no Theon there. “Don’t worry wife, I’ve
remembered my promise. Undress and get on the bed while I see to Theon.” He
commanded so nonchalantly, releasing her arm as suddenly as he had taken hold
of it. She could feel her knees start to tremble, but his focus was no longer
on her. She turned away from him and started to undress, desperately clawing at
the laces of her wedding gown. It had been beautiful, in a simple sort of way.
Smooth grey silk that had shimmered, even in the snow. Yet once it was on the
floor it was nothing more than a feeble pile of fabric, its beauty gone. With
nothing to hold it up, it could have been just a used dishcloth with a strange
shimmer.
Sansa moved over to the bed, not checking to see how Ramsay was preparing Reek.
She knew he was Reek now. Theon was nowhere in sight. Yet her husband would be
displeased if she ruined his fun. “Close your eyes, Lady Sansa. I want your
wedding gift to be a surprise.” She did as he bid, trying to drown out Reek’s
whimpers by keeping her breath even and steady. It was peaceful in her self-
made darkness. When Ramsay ordered her out of it, she opened her eyes with the
greatest reluctance.
Chapter End Notes
     This bloody bedding scene was supposed to be one chapter. It is
     already four pages long and it's still nowhere close to the end. This
     chapter isn't even a warm up of what's to come.
***** Transitions *****
Chapter Summary
     And the moon gives me permission
     and I enter through her eyes,
     She's losing her virginity
     And all her will to compromise.
     I didn't want to hurt you baby
     I didn't want to hurt you,
     I didn't want to hurt you
     But you're pretty when you cry
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
And immediately closed them again.
“No Lady Sansa. Don’t be ungrateful. I’m glad your armour is gone, but I am
your husband and you will do as I command.” So she did.
She was not certain what it was supposed to look like, but she knew it wasn’t
this. The gash was a mixture of pink and grey skin, pinched together; a
patchwork job. A darning of the flesh. A poor attempt to cover what was
missing. The wine stirred in her belly once again, threatening to make its own
appearance. “Do you like it Lady Sansa? Is that enough justice for you? I did
it myself. You might not have been aware, but Theon was awfully fond of his
little toy. Weren’t you Theon?” Ramsay’s mouth twisted into the cruellest smirk
she had ever witnessed as Reek began to chant.
“Not Theon. Reek, it rhymes with weak, peek and sneak. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.
I’ve always been your Reek Master. It rhymes with meek. Please…” His words were
lost as Ramsay grabbed him by the matted curls, sinking his pale fingers
through them and yanking his head back. “Lady wife, open your legs. Theon wants
a look, don’t you?”
“Not Theon! Reek!” Reek insisted, his limbs trembling wildly. Sansa choked back
a sob as she spread her legs out for them to see. Ramsay tilted his head,
staring, licking his lips. She closed her eyes and felt the salty tears burn
her cheeks. “Did I say you could close your eyes?” She heard him growl.
“N…no…my lord. I’m s…sorry…my lord.” Sansa sobbed. This was too much.
Everything. The sight of Theon. The way her husband looked at her. She couldn’t
take it. “Want to prove to me Theon is truly gone, Reek?” She heard Ramsay
whisper. Reek’s head bobbed up and down wildly. Sansa cried out as Reek was
thrown onto the mattress. His hair tickled her inner thighs and she could feel
his foul breath stir the hair between her legs. Theon. She wanted to say his
name. Scream it at him. Make him realise what he was doing. Her brother had
considered him as his own brother. My father raised you as if you were his own
son she thought as she felt his hair brush her leg again.
The sickening thoughts clouded her mind. She didn’t even realise Ramsay’s
intentions until the creature between her legs screamed in agony. Sansa looked
up. Her breath caught in her throat as Ramsay thrust into Reek again. She
couldn’t even cry out. Her husband was naked now. His smooth skin as pale as
her own. Muscles casting shadows across his body The way he pushed into Reek
was so savage and brutal, she was sure it would tear him apart. Reek shrieked
every time he was rammed into. And from…from…into…there…
Gods. Will he do that to me?
She’d never meant for this…she hadn’t expected Ramsay to do this…she didn’t
know anyone could even think about doing such things.
Pleasing Ramsay was no longer a concern. The only thing that filled her mind
now was a need to escape. She couldn’t fight. Ramsay was too strong and she was
just a weak little songbird with only courtesy to shield her. It would be of no
use now. Taken over by an animal instinct, Sansa flew from the bed, aiming for
the only possible escape. The door wasn’t far away. She could make it.
She could’ve, had it not been for the wine and the monster who loved a hunt.
Sansa staggered pitifully towards the door, arms outstretched. He waited until
she had almost made it, allowing her to hope before slamming into her. “You
just couldn’t wait could you? Highborn maids are always used to getting
whatever they want, when they want it. Or so I’ve heard. Did you grow jealous
of my Reek?”
She didn’t know what made her do it. The act was beyond her control. A reflex.
An instinct. The back of her hand met his cheek with a heart-stopping thwack.
The room seemed to freeze over. Ramsay clutched his cheek, stunned into
silence. Sansa tried to struggle her way free, but his free arm was pushed up
against her throat. When he turned back to face her, he was smiling. “Found
you.” He sang. Breathing ragged, desperate eyes twitched, searching for
anything. Anything other than those two chips of ice. If she looked into them,
the ice would crack and the cold current would consume her, filling her lungs
with its icy breath. Her arms hung freely, so she used them. The only weapon at
her disposal now was her body. Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. No. No they
were not.
Clawing, biting, striking, kicking. Ramsay’s blood grew hotter with every hit.
He took another step closer, the thing he had begun to build inside Reek was
pressed up against her bare stomach. The feel of it, wet, hard and warm on her
skin, forced her into further panic. Claws dug in until the skin gave way
beneath it, blood welling in the fresh grooves. Ramsay laughed. “Go on love,
keep fighting.” He cooed, pressing harder against her, his arm still crushing
her throat, enjoying the panicked gasps and rolling eyes.
He pushed her right to the edge. Blackness awaited her, slowly edging its way
around her, ready to swallow her up. It clouded the nightmare that stood before
her. Only the eyes skewered through the darkness. Hands clutched weakly to the
arm that had taken her breath away. Legs twitched and flinched; a poor attempt
to do him harm.
Suddenly, the darkness lifted.
Air flooded into her lungs, gushing down her throat so fast it hurt. So
overcome by the sweet bliss of breathing, his movement became unimportant. A
fly in the room. Tilting her head back, gasping for more of the sweet relief.
She never even saw him pounce.
The shock was worse than the pain, at first. She felt him thrust his way inside
her, forcing himself deeper. A scream escaped her lips as she felt something
within her shred and tear. Was it her courage that had broken? Her pride? Her
dignity? The young girl inside her screamed and fought as the blood began to
slide along her thighs; innocence mingled with his tainted seed. Ramsay caught
a rhythm then, pumping into her rough and fast as he had done with Reek. The
wood from the door was rough and unpolished. Splinters of wood lodged
themselves into the delicate skin of her back as she was humped against it. She
dared not open her eyes and he allowed it. A mercy. Gratitude filled her as he
did.
The pain did not subside. It worsened with every thrust; the soft, untouched
tissue of her insides being rubbed raw by his savage stabs. The salt from her
tears burned her eyes and soft, pale cheeks. “I was going to be merciful. I was
going to have Reek get you ready for me. That would have made this easier for
you, but you misbehaved, didn’t you?” The answer was an agonised wail that
echoed through the door. Laughter called back. The men were still out there,
listening as she was thrust against the door. “Who are you?” He asked, his
voice low and husky as he tried to hold himself back. “Who are you really?” She
knew the name he wanted. Truly wanted. If it passed her lips, she was lost to
him. He would own every part of her being. Her body, her mind and…
The pain. The scent of blood and sweat. The grinding of his teeth as he stilled
and stiffened inside her, unable to hold back any longer. His trembling hands
hoisting her legs up higher. His fingers bruising the soft skin of her bloodied
thighs.
“Alayne.” It was a mere tremor of the lips that brought her last shield
crashing down.
With nothing left to hide from him, she opened her eyes. Red and sore as they
were, they did nothing to hinder her vision. “My sweet wife. Is that who she
is?” He asked softly. Too softly. She knew his concern was insincere. Sansa bit
back a cry of pain as he pulled out of her, not ungently, and lowered her so
she stood on the floor. Her legs were unsteady and she collapsed against him. A
small part of her knew it wasn’t just down to her weak limbs. She was grateful
that the pain had stopped, though her insides still burned. There was a gut-
wrenching shame as her face buried into his shoulder; her tears mixed with the
sweat that slickened his skin. Sobs tore through her, and it hurt when she felt
beholden for his strong arms as they enclosed her. Trapped her. He buried a
hand in her hair, petting her. Clutching her face to his shoulder. “Hush now
wife, I know it was not you who fought me. It was her fault, wasn’t it? Alayne
made you do those things, didn’t she? Those horrible things. You’d never hit
your lord husband, would you Sansa?” Her head shook frantically, denying her
other self as much as she was denying her wish to harm him. “Good girl. You
just want to please me, don’t you Sansa?” He cooed. Sansa could smell the
threat. “Yes…yes my lord, I just want to please you…only you…please…” He smiled
at that. Smiled and smiled. Pleased with his newest creation. “I know love, I
know. But we have our duties to see to first, don’t we?” His soft tone made her
tremble in his embrace. “The Northern Lords will be expecting a bloodied sheet,
and I promised my friend Skinner a scrap of it.” A celebratory whoop sounded
from beyond the door. “We mustn’t disappoint, must we?”
“No, my lord husband.” She was a good girl and always remembered her
courtesies.
“Very good. I’m going to need help preparing first though. Who should help me?
You or Reek?” Ramsay asked, unwrapping her and taking a small step back,
revealing Reek. She’d forgotten about him.
The meaning of Ramsay’s words were lost on her. Nothing else mattered except
that she had to make a choice, a choice that would either please him or cause
her more pain.
Save yourself some pain girl, and give him what he wants.
Aware of the blood trickling down her thighs and the bruises that darkened
across the contours of her body, Sansa couldn’t find it within herself to look
at Reek. She was almost as afraid of seeing Theon resurfacing as she was
Alayne.
The answer was clear anyway.
“I will help you, my lord husband.” Her voice was small and meek, yet it seemed
to please Ramsay.
“There’s a good wife.” He took a step closer to her again. A fresh tear seared
her cheek. Ramsay cupped her face in his gentle, cruel hand. “You’re so pretty
when you cry, Lady Sansa.” He said fondly.
You’re more pretty when you smile and laugh.
There was a difference between monsters, she realised. Like humans, each was
different. Joffrey had wanted lies. Ramsay wanted truths. He wanted all that
she was, all that she knew. He wanted to consume her.
Sansa followed his hand as he pulled it away, keening for the soft touch.
Ramsay smirked and turned his back on her. Panic seized her, overriding all
other thoughts. He was leaving her. Abandoning her. Like a mare bonded to its
rider, a bitch loyal to its master, she followed him. “Stay, Sansa.” The
command was a shock, but the fact that her feet froze mid-step hit her harder.
“Good girl.” He cooed. Her heart soared, uncontrolled, at the praise. “Don’t I
have a well behaved wife, Reek?”
“Yes master.” The pet answered without hesitation. The humiliation of him
seeing her like this hurt, but the thought of what Ramsay would do if she tried
to cover herself was too awful to consider. “Kneel, Lady Sansa.” She did, the
rough wooden floors causing more splinters to bite into her knees. “Crawl
towards me.” She obeyed without question. His eyes were all she wanted to look
at now, though his nakedness was what caused her to want to cower. If she
lowered her eyes…
The wine sloshed sickeningly inside of her.
“You don’t mind if Reek watches, do you wife? He’s something of an expert at
this. Now. Maybe he’ll give you lessons after. The first time is always
hardest, so I will be gentle.” His voice was soft and kind.
“Thank you for your mercy, my lord.” She couldn’t tear his eyes away from him,
aware of his…the thingthat was so close to her face. Vomit threatened to force
its way up her throat. “Now, wife, open your mouth.” Ramsay commanded.
Alayne reeled away from him.
Ramsay had anticipated it. “Thought we had got rid of you, Alayne.” He growled,
twisting his fingers into her hair and dragging her closer. “Do you know what
happens to people who refuse me?” The grip tightened as he yanked her head
around to look at Reek. Sansa whimpered. She hadn’t meant to move away, but
Alayne had fought back. You’re a Stark, you can’t let him treat you like this
She had said, her voice as hard as stone. “I’m sorry…please, my
lord…mercy…please?” Sansa squeaked, tears streamed down her face now as her
head began to pound from his tight hold. He shoved her to the ground. “On your
knees. Mouth open. If I feel a tooth, I’ll remove it.” He snarled. “Do it.”
Sansa opened her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut so she could not see it.
Nothing could conceal the taste though. First came the metallic tang of her
maidenhood. It made the inside of her cheeks dry out as it invaded her mouth.
Deeper and deeper he went. Sansa was sure he meant to suffocate her with it.
Then Ramsay pulled out again. Next came the flavour of his seed and sweat from
their first time. It was salty and made her want to swallow, to try and wet her
mouth. With him inside her, it was unfeasible. “Suck.” He growled. Despite the
dryness, she forced herself into it. What remained of the young girl slowly
faded away. She could almost see her in her mind’s eye, weeping and wailing.
What has become of me?
Ramsay gradually began to stiffen again, and as he did, his thrusts grew more
violent. He had said he would be gentle, but that was before she had tried to
disobey. The fault lay with her alone. No. Not me. Alayne. Yes, it was Alayne’s
fault, and now Sansa was paying for it.
He clutched her hair, forcing her to move in time with him. He pushed himself
deeper into her mouth, his taste lingering in her throat. He groaned and gasped
in pleasure, but Sansa barely heard him. She was focused, trying desperately
hard, striving not to…
The wine met him inside her and she pulled back to make way for it.
It poured from her mouth as she coughed and heaved, grateful for the acidic
taste that washed him from her tongue; cleansing her teeth, cheeks and throat.
She revelled in the clean feeling as she stared down at the purple mess.
A cold hand curled itself around her neck. He hoisted her up by the neck and
waist and suddenly she was sailing through the air, landing on a heap on the
bed. The journey stirred up more of her stomach and she retched into the
sheets, wiping her mouth lazily. Fatigue was beginning to take its hold. The
nights events had worn her down; mind, body and soul.
But Ramsay wasn’t done with her yet.
He flipped her onto her back, kneeling over her, one leg putting pressure
between her legs, making her cry out with pain. “Bad wife. Did you not like the
taste of my cock, m’lady? Did you feel ashamed of yourself, m’lady? Do you not
want to be my little whore, m’lady?” He mocked, though there was little humour
in his voice. Alayne’s stony glare said it all. The first blow loosened a
tooth. The second split her lip.
Leave her face. I like her pretty.
The blows kept coming until she felt him stiffen again.
His second time inside her was no less painful than the first, and it lasted
longer. “The first time I saw you in the courtyard,” He panted into her ear. “I
saw it. A flash of defiance. I swore then that I would teach you a lesson. You
will never, ever defy me.” Sansa cried out as his pace quickened and he reached
out to touch her face. “Your skin was pale. Delicate. Fragile. Porcelain. I
couldn’t wait to break it.” He murmured. She whimpered as his fingers drifted
down to her collar bone and dug in. Hard. She could feel the bruise start to
form the moment he took his hand away. His hand moved down towards her own,
twisting his fingers through hers, clutching them as though to prevent them
from escaping. “Your fingers. So long and elegant, and frail.” His grip on her
hand tightened. It was her right hand. “Please, my lord, mercy…please…” As she
heard the first finger snap, she screamed. Sansa turned her face away so she
could not see the sneer or those eyes that bore into hers as though they were
open doors, allowing him into her very soul. Pain shook her arm as another
finger gave way beneath the pressure. “Your beautiful neck, graceful and so
frangible.” His hand untwined from her broken fingers and moved up towards her
neck.
Please…oh please…do it…
He cupped it. Cradled it. She felt his breath ghost across the fragile skin.
“Not now love. We must do our duty.” He murmured into her ear. Soft kisses
rained down on her skin; so gentle, she wondered if she was imagining them.
Sansa did not turn to face him, but she tried to stretch her neck up to meet
his lips. It was a kindness. She was grateful for the kindness. Ramsay changed
his rhythm then, slowing it slightly, as though he had suddenly remembered he
had broken her only recently. Her fingers throbbed and pulsed. But she felt
something new. Something more. A burning in the pit of her stomach. It forced
her hips upwards clumsily to meet him. Ramsay gasped along with her.
“Yes…that’s it…” He encouraged, planting another kiss. “Now who are you?”
“Sansa.” She whispered timidly.
“And who am I?”
“Ramsay.” The thrusting became hard and savage again. It was not enough. “My
lord, my husband, my sweet, sweet lord.” She cried, desperately trying to
regain the rhythm they had had before.
“And?” He probed. The words passed her lips, but they were not hers. They were
Ramsay’s. They were what he longed to hear. They were what she knew would make
him happy. “Master.” She murmured. He stiffened inside her then and spilled his
seed for the second time.
I am his now.
Despite how much she longed for it, sleep would not come. Her broken fingers
throbbed and now that the strange burning in her stomach had gone, there was
nothing to dull it. Tears fell and she had to muffle a cry each time she tried
to move them. Beside her, Ramsay slept. In sleep, he seemed the same as any
man. She forbade herself from thinking anything else. He would be good to me if
I didn’t fight him. It is my fault.
No. Not hers. Alayne’s.
Sansa turned once more, careful not to disturb her mangled hand. Outside, the
sky had begun to lighten and she could make out the room around her. But there
was only one thing that kept her attention. Reek was awake too. Awake, and
watching her. There was no pity in his eyes, only understanding. That helped a
little. Sansa opened her mouth to say the words, but he pressed a finger to his
lips, silencing her. In the darkness, she could have sworn she’d seen his mouth
twitch into a sad smile. He settled down onto a fur rug, watching her all the
while. An absurd sensation flooded over her then. She felt safe. In the
darkness, she heard Reek begin to whisper. A song. A chant. It made no matter.
The sound of his voice forced her eyelids to droop. As sleep began to edge its
way closer, the words Reek spoke became clearer.
Alayne, Alayne. It rhymes with pain.
Myranda rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The screams had kept her awake until
early morning, and she’d had to be up early to make the tea too, lest anyone
saw her. Myranda added the mint and allowed it to simmer a little longer before
pouring it into a cup and setting it down onto the tray beside the plate of
boiled eggs, fresh baked bread and bacon. A simple meal, but she suspected the
Lady would not be up to eating much. “Is it ready?” The sound of his voice made
her start and she span around.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” She snapped.
“You should have heard me coming. If anyone knew what you were doing in here,
things could get a little tricky for you.” He laughed, the threat so at ease on
his tongue.
“It was not I who requested this drink be made.” Myranda snarled.
“Nor I.” He growled back.
“Well then it shouldn’t be me who gets punished for it.”
“Myranda, you know that is not how the game is played. You agreed to this. You
are his piece on the board now.” He stepped aside, clearing the way for her to
leave. “Now go. Lady Sansa will be wanting her breakfast soon.”    
Chapter End Notes
     I know, I know. This chapter is crazy long. I'm sorry, but I just
     needed to get it done. Over with. My poor Sansa...
***** When You Break *****
Chapter Summary
     You've been crying out for forever
     But forever's come and gone,
     You keep begging for forgiveness
     But you don't think you've done wrong,
     You've been crying out for forever
     Forever's come and gone,
     My bleeding hands, my shaking head.
Reek’s eyes snapped open when he heard someone enter the bedchamber. Already
alert, awaiting an attack or something that might hurt, he remained where he
was on the rug; muscles clenched, ready to spring into action. “You’ll knock in
future.” He heard his Master growl. Reek relaxed a bit, safe in the knowledge
that his Master had woken too. He didn’t even check to see if Sansa was awake.
He didn’t dare. Not with Master around. Reek must only have eyes for Master.
“Forgive me, m’lord, but your father wishes to speak with you at once.” The
sound of Myranda’s biting voice sent a shiver down Reek’s spine, as it always
did.
“Fine. Reek, bring me some clothes.” He leapt into action, crawling across the
floor at a high pace, only half aware of his nakedness. He sensed Myranda was
struggling to hold back laughter. Reek would have felt shame if he cared at all
about what she thought, but he didn’t. Only what Master cared was important to
Reek.
He gathered what clothes he could find; stuffing them into his ruined mouth.
Master had not given him permission to use his hands so he would not. “What’s
that?” He heard Master ask. Reek looked up to check if he had been the one that
was addressed. Thankfully it was not. He doubted he’d be able to pick up the
clothes again if he had to open his mouth. “Breakfast for Lady Sansa.” Myranda
replied, setting the tray down on the table whilst Reek hurried over to his
Master, longing to relieve his mouth of its cargo. Pain shot through his gums
as what teeth remained to him complained about the heavy load. “For the Gods’
sake Reek, stand up!” Ramsay snapped.
“Sorry M…master…forgive me.” Reek whined, standing up on shaky legs. He had a
better view from up there. He could see the seemingly small, fragile figure
wrapped amongst the bloodied sheets. His Master had also turned his attention
that way. He smiled. Slowly, Ramsay got onto all fours and moved across the
bed; the muscles in his broad shoulders rippling as he crouched over his
sleeping prey, pinning her down beneath him. “Wakey wakey Lady Wife.” He heard
Ramsay whisper. Theon winced as Sansa cried out, the anguish soon muffled as
Ramsay plunged his tongue into her mouth; gently biting, kissing savagely.
“Good morning.” He muttered when he pulled away, leaving Sansa out of breath,
panicked. Theon withered away as Ramsay’s gaze turned back to Reek once more.
“You will stay here Reek. When my wife has finished her breakfast, you will
bathe her and see to it that she is presentable for supper tonight.” His Master
ordered, his eyes cold and challenging. Reek didn’t look away. If I look away,
he’ll know. He’ll see. He always sees. “Yes Master.”
“Good pet.” Ramsay praised, climbing off the bed and starting to dress. “Up!”
He snapped to his wife. Sansa sat up, crying out when she neglected her broken
fingers. “My love, do your fingers hurt? Shouldn’t have trapped them in that
door then should you? Stupid wife.” Ramsay cooed.
“Yes my lord. I was stupid. Please, forgive me.” Sansa muttered, climbing out
of the bed, clutching her wrecked hand.
“Call for the Maester if needs be Reek.” Ramsay didn’t even look at his wife as
he yanked the stained sheets off of the bed. She looked worse in daylight.
Bruises covered her body. Her knees were bloodied and scratched from where
she’d knelt on the floor. Her lip was split, leaving a trail of dried blood
down her chin. Marks decorated her neck from where Ramsay had sucked at the
fragile flesh. And between her legs, the hair was stained red, as were her now-
purple thighs.
Her eyes were the worst of it. The deep blue was empty; her spirit crushed. The
wolf staggered away from her. Limping. Whining. He could almost see it in his
mind. What had been her name? Lady? Yes, that was it. The one that had been
killed on the journey South. He could see her now though, clear as day. Crying
in pain, howling for her brothers and the sister that never came.
Broken. Broken as Theon.
Reek heard the door close as Ramsay left. Heard the cheers of his men as they
caught a glimpse of the bloodied sheet. “Boys, this night I tamed a wolf!”
Ramsay laughed, provoking more cheers. Reek watched Sansa flinch at the words.
“Here, m’lady.” Myranda held out a robe that Sansa stepped into almost eagerly,
yearning to cover herself. Once the robe was fastened, only her neck remained
exposed. He watched Myranda lead her to the table with a kindness he didn’t
know she possessed. Shoving a cup of hot tea into Lady Sansa’s hands, Myranda
rounded on Reek. “Shouldn’t you be getting a bath ready? Go and get the tub!”
She barked, sending Reek scuttling from the room.
The sheets landed on the desk with a thud. “As promised father.” Ramsay
grinned. Roose pushed them aside and took a deep breath as he realised they had
smudged the ink. He screwed the parchment up and readied another, dipping his
quill into the pot of ink. Ramsay sighed, irritated as his father didn’t even
give his work a second glance. “I did my duty.” He probed. Still no answer.
Just the interminable scratch of quill on parchment. Rolling his eyes, Ramsay
slumped into the seat opposite his father. And waited.
Roose poured the pink wax, pushed the flayed man into it and set the letter
aside. Ramsay shifted in his seat, weary of waiting. Finally, his father
fingered the bed sheet, inspecting his night’s work. “There’s a lot more than
expected.” Roose pointed out.
“Well it’s waited long enough. She should have been bedded and bloodied a long
time ago. Better late than never though.” Ramsay smiled again, admiring the
sheets.
“You don’t think the Northern Lords will notice how much blood there is? You
don’t think they’ll despise you for it?” Roose’s words were neither cold nor
angry. They were indifferent. They allowed his son to control the conversation.
Ramsay never even noticed. “Let them. I’m Lord of Winterfell now. You are
Warden of the North. They want to rebel? Fine. Let them see what happens when
you try to cross a Bolton.” Ramsay said, tilting his chin up defiantly.
“Very well. See to it that your wife is presentable for supper. You may go.”
Roose returned to his letters and the incessant sound of quill on parchment
resumed.
Ramsay sat there for a moment, too stunned to move. He had been expecting a
lecture. A warning. A threat. Instead, his father had almost agreed with him.
“I said you may go.” Roose reminded him, never looking up from his work.
Standing up abruptly, Ramsay muttered a quick “Yes, thank you father.” Before
leaving in search of food and entertainment for the day.
Myranda showed no intention of staying to help Reek bathe Sansa. Reek was well
aware that she knew how much it would pain him to cleanse her of the cruelties
he had witnessed. They said nought to each other, but she clung to him as he
eased her into the tub. Their nakedness no longer seemed to matter. They had
nothing left to hide from one another.
He started with her hair first; pouring warm water over it with shaking hands,
careful not to get it in her eyes. Sansa leaned back into it, enjoying the
feeling of Ramsay’s petting being washed away. Reek combed out the knots as
gently as he could. The steady rhythm of the strokes was almost relaxing, and
he spent far longer on her hair than needed. Sansa didn’t seem to mind though.
As he eased the wet cloth over her back however, she stiffened and released a
wail of pain. He retracted his hand instantly, reeling away from her. What had
he done wrong? Would he be punished for it? Sansa continued to cry and Reek
remained where he was, frozen, unsure of what he’d done. When no punishment
came, he began to inch closer, inspecting her back.
Theon remembered then.
The way Ramsay had taken her against the rough wooden door had left splinters
in her back. The same frightening hatred that had burned through him then
returned to him now. Theon trailed is fingers over the ridges in her back where
the wood had inserted itself. They were inflamed and raw and Sansa hissed in
agony. “What has he done to you? What have I…” The words were barely a whisper,
but Reek didn’t let him finish. What have I let him do? Theon felt the pain of
every splinter beneath Sansa’s pale skin. I should have stopped him, or died in
the attempt. Reek wrapped his cold hands around Theon’s throat, silencing him.
But it was too late for that. “Why is he so cruel?” Sansa muttered, turning to
face him, biting back the pain. She’s so strong. Stronger than me.
“I’ll go get the Maester.” Reek said, standing and heading for the door.
“Theon…”
“Not Theon. Reek. You have to know your name Lady Sansa. You have to.” He
urged, backing away from her as though she would strike him. “Just…just try to
please him. Master can be merciful. It will get easier.” An empty promise. As
empty as her sad blue eyes.
***** Watch Me Bleed *****
Chapter Summary
     Here we are
     we're stuck inside this salted earth together.
     You'll pierce my lungs
     my limbs go numb
     as my colours fade out,
     You watch me bleed.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Reek lied. She’d known that, yet she’d believed him anyway. Reek lied to save
his fingers and toes.
It did not get easier.
During the day, she was left alone in her chambers; occasionally ordered by
Roose to attend Lady Walda so she would be seen about the castle. Sansa was
always too weak to attend breakfast, but at dinner she sat between her husband
and Lord Bolton. With Ramsay beside her, she was too afraid of spilling
something to be aware of the Northern Lords watching her every move; their eyes
narrowing with every flinch and tremor.
Every night, Ramsay would find some new way to demean her. To humiliate her. To
make her scream and beg and plead. Sansa would do anything to please him. Even
if he used Reek in his little games. She was a good girl. A good wife. She did
her duty. Yet it never ended. Ramsay would show her some mercy, make her swell
with gratitude and thank him for his kindness. He’d make her yearn for his soft
touch, to follow him if he moved away. But her gratitude was not always what he
wanted.
Sometimes, he’d try to provoke Alayne. He’d trick her. Make her bite him,
scratch him or just flinch away from his hand. Then he’d punish Sansa for it.
He’d make her beg, call him Master, do anything to stop the pain. And Sansa
would. She’d let him do anything. He had consumed her and never ceased to try
and find new ways to manipulate her.
One time, he’d been showing her mercy. Caressing her and kissing her, making
her thank him for his kindness. Then he’d said it. Sweetling. The word had sent
Sansa into panic, and Alayne into a fit of anger and hatred. Sansa had screamed
whilst Alayne fought. Ramsay had disappeared. Instead, she saw only
Littlefinger; the man who’d thrown her to the monsters and was leaving her to
drown amongst them. It had taken a long time for Ramsay to get her back under
control. He’d had to punch her in the stomach and knock the wind from her in
order to pin her down onto the bed. Despite the bruises and scratches she had
marked him with, he had been smiling. From then on, if he had failed to provoke
Alayne by any other means, he would tie Sansa to the bed and call her sweetling
until Alayne shrieked and howled for him to stop. Then he used his belt across
her stomach, leaving searing welts, driving Alayne further down until only
Sansa remained, whimpering and begging for her Master to stop.
That had not been the worst of it though. The cruellest trick had been one
Ramsay had employed Myranda for. He’d had her ask Sansa if she wished for any
of her belongings to be brought to their chambers as so far Sansa only had
clothes in there. Longing for some reminder of home, some way to cling to the
strength and courage her family provided, Sansa had asked for Grey Wind’s pelt.
That night, Ramsay had made her get on all fours on the bed. Draped in the furs
of her dead brother’s wolf, Ramsay had fucked her as the way he had Reek on
their wedding night. “Wanted to be a wolf did you?” He’d growled. “Well wife,
this is how wolves do it. Does that please you? Do you feel like a Stark now?”
Sansa had been in so much pain as he’d pushed into her that the darkness had
threatened to consume her again. Blood slickened her thighs as Ramsay slapped
against her. Only his teeth sinking into her shoulder prevented her from giving
into the blackness. “Winter is coming!” He’d howled as he shuddered and came, a
foul mockery of the Stark words. Afterwards, he twisted through her mind again.
“I should have brought one of my dogs in to do it. They love the taste of wolf.
Aren’t you grateful for my mercy, wife? Wasn’t it kind of me to do it myself?”
He’d cooed, stroking her hair gently.
“Yes, my Lord husband. I am grateful for your mercy.” Sansa had whispered. He’d
pulled out of her abruptly, making her cry out again. Unable to stop herself,
Sansa clung to him as he’d lain down on the bed beside her; arms and legs
wrapped around him tightly. The joy she’d felt when he sighed contentedly was
sickening. As he slept, Sansa had stared at Grey Wind’s pelt, now lying in a
crumpled heap on the floor. He had been her brother’s wolf. Lady’s brother. And
what Ramsay had made her do with it…
Theon had been watching too.
Her mind had been made up that night.
The next morning, while Reek had gone to fetch water for her bath, Sansa had
gone to the window. Their chambers were at the top of the southernmost tower of
the keep and overlooked the courtyard below. The cobbles were still cushioned
with snow, but she doubted it would make much difference. The pure ground would
make such a lovely canvas. She hadn’t been outside since the wedding night.
Mealtimes were her only escape. As Sansa stepped onto the window ledge, the
cold winter breeze gave her a softer kiss than any Ramsay had given. She could
hear the wind calling to her. Snow fell, ready to welcome her in its cold
embrace. Everyone will know. Everyone will see my body and they’ll know what
he’s done to me. They’ll know he drove me to this.She was too afraid to admit
to being the daughter of Winterfell, but that was what the Lords would see her
as; crumpled there, a heap of bloodied, broken bones on the white ground.
Sansa slipped her foot out of the window and into the air, as gently as she
would place her foot into a shoe.
“Sansa, no!” Theon screamed. His thin arms slipped about her waist just as she
tipped forward. Her stomach lurched as she was yanked back into the bed
chamber. Sansa gasped when she fell onto Theon, the shock of what she had just
attempted making her cry out in fear. “You must live. For Bran. For Rickon.”
Theon muttered.
She clung to him, trembling in terror. “Don’t tell him!” Sansa cried. “Don’t
tell him what I did. He’ll…he might do that…the thing with the fur…” She
gasped. Reek stayed quiet that time. No empty promises. But Sansa knew Theon
wouldn’t tell.
The childish scrawl on the parchment didn’t seem to register. He stared at it
for a long time, hoping for the words to dance and change meaning. It couldn’t
be true. She’d been through so much. He’d trained her so well. He’d thought she
was ready.
                         The bastard is breaking her.
   I see her only at supper and occasionally going to Lady Walda’s chambers.
                       At night, we hear her screaming.
                   The whore says Songbird calls him Master.
That was all that was written. It was enough. Petyr curled his hands into
fists, crushing the letter with it. He had known what the bastard was like;
brutal and cruel. But not clever. Sansa was clever. He had been relying on
that. Damage control Littlefinger thought. Change the game.
A light breeze stirred the curtains, sending the cold mountain air into the
room. Petyr did not shiver, just stood and closed the shutters. Winter was
coming. It would have to be done before then. “Guard!” He called, returning to
his desk.
“Yes my lord?” The door opened abruptly, revealing the lanky, pockmarked youth
behind it.
“Send word to Lord Royce. Tell him I am to take a score of men to Winterfell to
visit the Lady Sansa. He is to be in charge while I am gone.” Petyr instructed.
That should please him and he needed to sweeten the man. He was certain Lord
Royce would make a few changes; revert back to more noble customs. Well that
was fine. He would allow him that. The North was too valuable to lose.
“Very well, my Lord.” The guard said, bowing and closing the door behind him.
Littlefinger sat down and began his letter. Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort
and Warden of the North…
The quill swam across the parchment, drowning it with lies and promises of
Arbor gold.
Chapter End Notes
     I know that bit sounded very non-Littlefinger-y. It's not my best
     work, I'll admit. He isn't just thinking about Sansa here though,
     he's thinking about his plans for the North, whatever they may be,
     going to shit. Damage control is needed, and it all rests on Sansa's
     bruised and broken shoulders.
***** Porcelain *****
Chapter Summary
     Ramsay helps his wife prepare for her Uncle's arrival. He has yet
     another gift for her.
“No! My Lord, Master please! Don’t make me…please…I can’t…” She begged,
clinging to the bloody sheets on the bed. Ramsay grimaced as he glimpsed Alayne
resurfacing. It had been a long while since he’d seen her. Even the ‘sweetling’
trick had lost its charm. She was the last thing he needed to see now. “Come
now love, don’t you want to see your Uncle Petyr?” He cooed, charging towards
the bed. Sansa cowered away from him as he leapt onto the mattress, crawling
towards her, a feral growl vibrated through his lips. “Please,
Master…mercy…please don’t hurt me. I don’t want to see him! I don’t want to see
anyone but you.” Sansa lifted a pale, trembling hand to touch his cheek. A bold
move. A wail escaped her lips as he snatched her hand away, clutching it in his
own, silently threatening he’d break more of her fingers. “You will see him.
You must. You don’t make the decisions, do you wife?”
“No my lord.”
“Who does?”
“You do my Lord.” Sansa bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ramsay
pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face back up so
he could look into her sad blue eyes. “Have I ever told you how pretty you are
when you cry, Lady Sansa?” He murmured gently.
“Yes Master. Thank you Master.” She squeaked. Ramsay leaned in close, ready to
cover her mouth with his own; longing to feel her whimper beneath him as he
refused her the chance to breathe. There was no time for it though. “Well stop
crying. Lord Baelish won’t like it.” Sansa sobbed again at his name but Ramsay
ignored her. Catching her wrist, he dragged her from the bed, not waiting for
her to get to her feet before pulling her towards the bathtub that awaited her.
“Reek, get her clothes ready.” He barked.
“Yes master.” Reek scurried across the room towards the ornate chest Ramsay had
brought with him. Sansa hadn’t noticed it yet. That would make it all the
sweeter when she did. Finally, he let her wrist go. She trembled like a doe
beside the bathtub, awaiting his instruction; peering up at him with those
frightened blue eyes. Ramsay could feel arousal burn in the pit of his stomach
and knew he couldn’t wait any longer. “Reek, come here. Bring the dress.” He
ordered, turning to watch Sansa’s reaction. Her eyes never left him. She keened
towards him as he lifted a hand to caress her face. He had been careful not to
mark it. Only a faint scar remained from where he’d split her lip on that first
night. Smiling at her, he moved his hand down. Beyond the neck was another
matter entirely. Bruises and scars marked her porcelain skin; the frail shell
shattered so easily. Sansa winced as he prodded at one of the blackening
bruises. “I’ve been a little too rough with you, haven’t I wife? I know you
like that. You do, don’t you?”
“Yes Master.” She muttered, eyes never leaving his. He could see her force
herself into his touch. So close now. “Sadly, your uncle won’t like seeing you
so roughed up. You need to look your best for him. Fortunately, my great
grandfather sent me a gift, especially for this occasion.” Confusion marred her
pitiful face as she put together the pieces. Ramsay held out his hand and felt
the rough fabric slide over his skin. “No.” Her voice was but a mere whisper.
“No…please…no…”
“You have no idea how hard the bloodstains were to get out. Well…neither do
I…but the look on the washerwomen’s faces was enough. They had to dye it too.
It’s a good job there are no bruises on your neck, dearest wife. This garment
does so little to protect the throat…” Ramsay caught her just in time. Sansa’s
limp body fell against him, though he barely felt her. She had grown thin,
despite the fact that he had been feeding her enough. Fine. Ramsay liked his
pets frail and weak. And dependant. Thrusting the dress back into Reek’s maimed
hands, he grasped the back of Sansa’s head, plunging her face down into the
bath until she began to kick and thrash. Kneeling down beside her, he yanked
her back out again so she could hear him. “Don’t you like Lord Walder’s gift,
wife?” He chuckled. Sansa screamed in panic as he pushed her under again. “He
gave it to me, so I can put it on anyone I want. It wouldn’t suit Reek, I can
assure you. He might not be a man, but he is no woman. He’s just a pet. A
thing. My loyal bitch. You’ll wear it, won’t you Lady Sansa?” He cooed when he
allowed her to resurface. Sansa struggled to turn and look up at him. “No, my
Lord…please…you don’t understand!” She wailed, earning herself another dunking.
To Ramsay’s surprise, she continued talking once he pulled her out again. “HE
CAN’T SEE ME IN THAT!” She screamed. That made Ramsay pause. “Why?” He growled.
Sansa sobbed with relief, occasionally coughing up water. “Petyr…my mother…he…”
“He what?”
“He loved her.” She spluttered. Ramsay let go of the back of her head, allowing
her to collapse against him. “Lord Baelish loved your mother?” His voice was
gentle now and he petted her head comfortingly. He felt her nod as she crawled
further into him. “Perfect.” Ramsay purred.
It was not the winds of winter that made her shudder. She could almost smell
the blood, taste it on the back of her tongue. It made her eyes blurry and
stung them with tears. Her head felt light and the courtyard started to spin.
No. I can’t faint. What would he do to me if I fainted in front of them all?
Sansa dreaded to think. Would it be death? Maybe in his wroth he would kill me
quickly.
“Riders approaching!” The cry went up and the gates to Winterfell were thrown
open. Sansa gripped her husband’s arm as tightly as she could, not caring about
the stares. Her knees shook so badly she feared she would not be able to
prevent herself from falling even if she tried. I can’t do this…I don’t want to
see him…I don’t…I can’t…
When grey met blue, she looked away. His gaze remained on her as he rode in.
She could feel it. Everything. She felt everything. She felt Petyr look away
from her, meeting Ramsay’s triumphant gaze as his grip on her tightened. I hate
you. The thought was thrown out into the open, unsure of who its target was.
All movement came to a standstill. “You are very welcome to Winterfell, Lord
Baelish.” Roose’s voice was the loudest she’d ever heard it. A beast crying out
a challenge. “My thanks, Lord Bolton.” The other howled back. Still looking at
the ground, Sansa listened to him approach her. Feet hitting gravel; slow steps
compared with the beating of her frantic heart. “It is good to see you again,
my Lady.” His voice was low. There was no challenge in it, yet she cowered from
the concern, inching closer to her Lord husband until Ramsay’s finger jabbed
her side. Sansa forced back a yelp of fear. “L…Lord Baelish.” She managed to
stutter. He was so close. The scent of his breath lingered between them. When
he gently pried her hand away from her husband’s arm, she found she could do
little in way of hesitating. Sansa raised her eyes as his lips met her pale,
porcelain skin. “Please, call me Petyr.”
***** Broken Little Bird *****
Chapter Summary
     You’re too mean, I don’t like you, fuck you anyway
     You make me wanna scream at the top of my lungs
     It hurts but I won’t fight you.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Lord Baelish took the place of honour between Lord Bolton and Ramsay, with
Sansa on Ramsay’s other side. She was glad that Ramsay was between them. The
moment of their eyes meeting in the courtyard lingered even as the hall grew
busier and the thought of seeing it again had frightened her. What would Ramsay
have done if he’d seen the understanding and concern in Petyr’s eyes?
Thankfully, Littlefinger’s face had betrayed nothing. That meant everything.
The mask had been fastened firmly in place. He must have seen her pale flesh,
the slow-healing lip, the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes. Yet he remained
unperturbed. Sansa could hear him conversing with Roose, discussing Stannis
Baratheon and his host at Castle Black. With Jon. No. She couldn’t think of Jon
now.
Ramsay never released his hold of her. While he ate, his arm would rest against
hers or his booted foot would cover the thin leather of her shoes. When he was
not eating, his hand would be in hers or on her wrist or touching her hair.
Occasionally even settling on the back of her neck, making her hunch her
shoulders uncomfortably.
“Arbor gold, as promised my Lord.” Petyr called out cheerfully as casks of wine
were brought forward and settled before Roose Bolton’s place at the high table.

“You are too kind Lord Baelish. We Northmen might not long for your sweltering
summers, but we envy you your fine wines.” Roose replied with the same
pleasantness. The wine was poured yet the cups remained untouched. Sansa could
feel Ramsay tense up as suspicion coursed through him. Does he think
Littlefinger is that foolish? The thought almost made her gasp in shock. She
should not think such things. Her husband was simply being cautious.
“My wife and I must thank you for your generous wedding gift, Lord Baelish.”
Ramsay squeezed her hand then, commanding her to speak.
“Yes, my Lord. Thank you my Lord.” The pressure on her hand lingered long
enough for her to know that her performance was poorly done, and that they
would rehearse later.
“ My wife offered me your gift to her. She understands that what’s hers is
mine. I must thank you for her as well, Lord Baelish. Had it not been for your
intervention, I wouldn’t have landed myself such an obedient bride.”
“You’re most welcome, Lord Ramsay. I trust the pies were to your liking?”
Ramsay’s head was facing Petyr, giving Sansa the chance to look up, a small
part of her longing to get his attention. But Petyr wasn’t looking at her. He
glanced over at fat Lady Walda, then back to Ramsay again. “Very much so. The
meat had an unusual flavour though. I struggled to discern what it was
exactly.”
Petyr smiled.
“Oh, a number of things I am sure. Pig mainly, I believe. The finest in The
Fingers.” The table forced laughter at that. Sansa played along beside them and
reached for her wine cup, only to have her husband pull her back. “Lord
Baelish, what do you think of my wife’s new gown? It’s not new, to tell you the
truth. But it’s fitting, is it not?”
Don’t do this. No now. Please…
“It’s a fine gown, my Lord.”
Sansa held her breath and felt her hands start to tremble.
“It was a gift from Lord Frey. Though it exposes the neck a little too much for
my taste.” Ramsay smirked.
A twitch. That was all. A twitch of the mouth betrayed Petyr’s anger.
A twitch that soon became a smile.
“On the contrary, my Lord. A young lady like my niece has such fair skin. It
seems a shame to cover it all up. It’s almost as though there is something to
hide.” Littlefinger’s eyes never left Ramsay’s as he reached for his goblet and
took a sip of the wine.
“Shall we drink to your health, Lady Sansa?” Petyr asked, holding his goblet
up. The other Lord’s followed suit, much to her husband’s vexation. He released
his grip on Sansa’s wrist, shoving her arm down onto the table. “You are too
kind, Petyr.” A mere tremor, yet it made her feel braver. She sipped at the
fine wine, no longer wishing so much for it to be laced with poison.
Her new found bravery did not last.
Following the moment of defiance at the feast, Ramsay made sure she was never
alone with Petyr again, and he was sure to quickly quench any conversation
between them at mealtimes. She and Petyr often went walking, but one of
Ramsay’s friends always seemed to be nearby. Not that Sansa was brave enough to
say much anyway. She had learnt her lesson to never defy him or humiliate him
in public. As soon as they had returned from the feast, he had bound her to the
bed; gagging her so their guest would not hear, and had forced himself on her
with all his men, Reek and Myranda watching. He never even let her take off her
mother’s dress.
Were he not so concerned with the damage that had been done, he might have
thought to comfort her. Sansa was of little use to him like this, but he still
needed her. Through no fault of his, she was afraid of him; he had learnt as
much through the Northern Lords. They were no friends of his, they were sure to
make that plain, but an offer of fine wine did not harm the pride. Just
loosened the tongue. Of course, most knew little and less than what Petyr did,
but it helped him to learn of the standing at Winterfell. “He makes the little
wolf scream all night long, then she comes out the next day at his heels like
some obedient little pup.” One Lord slurred.  “Poor thing. Damn the man. Does
he not know whose daughter she is? Lord Eddard’s little girl, Lord Baelish. Our
Lord Eddard’s little girl.”
And Catelyn’s.
Catelyn. In her mother’s dress, she had looked more like her mother than ever.
But it was not the Cat he had known as a boy. It was the Cat he had seen in the
tent at Lord Renly’s camp. The Cat she’d been when he’d delivered her the bones
of her dead husband. The broken Cat.
She was no use to him broken. Fortunately, her behaviour at his welcome feast
had assured him his Sansa was not gone, and what was broken could be fixed.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter + My feelings = Meh.
     But I owed a chapter and I have an awesome plan for things to come!
     YAYAYAYAY!!!! So excited to get there. There will be one more chapter
     before Petyr goes home, then the fun can begin. What? You didn't
     think he was going to stay forever did you?
***** Choosing Monsters *****
Chapter Summary
     Take this breath
     For the lives we waste
     For the hollow souls we own
     Give me hope
     For a restless heart
     Where we'll go no one will follow
Her eyes snapped open at the sound of paper scraping across wood. Beside her,
the bed was empty save for the bloody mess of sheets. Sansa sat up and rubbed
sleep from her eyes; she felt that familiar ache but made no attempt to see
where its source was. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d hurt every day until
either she or her husband died. Sansa had come to terms with that. All that she
could pray for now was that she was the one to go first, just so his fun would
be ruined.
The note sat a foot away from the door; lying in wait.
Petyr. It must be Petyr. Sansa scrambled out of the bed, ignoring the pain
between her thighs, and clambered towards the letter. He must be informing her
of his plans. If he did not today, it would be too late. Tomorrow morning he
left for the Vale, not wishing to be trapped when the snows came. He must be
planning to take me with him. To sneak me out somehow. He had done it before,
and that was in Kings Landing where she had been surrounded by her enemies.
Surely the Northern Lords would help…
Her heart sank when she read the five, indifferent, unpromising words.
                            Meet me in the Godswood
No tears fell. Her hand trembled not from the feeling of her hopes being
crushed, but from anger. How could Petyr be so stupid? The Godswood? Did he not
think Ramsay had people following her every time she left their room?
The rage burned through her; the bars of fear unable to hold it back. Sansa
tore up the letter, tired of having to starve her anger. In King’s Landing, she
had had to hide her hatred. Here it was forced down and locked away by the fear
she held for the man who was her husband. The man who was supposed to protect
her and cherish her for as long as they both lived. Sansa would have laughed
had it not been for her fury.
Of course, when her anger had subsided and the fear had returned, she picked up
the pieces of the note and scattered them beneath the logs in the hearth. Meet
me in the Godswood. It would not matter whether Ramsay had men following or
not; tonight, he would hurt her and humiliate her again, no matter what she
did. She wanted to know what Petyr had to say. She wanted to know her purpose.
If someone followed her there and heard what was said then what of it? Ramsay
would know that Petyr had sent her there for a reason, but if he hadn’t worked
that out already he was a bigger idiot than she’d known.
You can’t think that! He is not an idiot. Master is clever and good to you,
it’s only when you…
“Oh shut up you little fool.” Sansa hissed aloud. The voice was shocked into
silence. She walked over to Ramsay’s table and filled up a cup of wine, downing
it for courage. Myranda wasn’t to hand, as usual, so Sansa dressed herself.
Perhaps it was a good thing Myranda was not there to ask questions. The
handmaid had been nicer to her since her wedding day, but Sansa still failed to
trust her. What’s more, one night Ramsay had got the woman to join in on one of
his games. It became clear to Sansa then that it was not the first time Myranda
had shared her husband’s bed. He seemed to enjoy her company too; a willing
companion that enjoyed cruelty as much as he did. She had watched them
together, all the while wondering how Myranda endured and managed to enjoy it.
Sansa was not sure what sickened her more; how they’d taken their pleasure by
humiliating and hurting her or that all this time her own handmaiden had been
working for both herself and Ramsay. She had expected that in King’s Landing,
but not here. Not in Winterfell.
Sansa fumbled with the fastenings on the dress and did her best to cover the
fresh marks across her chest; fastening a thick cloak over the rest of the
remaining visible flesh with a wolf pelt for extra coverage. The silver
direwolf head clasp had been returned to her when Petyr had arrived; she had
not seen it since her wedding day. Clearly they thought it would be strange if
she appeared too much of a Bolton. Did they think a clasp is enough to change
everything Ramsay has done? Again, something pounded against her insides,
fighting against her thoughts.They’ll get you hurt. He’ll punish you for this,
and if you get punished then so will I! It cried.
“Fingers and toes.” Sansa whispered to herself, recalling the conversation
she’d had with Theon before she’d been made a Bolton. Fingers and toes. She
muttered the words over and over as she hurried from the room, praying she’d
make it to the Godswood before her new found courage fled.
It was strange seeing Petyr beneath the Weirwood tree. He doesn’t belong here.
A spark of anger lingered from earlier on, but she tried not to provoke it. She
needed a clear head.
He did not turn as she approached. Sansa wondered if he knew this was the place
her father had sat and sharpened Ice. Where his mother had sometimes sat beside
him. Where she and her siblings had played.
In a better world, one where love can overcome strength and duty, you might
have been my child.
Those words seemed to have happened so long ago. Before she had married Ramsay.
Before she had even come to Winterfell. Before Alayne. The name sounded alien
to her now, yet no voice chastised her for saying it.
But we don’t live in that world.
No. Did that hurt him? Knowing that all his childhood dreams could have
happened had the world been like the ones in the stories. He was a dreamer too
once, just like me. It had hurt her, and he had lived longer. Yet it hadn’t
broken him.
“I suppose you are wondering why I asked for you to meet me here.” He hadn’t
turned, nor shown any signs that he’d heard her approach. Sansa didn’t stop
until they were standing shoulder to shoulder, both staring towards the
Weirwood’s sombre face. “It isn’t safe. Not even here. My husband has people
watching me.” She confessed, already sensing that their conversation was not
one for prying ears.
“You have been here too long and forgotten too much Lady Sansa.” The smile
could be heard in his voice. “No one shall hear us. Every man has a price.
Fortunately, those that have not felt the kiss of a flaying knife are much
cheaper than those that have.” Sansa shuddered. Ramsay hadn’t flayed her yet.
He liked her skin too much and it would be ruined if he had. “What makes you
think I will not tell? You think I will lie to my Lord husband?” The words were
said with a bitterness that sent the fear in her screaming; fighting her like
some wild animal. Petyr remained silent. His unsaid words filled her ears,
causing her to tremble. “I have been spending much time with the Northern
Lords. They are very concerned for your welfare, my Lady.”
“That’s very kind of them.” Her words were harsh. If they were so concerned,
why had they done nothing to help her? “Do you remember why I sent you here?”
It was Sansa’s turn to remain silent now. “Avenge them.” He muttered. What do
we do to those who’ve hurt the ones we love? “I can’t. Lord Baelish, you don’t
understand. The things…what he’s done. She’s gone. I can’t get her back.” The
words were a whisper and she was fortunate that there was so little space
between them. There was no need to elaborate on who she was. “We have no need
of her now.” Was all Petyr said. Sansa turned to him then. No need? He gave her
no time to question it. “Your screams are more dangerous to the Boltons than
all of Stannis’ forces put together. The Northmen loath your husband. They tell
troubling tales of what he does to you behind closed doors.”
“Then why don’t they help me?” She snapped, the anger inside her burning
brighter.
“He is not the one you should be afraid of, sweetling.” Sansa repressed a
shudder at the word. “Ramsay is only alive for as long as Roose is. By my
reckoning, Roose despises his bastard himself. But he needs him. He needs him,
and you, and that fat Frey wife of his.”
“For heirs.” Sansa finished for him.
“As soon as you bear him an heir, Ramsay will become useless. An unneeded
piece. He will rid himself of his bastard and rule through your son. No doubt
you will be kept out of the way. It should be easy for him now as he considers
you a piece.” Sansa stared at him in horror and amazement. He had figured Roose
out in a matter of days. The thought of having a son raised by Roose was what
made her want to wretch. Petyr read the look of terror on her face. “Fear not,
sweetling. I have seen to it that you will not bear an heir. Not yet, anyway. A
friend is helping me with the matter.” Sansa frowned at that, but was strangely
glad Petyr had his workers, even in the North. “You have need of Ramsay.”
“I…I need Ramsay?” It was almost a squeak.
“He is a valuable piece. An unreliable one yes, but he is possessive of you. He
doesn’t like it when someone else touches you or even speaks to you.” Petyr
smiled at her, as though amused. Sansa’s eyes held the question, she had no
need to voice it. “Joffrey did not die on his dogs watch, did he? You need a
protector. A son against his father. What is weaker than a family that chases
its own tail?” She saw no fault with that. The Lannister’s had fought each
other, as had the Baratheon’s and thousands had died for it. She would have to
keep the monster by her side, to protect her from another. There are no heroes.
In life, the monsters win. Must she become a monster if she was to win? Ramsay
could not rule, but nor could she allow Roose to take the North. Roose had
killed her brother himself, he’d conspired with Walder Frey and betrayed her
father’s memory. If she died, the Starks died with her.
Except for Bran and Rickon.
Sansa almost gasped. Bran and Rickon. How had she forgotten? I have to keep
Winterfell. I have to take the North. Bran was the rightful heir. Only a Stark
could rule the North.
She almost told Petyr, there and then, but something made her falter.
Sansa looked at the grave face of the Weirwood tree.
“You must be as strong as your Lady mother, Sansa. I still see her in you. Do
not forget that.”
“I won’t, Lord Baelish.” She managed a small smile.
“Petyr.” He chuckled. It was clear that they were done there. Petyr turned and
left her beneath the Weirwood tree. The wind picked up then, sending the leaves
chasing after him, driving him out of the Godswood.
***** Serve and Protect *****
Chapter Summary
     Run from the light
     your eyes, black like an animal
     deep in the wander
     and care for no one but the offspring of your might
     run from the one who comes to find you
     wait for the night that comes to hide you
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
With feet carved out of lead, Sansa made her way back to her chambers; the
truth of Petyr’s words making her blood run cold. She would have to get her
husband on her side. If she did not, the North would be lost to her. All this
time she had thought Ramsay was her enemy, the one she needed to rid herself
of. How could she have been so wrong? Roose was the danger here. Sansa had
known the Northmen had hated Ramsay and feared Roose. With Roose gone, the
Bolton’s would hold no power and the Starks would rule the North again. Once
she found her brothers...
If. What if I never find them? Who would rule the North then?
Sansa forced the thought from her mind. They would be found. She was sure of
it.
Stepping into her chambers, it were as though she were seeing it for the first
times. The familiar walls around her seemed to welcome her in. The furniture
had been moved around since she had lived here before, but it was the same
room. My room. The room she had shared with Arya and gossiped with Jeyne. Where
they had practised singing and dancing and telling foolish stories of gallant
knights and beautiful maidens. How had she not noticed? Slowly making her way
around the room, amused by how the stories she had once loved to listen to in
this very room could not have been further from the truth. Even in this same
room, she had been raped, humiliated and hurt for her husband’s amusement.
He’d told me it was a kindness. He’d convinced me that I had earned it.
That was almost as stupid as Old Nan’s stories. Because of Ramsay, she hadn’t
been herself since the moment she’d entered the room on her wedding night. The
realisation hit her harder than Ramsay ever could. She had become what Ramsay
had made her; a plaything for him to torment and manipulate. Like Alayne, Sansa
had been lost. Consumed by fear. Manipulated into thinking he was all that
mattered, a bit like…
“Lady Sansa?” The sound of his voice made her start. Reek stared at her,
seemingly scared to have startled her. “W…what do you want?” Sansa asked,
unable to tear her gaze away from him. Is that what would have become of me had
Petyr not come? “Master wishes to know if you would like a bath before
tonight’s feast?” The horrific realisation made it impossible to focus on what
Reek was saying. Ramsay would have made her into a female version of Reek. Yet
she would have to try and change that. She would have to try and change him.
Manipulate him. Turn him against his own father. How is that even possible?
“He knows you have been out.”
Theon’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“He…he knows?” She stammered. Theon just nodded in reply; fear and what she
could’ve sworn was anger shone in his sea-blue eyes. “Very well.” Her voice
sounded sure, almost brave. Let him know. Let him ask his questions.Ramsay was
unpredictable. Sansa knew what Petyr wanted her…no… needed her to do.
And she would do it, no matter how much pain it would cause her. It will be
worth it to see them fall.
He sat in the chair by the fire, waiting. Reek trembled by his feet, sensing
his built up anger as Ramsay petted him roughly. With his other hand, he
reached for his cup of wine, draining it and swallowing the dregs; wincing at
the bitter taste. It was not Ramsay’s first cup. The feast had needed more than
a few drinks to speed it up a little, and even that hadn’t lifted his mood. He
was too irritated to even try and taunt his brooding, miserable wife. Ramsay
had made his excuses at the earliest opportunity, feigning illness. It wasn’t a
complete lie. Every time he saw the smug smile on Baelish’s face his stomach
twisted and writhed as though he had downed worms instead of wine. What made it
worse was that, when he’d tried to drag his wife away, Baelish had insisted she
stayed. Insisted. As though it were his place! Sansa belonged to him now, no
matter how much Baelish wanted her. Then his father had agreed with Baelish,
settling the matter. “Just wait until she gets back.” Ramsay growled, his grip
on Reek’s hair tightening.
Sansa had angered him before the feast had even begun. Earlier, he had returned
to his chambers in search of entertainment, only to find the place empty. None
of his boys had seen her, neither had the people he had threatened to keep an
eye on her. She had simply disappeared. Sure enough, a little while later, he
had watched Lord Baelish leave the Godswood, shortly followed by his Lady wife.
Had she been unfaithful to him? He highly doubted that. He had ensured she
would never dare to desire anyone other than himself. But that couldn’t stop
Petyr from talking; whispering promises in her ear. Manipulating her.
Ramsay would have punished her the moment she had returned to their chambers,
had a scout not arrived with news of Stannis. Instead, he’d had to send Reek to
check on her. “Lady Sansa has returned to her chambers, Master.” Reek had
promised. That much was true. But the bitch was changed; he could sense it as
he sat beside her at dinner. Her hands no longer shook. She did not shiver when
he touched her. Neither did she whimper when he’d moved suddenly. Her mind had
been too far away from Ramsay to reach. “I’ll get her back. I will.” Ramsay
assured himself, ignoring Reek who began to whimper as he felt the hair
loosening from his scalp.
Footsteps were the only thing that saved Reek’s unkempt hair. Ramsay did not
look away from the fire as the door groaned open and spat his wife into the
room. The sound of it shutting seemed to echo around him. He heard her timid
steps; could hear her ragged breathing as she drew closer. The scent of fear
lingered amongst something far fouler; courage. Sansa stopped when she reached
his side. Still Ramsay did not look away from the flames. “Has your health
improved, my Lord?” She asked. The long-lost courtesy stoked the embers of his
fury, stirring them into flames. No Master. No sound of fear or pleading in her
voice. He wanted to beat her bloody there and then, to remind her of what
happens to disobedient pets. He managed to restrain himself somehow. He needed
answers first. Ramsay shoved Reek’s head off his lap, gripping the arms of his
chair tightly, pinning himself down. “You left these chambers without informing
me today.” He stated, slowly looking up at her, allowing the danger to show in
his eyes. He was too vexed to taunt her now. The wine had washed the fun from
him. “Yes.” Sansa replied, bowing her head in submission. It did little to
quench his anger. “Why?” His voice was sharp. Demanding. “Lord Baelish wished
to tell me something.”
“And what, dearest wife” He spat “did he tell you?”
Ramsay’s eyes never left her as she moved in front of him. He did not show the
surprise he felt as she knelt before him; her delicate hands lingering over his
own, then thinking better of it and allowing them to settle on his knees. I
should push her away he thought. For once, his curiosity overrode his instinct
and he allowed the contact.
“My Lord. My husband. Master, you know I am loyal to you. I try to be a good
wife, though it pleases you to believe I am not…”
“Do not test my patience, wife.” He hissed.
“My screams of agony and fear are more dangerous than all of Lord Stannis’
forces. The Northern Lords know of how you treat me and they loathe you for it.
It is your father they fear, not you. When…” The back of his hand meeting her
cheek cut her off.
“You think I will listen to this, wolf bitch? You think I care what the
Northern Lords think? They will follow me when my time comes. I’ll flay them
until they do!” Ramsay roared. Sansa let go of her reddening cheek and faced
him again. “They will not. They are many, and there is only one of you. When
your father dies, they will not follow you. But your father plans for you to
never rule.” The final sentence caused Ramsay’s upraised hand to pause
momentarily. “He has his fat Frey wife to bear him sons. Trueborn sons. He will
wait until you have put a son in me, a child of House Bolton and Stark. Then he
will rid himself of you.”
“You lying whore!” She caught his fist somehow before it smashed into her
cheek, fixing him with a cold stare; transfixing him. “He will rid himself of
you and take our son away. He will rule through him.” Ramsay disentangled his
hand from her pale claws and snatched at her, grasping her red hair. Sansa
cried out as he dragged her over to the fire. He was not sure which was
controlling him more, the wine or his anger. Flipping his frail wife onto her
stomach, he grabbed her by the back of the head; pinning her down with his knee
as she tried to struggle free. “Do you want me to show you what Master’s do to
disobedient dogs?” He growled, pushing her face towards the flames.
“You will never inherit Winterfell, let alone the North!” Sansa cried
desperately, trying to turn and face him. “Not unless I help you!”
He kept her face beside the angry flames until sweat and tears fell onto the
stone. Ramsay pulled her away slightly, flipping her onto her back. “This is
what Lord Baelish told you?” He asked with reason in his voice. Sansa nodded.
Ramsay bore into her blue eyes, searching for a glimpse of a lie. There was
none. “How do I know you are telling the truth? How does Lord Baelish know this
will happen?”
“A man learns many things in the capital.” His wife gasped, her face flushed
red. “Littlefinger is a player, like your father. He…he’s clever. He knows the
game. I swear, he would not tell me if he did not think it true.” Sansa’s gaze
never slipped away from his.
“Why would he tell you this? Why would he send you here into that?” I should
beat her bloody. What she was saying could ruin everything, yet Ramsay could
see the sense in it. It almost hurt. Perhaps he had known all along, but hadn’t
wanted it to be true. “He wants me to rule the North. I can’t do that without
you. I am but a woman. I do not understand such things, but you do.” He allowed
her to sit up a little. “I’m here for you. Only the name I bear can save you
and ensure you rule the North. Please…my lord, my husband. You are all I have
left.” Adoration filled her eyes, freezing him in its embrace. He was so
engrossed in them he barely felt her pale hand cup his face. “Let me help you
gain the place you have earned. Promise me that you will protect me and work
with me and with me at your side, we can rule the North.” Ramsay was too
dumbstruck to say anything, but she read the question in his eyes. “Your father
killed my brother and played a hand in killing my mother. I’d rather see you,
my husband, in my father’s seat.”
Ramsay pulled away and stood up, moving away from her but never taking his eyes
off her. Despite her frail form, there was a strength in her that filled the
room. It was not Alayne, he could tell. This was someone new. Ramsay sat down
again, knitting his hands together, tilting his head back.
What choice did he have? Trust his wife or his father. Sansa was easily kept in
line and would bring him the Northmen. His father…he had never trusted his
father. But did that mean he could betray him? His own blood for some bitch who
said she should trust him. He had done little to gain her trust. All he had
done he had done to gain her loyalty and ensure she obeyed. But Sansa was so
much more than just a pet, or could be anyway.
“You want my father dead. You want me to rule, with you at my side, is that it?
And our sons will follow us?”
“After everything that has happened, it is the best I can hope for my Lord.”
Those were honest words. But it would take much more than words.
“Fine. You will help me. I will protect you and work with you to ensure that
our future is secure.” Sansa’s face broke into a smile, the only genuine smile
he had seen from her since their wedding day.
“Thank you, my lord. I swear I shall serve you well.” Ramsay closed his eyes
wearily, a headache brewing. Then a thought struck him. A thought that would
ensure his wife was speaking the truth and would serve him as well as she had
sworn she would.
“But before we commit to this…alliance, I need you to do something for me,
wife.” He said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. Sansa moved towards him
on all fours, resuming her position on her knees in front of him. Ramsay didn’t
fail to notice that her hands gripped a little higher up his legs this time.
“Of course, my Lord.” Her hands tightened around his thighs. “I will do
whatever it takes.”
Chapter End Notes
     So that alliance might seem premature, but Ramsay's price won't be an
     easy one. He's not mellowing, I promise.
***** The Assignment *****
Chapter Summary
     Fold out your hands
     Give me a sign
     Put down your lies
     Lay down next to me
     Don't listen when I scream
     Bury your doubts and fall asleep
     Find out I was just a bad dream
Myranda readied Lady Sansa’s breakfast; laying it all out neatly on the small
table in their chamber. With Lord Baelish leaving so early, there had been no
time for breakfast beforehand. She had helped Lady Sansa dress and had braided
her hair ready to see her uncle off. Myranda was excused from such an event.
Normally she would not like being left out of such extravagances (they were few
and far between in the North) but this time she was grateful. Despite the work
she’d done for him, Littlefinger’s presence had done little to reassure her. He
hadn’t even spoken to her, but his looks were enough. He knew who she was. Had
he rewarded her for it? No. Just a few assessing glances and he had sent her on
her way again. Damn the man. Did he not know she was risking her neck for him?
Too late to turn back now.
That much was true. If she told the Boltons of what she had been doing,
Ramsay’s fondness of her would do nothing to save her skin. If she ceased
helping Littlefinger altogether, he would have his man cut her throat.
Littlefinger will reward you in his own time, whore he had promised. She would
have to take his word for it.
When footsteps sounded from beyond the door, Myranda poured the moon tea into a
cup, ready for Lady Sansa to drink alongside her breakfast as she had done
every morning since her wedding. This is all I have to do to be rewarded. Just
this and no one knows about it.
As soon as Sansa entered, Myranda went to her, slipping the cloak from around
her shoulders. “Your breakfast is ready for you, my lady.” She informed
dutifully.
“I’m not hungry, thank you.” Sansa muttered, her mind somewhere far away.
Ungrateful bitch.
“Won’t you at least have some tea, my lady? You must keep your strength up.”
Myranda urged, hanging the cloak up. Lady Sansa just nodded and headed over to
the table. As soon as her back was turned, Myranda smiled. This was all too
easy. The handmaiden picked up a brush and began scrape off the dirt that clung
to the hem of the cloak. “Leave that for now Myranda. Go and fetch another cup.
I’m expecting Lady Bolton here soon.”
The brush clattered to the floor.
Myranda span around, her face one of shock and horror. “Is something the
matter?” Sansa’s voice was soft. Innocent. She couldn’t know, could she?
Myranda desperately began to think, forcing her lips into a smile to hide her
frantic thoughts. “Not at all my lady. I’ll get some more tea as well shall I?”
“Why? There is plenty here.” She can’t know. She’d never make me do this if she
did.“The…the tea…it must be cold now…” Her heart sank at the sight of steam
rising from the pot.
“Go and get a cup for Lady Walda, Myranda. The tea is fine.” Myranda recognised
that voice. It made her shiver. It had been the one Lady Sansa had used when
she’s first arrived. It was not the meek, submissive trill Myranda had grown
accustomed to. How is that possible? Ramsaybrokeher.
“Go. Now.” Sansa fixed her with a cold, demanding stare. Had she not been in
such a panic, Myranda would have glared back. Instead, she hurried from the
room, praying some idea would come to her and save Walda’s child.
Much to Myranda’s dismay, no epiphany came. When she arrived back at Sansa’s
chambers, the fat woman was sat beside Lady Sansa; picking at the untouched
breakfast. “They say babies are supposed to take preference to certain foods,
but my boy seems to love just about anything! He’s strong too, my little Roose.
He keeps me awake half the night with his kicking.” She squealed like an
excited pig.
Myranda set down the cup in front of her; legs turning as stiff as wood as she
turned to pick up the pot of moon tea. The scent of mint filled her nostrils,
making her go light-headed. What would they do to me if they found out? Myranda
had killed many herself. She enjoyed Ramsay’s hunting trips. But this wasn’t
just some whore that threatened her position at Ramsay’s side. This was Roose
Bolton’s son. If Walda lost the child…if they suspected her…
The two ladies ceased their heartless chatter as the pot shattered, its
contents spreading over the stone like wildfire. Myranda leapt out of its path,
afraid of getting burned.
“Gods be good! What is the matter with you?” Sansa cried, leaping out of her
chair.
“Forgive me m’lady. I…I am unwell. Shall I go get more tea?” Myranda asked,
frantically picking up the pieces.
“I think you’ve done enough damage. Lady Walda, please, have my cup.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”
“Please. I don’t have a thirst and you have the baby to provide for!” Sansa
laughed. Myranda swallowed the bile building up at the back of her throat; eyes
fixated, widening in horror. Yet her limbs allowed no movement as Fat Walda
lifted the cup to her lips and began to drink.
“You are dismissed from your duties this afternoon, Myranda. Go speak with the
Maester. If you are unwell, you’ll be in need of help.”
She knowsMyranda thought as she bowed her head and fled the room.
Theon waited, listening to the voices within. He watched Myranda leave from his
place in the shadows. Reek cowered away from her instinctively, but her face
was not the hunter’s mask he knew so well. She’s frightened Theon thought. It
almost made him happy to know the bitch could feel fear, and at Sansa’s hand
too!
Then he recalled why he was waiting and his joy faded. The assignment that
Ramsay had set her.
The minutes dragged by, their slow pace almost as painful as Ramsay’s flaying
knife. Yet still there was nothing more than the quiet voices of two noble
ladies discussing the prospect of children. Theon tried not to listen in. The
thought of children was making him sick.
Finally, the door creaked open and Reek slunk further back into the shadows.
“Thank you for the tea, Lady Sansa.” Walda squeaked nervously. Theon saw her
blush and lower her gaze, as though she were in awe of her companion. “Anytime,
Lady Walda. I hope we can do it again soon. Our time together is…so precious to
me.” Sansa’s smile was sickly sweet.
“R…really?”
“Oh yes! We are friends, are we not?” Walda snorted in her excitement but
Sansa’s face remained pleasant. The fat lady nodded, muttered another thank you
before hurrying off down the corridor; her large form making the hallway seem
smaller.
Theon’s gaze never left Sansa.
“If you are going to spy, you might want to try breathing a little quieter.”
She never even looked his way. Reek stayed still for a long while, unsure
whether he had been the one she was addressing. “Come, Reek. There is a pot of
spilled tea that needs clearing up.” Reek scuttled in after her, but Theon soon
resurfaced once the door was closed, and there was little Reek could do to stop
him. He stared at Sansa who had moved to the window. Her back was to him as she
stared out across the moors, but he could see her chewing her thumbnail
nervously. “You did it, didn’t you?” He asked quietly, tearing his eyes away
from her. The silence whispered an affirmative. “How?” His voice was stronger
with every passing moment. What has he turned you into?
“Does it matter?” Sansa snapped, whirling around to face him, struggling to
keep the mask in place. Theon shook his head, still unable to meet her gaze. An
unborn child. She murdered and unborn child.
“What choice did I have?” He looked up then, shocked. Could she hear his
thoughts? No. They had been written all over his face; etched into every weary
line. “You are no man to pass judgement, Theon Greyjoy.” She continued, her
voice starting to crack. “You let me brother’s go free, but who did you kill in
their place? Whose bodies did you hang above the gates of Winterfell?” Theon
was too wounded to be angry.
Dagmer was the one who slit their throats, not me!
That made him feel no less guilty.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
Lord Stark’s words sent a shiver down his spine and tears to his eyes.
Sansa did not wait for him to speak or feign innocence. She turned away from
him to face the window once more. “I will not let him turn me into what you
have become. I will do whatever it takes to make sure that doesn’t happen. I
need him Theon. I need him. For my brothers’ sakes.” Theon stared at her stiff
back, letting the pieces fall into place. She was going to use Ramsay. She was
going to use Ramsay to break Roose and take the North for her brothers’.
The game is too dangerous he wanted to tell her.One step and you are dead.
Sansa may be wedded and bedded, a woman grown, but she was still a young girl.
A young girl who had been held captive at King’s Landing, then sold to the
Bolton’s and mistreated by her husband. She couldn’t win. She couldn’t.
What have they done to you?
“I will pray a while. When I get back, I want the chambers clean, understand?”
Sansa clasped her hands together as she hurried over to the door; her face pale
and strained.
“Yes m’lady.” Reek muttered. Sansa did not even look at him, just continued
towards the door. She cried out in fright as it swung open of its own accord. A
moment later, Damon Dance-for-me leaned against the frame, grinning wickedly.
“Yes, go pray to your tree Lady Sansa.” He chuckled. Reek cowered low as the
cruel gaze settled on him. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
***** Begging Won't Save You Now *****
Chapter Summary
     I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
     I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
     Offer me that deathless death
     Good God, let me give you my life
Ramsay was not alone when he entered the room that evening. But his company was
not what Sansa had been expecting. A string of serving girls entered the room
carrying plates of food; salt pork, turnips in butter, bread, cheese, ale and
wine. Sansa kept her eyes on Ramsay, searching for a trick. Reek was not
present. When she had returned from the Godswood, he was gone. The chamber was
only half clean. Somehow she knew that Ramsay had not killed him. She doubted
he ever would. And would it matter to me if he did?
Things might be a lot easier if Theon was not there to remind her of who she
had once been.
“Come, Lady Sansa. I thought we should have dinner together. A husband and his
wife deserve some privacy.” He smiled at her, excitement lighting up his cold
eyes.
He’s planning something. The look reminded her of Joffrey. Whenever he ordered
her to be beaten, he would get as excited as a child on his name day.
Sansa took a seat at the end of the table with Ramsay opposite her, still
smiling that knowing smile. As soon as the food was served, he waved the girls
away. “I understand you spent some time with Lady Walda today.” Ramsay said,
hacking at the meat.
“Yes my lord.” Sansa forced herself to eat. I have done nothing he did not ask
of me. Theon is to blame, not I.
“I suppose you need more company than I can provide alone. And now that Petyr
is gone, you must be feeling lonely.” He watched her carefully, picking up the
cup of wine.
“Not at all, my Lord husband. You are all the company I need. Lady Walda is the
one who seeks friendship. I don’t have to be married to him to know that your
father makes for a cold companion.” The words were bold, she knew. He stared at
her, lost for words. Sansa picked up her goblet, smiled, and drank. “Is there
something on your mind Ramsay? I get the feeling you are waiting for
something.” Where had this boldness come from? She wasn’t entirely sure. Tread
carefully. She had acted boldly before, and that had brought her nothing but
pain. This felt different though. Ramsay seemed to sense it too. Instead of
erupting into an angry fit, he slumped back in his chair.
We are both players here.
“Damon told me what he heard.” Ramsay admitted, regarding her with a glare.
Sansa did not allow it to frighten her. “So? Should I get on the bed? Do you
want me to become the meek little wife again?”
“Do not push me wife.” He hissed.
“Deal with Theon. Rid yourself of him and get your Reek back. He means nothing
to me. Do whatever you need to and ensure you don’t lose him again. Then, when
you aren’t so distracted, we can continue, husband.” His look did not lighten,
but his eyebrows twitching closer together betrayed his feeling of confusion.
Sansa smiled softly and reached across the table, catching his hand. “Now is
not the time for us to loathe one another. If we are to play and win, we must
trust each other, don’t you think?” Sansa blinked innocently, hoping to soften
him somewhat.
Ramsay watched her for a moment, considering her words carefully. An amused
smile stretched across his face. He leaned forward, twisting his hand so he
held hers, tightening his grip. “You are right of course.” Sansa frowned as he
stood up, still keeping tight hold of her hand, and moved towards her. “Come
wife, I have something I want to show you.” The excited boy had returned but
Sansa steeled her nerves, allowing him to drag her from the room. The corridors
were quiet and unlit with everyone dining in the Great Hall. Ramsay did not let
her go and moved so quickly Sansa kept having to take running steps just to
keep up. “My Lord, where are we going?” She asked, trying her best to sound
excited and not terrified.
Is he dragging me away to kill me?
Horror and fear consumed her mind. What if Petyr was wrong? What if I was
wrong? What if he has told Roose? What if Roose ordered him to kill me in
secret?
When Ramsay led her out into the cold night, the fear grew and threatened to
overcome her recently found courage. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg
him. To tell him he needed her and she him. That she would never betray him.
He’s going to throw me from the battlements, they’ll make it look like suicide.
It was madness. Sansa laughed at the irony of it. She had tried to leap from
the window of their chambers to spite her husband and earn the Boltons the
hatred of the North. Now it was what they wanted.
Ramsay did not lead her onto the battlements though. Instead, he hurried
through the snow-filled courtyard towards the kitchens. When the servants saw
them coming, they fled in the other direction.
One of Old Nan’s stories sprang to her mind then, settling itself in amongst
the madness. The one about the rat cook. Bran had always like that one. Sansa
had hated it and only remembered that a man had fed a father his own son who
was put in a pie. As punishment, the Gods had turned the cook into a rat who
survived off of the flesh of his own young.
He wouldn’t put me in a pie would he?
Sansa found it strangely easy to imagine Ramsay being turned into a rat. One of
the ones that Old Nan said lurked in the crypts; eating human flesh and the
size of hunting hounds. She laughed at him then, alone in the dark with only
his teeth to cause pain.
Ramsay turned at the sound of her laughter and grinned. He led her through the
kitchens and the store rooms. Sansa had never been this deep into the kitchens
before. She and Jeyne had sometimes gone to Gage the cook to ask him for lemon
cakes but they were always brought to them.
Ramsay seemed to know his way well.
“I’ve had to make do. Winterfell is not as well equipped for this as the
Dreadfort is. I’ll make changes to that once Stannis is defeated.” He
announced, grinning. Well equipped for what? Sansa knew little of the
Dreadfort, but the name left little to the imagination. Ramsay began to slow
down as they reached the back of the last storage room. Just in front of their
feet was a door leading down into the cellars below. “They were storage rooms
too. It’s a little cold down there. But you don’t mind, do you wife?” Sansa
sensed she had little say on the matter. He smirked at her the same smirk he
had used before. Sickening. Sadistic.
Ramsay opened the trapdoor.
“Ladies first.”
This is his game now. It will last the night. No more, no less. He will hurt
me, but I will be alive at the end.
Sansa headed down the steep wooden steps with Ramsay behind her. A torch burned
in its sconce on the wall and Ramsay removed it so he could guide their way,
wherever it was they were headed. He said nothing as he began to march through
the abandoned cellar; sometimes whacking something randomly and sending echoes
through the cavernous rooms. Sansa did her best not to jump at the sound,
instead focusing on what might lay in store. She would be beaten and bleeding
by the time they re-emerged from the cellar. He would mark her as his, reassert
his dominance so that she would remember not to go behind his back.
Her heart began to pound when she realised that here, in the far corner of the
castle and within the earth, no one would hear her scream. Taking a deep breath
and holding her chin higher, she followed her husband further into the cellar.
Besides the ray of light ahead, she was surrounded by darkness. Sansa held out
her hand and imagined the feeling of Lady’s fur slipping through her fingers,
the sound of the wolfs panting and her paws as they padded across the dirt.
With Lady at her side, Sansa was no longer afraid.
The light ahead brightened as Ramsay lowered it into a brazier. That was when
Sansa spotted it; a large wooden cross with a man bound to it, stripped save
for a pair of filthy breeches, his head covered with a sack. “You want me to
deal with Theon wife? Let’s deal with him!” Ramsay ripped off the sack and Reek
cried out, blinded by the sudden light. Sansa remained half in darkness, not
willing to let go of the wolf that was not there. “Hello Theon.” Ramsay growled
to his frightened pet.
“No master! Not Theon! Reek, Reek! It rhymes with…” Ramsay’s fist smashed into
his jaw, silencing him. Sansa did not wince. It was clear to her that it was
Reek on the cross, not Theon. Ramsay however seemed to see something she did
not. “Only Theon lies to me. Reek never would.” Sansa could’ve sworn she’d
heard hurt in her husband’s voice. When he turned to her though, there was no
trace of it. “Damon told me everything.” He strode towards her and Sansa
gripped Lady’s fur tighter. He did not stop until his face was inches from her,
but he made no move to strike her. “Do you truly think my father would leave
your brothers be if he knew they were alive?” She bowed her head, waiting for
the tears to come. “If you are going to play, you had better get to know your
opponent. As soon as Reek told him that Bran and Rickon were alive, my father
sent his best hunter after them.” She did not flinch when Ramsay gripped her
chin, forcing her head up. No tears would come. She had cried for Bran and
Rickon already, a long time ago. Sansa met his gaze. “Reek told my father that
the boys lived, but Theon…” Ramsay grinned down at her. “Theon told me almost
the moment he met me. He had no clue who I was, but he told me anyway. He was
willing to give up the one thing keeping your brothers safe, simply because it
rested too heavily on his conscience. And now he has lied to you. He has told
you they are alive. Reek knew they weren’t, but Theon would do anything to save
his own skin. He betrayed your own brother and your father’s memory so he
didn’t look the fool in front of his family. He burned two innocent farm boys
when he lost your brothers and, if he had found them, he would have killed
them.” Her eyes never left his. “Now what do you think of that Lady Sansa?”
Ramsay stepped away, releasing her. “Should we punish Theon for everything he
has done?”
“Yes.” Not a heartbeat had passed before the word slipped from her mouth.
“And how shall we do it?”
Fingers and toes.
“A finger and a toe.”
You have to know your name, Lady Sansa. You have to.
“He has to know his name.” Sansa looked at Theon then. He bowed his head; his
body shook as the sobs tore through him. “Very good, lady Sansa.” Ramsay’s
voice was gentle, rewarding. He freed the knife from his belt. “Come then wife,
prove to me I can trust you. Prove that you can bear my name.” Sansa stepped
back a little, suddenly unsure. I do not want to hurt anyone…
That did not stop you this morning, when you murdered an unborn babe.
The bitter voice spurred her forwards, her longing to be free of it driving her
towards the knife. Ramsay tossed it into the air before she could take it,
snatching it as it fell so that the handle faced her. Sansa tried not to think
about what the bone of the handle had once belonged to.
She did not meet his gaze, but Sansa could tell he was smiling at her; though
whether it was through pride, interest, or waiting to see her freeze, she could
not say. Sansa approached Theon, the knife feeling surprisingly light in her
hand. She had heard her brothers speak of how important the balance of a sword
was, now she was almost sure she understood. The knife was well crafted.
“Please…” Theon whispered. “Sansa…please…” It was growing now, his fear getting
louder when he saw the determination in her gaze.
“He lied to you. He lied to your brother. He as good as killed your brothers.
He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a man. He’s not a man anyway.” Ramsay
urged her on from behind, but Sansa needed little convincing. The thought of
her brothers, of Robb who’d always considered Theon as his own kin, was enough.
“You should have been with him.” She hissed as the steel bit through flesh.
“Where were you? You should have died with him!” Sansa had to raise her voice
as Theon screamed and thrashed on the cross. The finger now dangled
precariously by a single strand of flesh. Sansa paused to watch the hot blood
spurt out of the open wound. “Theon turncloak.” She spat, kneeling and slicing
into a toe without need of second thoughts. For now, she would forget who she
was. It seemed to be so easy. It feels like justice Sansa thought as Theon
wailed and vomited, convulsing from the pain and the feeling of hot blood
against his filthy flesh.
“Very good, wife. Now, what else did you say we should do?” Ramsay cooed.
“He has to know his name.” She growled, never looking away from Theon.
“I think I can help you there.” Before a breath could be drawn, Ramsay moved in
behind her; slipping one hand around her waist whilst the other placed a
different knife into her palm. Sansa slowly wrapped her pale fingers around it,
admiring the curve of the blade. “Now, you press it against his skin, like
this.” Ramsay guided her hand, sliding the steel over Theon’s flesh until he’d
selected the perfect location. Theon had begun to tremble with fearful
anticipation. Sansa gasped as the metal slid beneath the skin as easily as she
would slip a comb through her hair. Ramsay’s guidance on her hand dwindled
until she was doing it by herself. Theon screamed as the first slice of skin on
his torso fell to the floor. “Now, what is your name?” Ramsay asked Theon, his
arm around Sansa’s waist tightening.
“Reek. My name is Reek!” He cried. Sansa narrowed her eyes. “He’s lying.
Theon’s still there. I can tell.” Ramsay did a mocking sigh, but she could hear
the sadistic glee in it.
“Oh dear Theon. My wife isn’t convinced.” Ramsay craned his head forward so his
lips brushed her ear. “Do it again, wife.” He whispered. Sansa nodded and slid
the knife beneath Theon’s flesh once more; feeling a sudden thrill as he
screamed in agony. For Robb she thought. I’m doing this for Robb.
“You know I should punish you too wife, don’t you?” Ramsay whispered playfully,
his grip on her tightening even more.
“Yes.” Sansa breathed, concentrating on her work. So engrossed was she in
peeling Theon’s skin from his body that she didn’t even notice Ramsay move his
hand off her arm. The feeling of his calloused hand on her breast took her
unawares. “What are you doing?” She cried. Theon screamed as the knife cut
deeper due to her being distracted. “Keep going.” Ramsay growled. Sansa
obliged, hoping that if she pleased him, he would make it quick.
Theon’s screams grew more satisfactory, but Ramsay’s hand on her breast was
attracting her attention. His thumb circled her nipple, making her gasp in
surprise. “What…what are you…please, stop…” Sansa was unable to make sense of
the words running through her mind. She tried to squirm away as Ramsay rubbed
himself against her. “Stop it!” She growled, managing to free herself from his
grasp. His look darkened again, but it was not the same darkness as before.
Desire. Lust.
She had seen it in Petyr’s eyes sometimes.
Before he could take another step towards her, a bloodcurdling scream echoed
through the cellar. And it wasn’t Theon. The woman screamed again and again. So
many emotions rolled into one high pitched wail; despair, pain, grief, shock,
fear.
Every emotion that juxtaposed Ramsay’s smile in that instant.
“Oh my clever, cruel, beautiful wife!” He laughed, moving towards her. She knew
she should move away, but something forced her feet to stay put. Ramsay’s lips
met hers; his kiss savage and hungry. She could taste the heat of the moment.
Before he went any further, he forced himself to step back, taking her face in
his hands. “Your brothers are dead. I am all you have now. You needme.” He
leaned in. Sansa shivered as his lips brushed her ear again. “You wantme.” He
whispered. Sansa shook her head but was unable to form the two letter word that
could convince him otherwise. She cried out as he shoved her off balance,
catching her before she hit the dirt. As he climbed on top of her, an odd heat
flared at the pit of her stomach. “My father’s son is dead. You killed him. My
good little wife.” His hand travelled downwards and he began to rub between her
legs.
“What are you doing? Please…please stop it.” Sansa begged, not liking the way
her limbs twitched open to greet his touch.
“We shall rule the North together, you and I. You and me, my little Shewolf.”
His hand began to move faster, stoking the fire building inside her. The other
hand slowly crept down to the hem of her dress.
“No…don’t…” Sansa tried to beg. She didn’t want this, but Gods…she did. Ramsay
met her lips with his own again; the same savagery as before but now with more
urgency. “You belong to me Sansa. You’re mine now. You’ll bring me the North.”
His lips travelled south and he lifted her skirts, exposing her beneath.
“Stop…please Ramsay…”
“If you truly want me to stop, just close your legs.”
She couldn’t.
Her hands were buried deep in his hair; her mind under the pretence it was to
push him away. Her body told a whole different story. When he finally thrust
inside of her with his usual violence, Sansa welcomed it. “I needyou. I
wantyou. Together, we’ll rule the North.” She cried as they both came to the
sound of Walda screaming.  
***** Poisoned *****
Chapter Summary
     His eyes upon your face
     His hand upon your hand
     His lips caress your skin
     It's more than I can stand
     Feelings I can't fight
     You're free to leave me, but just don't deceive me
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Disorientation struck her when she opened her eyes and saw only darkness.
Somewhere a woman still cried out for her lost child. But that was just
background music to her now.
Sansa shifted, gasping at the twinge of pain in her back. The ground she’d
slept on was cold and filthy. The only warmth came from behind her and she
instinctively sank into it.
Then she remembered.
The darkness dismembered Ramsay’s chuckle, making it even more disturbing.
Sansa quickly stood up, ignoring the pain in her back and doing her best to
drown out the strangely satisfying ache between her legs. “For a moment there
wife I thought you were a changed woman.” The darkness laughed. No words came
to her. Her mind had gone as black as the cellar they were in. Were they even
in the cellar still? Sansa could hardly remember what had occurred last night.
Only the pleasure that had drowned out all other senses lingered in her mind,
making both her cheeks and the pit of her stomach burn again.
Stumbling around in the darkness, Sansa tried to desperately find her dress;
vaguely remembering that Ramsay had torn it off her at some point. Had it been
the second or the first time? Sansa hoped it was still in a fit enough state to
return to their chambers in.
“Your dress is over here.” Ramsay called out. Damn it. “I’ve got it.”
“Well then throw it to me!” Sansa snapped, not trusting herself to go back to
him.
“But I don’t know where you are! I might miss. Best you come to me and claim it
yourself.” She could hear the amusement in Ramsay’s voice and knew there would
be no convincing him otherwise. He still wanted to play. “Come on, follow my
voice.” He called out softly. Sansa stood up straight and placed one unsteady
foot in front of another. Her heart pounded in her chest; eager to move faster
despite her dragging feet. “That’s it.” He muttered, closer now. Sansa’s
insides squirmed and the fire burned brighter. When she felt his cold hand
grasp her hip, she was unsure whether it was a gasp of shock or a sigh of
relief that escaped her lips. He was still sat down on the ground. She could
feel his warm breath ghost over her thighs, sending goose prickles over her
pale skin. “You want your dress back?” He asked, his breath travelling up her
leg.
“Y…yes.”
“You want to put your dress back on and leave. Is that it?”
“Yes.” No.
“Are you sure? Don’t you want me to do this?” Sansa trembled as he kissed her.
“Stop…don’t…” She whimpered. Her hands argued back as they ran through his
hair. Her heart raced faster, her breathing was sharp and staccato. When her
legs began to weaken until she was sure she would collapse, Ramsay shoved her
away, laughing again when he heard her sigh in disappointment. He stood up and
pressed the soft fabric of her dress against her stomach. “I think it’s time we
let Reek down, don’t you wife?” Reek! She had forgotten.
Ramsay moved away from her, though to where she could not say. Not until she
heard the soft, sharp chink of metal on stone. Moments later, the cellar was
lit in an unwelcome orange glow. In the darkness, it had been easier to
pretend. Easier to forget. The light licked at his face, making his teeth shine
as he grinned at her. Sansa found herself momentarily transfixed on his face;
longing to mirror his wicked grin. But the moment soon passed and she looked
away, trying to quench the slick longing between her thighs.
Theon was nowhere to be seen. Reek’s head hung low until his Master drew near
him, then he looked up, quivering, into the piercing gaze. The blood had dried,
but still glistened as red as rubies on the pale, feverish skin. Had Walda’s
screams not filled the air, Sansa would have heard Reek chanting his name.
Reek, Reek…it rhymes with meek and weak.
The screams began to dwindle by the end of the second day. There was only so
much blood she could lose before it began to take its toll.
Sansa remained in her chambers; pacing until she was sure the floor would wear
through. It wasn’t me, I just did what he asked of me. I never meant to kill
her. A small voice would utter the words over and over, trying to convince her
that they were true. Another voice soon joined the chant, fighting back,
provoked by the ongoing screams. Fine, I killed her. So what? She was a Frey.
Now she is a Bolton. That child of hers would have been both. I did what I had
to.
By the time the screams had begun to die, that was the voice Sansa listened to.
What’s more, the voice made her time with Ramsay far easier. It never regretted
the decisions she made, nor what they did together as the childless mother
slowly bled to her death. Sansa would please him as he would her. She suspected
he was unknowingly becoming her equal, but wasn’t about to bring that to his
attention. Ramsay liked to believe he was her master, and she was willing to
allow him to go on believing that. The only pain now was the sweet one when he
thrust into her. Or occasionally when he struck her as he climaxed; though in
the moment that hardly hurt.
Once they had returned from the cellar after that night, with Sansa firmly
wrapped up in his cloak (her dress had been beyond salvaging), he had rarely
left the room unless for business reasons. Sansa was sure that was a good sign.
He allowed her to move about freely, without having to go on hands and knees
and call him ‘master’. Petyr had wanted her to gain Ramsay’s attention. The
trust and influence she needed to gain was yet to be discovered, though Sansa
had decided upon a way to test it.
Myranda was still her handmaiden, though she flinched and rarely spoke; fleeing
the room the moment chance permitted. When Ramsay was in the room though,
things were different. Sansa would watch as she served their meal; making eyes
at her husband and inching closer, eager to gain favour. Sansa wanted to
believe it was not jealousy that made her scowl and grip her knife and fork a
little tighter. Ramsay lapped up the handmaiden’s attentions like some greedy
hound, ignoring Sansa momentarily as his food was served with Myranda near
enough on his lap.
A test indeed.
As he’d expected, she was in their chambers; gazing out of the window like one
of the ladies in the songs. That made him grin. She could stand by as many
windows as she liked, she would still moan and beg like a whore come nightfall.
Sansa remained unmoving as he shut the door behind him; from behind, he could
see her chewing her thumb. Was she nervous? Upset? Too late for that now.
“She’s dead, at last.” He said, moving towards the bed and pulling off his
boots and shirt. Sansa stayed where she was. “Her and the child.” Ramsay stood
and moved towards her, still smiling. His father’s son was gone, and he was his
heir again. What’s more, Walda was gone too. His father had no one yet that
could bear him a trueborn heir. Unlike himself. “Well done, my sweet little…”
As he wrapped his arms around her, she shoved him off angrily and moved away.
“What?” He snapped coldly, his smile gone. Ramsay moved towards her again,
faster this time; grabbing for her only to have himself shoved off again. “The
boy is gone, Sansa. And the mother. There is no one my father can breed from
now. I am his heir, isn’t that what you wanted?”
“And where are our heirs Ramsay? Have you not thought of that?” His wife
snapped, rounding on him.
“What fault is that of mine?” Ramsay’s fists clenched. What was wrong with her?
There had been no talk of sons before now. “You don’t understand! You don’t
see, do you?” Her eyes blazed with anger and frustration.
“You are pushing my patience wife.” He hissed.
“As you are mine, husband.” Sansa snapped back.
The first blow knocked her to the floor. Ramsay pounced on her, pinning her
down. “You overreach yourself. And you had been doing so well! Is it time for
another lesson wife?” He growled, hoisting up her skirts.
Sansa struck him, hard and sharp, across the face.
In the split second he was stunned, she rolled over, forcing him with her so
that she ended up on top. Before he could strike back, Sansa had pinned his
arms down, her knee pushed down on his groin, making him gasp and squirm.
“You’d be dead if it weren’t for me husband. I think I’ve earned your
attention.” Biting back the pain her knee was causing, he struggled up so he
was within biting distance. “Not likely.” His teeth managed to graze her soft
lips before she pushed him back to the floor. For a moment, that desire he’d
come to enjoy and exploit had filled her head and Sansa’s lips had followed his
as she’d pushed him back, earning him a chance to escape. Once again, they
rolled so that Ramsay was on top, swallowing her gasp whilst he did his best to
undo his breeches. The lesson he’d planned wouldn’t work, he realised, on
discovering she was wet and willing beneath him. Ramsay looked down at her to
find Sansa grinning up at him. “What are you…” He cried out as her fingernails
tore at the flesh on his back, making the skin slick with blood. Sansa growled
as she rolled over to be on top of him, sitting down on his hips roughly,
refusing to go faster despite how much he needed it. “Sansa…” He gasped.
“Please…”
“Got your attention now have I?” She purred, leaning forward and continuing to
straddle him roughly but agonisingly slowly, forcing his arms up so they were
trapped above his head and their faces were parallel, inches away from one
another. “You never asked me how I did it.” She muttered as Ramsay focused on
moving his hips to meet her; trying in vain to quicken the pace. “You never
asked me how I killed them.” She pulled one hand away to slap him back into
focus. Ramsay growled, not liking his new position, but enjoying it too much to
reverse it. “How then?”
“Your whore.” Sansa whispered, her face darkening.
“M…Myranda?” Ramsay moaned as she sped up a little.
“Yes.” Sansa leaned down so she could whisper in his ear. She sped up even
more, knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus for much longer. “Your whore gave me
something that prevented me from bearing you a child.” She gritted her teeth,
slamming her hips down on his savagely in her anger. “She killed them. All our
sons. Our heirs.” Sansa continued to move faster until she felt him stiffen
inside her. “She murdered them all, because I took her place as your bride.
She’s jealous. Any sons we have will never be safe with her. I had her give
Walda the tea, so I could be sure.” She pulled away so that she could look upon
Ramsay’s face. She was not disappointed. “She killed our boys?” He growled.
Sansa leaned forward, allowing him to see the tears that glistened in her eyes.
“All our heirs that would secure your place as Lord of Winterfell.” Ramsay’s
look darkened as he registered it all. Sansa leaned forward so she could
whisper in his ear again. “I want her dead.”   
Chapter End Notes
     Has anyone read the newly released Alayne chapter? OM7G's!
     Loving the relationship between Sansa and Myranda, though clearly I
     haven't gone down the friendship route for this story XD
***** Pulling Strings *****
Chapter Summary
     Well I guess sometimes I wish you were a little more predictable
     That I could read you just like a book
     For now I can only guess what's coming next
     By examining your timid smile
     And the ways of the old, old winds blowing you back 'round
     And I'm a goddamn fool, but then again so are you
It was rare for a handmaiden, or any servant, to get some time alone where they
were not ordered to do something. Thankfully, Myranda was rarely asked to do
more than her usual work as many didn’t appreciate her threats or scowls.
“Fuck.” She hissed as the needle pierced her thumb, drawing blood. Myranda sat
on her small bed, attempting to fix a broken dress in order to distract herself
from the deafening silence. Lady Bolton was dead. Myranda was still at a loss
on whether it was her fault or Lady Sansa’s. If Sansa had known about the moon
tea, the fault was hers. She had meant for it to happen. And Myranda could not
work out why. No one had informed her of Littlefinger’s plan, but she was sure
that hadn’t been a part of it. Make sure she drinks the moon tea he had said.
Ensure he does not put a child in her.
They had been her exact orders. So why had Sansa made Walda drink the tea?
Sansa had stopped drinking it herself. She was hardly up by breakfast time
these days. Myranda had noticed a startling change in her mistress. Sansa was
still quiet. But a coldness had settled in, freezing her nervous quivering. She
even seemed comfortablearound Ramsay now and he no longer expected her to crawl
around like a bitch and call him ‘master’. They usually would dine in their own
chambers together and Sansa would order Myranda away the moment the food had
been cleared, though Myranda did her best to make sure Ramsay had not forgotten
her.
The change in Sansa frightened her, so she did her best to stay on Ramsay’s
good side. He hadn’t requested her service for some time, but he had shown no
sign of suspicion and he had played no games with her. She was safe for the
moment. Sansa had no power over Ramsay. She didn’t have the skill.
Myranda lived amongst the makeshift quarters reserved for servants, so she
thought nothing of the footsteps that sounded outside. When the door opened,
she jumped and the needle sunk into her thumb a second time. “Shit! What?” She
snapped, looking up to see who had entered her room unannounced. It was odd to
see Ramsay standing in her doorway. She doubted he’d ever troubled himself to
make his way to the servant’s quarters before. “My Lord. Forgive me, what can I
do for you?” She smiled a sultry smile. Ramsay returned it, stepped further
into the room and closed the door behind him. Finally. He’d seen sense. “We
don’t have long. Lady Sansa will wonder where I’ve gone.” He grinned.
“Best be quick then.” Ramsay stepped further into the room and Myranda turned
her back so he could undo her dress. He’d always invited her to his own
chambers, and never came to hers. Perhaps he was bored of his sullen, meek
little wife.
Myranda shuddered as Ramsay’s cold hands grazed her skin. He pulled her dress
down enough for her breasts to be exposed before he began kissing her neck,
sinking his teeth in slightly the way he knew would make her gasp. “You’ve been
very busy, haven’t you Myranda?” He muttered into her shoulder.
“Yes my lord. Serving your wife.”
“Pathetic thing isn’t she? So meek. So sullen. So easily broken. Not like you.”
He whispered. Myranda murmured her affirmative, gasping as his hands pawed at
her breasts. “You’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to enjoy you for a
long time.”
“Yes my lord.”
“Busy, killing my sons.” His hands moved up from her breasts and wrapped around
her neck. “You reach too high, whore.” He spat in her ear. Myranda’s eyes
widened in fear and realisation. A game, it had all been a game! His hands
tightened and she clawed at them. “My lord…no…I never…”
“Don’t lie to me slut. You murdered my heirs. I know, Sansa told me everything.
Do you know what we do to whores that murder the sons of Lords?” Ramsay shoved
her away from him and Myranda fell against the wall, clutching her neck and
gasping for air. “Boys!” The door was flung open at Ramsay’s command and Damon,
Skinner and Luton entered. “Find her a place that will serve as a cell and
search her room.” Ramsay turned away and left, not giving her a second glance.
Damon came towards her whilst the others started opening boxes and cupboards,
rifling through what few possessions she owned. “Damon, please…let me speak
with him!” Myranda begged.
“I think it’s a bit late for that Myranda.” Damon’s voice was cheerful as ever.
“What…what will they do to me?” Myranda asked, standing and shrugging her dress
back on so that she could cover herself.
“Use your imagination. For fuck sake!” Damon yelled as Myranda flung herself at
him, clinging to his doublet.
“Please, Damon. Let me speak to him! Take me to him! I’ll do whatever you want,
please! Just…please don’t leave me in a cell!” Tears were welling up now as her
imagination ran wild; images of all those hunts Ramsay had taken her on. How he
raped the girls whilst flaying them, or he fed them to his dogs. “He won’t
listen to you, whore!” Skinner said from his place by her looking glass. Damon
untangled himself from her clutches and turned away from her. “Are you going to
be finished soon or should I…”
Myranda took her chance.
She ducked around Damon and bolted for the door. “Fuck! Myranda!” Damon roared
behind her. Pushing a serving girl out of her path, Myranda flew past the other
rooms. Damon, Skinner and Luton thundered along behind her, cursing and
demanding someone make her stop. They were still a way behind when she reached
the stairs. Myranda did not hesitate, barely breaking stride as she leapt down
them. If she fell, with any luck she would break her head open on the stone. If
not, she still had a chance of reaching Ramsay.
She survived the stairs and they had managed to slow her pursuers who valued
their lives more than she did. Myranda continued to dodge and knock down the
people in her path, though more and more tried to grab for her as it became
clear that she needed to be caught. Somehow, she made it to the Great keep,
where her Lord had begun to ascend the stairs. “My Lord! Ramsay! I must speak
to you, please!” He turned and glared down at her. Had she not been so blinded
by desperation, she would have seen that Ramsay’s look was uncompromising.
“Please! It’s Myranda! You have to listen to me, please!” She screamed. Damon,
Skinner and Luton grabbed her from behind and began to pull her away. “You must
come with us now Myranda.” One of them said. The commotion had drawn a crowd by
this time, but Myranda saw only Ramsay. “No! Please! Listen…” She tried
desperately to fight but the three men, trained in fighting and practised at
cruelty, over-powered her. “Ramsay! I beg you!” Ramsay turned away from her
screams and carried on up the stairs.
That was when Myranda saw her, standing at the top. Waiting for him. Sansa’s
face was colder and more unyielding than even Ramsay’s had been. Her husband
passed her without a word and, with one final grim look, Sansa turned and
followed him. Knowing that her cause was lost, Myranda allowed the men to drag
her away.
His master said allowing him to stand was a mercy, but it only pained him more.
At least on all fours he could relieve his throbbing foot. Reek bit down the
pain and continued to serve their food, pouring a second cup of wine for his
master. It was not long before he had downed that one too. “What will be done
with her?” Sansa shifted in her seat, bored of Ramsay’s sullen silence. Reek
made his way around the table, his hand growing unsteady as he neared Sansa.
She wasn’t paying any attention to him though. “Father might want a trial. I
had Skinner and Luton search her chambers and they found some herbs that will
prove she’s guilty. That and what you know. Though we’ll have to say she was a
spy as opposed to her being jealous of you. We cannot let them know we were
planning to use her.”
“A spy? Whose spy?” Reek heard the fear in it, but his senses had been
heightened. Sansa was very good at disguising hidden meanings. “Stannis of
course!” Ramsay snapped, making Reek jump.
“Of course. What is to be done with her after she is proven guilty? Will she be
killed?” Sansa pressed on.
“I’ll deal with it.” Ramsay muttered quietly, signalling for Reek to fill his
cup again.
“Our way is the old way. We should…” Ramsay’s hand slammed down on top of hers,
silencing her. The room grew so quiet that Reek could hear Sansa swallow
nervously. She did well to hide her nerves, fixing Ramsay with nothing more
than a cold stare. “I said, I’ll deal with it. Wife.” Ramsay growled, digging
his fingers in until Sansa had to bite her lip to muffle her cry. Reek shook as
the silence dragged on whilst Ramsay decided whether to hurt his wife further
or let her go. Eventually, he released Sansa. But she wasn’t done. “What is it
that angers you? I had no idea you were so attached to your whore. Would you
rather you got to keep your little cunt and be without an heir? Without the one
thing that would ensure you got what you wanted?” Sansa’s voice made the room
grow colder. Reek released a terrified whimper that no one seemed to hear. “You
forget yourself. You are my wife. Not my advisor. I need your name and the sons
you bear me. Nothing more. Do not forget that.” Ramsay’s gaze was murderous,
but Sansa seemed to pay it no heed. Reek cried out as she stood up abruptly,
sending her chair crashing to the floor. “I will return later. By then I hope
you will not still be playing the fool.” Both Reek and Ramsay watched her storm
from the room in stunned silence.
“Wolf bitch!” Ramsay roared after her, sending his cup off the table to bounce
across the room. Reek scurried after it immediately, hoping there had been no
wine left to stain anything. “Reek, come here!” His master barked. Reek
immediately turned and hurried to his master, kneeling down beside him. To his
surprise, Ramsay did nothing more than settle a heavy hand on his head,
fingering Reek’s matted curls. Reek bowed his head, submitting to the touch.
“Women.” Ramsay muttered. “She thinks I am angry because my whore will be put
to death?” Reek only whimpered in reply, knowing Ramsay wanted nothing more.
“I’m angry because the bitch is so fucking rightall the time. Not to mention
the…” Ramsay looked down at him then, a smile playing upon his lips. “I
shouldn’t say it. It would be cruel to brag about the pleasures women can give
in front of you pet.” Reek slumped against his master, resting his head against
his master’s leg. “You might be stupid Reek, but you’ll never be as stupid as
my Lady wife. You’d never call me a fool, would you pet?”
“No master! Never! Good Reek, stupid Reek.” He chanted frantically, earning
himself more gentle petting.
“There’s a good pet. We haven’t spent much time together, have we? Would you
like to spend some time with your master Reek, while my wife has gone?”
“Yes master. I want to please you master.” Ramsay did not need to say the words
for Reek to know what he needed to do. The voice in his head was silent and did
not stir as Reek moved into position between his master’s legs.
***** Give And Take *****
Chapter Summary
     But oh my heart, was flawed I knew my weakness
     So hold my hand consign me not to darkness
     So crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down
     I'll never wear your broken crown
     I took the road and I fucked it all away
     Now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace
She tried to ask as little many people as possible about the whereabouts of her
handmaidens cell, but it wasn’t long until she found it. Guards had been posted
outside a low tower. Its upper levels had been destroyed and only half a roof
remained to protect Myranda from the relentless snow. If they didn’t kill her
soon, the weather would do it for them. “I wish to see her.” She announced
coldly to the guards. They said nothing in reply but obeyed her commands.
Myranda was huddled against a back wall in nothing more than the clothes she
had been wearing when Damon, Skinner and Luton had dragged her away. She raised
her head as Sansa entered, tears still glistening wetly on her cheeks. Sansa
wrinkled her nose as the scent of urine filled her nostrils. The girl had been
given nothing in the way of comfort; not so much as a blanket to lay down on.
“Go and find a blanket and shawl, as well as a chamber pot. And bring her some
bread and warm ale.” Sansa ordered, never taking her eyes away from Myranda.
“M’lady…”
“Do as I say. This woman was in service to House Bolton. It is for them to pass
judgement, not the weather.” The men said no more. One remained outside the
door, the other went in search of the supplies. Sansa moved closer to Myranda
who remained where she was. “Am I supposed to thank you for your generosity,
m’lady?” She hissed. Sansa raised an eyebrow. Other than that, her face could
have been chiselled from stone. After a long while, Myranda looked away,
defeated. “Have you a reason for coming to see me or are you just here to
gloat?” She asked, though the bite had gone out of her voice.
“You are to go on trial for your offences and acts against House Bolton.
Ramsay’s boys found the herbs you used in your chambers. That and my testimony
against you will be enough to sign your death warrant.” Sansa informed
indifferently. Myranda looked up at her then; more tears glistened in her eyes
and she wiped them away with a trembling hand. “Why? I did nothing more than
what was asked of me. What heasked of me. You knew!”
“I know. You should have been aware of what you were getting yourself into.
Littlefinger cares little and less about you. You’re disposable to him. A piece
in his game, and the game is always changing.” Sansa moved closer and knelt
down in front of the shaking whore. “I thank you for what you have done for me.
I want you to know that your death brings me no pleasure. You have done me no
wrong. A casualty of war. I will speak with Ramsay and see that he is
merciful.”
“You have no influence over Ramsay! You might think you do, but so did I. He’ll
tire of you and then he’ll return to beating you. Like he will me. Do you know
what he does with his whores once he’s bored of them? Has your beloved husband
told you?” Sansa stood up, frowning down at her. Myranda grinned. “He hunts
them down. I know. I’ve gone with him. It’s good fun. Hearing the girls scream,
the dogs howling and barking as they chase after them. Then, depending on how
good a hunt they were, Ramsay will either rape them whilst flaying them alive
or he’ll get his dogs to tear them apart. Nothing beats the sound of that
unhuman scream as the pain gets too much.” Sansa did not allow her stony mask
to slip, despite the revulsion she felt.
“I’ll see to it Ramsay is merciful.”
“You won’t, nothing will stand in the way of Ramsay and one of his hunts.”
Myranda argued.
“I will. As long as you say you are working for Stannis, not Petyr. If you tell
them the truth, even Ramsay couldn’t devise a more painful death for his little
cunt. Not without my help.” Sansa fixed her with a stony glare, forcing her to
shrink away with nothing but her gaze. She did not turn away until the door
opened behind her and the guard entered with the supplies. “Goodnight Myranda.”
Sansa left, not waiting for Myranda to say any more. If the whore was stupid
enough to admit she had been working for Petyr, she’d say she knew nothing of
this conspiracy. Or that she was lying. Ramsay would not believe her, Sansa
would make sure of it.
As Sansa turned onto the corridor leading to their chambers, she spotted
Ramsay’s friend Damon coming towards her with the usual amused grin on his
face. All the world seemed to be a joke to him. He reminded her slightly of how
Theon had once been; smiling at a joke only he knew. Only Damon was capable of
far crueller things than Theon.
When he spotted her though, his face fell a little. “Lady Sansa.” She paid him
no mind. When they passed each other, his hand wrapped around her arm, pulling
her back. “What are you doing? Let go of me.” Sansa demanded, wrenching her arm
out of his grasp.
“Forgive me, my Lady. I just thought…I thought you were in there already.” He
replied, his amusement slowly starting to creep back across his face.
“Well I am not. Why would you think that?” Damon said nothing, allowing the
sounds coming from her chambers to answer for him.
Turning to look towards the room, Sansa recognised Ramsay’s grunts of
satisfaction and pleasure. She had come to know them well over the past few
days. There was something in the sound that pleased her; the knowledge that she
was making him happy. Only it was not her causing these sounds. Not this time.
Sansa looked back towards Damon for an explanation. All she received was that
irritating grin and a “You have a good night, my Lady.” Before he carried on
down the corridor. Ramsay grew louder and was joined by a painful squeak. It
was easy to guess who was in there with him, but Sansa wanted to look anyway.
It was not some morbid curiosity that drew her towards the door; nights with
Ramsay were enough to satisfy that need.
Pushing the door open slightly, Sansa peered in and held her breath. Sure
enough, they were both on the bed. Their bed. Reek was looking up at his
Master; clinging to him as though he would never dare let him go. As though he
would never wantto let him go. Ramsay looked down at him, sometimes lowering
himself to bite the flesh, then kissing away the blood. After a moment, Ramsay
pulled himself out of his pet and flipped the creature over so that he was on
his hands and knees before inserting himself again. Sansa did not watch her
husband. She kept her eyes on Reek. The creature pushed back into his master,
keening like a whore. Begging for it wordlessly.
Sansa recalled how Ramsay had done the same to him on their wedding night, only
he had been rougher then. Now he was showing his pet affection, praising him
for being good. Petting him and kissing him. And Reek would thank his master or
beg him to speed up or slow down. Ramsay would always oblige.
Sansa withdrew from the room unnoticed; trembling fingers pulled the door
closed behind her. She was unable to go any further than three steps before her
legs gave way beneath her and she crumpled against the wall; clutching at her
stomach in an attempt to cease the sickening pain that swelled there. The sobs
came and went without a sound. They were not caused by grief. Sansa had grieved
enough in her life to know that this was not something to weep about.
Why did she care so much?
She realised then what she should have realised sooner. That whilst she had
been trying to gain Ramsay’s attention and trust, she had come to want it as
much as she needed it. Reek had done nothing that she had done. He was too weak
for that. Yet he had it all already.
The night Walda had lost her child, she had screamed out her emotions. Sansa
remembered them all; despair, pain, grief, shock, fear. She knew now what it
felt like to want to release so many emotions. But Sansa refused to scream. She
tensed, balled her hands into fists and clenched her teeth as it all ripped
through her.
Anger. Hatred. Jealousy.
***** Notice Me *****
Chapter Summary
     I've turned into a statue
     And it makes me feel depressed
     'Cause the only time you open up is when we get undressed
     You don't love me, big fucking deal
     I'll never tell you how I feel
     You don't love me, not a big deal
     I'll never tell you how I feel
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They donned their darkest clothing, linked arms and made their way down to the
Godswood. All in silence. It was not that her husband was in no mood to talk,
it was that he did not seem to feel the need to. He did not confess to her what
he had done last night. When they had both been awoken by the servants coming
in, Sansa had begun with “Ramsay,” but had finished with “Nothing.” She could
not form the words.
When she had returned to her rooms later last night, Ramsay had been sleeping
in amongst the soiled sheets. Even her clambering in beside him had not been
enough to wake him. Reek had been curled up on his usual place on the rug; his
frail form rising and falling with each breath. The picture of sickening
innocence.
As they walked, arm in arm, out into the cold morning, Sansa continued to
glance over at him, hoping to catch a glimpse of guilt. Though it shamed her to
do so, she couldn’t help it. Ramsay never even seemed to notice her stares. It
angered her more with each passing moment. He was indifferent to her. She may
as well not have been there at all. Even as the crowd thickened around them, he
ignored her and spoke with the Lords. She would exchange a few words with them
herself; ignoring their looks of surprise in order to check Ramsay’s reaction.
Still he did not look at her, as though it were not strange for her to be
talking with the Northern Lords. After all that had happened, she had been too
nervous to speak with them in fear of what Ramsay may do. Now she wanted a
reaction from him and he couldn’t care less! Her temper flared when he untwined
his arm from hers in order to go and speak with Skinner and Sour Alyn.
Sansa searched around for someone to speak with and distract herself with. When
her eyes met his, she considered him for a moment. There were others she’d
rather speak with, but now he seemed like the perfect choice. He frowned as she
drew nearer, looking about him in case he was mistaken.
“Damon.” She said curtly.
“Lady Sansa.” He replied, bowing slightly.
“Perhaps you would help me through the Godswood? The snow has made these paths
treacherous.” She held out her arm expectantly. Damon’s usual look of amusement
was marred by confusion. “Wouldn’t you rather be escorted by your husband?”
“My husband seems to be preferring the company of men at the moment.” Sansa
laughed light heartedly, forcing a nervous chuckle from Damon. “Come Damon, you
are only walking with me.” She smiled. Damon’s familiar grin returned to his
face and he tucked her arm through his. They followed the crowd in silence for
a time, though it was not silent in Sansa’s mind. Do not look at him. She
forbade herself from doing so.
“Is it me or does it seem warmer here?” Damon asked, making casual
conversation.
“It’s the hot springs. There used to be pipes that carried it up into the walls
of the keep so it was always warm.” She informed him, looking straight ahead.
“It’s a shame that has been ruined then. We’ll have to move into the Godswood
in order to survive the winter!” Damon laughed.
“Indeed, though I am not sure the Gods would be too pleased about sharing their
place with so many.” Sansa smiled as they passed the Weirwood tree. For half a
heartbeat, she hoped to hear the voice again. He’s dead. Ramsay said so. Theon
lied.
“The bastards will just have to learn to deal with it then! They’re the ones
that send winter, they can bloody well protect us from it.” He jested. Sansa
laughed loud enough, she hoped, for Ramsay to hear.
They continued on in silence for a time. The crowd grew quieter as they neared
their destination. “How did you come to be in my husband’s service, Damon?”
Sansa asked pleasantly. Damon stared ahead grimly. “I was already serving Lord
Bolton when Lord Ramsay arrived at the Dreadfort. I suppose we were too akin
for me not to serve him.”
“When he arrived at the Dreadfort?” Sansa pressed, confused.
“Yes.” Damon’s reply was blunt and without his usual humour. Sansa let it go as
they neared the gathering crowd that had drawn to a halt. “If you’ll excuse me,
I must return to my husband.” Sansa smiled at him as he accepted her excuse.
When she neared Ramsay, he glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. She smiled a
knowing smile and slid her hand into the folds of his doublet. To her dismay,
Ramsay turned away again without a word.
The third cup of wine loosened her lips and made smiling a lot easier. Not that
there was much to smile about. The funeral, as was expected, had been a solemn
affair, and with so many Frey’s swarming the hall, the feast was likely to be
duller still.
Lady Walda had been buried in the far corner of the Godswood. Sansa had
disliked that notion. It was no place for a Frey, but at least she was six feet
under where the maggots could eat away at her. And what a meal she’d make.
Musicians were set up at the far end of the hall, though each song was slow and
sad. Sansa wanted to laugh and sing; to forget her silent husband at her side
whom she wanted to please so badly. She even attempted to speak with Roose to
gain his attention. “I am sorry for your loss, Lord Bolton. My mother told me
my grandmother died on the birthing bed. The Gods cannot devise a crueller
death for us women.” Her lips had been loosened greatly by then, but Roose did
not seem offended by her words.
“Thank you, my lady.” He said in his regular cold tone.
“I suppose you will be looking for a new wife.” Sansa turned to observe
Ramsay’s reaction. There was none. “Yes, as soon as Stannis is defeated.”
“I pray she makes you very happy, whoever she may be.” Flustered by her failed
attempt to gain Ramsay’s attention, Sansa raised her goblet towards Roose.
“I’m sure she will.” Roose almost smiled, clinking his goblet against her own.
Even that did not gain Ramsay’s attention.
Following her fifth cup of wine, Sansa stood from the table and headed down
into the crowd beneath without a word to her husband. “Ser Mychel.” He was
standing by the far wall, a serving wench giggling and blushing beside him. He
turned the moment he heard her voice. “Lady Sansa.” He showed no sign of
irritation, despite how she had ruined his courting.
“Perhaps you will dance with me?” She smiled sweetly and held out her hand.
“It would be my pleasure.” Mychel took her hand and kissed it without
hesitation. Sansa led the way to the musicians, ordering them to strike up a
merry tune. Soon enough, a number of the knights took the hint and asked what
few women there were in the room to dance. Many serving girls were offered the
chance they wouldn’t have expected in their life time.
“I seem to have interrupted a courtship.” Sansa laughed to Mychel, indicating
to the lonely-looking serving girl that Mychel had been speaking with.
“Actually, I had been hoping for her friend over there.” He replied, nodding
towards another, much more comely than the last. Sansa laughed again, hopping
gracefully from foot to foot. “Oh Mychel, you are a free spirit!”
“Thank you, my lady. And I must say how well you are looking.” He muttered when
the dance drew them closer.
“Thank you, Mychel.” Sansa blocked out the memories of her first few weeks of
wedlock. They continued on in silence until the song reached its end. Sansa
curtsied and thanked Mychel. “You may go back to your courtship now.” She
smiled.
The Lords flocked around her, as she’d known they would. She danced with each
and every one of them, jesting and laughing. Sansa danced her way through the
crowd until she reached her desired hand, though once there, she found it
unwilling. “I hear many call you Damon Dance-for-me. Will you dance for me
Damon?” Her smile was warm, her cheeks flushed. She knew she must look
beautiful in that moment. Damon laughed nervously and glanced up at the dais.
“My dancing skills are not where the name comes from my lady.” He admitted. She
knew that already. “It is just a dance, Damon. You can just copy the others.
Come, your Lady commands it.”
With one final anxious glance at Ramsay, Damon stood up and followed her onto
the floor. The song they were dancing to now was slower than the others had
been. Sansa moved in silence, trying not to wince each time he stepped on her
toes.
“You are close to my husband, are you not?” She asked when they moved closer.
Once again, Damon’s amused mask was gone. “Yes.” He replied grimly.
“Then you know about his perversions with his pet.” Sansa hissed as Damon trod
on her toe again, though this time it was clear it had been deliberate.
“You must be very stupid to bring that subject up with me.” Damon growled, his
light-heartedness gone. Sansa did not even tremble. “With you? Who should I ask
then? Skinner? Luton?” Damon looked around, flustered. But he was trapped
amongst the dancers. “Does he get you all to join in sometimes, is that it? I
thought that sort of thing was only common in the South.” She snapped back.
“You ask too much. Do you want to go back to being a meek little pet?”
“No. Nor do I intend to. What is the relationship between my husband and his
creature?” The jealousy was more apparent in his voice than she’d intended it
to be. Damon pulled her closer so he could hiss into her ear, his hand dug into
her back so she could not back away. “Listen here my lady. Make Ramsay desire
you all you want, but you will never replace Reek. He made Reek, understand? Do
you want to be a pathetic little pet, or do you want to remain as you are now?
You must shut your eyes and endure. Goodnight, my lady.” And with that, he
released her; pushing her back a little so she was off balance. Sansa watched
him go as she struggled to stay upright. Several had noticed her loss of
dignity, but there was only one gaze she cared about. That familiar taste of
anger and jealousy filled her mouth as she met Ramsay’s questioning stare.
Blinking away hot tears, she tore her eyes from his and pushed her way out of
the crowd, storming from the hall and praying that no tears would fall.
Chapter End Notes
     I've been kind of binge watching The Tudors, so if Sansa starts
     taking on some Anne Boleyn-type qualities that'll be why. Also I
     kinda think it works for her. Don't worry, she won't be losing her
     head any time soon!
***** I'll Be Yours *****
Chapter Summary
     I'll be your lover, I'll be yours
     I'll be your liquor bathing your soul
     Juice that's pure
     And I'll be your anchor you'll never leave
     Shores that cure
     Well I've seen you suffer, I've seen you cry for days and days
     So I'll be your liqour demons will drown
     And float away
The Gods did not hear her prayers.
The moment she reached their chambers, Sansa flung herself down on the bed like
she used to when she was upset as a child. The tears stung her eyes and burned
her cheeks but the pain felt good.
You will never replace Reek. Damon’s words went round and round her head.
She didn’t want to become a pet again. She didn’t want him to be her master.
She just wanted him.
At the sound of footsteps outside, Sansa got up, not wanting him to see her so
weak and fragile. The fireplace drew her in; its warmth spreading through her
and kissing her sore cheeks. She stared into the flames and listened to Ramsay
as he entered. He seemed to be moving painfully slowly on purpose, as though he
knew every second she waited was a fresh wound. When he finally did start to
walk over to her, Sansa’s knees began to tremble and weaken. What would he do
to her? She had behaved recklessly. What would it cost her?
She waited for the feeling of his hands tightening around her neck, or his
fingers to slide through her hair and yank her head backwards roughly. But no
such feelings came. Instead, his arms slid around her waist, drawing her to
him. Sansa shook her head and tried to fight against his hold on her, but his
touch made her weak. “Why did you do this to me?” She wept. “Why did you have
to do this?” Sansa turned in his arms and began to pummel her fists against his
chest, releasing all the anger that had been building up inside her the moment
she’d seen him with Reek. “I hate you!” She screamed at him. “I hate you. I
hate you!”
“Stop it! Stop!” Ramsay commanded. The fight went out of her as swiftly as it
came and Sansa found herself collapsing against him, unable to hold herself up
any longer.
He could have let her fall. He could have pulled away and left her until she
stood up herself. Then he could have dealt with her until there was no anger
left.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Ramsay held her to him and smiled into her hair. “I hate you.” She
whimpered again.
“No, dearest wife. You don’t.” He argued softly. Now was not the time for harsh
words, nor did he want to give them. “You love me, don’t you?” He pried,
pulling away so he could see her face. Sansa continued to shake her head, but
did not look him in the eye. “Why? Why did you do it?” Her voice was desperate
and pleading, begging him to tell her. She expected it to confuse him. She
expected him to have to explain himself. She did not know that he had seen her
flee the room.
“Oh, dearest darling wife. You’re jealous! Who’d have thought anyone could be
jealous of my Reek?” Ramsay laughed, earning himself another thump on the
chest.
“Do not mock me.” She hissed. He had to laugh again at her anger, but he
pressed his lips to hers in order to silence her. Got you He thought as she
melted into him. “And you…you…” She couldn’t say it. Love was too strong a word
for her, despite how Ramsay threw it about so recklessly. “Of course, wife.” He
assured, grinning. Sansa smiled; tears glistening on her pale cheeks.
Then her look darkened. Changed.
She leaned in until her breathing stirred his hair. “I want to conceive.” She
breathed. Her fists loosened and she slid her hands down from his chest. Ramsay
gasped as she slipped her hands into his breeches. “I want to conceive a son to
be the living image of his father.” Sansa panted, running her lips along his
jaw.
“Then you shall have him, sweet, wanton wife.” He growled, lifting her and
carrying her to the bed.
“Poisoned?” Roose raised an eyebrow. With her husband beside her, Sansa did not
look away. “Of a sort. Moon tea, I believe the women call it. She’s been giving
it to my wife to prevent us from bearing sons. Lady Walda shared the tea when
she visited my wife the morning Lord Baelish left. That same night, you lost
your son, father.” Sansa inched closer to Ramsay who she could feel was
beginning to anger at the thought of Myranda and all the sons that had been
lost to her.
“And you are sure of this?”
“Yes. My men found the herbs used in her chambers. The whore had a motive for
it as well. She was to be my wife. Clearly, she felt if we believed Lady Sansa
to be incapable of bearing sons, she may take her place.” Roose glanced at
Sansa who smiled sadly. Such misfortune to befall a family, and all at the
hands of a whore. “Do you wish for a formal trial, father?” Ramsay asked.
“That won’t be necessary. We’ll claim she was spying for Stannis and you may do
with her what you will.” Roose decreed before continuing to write his letters.
“As you wish, father.” Ramsay seemed slightly taken aback by his father’s
abruptness, but Sansa did not allow him to dwell on it. With a gentle squeeze
of his arm, Ramsay turned and faced her, smiling, before leading her out the
door.
“What do you intend to do with her?” Sansa asked softly, sensing it was a
sensitive subject. Ramsay just smiled knowingly. “I visited Myranda. She told
me what you do with your whores.” She admitted. Ramsay did not show any signs
of anger. Instead he seemed rather amused. “Did she indeed? And did it disgust
you?”
“They are just whores. What you do with them is not my concern.” She said
bluntly. Ramsay nodded his approval. “But the North is of my concern.”
Ramsay stopped in his tracks.
“I know you wish to have a hunt, my lord. But I beseech you to consider this.
The whore is a traitor to the North. To the realm. Her punishment should be the
right one.” Sansa clung to her husband’s arm, imploring with her body. “You are
Lord of Winterfell. If you wish to gain favour with the Northern Lords, you
must do it their way.” Ramsay looked away, frustrated but she could tell he was
considering it. “He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. I know this
does not please you husband, but the way of the Lord of Winterfell is the old
way. And your father is not going to do it, despite how it is his duty as
Warden of the North.” Moving closer, Sansa stood on her toes so she could
whisper in his ear. “He expects you to hunt her down. He knows it will upset
the Northern Lords. He wantsyou to do it.” She stepped away to watch his
expression darken. “When we have secured the North, you may hunt as many whores
as you wish.” Sansa promised him. The less whores there were, the better. “Very
well.” Ramsay smiled, taking her hand in his and kissing it before they carried
on down the cold corridor.
Her tears froze upon her cheeks, but her hands were too sore to wipe them away.
Myranda huddled down further into the blanket and shawl, but it did little to
warm her up. The cold had set root deep in her bones. There was no escaping the
chill now. Fatigue had taken its toll too. When the bolts on the door were
scraped back, she winced at the sound but did not raise her head. “So did your
cunt do the trick?” Myranda asked, her voice dry and weak.
“You will be executed tomorrow morning. Lord Bolton saw no need for a trial.”
Sansa informed, her voice almost as cold as Myranda felt.
“Executed?”
“By the sword, yes. Ramsay will do it himself.” Her mistress stated as casually
as if she were simply speaking of the weather.
“Let’s hope his aim is as good with a sword as it is with an arrow. After all,
I have only a little neck.” Myranda managed a laugh. Sansa’s face remained a
mask of unyielding stone. “Do you have any final requests?”
“I request you set me free.”
“That I cannot do. Guards, move her to a warmer chamber so she may spend her
last night in comfort. See that she is suitably dressed too.” How do you dress
for death?Myranda wondered, a laugh still playing upon her lips
“I have thought of my final request.” She said as Sansa turned away. The woman
turned back and met her gaze. “May the block be brought to me? I want to
practise. I might be a whore, but I’d quite like to try being dignified before
I die.” Yes. Dignity was what all the ladies in the stories had.
“Very well. I will see to it.” Sansa managed a small smile. It was not full of
gloating. Perhaps there was even some pity there. Before Myranda could dwell on
it any further, the stone mask returned and Sansa turned away.
Myranda did not, in the end, die with dignity.
The moment she saw Ramsay standing beside the block, tall and fierce with the
flayed man of House Bolton across his chest, the whore pissed herself on the
spot. She looked down in surprise as the puddle encircled her bare feet. Sansa
wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She did not turn to check with
the Northern Lords though.
Myranda was escorted forwards; her eyes darting around nervously, trying to
look at anything but Ramsay and his sharpened sword. When they finally reached
the chopping block, she stopped and gazed upwards at the snow clouds that were
forming.
“In the name of Tommen Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the
first men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm. I, Ramsay, of
House Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and by decree of my father, Roose Bolton the
Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”
Sansa had managed to convince him against allowing her the chance to speak her
final words. “A whore who is about to lose her head has nothing left to lose.
What is to stop her from speaking the truth? From telling all the Northern
Lords that your father conspired with the Lannister’s to fool them?” Sansa had
pointed out to him. Of course, that had not been what she feared would happen.
She feared Myranda would tell Ramsay of Littlefinger’s involvement.
Myranda’s sobs echoed throughout the yard. Her once comely face was now marred
by fear; reddened by tears. “Kneel.” Sansa heard her husband order. Myranda
looked at him pleadingly for a moment, but it was not her hunting partner nor
her lover she saw. It was Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the
North-to-be.
Myranda did not kneel so much as allow her knees to give way, though a peace
seemed to settle over her as she rest her head and neck on the block; sinking
herself into it as though it were a feather pillow.
Images of her father’s execution had come flooding back to her, though she had
seen little through her tears. Lord Eddard had not wept. He remained as hard as
the North when Joffrey called for his head. Sansa had wept all his tears for
him. She recalled being held back by a member of the Kingsguard, though his
helmet had disguised his identity. Her voice had grown hoarse from screaming at
her Prince, begging him to stop. Then Ser Ilyn Payne had stepped forward,
drawing Ice from its scabbard. And her life had been torn apart with one clean
swoop.
Unlike Ser Ilyn, Ramsay was not practised in the art of beheading. The first
cut sliced into her shoulders. The second blow cut her head. The third was the
final one, but Sansa was certain Myranda was already dead by then after the
injury to her head. Sansa continued to stare at the headless body as it
crumpled lifelessly to the ground. They held life so preciously, yet it took so
little for it to be taken away. Like most precious things. Ramsay stepped back,
wiping away the blood that had spattered his brow as if it were sweat.
He turned to his boys that were gathered nearby. “Stake her head on the outer
wall as a warning.” He ordered. Then he turned to look at Sansa, grinning
madly. She took in the blood spattered cape and doublet as well as his crazed
smile. Sansa did her best to refrain from blushing as the now-familiar heat
flared inside her.   
***** Dance For Me *****
Chapter Summary
     In the land of Gods and Monsters
     I was an Angel
     Living in the garden of evil
     Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed
     Shining like a fiery beacon
     You got that medicine I need
     Fame, Liquor, Love give it to me slowly
     Put your hands on my waist, do it softly.
On the morning of her name day, Sansa was sat by the window of her chambers,
working on her embroidery with new found zeal when her husband came storming
into the room. “Damn the man!” Ramsay roared, slamming the door shut behind
him. Sansa glanced up, regarded him coolly, then returned to her work. “He
tells me to go to the meetings then doesn’t bother to listen to my advice! It’s
as though he just invites me there to insult me. I say we send men to pick at
Stannis’ army and intimidate them. What does my father do? He says it’s a
fool’s errand. He called me a fool! In front of all the Lords!” Ramsay paced up
and down the room like a caged animal. Sansa carried on with her embroidery as
though he weren’t even there. “Are you listening to me at all?” Ramsay snapped,
rounding on her.
“Of course my love. You want to attack Stannis’ army. I agree with your
father.” She stated bluntly, flattening out the fabric to get a better look at
the full image.
“You agree with him?” She could sense Ramsay’s anger as it turned on her. Sansa
glanced up, smiling. “Let him come to you. His army is made up of Southerners
and Wildlings. The southerners will die from the cold and with a shortage of
food it won’t be long until the savages turn on one another. Stannis’ army will
destroy itself. Now, would you pass me that bowl of apples? I have a craving.”
Sansa’s smile widened as her husband missed the point entirely.
“Apples? I’m talking about battle plans and you start talking about apples?” He
asked incredulously, sending Sansa into a laughing fit. “And what is it that
you find so amusing?” Ramsay growled, his face thunderous.
“Ramsay,” Sansa set her embroidery down and went over to him. Taking his hand
in hers, she pressed it to her stomach. “I have a craving.” She repeated. He
stared down at her still-flat stomach, his eyes wide and shining in amazement.
It was that look of childish glee again, the one she had seen when he’d taken
her down to the cellar. Only this time it made her laugh.
“You’re sure?” He asked, running his hands over her belly.
“I’m sure. Our son and heir is growing inside me.” Sansa beamed.
Ramsay knelt down and kissed her stomach, then her lips with his usual
savagery; all thoughts of Stannis and his approaching army were forgotten.
The news was announced at Sansa’s name day feast that evening. She took in each
and every glimmer of hope that shone in the eyes of the Northern Lords. The
child might be a Bolton, but he had Stark blood in his veins. The great hall
was the merriest it had been for some time.
“I would like to choose the name for our son, my Lord.” Sansa turned to her
husband.
“Oh would you?” Ramsay raised an eyebrow but he posed no threat. Sansa glanced
at Roose Bolton who sat to her husband’s right. “I want to name him Eddard.”
She leaned slightly close to her husband, placing her hand over his. Ramsay sat
back in his chair. Nerves churned in her stomach and she clutched it
protectively. “Eddard Bolton. That would please you, would it?”
“Only if it pleases you.” She smiled, clutching his hand a little tighter.
Eddard Bolton. Hearing him say it unsettled her somewhat, but it was too late
to change her mind now. “Very well. What do you think of it father?” Ramsay
grinned at Sansa knowingly. There was no way she would allow her son to be
named Roose.
To her relief, Roose’s lips twitched into a smile. “A most fitting name, my
lady.” He said, before turning away to watch the dancers below them. Ramsay
smiled. Sansa eyed Roose for a moment, unsure what to make of his reaction.
“Lord Ramsay!” Sansa turned to see Mychel Redfort at the bottom of the dais.
“May I have the pleasure of dancing with your wife? It is her name day after
all.” He called light-heartedly. Ramsay’s look darkened slightly. He is
possessive of you. “My love, Ser Mychel is a good friend.” She assured him.
“Very well, but do not wear my wife out. She is carrying my boy you know.”
Ramsay laughed, though Sansa heard the resentment in it. “Our little Eddard.”
He muttered, just loud enough for Sansa to hear. The words held no warmth. They
were a reminder. A reminder that both Sansa and her child belonged to him.
Sansa said nothing as she stood up and took Mychel’s hand, allowing him to lead
her to where others were dancing. “I believe congratulations are in order, my
Lady.” Mychel said as they joined the dance.
“Thank you Ser.” Sansa replied, smiling. Mychel danced closer. “Does Petyr
know?” He asked. Sansa glanced around, fearing they might be overheard. “Of
course he does not. I told my husband only this morning.” She kept smiling,
speaking the words through gritted teeth.
“You should send word to him as quickly as possible.” Mychel warned, his tone
low and discreet.
“He will know soon enough. This is no concern of yours, Ser Mychel. I know what
I am doing, as does Littlefinger. Do not attempt to meddle in affairs that you
do not understand.” Sansa hissed, unable to hide her irritation.
“Of course, my lady.” All smiles were gone now. They finished the dance in
silence and Sansa turned away from him, leaving him to bow to her retreating
figure. It was not long before she was asked to dance again, although the
invitation was unexpected. “Lady Sansa, will you dance with me again?” Damon
stepped into her path.
“That depends. Do you plan on treading on my feet then abandoning me in the
middle of a dance?” She did not snap at him, merely gave him an amused smile.
“What, like you abandoned your friend over there?” They both turned to see Ser
Mychel looking lost and flustered.
“That was different.” She insisted.
“Was it?”
“Yes. I waited until the end of the dance to abandon him.” Damon laughed at
that, his customary grin spreading across his face.
“So will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
“Have you asked my husband? He doesn’t like others playing with his things.”
She smiled over at where Ramsay sat on the dais, watching them.
“I have asked his permission and he has granted it. Now shall we start or are
you going to delay until the song is over?” With no other excuses coming to
mind, Sansa allowed him to drag her back over to the dancers.
“Am I better tonight?” Damon asked, grinning down at her.
“Well you are barely moving your feet, so yes. You have improved dramatically,
Damon Dance-for-me.” Sansa laughed, spinning in time with the music.
“As have you, Lady Sansa.” His grin faltered.
“I’ve always been a good dancer.” She informed him, twirling again.
“I am not talking about your dancing skills. A few weeks ago, you were too
afraid to speak to anyone but your master. Now you appear to have great
influence over him.” Damon looked over at Ramsay. Sansa continued dancing as
though she had not heard. “Strangely enough, your miraculous change occurred
almost as soon as Lord Baelish arrived.”
“I don’t know about that. You recall how my husband had you all watch while he
raped me in my mother’s dress.” She retorted, smiling a challenge.
“And now you call each other ‘my love’, you managed to get him to execute his
favourite whore and you carry his child. How did you accomplish all that
without holding anything against him?” Damon’s dancing slowed so they could
look at one another.
“I have learnt to choose my friends carefully, and my enemies more carefully
still. You would be wise to do the same, Damon Dance-for-me. Now if you’ll
excuse me, my love is growing jealous.” With an indignant smile, Sansa turned
away from him and headed back to her husband; the crowd parting before her and
singing their congratulations as she went.  
***** Give Me Your Favour *****
Chapter Summary
     All I ever wanted was the world
     I can't help that I need it all
     The primadonna life, the rise and fall
     You say that I'm kinda difficult
     But it's always someone else's fault
     Got you wrapped around my finger, babe
     You can count on me to misbehave
A woman’s life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you’ll learn that soon
enough…and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be the messiest of
all.
Cersei’s words would go round and round her mind as she wretched each morning.
Sansa knelt upright again, sensing that the nausea was subsiding. “Bring me
some apples please.” She ordered one of the maids softly, unable to make her
trembling voice sound commanding.
The parts that look like magic often turn out to be the messiest of all. It had
not been until she had fallen pregnant that Sansa realised how little she knew
about children and childbirth. The first morning she was sick, both she and
Ramsay had panicked and thought there was something wrong. Ramsay’s angry
outburst had not helped the situation. He was just worried about our son, that
is all. He had gone into a rage, demanding she tell him what she had eaten and
how she felt. He’d sent for the maester the moment he had calmed down, and the
maester had informed them that it was normal.
Even so, Ramsay refused to be in the room with her during her bedridden
mornings; attending regular meetings or seeing to business in the castle
instead. He had chosen maids to wait on Sansa so he did not need to be in the
room with her, nor worry that she was alone. Sansa was never alone, but she
tired easily of the maids’ mindless chatter. She wanted Ramsay to stay with
her, but knew better than to ask it of him. Again, each time she watched him
wordlessly leave the room in the morning, Cersei’s voice would invade her head;
Robert was hunting, that was his custom. Whenever my time was near my royal
husband would flee to the trees with his huntsman and his hounds. When he
returned he would present me with some pelts or a stags head, and I would
present him with a baby. Not that I wanted him there mind you.
No. Ramsay was not Robert. Not in the slightest. He would be there for the
birth of his son.
But if he did go hunting, he’d bring you back the skin of a whore.
The thought almost made her wretch again.
It was true that her husband had grown more distant since her stomach had begun
to swell, but he still showed her that he cared about her. That she still
belonged to him. At night, when they returned from dinner, he would undress her
and kiss her swollen stomach and breasts. She could tell he wanted to go
further but he always managed to prevent himself from doing so. Sansa tried not
to think about where he quenched his desires, but any time she glimpsed Reek,
jealousy and hatred would boil up inside her.
Ramsay still shared her bed and guarded her through the night, informing her of
the day’s events and listening to what she thought of them. Stannis was getting
closer each day; his army slowly hacking its way through the deep snow. “We
will march out soon, and kill the fucker before you can even see his host from
the battlements. All you will see is the blood drenched snow. I promise you
that, wife. Our son will be safe.” He promised her one night, clutching her
stomach protectively.
The next morning, word had come that Stannis was not three days from the
castle. Ramsay had leapt from the bed and headed towards his father’s chambers
to await instruction.
Sansa waited for him, though he did not return until late that night.
Night had fallen by the time all the battle plans had been made, but Ramsay
refused to give in to fatigue. Following his escape from what now felt like a
dull meeting concerning what would prove to be a dull battle, he made his way
to the kitchens. “Oh Reek!” He called out. The kitchens were in darkness, but
Ramsay spotted his pet the moment he shot out from beneath a table and bolted
towards his master. Ramsay grinned down at the bulging eyes that shone in the
half-light cast by the torch in his hand. Reek gazed up at him adoringly. “We
need to spend some time together pet, but best it is just you and me. We
wouldn’t want to wake my wife would we?”
“No master.” Reek replied, inching closer to Ramsay’s boots.
“Come on then.” Ramsay led the way down into the cellar with his little pet
shaking and whimpering behind him. He did not bring Reek down here often now.
Since that time with Sansa, Ramsay had found no trace of Theon lurking within
his pet. The girl had done a good job, but Ramsay did not wish to see it again.
Reek was his to hurt and humiliate, despite what his wife might desire.
“Listen carefully Reek. Tomorrow, I am to lead men into battle against
Stannis.” His pet whined as Ramsay led him deeper and deeper into the darkness.
“Are you listening pet?” Ramsay’s voice was dangerously soft.
“Yes, of course Master.” Reek yelped nervously, scurrying desperately to keep
up on his maimed hands and feet.
“You won’t be coming with me. Why do you think that is Reek?” Ramsay waited for
the reply, grinning at the nervous silence behind him as his pet tried hard to
think of an answer.
“B…because Reek is not a man? Master?” His pet squeaked.
“Very good pet! Very good. You’re just my little bitch aren’t you? My meek
little Reek.”
“Yes Master. Good Reek. Loyal Reek. It rhymes with weak and meek.” The chanting
continued as they neared the cross Ramsay had strung him up on before. Though
this time, he did not tie his pet up. He had no need to. “Don’t fret pet. You
aren’t here for punishment tonight.” Ramsay turned to face him, smiling. Reek
scrambled forwards; throwing himself at his master’s feet. “Thank you master! I
am grateful for your mercy.” Reek wept between kissing his boots. Ramsay let
him continue. It was very rare that he fully appreciated and acknowledged his
own work. Reek had once been Theon Greyjoy. A Prince. The future Lord of the
Iron Islands. And here he was kissing his boots fervently.
“You do love me, don’t you Reek?”
“Yes of course master!” His pet stopped boot-kissing in order to look up at
him; adoration replacing the fear in his eyes.
“Good. You’ll remain loyal to me whilst I’m away fighting, won’t you?”
“Yes. Loyal Reek. Loyal to his master.” The pet twitched and tremored, wrapping
his thin arms around his master’s legs. Ramsay smiled down at him before
pulling out the flaying knife; twisting it so it grinned at the trembling
creature at his feet. “Master please! You said…you promised…no punishing
master!” Reek wailed.
“This is not a punishment, dearest Reek. This is for your master. I want to
carry a piece of you into battle with me. A favour, if you like! That’s what
ladies give their lords isn’t it? And you are more of a lady than you are a
man.”
Reek cringed low, whining when he felt the steel kiss his skin.
“Now, you are going to stay very still so you can give your master your
favour.” Ramsay cooed, sliding the knife beneath the skin on Reek’s shoulder.
When Sansa heard her husband returning from his meeting with the other Lords,
she slid down beneath the covers; turning away from the door and forcing her
eyes shut. Feigning sleep the way a child would if they feared being told off
by their elders for being up late.
She listened as his footsteps drew closer, along with a second set of steps
that were completely without rhythm; more of a shuffle than a walk at all.
Reek. He’s with Reek. Since she had seen them together, she had made sure Reek
felt unwelcome in his master’s rooms. She would fix him with a cold glare that
would make him shiver and tremble. It reminded her of how her mother used to
look at Jon sometimes when their father wasn’t looking.
Ramsay had ordered Reek to sleep in the kitchens as soon as Sansa had claimed
the scent of him was what made her feel ill. That lie had been believable
enough, the creature did carry an odour pungent enough to turn the strongest of
stomachs. Though if Reek was coming into their chambers now, it was because
Ramsay had told him to.
She waited until the door was closed and the mattress tilted, signalling her
husband had returned to her bed. His arm slid across her waist and over her
stomach, pressing uncomfortably hard. He made no attempt to wake her and offer
some explanation to his lateness or the fact that Reek was joining them. When
Ramsay began to snore softly, Sansa opened her eyes.
His hairs stood on end and a chill swept over him. Reek burrowed further into
the rug in hope of warmth, but it had frozen over. His shoulder ached and
burned still, but that was the only heat he felt. Tentatively, Reek opened his
eyes. She stared at him. No, she glared at him. Hatred, anger and jealousy
filled her gaze. When Reek began to tremble and whimper, master’s wife smiled
and turned away from him; curling herself into his master’s arms.
***** Your King Rides Forth To Battle *****
Chapter Summary
     I die every time you walk away
     Don't leave me alone with me
     See, I'm afraid
     Of the darkness
     And my demons
     And the voices
     Saying nothing's gonna be OK
“Sansa.” Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice. The cold morning
light filled the room, but was blocked by his face; illuminating his head like
a bright, icy halo. Sansa moaned and stirred amongst the cool sheets. “I have
to go.” She thought she heard him whisper. Sansa moaned again, dismissing it
all as a dream. “Sansa.” Ramsay muttered more sternly, forcing her eyes open
again. “I have to go.” He repeated.
“You have to…go?” She raised herself up awkwardly, resting on her elbows.
Ramsay nodded. “To battle, the men are ready.” He practically bounced from the
bed and began to dress.
“You are going now? Today?”
“This moment. Stannis will never see us coming.” Sansa slid out from beneath
the sheets; a thin linen shift the only thing shielding her from the cold.
“Reek, bring me my armour.” Her husband ordered.
“What is he doing here? I’ve told you, he makes me sick!” Sansa snapped.
“And yet, you seem well enough to yell at me.” Ramsay growled back. She should
have given up then. She should have bowed her head submissively. But Sansa’s
head was filled with fear and anger. “So you are to leave me here? With that
thing?”
“Careful, you’ll hurt his feelings! And I can’t very well bring you to battle,
though in this state you would make even Stannis Baratheon tremble.” She heard
the laughter in his voice, but it only angered her further. “Yes you will
remain here with Reek. Do not fear. My father remains here too with reserve
forces, coward that he is.” Ramsay stood beside the window as Reek struggled to
don his armour.
“Your father. Are you out of your mind? You are going to leave me here, alone
and unprotected, with your father?”Sansa’s voice was little higher than a
whisper. She could raise it no higher due to her disbelief. “Do you mean to say
you fear my father more than you fear me?” Ramsay turned to face her, his look
darkening. Sansa’s wits returned to her and she covered her stomach
protectively; arming her son against his father’s angry stare. “No, my lord.
But…we know what your father planned. What he was planning until we saw to it
that his plan was thwarted. I do not feel safe with him without you near me.”
She confessed, moving towards him and blocking Reek’s path. Ramsay’s look
softened slightly. “Fear not wife. He needs me. He needs me to defeat Stannis
so that he can gain himself a new young wife. By the time that is done, our son
will be born. A son of House Stark and House Bolton. The Northern Lords will
protect him, as will I.” He moved away from her then, turning towards his pet.
“Bring me my sword, wife.” Sansa obeyed, chancing a glance at Reek, hoping to
see him cower from her. He did not. Reek only had eyes for his master.
Sansa had never held a sword before. She’d never needed to. The steel felt
heavy in her hand, but well balanced. She wondered what it would be like to
swing it. What it would be like to swing it at someone. Her husband was to face
hundreds of them. Sansa feared for him. She did not wish for him to fall in
battle. She did not wish for her son to grow up not knowing his father.
Do I want him to be like Ramsay?
Yes. Of course. Ramsay was strong and fearless. And clever, in his own way,
though he lacked the training she had had. With his strength, and her wits,
their son would rule the North.
She turned back to him, sword in hand, recalling a story her mother had told
her once. “My mother was pregnant with my brother when my Father went to fight
in King Robert’s rebellion. My father returned to her then. I pray that you
shall return to me now.” She smiled, handing her husband his sword. Ramsay
smiled. “I am not your father, thank the Gods.” He chuckled softly, viciously
ripping the sword from its sheath. Sansa stared at him, trying her best not to
let her annoyance show. The sword shone coldly in the light.
Heart Eater I’ve named it.
“Would you like me to kiss it, my lord?” The bitterness in Sansa’s voice made
Ramsay stop admiring the blade. He frowned at her. “To what?”
“Kiss it. To send you to battle with my blessing. It may bring you good
fortune.” Sansa’s nerves steadied as Ramsay lowered the blade. She lowered
herself and pressed her lips against the cold steel.
You’ll kiss it again when I return, and taste my uncle’s blood.
“Will you be fighting in the vanguard, my lord?” The frown returned to Ramsay’s
face, but Sansa did not see it. She continued to stare at the blade, recalling
the night when the Blackwater burned.
Before Ramsay could reply or scold her for discussing battle plans with him,
there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” Ramsay bellowed, sheathing his sword
and eyeing Sansa; observing her pale face and haunted gaze.
“My lord, the men are ready.” Damon informed upon entering. Ramsay nodded and
fixed his sword belt. “Come back to me, husband. Come back to me and your
Eddard.” Sansa stepped closer to him, conscious of Damon watching them. She
pressed her lips to his, trying to mimic the savage kisses Ramsay usually dealt
her. He did a little to help, but not much; distracted by the upcoming battle,
perhaps.
When she finally pulled away, Sansa was out of breath and close to tears,
though she was not sure whether it was because she was sending her husband off
to battle or that he had so half-heartedly kissed her, despite how it may be
their last. Ramsay nodded approvingly and pressed a hand against her stomach.
“Keep my son safe for me.” He ordered darkly before turning towards his Reek.
Sansa watched as he knelt down to be level with the creature. As Ramsay gently
pressed his lips to Reek’s forehead, Sansa looked away, unable to watch. She
caught Damon’s gaze. His meaningful look forced the tears away, replacing them
with the jealous anger that had grown all too familiar.
“Goodbye Reek.” She winced at the gentle words.
Ramsay stood up and glanced over at her. Her irritation and jealousy was plain
to see upon her face. Ramsay’s amused grin remained in her mind. He had wanted
to see me jealous all along. He wanted to hurt me.
She hoped that his wicked smirk was not the last memory she would have of him.
 
***** Loneliness and Lullabies *****
Chapter Summary
     But don't you come here and say I didn't warn you
     About the way your world can alter
     And oh how you try to command it all still
     Every single time it all shifts one way or the other
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The days past by and it got no easier. The first night was the hardest; the
space in the bed beside her felt as empty and as cold as the world outside. She
commanded one of her maidservants to accompany her to bed thereafter, like Lady
Margaery used to with herself and her cousins. But it was not the body beside
her she longed for. She wanted the strong arms around her; the calloused hands
spreading protectively over her stomach. She wanted him to pull back her hair
and whisper ‘wife’ in her ear, the way he always did.
Sansa prayed every day for his return. She prayed in the Godswood, and even to
her mother’s gods. She prayed to the father to watch over her husband, the
crone to give him wisdom, the warrior for courage and skill for the battle that
was to come, the smith for strength and the mother to show mercy and care for
the son inside her. Sansa ordered the maids to sing hymns with her until their
throats grew hoarse and they begged her to stop. She would have refused to eat
were she not with child and had promised Ramsay she would keep him safe.
The maids did try to raise her spirits. They spoke of the baby when they were
not at prayer; complimenting her on her condition and how well the child was
growing. Sansa gave them advice on how to perfect their embroidery and did her
best to speak kindly to them, the way Margaery had with her cousins. They made
baby clothes and Sansa had them sew on direwolves as well as the flayed man.
The bolder maids abandoned the complexity of the flayed limbs and instead chose
to just pattern the cloth with the sigil of House Stark. Sansa did not scold
them for it. Sansa pretended not to notice.
“We should sing lullabies to the child too, my lady. My mother said the child
can hear you even in the womb.” One of her maids told her one day. That worried
her. Sansa frowned as she tried to recall anything she or Ramsay had said that
she did not wish for the child to hear.
“I have one you might like, my lady?” One of the maids piped up, distracting
her. Sansa’s head snapped up and she painted a smile across her face. “Then
sing it to us, please.” She smiled, settling herself back into a chair. The
maid leapt up gleefully; blushing with pride. She was a sweet young thing; fair
of hair with bright blue eyes and a smile always on her lips. Clearly the
youngest of the maids, she looked about with wide eyed joy.
Sansa wondered how such a sweet thing had ever found her way into the service
of House Bolton.
                 Eyes sapphire blue, pale skin like the moon,
                        with a crown of fire and gold,
                   You will be loved, this I know to be true
                          my sweet little baby girl.
“Boy.” Sansa cut in sharply. “He will be a boy.” The girl’s giddy blush drained
from her face and her smile fell away with it.
“Of course, forgive me my lady. It was just a silly song my mother sang to me.
I’m sorry.” She chewed her lip, close to tears. Sansa stared at her the way she
would stare at a ghost that had entered the room. She was such an innocent. A
naïve, foolish little girl.
Just like I had been.
“And it is a beautiful song. You sing well. Did your mother teach you?” Sansa
asked softly.
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Such a talent. You must sing for me more often.” The girl bowed and moved
away, sensing the conversation was done. Sansa watched her go and sit with the
other girls and begin to chatter excitedly.
“I shall go pray alone for a while.” Sansa announced, the familiar emptiness
returning to her. Her ladies stood and bowed, returning to their cheerful talk
the moment she was gone.
It was not the cold that forced him to tremble so. Reek hobbled through the
Godswood as fast as he was able, but he could feel the cramp slowly wrapping
around his limbs. The cold seeped into his bones, even here where the air was
warmer. He wondered how his Master was fairing, out in the cold without him.
Master is strong, much stronger than I. Reek, it rhymes with weak.
He found her prostrated before the Weirwood tree; her forehead pressed against
the dirt. Sansa whispered into the earth; her arms outstretched and fingers
curling into the mud. The trees sighed and whispered back, but they were not
words Reek could understand. He stared at her; trying desperately to shake the
cramp from his remaining toes. He eyed the swollen stomach that was pressed
against the cold ground. She shouldn’t do that, Master will be angry.
It is for him that she does it An unwelcome voice spat back.
No. No not you. You go away!
“Lady Sansa.” Reek called, trying to drown the voices out.
Her eyes snapped open and she glared at the ground. Reek whimpered as she
straightened herself and fixed him with that icy gaze. He had done his best to
stay away from her, but he knew master would want his pets to stay close to one
another until he returned.
“What do you want?” Her voice was weary, but she did not fail to put a cruel
edge to it. Reek looked away from her, unable to keep his nerve if he did not.
“Lord Bolton wishes to see you. He waits for you in your chambers.” Sansa stood
up faster than any woman with child had a right to.
“And he sent you here did he? Is that the way of it? The moment our Lord…”
“N…no! My Lady…I just…I thought you’d want to know. S…so he did not…not
surprise you.” Reek winced as his ruined teeth knocked against one another.
Sansa moved towards him, clutching her stomach as though to remind him of her
significance. He needed no reminder. She stopped beside him. She stared. Her
eyes were filled with resentment, but there was no coldness there. She was
grateful for what he had done, though she did not say it.
Sansa smirked as Reek dipped his head, twitching. Reek tried his best to keep
up as she left the Godswood. It was not hard. Sansa’s legs were unsteady and
Reek feared she might fall. But she did not.
She is stronger than steelhe thought. But steel cuts both ways.
Chapter End Notes
     Only a short, quite dull chapter I'm afraid.
     The lullaby is called 'Elizabeth's lullaby' by Karliene Reynolds, if
     anyone was wondering.
***** When The Devil Calls *****
Chapter Summary
     How swiftly those who've made a pact,
     can come to overlook the fact
     or wish the reckoning be delayed.
     But a debt is a debt and must be paid.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He was seated by the fire in her husband’s chair, but Sansa didn’t dare to
scold him for it. He turned in his seat and regarded her with neither cold nor
warmth. Sansa bowed her head and bent her knees slightly, dropping her hands
away from her stomach, not wishing to draw attention to her fragile condition.
“My Lord, to what do I owe this…pleasure?” She forced the word out through
gritted teeth.
“Leave us.” Roose Bolton’s voice was quiet, but it drove her maids from the
room with a single blow. “You too Theon.” Sansa glanced over at the pet who
eyed Roose warily. She had not seen such worry from him in a long while; at
least not concerning anyone other than Ramsay. “Go, Reek.” Sansa urged.
He will not hurt me, he would be a fool to do so. I carry a child. A Stark
child.
But when the door closed behind Reek, all her courage went with him. Turning
back to face Lord Bolton, she felt like a young girl again.
“Will you drink, Lord Bolton?” She asked, breaking the silence.
“If it please you.” It did please her. She poured two cups of mulled wine, glad
that she did not have to refrain from drinking in fear of poison. Still, she
did not drink until she had seen Roose do so. The wine was strong, painfully
so. It dulled all the spices, but Sansa did not care. The strong wine helped to
steady her quaking knees. “Please, sit down, Lady Sansa.” Roose ordered,
gesturing to a chair he had had pulled up by the fire. Sansa sat as though the
chair were made of ice. Roose stared into the flames, sipping his wine. They
said nothing. Every moment that passed seemed to draw more heat from the room;
as though his presence were draining the life from it.
“They say the battle will be any day now. Is that so, my Lord?” She asked,
wishing to fill the silence and drinking to calm the nerves that made her hands
shake.
“Indeed it is, my Lady. I understand you are praying fervently.” He replied,
sending a shiver through her. The battle was coming. “What do you pray for?”
Sansa met his gaze.
I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death.
That had been a long time ago. She had prayed for it every day, yet the Gods
had listened too late. But we are in the North, the Stark Gods are here.
“I pray for my husband’s victory, and for the safety of my child.”
Roose smiled his thin-lipped smile.
“You should not waste your prayers, my lady.” His eyes locked with hers. Sansa
wanted to hit him. Sansa wanted to kill him. He was no longer a fellow player.
He was a threat.
Somehow, she remained frozen to the chair The hairs on her arms stood on end. I
will not show my fear.
“What do you mean by that, my Lord?” Sansa asked, her voice cold and steady.
“I have little faith in the Gods, my Lady. I did not mean to frighten you.” His
smile remained.
“You didn’t.” She insisted. “I should have guessed. A man who betrays his King
and conspires with another to slaughter his own guests must have no faith in
the Gods. Otherwise how else would he sleep at night?” She drained half her
cup; fear sweeping over her as soon as the words had escaped her lips. Sansa
stared into the flames, too afraid to look him in the eyes following her bold
words.
“Indeed. There are many things the Gods frown upon. So many rules to live by.
Though they do not seem to consider the way things are done. A peaceful land, a
quiet people. That has always been…”
“Why have you come here, Lord Bolton? I doubt it is to lecture me on the
subject of philosophy and government. I am a woman, I do not understand such
things.” Sansa smiled sweetly.
“On the contrary, I think you understand it all very well. Better than my son.
You’ve changed him. Calmed him, somewhat.” Roose turned back to stare into the
flames, his smile not quite reaching his ghost grey eyes.
“If you say so my Lord.”
“But it is not enough. He’ll tire of you soon enough. Then you shall return to
being his little plaything and the Northern Lords will return to despising
him.” He never even looked at her. His smile never faltered.
He was playing with her; saying the things he knew would rile her.  
Sansa knew all this just by his small smile, yet it did little to cool her
anger. “He will not.” She insisted. “I would not expect you to understand my
Lord.”
“I understand completely, Lady Sansa. But I know my bastard better than you
ever could. Fortunately for you, I’ve seen to it that he will not be a problem
for much longer.”
He’d said it as casually as he would say it was snowing outside. So calm were
his words that Sansa wondered if she’d heard them at all.
“What do you mean?” She asked, trying to sound demanding and failing miserably.
Roose looked up then and met her gaze. He cocked his head. “What do you think,
my Lady?”
Her words caught in her throat. Tears threatened to fall and Sansa forced
herself to take another deep drink.
“Ramsay is your heir. You would be a fool to have him killed! You have no other
and no means to get another.” Sansa tried to keep the hysteria from her voice.
“And what man in his right mind would allow you to wed and bed his daughter?”
She hissed.
Roose’s smile dropped.
“What makes you think I must find a wife?”
The wine that she had forced down threatened to reappear.
“You would not be well suited to widowhood, Lady Sansa.”
She stood up sharply, ignoring the child inside her as he complained to the
sudden movement. Her cup of wine fell to the floor; the deep red spreading
across the hem of her dress. Moving towards him but too stunned to strike,
Sansa glared down at him. “What kind of sick man are you?” She growled. “What
kind of monsterare you?” Roose did not react to her raised voice; simply
watched her calculatingly. He caught her wrist in his pale fingers but she
snatched them away. “Ramsay will not die. He won’t! No matter what you say or
what you have done. What kind of man conspires to murder his own blood, then
steal his wife who carries his son’s child?”
“Do you think you are the only one who knows how to deal with that issue?” His
gaze fell away from hers and settled on the now-empty cup.
She wasn’t sure how long her breathing stopped for. There was nothing else she
saw, nothing else she could focus on except for the cup that lay in a pool of
wine.
Blood. My son’s blood.
She could remember the taste of the wine; how strong it had been. Overpowering.
Covering the taste of mint. Sansa’s legs began to tremble and threatened to
give way until she stumbled back into her seat. Roose stood up until he loomed
over her, but Sansa could not bear to look at him. “Oh gods…oh gods…” She
muttered the words over and over. Roose’s voice was distant and vague. “You
have a good night Lady Sansa. Sleep well.”
Sansa clutched her stomach and stared into the flames. She felt nothing.
Nothing had changed. It were as though she were in some awful dream that she
had forgotten was not reality. Only it was.
When the maids returned, it was dark outside. Sansa was still frozen to her
chair, clutching her stomach. The moment one of the ladies touched her, Sansa
let out a scream and lashed out. “He’s killed him!” She cried, clinging to one
of the maids, though she did not see which one. The lady continued to cry out
and thrash, refusing to go to bed. The maester was eventually called for. “My
lady, you must calm yourself.” The man implored. Sansa did not hear him. “He
killed him! My son is dead…please…please, get help, we have to save him!” She
cried, clinging to the maester’s robes.
“It is alright, my lady. All is well. Your son is well and growing strong. You
must rest.” He insisted.
“No…no…you don’t understand…” Sansa’s hands brushed across the cold metal of
the maester’s chain. She stared into his old, faded eyes; seeing them clearly
for the first time.
Her expression darkened.
“You.” She hissed. “You work for him. You do his bidding.”
Before she could say more, the maester ordered for her to be taken to bed.
Sansa was forced down into the soft mattress. She could feel her boy inside
her, sleeping soundly. He does not know. He won’t know until it is too late.
Begging did nothing to help. Sansa continued to cling to the maester until her
mouth was forced open and Essence of Nightshade poured inside; just enough for
her to sleep dreamlessly.
Though her sleep was not dreamless.
The air was cold; numbing her fingers until she was unable to close them. Light
illuminated their stone faces even though Sansa could not find the source of
the light. She carried on walking and the light got brighter with every step.
As the stone faces grew less disfigured, she had to squint and shield her eyes
from the light. By the time she reached her father’s tomb, she was almost
blinded.
“You swore to avenge us.” Her father’s voice was as cold as the land he had
ruled. “You swore.”
“I know father. I’m trying. But please…I need help…”
“You must avenge us. Promise me. Promise me Sansa.” She could not see him. Even
his tomb was blocked by the light. Sansa searched about desperately, longing to
see his face. “I promise father.” Sansa called. “I promise!”
“Promise me Sansa. Promise me!” Lord Stark repeated the words over and over
until they began to merge together.
As the light swallowed her, a wolf began to howl.
The scream was nothing human.
The maids leapt to their feet in an instant and filed into the room. The Lady
Sansa was on her knees on the bed, her hands clamped between her legs. Sansa
howled again as she pulled her hands away. She looked up at them with wordless
despair, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to think of something to
say. Her brow was furrowed and already glowing from sweat. Her eyes were wild
and frightened, and so haunted that they were glad when she looked back down at
her blood-stained fingers. “The baby!” The maids gasped.
“No, no, no, NO!” Sansa screamed, pressing her hands back between her legs
again in an attempt to quench the bleeding. But the red continued to soak
through the thin linen shift. “My boy! My baby boy!” She wailed.
“Get the maester!” Someone screamed. Inside, she felt her son move for the
first time. For the only time. She felt him writhe and die inside her womb.
I will never hear him cry. I will never hold him in my arms. I’ll never teach
him how to talk or walk or ride a horse.
Sansa collapsed onto her side; her hands grew hot and sticky as the blood
pulsed out of her. She gasped and squirmed as she felt her boy slip away from
her.
I barely felt him she thought as the movement inside her ceased.I didn’t even
feel him.
Somewhere far away, a war horn sounded and a battle cry went up.
Fitting. The men will bleed out there and you will bleed in here.
Chapter End Notes
     Yes I understand that the first four episodes of season 5 have been
     leaked. No I don't want to know what has happened until I am supposed
     to know **places halo on head**
***** No One To Have And To Hold *****
Chapter Summary
     You kill my only trust and it hurts
     Say goodbye
     I cannot breath, all turns red
     My hate for you has grown strong
     You see, I know what you said
     No one to have and to hold
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Out of the way!” He roared as he charged down the hallways, pushing his way
through knights and servants alike. The knights protested a little but he
ignored them. “Let me through!”
As he drew closer and the crowd lessened, Damon burst into a run. He wasn’t
sure how much time he had but, at any rate, he did not wish to be away any
longer than he had to. He had not wanted to come at all, but he feared what she
might do if she was not told. Most likely, he would be blamed for it. That was
not something he wished for, despite his loathing of the woman. The wrath of an
influential lady who was also carrying a child was something he’d rather not
face. In fact, he’d rather face another battle. But Damon would do his duty.
Wounded and blood spattered, he stormed along the corridor towards her
chambers, wondering what state he would find her in. She must have heard of
their return, surely? Perhaps the baby was causing her pain? How the fuck
should I know?He himself knew little and less about babies, only that this one
was important; now more so than ever.
A maid was outside the door, pacing anxiously. Her fair hair was a mess and her
blue eyes widened in fear when she saw him. “M…m’lord…you can’t go in there!”
She stammered. “M’lord…you can’t!” The girl screamed at him, her frail body
blocking his path. Damon took no notice of her except to shove her aside.
The scent of blood hit him first.
Maids in the outer chamber glanced up; surprise and fear spreading across their
faces as they realised who he was. Damon did not notice their expressions
though. Instead, his eyes took in the bloodied sheets they were trying to
desperately clean. Wordlessly, he carried on through the room; slower now. In
the bed chamber, the smell of fear lingered with the scent of sweat and death.
Sansa looked up at him. It took a moment for him to recognise her amongst the
soiled sheets. She was paler than the pillows she was propped up on. The moment
her eyes met his, he saw something he had longed to see for a long time. It did
not taste as sweet as he had always thought it would. The fear and sadness in
her eyes left only a bitter taste in his mouth. He needed her to be strong now.
He needed her to be strong and healthy with a son in her belly.
“You lost it.” He growled.
“No. No, it was not…”
“Your husband lies gravely wounded. He has been taken and put into the
maester’s care, though they doubt he will live for much longer.” Damon’s words
were full of loathing. How could she have lost it?
“My husband is alive?” Sansa gasped. Damon frowned at her surprised tone. “Yes,
but he may not be for much longer. The wound is deep.” He went to turn away
when his anger boiled over. “It seems your Gods heard your prayers after all.”
He hissed, glaring at her. Sansa’s eyes filled with tears but Damon felt no
pity for the bitch.
“Take me to him! Please Damon! I can walk…please…I have to see him. I have to
see him for myself.” She begged, slowly starting to climb out of the bed.
Damon left her there to struggle alone.
Sansa refused help. She would not appear weak. Not now. Waiting until her tears
had dried, Sansa allowed a robe to be pulled around her but did not have the
patience for dressing, despite the handmaidens’ desperate pleas. Her husband
lay dying. The one man that could protect her from what could happen. She’d run
to him naked if she had to.
Her feet were unsteady as she slowly made her way to the maester’s chambers.
The people she passed looked at her with a mixture of pity and confusion, but
Sansa pretended she did not notice. One recollection of what she had been
through and her composure would fall to pieces. Ramsay. He was all she allowed
herself to think about. Ramsay will keep me safe.
He was alive, and as long as he was alive Roose could not touch her. He had to
stay alive. He hadto…
When she entered the maester’s chambers however, the hope slipped away from her
faster than her son had. Ramsay lay motionless on a table, but she could only
glimpse him from between those gathered around him.
“He came out of nowhere…” She heard Damon say. “One moment we were charging and
the next…the soldier seemed to just appear behind him…”
The creak of a floorboard made them all turn. Damon and a number of his boys
glared at her. Roose knew better than to show his feelings. Sansa wanted to go
to her husband, but she was afraid. She didn’t want Roose near her. The
trembling took hold and she struggled to remain upright. Roose continued to
stare at her coldly. Her tongue seemed paralyzed, her throat too dry to speak.
Sansa wanted to scream the truth at them.
Roose skilfully stepped aside, allowing her a glimpse of the wrecked body.
It seemed to be an instinct for her now. Sansa’s hands went to her stomach in
an attempt to shield the child inside her from harm. He’s already deadshe
reminded herself.
Keep my son safe.
“Oh Gods.” Sansa gasped. She forced herself to look at it, though the sight of
it made her want to weep and scream and rage.
Ramsay’s attacker had sliced through his right shoulder and Sansa was sure she
could see bone beyond the blood. There was a deep cut across his chest too and
she did not doubt his back was just as much of a mess. Skin had been sliced off
so she could see the red tissue underneath; as though someone had attempted to
flay him.
“I managed to kill the fucker before he landed a death blow.” Damon said,
though she barely heard him.
His face…oh gods…his face.
Lord Tyrion’s scar had been gruesome. This was monstrous. Sansa was unsure what
weapon may have caused it. It did not matter. It was there all the same. The
gash travelled across his face in a red mess; going from left to right. His
eyebrow was slashed in two and had sagged so that he would never fully open his
left eye again. A small part of his nose had gone and his lips had been split.
It had branched off into two strands along his jawline too, as though his face
had been smashed, like…porcelain.
If Sansa hadn’t cared so much, she would have laughed.
“Well done Damon. The maester will see to him now. I must go and congratulate
the men.” Damon nodded grimly as Roose turned away. “Maester! Send a raven to
King’s Landing as soon as you are able. Inform them of our victory here and of
Stannis’ wounds.”
Finally, he turned to Sansa. “My Lady, you need to rest. You must go back to
your chambers.”
“Do not tell me what I must do, Lord Bolton. I would rather die than leave my
husband in the care of men who work for you.” Sansa spat instinctively. Roose
gave her a cold look that would have frightened her were she not still staring
at her husband’s monstrous face. The man continued passed her without another
word and she ran to her husband’s side the moment the door had slammed shut
behind him.
“Please, Ramsay, don’t die. You cannot die. We have not done what we need to
yet. Please. Please don’t leave me here.” Sansa begged, running her hands
across his bloody body; salty tears mixing with dried blood. “We can’t let him
win. Not again…not again…”
Promise me Sansa.
“Can’t let who win, my Lady?” Damon asked, frowning down at her. The rest of
Ramsay’s boys stood behind him, watching her warily. Sansa had almost forgotten
their existence. Fiercely wiping her tears away, she met their stares with a
cold, commanding gaze. “I will not leave my husband’s side until he is well
again, go and tell my handmaidens. I want two of you outside this room to guard
him day and night.” She ordered. “Damon, tell the maester that if my husband
dies you will make him dance until he has stopped drawing breath.”
“And why should we do as you say? We serve House Bolton, not you.” Damon
growled.
“I am a Bolton now. Do as I say or you will regret it. Believe me. Don’t think
the death of my husband will lead to the death of me.” Sansa snarled back. They
held each other’s gaze; challenging one another.
“As you wish, my Lady.” Damon hissed through gritted teeth. The men glared at
her as they passed but said no more. “And send Reek here.” The words had to be
forced out of her mouth.
“Reek?”
“There is no one so willing to protect my husband as that creature, and no one
my husband would rather have by his side.” It hurt her to admit it, but Sansa
could not think of herself now. She needed her husband to protect her and would
do whatever it took to make sure it happened.
Reek had not moved so fast since he had had all his fingers and toes. The
moment Damon had told him, the pet had started to weep in fear. If his master
died, what would become of Reek? Reek was nothing without master. Nothing. Reek
was nothing to everyone but master.
In his hysteria, he had bolted past Damon and any other person who got in his
way, no one mattered to him now. No one but master.
An agonised wail had escaped his lips the moment he’d caught sight of him.
Ramsay lay unmoving on the maester’s table; the worst of his wounds stitched up
and covered with poultices. But his face. He was almost unrecognisable. Reek
wanted him to wake up and be alright, so he had done what he could. He had
licked his master’s hands and forced his head into them; longing for the
fingers to tighten and pull at his hair. He even spoke without being told to.
Even anger was better than this.
“Master, please! It’s Reek! Please wake up! Please!” He begged.
“Can you hear them?” Reek span around at the sound of her voice. He had not
even seen her. Master, only master.
“Can you hear them?” She asked again. Sansa stood beside the window. The world
had fallen into darkness. Night had fallen. “Hear who?”
The howl filled the darkness and sent Reek shivering.
“Do you hear them now?” Sansa asked. Reek heard only one wolf howling. “My
Lady, I don’t understand. Please…I’m frightened…I just want my master…”
“Ghost…Nymeria…what was it? Shaggydog? It has been so long, I cannot remember.
I don’t even know the name of Bran’s wolf. He hadn’t chosen one before we left
Winterfell. But I can hear him. I can hear all of them. Can you hear them
singing, Reek?”
The lone wolf howled again and Reek whimpered, clinging to his master’s limp
body.
“I thought…maybe…I thought they sang for my husband. Or my son. But why would
they? They are too late for my child. Ramsay will not die. They do not sing for
him.” It were as though she had forgotten him. Her voice was sad and distant
and as small as that of the girl he’d once known.
No. Not me. It wasn’t me. Reek, Reek…it rhymes with squeak, meek and leek…
Sansa closed her eyes and leant forward, resting her hands on the window sill
for balance. She tilted her face upwards and parted her lips, as though she
were drinking the air.
“Jon.” She whispered. “They cry for Jon.”
Chapter End Notes
     You didn't honestly think I would let Ramsay die at the hands of
     Roose did you? And during a battle against Stannis too! Shame on you
     XD
     Good job he's got his loyal friend Damon.
***** Threats and Loyal Pets *****
Chapter Summary
     There's no point clutching at your rosary
     You're always going to know what was done
     Even when you close your eyes you'll still see
     That you sold a son
     And you can't tell anyone
Lady Sansa was true to her word and the Northern Lords expected nothing less.
She was a Stark after all.
Whilst the men celebrated their victory at the Battle of the Bloody Field, the
Lady of Winterfell remained by her husband’s side with only Theon Turncloak,
the Maester and occasionally one of Ramsay’s men for company.
The Northern Lords, although confused by her sudden concern for her savage of a
husband, were grateful for her absence. Following their return from battle, a
raven had arrived from Castle Black. Dark wings, dark words. Lord Commander
Snow was dead. Though a bastard, he had been Lord Eddard’s last living son.
Besides, bastardy did not seem to mean a thing in the North any more.
They feared what may happen when Lady Sansa learned of her brother’s demise. He
was the last of her kin and rumours had already begun to spread that her mental
health had begun to whither. The worst thing was that the Lords could well
believe it. She did not leave the side of the man that they knew had abused her
and raped her. They would never forget the way she screamed and how it had made
their blood boil.
She had lost the child too. Everyone had seen the affection she’d shown the
child as well as the devotion she had begun to show the father. And now one was
dead, the other dying and her brother Jon was dead at the hands of his own men.
“We’ve seen this before. The girl might have Lord Eddard’s blood, but she is as
much Lady Catelyn’s daughter as she is Stark’s. And we all know how foolish
that woman became when she grieved. Brave, aye, but foolish all the same.” One
Lord muttered one evening when deep in his cups.
The wolves were gone.
The Northern Lords were reminded each time the darkness gathered and they were
forced to light a candle. Sansa, their last glimmer of hope, was slowly burning
out.
The footsteps hadn’t even reached the corridor yet, but Sansa was wide awake
the moment she heard them. Sleeping with one eye open seemed natural to her
now. She and Reek took turns keeping watch, though they had not said as much.
They never said anything at all, but as soon as Sansa woke, Reek would sleep
and the moment he woke, Sansa would sleep again.
They were both awake now though. It was dark inside the maester’s chambers and
there was no moon to illuminate the confines of their prison. The candle had
burnt out long ago. She heard Reek slowly creep around to kneel at her side.
Both waited silently, side by side, in front of Ramsay’s sleeping form;
guarding him as the danger drew closer.
When the door breezed open, Reek released a feral snarl. Sansa refrained from
doing the same.
Roose Bolton’s eyes blazed like ice on fire as her raised the lantern he held.
He entered the room without a word, closing the door behind him. “My Lady.” He
did not smile. He did not mock. His actions were not threatening. But his very
presence put Sansa, and Reek, on edge.
“What are you doing here?” She snapped, fingering Ramsay’s blade at her hip;
stolen in fear of this very moment.
“I’ve come to see my son.” He said without a trace of fatherly concern. “Is he
any better?”
“His breathing is stronger and his wounds are healing. The maester says the
worst has passed, but I can no longer trust his judgement.” Sansa growled,
standing her ground despite the trembling of her knees.
Roose continued to move towards them. Her hand tightened around the hilt of
Ramsay’s dagger. Even Reek crouched low; preparing to pounce.
Roose stopped. He cocked his head; cold eyes shining in the candle light.
“Look at you. Lord Stark’s daughter, guarding my son as though you were his
loyal bitch. What would your father say? What would your mother and brother
say?” He taunted.
“My mother would have done the same, and Ramsay had nothing to do with her
death. Nor my brother’s.” She hissed, inching the blade out of its sheath.
“You are comparing my bastard to Eddard Stark?” Roose Bolton almost laughed.
“No, but he is my husband. I’ve told you what you’ve wanted to know, and now I
shall tell you to leave.” Sansa pursed her lips and tilted her chin up
defiantly. She would not yield to this man. Not this time.
“I understand you have told no one of what occurred before the death of your
child?” The words made her feel cold inside.
I will not weep. I will not weep for him.
“Not yet. But I will.” Sansa vowed. The moment Ramsay’s eyes opened, she would
tell him. And then there would be nowhere for Roose Bolton to hide.
“You will not.” He ordered. Sansa ground her teeth like a horse fighting the
bit. “I shall. What have you left to take from me?” She struggled to keep the
tremor from her voice.
“Everything. Your husband. Your home. Yourself. I could get rid of Ramsay in a
tragic hunting accident. Then I’d wed you, bed you and put a child in you.
You’d be taken to The Dreadfort for confinement, after all you are in a most
fragile condition.” He smiled then. Before Sansa could argue, he continued.
“The Northern Lords are all under the impression your mind is…weakened,
somewhat. After all, you have been through so much.”
To her surprise, Reek growled again. Sansa struggled for words and had to
clutch the table that held Ramsay’s form to stop herself from falling. “Or
perhaps I’ll just inform the Lannister’s that we have the real Sansa Stark.” He
continued. Sansa’s eyes narrowed with anger. “So many crimes to answer
for…regicide, infanticide.”
Her hand tightened around the dagger again.
“Where are your Gods when you need them?”
Sansa launched herself at him, dagger held high above her head.
“Come come Lady Sansa. Where are your courtesies?” Roose hissed as he twisted
her wrist. Sansa cried out as the pain became too much and she was forced to
let go of the blade. He threw her to the floor, ignoring Reek who was snarling
where he crouched. “We both know you are not strong enough for that Sansa. Now
listen to me.” Sansa looked up at him, blinking away tears of frustration. “You
are going to do as I asked. You will tell no one of what occurred the night
before you lost your son, do you understand?” His voice was as soft as a
lover’s kiss.
“Yes Lord Bolton.” Sansa bowed her head submissively. He turned away from her
and began towards the door; turning at the last minute. The smile reached his
eyes this time. “I almost forgot. Lord Commander Snow is dead. Murdered by his
own men. I am very sorry for your loss.” Sansa’s tears froze. She looked up; a
cold innocence froze her face. “I knew the moment he died, Lord Bolton.” She
turned to look over her shoulder at the window. “The wolves sang to me.”
As she turned back to face him, a wolf began to howl. Closer now.
Sansa smiled softly.
Roose’s eyebrows flinched into a frown before he turned away; closing the door
and leaving Sansa to her songs.  
***** A Child's Fears *****
Chapter Summary
     And every demon wants his pound of flesh
     But I like to keep some things to myself
     I like to keep my issues drawn
     It's always darkest before the dawn
     And I've been a fool and I've been blind
     I can never leave the past behind
     I can see no way, I can see no way
     I'm always dragging that horse around
The battle continued to rage around him. He slashed and parried at his enemy,
bringing his sword down with all his might and lifting his shield to block the
invisible blade that was cutting at him. But with each blow, he weakened. The
shield grew heavier until he was screaming from the agony of trying to hold it
up. He would have shaken it from his arm were it not for the pain in his right
shoulder that had made it near impossible to strike out with his sword. A red
mist had begun to invade his vision as he felt his shoulder being torn apart.
He turned to look but saw only red. Gritting against the scream of agony, he
forced his feet to turn. It were as though they were made of lead. One moved
slightly too fast and sent him tripping back into the snow. He slowly brought
the shield up to cover himself, like a small child would pull the sheets over
his head in fear of monsters.
Weak, weak, weakthe swords sang as steel clashed together.
I’m not weak!Ramsay wanted to yell. He wanted to stand up and teach them all a
lesson, to make them pay for their words.
But he couldn’t.
Laying there, motionless and with the red mist darkening until it turned the
colour of blood, Ramsay allowed himself to melt into the snow. Am I just red
snow now? A bloody mess soaked into the frozen ground. Snow. Even in death I’m
still a Snow.
From somewhere far off, he heard a child screaming.

His eyes flew open and he was stunned to find that he had not fallen at all. He
was standing upright; clear of vision and strong of shoulder. Before him
stretched a river. The cold sunlight danced across the lazy current. Behind
him, a forest loomed; dark and threatening. It did not intimidate him. I am not
weak.
The child screamed again.
Ramsay turned and looked downstream, grinning at the fearful cry. There was
something so satisfying about a scream.
The next voice made his grin freeze and turned his blood to ice.
“Wretched bastard! How many times must I try to make you understand!”
“No! Mother, please don’t!” The boy wailed in vain. Once again, she shoved his
head down beneath the icy water. Ramsay could almost feel the cold soak through
his skin and seep into his bones. “You disgust me boy! You’re a monster! Even
your own father doesn’t want you bastard. Your father didn’t even mean for you
to happen bastard, yet I get left with you all the same!” She screamed at him,
yanking him back up so he could gasp for air.
Ramsay opened his mouth, gulping and feeling the air freeze his throat, so cold
it pained him. The world began to spin around him as the boy was thrust down
again. He felt the water fill his lungs, making it impossible for him to
breathe. Ramsay’s vision blurred as the water reached his eyes. The world
around him warped and twisted. The trees that had loomed so threateningly
behind him now stretched to circle around him. Enclosing him.
The woman yanked the boy out of the water again.
“You make me sick! How could I have ever born a child as monstrous as you?”
Ramsay gasped for breath but found he had no need to. The water in his lungs
had gone and his vision had cleared. Even when the boy’s face was submerged
again, his eyes and lungs did not fill with water. Ramsay let out a small laugh
of relief.
“Mother, please! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” The boy begged. Ramsay
frowned. It was not a voice he recognised.
“You are just like him, aren’t you? Just like your monster of a father? You’re
just a bastard aren’t you? I should cast you out and name you Snow, just like
him!” Ramsay’s eyes widened. He was too shocked to be angry.
His feet crushed the dead leaves beneath his feet as he stormed towards them.
Sansa did not hear him and forced their son’s head down into the pool once
more. “Sansa, stop it!” Ramsay roared. She turned. Her cold blue eyes held no
warmth; none of the adoration and devotion he had come to relish could be found
there.
She began to laugh. She laughed as their son’s small body thrashed against the
earth, fighting her hold in a desperate bid to escape. To breathe again. “Let
him go! Please, let him live!” He did not mean to plead and beg for her, but
his voice was not his. It belonged to something he had long detached himself
from. Grief. Fear.
“He’s a bastard you know.” Sansa laughed. “A bastard just like you.”
The boy’s body went limp. Ramsay tried to take a step forward but his feet were
swept from under him.
Once again, he was lying on his back; sinking into the cold earth.
The Weirwood tree glared down at him.
Ramsayit whispered.
Ramsay.
Ramsay.
Ramsay.

“RAMSAY!”
His eyes snapped open and he stared up at the face above him. Thankfully, it
was not the ominous gaze of the Weirwood tree.
“Gods be good, you’re alive!” Damon gasped. Ramsay groaned, flinching as his
friend’s every word beat at his head like a war hammer. “I knew you were too
stubborn for death!” His friend joked. Ramsay managed the weakest of smiles.
His smile widened when he felt something stir beneath his fingertips.
“I know you are there Reek. Are you trying to hide from me?” The pet
immediately leapt up so Ramsay could see him. Reek cried out at the sight of
him; half from relief, half from horror. The look of fear on his face hurt more
than the clanging in his skull. “What is it pet? You aren’t afraid of me are
you?” He asked, frowning.
“N…no master.” Reek lied. Ramsay grabbed him roughly by the neck; biting back a
cry off pain as he felt a stitch rip in his shoulder. “Do you think you can lie
to me pet? Do you?” He roared. If Reek was frightened before, he was almost
ready to piss himself now.
Ramsay hardly seemed to see his pet. The red fog slowly began to creep back
into his vision. He didn’t even notice his hand start to tighten around Reek’s
throat. He didn’t hear Reek’s frantic breaths. He didn’t see the desperate,
bulging eyes.
“Ramsay…Ramsay! That’s enough!” Damon’s voice cut through and Ramsay loosened
his grip; eyes widening as he watched his pet gasp for air. Frightened tears
filled his pet’s eyes. “Reek…pet…I’m…”
“What’s going on?” Her voice was slurred and croaky from sleep. Sansa sat up
and appeared beside him. Ramsay released his pet and moved his hands so that
they gripped the table. He stared up at the ceiling.
“Ramsay? Oh gods…my husband…you live!” She cried. Sansa reached down to take
his hand. Ramsay dug his fingers into the wood. Slowly, he turned to look at
her.
“Where is my son?” He asked.
Sansa’s face fell. She slumped back on her seat, allowing her hand to fall away
from his. Her lips quivered and she bit down on them so hard he was sure she’d
draw blood.
“I lost the baby.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
She couldn’t even look him in the eyes when she said it. Ramsay did not allow
his gaze to wonder. He fought back the red mist, knowing that his angry stare
was enough to frighten the weak, murderous little creature.
“You murdered my boy.” Ramsay hissed through gritted teeth.
“No! My Lord…please, let me explain…you don’t understand…I didn’t do…”
“Damon, escort my wife to her chambers. Make sure she stays there until I am
well again.” Ramsay ordered, his anger ebbing away with every word. I am not
weak. I just need rest.
Sansa’s eyes widened with fear. She did not want to be away from him. He felt
her cold hand clutch his so hard that Damon had to pry her fingers off.
“My Lord, please. I can’t…please, you have to understand. I did nothing!”
Ramsay turned his head away from her, reaching out his hand for Reek to lean
into.
“Ramsay, please…for the love you bore our child…for the love of our son, have
mercy!” Sansa cried.
“My Lady, this way.” He heard Damon mutter gruffly.
“I loved you! My Lord, I loved you! And I love you still. Please…another
chance…I beg of you, please, just one more…”
“GET HER OUT OF HERE NOW!” Ramsay screamed, desperate to make it stop. To make
her stop.
As Sansa’s begging receded, Ramsay called for the maester. “Get me the
strongest thing to make me sleep and you’d better pray to the Gods that it
works. If I have one dream, man, one dream and I’ll flay your hands.” Ramsay
growled.
He drank what the maester gave him and laid back down as his muscles began to
slacken. Sleep closed in on him just as he felt the tears prick his eyes.     
***** Ivory *****
Chapter Summary
     Will you look at me?
     Take a good look at me and tell me who
     It is that I am.
     This old mirror it is broken,
     There's too much drift in the dam.
Damon did not drag her to her chambers as she was sure he longed to do. His
hand kept firm hold of her elbow, but that was the only contact he made. Is he
afraid that the Stark luck is infectious?
She was led past Lords and servants alike. The servants stared at her as though
she had just stepped out of a story. The Lords smiled but looked away quickly.
“You must be very pleased Damon. My husband wakes and immediately sends me from
the room.” She whispered once the corridors they walked through were quieter.
“He wants to be left alone with just you and Reek. What am I to make of that?”
There was venom in her voice now.
“You were told to protect his son. You failed. You killed him.” Damon replied,
not even bothering to look at her. Sansa wrenched her arm out of his grasp and
rounded on him. “I did not. I loved that child. I still do. You could never
understand. He was mine. He might have been Ramsay’s too, but Ramsay saw him
only as a way of protection. I didn’t. He was my son. My Eddard. My own. In
this world, women have nothing of their own. But that child was mine…” And
someone took him away from me. Sansa choked the words back. She swallowed
nervously; fear balling up deep inside her. “Just…just promise me. Do not leave
him alone. Reek must always be with him, and you too, if you can. No one else.
No one. Not even the maester.”
Damon studied her for a moment; his face frozen. Sansa did not allow her gaze
to waver.
“Move.” He ordered gruffly. Sansa obeyed. She was too tired to fight him.

When she was shoved back into her chambers, Damon did not wait to see if she
had any more words for him. The door slammed shut before she could even turn to
face it. The room was empty and cold. No doubt she had not been expected to
return today. How long had she been gone? A week? Two weeks? Months?
Not too long to forget what had happened here.
Sansa stared towards the fireplace, recalling her meeting with Roose. The
chairs had been moved to their original positions, but Sansa could have sworn
there still remained a wine stain on the stone floor from where she had dropped
her goblet.
Sansa blinked, waiting for the tears to come.
None did.
She turned to look at the bed where she had paid for her schemes; where her
child had paid for her schemes. Does his life’s blood still stain the sheets?
On pulling back the covers, it appeared it did not. It were as though he had
never been…
And still the tears would not come.
Slumping down on the mattress, Sansa stared ahead of her and saw nothing. Deep
in thought, she played with the covers absent mindedly. What was she to do now?
She could not grieve anymore.
Mourning for too long weakens you. Better to find a more useful way to channel
your grief.
“But what can I do?” She asked him, her brow furrowing in frustration.
Damage control Petyr whispered back.
“I must wait. Bide my time. Ramsay is weak, for now at least, he cannot protect
me while he is weak. And I am confined to my chambers. I must wait here. Then
we shall see. We shall see…”
“My Lady?” Sansa’s head snapped up so fast she had to bite back pain, but it
was only the fair haired handmaiden. “My Lady, are you well?” The girl asked,
moving towards her tentatively.
“Yes.” Sansa replied absently. The look on the girl’s face made her correct
herself. “I’m sorry, I am just distracted. That is all.” Still the girl did not
look convinced.
The Northern Lords are under the impression your mind is…weakened.
Sansa forced a smile and moved over to the timid girl slowly so as not to
frighten her. She took her hands in her own. “Forget what you have heard, sweet
girl. I am well. My husband is alive and strong. All shall be well. All manner
of things shall be well.” The words were said to convince them both. The child
smiled up at her. She was even sweeter when she smiled. “I am so glad to hear
it, my lady.” The smile disappeared and she glanced tentatively over her
shoulder. “My lady, I was strictly told to come here and ask only if there was
anything you need. I was told to say nothing more.” The girl admitted with fear
in her pretty eyes.
Sansa squeezed her hands comfortingly.
“What is your name, child?”
“Aleia, my lady.”
“Well Aleia, it doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere to confess your crimes
anytime soon.” Aleia laughed nervously. “I will have some wine, and…Gods, what
time is it?”
“Morning, my lady.” The girl giggled.
“Some breakfast would do me good, I think.” Sansa smiled. It was genuine this
time. The girl’s happiness was infectious and it felt good to smile again.
“Very well my lady, I shall have it brought to you.” Aleia curtseyed and left
the room.
Unable to think of anything better to do with herself, Sansa knelt beside the
bed and clasped her hands together. There was no Weirwood, nor any figures of
the Seven, but it felt as though she were doing something all the same. The
Gods had not saved her son, but they had saved her husband and whilst confined
in her chambers, it was the best she could do.
Praying was not the same alone; she longed to hear her ladies sing around her
and to fill the room with their sweet songs. Instead, she only heard two men
approach her chambers. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat until she recognised
the voices of Skinner and Sour Alyn. They remained outside her door, clearly on
guard in case she attempted to escape. Ramsay has ordered them to be there. The
thought was some small comfort.
Moments later, the door opened and a scrawny young serving girl entered,
struggling to carry a tray laden with food as well as a jug of wine. “Where is
Aleia?” Sansa asked. The girl had brightened the room with her presence. She
would much prefer her than this sullen looking thing.
The scrawny girl just shrugged and set the tray down on the table. Then she
turned to go.
“No! Wait, please stay.” Sansa wanted some company, just for a while. The girl
slowly turned to face her and Sansa could have sworn she recognised her. “Will
you pray with me?” Sansa asked, eyes narrowing as she tried to place her.
“Not my Gods, m’lady.” The serving girl muttered.
“I pray to both! The old and the new.” She insisted.
“They aren’t my Gods. And I’ve been told not to speak to you!” The serving girl
snapped. Sansa was too taken aback to scold her. Chewing her lip fearfully, the
girl fled the room.
“Vile little urchin.” Sansa muttered, staring at the closed door angrily. The
scent of food filled her nostrils and Sansa prowled towards the table, her
stomach aching from hunger.  
***** What I Hide *****
Chapter Summary
     What I fear and what I try,
     The words I say and what I hide
     All the pain, I want it to end
     But I want it again
     And it finds me
     The fight inside is coursing through my veins
     And it's raging
     The fight inside is breaking me again
“My Lord, I do believe she was telling the truth.” Damon confessed, gritting
his teeth as Ramsay shifted his full weight onto his shoulder.
“The truth…about what…” Ramsay hissed through the pain, wincing in both agony
and concentration.
“About…argh! My Lord, are you sure you’re ready for this?” He asked, struggling
beneath the full weight of his friend. Damon was strong, without a doubt, but
Ramsay was solid muscle. “Of course I’m sure! Help me up!” Ramsay snapped,
grinding his teeth and biting back the pain as Damon hauled him onto a feet.
They lasted a full three seconds before Ramsay collapsed back onto the cot.
“Fuck it!” He roared, downing what remained of the milk of the poppy and
flinging the cup so it shattered against the far wall, sending Reek flying
beneath the table to shelter himself. Ramsay was easily angered these days, and
with no one else weak enough to take his rage out on, Reek tended to bear the
brunt of his fury.
“My Lord, about the Lady Sansa…”
“What about her?” Ramsay growled, inspecting his wounds to see if any of the
stitches had come out. Avoiding eye contact, Damon noted.
“You know I have little care for the woman…”
“Careful Damon. That woman is still my wife.” Ramsay reminded him in a low,
dangerous tone.
“Of course, My Lord. I simply meant that, whilst I am not a close acquaintance
of hers, her words did seem sincere. She loved that child. Your son. She said
that in this world, women have little of their own. But that child was her own.
I do not believe she would have killed him.” It hurt him to say so and his face
had gone red from the embarrassment it caused him. Ramsay grunted and leaned
back to rest on his hands; wincing as the stitches in his shoulder resisted.
“She didn’t want the boy to live. I dreamtit Damon. I saw her kill him.” He
insisted, his eyes glazing over as though he were seeing it again.
“My Lord that was a dream. A dream caused by fever; you were sick. Nearer to
death than any man I’d seen before. But Sansa’s words were real. She remained
by your side with Reek the entire time, never leaving this room. The Northern
Lords believed she had gone mad with grief. I have heard that whilst you were
away, she prayed fervently. Both for you and the health of your son.”
“I ordered her to protect him Damon. Protect him. You were there. You heard
me.” Ramsay’s face had gone red from anger, but Damon saw the look in his eye.
The look of loss and frustration.
“I’m sure she did her best, but some things cannot be helped. There will be
other sons to follow, I am sure. You are both young and soon you will have your
strength back. Then we can go for a hunt too. I’m sick of this fucking room.
You said that you could hunt some whores when the North was secured. Stannis is
dead or dying. The North is as secure as it could be.” Damon grinned his
familiar, boyish grin. Ramsay smiled back and yanked Damon down to sit next to
him, slinging an arm around his broad shoulders. “Damon, you are brighter than
you look. You are quite right. Now, help me try to stand again. I’m as tired of
these dull walls as you are and threatening the maester is beginning to lose
its charm!” The two men laughed and got back to their task.
Reek remained beneath the table as his master howled in pain. He had learnt
after the last time. Ramsay’s screams had frightened him so, he’d thought his
master was dying. When he rushed to help, he’d gotten in the way; earning
himself a savage kick in the ribs, resulting in at least three of them being
broken. That had not been the end of it though. Master had immediately ordered
for Damon to fetch his whip and strike Reek ten times for doing something his
master had not asked of him. Reek had known better than to say he had only done
it out of fear for his master.
“Reek, come out. He’s sleeping.” Damon called. Reek immediately obeyed and
scrambled over to his master’s makeshift bed. He was safe with his master like
this. He knew master did not mean to lash out and hurt him, but sometimes it
made him feel like he did not matter to master. He meant as much to Ramsay as
the cup he had thrown against the wall did. And if Reek didn’t matter to
Ramsay, Reek didn’t matter to anyone.
“He’ll be back to normal soon Reek. You’ll see.” Damon moved over to where the
cup had shattered on the floor and began to pick up the pieces. Reek stared
down at his master. Even in sleep he frightened him some. The scar had not
healed well and gave his face a disjointed, lopsided look. It was worse when
his eyes were open. Master’s eyes were still the same ghost grey, only now they
were rimmed with red. Two chips of ice drowning in bloody pools. Master’s gaze
was monstrous now, even if he did not intend for it to be. Reek did not know
if, when the time came, he would be able to look his master in the eyes as he
so often demanded. He would ask it of him if he suspected Reek was lying. If
Reek could not do it, master would flay him or take away another finger or toe.
He would confess then. He would tell him the truth.
“Did Lady Sansa really say that? About master’s child?” Reek blurted, looking
over at Damon and trembling in fear of his own boldness. Damon looked up from
his cleaning and frowned. “Yes.” Reek glanced away and continued staring at his
Lord and Master. “Why? What is it to you Reek?” He had to grip his hands tight
to stop them from shaking.
“I didn’t know she cared so much.” It wasn’t a complete lie. That made the
words come out easier. Damon went back to his work; dumping the broken remnants
on the table once he was done and coming to sit on the other side of Ramsay.
“Why do you stay Damon? It is never Skinner or Sour Alyn or any of the others.”
He continued studying his master’s mutilated face; trying desperately to grow
used to it and failing miserably.
“You are full of questions tonight Reek.” Damon observed, sending Reek’s hands
to nervous shaking once more.
“Does he frighten you? You spend most of your days hiding under tables now.”
Damon added.
“I asked you first.” Reek mumbled.
“You forget who wields the whip Reek. You’re a funny creature but don’t go
thinking I won’t think twice about telling your master about your lip.” Damon
scolded. Reek’s eyes widened with fear. With his master in this state, what
would he let Damon do to him?
“I’m sorry Damon…please…I’m so…”
“Lady Sansa told me I should never leave him alone. She tried to make me
promise.” Damon confessed.
Reek stayed as still as he was able, trying desperately not to give anything
away.
“Why would she say that Reek? Does someone want to hurt him?”
Reek leapt away from the table.
“I have to go. Master will want food when he wakes. I need to go and tell the
kitchens.” He threw over his shoulder, shuffling over to the door as fast as he
could in his panic. Damon would know there was something wrong now, but Reek
could not tell him. Reek would not tell him.
If I tell him, Roose would have master killed.
Then what would remain for Reek?
“Nothing.” He answered aloud. Staggering down the corridor, Reek repeated the
word to himself over and over. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
***** Love Me Again *****
Chapter Summary
     Looking up from underneath
     Fractured moonlight on the sea
     Reflections still look the same to me
     As before I went under
     And it's peaceful in the deep
     Cathedral where you cannot breathe
     No need to pray, no need to speak
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The sound of the bath tub being rolled down the hall interrupted her prayers.
She stood up, frowning. A bath had not been requested.
The serving girl kicked the door open and cursed as it slammed shut again
before she could roll the tub in. Eventually, Aleia must have squeezed past the
tub to open the door for her. The handmaiden smiled at Sansa and filled the
room with summer. “I did not ask for a bath today?” Sansa said, smiling back at
her.
“No my lady. Your husband did!” The sweet girl squealed. She turned as more of
Sansa’s handmaidens entered. Since she had been confined to her chambers, only
the serving girl served as company and only stayed long enough to see to her
tasks. Aleia came too, occasionally. Neither of them spoke much though. If they
were all here and all talking to her, it could only mean one thing.
“Is my husband well again?” Sansa asked.
“Yes my lady! He has ordered for there to be a feast tonight to celebrate.”
Aleia laughed excitedly. Sansa could not find the words to express how she felt
and so just continued to smile. Her husband was well again. That was good,
wasn’t it? He could protect her once more.
But will he?
She allowed the handmaidens to undress her as the tub was being filled. They
chattered excitedly about the feast and wondered whether they would get to
dance again. Sansa’s mind was far away.
If Ramsay was well again, he would most certainly return to her bed with the
hope of conceiving a son. That’s if he can even bear to look at me. Last time
she had seen him, he had ordered her away immediately. But if he did want her
to conceive, what then? Roose would not let her son live. If she were to become
pregnant again, he would certainly see to it that the child died in the womb
again. Sansa was not sure she could cope with the loss of a child for the
second time. And Ramsay…what would he do if they lost another child? He wanted
a son. An heir. If she lost another he would believe she was incapable of
giving him one. And then he would seek to get one by other means. Someone else
would take her place. Once he had gotten rid of her…
He wouldn’t do that.
She would have to see to it that she did not fall pregnant again. It would be
better to never have another child than it would be to lose one. Sansa doubted
she’d be able to convince Ramsay against sharing her bed, nor did she want to.
She still missed his body beside hers. She still missed the feeling of him
inside of her. Sansa had tried to simulate the feeling of it at night when she
missed him most, but it was not the same.
No. She couldn’t avoid it, which meant she would have to find another way to
rid herself of a child.
The tea. Myranda had given her something that stopped Ramsay’s seed from
planting itself. Roose had used it to get rid of her son. But Sansa had no idea
how to make it.
“Seven hells!” She cried as a bucket of water was poured over her head and into
her eyes.
“For the gods’ sake child, were you dropped on your head as a babe?” One of the
handmaidens cried. Sansa finally managed to wipe away enough of the water to
see the serving girl staring sullenly at the floor; clutching the bucket and
chewing her lower lip. “Apologise for your behaviour girl, or I’ll see to it
you get another beating.” Another of the handmaidens growled. The serving girl
looked up at her then and Sansa was once again struck by how familiar she was.
Yet still she was unable to place her.
“Forgive me m’lady. It won’t happen again.” She said sulkily.
“No, it won’t. Go on now, get!” The handmaiden snapped, waving a cloth at her
as though she were a troublesome cat. Had Sansa been less distracted, she would
have given the order herself. Instead, she just watched the girl leave in
brooding silence.
“My lady, what dress do you wish to wear for the feast?” Aleia asked as she
combed out her hair.
“The green silk one will do.” She replied, unable to think of any others. Green
was a sign of life and new beginnings. Sansa just hoped Ramsay would see it
that way.
He was already seated by the time she entered the great hall, though it took
her a moment to recognise him. His face. She had almost forgotten. It was not
the face she imagined when she lay alone in bed at night. No one could imagine
a face as monstrous as that.
There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve
watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take
your look.
The Hound’s voice growled in her ear and she almost turned around; expecting to
see his melted face behind her. But he was not.
I am not afraid. I am not that girl anymore. The songs were all lies and only
monsters are real.
Sansa smiled as though she could never be happier. Forcing herself to look into
those searching red eyes, Sansa moved towards him. The crowd parted before her,
allowing her and her army of handmaidens through. She continued to smile
despite how her cheeks had begun to ache. Occasionally she would glance at the
Northern Lords that had gathered to see her. She had not been seen for a long
while. No doubt the seeds of suspicion Roose had planted were growing strong by
now.
Her smile widened as the Northern Lords smiled back.
She would not just tear up the weeds. She would burn them and bathe the earth
in salt so that no rumour may grow there again.
“My husband,” Sansa curtsied low until her hands could brush the floor. With a
bright smile, she stood. Ramsay’s face remained unmoving. “It warms my heart to
see you safe and well again.” Well was pushing it. Behind the red mess that had
branched out across his face, her husband looked pale. She could already see
beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.
“Thank you, my lady.” His voice was not cold, but there was no warmth in it
either. His red gaze was conflicted; he was not sure what to think. His mind,
once so assured, was bewildered by this feast he had requested…
Her gaze switched to the man that sat to his left.
Damon watched her closely, his look speaking a thousand words. He was not
pleased to see her, that much was certain. But he’d kept him alive, as Sansa
had asked. He’d stayed with him whilst she had been confined to her chambers.
Ramsay turned away from her; leaving her standing there with no orders. No
indication of what to do. He leaned over to mutter something into Damon’s ear.
Damon laughed. Ramsay smiled. Sansa’s face darkened in anger. What lies has he
been telling you? Whilst she had been with Ramsay, protecting him from his own
father, Roose had been spreading lies about her state of mind. Now, while she
had helplessly waited for her husband to grow strong again, Damon had been
whispering in his ear. He’d done what she’d asked of him, that was true, but he
had also made sure he’d benefitted from it.
Not wishing to stand there any longer, Sansa stepped up onto the dais and took
her seat on Ramsay’s right in the vacant chair between him and his father.
Sansa did not look at Roose as she sat. She couldn’t bear to see the amusement
in his eyes as Ramsay and Damon continued to ignore her presence.
“Some wine for my good-daughter.” Roose’s voice was quiet, but she immediately
heard someone approach her; a cup already in hand.
“Actually Lord Bolton, I’d rather have some ale. I’ve developed a taste for it
during my,” imprisonment“confinement.” It was a lie of course. She had never
even tasted ale and had to try her best not to grimace. If Roose noticed, he
did not bring any attention to it. Thankfully, he left her to her cup of the
brown, foul tasting liquid.
After a time, Ramsay and Damon finished talking and Sansa took her chance. “I
truly am glad that you are feeling better, my lord.” She muttered, not daring
to look at him. She could feel his red gaze turn on her but did not feel ready
to look up; fearing the hatred she might see in his eyes.
“As am I.” His tone was almost gentle and it made her look up to meet his gaze.
Sansa forced herself to keep her eyes on his.
“I very much looked forward to seeing you again this evening, wife. You are as
beautiful as I remember. If a little thinner.” He took her hand gently in his
own. Sansa was confused for a moment. She had not expected this kindness. “Soon
enough, the Northern Lord’s will return to their keeps. My father will return
to the Dreadfort and it will be just you and I.”
“And Reek.” Sansa smiled a sideways smile, cocking her head knowingly.
“Yes,” Ramsay laughed. He brought her hand up to his broken lips and Sansa had
to suppress a shudder. “You, me and Reek.”   
Chapter End Notes
     That was almost nice, wasn't it? I had planned for this chapter to go
     differently, but I thought I'd be merciful considering I haven't
     updated in a while.
     It was also exactly a year ago today that I started writing
     fanfiction so yay! I feel all emotional...(I only remembered because
     it's my birthday too, I share my birthday with Rory McCann and Aiden
     Gillen, Sansa's fellas XD)
***** Her Monster *****
Chapter Summary
     Herr God, Herr Lucifer
     Beware
     Beware.
     Out of the ash
     I rise with my red hair
     And I eat men like air.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ramsay’s high spirits remained throughout the feast and got higher with every
cup of wine. He jested with Damon, complimented Sansa and even congratulated a
number of the Northern Lords for their valour in battle. His hand remained
linked through hers throughout the feast.
After the last course was cleared away, he ordered for there to be dancing.
Sansa could not remember the last time she had smiled and laughed so much. It
were as though her heart had frozen over and she could feel the ice melting.
Even Roose’s cold presence at her side was not enough to freeze the thaw. She
watched her handmaidens as each were asked to dance. It was understandable.
They were all pretty and there weren’t many girls to go around. Sansa wanted to
dance too. Soon enough, she spotted her chance making his way through the
crowd. Despite their previous encounter the night her pregnancy was announced,
Mychel Redfort smiled at her warmly. “Lord Ramsay, it is so very good to see
you well again.” He beamed with a sweeping bow.
“Thank you, Ser Mychel.” Ramsay smiled back, but there was something unnerving
in his tone.
“Perhaps you may allow me the honour of dancing with your wife? Lady Sansa is a
gifted dancer. She is a delight to dance with.” Sansa had the grace to blush at
the compliments before turning to await her husband’s permission.
She locked eyes with a monster.
His hand tightened around hers, so much so she had to bite her cheek to stop
herself from crying out. Quickly blinking away tears, she turned to face Mychel
once more. “I’m very sorry Ser, but I wish to spend this evening with my
husband. Perhaps you might find some company elsewhere. My handmaidens are all
very comely, are they not?” She forced herself to laugh, picked up her cup of
wine and took a long drink; still painfully aware of Ramsay’s tight grip.
“They are indeed.” Ramsay piped up. “I have spent this evening wondering the
name of the pretty fair-haired one.” He added, indicating towards Aleia.
Sansa’s heart seemed to stop and she turned to look at him; both angered and
humiliated by his words. When she turned to show him how deep his words had
cut, she found he had no interest. His red gaze was already distracted by Aleia
who was dancing amongst a group of young men and women.
Mychel must have left them at some point but neither of them noticed. After a
time, Ramsay reached under the table and placed a hand on her thigh. A part of
her wanted to move away; she was still irritated by his behaviour. He leaned
over to whisper in her ear. “Time for bed, wife.” He hissed. It should have
excited her. She should have felt the familiar warmth at the pit of her
stomach, but she was too irked. Yet when he stood, she did too; knowing better
than to displease him further.
His grip on her hand did not loosen as they made their way slowly to their
chambers. The stairs appeared to be a challenge for him and he grew angrier
every time he had to stop and wait for the pain to ease. Sansa was unsure of
what to do. Helping him would make him look weak and would serve only to anger
him further. Yet she did not want him to injure himself in his rush to get to
their chambers. She needed him strong. She needed him to protect her.
“My lord…are you well?” She ventured. Ramsay was silent for what seemed like an
eternity. Sansa held her breath. Slowly, her monster turned to face her. “Yes.”
His voice was gentler now and he loosened his grip on her hand. “I am well.” He
smiled weakly at her, but in the half light of the corridors it made him look
even more grotesque.    
At least he has calmed.
“Shall we continue on to our chambers then?” She asked, smiling a sultry smile.
As long as she kept him sweet, all would be well.
All would be well.
Ramsay continued on towards their chambers, though Sansa couldn’t help but note
his laboured breathing. Eventually they made it and Ramsay staggered through
the door, leaving Sansa to close it behind them. The moment she turned around,
her monster was there. He pressed his broken lips against her neck first;
moaning into her flesh. “You want to fuck me, don’t you Sansa?” He murmured.
“You want to fuck me hard.” Sansa frowned as he nipped and sucked at her neck.
It was not that he was being rough or that the feeling was unpleasant, it was
the question that made it sound as though she had a say. Yet she was the one
pressed up against the door.
“You shouldn’t do this to me you know.” He moaned. Sansa wondered how much he
had had to drink. “Do…do wha…” He silenced her in the strangest of ways;
placing an entire hand over her face and just keeping it there. It made it hard
for her to breath. When he pulled his hand away, he left no time for words as
his lips crushed against hers. As their tongues collided, he bit down hard;
seizing her tongue with his teeth. Her eyes widened with panic.
What is he doing?
It wasn’t making sense. Ramsay had always been rough. She’d grown to like it.
But this was something different. This made her feel powerless and weak; he
said she shouldn’t do this to him. Do what? It made her sound wanton, as though
it were her fault.
Finally freeing her tongue, he fumbled around in search for her hands. She did
not stop him from taking them, not even when he placed them over the front of
his breeches; signalling for her to undo them. “You shouldn’t do that.” He
sighed into her ear, pressing his weight against her. Sansa stopped and he
groaned in disappointment. “Ramsay, I…I don’t understand. Do you want me to
keep going?”
The way he thrust his hips forward signalled his affirmative.
But before she could go any further, she heard the tearing of fabric and was
suddenly struck by cold air against her skin. Ramsay pushed her up against the
door and began to try and hoist her legs up; gripping onto her thighs so
tightly she could feel the flesh beginning to bruise.
Sudden visions of their wedding night flashed through her mind. The way he’d
pinned her against the door; choked her until she blacked out. The splinters
that dug into her back as he forced his way inside her.
“That is enough.” Her voice was firm and strong as she pushed him away. “Are
you mad? Have you learnt nothing?” She hissed angrily. Ramsay stared at her
blankly. Sansa shrugged herself back into her ruined dress and brushed past him
on her way to the bed. She took her own time. With her back towards him, she
allowed the shredded silk to slide from her body before rolling onto the
mattress; stretching out before him enticingly. She would not lose control
again.
Sansa held out her hand.
Ramsay moved forward, removing his shirt as he came towards her. He took her
hand, allowing her to pull him down onto the bed beside her. Sansa made short
work of his breeches before she began straddling him in earnest.
He got carried away, that was all.
It soon became clear to her that, despite her efforts, nothing was happening.
She stopped moving her hips, just to be certain before reaching down to feel.
Ramsay swallowed and glanced down towards where her hand was.
“Ramsay…” Sansa breathed, confused.
The way his face contorted with rage made him unrecognisable. Before Sansa
could stop him, he reached up and wrapped his hand around her throat; slamming
her down onto the mattress before clambering on top of her, thrusting in a
desperate bid for something to happen. There was nothing. The feeling of it was
so bizarre that Sansa would have laughed were she not so frightened.
When he struck her across the face, she put her hands up as though to try and
push him away. Ramsay, or the monster that had been her husband, growled at the
contact.
Sansa growled back.
Ramsay bared his teeth ready to sink them into her flesh. Sansa’s hands
connected with his shoulders. Beneath her left hand, the skin was rough and hot
and she recalled the wound that had required too many stitches to count.
Stitches.
Before Ramsay could bring his head down to bite her, Sansa hooked a fingernail
beneath one of the stitches and pulled as hard as she could. Ramsay’s feral
snarls turned to howls and he reeled away from her; his shoulder spewing blood.
Whilst the beast yowled in pain, Sansa grabbed her ruined dress and struggled
into it as she made for the door.
Just outside the door, the serving girl was waiting with a jug of wine.
“Take that away and go fetch the maester. Tell him my husband will require
stitches immediately.” Sansa hissed, not wanting to remind her monster that she
was just outside the door.
“Stitches?” In the dim candlelight, Sansa could have sworn she saw the serving
girl smile.
“Yes. Stitches. Now go!” Sansa urged, daring to raise her voice. Without
another word, the serving girl hurried off down the corridor; quiet as a
shadow.
Chapter End Notes
     Well that's a bit embarrassing for Ramsay isn't it? Don't laugh! XD
***** Lady Stark *****
Chapter Summary
     Oh, you can hear me cry
     See my dreams all die
     From where you're standing
     On your own.
     It's so quiet here
     And I feel so cold
     This house no longer
     Feels like home.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
She waited outside whilst the maester dealt with him. It was cold in her
wrecked dress, but she did not dare to go back inside. Instead, Sansa paced up
and down and wrapped her arms around herself; gritting her teeth against the
cold. After only a short time, Damon’s figure appeared, marching down the
hallway towards her. He wore only his breeches and had clearly found company
somewhere else. If he had not left Ramsay’s side whilst he was recovering, he
must have been without it for a long while.
“What did you do?” He growled at her.
Sansa turned and struck him across the cheek.
“You forget yourself. You are Ramsay’s friend, nothing more. How dare you
address me like that?” She snapped. They glared at each other for a long while
before Damon’s shoulders slumped and he looked away.
“Forgive me, my lady. What happened?” He asked through clenched teeth.
“It’s a private matter.” She muttered.
“I’ve been helping the man piss, shit and walk for weeks. Ramsay and I have no
secrets.” Damon grinned his boyish grin.
“Well now you do.” Sansa did not return his smile and went back to pacing up
and down the corridor.
“Does Reek know he is injured?”
“Does it look like I’ve been to the kennels?” Sansa snarled, opening her arms
to expose her ruined dress. The silk slid from her shoulder exposing her left
breast. Damon looked away quickly. “Gods woman.” He muttered, throwing his
hands into the air and marching into their chambers; slamming the door behind
him.
Left alone once more, Sansa’s mind turned back to the night’s events. The way
Ramsay had treated her…it had been just like before. It had made her feel
powerless and weak. She had tried to regain her standing and succeeded, had it
not been for his…
That was the part she didn’t understand. He had been angry about it, that much
was clear and he had tried to take it out on her. He had been so kind to her at
the feast and then he just switched. But had the change happened in their
chambers or during the feast? She recalled the way his hand had tightened
around hers enough to make her bite back tears. And then he had observed Aleia;
complimenting her on her beauty.
What is happening to us?
“Lady Stark. Ser Mychel is here, at your request.” Sansa realised her cheeks
were wet and hurriedly wiped the tears away before turning to face him.
“Ser Mychel.” She smiled, waving the serving girl away.
“Lady Sansa.” Mychel bowed and stepped forwards. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I’m sorry it is so late, but I…” From inside the room, Ramsay late out a
muffled yelp.
“Is there something wrong?” Mychel frowned.
Sansa wanted to explain everything but she could not form the words. Would he
think her petty? Stupid? All Ramsay did was pull her hair a little and get
carried away with it.
But he didn’t get carried away, and he acted as though it was my fault. He
blames me.
Sansa turned away from Mychel before he could see her tears. “My lady, what is
it?” Mychel asked; placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I…I don’t understand. None of it made any sense!” She whispered, turning
around. Mychel glanced down and glimpsed her torn dress. He said nothing. “He
didn’t…we didn’t…it was just the way he treated me.” She didn’t dare to raise
her voice higher than a whisper. “He was unkind and made me feel powerless…”
“Sansa, stop it.” Mychel hissed, gripping her wrist and holding it tightly. “I
warned you and you assured me you knew what you were doing. You should have
heeded Petyr’s warning and stuck to his plan. Yet you had the whore killed and
decided to carry the bastard’s child.”
“I had to. I needed him…”
“Listen to me. You are the Lady of Winterfell. For the love of the Gods act
like it. You are not a child anymore. Do not call me here ever again. Did you
not notice how Ramsay had you refuse me at dinner? Are you out of your mind?”
“It is not I who is out of their mind, it is him. I…I couldn’t arouse him and
he snapped. I need your help, Mychel. You’re the only person I know that can
help. If I can’t please him, it will go back to how it was. I can’t let that
happen again. I will not be his pet again!” She could not stop herself from
raising her voice. The door to her chambers opened and Damon stepped out just
as Mychel released her hand and took a step back.
“Ser Mychel.” Damon raised an eyebrow.
“Damon.” Mychel acknowledged him with a nod.
“I had not expected to find you out here.” Sansa shivered as his gaze turned to
her.
“Lady Sansa was distressed. I was just leaving. Good night, my lady.” He did
not meet her gaze again. Sansa’s heart sank. He was her last link to Petyr yet
he was unwilling to help. All she needed was an ally. Someone to confide in.
“He’s sleeping now.” Damon cut through her thoughts and she looked away from
Mychel’s retreating figure. Damon’s gaze was cold and calculating. She knew
what he was thinking but feared that pleading her innocence would only stir his
suspicions. “I just thought you’d want to know.” It was more of a growl this
time.
“Thank…” He turned and walked away before she could finish. With a sigh of
frustration, Sansa wrapped her arms around herself once more and headed back
into her chambers to try and get some rest.
Chapter End Notes
     Only a short chapter I'm afraid, but following last nights episode, I
     feel inspired and can't wait for what's to come in this story!
     Fasten your seat belts readers...
***** Pets Should Never Lie *****
Chapter Summary
     But don't you come here and say I didn't warn you
     About the way your world can alter
     And oh how you try to command it all still
     Every single time it all shifts one way or the other
The sun fought its way through the clouds; illuminating the courtyard in a
long-lost warm glow. The men that prepared themselves for the journey ahead
looked up with hope and relief in their eyes. They would not be slowed by heavy
snows today.
Ramsay damned the lot of them for looking so fucking happy. Turning away from
the window, he shut his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead in a feeble
attempt to ease the headache that was brewing. His eyelids twitched with
fatigue.
Somewhere not far off, the wolves began to howl again.
“Argh, just fuck off!” Ramsay growled, stumbling away from the window and back
to the bed; rolling his shoulder as he had come to do so often. The maester
warned him it may lead to stiffness in his arm if he did not stop but it had
become a habit, and habits were hard to break. He raised his left hand and
clasped his shoulder; feeling the muscles relax and stiffen as it rotated.
Beneath his fingertips, the scar stuck out above the flesh; ugly and grey. One
of the many things that was ugly about him now.
Sansa’s shoulders rose and fell as she breathed; still deep in sleep. Her red
hair was a stark contrast to the white linen and her naked back. Ramsay
swallowed and continued to stare. It should be arousing. There was always
something about a woman’s naked back. It was what he saw when they were running
away from him on a hunt. It was what he saw when they were off their guard and
unaware of his presence. Yet staring at Sansa now, he felt nothing.
It wasn’t as if he couldn’t. He’d taken Reek multiple times in the past two
weeks and had even hunted a couple of serving wenches. That had always managed
to get his blood running south. Sometimes, in the morning he would wake up and
the sheets would be wet too.
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t tried either. Once he’d been feeling better, he’d
tried again and Sansa had spread her legs willingly. Other times, she had been
the one to climb on top of him; even attempting a few tricks she’d most likely
seen Myranda do.
Yet none of it worked.
As soon as he felt his blood begin to stir, the dream would return to him. The
way she’d laughed at him as their son thrashed and fought.
He’s a bastard you know. A bastard just like you.
Ramsay shook his head to try and get the voice out of it. Her words mingled
with the howling of wolves.
It had just been a dream. A foolish, childish dream. He needed to forget about
it. He needed things to be how they were. Too much had changed. Even he had
changed; despite weeks of healing, his face had remained as monstrous as before
and the redness of his eyes had not dulled. Sansa did her best to look him in
the eye, but sometimes he would see her struggling with it. Reek was worse. No
matter how much he threatened his pet, he would always beg to close his eyes or
turn away. Ramsay felt it was more of a reflex than a choice. He had to grab
Reek’s face and force him to look at him if he wanted to come to that terrified
gaze.
I have been away for far too long.
Sansa rolled over and muttered something softly. Her face was peaceful and
solemn. She would always be beautiful, but it was not her beauty that he lusted
for. It was the way she had looked at him and saw her protector, her shield,
her husband. The adoration in her eyes that she never realised she had. And
when she was jealous…Myranda, Reek, even Damon, she’d never looked better. He
wanted that back again. She always thought she had influence and in some ways
she had. But he knew how to manipulate her too. He could tell she was keeping
secrets. Her and Reek. He could tell.
Ramsay wanted his pet back. Ramsay wanted his wife back. His adoring, jealous,
fiery…
“Forgive me my lord, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
She had slipped in unnoticed by Ramsay and it unnerved him a bit. That soon
became frustration. But the moment he saw her sweet face and fair hair, he
forced his face to soften into a grin. The handmaiden glanced up and caught his
smile. She blushed and dipped her head again. Ramsay was very much aware he
wore only his breeches. His face might be fucked, but he still had a well-toned
form and fine words.
“I…I’ll come back later…” She stammered as he moved towards her. “Sh…shall I,
my lord. Lady S…Sansa isn’t awake yet.” She quickly turned away before he
reached her, but his voice was not one to be ignored lightly.
“What is your name?” He asked softly, his grin widening.
“Aleia, my lord.” He couldn’t tell from beneath the curtain of hair whether she
was crying or blushing. It didn’t matter really.
“Well, Aleia. Go and fetch my Reek for me. He’ll be grateful I’ve sent such a
pretty face to wake him.” Ramsay had moved close enough to smell her. She had a
sweet scent. Sweet as spring.
“Yes my lord.” Aleia bobbed a curtsy, then hurried from the room.
Ramsay turned and caught the dark gaze from amongst the sheet.
Found you.
The outside world had grown colder still. Reek had scarcely noticed how cold it
was these past few weeks. His only focus had been his master who had grown so
frightful yet so hard to please. He lived in fear of another finger being
taken. Or a toe. Or both. Again.
When he had first been summoned to his masters chambers by the pretty
handmaiden, he had been near to soiling himself. Fortunately, when he’d entered
the room, he could sense the tension there was not aimed towards him. He had
not been summoned to lose a body part, nor entertain his master and master’s
lady wife. “Come Reek, let’s go!” Ramsay had said cheerfully almost the moment
Reek had crawled into the room. Lady Sansa had been getting out of bed; a
familiar expression on her face. Reek had grown to fear it, though he had not
seen it for some time.
“Thank you for bringing my pet to me Aleia. Pet, say thank you.” Reek glanced
up at his master; checking as quickly as he could for signs of a game. Ramsay
rarely let him speak to anyone. But there was no malice or promised pain in his
master’s reddened gaze, only amusement. “Th…thank you…Al…Aleia.” Reek
stammered, dipping his head and not looking at her. He didn’t like handmaidens
looking at him. Not after the last one.
“Come Reek.” Master ordered. Reek turned and scurried after him, eager to be
out of the room where anger was building so strongly.
He had not expected his master to take him outside though. Perhaps they had
been going to find his boys or Lord Bolton. Master allowed him to stand up so
he wouldn’t have to crawl through the snow and Reek thanked him repeatedly for
his mercy. “Did you see my wife’s face this morning Reek? Thunderous wasn’t
she! It’s just so easy to make her jealous.” His master laughed, slinging a
heavy arm around Reek’s frail shoulders.
“Jealous…master?”
“Yes, Reek. I want my wife back.” Was all his master replied with. As he was
pushed along, Reek suddenly realised where they were headed. “Um…master, why
are we going to the Godswood?” Reek asked; wringing his hands together
nervously. The last time they had been to the Godswood…Reek shuddered as he
recalled the faint voice that had whispered Sansa’s name.
It had been Bran’s voice.
It all seemed so long ago now. It had been before Sansa had even married
Ramsay.
I should have saved her then. Now it is too late.
No!
Reek whimpered in an attempt to smother the voices. Ramsay looked at him
quizzically but said nothing. Reek squeaked again as Ramsay’s hand tightened
around his arm.
It was warmer in the Godswood, as it always was. And quiet too. Many of the
Northern Lords had left Winterfell to return to their castles before the snows
got too heavy. Reek was somewhat relieved. He just wanted it to be him and
master. So many of the Northern Lords had known who he once was. The spitting
and the insults had not hurt. The name they had called him had; as though he
could imagine the kiss of Ramsay’s flaying knife each time it was said.
“You have been a very loyal pet, haven’t you Reek?” Ramsay asked once they were
deep into the Godswood.
“Yes m’lord. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.” He chanted dutifully.
“And you would never hide secrets from me, would you?” They were nearing the
Weirwood now; he could see the tree at the end of the path. Reek began to
tremble. “N…no master.” He couldn’t bear to look at him. He knew. He always
knew.
Reek looked around, desperate to see anything but his red gaze. For once, Reek
got his wish.
She was standing before the Weirwood tree. Her small figure did not cower from
the cold. Standing as tall as she could, gazing deep into the eyes of the
Weirwood. Reek did not know who she was.
But, for a moment, Theon did.
Arya.
The whisper wound through the trees and made the hairs on his body stand on
end. Reek shuddered as the girl before the tree span around; seeking the source
of the voice. He didn’t recognise her face. Neither did Theon. When she saw
Reek looking at her, she fled. Somewhere from beyond the castle walls, a wolf
began to howl.
Arya.
Master must have heard it too. Ramsay turned away from him; casting an eye
about the place. Reek shook even harder when his master swallowed nervously. He
is afraid.
“Master…” He squeaked.
When Ramsay turned, his rage was as red as his eyes.
“What was that?” He growled. Reek looked about frantically. Anywhere, anywhere
but the eyes. “WHAT WAS THAT?” His master roared, making Reek whine and shake
so hard he thought he’d collapse.
“M…master…I don’t know…” He whimpered. Ramsay’s arm whipped out and Reek’s eyes
bulged as his hand wrapped around his thin neck. There was nowhere else to look
now. He remembered that angry stare from when master had been recovering; how
uncontrollable it was. If it hadn’t been for Damon, Ramsay would have forgotten
himself. And Damon wasn’t here to save Reek now.
“Don’t lie to me Reek. Tell me what you’ve been hiding. TELL ME!” The master
demanded. The pet’s eyes widened further. He couldn’t…he shouldn’t…
“Tell me, or I swear to all the Gods I’ll flay every inch of your worthless
little body.” Ramsay snarled.
Reek felt salty tears burn his cheeks. Worthless. That was what master had
called him. If I am worthless to master, I am worth nothing. Reek choked out a
sob despite the hands wrapped about his throat.
“Reek, I have been merciful so far. But this is your final warning. Tell. Me.”
Ramsay shook him roughly to ward off the darkness that was threatening to
consume Reek. “What are you and my wife hiding?”
Suddenly he could breathe again. The sweat relief of air filling his lungs
dulled the pain of being thrown to the ground, for now at least. He was blinded
by black and white spots that swam through his vision. He never even saw master
pick up the stick. Reek yowled in pain as it bit through his thighs.
“Who am I?” Ramsay asked. Reek wasn’t even given time to respond before the
stick thwacked against his frail ribs. “Master!” Reek screamed.
“And who are you?” Again, the stick came down hard onto his torso. “WHO ARE YOU
REALLY?”
“LOYAL REEK! GOOD REEK! I’VE ALWAYS BEEN REEK MASTER. ALWAYS. FOREVER. REEK,
REEK…IT RHYMES WITH WEAK, MEEK AND SQUEAK!” He screamed, longing for the pain
to stop. “Please, mercy master! Please! I’ll do anything…anything…” He sobbed.
His vision had cleared now and he could see the monster that towered over him.
“Tell me what you and Sansa are hiding.” Reek dared not to look away from that
red gaze. At first the words came out as a choked sob. The sight of Ramsay
raising his stick again startled the words out of him like game from a bush.
“Your father…Lord Roose…he…he visited her while you were away, the…the night
before she lost…lost the baby. He visited her again when you were ill master!
He told her never to tell anyone what happened that night...” Reek paused
momentarily, not wishing to say what came next. If I tell him, he’ll die. Roose
will kill him.
Let him Theon muttered. Let him die.
Ramsay raised the stick again.
“He said he’d have you killed!” Reek and Theon fought over control of the voice
so that it came out as a strangled cry. Neither was truly sure who had said the
words.
Ramsay lowered the stick.
His face was unreadable. Reek continued to whimper on the ground. When Ramsay
threw the stick aside, he yelped again, but Ramsay did not hear him.
“Master?” Reek squeaked as he watched his master’s figure retreating from the
Godswood.
***** Cutting the Puppet's Strings *****
Chapter Summary
     Sweetheart, what have you done to us?
     I turned my back and you turned to dust
     What have you done?
     And oh please, just come here, don't fight with me
     And I admit, think you may have broken it.
Sansa watched her closely as she helped her dress. Aleia kept her eyes averted.
Her face was pale and taut with anxiety. Her hands trembled. After a while,
Sansa took them in her own. “Aleia, look at me.” She commanded. The girl
whimpered but obeyed. Sansa was sure she was verging on tears. “I saw what
happened this morning.” Sansa admitted, unable to keep the coldness from her
voice.
“My lady…I’m so sorry…he just…”
“Hush now. I know. I know.” Sansa’s face softened.
“They say…they say he hunts women. Will he hunt me?” Aleia bit down on her lip
to stop herself from sobbing. Sansa stared at her, almost in shock. Aleia was
trying so hard to bite back tears.
She’s just a little girl. A pretty little fool. How did she end up here?
Sansa had been a little girl too once. She had loved King Joffrey and played
her part willingly, at the amusement of the Queen. A pretty little fool. She
had ended up in the capital; an infested pit of vipers and rats.
“He will not hurt you, I swear it.” Sansa promised, wiping away a tear and
cupping Aleia’s cheek. The door opened and closed but Sansa ignored it. “No
harm shall come to you, I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” She smiled
warmly.
“My Lady, Lord Bolton is without.” The serving girl informed with her customary
sullen tone. Sansa looked up, suddenly fearful herself. What did he want from
her now?
“Let him in.” She said; her voice trembled. Aleia moved away from her and began
to tidy the room. When Roose Bolton entered, Sansa felt that familiar chill
fill the room and it made her shiver. “Lady Sansa.” He said, smiling that cold
smile. She had managed to avoid him the past two weeks. She had obeyed his
commands so what did he want?
“Can I help you with something Lord Bolton?” Her voice was cool and
indifferent. Sansa recalled that the last time they had spoken together she had
attempted to stab him. Unfortunately, Ramsay’s knife was beneath the bed and
too far from her reach for her to make another attempt.
Give him a message from me Her brother’s words echoed through her head.
“Leave us.” He ordered, watching Aleia warily. Aleia had not the courage to
even look at him before she fled the room. “I don’t trust handmaidens.” Roose
gave a small, knowing smile.
“What about her?” Sansa looked meaningfully at the serving girl.
“Nan, what will I do to you if you disobey me?”
“Flay me living m’lord.” The girl replied without missing a beat. Sansa watched
her for a moment. The girl continued to stare murderously at Lord Bolton’s
back. Sansa wondered how Roose could not feel it burning through his flesh. She
couldn’t help but admire the little girl for her bravery. The bravery seemed to
embolden her. “She’s a little young for you isn’t she Lord Bolton? I thought it
was only a wolf you craved now?”
“I came here to remind you of our deal. I am to leave today, but do not think I
have not left eyes behind. You will tell your husband nothing of what occurred
the night before you lost your child. If you do, he will die and you will be
taken to the Dreadfort…”
“To be wedded and bedded by you. I had not forgotten.” Sansa said stonily.
Roose just smiled smugly.
“Very good, Lady Sansa. You play your part so well. You always do.” His
amusement was sharper and more painful than a dagger in her side. He thought of
her as a piece. He turned away from her and made to leave, only to be stopped
by the thunder of footsteps coming down the corridor. Moments later, the door
crashed open to reveal an enraged Ramsay. Sansa could feel the blood drain from
her face.
“Ramsay?” Roose inquired quietly.
“Well isn’t this unusual? Finding you two together. What are you doing wife?
Making more deals behind my back?” His red gaze flicked from her to his father.
“What are you talking about Ramsay?” Roose asked quietly.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Did you really think Reek wouldn’t
tell me?”
“Ramsay…don’t…” Sansa warned.
“Don’t try to warn me wife! What did you do the night before my son died? Tell
me why you’d promised her you’d have me killed if I found out.” Ramsay stormed
towards his father and Sansa thought for half a heartbeat he’d dare to strike
him. She willed for it to happen. What is weaker than a family that chases its
own tail?
“Do not presume to threaten me bastard. Everything you have I gave you, you
would do well to remember that. Now step aside before you make me rue the day I
raped your mother.” Sansa’s eyes widened, she could feel the tension’s current
sweeping past her; trying to force her with it. It made her legs weak and she
managed to stumble to a chair before she collapsed. Ramsay’s trembling was
visible even from where she was sitting.
Ramsay’s whole face twitched; the patchwork flesh flinching grotesquely, no
part moving in coordination with another.
Roose’s face remained a frozen mask.
Her monster stepped aside.
“I trust you shall both have a pleasant winter.” Roose said over his shoulders
before sweeping from the room, leaving the cold and the serving girl behind.
Ramsay stood still; staring at the spot his father had stood just moments
before. Sansa rested her elbow onto the arm of the chair and placed her
forehead into her hand. Her head had begun to ache with the conflicting voices.
She stared into the hearth; willing for time to reverse.
“What did he do?” Ramsay’s voice was deadly soft. Sansa sighed and slumped back
in the chair; closing her eyes wearily. “Did you think I was the only one who
knew how to rid a woman of her child?” She muttered. Ramsay was silent for a
moment. A long moment. So long, in fact, Sansa opened her eyes and half
expected him to have disappeared. Unfortunately, he had not.
“He forced you to drink it?” He asked, his voice a low growl that sent the
hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
“Not exactly.” Ramsay’s head snapped up and his red eyes focused on her;
narrowing in suspicion. “Then what exactly did he do? Do you mean to tell me
you drank it willingly?”
“You have no one to blame but yourself for this.” She hissed.
“I told you to protect him.”
“And you swore to protect me. Don’t you remember? You swore to protect me and
in exchange I would see to it that you got the North. It is your fault.” Sansa
did not mean to sound so accusatory. Ramsay charged towards her, stopping
himself only once he was looming over her. Sansa did not cower from him. She
met his glare with her own.
“My fault? Do you know what I could do to you? Do you want to be my little
bitch again, is that it? Then I’d give you all the protection you need. You can
stay locked in this room for me to fuck as I please. You remember what that was
like don’t you? I still have the wolf pelt you know. Would you like a
reminder?”
“It would be rather hard for you to fuck me as you please if you can’t even get
it up.” A sharp intake of breath was all she made when the back of his hand
struck her cheek. “For the Gods’ sake, why must you behave like such a child?
Was I forced into wedlock with a dullard?”
“You are pushing me too far wife. Keeping going and you’ll lose a finger for
it.”
“If you do not start behaving the Lord and using your head, your father will
kill you before you even know it.” Sansa gripped his arm tightly. “No matter
what happens, what has happened, we cannot let it come between us. Damage must
be controlled and manipulated for our benefit, Ramsay.”
He tore his hand out of her grasp.
“Ramsay?” Sansa stood up as he began to walk away. Ramsay turned and gave her a
look she had seen only when he’d learnt of Myranda’s betrayal. “Be grateful you
have made your bed already madam. Given a second chance I would not give it to
you again!” He snarled. Sansa stared at him, stunned into silence. He stormed
from the room without another word.
“Ramsay?” She called. “Ramsay!”
He didn’t come back.
***** Stone Hearts *****
Chapter Summary
     It's not what I'm in love for, I know
     But I don't know if you could help it
     Baby I'm just being selfish
     Loving you is a bloodsport.
The amount of diners had dropped drastically, but the mood was merrier than
Sansa could ever remember it being. There was dancing the entire night and now
the men no longer had to fight for a partner. Only a small number of minor
lords remained; hoping for any scraps of favour left on Ramsay’s plate. The
knights from the Vale had remained too and a garrison had been set in place to
fill Winterfell’s walls. Ramsay’s boys had remained too of course, as well as
Sansa’s handmaidens. There would be very little for them at The Dreadfort.
Sansa, however, could not find the heart to join in the merriment.
Ramsay sat beside her, finally in the Lord’s chair which his father had taken
for too long. To his left sat Damon and his other men. Sansa sat to his right;
the spaces next to her all empty. She could feel Reek shuffling around her feet
anxiously. He also seemed to sense Ramsay’s growing discontent. Ramsay himself
sat with an elbow on the arm of his chair, stroking his jaw thoughtfully whilst
playing with the knife in his other hand. He almost looked the Lord there;
looking out over the Great Hall, his mind far away. He looked as though he were
plotting and for a second an image of Littlefinger came to mind. Sansa couldn’t
help but snort into her goblet.
“Something funny, wife?” Ramsay inquired with a dull tone. The lie came to her
lips easily as she spotted Damon milling through the crowd with the look of a
hunter on his face. “Why husband, it looks as though your loyal dog has found a
new bone to chew besides yours.” Sansa forced herself to laugh again as she
watched The young serving girl, Nan, quickly move out of Damon’s path and melt
into the crowd again. Damon looked around angrily, annoyed that his prey had
alluded him. Clearly, he liked a younger girl.
“Damon!” Ramsay barked. Damon’s head snapped up immediately and Sansa had to
cover her mouth to regain her composure as the loyal pet was called to heal.
“You called for me, my lord?” Damon grinned, bowing. Ramsay dealt her a
sideways glance before looking up at his friend. “A Lord I am, and a Lord has a
household but needs a man to keep it. I would name you my steward. The steward
of Winterfell.”
Sansa coughed and spluttered as her wine went down the wrong way.
“Ramsay…my lord, you honour me.” Damon bowed again deeply, his grin almost
splitting his face in half.
“My love, the role of the steward should go to a trusted man of noble birth.”
Sansa interrupted, finally regaining her composure. She recalled Vayon Poole,
who had been her father’s steward and her best friend Jeyne’s father. He had
not been the most well-bred of men, but he had had a noble heart. Something she
was sure Damon did not possess.
Ramsay looked at her with the same cool gaze he had dealt her all night.
“No. I trust Damon. And what is to say he will not become a nobleman? He fought
bravely in battle. Why not a knighthood?” Ramsay grinned back at his friend
knowingly.
He is no true knightSansa thought. But she had learnt her lesson about knight’s
long ago.
Damon bowed and thanked Ramsay again before taking leave to resume his hunt.
The moment he had gone, Ramsay turned on Sansa and gripped her hand so tightly
she thought the bones would break. “That was unnecessary.” He growled in her
ear.
Sansa turned away from him and swallowed her anger.
Ramsay’s fingers pinched her chin and forced her head back around to face him.
“I am the Lord of Winterfell now. Do I need to give you a reminder?” Sansa kept
her gaze cold and indifferent. Ramsay seemed to read it otherwise. He seemed to
think she was daring him to continue. “Ser Mychel!” He called. Mychel Redfort
looked up from his place on the benches, frowning. A sinister smirk spread
across Ramsay’s face and he slumped back in his chair, waiting for Mychel as he
made his way through the crowd.
“Lord Ramsay.” Mychel bowed.
“Ser Mychel. I don’t believe I have thanked you for all you have done. You
escorted my wife to me when she was just a bride-to-be and I heard you fought
well in battle.” Ramsay smiled charmingly. Sansa frowned in confusion.
“There is no need to thank me my lord.”
“Of course! You deserve a reward.” Ramsay’s smile widened. The hall seemed to
grow quieter; the people fearing what this reward might be.
“Go home.” Ramsay ordered.
“My Lord?”
“You and your flock should fly back South for the winter. Birds struggle to fly
through snow, even falcons. You and your men are sworn to House Arryn. I’m sure
my wife agrees that you ought to return to your little lord, to protect him
from the perils of winter.” Ramsay turned to face her, still smiling. “Don’t
you wife?”
Sansa tried to freeze her red hot anger. She stared back of him. Her eyes
saying it all but her mouth saying nothing.
“I bid you safe passage, Ser Mychel.” Ramsay turned back to him, smiling madly.
Ser Mychel did not dare to glare at him, but if swords were allowed in the
Great Hall, Sansa was sure he’d be gripping the hilt of his extremely tightly.
In fact, his right hand was balled at his hip, as though he were thinking just
that. He glanced at Sansa for any hint of what should be done. Sansa just
stared back.
Mychel was her last link to Petyr. If he were to leave, would Petyr have any
eyes left in Winterfell at all? Or was she left alone with Ramsay? There was a
time when she would not have seen that as a problem, but now…Ramsay had become
even more unpredictable and Sansa could feel her grip on him loosening. If she
could not control him, and there was nothing Petyr could do, what would become
of her? She would not be a pet again. Never again.
Sensing they were out of options, Mychel gave a shallow bow. “My lord.” He
muttered through gritted teeth. Ramsay grinned as the man retreated back to his
table.
“Will you pardon me, my lord?” Sansa asked flatly. Ramsay waved a hand at her
but did not so much as glance her way. Sansa lingered for a moment before
standing; a small part of her still craving his attention.
What happened to us?
 She had reached the bottom of the dais when Ramsay called down to her. “You
can take Reek with you as well. I’ll have another form of entertainment by the
time this night is done.” Sansa turned to see him raise a goblet at her before
his gaze moved onto something past her shoulder. Sansa turned to see Aleia,
still dancing and laughing with a young squire from the Vale. Ramsay’s men
guffawed drunkenly.
“Come Reek!” Sansa snapped. She swept from the room; the crowd parting for her
and looking on pitifully. Sansa’s face was carved of stone.
Let my heart turn to stone and my tears to ice. I will not weep for him.
***** Many Faces *****
Chapter Summary
     Baby you're cruel to me
     but you see I love it when you make me plead
     I want a scar that looks just like you
     'till then I gotta learn to be a wiser fool
     Baby you need to leave
     and I know you know
     that's why you keep ignoring me
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Reek struggled to keep up with her as she stormed down the hallways. His legs
ached and he could feel cramp starting to seize his maimed feet. She had
ordered him to walk. Usually it was only master’s commands he obeyed, but at
that moment Sansa had looked and sounded very much the same.
When he finally reached their chambers, Sansa was sat by the fire and pouring
herself another cup of wine. She held it to her lips but did not drink; staring
at the flames with eyes unseeing. Reek waited in silence for a fear filled
moment, waiting for her to either explode into a fit of rage, or break down
into tears. By the look on her face, it could have gone either way.
But it didn’t.
“M…m’lady?” He couldn’t bear the silence any more.
Sansa’s haunted gaze slowly focused on him. She looked for a moment as though
she were not sure who he was. Reek wrung his hands together nervously; certain
that her anger would resurface in an instant.
“Reek. I had forgotten you were here.” Her voice was empty and distant. She
looked away from him and back to the flames; drinking deeply.
Outside the castle walls, a wolf began to howl. Reek whimpered fearfully and
cowered against the wall. He had always hated their cries, even before…
“Come here, pet. You may crawl to me.” Her voice was soft, each word said
slowly and clearly and the command had been gentle. She wasn’t even looking at
him; just stared at the fire, mesmerized by the flames. After a moment’s
hesitation, he obeyed. When he reached her, a second wolf joined the first.
“Nymeria and Ghost. Ghost was always so silent until Jon died, that’s why Jon
named him that. And Nymeria…Arya set her free in the Riverlands. She must have
found her way home, somehow. Lady is here already.”
Lady died, and you were left alone.
Reek whined to try and drown out the dreaded voice. He cried out and tried to
cower away as Sansa’s hand reached out…
And gently ran a hand through his matted curls.
“I dream about them every night. All of them. My mother and father, Robb, Jon.
Lady. I always feel braver with Lady. But I do not see Bran or Rickon, or Arya.
What does that mean? Are they still alive?” Again, every word was said slowly
and distantly, but Reek could tell she did not require an answer. She just
wanted someone to talk to. He keened into her touch as she continued, trying to
focus on the gentleness of her hand instead of the words she should not say.
“Ramsay told me…he told me they were dead. And my mother and father, Robb and
Jon…they tell me things. I wake up whispering ‘I promise’. ‘Promise me’ they
all beg.” Reek whined again. He did well to block his own dreams out. If Sansa
let them in, it was because she wanted to. And that was bad. If Ramsay knew…if
master found out…
“So he’s sent you away too?” Her voice retained its emptiness but her gaze met
his and she almost smiled, though it was a sad smile. Reek found he didn’t want
her to be sad. He moved his head so it rested on her lap; that always pleased
master up whenever he was upset. “It was just for the evening. Master wouldn’t
abandon me.”
“But he would me.” Her eyes fell away from his and she stared down at her cup;
her lips pinched together and holding back tears.
“No m’lady!” Reek had not meant to displease her.
“He would. He has tired of me.” She muttered. Again, she lifted the cup and
rested it against her lips without taking a sip. Her eyes returned to the fire
and the lids drooped as though she were tired. “He’s gone for hours sometimes.
I think he must have women elsewhere. For all I know he has a room full of
whores that he fucks and hunts. I thought I’d accept it once the time came. I
told him he could do so. But…you, you I have come to accept. But other women…do
you know? You are the only one he trusts completely. Are there others or is it
just Aleia?”
His agonized whine vibrated through his throat. He did not know.
“Do you think he is lying to us both?”
“No! He’s not! He wouldn’t do that to me! I am his Reek. His good Reek. His
loyal Reek!” He wailed, lifting his head from her lap.
“But how do you know pet?” Her hand remained on his head, petting gently. It
did nothing to calm him down. “Because he told me! He told me he only does it
because he wants to make you jealous!” He cried, twisting away from her hand.
“Hush, Reek. Hush.” She cooed with a voice of ice. Her face was carved of
stone; unreadable. “And why did you tell him of Roose’s plan, Reek? Did he hurt
you? Or was there someone just dying to have his say?” Reek’s eyes widened with
fear and he began to tremble.
She knows. Oh gods, she knows. What if she tells master?
“I will not tell him.” Sansa’s stone mask slid away and she turned back to gaze
into the fire. “With Mychel gone, you’re all I have left.”
Reek was about to thank her and rest his head back on her lap when a third wolf
began to howl. It was not mournful like the other two; it was angry. Vengeful.
Reek could see the hairs on Sansa’s arms stand on end, but her face remained
still. Whatever mask she was wearing now, it was firmly in place.
Her feet ached and her head span but she refused to stop dancing. Aleia loved
to dance and sing and here in this hall she felt alive; almost everyone was
watching her. And why wouldn’t they?
“You are the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.” Her knight had
whispered. And she could very well believe it.
The music began to slow as the song reached its end and she curtsied deeply,
giggling and blushing when he took her hand and kissed it. “Shall we go and get
a drink, Aleia.” She giggled again when he said her name. The way he dragged
his tongue over the ‘l’ always made her laugh. Allowing him to lead her from
the dancers, she drank deeply from her goblet. The dancing had made her
thirsty, so much so that she hardly even noticed when he settled a hand on her
waist. “Shall we go somewhere more private, Aleia.” He purred, grinning. She
giggled again.
“Pardon for my interruption.” An ugly man stepped up beside Aleia, making her
jump. “We’ve got to go.” The man announced.
“What, why?”
“Because Ser Mychel orders it, that is why.”
“But I don’t want to go.” The ugly man grabbed her knight by the ear and began
to drag him away.
“Wait, where are you going?” Aleia called after him. He gave no reply. All the
energy seemed to drain out of her and she slumped her shoulders, pouting. She
resolved to find another partner before the night was through and turned, only
to bump into another man. He was tall with fair hair and a charming face. Lady
Sansa despised him, she recalled. “May I help you Ser?” Aleia asked, smiling
sweetly. She was not sure if he was a Ser, in truth, but she did not want to
insult him.
“Lord Ramsay has asked to see you.” He grinned a charming boyish grin.
“Lord Ramsay?” Her heart began to thud against her rib cage.
“Yes.” He continued to smile and offered her his arm. She knew better than to
refuse. Everyone stopped dancing to watch as she was led from the room. “What
does he want with me?” She asked the man as soon as they were out of earshot.
“What do you think?” He replied incredulously, still grinning that boyish grin.
Aleia’s stomach fluttered nervously.
All too soon they were out of the hall and he was leading her down a narrow
corridor. She had never been down here before but she had seen Lord Bolton go
there numerous times and so had figured the room it led to must be important.
Even the door looked important when they reached it. The fair-headed man
knocked twice and Lord Ramsay’s voice replied almost immediately, but before
the door opened, the man turned to her. “For gods’ sake, pretend to enjoy
whatever it is that he does. And try to please him.”
“What will he do?” She whispered, suddenly fearful. He didn’t reply. Just
opened the door and shoved her inside.
He sat beside the hearth, but turned when he heard her enter. The fire cast
shadows across his patchwork face and made the grin more sinister than
charming. “Hello there Aleia.” The way he said her name sent shivers through
her but she forced herself to smile and courtesy. Despite her fears, she always
remembered her courtesies.
“Please. Sit.” It was more of an order than an invitation. Aleia obeyed and sat
on the edge of the chair opposite him. He regarded her with that curious, red
stare and she felt the hairs on her body stand to attention. Aleia fiddled with
her hands nervously as the silence dragged on.
“You are a good dancer.” Lord Ramsay clasped his hands together and continued
watching her.
“Yes. I learnt when I was a girl.”
“You are good with the men too.” She could hear the mocking in his voice but
still looked up in surprise. “Are you a virgin?” Aleia couldn’t help but giggle
at the question. She bit down on her lip and grinned. Lord Ramsay smiled back
and lifted a hand to his face; rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Aleia watched his
every move as he slid his hand into his pocket. She half expected him to pull
out a knife. Instead, he revealed a necklace; a silver chain with a heavy red
stone. Ramsay raised an eyebrow as she stared at it, mesmerized by how the
flames danced on the stone.
“Do you like it?” He asked.
“It is very handsome, my lord.” Aleia replied, still mesmerized. Ramsay swung
it so the reflections made it look like the stone was on fire. “May I kiss it?”
She asked, smiling sweetly. Ramsay stopped swinging the necklace. Aleia held
her breath, fearing she had done something wrong.
He held it out to her.
Try to please him.
Aleia pressed the stone to her lips, then lifted her leg and rested a foot on
Lord Ramsay’s chair. He grinned and watched the stone. Aleia lifted her skirts,
smiling wantonly now, and began to slide the stone up her leg. Her eyes never
left his face. Ramsay licked his lips hungrily as the stone trailed over her
knee. She did not raise her skirts any further, but slid her arm beneath the
fabric, gasping when she felt the cold stone kiss her lips. Tilting her head
back, she smiled and waited until she heard Ramsay begin to breathe heavily.
When he did, she pulled the stone out from between her thighs and fastened the
necklace around her neck. Aleia slumped back in her chair, tilting her chin up
haughtily.
“I’m the queen in the North!” She announced. Ramsay laughed and the amusement
reached his red gaze. Aleia stood up and moved towards him. “A queen needs a
king!” She giggled and settled herself on Ramsay’s lap; straddling him as she
might a horse.
“You’re not as innocent as my wife thinks you are, are you, my sweet little
fool?” He grinned.
“I’m not a fool! I’m a queen! And must we mention your wife now?” Aleia smiled.
Ramsay grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked it sharply.
“I may say what I like.” He growled. Aleia took a deep breath to steady her
nerves. “Of course you may, you are a king.” She forced herself to laugh.
Fortunately, that seemed to amuse him. He sat up to kiss her neck. “Do you
consent?” He muttered.
“I think you would prefer it if I did not.” Aleia replied, smiling but fearing
what her words might entail. Ramsay pulled back to flash an approving smirk
before leaning in again. This time, however, it was not his lips she felt on
her skin. It was his teeth. Aleia bit back a whimper as she felt his teeth bite
through her flesh. She could feel him hot and hard beneath her.
In a matter of minutes, he was done. Aleia did her best to pretend enthusiasm
and enjoyment, but as she felt him release inside her, she could have sworn
he’d whispered a name into her ear.
Sansa.
Chapter End Notes
     Never trust a handmaiden.
***** Two Can Play This Game *****
Chapter Summary
     It feels like there's oceans
     Between me and you once again
     We hide our emotions
     Under the surface and try to pretend.
He wasn’t at breakfast either. Sansa sat alone on the dais, picking at her food
and sipping the watered-down wine. The hall was quieter than it had been last
night and more empty. Mychel had left before breakfast, bidding her a goodbye
on the steps of the keep. Ramsay hadn’t even been there to bid farewell to the
men who had helped him hold the North. He hadn’t come back to their rooms that
night, but Sansa had expected that. She’d stayed up the whole night though,
with Reek at her feet, listening to the singing of wolves.
With what small appetite she possessed quenched, Sansa settled the plate on the
floor and quietly told Reek to eat. She heard a whispered thank you and felt
his slight body shift towards the plate of food.
“Reek!” The table jolted when the creature at her feet leapt up in fear at the
voice. Sansa heard him yelp as his head hit the heavy table. She turned in her
chair to find Damon standing beside her, grinning in amusement. “Does it please
you to fool a fool?” She snapped.
“A fool now is he? I thought he was a pet.” Sansa turned away, too tired for
his jests. “Anyway, he’s not supposed to eat without Ramsay’s permission.”
“Ramsay would not wish for his pet to starve. Am I to tell him you told me to
do so? Your time as his steward would be short lived.” Her tone was flat and
she did not spare him a glance, choosing instead to continue to gaze out over
the crowd. Occasionally, when the diners fell quiet, the three wolves could be
heard howling. The other two had also changed their tune so it sounded just as
ferocious as the third.
“You look tired, my lady. Up all night? Waiting for someone?” She could hear
the pleasure in his voice.
“My husband did not return, so I listened to the wolves.” She gave a small
smile and reached a hand down to caress Reek’s curls. “Leave us Damon, your
Lord has more need of you than I, I am sure. You are his steward after all.”
Even as he walked away, Sansa did not look at him, though she could tell he was
annoyed. “Are you finished Reek?”
“Yes m’lady.” He squeaked from beneath the table.
“Good, let’s go back to our chambers then.” Sansa stood and left, walking a
little slower so that Reek did not fall too far behind.
When she made it back to her chambers, she was almost surprised to find some of
the handmaidens already there. Perhaps, after her night alone with Reek and the
wolves, she had grown used to the solitude.
The moment she entered, they all stopped talking and looked at her. Some
smiled. Some giggled. Others hurriedly continued their work.
Sansa spied Aleia over by the bed adjusting and smoothing the sheets. Her hair
was down but Sansa could still glimpse bite marks at the base of her neck and
dark circles had settled beneath her eyes, marring her beauty slightly. She
knew all too well how such scars could effect a girl. There was a time when,
despite the southern sun, she had been forced to wear long-sleeved dresses to
cover the bruises King Joffrey had had his knights make. She had had to hide
her scars as though she should be ashamed to have them; as though they were her
own doing. Even if people at court had glimpsed them, they would have turned
away. She could have gone out naked as her name day and they would have been
blind to her suffering, though they would have scolded and ridiculed her for
her brazenness.
Sansa could not help the pity that cracked the mask she had been wearing, and
she found herself staring at the handmaiden who now seemed to shine a little
less brightly.
When Aleia leant forward to flatten the sheets further, Sansa glimpsed a
glimmer of red.
She waited until the girl stood straight before enquiring after it. It was an
ugly thing; a heavy silver chain holding an even heavier red stone that seemed
out of place on such a sweet creature. Sansa’s eyes narrowed as she tried to
recall where she had seen it before.
“M…m’lady…” She turned at the gentle tugging of her dress to see Reek staring
up at her.
“What is it Reek?” His eyes were not on her. It seemed he had noticed the
necklace too. “Myranda.” Reek whispered. That was it. Sansa looked back at the
handmaiden and her necklace. She had seen Myranda wear it on special occasions.
It had suited the old whore much better.
Ramsay must have given it to her. How else would she have gotten it?
Sansa felt the familiar jealousy begin to boil up inside her until Reek’s words
rang in her ears; he only does it because he wants to make you jealous.
“What is that?” Sansa inquired, moving towards Aleia with a mask of stone. The
room went silent. Aleia’s face drained of blood as she turned to look at her.
“It’s um…it’s a necklace my lady.” The girl stuttered.
“Yes I can see that.” Every word was clipped and harsh. Once she was within
reach, Sansa reached out to hold it and inspect it closer. She stared at it for
a long moment before looking at Aleia with an ice cold gaze. “Where did you get
it?” Sansa arched an eyebrow. Aleia began to tremble. “L…Lord Ramsay, my lady.”
For half a heartbeat, Sansa considered tearing the thing from her neck.
“That was good of him. I trust you pleased him well enough?” She smiled
charmingly and let go of the necklace, rubbing her hands together. She could
feel the dead whore on her skin.
“I th…think so, my lady.” Sansa stepped a little closer so she could whisper in
her ear.
 “If you want to cover those marks, just take what you need. Powders,
pastes…anything.” She stepped away, smiling. Aleia stared at her with a stunned
expression which soon became her customary sweet smile. “My lady is too kind,
thank you.” Aleia quickly finished adjusting the bed sheets, then left Sansa
there to join the other ladies.
“She’s a liar.” Nan seemed to appear out of nowhere.
“What?” Sansa tried not to jump at the sound of her voice.
“She’s a liar. Right until you walked in here, she was bragging about how good
he was and how pleased he was with her. She says he fucked her five times and
that he wanted to keep going but she said no because she was too tired. She’s
lying, I can tell.” The girl was staring sullenly at the pretty little
handmaiden and Sansa couldn’t help the feeling that Nan was telling the truth.
Had she allowed herself to be fooled by Aleia’s sweet looks? Had she learnt
nothing?
Suddenly, tearing the necklace from around her pretty little throat didn’t seem
like such a bad idea after all, but Reek’s voice filled her head for a second
time; he only does it because he wants to make you jealous.
Sansa smiled to herself after a moment’s thought.
“Thank you Nan. I shall take care of it.” The young girl looked up at her and
Sansa was once again struck by how familiar she seemed, yet Sansa still could
not place her. Before she could ask anything, Nan looked away from her and
hurried from the room.
Ramsay was somewhat disappointed. When Sansa entered the Great Hall, her face
was unreadable; a stone mask he had not seen for a long while. It remained in
place even as she took her seat beside him. “Husband.” Her voice was clipped
and distant. He could immediately tell he had irked her and it made him smile.
“Wife.” He replied.
“I trust you have had a pleasant day?” She asked, still not looking at him. The
handmaiden (Aleia, was it?) moved in to serve their food and Ramsay looked at
her, grinning. “Yes, and an even better night.” His grin widened as the girl
blushed, glanced quickly at his cold wife, and hurried away; her hips swinging
wantonly. Ramsay bit down on his lower lip.
“So I’ve heard.” Her words did not register as he watched the sweet little
whore disappear into the crowd.
“Hm?”
“So I’ve heard. She is a great beauty.” Sansa did look at him then, a smile
playing upon her lips. Ramsay turned to face her, still smiling, but his brows
furrowed in confusion. Sansa leaned towards him. “Perhaps she can get you
started, tonight? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” Ramsay’s smile died a quick
death and he looked away sharply. He could feel his face turning red, though
whether it was from anger or humiliation, he couldn’t tell. And what game was
she playing? Suggesting he invite his new toy to their chamber. Was it just to
embarrass him? Well two could play that game.
“Very well. Have her join us in our chambers this evening.” He forced himself
to smirk. Sansa just smiled in reply and sipped her wine; her eyes remaining
locked with his all the while.
***** Beg Me *****
Chapter Summary
     I'm a paper doll, you can tear me up
     We'll be the broken lovers with the poison cup
     And we'll draw in breaths like we don't have air
     Oh god, look at me, don't you ever care?
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When they reached their chambers, Sansa ordered all the other handmaidens out
except for Aleia. Ramsay moved over to the bed, crossed his arms and grinned at
her. Sansa looked him in the eye, refusing to waver. She would see this through
to the end.
“Well? Are you waiting for something husband?” She inquired, standing beside
the chair in front of the fire. Ramsay arched an eyebrow. Sansa sighed as
though frustrated by his mock-idiocy. She knew what he wanted her to do.
Swallowing down the bile that tasted an awful lot like jealousy, Sansa turned
to face Aleia. “Aleia, my husband wishes for you to remove your clothes and get
him ready for me.” Aleia’s eyes widened in confusion.
“My lady…I don’t…”
“With your mouth, Aleia.” Sansa’s words were brisk and sharp, as though she
were telling her to stoke the fire and drive out a chill.
“Yes. Come on Aleia.” Ramsay added.
“On your knees, like a good little whore.” The voice sounded so little like her
own. The three wolves had not ceased their cries but they sounded further away
now. Sansa and Ramsay continued to stare at one another, waiting to see who
would back down first. Aleia looked from one to the other before resigning
herself to her fate.
Sansa continued looking at Ramsay as he did her, despite the pretty girl that
was slowly disrobing in between them. Ramsay grinned at her, still not breaking
his gaze as he unlaced his breeches, pulling them down to reveal his half-hard
cock. Sansa couldn’t help but smirk at it.
“Does something amuse you, wife?” His voice was a low growl, his grin slid away
at the slight undermining of his masculinity.
“No no. Carry on.” Sansa turned away momentarily and poured herself a cup of
wine.
“My lady…please…” Aleia whined.
“I told you to get on your knees.” Sansa barked, tired of the girls false
tones. “Maybe if you’re lucky my husband will find the head of the whore that
goes with that necklace. Did we dip it in tar? I can’t recall.” Sansa leant
against the back of the chair, sipping her wine nonchalantly. Aleia’s eyes
widened with fright.
“I think we may have done. The winter snows must have frozen it by now.” Ramsay
almost laughed.
“Now Aleia, get my husband ready for me.” Sansa ordered, smiling back at her
husband. Aleia dutifully scrambled forwards on all fours, making Ramsay laugh,
and leaned into her task.
As Ramsay tilted his head back, Sansa turned away from him and put the cup back
on the table. With her eyes fixed on the flames, she slowly began to undo her
gown; her mouth set in a line of grim determination.
When she was down to her smallclothes, she heard Ramsay gasp her name. “Sansa.”
He sighed. She continued to undress until she was fully naked. “Sansa.” He was
louder that time, calling out to her. “Sansa…come here…” His voice was low and
throaty. Laced with satisfaction. Sansa turned; the firelight making her skin
glow and her hair shine like copper. The look in his eyes told her what she
already knew; that she was impossibly beautiful.
“Pardon, Ramsay?” She smiled.
“Come…here…” He gasped out. His right hand grasped the bedpost, his other was
buried deep in Aleia’s hair, setting the pace. His red gaze was fixed on her,
though pleasure kept forcing his eyelids to close.
“Why?” Sansa picked up her cup of wine and drank. Ramsay grinned, enjoying the
game. “Because…I want…you Sansa-aa.”
She put the cup down and ran a hand through her soft hair. “You wantme? I
didn’t think you did. I was sure you never wanted me again.”
“No…” The word escaped his lips without his consent, she could tell from the
irritation in his eyes.
“You do want me, don’t you Ramsay? You want me now. You want to be inside of me
now. Is that so, Ramsay?”
“Ah…yes…yes…” He closed his eyes and forced Aleia’s head up and down faster.
She took it well. Clearly she was not as innocent as Sansa had first thought.
“Beg me.” Sansa ordered.
“What?” His eyes snapped open.
“Beg me to come to you.” Once again, she leaned nonchalantly against the back
of the chair. She could see the conflict in his eyes; how he was hating and
loving every moment. How he wanted her, but could not bring himself to beg.
“Maybe I should just leave…” Sansa moved to pick up her clothes and dress.
“No! Sansa…come here…please…come here…”
“Whatever for?”
“Sansa, please! Fuck me!” He cried. He was too close for her liking and Sansa
did not want his seed to be spent inside Aleia’s worthless, lying mouth.
“With pleasure, husband.”
Sansa woke up to a feeling of blissful satisfaction and an empty bed.
She sat up and looked around the room, but there was no sign anyone had been
there for a long while. She vaguely remembered Ramsay leaving but was not sure
if it had just been a dream or not. Once Aleia had done her job, she had been
quite forgotten. Perhaps she had left soon after, Sansa did not know.
“Ramsay?” She called in vain hope he might be in one of the other rooms or just
outside the door. He made no reply. The windows let in a bright, cold light
that made Sansa wince when she looked directly at it. Whatever time it might
be, Ramsay must have had some business to attend to. Or perhaps he could just
not bear to look her in the eye after last night. She might not recall him
leaving her bed, but the sound of his pleas still rung clear in her mind. Sansa
smiled contentedly to herself. To have such a man, her monster, beg her to
please him was sweeter than the ache between her thighs.
He might not be able to look her in the eye throughout the day, but come
nightfall things would be different.
It wasn’t until Sansa heard a scream that she realised the wolves had fallen
silent.
The scream she recognised as Aleia’s. Perhaps Ramsay had felt more humiliated
than she’d first thought. Why had he not woken her? Why had he not told her?
Aleia screamed again and it was clear that she was not within the castle walls.
Ramsay had decided on a hunt. Sansa could not say she was sad to lose her, not
anymore, but she still had expected Ramsay to tell her of his intentions.
Sansa stood up and pulled the sheets tightly around her as she headed towards
the window, thinking she might perhaps glimpse them on the moors. The snow
remained pure and unmolested by screaming whores. Sansa wondered who Ramsay had
taken on the hunt. Was Damon with him? Had he dragged Reek into the cold?
She herself was alone in her chambers. The fire had died down some time ago and
a chill had begun to settle in. Sansa would wait for one of the handmaidens to
pluck up the courage to return.
Wandering around the room aimlessly, clutching the sheet to cover herself,
Sansa recalled every moment of the previous night. She was still tired from it
and her legs shook slightly with every step. So much so that when she reached
Ramsay’s desk, she collapsed onto the chair, still smiling to herself.
Ramsay was hers again. Perhaps they had created another child last night. And
this time she would take care. She would have another lying handmaiden taste
her food and drink and Ramsay would not leave her side again. Then her
son…perhaps she could convince Ramsay to name him Robb, or Bran, or…
The letter on the desk screamed for her attention, or perhaps it had just been
Aleia again.
The flayed man of House Bolton had been snapped in half, the wax a deep red.
The parchment itself was half opened; cast down carelessly, most likely only
half read. When Sansa opened it up, it turned out there was not that much there
to read.
              Scouts have sighted an army near the Bay of Seals.
      They say it is led by Rickon Stark. The boy has his wolf with him.
                  I must summon the banners. Gather your men.
         Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North.
The parchment slipped from her fingers. Sansa’s mouth gaped open and Aleia’s
screams replaced the ones she herself could not summon.
Rickon was alive. He was alive and in Westeros. She had wondered…the third
wolf…but Ramsay had told her…he’d told her he was dead.
She had not moved from the chair when he returned. Her feet were hitched up and
she hugged her knees tightly, her eyes fixated on the floor. Even when he moved
towards her, she did not look up. She didn’t even flinch.
“Nan. Wine.” Ramsay barked. Sansa heard the young girl shuffle in, followed by
Reek’s uneven gait. Ramsay said nothing to her, just moved over to the cold
fireplace and slumped down into the chair with his back to her.
“My brother is alive.” Sansa whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Yes.” His voice was sharp and angry, yet Sansa did not give it up.
“You told me…you told me Reek was lying, that my brothers were dead. You told
me your father sent his hunter after them to have them both killed.” Her voice
was louder now.
“We did.”
“We?” It was more of a hiss now.
“My father did.” Ramsay corrected. Sansa stood up sharply, still clutching the
sheet to her bosom, not wishing to be naked in front of him. She moved until
she was in front of him. Ramsay glanced up at her then looked away, irritated
by the turn in events.
“What will you do to him?” She dared to ask. Ramsay took a drink, swishing the
wine around his mouth thoughtfully before delivering his answer. “He’s a
threat. An enemy to the realm.” He set the cup back down onto the table and
leant back in his chair.
“An enemy? An enemy!He’s just a boy…he can’t be more than ten years old.”
“Yet he is old enough to summon an army.” Ramsay fixed her with a cold look.
ChooseHis eyes urged. Choose.
Sansa reached for the wine cup.
“Sansa no!”
Nan leapt forward and grabbed her arm with lightning speed, halting her hand.
Only it wasn’t Nan.
Sansa stared into the set of wide grey eyes, so much like their father’s. The
Stark eyes. The girl suddenly looked fearful, but also angry at her own fear.
She remembered that look. She remembered.
“Arya…” Her voice was a mere whisper.
Ramsay coughed violently
“Arya.” The name was stronger now. Her sister released her grip on her arm and
backed away. Sansa’s vision blurred as tears threatened to fall.
Ramsay coughed again.
“Gods…Arya…”
“Ar-ya?” Ramsay gasped. Sansa did not hear him.
Her sister’s eyes were full of fear and confusion and she continued to back
away. It wasn’t until she was halfway across the room that Sansa realised.
“Arya…no…WAIT!” She cried. Her sister span on her heels and bolted from the
room, swift as a deer. Sansa ran after her.
“San…sa…” She never even noticed her husband as he fell from his chair.
“Arya WAIT! Please!” Sansa couldn’t understand. She couldn’t make sense of it.
She had been Nan. Nan the serving girl. But she was Arya too. How had Sansa not
realised? How had she not recognised her?
“Arya!” She screamed just before her sister disappeared down a corridor. A
moment later, Sansa turned down the same corridor and slammed straight into
Damon. “Sansa? What are you…”
“Did you see her? Did she pass you?” Damon’s tall frame blocked the entire
corridor so that she could not slip around him. Her eyes were wild with
confused desperation. “Who my lady?”
“My sister, Arya…she was here…she went down here…how could you not…”
“MASTER!”The agonised wail came from behind her and Sansa could feel the blood
drain from her face. She could hear nothing but her own heart beating.
“Oh…oh gods…Ramsay…” Before Damon could ask her any more questions, Sansa span
around and fled back to their chambers.
Reek held his head in his lap; yowling like a dog. Sansa did not break stride
until she flung herself down beside him. Ramsay’s face had turned a sickening
shade of purple; a shade that she had seen before, only now it was not so
pleasing.
“Oh gods…no…no, no!” She cried. Ramsay stared up at her, his red eyes pleading.
Bloody tears stained his cheeks and the same red ran from his nose as he
clutched his throat, writhing and kicking in panic. “Do something! Please,
please…DO SOMETHING!” Reek screamed, though whether he was shouting at her or
Damon, Sansa could not tell.
“Ramsay!” She screamed at him. “Ramsay…you can’t die. I needyou.” She thought
of Roose Bolton, what he had promised to do once Ramsay was dead.
Ramsay opened his mouth as though to speak. Instead, only a choked gasp escaped
his lips. After that, his body fell still.
Chapter End Notes
     **throws 'dead Ramsay' grenade and gets the fuck outta there**
***** Steel *****
Chapter Summary
     Now he's gone, I don't know why
     And 'till this day, sometimes I cry
     He didn't even say goodbye
     He didn't take the time to lie.
She thought he might look as though he were sleeping, but he didn’t. He didn’t
even look like himself. It wasn’t the scars; she had almost grown used to them.
He just looked so…lifeless. The spirit was gone from him. He could have been
anyone. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was these faults that prevented tears or
whether it was just that she had none left to shed.
“What should be done with him?” The question was meant for herself, but Damon
answered anyway.
“The Godswood, perhaps.”
“Like his beloved step-mother? A fitting pair. I wonder if he has met her in
the seven hells yet, stuffing her face with pies.” Sansa spat bitterly.
“My lady.” He growled. “She was guilty of nothing.”
She was a Frey. “Should I not speak ill of the dead, Ser? Why? They can’t hear
us.” I wouldn’t feel so alone if they could. Sansa continued to stare at his
face, unable to tear her eyes away from the man who had been her husband. The
stranger had a handsome face, despite the scars. Sansa tilted her head as she
remembered his smile, though in her head it soon became a sinister smirk. It
made her shudder.
“We must send word to Lord Bolton, immediately. Before he thinks…” He was cut
off when Sansa grabbed hold of his arm; digging her claws in tightly.
“Please, Damon…you can’t.” Her eyes remained lifeless, but her voice was cold
and pleading. Damon remained unperturbed. “Do you think word has not been sent
to him already? Do you think he does not have people watching for him?”
“Of course I know about them. He told me. But do you know who else he sent for?
You told me this was the work of a faceless assassin. Who do you think hired
her? Roose has wanted Ramsay dead for longer than I know. Even more so when I
was married to him. He is our enemy. We must not let him into Winterfell.”
Sansa refused to admit Roose’s wishes to wed her. The thought of it made her
wish for her own cup of poison. Poison. Sansa closed her eyes, but it was
Arya’s face that came to her now; frightened and defiant. It had been her.
Sansa was certain.
“You know who else is my enemy? Your brother has landed with an army. I was the
one that brought Ramsay the message. You think the garrison here will stand for
you? These are Roose’s men. They will stand for him over you. I know what you
want to happen. You want for your brother to come and save you. Well here is
the truth my lady. The men here know that if he is let in they will be
slaughtered like sheep, and no amount of lies could convince them otherwise. Do
you know where your brother has arrived from? Skagos. Do you know what they do
on Skagos? They eat human flesh. So if you think these men will stand for you
and protect you from Roose, you are dead wrong. You could suck the cock of
every man here, and he would still hand you over. No man wants to cross Roose.”
But I am not a man.
“And would you?” Sansa asked, never even looking at him. “You were Ramsay’s
loyal friend. Will you betray him in death?”
“The dead can’t hear us. You said so yourself. You aren’t worth my skin.” His
tone was casual, riddled with a bit of grief.
Sansa turned to face him; her mask of stone firmly in place as it had been from
the moment Ramsay’s frantic writhing had stilled and he had ceased to breath.
“Where is Reek?” She asked coldly, revealing none of her intentions.
“In the kennels.” It were almost as though Damon couldn’t bear to look at her.
“He refuses to see anyone though.”
“Refuses? You are aware of how weak he is, aren’t you?”
“He is grieving.” He growled.
“As am I.” She snarled back.
“Really? I see no tears my lady.”
“Mourning weakens you. Better to channel your grief through other means. I have
no intention of harming him. He is my husband’s creature, and that he shall
remain until he joins him in the seven hells.” With one last, hard look, Sansa
swept from the hall.
Reek was exactly where Damon had said he’d be. “M’lady, he won’t see no one.”
Ben grumbled.
“I am not no one.” She’d snapped in reply, her gait never faltering despite the
dirt beneath her feet. But as she neared the back of the kennels, her feet
began to drag and the barking of Ramsay’s girls made her flinch. I must not be
afraid. How could she be? It was only Reek.
The pen looked empty at first glance, but Sansa persevered; peering into the
gloom.
“Reek?” She called out. A small figure began to rock; the darkness moving as
though he were nothing more than a shadow. “Go. Away.” The darkness whispered.
“Reek, why are you hiding? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? Must I
have you dragged out? I do know how to flay you, remember?”
“GO AWAY!” He shrieked.
“He’s gone Reek. I know…I understand…”
“NO YOU DON’T!” Reek wailed. “I’m nothing…nothing to anyone…nothing to anyone
but Ramsay. Oh master…” The shadow shuddered as the sobs tore through him.
“You are something to me. Make your choice Reek and do it quickly. You can
serve me, or you can serve Roose. You know what he’ll do, don’t you? He has no
need of Reek. But Theon…Theon might be useful to him. Who better than to
declare my brother as a fake?”
“No! Not Theon! Reek! Reek! My name is Reek!” The darkness screamed.
“I do not want you to be Theon. DO you know what I would do to him? He is of no
use to me. He betrayed my brother. I want my husband’s pet. Are you still
Ramsay’s loyal bitch Reek?”
Sansa backed away. She did not smile; her lips remained as still as stone and
as cold as snow. The darkness continued to shriek and she left him to it. He
could weep into the darkness all he wanted, but in the light he must be that
loyal pet. The one she remembered when they had watched over Ramsay’s body. The
one that had growled at Lord Bolton. The one that had listened to her.
She wanted herReek back.  
***** Damage Control *****
Chapter Summary
     Pick it up, pick it all up.
     And start again.
     You've got a second chance,
     you could go home.
     Escape it all.
     It's just irrelevant.
He road straight to the Eyrie, only to find his Lord closer than expected. Lord
Baelish had descended the mountain that had been seized by winter’s cold grip
and had moved to the Gates of the Moon.
Ser Mychel did not even change. The snow on his boots followed him down the
hall and some still remained by the time he reached Lord Baelish’s chambers.
Littlefinger did not even look up from him desk. “Ser Mychel. I had not
expected a visit from you.” He said, still scratching at some parchment with
his quill.
“It was not my intention to be here at all Lord Baelish. The bastard sent me
away. He sent us all away, may the gods damn him. And Lady Sansa did nothing.
She seems to accept his word as law now.” Mychel raged; pacing up and down,
partly out of anger and partly in an attempt to gain some feeling back to his
fingers and toes.
Littlefinger glanced up, then continued with his writing.
“I do believe she has fallen for the monster. Then, when he ignores her, she
does her best to make him jealous. I believe she had the whore killed out of
jealousy too. Whether it is love or lust she craves, I cannot be certain. But
Lord Ramsay has her enchanted. And him of all people! Some even say she is mad
now. I have half a mind to agree with them! She has forgotten this game you are
playing Baelish. I would even go as far as to say she has failed you.” That
made him look up, at last. Petyr sighed and put down his quill; fixing Mychel
with his cold stare. “Failed me?”
“She appears to be serving her own agenda now.” Mychel admitted, finally
ceasing his pacing.
“Her own agenda?” Petyr’s raised eyebrow was enough to make him second guess
his words.
“Y…yes.”
Petyr’s face creased as he smiled. “You must be weary after your journey, Ser
Mychel. You should go and rest.” He advised, resuming his work. Mychel was too
stunned to move. “My lord, are you…what are you going to do?”
Littlefinger chuckled. “It is not what I am going to do. It is what has already
been done.” He glanced up at Mychel again with a hint of amusement and
accomplishment in his eyes. Before looking away, he picked up his goblet and
took a long drink of wine. “I thank you for your service, Ser Mychel.”
Mychel narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he said nothing. Turning on his
heel, he left the player to his game.
When she slept, she got no rest. The dead would speak to her and scream at her,
as they had done before. Only now, sometimes, Ramsay joined them. He blamed her
for his death sometimes, other times it was the death of her child or the fact
Reek was now constantly at her side.
Tonight though, Ramsay remained silent. It was her family around her. Her
mother and father, Robb and Jon. Lady was there too.
“Avenge them.”
“Promise me.”
“Send him my regards.”
“Avenge them.”
“Promise me.”
“Send him my regards.”
Sansa awoke and for half a heartbeat thought the figure beside the bed was
Lady. “Lady.” She whispered. Then Reek’s eyes twitched open and stilled her
outstretched hand. He stared at her questioningly and she forced herself to
smile, not letting him see the grief and fear she felt inside. Reek’s lips
twitched into what could have been a smile, had it not been interrupted by a
snore that came from beside Sansa. She rolled her eyes and sat up, only
glancing at him quickly before turning away in disgust; shuddering as she
remembered his hands on her skin.
Wrapping herself in a sheet, she got out of bed and began to dress herself. She
was well practised at it now after she had dismissed all her handmaidens.
“M…m’lady. Where are you going?” Reek whispered.
“That is not your concern Reek, but tell him he needs to get to work and be
gone by the time I get back.”
“M’lady…he won’t like me telling him what to do…” He whimpered. Sansa sighed,
but tried her best not to be frustrated with him. Her hold on Reek was fragile
and she did not wish to break it. “Tell him I told you to do it. Tell him he is
looking at what will become of people if they lay a hand on my Reek.” Once
Sansa was done fastening her cloak, she turned and knelt before him, cupping
his face gently, but her eyes searched his for any hint of distrust. “You are
my Reek, aren’t you pet?” She asked, her voice dangerously low. Reek whimpered.
He was silent for a moment but Sansa allowed it. She knew it was hard for him
to remember sometimes, and even harder for him to let go of Ramsay. “Yes
m’lady.” He answered softly.
Sansa held her breath and kissed his forehead. “Good pet. I shall expect
breakfast when I get back.” Reek clearly tried to suppress his smile, because
he knew breakfast meant he got fed too. She forced herself to smile again,
leaving him to his small happiness as she left the room.
“What in seven hells is going on?” He roared at her as he entered the Great
Hall. The woman sat the Lords’ chair like she was born to be a queen; a crowd
of fifteen men gathered around her, all dressed in armour and armed with
swords.
“Good morning to you too Damon.” She smiled. Somewhere in the distance, the
wolves began to howl again.
“You are aware there is an army at your gates?” He growled.
“An army? I thought you were experienced in military matters. My men counted
one hundred soldiers. No more. Hardly an army.” She could have scoffed it but
she didn’t. Instead, her face remained cold and calculating.
“I warned you about this. Things will be a great deal worse for you if you try
to keep Lord Bolton out. These men will not risk their skins for you.” That did
make Lady Stark smile.
“Is that so? Again, you have underestimated.” She arched a delicate eyebrow. “I
have no intention to keep Lord Bolton waiting. As long as he accepts my terms.”
“You terms?” He gritted his teeth as though fighting against a bit.
“Firstly, my husband’s body will be taken to the Dreadfort and be interred in
its crypts, as a true Bolton ought to be. Secondly, he recognises my brother,
Rickon Stark, who has returned to Westeros, as the Lord of Winterfell…”
“This is madness…”
“Thirdly, Lord Bolton accepts my marriage proposal.” He could see her swallow
the bile from his place beneath the dais.
“My Lady?”
“Lord Bolton and I will be joined in matrimony before the gods.” Damon was
stunned into silence. “As you were so willing to open my gates for Lord Bolton,
you shall be the one to deliver my terms.” Sansa stood up abruptly, making Reek
who had been curled up beside her chair, sit up to attention. He followed her
as she headed towards the council chamber. “Tell Lord Bolton that these are my
terms and that he would do well to accept them. The wolves are closing in, and
they are craving flayed flesh.” The words sounded alien and bitter from her
soft lips. Damon watched her go and found himself unable to move until three of
her guards escorted him from the hall.
***** I Remember *****
Chapter Summary
     Someday these walls will speak
     The floors beneath you creek
     To call my name
     Here in my web of dreams
     My whispers turn to screams
     And place the blame
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Even when climbing the stairs up to the maesters chambers, her pet remained by
her side. He had grown a little stronger since Ramsay’s death. Probably because
of all the food he’d been getting, and the fact she allowed him to sleep inside
every night. Sansa did not mind the change in him. She wanted him stronger.
“Have you sent a raven?” Sansa asked as she pushed open the door, not waiting
for the maester to get his bearings.
“My lady, it is an honour…”
“Yes yes, have you sent a raven?” She managed to refrain the urgency from
seeping into her voice. She didn’t want the maester to see her stone mask slip.
“I did my lady, but…”
“But?”
“But it was shot down.” Sansa could not tell whether it was his age making him
tremble, or fear. She stepped closer to him and the trembling grew worse. That
was her answer. Her smile was hard to conceal behind the mask but she did her
best.
“It was shot. Down.” She repeated, moving closer until he was forced to bow his
head so that their faces wouldn’t touch. “I’m sure your letter to Lord Bolton
made it through well enough. Send two ravens. An archer cannot shoot two at the
same time. If you do not get a raven through those lines, I will flay each of
your fingers; one for every raven that falls. Is that understood?” As the
maester muttered his yesses, Sansa made a silent vow to rid herself of him the
moment she was done.
“Very good. Tell me the moment one of your birds gets through.” Turning, she
left the tremoring man to his task. If one of the birds had been shot down
already, no doubt Roose already knew of what she had been planning. No matter.
It meant he’d want to go through with it all quicker in order to secure the
North for himself.
Later that evening, Sansa supped in the chambers that had belonged to her and
Ramsay, with Reek at her feet. Once they were done, she sat in the chair he had
sat in and drank more wine, with Reek’s head in her lap, moaning as she ran her
fingers through his hair. Sansa sighed and stared into the flames.
“M’lady?” He squeaked. She could feel him tense against her leg.
“What is it Reek?” Her voice was gentle. She tried to refrain from using her
cold voice and stone mask when she was alone with Reek. It helped remind her of
who she was.
“M’lady…w-why are you marrying him?” She looked at him then.
“Are you questioning my intentions Reek?” She expected him to cower away.
Instead he lifted his head from her lap and looked her straight in the eye.
“He killed master. And…and he killed…he killed Robb. Master told me. He shoved
a knife through his heart.” When he was done, he was out of breath. The fight
had gone out of him as soon as it had come, but Sansa had not missed it.
Clutching his face in her hands, she forced him to look at her. “You remember.”
She whispered. Reek whined. “You remember.” He twisted out of her grasp.
“No!”
“Hush Reek.” It was more of an order than a means to calm him, but he ceased
squirming all the same. Sansa moved her face towards his so that they were
level with one another. “I remember too. I remember everything.” She promised.
“I will marry him, but it will only be for a short while. A man and wife must
share their wedding night together…alone.”
Reek’s eyes widened.
“Yes Reek. You recall my wedding night with Lord Ramsay don’t you?”
Her tone had darkened without meaning to and she could feel Reek try to pull
away.
“I do not forget. I will never forget. Things don’t always go the way you plan
for them to, do they Reek? But we must assess the damage. Control it. I must
play my part, as you will yours. And when this farce is done, Lord Bolton will
be dead, and my brother will be Lord of Winterfell. Like it should be.” Her
eyes remained on his, but her mind was far away. When Reek began to sob, she
was brought out of her dreams. “Don’t worry Reek. My brother won’t hurt you.
You haven’t done him any harm, have you? Unless there is someone you aren’t
telling me about…someone who’s trying to wake up…”
Sansa smiled to herself as he burrowed his face into her lap.
“No! M’lady, never! Good Reek! Loyal Reek! I’ve always been Reek!” He wailed.
“Yes pet.” Sansa cooed. “I know.” She stroked his head gently, smiling
contentedly and turning her gaze back to the flames as the creature sobbed into
her lap.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for this short, shitty chapter. I just thought y'all deserved
     something as I haven't uploaded in a while. Hopefully this chapter
     cleared up any confusion about Sansa's intentions.
***** Lady Bolton *****
Chapter Summary
     Her eyes
     She's on the dark side
     Neutralize
     Every man in sight
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Unsure whether the cold was due to winter or her guest, Sansa did her best not
to shiver. She wore a thick woollen cloak as well as her wolf pelt, though she
had chosen it so he was less likely to touch her skin. The weather had not even
been considered.
Standing strong and still as the signal was given and the gates were wrenched
open, Sansa held her breath until the first rider came into view. They all wore
their armour with the visors down on their helmets, concealing their faces. It
made them all look like toy soldiers; there was nothing human about them. Roose
Bolton wore a heavy woollen cloak; the drapes stretched out over the haunches
of his horse. In the cold light, she could have sworn it glimmered red, as
though it had been soaked in blood. She could not see his face either; he too
had lowered his visor.
I did not think him to be such a coward.
“Welcome back to Winterfell, Lord Bolton.” Sansa called. The man dismounted.
Sansa narrowed her eyes as he walked towards her. Her hand clasped the hilt of
her dagger; the cloak concealing her movements. It wasn’t until he was towering
over her that she spoke again. “You are not Lord Bolton.” She growled. The man
wrenched open his visor. Damon grinned down at her.
“No. But it was an honour to play the part.” Sansa would have spat in his face
were it deemed fit for a lady.
“Forgive me, my lady.” All thoughts of striking Damon were driven from her mind
and channelled instead towards the owner of the other voice.
Roose Bolton lifted his own visor and dismounted, removing the helmet as he
strolled over. “It was simply a precaution.” He said once he’d reached her. For
a moment, it looked as though he were going to take her hand and kiss it. But
Sansa did not give him the option. Both her hands remained concealed beneath
her cloak; one still resting on the hilt of her dagger.
“Precautions my lord? Surely you do not mistrust your bride to be so readily. A
man and wife should trust one another, should they not?”
“Aye.” Roose Bolton’s lips stretched so that he could almost be smirking. “But
we are not yet man and wife. And marriages such as ours are built on
convenience and politics, not trust. Otherwise however would we be here in the
first place?” That was true enough. Sansa never would have married Ramsay for
anything other than political reasons. Trust would have been laughable at the
time.
“You must be hungry, Lord Bolton. You’ve been at my gates for some time.” Sansa
did not allow the triumph to show on her face. She would get nowhere trying to
outwardly one-up Roose Bolton.
“If it please my lady.” He offered his arm.
Sansa walked away. There were some things she just could not yet bring herself
to do.
They dined together, just the two of them. Except for when Sansa’s wine cup was
empty. Reek stumbled into the room and poured her another cup. “Lord Bolton’s
too, Reek.” She ordered. Lord Bolton watched her carefully as maimed, unsteady
hands poured his wine for him. Sansa stared back as she drank her wine,
watching him over the rim; daring him to drink from his own cup.
“I am surprised to see him still breathing.” He inclined his head towards Reek,
who dipped his head, pretending not to know he was being spoken of.
“Reek has not wronged me in any way.” Sansa pointed out, glancing at Reek.
“Theon Greyjoy has.”
“It’s a good thing Theon Greyjoy is dead then. If I saw him, I’d kill him all
over again.” Sansa’s voice was cold as ice, but Reek did not so much as shiver.
“Very well.” Roose Bolton gave her that look. The look he used to give Ramsay
when he was displeased with him. Sansa did not allow it to irk her. She didn’t
crave his approval like Ramsay did. “Though we’ll need Theon Greyjoy for the
wedding.” Roose’s lips stretched into that chilling smile again. Sansa had to
refrain from rolling her eyes. “Reek will play his part, won’t you Reek?”
“Yes m’lady.” Sansa couldn’t help but smirk when the answer was instantaneous.
“Well then,” Roose held his cup up slightly. “To our wedding.”
“Our wedding.” Sansa downed the wine in one gulp, holding back a grimace as it
burned her throat.
The wedding was a short one, with only the garrison in attendance. They all
stood unblinking, as though they had simply been ordered to stand there. Sansa
was sure she could claim the marriage invalid simply because no one had
actually witnessed them exchanging vows. Even Reek was unable to watch. Damon
did though. Sansa could almost smell the glee on him. He was loving her
discomfort, despite how hard she tried not to show it. Every time Roose so much
as touched her, goose bumps would crawl over her flesh and she’d have to grit
her teeth so she wouldn’t shudder.
If the ceremony was pathetic, then the feast was pitiful. Neither the bride nor
groom spoke. Sansa struggled to eat any of the five course meal. What’s more,
Reek was sat at a table at the far end of the hall; not at her feet where he
usually ate. She comforted herself by his apparent distress. Every time someone
passed him he flinched and his eyes were as wide as plates.
The courses might have been meagre, but thankfully wine was in abundance. There
was no music to dance to, but the attendees seemed to be too drunk to care. The
men that had once been Ramsay’s sat at the back of the hall, dicing and
laughing carelessly. Damon was among them.
Sansa had had perhaps too much wine and her mind began to wander. His face and
that foolish laugh irritated her. A lot. She considered ways of having him
killed. Ramsay wasn’t around anymore, it wasn’t as though he had a protector.
It could be amusing. And she could make it some form of distraction whilst
Rickon and his army grew closer.
Sansa laughed to herself.
Yes, it could be distracting indeed. If she were to tempt Damon into her bed.
If he were to be caught. Perhaps she would not even need to get him into bed at
all. All she would have to do would be to get Roose to suspect. She could just
say it had been nothing…he had simply tried to touch her…
Roose was the kind of man that hated to be slighted. Perhaps he would have
Damon flayed for it.
Sansa was so deep in thought that she was at first unaware of the steady rhythm
of pounding cups. It grew and grew until the noise was deafening and made her
ears ache. She looked around in sudden confusion, to try and decipher what was
occurring. A cry went up amongst the feasters. To Sansa, it unnerved her as
much as a battle cry might.
Bed, bed, bed!
Sansa glanced over at her new husband. He looked no more amused by the prospect
of a bedding ceremony than she did.
“I think our guests wish to put us to bed, my lord.” Sansa pointed out,
smiling. Roose nodded. When he began to speak, the room fell silent as though
they had all seen a ghost rise from the grave. “I take it by this sudden
commotion you all wish for the bedding?” He asked. Sansa was surprised to see a
cheer go up. They must’ve been well into their cups if they wished to cheer
Lord Bolton. “Well who am I to deny you? Commence with the bedding ceremony.”
It was frightening; seeing so many men charge at her. They lifted her from her
seat and carried her down the length of the hall. Sansa didn’t even know most
of their names. The strangers stripped her of her clothing; discarding the
garments and leaving a trail of them as they went.
He could have at least taken me to bed with his dignity intact Sansa thought
angrily.
She was down to her name day garments by the time they reached her chambers.
Her chambers, not Lord Bolton’s. Sansa found that oddly comforting. It was the
room in which he had had Ramsay killed. A fitting place for his own death.
Lord Bolton took a few more minutes to arrive, so the men that had carried her
took their fill; feasting their hungry eyes on her bare flesh. Sansa considered
covering herself but soon relented. Let them look.Wolves wore no clothes, and
she was as beautiful as she had ever been; the moonlight shone through the
windows and gave her skin a ghostly glow. They all crowded around the doorway,
watching her as she moved around the room. She decided to busy herself by
unpinning her hair; brushing out the strands until they shone too.
When Roose entered the room, he looked almost surprised to see her roaming
around so freely for all the men to see. Sansa smiled as he ushered them away
with a wave of his pale, spidery hand.
“The first night Lord Baelish stayed at Winterfell, Ramsay tied me to the bed,
gagged me and raped me in front of his men and his whore. I learnt my lesson
about what dignity is worth then.” Sansa continued to smile, positioning
herself beside the window where the lighting hit her best.
“Get on the bed, Lady Sansa.” Lord Bolton commanded, clearly not up for
conversation.
Perhaps he’s already close, just by the sight of me.
Sansa bit back a snort of laughter as she obeyed his command.
Her amusement died quickly as Roose began to undress.
“It was a quick ceremony. Though I suppose you didn’t want to wait around. It’s
clear that my brother’s army isn’t too far away. Each time the wolves howl,
they sound a little nearer. Not that they should face any problems. You recall
my terms? My brother is to be Lord of Winterfell.” Sansa kept her eyes on his
face, even as he removed the last of his garments. The paleness of his flesh
made her feel ill. Ramsay had been pale too, but handsomely formed and in his
prime.
“Yes, I recall.” Sansa barely heard the words.
Gods, I wish it was Ramsay that were here with me now.
Memories of their last night together came flooding back. He’d fucked her hard
and she’d loved every second. The bruises had lingered for weeks after, and she
had counted each of them before she’d gone to sleep at night; pressing down on
the purple flesh until they ached. For a time, she had dug a little harder,
forbidding them to fade. But she had soon come to terms with the fact that they
wouldn’t bring him back, and it didn’t replace the feeling of him inside her.
The ropes of the bed creaked as Roose slid in beside her.
If Ramsay had not died, would they still share those painful, satisfying
nights? He had been angry about Rickon. Perhaps he would have blamed her for
it. He always did seem paranoid about her loyalties. He’d even believed that
she’d murdered their son. Our little Eddard.
When she felt Lord Bolton’s hand on her thigh, she spread her legs dutifully.
She’d never had anyone inside her other than Ramsay. Would it feel different?
Margaery had spoken about how women all had their preferences. Was that just
concerning looks, or did it also concern what occurred in the bed chamber?
As Roose forced his way into her, Sansa was sure she’d found her answer.
I’d rather you were Ramsay.
He grunted with the effort of each thrust. Ramsay used to growl. She’d grown to
like that; it felt raw and animal, as though they weren’t even human any more.
After a while, the feeling of him inside her grew to be pleasant, but Sansa
couldn’t bring herself to wrap her legs around him and meet each thrust with
her hips. She needed him well worn out, and by the time his seed was spent and
he pulled out of her, he was. His laboured breathing filled the room. Sansa’s
heartrate had barely risen.
“I trust I pleased my lord?” She asked dryly. Roose did not reply. His
breathing slowed.
Is he asleep already?
Before she could lean over to check, he swung out of the bed and stood up.
Sansa gathered the sheets around her and sat up, frowning. “My lord?” Roose
Bolton began to dress. “My Lord, what are you doing?”
No, it was not supposed to end like this .
Lord Bolton did smile then. He didn’t even have to touch her now in order to
make her skin crawl.
“Do you honestly think I would let you murder me in your bed, Lady Sansa?” His
voice was so cold it made her shiver. “Do you think I am such a fool that I
desire your flesh so much as to remain in your bed? Believe me, wife, I have
less craving for passion then I do your body. But if it pleases you, I would
say you were pleasant enough, in the dullest sense of the word.” He slipped on
his linen shirt, leaving his jerkin where it was on the hard stone floor.
“Goodnight, wife.” Sansa hissed as he called her that. Ramsay had called her
that too.
Sansa was out of the bed in an instant, clasping the sheet to her breast.
Before she reached him, her feet tangled in the fabric and she stumbled onto
the floor. By the time she’d scrambled back onto her feet, Roose had gone, and
locked the door behind him.
“No.” Sansa growled at the wood. “Let me out!” She slammed her palm against the
door. “You can’t do this! I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell!” She screamed, but as
far as she could tell, no one was listening.
Chapter End Notes
     I was planning to write a more graphic version of the wedding night
     but I didn't have a sick bucket near me and I didn't want to risk my
     carpet. Sorry.
***** Brave Pet *****
Chapter Summary
     All the rules are changing now
     You're living in sin
     Everything around you is caving in
     All you're holding on to
     Slipping like water through your hands
At the sound of the door opening, Reek raised his head.
“No. Let me out! You can’t do this! I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell!” He heard
her pounding on the door. Peering out from amongst the shadows, Reek watched as
Roose Bolton waited for the pounding and the screams to cease before smiling
his chilling smile and striding off down the corridor. Reek slinked back into
the shadows, momentarily contemplating if he would be able to sneak after him.
I could do it. He killed Master…and…
And Robb.
Yes, and now…
From beyond the door of Sansa’s chambers, Reek heard her sobbing. He hadn’t
heard her cry for a long time. She hadn’t even cried when Master had died, but
that was because she was strong and brave. Stronger and braver than he could
ever be. But she was crying now, because she was afraid. It was like
before…with Master…before she had become… She had changed after Lord Baelish
had come and visited. She’d stopped crying and Ramsay had listened to her.
But now it was happening all over again. Theon wasn’t sure he could bare it a
second time and without Master there, Reek feared what Theon might do.
Swallowing that thought before it could trouble him further, he crawled out
from the shadows, certain Lord Bolton was long gone, and approached the door
warily. He could still hear her weeping against the wood.
“M…m’lady?” He whispered. The crying stopped and he heard her shuffle closer to
the door. “Reek?” She sniffed. “Is that you?”
“Yes.” His remaining fingers ran along the bottom of the door and he tried to
wedge them underneath until they began to hurt.
“Reek, you have to do something for me.” Her voice was clearer now; all trace
of grief and fear gone from her voice. Reek stopped clawing at the door and
pressed his ear to the wood. “You need to get me out of here. He’s locked me
in. I can’t stay in here Reek…not again…I have to get out. My brother is
coming. I have to help him. Please Reek. Get me out of here. Please…” Her voice
faded away, all the strength draining out of it, though Reek could have sworn
he heard her utter the words “Promise me.”
Moving as quietly as his maimed feet would allow him to, Reek moved down the
corridors; a flinching, shuffling shadow. Lord Bolton’s chambers weren’t all
that far, though they seemed a long way on his trembling legs. “Promise me.” He
whispered to himself, over and over until it became a chant and, for perhaps
the first time ever, Reek felt brave. Not Theon, Reek. Reek, Reek, it rhymes
with sneak. Yes, he could sneak.
He was almost there now; his legs moving faster than they had done for a long
time. He was so close. If he could just sneak into Lord Bolton’s chambers, find
the key, Reek could rescue her. Then she could finish off what she’d planned.
Reek hoped he’d let her watch. He killed Master. He killed Robb. He locked up
Lady Sansa. Reek could do it…he would do it…he was so close…
“Good evening Reek.” His once-quick pace froze to a halt. His courage fled with
his last calm breath. The figure stood up from outside Roose Bolton’s door and
stepped into the moonlight. Reek began to tremble when Skinner’s face split
into a wicked grin. “Now what would you be doing outside Lord Bolton’s chambers
at night?” The man didn’t move any closer, but Reek dipped his head all the
same and whimpered fearfully.
“Must’ve been sent by his mistress.” Reek leapt forward, crying out at the
sound of someone behind him. Turning, he saw Grunt and Luton blocking his only
escape.
“Is that right Reek? Do you work for that bitch now, is that it?” He was too
afraid to do anything but whine and ring his hands together. Almost without
realising it, he sank to his knees; going onto all fours.
“How could you betray your master like that Reek? He thought you were a loyal
pet. His loyal pet. Was your master wrong?”
“NO! Good Reek! Loyal Reek” He cried, covering his face with his hands; sobs
shaking his frail form.
“Loyal, is it? What do you think boys? Do you think the bitch is lying to us?”
They all laughed as Reek’s sobbing became louder.
Master’s dead. She’s all I have left now. She’s the only one who cares.
“Let’s take him to the kennels, where he belongs.” Rough hands dug into his
shoulders and arms; twisting and clawing as they dragged him backwards. Reek
tried to cry out, to scream for help until a hand clamped over his mouth and
the sounds were muffled. Not that there had been anyone to hear his screams in
the first place. With Master dead and Lady Sansa imprisoned, there was no one
to care about what happened to Reek.
Realising the truth of it, Reek slumped and ceased to cry out; allowing them to
drag him away without a fight.
He was partly dragged, partly carried, all the way down into the kennels where
the other boys were waiting for them. A cheer went up when they caught sight of
him. “It was just like Lord Bolton said. The little bitch came marching down to
save his mistress like the well trained pet he is. Though he seemed a lot
braver than we’re used to.” Skinner laughed, throwing him down inside a pen.
“Brave? Has our pet grown some balls? Are we going to have to chop them off
again Reek?” Sour Alyn scoffed.
“Please…don’t…mercy, please!” Reek screamed, huddling on the ground as soon as
they threw him down. “Not brave! Reek, Reek! Rhymes with weak and meek!” He
yelped as Skinner’s boot slammed into his ribcage.
“Quiet bitch. Your master isn’t hear and we aren’t that amused by your
rhyming.” Skinner grinned down at him as the others closed in. Reek continued
to plead quietly. “What should we do with him?” Luton asked. They all crowded
around, contemplating his fate. “Whatever we like.” Yellow Dick chuckled
darkly. Reek whined in reply. “There’s no one here to save him now, is there?
No one to tell us what we can’t do. Not anymore. His master’s dead. His
mistress being taken every which way Roose Bolton wants and kept in her rooms.”
“As she fucking should be. Stupid bitch, thinking she can run things like some
fucking Lord.” Skinner spat.
“I hear she fucked the castellan Lord Bolton left. That’s why they didn’t open
the gates for him.” Luton added.
“Typical. Moment her husband dies she spreads her legs for anyone who asks.
Pity she’s married, I might have asked for a go myself. Haven’t tasted much
highborn cunt, let alone…shit!” Reek’s remaining teeth sank deep into Yellow
Dick’s ankle. The men all fell silent and stared at the pet in confusion. Reek
glared back; bloodied teeth bared. In the silence, they heard him growl.
“Well look at you. What is it pet? We insult your mistress? Are you trying to
defend her honour? Don’t bother, we’ve all seen her, remember?” Sour Alyn
laughed. Reek growled again. They all joined in the laughter then, watching
something so small trying to look so ferocious.
“Come on, this is get boring now. Pull his pants down. I bet he’s missed this!
Or maybe Lady Sansa’s into that sort of thing? Is she Reek? She did always keep
you in her bedchamber.” Reek released a sound that could have been a bark.
Chuckling, they all moved towards him.
The dogs in the kennels had heard Reek bark, and joined in; slamming their
bodies against the cages, biting at the bars. Reek lowered his body slightly
and eyed each man as they moved closer. He bared his teeth again. All thoughts
of fear were gone from his mind. He remembered this feeling when Lord Bolton
had visited him and Sansa in the maester’s chambers whilst master was injured.
It was pure rage; adrenalin pumping through him and making him tremble
uncontrollably. Reek released another growl in warning. They ignored him. As
Luton reached out to grab him, Reek leapt forward and sank his teeth into the
flesh. He felt the hot blood gush over his chin. He was deaf to the agonised
cries. Even the kicks and strikes they dealt were dulled. All he could focus on
was the taste of blood and the feeling of flesh between his teeth.
Eventually he was torn away from the hand and thrown against the wall; landing
with a sickening crunch. Pain shot through his shoulder and he howled, but
immediately tried to get back onto all fours and defend himself again. “You bad
bitch Reek! Bad pet! You’ll have to be punished for that. Maybe we’ll knock all
your teeth out. Won’t be able to bite us then, will you?”
Before they could move any closer, the whistle and crack of a whip sounded.
“That’s enough.” Damon called, cracking the whip again until they turned
around.
“Fuck off Damon. Lord Bolton has told us we can do what we like.” Yellow Dick
spat.
“Within reason. He needs him to play the Lord for him, remember? Or did that
not get through your thick skull Dick?”
“What, you licking Lord Bolton’s boots too now? Stick your tongue out, I want
to see if it’s turned black.” Skinner growled. Damon cracked the whip again.
“You won’t be able to tell from all the way over there. Why don’t you come and
take a closer look?” Reek held his breath. They all eyed the whip warily before
Skinner turned back to Reek. “Next time, little bitch.” He hissed. Grudgingly,
they all left the kennels, glaring at Damon as they went. Damon met each gaze;
continuing to run his hand up and down the shaft of the whip. Once they were
all gone, he moved towards Reek’s pen. Scrambling backwards, Reek kept his eyes
on the whip, waiting for the first strike to come. Damon didn’t even enter the
pen. Instead, he closed the door and locked Reek inside, pocketing the key.
Reek exhaled with relief, feeling safe inside the pen. He continued to stare at
Damon, his eyes shining in the darkness. Damon just stared back and gave a
slight nod before disappearing from view. Reek listened to his footsteps as his
master’s friend left him there in the safety of darkness.
***** Memories and Rituals *****
Chapter Summary
     Though it hurts me to say
     I don't know you that way
     I guess the writing's on the wall
     I don't know you at all
The days were long but the nights were longer. Lord Bolton did not return to
her rooms the first night, nor the second, or the third. On the fourth, when
Sansa could stay awake no longer, he returned. Having not slept for three days,
Sansa was too weak to fight. She hadn’t eaten much either. All her meals were
bought to her not by handmaidens, but by men in the service of her new husband.
Occasionally they were men she knew. The first one she recognised had once been
one of Ramsay’s boys. Skinner, was it? “Please, Ser, please let me out of
here!” She’d begged sweetly. The man had done nothing but glare at her until
she fell quiet, set down her food roughly and left without another word. The
next one had been Luton. She’d glimpsed a bite mark on his hand and couldn’t
help but ask. “Was that Reek? What has happened to him? What have you done to
him?” Luton grinned at her but said nothing. Of Reek there had been no sign
since she’d sent him off to Lord Bolton’s chambers. Sansa feared for him.
Thinking of him kept her mind off her own troubles. The next man to bring her
meal had been Sour Alyn. Sansa’s patience had worn thin by then and her mind
and body craved the sleep that she was too afraid to take. “Playing handmaiden
now are you? I suppose it must be a step up from whatever the fuck you were
before.” She’d sneered. Alyn had growled and threw the plate of food to the
floor. “You’re as bad at playing handmaiden as you are at oral hygiene.” Sansa
had growled back. The man looked as though he would smash her face in, then
Roose’s voice must have filled his head as he left her there to the mess of
food.
Damon never came. Pity. She could have done with a distraction.
Instead, she just waited. Waited for Lord Bolton to return. For any sign of
Reek or her brother. For any chance of hope. After those first four days, she
learnt to rest regularly. Sansa took to sleeping throughout the day; her body
waking itself around the time her meals would be served so that she was always
ready and waiting. She had learnt how to be a light sleeper after Ramsay had
been injured and she and Reek had had to guard him. With Roose, she learnt that
he was a lot stronger than he appeared.
Every time she attempted to rid herself of him, she found herself overpowered.
Once she had kept a knife that came with her supper and launched herself at him
the moment he’d walked through the door. It had swiftly been torn from her
grasp, with two fingers being pulled out of joint in the process. After that,
she had refused to lie with him. He’d dragged her to the bed and forced himself
on her; apparently oblivious to her strikes and kicks. One time, she’d gone
willingly with him and ensured she was on top before wrapping her slender hands
around his pale throat. Roose had smiled, climaxed, and disentwined himself
from her grasp as though she were a child who refused to let go of him. That
had angered her so much that she had attacked the door until her fingers were
bloody and she’d lost three fingernails to the wood.
He was not immune to pain though. He was made of flesh and bone like any other
man, and Sansa did her best to hurt him, especially when he was inside her.
She’d bite and claw at him until his pale flesh was slick with blood. She’d dig
her fingers in so deep she left bruises. Roose would grunt in pain but it never
seemed to slow or stop him from climaxing. If anything it seemed to speed him
up.
Her nights with Ramsay were somewhat foggy now, but she recalled how he had
enjoyed her claws tearing at his flesh or her teeth sinking into his shoulder.
One time, after Roose had left, Sansa caught herself thinking of how the son
was the shadow of the father. But that had angered her beyond belief. Ramsay
had been nothing like Roose. He had been a monster, for sure, but he had become
her monster. And he would show mercy and was kind to her and gave her pleasure
and love. The pain he had caused her only meant that she cherished his kindness
all the more.
Sansa could feel her memories of him slipping away. She feared it; sometimes
holding her breath until she felt dizzy through not wanting to forget or let
the memories escape. I’m going mad she told herself, pacing through the rooms
that had once been hers and Ramsay’s and hardly recalling a thing. She took to
moving throughout the room at least once every hour that she was awake. With a
pale hand, she would stroke an object and force herself to remember. The door;
how Ramsay had pushed her against it on their wedding night and forced his way
into her for the first time. The fireplace; how he had dragged her by her hair
and held her face just out of reach of the flames after she confessed
Littlefinger’s plans. The window; how she had readied herself to jump when it
had all become too much. The bed; so many terrible memories would fill her
mind. A new one would resurface for every time her hand rested against the
headboard.
After a time, Sansa found that even when she was not completing her ritual, her
mind would always be trained back to the memories until one day only one
question remained in her mind.
How could I have ever loved such a monster?
***** In Your Head *****
Chapter Summary
     But you see it's not me
     It's not my family
     In your head, in your
     Head they are fighting
The food was left untouched at the door. The men that brought it couldn’t even
see her unless they tried to. She hid in the corner. In the shadows. They
couldn’t even tell if she knew they were there. She was so far away; drowning
in memories.
Eventually, when they began to fear she would starve to death, Roose Bolton
abandoned his council and battle plans to see what had become of his wife.
Stepping into the room, he waited for the attack to come. But it didn’t.
Circling the perimeter, he found her in the far corner; huddled against the
stone. “Lady Sansa. Why are you hiding?” He asked softly. Two teary blue eyes
peered up at him; filled with disbelief and hope.
“Please…make him stop…please…” She whispered.
“Make who stop?”
“My husband…my sweet, sweet Lord…please, don’t let him hurt me anymore…” Sansa
begged. Roose crouched down in front of her and searched for the trick in
amongst the blue. He found none. “I am your husband now, Lady Sansa, remember?
Ramsay died and I came here and we were married in the Godswood.” Her eyes
gazed up at him, unseeing and confused.
“He died?” She gasped.
“Yes.”
“But I can hear him! He screams at me. He screams at me and promises to hurt
me. To tie me to the bed again, to push me on the fire, to throw me from the
window…please make him stop…”
“Hush, he cannot hurt you now.” Roose promised, his voice stern. “You must eat
something.” Sansa reeled away in fear of food.
“No.” She growled. “I will starve myself. I will die. At least then he will
stop.” Roose stood and she stared up at him, her mouth set in a determined
grimace. Then she crumpled again. “Please take me out of here. Anywhere
else…I’ll go anywhere, just not here, not these rooms where he can come back.”
Her eyes looked up at him beneath a curtain of hair; large and pleading.
“Alyn! Skinner!” Roose called. Sansa scrambled further back into the shadows.
“Move Lady Sansa to my chambers.” He ordered.
“No! Not them! Please, they’ll hurt me…please don’t make me go with them!
They’ll hurt me again!” Sansa screamed, but Roose had been lenient enough.
Leaving the men to overpower her and remove her from the room, Roose returned
to his plans.
Reek was relieved when the next face he saw was Damon’s. Damon moved quietly
considering his size. He slowly opened the door to the pen slowly so his
movements gave no indication Reek should fear him. For a moment, he considered
crawling forwards and kissing the man’s boots to show his gratitude, but then
he remembered that this man was not his master, or Lady Sansa. In fact, Lady
Sansa hated this man. Reek couldn’t crawl towards him. He shouldn’t go near him
at all. Like a good pet, he remained at the back of the pen; eyes shining as he
watched.
“Hungry Reek?” Damon pulled a bowl of cooked, cut up meat from behind his back.
The dogs began to go wild at the scent of it. Reek’s remaining teeth began to
ache as saliva formed. He was hungry. Reek was always hungry. Damon set the
meat down at his feet. “Come here pet.” He ordered. The scent of a trick fouled
the scent of the meat. Reek remained where he was.
“Come here, pet.” Damon said again, nudging the plate towards him with his
foot.
“No.” Reek muttered, his hand clutching the bars beside him.
“Come on pet.”
“No! I can’t!” He wailed, gripping the bars harder.
Damon moved towards him, stepping over the bowl of food. Reek cowered low,
covering his head with his arms. He could still feel the man towering over him,
despite his attempt to hide himself.
“Reek. Look at me.” Damon ordered. Somehow, Reek ignored him. Lady Sansa hated
this man, and she had not given him permission to talk to him.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, pet. Now come and eat your food.”
Reek continued to hide his face, but he did not move.
“Are you going to disobey me pet?” Damon’s voice with smooth and Reek heard a
familiar amusement. And still he stayed as still as stone. Damon sighed and
retreated to the door.
Reek screamed when he heard the whip cut through the air.
They dragged her, weeping and begging, through the halls. All the servants saw
the pitiful Lady treated so roughly by the two brutes. They saw. They hated.
Lady Sansa may have changed from the innocent maid some remembered, but she was
still a Stark, and a young girl with not a friend in the world.
Sansa continued to wail pitifully until they reached Lord Bolton’s chambers.
“Please…don’t…please!” She screamed, her cries ringing through the castle. From
beyond the walls, wolves began to howl.
“Mad bitch.” Skinner growled, glaring down at her. Sansa cowered away from
them, still sobbing loudly, screaming out at random moments and flinching as
though she were being struck at. “Best take out all the things she might harm
herself with. Lord Bolton will skin us alive if he finds her hanging from the
beams.” Alyn grunted his approval and the two left the weeping woman whilst
they set to their task of searching the room.
“No! Please stop…please don’t…NO!” Sansa screamed again, curling up into a
fetal position to protect herself from the ghost that tormented her still.
“Let’s go. Leave her to the voices in her head.” Alyn chuckled darkly. Skinner
nodded in agreement and followed him back to the door.
Sansa waited until they were gone before standing up. She wiped away the tears.
Of course, she had to whimper now and then loud enough so the people outside
could hear. First, she struck herself across the face, over and over until
there was a red mark that promised a bruise.
Pulling up her skirts, Sansa pinched and grabbed at her thighs and hips until
ghostly handprints appeared on the pale flesh. She left a few scratches on her
legs too, cutting deep until there was a thread of blood.
Walking over to her husband’s bed, Sansa returned to her face. She bit down
hard on her bottom lip to stop herself from crying out as she smashed her nose
against the bedpost until it was a bloody mess. The hot red gushed from her
nostrils and she collected it in her right hand whilst hoisting her skirts up
again with the other. Sansa closed her eyes and smiled as she slathered her
thighs, cunt and backside with blood.
Satisfied with her work, she collapsed onto the hard floor and waited for her
husband to return.
***** You're To Blame For My Misery, Right? *****
Chapter Summary
     If you could see yourself now, baby,
     It's not my fault, you used to be so in control.
     You're going to roll right over this one.
     Just roll me over, let me go
Skinner and Alyn weren’t hired for their intelligence. No doubt they didn’t
even consider the possibility of eavesdroppers. Many servants had heard the
rape take place and had witnessed Lady Sansa being forcefully dragged down the
corridor, begging for them to stop.
The punishment for rape was the hacking off of their genitals. The punishment
for raping Lord Bolton’s wife was flaying.
When her husband had returned to her that evening, Sansa had still been a
bloody mess on the floor. It had taken some coaxing from him for her to confess
what had occurred. A very believable performance. Sansa had congratulated
herself. Of course the addition of the noises and screams had added to the
effect and the servants had heard it too, meaning there were a mass of people
who could stand against Skinner and Alyn’s denials. And deny they did, right
until the skin was peeled from their bodies. Then they confessed their crimes
in the vain hope it would be over with sooner. How wrong they were.
He was stripped down until he wore nothing but a collar. It was cold in the
kennels and he had been left like that the whole night for disobeying. For not
calling him master.
He is not my master. I belong to Sansa.
Usually, Damon whistled a cheery little tune in greeting; whatever frustration
he had felt the day before erased by a good night’s sleep. But today there was
no whistling and Reek’s shivering was no longer due to the cold. When he peered
through the bars, face obscured by shadows, Reek whimpered. The face was
thunderous, monstrous and terrifying. He wasn’t even inside the pen yet but
Reek still cowered away from him. “Have you got something to say to me pet?”
Reek knew what he wanted. He wanted him to beg for his clothes back and to call
him master. Clutching his collar, Reek forced himself to shake his head. He
heard Damon sigh, then came a sharp, grating sound as the gate was wrenched
open. Quivering, he scrambled backwards as far as he could go.
“Get on all fours Reek.” Damon ordered, towering over him.
“No!” Reek barked.
“All fours. Now.”
“N…no.” He squeaked. Damon’s booted foot slammed down on his own naked one,
making him yelp as it rubbed the stumps of toes long gone. “Reek. Obey, or I’ll
break your foot.” Damon’s tone was unfaltering. Reek had no doubt he would. But
how could he obey? He was not to obey this man unless Lady Sansa commanded it,
and she had not.
But she isn’t here. Where is she? She’s been gone for weeks. You haven’t seen
her once. She’s forgotten all about you.
Reek whined, and screamed as Damon twisted his foot, grinding it down onto
Reek’s. “All fours!” He roared.
She’s forgotten all about you.
Sobbing, Reek yelped as he slowly went onto his hands and knees, trying his
best not to move the newly broken foot. He closed his eyes and felt salty tears
on his cheeks. With what front teeth remained to him, Reek bit down on his lip
as he waited for Damon to move away and that familiar bite of the whip to tear
through his back.
He couldn’t suppress the groan of relief that escaped him as Damon’s warm,
rough hand stroked down his spine. “That’s right Reek. You surrendered and I
rewarded you. That’s what a master does when their pet behaves, isn’t it?”
Reek whined, sensing a trick.
“Isn’t it?” Damon’s hand pressed down harder on his back. It didn’t hurt, but
the gesture alone was threatening.
"Yes.” Reek whimpered, his back arching beneath the heavy touch, trying to flex
away from it.
“Yes, what?” Damon pressed harder. Reek’s lips remained clamped shut and he
shook his head frantically. Damon’s heavy hand slowly dragged down along his
back. As it continued down towards his backside, Reek squirmed away, eyes
bulging in terror. Damon followed him, towering over him once more. “You can
blame Lady Sansa for this Reek.” He growled, forcing him back onto his hands
and knees. Reek could in no way match Damon’s strength and so settled for a
fearful wail that sent his canine companions howling. “Lady Sansa?” Reek gasped
as he felt Damon starting to try and spread his buttocks.
“Yes Reek. She set up two very good friends of mine and had them murdered for
rape. I’m very angry with her Reek. You know who is going to have to suffer
don’t you?” He continued to whimper and writhe pitifully, crying out as Damon
roughly shoved two fingers inside of him and began to stretch him.
“Reek?”
“Yes, that’s right pet. And why are you suffering?”
“Because…because Lady Sansa hurt your friends.” He sobbed. Damon removed his
fingers from inside him as roughly as he had inserted them, leaving a burning
sensation behind. When Reek felt Damon start to position himself behind him, he
panicked. “No! Please, you can’t! I’ve never had anyone…no one other
than…please, not that…” He cried, trying to turn and face him. Only Ramsay
could do this to him. Only Ramsay.
“He’s dead pet.” Damon did not growl, if anything he sounded a little
disconcerted. The hand that grasped his hair was not so gentle. Reek sobbed
uncontrollably as his head was forced back down. “I’m your master now. I’m
doing this because of Sansa. You are hurting because of Sansa.” Reek screamed
as Damon pushed into him in one harsh thrust. “This hurts because of Sansa. I
could have been merciful and used oil, or spit at least, but I didn’t. Why is
that pet?”
“Because you’re angry.” Reek wailed, his mouth now open in agony, snot mixing
with saliva as the pain of having him inside him grew too much.
“And who am I angry at pet?”
“Sansa.”
“Why are you being hurt Reek? Who is to blame for this?” Reek winced with each
thrust, but even they didn’t compare to the pain he felt as he said her name.
“Sansa.” His voice was barely a whisper.
“Who pet?” Damon gripped his hips and began to thrust harder and deeper so
Reek’s next word came out as a scream.
“SANSA!”
“And who am I?” Damon roared back, thrusting so hard that Reek was sure he was
bleeding and he wouldn’t be able to walk for days. “Who am I Reek?”
“MASTER!” Damon came as Reek shrieked the word, collapsing on top of him,
crushing him beneath his weight. “Master.” Reek whimpered again, though it made
it no less painful.
***** Cherry Wine *****
Chapter Summary
     Her eyes and words are so icy
     Oh but she burns
     Like rum on the fire
     Hot and fast and angry
     As she can be
     I walk my days on a wire
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Following the incident with Skinner and Alyn, Roose kept his wife with him.
Like a loyal pet, she followed him around the castle; head down, speaking only
when spoken to. One could not wish for a more compliant wife. Sansa’s stone
mask never faltered. Roose was wary of course, ever cautious. He was careful
not to leave anything that could be used as a weapon around and always made
sure she ate the food and drank the wine first. Yet Sansa seemed to have had
all the life sucked out of her. She was but a cold shell. Hollow. Frail. At
night she sometimes woke up screaming, but Roose did nothing to settle her. She
settled of her own accord, rarely ever releasing a whimper. Occasionally she
cried out names in her sleep too. Names of those long dead. His bastard’s name
was the most frequent, usually followed by a pale limb thrashing out in fright.
It made Roose smile to think how the memories tormented her so, and how they
had driven her into submission.
So far, there was no sign that she was with child. He kept careful watch over
what she ate and drank, ensuring she did not try to drink moon tea. He had her
checked by the maester once a week too, to prevent her trying to rid herself of
their child without him knowing there had ever been one.
The lack of an heir did not matter for the moment. Roose’s main concern was the
heir beyond the castle walls. Despite the onset of winter and the heavy snows,
reports came in almost every day that yet another northern lord had declared
their loyalty to Rickon Stark. The boy’s army grew and grew. Roose knew a siege
would be upon them soon enough. He had tried sending out riders to forage for
food and remind the northern lords who ruled. But wolves had torn each party
apart. One ranger had lived to tell the tale. “Three of them. Monstrous beasts.
Bigger than horses…swallowed them whole. One white, one black, one grey.” He
had sent out men to kill the beasts. It seemed they were always one step ahead.
What’s more, they seemed to be moving closer. Every night, their howls filled
the castle.
His wife had remained unmoved by their cries.
His wife remained unmoved by anything, which is why he felt it was time for
Damon to show him his progress. At dinner that evening, he had summoned the
boy. “I wish to see how well you’ve progressed with your pet.” Damon simply
nodded, bowed and left them. He chanced a quick glance at Sansa who was too
busy sipping her wine to notice him.
Damon quickly grew frustrated with Reek’s stumbling gait. His time in the
kennels had left him weaker too as Damon had not thought to exercise him. More
than once on the journey to Roose’s chambers, they had to stop to allow Reek a
chance to get his breath back. Every staircase seemed like a mountain, and Reek
would heave and huff once he reached the summit, whining due to the pain in his
limbs but too afraid to complain. The cold probably didn’t help either. Damon
had grown a bit too fond with the whip of late and Reek’s back was a mess of
bloody scars and weeping sores. It was more painful for him to wear a tunic,
and he had allowed him the mercy of going without one, despite the fact he was
about to be presented to Lord Bolton.
Finally, they reached the door to Roose’s chamber. Damon forced his frustration
away and tugged his jerkin, smoothing his hair to neaten himself up. There was
nothing he could do to neaten Reek up, but Lord Bolton would wish to see his
work no doubt. “Remember Reek, you look at no one unless I tell you to,
understand?”
“Yes master.” Was the immediate reply.
“Very good pet.” Damon grinned. He couldn’t wait to see her face; to see that
stone mask slip away and reveal the anger and jealousy underneath.
Still grinning, he knocked.
Silence.
Damon knocked again.
Silence.
He frowned. It had not taken them that long to reach his chambers had it?
Perhaps they had retired without waiting for him. “You were so slow they’ve
fallen asleep on us pet.” Damon jested. Reek wrung his hands uneasily; staring
at the wooden door. Damon wondered what the chances were of getting his hand
flayed if he opened the door without consent. But Lord Bolton hadrequested to
see him. And if they weren’t within, what harm could it do?
Damon’s blood ran cold as he took in the sight of Roose Bolton slumped in his
chair; eyes wide with shock. There was no fear there, Roose had long been
incapable of showing such an emotion. “My lord?” The call was more of a reflex
than anything. Lord Bolton made no reply. There was no weapon, no blood. But
the gaunt, almost blue face was all the evidence Damon required.
Poison. A woman’s weapon.
The poison had tasted as sweet as the cherry wine, but the courage it had taken
to do the deed was even sweeter. She had known Lord Bolton was a cautious man.
He had always made sure she had the first bite and took the first sip. The
chances of her drinking too much had been high. She had to make it convincing.
There had been a moment when she’d felt the darkness closing in and wondered if
she’d get the antidote in time. But she’d fought through it, though Roose had
been drawing his last breaths when she’d stood over him and said “Robb Stark
sends his regards.” She’d wanted to put a knife through his heart too, but she
wasn’t sure how long it would take for Damon and Reek to return.
She'd had her suspicions about what had become of her pet. Damon had never come
to her to gloat like the others had. It would take no small thing to stand in
the way of his gloating. And now he had Reek too.
That was fine. Sansa had her own…pets.
Night had fallen; the darkness broken only by the snow that fell. The winter
wind bit at her face and she pulled the hood up higher. Her cloak was white,
white as snow. Once within the Godswood, no human eye could separate her from
the snowy limbs and snowdrifts. She was the ghost of Winterfell. As silent as
the wolves had become beyond the walls. They too knew something was afoot.
Sansa Stark drifted through the night; her face and mind as cold and hard as
winter. Once she reached the far wall, she did not feel the cold as her bare
hands pushed away the snow and the ivy that had formed a curtain.
The door groaned as she wrenched it open.
“Welcome home.”
Chapter End Notes
     I can only apologise for my lack of activity this past week. The
     Sansa muse was sleeping, or most probably drowned out by another that
     won't stop screaming at me to write her story (seriously Eff, write
     out your own goddamn problems)
     Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for it! Things are going to move
     a bit quicker from here onwards.
     Also, I had my last exam today. I'M FREE! I'M FREE OF THE EDUCATION
     SYSTEM! Or I would be if I wasn't going to uni.
     **does a happy dance** I'm free I'm free. Hopefully now I'll have
     more time to write too.
     Anyway, I'm babbling now. Just want to say, thanks for sticking with
     this story even if I haven't been meeting the bar, I really
     appreciate all the support I get from readers **gets all teary** I
     love you guys.
***** Lady of Winter *****
Chapter Summary
     Cause she's just like the weather, can't hold her together
     Born from dark water, daughter of the rain and snow
     Because it's burning through the bloodline
The warning cries rang out loud and clear. Men ran about the keep, blinded by
panic and fear, though there was nought they could do. Of Lady Sansa there was
no sign. No one had seen her leave the castle and rumours ran through the
servants like wildfire; that the Shewolf had grown wings and flown from the
window to join her brother’s army, and that she would return sharp toothed and
thirsty for more vengeance. There was no doubt that Lord Bolton had been
poisoned by her hand. It was a grievous crime to murder ones husband, and the
man whom had discovered Lord Bolton’s still and startled form had screamed for
her head.
They found her in the Godswood near the break of dawn; knelt before the Heart
Tree, praying for forgiveness most likely. Five men, armed and armoured,
approached her from behind whilst exchanging nervous glances between one
another. She had murdered their Lord, that much was true, but what would they
do without her? She was Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and now the Dreadfort
too. They had been ordered to kill her by a man no higher born than themselves.
“I pray you all will not be so foolish as to take one step closer.” She did not
stand. She remained knelt before the tree; head bowed, hands clasped. From
where they stood, they could not see her face and it looked as though she had
not spoken at all. It were as though the woods had spoken for her.
But the Bolton men were no fools, and they were not the type to allow a woman
to demean them. They were of the North; cold and harsh.
“Arrogant cunt.” One of the men spat. He took a step forward.
He came from nowhere, silent as a ghost, his white fur making it hard to tell
where the snow covered woods ended and the wolf began. The others watched the
wolf appear; the blood that spattered his white fur revealing the beast. Once
their friend had fallen still, the wolf turned on them and bared his bloody
teeth.
“I did try to warn him.” Lady Sansa was on her feet and facing them now; her
pale face framed by the fiery red waves of her mother, a demure smile pulling
at her rosy lips. “Does anyone else dare to slay me before the Gods?” She
asked, glancing at each man in turn with a gaze colder than Lord Bolton’s had
ever been.
She was winter. She was the North.
Feral growls rumbled through the trees like thunder and two more wolves
appeared on either side of her. They were no ordinary wolves. All three were
almost as tall as Lady Sansa herself. One watched them hungrily with bright
green eyes and snapped at Sansa when she settled a gentle hand on his side;
pale fingers slipping through coarse black fur. Sansa did not flinch away from
his bared teeth, nor did she take her hand off of him.
The grey beast was just as big, but did not complain when Sansa buried her hand
in her fur. She held her head high, fixing each man with a vengeance filled
glare. Pent up anger released in low, relentless growls.
The white one moved away from his kill and went to stand between the men and
his pack; his movements as skilled and smooth as that of a trained warrior.
Silent. Deadly. He crouched low, snapping his sharp teeth, ready for an attack.
The Bolton men shivered collectively at the sight of them all, standing as a
pack before the Old Gods. The remaining Starks, rallying together, hungry for
enemy blood, and led by the Shewolf. The woman responsible for the death of
their Lord and the fall of House Bolton.
Throwing down their swords, they ran.
“Damon!” He span around at the sound of Luton’s voice. Grunt was with him too.
Their faces were grave, their concern mixing with fatigue.
“What is it?” He asked angrily.
“They’ve found her, the five men sent to search the Godswood.” Luton informed.
“And they brought her head out and nothing else?” Beside him, Damon heard Reek
whimper. It only served to spur his anger on.
“She’s got the beasts with her. One white, one black, one grey. The wolves have
come again, the men are saying. The white one ripped a man apart. They won’t
let anyone hurt her.” Grunt nodded in silent agreement.
“The fuckers aren’t immortal Luton. We have crossbows don’t we?” Damon snapped,
clenching and unclenching his fists, longing to punch the grim look off of
Luton’s face.
“The wolves are as big as horses. She could ride away on one if she so wished.”
If only Damon thought, pressing his knuckles to his forehead.
“We could torch the place. Leave her the Lady of ash and bone. It’s what Ramsay
would have done. Order the men to start fires.”
“Ramsay is dead Damon. And besides, why should the men follow you, eh? You
aren’t the fucking Lord of Winterfell. Some here have already begun to loot and
flee. They would rather take their chances with winter than be ripped apart by
direwolves, and I’m of a mind to go with them. Dick’s already gone. The Shewolf
will show us no mercy. She had Skinner and Alyn flayed for a crime they didn’t
commit for the sake of vengeance. The bitch is fucked up in the head.” Both
Luton and Grunt glared at him and he could tell they would rather stab him in
the back than help him defend the castle, and all the Bolton’s had worked for.
“Fine. Go if that is what you want. I can’t stop you. When winter takes you,
give my greetings to Lord Ramsay. I’m sure his dancing and singing and feasting
in hell, you’ll all have a merry time there.” He grimaced.
“We hope you’ll join us soon enough. A feast would be dull without your sick
humour.” Luton grinned back. The men all smiled and nodded a farewell to one
another.
Once his friends were gone from the chamber, Damon turned on his pet.
“And why is it you whimper so pet? You don’t fear for what I may do to Lady
Sansa do you?” Reek bowed his head.
“N…no…master, never. Reek only loves master…only master…” He sobbed; his tears
wetting Damon’s boots.
“Very good Reek, because you remember what I did to you, don’t you?” Reek’s
head snapped up to look at him and he cowered away.
“Y…yes master.” His pet squeaked.
“And why did I do that to you pet?”
“Because of Lady Sansa. Because she had Skinner and Alyn killed and they were
your friends and she is very bad. Very very bad.” He was babbling in panic,
afraid he would feel the bite of the whip though Damon was not even carrying
one.
“That’s right pet. Now, I think it’s time we got some troops of our own, don’t
you?” Reek peeked up at him, his whimpers ceasing and his brow furrowing as he
tried to work out what Damon meant. Damon grinned at his confusion. From
somewhere within the Keep, a woman screamed. More frightened shrieks followed
and a stampede ensued as the servants attempted to run from the wolves within
Winterfell.
***** King of Winter *****
Chapter Summary
     Did you see the sparks feel the hope? You are not alone
     Cause someone's out there, sending out flares
     Someone's out there, sending out flares
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Damon tried not to let himself sleep, but as night fell and there was no sign
of Sansa, the bodies looked too warm for him not to lie down amongst. It was
more a case of survival than anything else. Damon crawled in beside his pet,
clutching him tight and ordering the dogs to close in around them; their thick
winter coats allowing for extra warmth.
When morning came, he was woken by the sound of rattling chains. He groaned and
looked up over the pile of sleeping bodies. Sansa stared back at him, smiled,
and continued fastening the heavy chain and padlock. “Of all the places I
expected to find you, crawling up with Ramsay’s bitches was the last. But it
appears you are willing to take everything he once had. His father, his castle,
his pet.” Damon groaned again as his back complained after its long night on
the cold ground.
“On the contrary my lady. Lord Ramsay can keep his wife. I’d rather fuck his
actual bitches than take that slut to bed.” He growled, standing up on weak
legs. Sansa continued to smile. “Then it seems you are in luck! You are in the
right place for it, and fucking those girls as well as Reek might help to keep
you warm. My brother is coming, Damon, and the snows with him.” He staggered
forwards until his face was pressed against the bars of the entrance to the
kennels. “Though you might want to pick a favourite. Soon enough it won’t be
your cock on your mind, it’ll be your empty stomach as it groans and begs,
desperate for food.” Damon’s face clouded over with rage as Sansa slid the key
into a pocket. She didn’t flinch when he rattled the door with all his might.
“You want to leave me in here? Fine. But Reek is with me too. He’ll die before
I do.”
“Reek is a most resilient creature. He’s used to these conditions. But you are
right of course. I’ve been forced to make some very tough decisions during my
life, and I shall miss my pet very much. I know you will try your best to keep
him alive. After all, he was Ramsay’s special bitch. You’ve got a lot of hard
decisions to make too now Damon. Eat these dogs and freeze without their warmth
at night, or stay warm and starve without their flesh to eat. Hmm…” Sansa
pressed a finger to her cheek. “Decisions.” Damon watched her as she walked
away, desperately trying to think of something he could say that would
penetrate her stony exterior.
“Or I could just eat him.” That made her turn around, frowning, an amused smile
dancing upon her lips. “Your brother’s army is made up of Skags. If he’s going
to be eaten by anyone, it should be by his master. And that’s who I am now. His
master. He hates you, because everything terrible and cruel I did to him was
caused by your actions.” Damon grinned as he watched her smile fade into a
snarl. “Should have thought twice about having Skinner and Alyn killed.” He
added. Sansa looked as though she were about to spit at him, but she seemed to
recall her courtesies just in time and turned her back on him.
Once she was gone from sight, Damon tried rattling the gate loose again but to
no avail. The chain links were an inch thick and he had nothing to saw through
them with. He had chosen the kennels because Ramsay’s girls were trained to
kill wolves. Even if each one had been torn to pieces by the beasts, it would
have allowed time for him to slip a dagger between her ribs whilst they were
distracted. Damon could die happy as long as he was dragging the bitch down
with him.
She had sent some serving boy out on an old nag with a message for her brother,
informing him and his men that Winterfell’s gates would be open to welcome him
home. She sent messages to all the Northern Lords too, informing them of the
sudden downfall of House Bolton. She had not included all the details. People
would talk, word would spread and her deeds would appear to be far more heroic
and harsh. She also read through the many letters her late husband had stashed
away; about the death of Stannis Baratheon, and how his Red Witch had promised
him he would live if he were to burn his daughter alive. Clearly it had not
worked. Sansa considered it a pity, though perhaps it was for the best. From
what she knew of Stannis Baratheon, he was not a man so willing to share power.
Sansa had spent her life playing the part a man chose. Joffrey, Petyr, Ramsay,
Roose. Now she had power, she would not hand it over to a man so readily. Her
brother must have seen no more than ten name days. He would have a lot to learn
before he could rule on his own. Sansa had learnt from the very best, and would
be a willing teacher.
For now however, she would play the part of Lady Stark of Winterfell.
Once she caught a pair of grooms trying to steal away with sacks full of
whatever had remained after the initial looting. Sansa remembered Cersei’s
advice and had their heads removed and placed on spikes to prevent a similar
incident. Other than that, she was kind to those that had remained. But she
trusted no one and always kept one of the wolves by her side. Nymeria preferred
to roam, and Shaggydog preferred the darkness. But Ghost was always by her
side, except when she bathed or dressed. There was something oddly familiar
about him, though they had not seen one another in years. His silence was
comforting, but at times she found herself missing Reek’s whimpers and whines.
They’d made her feel powerful. She could not expect Ghost to kneel at her feet
and lick her boots. He was a wolf, and Sansa knew better than anyone still
living that no one could truly tame a wolf.
The courtyard seemed empty when they gathered to welcome her brother home.
From the corner of her eye, Sansa could see two pale faces pressed against the
bars of the kennels, watching. It had been almost four days since she’d visited
Damon and Sansa smiled to herself as she wondered what his choice had been;
food or warmth. There was no lack of water. The snow had been relentless and
Sansa believed it was a sign of her brother’s homecoming. The King of Winter.
The Son of Winterfell.
They heard them first and Shaggydog released a wild howl, sending the horses
screaming in fright and the dogs yelping and whining. Sansa settled an uneasy
hand on Ghost’s side and the wolf snapped silently at his black brother.
Shaggydog snapped back, but a nip from Nymeria cowed him and he slumped
ungraciously onto his haunches, his ears twitching impatiently. Behind them,
the remaining servants glanced about fearfully, unsure of what to expect from
their new Lord.
There were no banners. No horns or shouts to signal their coming. The Skagosi
men seemed to dwarf their horses as they shouted and hooted to one another.
Sansa had ordered the maester to tell her all he knew about them. It was
rumoured they descended from giants; that Sansa could believe. They spoke in
their own rough tongue too. She looked hard for any sign of horns protruding
from between their horses’ eyes, but there were none. The little girl that had
withered inside Sansa was a little disappointed at that.
Some of the Skaggs eyed her hungrily, but Sansa did not notice. Her eyes were
focused instead on three mounted figures that cantered through the gates on
shaggy ponies; riding knee to knee. She could immediately tell they were not
Skagosi. The one on the right was a tough, weathered looking man with receding
hair and a salt and pepper beard. On the left was a woman; her face hard, her
eyes suspicious, brown hair tangled like a birds nest.
Between them was a boy. Sansa was almost frightened by how unfamiliar his face
seemed. He looked around the courtyard, staring hard into each face, ready to
fight anyone who might approach him. Then his eyes scanned the castle; seeing
everything, recognising nothing.
The three of them pulled up to a halt, the man and woman eyeing her
suspiciously. Rickon didn’t even seem to notice her. “Shaggy!” He burst out,
his tongue thick with an accent Sansa was unable to recognise. Before the
adults could stop him, her brother had leapt from his horse. Shaggydog sprang
forward.
Sansa gasped and started forward a little as boy and wolf collided in a mass of
fur and flesh, claws and fists. The Skagosi laughed, the woman smiled, even the
man seemed to grow younger at the sight before him. She held her breath,
looking around desperately, wondering why no one was worried for her brother.
Finally, once the snow around them was spattered with blood, the two pulled
apart. Rickon sat, panting heavily, his backside cushioned by snow, though he
did not seem to feel the cold. His trousers had been made from wool, a fur pelt
wrapped around his shoulders and an axe slung across his back was all he wore.
Sansa felt colder just looking at him and buried herself deeper into her cloak.
King of Winter indeed.
“Brother!” She called. The boy turned to look at her, frowning. He seemed to
study her for a moment before standing up and turning fully to face her.
Shaggydog moved closer towards him and the boy clutched onto a handful of fur
fiercely before staring into the creatures eyes. When her brother’s eyes met
hers again, his look was no longer full of suspicion.
The man that had ridden in beside him dismounted and the woman followed suit,
still watching Sansa warily. Sansa stood a little taller, though she longed to
run to her brother. To hold him close; to feel the flesh her father and mother
had created. Stark flesh to match her own.
“Lady Sansa.” The man knelt before her.
“Lady Sansa.” The wild woman echoed, kneeling a little slower than her
companion. Sansa remained silent. She knew nothing of these strangers.
“I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand to Stannis Baratheon, the one true King of
Westeros. This is Osha, a wildling woman but steadfast and loyal to your
brother. She was with him when he lost his home and travelled to Skagos with
him.” Sansa relaxed a little.
“You are most welcome.” Her voice held no warmth. It so rarely did nowadays.
Davos nodded to Osha, who turned and called for Rickon. The boy obeyed her
immediately, though he seemed to pad over more like a wolf hunting than a young
lord. The wildling said some words to her brother that Sansa did not understand
and her brother replied in the same tongue.
“He says you look like his mother, though he remembers little of her. And that
this is not what home should look like.” The wilding explained. Rickon stared
up at her, his eyes filled with sad curiosity; a lost little boy, desperate for
answers to so many questions.
“Much has changed. But we are what remains of our family Rickon, and this is
what remains of our home.” Sansa smiled at him softly. Her heart ached as the
woman translated the words. Did he not remember the language of their mother
and father?
When the woman was done, her brother’s face turned thunderous and he stuck out
his bottom lip petulantly. He stamped his foot, releasing an angry cry.
Shaggydog growled.
“I think it best the little lord gets some rest.” Osha said to her, grasping
the angry boy’s shoulders protectively. Sansa’s throat felt dry and she balled
her gloved hands into fists to prevent herself from yanking her brother out of
the Wildling’s grasp and hugging him tight. She gave a tight nod and stepped
aside to let them pass. Davos smiled sadly at her. “It will take time, my
lady.”
“Thank you, Ser Davos.” She said, her voice colder than she’d intended.
Speaking to a friend would take some getting used to.
As she turned away, a voice rang out through the courtyard.
“What’s wrong my lady? Family reunion not going as planned?” Damon jeered.
Sansa swallowed her hatred and continued her way inside. Her brother needed
her. Damon could wait.
Chapter End Notes
     Think I have been living in denial for some time, but this story is
     drawing to a close now! There is only about one proper chapter left,
     then an epilogue.
     Maybe if I'd let some characters live it could just keep on going,
     but where's the fun in that?
***** No Man Likes To Be Caged *****
Chapter Summary
     We all carry on
     When our brothers in arms are gone
     So raise your glass high
     For tomorrow we die,
     And return from the ashes you call
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Rickon’s limited common tongue was perhaps the least of Sansa’s concerns. Her
brother had grown up wild and unruly. Sansa could not blame him for it. Mother
and father had been taken from him at too young an age. Each Stark child had
walked a different path, one that had treated each as cruel as the others.
Sansa had not forgotten the faceless assassin that had poisoned Ramsay; how the
face had slipped, revealing her sister beneath. How could Arya, Arya Underfoot,
Arya Horseface, have ended up as an assassin?
Sansa’s understanding of their twisted fates did little to help train Rickon
into the Lord he needed to be. He could only concentrate for a short while, and
when he grew bored he grew angry. Even the maester feared him after Rickon
stabbed his hand with a quill. Considering the maester had once served the
Boltons, the man’s fear of Rickon proved unsettling.
When Rickon was not being pinned down to learn his letters, the boy escaped to
the Godswood with Shaggydog. No one except the Skagosi and that Wildling woman
dared to disturb them. He seemed more comfortable amongst the foreign savages,
speaking their rough tongue and listening to their tales of war and battles.
Sansa herself did not fear them, and had even found some pleasure with some.
They were hard, savage men. Much like Ramsay had been.
But caged men grew restless, and it was not long before Ser Davos approached
her; his whole hand clenched into a nervous fist.
“We promised them riches and battles. They wished to feast on the flesh of the
Little Wolfs enemies. If something is not done soon, they will help themselves
to riches, make their own battles, and…”
“Eat the servants?” Sansa offered dryly. Davos pursed his lips and gave her a
pointed look. “What is your council then, Ser Davos?” She sighed.
“The Northern Lords wished for a Stark as their overlord, like it used to be.
They surely knew it would come at a cost. Issue a tax. That would cover the
riches. Battles they can do without. And the flesh of their enemies too, if the
Gods are good.” Davos clutched his hands behind his back, awaiting her answer.
Sansa stared into the hearth thoughtfully. She was certain that the Northern
Lords would take no pleasure paying the Skagosi. They despised them too much.
But Davos spoke truthfully. She would simply have to meet their strength with
her own.
“You keep to the Southern Gods, do you not?”
“I do, my lady.” Sansa smirked to herself.
“They will not hear you so far North. The Skagosi will receive what they
desire, in part. Though I fear he may be a little on the scrawny side by now.”
Sansa chuckled darkly, her smile as sweet as lemon cakes.
The foul smelling furs did little to stop Reek from shivering. What teeth
remained to him clattered together noisily. The pain of it made him whimper and
wail too, which made master growl in irritation. Additionally, his stomach
never ceased to ache. They had finished the last of the dog meat a day and a
half ago.
Whining, Reek peered out from beneath the rotting furs to see his master pacing
the perimeter of the kennels, like a caged beast. Each day the beast grew
angrier. Each day people passed them by as though it were normal to have two
humans locked up in a kennel. Most ignored the beast and his little companion.
Others taunted and mocked. Some even whacked sticks along the bars to provoke
the beast as a form of entertainment. They would tap away until he made a grab
for them, then they’d dodge and strike his outstretched arm, making him roar
with rage and pain. He had grown too slow and weak to catch those that provoked
him, and so his master would release his rage on Reek until the creature
screamed and begged for him to stop. Reek had already been weak, now he was
skin and bone. His master should have cared for him, but being caged had turned
his master into a different person; stripping him of everything human and
revealing the animal underneath. Damon was feral and vicious, and always on the
defensive. He had killed Ramsay’s girls with his own hands. They too had fallen
hungry, and much preferred the taste of human flesh to each other. It was eat
or be eaten, though Damon’s method had made Reek vomit. As the darkness around
them had invaded his master’s mind, the dogs had suffered more brutal deaths,
and Damon would hiss a name over and over with each kill. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.
Reek had learnt to listen out for the tell-tale signs of what his master might
do next. He had learnt to read them all. The one he heard now was rare. The
grunting suggested a curiosity extending outside of the kennel walls. Reek
heard his master cease his pacing and heard him breathing in deep, like a dog
would when it caught a scent. He listened as his master turned and steadily
moved towards the gates. Only then did Reek look to see what might be
occurring. He did not move from beneath the furs. Master had not told him he
could, but there was certainly something strange afoot. A crowd of rough-faced
foreigners had gathered around the gate, eyeing Damon as though he were a piece
of meat. Reek began to tremble, hoping they would not look his way like that.
By a seemingly silent command, the crowd parted. Reek started to tremble a
little more as he saw that…that woman. The one who had caused all the pain.
“Hello Damon.” She cooed.
“Lady Sansa. It’s good of you to come see us. I’d offer you some dog meat, but
we’ve run out I’m afraid. There might be an organ or two lying around
somewhere. Perhaps you’d like to come inside and help me look?” Reek could hear
the grin in his master’s voice and cowered away, whimpering.
“You must be hungry.” Lady Sansa smiled sweetly.
“I am rather peckish.” Damon was leaning against the bars, though Reek sensed
it was more to keep himself stood up straight than to be intimidating. If that
was what he was going for, it wasn’t working. Sansa was stood so close Damon
could reach out and wrap his hands around her slender neck. Reek wondered how
he was managing to restrain himself.
“Very well. We are holding a feast soon. Perhaps you would like to join us?”
Sansa cocked her head.
“Only if my pet can join me.” Damon sneered. Sansa’s smile only widened. “Why,
it would be cruel for him to miss such a grand event.” Stepping back, Sansa
turned to a man by her side. He wasn’t like the others. His face was creased,
his hair grey. He hesitated for a moment, giving Sansa a pleading look before
turning to a foreigner and commanding him in an alien tongue Reek did not
understand.
Damon began to back away as the men opened the gates and streamed in. He could
tell by the way they approached and the way they were looking at master that
they were not about to attend a feast as Sansa had said. Damon seemed to sense
it too. Reek held his breath as his master stopped backing away and tensed; a
dog cornered. He pounced, releasing a feral snarl. Reek screeched as he saw a
blur of teeth and fist. There was blood, and he was certain it belonged to his
master.
He was so focused on what was happening to Damon, he hadn’t even noticed the
two men approaching him. Reek did not possess the fight his master had. He was
too weak, too afraid. This master wouldn’t save him. This master couldn’t even
save himself. It made Reek so angry, yet he still could not bring himself to
fight as the two men reached down to grab him. He cowered a little and released
a whine; shrieking as they yanked him up roughly.
Damon was still fighting as Reek was led past, though the fight had slowed a
little. Once he realised Reek was gone, Damon collapsed in a heap, still
hissing and spitting as they dragged him to his feet and marched him out of the
kennels. The cold winter air seemed to freeze Reek’s lungs, and he wheezed
pitifully. His eyes stung with tears from how bright the sky seemed to be. He
was unsure of how long exactly they had been left to rot in the kennels.
“I have missed you pet.” Reek trembled at the voice and was unable to look up,
though he knew she stood only a matter of feet away. “You aren’t afraid of me
are you?” Her voice was so gentle, so full of understanding. It made Reek sob.
“What has the nasty beast done to you?”
“You leave him be whore! He’s mine.” Damon roared, desperately fighting against
the men who held him. They laughed at his feeble attempt to escape.
“Yours?” Sansa scoffed. “What would Lord Ramsay think of that? Can’t you hear
him cursing you from the hells Damon? I’m sure he’ll make your death seem like
a swim in the hot springs when you join him.” Reek whimpered at her words, sobs
making him heave and gasp for breath. She forced his face up to look into her
eyes. “You have some decisions to make Reek.” There was a certain madness about
her look. Her gaze was frighteningly familiar, and the kind voice chilled him
to the bone. “You can be my pet again, or you can die with your current
master.” Reek howled in fear. Fear of death, for he was such a coward. And from
the fear of making his own decisions.
“Perhaps I will do you a kindness, and make the decision a little easier for
you pet?” He did manage to look her in the eye without needing to be forced to
then. His brow furrowed and his mouth gaped open as he slowly began to make
sense of what she was saying. Sansa smiled, pleased by his realisation, then
turned her back on him.
“He is a traitor, and an enemy to my brother.” Sansa called out, gesturing to
Damon. The Skags that knew a little of the common tongue translated for their
friends and soon enough the entire courtyard was filled with cries for Damon’s
flesh.
Sansa turned towards Damon and smiled a wicked smile. Reek shuddered and
cringed, recognising it. Ramsay used to where that smile on his hunts or when
he was flaying or torturing someone. So afraid of the smile, Reek barely
noticed when he pissed himself.
“Do with him what you will.” Sansa ordered, her sinister smirk widening as they
brought a large cooking pot forward and Damon began to beg for mercy.
“Did you give the maester my orders?” She asked the moment the door opened.
“Yes my lady.” Davos replied wearily.
“And you remained with him until all the letters were sent?”
“As you commanded.” Sansa just nodded and gestured for him to take a seat. She
poured wine for him herself. “I don’t trust the maester. I’ll get another as
soon as I can.”
“He served Lord Bolton?” Davos asked, watching her.
“Yes.” She practically spat the word. “That’s why I want rid of him. I don’t
want him around my little brother.” Sansa took a sip of wine.
“You are doing well, Lady Sansa. I know I am not the best to judge.” Davos
confessed. Despite the brutality of her most recent execution, he couldn’t deny
that she had done well. Almost single-handedly, she had rid the North of Bolton
rule and restored the rightful heir.
“Winter is far from done, Ser Davos. First we have the Skagosi to deal with, as
well as the Northern Lords. They will not accept this tax without a fight. And
once the crown gets word of this…there may be war again.”
Davos was silent. She had thought it all through. Though her gender did not
gain her favour, Davos sensed she would make a good ruler.
“Perhaps you could propose a marriage alliance instead? Either for you or
Rickon. Queen Margaery knew you once, did she not?”
“She did, and we were close. But a Stark shall never again go south. Not while
I live. My father, my mother, my brother. They all went south. The place of the
Starks is in the North. In Winterfell.” Sansa’s voice was cold as frost, her
tone as stubborn as ice.
Davos slipped a hand into the pocket of his jerkin and pulled out a letter. “I
pray you remember your own words my lady.” He said, holding the roll of
parchment out to her and standing up. Sansa took it. Turning it over in her
fingers, she frowned down at the Mockingbird sigil embedded in black wax.
“A Stark shall never again go south.” He repeated. Sansa remained silent as he
left.
After a moment, the hand clasping the roll of parchment fell to the side of her
chair. “Put that on the fire for me pet. Make sure not a shred of it remains.”

Chapter End Notes
     Sorry this took so long, again. I just didn't want to kill Damon
     **cries**
***** Rickon the Bloody, Sansa the Good *****
Chapter Summary
     But I wanna dream
     I wanna dream
     Leave me to dream
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“This is madness!” The Greatjon boomed, slamming his fist down on the table.
“We didn’t ask for the Skaggs. Lord Stark, aye, we all prayed for our young
lord’s return, but the Skaggs…”
“Fed him, raised him, trained him to fight, brought him home. I too would have
preferred him brought up and returned home by his own kind, but alas his own
kind were in their keeps, cowering from winter.” Sansa raised an eyebrow.
“Cowering? We Northmen do not cower. Though I do not expect you to understand
that, my lady.” He spoke with a little more respect in his voice, but Sansa
could read the insult within the formality.
“I understand Northmen all too well Lord Umber. The blood of the first men runs
through the veins of the Starks, as does the blood of the Kings of Winter. My
father was warden of the North. You yourself proclaimed my brother as your
King. Do not doubt my understanding, Lord Umber. We Starks are the North.” She
said, her voice as cold as ice.
“I did not come here to argue over your wisdom, Lady Sansa. This tax you’ve put
on us is foolhardy. You cannot expect the Northern Lords to bow down and accept
it. We will not pay the Skaggs, nor will we be commanded by a woman.”
“You had no issue accepting the commands of a traitor. In fact I recall very
little resistance to Roose Bolton’s rule.” Sansa narrowed her eyes scathingly.
“Nor did you object to becoming one.” He retorted. Sansa gave a small smile.
“Indeed, I played my part well. And now House Bolton is no more and the Starks
rule the North again. I am sure you have heard the tales of my late husband’s
demise?”
“I’ve heard rumours.” He said darkly.
“Do not make the mistake of using my marriages against me, Lord Umber. The
blade you wield is a double-edged one. You attended my first wedding, did you
not?”
“I did.”
“And the wedding feast?”
“Aye.”
“And you heard me screaming?” Sansa glanced away then, forcing a pained
expression onto her face. He saw her as a foolish young girl. She could allow
him to see a little fragility. It would make him lenient. The Greatjon simply
nodded in answer to her question.
“The Northern Lords did nothing to help me then…”
“Lady Sansa-“
“…that I can understand.” She admitted, almost gently. “But the Boltons are
dead. The sooner the Skaggs are paid, the sooner they shall return to Skagos,
and the North will be at peace again.”
The Greatjon seemed lost for words. He stared at her, conflicted. Sansa had
grown weary of his argument now.
“Or they can remain. But I warn you, the Skagosi grow hungrier by the day.”
Sansa kept his gaze, biting back a smile. She must be as cold as the North. The
Northmen would not appreciate any murmur of southernism in her demeanour.
“So be it. But some others may take this as a slight.” He warned.
“I shall see to it that my gratitude is known, and that of my brother’s.” She
smiled sweetly, and stood up, signalling that this meeting had reached its end.
“If you will excuse me my lord, I would like to visit the Godswood.” A vexed
silence was his only reply, but Sansa allowed it. It remained in the chamber
behind her as she left him and made her way out into the snow.
Sansa sat beneath the Weirwood tree, with Ghost stretched out beside her, his
head resting on his paws while she ran her fingers through his soft fur.
Between the trees, she could glimpse Nymeria sniffing through the undergrowth.
Of Rickon and Shaggydog there was no sign apart from the carcass of an
unidentifiable animal she had come across on the path.
“What am I to do with him Ghost?” Sansa sighed, leaning her head back against
the bleached bark. Ghost raised his head and turned to look at her. There was
something human about those eyes, as though he were speaking through them. It
were almost as if he could understand her, as if he were trying to advise her
with his gaze. It had unnerved her at first, but now she oft found herself
asking him questions, and thanking him for his silent counsel. Now he gave her
a look that told her she knew what needed to be done. It made Sansa sigh again.
Had she been prepared for such a task? She knew how to manipulate; to deal with
men and get them to do her bidding. Was that the same as ruling?
Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like if she had a man
beside her. A man to rule with her. Ramsay would have been too brutal for
ruling, she knew that now. He had served his purpose, but that was all he had
been. A step. Nothing more, despite what she may have believed. Roose had
preferred to keep her locked up like some pet. Petyr was Littlefinger. He would
always put his own desires before anyone else’s. Besides, he belonged in the
South. The North was too harsh for him.
Sansa closed her eyes. What if the son Ramsay’s seed had made had lived? Rickon
was wild. Untameable. But her son would have been different. She would have
raised him to be a lord. She would have readied him until he came of age,
perhaps even beyond. And he would have listened to her and followed her
council. Her little Eddard would have been a Stark; born to rule the North as
Starks were.
But her son was dead, and she was left with her unruly brother.
Sansa’s eyes opened of their own accord when she sensed someone was watching
her. Rickon was half hidden behind a tree, but he only flinched a little when
their eyes met. Sansa forced herself to swallow her thoughts. He was just a
boy. He needed her, the dead did not.
“Come here.” She commanded gently, holding out an arm.
Warily, Rickon stepped forward, barefooted despite the dusting of snow on the
forest floor. He did not sit down next to her as a part of her had wished, but
he crouched down beside the pool, skimming his hands over the surface. Sansa
watched him for a while. A long while.
“Our father used to sit beneath this tree, do you remember that Rickon?” She
asked after a while. He glanced up, but looked beyond her and at the tree. “He
had a sword.” He said, each word said slowly, as though he struggled to control
his tongue.
“Yes.” Sansa’s voice choked a little, but the boy did not seem to notice. The
sword he was beheaded with.
“Maester Luwin died here.” Rickon mumbled, dipping his hand into the water and
staring sadly at his own distorted reflection.
“Did he?” She had not known. Maester Luwin seemed like some figure from a dream
now, one she recalled only if something reminded her of him. “Do you remember
Maester Luwin, Rickon?”
Rickon nodded. “I wanted to get something that would make him better. He said
no.”
“And you remember father don’t you?” Sansa asked, suddenly desperate to connect
with this boy. The young girl inside her was reaching out, begging for the
chance to open the door and shed light on a life she had left behind the day
her father’s head was removed on the steps of Baelor’s sept.
“I remember. He died.” Rickon said through gritted teeth, as though angry.
“And mother and Robb, you remember them?”
Rickon nodded.
“And you know what happened to them?”
“The onion knight told me.” Sansa recalled Davos once telling her how he had
come to be known as the onion knight. She continued to watch her little brother
as he slapped his hand against the water, causing angry waves to crash over the
edge. “You are the lord of Winterfell now Rickon.” She told him quietly.
“I don’t want to be Lord of Winterfell.” He mumbled.
“You are the heir, the last living son of Stark blood.” Sansa sighed. I don’t
want you to be Lord of Winterfell either. The notion was selfish, but not
wholly foolish. No matter how well she taught him, he would always crave the
freedom of responsibilities that no Lord could ever gain.
“Bran is older, and so is Jon.” Sansa felt a tear slide down her cheek and she
wiped it away angrily.
“I spoke with Osha about Bran, and you know about Jon. They’re both dead.”
Sansa gripped Ghost’s fur tightly. Rickon glanced up at the Weirwood tree, then
to Ghost. He stared deep into the red eyes of the wolf. “No they aren’t.” He
insisted, his voice haunting. Ghost lifted his head a little higher.
From somewhere within the Godswood, Shaggydog howled and Rickon leapt to his
feet, yowling a reply.
“Rickon…” Sansa half-heartedly called out to him, but the barefooted boy was
already gone; slipped between the trees. Recalling stories Old Nan had once
told them, Sansa smiled to herself and pictured a child of the forest with
Rickon’s features.
When the opening and closing of a door sounded, he took a moment to stretch his
limbs. He could not tell how long he had been asleep for, but judging by the
ache he felt in his joints, it had been a long time. Yet he felt no hurry to
rise. This was a peaceful place. A happy place now.
He stretched his back for a moment longer before rolling onto his knees. Eyes
still thick with sleep and heavy-lidded, he crawled over to where he knew she’d
be; beside the fire, in the chair that had once been mas- no, Lord Ramsay’s.
“Feeling lazy pet?” She crooned, running her hand through his knotted curls,
making him moan fondly. He could smell wolf on her, but it no longer frightened
him. The beasts did not come in this room. No one came in this room except for
mistress and any other servant she allowed inside. It was just for them. It was
his sanctuary, in a sense. Not a prison, no. He was safe here, mistress had
promised.
“You need to wake up for me pet. There’s something I need to tell you.” Reek
looked up at her then, his blue eyes wide and child-like, hanging on to her
every word.
“You know the castle that was once Lord Ramsay’s home?” Reek frowned then,
suddenly fearful.
“The Dreadfort?” His voice was a chapped whisper.
“Yes, very good pet.” Sansa’s grip tightened a little in his hair and she
looked away from him, staring into the flames and smiling. It was the smile she
rarely used, but chilled Reek to the bone. It was the smile Lord Ramsay used to
use when he had done something wicked and cruel.
“I had the place burned to the ground, pet.”
It were as though the walls of his insides were collapsing in on themselves.
Reek reeled away from her, clutching his chest and sobbing, begging wordlessly
for breath.
Burned? The Dreadfort had belonged to the Boltons. Reek had been born beneath
it. Theon Greyjoy had died there. Now that it was gone, Theon felt no freedom.
He still would not let go of Reek. Perhaps the burning down of the Dreadfort
meant he was trapped forever now?
“Hush now, sweet pet.” She cooed, her gentle voice opening up Reek’s airways
and allowing him to breathe again. “You have nothing to fear now. The Boltons
are gone. The Northern lords pay their tax. My brother allows me to rule in his
stead. Everything is fine. We are safe.”
Reek stared into the flames, thinking how her words sounded more like an
attempt to convince and comfort herself than him. Reek cared not for the
Northern Lords. Reek cared not for the little savage lord. Reek cared only for
Lady Sansa. There was no one else left to him now.
As if she could sense his discomfort that surrounded the happenings of the
outside world, his mistress resumed her gentle stroking of his hair, and Reek
rested his head against her thigh; gazing up at her as if she were the only
thing that mattered, because to Reek she was.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you so much for reading this whole thing to the very end! I
     have received so much encouragement and so many lovely things about
     this work, so thank you for all your kind words and kudos!
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