Archive of Our Own ^beta

A knock came at the door, breaking Sansa from her void stare and dragging her gaze away from grey-white fabric to the heavy wooden doors of her chamber. She stood slowly, her body protesting with aches and pains as she moved. Ramsay’s parting gifts. She took no caution to call out before opening the door. She had few friends here and her enemies could enter at any time with or without her consent. The iron hinges creaked under the heavy oaken weight, abruptly giving way to silence as she cracked the entryway open just enough to see who was on the other side.

A slim figure with pointed features stood there, backlit by the sconce on the wall. Dark eyes gleaming above a malicious smile met her own and Sansa felt a sense of deja vu.

“Myranda.” She said flatly, neither a greeting nor a dismissal. That horrid little smile flickered at the edges like a flame, malice barely contained behind false politeness. 

“My Lady.” She curtsied.

Sansa stared at her without emotion, blue eyes gone grey with disinterest and contempt. “Why are you here?” She asked.

“Lord Ramsay sent me to draw you a bath.” The girl answered. “He does not wish your body to become sore after your wedding night. Afterall,” Vile amusement and satisfaction danced in her eyes. “a wife must be ready when her husband calls for her.”

Sansa said nothing. She stepped aside and let the door swing open, walking to the side and leaning back against the stone wall where she could see every corner of the room. She could have dismissed the little wench, but she doubted Ramsay would send her to kill her. No - he would want to commit the act himself, or at least be there to witness it. Myranda inclined her head in false respect as she crossed the threshold of the Lady of Winterfell’s quarters, shutting the door behind her. The redhead watched with little interest as the girl dragged the tub in front of the fire and began the task of drawing the bath.

Though she said nothing, she watched intently. Cersei Lannister had taught her nothing if not vigilance, and while she may not take to it as naturally as the lioness, she had learned her lesson well. Water, soaps, towels, robes, buckets, rags, perfumes, combs - she watched the girl gather it all and set it up, watching intently for any sign of subterfuge or danger. She knew the minx hated her presence, that she saw Sansa as an invader who had taken her rightful place at Ramsay’s side. Sansa could almost laugh at that - they would be a perfect match forged in the depths of Evil’s dark hall and Sansa would hand the bastard over happily. 

Myranda seemed unperturbed by Sansa’s heavy, vigilant gaze as she worked, that horrid smile never faltering. When everything was ready, she looked at the taller woman and gestured toward the tub. “Shall we?”

Sansa stepped forward without comment, walking forward into the center of the room until nary an arm’s length separated the two women. Neither moved. Vitriolic hazel stared into stony blue, an oily and sharp smile parried by icy and stoic nothing. The wind howled outside and the fire crackled slowly as their stalemate stretched on with the seconds. Myranda was the first to move, her whole being twitching as her smile grew brighter with false light and she reached toward Sansa. “No use bathing in your gown!” She said with forced friendliness, starting to undo the ties at Sansa’s right shoulder. ”Let’s take care of that.”

Sansa had long changed out of her wedding dress and the garment was thrown without care over a chair next to her vanity. Now she wore a simple gown stitched by her own hand in deep blue fabric. The garment was in three pieces: The innermost layer was a simple shift split in two. The long skirt and long sleeved shirt were made of woollen fleece to hold warmth. The third piece was a long sleeve dress of the same color made out of velvet. This outermost layer was simple, following the curves of her body without hugging it as the fabric fell to her ankles. The bottom half of the garment was comprised of a solid skirt that began at her midsection. It was held to her body by a simple belt. The neckline was a simple oval that began at each shoulder where the first ties were. Six ties lined each arm, tying the two halves of the dress’s upper half together.

Myranda worked quickly to undo the ties, starting on the right before moving on to the left, circling around Sansa as she went until she was standing directly behind the woman. Sansa observed her from the peripheries of her vision, but did not give the girl the satisfaction of being watched directly. When the last of the ties were undone, the top half of her gown split in half, the front and back falling away to hang from her waist where the belt held the rest of the garment up. 

“I like this dress.” Myranda said as she stepped directly in front of Sansa, too close for comfort or propriety. “It’s so simple and easy to undo.” Her hands had never left Sansa’s body, and trailed over her clothed skin as she moved. The light touch felt like stabbing needles to Sansa -  the sensation making her skin crawl - but she gave no outward response. They trailed over her stomach and dipped under the hanging fabric of her bodice to rest on her belt.

Myranda’s eyes stopped looking over her body and stared into her own.  She was so close Sansa could see the individual hairs that dusted across her face. “You really are lucky, you know.” Myranda said, her fingers tangled in the belt, pulling it uncomfortably tight instead of loosening it. “To have been taught how to sew by your dear, late mother.” The belt loosened and fell away with the fabric of her dress.

“Indeed.” Sansa returned calmly. “My mother sacrificed a great deal of her time to teach me that and more.” Myranda did not move to continue undressing the Stark woman. Pausing where she stood before her, eyes lighting at the response. She preferred, Sansa knew, her prey to be vocal. “I do wonder what such skills your own mother took the time to impart?”

The brunette girl’s smile became strained. She was, of course, a Snow - a bastard daughter to the Bolton’s kennel master. Sansa knew this and she watched the girl with deadened eyes, waiting.

“Oh!” Myranda laughed, as if they were two girlhood friends trading gossip, but the sound was hollow and hard. “I never was any good at sewing.” She bent and gathered the velvet that had pooled at Sansa’s feet, the pale woman’s eyes following her as she stooped. She made to stand again, but the fabric caught on Sansa’s unmoving ankles. Her jaw clenched around her smile as she looked up at Sansa. “Might you step out of your garments, my Lady?” 

Sansa did not respond and made her wait there, bowed and looking up at her, a breath longer than needed before stepping back and freeing the fabric. Myranda laid it over a nearby chair and returned to her. “Alright!” She said brightly. “Now your undergarments.”

Thin, ice cold fingers hooked under the hem of her shirt and began to pull the fleece upward. Sansa didn’t fight her as the fabric was peeled from her skin and pulled over her head. The warmth of the fire and the ice of Winterfell’s eternal cold warred for dominance as they hit the exposed skin of her torso, yet she did not shiver. Her hair was already hanging loose and she brushed it back over her shoulder with one hand as Myranda laid her undershirt with her gown. Her hands came up to rest on her necklace just as the girl returned.

“Oh no!” Icy hands laid atop hers, stilling her movements. “No need to remove that, Lady Bolton.” Sansa allowed her hands to be guided back to her sides, watching intently as Myranda’s own returned to the metal, shifting and resettling the links over her collarbones. “The metal will be fine in the water, and besides, your thin neck looks so lovely with a chain around it.” 

Myranda patted the metal at either side of her throat lightly with finality. Her hands trailed over Sansa’s shoulders, grazing spots of purple, blue, yellow, and green. Her breath whispered over Sansa’s skin as a single jingling laugh left her. “Ramsay’s wedding gifts?” She asked. Deceptively delicate fingers pressed into the bruises with a harshness belied by the girl’s incessant false camaraderie. Myranda stepped back, her arms stretched fully to keep her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. Her eyes traveled the length of the woman’s body, catching on the motley of bruises that spanned her skin. “My, my…” she said. She stepped to the side, her right hand gliding from Sansa’s shoulder and over her collar bones, one nail scratching over her throat, as the predatory girl moved to stand behind her. 

Both hands found her shoulders again as hazel eyes scanned her back which was, arguably, far worse than her front. A rainbow of bruises was intermixed with deep red streaks of dried blood in the pale canvas of her back where Ramsay had scratched her - both with his nails and with a blade. No blood ran now, the shallow wounds painful but scabbed over. One finger poked at a spot just below her right shoulder blade, and Sansa fought a grimace. Two rows of teeth marks marked where Ramsay had bitten her as he’d reached his completion, darkened with bruising and reddened with blood where he’d broken skin. Myranda giggled. “He was quite generous tonight, wasn’t he?”

Two thin arms circled Sansa’s waist from behind as the servant girl captured her in a loose hold. Dark hair tickled Sansa’s back and shoulder as Myranda brought her face over her shoulder, not touching, simply hovering. Both girls stared across the room, seeing themselves in the long polished metal of Catelyn Stark’s mirror as the younger spoke and the elder listened impassively. 

“You know, Ramsay is very generous when he’s enjoying himself. He’ll keep being generous as long as you don’t get boring like Violet and Tansy did.” Sansa saw an overacted frown of concern on the girl’s face in the mirror and from the corner of her eye. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re the lady of Winterfell! Ramsay needs you!” Myranda pouted as if in thought. “Well, he needs parts of you - the ones needed to give him an heir or two. I’m sure his generosity will end once you do your duty as his wife.” A genuine smile brightened the girl’s face, and it was revolting to see that particular blend of viciousness and smugness in such young features. “He has plans for you then, all of you. It’ll be such fun!” The girl smiled wide over Sansa’s shoulder. “And Ramsay always lets me join his fun when he gets bored of his wives.” Her head tilted to the side. “I wonder if I’ll have to wait to play with you until then?”

Myranda backed away abruptly and came around to stand before her again. “But enough talk of your future. The bath will get cold!” Her hands settled on Sansa’s waist, ready to undo the ties that kept the underskirt around her waist. 

Sansa had listened and watched with carefully built nothingness. It could have been real, given the stony cold inside her, but it wasn’t. Down deep was the simmering icy anger of a Stark and the wrath of a she-wolf long since grown from a helpless pup. This girl was clumsy. She had never needed to play the game. Had always been Ramsay’s playmate in cruelty, a willing casualty but never truly a target. Sansa had played the game, she continued to play the game even now  - she had little choice. She’d been taught by the best, and she had learned well. Cersei Lannister never did her own dirty work, but then, Sansa was a Northern girl. She was no stranger to getting her hands dirty.

A hand shot out and tangled in brown locks, fisting cruelly in the dark strands at the girl’s scalp. It required little force to move the body toward the floor. Momentum did most of the work, courtesy of the brunette’s loss of footing when Sansa’s foot caught her legs, removing them from underneath her. She put force into it all the same - all the force of her body and hands pushed down as the girl fell, crashing her head into the stones of the floor with a sickening crack. Myranda gasped in pain and shock but did not scream. Sansa thought it was likely the shock rather than a lack of pain.

Myranda was reeling, having been unprepared for any reaction beyond words or possibly a slap. He scalp was open, bleeding freely onto the stone, pooling and spreading, seeping into the nearby rug. It would surely stain. Sansa paid it no mind. She yanked the girl’s hair, jerking her head up before driving her entire body forward to slam the girl’s head down a second time. She didn’t want to kill her, not yet, but she wanted her too dazed to move for a moment.

Myranda’s eyes were shut, the pain dazing her, but she was conscious still. Sansa released her and delivered a quick, calculated kick to her midsection. The girl gasped as the air left her lungs, her body twitching as if unsure what to do as she fell back, one hand rising to her head. Sansa moved quickly, striding over to the table where her dinner still sat. The old maid who had prepared her quarters had brought it and had left a sharp meat knife. Sansa remembered the woman telling her “The North remembers, Lady Stark.” She wonders now if the knife had been given with intent.

Myranda was stirring, a crazed laugh falling from her lips as she pushed her weight up on one arm, the other hand pressed to her bleeding scalp. Sansa returned to her swiftly and knelt at her feet. Her fingers were sure as she found the back of the girl’s ankle on her right leg. Myranda started to pull away from her, but the movement was entirely reflexive and her heel did not slip from Sansa’s iron grip. The blade’s tip slid in, the blade passed cleanly through to the other side, a twist, and the blade slid clean through muscle, tendon, and flesh as it cut a path out the back of her leg. Myranda screamed and tried to kick her away, but Sansa paid her no mind, grabbing the other leg and pinning it under her knee with difficulty. Stab, twist, slice, and both legs laid useless. Sansa stood and backed out of range quickly.

Myranda spasmed on the ground and tried to get up, but failed as her foot failed to hold her weight. She didn’t try again, instead sitting up and looking at her outstretched legs with an odd expression. Her chest was heaving from adrenaline and pain, but her expression was not one of fear. She looked up at Sansa with surprise, the blood running down her face accentuating her smile as she laughed. It was the first genuine laugh Sansa had heard from the girl.

“I didn’t think you had it in you!” It was almost gleeful.

Ramsay was not a new monster to Sansa. If all the Lannisters had one thing in common, they were all excellent teachers. This just happened to be Joffrey's tutelage rather than that of Cersei or Tyrion. The girl would be going nowhere, just like those Joffrey had trapped in the dragon pit with ravenous animals.

Myranda was still laughing, genuine elation in the sound. Sansa flipped the blade in her hand so it was faced away from herself and clenched her fist around the hilt. In two quick paces she was beside the girl again. Myranda tried to grab hold of her, but her attempts were batted away with Sansa’s free arm, creating an opening where the she-wolf struck. Her right fist, tight around the hilt of the knife, crashed into the girl’s face.  She gripped the girl’s bloodied chin with her left and held her still, staring into her eyes.

“Leave your hands down, or I will take from you the archery you so love as well.” Cold, firm, flat. Her tone left no room for empathy nor question. Myranda stared back and smiled. Her hands stayed down, resting on the stones at her sides. “Ramsay’s only ever had me for a playmate.” She said, her voice strained but revealing an uneasy blend of jealousy and joy. “Maybe you won’t be boring after all.”

Sansa hooked her thumb in the girl’s lower jaw and tugged sharply, forcing Myranda’s head up and her jaw open. “I am not like you.” Sansa said flatly. “You are a kennel dog who revels in blood and pain, eating the scraps Ramsay throws you.” A breathy laugh came from the injured girl. “I am Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. “The blade glinted in the firelight as she rested the flat of the blade on her thumb, the point angled inward to the girl’s throat. “Remember this as your only warning: Wolves do not leave their enemies alive to play with. We kill them.”

The blade went in and the girl screamed around dark blood.

‘Sorry Mother,’ she thought as she held the struggling girl. ‘ Your chambers should never have seen violence.’  

***

Ramsay was in the long hall of Winterfell, entertaining some of the lords of the North. His eye caught on Reek, standing off to the side with his head bowed. His pet must have sensed Ramsay’s eyes on him, because he flinched, trying to curl inward without drawing attention to himself. Ramsay smiled and pretended it was a response to what Lord Harald Karstark had said.

It was late into the night and he was bored, truth be told, with this informal gathering of Northern houses. Many of the Northern houses had gathered to celebrate his wedding to Sansa Stark earlier that day and this group was what remained. A few major houses were present, but mostly they were minor houses hoping to gain favor with their new Lord Paramount of the North. He knew few in the North were happy that the “Bane of the North” had become their ruling house, but they would obey. If not, Ramsay was sure he could convince them, though they would certainly not enjoy it.

The heavy doors to the chamber rattled as they opened, cutting off the idle chatter of the room and drawing all eyes to the entry. Ramsay sat straight at the sight of his new Lady Wife entering the hall clad in only a two piece fleece undergarment, dragging something behind her.

Sansa did not flinch away from the eyes of the Northern Lords as she entered the hall. She had taken the time to slide the long sleeved fleece garment back on but had not bothered with the heavy velvet overdress. In all technicality, she was fully dressed and so did not give any credence to what the lords may think. Her hair was tied back in a simple braid. She had made the girl with her sit and wait while she had tied it back herself. She wore no jewelry.

The long chain of the necklace normally around her neck was clenched in her hand, pulled taut where it was looped around Myranda’s neck. The girl half stumbled, half crawled behind her, the cut tendons of her ankles making the movement difficult. Sansa stopped a few strides from her new husband’s seat. Her blue eyes watching him coldly. 

Ramsay looked over the scene in front of him with growing curiosity and amusement as the Lords of the North murmured in shock. Brown eyes traveled over his wife’s blank expression and blood stained hands, down the line of her chained necklace to the bloodied form of his paramour. Blood had dried at the girl’s head, mouth, and feet, staining her hair and clothing. Her brown eyes looked up at the Stark woman who had become her mistress, equal parts hatred and respect melding in their depths.

His gaze snapped back up to that of his wife and he opened his mouth to address her, but she gave him no such chance. Sansa bent at the waist and gripped Myranda by the back of her neck. She showed no strain as she lifted the girl partly off the floor and threw her to the ground in front of her.

“Enjoy your whore Lord Bolton, as she is not fit to serve the Lady Stark of Winterfell.” She said without inflection. Shed tossed the chain over the girls body, towards Ramsay. “Do give her time to heal from the lesson in respect I gifted her with before you play with her.” She looked down at the girl with disinterest, refusing to tilt her head as she did so. “It seems the kennel did not offer lessons in how to address a Lady of the House Paramount.”

She turned on her heel and began to walk away, reaching the door before she paused and looked back. Blue locked on brown, ignoring all other eyes in the hall. “Though I am not sure you will still enjoy her mouth with that forked tongue of hers.” 

With that said, Sansa walked from the hall and toward the servant’s quarters, intent on finding a select few to serve her who were loyal to House Stark. Afterwards, she would be burning her wedding dress. Perhaps she would throw it in the fireplace in the great hall.

Ramsay stared at the door that had shut behind Sansa for a long moment. The silence in the hall was tense, no one daring to move or speak. The sands of the hour glass fell - one handful, then another before Ramsay lunged forward, his hands grasping Myranda’s jaw and forcing it open. Her tongue hung uselessly in her mouth, sliced cleanly in half from root to tip.