Chapter Text
They wanted her to take his arm, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She could see the neutral expression of Roose Bolton start to turn sour. She left Theon a few paces back and went to stand with Ramsay beneath the old Weirwood. Her father used to sit beneath this tree and tend to Ice, his sword - now split in two and in the hands of the Lannisters.
It will be worth it, she thought.
Vows were said and her voice rang clear through the cold air.
Ramsay offered her his arm but she didn’t take it. Instead Sansa turned slowly, her dress dragging in the snow, to face her husband. How foul that word seems now. She gave him a slow, shy smile, stepping just a little closer to him till she could feel the warmth he gave off through all the layers he wore. This boy was not built for the North - the True North. Sansa looked up coyly through her lashes.
His eyes widened in what was surprise and perhaps excitement as she raised her hands and lay them on his cheeks. Her thumbs smoothed over jaw, clean shaven and wrong somehow.
The Bolton men all around them were silent and still, but she paid them no mind. Sansa leant a little closer and she could see a smile break out on his face, her own widening too.
Her left hand trailed to the back of his head while her right meandered down toward his lips. She could feel his breath on her face and his hand fit neatly on her waist…Don’t touch me…
Sansa kept the smile on her face even as she felt Myranda’s hate filled gaze burning into her back. If only looks could kill, Sansa almost laughed at the thought. If such a thing were true there would be very few left alive at Winterfell.
They all thought she was going to kiss him.
Never.
In a move that no one suspected of the gentle High Born Sansa Stark, she gripped his chin and the back of his head and twisted sharply. So quick was her movement that none could move to stop her before it was too late.
She had grown strong in the Eyrie and even stronger on her way to Winterfell. Perhaps Ramsay would have noticed the slight calluses on her hands if he wasn’t so consumed with the expectation of kissing her.
Sansa watched dispassionately as Ramsay lost control of his body, eyes wide with surprise. As he slumped to the floor a quick sleight of hand allowed her to slip a dagger from his belt into the long sleeves of her gown. She watched, a small smile on her face as he lay there completely unable to move. She looked calmly over her shoulder at the gathering and watched as surprise and disbelief was mirrored on each and every face, except one. Lord Bolton didn’t even spare a glance for his son, his eyes, cold and grey tried to freeze her where she stood. Sansa looked back, refused to shrink away.
Long moments passed in silence until Myranda let out a terrible shriek and dove through the crowd to throw herself besides Ramsay’s body. Her hands scratched at his now motionless limbs, clawing at him and dragging his shoulders back to place his head into her lap as he struggled to breathe while she panicked and keened through her tears.
Then, perhaps a little less surprising was the hiss of steel that cut through the air. Swords were drawn as finally the situation sank in. Sansa turned her gaze from the guards to eye Roose Bolton cooly as he gripped the handle of his blade. He was weighing up the risk whether it would be worth it to kill her or not.
Sansa smiled.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Then, so close that a few of the Bolton soldiers looked around worriedly, a wolf howled.
Sansa laughed.