repeat after me. humans are not inherently evil humans are not like a virus on this earth humans do not “deserve” to go extinct or anything like that. we are living breathing animals that deserve space just like every other creature on this planet. there’s just a tiny amount of us that have a fuck ton of money and power and they really suck
"[ ... ] it seemed as if there was no light in Sansa’s eyes, just a bottomless pit of sorrow [ ... ]"
— The Full Wolf Moon, Chapter 1.
Content warning: This fanfic contains graphic violence, psychological abuse, trauma, and other dark themes. Please read with care.
C. I.
The first thing he saw was auburn. Trailing down the blue of her gown, that reminded of southern sky of the Crownlands, where he's never been but always imagined he'd belong. She looked like something out of the ballads bards sang all over Westeros, about fair ladies and princes that marry them. The Lady Sansa Stark. Eyes the colour of her mother's last gift. Ramsay and his father saw the litter approaching twenty minutes ago, from the courtyard of Winterfell. Now here she was, being helped out of the litter by her companion — Lord Petyr Baelish. Ramsay didn't care much for him, an upstart from one of the poorest regions of the Vale, was all he heard. Said lordling was now the Lord Protector of The Vale of Arryn, but such titles bore little importance in the unforgiving frost of the North.
Sansa looked up then and his eyes met hers, though she wasn't truly looking at him, but into space between his cheek and shoulder. She's looking at Winterfell, Ramsay's mind supplied. Looking at the burned ruins of the Sept her late father once built for her mother. It was gone now, they burned it. Ramsay felt inclined to laugh at the way her eyes lingered on the dark, old spot on the snow. A mere year ago, a simple but beautiful construction rose there, a token of devotion from husband to wife, a wedding gift of sorts. It went down quickly and unexpectedly, just like Starks tended to. Boltons did not hold Septs, did not care for beliefs of a dead woman who wouldn’t need it again any way. Godswood always stood unbending, unlike Septs.
The early evening's sun created a peculiar impression: it seemed as if there was no light in Sansa’s eyes, just bottomless pit of sorrow Ramsay couldn't recognize or even understand. Neither was he particularly interested in what his betrothed had been through before coming into her current status. Petyr pushed her closer and Sansa finally met his eyes, though he could see that that itself appeared to pain her.
"My lady," Ramsay spoke, extending his hand to her, palm up. Whether for a kiss, or just to hold her much smaller palm was unclear. The pads of his fingers were calloused, not really from any hard work as much as from holding knives and leashes of his hounds. He saw her glance down, before a smile lifted the corners of her lips.
Her eyes did not crinkle.
"My lord," Sansa curtsied, a gesture perfected in southern courts of King's Landing and harsh mountains of The Vale. She spent a year curtsying to people she couldn’t stand and he wasn’t any better. She gave her hand to him, and Ramsay noticed the size of it. Much smaller than his, hand of a girl barely grown, dainty and smooth. Not a single scar or a beauty mark, skin clear like an empty canvas. Ramsay liked that.
For a second, Ramsay did not move, just looking. She was shorter, of course, much younger than he was. Perhaps a hand’s breadth. That allowed him to look down at her frame and forced her to look up to read his face. Then, he finally raised her hand to his lips, placing a kiss on the soft skin. Lingered, just until he saw her smile turn strained. "I am very glad to see you in Winterfell. You must be happy to see your home again, no?"
Sansa looked at him with a restraint of a girl who had a lot to say, most of which would have her killed by moon’s rise. After a tense pause, she smiled pleasantly. "Of course, my lord. It's always nice to return to place where you belong. Wouldn't you agree?"
Ramsay's eye twitched. That little bitch—
Petyr cleared his throat that exact moment, stepping to be at Sansa's side, his hand finding its place on her shoulder. "My lords, Lady Sansa is quite tired from our long travel. Perhaps we could come inside? We are not yet used to the cold of the North, you see."
Roose Bolton nodded shortly, before motioning to the Winterfell, as if he was always Warden of the North and always owned the Keep. His eyes, however, did not have an ounce of welcome in them. "Come in. The road was long. The food will be prepared."
Petyr moved his hand to Sansa's lower back and lightly pushed her forward. Her head whipped towards him with a look of quiet fury that Ramsay noted as unreasonable and confusing. She was walking too slow, he thought. After that, she looked forward again, chin raised, the dignified Lady Stark once more. Ramsay tsked, watching them two walk towards the towering building ahead with his father. A quiet curse escaped under his breath before he hurried to catch up.
***
Sansa chewed very slowly, trying to avoid looking up without looking like a mouse aware of the trap before itself. Ramsay watched her, his eyes boring into her face every time she lifted the spoon to her mouth. Sansa was seated next to Petyr and opposite of Ramsay, so eye contact was natural in that arrangement. Sansa did not have a single doubt they were seated this way with intent. Every so often, she would glance up and see his gaze drilling into her, her eyes immediately darting back down. Then, Petyr would glance at her and then back to his plate, barely suppressing a smirk; the whole seating was hilarious - to him, at least. Lord Baelish, for his part, was right across Lord Bolton, who, like his son, did not waste an opportunity to stare his guests down with scrutiny befitting a Warden.
No one spoke. Ramsay drummed his fingers against the table once, then stopped when Roose glanced at him. Sansa's spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl, the only sound in the room. Petyr smiled at no one.
"So, Lady Sansa," Ramsay spoke up after a long moment of silence, reaching for a linen napkin to wipe his mouth. Sansa's eyes shot up, hand freezing on its way for a slice of bread. "I heard about your Aunt. My sincere condolences. How hard that must be on you, losing her as well.”
Petyr’s eyebrow rose. Sansa blinked. Roose sighed. Suddenly, the oppressive silence of before felt almost welcome. Sansa took the slice of white bread and bit into it, chewing while looking straight at Ramsay. A moment passed. Another. Finally, she swallowed and nodded, the tiniest inclination of her head. Polite gesture of recognition, a true lady’s response.
“Thank you, my lord. My Aunt is now in a better place. I pray to the gods every day that her soul rests peacefully.” Lady Sansa replied, picking her spoon up again.
"Pray," Ramsay repeated, watching Sansa take another sip of her soup. "And to which gods do you pray now, my lady? Old or the New?"
The table fell silent once more. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
“My lord, perhaps—” Petyr tried to interject, voice calm.
“No, no, it’s a simple question. Can’t she answer?” Ramsay grinned, a crooked thing. It was clear from the way his hand tightened in his napkin that he was enjoying situation immensely, especially the way Sansa pursed her lips.
Petyr glanced at Sansa, before his eyes averted to the tapestry on the wall.
“My lord, forgive me, but I have always been taught that a lady can pray to any gods that she finds comfort in. Have I been taught wrong?” Sansa said, hands resting in her lap, twisting the fabric of her gown.
Ramsay was quiet for a moment, before realizing he lost the battle he himself started. His pride screamed at him, but Ramsay forced himself to stay pleasant to not displease his father. Ramsay’s grin tightened, before morphing into a controlled smile. “Of course not, my lady. I was merely curious. I meant no offense.”
“I understand completely, my lord. My mother used to say that curiosity is a gift.” Sansa smiled back briefly, but did not touch her bread again. Her appetite appeared to leave her.
Petyr caught the motion and his gaze returned to the table and the hosts. “I think we've worn out our welcome for the evening, my lords. We'll retire.” He smiled, rising from the table, offering his arm to Sansa.
Ramsay’s jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything to protest, just eating his bread in silence. Roose nodded, gesturing towards the grand door. “Servants will show you to your chambers.”
The walk to the chambers was tense and silent. Sansa walked next to Petyr, her steps clicking on the floors. She couldn’t recognize any of the two servants that chaperoned them, so she assumed that Boltons must have replaced all the old ones with their own people. Winterfell now seemed unfamiliar, a shadow of home she grew up in.
The halls were the exact halls Sansa walked just a year ago, before leaving for King’s Landing, and yet she could not remember any of the ways or where they were going. Everything felt brand new to her, as if the Boltons had burned everything down and then built a new Winterfell exactly the same, except for some minor details, to make her feel lost. Petyr only spoke when they reached Sansa’s chambers, servants pretending not to listen in. “Rest, sweetling. Tomorrow will be much longer.”
He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, before turning around and walking down the hallway to his own rooms. Sansa stood in the doorway for a second, before shutting the door with a loud bang that echoed across the long, narrow hallway.
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