continued | @killingmoonlight
Ramsay glanced over his shoulder at Sansa. The man he had been torturing seemed to have lost consciousness from the session, and when he looked back to his handy work, he let out a surprised little hum. He ran a hand over the man’s broken arm, the bone jutting out in an odd way beneath the skin.
“You are quite right, love,” he grinned, mocking affection. “They most certainly are not supposed to do that. Pity.”
Sansa was well past letting her distaste for her husband’s hobbies show in her face. She had slipped a few times, at the beginning, and let him see the horror under her mask, but that sickening smile always quickly reminded her that she didn’t want to be the next subject of Ramsay’s attention when he was in the mood to flay someone.
“Much as I hate to interrupt you from your games, my Lord...” Normally, she would have made all attempts to avoid not only Ramsay, but the entire side of the castle he was occupying when he was in such a state, but on this particular occasion, she didn’t have the luxury of doing so. “A raven came from the Iron Islands,” she said.