Witch of Winterfell

Chapter Twenty Eight

FORGIVENESS IS A FICKLE THING.

The old Sansa would never have thought of holding a grudge. Of course Arya tested Sansa's patience like no other, but there was always forgiveness and understanding waiting. There was never a reason too great that someone couldn't find a way to forgive one another.

Marina had taught them that.

Still, seeing Ramsey Bolton tied to a chair, helpless and unconscious— not even aware of the danger he's in—bought a sense of justice. He had, after all, abused her in many- terrible- ways that forgiveness couldn't quite cover. There was no reason why he did what he did. There was only pleasure and pain with him. He couldn't live without the other.

So, how do you forgive someone that purposely set his heart on hurting others? Who slaughtered countless northerners? Who frolicked around with a smile on his face after skinning an innocent victim alive?

You don't. At least, not now— not for Sansa.

His right hand twitched first, more than likely trying to move to his face. He always used that hand first to claw at her cloak. He always used that hand to tug her hair.

Then his fingers flexed, gripping the splintering wood that's damp with his blood. His heavy breaths became shallow as his eyes shifted behind his swollen eyelids. Ramsey's mouth opened and closed, blood from his broken nose and busted lip dripped down his chin with each shallow breath. Then he woke up, shooting his head up like lightening, frantically looking around for some type of familiarity. Perhaps he thought it was dream. After all, Sansa had done that countless times after he finished using her. She'd only have peace when she slept. It was only then that he didn't touch her and no one would speak. She had blissful moments where she didn't dream about anything. It was a dark void right before she woke up to the same four walls of her prison.

"Ah, my beloved Sansa" Ramsey greets, swallowing thickly. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you behind those bars."

The gash on his forehead seemed to pulse as blood seeped through the laceration. It made a single line down to his right eye, covering his thick eye lashes and painting that side of his face red. For once he didn't look so put together and prepared. For once he didn't have the upper hand.

"I'll admit, I would have thought you'd have been more thankful of the time we spent together. I know I am. You taught me a lot as my wife."

Still, Sansa remains quiet. But his hounds respond. They whine at the sound of their master's voice. They have no choice, they associate him with promised food.

If Ramsey heard them, he didn't let it show. To ignore the pain he has to focus on something- someone- and that is Sansa. Only, her lack of response and reactions are testing his patience.

Still, he keeps an air of nonchalance around him. "Is this where I'll be staying now? In the kennel with my hounds?" No answer. "That's a bit rude given the quality of bedding I offered you. You were treated like the queen you are."

"Your house will disappear" Sansa breathes, letting her Tully blue eyes roam over his haggard body. "Your name will disappear, your words will disappear. All memory of you will disappear."

For a brief moment, a moment so fast that Sansa nearly misses it, Ramsey's face slackens into doubt. For a brief moment he looks worried. For a brief moment he looks terrified.

"Come now, my dearest Sansa" he chokes out, quickly shaking his head dismissively. "You can't kill me, not completely. I'll always be a part of you whether you like it or not."

Sansa frowns which brings a smile to Ramsey's bruised face. His once perfect white teeth stained with blood.

"Kill you?" Sansa asks incredulously. "You think I'm going to kill you? Right now?