Winter's Thaw

Wolf's Bite

Previously On: Ramsay

He heard begging and pleading and was ashamed to learn it was coming from his own men. They were outnumbered and slowed from the fouled libations. He'd underestimated these wenches. And he'd altogether overestimated his men. He and Arya nearly stumble a few times, having to maneuver around the dozens and dozens of unconscious and dead guests alike. She kicks out at chairs and tries to grab at sconces to slow him, but he wedges his hip against her back, keeping her permanently off-balance. Whenever she jerks her chin too hard, the steel makes shallow cuts, which bleed profusely. It does nothing to deter her, but it makes his grip more slippery. Such a little thing to make such growls. He shoves her, ever kicking and screaming; bearing most of her weight and pressing her forwards. They make it out unobstructed, the cool starless night a relief.

No matter if everyone else perished this night, the Old Gods would witness their vows, coerced though they may be. He'd waited long enough, too long, and had been proven the fool for it. As his father had warned, he spent entirely too much time playing rather than making the kill. He wouldn't make that mistake again, especially not with the crafty wolf whimpering and fighting to be free. He would wed her beneath the full moon that very night. The Old Gods would bear witness, and his position would never be in question again. She would breed him an heir, boy or girl, he wasn't picky. And then he would dispose of her. He would still win, it was the only option.

Wolf's Bite

Arya's POV

It should be stranger, she realizes. She should be feeling more pain even. But there was no pain, no fear. She was exhilarated. The pleasure in watching the women, her own women, make a bloody mess of the vermin in her Hall; had her chuckling. What a sight. One weeks in the making. Through sweat and grit, and vitriol, she'd seen it done. If he slit her throat for it in this moment, it would still be worth it.

"What's so funny?" Ramsay growls, not understanding the joke. He's out of breath, the effort of heaving her all this way taking a toll on him. She made it as difficult as possible of course. He thought he was dragging her to her fate. But all the while, she was backing him into a corner.

"Your men." She answers simply. "The sight of them bleeding out on the floor like that..." She laughs again at the image, unable to finish her thought. Her breaths were steady, her voice clear, her heartbeat constant, even slower maybe. No, time itself was slower, she was sure of it. She bled from the shallow nicks along her throat. But she couldn't feel the pain; nothing hurt. She wasn't afraid, though she supposed she ought to be. That was more to do with the mixture of opiate and wine coursing through her system.

He stops altogether then, spinning her out from beneath his sword; slamming her back hard into the closest tree. The move didn't surprise her, she doesn't blink when he pins her shoulders to the rough bark.

"Listen now. I've found your antics amusing in the past. I tolerated you, I even indulged you." He quickly wipes a sweaty brow with a blood-marked sleeve. "But you've gone too far. You've abused my generosity." She snorts outright at his use of the word generosity. "I can't let this go, Arya. I won't laugh this off." He pinches her mangled ear, and she feels the pieces crunch together. His hot breath heavy on her face. "You will pay, publicly. I will take my time devising proper retribution. The punishment will end only when I say it ends. And I will relish every second of it. Do you understand?" He grinds the shattered shell of her ear between his fingertips, other hand pressing around her neck. The message was clear. Behave or else.

Or else what? Death?

Her lips twitch, wanting to smile before she tamps it down. He would certainly misinterpret the gesture.