Ok you guys, I am seriously blown away by the support for my one-shot earlier this week, Possession! I've decided to revise and open this work up into a longer story, because I just can't seem to stay away! J

SO if you've read the one-shot Possession, then some of the text/interactions will look familiar as I have stretched it out to mold it into a larger work. I promise after the first several chapters it will all be new, though there are and will be plenty of changes in this one from the one-shot. If you haven't read the one-shot yet, there's no need!

Please review and let me know your thoughts.

Enjoy.

As she pulled on the gray silk gown her mother handed her, Sansa thought she very well might be sick. Her mind spun, a thousand thoughts flitting through her head as her knees shook so hard she'd have bruises by morning.

Barely a week after the Imp had returned her to her mother and brother, they had already planned to marry her off. And not to a knight or a lord, not to someone young or handsome, not even to someone kind.

They were marrying her to the Lord of Dreadfort, to the man whose sigil was the flayed man, to a man so cold, so callous, so cruel, he was barely spoken of except in harsh whispers.

In less than an hour's time, Sansa was to marry Lord Roose Bolton, himself.

Her stomach roiled, a nest of vipers tangling in the pit, and a sheen of sweat broke out over her brow as the maid brushed her hair and plaited it in tiny braids around her head. Her heart hammered away so loudly she nearly choked on the force of it, and it was only as her thoughts took a bitter turn that she was able to pull herself out of it.

It was only due to her lady mother that Sansa was even here in the first place. After month after month of torture, of beatings, of strippings, of whippings, finally, finally help had come. Ser Jaime Lannister strolled into the throne room every bit the knight in shining armor, demanding that she be released and returned at once to the Stark host.

The discovery of his dismembered hand at the hands of the Bolton's caused quite a stir, and it was by the scrape of her teeth that Sansa and the Imp made it out before Lord Tywin Lannister could recall the order. Sansa had never so fervently thanked the gods.

It wasn't until they were nearing camp that Lord Tyrion chose to spoil what little happiness and hope she'd built up at being reunited with her mother and brother, and the thought of it still made her cold all over.

"You know, Lady Sansa, that you are only free of your beloved Joffrey because of the soft heart of your lady mother, don't know?" He'd drawled, disdain and amusement dripping in equal parts from his slithering tongue.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

He'd chuckled, dark and humorless, and the sense of dread washing over her certainly turned out to be in just. "Why, your own brother was willing to leave her in King's Landing, permanently, rather than trade my brother for you and your sister. Now that I think on it, if your mother hadn't helped Jaime escape, you very likely would be knelt before the crown in the throne room as we speak."

The eloquent way he spoke only made the sharpness of his words cut more deeply, and Sansa tried to protest and tell herself it was just another one of the Lannister lies she'd grown so accustomed to.

Until she was indeed returned to camp, and by the look on her brother's face she'd known in an instant it was true.

Then, rather than welcoming her with open arms, they'd marched her straight to his war room tent, sat her at a table with a glass of watered wine, and interrogated her for nigh on through the night about her time in Kings Landing. The questions ceased for only a few hours sleep, and before Sansa could blink the sleep from her eyes she was once again seated at the head of that long table, peppered with questions, forced to relive her torture, her fear, her every moment since they'd first stepped foot in King's Landing.

She would never forgive them for it, Robb or her mother.

A call from beyond the flap of her mother's tent broke her reverie, and with a fresh wave of nausea Sansa turned to face Lady Catelyn, white as a sheet and sweating anew, and the pity in her mother's eyes did nothing to dissuade her fears.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek as her mother paced towards her to keep from voicing yet another protest to her union to the Leech Lord, as her betrothed was referred to. It would do no good.

"You look beautiful, Sansa," her mother whispered wistfully, raising a fragile hand to brush the backs of her fingers over Sansa's cheek.

"Thank you, mother." The courtly courtesies wouldn't abate, wouldn't die, no matter how her heart thundered or her blood curdled with dread.

"See that you please him, Sansa," Lady Catelyn said firmly, eyes flinty as she stared at her daughter. "See that you give him no cause to harm you. He is known for being a harsh man."

If it wasn't so ridiculously terrifying, Sansa would have laughed.

Even after hearing of how Joffrey had stripped and whipped her in front of the entire court. Even after hearing of how she'd watched her own lord father die. Even after hearing of the mental torture she'd been subjected to by every Lannister in sight. Even after hearing her, night after night, coming apart from her dreams with screams. Even then, they still saw fit to marry her to one even her own mother warned her was a monster.

With a wave of dizziness so fierce she thought she just might faint, Sansa was struck by the hopelessness of it all. What could was it to escape a life with one monster, only to be married to another? What did it matter? At least with Joffrey, the evil was known. The unknown had her pulsing in panic, fear radiating off with every step as her mother led her to the tent, to her groom. To her doom.

And before she could blink, they were in front of it, the flap was being lifted, and she was being ushered inside.

"Lady Stark," the cold voice, barely above a whisper, sent a shiver of fear down her spine, and made her legs turn to jelly as she made her way in to greet her betrothed.

Sansa, ever the courtly little bird, inclined her head in what she hoped appeared gracious, but likely just looked the jerk of someone about to have a fit. "Lord Bolton," she replied in greeting, her voice overly loud, overly tight, lending itself more to a squawk than the demureness she so desperately prayed to the old gods and new for. Please let him be pleased, she thought in a panic. Please let him think me beautiful, and be pleased.

Her limbs were shaking as she felt her mother push her forward, and Sansa noted that the black leather of her future husband's boots here stained at the tips with blood. As her breath started to come in shallow gasps, she realized with a start that she had yet to ever, in her life, look Lord Bolton in the eye.

While other members of her brother's court piled into the tent, encircling them in the center, Sansa inhaled a shaky breath, summoned every last nerve she possessed, and raised her chin up from the floor to take in her lord husband. With a gasp, Sansa found the look in her future husband's eyes had the noise all but fading to a distant hum. His head was tilted, smooth face blank and calculating, while his ice-like eyes pierced her in the candlelight. She had the strong sensation the prey must feel when spotted and studied by the predator, and the faint flicker in his eyes with his nod of approval told her that her groom was quite pleased with his catch.

Thank gods, she thought with a sigh of relief. At the very least, upon initial inspection, he hadn't found her lacking. It wasn't a dream, wasn't even much to go on, but at least it was more than nothing.

She allowed to shoulders to relax just slightly as her eyes rolled over her groom once more. He was older, nearly as old as her father, and yet the smoothness of his skin made him look years younger. His thin brown hair was starting to fade at the temples, and she realized his hairline would only continue to recede in the years to come. His eyes were the color of steel at the moment, far more luxurious than just a plain gray, and Sansa found herself contemplating how strangely desirable she suddenly found the color, how she wanted to run her fingers over a steel sword, it glinting and catching in the light, how she wanted to feel the coolness against her skin, how she…

With a flicker and a narrowing of the corners of the ice eyes she was drowning in locked on hers, Sansa had the distinct impression he was attempting to prompt her. Confusion graced her brow and she flicked her lips down into a frown in response. She flushed crimson at being caught staring, until the blood left her head to pool in her feet so quickly she physically fought back the swaying sensation. A sick feeling of dread washed through her, coiling until it bubbled in her stomach, when she saw the mask Lord Bolton wore dip down into a frown.

He was displeased, and a thousand thoughts flitted through Sansa's mind, too quick to catch, but at the center of it all was a deep-rooted fear ingrained in her that he was about to strip and beat her, or worse, for whatever offense she had inadvertently just caused. Her mother was right, her worst fears were realized, and she was very much jumping out of the pot and into the frying pan in her union to the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"Sansa" her mother's voice cut through the fog and fear, pulling her out of the depths of terror in which she'd begun to drown in those ice eyes. Her mother. How could she do this to her? How could she wed her to a man who would likely kill her once she'd born him a son.

Oh gods. The wedding night. Her eyes were widening further in terror. They would have to… he would be… she would… Oh gods. How could they be so cruel?

"Sansa," Lady Catelyn tried again, and Sansa noted with queer bemusement that her mother's tone expressed a uniquely shrill quality, one she'd never heard before, one which bespoke the miles of sorrow she'd travelled, and the miles she still had yet to go.

Good, Sansa thought bitterly in despair. She shouldn't be the only one to suffer.

Sansa swallowed down the discomforting thought and blinked, eyes widening with recognition as she realized everyone in the tent was looking at her with faces that reflected mixtures of horror and unease. Her eyes flitted to her mother briefly before returning once more to Lord Bolton before her, and she tilted her head a fracture in question, feeling the nausea and anticipation nearly overwhelm her to the point of swooning.

"The Septon was attempting to guide you through your vows, my lady," Lord Bolton replied, his voice so soft, so smooth, smoother than the steel of a sword, and she felt herself leaning closer to him in spite of herself.

Until she processed his words. Then, she felt herself flush crimson in shock and shame, before paling in an incomprehensible measure of fear. Her eyes welled with tears, and she could only stare at him helplessly, wordlessly pleading with him not to beat her right then and there for her dishonor, for his shame.

The steel in Lord Bolton's eyes sharpened, and when he opened his mouth to speak Sansa felt herself visibly flinch. Her heart pounded as his jaw froze open, and as he watched her carefully she had the head spinning notion she might very well make water on herself, or her stomach may heave, or both, if he did not just punish her and end the tortuous anticipation. She was only this afraid when she was beaten and bloodied before Joffrey, and she had lost every ounce of strength she'd had long before she made her way to this tent.

His jaw snapped shut with a click before it opened once more, and he was watching her carefully, eyes never leaving hers as he addressed the Septon. "Please, start over," he said softly.

Sansa's head whipped to the left suddenly, and she wondered with more than mild concern at how she had managed to miss the entirety of her marriage ceremony to Lord Bolton. She carefully trained her eyes on the Septon's face, watching his lips form the words, repeating the entire terrifying process of sealing her doom, and she tried, truly tried, forcing her ears to listen. When he settled his blank gaze on hers, she began to open her mouth to respond.

As she sucked in a breath, Sansa could only part her lips in horror, as the blood rushed down from her face and her hands began to shake while her stomach roiled and revolted. She had the distinct impression she was about to be sick, and with barely contained terror her eyes started to flitter wildly for some solution.

Where were her words? Where? Say something, Sansa! Oh, gods, say anything! Tears welled in her eyes, her heart pounded so loud she was sure they could hear her all the way at the Wall, and she prayed to the gods old and new that they just strike her dead on the spot.

A warm hand slid into her own, graceful fingers twining through hers, shocking her so suddenly she felt her nausea retreat immediately. Bending her neck to look down at the barely roughed fingers cradling her own, Sansa saw Lord Bolton's thumb begin to trace lazy circles over the knuckles on the back of her hand, and she felt the calming effect of those circles seep into her very bones. The tension drained out of her almost immediately, and she heard those around her release sighs of relief as they saw the color creep back into her cheeks and the light slip back into her eyes.

Sansa she looked down on the strong hand steadying hers, the long graceful fingers wrapped up with her own, and felt the clouds in her head start to clear. With a deep breath, a tightened grip on the hand of her groom, and a silent prayer to the gods old and new, Sansa opened her mouth and repeated her vows.

She heard the lord at her side quietly repeat his vows, his words steady and unwavering, as she watched his thumb dance circles and trace patterns over her hand, weaving in and out and around her knuckles, lulling her into a sense of calm. With a gentle squeeze, Lord Bolton prompted her, and Sansa immediately tilted her face and blinked her blue eyes up at him, watching as he searched hers intently once more. Sansa swallowed and, with what little strength she could muster, squeezed his hand lightly in response. With a curt nod from her now husband, Sansa's eyes fluttered shut while he took a stepper nearer and sealed their union with the faintest of pecks to her lips.

Sansa heard the booming cheer of the Greatjon behind her, and those in attendance hesitatingly clapped, while her husband kept a careful hold on her hand, turning to present his new wife and lead her from the tent to the small feast. She felt like she was holding on to a lifeline, holding on for dear life, as the man who gave not only her own mother and brother, but even a Septon, unease, cradled her small hand gently in his own, offering strength and comfort only as he could to his new bride.