Chapter Thirty-Four: Captured

Once, when Sansa was nine, she had gotten lost within the crypts; a child's game gone awry. Robb and Theon had been the bandits, and she, the princess who had outwitted her captives. It was supposed to be all in fun, the boys were supposed to be fun, the boys were supposed to have located her within the hour, and Arya and Bran were to pay her "ransom", a moon's worth of desserts pilfered from the pantries.

Yet, no one came. It had been hours and no one returned, abandoning her to the cold, abysmal darkness of the crypts, where the stone faces of the Winter Kings and their direwolves watched in silent vigil. Sansa could feel their stares-cold and arbitrary-and hear their whispers.

"Little Wolf," they would murmur. "What are you here?"

Night came, swift as a shadow, warm against the winter's gale, and Sansa trembled in spite of herself. Father would be furious, the crypts were forbidden, sacred. Almost sacred as the glass gardens and godswood. Sansa could all but feel his disappointed stare, weighted and cold. Although a stern man, seemingly to all outsiders who weren't of his blood, Ned Stark was warm and vibrant, his rigidity and insouciance belying a gentle heart. Sansa knew he would never be too harsh when meting out his punishments, for she was his favorite. Yet, she dreaded it all the same.

How long had she been down here? Hours? Days? She could not remember. She only knew that she was hungry and cold, th sound of her stomach a wild beast against the quiet stillness of the crypts.

She was not afraid of her father's kin, the Winter Kings of old who sat like sentinels in their eternal repose. Nay, Sansa could never be afraid of them, for they were her guardians and yielded comfort and succor. She was fearful of the ghosts, the spectors who haunted and lurked within the abysmal gloom. Robb had told her the stories, late at night when the rest of the keep were abed. He told her of the ancient lore, o the phantoms residing beneath the castle, that, between the Hours of the Wolf and Owl, the ghosts were present and active.

Sansa did not remember falling asleep, only that her eyes were burning and that she had closed them momentarily to alleviate the ache. As her eyes opened, acclimating to the darkness, a prevailing stillness began to saturate the crypts. Sansa had been alone before, had relished the solitude and quiet of the godswood, had revelled in the isolation of the Broken Tower, yet this placidity was too consuming, too enveloping. Unnerving.

The fear came upon her, sudden and immediate, washing over her like a wave. She was not alone within the crypts, yet unlike the previous comfort she felt while in the presence of her kin, Sansa now felt unprotected and imperiled. The presence-whatever it was-felt sinister, demonic.

She noticed the eyes before she saw the rest of it-glaring and crimson against the gloom of the catacombs. The homunculus hissed at her, its jagged teeth acerated and glinting. Although diminutive in stature, the creature-whatever it was-was monstrous, unnatural. A demon spawned from the deepest pit of the Seven Hells.

It took one step, then another. Although its movements were spasmodic and desultory, its eyes remained focused and unflinching It raised an arm, gesturing to her.

''You.'' It seemed to say, although silent and imposing.

"I want...You."

Father once told her that fear was an illusion, a lie.

"Fear not, Sweetling. You are a Stark of Winterfell and a Wolf. You do not bow."

Yet, here in the crypts, Sansa felt all courage and fortitude ebb and erode away as the beast drew nearer and nearer. Its arm outstretched and reaching, its eyes rufescent and staring.

"Sansa…"

And Sansa screamed, high and keening, the sound ricocheting through the darkness.

XXXXXXXXXX

It had been almost a decade ago since that fateful night in the crypts, since Sansa encountered the demon. Both Father and Robb had insisted that she had dreamt it all, 'twas naught but the fanciful manifestations of an overactive imagination.

"It was just a dream, Sweet One. It was not real."

Yet, Sansa knew better. It-whatever it was-was real, only this time, the monster did not vanish into a puff of smoke or dissolve into thin air. He was living and breathing and right in front of her, eyes both lifeless and cold, an obsidian-tipped arrow pointed right at her.

"I have found you at last, Little Dove."

He had meant to be comforting, his smile friendly and unassuming, yet Sansa could not be fooled. Behind his facade of congeniality, resided a monster of the truest form and fashion. Like a ravenous dog scenting a hare, Ramsay Bolton had found his quarry.

Sansa blinked once, twice, uncomprehending. Nay, it could not be. The gods were not as callous as this. Surely, the were not so deaf and apathetic to her entreaties.

And yet…

And yet, here he was, alive and...here. Waiting for her.

"You found me." It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all Sansa could muster at the time.

Stupid! You stupid, stupid girl!

Ramsay smiled, a chilling thing to behold, his glacial eyes roving and appraising. Sansa tightened her cloak, concealing her form from his lecherous gaze. He still wanted her. Still. Gods, she could be wearing naught but a sackcloth and Ramsay Bolton would still want her.

It it me or my claim? Sansa curled her lip, her throat tight. So this is how it ends.

Ramsay's smile dropped, only to resurface again, tighter and colder, reminding Sansa of ice.

"My love," he cooed, stepping closer, the arrow still raised and glinting.

Why don't you just end it? Now. Here. While there's still some part of me left?

"Are you not glad to see me? I have crosse endless plains to find you and bring you home."

Sansa heard a thrumming in her ears, steady and low. At first, she thought it was the nearby stream, the ice beginning to thaw and percolate, only to realize that the thrumming was her heartbeat, a rapid staccato.

Ramsay must have heard it, for his smile grew, feral and predatory.

"Little Dove, are you so frightened of me? I have missed you so."

She could run. She could run and run and run and never look back. Flee like a bird across the moors and hills and plains, until she was back at the wildling camp. Back with Jon.

How simple would it be…?

The arrow glinted and gleamed in the sunlight, a deadly warning, bringing Sansa back to clarity. Harrold. Ramsay would surely kill him if she attempted to flee, and Sansa could not bear an innocent's blood on her hands.

"If I go with you, do you swear not to harm the old man? He's an innocent and will do you no harm." Sansa was hysterical, but she was able to conceal it. She would not tremble for him, or any man. Not anymore.

Ramsay smiled fully then, lowering his bow. "My Lady is merciful. If you come with me right now, I will spare your horse farmer. If not-"

There would be more blood, more death. More guilt.

Sansa nodded, the implication clear.

"I will go with you, Ser."

Harrold was crestfallen, heartbroken that his guest was to leave, leave him alone to the solitude and loneliness once more, yet Sansa was adamant.

Please, Sweet Harrold. Ask me no questions. I want you to live. Live and go on in peace, forget me.

Ramsay's black charger was a capricious thing, mercurial and dangerous, shifting from side to side as its owner mounted, Sansa in front. She thought briefly of snatching the reins, of mowing the Bolton down as she raced across the moors to Castle Black. It was a brief thought, a small comfort, for at that moment, a small dagger had materialized at her side, hidden from Harrold's hawk-eyed gaze, but an ever-present reminder to Sansa.

"In case you try to do something stupid and try to run."

Where would I go? Sansa thought wildly, her eyes narrowing, staring ahead. She would not look at him, that was one concession she would not grant.

The horse began to to move then, its movements spasmodic and harsh. Ramsay's hand began to wonder, lowering until it rested upon her thigh, sending a jolt of revulsion through her body. Sansa clenched her teeth, but still continued to look ahead. So this is how it ends, then?

She imagined killing him then. Of wresting the blade from his hands and plunging it into his heart.

If only I could gut you, let you bleed like the treasonous cur you are.. Oh gods! If only…

Somewhere in the distance, Sansa heard the faint howl of a wolf. A reminder.

You are Sansa Stark, the Blood of Winterfell and the Wolf's Daughter. You must be brave.

Sansa stiffened, her head raising in defiance, looking towards the horizon. Aye, Sansa could be brave. All she had to do was hold on just a little bit longer.