From porcelain to ivory to steel. Though, what was she now? For the first time, she was expected to govern herself. She could speak her own words instead of the words they had come to expect her to say, but she could think of none. Not to the family she was married into, the lord husband she laid next to each night, those in Winterfell that expected her to raise her voice. Ramsay had taken her virtue and also her words.

In truth, she went down to the crypts and the godswood everyday, but never prayed. She told Ramsay she did, but her mind was always devoid of thoughts and things she wanted. She could not think of anything to offer up to gods who had sought to take everything away from her. Sansa had come to the godswood – and the sept – everyday growing up in Winterfell. A stupid little girl, offering up songs and prayers to a tree and statues that never listen. She wondered what her father prayed for. Eddard Stark, solemn, silent, often sat underneath the heart tree with Ice in his hand. Maybe if she knew what her father prayed for, she would have her own idea. But she never heard his prayers answered either. Even though it had a face and mouth, the weirwood didn't respond to their prayers.

If Lady were here, she wouldn't be so alone. She could curl into her soft fur instead of next to her husband. Ramsay wouldn't want to share her bed then. The dogs in the kennels had all been afraid of the direwolves when they had been pups; no one would know Lady's sweet temperament if they were all scared of her size. If Lady were here, she could have wet kisses, instead of the traces of melted snow on her cheek, to taste the air of damp undergrowth, instead of the bitter lump she swallowed now. There would be silence still though.

Sansa knew Ramsay looked at her. Spied on her from a distance, sat with her sometimes. She couldn't understand why he did it. She kept her eyes closed though and could pretend his warmth was Lady's. Where she was soft, Ramsay was hard. He was built like she expected any knight to be; he was of the North too and looked it. She wondered if Jeyne Poole would have thought him handsome. Her friend had thought Beric Dondarrion attractive, had also thought Theon was handsome. She wouldn't think he was now. Sansa had always fawned over boys who were pretty, with curls and pouty lips. Perhaps her taste was her ruin. She should have liked Northern men and stayed in the North. She was here now though.

When Ramsay had started to sit with her, she tried to ignore him. Her lady mother often found her father in the godswood, and they might talk or sit in silence, sometimes wishing not to disturb him. Catelyn Tully was not a Stark true, not of the North, and never felt at ease in the godswoods. Sansa and Ramsay did not feel those things. Though neither were religious, a godswood was natural to them. Ramsay only spoke to her that one time, to question her, attempts to understand her, and for that she appreciated his silence. She would not admit it out loud, but she appreciated the warmth his body gave her. She appreciated the cloak he would give her. She took his hand when he offered to help her up and didn't pull away from him if he chose not to let go. The hair on the top of his head would tickle under her chin, his head resting on her shoulder. Ramsay fell asleep this way, until he woke up and wordlessly rose to his feet, ready to leave, and she would follow.

It was when Ramsay slept did she hear whispers. It was always her name and she thought Ramsay had spoken it at first. She would open her eyes and look at him then. Study dark lashes, like butterfly wings against pale cheeks. They hid a pale blue, like a pretty marble that kids would want to play with. She sometimes stared at them, when they both woke up at the same time in the morning. They were like the frozen pond in front of her now and she half-expected to see her own visage reflected in them, but Sansa never stared hard or long enough to search for it. Only when Ramsay was sleeping did she look at him so closely. In the night, after he had tired himself out, she would stare at him then. She knew he didn't talk in his sleep from those times, had stayed awake long enough to hear his breathy sighs, see movement beneath his lids, feel his subconscious grip on her, but he never said anything. He was not whispering her name now either.

Sansa moved his head off her today, to gently let it rest against the bone white bark instead. If that had not woken him up, she knew he did when she had crept to the face carved into the trunk. Her mind was playing tricks, she hadn't had enough sleep, but Sansa swore it was the heart tree whispering her name. Delicate fingertips framed the face with a butterfly touch, almost not touching at all. The crying eyes stared at her, as well as her husband's icy blue gaze. She ignored both, only intent on listening, not seeing. Sansa turned her head, to lay her ear against the mouth of the heart tree. Everything was silence and unmoving. If she gave it her attention, perhaps it would sigh with sweet nothings in her ear. Even in her own mind, it sounded stupid, silly.

The voice had sounded familiar though. Sansa pressed a kiss onto the partially open mouth of the weirwood and got up. She moved to where Ramsay was and offered her hand for him to get up. She hadn't wanted to visit the godswood since then.

It had been a little over a fortnight since her wedding to Ramsay Bolton. This morning, she woke up before her husband. She had been dreaming before. She was running in what looked like overgrown tree roots, then amongst the bustle of a castle, though not one she had ever been to before, then what looked like the Riverlands, the Trident, then standing on a shore, eyes to a wrecked galley. Sansa didn't remember the dreams, not truly, though she wouldn't forget the howling of wolves that seemed to be in each. Then, she was in the crypts and Sansa thought she had awoken. All the candles had been lit and she was standing in front of her family. She must have come down to pray for them, it made sense. She did it everyday since her return to Winterfell. It was a place she could find peace and solace as well. There was the deathly quiet that came with the crypts. She found it more comforting then the rustle of leaves in the godswood or the crunch of snow Ramsay would make as he walked towards her. But there was no quiet today. Someone was speaking. Sansa tried to find them, she opened her mouth to call out to them, speak up she had wanted to yell, but it was only their soft murmurs she could hear. She could tell she was running now, but her feet were noiseless. The voice grew louder only, which frightened her. The lone wolf dies, while the pack survives. She didn't want to hear her father's voice. She knew she should have protected him, been smarter, listened to her father, not been a spoiled, stupid, foolish, lovesick –

That's when Sansa had woken up. Calmly, the beating of her heart sloth-like, lids heavy to open. Ramsay was holding her again, and she carefully moved his arm off her. The floor was cold as she swung her legs out of bed. It was early in the morning and truthfully, Sansa wished to stay in bed instead, to hide her cold toes against her husband, steal heat from his body, to have someone, even if it was him, hold her. She was only in her dressing gown, a simple shift with ties in the front, no sleeves to keep her warmth inside. As soon as she had moved his arm, Sansa knew Ramsay would wake, so she hadn't bothered being quiet about opening the door. She peered down the corridor, in hopes of finding one of her handmaidens. Most did not like standing round the younger Lord and Lady Bolton's bedchamber, and Myranda was smart enough to make herself scarce. Most would not come to her if her husband was near. There was one now at least.

"Please," her voice was hoarse, like she truly had been yelling in her dream, "tend to the fire." The girl gave a jerky nod, quick to leave. Sansa left the door open and returned to the bed. Ramsay shifted back into his earlier embrace of her, head on her chest this time, arm across her hips.

"You'll let the cold in leaving that door open," he said. He brought a hand to the front of her shift then, pulling aside the material to reveal a breast. It was cold; her nipple stood in a stiff peak as soon as it had to bare the chill. Ramsay nipped at it. She didn't know why he enjoyed something like that. She hadn't noticed where his other hand was traveling, trying to pay no mind to his tongue that had begun to lap at her nipple, until he had grabbed onto one of her hands. His hand was rough, in comparison to her own small, dainty one or the smooth hand of Joffrey, who had never held a sword unless to show it off. The difference between them unsettled her sometimes; the similarities did not. She gasped when he brought her own hand to his member. Sansa could tell he was half-hard already.

The handmaid she had spoken to in the hallway returned to their room, arms full with kindling. Sansa tried to remove her hand, but Ramsay kept it in place. The other girl pretended not to notice them, fingers fumbling to catch the fire alight. As soon as she had the fire roaring in the hearth, she scurried away, careful to close the door to their bedchamber behind her. Sansa wretched her hand away, throwing her legs over the side of the bed again, this time unaffected by the chill in the air. The fire was already warming their room and Ramsay was right, with the door closed, it would keep the cold at bay.

She found her wedding dress, what was piled into a heap before she went to bed the night before, folded neatly on the top of her dressing chest. She pinched the shoulders of the gown in between her thumb and index finger, letting it unfurl in front of her. It was beautiful, even though it had not been made by her. Whoever had made it was truly talented, though Sansa was not envious of their skill. After she had mended it from Theon's knife, Sansa felt the dress was far more attractive. Her needle was the more skillful between them. She was almost fond of the dress, the ivory material, a gown she had always imagined herself being wed in, before she thought of being married in the south. They had even detailed the dress with her mother's Tully fish pins, though Sansa had tucked those away safely the morning after. She hugged the dress to her body, smoothing the wrinkles in the bodice and against her thigh. It did not take her more then two paces to cross the room. Sansa threw the dress into the fire.

It was not as nearly satisfying to watch it burn as she had thought it would be. The fabric of the dress caught light rather quickly, but it would take some more time for it to totally burn. The laces of it were the first to burn, leading into the body of the gown. It was warm by the fire though.

"Aren't you going to burn the cloak too?" Ramsay said from the bed. Sansa did not even lift her gaze from the fire.

"No," she said, "that's not mine to burn." Her husband didn't ask her to clarify and so she returned to her chest, gently folded the white cloak that had been on top of it and buried it at the bottom of the trunk again. She extracted a midnight black dress from within and the needle necklace she had arrived to Winterfell wearing.

"Won't you help me lace up the dress?" Sansa said to Ramsay, stepping into the gown and turning to look at him from over her shoulder. He went to her, naked and unabashed, and she turned to look away from him, unaccustomed to looking at his body still and embarrassed for it. She held the dress in place, waiting for him. Ramsay didn't take the laces, but traced the scars on her skin, as he often did when he saw them. Gifts from Ser Meryn's sword, from Ser Boros's gauntlet, the others who did as Joffrey commanded. It was easy to hide the evidence in Winterfell. She had always been sweating in her long-sleeved summer silks in King's Landing; at least she needs the warmth here.

Suddenly, the ties were yanked together, binding tightly to her body. Ramsay went up the length of her back, following the natural progression. He pulled at them with force, pinching the dress together as tight as it would go, sometimes pinching her skin too. She didn't feel like scolding him. Perhaps she needed her dress this tight to hold her own self together. With no strength in her body, she might fall apart. Sansa hadn't realized he was done until his hands fell to her hips, pulling her close to him, and he suckled at the tender flesh below her ear. She squirmed, not entirely to get away, but the feeling made her ticklish. In retaliation, Ramsay bit her ear, hard and unforgiving. She turned around, pushing him off her. Her hand had come up, but facing him now, she faltered. He was smiling, boyish this time instead of the devious smirk he shows more often then not. Though his eyes looked a pale death, they were shining – some with mirth, mostly something else, though Sansa wouldn't chalk it up to adoration. If anything, the look in his eyes made her even angrier then the abuses he caused her. She slapped him across his face, the smile never leaving it. Sansa gathered her necklace and stormed out the room, pulling the chain over her head and slamming the door, before Ramsay could follow her out.

Sansa knocked on the door and without waiting, pushed it open. Fat Walda Frey sat at the small table in her room. She was surprised by Sansa's sudden arrival, as she should have been, since the older Lady Bolton had not invited her. Sansa carried a tray of lemon cakes with her, plopping them down on the already cluttered table. Behind her, the elderly woman who had first shown Sansa to her room, carried a tray as well, an assortment of fine cups and a larger tankard.

"I hope you don't mind my intrusion," Sansa said, seating herself across Walda. "I thought we could spend some time together. Lord Baelish and I had brought lemons with us, though I'm afraid the cakes aren't as good as Gage used to make them." The older woman seemed flustered, busying herself to make room on the table, amid her empty plates, unfinished sewing, and an open book.

"Not at all, Lady Sansa," Walda Frey said, pushing a glass off to the side, it clinking against some other plating. "I'm sorry the bedchamber is so untidy." Sansa looked around the room, from the clutter before them to the disheveled bed, as if Walda has just recently gotten out of it. She gave the woman a kind smile, even if the other's living environment disgusted her.

"It's fine Walda. I should be the one apologizing for coming in unannounced," she said, while motioning for the elderly woman to come closer and set down their refreshments. "I had her bring some tea, since it's awfully cold these days. You must be not be used to weather like this." The old woman set down some cup in front of each and pour the steaming hot liquid into their cups. Sansa reached for a lemon cake. "Mm, it really isn't the same at all, though you should still try it." Walda did, taking an ungracious bite and following it with a swallow of the tea.

"You're very kind to visit me, Lady Sansa," Walda said. Sansa thanked the old woman and dismissed her, waving off the acknowledgement. "You are right. The chill during these nights has been difficult to bear, though this tea is helping. It has quite an interesting taste though. Is this a Northern specialty?" Sansa took a sip of it herself.

"Oh, no, I don't think it is," Sansa said. "I had that woman make it for me, though perhaps she has her own methods of brewing. It is a bit different then I thought it would be. Besides, we are both Lady Bolton, I thought we should share some time together." Sansa spied the sewing on the table, that which was hastily buried underneath the book, the book under a plate. She pulled it out from underneath the pile and studied the handiwork. Her stitches were sloppy, though not nearly as bad as Arya's had been. Sansa traced her fingers along the lines, yet she had trouble figuring out what it was meant to be.

"Do you like it?" Walda asked. "It's supposed to be the baby's." Sansa smiled again at the other woman and put the work down.

"It's beautiful," she replied. Fat Walda Frey blushed in an unattractive way to the compliment, her face turning a ruddy red. "I would love to sew with you and make something for your baby as well." The older woman nodded, the second chin wobbling with the motion. Sansa poured her more tea, which Walda accepted graciously.

There was another knock on the door. This time the person behind it wait for Walda's voice. With an invitation granted, Myranda pushed the door open, keeping her head low. If she was surprised by Sansa's presence, she didn't let on, merely going about the room to perform her duties.

"Myranda is your handmaid now?" Sansa questioned, nibbling on her lemon cake. Walda was already on her second.

"Yes," she replied, washing down the tart cake with tea again. "Lord Bolton requested I take her for some time."

"I see," Sansa said. She wondered which Lord Bolton had ordered that.

AN: Sorry for the delay guys! I can't apologize enough! If anyone read my message in the reviews, I hadn't been feeling too well, which carried over into this past weekend as well. Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter and I'll return to my regularly scheduled updates, godforbid nothing else comes up. I hope you enjoy this chapter and see you all next Sunday!