บท 45: Advent
Chapter Forty-Six
Advent
A heavy boom of knuckles rapped against the oaken door disturbing the bliss of their shared moment. Sansa and Ramsay both stiffened given the current display they made on the bed and what a scene it would paint for any who would enter without discretion. They scrambled to right themselves as a second stream of knocks followed the first marking the call an urgent hail for attention. "One moment!" Sansa called out irritably as she fumbled out of the twisted sheets looking down at her dress with a frown. She was rather disheveled and sweaty from their recent activities and certainly too unkempt to answer her door with the dignity expected of a highborn lady.
Snatching a scarf from her vanity, Sansa quickly wrapped the material around her head to cover the tangled locks and wiped vigorously with a washcloth from the basin at the evaporating stain on her dress that Ramsay's excitement had left upon her. She growled in frustration as she tossed the rag to Ramsay who's first priority had been to remove all evidence of what had just transpired on Sansa's bed by burying her toy under the sheets and throwing the vile of oil back into the nightstand. He'd since moved over to the chair that held his clothes and had begun in haste to dress himself. He paused long enough to catch the rag and swipe over the mutual mess made between their love making and had donned his pants by the time that Sansa was hastily making her way over to the door with furious clipped heels.
Sansa gave a quick gaze over her shoulder to observe Ramsay was decent before hauling the door open a crack, "Yes, what is it?" Sansa tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, but the harried feelings of having to quickly disengage from the moment her and Ramsay had just been sharing carried over in her tone. The man on the other side of the door was neither Temeric nor Cecil but one of the portcullis guards coming to deliver a message. Her brow furrowed to see him at her door, and an immediate fear spiked through Sansa as her first thoughts moved to Jon. She steeled a breath bracing herself as she opened the door a little wider to receive whatever news this man heralded.
"It's lord Bran milady; he has returned to Winterfell," the man announced briskly, and Sansa's jaw slackened in awe. By this point, Ramsay had thrown on his shirt and boots having maneuvered up to stand quietly behind Sansa blinking in equal astonishment to hear another, once thought dead, Stark had reentered the keep. Sansa threw the door open receptively as she stepped out of her chamber and into the corridor to elatedly declare, "Take me to him at once!" The soldier nodded turning about-face to comply with his mistress' earnest request, and Sansa bounded after him.
Not having been told to stay put, Ramsay took the opportunity to follow. He'd be damned if he was to be left behind to wait however many more hours for Sansa's return if he could get away with accompanying her now. Ramsay was thankful, as they traversed down the hallway at a steady pace, that Sansa seemed not to have taken notice of his presence behind her; he hoped that once she finally did heed his attendance that she would not send him back with his envoy of guards who simply took up residence behind Ramsay to pursue their charge as he shadowed Sansa's brisk stride.
The closer they drew to the castle's gate the faster Sansa's pace grew to a point that Ramsay found he was practically jogging to keep up with her. Her gait had not surpassed the guard who had come to fetch her, but her own haste tallied the man to pick up his step to match her urgency.
No one stopped their procession, but it was apparent that those of council to Sansa's court noted Ramsay in tow and deeply frowned their disapproval at his passing. Ramsay merely smirked back in retaliation lifting his chin to turn his nose up at them. He inwardly scoffed at their derision wishing that he could show them his contempt their boring stares elicited within him, but there was no time to make petty comments, and Ramsay was more than sure such a display would not be taken idly by Sansa who had made a point to call him out for his lack of respect and how she'd not tolerate it scant hours ago. She was highly distracted and likely may not even notice if he did give a subtle remark of disdain to those that slighted him in glares alone, but Ramsay wasn't about to risk garnering any negative attention from her when he was already lucky to be granted his current freedom to accompany her this far.
Rounding the bend, Sansa stutter stopped to gape at the wagon where her brother sat gazing placidly in her direction. He looked so different; she marveled to take in his once boyish features that had melted away to chisel out the makings of a young man. The two stared at one another for a long moment as Sansa's mind worked to affirm that what she saw before her was in fact a reality.
"Hello, Sansa," Bran announced casually as if they'd not been separated by hundreds of miles and what felt a lifetime to her. She had no words having been shaken to her core as her emotions kicked into gear sending her racing forward to ascend into the wagon and wrap her arms around Bran's shoulders. Soft tears of joy escaped her in muffled gasps as Sansa clung tightly to her brother; as she did so, Bran's gaze met Ramsay. The way that he stared at him, no, stared through him Ramsay thought, sent a shiver to sweep over his person. This young man was the would-be lord of Winterfell superseding Jon by birthright as a trueborn successor. If he didn't care for Ramsay, all it would take would be a simple command, and neither Sansa nor Jon could save him from the fate many here would be all too agreeable to carry out. Stiffening to these reservations, Ramsay clasped his hands behind himself and bowed his head in submission hoping to lose the haunted deadpan stare the younger lord still fixed upon him.
Gaining her composure, Sansa leaned back to look at Bran seeing where his eyes now hovered, and her own sights drifted to Ramsay. He was the elephant in the room that she wasn't sure exactly how to address or how to introduce. Should she present Ramsay as her husband… her war prisoner… or her concubine turned lover? Their relationship was rather complicated when one knew all that had transpired prior to the retaking of their home, and when one didn't… well, it left Sansa at a loss for words. Stepping down from the wagon, Sansa remarked awkwardly, "Let's get you out of the cold. We've much to talk about."
Bran was hoisted from the carriage by one of the keep's stronger soldiers, and Meera was given direction as to where to lead the wagon to be unloaded. Before the group could continue their momentum towards the castle, the youngest Stark halted their advancement, "Can we got to the weir tree first? I wish to feel connected more than to be warmed by the hearth."
The hesitation was only a moment before Sansa nodded her ascent and the big man carrying Bran diverted course to take the boy where he wished to go. Ramsay moved to follow, but this time Sansa held up a hand, and Ramsay froze as she gave him a somber expression, "I know you wish to accompany me now, but I need to speak to my brother free from outsiders."
Ramsay's brow furrowed in obvious disappointment, and he frowned clipping bitterly, "I see. Back in the box is it then?"
Sansa returned the sentiment with a grimace of her own as she chided, "Don't be like that. You know that is not what's happening here." She nodded to Temeric and Cecil who stepped forward when her eyes settled upon them, "Take Ramsay back to my chambers, and send for a servant to fill the bath." Sansa's eyes moved back to Ramsay whose frown had turned into a petulant sulk; she couldn't help but smirk in amusement at his display speaking low enough for only his ears to hear, "Go on, I will not be gone terribly long, and perhaps if the waters have not run cold by the time I return, I may join you."
This comment elicited a waver in Ramsay's pout as the thought of Sansa coming back to share his bath was inviting. It cheered him considerably although Ramsay did his best to downplay his true feelings on her admission with a subdued nod turning away from her without further word. With quickening steps, Ramsay departed Sansa's company causing Temeric and Cecil to swivel jerkily to march after him. Sansa observed their parting giving a soft tired sigh before turning back towards the Godswood to follow after the soldier ambling slowly away with Bran.
***…***
The walk to the weir tree was devoid of speech although Sansa's sights had met her brother's mien unable to break away from the stolid expression he granted her from over the sentry's shoulder that carried him to their destination. It was a passiveness that felt as if she were staring at a painting rather than a living being. Sansa missed her family terribly, but the man that watched her now was not the Bran she knew. He was a stranger wearing a familiar face.
Depositing Bran gently onto the compacted snow and against the base of the weir tree, the guard backed away giving Sansa a nod before moving to stand well out of earshot as a means to give privacy while remaining close enough to be hailed to retrieve the young lord when their conversation had been deemed complete. Once the soldier had moved away, Sansa maneuvered over to adjust the fur pelts around Bran's legs and waist to ensure he was warm before she adjusted her own cloak to sit on it in the snow beside him. As she did so, Bran's expression remained aloof, and once she'd finally settled, the two shared a long moment of silence before Sansa opened, "Your arrival missed Jon's departure by days; he would've liked knowing you've made it home safely."
Nodding, Bran responded impassively, "Yes; I need to speak to him. There's much to prepare for before the long night comes again."
His odd manner and words puzzled her, so Sansa stated what Bran may not yet have realized, "You are father's last heir which makes you lord of Winterfell." She didn't have room in the conversation to continue as her brother gave a noncommittal shake of his head, "I can't be lord of Winterfell; I'm the three-eyed-raven."
It was Sansa's turn to shake her head in confusion, "I'm not grasping your meaning."
Bran stated simply, "It's complicated to explain."
"Please… I need you to make an attempt," Sansa countered with a sense of insistence.
Bran paused pondering a moment before beginning anew with a candid tone, "I'm the Three-eyed-raven; I know what's happening now, what's happened in the past, and what will happen in the future. It's all happening at once in my head. I see everything and everyone, but it's hard to put the pieces together and make sense of it," he nodded affirmingly stating more to himself than her, "I need to learn to see better."
Instead of shedding light, his explanation only served to confuse Sansa further as she stuttered, "How… I… I don't understand?"
"The Three-eyed-raven taught me to see," Bran replied, and Sansa shook her head more mystified than ever, "Didn't you just say that you were the Three-eyed-raven…?" Bran's sights travelled to the face on the weir tree at a loss on how to explain his visions as he stated, "I told you; it's complicated."
This circular conversation had started to vex her, and Sansa sighed in exasperation opening her mouth to voice her frustration when Bran's eyes fixed upon her in all seriousness, "They don't understand why you keep him, but I do. It's good for you… after what he's done to you… to so many."
Sansa blinked in surprise as the weight of Bran's revelation hit her like an anvil and a flush of shame colored her cheeks. Her mouth parted in awe wanting to comment, but she had no words to accompany the sentiments his statement bombarded upon her.
Bran's gaze had moved away from her to stare off into the tree line as he continued, "Don't second guess your past decisions; for him or for you… it needed to happen. He owes you a path to heal, and with patience, you can find it together." All of what Bran confronted her with now was more than Sansa could digest, and she shook her head in denial standing hastily. She was unready to fathom the implications behind Bran's account and what details were left in his veiled declaration. She uttered apprehensively finding an urgent need to move away from this conversation, "We… we should go back now; I have to attend to other matters."
His eyes remained distant as he nodded, "Go on. I'll stay a while longer." Sansa paused shifting awkwardly before gladly turning away to flee back towards the keep as her mind worked to process and make sense of all that had just transpired between them.
***…***
Ramsay's face burned with humiliation as he trudged back past those same noblemen who deigned look down upon him as he'd followed Sansa out to this place. Their countenances practically glowed with a radiating smugness to have seen him turned away and worst referred to as an outsider when Sansa had done so. She'd unwittingly distanced Ramsay from herself as just another subject to do as he was bid (not that in some way this was not the actuality of his situation regarding the lady of the house, but Ramsay preferred that his status would have remained an air of mystery to men like these.) He would have liked to have kept them guessing what his actual significance within house Stark had become since Sansa had obviously changed the manner in which she dealt with him.
No remark or laughter trailed after Ramsay as he stormed by them in a flurry of hurried steps with head bowed to avoid their judgement as he returned to Sansa's bed chamber to await her arrival once more, but Ramsay knew by the change in their stance that these men now regarded him differently than they had only moments ago. A wave of agitation and annoyance coursed through him at the loss of self this small insignificant interaction caused him. It reminded Ramsay of the days when he'd first came to his father as an unwelcomed bastard. The higher born regarded him then in the same manner, and it niggled him now as a point that he'd lost so much repute that he'd never be given an option to regain.
Instances where he wasn't being locked away from all others purview often refreshed these flares of indignity within Ramsay. When Sansa had been gone, and it was just he and Jon or he and his guards walking about the bastion, there was a period of adjustment, but for the most part, Ramsay had felt distanced from much of the stain his loss on the battlefield had brought him. His failure still swept through his thoughts entirely too often, but the shame of his station then bore down on Ramsay far less than it was now.
He wasn't really sure why this was; perhaps standing next to Jon none needed to question the validity of Ramsay's position, and with his guards, he was most definitely seen as a prisoner and nothing more. But, next to Sansa… Ramsay's chest tightened, next to her, he was an anomaly because no one else knew the true standing of their relationship. All that any were made privy to was that first night when he'd been made a spectacle of, an object of misery that had been clearly destroyed for all to witness his fall. He was her Reek to anyone observing their interactions, and this fact welled a deep pit of resentment within Ramsay because he above anyone knew exactly how others perceived such a wretch as that which he'd turned Theon into. Ramsay had reveled in the other man's degradation and made a point to make Theon feel every bit the part of a broken man. It made the affirmation that he was cowed all the more bitter a sting to Ramsay's pride when Sansa chose to demonstrate her will over him in public.
It was not Sansa's intent to make him feel this way, and on a higher level, Ramsay knew this to be the case, but his baser qualities were wearing at his sensibilities and letting the anger build and outweigh his rational side. Wisdom told Ramsay that his frustration was fruitless and would bring him nothing but further misfortune should he continue to dwell in his discontent, but Ramsay was never very good at listening to that inner voice choosing instead to shut it out to let his temper consume him as he festered barreling down the hallway heedless of both Temeric and Cecil's tentative attempt to open a light dialogue with him. Neither guard pushed further giving one another a shared glance and choosing to just let Ramsay blow off steam. Both men had been around their ward long enough to see the storm brewing, and they mutually decided without word to just let Ramsay be in hopes that given time his agitation would simmer down on its own.
Ramsay didn't stop his brusque march until he'd passed the threshold of the master bedroom as the heavy door groaned its impact to signify he'd closed himself off from the rest of the world once more. Earlier this same feeling of aloneness had brought about a swirling vexation in him to want to be free of the alienation being sentenced to stay put here brought about, but now this same solitude was welcoming. Ramsay sighed finally allowing himself some measure of calm as he trudged over to the bed to slump down upon it kicking his boots off as he did so.
He could expect a bath to be filled for him soon, and maybe even to have Sansa join him. Sitting on the bed and thinking of Sansa brought back the memory of their last sexual encounter, and his lip twitched remembering her phallus still lay covered over within the sheets of the bed mere inches away from where he now sat. Ramsay threw the comforter aside to uncover the hidden item hesitantly falteringly as he reached out to touch it. The distinct shape and polished smoothness had been burned into Ramsay's mind, but seeing it laying loosely without Sansa wrapped around it or associated with it at all made her toy look a lot less ominous. The sudden image of taking the object and chucking it out the window to rid it from his life for good was a fleeting thought Ramsay entertained although he knew better than to do anything so brash and foolish. Sansa had already proven she had at least one other implement at her disposal to penetrate him with, and the phallus wasn't really the aim of his exasperation over a symptom of the whole that drove Ramsay to feel insecure in his masculinity.
Reaching over to open up the nightstand drawer, Ramsay scooped up the glass prong and quickly shoved it inside the opened compartment slamming the drawer shut quickly to remove the item from view before allowing himself to lay back heavily on the bed with a deflated exhale. Ramsay's mind raced as he stared up at the ceiling before slowly drifting about the room's sparsely decorated with Sansa's belongings; this really was a gilded cage he was being confined to.
His predicament wasn't a new revelation to him, but the fact that he wasn't at all pressed to escape it was a point that left Ramsay rather perplexed. Had he ever entertained the notion of escape? He hadn't really thought it possible and assumed his execution had been an imminent sentence waiting to be carried out. In his earliest hours of capture, where Ramsay had come into consciousness and experienced the first wave of punishments Sansa had departed upon him, he had considered the possibility of killing Sansa at all costs once she had stated death would not be a release he was to be granted. If he'd slain her, it would have left no other option but to end him as well. Those deliberations had been before Ramsay had endured a full day tied to his cross with a wooden peg shoved inside of him followed by a ravaging that started at dusk and hadn't ended until the wee hours of day break the following evening.
There hadn't been much self or coherent thought that was left in Ramsay after that occurrence, and it wasn't until recently that he'd even begun feeling any semblance of his old self, however changed, to be strong enough to break the veneer of who he'd been involuntarily transformed into. He had wished for death many times over in the beginning but never freedom. Ramsay hadn't contemplated why until now, but mulling the notion over, he assumed he'd subconsciously realized there really was nothing out there for him if he had escaped other than his demise.
The Dreadfort lay manned with some few second cousins of his father's kin and a handful of men that remained loyal due to the land they lived on prior to he and his father moving to Winterfell. To show his face there, Ramsay was almost certain the only welcome he'd receive would have been a return to Winterfell in hopes of a reward or a flaying in honor of his family's crest for the dishonor Ramsay had reaped upon its sigil. The disassociation to his loose kin brought a pang of sorrow through Ramsay knowing he'd never been one of them the entirety of his life outside the brief naming given upon his siege of Moat Cailin. Absently he wondered if word of that decree had ever reached the Dreadfort and whether that knowledge would have been recognized at all given his defeat. Ramsay frowned bitterly closing his eyes to try and shut out the plaguing imagined rejection his mind toiled over to contemplate these unknowns. Even in his conceptions of false realities, his fate ended in the negative.
Typically, when Ramsay's ruminations began to turn sour like this, he would find drink to distract him and people to hurt to amuse himself. It deadened the need to look inward and made him far less dour by allowing his proclivities to hurdle Ramsay into a mindset that he was untouchable. Rarely had Ramsay been challenged to shed that mask until now, but there was no default to fall back on anymore, no one to make feel the pain he needed to unburden, so here he was, lost in contemplation as his developing conscience wreaked havoc on him once more. It was a cycle that Ramsay found he fell into often these days, and it made him considerably broodier than he had been. It was hard to actively consider one's faults regularly but given he didn't have much else to take his time up with, that was exactly what Ramsay's cognizance was drawn back to again and again.
The door creaked, and Ramsay's attentions were drawn to it expecting a maid to present themselves to begin the task of filling his bath, but it was Sansa. Surprised by her earlier than expected arrival, Ramsay's face illuminated with a smile as he jerked up to a sitting position. The grin he wore faltered seeing that her face was ashen and grim, "What's wrong?" Ramsay questioned worriedly hopping to his feet. Sansa did no more than glance in his direction vaguely noting he'd spoken before gliding over to the table to pull out a chair and sit down.
Worry grew within him as Ramsay approached Sansa standing idly beside her unsure on what more to say or do if Sansa was unwilling to offer more. Usually his patience would have run thin to not get an immediate answer to his serious inquiry, and Ramsay would have resorted to intimidation or veiled malice to get answers forthwith, but now he was having to develop new interactions to express his urgency to know, and it left him stymied and uncertain. Ramsay was thankful Sansa didn't leave him stewing long, and her gaze travelled up to settle on him wavering thoughtfully, "Sit Ramsay. There's nothing wrong; I've just got a lot on my mind."
"Like what?" A hint of firmness laced his words as Ramsay pulled out the chair next to Sansa to join her at the table. Her sights bore into him as Ramsay seated himself with an expression that wavered between pensive and concerned, "I'm not ready to discuss it with you," Sansa countered evenly, and Ramsay's brow crinkled bothered by her dismissal, "What? Why?"
A furrow of agitation had worked its way across Sansa's mien feeling harried by Ramsay's badgering to know and the inability to formulate how best to absorb what she'd learned let alone debate its meaning with him as she snapped, "I don't have to explain myself to you, Ramsay. I will speak when I am willing, and you will hush and leave me to my thoughts until I'm ready to address you."
It still shocked Ramsay when Sansa spoke to him in such an aggressive manner. It spurred him to want to goad her to answer him, but just as he'd been forced to with his father, Ramsay swallowed his rebuttal only staring at Sansa with a clear peeved expression plastered on his face as he folded his arms tightly against his chest leaning back in his chair and letting out a muffled growl to state his discontent with her shutting him down so fully.
Sansa's countenance hadn't shifted at all during Ramsay's obvious display of offence, and once he'd finally settled, she leaned back in her own chair inhaling deeply as she closed her eyes to shut out Ramsay's off-putting persistence for a response. It was going to be a tricky conversation to delve into Sansa conceded to herself, and Ramsay was going to wait patiently for her to decide exactly how she would choose to disclose what information she would extend to him if any at all.
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