The door to the bedchamber thudded shut behind Ramsay, leaving only the crackle of the hearth and the soft rattle of Jon's chains. The room smelled of sweat, blood, and the sharp tang of spent seed. Jon knelt where they had left him, iron biting into his wrists and ankles, his head locked forward so he could not turn away from the bed.
Sansa lay on her back among the furs, staring at the ceiling beams. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. A thin trail of Ramsay's leavings still glistened on her thigh. She did not move to cover herself. She had learned that shame only fed him.
For a long time neither of them spoke. The wind outside howled around Winterfell's walls, driving snow against the shutters like thrown gravel.
Then Sansa's voice came, small and raw. "Jon… are you still there?"
He tried to answer. His throat was too swollen. A dry croak was all he managed. She turned her head slowly. Their eyes met across the three paces that felt like a thousand leagues. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have run faster. I should have warned you sooner."
Jon shook his head once, the only movement the chains allowed. Not your fault, he wanted to say. Mine. All mine. A log popped in the fire. Sparks rose like dying stars. Sansa reached down, wiped herself with the edge of a fur, then slid off the bed. The silver chain around her neck clinked as she crossed to him on bare feet. She knelt in front of him, careful not to touch the worst of the welts.
Her fingers brushed his matted hair. "They'll come for us," she said, so quietly the words were almost breath. "The wildlings. The mountain clans. Someone. They have to." Jon wanted to believe her. Gods, how he wanted to. But he had seen the bodies piled outside the gates. He had heard the cheers when the flayed-man banners rose again over the battlements. The North was bleeding, and the bleeding had only just begun.
Sansa leaned closer. Her lips brushed his ear. "When he takes you hunting tomorrow… look for the old weirwood stump by the stream. I hid a knife there last winter. Small. But sharp." Before Jon could answer, the door opened again.
Ramsay stood in the doorway, shirtless, a fresh cup of wine in one hand. His smile was lazy, almost sleepy. "Whispering, are we? How sweet." He stepped inside and kicked the door shut with his heel. "Wife, back on the bed. Bastard, you stay exactly where you are."
Sansa rose without a word. Ramsay followed, set the cup down, and pulled her against him. This time he did not bother with the furs. He bent her over the edge of the bed, facing Jon, and took her again slow, deliberate, each thrust meant to be seen. Sansa kept her eyes on Jon the whole time, tears slipping silently, but she did not look away. It was the only promise she could still give him.
When Ramsay finished the second time he yawned, stretched, and dropped onto the bed like a man who had earned his rest. "Sleep," he told them both. "Big day tomorrow. The hounds are hungry."
He was snoring within minutes. Jon and Sansa stayed awake until the hearth burned low. Neither spoke again. But in the dark, her hand reached out once and found his chained fingers. She squeezed once. He squeezed back.
Dawn came grey and merciless. Ramsay's men dragged Jon out into the courtyard still in chains. They had given him a ragged cloak and nothing else. Snow stung his bare chest. His legs shook from the night's vigil, but he forced them steady.
Ramsay waited on a black destrier, fresh and smiling, a long hunting spear across his saddle. Twenty riders waited with him, and a pack of lean, scarred hounds that whined and snapped at the air. "Today we hunt traitors," Ramsay announced loud enough for the gathered servants to hear. "Some wildling scum were seen near the Wolfswood last night. And if we're lucky… maybe we'll find a few Northmen who still think the Starks have teeth."
He looked down at Jon. "You ride at the front, brother. My personal guest. Try to run and the hounds get you first. Try to fight and I let them eat you slow. Understand?"
Jon nodded once.
They rode out through the main gate. The wind howled louder beyond the walls. Snow had already covered most of the battlefield, but here and there a frozen hand or broken sword still poked through the white like accusations.
Half a league into the trees, Ramsay reined in beside Jon.
"Funny thing," he said conversationally. "My scouts found something interesting this morning. A raven from the Eyrie. Littlefinger sends his regards… and a marriage proposal for your sweet sister. Seems he still wants her after all."
Jon's heart lurched. Ramsay laughed softly. "Don't worry. I told him she's already spoken for. But it got me thinking… maybe I should send him a gift instead. A piece of her. Or maybe a piece of you. What do you think, bastard? Which one would make him cry harder?"
Before Jon could answer, one of the hounds began to bay deep, excited. The pack took up the cry. Fresh tracks in the snow ahead. Human tracks. Ramsay's eyes lit up like a child's on name day. "Looks like the hunt is on."
He spurred his horse forward. The riders followed. Jon was yanked along by the chain attached to his saddle, stumbling through the deep snow, every step a fresh agony.
But as they crashed through the trees, Jon's eyes flicked to the right toward the frozen stream. Toward the old weirwood stump half-buried in snow.
For the first time since the battle, something besides despair stirred in his chest.
A small, cold spark. And in the distance, hidden among the black branches, a pair of eyes watched the hunting party pass eyes the color of winter skies and old promises.
The eyes of a girl who had once been called Arya Stark.
To be continued…