That night [Lord Bolton's bedchamber]
The bed was draped in furs still stiff with drying blood.
Jon was chained to the footboard, forced to kneel, iron biting into wrists and ankles. He could not look away even if he wanted to; they had wedged his head between two iron bars so his face pointed directly at the bed.
Sansa stood beside the mattress, still wearing the chain, still wearing the hollow expression.Ramsay circled her slowly, trailing fingers along her collarbone, down the curve of her spine.
"You're shaking," he murmured. "Are you cold, wife?" She didn't answer.
He tugged the chain. She stumbled forward onto the bed. Jon made a low, broken sound.
Ramsay glanced over his shoulder. "You should thank me, brother. Most men never get to see their sisters so intimately cared for." He pushed Sansa down onto her back. Her red hair fanned across the dark furs like spilled wine. Ramsay climbed over her, still half-dressed, still wearing the same blood-spattered leather as on the battlefield.
"Look at him," he told her. "Keep looking at him. I want him to see every second of what he couldn't protect." Sansa stared at Jon. Tears slipped silently down her temples into her hair.
Ramsay entered her in one brutal motion. She gasped sharp, involuntary but did not scream. She had learned long ago that screaming only excited him more. Jon's shoulders heaved. Silent sobs racked him. The chains clinked with every shudder.
Ramsay moved slowly at first savouring then faster, harder, each thrust punctuated by soft, mocking words. "Your brother's watching, Sansa. Isn't that sweet? He always wanted to save you. Now he gets to see exactly how well he failed."
Sansa kept her eyes on Jon the entire time. Not once did she look at Ramsay. It was the only defiance she had left. When Ramsay finished he stayed inside her a long moment, breathing hard, then pulled out and stood.
He walked to Jon, still glistening, and wiped himself on Jon's torn tunic. "You'll have plenty of nights like this," he said cheerfully. "I think I'll keep you both alive for years. A little memento of the day the North bent the knee."
He patted Jon's cheek, almost fondly. "Sleep well, bastard. Tomorrow we hunt."
To be Continued...