✧ neri ✧

Robb stood abruptly from his seat when Sara swept into his chambers, the image of a gentleman, he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her hand. "Lady Bolton," he smiled at her warmly. "Please, sit."

He pulled back a chair for her and had her sit across from him at the breakfast table, his hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before he took his seat. His hair was unkempt, auburn tangles framed his face and bore the indent of where the weighty iron crown had sat. He was exhausted, his clothes scruffy in contrast to Sara's polished visage. She could not help but notice the slight tremor in his limbs as he pushed his hair back from his brow.

"Your Grace," Sara nodded, the title still oddly foreign on her tongue. Her mouth positively watered at the sight of the breakfast spread set out for them. Buttery scones she was invited to pile high with thick cream and tart jam, apples so crisp that she knew Dark Strider would envy her if he saw, and best of all, bacon that snapped in her fingertips, browned and hot and greasy. She ate sooner than was polite, but it seemed to draw a wry smile from Robb.

"Pink suits you," he told her kindly. "The crimson you favour can make you appear… well… ghoulish."

Sara laughed behind her hand. "My, you have ceased to bother with my ego since getting your crown. Ghoulish, really?"

Robb shrugged sheepishly. "Such a bloody palette on such a skeletal girl… yes, ghoulish. I prefer this. A spring pink."

"Then I'll tell you I prefer when you wear blue. Stark grey is too close to mourning colours, it makes me uneasy," Sara informed him callously as she reached for a cup of red and pulpy fruit juice.

Robb's expression faltered, a dim sort of resignation in his face. "You needn't speak darker moments into existence."

Sara frowned at her blunder and shook her head. "You're right, I'm sorry, I meant nothing by it."

Robb gave a thin, forgiving smile. "It's no matter. Your humour has often tilted toward morbidity. I expect nothing less of the Dread Lady."

Sara didn't have a witty retort for that, just a gentle twang of embarrassment. The light-hearted conversation fizzled out slowly, dying embers didn't catch, and the pair fell silent over their breakfast. Robb hardly touched his own plate, and Sara thought that Grey Wind seemed better sated than her king most days.

"I thought we could discuss Ser Jaime," Robb finally spoke again, a weary sigh falling alongside the words.

Sara swallowed her mouthful of food and wiped the napkin against her lips. "You know my opinion has not changed, Robb. Bartering him for the girls won't help you, and the longer we keep him…"

"The bolder the Lannisters will become, I know," he finished for her.

"Then what have we to discuss?"

Robb hesitated, pursing his lips as though the next words would be defeat. "He's yours, Sara. Not to do with as you please, I'll not have him harmed, but if anyone is to drag an admittance, a confession of treason from him, you and I both know it's you."

Sara raised one arched brow and leaned back in her chair. "You'd like me to talk Ser Jaime into confessing his sin? Do you take me for a septa?"

"Of course not, but you may scare him… promise to harm him…" Robb pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Frighten the Kingslayer into admitting his incestuous affair with Cersei? Do you hear yourself?"

Robb grumbled under his breath. "Well, your House is frightening."

Sara leaned forward to touch his forearm, her hand grounding and warm against his sleeve. "I understand your war council was picked for strength and numbers, not political savvy, but that is a ridiculous thought to have."

"I cannot let you flay him, Sara," Robb's voice carried the kingly authority she was slowly growing to loathe.

"It would make your stance clear to our enemies." Sara snapped a piece of bacon between her fingers before chewing it slowly, savouring the melt of fried fat on her tongue.

He looked up at her, his gaze held blazing anger at her defiance. "I am not asking you, Lady Bolton, it is a command from your king. You'll speak with our prisoner today, decide where to go from there, but let there be no mistake; you won't harm him without direct order."

Sara bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron, hot and red and flooding her mouth. She nodded slowly, then pushed her plate away. "As you wish, your Grace."

Robb was scowling, that foul look sent blooming heat up her spine. It was embarrassing, making her cheeks red and her limbs feel heavy. Bile rose in her throat and she looked away from him, her free hand dug into the wood of the table in a meagre attempt to ground herself to the moment.

"I don't enjoy scolding my allies, Sara. I'm a king, not a nursemaid." Robb spoke softly now, as if trying to coax a startled pup back to its tricks.

"I know. I meant no disrespect, I swear." She took a deep breath. "I will see it done. I'll go to Ser Jaime later and lay out my intentions. As you say, Robb, I must frighten him, can I assume that gives me leave to lie to him? Brandish blades and tell him what I could do?"

His jaw clicked in frustration. "Your insistence on this baffles me, Sara. I know you to be talented enough with your blade, always eager to help in the kitchens with preparing meat but… those are dead animals, Sara. They don't scream or beg, they do not even bleed during skinning."

Sara realised the meaning of his words. Despite the instances where she had bared teeth, referenced her skill or begged her right to use it, Robb had remained wilfully blind to it.

"You do not think I have the stomach for it?"

Robb pursed his lips. "Sara, I do not mean to dismiss you. Lord Bolton is a fearsome man, House Bolton has a bloody history… But you, sweet Sara, you're a gentle girl. A firm enough stomach for hunting and preparing meat, maybe, but you could never harm someone. Not with your own hand."

Sara bristled and it was a distinct struggle to school her expression into neutrality. How naive could he possibly be? How quickly had his crown made him forget what she was? She'd skinned his own kill for him while he wept about duty, held him while he grieved without shedding a single tear for her own lost kin, and he dared to think she was weak. She longed to scream at him, to snap and remind him why her ancestors wore his as pelts for so long.

She drew her lips to a thin, bloody smile. "Gentle, am I? What gave you such an impression?"

Robb leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily, looking up at the ceiling for help in answering. "You know, Dacey Mormont is the sort of woman who could kill. Reckless and strong with a weapon, practically a man, to some." He smiled then, and reached for her hand, taking it and stroking his thumb over her knuckles. "You're too lovely for that. A maiden, save for a few foolish kisses with Theon, I hear. And your father has raised you to be shielded from brutality, I am sure of it, you're a true lady." He said it so condescendingly before pressing a kiss against her hand.

Sara was furious. She didn't bother correcting him about anything, especially with her father's suggestion to let him see what he wanted. But she knew Domeric would never be told that. Domeric was far sweeter than she, gentle and kind where she never could be, but Robb would not have condescended to her little brother.

"I don't understand," Sara said softly, remaining gentle and forgiving. "You said I'd be able to frighten Ser Jaime? You surely want me to intimidate him?"

"I do," Robb nodded. "You could tell him Lord Bolton will return just to deal with him. That would frighten any man standing against us, hm? If he's wise he'll fear your father."

He should fear me, I'm just as bloody and only half as careful, Sara thought to herself.

"I see. It is not me you mean to intimidate Ser Jaime with… just my name?"

Robb nodded and let go of her hand so he could finish his breakfast. "Exactly, my lady. Promise your father's wrath, and don't lay a hand on him."

Sara nodded, ultimately accepting his instruction. "I'm not weak. I need you to know that. You can rely on me in this conflict, in fact, I think you should."

"I never thought you were weak. Only…" He gave a boyish shrug. "You, like Lady Stark, have a strong heart. But within that, there's a delicate sensibility that makes a man protective. Your father or even Theon would understand what I mean."

Sara longed to remind him that he was not a man, only a boy who had grown too comfortable calling himself one. How she resented being compared to Lady Stark, a weaker woman who wanted to swaddle her son and shield him from war. Sara wanted to lead him through it victorious, that was different. And that mention of her father rankled her. Roose Bolton did not shield or coddle, he raised strong children fit to rule or command. The Dread Lord had raised her without guard and she thanked him for it. He was right about Theon, of course, he wanted to keep her safe and likely imagined himself her hero from a tale. It amused her, frankly, since Theon would abandon all illusions of rescuing Sara if he knew what monsters bit down on her neck.

"Well, your grace, thank you for considering my innocence," she said dully.

Robb grasped her hand tightly in his. "Sara," he said her name softly. "I do need you. Should I change my mind on what to do with Ser Jaime, it'll be you and your father who sink your teeth into him, I swear. No one else could have my trust in this matter."

His words did little to soothe her, but she nodded along anyway.

"Oh, and on a lighter note, I would greatly appreciate it if you passed on my sincerest congratulations to Lord Bolton. A wedding, even in wartime, is always a blessing, no?"

Sara's scowl only grew. She swallowed down bitter discontent and nodded.

"Has he spoken much of the new Lady Bolton?"

Sara shook her head. "Seldom little. He seems to think I'll never know her very well, I suppose he's right. When the war ends, she'll be busy with all my old duties and I…" she trailed off, struck by how little she knew of her future.

Robb gave her a reassuring smile. "Lord Bolton will mean to have you marry someone else, I'm sure. Instead of a glum place like the Dreadfort, you can be the lady of a different and warmer keep."

His optimism was a cruel joke. Her father had wanted her to have Winterfell, and was likely considering new suitors for her as they spoke, that much was correct. But Sara had only ever wanted the Dreadfort. She'd bled enough for it, it was hers. Some milk-faced sow from the Riverlands surely wouldn't take it from her now. Gods forbid the wench bore him a son… Roose Bolton had never declared her his heir after Domeric's death, but he also never said it wouldn't be her. But Domeric was the youngest, and he'd been the heir, another son would inherit over her without a doubt. And of course, Ramsay angled for the same glorious favour from their father she did.

Sara smiled kindly at Robb. "You are right, of course. Father will choose only the best, of that we can be certain."

They sat in silence for a moment. Sara's stomach had turned during the conversation. She tore at the soft, warm bread on her plate, but never raised it to her lips. Her fingers sank into the baked dough so easily, giving way like the softest girl's flesh.

Girls were exactly as you imagined them on the inside. The first time Ramsay had coaxed her to press her fingers into hot, dying flesh, she'd been disgusted. The girl wasn't lean or gamey like the beasts she'd hunted in the past. She was young and soft, Sara had never asked her name or how old she was. But she'd pleaded. The pleading never left Sara's mind.

When the girl died, Sara stood over Ramsay, watching from above. The poor thing could never have outrun them, even though she'd tried. One of Ramsay's dogs had caught up to her and bitten so deeply into her leg that she bled crimson like an uncorked wine barrel. She screamed dreadfully loud, so much that Sara feared the villagers nearby might have heard them. She'd begged, promised a dozen different things. Sara could have her as a handmaid, or Ramsay could have her as a whore, anything but death, anything. The sweet child didn't know she was already in the maw of a beast, and to be bitten around the neck and slayed quickly was the only mercy she'd find.

Ramsay didn't like girls who gave up. It was a tricky enough line to walk for Sara, he required the utmost obedience, but not so much that she became boring to him. She needed to be like a new puppy, willing to listen but still desperate for discipline. He liked to play, Sara was good at playing. But the girls she brought to the Dreadfort, the ones who ran through the woods in torn clothes, they didn't know any of the rules.

That first girl who'd offered herself up to them for mercy hadn't known the rules. Children fear death because they haven't lived, that was how Sara knew the girl was young. Ramsay didn't kill her, not by his hand. Sara remembered her so vividly, squirming in the dirt as summer snows dusted her flushed skin. Ramsay cut her open with a surgeon's precision. Blood and fat and gores Sara didn't recognise yet poured out of the girl's lower abdomen. The stench was worse than any animal kill she'd skinned, it still lingered in her nose now, like vinegar staining the floors. Ramsay told her fear made that scent, and she still believed him now.

The butchery had taken place so quickly that Sara hadn't noticed her brother tug down his breeches to rape the girl. They'd made love twice before then, once the night Domeric died, when she'd squirmed and told him all she ever wanted. The second had been the evening after the funeral pyre. Roose Bolton had left his two living children alone in the keep, and Sara had gone to her new brother's room seeking comfort, and Ramsay had taken all he wanted from her again. It was his right, he whispered, she owed him.

Breathless as he thrust his cock inside the squalling girl, he'd tugged Sara down to her knees beside him. She watched wide-eyed as rivulets of blood trickled down the girl's white thigh, unsure if the blood was coming from her wounds or her cunt. The girl was all snow and sweetness, soft and doughy, and screamed in all Sara's nightmares. Ramsay laughed at Sara's reaction and pulled her closer, snaking a hand up her skirt to touch her.

"You're wet, sweetling," Ramsay had murmured in her ear. "Why? Do you wish it were you under me, or that she was under you?" His rough fingertips didn't stop circling and probing her as he raped the other girl.

She remembered feeling confused more than anything else. She didn't quite believe she had gotten wet from Ramsay's display. It had frightened her, it should have frightened her. A scared voice in the back of her mind told her that she had indeed liked it, that she'd wanted it, that in truth she was just like Ramsay.

"Come, my heart," he whispered. "I cut her open just for you."

Ramsay guided her trembling hand to the girl's abdomen, to the leaking cut he'd made.

"Use your delicate little hand. Fuck her," he ordered.

Sara had swallowed down any protest, any rebellion, and gently pushed two fingers into the cut. The blood was sticky, the flesh was soft. The girl's body yielded to her as easily as the dough she was picking at now. It felt impossibly tender, almost velvety in its warmth. Sara didn't hear the screams after that, too enraptured by the feeling of hot, pumping life against her finger tips. She explored the wound, added more fingers, caressed it with her second hand, even bent to lick and taste the girl's blood, metallic and rich against her tongue. All the while, Ramsay's fingers worked beneath her skirt.

Her brother took his pleasure quickly that day, and to frighten Sara further, left her alone with the dying girl and the manservant, Reek.

"See to it that she finishes our game," he instructed the man as he turned away.

From there, Sara quickly lost count of how long it had been, how many minutes or even hours had stretched on while she prolonged the girl's suffering.

The girl called Sara by name, whimpering and begging Lady Bolton's mercy. She still pleaded for her freedom, as though there was anywhere for her to go now. Sara ignored her, with her fingertip she swirled blood through the spurt of seed her brother had left on the girl's thigh. It turned a fleshy shade of pink. Bolton colours, Sara thought to herself. There was so much torn flesh she didn't know if it was from the blade or her fingers or her teeth.

Sara's interest in the girl was cut short when she glanced behind her and Reek was hovering nearby, as instructed. The tall, stinking man was watching her every move, listening to the dying girl's every whimper, and stroking his cock. Bile rose in Sara's throat, and all the disgust that should have been there all along flooded her at once. If she finished the game quickly enough, maybe Reek wouldn't come any closer. Maybe she could go back to Ramsay, she was safe with him.

"Escape isn't mercy, foolish child," Sara whispered, low enough that Reek wouldn't hear. Before the girl could beg again, Sara cut her throat and held her still like a butchered sow until her body stopped convulsing. It was too easy, she realised, no harder than a hare or pheasant.

She stood up, blood spattered and trembling, and met Reek's gaze. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, then Reek lunged. Sara thought her heart might burst out of her chest, he terrified her more than Ramsay did in those days, but he sank down upon the dead girl instead. Sara steadied herself, then fled back to the castle walls, to Ramsay's warm embrace.

"Sara?" Robb's voice broke her out of wallowing in her memories.

She looked up at him and blinked slowly, coming back to the room, the breakfast, the war plans scattered around them. She cleared her throat and made an effort to compose herself.

"If you are done with breakfast you needn't stay. We each have our duties to attend to, hm?" He asked her gently, and a kind hand rested on her arm.

"Oh, oh, yes, of course." She stood up, smoothing down her skirts. "I'm dismissed?"

"Yes, my lady," Robb's expression became uneasy. "Acquaint yourself with Ser Jaime when you have the time.

She gave a quick curtsy and slipped out the door before memory could catch up with her again.

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