THE SMALLEST RIPPLE RUNNING DOWN HIS SPINE, BARELY VISIBLE TO THE NAKED EYE, IS ALL THAT BETRAYS THE SURPRISE AT THE SUDDEN VOICE RINGING BEHIND HIM. he hadn’t heard any steps approaching, the wind howling around the higher towers above their heads in an ever-lasting draft that had Pyke look like it was leaning forward, bracing itself against the storm. far across the bay, towards the shores of Great Wyk, torches light up the beach         a chain of them leading into the water. there is movement at the shore, hidden by the dark of the night. and Maron knows he should sleep, but finds himself unable to.

       looking back over his shoulder does his offer his uncle a glance that speaks of indifference at best, before he turns back to look out towards the sea again. there is a long journey ahead of him and Asha. one that is to begin in but a few hours, black sails invisible in the darkness. he knows his sister is just as furious. just as eager to get away. feels just as betrayed, now that the kingsmoot is done and decided, and what should be Maron’s by right has gone to someone else. to betray Euron in turn by leaving perhaps is no grand sign of loyalty. but Maron cannot find it in himself to care.

       so he instead tucks his thumbs into his belt holding two battle axes and a dagger, and his voice sounds just as indifferent as his look had been. “no. is yours bothering you?” Urrigon, after all, had betrayed him too when he had sided with Euron.

“You, girl.” 

The Mountain’s voice barked at her. She was pretty enough, big eyes and gold hair and she looked like she wouldn’t put up much of a fight. She’d better not, if he picked her. It was quite an honor, in his view, to be the whore he chose. She’d spend a night in a bed, at least (provided she didn’t snore), unlike most of these girls who would just get passed around half a dozen men before putting back where they were being kept. 

           @cutsdeepcr

she’d been pushing her luck, hadn’t she? when ramsay hadn’t been there to keep a close eye on her. when she was alayne stone, not yet sansa stark. she’d been in that facade for longer than she can remember; too absorbed into what she’d had to become, unable to shake it. unable to rid of it, for entirely different reasons, now that she was inside her home. her hair had faded, darkness bleeding out in baths, the copper beneath threatening to burn through like the fire it possessed. she’d been bolder as days pass; as she realised what life would entail now. she wasn’t even sansa stark, was she? sansa bolton. the thought makes her sick to her stomach. ramsay doesn’t pay much attention to her unless he has to; off hunting with his dogs when they’re out for dinner, and when she pushes that bit too far, roose orders his men from the room. he’s different to his son, and sansa can’t tell if she prefers that or not. can feel her shoulders stiffen as he stands, walks towards her. slow, careful. her nostrils flare, and all she can do is stare at him.     don’t ever do that again.     his voice is calm, collected. he doesn’t scream, like she’d expected. he doesn’t grip her chin and order her because he can. he tells her. somehow, that’s more frightening.     “i’m sorry, my lord,”     she breathes, quick. means every word.     “i won’t, i swear.”