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Come and See	By : MutantPoptart Category: G through L > Game of Thrones Views: 22288 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones nor any of the characters therein and do not stand to gain any profit from this work of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Come and See
- 1
Come and See
They hunt her down and pry the dagger from her fingers before she can end it.
When they arrive at Winterfell, Ramsay is sitting atop the throne, looking fresher than any soldier in the room, and there are a great many soldiers there. Sansa thinks that their motley collection of wildlings and odd guardsmen fought well to chip away at Ramsay’s army, but there are still enough soldiers remaining to fill the throne room wall-to-wall and cause difficulty as the two huntsmen shove her toward the front.
When she’s pushed to her knees at the base of the stone steps, the sight of Jon beside her stirs her from her numb stupor.
“Ah, Wife. And here, we were all beginning to worry.”
“No--” Jon speaks up but is silenced immediately by the sword tip beneath his stubbled chin.
Ramsay gives a small flourish of his fingers and the swordsman at Jon’s side allows a small distance between skin and metal.
Jon clears his throat but when he speaks again it’s still a ragged sound.
“It’s me,” he says, slightly breathlessly. “I’m the one you should punish. It was my war. I planned it. I gathered the men. I lead the charge. I am the one who challenged your control of Winterfell. Not her.”
“She ran.” Ramsay counters, his cold eyes pinning her down. “To the enemy.”
“Running is not the same as fighting and does not deserve the same punishment.”
“I will give her the punishment that I promised in my letter to Castle Black, Snow, and no less. Surely, you can appreciate a king who keeps his word.”
Jon stares down at the ground then flashes a brief glance at Sansa, who would tell him to shut his mouth if she could only find her voice.
“Let me take her place,” he says, turning to Ramsay again. “I am the one who lead the charge. She had nothing to do with it.”
“While I admire your selflessness, Jon, I’m afraid that that cannot be. My dear wife has committed a high treason and I can’t allow such an offense to go--”
“Then let me lessen her burden.” Jon interrupts, and for a moment, Ramsay’s diplomatic façade falters. “Give me half of her punishment. I was the one who brought her here. You woulnd not have her if I had not. You owe me that.”
“I owe nothing to a bastard traitor.”
Sansa feels she has swallowed her tongue. The room around them has gone deathly still.
“It is not her, who is to blame,” Jon begins again, carefully now. “It was not her choice to be a part of this war. She has taken no side in it.”
“She seemed quite decided when we met yesterday. What was you said, dear?” His eyes fall fondly upon her. “Oh yes: ‘you’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton.”
The room bristles around her and Jon rushes to be heard over the scandalized murmurs.
“I forced her to come here, Ramsay. You know it. She would have run. It was my choice to fight. She advised against it and I made her stay.”
“Is that so?” Reluctantly, Ramsay’s eyes finally leave Sansa to regard the desperate man beside her. “Are you saying, bastard,” he pauses thoughtfully. “That whatever punishment I deem suitable for Sansa, you volunteer to take half of her burden?”
Jon visibly takes in the implications of the question, but Sansa thinks he doesn’t think long enough because after only a brief pause, he nods.
“Yes.” Jon says. There is no bite in his tone, only solemn conviction.
He must have miscalculated, Sansa is sure. He can’t possibly know. He can’t possibly understand what it means to agree to this. If he did, surely he would not have volunteered himself.
A broad smile spreads on Ramsay’s face. The day has given him nothing but good fortune.
Sansa shuts her eyes. The new Lord of Winderfell didn’t need to say what the punishment was, but she knew it was one she would now have to bare. Her plans of throwing herself out of the tower window or impaling herself on the first sharp object she could find were swept away. Jon, who had not died nobly in battle but lived and is here now, had ruined everything. Doubtlessly, this is what Ramsay had intended. This is why the sadistic freak had saved Jon from execution after the battle was won. Now she would have to live. Now she would have to survive, for Jon.
Ramsay is laughing, his boyish eyes on Jon like the man had made a very good joke.
“Well this will be very interesting. Very well, Jon Snow. I will grant you your request.”

She has removed herself from her body. It is a challenging feat, but one made somehow easier by the scene beside her, which has capture all of her attention.
At a double-arm’s distance from her on the same large, oak table is Jon, who has not gone to any lengths at all to separate himself from his body nor from any of the awful things that are happening to it. Instead, the young man, who, like her has been stripped down to his bare flesh, seems completely engaged in everything to which his body is being subjected.
From the start, they’ve had Sansa on her back, the better to fondle and suck at her breasts as they slump over her with their sweaty, heaving bodies. She knows that this way, they would also be able to enjoy her reactions if there were any to see. As it is, she knows she is as vacant and closed as a stone statue. Countless long nights with Ramsay had trained her well in concealing herself. She’ll never give them anything.
Jon, however, is taken from behind, bent at the waist with his chest shoved down against the hard table surface. Because he is a man and is strong in body and spirit, they don’t bother taking even what little care they’ve taken with her. His bucking, snarling virility makes him a worthy conquest to them, a feral beast to break.
Still, she knows that even as a man, and even in his scuffed, battle-worn state, Jon must be among the finer conquests they’d ever seen. The soldiers who ‘d been forced to split from Sansa’s line to form one in front of Jon had done so grudgingly at first, but it wasn’t long before they began to find their own enjoyment in the fetching dark looks and naked intensity of this other, unexpected war prize.
Sansa can’t pretend not to have noticed Jon’s profound appeal. Growing up as his sister had not blinded her to that. Even in his debasement, his beauty is not diminished. Instead it seems to thrive in the face of adversity. His fair, smooth skin and thick, raven hair glisten with sweat beneath the dozens of candles overhead. The warm light casts defining shadows over well-developed muscles that seize and quake as Jon braces against every hard impact. Below the swaying dark curls are facial features both delicate and masculine. As handsome as their father was, Jon is beautiful. Among the striking features are a pair of large, somber eyes. From within their dark depths, shines an eternal resilience that has not been stomped out. Even as Jon’s body is desecrated and defiled, Sansa can see that light within him still glows bright.
She can’t take her eyes off of him, nor can she help the pride that swells within her chest at the sight. Despite the bleak circumstances, she is warmed by his fire.
She wants to communicate with him somehow, show him he is not suffering alone, that even as these vile men ply and pillage his body for their own base fulfillment, he is eternally loved. She longs to reach out to him, to take his hand, but knows that Ramsay will see it.
As if reading her thoughts, Jon’s eyes gravitate to hers. He’d been staring down at the table for a long time, his tussled hair shrouding his strained features, but now he is looking at Sansa. There’s pity in those lovely eyes and a heavy sorrow. Although Sansa had dreaded finding anger or futile vengeance blazing from the depths of those bottomless wells, this silent apology is somehow much worse.
She’s careful not to convey much to him—on her back, her reactions are much more open to prying eyes and she wouldn’t risk allowing anyone else the satisfaction of thinking they’ve stirred something in her. Still, she hopes that she has communicated a strength to him that will ease his concerns for her. It’s himself he needs to worry about. She has seen the worst of Ramsay and can endure it. When this nightmare is all over, she at least will be left whole. Jon’s future, however, is not so certain. She needs him to survive. She needs him to get through this.
Their shared moment is interrupted when Jon is flipped roughly onto his back. The man who has stepped up to take his turn with Jon seems intent on treating him to the same rough tweaking and fondling as Sansa.
From then on, the men keep Jon on his back, determined to wholly exploit the new vantage point. Jon’s full pectorals are squeezed with greedy hands and his protruding nipples are sucked into eager mouths. Here too, in these seemingly intimate acts, they are violently rough with him, dragging their teeth and fingernails across him. They seem to revel in his warrior’s fortitude and unload onto him all the things that their meager chivalry would not allow them to inflict on a woman. Jon’s ragged voice breaks unwillingly into surprised gasps and choked sobs at the new assault.
She can see, as they all surely do, that he is not accustomed to such handling, by neither man nor woman. Wildling lover or not, Jon has never known such abrasiveness on his naked skin.
Prior to this day, both he and Sansa had each only bedded one other partner. However, they’re experiences could not have been more different. While Jon’s sweet unions had been rooted in a deep sense of trust and affection, Sansa’s had been poisoned by power, degradation, and unwillingness.
Still, as nightmarish as Sansa’s sexual experiences had been, she can't deny that they’ve made her better equipped to handle this new and horrific punishment. Here, Jon is as good as a virgin, and Sansa the seasoned master. She is thankful for her time with Ramsay, if only for the tools it gave her to better handle lesser horrors. These men can damage her no more than what has already been inflicted by a foe, far more monstrous.
The same cannot be said for Jon. Where Sansa has a thickened shield, Jon is fully exposed to the ravenous elements that claw and tear away at his vulnerable flesh.
Again she fights the urge to reach out to him. He needs to know that he will survive this, that it is only his body that they invade, not his mind.
It is a new and resounding defeat when Sansa notices that Jon’s struggle has captured Ramsay’s attention as well.
She has occasionally looked over to where her husband sits perched on his throne. It is only to show him that she is unmoved by his new meaningless game, to show him that she is stronger, that no matter how he may try to degrade her, hurt her, humiliate her, he will never own her. Usually, she’ll find the heir to House Bolton already watching her, drinking in the site of her debasement with wild contentment. More and more, however, when Sansa glances over, she notices that Ramsay’s focus has drifted to the other side of the table, a shimmer of mild amusement in his icy gaze. Now, as she chances another look, she confirms that once again, Ramsay’s attention has been captured by Jon’s plight, but instead of vague interest upon that impish face, Sansa sees something far worse.
Before the men had flipped him onto his back, Jon had attempted to meet Ramsay’s stare head-on with his own unwavering fervor. However, the brutality with which his body was invaded, along with the rough, incessant groping, had overwhelmed and divided his focus. Before long, he was staring down at the table, fighting and failing to conceal the flush overtaking his face and the yelps escaping his throat. So, with his face downturned, Jon didn’t notice how the haughtiness and triumph in Ramsay’s gaze had mutated into a kind of mild interest, and that to hungry appraisal.
Something twists in Sansa’s gut.
She’s never known Ramsay to take a boy into his bed, willing or not. And while she’s aware that Jon isn’t just some common boy whore, she’s certain that it isn’t carnal lust she sees shining in Ramsay’s gaze.
She turns desperately to Jon beside her.
She wants to tell him to stop fighting, that Ramsay will lose interest if he will only go limp and silent. But Jon doesn’t understand nor even seem to notice what his vitality has attracted. How could he? He hasn’t been subjected to the tortures and mind games the likes of what Sansa had at the hands of the sadistic Bolton bastard. Jon hasn’t learned the importance of guarding his heart and removing himself from the trivialities of his body’s suffering. He doesn’t know how to smother that beautiful light inside of him.
No, he just keeps fighting. He keeps carrying his honor and devastation on his shoulders like a giant boulder, and instead of shrugging it off to survive, he will let it crush him.
Jon’s eyes, like those of a naïve child’s, seek out each soldier with a stubborn patience. He looks at his rapists, determined to see them as brothers with principles and compassion. There’s a genuine plea in Jon’s eyes as each new man steps up to defile him. “You don’t want this,” his eyes urge. “You are a Northerner as I am. You served under Eddard Stark honorably. I know you are an honorable man still.”
Over and over again, each man ignores the silent plea beneath those damp lashes and penetrates him anyway. Each stab of their cocks is like a stab in Jon’s heart.
Sansa has always seen the resemblance between Jon and their father and more and more as they grow older. Still, she never saw Eddard Stark more than now as Jon’s shoulders strain to hold himself up on his elbows and his large, doleful eyes latched onto each new soldier, silently imploring them to see the good in themselves, and as his fists and jaw clench in an effort to keep in his cries that are as much from pain as they are from utter abandonment when once again his pleas are ignored and he is penetrated to the hilt.
She doesn’t want to look but she can’t stop. With every drift of her awareness over to Jon, she watches the tragic struggle. Jon twists and bucks as he takes each violation somehow worse than the last. Each new man that shoves between Jon’s thighs becomes a new and overwhelming defeat. While Sansa has maintained resolutely silent, Jon’s retching cries and deep grunts echo about the halls.
Still, Ramsay stares.
To her further dismay, Sansa’s eyes trail down Jon’s line to another disheartening sight. The group of soldiers, who had first moaned of feeling cheated when they’d been split from Sansa’s line, had now grown voracious as they watched the scene ahead of them, each now eager to have their own turn at smearing the honor of the noble Stark bastard.
One by one, they yank his damp locks and drag their tongues up his strained neck muscles. They rasp filthy things against his ear and laugh in his pretty face when his expression twists to silent shock. Then they fuck into him harder to see what else the boy will give them.
And Jon feeds so abidingly into their baiting. He growls and snarls like a dire wolf trapped, his dark eyes go large and glistening. How they all love that. To keep from clawing at the men raping him and risk incurring Ramsay’s wrath, Jon claws instead at the table beneath him, his arms tense and gleaming from the effort of restraining himself.
Ramsay had been smart to threaten Sansa should any harm come to his men.
After one especially spirited soldier, Jon is left boneless on the table, chest rising and falling in harsh breaths. He makes no effort at a struggle nor silent plea with the next man that takes his place between his splayed thighs.
This man has a thick auburn beard and is familiar to Sansa somehow. By the way he stares down at Jon’s heaving, naked body, she thinks that he chose Jon’s line.
When, Jon’s rolling, fluttering eyes finally settle on the new man above him, he goes so still that Sansa wonders if he’s finally exhausted himself. Then she watches the slow twist of a sneer on his flushed lips.
When the man sees the flaring recognition on Jon’s face, a broad grin spreads across his own handsome features. It’s clear that he wanted Jon to know him.
“I see they’ve found a use for you, bastard,” he says and it’s a statement.
Jon says nothing, but Sansa can see the quickening of his breaths as the man unfastens his britches.
Wasting no time, the man sheaths himself completely into Jon. Jon does admirably in stifling his cry at the force of it. Making a show of rolling his shoulders, the soldier gets accustomed to the feeling of Jon around him.
As he begins moving his hips, the man leans down as if to whisper something private in Jon’s ear. What he says, however, carries over the whole court.
“That little Wildling must’ve had a legendary cunt on her, to have you welcomin' in a whole army of 'em. Puttin' every Northerner at risk.” He settles into a steady rhythm of abrupt thrusts and Jon makes choked sounds as he tries to stay silent. “Betrayin' your own people. It’s a mercy your Starks aren’t alive to see it. Imagine poor old Ned...Rob… that sour mother of yours, all seeing you volunteer to take an army of cocks in your pretty arse. Must be true what they say about a bastard’s appetite.”
Now he’s gripping the swell of Jon’s pectoral like a woman’s breast and rutting his hips into him deeply.
It’s a mockery of tenderness and a stark contrast to the crude carnality of the previous men, but Sansa knows that it’s all to rattle Jon.
Suddenly, the bearded man is crushing his mouth to Jon’s with the vigor to make him bleed. As Jon lies frozen in aghast horror, the soldier’s free hand begins ghosting downward. Sansa’s muted heart cries out at what he takes hold of.
“Will I be the first to expose the Stark bastard’s true colors?” He hisses against Jon’s reddening lips.
Jon immediately moves to resist the unwelcome hand between his thighs but something halts him.
Sansa looks up to the head of the throne room. The hand upon which Ramsay’s chin had been propped now hangs empty and still on the arm of the throne. The Bolton heir is so consumed in the scene unfolding below him that he is leaning forward in his seat.
Although her brother doesn’t look, he must know that Ramsay is watching because Jon soon replaces both of his hands onto the table and does not lift them again, even as the man on top of him begins working Jon’s sex in his calloused grip.
Sansa can’t help thinking again, how cunning Ramsay is.
For a fleeting moment, Jon’s eyes drift over to her and Sansa can see, more than ever, how this destroys him. This is a kind of surrender that he had not anticipated. The rapes, he would bare, but this is a perversion of intimacy that he had not accounted for. The despair, disgust, and shame are all naked on his face.
Burry it, she urges. Don’t let them see. But above the deep flush of his cheeks, Jon’s eyes scream of his inner anguish.
The impulse to reach for him hits her again, but Jon is already turning away. A quick glance downward reveals why. In the soldier’s hand, Jon is growing thicker with each harsh tug.
This soldier who knows Jon seems to be taking more time with him than any other. Yet, despite his brutish ministrations, Jon is not brought to his release.
The soldier doesn’t seem to mind one way or another however and is growling disgusting things into Jon’s hair as he rides his own rapturous waves.
“Until next time, bastard,” the man says as he abandons Jon’s worry-reddened appendage to slap against his heaving belly, and tucks his own back into his britches.
Jon is left looking even more harassed than before, but still Sansa sees his relief at being spared one indignity at least. Sansa too is grateful for the small mercy.

The night drags on.
Jon’s flame is ever enduring. Although his ceaseless fire does nothing to abate Ramsay’s growing fascination, it is nonetheless a comfort to Sansa. Beaten, though Jon may be, he is not broken.
Still, the sideways glances that he throws her direction when he thinks she isn’t aware are beginning to concern her. It is now more for him than for her rapists that she withdraws within herself. She can’t have Jon seeing even a hint of her pain. She fears, however, that the vacancy in her face and body have registered poorly on the distressed man. While she understands the responsibility he feels and knows that there’s nothing she can communicate to him that will lessen that burden, she tries to appear strong for him. She can give him that at least.
The glances become more fervent however, and Sansa is beginning to wonder if Jon is planning something.
Then it happens.
A short time after the bearded man, a soldier approaches Jon with his weapon still tied to his waist. Jon is quick, as if he’d been waiting all this time for the exact opportunity.
As worn as she knows he is, Jon still pulls the long sword from the unwitting soldier’s belt as sure as if the past few hours hadn’t happened. In an instant, the formerly armed soldier’s insides are spilling out onto the stones and Jon is trying not to slip on them as he scrambles off of the table.
With the sword extended out in front of him, Jon dives for the men in Sansa’s line. The soldier at the head of if had witnessed first-hand what had happened to the man at the head of Jon’s line and, not wanting to suffer the same fate, had leapt away from Sansa a large distance before Jon had bound off the table.
Now Jon waves the sword broadly at the men around the table, more to threaten than to damage. It is an effective tactic; each man’s eyes are fixed on the weapon as they give him a wide berth. Sansa does notice, however, that a few eyes have drifted downward. She follows their wandering attention along the luminous, exposed flesh and her breath catches.
As the wife of Ramsay, she was not to have even a drop of seed spilt inside of her, and Ramsay had ordered, upon penalty of flaying, that all the men pull out before their release. No such order had been given for Jon and as a result, generous globs of whitish ooze bubble and glide downward from the apex of his legs. Sansa knows that anyone who looks will see the thick globules of creamy fluid descending the pale, muscled thighs, but prays that no one else is close enough to notice their slight trembling.
There’s so much semen. It’s endless. She can see that not one of the men had spared Jon the insult.
The hall is silent but for Jon’s labored breaths and snarling.
This is not a thought-out plan, she thinks. Although all of the men had given up their weapons at the start, Jon is vastly outnumbered and Sansa suspects that it’s only out of shock that the soldiers have not yet charged them. Certainly, her own surprise has her nailed to the table.
A large sword though it is, its considerable weight does not appear to flag Jon’s arm even slightly. He holds the weapon steady and straight in front of him, pointing it around the room. Sansa would think him completely refreshed were it not for the sideways glimpse of wild terror she catches in his wide eyes that flash and dart around the room. She can’t help thinking again that this is not like him, that this is not well-calculated.
It’s with a soft gasp that Sansa feels the cool metal on her neck.
“Drop the sword, Jon,” comes Ramsay’s even voice from very near behind her.
Jon swirls around and upon seeing the dagger that Ramsay has pressed to his sister’s neck, he allows the sword to fall to his side.
What had he expected? While Sansa had laid still and taken the repeated assaults like an empty vessel, Jon had fought himself to exhaustion. Had he made himself delirious with the relentless efforts?
The next moment, two men are stepping out from the crowd to restrain Jon while another man snatches the sword from his limp hand.
Jon isn’t fighting now and Sansa has an awful sinking feeling in her gut.
“You are very lucky, Sansa.” Ramsay says, and she feels the metal leave her neck as well as the first tears beginning in her eyes. “It appears that your dear brother has volunteered to relieve the remainder of the men.”
Jon’s arms hang lifelessly at his sides and his face is hollow and unreadable. Whatever fervor had momentarily possessed him is gone now and Jon is left hunched and swaying as he lets the men shove him back toward the table.
Sansa hardly notices as she is pulled off of the table and away from the center of the room. She can look nowhere but at Jon, who still isn’t fighting nor objecting. Someone has placed a large quilt around her shoulders, but all Sansa notices is how Jon is quietly taking his place at the middle of the table. He’s staring down between his hands, which are flattened on the wood. The army of men file in behind him, more raucous and enlivened than before.
He won’t fight again she knows. This is just what he’d intended.
Now Sansa is screaming for Jon and thrashing as they drag her away. As her vision goes blurry with the tears she sees her would-be rapist at the head of the line, now grabbing Jon’s waist instead with both hands and shoving forward.
Jon gives a broken cry and his dark eyes drift upward to Sansa for only a moment. There is a command in his eyes, a sense of purpose and, she can’t help but notice, a small apology. She doesn’t want it.
Senseless.
He doesn’t understand that Sansa is already done. There is nothing they can do to her. He is sacrificing himself for nothing-- to save her a little shame, that’s all. Ramsay will dream up more ways to hurt her. This is only a small portion of what she has in store for her.
Stupid.
“Don’t fret, wife. We won’t pull you far from your dear brother. You can watching him from here.” Ramsay presents her the vacant throne beside his.
Sansa does not curb her disgust as she regards him, but goes and sits in the proffered seat.
From there, they have a high view of the entire court.
When Jon finally looks up and notices that Sansa has not been escorted from the room, his face goes deathly pale.
Beside her, Sansa sees Ramsay’s smile broaden and feels the accomplishment radiating off of him.
The look he imparts on Jon, is one she hopes will stave off his shame.
Not me, she implores him. Never me.
She will not allow him to suffer anymore humiliation on her behalf. Let him instead find comfort in her presence. Let him tie himself to her like a ship to moor. Let him look to her and know that he can take shelter in her eyes when there is only malice and misery around him.
When Jon seems to accept that the disgust in her face is not for him, Sansa’s lets her eyes leave him for a moment to survey the room. Scanning the line of soldiers, her heart sinks when she can’t find the end of it.
Let this end soon, she prays. Let him faint before the end. Let him lose consciousness.
But Jon lasts longer than perhaps even Ramsay had intended.
In his front-row seat, The Lord of Winterfell stares openly at Jon. Although he keeps his fox’s smile hidden from the public, an enrapt gleam has become a permanent fixture in his eyes. For his part, Jon fights to return the stare for as long as he can.
The men all take him from behind now, and quickly. It seems that the clotting entrails splayed across the floor beneath them as well as the dead body from whence they spilt, have subdued the amorous appetites in most of the soldiers.
Sansa is glad of that at least.
They shove into Jon dutifully and seem to stay only as long as it takes to find their release, taking no more pleasure in trying to rouse or even fondle him. She thinks she even saw a few men sneak out of line, careful to avoid Ramsay’s detection.
The line is quickly shortening but the end cannot come soon enough.
Sansa grips the thick quilt around her anxiously as she eyes Jon’s depleted form.
The naked man is still leaning heavily over the table. His hands have not lifted once from their spots though his arms tremble to keep him upright. She’s certain that his legs have all but given out and that Jon’s arms and unshakable will are now the only things keeping him from collapsing.
His shouts have quieted as well. Only a flutter of eyelashes, a forward sway, and a jerk to right himself reveal when a new soldier has entered him.
Otherwise, Jon’s attention is focused wholly on the man atop the throne.

When Jon finally does pass out, his eyes rolling back and upper body buckling onto the wooden table top, Ramsay makes no move to have him roused.
Sansa seizes forward in her seat, staring at the motionless body.
When Ramsay still makes no move, she realizes that the game is still going. At least Jon will not have to be awake to endure any more of it.
When the last man finishes, the hall is filled with swaying, sleep-deprived bodies, leaning on walls and huddling in corners. It feels as though a day and a half has gone by since the horrific ordeal begun and it now seems as much of a punishment to the victims as it does to those carrying it out.
Finally, as the final man hobbles off, tucking himself back into his britches and scanning the hall for an empty wall to lean against, Ramsay stands.
Sansa’s eyes are trained to the gentle expanding and contracting of Jon’s ribcage.
He lives. He lives.
Clapping his hands together, Ramsay addresses the room.
“Well then. This concludes the trial of the traitor Stark descendants. The penance has been paid. Sansa, my queen,” he turns brusquely to Sansa, who is a shell in a queen’s throne. “Because your brother has …taken,” he settles on the word with some decided awkwardness. “Your punishment in your place, you are hereby pardoned.” He turns to face the room. “To my valiant warriors, the Karstarks, the Umbers, the--”
“Jon.”
Ramsay inclines a raised brow in her direction. She hadn’t realized she’d said it aloud.
“What happens to Jon,” she trudges on. Her own voice sounds foreign and flat to her ears.
As if she hadn’t spoken at all, Ramsay turns back to the crowded room filled with his groggy subjects.
“You have all fought bravely and proven your loyalty to me one hundred times over on this day, and for that I am deeply grateful. I hope that you’ve enjoyed this gift as a token of my humblest gratitude. Now, go home to your families. Feast and drink well to this historic victory.”

When the room begins slowly clearing out of its weary inhabitants, Ramsay signals to his flanking guards. The two heavily armored men go forward and drag Jon’s lifeless body from the table.
There is a pool of semen at Jon’s twisted feet to rival the blood from the skewered soldier
Hoisting him upright by his arms, they bring him forward.
Sansa scans his sagging head and heavy limbs with a caged hysteria. An eternity passes before Ramsay finally turns to her with a broad smile and indicates with an extended hand that she is permitted to go to him.
Without pause, she leaps up, almost leaving the thick quilt behind her in her haste. When she reaches him, her hands are on his face, prodding and stroking the clammy skin. She brushes the hair from his face and presses her palm to his forehead as if to check for a fever.
No seemingly kind gesture from Ramsay has ever preceded anything but suffering, but Sansa cannot think of that now as she cradles Jon’s head to hers, slowly rousing him.
“Well done, Jon Snow.” Ramsay says when Jon is conscious enough to register Sansa in front of him.
He grasps for her hand and allows her to press their heads together. Although he still uses the guards to stand, he tries to lean on Sansa as much as his captives will allow.
“Have a bath drawn for him,” Ramsay says to the guards. “Sansa, you will help clean him. When they’re done, have them both taken to my chambers.”
At this, Sansa turns to him. The former Snow is bursting at the seams with some secret joy.
“Sansa, I’ve decided to allow Jon to live here on the condition that he is your responsibility.”
He speaks as if he is gifting her with a new dog, and Sansa’s gut churns.
“Understand that I’m holding you completely responsible for everything he does out of turn. If he is disobedient, tries to escape, or tries to aid you in escaping, it is you who will be punished.”
Sansa grips Jon’s hand tighter and feels his breath quicken on her cheek.
“And should you meet some untimely death, Sansa. It is Jon who will be held responsible, but he won’t be granted the mercy of a quick end.”
Clenching her jaw, Sansa turns to her brother. Jon is glowering at Ramsay now with more hatred than he’d shown through the entire ordeal.
“You understand, Sansa.” Ramsay says, but his eyes never leave Jon.
Only when the guards are leading them away, does Ramsay’s relinquish his heavy gaze. Sansa realizes that he’d been watching Jon the entire time, even when addressing the guards.
She knows Ramsay well enough to know there’s always something else slithering beneath his words.
The tyrant had framed the arrangement like a punishment for Sansa, but really this had become about Jon. Ramsay knows that Jon will never do anything that might endanger her—he’d proven that here. Now Ramsay will use that to control him. Making Sansa Jon’s sole custodian was all he’d needed to do to ensure that Jon was kept under his thumb.
If only Jon could see how they’re being manipulated. Even if she tries to tell him, she knows he won’t listen. And even if Ramsay’s true motives aren’t lost on him, Jon would do nothing to stop it. He won’t accept that there’s nothing Ramsay can do to her anymore, and that she would rather Jon fight for himself than kneel to protect her.
This is how Ramsay will have Jon.
A/N:
It's interesting to note that George R. R. Martin's Ramsay does not promise in his letter to Jon to let his soldiers take turns raping Sansa, and that only the show's Ramsay is that twisted. Apparently there's also no "come and see," in the book, which I thought was so charmingly Ramsay.
I'm thinking of building this into a series of smutty scenes featuring these three, mainly Ramsay and Jon. As Ramsay's fascination with Jon grows, he'll think up new and twisted ways to mess with him. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Bleak, I know, but when it comes to Ramsay, it writes itself. Let me know what you think and if you'd like more!
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