1. A Cage Under the Icicles
Winterfell mornings were always shrouded in an unyielding chill.
Sansa Stark stood by her bedroom window, her fingertips pressed against the cold glass, watching the Bolton soldiers patrol the courtyard — they wore dark red armor, and the flayed man sigil on their armor gleamed coldly in the morning light, much like the patterns on the 'human head goblet' Joffrey had shown her years ago.
The wind whipped snow particles against the window, making a faint rustling sound, reminding her of those nights in King's Landing when the wind and snow outside were just as fierce, except then she had Margaery and the Queen of Thorns by her side, and now, she only had herself.
The bedroom door was gently pushed open, and the voice of her maid, Lyra, came through, tinged with cautious timidity: "My Lady, Lord Ramsay requests your presence in the Great Hall for breakfast."
Lyra was a maid assigned by House Bolton to 'serve' her, yet she would always secretly slip her a warm piece of bread when no one was around, or use her eyes to warn her, "Lord Ramsay is in a bad mood today."
Sansa turned around and saw flour on Lyra's cuff, a trace from sneaking warm food from the kitchen — in this Winterfell occupied by Bolton, even this tiny, insignificant act of kindness had to be hidden in the flour on a sleeve.
"I understand."
Sansa straightened the wool dress she was wearing; it was a 'gift' from Ramsay, of good material, but it always made her feel like a lavish prison gown.
She walked to the mirror and looked at her reflection: her hair had grown longer, falling to her shoulders, her face was pale, and there were faint dark circles under her eyes — marks left by countless nights of being jolted awake by nightmares.
But her gaze had changed; it was no longer that of the little girl who would cheer for a pretty dress, but like the icicles of Winterfell, hiding a sharp, cold glint.
As she went downstairs, she encountered Myranda, Ramsay's mistress.
She was wearing a bright red leather outfit, toying with a small dagger in her hand, and upon seeing Sansa, a mocking smile played on her lips: "Oh, our 'Lady Stark' has finally deigned to come downstairs? Lord Ramsay has been waiting for you for half an hour."
Myranda always liked to use the title "Lady Stark" to sting her, as if to remind her that she was now House Bolton's 'trophy,' a tool for Ramsay to humiliate House Stark.
Sansa ignored her and walked straight to the Great Hall.
She knew that arguing with Myranda would only please Ramsay more — that man enjoyed watching others torment each other, enjoyed watching her break down in humiliation.
Her steps were steady, making no sound as she walked on the carpeted stairs, just as she had learned in King's Landing: never show your panic in front of your enemies.
In the Great Hall, Ramsay was sitting in House Stark's high seat, slowly cutting the roasted meat on his plate with a silver fork.
His father, Roose Bolton, sat beside him, his face grim, as if deep in thought.
Seeing Sansa enter, Ramsay put down his silver fork and clapped his hands: "My lady has arrived, come sit down quickly.
Lyra, pour my lady a glass of warm wine, don't let our 'Mistress of Winterfell' catch a chill."
Sansa sat opposite him and took the wine Lyra offered.
The goblet was silver, engraved with the Stark wolf sigil — it was her father Ned's goblet, now used by Ramsay.
She held the goblet, feeling the coolness of the silver on her fingertips, but inside, a fire burned, a hatred for House Bolton, a longing for her father, Robb, and mother.
"News arrived yesterday that things are a bit restless beyond the Wall," Roose Bolton suddenly spoke, his gaze falling on Sansa with an interrogative look, "The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, that is, your 'brother' Jon Snow, seems to be gathering forces.
Tell me, do you think he might be planning to march back to Winterfell?"
Sansa's heart gave a sudden leap, and her grip on the goblet tightened.
She knew Jon was at the Wall, but she didn't know he was gathering forces — this was the first news of 'hope' she had heard.
But she couldn't show any emotion; she could only lower her head and say softly, "I don't know.
Jon is just a bastard, and the Night's Watch has its rules; he wouldn't break his vows."
Ramsay laughed, his voice shrill and piercing: "A bastard? But he still has Stark blood.
No matter, even if he truly intends to come, I will make sure he dies beneath Winterfell's walls, just like his 'brother' Robb."
He said, picking up a piece of roasted meat with his silver fork and offering it to Sansa, "Here, try this.
It's deer we hunted yesterday, tastes good.
Just like the deer your father used to hunt."
Sansa's stomach churned, but she still forced herself to take the piece of roasted meat.
She knew that refusal would only invite more cruel treatment — Ramsay had once thrown a live, flayed fox into her bedroom, saying, "This is for your pet, just like the one you kept in Winterfell back then."
She took a small bite of the roasted meat; it tasted gamey, but she slowly swallowed it, her face devoid of any expression.
Roose Bolton looked at her, a flicker of complex emotion in his eyes, perhaps surprise, or something else.
He stood up and said to Ramsay, "I have military matters to attend to.
You keep an eye on 'my lady,' don't let her cause us any trouble."
With that, he left the Great Hall with his guards.
Only Sansa and Ramsay remained in the Great Hall, along with Lyra standing in the corner.
Ramsay walked over to Sansa, reached out and pinched her chin, forcing her to look up at him: "Do you think I'll believe you just because you pretend to be submissive?
I know what you're thinking, you're thinking of Jon, of the revival of House Stark.
But I tell you, Sansa Stark, Winterfell now belongs to House Bolton, and you are mine, always will be."
His fingers were forceful, pinching Sansa's chin painfully.
But Sansa didn't cry or struggle; she just looked at him calmly, her eyes devoid of fear, only a cold tranquility.
Ramsay froze for a moment, probably not expecting such a reaction from her.
He released his grip and sneered, "Very well, keep up the act.
I'll see how long you can maintain it."
With that, he turned and left the Great Hall.
Sansa watched his retreating figure until he disappeared through the doorway, then slowly unclenched her fists — her palms were already marked with bloody scratches from her fingernails, oozing beads of blood, but she felt no pain.
She looked up and saw Lyra watching her with worried eyes, so she shook her head at her, indicating that she was fine.
2. Whispers Behind the Fireplace
After breakfast, Sansa used the excuse of "wanting to familiarize herself with Winterfell's layout" to have Lyra accompany her around the castle.
She knew Ramsay would have people follow her, hidden guards, like shadows, watching her every move.
But she didn't care; she needed to know Winterfell's defensive weaknesses, she needed to find people loyal to Stark — she believed that some of her father's old retainers must still be in Winterfell, and some must still remember House Stark's kindness.
They first walked to the courtyard.
Winterfell's moat was thickly frozen, covered with snow, showing no trace of water.
The patrolling Bolton soldiers were twice as numerous as usual, each with a drawn sword at his waist, his eyes scanning the surroundings vigilantly.
Sansa's gaze fell on the northwest corner of the castle wall — that was where she and Arya used to sneak up the wall, there was an inconspicuous small window, just big enough for one person to squeeze through.
She mentally noted this location, perhaps it would be useful in the future.
Next, they went to the kitchen.
Smoke billowed from the kitchen chimney, and the clatter of pots and pans could be heard inside.
The cook was a man named Old Hobb, with white hair and a face full of wrinkles; he had been a cook for House Stark for thirty years, and Robb's favorite apple pie as a child was made by him.
Seeing Sansa enter, Old Hobb's movements paused for a moment, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then he quickly returned to his calm demeanor and continued chopping vegetables.
Lyra stood guard at the door, and Sansa walked over to Old Hobb, her voice very low: "Master Hobb, I know you still remember my father, and you still remember House Stark."
Old Hobb's knife paused, and his chopping slowed.
He didn't look at Sansa, but just said in a low voice: "My Lady, now is House Bolton's reign; don't say what shouldn't be said."
"I know the danger, but I must speak."
Sansa's voice carried a hint of urgency, "Jon is gathering forces at the Wall; he will return, he will reclaim Winterfell.
I need to know, how many people in Winterfell are still loyal to Stark?
What is House Bolton's troop deployment?"
Old Hobb looked up and glanced at Sansa, his eyes full of hesitation.
He was silent for a long time before sighing and pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his in my arms, slipping it into Sansa's hand: "This is House Bolton's troop distribution map; I secretly copied it from a guard.
There are still a dozen people loyal to Stark in Winterfell, all former retainers of Ser Rodrik, now assigned by House Bolton to guard the granary, with no opportunity to access the core."
Sansa clutched the paper, feeling its roughness on her fingertips, a warm current welling up in her heart.
She knew that behind this paper was Old Hobb's life-threatening risk.
"Thank you, Master Hobb," she whispered, "If Jon returns, I will make sure he remembers your contribution."
Old Hobb shook his head, a hint of sadness in his eyes: "I just want to be worthy of Lord Ned's kindness.
My Lady, you must be careful; Ramsay is a madman, he is capable of anything."
He finished speaking and lowered his head to chop vegetables again, as if their conversation had never happened.
Sansa hid the paper in the lining of her dress and followed Lyra out of the kitchen.
As soon as they reached the corridor, she saw Ramsay's captain of the guard standing not far away, looking at her with cold eyes.
"My Lady, Lord Ramsay requests that you return to your bedroom; he says it's windy outside and fears you might catch a cold."
The captain of the guard's voice was devoid of emotion, like a block of ice.
Sansa knew her actions had aroused suspicion.
She nodded and followed the captain of the guard back to her bedroom, her steps still steady, showing no sign of panic.
Upon returning to the bedroom, the captain of the guard stood by the door, like a statue.
Sansa walked to the fireplace, pretending to arrange the firewood, and by the light of the fire, quickly unfolded the troop distribution map — it marked House Bolton's forces with charcoal pencil: fifty guards around the Great Hall, two hundred soldiers on the walls, and only ten guards at the granary, all old, weak, or sick.
She memorized the distribution map, then threw the paper into the fireplace, watching it burn in the flames, turning to ash.
She knew she couldn't leave any evidence, otherwise not only would she be in danger, but Old Hobb and those loyal to Stark would also lose their lives.
In the evening, Lyra secretly brought her a warm piece of bread and slipped her a small note.
Sansa opened the note; it was Lyra's small writing in charcoal pencil: "Tonight at the third watch, Old Hobb will be waiting for you at the back door; he says he has something important for you."
Sansa clutched the note, understanding that Old Hobb must have new information to tell her, perhaps about Jon, or perhaps about how to contact people outside.
She waited until Ramsay was asleep, then quietly got out of bed.
Ramsay's bedroom was connected to hers, with only a door between them, and she could hear his even breathing — he had drunk a lot of wine and was sleeping deeply.
She put on a thick coat, tiptoed to the door, and gently opened a crack, seeing the captain of the guard still in the corridor, his back to her.
She held her breath, quickly crossed the corridor, and came to the back door.
The back door's bolt was unlocked; she gently pulled the door open and saw Old Hobb standing outside, holding a small cloth bundle.
"My Lady, quickly, there isn't much time."
Old Hobb handed her the cloth bundle, "Inside is a letter for Lord Jon, and a House Stark wolf skin sigil.
Have a reliable person deliver the letter to the Wall; Lord Jon will believe the contents of the letter when he sees the sigil."
Sansa took the cloth-wrapped package; the letter inside was thin, yet heavy, as if carrying the hopes of the entire House Stark. "Who should I send to deliver it?" she asked eagerly.
"There's a merchant outside the city named Manderly; she is loyal to Stark and will be coming to Winterfell tomorrow to deliver provisions. You must find a way to give her the letter." Old Hobb's voice was urgent. "I heard people from House Bolton say they are sending troops to the Wall to prevent Lord Jon from gathering forces. You must get the message out as quickly as possible."
Sansa nodded, hiding the package in her bosom. "Thank you, Master Hobb. You must take care." Her eyes were a little red as she spoke—in this cold Winterfell, these people secretly helping her were her only warmth.
Old Hobb patted her shoulder and disappeared into the night. Sansa watched his retreating figure until he merged with the darkness, then softly closed the door and tiptoed back to her bedroom. Ramsay was still sound asleep. She hid the package under the mattress, then lay on the bed, but could no longer sleep—she knew that tomorrow was critical. Whether the message could be sent out, whether Jon could learn of Bolton's conspiracy, depended on tomorrow.
III. The Secret of the Provisions Cart
The next morning, Sansa woke up early and deliberately acted "submissive" in front of Ramsay, pouring him wine and helping him arrange his armor. Ramsay was pleased with her performance and said with a smile, "If you continue to be so well-behaved, I might treat you a little better." Sansa said nothing, only lowered her head, hiding the cold gleam in her eyes.
In the morning, the Manderly merchant indeed arrived. She was a middle-aged woman, wearing a thick wool coat and holding an account book, looking no different from an ordinary merchant. Ramsay had his guards inspect her provisions cart. After confirming there were no issues, he allowed her into the castle to settle accounts.
Sansa knew this was her only chance. Under the pretext of "wanting to check the quality of the provisions," she followed Ramsay and the Manderly merchant to the granary. The granary was piled high with wheat and oats, and the air was filled with the scent of grain. Old Hobb and several other people loyal to Stark were organizing the provisions. Seeing Sansa enter, they all lowered their heads, not daring to look at her.
Ramsay and the Manderly merchant were settling accounts. Sansa pretended to inspect the provisions, slowly walking over to the Manderly merchant. Her fingers subtly brushed the Manderly merchant's arm, then quickly slipped a small paper ball into her hand—the paper ball contained the letter for Jon and the wolf pelt badge. The Manderly merchant paused for a moment, then calmly hid the paper ball in her sleeve and continued settling accounts.
"The quality of the provisions is good, Lady Manderly. We will buy from you again next time," Ramsay said to the Manderly merchant, with a hint of arrogance in his tone.
"Thank you for your patronage, Lord Ramsay. This humble woman will deliver the next batch of provisions as soon as possible," the Manderly merchant said with a respectful smile, yet without any hint of flattery.
After the accounts were settled, the Manderly merchant left the castle. Sansa watched her provisions cart drive out of Winterfell's gate, feeling both nervous and expectant—she didn't know if the Manderly merchant could safely deliver the letter to the Wall, if Jon could receive the message in time, or if this letter would even be useful.
Returning to her bedroom, Sansa sat by the window, watching the Bolton soldiers in the courtyard. The wind was still blowing, the snow was still falling, and Winterfell's walls remained cold, yet they seemed to hold a hint of hopeful warmth. She remembered what her father once told her: "Sansa, Winterfell is our home. As long as we don't give up, as long as someone remembers House Stark, Winterfell will never fall." Back then, she was young and didn't understand the meaning of that sentence. Now she understood—home was not a castle, but a belief in one's heart, a longing for loved ones, a steadfast adherence to justice.
In the evening, Lyra secretly told her that Old Hobb had been taken away by Ramsay's guards. Sansa's heart sank. She knew that after the Manderly merchant left, Ramsay must have grown suspicious and begun investigating who had been in contact with her. She rushed out of her bedroom, intending to find Ramsay, but was stopped by a guard: "My Lady, Lord Ramsay is handling official business and is not to be disturbed by anyone."
Sansa stood in the hallway, looking at the guard's cold face, her heart filled with guilt and anger—she had harmed Old Hobb, harmed the old man who had served House Stark for thirty years. She leaned against the wall, tears finally streaming down her face, but she dared not make a sound, only biting her lip hard to keep from crying out loud.
Just then, Ramsay's voice came: "My Lady, what are you doing?" He walked over to Sansa, saw the tear stains on her face, and a cruel smile appeared on his lips. "Are you worried about Old Hobb? That old traitor who dared to secretly pass messages to the Manderly merchant? I've locked him up, and I'll have him flayed tomorrow."
Sansa's body trembled, but she still raised her head, looking at Ramsay, her eyes filled with fury: "You can't kill him! He's just an old man! He hasn't done anything wrong!"
"Hasn't done anything wrong?" Ramsay sneered, reaching out to pinch her chin. "His mistake was betraying me, being loyal to your House Stark! Sansa Stark, I tell you, anyone loyal to Stark, anyone who dares to oppose me, will come to a bad end!" He finished speaking, violently pushed Sansa away, and turned to leave the hallway.
Sansa fell to the ground, her knees hitting the cold flagstones. It hurt, but not as much as the pain in her heart. She slowly got up, walked to the window, and looked at the distant snowy mountains. The peaks of the snowy mountains were dyed red by the setting sun, much like Robb's blood, much like her mother's blood, much like Old Hobb's impending blood.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms again, drawing beads of blood. She told herself in her heart: "Sansa Stark, you cannot cry, you cannot fall. You must live. You must see Ramsay and House Bolton pay the price. You must see Jon reclaim Winterfell. You must avenge your father, mother, Robb, and Old Hobb."
IV. The Echo of the Wolf Pelt Badge
Over the next few days, Sansa became even more "submissive." She no longer tried to leave her bedroom, no longer sought any news, but simply stayed quietly in her room, either reading or embroidering, like a true "Bolton Lady." Ramsay was pleased with her behavior and gradually relaxed his guard, no longer assigning guards to watch her constantly.
But Sansa had not given up. She knew that although Old Hobb was imprisoned, the Manderly merchant must have already sent the letter, and Jon must be figuring out a way. She began to observe the changes in Winterfell's defenses—the Bolton soldiers were becoming fewer and fewer, likely sent to the Wall to stop Jon, and the wall's defenses were also weakening, especially the small window in the northwest corner, where there were almost no guards patrolling.
One night, Sansa was awakened by a slight sound. She opened her eyes and saw the window gently pushed open, and a shadow jumped in. Just as she was about to cry out, the shadow covered her mouth and whispered, "My Lady, don't be afraid. I was sent by Lady Manderly. Lord Jon has received the letter, and he sent me to take you from Winterfell."
Sansa's heart leaped. She looked at the shadow's face—it was a young man, dressed in black, with a sword hanging at his waist, its scabbard carved with the Stark wolf sigil. She nodded, and the shadow released her. "When will Lord Jon arrive?" she asked eagerly.
"Lord Jon has already set out with the Night's Watch army and should reach Winterfell in about three days," the man whispered. "Lady Manderly wants me to take you out first, to a safe house outside the city, and then we'll return together when Lord Jon arrives."
Sansa nodded, quickly put on her coat, and followed the man out the window. The snow outside was deep, covering her ankles, and the cold wind cut at her face like a knife, yet it made her feel incredibly clear-headed. The man led her through the courtyard, avoiding patrolling guards, to the northwest corner of the wall—the small window she had noted earlier.
The window was small; Sansa had to bend down to squeeze through. The man went out first, then reached back to pull her. When her feet finally touched the ground outside Winterfell, she couldn't help but look back—Winterfell's walls, in the night, resembled a giant black dragon, standing silently in the snow. That was her home, a place she had to reclaim no matter what.
The man led her through the snow to a small wooden hut outside the city. The hut was warm, with a fire burning in the fireplace. Lady Manderly was sitting by the fireplace, waiting for her. Seeing Sansa enter, Lady Manderly stood up and said with a smile, "My Lady, you've finally arrived. Lord Jon will be here very soon."
Sansa walked to the fireplace and held out her hands to warm them. The warmth of the fire dispelled the cold from her body and the fear from her heart. She looked at Lady Manderly and said gratefully, "Thank you, Lady Manderly, thank you for helping me deliver the letter to Jon."
"You're welcome, My Lady. I am only doing what I must," Lady Manderly said. "Lord Ned once saved my life, and I will never forget it. House Bolton is cruel and unjust and should have been overthrown long ago. Lord Jon is a Stark, and he will surely lead us to reclaim Winterfell and return the North to the hands of House Stark."
Sansa nodded, looking at the flickering flames in the fireplace, her heart filled with hope. She thought of Arya, wondering where she was now, wondering if she was still alive; she thought of Bran, wondering if he was still searching for the three-eyed raven; she thought of Jon, the bastard brother she grew up with, who had now become the hope of House Stark.
It was late. Lady Manderly made a bed for Sansa and told her to rest. Sansa lay on the bed, but couldn't sleep—she knew that in three days, it would be the day Winterfell changed hands, the day House Bolton paid the price, the day House Stark rose again. She closed her eyes, and the smiling faces of her father, mother, and Robb appeared in her mind, as did the figures of Arya, Bran, and Jon, and the scene of Winterfell returning to its former bustling glory.
The next morning, Sansa was awakened by the chirping of birds outside the window. She walked to the window and pushed it open—the snow had stopped, the sun had risen, and golden sunlight spilled onto the snow, gleaming brightly. The distant snowy mountains were gilded, looking incredibly magnificent.
Lady Manderly walked in and handed her a warm bread roll and a cup of hot milk: "My Lady, have something to eat. Lord Jon should arrive tomorrow."
Sansa took the bread and bit into it. The warm bread melted in her mouth, carrying a faint scent of wheat. She looked at the sunlight outside the window, knowing in her heart that the darkness was about to pass, and light would eventually come. Winterfell's frost would eventually melt, and the banner of House Stark would once again fly over Winterfell's walls.
She clutched the wolf pelt badge hidden in her bosom—it was the hope Old Hobb had bought with his life, the symbol of House Stark, the belief of the people of the North. She told herself in her heart: "Father, Mother, Robb, Old Hobb, rest assured, I will work with Jon to reclaim Winterfell, avenge you, and ensure the glory of House Stark lives on forever."
The sunlight streamed through the window, shining on Sansa's face. Her eyes were firm and bright, much like the clear sky after a snowfall in Winterfell.