Sansa, stands, her robe at her feet, examining her injuries with careful scrutiny. There is a row of knife marks, like he'd been keeping count, on both sides of her hips. Bruises, on her hands and ankles, from the restraints. Bite marks on the inner of her pale white thighs. The bottoms of her feet, burnt and scarred, and barely healed. He hadn't taken her last escape attempt lightly, and thought injuring her feet and legs might deter her from trying again.

Her chin trembles once, but she allows herself no tears. Instead, she dresses again. The door is locked from the outside, in this room, and she knows it will be a while before she is permitted beyond it again.

She tries to settle herself by embroidering. Needles are the last of the sharp objects she has access to. Too much of a chance for escape, whether it be through the death of herself or the death of someone else.

She wouldn't kill herself, not yet. The amount of suffering she's withstood, she could withstand a bit more, she knew she still had it in herself. She had the strength to continue existing. On some level, she knew this was only temporary.

So she waits. She sits by the fire, her limbs trembling slightly, both from the cold and their now constant ache. Every night, she is broken again and again. Ramsay promises he will tame her, like a wild horse, and that she requires lots of breaking. Her struggling had become too irritating, so he'd begun tying her to the bed, and leaving her that way throughout the night. She hadn't slept comfortably in months. Everything hurt. Her world was pain.

Outside, the wind howled viciously. It had been a couple weeks now, since the death of Walda and Roose, at the hand of Ramsay, Sansa knew, but she couldn't speak to it.

As the day wears on, her anxiety grows. She is blinded from it, by the time night has fallen. She is nothing but fear, now, the embodiment of panic and terror. Like a bird, trapped in a glass case, only understanding it's doom, slamming itself against the walls.

When Ramsay arrives, he's oddly quiet, not his usual jeering self. No mocking words, not for her tonight.

But his way with her, this night, it is particularly gruesome. He busies himself with finding new things to shove inside of her, sticks and tools, sharp little things that make Sansa cry out and even scream with pain. He watches this all with a dull, nearly bored face.

And, unusually, he leaves when he's finished, usually choosing to fall asleep beside her, so she can cry silently until she eventually passes out.

Sansa is left tied to the bed, tears rolling down her cheeks. She shuts her eyes, trying to catch her breath, trying to numb the pain with just her thoughts. She is sure she is bleeding, she is sure she is just as damaged as ever.

His watch has ended. So he leaves. He packs all his belongings, ties them to a horse, and makes plans to head south, alone. To get warm. To find peace.

It is only mentioned to him, off handedly, by a man, about his sister, and the Boltons. He knew of the Boltons, of course, he knew who was responsible for Robb's and Catelyn's deaths. He knew the name as well as anyone, but the fact she was there, with one of them, behind the walls of her childhood home. It awoke something inside Jon he hadn't felt in a long time.

Outside the walls of Winterfell, behind the cover of trees, shrouded in black in the still of the night, Jon watches Winterfell with fascination. He'd been there for days, in the forest, knowing the trees like the back of his hand. He was waiting, watching. Memorizing the movements of the guards, strategizing. Finding a window.

He knew where she was. He'd seen her, just a flash of her, for a moment, closing a curtain in the window of the main bedroom, the one his father and Catelyn had once shared. And again, opening it. A flash of red gold hair, a shade he'd only ever seen in her. He knew it instantly. He felt it.

From what he'd gathered on the road, from commoners or inn keeps, bar maidens or farmers; Ramsay was a monster, gladly flaying whoever he felt he could. Torturing men for years, keeping them locked away in secret. Jon knew that there was no way he could get caught. It would get them both killed, or worse yet, he'd be locked away, and Sansa would stay trapped there, knowing how close they could have been.

He knew where he'd scale the wall, he'd done it himself many a time, and seen Bran, younger than him, do it again, hundreds of times in his youth. He knew every hand hold, every place on that wall. With the week he'd been watching, he'd memorized the movements, and he knew exactly the point of execution, he must take it.

The plan was, hopefully, that Sansa would be alone, but it looked like Ramsay stayed with her most nights. So he'd have to kill him. It wouldn't be hard, no, but the element of surprise would be. If he had a chance to alert any guards to assist him, Jon would die.

Then the leaving, if it got to that point. If he got Sansa outside the walls, quietly, they could make it. They could get out. Where they would go, of course, was another concern entirely.

It was near two in the morning. Jon left the horse tied to a nearby tree, and in the cover of darkness, headed to the distant castle, keeping low, against the ground, in case anyone did happen to glimpse him. He wasn't worried. The Bolton men, while there was strength in numbers, were not trained in an upkeep and guard of a manor the size of Winterfell. In fact, Jon noticed multiple holes in their guard efforts. They were clearly incompetent.

So he moved across the blackness, to the walls. And when his hands met the freezing stone, below the window above, he sighed in sweet relief, knowing he was that much closer.

Sansa stared at the ceiling above her, at the chandelier, covered in candles, now extinguished. Sleep had not yet come for her. Outside, she listened as the guards switched every few minutes, moving across the old wooden floors with a constant repetition. The wind howled, as it always did. The courtyard was now quiet, but would liven with sound and activity in a few hours. She figured it must be two, three in the morning, maybe, from the way the moonlight hit the wall across from her.

There was a sudden noise at the door, and she sighed, sure that Ramsay had returned for her. The lock jangled, and the door fell open. She closed her eyes, listening as the door was shut quietly.

Jon wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. Sansa, slack, against restraints on her hands and ankles. Her eyes were closed, her head to one side, her hair spilling over her chest and face. She wasn't covered, it was freezing in the room, with no fire. Marks all over her skin. He had to pause, to gather himself, to swallow the bile of rage rising in his throat.

He reached her, kneeling beside the bed. He gently placed a hand on her mouth, to stifle any scream of surprise she may unintentionally utter. With his free thumb, he pushed the hair from her face. She winced, her eyes shutting tighter.

"Sansa." he said, his voice barely a whisper.

At the new, strange voice, her eyes opened wide, and she squirmed, trying to free herself. Her eyes focused on his, and after a brief pause, recognition alighted behind them. Then, tears. Tears of relief.

"You have to be quiet, alright?" he said, leaning closer to her. She nodded, desperately. He unsheathed the dagger at his hip, and reached for the rope on her ankles first, slicing it quickly, and then the rope on her hands. She let her arms fall, trembling, and after a moment, she reached for cover, realizing how cold she was.

"My cloak." she said softly, indicating the fine white fur lined cloak hanging in the corner. He stood, grabbing it, and helped it around her shoulders. She was shaking, he could see, even in the dim light the moon offered. He wished he could offer her some words of comfort, but words had never been Jon's strong point. Actions, was where he excelled.

She looked at him, letting her body warm up for a moment, holding the cloak around her naked shoulders. She felt a burst of shame, that he'd seen her in such an unmodest way, but she buried that as quickly as it had bubbled up in her stomach. Instead, she reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, and held her tightly against his chest. He heard her utter a soft sob, against his neck, but this was the only noise she uttered. He let her hold to him for a long while, not wanting to rush the delicate situation.

He finally forced himself to pull back, and helped her to her feet. When she stood, her knees buckled, and she fell back onto the bed. He held her face in her hands, meeting her eyes.

"We have to move fast, and be very quiet."

"I can't do this, Jon." she admitted.

"Of course you can." he said. "You have me, now, come on, we have to-"

She crossed on knee over the other, so he could see the bottom of her cold, nearly blue, pale feet. Crossed with burns and other wounds, some even seeped blood.

"And I don't have shoes." she said, her voice breaking. "I can hardly walk."

Jon paused for a second, only trying to solve the problem they now faced. The rage, he felt, at Ramsay, for hurting her in every awful way - that anger could wait until they were safe.

He looked around the room, and spotted a fur laying across a chair. He crossed to it, and cut it neatly in half with his knife. Then, with the rope he'd cut free from her, he wrapped the fur around her feet, tightly, and in many layers, creating some very Wildling looking footwear. He tied it, with a strong knot, and stood, looking down at them proudly.

She nodded, approving them. Sure she would still be in pain, as she walked, but that didn't matter. Her feet would not freeze.

"And something to cover you?" he asked. She stood, still limping slightly, and crossed to the wardrobe. She pulled out her thickest dress, heavy wool, lined in fur. Without waiting for him to turn, she dropped the cloak, and hurriedly pulled the dress over her head. She tied the cloak back on, and found her gloves, pulling them on as well.

They both froze, as they heard footsteps outside the room. But they passed, and she sighed.

"We have to go, right now." Jon said, urgency in his voice.

"The guards are changing." she said, concerned.

"Aye. It's our window." he said, and from his back, unsheathed Longclaw. He reached for her hand.

"Oh gods." she whimpered, looking at him. "What about Theon? He'll kill him...for sure-"

Jon, taken aback for half a moment at Theon's name, shook his head.

"I don't care." he said gruffly. "We don't have time to think about...Sansa, please."

He tugged her arm, and this time, she went, following him to the door. He was counting mentally, and she watched his lips moved as he timed the window between the two guards changing duty.

Then, he shook the handle. It was locked.

He swore. Sansa thought she might crumble. He hadn't known it would lock from the inside.

"Hang on." she said. "Give me your knife, quickly." she said.

This was another reason she'd been forbidden any objects other than needles. Two previous escapes, and both times she'd easily been able to jingle the lock free with the small tools she'd gotten hold of.

With shaking hands, she inserted the knife in the small space between the door and the hinge. She wiggled it, as quietly as she could, and felt it loosening. Then there was a click, and it opened, barely, just a crack.

The guard would be posted across the hall though, she knew this now. She pulled Jon close, whispering this in his ear. Perhaps, with the right amount of surprise, the guard could be killed with no alert being made.

He nodded, and imagined this unfolding. He pictured the guard, how he stood, the makeup of the Bolton armor. Where he could hit, how fast he could, with no noise.

He nodded again, accepting this as the only option. This was the only guard, as well, between them and the wall he'd climbed up.

He reached for Sansa, kissing her on the forehead, and then smoothing her hair back.

"If this doesn't work, I'm sorry." he said gruffly. She shook her head.

"It will." she said. Her belief in him instilled the determination he'd been lacking.

Jon was fast. With the door opening, it was only two steps to the guard. Before the guard could react, move for his weapon, or even open his mouth to shout, Jon had pressed his sword through his throat. He gently lowered the body of the man onto the ground, so it wouldn't make a thump, and he pulled the sword away, slowly, silently.

He reached for Sansa, and she followed him, grabbing hold onto his hand.

In the silence, and the dim light of the moon, they reached the edge of the castle, where the wall was low. Sansa's heart pounded in her chest, and she gripped the stones.

Jon wordlessly threw his leg over first, and then motioned for her to follow, so he could be below her to catch her, if she happened to slip.

He easily lowered herself on the stones, climbing down a ways, and looked back up at Sansa. Watching her as she did the same, throwing her leg over, and beginning to slowly find footholds in the darkness, to scale down.

They were halfway down when she slipped, letting out a small noise of surprise. He caught her, using all his strength to pull her against the wall again, and hurrying down beside her. She was breathing heavily, and looking back up at the wall in fear.

He put her hand on her back, assuring her. They were nearly there.

Despite the pain in her feet, hands, and well, her entire body, Sansa forced herself to keep moving. She took it slow, one step down, and then feel for the next foothold. And then the next. And so on, until, blessedly, she felt her feet make contact with the snow, and felt Jon helping her down, his hands on her waist so she was steady.

"One last stretch, alright?" he said, looking at her. She nodded, breathing heavily. "We just have to stay low, against the ground, so we don't catch any light from the moon. So stay in shadow, and don't stand too high."

They began the trek across the snowy plain, moving quickly, both crouched low as they did. Sansa's body began to ache from the cold, and all her wounds screamed out in protest. Tears sprung in her eyes and solidified on her cheeks, but she ignored this.

As soon as they reached the tree line, Sansa stumbled, and fell to her knees. She gasped, letting the icy cold air fill her lungs. She pulled herself around, into a sitting position, and put her face between her legs, trying to settle herself.

Jon knelt beside her, resting an awkward hand on her back. She looked up at him, and smiled, a strangely lost, disbelieving smile.

"It's nice to see you." she said softly, and he laughed.

From the trees, Ghost approached, from behind Jon, and Sansa let out a yelp of surprise at the size of him.

"You'll be alright to ride?" he asked.

"Ride him?" she sputtered, looking up at the direwolf.

"No," Jon said, and then laughed again. "no, I have a horse, just a bit further. We have to ride a ways, to make distance between us and whatever search party they'll send out tomorrow morning."

"To the wall." she said, matter of fact.

"No." he said. He stood, offering her a hand. She looked up at him, puzzled, and then her eyes widened.

"Oh Jon." she said, letting him help her up. "So we're both running?"

"Sansa, come." he said, pulling her along. "We have a lot to talk about."