But you, you're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight
- Uninvited (A.M.)
"How can you be sure?"
Roose Bolton was a fool to ask the Maester. When Ramsay once doubted the pregnancy of his step-mother, it was Roose who filled in the confidence on Maester Wolkan's expertise. But now he felt the need for the Maester's error on this matter.
The Maester, timid and ever obedient, cleared his throat and tugged on the heavy chains around his neck. It had only been dusk and outside daylight had just begun to disperse. They could begin hearing the metals being forged and haystacks filling the wheelbarrows in the courtyard, the sound of many horses, the clink of armory.
"Lady Sansa, she came to me," the Maester started, "Asking of a strange bleeding she had been having."
"For how long?"
"It had been two days, she said."
"Couldn't it have been her moon's blood?"
"I too have asked her, My Lord," he swallowed, "But she was sure it was too early according to her count."
"Have you asked her of an illness?"
"Yes, My Lord, she says there was none but light cramping on her stomach."
Roose took a sharp inhale. "This – this bleeding you say, it happens how many days after… after…" He was waving his hand in circles, trying to bring out the words and was so appalled how he could have been so dumb at such.
The Maester was quick to comprehend. "A fortnight, My Lord, to a turn of the moon it could also reoccur."
Roose sighed. "Of course." He pinched on his temples. He took to memory this was the same basis Maester Wolkan announced Walda's carrying. He did not know why, of all the many problems that had landed on his lap, this was the most bothersome. He could not even fathom why it had become a dilemma whence it was one of the best reasons he wed the Stark girl to his bastard. He had to ingest this further. Sansa Stark is pregnant with his grandson.
As the thought pounded on him so did the spiral of many possibilities fell. He should be rejoicing. He should be calling the men for a celebration and giving the right feast for his son for finally accomplishing something he could be fully proud of. Ramsay's son ought to pin the shredded allegiances of the North to their name from the last hearth down to Moat Cailin. But there was an odd foreign anxiety that churned on his stomach and made him lose his appetite for the boiled mutton he was supposed to break his fast with. Good meat was rare these days.
But what he felt the most was clear as daylight – fear. For the first time he had feared something what was supposed to be a good strategy. He feared for his unborn. Ramsay is a rabid beast protecting his right, and when he would learn of Sansa's pregnancy Roose knew there will be the formidable competition the bastard will fight for to death. Roose's unborn should claim the higher right, the 'better alternative', Ramsay once said. He would not mind casting off his bastard and placing his trueborn on his stead as the next Warden. But Roose was sure the time Ramsay would learn he'd be a father then the menacing turn of events would likely occur.
He could only hope Walda would give birth to a daughter.
It touched him the little spark of regret he'd agree to marry Ramsay to the Stark girl. Had he known Ramsay would be too smitten by her he wouldn't have forced their union. Sansa had become more of a liability to Ramsay, carefully snatching the greater worries they should be ironing by now. The Stark boy had escaped with his pet Reek and he doesn't bat an eyelid. Let alone Stannis is a few nights away from Winterfell and all that occupies Ramsay's mind is… her.
Sansa' case had fallen into a worst of timings. Roose Bolton clicked his tongue and in his mind he had already apologized to her.
"What have you said to her?" Roose inquired the Maester again.
"Nothing, My Lord, I have only told her to come back should the bleeding persist. It could be what we thought should be, or it could also be that there is a problem."
Roose sighed. "Have it that way. When she comes back to you tell her nothing still."
"My Lord? But she... needs more care. The first few months is the most crucial – "
"I know what I said, Maester Wolkan." Roose glared, even he could not hide the guilt that marred his lonely eyes. "I need not repeat myself. You do not tell this to Lady Sansa, not to my son, and that would also include every moving, breathing thing around this damn castle."
The Maester reluctantly nodded, keeping his hands in front of him and Roose could sense the utter dismal reproach the way the Maester frowned.
"You're dismissed." Roose finally said, hearing the sigh of relief from the Maester as his long gray robes made soft scratches the way he wobbled off the dining room. But before he completely left, Roose called.
Maester Wolkan hardly turned.
"Parchment and pen now. As I write, ready a raven to the Vale."
Roose Bolton saw the prior hesitance the way Ramsay entered the dining hall. His son's face was crumpled with pure curiosity at the greeting of roast turkey legs and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy. It were few but the fact they would not be eating the usual cold and hardened pork chops said this was something special. The candles emanated light from the middle of the table where Roose himself sat perched at the other far end, ruffling and marking parchments with the Bolton sigil on wax. The map of the North lay coldly affront him.
"Sit. Help yourself." Roose brought attention and Ramsay took seconds before his body responded. He was lean and drawn, with pale cheeks, unkempt beard, and too-bright eyes.
"Well." Ramsay gestured at the food, "This is something."
Roose leaned back at his chair. "It is. I'm afraid I owe you an apology."
He saw the tensing on Ramsay's jaw. The boy did not flinch, however, and decided to pour himself a flagon of wine.
"There are many great concerns we are to face, Ramsay." Roose said. "Starting with how Rickon Stark could have escaped."
"He's had help. A 6-year old could not obviously kill nine men with his bare hands." Ramsay spoke before draining his first flagon and pouring himself a next.
"And you have any leads?"
"It's that archer of yours, obviously. A traitor. I doubt he had been the mastermind of Sansa's frustrated escape."
Roose took time to nod. Surely there was not a news of the men who went after them, yet. "And surely this has not alarmed you?"
"Why would I? I have no use of the boy, at least not yet. If they had gone to Castle Black, they have nothing to confide therein. Their brother, the Lord Commander, is dead. Butchered by his own brothers of the Night's Watch for letting Wildlings pass the Wall." Again Ramsay took a sip. The food lay untouched. Roose could sense that the hesitance to touch the meals came from a small suspicion he might poison his son.
Roose stood only to point a callused finger on the northern part of the map, encircling where Castle Black was plotted.
"Stannis Baratheon is in Castle Black, surely taking the matters in his hands and his eyes are fixed at Winterfell. Rickon Stark's words could give the more reasons he would take the North from us." Roose's calculating words was enough to make Ramsay grip his flagon.
"Let him come." Ramsay challenged, looking at the fire that flickered from the candles. "It is a fortnight's ride from Castle Black." He moved to point at Winterfell on the map and slid to the Long Lake, "Allow 30 men to ride here and set their supplies in flames. Stannis could not go back to Castle Black he has probably taken whatever the Wall could allow. If still he pursues down," Ramsay's finger pinned on the Wolfswood, "I will ready more men to engage him here, but not for long, just enough to cripple his defenses. As he approaches Winterfell all my men shall lay siege even before he has dug his canyons."
Roose Bolton could not stop the smile that curled on his lips. Surely his son has not yet abandoned reason for love, one which can lead to great folly. This bastard plots like a noble warrior, Roose thought; mixed with his annoyance was a rueful admiration. He was almost wishing to tell Ramsay of the news from the Maester but it is after that his smile has faded at the image of his wife and infant in a likely possible demise.
"Very well. You will begin scouting for the men by the morrow." Roose commanded, not a hint of the pride he had for his son's gallant idea. Ramsay need not know how the way he makes Roose proud. He had to always keep the boy craving for his approval. If Ramsay had the power to play mind games then he might as well know whom he took after.
He had, in another way, a different agenda.
"I can see you have made ends meet with Sansa, if the rumors are correct?" It had been weeks since the night he discovered them an ill omen locked in Sansa's bedchamber.
Ramsay immediately looked at his father. The mention of her name acted like the smell of blood on a snarling hound. His silence spoke the loud 'yes' to Roose even without Ramsay breathing.
"It makes me glad." Roose was trying very hard to mask his guilt. "I assume I'm expecting a grandson already?"
Ramsay looked away, contemplating. "None that she says. I'm sure to let you know firsthand if that happens."
The remark had made Roose's knees tremble. He cleared his throat and raised his own flagon at the direction of his son. "To your heir." Ramsay clinked his flagon before both drained its contents.
"I would like to make a proposal, Ramsay," Roose said after a long silence. Ramsay looked at him incredulously before shrugging his shoulders. "What for?"
"A generous gift for Sansa. Believe me, it is one thing to bed a wife, and another to keep her happy."
"I know how to keep her happy." Ramsay sneered, squinting his eyes. "I have my ways."
Roose could hear the old Ramsay Snow in the manner he spoke – smug, egoistic, and undeniably ridiculous. He half smiled with a nod. "I was thinking of you giving her a companion."
Ramsay's brows furrowed. "What?"
"Sansa may be in her home but there is nothing, particularly no one, who makes her feel as if she really is. I know someone who might give her companionship. A childhood friend of hers."
Ramsay carefully lay his flagon on the table and glared at his father, "It can't be a man, can it?"
"Far from it." Roose shook his head. Oh Ramsay. Missing all the questions needed to inspect.
"Are you sure Sansa knows this – friend?"
"Yes. They have last seen each other in King's Landing. She belongs to a family on the lower houses of Winterfell."
"Sansa does not need a companion," Ramsay stiffed.
"I'm afraid she does, Ramsay. She's a lonely little bird whose husband will have to be away for the coming days saving her home from a self-proclaimed King. Imagine her sitting alone in a dingy room awaiting your arrival."
Ramsay snarled, though. "She'll be fine! I'll give maids to attend to her needs and give her what she wants. She could sew all day – "
"You'll give maids strangers to her?" Roose acted in disbelief. "Ramsay no one wants to be caged. I am not saying you should set her free…" he stopped midway at the observance of Ramsay's fury at the word free. "…I am saying you have to give her something that was once a part of her. If Rickon was here that wouldn't be a problem." Of course this was a lie Roose was careful to hide. The reaction on Rickon's name was the response he needed. Ramsay was guilty of lazily letting the boy slip from his fingers and this he needed to make up for.
A long, hard stare came from the bastard before letting out a sharp exhale. "When will she arrive?"
Roose chewed on the fact a raven was already beatings its black wings to the Vale. "I can send a raven tonight. She may be here in less than a fortnight should they sail through White Harbor."
"By then she should be here before we attack Stannis." Ramsay was almost condescending. Roose had been perceiving this change of attitude, a feverish kind of obsession and protectiveness, when the deal would involve Sansa Stark. Roose Bolton could only nod. He would be taking matters into his hands no matter the cost.
A/N: It had been a month and thank you for the kind responses to the previous chapter. I would like to apologize for this totally not so dramatic, dreamy, and Sansa-expected type of pregnancy announcement but here we are and it's Game of Thrones... so... yeah. I wished for a better way to reveal this but heck it's a Roose perspective therefore this is something I could not really control. Hoho.
I am getting into my inbox to respond to your Private Messages. And may I also acknowledge QuilAteara for the suggestions of literature for prologues. I have taken one and will be taking more so thank you very much to a friend from a distant continent. Also I am taking time to offer my great thanks to your individual reviews. Much love.