Sansa

Sansa kept her eyes on her plate throughout the meal as she did with every meal. Her life had become one, drawn out blur of misery, with each miserable day melting into the next. Her ladies told her that she must keep up her strength for the sake of the child, but that only made her more miserable. She didn't want it. She felt betrayed by her own body for allowing her Bastard husband's seed to take root. After nearly two years of marriage she'd hoped that she was barren, or better yet that he was impotent, but the absence of her courses six months ago had eventually lead to the swelling of her middle, and now she felt the thing flutter inside her, mocking her with its vitality.

There were ways out she knew. But she could not kill herself, and when her washwoman had smuggled in the maidentrick berries she'd discovered that she couldn't kill it either, much as she hated it, and so she just continued.

Most nights she did not pay attention to the conversation occurring around the table but tonight they were discussing Jon. They'd stopped shielding their conversations from her ages ago, apparently it was clear to everyone that she was no threat.

"So he got the better of you did he?" Roose said, grinning coolly at his son, "the Bastard of the Wall bested the Bastard of the North by sending a woman to him? And you told her about his parentage? My my Ramsay what a piss poor job you've made of this one."

Ramsay's eyes flashed across the table and Sansa felt her heart speed up in her chest. He never lost his temper at his father no matter how much the older man goaded him. But embarrassment at the big table was always followed with pain behind closed doors. Since she'd become pregnant Sansa had been spared most of this pain. But still there was no telling…

"I don't think he sent the girl to me father," Ramsay said, his sugary tone not quite hiding the steel in his voice, "it wouldn't make sense with all the other things we know about him. I think she came of her own accord."

Roose laughed at that. "Oh really? And why is it that you think that hmm? You think your personal charms are so enticing?"

"No…" Ramsay ground out, barely hanging on to his temper, "No, I think he did not order her to come to me because she is his sister. I doubt very much he wants me despoiling both Stark girls."

Somewhere deep inside her chest Sansa felt a fluttering of hope. It was the most she'd felt anything positive since Theon had told her that Bran and Rickon had not been killed at Winterfell.

He's lying. She told herself inwardly. After all this time, you're still falling for his lies?

Her father in law – if you could give him such a familial title – seemed to share her skepticism.

"Arya Stark has been dead since the beginning of the uprising. She likely got killed in cheap side before she ever left Kings Landing after they came to arrest her father."

"She's not, I had her in my rooms last night." Ramsay said, chewing jovially. He always was at his happiest when he had something on his father.

"How do you know? Surely you're not resting this all on the word of a turncoat crow? Haven't you learned by now that people will say anything to you to avoid your sadistic games?"

Ramsay nodded in her direction and Sansa shrank back in her seat attempting to disappear into the dark wood.

"No father, I was planning on conferring with my lady wife. She should remember her own sister. Wife, what color were your sister's eyes?"

"G-grey milord."

"See father? Just like the girl. And her disposition, would you say she was meek and demure?"

She felt a clutch of fear in her chest. Usually Ramsay only wanted people to agree with him. This time though she thought he was trying to get the truth from her. Praying she was right she answered cautiously.

"N-no, milord. She was very defiant, sh-she even challenged Joffery himself over his ill-treatment of the butcher's boy."

"Ha! So it would not surprise you then if I told you this little hellcat challenged me to a swordfight then?"

"No, milord that sounds just like her." For once, she wasn't lying to him when he asked for her agreement. It did indeed sound like her long lost sister. But how could it be? She'd long stopped believing in blessings from the gods. Whatever gods there were, old or new, many-faced or made of light, she was sure that all of them hated Starks. Was it possible then that Arya, who was little more than a child when their father was killed had survived in this barbaric world all this time?

"Even if what you are saying is true, I don't see how that helps us. They still found out about the Targaryens, and they've still fled. We need Jon if we are to have any hope of ruling the North once the Queen arrives, and without him to barter with, knowing the identity of one minor daughter of a fallen house is hardly worth noting."

"But father don't you see? We set a trap for him and it got both of them. The Starks are pack animals, even those of them who are really Targaryens. As long as we have Sansa they'll come back. They'll both come back."

Roose Bolton sniffed derisively, but Sansa felt as if she was being warmed from within. For the first time in years hope was building in her chest and with it a terrible terrible fear. What he said was right, when she had been a Stark she had always felt as if her family would do anything for her. Her brother Robb had raised an army first to save, then to avenge her father. If her two remaining siblings had found out about her suffering here she felt sure.

But no. Coming here would mean death for Arya and capture for Jon. She couldn't let it happen. She should kill herself now, before they could get caught up in the Bolton's web.

She hadn't been strong enough on her own, but maybe now, with her family on the line she could finally bring herself to do it. She snapped her attention back to the conversation before her, mind made up to take things into her own hands at last. At the far end of the table, her father in law and her husband were arguing intensely. Apparently the conversation had taken a turn for the worse. Sansa cursed herself for receding into her own thoughts. Of all the nights to be in her own mind…

"—and I'm telling you Ramsay that we do not have time to wait! If you think that they will come for her than I trust that instinct but we will need to make it feel more urgent for them. We don't have time for a stalemate before—"

"Father she is carrying my child; that is my blood you are compromising!"

"Ha! You want me to stay my hand to protect the blood of a Bastard? Ramsay, I have legitimized you, but please let's not lie to ourselves shall we? We've never been kind to each other but I like to think we've been honest. You have done nothing but torture this woman since the day she arrived here so pardon me if I am not overly swayed by your concerns. I am not asking your permission, I will do what I please with you, and what I please with your wife, when it pleases me. And whatever grandbastards you have growing in her womb will just have to wait. Guards, take Lady Bolton to her chambers. Have her servants scrub her hair until it is her natural color again. See that they do not slip her anything, I want you in her chambers the whole time. Then if you please gather her thickest cloaks and escort her to the cage."

She barely had time to react before she was seized by the arms and dragged away from the table. She cast a glimpse at her husband, looking at him in a moment of complete absurdity for support. He simply sat, not looking at her pouting huffily over his dinner. Before she was dragged from the room she saw Reece settle back into his seat at the head of the table and nod towards his son.

"Cheer up Ramsay. If all goes to plan they'll take the bait, and soon enough you'll have a brand new Stark wife to impregnate."