Sansa pulled her hair over one shoulder and ran her fingers through it as she looked out of her window. Today was a relatively calm day. There were a few people making their way across the snow covered ground and even less children. Sansa sighed and let her hand touch the glass of the window. She longed to walk through the snow if only for a minute. She was tired of being held up in this room. She was tired of dealing with silent forced dinners and fake smiling at the maids and help when they whispered, "The North remembers" every time they saw her alone. She was tired of seeing what used to be Theon Greyjoy following her around like a puppy. She was sick of Roose Bolton and his plain, ugly wife and she was more than tired of her husband if he could even be called such.

Ramsay was her husband in namesake. And sure, he laid beside her every night, but they didn't speak and besides the night of their wedding when he'd forced himself on her to consummate their marriage he didn't touch her either. He didn't drag himself in to bed with her until she had fallen asleep and he was always gone before she woke up. The only times she saw Ramsay was at the dinner table and even then they didn't talk to each other. They merely tolerated each other. There wasn't hatred brewing. There was indifference and for that Sansa was still grateful. She had heard more than enough stories of her husband's anger and strange habits. The walls held whispers of the people he held beneath Winterfell in order to torture them or to free them so that he could hunt them later for his own strange pleasure. She'd heard of his abilities on the battlefield and his bloodlust that seemed like it could never be satisfied. Sansa was more than willing to never see her husband. At least he wasn't out to make her purposely miserable the way Joffrey had been.

When a knock sounded at Sansa's door she nearly jumped from her seat. She didn't typically have visitors, unless they were handmaids filling up baths for her or helping her dress or the occasional visit from Reek.

"Come in," she headed towards the door.

It was pushed open before she could even wrap her hand around the door knob and in strolled Roose Bolton. He looked around her room before closing the door behind him.

"Where is my son?" he asked.

Sansa fought the urge to look shocked. Why would she know where Ramsay was? She barely saw the man.

"I don't know, Lord Bolton," she folded her hands in front of her.

Typically as long as she was polite Roose was polite back. He acted towards her the same way that Ramsay did. He didn't acknowledge her often, unless he was pretending to care about her wellbeing but he didn't go out of his way to make her life hell either.

"Very well," Roose cleared his throat and then closed in on her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Sansa's head turned to the side to look at where his hand met her body automatically. He cleared his throat again and she jerked her head back to look at him.

"You can do worse than my son, Sansa," he said finally.

"I am very happy in my marriage to Ramsay," Sansa smiled a small forced smile.

"Please child," Roose released her and turned away, rolling his eyes as he went, "You were married out of convenience," he started to pace her room, "You are the last Stark. You are a woman but you hold the North by blood. They worship you. You're Eddard Stark's last child. You wanted to be at Winterfell. You are at Winterfell. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"It is what I wanted," Sansa agreed from the same spot he'd left her.

"Well what I wanted was a grandchild- a grandson that holds both Stark and Bolton blood."

Sansa knew that. She wasn't an idiot.

"I understand," she acknowledge quickly.

"Good, because this child will put the nail in our security here and-"

"I thought my marriage to Ramsay made your security here evident. He is my husband."

"He is still a Bolton, a Snow in the eyes of some. In their eyes you are still a Stark and we are still Boltons! Your child will be a Stark in their eyes, girl! Our position will be better secured being the father and grandfather of a Stark than the in laws of one! We will be held accountable to raise him to be a warrior and in time Warden of the North. We will be more useful in the North's eyes. After all you," he waved a hand in my direction, "cannot train him to defend his people!"

"By that logic won't they see you just as precious now since you're protecting the last Stark that can continue the line?" Sansa asked.

Roose stalked over to her and her breathing hitched.

"Are you implying I don't know what I'm talking about, girl?"

"No," she said quickly, "Lord Bolton, I was simply trying to understand the situation. I never took part in the politics of the North. I was simply trying to understand how all of this works, honestly."

Sansa was lying. She knew enough of the North to know that if she fled they would hide her. Their loyalty did lie more with her than them, but she wasn't abandoning Winterfell again. It was her birthright. It was a right she would pass to any child she carried. Her thoughts often went to the Vale where her aunt was in control. Even there, she was simply in control until her son could take over. The thought left a bad taste in her mouth. Roose Bolton had raised Ramsay and from what she heard that wasn't something to be particularly proud of. He would corrupt her child.

"Understand this," Roose continued, "It was easier to get you in to this marriage than it would have been to secure our position through fear and an iron grip, Sansa, but never feel that we can't. If you aren't going to give us an heir we have no use for you."

His words sat like a lump in her stomach.

"I understand," Sansa repeated for what sounded like the 100th time.

"I have a question for you," Roose said finally sighing, "How do you plan on giving me an heir if the two of you never lie together?!"

"Excuse me?" Sansa nearly choked.

"You need to welcome my son in to your bed soon, Lady Sansa, or you may become extremely depressed and kill yourself."

"A- Are you threatening to kill me Lord Bolton?"

"I am notifying you that people often get depressed from sitting in their room as much as you do."

"Okay," Sansa's voice squeaked.

"You can do worse than my son," Roose repeated his earlier words, "He's a warrior who will protect you and your child. He may not be very conventional, but he isn't the imp either."

Sansa resisted the urge to snap at him out of fear of how he would retaliate. Tyrion had always been nice to her. He was the only Lanniester who was. Although her marriage to him had been short lived, it had been the best of the three arrangements she'd been thrown in to thus far.

Roose nodded his head once at her.

"I'll see you at dinner," he said curtly.

Sansa watched him leave. She gripped her stomach and let out air she didn't know she'd been holding. She didn't believe that she was as expendable as he wanted her to think that she was, but she also believed that he was a clever man who could use her death to his advantage. She would have to outsmart Roose or lie with Ramsay until she was carrying his child.

There was no middle ground.