"Roose, if you force me back in that contraption I am positive I will perish," Sansa proclaimed loudly, the threat of tears stinging her eyes while her arms gestured wildly. His lips turned down in a frown in response, both at her use of his given name and at her display of emotion, all in front of the men. They were on their way to Winterfell, their first journey as King and Queen, and they needed to behave as strong, composed leaders for the North.

In truth, based on the occurrences of their journey thus far, he knew he needn't have worried.

His little wife was spoiled rotten, while entire kingdom and following were madly in love with her. She was delivered any and every desire, all with a smile and stars in their eyes. Good gods, even the cold Bolton men granted smiles and bows for her, while one actually carried her over a puddle.

She did not need to know he'd had the man whipped for daring to touch his wife in a circumstance where it was not paramount to her safety and life.

Nor did she need to know that the idiot had accepted the whipping gladly, loudly proclaiming a few scars were naught as long as he were able to honorably continue to serve his Queen, while his compatriots actually cheered.

Despicable. Not that he wasn't pleased with their loyalty, but seven bloody hells.

In fact, he truly believed they couldn't give a fig for who was King, as long as Sansa were Queen.

That thought ruffled his feathers and only served to make his frown more severe. With a frosty tone, he gave her a withering glare. "You will ride in the litter, my Queen, for the good of the babe."

He observed her fisting her hands in her gown, and her cheeks bloomed pink in what he only wished were shame or embarrassment. No such luck, he thought wryly, as her jaw clenched tight and her eyes blazed wide. She was in a rage, and according to Maester Qyburn, this unfortunate temper may very well continue until several months after the babe is delivered.

He sighed, wiping his hand down his travel weary face. It appeared he would yet again be sleeping elsewhere. After he flat out refused to send for more lemons until they reached Winterfell because she'd devoured the entire lot, and it was positively ridiculous to assume they could acquire them on the road, she had unceremoniously pointed towards her mascot's bed of furs, telling him that once he found the lemons, he could find his bed.

What made him think it was imperative they travel together? Why hadn't he agreed when the Greatjon had jovially suggested he and his King travel ahead to ensure all is prepared?

He didn't want to ponder too carefully why he'd found himself bunking with his men rather than telling her where she could sleep if she did not wish to rejoin him in his bed.

Another glance at Sansa, and he sent up a prayer of thanks that Royce was intervening, offering to ride in the coach with her and entertain her with stories of their childhood.

Bringing a child into the world took a toll on more than just the mother, it seemed. He was itching to flay something,

"Now, settle yourself in and I will regale you with tales of a wild young Roose and an innocent young Royce in the Dreadfort," Ser Royce proclaimed, gesturing with a grin as he helped Sansa arrange herself amongst the furs. She giggled, piling them around her just so, and couldn't help but nearly burst to tears when he brought out a surprise from behind his back.

Cradled in his hand was a whole tray of little lemon cakes, all for her and her alone.

She heard his snort of amusement as she whipped the tray into her little cocoon, and found she simply couldn't bother to be embarrassed. "Just between us," he whispered conspiratorially with a wink, shooting a glance out the window to the gatekeeper of her oppression.

Sansa eyed Roose's back as he picked his way back up to ride at the front with Dacey and the Greatjon. "Most certainly," she agreed with a grin, before giving him a nod, "but you have to tell me your source! How on earth did you secure these?"

Ser Royce flashed a grin and held a finger to his lips. "A gentleman never tells," he said with a waggle of eyebrows. "Though you may want to pass along your thanks to Lady Grey," he added with a wink.

Sansa let out a bubble of laughter, shaking her head. "You, sir, are every bit as trouble as Roose warned me. Now, you promised me stories?"

"Ah, yes," Royce settled himself back on an elbow, resting on his side on the opposite end of the coach. "Let's see, where to begin?" He pursed his lips in thought, tilting his head to rest his chin on his fist.

Several hours later, and Sansa was bursting with laughter as another story ended with "so you see, it was all Roose's idea, and I was but the innocent whipping boy forced to accompany him and take the punishment as we let every last horse free from the stables just as the hunt was set to begin." She had a feeling there was a bit more to the story, but she'd had that impression for the past several stories, so that was no surprise. It seemed to her they all ended with a laugh on her part and a faintly downturn expression on Royce's face, as if the true story hadn't quite finished yet, but it was all he was willing to share.

She'd let it go previously, but this time she was drawn to prompt him. "Is the ending truly this happy this time, Ser Royce? You make the Dreadfort sound like a joyous home from a fairy tale, and the 'whippings' as you call them nothing more than a slap on the wrist."

He was thoughtful and nostalgic, though she could tell he was trying to shield her from perhaps the more painful truths. "Nothing like your home, I am sure, my Queen, but it did have its moments."

She smiled as he stared out the window a moment, lost in his thoughts. He could keep this secret; she would not press further.

He sighed, before jolting back with a start. "Now! Where do we begin with the next tale? You may choose my dear- stories of our first escapades with wine, or stories of when Roose lied to our headmaster and made me suffer the consequences, when I was, yet again, just a poor, innocent companion."

Sansa rolled her eyes before a thought that had been nagging her all afternoon finally fully surfaced. "How long have you been with Roose, Ser Royce?"

At that he paled and shifted uncomfortably, before lifting a shoulder in a light shrug. "Another tale for another time, my Queen," he attempted to continue.

This time she was not having it. Narrowing her eyes, she could only raise an eyebrow until he sighed heavily. "I will not tell you the whole of it, but in order for you to understand, perhaps we begin elsewhere, yes?" Something shifted inside her, and with a sinking feeling, Sansa rested a hand on the babe and nodded for him to continue.

He hedged a bit, before nodding as if he seemingly came to a decision, and sat up straight. "What do you know of Ramsay Snow?" He asked bluntly, expression closed and unreadable.

The sudden change in topic startled her, but as Sansa opened her mouth to question him something in his stare made her opt to follow along. Pausing, she pursed her lips in thought, before cautiously continuing. "I know he is Roose's… son," she meant it as a statement, but it came out more a question.

He hesitated, before nodding. She couldn't help but lean forward as his voice dropped a few notches and he responded quietly. "Yes, he is. He is Roose's son. But what do you know of him, Sansa?"

Her mind flashed back to the whispers of maids about Winterfell in her childhood, of the spiteful little bastard that was Roose Bolton's boy. By all accounts, he was deranged, something not quite right, cold and dark and cruel.

She paled, and the nausea rose swiftly to the back of her throat. In fact, he seemed a good deal like Joffrey.

Ser Royce cut into her thoughts grimly. "Yes, very likely all of what you've heard is true, and it is in fact possibly worse than what you've imagined." His eyes were cold, his countenance guarded, and as a myriad of thoughts swirled around her mind, she plucked one out and couldn't help but let it free.

"Why?" It was the question she kept coming back to, time after time, when it came to Roose.

Not able to face her for the moment, Royce glanced out the window, likely ensuring they wouldn't be overheard. Sansa waited patiently, too anxious to even sample a lemon cake, before he turned to her suddenly, eyes bright and intense, willing her to make the leap and understand. "You asked how long I've been with Roose?"

She nodded, uncertain still how these could be connected.

"And you wish to know why what, exactly? Why Roose tolerates the behavior of Ramsay, his bastard son? Why he allows him so much leeway? Why he does not disown the boy, or worse, and be done with it?"

Sansa bit her lip and nodded, not daring to speak as it screamed at her with sudden clarity. He could see by the look of horror on her face that she had solved the riddle, and he nodded grimly before turning back towards the window, allowing her to process her thoughts.

She wanted to rail and scream, to cry, to comfort him and confirm it all at once. It couldn't be true, could it? Roose gave his son a leash so thin and long it might as well not be a leash at all, simply because of the man before her? He couldn't possibly think they were similar, simply because of the like circumstances of their birth, could he?

"There is nothing one won't do for family, Sansa," he said quietly, as she felt one tear start to fall. "Even if your son is a bastard."

She felt the lemon cakes threatening to reappear as tears streamed down her face, and she couldn't help but reach out and grip Royce's hand tightly. His last thoughts made her close her eyes painfully, and she couldn't bear to watch as he spoke his final words quietly out the window, in the direction of Roose's back in the distance.

"Especially when you were forced to watch, all your life, your father beat, whip, and generally despise, your bastard brother."