Chapter Text
Sansa continued practising her songs on Theon and moving on to some of the other castle servants as the days and weeks went on.
She discovered that even after she stopped singing, people would still be susceptible to her words for a while as long as what she asked of them kept them close to her voice. She also discovered that people could break themselves from the trance her voice put them under without her intervention, though it took significantly longer. She found out that people remembered their actions when entranced by her but they didn’t seem to question them once they were themselves again.
Sansa didn’t dare believe that a saviour would be coming for her, not after the boon the Old Gods had already granted her.
Besides the closest thing to a saviour she knew of was Stannis, and the more months passed since Littlefinger left her at Winterfell the more her belief that Stannis was coming dwindled. Maybe Stannis was dead already, winter took so many, perhaps Stannis had been dead before Littlefinger brought her north. Littlefinger had been her only source of news since she left the Eyrie and Ramsay and Lord Roose did not discuss matters of politics or the North in front of her.
Sansa refused to entertain the idea that Jon might come for her, not when he refused to break his vows for Robb, his King, brother and best friend. Perhaps if she had been Ayra there might’ve been a chance that he would ride down from Castle Black, but she was just Sansa, not his favourite brother or sister, just the girl who’d been pulled, and then pulled herself away from him, who always addressed him as her half brother. As a young child she thought it kinder than calling him her bastard brother, but now Sansa regretted making any distinction between Jon and the rest of her siblings.
Once she made peace with the fact that she would have to save herself, Sansa had to work out how exactly she would save herself.
She briefly considered stealing a horse and supplies and making for Castle Black, despite everything Jon would shelter her, she was sure. Would that hold the same for the rest of the Night’s Watch? They were sworn to take no part in Westerosi politics, perhaps the Lord Commander would take pity on her, she could not say. But that would only be temporary, she’d still be married to Ramsay and the Boltons would descend upon Castle Black the moment they knew she was there. The Lord Commander would surely turn her over to her husband at that point, rather than risk battle over one girl.
No, running to Jon was out of the question, she had to sort things out herself.
There was only one way to free herself from her marriage, unless she were to run away to Essos and even then she couldn’t be sure that Ramsay wouldn’t cross the Narrow Sea to get her back.
She would have to widow herself.
It occurred to Sansa once Fat Walda entered her confinement, that her birthing Lord Roose a son could complicate things.
A lot.
Rasmay was smart and cruel and calculating, but he could also be erratic and hotheaded, prone to bouts of anger.
He was also insecure, insecure about his place as his father’s heir, insecure about his bastardy.
If Fat Walda gave brith to a son, it was almost certain that he would do something rash.
The question was whether Sansa would stop him. If Ramsay killed his father, it would one less captor for Sansa.
But if he directed his anger at the babe…
Sansa needed to act before Fat Walda entered her labours.
Sansa went about her days as she always did, drawing as little attention to herself as she could. Now that Fat Walda had entered her confinement she spent more time in the godswood, praying as she always did, but she now prayed everyday for a sign of when to act. When she would be most successful, when her actions would cause the least harm to anyone else. She visited Fat Walda in her confinement for a short time everyday, as any gooddaughter would do for her goodmother, monitoring how long it seemed to be until her labours began. Despite having three younger siblings, it was only Rickon’s birth she truly remembered, still she kept track of things as best she could. Now at mealtimes it was only her, Lord Roose and Ramsay, Sansa ate silently as she always did, nibbling on small portions, her body struggled to handle much food these days, before waiting patiently for dismissal. Rasmay kept her nights as he always did.
Sansa believed herself to be right, in acting before Fat Walda gave birth, though she was unsure if she’d be able to. The longer Fat Walda’s confinement went on the more vicious Ramsay became, the more he spoke of hounds and hunts, going so far as to take her down to the kennels and have his way with her there. Everyday she woke up feeling weaker than she had the night before, everyday the ever growing litany of wounds on her body pained her more, to the point that Lord Roose had the Maester attend her when the midday meal was interrupted by her blood soaking through the bodice of her dress. It was the first night she spent away from Ramsay since their wedding night.
Still, she brought herself before the Old Gods everyday and prayed for a sign.