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Ramsay always wanted a son. Of course, only a legitimate son would do. He’d rather die than have a bastard son, he despised the title of bastard so much. This would never have been possible obviously, before his father had him officially declared a Bolton, and before he was married to Sansa.
Once he had the real opportunity in front of him, he was desperate for an heir. He never thought of himself as much of a father. In fact, he had no clue of what would be involved, and didn't exactly care. What Ramsay did know was that he wanted to be a better father than Roose ever was to him, even though he never grasped, and never would grasp, just how to do that. He had something to prove, and that was his main motive for wanting any children. Really, proving a point was his primary motive for doing anything at all.
Oh, Sansa. Pretty as she was, he never cared for her. Not really. He never really cared much for anyone, but that was a secret to no one. Myranda, however, was a bit of an exception. She was the only person he’d ever met that didn’t fear him outright. It was surprisingly easy to get stuck on someone like that.
Sansa didn’t mind. She didn’t care for him either.
He always treated Sansa horribly, until the day he seemingly randomly strutted into their bedroom, muttering about how he was going to put a child inside her. In the following weeks, he treated her with a watchful indifference. When it was certain she was pregnant, only then did he treat her almost like a wife should be treated. He still was not loving, but it was better than before.
Not because Ramsay cared, he told himself, but because he would not risk the safety of his first child and possible heir. No, he most certainly did not love Sansa Stark. Not even when her belly began to swell as the child grew. Not when he spotted her sitting by the window, caressing the bump and humming an old hymn. Not even when she looked up and saw him standing in the doorway watching and for the first time, didn’t grimace. He did not love. And he especially did not love Sansa.
Though no matter how many times he told himself this, Myranda thought otherwise. She was always known for her jealousy, and it was an unfortunate day for her when she attempted to act on it.
Sansa was sitting in front of her mirror, brushing her hair when the girl entered. Neither of them said a word, but Sansa could see the venom in her eyes. She always saw it, from the very first day.
“Allow me, my lady,” Myranda offered innocently. Sansa, much too tired to care, handed the girl the hairbrush. “How long will it be now, my lady?” the girl asked out of turn.
Sansa didn’t mind. “Two months.”
“It must be very exciting,” she had a faint, fake smile on her face as she brushed Sansa’s hair. “Although, it’s such a pity…” she added, pausing.
“What is?” Sansa raised an eyebrow at her handmaiden in the mirror.
“That you don’t love each other,” she said matter-of-factly.
While she couldn’t exactly deny it, Sansa felt all of her annoyance with this girl bubble up at once. She stood and turned to face her.
“I’ve grown quite tired of your impertinence. However you feel, the fact remains that Lord Bolton is my husband, and I his wife. I am the one carrying his child, not you. Now, if you refuse to learn your place, I’m afraid that it will no longer be in Winterfell.”
Myranda gazed back at Lady Bolton with wonder, regarding her for a moment. Sansa realized that this is exactly what she expected. What she had hoped for.
“Yes, but,” Myranda looked down at her hands between the two of them, “what if you weren’t carrying his child?” Sansa noticed the blade that she was now twirling slowly in her hands. It spiked fear inside her that she was fortunate to be free of these past few months.
“He likes you,” she continued, “because you’re pretty. Highborn,” she said the last word in a sing-song voice. Before she knew it, Sansa was against the wall, alone, and she gasped when she felt the slight pressure of the tip of the knife against her stomach, not piercing through yet, thank the gods. “This is all he wants you for… not going to be so pretty now, are we?” she grinned at Sansa.
“Myranda,” a calm voice came from the doorway. Ramsay was smiling his cruel smile, which both women knew too well. “What exactly are you doing with my wife?” Myranda let the blade she was holding clatter to the floor.
“I was just… on my way to emptying my lady’s chamber pot,” she said with a practiced calm.
But she knew even she wasn’t safe. Ramsay stalked toward the girl, watched her eyes shining bright with fear of him for the first time in a very long time. He gently- pleasantly- led her just outside of the room to where his wife would not be forced into witnessing this. Sansa collapsed back on the seat in front of her mirror, and refrained from letting any tears flow. Her breathing picked up and she covered her mouth with one hand while the other crossed over her significant baby bump. Her attention was caught when she heard what sounded like a slam and choking noises in the hallway. She heard her husband whispering...
“You are never to be near her again, do you understand? Look at me- LOOK AT ME, Myranda- do you understand? Good. Because if I find out you’ve attempted to even look at my wife or child again, I will give you a choice. Your choices will be the cross or the dogs, my dear. Are we clear?”
Ramsay re-entered their bedroom alone, only to find Sansa sitting in the same spot, looking at him with a perplexed expression. He poured himself a cup of wine, and spoke casually and with a good dose of humor. “Well, my dear wife, I’m sorry to say we’ll be looking for a new handmaiden!”
Sansa did not reply.
They never saw nor spoke of Myranda again.
When the baby finally came, Sansa did not want Ramsay there. The last thing she wanted, in fact, was for him to be in the room.
He stayed anyway.
He did not expect to stay as long as he did. Looking past the nurses and maesters he saw Sansa as he had never seen her before, and he couldn’t help but feel impressed in a way as she pushed the baby out. He felt something grow in his chest. Something along the lines of pride and affection. It was at that moment that Ramsay realized after more than two years of marriage that yes, he was very much in love with Sansa Stark.
When the baby was out, the maester announced that it was a boy. Both Lord and Lady breathed a sigh of relief. People could make all the predictions they wanted, but there was never any knowing for sure until it was born.
As the baby was washed and wrapped in a blanket, Ramsay stepped out of the room to take a breath. Never had he imagined to see anything like what he had just seen. Never did he think he would be feeling what he was feeling. After some obligatory chatter with the maester, he entered the now quiet bedroom to see his wife and son lying there. It was one of the only times he had seen Sansa smile since they met. He decided he rather liked it.
Sansa did not look up at him, nor did she speak. She kept her gaze fixed on the newborn.
Ramsay stood over them both for a few minutes without saying a word before he silently sat down on the bed next to Sansa. He wrapped an arm around her with hesitation, and she was too worn out to protest. Very gently he stroked her bare arm, his head dropping onto her shoulder and closer to their son. It took a minute or two, but Sansa eventually let herself relax in his embrace.
Watching this child- his child- entering the world affected him in a way he hadn’t expected. Which is to say, he hadn’t expected it to affect him at all, and yet it did. He had always had a fascination with life and death- particularly controlling when it happened. He started to consider that he might enjoy creating life almost as much as he liked taking it away.
Ramsay was the one to break the silence between them.
“He’s wonderful,” he murmured, “so are you.”
Sansa turned her head to look him in the eyes. “Do you really mean that?”
He did, but he said nothing, only answering her with a kiss on the cheek.
They stayed just like that for hours, with nothing but their son and the comfortable silence between them.