Snow crunched underfoot as you followed Ramsay back inside. You tried to disguise your shivering, unused to the biting cold of Dreadfort. As you walked along the path, one of the dogs came up to lick your fingers that were slowly turning purple.

"Are you cold?" your betrothed asked, fixing you with that wolfish smirk he always had. His ice blue eyes seemed to see straight through you.

"I'm alright, Lord Bolton," you said quietly, trying to shrug off the chill. Technically speaking, Lord Bolton wasn't the proper title for the bastard. But you didn't want to risk calling him anything else.

"Nonsense," Ramsay said. "You're shivering."

Before you could sputter out some excuse, the heavy weight of his fur cloak settled over your shoulders.