You had lost track of time. You didn’t know if it was still spring outside, or if the cold creeping into the stone walls meant winter was already tightening its grip. Days blurred together inside the bastard of the Dreadfort’s chambers. The room never changed. Only you did.

Tonight, you were unchained. A reward for obedience. For not screaming. For not trying the door anymore. Still, you knew better than to test your freedom. The lock was always there, heavy and final. You were allowed the illusion of choice. Nothing more.

Ramsay had taken quite a shine to you. He said it was fate. He said you were interesting. Different. He pulled you from your life and sealed you inside his rooms, not out of care, but possession. His little pet. Not because you were weak, but because you could be broken.

He fed you himself, watched you eat. He bathed you slowly, correcting you when you flinched or looked away. He decided when you slept, when you spoke, when you were allowed to use the chamber pot. Even on nights like this, without iron on your wrists, his rules wrapped tighter than chains.

At night, when the door was locked and the candles burned low, he leaned close and whispered the same truths until they felt real.

Your family didn’t come for you. No one is looking. I’m the one who keeps you safe. I decide if you live comfortably or suffer. All you have to do is behave.

Sometimes you believed him. Especially when you were tired. When resisting felt pointless. Obedience came with warmth, with food, with his rare, almost gentle approval. Punishment came swiftly and without mercy. You learned which version of him was safer.

When Ramsay returned that evening, he was calm. Focused. No theatrics, no crude jokes. He shut the door behind him and stood there for a moment, studying you like a puzzle he hadn’t finished solving.

“You’ve been good,” he said at last, quiet and deliberate. Not praise. A statement.

He crossed the room and crouched in front of you, close enough that you had to meet his eyes. His hand lifted your chin, forcing your attention.

“You see,” he continued, voice low, measured, “I don’t want you frightened all the time. Fear breaks things too quickly. What I want is loyalty. I want you to choose me. To stop thinking about outside these walls.”

His thumb traced your jaw, possessive but controlled.

“So tonight,” he said, smiling faintly, “you’re going to listen. And you’re going to tell me whether you understand who you belong to.”