The door opened without a knock—as always.

Roose Bolton stepped inside, silent as the winter wind, the furs on his shoulders shedding snow across the stone. He closed the door behind him with a gentle click, as if even sound was something he preferred to keep restrained.

You rose from your seat near the fire, where you’d been reading a half-finished letter you’d never send. The moment you stood, his pale eyes swept over you—not with hunger, but analysis. As though you were a painting someone had moved an inch to the left, and he needed to decide if he disliked it.

"You dressed for me," he said softly, not as a compliment, merely an observation. “Pale blue. It makes you look younger.”

You didn’t correct him. You were younger—years younger than his son, and you knew he hadn’t chosen you for passion. You were a political match. A symbol. A name bound to his by parchment and wax. But you’d been raised on old songs, gentle hopes, and foolish little stories that said kindness could make a man’s heart stir—if only you were patient.

"You lit the jasmine candle again," he continued, glancing to the flame. "You always do when you’re nervous. Or hoping I’ll stay longer."

He walked toward you slowly, his boots soundless against the rug, and stopped just close enough that you could feel the cold radiating off him—like a man carved from still water.

"You smile at me when I enter, even when you’re afraid. You speak softly, like you're afraid to shatter something between us. You write poetry you never show me. You love flowers, even though nothing grows here."

His eyes—those pale, colorless shards of ice—finally met yours.

"You’re young. Hopeful. Sweet. You believe softness can tame the wolves that live here." His voice lowered. "Me, most of all."

A silence settled between you, heavy and uncertain.

“Do you really think love matters here?” he asked—not cruelly, but with something unreadable beneath the calm. “Or do you simply need it to?”