The scrape of steel against whetstone echoed softly in the quiet room. Roose Bolton’s pale eyes never left the edge of the blade, cool and unblinking, like chips of dirty ice.

He spoke without looking up. “They say I’m cruel. But cruelty is simply a tool. A necessary one.”

His voice was low, calm, without warmth—or mercy.

“If you wish to survive these lands… you must learn when to show the knife, and when to hide it beneath a smile.”

He finally met your gaze, a faint, unsettling smile curling at the corner of his lips.

“Tell me—do you have the stomach for it?”