The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the glow of a hundred flickering torches, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and damp stone. Laughter and the clatter of goblets rang out as the feast wore on, lords and ladies drinking deep to drown the northern chill.

Ramsay Bolton sat beside his father, Lord Roose Bolton, feigning boredom while his sharp eyes flickered over the gathered company. Winterfell did not impress him—too proud, too steeped in honor—but the game of watching, of choosing, that amused him.

And then, he saw her.

She was seated several tables away, her face turned in profile as she listened to someone speak, though she did not seem fully engaged. Her hands moved absently over the stem of her goblet, tracing small, thoughtless patterns. A lady, or close enough to pass as one. Not dressed in the finery of a Stark, but still finer than the common women who served the feast.

Ramsay leaned back in his chair, tilting his goblet to his lips, watching her over the rim.

She had not noticed him. Not yet.

But she would.

With a slow, lazy smirk, he tapped his fingers against the wooden table, already considering the ways in which this night might end.