Your marriage to the bastard of Bolton had been a struggle. You'd taken your sister Sansa's place, refusing to let Petyr sell her like cattle. Ramsay had been cordial enough when you had dinner with his family. He'd even defended your honor to his father Roose.

But once you were officially his? He dropped the act as soon as you were in bed.

Now months later, you'd grown skittish. But not meek. You would never be meek. You walked the halls of Dreadfort with your head held high. You were still a wolf, even with your family gone. You took great comfort in the presence of Theon--now cruelly named Reek--who was like your foster brother. With a little convincing and manipulation, you'd convinced Ramsay to cut down on torturing him.

One night, Ramsay returned from a hunt covered in blood and melting snow. His hounds, Buckshot and Rogue, had blood on their muzzles. Ramsay's breathing was heavy as he shed his wet clothes to reveal cuts on his chest and stomach. In typical Ramsay fashion, he left the dirty clothes in a heap on the floor.

You stood up from the couch, holding your hands out. "Let me-"

"No," he snapped, waving you off. "I don't need your help, woman."