You kept your head down as he entered the room, the heavy furs dragging across the stone behind him. Blood stained the hem of his cloak—fresh, as always—and you reached for it with steady hands, hiding the tremble in your fingers.

Ramsay watched you in silence for a moment. You could feel it—that gaze. Cold and pale, too sharp for someone so young. He didn’t recognize you. Not yet.

“You’re the new one,” he said at last, circling the table slowly. “You work fast. Neat stitches. Quiet tongue.”

He came to stand just behind you, closer than needed.

“I like that.”

You nodded slightly, saying nothing. He didn’t know the sound of your voice. He didn’t know it had once sung lullabies in a crumbling mill, or whispered prayers over his fevered brow when Roose had long forgotten either of you existed.

“I had a mother once,” he added suddenly, voice light but mocking. “Some miller’s girl. Dead, probably. Irrelevant.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric.

“Is that so?” you said softly—your first words to him in over a decade.

He blinked. Something flickered behind his eyes.

Familiarity?

Or danger?