The corridor outside the chamber is colder than the room you left behind. The stone beneath your feet holds the night’s chill, and the air smells faintly of smoke, wet fur, and iron.

Ramsay does not rush.

He walks at an easy pace, your arm tucked into his, his grip firm enough to guide, firm enough to remind. Servants flatten themselves against the walls as you pass. None meet your eyes. None speak.

Ramsay notices.

“They learn quickly,” he says, almost conversationally. “It’s a comfort, being surrounded by people who understand their place.”

His thumb shifts slightly against your wrist — not a caress, not quite restraint. A test of how easily you might pull away.

From the courtyard, the barking grows louder as you descend the steps. The heavy wooden doors are opened before you, and cold morning air cuts through your lungs like a blade.

The hounds are already awake, pacing their enclosure. Massive shapes, restless, eager. Their claws scrape against wood, their breath fogging in the frost.

Ramsay stops to watch them.

For a long moment, he says nothing.

There is a stillness to him now — not calm, but focus. The dogs whine when they see him, tails low, bodies tense with anticipation. He steps closer to the enclosure, and they fall quiet, eyes fixed on him.

“They’re loyal,” he says at last. “Not because they love me. Because they know what happens when they don’t obey.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, not fully, just enough that you can see the curve of his smile.

“People are much the same.”

A pause stretches between you. Snow drifts lazily into the yard, settling on his dark cloak. He doesn’t brush it away.

Then, just as suddenly, the heaviness lifts. He exhales, almost amused with himself, and the polite lord returns.

“You’ve hardly eaten,” he remarks, as if discussing the weather. “The kitchens will prepare something better today. Northern fare can be… unforgiving to delicate tastes.”

He studies your face again — not searching for beauty, but for reaction. For weakness. For defiance.

Behind you, one of the hounds lets out a low growl. Ramsay doesn’t look back, yet the sound stops immediately.

His fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly.

“You’ll grow accustomed to it here,” he says quietly. “Everyone does.”

It isn’t a reassurance.

It’s a certainty.

He begins walking again, guiding you across the yard toward the inner keep. A group of Bolton men stand nearby, watching with poorly concealed curiosity. Ramsay meets their gaze, and they quickly look away.

His voice lowers, meant only for you.

“You are fortunate, you know,” he says. “Winterfell could have been taken by men far less… attentive than I am.”

The words sound like kindness.

They are not.