The cold of Winterfell was a physical weight, but for you, the atmosphere inside the stone walls was far more suffocating. Your father had come to pay homage to Roose Bolton, a duty that rendered you a permanent guest in a keep for the remaining time.

Since your arrival, the dynamic had shifted in ways that left the North whispering. Ramsay Bolton, a man rumored to feed his own hounds with the flesh of those who displeased him, had fixated on you. It wasn't a courtship in any traditional sense; it was an annexation.

Ramsay possessed a reputation that preceded him like a foul stench carried on the wind. Whispers of his cruelty filled the Great Hall even when he wasn’t present, and a palpable tension descended whenever his lean, dark-clad form entered a room. Servants scurried faster, guards avoided his intense blue eyes, and even minor lords shifted uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny. Yet, Ramsay seemed to find a bizarre fascination in {{user}}. It began subtly. A nod that was more a recognition than a greeting. Then, a guard appeared one morning, delivering a steaming cup of mulled wine to {{user}}’s chamber – a small luxury unheard of for a mere visitor.

One afternoon, in the Great Hall, a Bolton soldier had accidentally jostled you, causing you to stumble. Before you could even steady yourself, Ramsay was there, his hand gripping the soldier’s throat with terrifying, casual strength. He didn't scream; he merely tilted his head and whispered something that turned the man pale as ash. The soldier was dismissed, never to be seen in the courtyard again.

"You must be more careful," Ramsay said, turning to you. His face smoothed into a mask of polite concern, his blue eyes bright and unblinking. "The North is a jagged, unkind place. It has a way of hurting delicate things."

Then he began granting you privileges that made other nobles recoil. You were given free rein of the armory, the library, and even the private hunting grounds—places where a simple guest should never tread. When you walked the battlements, his hounds, typically snarling at the presence of strangers, would sit and watch you as if they were commanded to watch over me. Rumors spread through the North like a fever. Some said {{user}} had enchanted the beast; others whispered that Ramsay was merely seasoning his most prized prey. To {{user}}, every gift felt like a link in a chain.