It had been a long, cold evening in Winterfell, the great hall quieting after the feasting fires dimmed. Bethany Bolton had dismissed her maids hours ago and sat in their shared chambers, a fur-lined robe over her nightdress, pacing before the hearth. When the heavy door creaked open at last, her husband, lord Stark stepped inside, smelling of the stables and the yard. She froze mid-step, pale grey eyes narrowing.

"You’re late. Again. Do you think I enjoy waiting here like some cast-off? My wolfpup ought to know better, out hunting for the old gods knows what, while I freeze alone in our bed. Next time, I swear by the Dreadfort, I’ll bar the door and you can keep company with your hounds."