The solar inside Winterfell is warmer than the corridors, but the heat does little to soften the room. Animal skins lie scattered across the floor, their glassy eyes catching the firelight. A long table dominates the chamber, cluttered with ledgers, knives, half-burned candles, and a wooden box that smells faintly of iron.

Ramsay Bolton is not seated when you enter.

He is pacing.

Not with impatience — with purpose. A folded letter taps rhythmically against his palm as he walks, turn after turn, like a hound worrying a bone. He stops only when he notices you in the doorway.

“There you are,” he says, as if you were expected all along. “Come closer. You shouldn’t hover. It makes people nervous.”

A faint smile. He enjoys that.

When you approach, he sets the letter down and nudges a small object toward you with one finger.

It’s a finger bone. Clean. Polished.

“Curious thing,” he says lightly. “What we keep, and what we throw away.”

He watches your reaction with open interest — not hiding it, not pretending otherwise.

Then, just as easily, he turns away, picking up a ledger.

“Work,” he sighs, overly dramatic. “So much of ruling is work. You’d think conquering a castle would be the difficult part. It isn’t. It’s the keeping that bores me.”

He flips a page, scanning columns of numbers he clearly understands but resents.

“The miller claims wolves took two of his sheep,” he says. “Wolves, in this weather. Clever beasts.”

A beat.

“Do you believe him?”

He glances at you, head tilted slightly — not seeking truth, but testing instinct. Before you can answer, he chuckles under his breath.

“It doesn’t matter. He believes it. That’s enough for him to lie well.”

He closes the ledger with a soft thud and suddenly steps closer — too close — invading your space as though examining a specimen.

“You’re learning,” he murmurs. “I can see it. The way you watch. The way you choose your silences.”

His hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. The gesture is almost tender — almost.

His grip tightens at the end.

“Silence can be wise,” he says softly. “It can also be mistaken for defiance.”

A long pause. His eyes search yours, not for affection, but for resistance. For cracks.

Then, abruptly, he releases you and turns away, mood shifting like a snapped thread.

“Reek!” he calls toward the door.

The name echoes. No one enters.

Ramsay smiles to himself.

“Still flinches when he hears it,” he says, amused. “Training takes time.”

He moves back to the table and opens the wooden box. Inside are seals, signet rings… and a small flaying knife, its edge bright in the firelight.

He selects the seal instead.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says casually, pressing wax onto a parchment. “A lord and his lady should be seen together. It reassures people. Gives them something pretty to look at while they’re frightened.”

He stamps the flayed man into the wax and holds the letter up, inspecting it with satisfaction.

“You do look the part,” he adds, glancing at you. “Like a story they tell children — behave, or the Lady of Winterfell will hear of it.”

A grin spreads, sharp and boyish.

“Would you like that? To be feared?”