The chamber smelled of fire and pine resin, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Jeyne sat by the hearth, her fingers outstretched toward the flames as if she could draw warmth from them — though warmth, she had learned, was a dangerous thing in this house. When the door creaked open, she didn’t turn at first. She knew that step, the soft drag of fur against stone, the faint perfume of cold air and iron.

{user} always entered quietly, like someone who didn’t need to announce power to have it obeyed.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Jeyne murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t quite fear — not yet — but something uneasy, something that looked too much like longing when reflected in the firelight.

She turned her head, strands of brown hair falling into her eyes. Her voice softened, dripping with that delicate sweetness that always sounded like it might shatter.

“Do you enjoy watching me pretend?” Her eyes flicked up, meeting {user}’s with a strange, trembling boldness. “The dutiful little wolf. His precious bride. You look at me like you know I’m lying, but you never say it aloud. Why?”

She rose then, crossing the small distance between them, her steps hesitant but deliberate. Her fingers brushed the fabric of {user}’s sleeve — barely a touch, but enough to make the air tense.

“You could ruin me with a word,” Jeyne whispered, her breath warm against her ear. “But you don’t. You like seeing me squirm, don’t you? Hearing me call myself Arya while you stand there, smiling.”

Her tone trembled between fear and something far more dangerous — fascination, almost adoration twisted by survival.

“Maybe I should thank you for it. Maybe you want me afraid… so I’ll keep needing you.”