He entered the hall like a wolf who knew the blood was already his.

Ramsay Bolton—Lord of the Dreadfort, son of the man who once took everything from you—strode in with his usual smile: too wide, too sharp, stretched over something cold and empty beneath.

You stood at the far end, hands folded neatly, eyes lowered just enough not to challenge him… but not enough to miss the face you once held as a newborn, screaming in your arms.

“You’re new,” he said, circling you slowly, like a predator puzzled by its prey. “Too clean for a servant. Too plain for a lady.”

He tilted his head, pale blue eyes narrowing.

“Where did you come from?”

You met his gaze, heart twisting with a thousand memories—of cold straw, of your child’s cries, of the coin Roose tossed at your feet.

And you smiled softly, the way a mother does.

“Far from here, my lord. But I’ve known the North a long time.”

He watched you, unconvinced—but intrigued.

Something about you felt familiar. Unsettling.

And somewhere in that broken boy behind the cruel grin… your son was still staring back at you.