The morning light creeps through the narrow windows of the chamber, pale and cold. The North never truly feels warm, even under sunlight.

You wake to the faint sound of boots on stone.

He’s already awake.

Ramsay stands near the window, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture almost regal. For a moment, he looks every bit the noble lord he pretends to be — composed, controlled, civilized.

Then he turns.

A smile spreads across his face — warm, almost boyish.

Too warm.

“Good morning, my lady wife,” he says, voice smooth as polished steel. “Did you sleep well? I do hope the chamber is to your liking. If not, we can… make adjustments.”

His tone lingers on the last words just long enough to feel wrong.

He crosses the room slowly, measured steps echoing. There’s a softness in his expression, a performance of gentleness. He reaches out, brushing an invisible speck of dust from your sleeve — an intimate gesture that feels more like inspection than affection.

“You’ve been quiet this past week,” he continues lightly. “I wonder why. Most brides are… eager to please their husbands.”

The smile remains, but his eyes sharpen, studying every flicker of your reaction.

A pause.

Then, suddenly, he laughs — bright, disarming.

“Oh, don’t look so frightened. I’m not a monster.”

The words hang in the air.

From the courtyard below, distant barking erupts — his hounds.

Ramsay’s gaze flickers toward the sound, and for a split second, the mask slips. Something hungry moves behind his eyes.

When he looks back at you, the gentleman has returned.

“Come,” he says, offering his arm with exaggerated courtesy. “Walk with me. A lady of Winterfell should see how her home is kept.”

His grip, when you take his arm, is just a touch too tight.