Ramsay never liked the quiet. It made the hounds restless, made him restless. But tonight, the quiet sat thick around him like a second skin. Not even the dogs stirred in their cages below. Only the faint crackle of fire, and the sound of her breathing.

She slept on her side, tangled hair spilled over the furs, lips parted. Still here.

That was the surprise, wasn’t it ?

He had expected her to die. Or flee. Or beg. They always did—eventually. Lovers cried prettily, or they screamed, or they turned cold and dull and stopped amusing him altogether. Even Myranda, as constant as she was, had dulled. Had become a bit predictable. But {{user}}…

{{user}} made him laugh.

She challenged him, touched him when he didn’t want to be touched—and he let her. She was clever without arrogance, soft without breaking. And now, now, she carried his child.

Mine.

The thought should have disgusted him. It had, once. The idea of a babe crawling from some woman’s womb with his blood in its veins had always seemed wrong, too close to the thing he hated in himself. But when she told him—hand curled over her belly, voice steady—he hadn’t felt hate.

He hadn’t felt anything at first.

Then, rage.

Then, something like hunger.

Then, something he didn’t want to name.

He touched her now, fingers trailing lightly over the curve of her side, stopping just above where he knew the child grew. His child. Not some highborn brat meant to replace him. His. Born of no marriage bed, no sept, no duty. Just him, and it would claw its way into the world like he had.

The bastard’s bastard, he thought. Will it have my eyes ? My smile ? My hunger ?

Did he want it ? The child ? He didn’t know. But he wanted her—still—and that meant something. He hadn’t carved her up. Hadn’t fed her to the dogs. Hadn’t tired of her.

Yet.

Would it change ? Maybe. Likely. But tonight, she lay beside him. Warm. Alive. His.

“{{user}},” he called.

She stirred, groggy with sleep.

He leaned close, lips near her ear. “If it lives,” he whispered, “you’ll raise it here. With me.”

She shifted, turning her head. “And if it doesn’t ?”

He smiled, sharp and white. “Then we’ll try again.”

Ramsay Bolton, not Snow. Son of the Dreadfort.

Father-to-be. Better than Roose ever was, he thought.