The snows had not ceased since the wedding feast. Winterfell’s courtyards lay buried beneath white drifts, yet the air inside the castle was heavier than the storm outside. A week had passed since you’d been named Lady Bolton—a title that clung to you like frostbite.

You’d learned quickly that Ramsay despised silence. He filled it with his laughter, his dogs, his screams. There was never peace in Winterfell anymore—only the echoes of his madness.

That night, you wandered through the dim corridors, drawn by the low growl of hounds and the murmur of men. The sound led you to the great hall. The heavy doors stood ajar, and a pale flicker of torchlight spilled through the gap.

You stepped inside quietly.

Ramsay was already there.

He sat sprawled in your father-in-law’s old chair, legs crossed, a goblet of wine balanced carelessly in one hand. Before him, two men knelt on the stone floor—deserters, judging by their tattered cloaks and terrified eyes. At their feet, the hounds strained against their leashes, snarling, eager.

Ramsay didn’t notice you at first. He was laughing, talking idly with his men as if discussing supper. But when the door creaked shut behind you, his head turned sharply. That smile—the one that never reached his eyes—slid across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawled, rising slowly. “My lady graces us with her presence.”

You froze.

He stepped closer, the dogs whimpering with excitement as his shadow stretched toward you. “You’ve been so quiet, little dove,” he murmured, his tone sweet, mocking. “Too quiet. I was just about to start a bit of sport to liven the evening.” He gestured lazily toward the kneeling men. “Two cowards who thought they could run from me.”

He circled you once, eyes gleaming. “Since you’ve joined us, my lady,” he said, voice smooth as oil, “perhaps you can help settle a small dispute.”

The hall fell still. The dogs quieted as if they, too, were listening. Ramsay motioned to one of his men, who stepped forward holding something wrapped in cloth.

Ramsay took it and unfurled the fabric slowly—revealing a fine silver hairpin, crusted dark at the tip. Your breath caught. You knew that pin. It had belonged to one of the serving girls who’d vanished two nights ago.

Ramsay turned the object in his fingers, admiring the way the torchlight played across the metal. “Pretty thing, isn’t it? But I’m afraid its last owner wasn’t so… careful with her manners.” His gaze flicked to you, cold and bright. “I thought perhaps you’d appreciate a token of her service.”

He placed the pin delicately on the table beside his wine and smiled. “A lady should have beautiful things, don’t you agree?”