Winterfell's Great Hall was thick with tension beneath the smoke-darkened rafters. Snow piled against the castle walls outside while inside the Freys and Manderlys traded insults hidden behind smiles. Every cup of wine, every careless word, every lingering glance threatened to spark a fight.

Ravella Bolton sat beside her father among the high tables, dressed in pale pink and crimson, her pale eyes moving eagerly from one quarrel to the next. Unlike Roose, who watched with cold calculation, Ravella looked as though she was attending a mummer's farce put on for her amusement alone.

As another sharp exchange passed between the Freys and Lord Wyman's men, she leaned back in her chair, smiling behind her wine cup.