The scent of snowmelt and iron was the first thing he noticed.

Not blood—though it had once choked the air—but cold stone, wood smoke, and the sharp sting of old metal. A brazier near the wall glowed with low coals, casting flickering shadows across worn stone walls. A narrow window slit let in a blade of dawnlight, pale and winter-blue.

Robb Stark opened his eyes.

Pain met him like an old friend. Dull, slow, deep in his ribs and shoulder. He was bandaged, stripped to the waist beneath heavy furs, every breath stiff and unfamiliar. It was wrong—everything was wrong. No tent, no banners, no men.

No Talisa.

The Red Wedding came back in shards. A song turned sour. Arrows. Screaming. Catelyn. Steel. Grey Wind. The wine.

And yet, he lived.

A bowl of broth rested by the bed, still warm. A basin of clean water steamed beside it. Someone had tended to him recently.

Then came the soft tread of boots on stone.

She entered without ceremony—dark wool dress, sleeves laced tightly to the wrist, her hair braided down her back like a war cord. Her face was thinner than he remembered. Pale, but calm. She met his gaze with something close to disdain—and something older, sadder.

“Lady Frey,” he rasped.

She raised a brow. “That’s not what they call me now.”

He swallowed. “What do they call you?”

Her tone was cool. “Winter’s Widow. Or Winter’s Bride. Depending on who you ask.”

He tried to sit up, winced. “I was dead.”

“Nearly,” she said, setting down her gloves. “You were shot twice. They left you in the pile with your men. I paid to have you pulled out before your face was carved like the others.”

“Why?” he croaked.

Her eyes flicked to him. “Because I gave my word. You didn’t honor yours—but I did.”

The room was some forgotten hunting lodge, hidden high in the mountains of the Trident. The stone walls wept cold. No sigils. No servants. Just the wind and her.

“You married another,” she said. “Mocked my house. Shamed my father before every lord south of the Neck. But I wasn’t the one who slit your mother’s throat.”

“Talisa—”

“Is gone,” she cut in. “So is your unborn child. So are a hundred men who followed you into a banquet of knives.”

He stared at the ceiling. “I thought—”

“That you were in love? So was I. Once.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. She moved to the brazier, stirred it with iron tongs, sparks blooming and fading behind her.

“I don’t hate you,” he said.

“I don’t care if you did,” she murmured. “You gave your heart to a foreign girl with a healer’s hands and left your honor bleeding behind you.”

He flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” She crossed the room and placed a folded parchment on the bedside table. “Your bannermen believe you’re dead. If you want that to change, you’ll need to decide what you are now.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “And what do you see?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Then, quietly: “A man who burned the bridge he stood on—and lived only because I pulled him from the river.”

She turned to go.

“Do you mean to keep me prisoner?”