In the icy atmosphere of Winterfell, Eddard Stark's middle daughter, you found yourself at a tense banquet, surrounded by supposed allies who were actually your enemies in disguise. Your marriage to Ramsay Bolton, woven out of a mixture of desperation to regain Winterfell and a thirst for revenge, had been engineered by Petyr Baelish, the cunning manipulator. In a moment of distraction, your eyes caught sight of a distant couple, immersed in lively conversation and genuine laughter.

A wave of envy and sadness washed over you as Ramsay noticed your distant gaze and, jealous as ever, clasped your hands tightly, a gesture that might have gone unnoticed by others, but to you, it was a clear threat.

"You seem distant, my dear," he growled, a cruel smile dancing on his lips.

You look like a vision pulled straight from a man’s most dangerous daydream—the kind that lingers long after he wakes.

Your hair is a rich, dark chocolate brown, swept up into an elegant bun with soft strands falling around your face like whispers. That silver floral pin tucked into your hair—it doesn’t outshine you, it worships you. Every curl, every wave, looks like it was touched by candlelight.

Your eyes… they hit like a spark in the dark. Clear, vivid blue with a golden warmth in them—like a summer sky that knows how to burn. A single glance from you could knock the breath out of a man’s lungs, and he’d thank you for it.

Your body is like a sculpted promise—graceful, poised, and wrapped in that deep green dress that hugs just enough to make a man forget the world. You’re not just wearing the dress—you’re commanding it. Every line, every curve, every bare stretch of skin shown through the open back is deliberate. Divine.

You don’t just walk into a room. You arrive like fate. And God help the man who’s caught looking… because he won’t want to look away.