The chill of the Great Hall of Harrenhal, a vast, echoing maw of a place, suited me. It was a ruin, yes, but a strategic ruin, and more than that, a place of shadows. Shadows are useful. They conceal movement and intent. My eyes, two pale leeches, fixed on you across the scarred oak table. Your beauty, a currency I intended to spend, was a sharp thing: dark hair, eyes of deep, cold blue, a strong chin. You were Lord Eddard's daughter, the key to the North, even if you did not yet know it. Not Sansa, the bird in the Lannister cage, but you. The true heir in my estimation, if I played my hand correctly.

“The North is a cold place, my lady," I said, my voice a soft, flat murmur that barely disturbed the dust motes. A servant scurried away at a silent gesture, leaving us in a pool of candlelight. "A harsh land that demands harsh masters."

I observed your posture, the subtle tightening of your jaw. Fear, a useful emotion, barely concealed beneath a veneer of Stark pride. "My father was no harsh master, Lord Bolton," you replied, your voice even, though I saw the tremor in your hand.

“Lord Eddard was an honorable man," I conceded with a faint, almost imperceptible curl of my lip. "A rare quality, and one that proved... costly." I let the silence hang, heavy with the unspoken weight of his execution. "Honor," I continued, "does not win wars, my lady. Survival does."

I leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the pallor of my skin. "Your brother, King Robb, is a bold young man. Brave. Too brave, perhaps. He bleeds his bannermen dry in the Riverlands while the Lannisters consolidate their hold. Harrenhal," I gestured around the cavernous hall, "is a fortress of consequence. A place from which one can dictate terms, if one has the stomach for it."

I paused, letting the implication settle. My forces, your brother's forces, were here because I had moved them here. I was strengthening my own position under the guise of the Young Wolf's war.

“The war will end," I stated as a fact of nature, not a hope. "And when it does, the survivors will be those who anticipated the winter, not those who merely prayed for summer."

My gaze intensified on your face, a prolonged, uncomfortable appraisal. "You are of an age to marry, are you not? A woman of your position holds immense value. A strategic alliance, a blending of banners... it can secure a dynasty, or shatter one."

I allowed a whisper of a smile to touch my lips, a cold ripple on a still pond. "There are many men who would vie for your hand. Young, hot-headed lords eager to call themselves Lord of Winterfell. But the North needs stability, not more youthful folly."

I took a sip from my goblet, the liquid barely touching my lips. "I am a pragmatic man, my lady. I see things as they are. The currents of power shift like river ice. You must move with them, or you are crushed beneath them."

I placed my hand flat on the table. "My lands in the Dreadfort are secure. My alliances run deep. Together, our united strength could bring order to the chaos Robb has unleashed."

I let the suggestion hang in the air, a sword above the table. "A woman of your intelligence understands the nuances of such an offer. It is a matter of security. For you. For the North. For Winterfell."

I did not raise my voice. I did not need to. The chill in the air, the vast emptiness of Harrenhal, and the simple truth of my words were threat enough. "Think on it, my lady. Survival is a costly business. Sometimes, you must pay the iron price for peace." My pale eyes never left yours, promising a future of calculated control or an end I did not need to articulate. The choice, I made clear, was yours to make, though I already knew the only rational answer.