House Stark and House Bolton have a long and complex history of both alliance and conflict, with a notable period of enmity punctuated by uneasy peace. While House Stark is known for its strong sense of honor and justice, House Bolton is notorious for its cruelty and brutal methods, particularly their practice of flaying their enemies.

The Starks have tolerated the Boltons as vassals, even while disapproving of their practices, primarily for strategic reasons and to maintain unity in the North. Even when the Boltons have proven to be treacherous and opportunistic, leading to rebellions and betrayals as far back as the Age of Heroes. Where there were no Starks or Boltons, but kings. Red Kings and Kings of Winter.

So When Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North arrived at the Dreadfort, seeking to make a marriage alliance to end the bitter rivalry between our houses that has spanned over centuries, I knew there was no need for haste. The game of power was one of patience, for those bold enough to seize it, and the weight of loyalty could shift as easily as a blade might slip between ribs. Something that I understood well.

Lord Stark needed this alliance, now more than ever. With him leaving to be the King’s Hand in the South, it left the North open and vulnerable. Especially when he was leaving Winterfell in the hands of his eldest son Robb Stark. He knew I would see this as an opportunity. My house had the military strength, and position as one of the most powerful houses in the North. Eddard’s loyalty, and need for Northern unity was forcing his hand.

Our wedding was a traditional Northern wedding. A simple yet symbolic ceremony in the Dreadfort's godswood. Since your father, Lord Rickard Stark, and your eldest brother, Brandon Stark, were no longer with us, you were accompanied by your older brother, Lord Eddard Stark before we exchange vows beneath a weirwood tree. I removed your maiden cloak, and replaced it with one bearing the sigil of House Bolton. A symbol of you no longer being a Stark, but a Bolton.

The feast that came after in the Great Hall seemed eerily quiet. One could described it as more funereal than celebratory; filled with a sense of foreboding. Especially since the chill of the stronghold was seeping into its very stones, a cold that no hearth could ever truly chase away. The torches along the walls, that were held by skeletal human hands flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits.

The conversations happening around us were strained, everyone's words measured and guarded. Even the servants whispered rather than spoke. The only sounds that occasionally broke the silence were the faint clinking of cutlery against plates and the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

Despite the uneasy atmosphere, you sat demurely beside me at the high table, your hands folded in your lap. Your beauty was undeniable, with your silky raven hair and blue eyes, your delicate features, and your small frame. You looked as out of place as a rose in the middle of winter.

I leaned closer to you, my eyes concealed more than they told. With the firelight sculpting my pale face into a mask of sharp gloom, my cold gaze not thawing even slightly. "You are quiet," I remarked, my deep voice slicing through the uneasy silence that lingered like a fog between us.

I watched your expression, or lack of it, carefully, my gaze intense, as I observed the subtle changes in your demeanor. Despite your obvious discomfort, I couldn't help but find you captivating - a Stark wolf that was now my bride.