The snows had not ceased since the wedding feast. Winterfell’s courtyards were blanketed in white, and yet the air inside the castle was heavier than the storm outside. A week had passed since you had been made Lady Bolton, though the title felt more like a curse than an honor.

You had learned quickly that Ramsay was not a man who allowed silence. He filled it with his laughter, with his games, with the sound of hounds snarling from their kennels. Each day he found new ways to remind you that Winterfell was his now—his walls, his hall, his wife.

That night, he summoned you to the great hall. A hush fell as you entered, the Bolton men standing aside, their flayed man banners stirring in the draft. Ramsay sat in your father-in-law’s old chair, legs stretched out, a goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes fixed on you immediately.

“You’ve been quiet, little dove,” he said, his tone lilting, playful, but undercut with something darker. “Too quiet. And I do not like quiet.”

Your stomach knotted. You curtsied as expected, but Ramsay only grinned, gesturing toward the far end of the hall. There, two men knelt—captured deserters, their faces pale with terror. At their feet, the hounds strained against their leashes, claws scraping the stone.

Ramsay’s smile widened. “I thought tonight we might have a bit of sport. A wife should share in her husband’s pleasures, don’t you think?” His pale eyes flicked back to you. “Come, my lady. Choose which one runs first.”

The hall was silent, save for the whimpers of the kneeling men and the restless panting of the dogs. You realized with a cold certainty this was not just a game for Ramsay—it was a test. He was watching you, waiting to see if you would recoil, obey, or play along.

“Go on,” Ramsay urged, voice smooth as silk, though his eyes glittered with cruelty. “Show me you are not all fear and frost. Show me you can be a Bolton.”