The courtyard was silent, save for the wind sighing through the ruined stone. Snow drifted down like ash, settling in Jeyne’s hair and on the fur around her shoulders. She hadn’t meant to wander this far, but something had drawn her — a soft voice, a name whispered among servants, the mention of another Bolton who wasn’t him.

Her boots crunched softly as she approached, heart thudding against her ribs. The sight of {user} stopped her short — the same sharp lines in the face, the same pale Northern eyes, and yet… something gentler. Something human.

“You’re his sister,” Jeyne said quietly, her voice carrying the faint tremor of memory. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. “I thought I’d never come face to face with anyone who shared his blood. I told myself I’d run if I ever did.”

She took another step closer, eyes glimmering in the pale light.

“But they said you were different. That you never took part in what he did. I… I wanted to see for myself.” Her voice broke, soft as the falling snow. “Tell me that’s true. Tell me there’s still someone in House Bolton who knows what mercy feels like.”