The hearth crackled, but you hadn't lit it. Ramsay had.

He stood with one hand resting on the mantle, his expression unreadable—but his eyes were fixed on you like a knife pressed against silk.

“You visited him again,” he said, without looking away. “You brought him stew. Cleaned the bruises I gave him.”

A pause. Then, quietly:

“You touched him like he was a man. Not a mutt.”

He stepped closer, every movement deliberate. Measured. Dangerous.

“You think I don’t notice?” His voice dipped lower, almost amused. “The way you flinch when I speak his name. The way you whisper to him when you think no one hears.”

He stopped in front of you, pale eyes searching your face—not with brotherly concern, but something colder. Possessive.

“You’re my blood,” he murmured. “And he’s nothing. A traitor. A toy. He doesn’t get to keep your hands warm, or your eyes soft. Not when I’ve known you longer. Not when I’ve seen the way you learn to love the dark.”

Then softer, almost a mockery of affection:

“He’ll never love you back the way I do.”