You'd lost track of time, you didn't even know if it was still spring outside. Days blurred together when you spent every hour chained to the bastard of Dreadfort's bedpost, only let out to go to the bathroom. With his supervision.

Ramsay had taken quite a shine to you. So he snatched you up and locked you in his room. His little pet. He fed you, bathed you, took you to the bathroom like a dog on a chain leash. He whispered things in your ear late at night when you were leashed to his bed and couldn't leave his arms.

Your family abandoned you. I saved you. I love you, don't you love me? If I didn't keep you in here my father would kill you. I'm the only one who cares enough to keep you alive.

Sometimes you believed him. When you were beaten down for being a naughty pet or just too tired to fight. It was easy, relaxing and giving in to whatever he wanted. Good pets got treats, bad pets got punished.

When Ramsay returned that night, he seemed subdued. There was no cocky greeting or manhandling. He didn't demand you tell him you loved him or that you missed him. In fact, the bastard looked ill. You weren't shocked. The weather was growing frigid and Roose wasn't known for giving his illegitimate the best of care. Ramsay sat beside you on the floor, nudging aside the chain that trailed from your wrist to the bedpost. He shoved his face into your thighs, which were thinner than they'd been before you came here, cradling his belly.