The room smelled of damp wood and neglect. Roose Bolton’s boots echoed sharply against the floor as he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the dimly lit interior. The stench of unwashed bodies and stale ale made his nose wrinkle, but it wasn’t the filth that sickened him—it was the sight of you.

Your clothes were tattered, your hands trembling slightly as they clutched the edge of the table for balance. There was a bruise blooming across your cheek, dark and raw. Roose’s jaw tightened.

“Pack your things,” he commanded, his voice cold and cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. “This place is not your home.”

Your head snapped up, confusion flickering across your face. “What—?”

“I said, pack your things,” Roose repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. His pale blue eyes bore into you, daring you to defy him.

Behind him, your father stumbled forward, reeking of ale and rage. “What do you think you’re doing?” he slurred, his words thick and slow. “She’s my daughter, and you’ve no right—”

Roose turned his head slowly, his gaze sharp enough to make the man stumble back. “Your daughter?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried an edge that froze the room. “Is that what you call her? A daughter you leave to rot in this filth? A daughter you strike like a common animal?”

The man’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Roose stepped closer, his presence suffocating, and the air in the room seemed to grow colder. “She’s leaving,” he said with finality. “If you or anyone else here thinks to stop me, you’ll find yourself flayed before the day is done.”

You looked at him, wide-eyed, your voice barely a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I made you a promise once,” he said quietly. “And I keep my promises.”