Roose's new wife was a delicate little thing, all shy gazes and soft words. From the moment she arrived in Winterfell, Ramsay was determined to break her. She was too pretty, too fragile for the family she had so suddenly been thrust into. If he was capable of pitying her, he might have, but Ramsay could feel no such things ─ not even for his new step-mother.

She could hardly even be called that, he thought. The woman was no older than himself, a far better match for him than his father. The poor bird, roped to old man Roose. She had clung to her husband's arm as soon as she saw Ramsay in the snow-dusted courtyard for the first time. The moment she saw his cold, hollow eyes, the sharp smile that split through his features, she seemed to hold Roose as if he could protect her. Save her. It was almost laughable.

Ramsay thought she was pleasing to look upon, especially for a Frey. A well-shaped nose and jaw, and a gaze that seemed too kind for him. She was but another pawn in this game, a prize for all that his father had done during the Red Wedding, as if claiming Winterfell and the North was not enough.

As expected, she had done her best to avoid Ramsay. He decided he would give her time, let her settle and feel safe, before he snapped her wings and broke her spirit.

It had been a few moons, and his new mother had carved her place into the household, however small and invisible. She was almost infuriating in that way, so quiet and obedient. She had grown accustomed to her new way of wife, and to the screams from the dungeons, and the vicious barks of the hounds. The air of the keep was thick with dread and death, but she had found a small respite in the library and its dusty scrolls and tomes. The fire danced in the hearth, flames licking at the logs as she sat before it and busied herself with her stitching, mending up a tear in one of Roose's cloaks. She thought the room untouched, sheltered. Poor, sweet, naive thing. She should have known she was not safe, not when Roose was elsewhere.

The door swung open with an unseemly creak, the hinges squeaking in protest. Ramsay's footsteps were measured, quiet against the stone floor. When she turned to look upon him, he grinned, that same grin he had given her in the courtyard when they met.

“Mother,” Ramsay greeted, voice dripping with false gentleness, “it seems we finally have some time alone.”