It’s always cold in this damned place, you thought to yourself as you pulled your furs up to your neck, snow melting in your hair. The Dreadfort could be chilly, but in Winterfell you could feel the cold in your bones. But Ramsay had insisted that you come with him to the North, and you had complied.
A group of soldiers were leaned against a wall, passing around a jug of mulled wine. When you came near you heard one of them wolf-whistle, and the others laughed.
“You look cold, girl,” said a buff man clad in armor, “perhaps you’d care to warm up with me?”
The men hooted, and you just grimaced and kept walking. One of the men grabbed your arm, “C’mon, darling. Where’re you off to in such a hurry?”
“The quarters of Lord Ramsay,” you said stiffly, trying to wrench your arm away.
The men guffawed, “You hear that, boys?” the man holding your arm said loudly, “She’s going off to see Lord Ramsay!”
“That bastard is half the man I am!” one of them jeered. “You think that boy is better than us?” another yelled.
You tried to pull your arm free, “Let me go and Ramsay will never hear about this.” But the men ignored you, continuing to stare you down.
Then you heard a clear, familiar voice, cutting above the rest, “Oh, my. You all have made a very bad mistake.”
The next thing you knew the man holding your arm was pushed back, howling and clutching his head, and the other men scattered away. You pulled your arm free and ran to Ramsay, who had a look of pure fury on his face.
“You will never touch her again,” he spat, pushing the man to the ground, “You will never look at her. You won’t even think about her. Because she,” he said, pointing to you, “is mine.”