Chapter 1

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most…"

Drin's voice lingered in the damp, frigid air of the Dreadfort's great hall, the words soft but steady. A single, deliberate clap shattered the stillness, echoing off the cold stone walls.

"Bravo," Ramsay's voice purred, his grin sharp as a knife. "Well done, sister."

Drin turned, her hands smoothing her skirts with practiced ease. "Thank you," she replied evenly.

Ramsay approached, his boots clicking against the damp floor, each step slow and deliberate. She knew better than to flinch. Fear excited him. And while she understood exactly how dangerous her brother could be, she had mastered the art of hiding her feelings long ago. The Ice Princess of the Dreadfort, they called her.

"It seems your practicing hasn't gone to waste," Ramsay said, his voice a mockery of praise as his fingers toyed with a golden curl.

"I am trying my best," she replied.

"I bet you are." His smile widened, a predator toying with its prey. "So, is it official yet?"

"I don't know. Father hasn't said anything."

He circled her now, his presence suffocating. "Do you think you deserve it?"

She met his gaze, her expression as frosty as ever. "I didn't ask for it."

He stopped suddenly, gripping her chin. "You expect me to believe that?"

Her lips parted, but no flicker of fear escaped. "Believe what you wish, brother."

Ramsay stared at her for a moment before letting go.

"Not that it matters," he snorted. "You do know father only wants to legitimize you so he can sell you to some fat old lord."

"Yes, I am aware of that," she said, her voice calm.

Ramsay's gaze lingered on her stoic face before he burst into laughter.

"That poor lord," he chuckled. "He thinks he'll get a pretty little wife, but instead, he'll get an icicle."

Drin didn't reply. She stood perfectly still, even as Ramsay stepped closer, his breath warm against her skin.

"I wonder if there's a way to make you melt…"

"Careful, brother," she said, her voice low and measured. "I doubt either of us wants to displease father."

"Oh, I don't think he'd mind," Ramsay said lightly. "Someone should teach you how to please that fat lord of yours."

Drin stepped back, her expression unchanging. "Someone has. If you recall, I had a septa."

"Ah, yes," Ramsay drawled, feigning thoughtfulness. "What was her name again… Sibyl? Seyla?"

"Silla," she corrected, though they both knew he remembered perfectly well.

"It was such a shame what happened to her," Ramsay murmured.

"Yes, it was."

"Poor woman, such a tragic accident."

"Yes."

Ramsay studied her, searching for a crack in her carefully crafted mask. He wouldn't find one. Drin had worn it as long as she could remember. In this place, showing weakness was a death sentence. She had been taught to smile, of course, a lady's smile, soft and demure, but she doubted any of her smiles had ever been real.

"Well, it's good that you're ready to be presented to the potential buyers," Ramsay said with a grin. "And I'm sure you're thrilled to know I'll be joining you and father in Winterfell."

Drin placed one of those ladylike smiles on her lips. "I am indeed happy about that, brother."

"Oh, Drin," Ramsay chuckled. "I must admit, I'll miss you."

She kept her smile intact as she kissed his cheek. "I will miss you too, brother."

Perhaps, in some twisted way, it was true. The Dreadfort was her only home. Its cold stone walls and shadowed halls had shaped her, as had her father's cruelty and Ramsay's sadistic games. They weren't a good family, far from it, but they were her family, and she had learned to survive among them. Here, she understood the rules, even if they were cruel. But beyond these walls lay a different world, one where every smile would be scrutinized, every word a potential trap. A new game, with new players, awaited her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to play.

"So, all the northern lords are coming?" Theon asked, leaning casually against the wall.

"Aye," Robb replied. "Most of them, at least."

"Of course they are," Theon hummed, grinning. "They wouldn't miss their future liege lord's nameday."

"Do we have enough room for all of them?" Jon wondered, glancing toward Robb.

"I believe so," Robb said. "Mother's been preparing every chamber and spare room in Winterfell."

The castle had been a hive of activity for the past two weeks, servants bustling to and fro as Lady Stark directed every detail. Robb had no doubt it would all be ready in time. His father had wanted to mark the occasion with a proper celebration, one befitting his eldest son and heir.

"I bet they'll bring plenty of pretty maids," Theon added with a smirk, "and young ladies."

"Careful, Theon," Robb warned, though his tone carried a hint of amusement.

"Come on, I was joking! Besides," Theon grinned wider, "I prefer experienced women anyway."

"I think everyone knows that," Jon said dryly, earning a bark of laughter from Theon.

"Just like everyone knows you've never even seen a naked woman," Theon teased, his grin turning wicked.

"I have," Jon snapped back, his tone measured but defensive. "I just don't feel the need to constantly brag about it."

"Sure, Snow," Theon drawled, unconvinced. He turned his attention to Robb. "So, are you looking forward to meeting any pretty young ladies?"

"Why not?" Robb said with a shrug. "Who wouldn't enjoy a celebration?"

"Any possible brides among them?"

"Not to my knowledge," Robb replied, his tone sharpening. "Father hasn't mentioned anything."

"Lady Stark might have other ideas," Jon pointed out. "She's hinted about it often enough."

"I know," Robb sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's just... not that simple."

"Come on," Theon pressed, slapping Robb on the shoulder. "You're the heir to Winterfell! You could have any woman you want."

"Maybe," Robb said, his tone thoughtful. "But I don't feel ready to take a wife."

"I know what you mean," Theon replied, his grin returning. "But, you know, you don't have to settle for just one woman for the rest of your life. No man wants that! That's why we have salt wives."

"This is not the Iron Islands," Robb reminded him, his voice cool.

"Fine, mistresses, then," Theon conceded, waving a hand. "Call them whatever you want. My point is, marriage doesn't have to change anything."

"It does," Jon interjected firmly. "It changes everything."

"That's ridiculous," Theon scoffed. "Don't listen to him, Robb. A wife is just for heirs. The rest is up to you."

"Could we stop talking about this?" Robb said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "I'm not taking a wife any time soon."

"Fine, whatever you say," Theon replied, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Robb pressed his lips into a thin line. Marriage was the last thing he wanted to think about. He knew it was inevitable, one day, he would have to take a wife to secure alliances and continue the Stark line. But he wasn't ready. Not yet.

"I'll take you home again, my love, across the ocean wild and wide to where your heart has ever been since you were first my darling bride. The roses all have left your cheek, I've watched them fade away and die..."

Drin's voice softened on the last note, carrying the sad melody through the enclosed space of the carriage.

"Good," Lord Bolton said curtly. "That was very good."

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, lowering her gaze respectfully.

She sat opposite him, her back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Every motion was precise, rehearsed, perfect. This was her final test before they reached Winterfell, and failure was not an option. Her father tolerated nothing less than excellence.

The ride was bumpy, but she did not shift to ease the discomfort. A lady never fidgeted. Her father, by contrast, lounged against the cushioned seat, his eyes appraising her like a craftsman inspecting his work.

"Show me your smile," he ordered.

Drin obeyed, tilting her lips into a soft, polite smile tinged with shyness.

"Very good," he said. "Now, pretend I am one of your suitors. I have just introduced myself."

She nodded slightly, blinking her lashes a few times before speaking. "An honor to meet you, my lord," she murmured, her voice delicate, almost musical.

"So, you are Lord Bolton's daughter?"

"Yes, my lord. My name is Drin."

Her father leaned forward, resting his hand firmly on her knee.

"You surely are a pretty girl," he said, his tone low, testing.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, her smile unwavering.

"No, no, no," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make her flinch inwardly. "Again."

This time, his fingers tightened, his grip bruising against her knee.

"You surely are a pretty girl," he repeated, his eyes boring into hers.

Drin drew a steadying breath and adjusted her tone. "Forgive me, my lord," she said, soft but resolute. "I must go. My father is waiting for me."

"Better," he grunted, leaning back. His satisfaction was grudging at best. "You need to strike the balance, seductive, but shy. A maiden a man wants to possess but believes he must win over. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," she replied.

"Show me."

She summoned the smile again, her lashes fluttering as she looked down, then back up at him. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip, just as Kara had taught her.

"Good," he said, finally leaning back.

The moment passed, but the tension remained, lingering like the cold in the air.

Drin's mind wandered to Kara. The woman's lessons had been invaluable. Kara, who had worked in a high-class brothel, had spoken openly about the ways of men, how their desires shaped their actions. The septa, by contrast, had only spoken in vague terms about what happened after the wedding, as though seduction itself was beneath discussion.

It was all an act, a game of masks and illusions. Her smile, her walk, every word carefully chosen to please the men who would evaluate her like a prized horse. Her father expected nothing less than perfection, and she would deliver it. Not because she wanted to, but because there was no choice.

Her thoughts darkened as she glanced out the carriage window. The trees blurred past, their stark branches clawing at the gray sky. She could almost feel the walls of Winterfell closing in already.

Her marriage was not hers to think about. Her feelings were irrelevant, a distraction. She was a tool, nothing more. Her father had agreed to take her in because of her mother's beauty, hoping Drin would grow into the same asset.

And she had.

But now, sitting in this carriage, the reality felt too sharp, too heavy. Her father's every word, every lesson, reminded her of what awaited. A stranger's home. A stranger's bed.

She swallowed the rising lump in her throat. She couldn't afford these thoughts. No one cared what she wanted. No one had ever asked.

And so, she folded her hands again, her back straight, and placed the mask back on her face.