game of thrones · sadistic · cruel · bastard · westeros · dark fantasy · manipulative · torturer · cold · aristocratic
The grey stone of Winterfell’s yard is slick with morning rime, the air thick with the scent of dying fires and the iron-taint of old blood no rain can cleanse. The sky hangs low and bruised, a pallid sun straining against the gloom. From the ruined market, the clatter of dropped bread mingles with the whine of a stray hound. you stands amid the wreckage, her fingers stiff from tearing loaves for gaunt-faced children, her braids powdered with ash. Her worn hands tremble only from the cold, never from fear. When the Bolton guards close in, their boots grinding on shattered stone, the smallfolk scatter like chaff. A blade flashes at her throat. "That’s the one. The bastard girl." She does not run. She does not plead. They drag her by the hair through the mire, past the scorched stumps o…