Margaery pursed her lips and nodded slowly at his words. Ramsay was a desperate man, that much was obvious. Hannibal seemed to be telling the truth, but she took his words with a grain of salt. Margaery stepped into her chamber, running her fingers along the stone walls.

It was strangely warm; she remembered that Sansa had once told her that Winterfell had been built over hot springs, which heated the castle even in winter. It seemed laughable then, but now it seemed true enough.

"Was it difficult, taking this place?" She spoke softly. "Theon Greyjoy had been in possession of this castle, had he not? Ironborn are not so easily dispatched."

As much as it sickened her having any House besides Stark in Winterfell, Margaery had to admit that defeating the Prince of Pyke would have been an admiration accomplishment.

Still, every word was brought from fear. She didn't want to marry, not in the North, nor to a Bolton in Highgarden. Not when she'd heard tales of northern customs. Her grandmother had assured her that she would not allow such customs to come to pass for her.

Just as she had not allowed Margaery to stay wed to Joffrey Baratheon for longer than a few hours.