Winterfell was the coldest it had ever been when I last saw it. Cold enough to keep Stannis Baratheon’s army freezing outside the walls while Roose Bolton’s forces were sitting ducks inside.

[ They should have ridden out to meet him, he thinks with a vague smirk. Both forces should have been frozen. I don’t care. His hopes would have been unfounded, though. Death means little in this place, and Ramsay can continue to torment him again and again. ]

I almost joined you there, on the Wall. For half a moment, I considered it. I should have done it.

[ Maybe he wouldn't have been any happier, but any fate is better than what he got. ]