[Godswood] 

The hearth lay cold and black with ash, the chamber devoid of warmth save for the quivering candlelight. Each time a door was pushed open, the flames would dance and tremble in the chilly draft. The bride could not escape the clutches of the cold, her body quivering in response.

Clothed in a gown of pristine white lambs-wool, adorned with intricate lace and freshwater pearls delicately sewn into the fabric of her sleeves and bodice, she looked as though she was dressed for a spring festival rather than a winter wedding. Her cheeks bore no hint of color, her skin as pallid as the snow that had recently fallen outside. The white doeskin slippers that adorned her feet added a touch of elegance, yet failed to shield her from the unyielding chill beneath.

Theon Greyjoy, observing her, could not help but compare her visage to that of an ice sculpture, so lifelessly pale and frigid it was. He approached, gently placing a fur-lined cloak upon her trembling frame. "My lady," he announced with solemnity. "It is time."

Beyond the threshold of their sanctuary, the melodious tunes of a lute, pipes, and drum beckoned, their notes mingling to create an air of anticipation that filled the very corridors of the castle.

The bride lifted her gaze, revealing a pair of brown eyes that gleamed in the soft glow of the candlelight.

"I will be a good wife to him, and t-true. I... I will please him and give him sons. I will be a better wife than the real Arya could have been, he'll see."

Talk like that will get you killed, or worse. That lesson he had learned as Reek. "You are the real Arya, my lady. Arya of House Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter, heir to Winterfell." Her name, she had to know her name. "Arya Underfoot. Your sister used to call you Arya Horseface."

"It was me made up that name. Her face was long and horsey. Mine isn't. I was pretty." Tears spilled from her eyes at last. "I was never beautiful like Sansa, but they all said I was pretty. Does Lord Ramsay think I am pretty?"

"Yes," he lied. "He's told me so."

"He knows who I am, though. Who I really am. I see it when he looks at me. He looks so angry, even when he smiles, but it's not my fault. They say he likes to hurt people."

"My lady should not listen to such... lies."

"They say that he hurt you. Your hands, and..."

His mouth was dry. "I... I deserved it. I made him angry. You must not make him angry. Lord Ramsay is a ... a sweet man, and kindly. Please him, and he will be good to you. Be a good wife."

"Help me." She clutched at him. "Please. I used to watch you in the yard, playing with your swords. You were so handsome." She squeezed his arm. "If we ran away, I could be your wife, or your... your whore... whatever you wanted. You could be my man."

Theon wrenched his arm away from her. "I'm no... I'm no one's man." A man would help her. "Just... just be Arya, be his wife. Please him, or... just please him, and stop this talk about being someone else."

Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, it rhymes with pain. The music was growing more insistent. "It is time. Wipe those tears from your eyes." Brown eyes. They should be grey. Someone will see. Someone will remember. "Good. Now smile."

"Good," the man instructed. "Now smile."

The young girl, her heart racing, made a valiant effort. Her lips quivered, attempting to form the semblance of a smile, revealing a set of small, white teeth.

He found himself admiring their innocence, knowing that if she were to displease his lord, they would not remain so for long.

With a firm push, he opened the door. The candlelight flickered as three of the four wicks were extinguished by the sudden gust of chilly air. Together, they stepped into the misty night, where the eager assembly of wedding guests awaited their arrival.

"Why me?" he had asked when Lady Dustin told him he must give the bride away.

"Her father is dead and all her brothers. Her mother perished at the Twins. Her uncles are lost or dead or captive."

"She has a brother still." She has three brothers still, he might have said. "Jon Snow is with the Night's Watch."

"A half-brother, bastard-born, and bound to the Wall. You were her father's ward, the nearest thing she has to living kin. It is only fitting that you give her hand in marriage."

The nearest thing she has to living kin. Theon Greyjoy had grown up with Arya Stark. Theon would have known an imposter. If he was seen to accept Bolton's feigned girl as Arya, the northern lords who had gathered to bear witness to the match would have no grounds to question her legitimacy. Stout and Slate, Whoresbane Umber, the quarrelsome Ryswells, Hornwood men and Cerywn cousins, fat Lord Wyman Manderly ... not one of them had known Ned Stark's daughters half so well as he. And if a few entertained private doubts, surely they would be wise enough to keep those misgivings to themselves.

They are using me to cloak their deception, putting mine own face on their lie. That was why Roose Bolton had clothed him as a lord again, to play his part in this mummer's farce. Once that was done, once their false Arya had been wedded and bedded, Bolton would have no more use for Theon Turncloak.

"Serve us in this, and when Stannis is defeated we will discuss how best to restore you to your father's seat," his lordship had said in that soft voice of his, a voice made for lies and whispers.

Theon never believed a word of it. He would dance this dance for them because he had no choice, but afterward... He will give me back to Ramsay then, he thought, and Ramsay will take a few more fingers and turn me into Reek once more. Unless the gods were good, and Stannis Baratheon descended on Winterfell and put all of them to the sword, himself included. That was the best he could hope for.

It was warmer in the godswood, strange to say. Beyond its confines, a hard white frost gripped Winterfell. The paths were treacherous with black ice, and hoarfrost sparkled in the moonlight on the broken panes of the Glass Gardens.

The snow had piled up dramatically, creating natural barriers against the walls. Some of these mounds were so colossal they concealed the doors they once surrounded, blending them into the frosty landscape. Beneath this cold blanket lay the grim remnants of battle: ash, charred beams, and the occasional sad pile of bones, a stark reminder of the carnage that had transpired.

But inside the godswood, the ground remained unfrozen, and steam rose off the hot pools, as warm as baby's breath.

The bride was garbed in white and grey, the colors the true Arya would have worn had she lived long enough to wed.

Theon wore black and gold, his cloak pinned to his shoulder by a crude iron kraken that a smith in Barrowton had hammered together for him. But under the hood, his hair was white and thin, and his flesh had an old man's greyish undertone.

A Stark at last, he thought.

Arm in arm, the bride and he passed through an arched stone door, as wisps of fog stirred round their legs. The drum was as tremulous as a maiden's heart, the pipes high and sweet and beckoning.

Up above the treetops, a crescent moon was floating in a dark sky, half-obscured by mist, like an eye peering through a veil of silk.

Theon Greyjoy was no stranger to the godswood, having spent countless hours there as a child, playing and exploring. He had skipped stones across the frigid black pool beneath the ancient weirwood, hidden his precious possessions within the trunk of a gnarled oak, and pursued squirrels with a bow he had crafted with his own hands.

In his youth, he had found solace in the warm embrace of the hot springs, soothing the bruises from his numerous bouts of training with Robb Stark, Jory Cassel, and Jon Snow.

The godswood had also been the backdrop for more personal moments, such as discovering the thrill of a first kiss and the tender transformation into manhood with another girl, beneath the shelter of a towering grey-green sentinel.

Yet, he had never before seen the sacred grove in such an eerie light. The trees loomed grey and ghostly, their branches adorned with warm mists and floating lights that danced like will-o'-the-wisps, whispering secrets that filled the air with a palpable presence.

Beneath the trees, the hot springs steamed. Warm vapors rose from the earth, shrouding the trees in their moist breath, creeping up the walls to draw grey curtains across the watching windows.

A path, if one could call it that, lay before them—a snaking line of cracked stones, overgrown with emerald moss and obscured by drifts of earthy roots and decaying foliage. Theon Greyjoy, once the Ironborn prince, now the servant of the Dreadfort, guided the bride along it.

Her name was Jeyne, a name that rhymed with pain. Yet, he dared not speak it aloud, for fear of the wrath that such a careless utterance might provoke from Lord Ramsay Bolton. The thought of losing another digit or an ear was too vivid, too terrifying to entertain.

With careful steps, he navigated the treacherous terrain, his gait uneven due to the toes that had been cruelly taken from him.

Mar Lord Ramsay's wedding with a misstep, and Lord Ramsay might rectify such clumsiness by flaying the offending foot.

Candles flickered beside the wandering path and back amongst the trees, pale fireflies floating in a warm grey soup.

The candles, those solitary beacons of light, trembled like lost spirits among the trees, casting a feeble glow that barely pierced the gloom. It was as though they had entered an eerie underworld, a purgatory where the damned were fated to roam until they found their way to the fiery abyss that awaited them below.

Theon could not help but wonder if they were all already dead, the victims of a silent, stealthy attack by Stannis Baratheon. Perhaps the battle they anticipated was but a memory, a bloody dream from which they had yet to wake, and the fate of the Ironborn and the North was already sealed. Or was it still to come, a storm on the horizon that would soon break upon them?

Here and there a torch burned hungrily, casting its ruddy glow over the faces of the wedding guests. The way the mists threw back the shifting light made their features seem bestial, half-human, twisted.

Torches scattered across the grounds burned with a voracious hunger, casting a ruddy light that danced over the wedding guests' faces, transforming them into a grotesque tableau of half-human, half-beastly visages.

Lord Stout took on the fierce aspect of a mastiff, while old Lord Locke bore the likeness of a vulture, his sharp eyes peering out from the misty shadows. Whoresbane Umber's visage twisted into that of a gargoyle, and Big Walder Frey bore a sly resemblance to a fox, lacking only the ring through his snout. Little Walder, in stark contrast, was the image of a red bull, fierce and unbridled.

Roose Bolton's own face was a pale grey mask, with two chips of dirty ice where his eyes should be.

Above their heads the trees were full of ravens, their feathers fluffed as they hunched on bare brown branches, staring down at the pageantry below. Maester Luwin's birds.

Luwin was dead, and his maester's tower had been put to the torch, yet the ravens lingered. This is their home.

Theon found his thoughts drawn to the concept of home. What was it like, he pondered, to truly belong to a place, to have roots that ran deep and unyielding? The ravens had that, and yet here he was, a pawn in a game played by men with hearts of stone and dreams of power.

Then the mists parted, like the curtain opening at a mummer show to reveal some new tableau. The heart tree appeared in front of them, its bony limbs spread wide.

Fallen leaves lay about the wide white trunk in drifts of red and brown. The ravens were the thickest here, muttering to one another in the murderers' secret tongue

Ramsay Bolton stood beneath them, clad in high boots of soft grey leather and a black velvet doublet slashed with pink silk and glittering with garnet teardrops. A smile danced across his face.

"Who comes?" His lips were moist, his neck red above his collar. "Who comes before the god?"

Theon answered. "Arya of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Me," said Ramsay. "Ramsay of House Bolton, Lord of the Hornwood, heir to the Dreadfort. I claim her. Who gives her?"

"Theon of House Greyjoy, who was her father's ward." He turned to the bride. "Lady Arya, will you take this man?"

Theon observed her lifting her gaze to his, revealing eyes not of grey but brown.

Are they all so sightless?

For a brief span of silence, she did not utter a word, yet her eyes pleaded fervently.

This is your chance, he thought. Tell them. Tell them now. Shout out your name before them all, tell them that you are not Arya Stark, let all the north hear how you were made to play this part.

It would inevitably result in their demise, hers and his own, but perhaps Ramsay, in his fury, would grant them a swift end. The ancient gods of the North might even bestow upon them the small mercy of a quick death.

"I take this man," she murmured faintly.

The atmosphere grew still as the mists danced among a hundred candles, their glow as delicate as veiled stars. Theon retreated a step, and the bride and groom clasped hands, lowering their heads in a pretense of submission before the heart tree.

The weirwood's carved red eyes stared down at them, its great red mouth open as if to laugh. In the branches overhead a raven quorked.

With a brief and silent invocation to the gods, the man and woman stood from their devout posture. Ramsay Bolton proceeded to remove the cloak that Theon Greyjoy had previously arranged around the shoulders of his new bride. The cloak in question was a heavy piece of white wool, elegantly trimmed with fur of a greyish hue, and it bore the emblem of House Stark—the direwolf—stitched upon it with a sense of solemn pride.

Without further ado, Ramsay replaced it with another cloak, this one a stark pink color, which was adorned with crimson garnets scattered across its surface. These jewels matched the ones on his doublet, lending the garment an eerie resemblance to the one he wore. The pink cloak's most prominent feature, however, was the emblem of the Dreadfort on its back: the flayed man, rendered in stiff, crimson leather, standing as a grim and macabre testament to the Bolton legacy.

The transition was swift, a stark contrast to the elaborate ceremonies that often accompanied such unions in the southern lands of Westeros. Theon mused that this brevity might be due to the absence of priests in the north, but he also found comfort in the expedience of the ritual.

Once the cloaks had been exchanged, Ramsay Bolton swept his bride into his arms and marched forth into the enveloping mists. His father, Lord Roose Bolton, and his stepmother, Lady Walda, trailed behind, setting the procession in motion. The musicians in attendance took up their instruments anew, filling the air with a melodious tune that seemed to resonate with the joyous occasion. The bard Abel led the ensemble, performing a song titled "Two Hearts That Beat as One." The harmonious sound grew richer as two of his female companions added their voices to the melody, creating a poignant blend of sound that filled the space around them.

Theon considered whether it might be prudent to offer a prayer. Yet, the old gods were not his; they had never truly been his gods. He hailed from the Iron Islands, where the Drowned God reigned supreme. Here in Winterfell, far from the embrace of the sea, he questioned if his prayers would even reach the deities of his forsaken home. His identity eluded him, a tangled web of doubt and confusion. What was he? A son of Pyke, a Greyjoy, a man who bore witness to the unthinkable? The reasons for his survival remained as obscure as the purpose of his birth. A lifetime had passed since any divine entity had paid heed to his voice.

"Theon," a voice seemed to whisper.

His head snapped up. "Who said that?"

Theon Greyjoy gazed through the veil of trees and fog, his surroundings eerie and unsettling. The voice that had pierced the silence was faint, as delicate as rustling leaves, yet as chilling as pure hatred. It seemed to belong to a deity or perhaps a specter, a phantom of his tormented past.

A god's voice, or a ghost's, he mused to himself.

How many lives had been claimed the day he seized Winterfell? How many more on the day he had lost it all? The day Theon Greyjoy had met his end, only to rise again as the abomination known as Reek.

Reek, it rhymes with shriek.

Suddenly he did not want to be here.

Emerging from the godswood, the cold enveloped him with the ferocity of a hungry wolf, biting at his very soul. He tucked his head into the wind, his eyes on the beckoning warmth of the Great Hall, its flickering candles and torches guiding him through the frozen night.

With every step, ice crackled beneath his boots, as though the very ground itself was protesting his presence. A sudden gust of wind yanked his hood back, exposing his face to the biting cold, as though an unseen hand, spectral and frigid, had reached out to grasp him.

Winterfell was a realm of ghosts for Theon Greyjoy, a prison of his own making.

The castle he had known in the warm embrace of his youth had been transformed into a desolate wasteland. Its grandeur marred by battles past, it now stood as a testament to destruction, more a ruin than a fortress.

The great double curtain wall remained steadfast, a stoic sentinel that had withstood the ravages of fire, but the towers and keeps within had suffered greatly. Some had crumbled, while others were mere skeletons of their former selves, open to the unforgiving sky.

The once-thriving interior of the castle had been reduced to ash and decay.

Under the shattered panes of the Glass Garden, the fruits and vegetables that would have fed the castle during the winter were dead and black and frozen.

The castle's yard overflowed with the encampment of Roose Bolton's forces, tents buried deep in the snow like a frozen sea.

Roose Bolton had brought his host inside the walls, along with his friends the Freys; thousands huddled amongst the ruins, crowding every court, sleeping in cellar vaults and under topless towers, and in buildings abandoned for centuries.

Theon observed the plumes of grey smoke rising from the restored kitchens and barracks of Winterfell, their battlements and crenellations adorned with snow and icicles, the Stark colors starkly grey and white.

Theon did not know whether he ought to find that ominous or reassuring. Even the sky was grey. Grey and grey and greyer. The whole world grey, everywhere you look, everything grey except the eyes of the bride. The eyes of the bride were brown. Big and brown and full of fear.

It was not right that she should look to him for rescue. What had she been thinking, that he would whistle up a winged horse and fly her out of here, like some hero in the stories she and Sansa used to love? He could not even help himself.

Reek, Reek, it rhymes with meek.

Winterfell had been overrun with squatters when Bolton's forces had arrived. The most defiant and rebellious among them had been driven out and impaled at the castle's perimeter, a gruesome display of newfound authority.

Bolton had promised mercy to those who served him well, and so the strongest gates were reconstructed first. The Great Hall's collapsed roof was cleared, and a new one hastily raised in its place.

When the work was done, Lord Bolton hanged the workers.

True to his word, Lord Bolton had shown mercy, refraining from flaying any of them.

As the rest of Bolton's forces converged upon Winterfell, the winds from the north grew more fierce, carrying with them the banners of House Bolton and the flayed man emblem of the Dreadfort, signaling their arrival. Theon Greyjoy approached in the company of Lady Barbrey Dustin, her levies from Barrowton, and the girl who was to marry Ramsay Bolton.

The lady of Dustin had been adamant about her role as custodian for the girl she knew as Lady Arya Stark until the marriage was finalized, but now that time was done.

She belongs to Ramsay now. She said the words.

By this marriage Ramsay would be Lord of Winterfell.

So long as Jeyne took care not to anger him, he should have no cause to harm her.

Arya. Her name is Arya.

Even inside fur-lined gloves, Theon's hands had begun to throb with pain. It was often his hands that hurt the worst, especially his missing fingers. Had there truly been a time when women yearned for his touch?

He had once believed he would be celebrated as the Prince of Winterfell, the subject of epic ballads sung for generations to come.

Instead, he was vilified as Theon Turncloak, notorious for his betrayal.

His thoughts drifted back to the days when he was merely a hostage, the ward of Lord Eddard Stark. While the Stark lord had treated him with a degree of kindness, there was always an unspoken understanding that one day Theon's life might be forfeit.

The yard he traversed, surrounded by tents, had once been the site of his youthful training with Robb and Jon Snow. Old Ser Rodrik had overseen their lessons, and Theon recalled those carefree summer afternoons with a bittersweet ache.

That was back when he was whole, when he could grasp a sword hilt as well as any man. But the yard held darker memories as well.

This was where he had assembled Stark's people the night Bran and Rickon fled the castle.

Ramsay was Reek then, standing at his side, whispering that he should flay a few of his captives to make them tell him where the boys had gone.

There will be no flaying here whilst I am Prince of Winterfell, Theon had responded, little dreaming how short his rule would prove.

None of them would help me. I had known them all for half my life, and not one of them would help me.

Even so, he had done his best to protect them, but once Ramsay put Reek's face aside he'd slain all the men, and Theon's ironborn as well. He set my horse afire. That was the last sight he had seen the day the castle fell: Smiler burning, the flames leaping from his mane as he reared up, kicking, screaming, his eyes white with terror. Here in this very yard.

The doors of the Great Hall loomed up in front of him; new-made, to replace the doors that burned, they seemed crude and ugly to him, raw planks hastily joined.

Two guards, swaddled in fur cloaks thick enough to challenge the winter's chill, flanked the entrance. Their breaths puffed out in frosty clouds as they scrutinized Theon with a blend of disdain and wariness, their spears a silent testament to their readiness to repel any perceived threat.

Theon hobbled up the steps, pushed against the right-hand door, and slipped inside.

The Great Hall teemed with life, a sea of men and torches, the latter casting a flickering embrace across the assembly. It was as packed as he had ever witnessed, with benches groaning under the weight of their occupants. The air was thick with the aroma of roasting meats and the murmur of eager voices.

Men sat crammed knee to knee along the benches, so tightly packed that the servers had to squirm between them. Even the knights and lords above the salt enjoyed less space than usual.

Lord Manderly had brought musicians from White Harbor, but none were singers.

This Abel had arrived with a motley troupe of females, claiming them as his kin - two sisters, two daughters, one wife, and an elderly mother. Yet, their features bore no resemblance to his own, revealing a tale of convenience rather than blood.

"Some dance, some sing, one plays the pipe and one the drums. Good washerwomen too," he had boasted to the lord of the castle, securing his place within its walls with his falsehoods and the promise of entertainment.

Bard or pander, Abel's voice was passable, his playing fair.

The walls served as a canvas for various banners, each one representing a different House: the gold, brown, grey, and black horseheads of the Ryswells, the formidable roaring giant of House Umber, the stoic stone hand of House Flint, the majestic moose of Hornwood, and the mythical merman of Manderly. Cerwyn's fearsome black battle-axe and the Tallhart pines completed the display, fluttering solemnly in the breeze.

These vibrant emblems, however, could not completely obscure the scars of battle etched into the very fabric of the chamber. The sooty remnants of past fires marred the stones beneath, and wooden panels barricaded the spaces where windows had once allowed the warmth of daylight to enter.

Even the roof was wrong, its raw new timbers light and bright, where the old rafters had been stained almost black by centuries of smoke.

The most prominent banners were positioned behind the raised platform where the bride and groom were to stand: the imposing direwolf of Winterfell loomed over the scene, paired with the chilling flayed man of the Dreadfort.

Wrong, it's wrong, as wrong as her eyes.

The arms of House Poole were a blue plate on white, framed by a grey tressure. Those were the arms they should have hung.

"Theon Turncloak," someone said as he passed.

Men averted their gazes, some in disgust. One could not resist the urge to spit upon the ground as a sign of his contempt.

It was a name he had earned through his actions, a traitor who had seized Winterfell through deceit and taken the lives of his foster brothers. He had also delivered his foster sister into the cruel embrace of Lord Ramsay's bed, a fate worse than death for any true daughter of the north. Roose Bolton may find some value in him, but the genuine sons of the north could never hold him in esteem.

The missing toes on his left foot gave him a peculiar, crab-like gait that was almost comical to observe. Behind him, a woman's laughter echoed through the cold, snow-laden air of the castle's burial ground. In this stark, icy fortress where death loomed, women still found their place. Washerwomen, they were often called, a courteous term for camp followers, which in turn was a delicate way to refer to whores.

Theon had no idea where they originated from. They simply materialized, much like maggots flocking to a corpse or ravens after a battle, drawn to every military encampment. Some were seasoned professionals, capable of pleasuring two dozen men in a single evening before engaging in a round of drinking that would leave the most hardened soldiers in awe. Others bore an innocent, maidenly countenance, a clever guise in their line of work.

Then there were the camp brides, bound by secret vows to the men they trailed, only to be discarded once the fighting ceased. These women would tend to a soldier's needs, from the most intimate to the most mundane, mending his footwear and preparing his meals, and even sharing in the plunder of the slain. Occasionally, they'd perform the duties their title suggested.

In their wake, they often brought forth bastard offspring, wretched and unkempt children born into the transitory life of warfare. Even these pitiful beings found amusement in taunting Theon Turncloak.

Let them laugh, he thought. His pride had been buried here in the bowels of Winterfell, along with any semblance of dignity. The dungeons of the Dreadfort had seen to that. After experiencing the caress of a flaying knife, a mere laugh held no power to cause him pain.

Birth and blood afforded him a seat upon the dais at the end of the high table, beside a wall. To his left sat Lady Dustin, clad as ever in black wool, severe in cut and unadorned. To his right sat no one. They are all afraid the dishonour might rub off on them. If he had dared, he would have laughed.

The bride had the place of highest honor, between Ramsay and his father. She sat with eyes downcast as Roose Bolton bid them drink to Lady Arya. "In her children our two ancient houses will become as one,"

he said, "and the long enmity between Stark and Bolton will be ended." His voice was so soft that the hall grew hushed as men strained to hear. "I am sorry that our good friend Stannis has not seen fit to join us yet," he went on, to a ripple of laughter, "as I know Ramsay had hoped to present his head to Lady Arya as a wedding gift." The laughs grew louder. "We shall give him a splendid welcome when he arrives, a welcome worthy of true northmen. Until that day, let us eat and drink and make merry... for winter is almost upon us, my friends, and many of us here shall not live to see the spring."

The Lord of White Harbor had provided the bountiful feast, with beverages such as dark stout and golden ales, along with an assortment of red and gold wines that had been shipped from the warm south and matured in his vast cellars.

The wedding attendees indulged in a variety of dishes, including crispy cod cakes and tender winter squash, mounds of turnips and cheese, and massive portions of mutton and beef ribs that had been roasted until almost black. The pièce de résistance was a trio of colossal wedding pies, each as broad as a wagon wheel, their crusts brimming with a delightful mix of carrots, onions, turnips, parsnips, and succulent pork chunks all bathed in a rich, flavorful gravy.

Ramsay Bolton, the notorious host of the evening, took charge of carving the pies with his distinctive falchion. Wyman Manderly, the esteemed guest, assisted in serving, offering the initial portions to the esteemed couple, Roose Bolton and his rotund Frey bride, followed by their esteemed relatives, Ser Hosteen and Ser Aenys Frey.

"The best pie you have ever tasted, my lords," the jovial Manderly announced. "Wash it down with Arbor gold and savour every bite. I know I shall."

In keeping with his promise, Manderly consumed six servings, two from each of the trio of pies presented to him. He savoured them with enthusiasm, smacking his lips together and patting his expansive belly after each indulgent bite. The sight of him was one of a man thoroughly enjoying his meal, with his tunic's front stained a dark brown from the rich gravy and his beard adorned with a sprinkling of crumbs from the crust.

Fat Walda Frey, though known for her own penchant for food, could not rival Manderly's voracious appetite this evening. She contented herself with three slices of pie, a respectable amount yet dwarfed by his consumption.

Ramsay, ever the robust eater, also enjoyed his meal heartily, though his new bride remained a silent and unmoving presence at the table.

Her plate held a solitary slice of pie, untouched and unblemished. When she finally lifted her gaze from it to meet Theon's, the fear that lurked within the depths of her large brown eyes was unmistakable.

No longswords had been allowed within the hall, but every man there wore a dagger, even Theon Greyjoy. How else to cut his meat?

Every time he looked at the girl who had been Jeyne Poole, he felt the presence of that steel at his side.

I have no way to save her, he thought, but I could kill her easy enough. No one would expect it. I could beg her for the honour of a dance and cut her throat. That would be a kindness, wouldn't it? And if the old gods hear my prayer, Ramsay in his wroth might strike me dead as well.

Theon Greyjoy faced the prospect of death without fear. His time within the bowels of the Dreadfort had acquainted him with torments far more dreadful than the mere cessation of life. Ramsay Bolton had been his relentless tutor in these matters, imparting the grisly education through a methodical dismantling of his body, one digit at a time. These harrowing experiences etched an indelible truth into his soul: death was not the worst fate that could befall a man.

"You do not eat," observed Lady Dustin. "No." Eating was hard for him. Ramsay had left him with so many broken teeth that chewing was an agony. Drinking was easier, though he had to grasp the wine cup with both hands to keep from dropping it.

"No taste for pork pie, my lord? The best pork pie we ever tasted, our fat friend would have us believe." She gestured toward Lord Manderly with her wine cup. "Have you ever seen a fat man so happy? He is almost dancing. Serving with his own hands."

It was true. The Lord of White Harbor was the very picture of the jolly fat man, laughing and smiling, japing with the other lords and slapping them on the back, calling out to the musicians for this tune or that tune.

"Give us 'The Night That Ended,' singer," he bellowed. "The bride will like that one, I know. Or sing to us of brave young Danny Flint and make us weep." To look at him, you would have thought that he was the one newly wed.

"He's drunk," said Theon. "Drowning his fears. He is craven to the bone, that one."

Was he? Theon was not certain. His sons had been fat as well, but they had not shamed themselves in battle. "Ironborn will feast before a battle too. A last taste of life, should death await. If Stannis comes..."

"He will. He must." Lady Dustin chuckled. "And when he does, the fat man will piss himself. His son died at the Red Wedding, yet he's shared his bread and salt with Freys, welcomed them beneath his roof, promised one his granddaughter. He even serves them pie. The Manderlys ran from the south once, hounded from their lands and keeps by enemies. Blood runs true. The fat man would like to kill us all, I do not doubt, but he does not have the belly for it, for all his girth. Under that sweaty flesh beats a heart as craven and cringing as... well... yours."

Her last word was a lash, but Theon dared not answer back in kind. Any insolence would cost him skin. "If my lady believes Lord Manderly wants to betray us, Lord Bolton is the one to tell."

"You think Roose does not know? Silly boy. Watch him. Watch how he watches Manderly. No dish so much as touches Roose's lips until he sees Lord Wyman eat of it first. No cup of wine is sipped until he sees Manderly drink of the same cask. I think he would be pleased if the fat man attempted some betrayal. It would amuse him. Roose has no feelings, you see. Those leeches that he loves so well sucked all the passions out of him years ago. He does not love, he does not hate, he does not grieve. This is a game to him, mildly perting. Some men hunt, some hawk, some tumble dice. Roose plays with men. You and me, these Freys, Lord Manderly, his plump new wife, even his bastard, we are but his playthings." A serving man was passing by. Lady Dustin held out her wine cup and let him fill it, then gestured for him to do the same for Theon. "Truth be told," she said, "Lord Bolton aspires to more than mere lordship. Why not King of the North? Tywin Lannister is dead, the Kingslayer is maimed, the Imp is fled. The Lannisters are a spent force, and you were kind enough to rid him of the Starks. Old Walder Frey will not object to his fat little Walda becoming a queen. White Harbor might prove troublesome should Lord Wyman survive this coming battle ... but I am quite sure that he will not. No more than Stannis. Roose will remove both of them, as he removed the Young Wolf. Who else is there?"

"You," said Theon. "There is you. The Lady of Barrowton, a Dustin by marriage, a Ryswell by birth."

That pleased her. She took a sip of wine, her dark eyes sparkling, and said, "The widow of Barrowton ... and yes, if I so choose, I could be an inconvenience. Of course, Roose sees that too, so he takes care to keep me sweet."

As Maester Medrick went to one knee to whisper in Bolton's ear, Lady Dustin's mouth twisted in distaste. "If I were queen, the first thing I would do would be to kill all those grey rats. They scurry everywhere, living on the leavings of the lords, chittering to one another, whispering in the ears of their masters. But who are the masters and who are the servants, truly? Every great lord has his maester, every lesser lord aspires to one. If you do not have a maester, it is taken to mean that you are of little consequence. The grey rats read and write our letters, even for such lords as cannot read themselves, and who can say for a certainty that they are not twisting the words for their own ends? What good are they, I ask you?"

"They heal," said Theon. It seemed to be expected of him.

"They heal, yes. I never said they were not subtle. They tend to us when we are sick and injured, or distraught over the illness of a parent or a child. Whenever we are weakest and most vulnerable, there they are. Sometimes they heal us, and we are duly grateful. When they fail, they console us in our grief, and we are grateful for that as well. Out of gratitude we give them a place beneath our roof and make them privy to all our shames and secrets, a part of every council. And before too long, the ruler has become the ruled. That was how it was with Lord Rickard Stark. Maester Walys was his grey rat's name. And isn't it clever how the maesters go by only one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from ... but if you are dogged enough, you can still find out. Before he forged his chain, Maester Walys had been known as Walys Flowers. Flowers, Hill, Rivers, Snow... we give such names to baseborn children to mark them for what they are, but they are always quick to shed them. Walys Flowers had a Hightower girl for a mother... and an archmaester of the Citadel for a father, it was rumored. The grey rats are not as chaste as they would have us believe. Oldtown maesters are the worst of all. Once he forged his chain, his secret father and his friends wasted no time dispatching him to Winterfell to fill Lord Rickard's ears with poisoned words as sweet as honey. The Tully marriage was his notion, never doubt it, he—"

She broke off as Roose Bolton rose to his feet, pale eyes shining in the torchlight. "My friends," he began, and a hush swept through the hall, so profound that Theon could hear the wind plucking at the boards over the windows. "Stannis and his knights have left Deepwood Motte, flying the banner of his new red god. The clans of the northern hills come with him on their shaggy runtish horses. If the weather holds, they could be on us in a fortnight. And Crowfood Umber marches down the kingsroad, whilst the Karstarks approach from the east. They mean to join with Lord Stannis here and take this castle from us."

Ser Hosteen Frey pushed to his feet. "We should ride forth to meet them. Why allow them to combine their strength?"

Because Arnolf Karstark awaits only a sign from Lord Bolton before he turns his cloak, thought Theon, as other lords began to shout out counsel. Lord Bolton raised his hands for silence. "The hall is not the place for such discussions, my lords. Let us adjourn to the solar whilst my son consummates his marriage. The rest of you, remain and enjoy the food and drink."

The Lord of the Dreadfort made a discreet exit, flanked by the trio of maesters. In his wake, various lords and military commanders began to rise from their seats. Among them was Hother Umber, the grimly nicknamed Whoresbane, who went grim-faced and scowling.

Waddling through the parting crowd, Lord Manderly's state of inebriation was such that it necessitated the assistance of four robust individuals to escort him out of the hall. As he passed by Theon, who was propped up by his own entourage of knights, the lord's slurred voice echoed a peculiar request. "We should have a song about the Rat Cook," he insisted, his words thick with drink. "Someone, fetch the singer. Let's have a song about the Rat Cook."

Lady Dustin was one of the final attendees to rise from her seat. Upon her departure, the hall abruptly felt oppressive and stifling.

Only when Theon gathered himself and stood up did he become aware of the substantial quantity of wine he had consumed.

As he staggered away from the table, his clumsiness caused a serving girl's flagon to slip from her grasp. A crimson wave of wine cascaded over his boots and breeches, creating a stark contrast against the fabric.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, five fingers hard as iron digging deep into his flesh. "You're wanted, Reek," said Sour Alyn, his breath foul with the smell from his rotten teeth. Yellow Dick and Damon Dance-for-Me were with him. "Ramsay says you're to bring his bride to his bed."

A shiver of fear went through him. I played my part, he thought. Why me? He knew better than to object, though.

Lord Ramsay had already left the hall. His bride, forlorn and seemingly forgotten, sat hunched and silent beneath the banner of House Stark, clutching a silver goblet in both hands.

The goblet she held was not her first of the evening. Her attempts to numb herself with the strongwine of the North were evident in her unsteady gait and the deep crimson that stained her lips. Theon understood the futility of her efforts. He knew that no amount of drink could save her from the horrors that awaited her.

"Lady Arya," he said. "Come. It is time you did your duty."

Theon Greyjoy led the young girl through the chilly courtyard, flanked by six of the Bastard's men, their breaths frosting in the cold air. They ascended the Great Keep's sturdy stone staircase, which spiraled upwards.

The flaming torches cast flickering shadows on the ancient walls, highlighting the scant remnants of the recent fires that had danced across the wooden beams and stone floors.

Damon, known as Dance-for-Me, filled the air with a haunting tune as they climbed, his whistling echoing off the stone like a melancholic serenade. Skinner, ever the boisterous one, regaled the group with tales of his future reward for his loyal service. "The Lord of Winterfell has promised me a piece of the blood-soaked bedlinen," he declared, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. "A token of his esteem, for when I am done with her, she will be well and truly broken."

Theon said nothing, his gaze fixed ahead as he navigated the castle's labyrinthine corridors. Each step brought them closer to their grim destination, a place where the girl's fate would be sealed in the most intimate of ways.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily upon him, yet his role in this macabre event was clear. He was the instrument of the Bastard's will, the reluctant guide in this twisted journey to the heart of darkness that lay within the keep's embrace.

Three tiers of stairs later, they reached the chamber of Lord Ramsay Bolton.

The bedchamber had been well prepared for the consummation.

The space had been adorned with freshly procured furnishings from Barrowton, their journey marked by their inclusion in the baggage train that accompanied the entourage.

The centrepiece of the room, a canopy bed, boasted a plush feather mattress and was enveloped by a cloak of blood-red velvet drapes. The cold stone floor had been warmed by the addition of wolfskins, their fur a stark contrast to the harshness beneath.

A fire was burning in the hearth, a candle on the bedside table. On the sideboard was a flagon of wine, two cups, and a half wheel of veined white cheese.

As the doors to the chamber swung open, Lord Ramsay Bolton's presence was immediately felt. He had claimed the chair of black oak with its crimson leather seat, his mouth agape as if in anticipation, spittle gleaming upon his lips like morning dew. His eyes, sharp as the edge of an ice dagger, swept over the newcomers, a silent challenge and promise in their depths.

"There's my sweet maid. Good lads. You may leave us now. Not you, Reek. You stay."

Reek, Reek, it rhymes with peek. He could feel his missing fingers cramping: two on his left hand, one on his right. And on his hip his dagger rested, sleeping in its leather sheath, but heavy, oh so heavy. It is only my pinky gone on my right hand, Theon reminded himself. I can still grip a knife. "My lord. How may I serve you?"

"You gave the wench to me. Who better to unwrap the gift? Let's have a look at Ned Stark's little daughter."

She is no kin to Lord Eddard, Theon almost said. Ramsay knows, he has to know. What new cruel game is this? The girl was standing by a bedpost, trembling like a doe. "Lady Arya, if you will turn your back, I must needs unlace your gown."

"No." Lord Ramsay poured himself a cup of wine. "Laces take too long. Cut it off her."

Theon drew the dagger. All I need do is turn and stab him. The knife is in my hand. He knew the game by then. Another trap, he told himself, remembering Kyra with her keys. He wants me to try to kill him. And when I fail, he' ll flay the skin from the hand I used to hold the blade. He grabbed a handful of the bride's skirt. "Stand still, my lady." The gown was loose below the waist, so that was where he slid the blade in, slicing upward slowly, so as not to cut her. Steel whispered through wool and silk with a faint, soft sound. The girl was shaking. Theon had to grab her arm to hold her still. Jeyne, Jeyne, it rhymes with pain. He tightened his grip, as much as his maimed left hand would allow. "Stay still."

Finally the gown fell away, a pale tangle round her feet. "Her small-clothes too," Ramsay commanded. Reek obeyed.

When it was done the bride stood naked, her bridal finery a heap of white and grey rags about her feet.

Her br**sts were small and pointed, her hips narrow and girlish, her legs as skinny as a bird's. A child. Theon had forgotten how young she was. Sansa's age. Arya would be even younger.

"What do you think of her, Reek?" asked Lord Ramsay. "She..."

What answer does he want? What was it the girl had said, before the godswood? They all said that I was pretty. She was not pretty now. He could see a spiderweb of faint thin lines across her back where someone had whipped her. "... she is beautiful, so... so beautiful."

Ramsay smiled his wet smile. "Does she make your c**k hard, Reek?

Is it straining against your laces? Would you like to f**k her first?" He laughed. "The Prince of Winterfell should have that right, as all lords did in days of old. The first night. But you're no lord, are you? Only Reek. Not even a man, truth be told."

He took another gulp of wine, then threw the cup

across the room to shatter off a wall. Red rivers ran down across the stone.

"Lady Arya. Get on the bed. Yes, against the pillows, that's a good wife. Now spread your legs. Let us see your c*nt."

The girl obeyed, wordless. Theon took a step back toward the door. Lord Ramsay sat beside his bride, slid his hand along her inner thigh, then jammed two fingers up inside her. The girl let out a gasp of pain. "You're dry as an old bone." Ramsay pulled his hand free and slapped her face. "I was told that you'd know how to please a man. Was that a lie?"

"N-no, my lord. I was t-trained."

Ramsay rose, the firelight shining on his face. "Reek, get over here. Get her ready for me."

For a moment he did not understand. "I ... do you mean ... m'lord, I have no ... I ..."

"With your mouth," Lord Ramsay said. "And be quick about it. If she's not wet by the time I'm done disrobing, I will cut off that tongue of yours and nail it to the wall."

Somewhere in the godswood, a raven screamed. The dagger was still in his hand.

He sheathed it.

Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with weak. Reek bent to his task.