[Winterfell]

Day arrived quietly, much like Stannis. Winterfell had been bustling for hours. Soldiers in wool, mail, and leather filled the battlements, waiting for an attack that never happened. As dawn broke, the drums fell silent, but warhorns sounded three more times, growing closer each time. The snow continued to fall.

"The storm will end today," a stableboy insisted. "Why, it isn't even winter."

Theon would have laughed but held back. He recalled Old Nan's stories of storms lasting forty days or even years, burying entire kingdoms in snow.

He sat at the back of the Great Hall, near the horses. He watched Abel, Rowan, and a timid washerwoman named Squirrel devour slabs of stale bread fried in bacon grease. Theon sipped dark ale, thick and cloudy, breaking his fast. A few more tankards, and perhaps Abel's plan wouldn't seem so crazy.

Roose Bolton entered the hall, pale-eyed and yawning, with his plump, pregnant wife, Fat Walda, beside him. Several lords and captains, including Whoresbane Umber, Aenys Frey, and Roger Ryswell, had already arrived. Wyman Manderly sat farther down the table, devouring sausages and boiled eggs, while old Lord Locke spooned gruel into his toothless mouth.

Lord Ramsay soon followed, tightening his sword belt as he approached the front. Theon sensed Ramsay's foul mood. The drums had kept him awake all night, or someone had angered him. One wrong word or look could trigger Ramsay's wrath, and it could cost someone dearly. Theon thought, Please, don't look this way. Just a glance from Ramsay could reveal everything he felt.

He turned to Abel. "This will not work," he whispered, barely audible. "We'll be caught before we leave the castle. If we do escape, Ramsay will hunt us down with Ben Bones and the girls."

Abel's fingers danced over his lute strings. "Lord Stannis is outside the walls, not far away. We just need to reach him."

Theon wanted to believe that. He thought, Think that. Believe that. But he warned Abel, "Ramsay will use your women as his prey. He'll hunt them down, rape them, and feed their bodies to his dogs. If they put up a good chase, he might even name his next litter after them. You, he'll flay. He and Skinner and Damon Dance-for-Me will turn it into a game. You'll be begging for death." He gripped the singer's arm tightly with his damaged hand. "You promised you wouldn't let me fall into his hands again. I need to hear it again."

"Abel's word," Squirrel said. "Strong as oak." Abel shrugged. "No matter what, my prince."

On the dais, Ramsay argued with his father. Theon couldn't hear their words, but the fear on Fat Walda's face was clear. He caught snippets of Wyman Manderly demanding more sausages and Roger Ryswell laughing at a joke from one-armed Harwood Stout. Theon wondered about his fate—would he face the Drowned God or remain trapped in Winterfell?

Better dead than Reek. If Abel's plan failed, Ramsay would make sure his death was painful. No pain compared to what Skinner could inflict with a flensing blade. Abel would learn this soon enough. And for what? Jeyne. Her eyes are the wrong color. She's a mummer playing a part. Ramsay knows, but the others are oblivious, even the bard with his sly smiles.

The joke's on you, Abel. You'll die for the wrong girl. He almost revealed the truth when Rowan brought him to Abel, but he stayed silent. The singer seemed intent on pursuing Eddard Stark's daughter. If he knew Ramsay's bride was just a steward's child...

The Great Hall doors crashed open. A cold wind swept in, scattering ice crystals. In walked Ser Hosteen Frey, snow-covered and carrying a body. Men put down their cups, gaping at the horror. Silence fell over the hall. Another murder. Snow slid off Ser Hosteen's cloak as he marched to the high table, followed by Frey knights and men-at-arms. One was Big Walder, the skinny one, blood splattered across his chest and arms.

The horses screamed at the scent. Dogs crawled out from under tables, sniffing. Men stood from their benches. Ser Hosteen cradled a body, glimmering in pink frost under the torchlight. The cold had frozen his blood.

"My brother Merrett's son," he said, lowering the body to the floor before the dais. "Butchered like a hog and shoved beneath a snowbank. A boy."

Little Walder, Theon thought. The big one. He glanced at Rowan, recalling there were six of them. Any could be guilty. But the washerwoman caught his gaze.

"This was no work of ours," she said.

"Be quiet," Abel snapped.

Lord Ramsay stepped down to inspect the body. His father followed, slow and solemn. "This was foul work." Roose Bolton's voice rang clear. "Where was the body found?"

"Under that ruined keep, my lord," replied Big Walder. "The one with the old gargoyles." The boy's gloves were stained with blood. "I warned him not to go out alone. He insisted he had to find a man who owed him silver."

"What man?" Ramsay demanded. "Give me his name, and I will make you a cloak of his skin."

"He never said, my lord. Just that he won the coin at dice." Big Walder hesitated. "Some White Harbor men taught him. I couldn't say which ones."

"My lord," Hosteen Frey boomed. "We know who did this. He didn't kill the boy himself. He's too fat and craven. But he ordered it."

He turned to Wyman Manderly. "Do you deny it?"

The Lord of White Harbor bit into a sausage. "I confess..." He wiped grease from his sleeve. "...I know little of this poor boy. Lord Ramsay's squire, was he? How old was he?"

"Nine, on his last nameday."

"So young," Wyman Manderly remarked. "But perhaps it's for the best. If he had lived, he would have become a Frey."

Suddenly, Ser Hosteen Frey slammed his foot onto the table, knocking it over into Lord Wyman's large stomach. Cups and platters flew everywhere. Manderly's men sprang up, grabbing knives and anything they could use as weapons.

Ser Hosteen drew his longsword and lunged at Wyman. The Lord of White Harbor tried to escape, but the table held him down. The sword cut through three of his chins, blood spraying. Lady Walda screamed, clutching her husband's arm.

"Stop," Roose Bolton shouted. "Stop this madness."

Bolton's men rushed forward as the Manderlys jumped over benches to fight the Freys. One Manderly man attacked Ser Hosteen with a dagger, but the knight swiftly amputated his arm. Lord Wyman attempted to stand but fell instead.

Old Lord Locke shouted for a maester while Wyman lay on the floor, bleeding. Dogs fought over the scattered sausages.

It took two dozen Dreadfort spearmen to break up the fighting. By then, six men from White Harbor and two Freys were dead. More were injured, and one of Ramsay's men, Luton, moaned in pain, trying to push his insides back into a wound.

Ramsay silenced him with a spear thrust. The hall was still chaotic, filled with shouts, prayers, and the sounds of distressed animals. Steelshanks Walton had to bang his spear on the floor multiple times before Roose Bolton could be heard over the noise.

"I see you all want blood," the Lord of the Dreadfort stated. Beside him stood Maester Rhodry, a raven perched on his arm. The bird's dark feathers glistened in the torchlight, wet from the night air. Theon noticed the parchment in Lord Bolton's hand was also damp, its dark message matching the bird's wings.

"Instead of turning our swords on one another, direct them at Lord Stannis," he suggested. Lord Bolton unfurled the parchment. "His army is just three days away, trapped in snow and starving. I'm tired of waiting. Ser Hosteen, gather your knights and men-at-arms at the main gates. Since you're eager for battle, you'll make the first strike. Lord Wyman, assemble your White Harbor men at the east gate. They will join you."

Hosteen Frey's sword was stained with blood, droplets marking his face. He lowered his weapon and replied, "As my lord commands. After I bring you Stannis Baratheon's head, I'll finish off Lord Wyman too."

Around Lord Wyman, four knights formed a protective ring while Maester Medrick worked to stop his bleeding. "First, you must get through us, ser," said the oldest knight, a grizzled man with a bloodied surcoat displaying three silver mermaids on a violet background.

"Gladly. One at a time or all at once; it makes no difference," Hosteen retorted.

"Enough!" Lord Ramsay roared, raising his bloody spear. "Another threat, and I'll deal with you myself. My father has spoken! Save your anger for the pretender Stannis."

Roose Bolton nodded in approval. "As he says. There will be time enough to fight each other once we are done with Stannis." He scanned the hall until his gaze landed on the bard Abel beside Theon. "Singer," he called, "come sing us something soothing." Abel bowed. "If it please your lordship."

With lute in hand, he made his way to the dais, skillfully stepping over a corpse or two, and sat cross-legged at the high table. He started to play a soft, sad song that Theon didn't recognize. Meanwhile, Ser Hosteen, Ser Aenys, and the other Freys turned to lead their horses from the hall.

Rowan grabbed Theon's arm. "The bath. It must be now." He pulled away. "By day? We will be seen."

"The snow will hide us. Are you deaf? Bolton is sending forth his swords. We have to reach King Stannis before they do."

"But... Abel ..."

"Abel can fend for himself," murmured Squirrel.

This is madness. Theon felt hopeless. He drained his ale and stood up. "Find your sisters. It takes a deal of water to fill my lady's tub." Squirrel slipped away quietly. Rowan guided Theon out of the hall. Since they had found him in the godswood, one of her sisters had followed him closely, never letting him out of sight. They didn't trust him. Why should they? I was Reek before and might be Reek again. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with sneak.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. The snowmen built by the squires loomed like monstrous giants, ten feet tall and oddly shaped. As Theon and Rowan walked toward the godswood, the paths had become icy trenches, making it easy to get lost. But Theon knew every twist and turn. Even the godswood was turning white. Ice formed on the pool beneath the heart tree, and the face carved into its trunk looked like it had a mustache of icicles.

At this hour, they couldn't expect to have the old gods to themselves. Rowan pulled Theon away from the northmen praying before the tree and led him to a secluded spot by the barracks wall, next to a pool of warm mud that smelled of rotten eggs. Even the mud was icing up.

"Winter is coming..."

Rowan shot him a fierce glare. "You have no right to speak Lord Eddard's words. Not you. Not ever. After what you did—"

"You killed a boy as well."

"That was not us. I told you."

"Words are wind. They're no better than me. We're just the same."

"You killed the others. Why not him? Yellow Dick—"

"—stank just like you. A pig of a man."

"And Little Walder was a piglet. Killing him made the Freys and Manderlys turn against each other. That was clever, you—"

"Not us."

Rowan grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the barracks wall, her face inches from his. "Say it again, and I will rip your lying tongue out, kinslayer."

He smiled through broken teeth. "You won't. You need my tongue to get past the guards. You need my lies."

Rowan spat in his face, then released him, wiping her gloved hands on her legs as if he had dirtied her. Theon knew he shouldn't provoke her. She was as dangerous as Skinner or Damon Dance-for-Me.

But he was cold, tired, and his head throbbed. He hadn't slept in days.

"I've done terrible things... betrayed my own, turned my cloak, ordered the deaths of men who trusted me... but I am no kinslayer."

"Stark's boys were never brothers to you. We know."

That was true. But Theon meant he never harmed them. The two they killed were just miller's sons. He didn't want to think about their mother. He had known the miller's wife for years.

Joys he would never taste again.

But there was no point in telling Rowan any of that. She wouldn't believe him, just as he didn't believe her.

"There is blood on my hands, but not the blood of brothers," he said wearily. "And I've been punished."

"Not enough."

Rowan turned her back on him. Foolish woman. He might be broken, but Theon still had a dagger. It would be easy to drive it into her back. It might even be a kindness—quicker than the end she and her sisters would face when Ramsay caught them.

Reek might have done it. Would have done it, to please Lord Ramsay. These women aimed to steal Ramsay's bride; Reek couldn't allow that.

But the old gods knew him. They called him Theon. Ironborn, Balon Greyjoy's son and rightful heir to Pyke.

The stumps of his fingers twitched, but he kept his dagger sheathed.

When Squirrel returned, four others were with her: Myrtle, Willow, Frenya, and Holly. They looked like serving girls in grey roughspun, cloaked in brown wool lined with rabbit fur.

No swords, Theon noted. Just knives.

Myrtle had servant's garb for Rowan. "The yards are crawling with fools," she warned. "They mean to ride out."

"Kneelers," Willow scoffed. "Their lordly lord spoke, they must obey."

"They're going to die," Holly chirped, excitedly.

"Them and us," Theon replied. "Even if we get past the guards, how do you plan to get Lady Arya out?"

Holly smiled. "Six women go in, six come out. Who pays attention to serving girls? We'll dress the Stark girl as Squirrel."

Theon looked at Squirrel. They were nearly the same size. It could work. "And how does Squirrel get out?"

Squirrel spoke up. "Out a window and straight down to the godswood. I was twelve when my brother first took me raiding south of your Wall. That's how I got my name. He said I looked like a squirrel climbing a tree. I've crossed that Wall six times since. I think I can climb down a stone tower."

"Happy, turncloak?" Rowan asked. "Let's get to it."

Winterfell's kitchen was in a separate building, far from the main halls to prevent fire. The smells shifted constantly—roast meats, leeks, onions, and fresh bread filled the air. Roose Bolton had guards at the kitchen door. With so many to feed, every scrap mattered. Even the cooks were under close watch. But the guards knew Reek and liked to mock him when he came for hot water for Lady Arya's bath. They wouldn't go further, though. Reek was Ramsay's pet.

"The Prince of Stink is here for hot water," one guard announced when Theon and the serving girls arrived. He opened the door. "Quick, before all that warm air escapes."

Inside, Theon grabbed a passing potboy. "Hot water for m'lady, boy. Six pails, and make sure it's hot. Lord Ramsay wants her clean."

"Aye, m'lord," the boy said. "At once."

But "at once" took longer than Theon wanted. None of the big kettles were clean, so the potboy had to scrub one first. It took forever to boil and even longer to fill six pails. Meanwhile, Abel's women waited, their faces hidden by cowls.

They were doing it wrong. Real serving girls flirted and teased. Rowan and her sisters were trying to avoid attention, but their silence drew the guards' curiosity.

"Where's Maisie, Jez, and the others?" one asked Theon. "The usual ones."

"Lady Arya was displeased with them," he lied. "Her water was cold before it reached the tub last time."

Hot water filled the air with steam, melting snowflakes that drifted down. The procession moved through ice-walled trenches. With each sloshing step, the water cooled. Troops clogged the passages: armored knights in woolen surcoats, men-at-arms with spears, archers with unstrung bows and arrows, freeriders, and grooms leading warhorses.

The Frey men displayed their two towers badge. Those from White Harbor showed a merman and trident. They passed each other cautiously, but no swords were drawn. Not here. Perhaps outside, in the woods, it was different.

Half a dozen seasoned Dreadfort men stood guard at the Great Keep doors. "Another bloody bath?" the serjeant asked, hands tucked in his armpits against the cold. "She had a bath last night. How dirty can one woman get in her own bed?"

Dirtier than you know, Theon thought, recalling the wedding night and what he and Jeyne endured.

"Lord Ramsay's command."

"Get in there, then, before the water freezes," the serjeant replied. Two guards pushed open the double doors.

The entryway was as cold as the outside air. Holly kicked snow off her boots and pulled down her hood. "I thought that would be harder." Her breath misted in the chill.

"There are more guards upstairs at m'lord's bedchamber," Theon warned. "Ramsay's men." He wouldn't call them the Bastard's Boys here; you never knew who was listening. "Keep your heads down and your hoods up."

"Do as he says, Holly," Rowan added. "Some will know your face. We don't need that trouble."

Theon led the way up the stairs. He had climbed these steps countless times. As a boy, he would race up them and leap down three at a time. Once, he knocked Old Nan over. That earned him a severe beating at Winterfell, but it was nothing compared to the thrashings from his brothers on Pyke.

He and Robb had fought many battles on those steps with wooden swords. It taught him how tough it is to fight your way up against determined foes. Ser Rodrik used to say one good man could hold off a hundred while fighting down.

But that was long ago. They were all gone now.

Jory, old Ser Rodrik, Lord Eddard, Harwin, Hullen, Cayn, Desmond, Fat Tom, Alyn with his knighthood dreams, Mikken who gifted him his first sword. Even Old Nan, most likely. And Robb. Robb had been more of a brother to Theon than any of Balon Greyjoy's sons.

Robb had been murdered at the Red Wedding, slaughtered by the Freys.

Theon thought, I should have been with him. Where was I? I should have died with him.

Theon halted abruptly, nearly causing Willow to crash into him. Before them stood the door to Ramsay's bedchamber, guarded by Sour Alyn and Grunt. Ramsay often joked that Grunt had no tongue and Alyn no brains. One was brutal, the other unpleasant, both loyal to the Dreadfort. They followed orders without question.

"I have hot water for Lady Arya," Theon announced.

"Try washing yourself, Reek," Alyn shot back. "You smell like horse piss."

Grunt grunted, possibly in agreement or as a laugh. Alyn unlocked the door, and Theon gestured for the women to enter. Inside, the room was shrouded in shadows. A single log crackled weakly in the hearth, and a candle flickered beside an empty, rumpled bed. Theon feared the worst—had she thrown herself out a window in despair? But the windows were tightly shut, blocked by snow and frost.

"Where is she?" Holly asked, her voice tense. Her sisters poured their water into a large wooden tub. Frenya closed the door behind them, leaning against it.

"Where is she?" Holly repeated. Outside, a horn blared—a trumpet announcing the Freys gathering for battle. Theon felt a twitch in his missing fingers.

Then he spotted her. In the darkest corner of the room, curled beneath wolfskins, was Jeyne. She trembled, hidden from view. Was she avoiding them or waiting for Ramsay? The thought of Ramsay's approach filled him with dread.

"My lady," he said, unable to call her Arya or Jeyne. "No need to hide. These are friends."

The furs shifted. An eye appeared, glistening with tears. It was dark—a brown eye.

"Theon?" she whispered.

"Lady Arya." Rowan stepped closer. "You must come with us, and quickly. We've come to take you to your brother."

"Brother?" The girl peeked out from her wolfskins. "I... I have no brothers." She had forgotten herself.

"That's true," Theon replied. "But you had brothers once. Robb, Bran, and Rickon."

"They're dead. I have no brothers now."

"You have a half-brother," Rowan interjected. "Lord Crow."

"Jon Snow?"

"We'll take you to him, but you need to come now."

Jeyne clutched her wolfskins tighter. "No. This is a trick. It's my lord, my sweet lord, who sent you. It's a test to see if I love him. I do. More than anything." Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Tell him I will do whatever he wants... with him or the dog. Please... he doesn't have to cut my feet off. I swear I'll give him sons."

Rowan whistled softly. "Gods curse the man."

"I'm a good girl," Jeyne sobbed. "They trained me."

Willow frowned. "Someone stop her crying. That guard can hear."

"Get her up, turncloak," Holly demanded, knife in hand. "We have to go. Get her on her feet."

"And if she screams?" Rowan asked.

Theon thought, We are all dead. I warned them, but they wouldn't listen. Abel had doomed them.

He knelt beside her, pushed down the furs, and touched her cheek. "You know me. I'm Theon. I know you too. I know your name."

"My name?" She shook her head. "My name... it's..."

He placed a finger on her lips. "We can talk later. You need to be quiet now. Come with us. We will take you away from here. Away from him."

Her eyes widened. "Please," she whispered. "Oh, please."

Theon took the girl's hand, feeling the stumps of his missing fingers as he helped her stand. Her wolfskin coverings fell away, revealing her naked body marked with teeth marks. He heard a woman gasp nearby. Rowan handed him a bundle of clothes. "Get her dressed. It's cold outside."

Squirrel was searching through a cedar chest for warmer clothing. Ultimately, she chose one of Lord Ramsay's quilted doublets and a pair of breeches that billowed around her legs. With Rowan's assistance, Theon dressed Jeyne Poole in Squirrel's clothes. "If the gods are good and the guards are blind, she may pass," he thought.

"We're going out and down the steps," Theon instructed Jeyne. "Keep your head down and your hood up. Follow Holly. Don't run, don't cry, don't speak, don't look anyone in the eye."

"Stay close to me," Jeyne replied. "Don't leave me."

"I will be right beside you," Theon assured her as Squirrel climbed into Lady Arya's bed and pulled up the blanket. Frenya opened the door to the bedchamber.

"Did you give her a good wash, Reek?" Sour Alyn asked as they left.

Grunt squeezed Willow's breast as she walked by. They were lucky he hadn't touched Jeyne; she might have screamed. If that had happened, Holly would have killed him with the knife hidden in her sleeve. Willow simply twisted away from him.

For a moment, Theon felt a rush of relief. They never looked. They never saw. They walked right past them with the girl.

But as they stepped outside, fear gripped him again. What if they ran into Skinner, Damon Dance-for-Me, or Steelshanks Walton? Or Ramsay himself? Not Ramsay, anyone but him. Smuggling the girl from her room seemed pointless. They were still trapped in the castle, with every gate locked and guards everywhere. The guards outside were likely to stop them. Holly and her knife wouldn't stand a chance against six armed men.

Fortunately, the guards were distracted, huddled against the cold. Even the serjeant barely glanced their way. Theon felt a pang of sympathy. Ramsay would punish them all when he found out his bride was missing. The thought of what he'd do to Grunt and Sour Alyn was chilling.

Rowan dropped her empty pail, and her sisters followed suit. The Great Keep was out of sight now. The yard was a snowy wasteland, filled with strange echoes from the storm. The snow piled up around them—knee-high, then waist-high, then over their heads. They were deep in Winterfell, yet the castle was completely obscured. It felt like they were lost in the Land of Always Winter.

"It's cold," Jeyne Poole whimpered, stumbling beside Theon. And it would soon be colder. Beyond the castle walls, winter was waiting. If they managed to get that far.

"This way," he said at a junction of three trenches.

"Frenya, Holly, go with them," Rowan instructed. "We'll catch up with Abel. Don't wait for us." With that, she darted into the snow toward the Great Hall, and Willow and Myrtle hurried after her.

Theon thought it was madness. Escaping had seemed unlikely with all six of Abel's women; now, with just two, it felt impossible. But they had gone too far to turn back. He took Jeyne's arm and guided her toward the Battlements Gate. Just a half-gate, he reminded himself. Even if the guards let them pass, they couldn't get through the outer wall. Theon had slipped past those guards before, but he had always been alone. Now, with three serving girls, things would be different. If the guards recognized Jeyne as Ramsay's bride...

The path curved left. Ahead, shrouded in falling snow, stood the Battlements Gate, guarded by two men. Clad in wool, fur, and leather, they resembled gigantic bears, their spears towering at eight feet.

"Who goes there?" one of the guards called. Theon didn't recognize the voice. The man's face was mostly hidden by a scarf, leaving only his eyes visible.

"Reek, is that you?"

He intended to say yes, but instead replied, "Theon Greyjoy. I... I have brought some women for you."

"You poor boys must be freezing," said Holly.

"Here, let me warm you up." She slipped past the guard's spear and pulled down his half-frozen scarf to kiss him. As their lips met, her blade pierced his neck. The guard's eyes widened. Blood stained Holly's lips as she stepped back, and the man fell, blood trickling from his mouth.

The second guard stared in shock while Frenya seized his spear. They wrestled briefly, then she snatched it away and struck him on the temple. As he staggered, she turned the spear and thrust it into his belly, grunting with effort.

Jeyne Poole screamed.

"Oh, bloody shit," Holly said. "That will bring the kneelers down on us, and no mistake. Run!"

Theon covered Jeyne's mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around her waist. He pulled her past the fallen guards, through the gate, and over the icy moat. Luckily, the drawbridge was down, allowing quick access for Winterfell's defenders.

Behind them, chaos erupted with shouting and the sound of feet pounding the ground, followed by a trumpet blast from the inner wall. On the drawbridge, Frenya paused and turned. "Go on. I will hold the kneelers here." She still gripped her bloody spear tightly.

By the time Theon reached the bottom of the stairs, he was nearly exhausted. He threw Jeyne over his shoulder and began to climb. She had stopped struggling, her small frame making it easier, but the icy steps were treacherous. Halfway up, he slipped and fell to one knee, pain coursing through him. For a moment, he feared he would drop her.

But Holly helped him up, and together they finally got Jeyne to the battlements.

Theon leaned against a merlon, panting. Below, Frenya battled several guards in the snow.

"Which way?" he yelled at Holly. "Where do we go now? How do we get out?"

Holly's fury shifted to panic. "Oh, f**k me bloody. The rope." She laughed, but it was hysterical. "Frenya has the rope."

Suddenly, she grunted, her hand clutching her stomach. A quarrel jutted from her gut, and blood seeped through her fingers. "Kneelers on the inner wall..." she gasped, before another bolt struck her.

Holly reached for a nearby merlon but collapsed as snow fell over her. Shouts erupted from their left. Jeyne Poole looked down at Holly, who was now covered in red. Theon knew the crossbowman was reloading.

He turned right, but men with swords approached. A distant warhorn blared. Stannis, he thought, is our only hope if we can get to him.

The wind howled. He and Holly were trapped. The crossbow snapped. A bolt zipped past him, shattering the frozen snow nearby. Abel, Rowan, Squirrel, and the others were nowhere to be seen.

They were alone. If captured, they'd be delivered to Ramsay.

Theon grabbed Jeyne around the waist and jumped.