Disclaimer: Game of Thrones belongs to HBO, no money is made with this fanwork.

"Theon?"

The voice startles Reek into awareness, and before he can think about where he is or who's with him, he's already shaking his head. "Not Theon! I'm not. It's Reek!"

There's a soft sigh. "Will you come to the fire?"

He should know better, really. It's the fourth day since they met Lady Brienne and her squire, since they saved them from the Bolton men, and each evening, it's the same.

"Please, come. You're shaking."

He hadn't noticed – he never does anymore – but he obeys and scrambles to his feet. The fire is only a handful of steps from the tree under which he'd curled up, but he's exhausted, his legs are hurting from riding all day, and he falls more than he sits down. He doesn't like sitting close to it, although it is warmer, and gets warmer still when a blanket appears around his shoulders.

"Thank you," he mutters. Pieces of bread and cheese are pressed into his hands, and he tries to concentrate on eating, tries to ignore the nausea that threatens to close up his throat when he thinks about her sitting across the fire. Sansa. She's looking at him like she's done the past evenings, with that calm, calculating gaze that makes him shake worse than the cold.

These last days, she hasn't spoken to him, but he knows she must be thinking about what to do with him, now that she doesn't need him any longer. She's got Lady Brienne now, and Podrick; they'll get her safely to Castle Black.

He starts when his shoulders are touched and looks up: it's Podrick, who put a second blanket around him – his own, he realizes.

"You shouldn't –"

Podrick shakes his head and shifts closer to the fire. "You need it more."

Every day since they met, Podrick has been doing this: making sure he's at least halfway warm, making sure he eats. It's almost as disconcerting as Sansa's looks, and he hastily concentrates on his food again.

It's been forever since Reek last sat on a horse – at least it feels that way – and by the fifth day his legs are so stiff when he dismounts for the night that they give in under him. The reins slip from his frozen fingers, but before he can hit the ground, he's grabbed around the waist and held up, his head coming to rest against a shoulder. For a few moments, they don't move – he's so tired he's almost certain he could fall asleep like this.

"Come on, you need to sit down."

As he hobbles along, barely held up by Podrick – and who else would it be? – he can feel Sansa's gaze on him, making him shudder.

"I'll have a fire ready in no time," Podrick says, and Reek doesn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't because of the cold.

And it does feel better with a fire and blankets, and after he's had bread and dried meat. If only he knew what Sansa is thinking. He wouldn't mind so much if she decided to take his head; she's got every right. All that he wants is to know what to expect. But then, he hasn't had that luxury in forever, either.

"You'd better lie down," Podrick says into his thoughts. "We'll be on the road early. You should get some sleep."

"Why are you doing this?"

Podrick looks at him from guileless brown eyes, his round face betraying nothing but confusion in the flickering light of the flames.

It makes him feel almost angry, and tempted to shake off the blanket that ends up on him no matter how often he tells Podrick that there's no need. "Don't you know what I did?"

"Lady Brienne told me. Lady Sansa . . . you saved her and helped her escape."

"I meant before that."

Podrick nods. "I know."

"Then why –"

"Can I speak to you?" It's Sansa's voice, making him wince – she's standing over them, looking at him with an air of determination that makes a sick feeling of anticipation spread in his belly. Now, at last, he'll know.

Podrick vacates his seat for her, vanishing into the shadows to look after the horses. Sansa sits down, and Reek finds that he can't look her in the eye.

"She's a good woman. Strange, but still."

It takes him a moment to understand that she is talking about Lady Brienne.

"She reminds me of Arya. I always thought Arya was foolish for wanting to do things that weren't ladylike. For wanting to fight. You taught her how to handle the bow, didn't you?"

He's surprised that she knows about it; he hadn't thought she'd paid much attention to Arya, or to him, when they'd grown up. For a moment, there's a voice in his head that tells him it wasn't him, it was Theon Greyjoy, and he's not, but he wills himself not to listen. "I . . . I did."

"I'm glad you did. And that father got her those sword fighting lessons in King's Landing. Maybe it's kept her alive. Maybe I should learn as well."

It's not a bad idea. Now that the world has gone completely mad, women could use that kind of knowledge.

"Maybe it would have helped me against . . . against him."

"It wouldn't. Nothing helps. He'll always – it would've just made it worse." He stares down at his right hand, at the place where his little finger should be under the glove.

"What did he to do you? You never were – what could he have done to make you like this?"

"I can't . . . please don't. Don't ask." If only she'd tell him why she's talking to him in the first place.

But she's silent, and it's only when he raises his head that he realizes that she's crying, tears running down her cheeks quietly. He wishes he could do anything, but he doesn't dare.

"If you hadn't helped me –" She rubs away the tears almost angrily, and he can't help but think that even there, what he did was too little, too late. "What made you do it?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know." It doesn't even feel like a lie – he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think of it, even if it's all he can think of during the long hours on horseback. Her, and Ramsay, and the way he had –

"You have to tell me. I need to know!"

"Please, don't –"

"Tell me!" She's gripped his wrist, there are more tears, leaving pale tracks on her dirty cheeks as they make their way down to her dry, cracked lips. He's got to think of how she looked back when he'd seen her last, when she'd left for King's Landing – happy, and beautiful, and so, so much younger. She'd known nothing of what the world could hold, what a man could do to another man, or to a woman, and, he thinks, maybe if he'd been able to convince his father of the alliance, Robb could have retrieved her from the Lannisters before –

"I did it because . . . because I couldn't – when he hurt me, I deserved it. Everything. But you did nothing wrong. He had no right – I couldn't watch any longer. I couldn't let Myranda – you'd have become like me, and I couldn't let them, not when you're my –" He grits his teeth before he can go on – he doesn't deserve to say anything like it, and he is sure she wouldn't want to hear it.

"Your what?"

He shakes his head, but she doesn't seem inclined to let it go; she cups his face between her hands and forces him to look up at her – she's stronger than one would think. Her eyes are hard, with bruises of exhaustion under them making her look older than her years and even more like her lady mother. "I'm your what?"

"My . . . my sister," he chokes out, her gaze boring into him relentlessly, "you're my sister, and they're my brothers, and I could never have killed them even if I'd found them. I'm sorry, Sansa, I'm so sorry! I know I should be dead, and I won't try to run if that's your decision. I'd deserve nothing less."

It's a lot more than what he'd wanted to say, only he couldn't stop himself, and now that he's done, he closes his eyes, because he can't watch her reaction, can't look when she tells him that yes, he deserves to die and calls Lady Brienne to finally do it.

"I wish you had remembered that earlier." He winces at her murmured words, but instead of going on, she only sighs deeply. Her hands fall away from his cheeks, settling on his shoulders. They're . . . almost gentle, and that makes no sense at all.

"I'm glad one of my brothers was there when I needed him."

His eyes fly open again. "What? Why would you –"

"Theon."

He can't even protest – nothing but a moan will come when he tries to say that's not him, he's Reek, Reek – but then, Reek has no brothers and sisters, wouldn't have pushed Myranda to her death and escaped from Ramsay. Helped someone else escape, no less, or taken up a sword and killed that Bolton soldier.

"Theon," she repeats, and while he still winces, he forces himself to keep looking at her as she presses on. "Maybe I just don't care anymore – what you did, it's in the past. It was a mistake, a bad one, and I'm not saying I can forget it so easily. But there are more important things. Robb and my parents are dead. Arya and Bran and Rickon – they may be alive, but I might never see them again, and I have no idea if we'll even make it to the Wall, to Jon. But you're here. You saved me. And you won't betray me, will you?"

He's shaking his head before she's even finished. "Never, m'lady. Never again, I swear."

He's not sure what it is about his words that makes her smile at him in this strange, sad fashion, but then, anybody smiling at him in any way that's not cruel is something he'd never hoped for anymore, so he decides not to question his luck. Still, he can't help but shudder at the memory of Ramsay smirking.

She frowns, but before he can open his mouth to say something – he's not even sure what, maybe just to apologize again – she speaks. "That's good, then." Her grip tightens, fingers digging painfully deep into his shoulders. "Don't leave me, do you understand? Don't you dare leave me."

"I won't," he croaks, and he's never meant something as much as this in all his life.

"Good." Sansa lets go of him – it's a relief and yet, almost, he wishes she hadn't. "Sleep," she says as she gets up. "You look tired."

All he can do is nod and curl up under his blanket. He's asleep within moments.

"Wake up! Come on, wake up." Someone's calling him, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up! Theon!"

He sits up with a whimper curling in on himself, away from whoever it is. "I'm . . . I'm not –"

"It's all right. You were dreaming."

He doesn't fully understand the words, but when nothing happens, he dares to open his eyes: there's a dying fire in a circle of trees, and a dark shape huddled close to him.

"It's Podrick." The voice sounds warm and worried. Not at all like him. "You were dreaming."

Sucking in a deep, shaky breath, he manages to relax at least a little. He's not at the Dreadfort, or in Winterfell. He's with Sansa, they escaped and are on their way to the Wall. And Ramsay . . . he's not here.

"I'm . . . I'll be fine. I'm all right. Just a nightmare. Just a dream." As he says it, more to convince himself than anything else, the images of the dream come bleeding back into his mind – but they don't matter, because it was only a dream, nothing more. He's not back with Ramsay, back in that room and bound to the cross, there's nobody here who'd flay another of his fingers, the knife slowly and meticulously peeling off layer upon layer of skin until finally, it hurts too much to scream or even to breathe and all he can do is beg him to make it stop, cut it off, please, please cut it off –

He yelps when something touches his back – it's Podrick, staring at him in complete horror, and it's only then that he realizes that he said it all out loud. For some moments, they stay motionless – how Podrick isn't shoving him away in disgust is beyond him – then Podrick's hand closes, ever so gently, around his own. The one with four fingers.

"Why?" It's barely a whisper.

Podrick shrugs. "Why not? I mean . . . why shouldn't I?"

There are a hundred reasons: he's a vile traitor, he should be punished instead of taken care of, he deserves to die – of starvation, the cold, Ramsay's hounds, Lady Brienne's sword – deserves everything Ramsay did, deserves to be Reek, and nobody cares for that creature. But Podrick won't understand, he can't. Maybe Robb could have, he always seemed to understand him, back when – but he's dead, and he probably wouldn't even have wanted to know, and he would've been right to just kill him on sight. He should be dead anyway, should've died with Robb at the Red Wedding.

"But you didn't. You're here now."

He stares at Podrick, uncomprehending. "How do you –" Oh.

Again, he's just blurted it all out without even noticing.

"Just . . . I can't, please, please leave me be." He's almost sobbing now, and Podrick lets go of his hand, though his other hand is still on his back.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I don't really know what I'm doing. It's only –" He shrugs. "I'm sorry."

It's too absurd even for words – somebody apologizing to him for wanting to help him – and he just can't take it anymore. He doesn't know, later, how he ended up outside the circle of trees in knee-deep snow, throwing up what little he'd managed to eat before he fell asleep, and he doesn't know how long he stays kneeling there, tears slowly freezing on his face.

Three days later, there's no denying anymore that he is ill. He'd tried to hide it, to will it away, ignoring his pounding head and the hot and cold flashes. After all, he's lived through so much worse, and he can't allow himself to slow them down. But he's noticed the worried looks of the other three when he couldn't help coughing a few times, and the moment comes when the trees and snow are blurring together around him. Slowly, very slowly, it seems, the world tilts to the side – it's only when he hits the ground that he understands it was him falling from the saddle.

"He's burning up." A gentle hand is placed on his forehead. Podrick. "My lady, we've got to make camp."

"No," he croaks through the shards of glass sitting in his throat, "no, we can't!" It's barely mid-afternoon yet, and they need to keep going. Nobody heeds his opinion, though – and why would they do that, Reek, why would anyone listen to you? – and it doesn't take long before he's leaning against a tree wrapped in three of their four blankets and as close as possible to the fire.

He's closed his eyes, but he can still hear them talking. Sansa wants to return to the inn they passed in the morning so he can rest inside for a day or two, but luckily, Lady Brienne manages to convince her that it's better if they keep going north on the morrow. They can't risk being recognized, can't risk staying among people.

He's nothing more than a burden like this. Why can't they simply leave and move on without him?

"Because when you promised Lady Sansa not to leave her," Podrick says just beside him, "I think that promise went both ways."

He feels too sick to even be annoyed with himself for his inability to control what he's saying. After all that Podrick knows already, it can't get much worse. The thought is almost comforting, and he doesn't fight it when he drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up, it's just before nightfall, and though he doesn't speak and just barely opens his eyes, he shouldn't be surprised that not even a few minutes later, Podrick sits down next to him with a steaming goblet in hand. Apart from food, they'd bought some skins of ale at the inn – with him and Sansa staying well out of sight – to help them keep warm on the journey.

His hands are shaking too badly to hold the goblet, but Podrick must have expected it, since he saves it from falling with one swift grasp, then helps him drink in silence, one small, hot sip after the other. It doesn't take long before his eyes close again on their own accord as he keeps drinking – he's warm now, and still tired. It's like when his mother would take care of him during a fever and feed him hot wine, or when Maester Luwin had given him medicine when he'd got sick just like this in his first month at Winterfell.

He can't prevent himself from thinking of them, can't pretend anymore that those memories of Theon Greyjoy's life aren't his. Podrick doesn't comment on it when the tears come, when he cries for the mother who's too frail now to survive for much longer and whom he knows he'll never see again, for Maester Luwin who's dead by his fault, for Robb, Lord Stark, and all the others – maybe even himself. All he does is hold him, until the exhaustion takes over and, once again, he's asleep.

It's when he jerks awake for the third time after he's just dozed off in the saddle in front of Podrick that he realizes this won't work.

In the morning, he hadn't felt any better. He could walk a few steps, but there had been no way that he'd be able to ride by himself for any longer amount of time. So it was decided that he would share a horse with Podrick, since Lady Brienne needs her hands free in case they're attacked.

Now that Podrick barely prevented him from falling yet again – he'd awoken flailing wildly – he wishes once more that they'd left him behind. It shouldn't take long before he'll pass out in the snow and not wake up anymore, but before he can even say anything, Podrick's one-armed grip on him tightens.

"We'll make this work," he insists. "Maybe . . . will you try something?"

"What?"

"Just – it's because of . . . of him, isn't it?"

Nodding weakly, he can't suppress a shudder. Being held in place from behind without being able to see who does it is uncomfortable even when he's awake. But once he's half asleep, his feverish mind will go straight back to the room with the cross, and then –

Before he can think any further, he's shaken by a bone-rattling cough, and for a while they're busy keeping him in the saddle once more.

"All right," Podrick murmurs when he slumps back against him after the fit has abated. "All right. Good. Now, just . . . try not to think. Just listen. I've never tried this with anyone, but –" Even in this state, he notices how embarrassed Podrick sounds. "Right." Podrick draws a deep breath, urging the horse forward, since they've lost a few feet on Sansa and Lady Brienne. Then he starts singing.

It takes some moments before it becomes recognizable at all what he's doing – Podrick is a terrible singer and more murmuring in a vaguely melodious fashion. But it sounds soft and strangely calming, and it's too exhausting to think much about how bizarre all of this is. His head feels almost as though someone were taking a hammer to it, and his teeth are chattering despite him being wrapped in blankets and the additional warmth Podrick's body provides. The bright snow makes the headache even worse, and though he still tries to resist, in the end, he gives in and closes his eyes.

It's not all that bad. As his mind and body grow more and more heavy, for some moments all he can think of, can hear is Ramsay – Bolton soldiers will get them, in the end, and then . . . I've been waiting for you, Reek. You didn't think you could run from me, did you. But then, you are stupid. Seems I'll have to think of something more memorable to finally teach you right. But then his voice is drowned out by another, softly droning familiar words. Podrick. Podrick who's singing a song he knew, a long time ago. It reminds him of being a small boy, of his mother who'd sung for him in her calm, slightly hoarse voice whenever he'd taken a beating from Rodrik or Maron. He'd felt comforted, then, and safe – and now, he thinks, half asleep already, now, it almost, almost feels the same.

It's in the middle of the night when he wakes up with a half-muffled scream that turns into a coughing fit. For a few moments, he doesn't know where he is and almost panics, gasping for air uncontrollably. Then there are familiar voices, and Podrick, who's lying right next to him, telling the others not to worry, it's not an attack.

"You all right?" Podrick asks when the coughing has finally abated.

"Fine. Just – you know. Dreams."

Thankfully, Podrick says nothing to that, and he hopes they can all just go back to sleep. But while it seems to work for the others, he finds himself wide awake, aching all over and shivering, despite the fact that he's still wrapped in Podrick's and Lady Brienne's blankets in addition to his own. It shouldn't matter – he'd often been much colder with Ramsay, and in so much more pain – and yet he can't seem to ignore his aching head and joints, or keep his teeth from chattering violently once again. It doesn't help that he'd been lying awake like this far too often before: afraid and hurting, waiting for Ramsay to come and wake him. Before he'd known his place, before he'd become Reek, it had happened so often that in the end, he'd barely been able to sleep.

He can't see himself getting better out here, only sicker and harder to drag along. He should just sneak away into the night, find a deep snow bank and spare them all the bother. But he swore Sansa not to leave her, and he can't go back on that, can't betray a Stark yet again. Not when she asked him to stay, when she called him brother. Like Robb did.

Still, she'd be better off without him, and maybe, despite his promise, it would be the right thing to do. Already, he's moving, trying to slip out from under the blankets as quietly as possible when –

"You can't stay like this. It's too cold; you'll catch your death." It's a bright night, bright enough to see the worry on Podrick's face as he, very slowly, reaches out.

He doesn't resist – the chance to leave unnoticed is gone, and sharing body heat is the only way he might live through this. Burying his face against Podrick's chest, he forces himself to hold still; they're pressed too close together under the blankets, and it feels too much like being held down. But then, they didn't rub his back the way Podrick does now, nor did they half-sing and half-murmur the words of old songs in a soft, unmelodious voice. And again, it's helping – slowly, the tension and the cold seep out of him, to be replaced with warmth. Still, he's not tired, and he can feel from Podrick's breathing that he, too, is awake.

"Theon?"

He grits his teeth, but this is his name, he's Theon, and he'd better get used to it again. They won't hurt him for responding to it.

"Don't try that again, please? I can't be awake every time, and I'd rather not see Lady Sansa cry over your frozen corpse." There's no reproach in Podrick's voice, and still, it makes him cringe with guilt.

"I'm sorry. I won't. Just –" It seems to exhausting to even begin to try explaining.

"We'll get to Castle Black," Podrick goes on. "She'll be safe, and you as well. It's what we came to do: to protect and help her, and now you too. It's not a hardship, it's what Lady Sansa wants. She cares for you, and that's more than many have. Don't be ungrateful by throwing it away."

Podrick is right, Reek – no, Theon knows it. And he knows as well that not even so long ago, he'd have thought the same. It's what he was taught growing up, how the Starks raised him. If he were in Podrick's place, Lord Stark and Robb would expect nothing less of him, he is certain.

"Thank you," he murmurs against Podrick's chest. "I won't – I'll try to remember."

Podrick's arms around him tighten slightly, and it's not uncomfortable. "I'm just glad I can be truly useful, for once."

That is making no sense. Surely, Lady Brienne must be glad to have him with her? He's one of the most conscientious squires Theon has ever seen. When he says as much, Podrick is silent for too long.

"She's very kind to me, but she doesn't need me," he says in the end. He sounds resigned, and Theon doesn't like it one bit. "She'd do just as well on her own. Before she taught me, I didn't even know how to fight. And she wasn't exactly happy when Ser Jaime gave me to her."

Theon doesn't know what to say to that. From what he could tell, Lady Brienne doesn't seem to mind having Podrick for a squire. And he . . . well. "I'm glad he did."

"Me too," Podrick agrees, very quietly. "I think . . . at least I might be less of a burden on her than any knight I served before."

It's Theon's opinion that those knights must have been rather stupid, but before he can say any more, Podrick shifts and wraps the blankets tighter around them.

"It's not that long until morning. We should try to sleep."

Theon was right. He's not getting better. The coughing and fever get worse the next day, and the next, until days and nights, consciousness and dreams blur together and he can't tell which is which any longer. He's not sure, either, which is true – did he flee with Sansa and fall ill in the wild, or did some wound get infected and he's still with Ramsay? Did he only dream jumping from the battlements and all that followed?

Sometimes, he is back on the cross again, waiting for Ramsay to come and hurt him. And he does come, and he does hurt him, over and over and over until it's too exhausting, too painful to even beg or cry anymore.

At other times, he's in the kennels, curled up on the dirty straw, trying in vain to stop thinking about Robb and how he betrayed him for nothing, for the respect of a family that never cared for him in the first place. Of Sansa and how he'd failed her that night, and for so long after.

She is with him too, sometimes. Trembling and crying in her ripped wedding gown, long after Ramsay was finished. Lying abed, day after day, looking at him from dull, red-rimmed eyes. Yelling at him, telling him he deserves everything Ramsay did and worse.

"Tell me why Bran and Rickon should be gone, while you still breathe the air. Tell me to my face, Theon! Tell me that they weren't your brothers!"

They weren't – they were farm boys, not Bran and Rickon, but how does that even make anything better? They were innocent children just the same, and they died because of him. If there truly are seven hells, there must be a special place in them for people who murder children.

At other times, Sansa seems worried, almost gentle, and it's even worse. It can't be true, must mean that this is the dream and he still is with Ramsay. She could never be like this after what he did, and after what he let Ramsay do to her. He should have helped her, should have found the courage to kill Ramsay then and there. It was his duty to protect her, or at least to die trying.

Instead, now it's her who is taking care of him, her hands soothing on his burning cheeks and forehead. Once, he's cradled in her arms after she fed him hot ale, his head pillowed against her chest. It's so soft and warm that he knows it can't be true, can't be for him.

"Don't leave me," she whispers, then. "You can't, Theon. You promised."

He won't, he wants to tell her, he won't break his promise, even if Ramsay flays and cuts off more fingers, or whatever else. He knows his family and his duty now, even if he's lost his honor. But he's so tired, and he never quite knows whether or not he said something or only imagined it.

Sometimes he thinks he must have said horrible things: when he's not at the Dreadfort or at Winterfell, there are times when Sansa, Podrick, and even Lady Brienne look at him with such sadness and horror that it frightens him. But he can't remember what he said; all he can do is ask their forgiveness for troubling them, and so he does, again and again. Mostly, it's Podrick – when Ramsay is gone, he's always there, always close, holding him, warming him, murmuring softly when he's afraid and crying. He shouldn't have to do this; a squire has more important things to take care of than him. But Podrick won't listen – nobody listens to Reek, of course they don't, and they shouldn't. He should be quiet, and sleep, and not be in the way.

Luckily, as time goes by, everything becomes more and more distant. The snow and the cold, the cross, Podrick, Sansa, and even Ramsay – they all fade away into darkness.

Maybe now, it can be over. Please, let it be.

TBC . . .