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The snow, white as it was when it fell, could not resist the rivers of blood and gore that littered it.

Reek had an elevated vantage point high above the carnage, on the stage the cruel men in the metal suits had tried to burn him on. But soon he would be home. His kind master, Lord Ramsay, had come with all his strength, plus his father's men, to take him home. The flayed man Lord Ramsay flew above his army called Reek home. Reek ran off the stage, towards his friends beneath the banner of the Dreadfort, his thin and bruised legs propelling him away from the evil devil-worshipper Stannis's flames. The snow would just not stop falling on the dead and dying.

He ducked to avoid a sword, then fell on the cold, unforgiving ground to avoid a whistling arrow. The snow competed with the arrows for dominance of the sky, winning when the arrows fell, then re-fighting the battle with each volley. Reek plodded on, lowering himself beneath the crowd of men in boiled leather and mail. A scream, another, two more, a curse, a battle cry. Heads rolled onto the snowy ground, as did limbs and so much blood. Ramsay Bolton was turning the traitor camp into an outsized version of the Dreadfort dungeons. Reek was used to it, not like the shivering and shaking boys he ran past. They had not lost their fingers to the tender arts of Skinner. They were still males in the full sense of the word. Reek did not have time for envy, though. Lord Ramsay was surely waiting for him, waiting to welcome back his Reek.

When he had reached the edge of the battlefield, Reek saw that the Bolton camp was deserted. Lord Ramsay is a brave warrior, he doesn't cower like Stannis. He sat down, and waited for his lord.

In the meantime he watched the battle go forward, and back, and forward yet again. He panicked when it seemed the fiery heart of R'hllor, the god who had almost tasted his blood this very day, would reach the camp, and exult when the flayed man advanced. Unbidden, a memory of him being with men just like those, fighting and killing and cheating death with every second of life, swam up. He swatted his head, crying out loud: "No! No! That's not me! That's the prince, the one they wanted to burn! I'm Reek, Reek, Ramsay's Reek! It rhymes with seek!" He was lucky no one was in the camp.

Except for one man. "Hello, Reek." he said. He was ugly, with wormy lips and ghostly grey eyes.

When the battle had ended, when the fiery heart, flayed man and King Tommen's lion and stag no longer flew in challenge of the still-falling snow, the commanders of the victorious army gathered in Ramsay Bolton's tent.

Reek shivered, yet again. Lord Ramsay had treated him fairly well, for an escaped servant. "Well, Turncloak, are you ready to be my Reek again? This time you won't have to sleep with Ben's girls. This time you will get a nice tent with its very own hearth to keep you warm, and perhaps even a warm female body to warm you even more." Ramsay had said, like a seduction. Reek couldn't resist. Now, he cowered near Lord Ramsay's seat next to the council table. Lord Ramsay sat next to his father Lord Roose, facing Arnolf Karstark, who had contributed much to their victory when his troops turned on Lord Stannis's men. Next to him were the grossly fat Wyman Manderly and tall Jared Frey. Lord Roose began the proceedings by candlelight in the winter night. "My son, and dear Arnolf, soon to be Lord Arnolf of Karhold, my lords. The Iron Throne will surely favor us after this day. Do you realize that thanks to our efforts, chiefly yours, Ramsay, the war is finally over?"

Arnolf Karstark, an old, bent man whose cane rested against the wooden table, replied impatiently: "The war is not over. The ravens bear tales of krakens rising from the sea and attacking the Reach."

Lord Ramsay interjected: "Shut up, you bent old man. Has age taken your heart and returned it as water? Euron Greyjoy is thousands of miles south if that is true, and if not, well, the ironborn have better places to reave than snowy wastes like this place. Wouldn't you say so, Reek?" He kicked at his pathetic little servant. "Mind your tongue, boy." said Lord Roose, "Lord Arnolf is a valued ally of our house and a loyal subject of King Tommen."

Lord Wyman spoke up, his voice seeming as heavy as his body: "We should head back to Winterfell and feast and revel in the defeat of Lord Stannis. There are natural hot springs under Winterfell, we should not stay here to freeze or starve, in that order."

"Wise words," said Roose Bolton, "but hardly adding anything. Did you really think we would stay here and wait for the snows to claim us? Have no fear, my lord, lampreys you shall have soon." Lord Wyman did not like this reference to his insulting nickname, Reek could see. Jared Frey's face was more communicative than any raven's message: I am quite bored with this time-wasting and unnecessary conversation it said. "Get Maester Ryster", Lord Roose went on," and tell him to send ravens to all the important holdfasts and especially to King's Landing. Have him inform them of our great victory and service to our good King Tommen." The others nodded agreement.

"We shall ride for Winterfell and its warm comforts on the morrow. Winter may be coming but we'll stay warm all through it." For the first time since Reek had come to know him, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North, smiled. But his son's smile was even larger and far more meaningful. "Lord father," he said sweetly, "I think my Reek is getting lonely on the cold floor under my chair. Perhaps we should send him his sister to keep him company?"

Lord Roose nodded. To the guard posted outside and armored in the livery of the Dreadfort, he called: "Bring in the kraken!" The guard gave a mischievous grin. He went outside, and Reek saw his armor become coated with sheets of white snow.

He returned a few minutes later, pulling a bound and gagged Asha Greyjoy, full of still-bleeding wounds and bruises. Ramsay smiled even more on sight of the ironborn woman. "So, Reek, what shall we do with your sister?"

No, no, don't say that, you're trying to goad me into action so you can kill me, no, no, I won't go along with it. But Ramsay only motioned for the prisoner to be brought straight to him. She was, and Ramsay's smile turned into a leer. He drew a knife and cut her loose. She made motions as if to escape. But Ramsay only pushed her to the floor and began to claw at her clothes. He's too tired to hunt, this time. But the knife remained in his hand, above the now-naked Asha. He spurted early, obviously because he had not had a woman in a while, with his lady 'Arya Stark' abducted by the singer Abel and the spearwives. His father only looked on with distaste and the other lords had gone in terror. Then, Ramsay picked up the knife and stabbed her through the breast. She wailed, and died quickly. Ramsay stood up, covered in blood, and grinned at Reek. "Don't look so sad, Reek, the fun's only started." Ramsay drew the knife from the flailing corpse of Asha Greyjoy and pointed it at Reek. Theon Greyjoy threw himself at the Bastard of Bolton. But Lord Ramsay drew back and called: "Bring in our lord of fiery hearts! I think I shall have need of a new Reek soon!"

The knife was blood-red in the candlelight.