THE MAN WITHOUT MEMORY
Once every few hours, a gaoler who wore a spiked cap would come down to him and open the cell to give him a bowl of hot soup that had carrots and turnips in it. Sometimes there was a little bread to soak it up as well. Once every few days they came in and changed the straw and the blankets he had soiled. Once every week or so a maid came to clean out his chamberpot and a man came to ask him how he was doing.
Theon never told him anything, of course. Someone had made him tell things before, in a dungeon not unlike this one, but so far the man who came to ask him questions had not cut off any of his fingers or toes. There is still time, though… he thought, huddling against the wall for warmth.
And perhaps they would not be able to find any fingers or toes to cut off.
The walls of the Winterfell dungeons were heated by the same hot springs that ran beneath the entire castle, but he knew that he would always feel the cold, no matter where he was. I am the cold man, he thought, and the whisperers would tell him the same thing.
The whisperers lived inside the walls, but Theon was yet to see one. Sometimes he heard them while he was sleeping, and sometimes when he was awake, though it was growing harder and harder to discern the difference between day and night and day again. They knew his name as well, and reminded him if he forgot. You made us, they said, are us. Killed us.
But I never killed anyone, Theon thought.
Not men, said the voices. The cold ones. You are coming to us soon, Theon Greyjoy. What is dead may never die.
"…but rises again, harder and stronger," he muttered to the darkness. Someone had told him that before, but Theon was finding it more and more difficult to remember who.
You were a prince once, the voices reminded him. Don't you want to be a prince again? They were almost mocking him.
"Nooooo," he moaned. He had been a prince for mayhaps a fortnight, and after that had come months and months of torture, an undying death he could not understand. "I am dead," he told the walls. "Dead, dead, dead, dead."
They did not seem to hear his complaints. You could be a prince… preserve us… ice not fire… the blood of kings…
"Shut up," Theon wailed. "Shut up, shutup, shutup!" He angrily kicked the half-finished bowl of soup with flailing legs and sent it flying against the opposite wall, then tried to scream, but only a strangled gasp left his mouth. Had he been strong enough to vomit, he might have done so. But his stomach was empty. He was empty, a skeleton with barely enough skin to cover his starved bones, stretched and sallow and hideous. Pale like snow.
Snow, said the walls. Snow, snow, snow. The raven's song is writ in blood and fire...
"Shut up," Theon sobbed. "Just shut up!" He punched the wall, and chafed his knuckles raw and bloody, then punched it again and again, till all the breath had left his body. Then he turned onto his side, and retched all over the floor.
Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak, he thought.
The metallic clanging of keys in the lock alerted him to the danger and he scrambled backwards on his hands and knees, attempting to put as much of the straw as he could between them and him.
There were two of them standing in the doorway, and they did not bring food, but fresh garb to replace the shapeless sack he wore, the one that had streaks of his own waste and food all over it. "Change yourself," one of them commanded, in a voice rife with disgust. "Make yourself presentable, if you can." Then he closed the door again, and left.
Cautiously, Theon waited for them to go, then padded over to the new clothes. They were all in black, and the cloak was striped with storm grey. Most of them were too small for his bony frame, but he struggled into them, and hobbled to the wall, where he sat in silence for a time. And for once, the voices let him rest.
His gaolers came back a few minutes later, to pull the cell door open once more and usher the broken man out, staggering along the corridor. There were no other prisoners, not as far as he could see, and he was thankful that the guardsmen walked in silence. They came to a staircase that spiralled round and round, winding upwards, and Theon could smell the frost in the air as he climbed, could see the icicles forming on the stair-railings.
"It's bloody cold up here," one of the men said, though not to him particularly.
I know the cold, thought Theon, he is like my oldest friend. They came up near where the kennels, and he could hear no dogs barking, could see no flayed man banners hanging in the yard. Instead he saw the stag of Baratheon, a device he had last seen on royal banners when King Robert had come to Winterfell, so many years ago, but this crowned stag was surrounded in a fiery red heart, lit by the braziers that burned below it. Men were warming their hands by the fires, and roasting huge joints of meat over them.
When they drew closer, Theon saw that they were bodies, being burned to ash and cinders. The stone walls of Winterfell rose so high as to blot out the sun. Indeed, there were storm clouds gathering, from here all the way into the distance. Beneath them, up on the ramparts and on shields piled in the yard, he could see the banners. Some of them he knew, like House Dustin's spiked black crown and the merman of White Harbor, but others were foreign to him; a black bear on green, a red longbow on orange; a gnarled white tree against a field the colour of night. This is Winterfell, he reminded himself – but it was not as he knew it.
He staggered up the stone steps before the Great Keep and shambled down the hall where men were supping on hot soup and pork pie, turning heads as he went, past the empty dais and onwards, up the polished staircase where his feet screamed and his boots clacked against the wood. The soldiers fell in behind him, and still Theon kept on climbing, higher and higher, till he felt only half a broken man, and half a king. He had known these rooms long ago, and the springs bubbled hottest beneath here. A hundred steel swords hung on the walls of the stone corridor, and a hundred wolf-helms stared down at him. I'm sorry, Theon thought, I'm so sorry.
The passage ended abruptly in a large circular solar, where two Baratheon guardsmen stood on either side of their door, hands to the hilts of their swords like steel sentinels. Lounging in one corner Theon recognised suet-like Lord Wyman Manderly, and in the other was a woman he did not recognise, in steel plate and black furs. Between them, a man sat behind the desk, watching him with observant blue eyes.
But it was a shout from his right that alerted him. "Theon?" The voice was incredulous, quiet, almost frightened, and he felt scared as he turned to face it.
"Theon?" she said again, barely more than a whisper.
"Aye," the broken man said, through cracked teeth. "Theon."
His sister Asha stood across the room from him, dressed in a plain leather jerkin and a brigandine of worn ringmail, her hands linked by a silver chain that jangled like little bells when she moved her hands. And her feet were rooted to the spot, though not by manacles.
Perhaps he ought to feel something, but he did not. He was the broken man… so broken…
"Theon Greyjoy," said the man who was sitting behind the desk. His armour was plate so polished it shone like silver, and he wore a black wool cape clasped around his throat with two golden antlers.
"You stand before Stannis, of the House Baratheon," the lady in the furs said in a rough voice. "Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
Theon coughed, and made what he hoped was a passable bow. King Stannis merely grunted in affirmation. "You are Theon Greyjoy?"
"Aye," he replied, though he was not wholly sure of it. "I am."
"Thirdborn son of Lord Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands? Ward to Eddard Stark and his wife Lady Catelyn, whom they raised like their own son?"
"Aye," said Theon. "I am."
The woman's voice grew harsh. "Victor of the Sack of Winterfell, wherein you won this castle back from the two boy lords defending it? Murderer of Starks and betrayer of freedoms? Turncloak. Traitor."
"Aye," said Theon. "I am."
King Stannis raised his hand. "Hold there, Lady Mormont." The king turned his eyes to Theon, his gaze burning him fiercely. "Do you know how you have angered Lady Alysane?"
"Aye. I do."
"And you understand the penalty for it?"
Theon took a deep, shuddering breath. "Aye. I do."
"The Prince of Winterfell," said Stannis Baratheon. "That was the title by which you called yourself then, was it not?"
"Aye. It was."
"Winterfell has no prince," the king said. "Not anymore. Only a king, do you understand? I have taken this castle back from your Bolton masters, and by rights I ought to have had you put to death long before now, for the crimes you have committed. And yet… my lord Manderly here informs me that there is a use for you, which I will come to later. But first, there are questions to be asked?"
Asha stepped forwards suddenly. "Your Grace, I beg leave to speak." Theon stared at her. His sister, here, and yet… nothing.
Stannis waved his hand. "Granted."
"Your Grace, I request that I be granted custody of my brother, rather than see him returned to the cells. It is evident that he has been treated poorly-
"The bastard's work," said fat Lord Manderly. "Not the king's. Be assured, my lady, he will be hunted down swiftly."
"Not the bastard." Theon's words burst free before he had time to stop himself. "Ramsay Bolton," he said. "His name is Ramsay Bolton, not Ramsay Snow. He doesn't like it if you-
"He is a Snow unless he is legitimised by royal decree, which I have not given. But bastard or no, he has taken up his father's old residence in the Dreadfort. I mean to send Mance Rayder there, a wildling king and five hundred clansmen, to take the castle."
"That is madness," said Asha. "You will not be able to-
She stopped abruptly, then started. "You can not-
Stannis shook his head. "I can and I will. And you will go also, if you want to win your freedom back and see those fetters removed. Who better to infiltrate a castle than the man who knows it better than any other, than a man who has nothing at all to live for?"
Theon did not understand. The king looked away from him, poured yellow sealing wax onto a letter and brought his seal down swiftly and precisely, then passed the letter aside to Lord Manderly. "Send this to your son," he said, "and write another letter. Tell him that I am still waiting for my Onion Knight to arrive, and inform him that he is to wait for my command at White Harbor, unless the causeway through the Neck is not entirely clear."
Manderly shook his head. "Ser Davos was injured during his journey, you must understand, and his prolonged stay in White Harbor was only to give him time to recover. Since I am leaving tonight, mayhaps I will pass your Onion Knight on the way."
"Must you leave so early?" Alysane Mormont did not even bother to sound interested.
"Sadly so, my dear," said the fat man. "As queer as it sounds, the real north is not my home, so to speak. I confess that I prefer my southron comforts."
Asha snorted. "You are a soft man," she said, "but you remind me of someone."
"Your uncle Rodrik, mayhaps?" Lord Manderly smiled. "He and I have shared correspondence over the years. We share similar interests in books, sailing, and of course, fine food." He turned to King Stannis. "Your Grace, I feel that I must ask on behalf of every Northman; what is to be done with the Freys of the Crossing? Should you need someone to fall upon them like a storm, then my son is perfectly positioned in White Harbor to do so."
"That victory should belong to all Northmen," said Alysane Mormont. "Not some fat man wrapped in seal skins."
"My son died along with your sister at the Twins, must I remind you?" Manderly almost sounded hurt. "I have as much a right to vengeance as any other man."
Robb died at the Twins, Theon remembered. I betrayed him, and he died for my treason. When he thought that he wanted to weep, but he met Asha's horrified eyes and turned away quickly. She does not know me, he thought, and then… but how can she, when I do not even know myself?
His involuntary snivelling attracted Stannis's attention. "I have need for you," he said, "and best that I tell you straight. Do you know what I want from you, in exchange for your life, Theon Greyjoy?"
"Your Grace," Asha interjected. "Th- he is not right for this. He is not healthy. The bastard Ramsay Bolton has taken more than his health; he has taken his sanity too, I fear."
"He took more than that from the North," said Stannis, jabbing a finger in Theon's direction. "Soon my priestess will be arriving from Castle Black. And if your brother is not gone from Winterfell by then, his ending will be ugly and painful, I assure you." Theon was not so convinced. When one had felt all the pain in the world, what more was there to fear?
"Most men would have me hang you," the king told him. "If I were not keeping your location a secret, doubtless some would have tried, and my men would have stepped aside only too happily. I have no time for traitors in my army, and no time for murderers." His voice softened a little, just a fraction. "You are a dead man, Theon Greyjoy, understand that. You will die before a cheering audience, for the greater good of the realm, to help rebuild the kingdom that you helped destroy. Either way, you will die. The only thing left for you to choose is the how."
"By the noose or by the Bastard of Bolton's sword?" Asha said, her voice full of scorn. "Some small choice is that."
"Aye," Alysane Mormont acknowledged. "But… your brother may get his chance to some small good in the end; to do something that the Bastard will never be expecting, safe at home in the Dreadfort."
"And what is that?" asked Asha.
Theon's voice was quiet and lonely, like the rattling of a dead man's chains in the wind. "Revenge."
