A/N: contains strong violence.
Book of the Stranger
"Slavery is a horror that should be ended at once. War is a horror that should be ended at once."
Ramsay throws open the dungeon doors, two of his men following after him. On the floor, Rickon and Rose are fast asleep, leaning against the wall, his head on her shoulder. The moment his eyes open, Rickon leaps to his feet, clenching his fists.
"Where's Osha?" he snaps. "What did you do with her?"
"The North is no place for wildlings," Ramsay replies, curtly. "The sooner your bastard brother understands that, the better."
He nods to his men. They cross over to Rickon and take him by either arm. He struggles against them as they drag him backwards, towards the door. Rose staggers to her feet, lurching forward. "Let go of him!" she screeches.
Her hands instinctively go for Ramsay and grab at his cloak. He whips around, eyes blazing. Pain explodes across the side of her face as the back of his hand slams into it. She feels the skin breaking, the wetness of blood, as the stone floor slaps up to meet her. "No!" comes Rickon's frantic voice. "Leave her alone! Please, please, leave her!"
Rose looks up in time to see the men half-dragging, half-carrying him out of the room. His eyes, wide and frightened, stare back at her. She can see the glisten of tears on his face before he disappears. Ramsay closes the bars behind him. Slowly, he turns back around to face Rose, removing his gloves.
She scowls back up at him. "If you lay a finger on my brother—"
Ramsay draws back his foot and slams it into her gut. It feels like something inside of her has torn, the searing agony causing her to curl up, into a ball. "You have fire, little wolf," comes his voice, silky and mocking. "I admire that." She can hear his footsteps pacing the room. "Even so, I have cut out men's tongues for less."
His hand grabs a fistful of her hair and her scalp burns. A loud cry escapes her as he hauls her upwards, then tosses her in the direction of the chair. Her hands fly up in time to catch herself on the arms. Ramsay circles her, and puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing her backwards into the chair. She watches, warily, as he knots her wrists to the arms, the rope cutting into her skin.
"Up until now, I've been treating you gently. Your snide remarks. That mischievous glint in your eye . . ."
He moves to stand in front of her again. Crouching down, he looks her, dead in her face. Her teeth gritted, Rose forces herself to glare back at him. The flat of his palm smacks across her cheek, so hard, she can taste blood in her mouth. ". . . I won't stand for it." She's barely lifted her head again when he hits her again, across the other cheek. Her head reels with the sting of it.
Ramsay grasps her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. "I am the Lord of Winterfell, now. The sooner you accept that, the easier your life will become." Reaching down, he unsheathes a dagger from his belt. Rose shudders at the scraping sound. He draws the tip of it across her jawline. "Embrace your Lord, Lady Stark, because the alternative will hurt far worse."
Her eyes dart upwards to meet his. Squaring her shoulders, she gathers up the blood in her mouth and spits it into his face. Ramsay goes very, very still. Slowly, he lifts his sleeve and wipes it away. His eyes are dark and gleaming, bearing into hers. "I am going to break you into a thousand tiny pieces," he whispers.
Rose stares, emptily, at the glint of the blade. Feeling nothing, she closes her eyes and lets her mind drift as the steel cuts into her.
Darkness settles over Winterfell.
The snow falls in gentle drifts in the stilled winds, coating the heads of the Bolton soldiers standing on the battlements. The quiet of the night puts them at ease. For hours, they'd been forced to listen to the sounds of the Stark girl, screaming in the dungeons. Now, as it draws closer to midnight, a strange sense of peace washes over the castle.
Had anyone been paying close attention, had anyone sensed the danger, they'd have seen the grappling claws flying over the ramparts. A thousand silhouettes, donning glinting silver armour with a kraken embellished in their breastplates, quietly scramble up the steep walls, heading for the ramparts.
A small scuffling sound alerts one of the Bolton guards. Cautiously, he crosses over to the ramparts and goes to peer over the edge. An axe swings from over the side and lodges itself in his skull. With a grunt, he topples backwards, his blood spilling out on the stones. Yara's head peeks over the side, followed by more.
She leaps over the wall and tugs her axe from his head. Glancing around at her fellow Ironborn, she points them, silently in their directions, the sound of Bolton guards running across the stone echoing throughout the battlements. Caught off guard, their throats are slit, instantly, swords driven through their bellies.
Just as another Ironborn raider comes climbing over the wall.
Brandishing a sword from his belt, he grabs ahold of one of the Bolton soldiers — too young to be carrying a blade, perhaps — and pins him against the wall. "The Stark girl," he spits in his face. "Where is she?"
The boy holds up his hands, frantically. "I don't—"
He presses the steel against his neck. "Where is she?"
"The dungeons! Ramsay has her in the dun—!"
The blade bites across his throat, blood spurting from him, and he falls to the ground.
Yara slams her axe against the lock and it snaps against the steel, then clatters to the floor. She kicks open the bars, the sound of them clanging against the wall echoing through the dungeons. He follows her in and his fist tightens on the hilt of his sword. He can hear Yara muttering something behind him — "gods, what's he done to her?" — but cannot draw his eyes away from the disturbing image before him.
Rose is alarmingly still, unconscious in a chair in the middle of the room. Multiple bruises have broken out over her face, one of them swelling up the side of her mouth, her lip split down the centre of it. Clear cuts line her arms and thighs, which are both covered in blood, and her torn shift leaves little to the imagination of the other damage done to her body.
For him, it is worse than death.
He stumbles forwards and instantly begins clawing at the ropes binding her wrists to the chair. "Rose?" he whispers with a lump forming in his throat. The ropes drop to the floor, and he cradles her face in his hands, tilting it upwards. "Rose, it's me. It's Theon." She remains still as anything. His heart begins to thump inside of his chest. "I'm here, Rose. You're safe now. We're going to get you out of here."
"Quickly, now," Yara's strangled voice comes from the doorway. "Before the bastard wakes."
Theon nods. Steeling himself, he gathers Rose into his arms and carries her out of the cell.
Yara goes to follow him, but something catches her eye on the table. Crossing over to it, she sees the torn remains of riding clothes and a cloak. Next to it, a belt, with a sheathed sword and a dagger. Frowning, she picks it up, and her thumb grazes over the ruby direwolf engraved in the hilt. She wraps it up in the cloak, tucks it under her arm and follows her brother out of the cell.
Rain begins to drizzle down, pattering over Long Lake and glistening on the grass. Mud sloshes against the horses as they thunder closer to the waters.
Instinctively, Theon's arm tightens around Rose's body, which remains lifeless against his chest. She is covered with an enormous fur cloak, but he can see goosebumps on the skin that is exposed. Struggling a little, he draws the hood up over her head, looking down at her battered face. She has never looked so small, cradled against him, her nose red against the cold.
The Ironborn round the lake Northwards, stopping when they see Lord Baelish, donned all in black, surrounded by a handful of knights. Theon clenches the reins the closer they come to him. Everything about him — his sharp, sneering features, his laughing grey-green eyes — turns his stomach.
"Lord Greyjoy," he greets when their horses stop in front of him. "My Lady."
Yara glares back at him, stony-faced. "We have your bride."
"That is good news."
"Strange," Theon calls, trying to be heard over the pattering rain. "When we reached the gates of Winterfell, the Knights of the Vale were nowhere in sight. We were forced to escape through the tunnels."
Littlefinger's lip twitches. "They were waiting near Moat Cailin, My Lord," he explains, smoothly. "Should you have had trouble in your quest, they would have intervened, I assure you."
"Our quest," Yara corrects, sharply. "That wasn't the plan."
"There's a war coming. The Starks and the Boltons will cross swords soon enough. I promised my wife that she would have the backing of the Vale, should that day come." His gaze flits over Rose, who remains, curled up and asleep, in Theon's arms. "I could not risk losing my numbers. Regardless, this is not your fight." He lets out a hollow chuckle. "Go back to the Iron Islands. I'm sure your uncle is eager to receive you."
"What about Rose?" Yara asks, tersely.
"She'll be coming back to the Vale, with me. I'll make sure she's well-tended to—"
"She's not going anywhere with you," Theon snaps. His arms tighten, possessively around her. "I heard you sold Sansa to the Boltons to further an alliance. Sold her to that animal like she was nothing more than a broodmare. You think, after that, we'd allow you to—?"
"Allow me?" Littlefinger interrupts, his voice biting. "Lady Rose is my wife. She'll go where I see fit. Besides, Sansa is an intelligent young woman. Far from the girl you knew growing up at Winterfell. She will understand why I did what I did."
Yara arches an eyebrow. "You can find out for yourself when we reach Castle Black."
Littlefinger studies her, his lips pressing together. "As I said . . . it seems to me you have your own war to fight." His eyes flit to Theon. "Your allegiance is not with the Night's Watch anymore."
"Jon Snow sent Theon from the Wall so he could return home," Yara barks. "To his true family." Her horse takes a few, purposeful strides towards him. "I owe him the courtesy of protecting his."
Not waiting for a response, she looks over her shoulder at Theon and gives him a nod. Theon glares, one last time at Littlefinger, then he and his men go galloping after her. It takes a moment, but the Knights of the Vale reluctantly follow them, their Lord Protector included, heading further North.
A/N: Rose is free! Plus, Theon is no longer a man of the Night's Watch — he's back in the Iron Islands where he belongs. How will Jon react when he sees Rose again, and in such a state? Could there be a potential alliance situation between the Starks and the Greyjoys? And what do you think happened to Rickon? Let me know your thoughts!
