Ser Rodrik trailed behind the guard who'd informed him there was trouble in the dungeons. The guardsman didn't know what was happening beneath the prison tower, he only did as Gaven asked after he came roaring up from the dungeon and frantically demanded someone bring Rodrik. The knight could guess what the trouble was, and he cursed himself for not being firmer with lady Greyjoy when he tried to discourage her from speaking to the Bolton prisoner.
Upon descending into the dungeon Rodrik heard a strange keening, broken only when it became one of the most terror-filled screams the knight ever heard. There was something primal in the scream—something guttural and deranged. It was unlike the howls of men as they lay dying on the battlefield. There was no pain in the scream echoing from the depths of the dungeon, only madness. When Rodrik rounded the last corner and came upon Gaven, the guardsman on duty in the dungeons, and lady Greyjoy the knight was shocked to find the wailing came from her.
The girl's back was pressed against the stone wall, where a lit torch flickered brightly over her head. Her chest heaved and expanded wide as a billow before she unleashed another ragged scream until she ran out of breath once more. To then gather another lungful of air and unleashed and scream again as she peered into the dark cell across from her with wild eyes that shined brightly with fear.
What may have troubled Rodrik more than the screaming, was how the girl's hands grabbed at her dark hair. How her fingers seemed to twist and tangle in the locks and—pulled—as she shook her head with rapid, jerky movements.
Gaven stood a small distance away from lady Greyjoy and looked unsure of what he should do besides half-aim the point of his halberd at the cell holding Bolton's servant. Rodrik would have asked the guardsman what happened, but from the baffled and even half-frightened look on Gaven's face, it was easy to see the man had no idea. Rodrik would have to get answers from the lady directly, it seemed.
As he strode closer, Rodrik noticed a dark, wet stain spread underneath lady Greyjoy. Moister absorbed by the layer of dust on the floor. When the knight was near enough, the acrid scent of urine hit his nose.
Seven Hells! What has brought her to this state? Rodrik thought.
Rodrik followed the girl's maddened gaze. Bolton's man, Reek, was pressed against the far wall of his cell, and he looked at lady Greyjoy with his eyes brimming with fright nearly equal to hers. Had the wretch said something to provoke such a reaction from the girl?
Despite his aged, creaky bones, Rodrik crouched next to the girl even as his knees protested. So near, lady Greyjoy's howl was ear-splitting, and he knew if he spoke before she stopped, she'd not hear a word he said. Instead, he waited until she ran out of breath and called out her name before the girl's lungs could draw in another lungful of air.
"My lady," Rodrik exclaimed before she let fly another scream. "Lady Greyjoy! Hear me!"
It was no use. She began screaming again, louder than before. Wherever lady Greyjoy's frenzied thoughts held her prisoner they deafened her to Rodrik's words and even his presence.
The knight had seen many men descend into such a state before. Men so crazed with pain, they needed to be held down to keep them from hurting themselves further. Those men lost in their agony had been senseless to all else around them. Rodrik could see the same state of incomprehension in the Greyjoy girl's bulging, glassy eyes.
If she will not hear words, then…
Rodrik carefully reached out and place his hand on her thin shoulder and squeezed firmly.
"Lady Greyjoy. What has—"
The girl's eyes darted to the knight without turning her head. She did not appear to see him at first, and Rodrik suspected she reacted to his touch rather than his voice. It was a moment before the girl's wild, unfocused eyes cleared and she did see him. Recognition cleared away the horror twisting the girl's face and silenced her screams. The lady's relief lightened Rodrik's own heart, but the moment did not last.
Lady Greyjoy let out a sharp gasp before her gaze slid away from Rodrik's face and dropped to the ground near his boots. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she blocked a torrent of watery vomit from gushing forth, but not completely. Bile and sludge still managed to spurt out around her palms and fingers.
When the spew ended, the lady coughed and gasped until she once again found the breath to start screaming again. Her hands now clutched the bodice of her dress as if she wanted to rip through it and tear the heart out of her chest. Her wails formed intelligible words, though they made no more sense to Rodrik than her earlier shrieks.
"Oh, Ser! Ser! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Sorry! Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry!" The girl's stuttering 'sorries' blended until they were no longer words but more mournful, wordless screams.
Then with soiled hands, lady Greyjoy reached for her hair, clutched at the black locks, and pulled. She'd torn out two handfuls before Rodrik quickly struck her behind the ear and gave her the blessing of unconsciousness. She went limp and her head slumped to the side as blood dripped from her scalp to the floor. Rodrik picked the girl up and hefted her into his arms the way he would his own daughter when he put her to bed. Lady Greyjoy was almost as light.
Rodrik looked down at Quenlyn's sweat and vomit-covered face. Untwisted with fear, her features were still and smooth. What happened to you? The knight silently asked the girl in his arms.
Rodrik looked over to the prisoner. The knight suspected this Reek played some part in lady Greyjoy's ravings. The absence of the girl's screams relaxed Bolton's servant cringing, but his back was still pressed against the rear wall of the cell.
"If I find you are responsible for the lady Greyjoy's delirium, I will not care the price paid—I will have your head," Rodrik said and felt some satisfaction when fear returned to the prisoner's pale blue eyes
Rodrik turned to Gaven next. "Run ahead to the maester's turret and tell him I'm bringing lady Greyjoy to him."
The guardsman gave a curt nod before he hurried away. Rodrik followed, careful not to jostle the girl and stir her from her involuntary slumber. He didn't want her to injure herself further should she come to and have another fit in his arms.
Once Prince Rickon and the Frey boys were ushered out of the tower, Rodrik gave lady Quenlyn to the maester for treatment. After one look at the unconscious girl in Rodrik's arms, Wyn cleverly vacated the turret as well, aware the knight and maester were in need of privacy.
Rodrik placed lady Greyjoy on the empty bed next to Wyn's and the maester at once poured weak wine mixed with a pinch of sweetsleep into the girl's mouth. He then massaged her throat with his fingers to ensure she swallowed the concoction wholly. Next, Luwin cleaned away the blood and vomit on her face, then cleaned the wounds on her scalp.
Rodrik watched quietly and waited for Luwin to finish. The maester would have questions—though the knight was unlikely to have answers for him. just as Luwin finished with the self-inflicted wounds on lady Greyjoy's scalp, a maid arrived. She entered the turret carrying a basket with clean bed linens and a change of clothing for Quenlyn inside. Luwin and Rodrik took their leave and waited in silence until the maid exited a handful of minutes later and carried out the soiled bedsheets and clothing in the basket.
"What happened?" Luwin asked once the three were alone in the turret again.
"I cannot say. I can only tell what I saw when I found her in the dungeon."
Lady Greyjoy rested on the freshly changed bed, with her head raised high on a pile of goose feather pillows, and the rest of her was smothered by a heavy gray quilt.
I should not have allowed her to see Bolton's servant, the knight thought. Had he insisted lady Quenlyn stay away from the dungeons more firmly, perhaps this all could have been avoided. Whatever this was.
Rodrik recounted to the maester what he saw. When he finished the telling, Luwin was quiet for several moments.
"She injured herself?" the maester asked.
Rodrik nodded. He still felt unsettled at how the girl's crazed expression and tearful eyes suddenly shifted and became soaked in both horror and sorrow before she ripped the hair out of her head. Her frantic pleas for forgiveness disturbed Rodrik even more. She'd plead as if she'd done him some great wrong, and he could not think what that might be. Other than Quenlyn's disregard for common decency every time she picked up a sword, or her bow, Rodrik had no real quarrel with the girl.
"She would have ripped every strand of hair from her head and made herself a bloody ruin had I not rendered her unconscious. Twas a madness that took lady Greyjoy. How it came to be there and why I cannot say, but I've seen it before: In soldiers after they survived the slaughter of a battlefield. In the eyes of mothers who clutched lost babes in their arms as they prayed to the Mother to breathe life back into them. "
"The madness you describe does not just come upon one," Luwin said as he gingerly inspected the girl's head wounds.
"She has been… strange ever since Hornwood."
The maester paused and then nodded. "She seems to know a great deal about the Boltons, especially Lord Roose's bastard."
"More than she should."
Lady Greyjoy encountered Lord Bolton when then Lord Robb called the banners, but Rodrik noticed nothing unusual about their interactions. Indeed, the lady had been exceedingly gracious towards the Lord of Dreadfort. As for Ramsay Snow, a nobleman such as Roose Bolton would not proudly traipse his baseborn son into Winterfell—the man was no Ned Stark.
Few even knew of Ramsay Snow's existence before he grasped for Hornwood. Yet, lady Greyjoy spoke with such familiarity about Snow. As if she'd stood eye to eye with the man and knew enough of his mind to decipher his audacious schemes.
"She should not be so familiar, no," Luwin agreed. "Yet, she is. Have you spoken to those who witnessed lady Greyjoy's encounter with the prisoner?"
"She sent Gaven, the guardsman on duty, away for privacy. Gaven did note from the moment he returned to his post to when the lady began screaming, no more than a few minutes passed."
"What words could have been said between them to reduce her to such a state so quickly?"
Rodrik gave no reply.
It was another question the knight had no means to answer.
Luwin kept lady Greyjoy lulled under a sweet slumber for a full day before he decided to bring her back into the waking world. Rodrik made certain the maester timed her reawakening so he could be present when she came to. The knight had many questions and wanted them answered.
It was midday when the girl began to stir.
Deep sleep had kept her brow smooth and dry, but as lady Greyjoy regained consciousness her forehead furrowed, and her mouth tightened into a pained grimace. Luwin sat at her bedside and dabbed a damp cloth against her brow as beads of sweat appeared.
Quenlyn's eyes opened. Rodrik knew from his own experience under the effects of sweetsleep, her vision would be unfocused and blurry at first. Her thoughts would be hazy and confused as well.
"What—I—" The girl squinted as she tried to recognize her surroundings. "Where am—?"
The moment the confusion clouding lady Greyjoy's mind lifted—sooner than Rodrik expected—her eyes popped open.
"Gods, no! Where is he? Where? Where!" She cried, her voice fraught and panicked, just as it had been in the dungeons.
It was not long before lady Greyjoy's words ran together and became a ramble of unintelligible nonsense. She began whipping her head from side to side so violently that Rodrik feared her neck might snap. It was only after Luwin called for his aid that Rodrik realized the girl was not having some fit—she was trying to come off the bed, but couldn't muster enough strength to move far very fast. For sweetsleep did not leave the body quickly. Its effects lingered in the muscles and could keep one weakened for days, even weeks after one stopped taking it.
"Help me!" the maester shouted as he pressed down on her shoulders. "She's frail, but she may still tumble from the bed!"
Rodrik hurried forth and pushed one hand down on Quenlyn's chest, positioned carefully above her bosom. When the maester commanded it, Rodrik gently, but firmly, placed his other hand on the girl's forehead.
"Hold her still. I will ply her with more sweetsleep," the maester said as he pulled a vial from his robes.
Luwin had known, or suspected lady Greyjoy might react thus, Rodrik realized after the maester had the sweetsleep prepared and within reach.
Lady Greyjoy saw the draught and stopped screaming long enough to turn her face away when Luwin tried to push the potion against her lips.
"No!" she moaned. "No, please don't! Listen to me! Ramsay will kill Ri—!"
Rodrik shook his head. The girl was truly addled. Snow was dead and rotting in the Hornwood.
"Lady Greyjoy, you are unwell," Luwin said. "You need to rest!"
"Pleasepleaseplease—"
On and on she strung 'pleases' as Rodrik applied more strength to turn her head so Luwin could get his draught of sweetsleep into her. The girl's desperate madness had leaned her strength and she resisted with such fervor Rodrik was hesitant to apply more force. Fearing any more pressure might severely injure her.
It may be necessary to pry her mouth open so Luwin can get the concoction into her! The knight thought and prayed it would not come to that. He could bruise her lips or even break her teeth.
"Ramsay will kill him again! You must not—!"
"Who will Ramsay kill, my lady?" Luwin asked calmly, his previous urgency gone.
Do not encourage the girl's ravings! Rodrik silently admonished the maester as he moved his hand toward Quenlyn's mouth. Luwin's question, however, made the girl cease her struggling, and she turned to the maester. The wildfire gleam of desperation in her eyes flickered and transformed into hope.
"Rickon!" she cried. "He's tricked me to get at Rickon! Stop him! Don't let him—"
Maester Luwin poured the contents of draught into lady Greyjoy's mouth as she cried out. She choked and gagged before she swallowed the potion involuntarily. Betrayal raged in the girl's eyes as she renewed her struggle to free herself from Rodrik's grasp.
Rodrik kept his hold on Lady Greyjoy as she rambled on and on until finally, the sweetsleep began to take effect. She went limp and her eyes fluttered closed. While her frantic pleas slurred as she spoke with a tongue suddenly numb and too thick to form words.
Then, at last, the potion pulled her into a silent, unmoving slumber.
"I will keep her in sweetsleep for now," Luwin said. "Deep rest may help to recover her wits."
Rodrik nodded then removed his hands from the lady and stepped away from the bed. The maester had the right of it—there was a real possibility lady Greyjoy might not recover if they left her to wallow in the fear and insanity overtaking her mind. All they could do now is wait and hope sleep helped Quenlyn overcome what troubles ailed her.
Rodrik looked down at the sleeping girl. Lady Greyjoy's fear, however irrational, was very real. And Luwin was also correct when he said such madness did not come on so quickly. Nor had it sprung from the void. From where then?
Lady Greyjoy was slumbered a sennight, and in the interim Ser Rodrik went about the business of reintegrating the men he took with him to fight the Boltons back into Winterfell's normal routine. Most returned to patrolling the Stark outlands or guarding the castle. A few of the green boys, the ones who'd seen the most fighting in the Hornwood, Rodrik granted short leaves.
The conflict was intense and brutal in the Hornwoods. The Boltons, as expected gave no quarter, and after seeing first-hand the havoc those men wrought on their neighbors, Stark forces responded in kind. Nearly every engagement fought was to the death.
It was a very bloody business, even for the battle-hardened men under Rodrik's command who fought in the Greyjoy Rebellion. For the young men who'd only fought petty skirmishes with bandits and wildlings, the carnage in the Hornwood truly took its toll on them.
Rodrik saw it in their eyes, and in the way they simmered in their quiet rage while the other soldiers, elated the battle of the Hornwood ended with the Stark victorious, celebrated and made merry. Eventually, the newly-blooded would allow their anger and resentment to boil over—it was only a matter of when. So, upon their return to Winterfell, Rodrik paid those boys extra coin to drink and tumble down in winter town. And if the gods were good, half of them might not wake in the middle of the night screaming or turn up having killed someone they shouldn't.
Lady Greyjoy's absence was sorely missed when it came to managing the castle. Rodrik was fair with sums and whatnot, but as Castellan and the castle's Master-At-Arms, he ran himself ragged trying to handle his duties and those the Lady of Winterfell performed. Luwin aided when he could, but the maester had his own business to tend to, which now included looking after Prince Rickon and the Frey wards.
The only spot of good news Ser Rodrik received since lady Greyjoy's collapse came in a letter sent by Castle Hornwood's steward. The missive told with the Boltons in full retreat Hornwood and Manderly forces were able to scour the Hornwoods for Lady Donella, and that their search bore precious fruit. A sennight earlier, Lady Donella was located within an abandoned tower on the Hornwood side of the Bolton/Hornwood border.
The holdfast almost went ignored according to the scouts who found the Lady inside. It was thought Ramsay kept the proof of his claim to Lordship close at hand and under heavy guard while he and his men ravaged the lands he sought to rule. Thus, it was encamped Boltons holding prisoners the seekers sought out before Lady Donella was carried away to Dreadfort, and forever beyond their reach.
No guards had been posted at the holdfast where she was found. It was only the presence of a newly forged iron lock and chains barring the crumbling, disused tower that alerted the scouts it might be worth searching. Ser Rodrik could not decide if it was some clever misdirection on Snow's part to imprison Lady Donella in the lonely holdfast or extraordinary hubris.
Other than news of her rescue and return to Hornwood castle, the letter told nothing of Donella's well-being. Though Rodrik could guess the woman wasn't eager to have the brutality and disgrace visited upon her at the hands of Roose Bolton's bastard discussed openly so soon, if ever. Once the appropriate amount of time passed Rodrik would send a responding raven inquiring about Lady Donella's health. Until then, he did not want the good Lady to feel obligated to exchange correspondence until she was ready.
When lady Greyjoy was drawn out of her sweetsleep, Rodrik once again made sure he was present. He prayed when she woke, lady Quenlyn would be of sound mind and able to offer the answers Rodrik sought. Though he already suspected the answers she'd give involved Ramsay Snow's servant.
Rodrik had interrogated Reek every day since lady Greyjoy's collapse. He made threats, beat, and starved the prisoner, convinced he said something untoward or made some threat to send lady Greyjoy over the edge of sanity. All to no avail. Battered and starved, Reek yet swore he'd done nothing to make the lady lose her senses.
Lady Greyjoy emerged from her slumber slower than the last time Luwin released her from sweetsleep. When she finally opened her eyes, Rodrik noticed her gaze was calmer as she quietly stared at the turret's pitched rafters. The sheen of madness was gone from her eyes, but the knight remained wary:
For now, what he saw in her flat green-blue eyes, was pure calculation.
Lady Greyjoy's sat up slowly and propped her back on the pillows. Her gaze moved to the maester who sat at her left and held her hand comfortingly. In his other hand, Luwin held another draught of sweetsleep ready.
Lady Greyjoy smiled. It was waning and barely stretched her white, parched lips. Rodrik sensed she wanted the smile to be reassuring, but her complexion was too grey and waxy to express anything other than grief and exhaustion.
"Maester Luwin," she said at last, with a voice as dry and colorless as her lips.
"Lady Greyjoy. Are you feeling well?"
She gave a shallow nod. "I am, sir."
"Would you like a sip of something to quench your thirst?"
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
"Then perhaps you may answer our questions pertaining to your frenzied reaction in the dungeons?" Rodrik asked with a hint of impatience.
"I offer my most sincere apologies. I did not mean to upset anyone. I hope I have not caused any inconvenience."
Rodrik might have laughed at her attempt to minimize her ravings under different circumstances, but not now.
"Inconvenienced? No. However, you did make many strange… claims."
"Yes, my lady. You said Prince Rickon was in danger from Ramsay Snow," Luwin said. "That he would kill him again?"
For a moment, lady Greyjoy's expression went very still, and her mummer's smile disappeared. Quickly the smile returned, but it was even less convincing than before.
"I don't know why I would say such nonsense," the girl shook her head. "I misspoke. Again, I beg your pardon, good sirs."
Rodrik stepped closer to the featherbed and stared down at lady Greyjoy with the stoniest of faces. Lady Greyjoy was attempting to waylay them. To obscure and hand-wave her earlier madness with demure apologies and sweet courtesy.
It was becoming clear to the knight that when Quenlyn Greyjoy had a mind to, she could wield guile as easily as a skilled swordsman swung a blade.
I shall not allow you to sway me with honeyed words this time, girl!
"Apology accepted. Now tell us what happened between yourself and Reek?" Rodrik asked, done with pleasantries.
And there. There, Rodrik saw how lady Greyjoy tried not to flinch at the mention of Snow's servant. Yet she could not suppress her body's reaction completely. Her jawline sharpened as she clenched her teeth, and her throat worked as if she was trying to hold back a scream.
Then Bolton's servant did indeed play some part in her madness. But how? Rodrik wondered.
"That—that… man in the dungeons… is Ramsay Bo—Snow," lady Greyjoy said, her mask of gentleness fraying and coming undone as she spoke through gritted teeth and stiff lips.
The declaration rendered the knight speechless for several moments. How could she make such a claim? Had he not stood over Ramsay Snow's corpse and seen with his own eyes it's neck twisted wrongly after he fell from his horse, and his craven hide riddled with arrows? The bastard was dead. There was no doubt.
Rodrik began to protest, but lady Greyjoy stunned him silent again with her next words:
"Kill him. Kill him now."
All warmth and nicety were gone from Lady Greyjoy's voice—replaced with pure winter. She pierced Rodrik with a stare sharp as steel. A look gone murderous and utterly, utterly pitiless. It made the knight want to shiver to look upon such ruthlessness on the young woman's face.
"My lady—" Luwin began.
"I will not have him within these walls. Kill him."
"You would have us slay this man who you claim is somehow Lord Bolton's bastard? A man I know to be dead,," Rodrik said. "Are we meant to blindly obey your senseless demand for violence, my lady?"
His question thawed lady Greyjoy's expression, but the hard look in her eyes did not yield.
"It is him," she insisted.
"How would you know Roose Bolton's bastard from any other man?"
Lady Quenlyn's gaze drifted to her lap, where her hands were balled into fists on her thighs.
"Listen, please—"
"I am listening, my lady," Rodrik said. "Explain to us how it is you believe a dead man yet lives?"
Lady Greyjoy's head shot up, her eyes ablaze.
"He tricked you!" She shrieked, her eyes still afire even as tears pooled in them. "It's what M-Mas—he—he does! He lies and tricks you and makes you believe what isn't true! He—He—He—He—He—"
The cold façade lady Quenlyn shattered to nothing as a tangle of rumbling, incoherent words flowed out of her in hiccupping gasps. Tears fell from the lady's eyes while her hands clawed at the quilt covering her until Rodrik heard its fabric tear.
Rodrik and Luwin's gazes met, and the knight nodded. Though it was dangerous to ply her with the stuff so soon and so often, both agreed should lady Greyjoy lose her wits again she would be put back under sweetsleep. Luwin brought up the vial as Rodrik climbed onto the bed opposite the maester and restrained the girl so the concoction could be administered.
Rodrik clasped her chin and held one of her thin wrists as Luwin raised the draught to her lips. Lady Greyjoy was still mewling right up until she slapped the vial out of the maester's hand and sent it flying across the room.
"No! Listen to me! Kill him! If you will not, give me the sword!"
The girl fought against Rodrik's hold but was no match against him in terms of strength, and greatly weakened as she was by sweetsleep. The knight held her in place easily while Luwin hurried to gather another vial from his stores. After the maester came back with the draught, both men once again tried to force the girl to drink its contents. When Rodrik shoved his fingers into her mouth, Lady Quenlyn began resisting more fiercely. She twisted in Rodrik's grasp and kicked her legs until the quilt covering her slid onto the floor. At the sight of her small clothes, Rodrik averted his gaze but tightened his grip.
Without Luwin's last trick to get the sweetsleep into lady Greyjoy, it was far more difficult a second time. After they finally succeeded, Quenlyn's arms and face were spotted with bruises. Even her lips were red and swollen twice their normal size. Rodrik's fingers, thick and callused, throbbed from a dozen shallow bites. The girl had snapped and gnashed her teeth on them until they bled.
"I dare not give her more sweetsleep," Luwin said later as lady Greyjoy slept. "The amount I've given her thus far is dangerous enough."
"Then she will need to be restrained," said Rodrik.
"Not here where the children may see."
The knight nodded his agreement. Lady Greyjoy's absence had not gone unnoticed and there would be rumors enough. The boys are like to have heard most of them already. But there was no need for them to also witness lady Greyjoy's bound like an animal.
"She'll be moved to her rooms and secured."
There will be talk of that as well.
It was necessary for Ser Rodrik to gain Prince Bran's leave to have lady Greyjoy confined. Though she could not appoint nor remove Rodrik as Castellan, lady Greyjoy was of a higher rank than himself. And hostage to the Starks or not, he didn't have the authority to imprison her against her will.
Fortunately, it was all too easy to acquire Bran's permission.
Lady Greyjoy was taken to her chambers that night and then tied with silks and linens to her bed. A trusted guardsman known to have no interest in women was placed at her door, and only maids meant to feed and bathe her were allowed inside. It was the best that could be done for the girl, but Rodrik was far from happy to put her through such indignities.
Rodrik was informed when the lady awoke the following morn. She showed herself to be calmer, according to her maids, and had requested Rodrik or Maester Luwin speak with her. The knight refused, convinced the girl only wanted another opportunity to persuade him the impossible was true. Suspicions Luwin later confirmed after visiting her chambers to see if the overuse of sweetsleep affected her adversely. Lady Greyjoy still insisted they had Ramsay Snow locked away in their dungeons. Though she did show some small improvement, Luwin said. In that, her delusions no longer included the belief Snow infiltrated Winterfell to murder Prince Rickon.
As strongly as Rodrik dismissed lady Greyjoy's insane claims, he could not make himself entirely ignore them.
After Lady Stark made the Greyjoy acting Lady of Winterfell, Rodrik will admit he'd been skeptical. But the girl had done a fine job running the castle and proved herself to be every bit as level-headed and effective as Lady Stark herself. Quenlyn Greyjoy was no empty-headed chit prone to flights of fancy, and Rodrik did not believe she could become so over the course of a day.
There must be some reason other than the madness to make her believe Ramsay Snow was still alive and caged in their dungeons.
"He tricked you!"
It was not impossible. Snow had been a bold and canny adversary. He'd proven that with his gambit to steal away Lady Donella and become Lord of the Hornwood by wedding her.
After more deliberation, Ser Rodrik decided to write two letters: One to King Robb Stark, and the other to Lady Hornwood. His letter to the king only made vague mention of lady Greyjoy's current misfortune and focused mostly on the condition of Winterfell, winter town, and the surrounding Stark lands. A most routine communication.
Ser Rodrik's missive to Hornwood, however, was more informal. First, he gently inquired about Lady Donella's health. Then he asked if there had been further sightings of Bolton forces. Rodrik also promised swift aid should the brigands even glance wrongly at Hornwood lands.
And lastly, Rodrik requested Lady Donella describe in detail Ramsay Snow's likeness.