Of course I'll hurt you.
Of course you'll hurt me.
Of course we will hurt each other.
But this is the very condition of existence.
(A.E.)
IT is happening. The great hall was filling with people.
Reek stood, trembling behind the crevices of the wooden door hidden between the grey curtains. Tonight he will be paraded and with that thought his stomach coiled, but not that he wasn't used to his stomach coiling. He was surely used to it now, after his innards had grown tough on the wormed and corrupted stuffs that his master used to feed him. His mouth was pested with sores. When his teeth weren't knocked out by an aggravated Ramsay, it fell voluntarily. And every night when his stomach revolted, he shat water and mud and worms, cleaved with the grossest odor that would laugh at the smell of the skinless carcass hanging on the Winterfell gates.
He was vexed with the feat of having Sansa behold him. He was teary-eyed and crying all over again, wanting to run, wanting to rather slit his throat than see her eyes rain arrows on him. But there was no way Ramsay would let him take his life. If there was something the mad dog was too patient about for the longest time, it would be letting Reek alive and in the name of his throbbing, empty fingers he did not know why.
Feasts in Winterfell's great halls were not like this, Reek remembered. Everything used to be radiant as if sunlight was beaconed on them. Now the giant candelabra hung dead and morose, the only light that filled the room were torches but no matter how many torches may be lit and hung, it still cannot dissolve the greyness that clung on the bricked walls where the red and yellow Dreadfort banners were draped over. There was no music, no fiddles and flutes. There was only the sound of footsteps and serving girls' ragged skirts brushing against the floor. When Lord and Lady Stark threw banquets, there was life in the castle walls, there were colors from the dyed pelts that adorned the lesser lords and ladies who come in with smiles and painted lips and braided hairs, there were fiddles, zithers, laughter and dancing, and Lady Catelyn apprehending her balky children, especially the little rat Arya who was throwing or poking pork bones at her siblings.
Now he was seeing such a funereal sight, like a cult's gathering in the middle of the woods under the sickly moonlight. Maids, Myranda among them, walked in and out with tin cutleries, plates and goblets lining on the long table. Men came in with their dark boiled leathers, dark capes, dark trousers, dark moleskin gloves; their bodies draped with supple chainmail, and fingers wrapped around goblets filled to the brim with bitter ale. A very few women were present, faces bleak with their earthen-colored robes, their hair like nests around their shoulders. They were more fit to grieve the carcasses of war than join this dinner.
When the buttered venison and spiced wine was brought in, the air had become cheerful, at least. Even Reek felt his mouth salivating and the emptiness of his belly squalled. He craned his neck to see the view of the prizes laid on the table, along with platters of raisin pastry and fruit, but he blenched when the thick footsteps of lord Roose Bolton threatened to pull him off his hiding place.
Lord Bolton paused affront the door that hid the mad dog's pet. Reek trembled. None knew Ramsay's other agenda that night but only them both, and his blood went stagnant when Ramsay threatened to take an ear off him if he even had the thinking to tell it to anyone. "It's meant to surprise, Reek," he said, smirking as he laced the collar of his vest, "we should see their faces."
"This is outrageous,"
Reek can hear Roose's words clearly. He can trace two shadows now, one taller than Lord Bolton, with long and thick hair. Small Jon.
"We are running off supplies and my half-brained son has put up..." he waved his arms in frustration, "this. Whatever this is." He scoffed, "A gift for the Stark girl, he says. Better be worthy or I'll flay one of his hounds myself."
"The boy's in-love with her." Small Jon managed a smile which neither Roose nor Reek coded to be truth or mocking.
Roose shook his head rather disapprovingly, "He's flaunting her. For her pretty face and perky teats. Even if she were indeed a wolf but looked like a boar, he'd have her beaten the second I turn my back on them."
Small Jon gave silence as an answer, and Roose decided to move to their seats on the elevated platform to meet his wobbling wife before everyone: less than a hundred people as Ramsay promised, bannermen and commandants and their consorts or mistresses alike. Reek has also identified faces he was versed off but can only pull lord Karstark's son from memory, once Robb's pawn, both a traitor like the Theon Greyjoy he once was.
When the whispers died, Reek's veins pulsated. As everyone turned to the platform with faces of feigned adoration, he began to feel the familiar trembling that always shook him whenever he sees the Dreadfort cross. He peeked to see the people bow to the Bolton father and son, one perplexed with impatience and the other excited.
"Rise." Ramsay gestured and everyone did like puppets on their strings.
He was exulted and well dressed like a knight on his appointment. Clad in all black, with a silver Dreadfort sigil on his chest, Ramsay was a god.
Everyone can see it in the brightness of his eyes that something taboo was approaching, and they were skilled at hiding the disturbance they perceive. He took a copper goblet of his own, had it filled, and with an aristocrat smile he urged everyone to share his felicity.
"I welcome you all on this grandiosity," Ramsay started, "because the gods have given me a gift."
Among the pool of faces, Reek caught one which radiated hurt and ire. Myranda was blooming with venom whilst bowing her head and chewing on her bottom lip. He can almost smell the blood that she was tasting.
"The gift that would finally stand with us side by side as we unite the north..." Ramsay caught breath, only to be worded out proud and strong, "has been given to me as a bride!"
Whispers began to float, the heads and faces started scattering, eager to approve or oppose or both. Their necks began to stretch to see the fiery-haired dame entering from the side of the platform and Reek's pupils dilated.
Sansa climbed the short steps that led to Ramsay's outstretched hand. She wore a scarlet gown with long and wide-rimmed sleeves; half her hair was clipped on either sides of her ears, and the rest rippling like a stream to her waist.
She was still soft and solemn, like the little girl she once was, needle and thread between her fingers and embroidering from dusk to dawn. Reek ached at the memories of her, of when she rode her first pony and all at the stables were fond of her pretty hair and blue Tully eyes. She had cheeks as rosy pomegranates, and every inch a fairy was. He had been staring at her until Robb blew dust on his eye which made it sore with pus for days. Robb was never sorry for that he called his own version of "King's Justice" to teach Theon not to spy on his sister (he had been saying that Sansa's chest was made of half-baked dough). When Sansa was growing still, he used to hope Lord Eddard would give her to him as a bride, as a price for his services to house Stark. It wouldn't hurt, he said to himself, he was also a trueborn lord of the Iron islands, a kraken and a wolf wouldn't be as bad as it looks like.
And now he was watching her take the hand of his persecutor, eyes down and half-smiling unhappily. The people remained still and unstirred like the gargoyles they were, and Ramsay gently kissed his betrothed's hand, afterwhich raising his goblet to her.
"My lady," he acknowledged, "we are all family, we northerners."
The audience stiffly and coldly held to their cups.
"Our blood ties go back thousands of years, so I'd like to drink to our wedding. May our happiness spread from Moat Cailin..." he smirked, "... to the last hearth."
As Sansa stared awkwardly, Roose was one to save her by proclaiming the toast to the crowd, "To your wedding,"
"To your wedding," the people echoed dryly and less harmonious.
Reek watched them all touch their cups to their lips. Not all, though, as there was still Myranda embraced in cold ambience, glaring at Ramsay like an angry coal. And one more, leaning a shoulder against a rafter, his goblet untouched. He recognized the archer with the straw-painted hair. Sansa's friend from the morning, there below the parapets where he watched him approach her. Reek's lips tightened when he remembered the man glance at his shadowed presence. He was supposed to be still and invisible, Master said, he should keep an eye on her. Failing means losing one eye and be forced to gobble it for he can still keep watch on her with only one eye left anyway.
The archer was steady, stance unbent while staring at the platform. There was awe that graced his face, and other than that, pity. He would look at the stage, shake his head lazily, lower his gaze to the cup he wouldn't kiss, and back to the stage once more. He was itched with dismay, and it posed a danger that Reek did not miss.
No. Reek pleaded with trembling breaths. No. Do not stare at her. Master will be angry. He will cut you piece by piece. Like Theon Greyjoy. His eyes teared up and a sudden gush of thwart beamed inside him. There will be no escape. Theon Greyjoy tried to escape. Keep your eyes off her. M-master will punish me too.
And through it all, everyone was asked to sit with the signal of Ramsay's hand. Walda was last to get comfortable at the side of her husband. As Sansa, too, perched herself on her chair, Ramsay took a last gulp off his goblet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"Ah, I promised you a gift didn't I?" He talked to her, but it was as if he talked to everyone. He chuckled, "Oh you'll love this."
Reek suppressed a sob, curling and hugging his weakened knees. He was hearing the iron footsteps of Ramsay's men nearing the door that was the only thing standing between him and the hall. Curiosity shook the guests as their eyes followed where the men were leading to. The men stopped on either side of the doorposts, awaiting Ramsay's words.
"I present to you, my dear bride," Ramsay held his hand above his head and the men held the wooden knobs. Reek was now covering his face, almost scratching his eyes out.
"Vengeance."
With a swing of the hand, Reek was exposed.
He was slow to stand, his mind was a war of terror and resistance, shown by the tears that streaked his face and the snot that lined from his nose to beard. He bowed his head and straightened his lips but kept his eyes to the ground. His first step was rustic. Another, and another. He felt like entertainment, like a broken bird thrown in a nest of cobras, and he can feel their slitted eyes and fangs showing to him. With every step he limped, he hears the hushes, and the stepping away of those that he came near to.
Ramsay was in full smirk, pleased with himself. He looked at his bride who was beginning to lose the color on her face.
"Don't you remember him, my lady?" he asked but wasn't meaning to wait for an answer. He turned to Reek who was stopped trembling in the middle of the hall. "Why don't you come nearer, my lady can't see you,"
When he didn't move, Ramsay's eyes flashed and he inclined his head, "Reek? I told you to come nearer."
Sansa's breathing shallowed, her lips began to quiver. Reek inched another step and pinched his eyes shut to calm the tears.
"Nearer." Ramsay commanded. Reek obliged.
"Now, look up."
Sansa swallowed and forced a tiny voice, "Stop."
"What?" Ramsay turned to her, "Why? Aren't you pleased?" and back to Reek, "I said look up, Reek. Look at her. Look at the sister of the Northern King you wronged. The daughter of the warden you betrayed."
Reek pulled his head to the side before forcefully raising it to meet Sansa's watery eyes.
Ramsay placed a hand on Sansa's frozen shoulder. A tear escaped her eye and he caught it on her cheek with his forefinger. Sansa looked away at the touch and wiped her face.
"See how you displease her? She is very, very unhappy now." Ramsay told Reek who sniffed.
Roose was holding his breath and pinched his temples as he sighed. Walda had the chubby face that reached out consoling to Sansa.
"Of course," Ramsay stepped forward with the still glint in his eyes. He was the only one enjoying this. "I would feel the same after you...you...would kill my brothers too. But don't despair, my little bird, he is not a lord anymore. He is not Theon Greyjoy anymore." Moving his eyes to Reek, he asked, "Aren't you?"
Reek nodded.
"So who are you now?" Ramsay asked.
"Reek, Master, my name is Reek." Reek. Reek. Rhymes with freak.
"What are you now?"
"Your servant, master. Loyal and...and true."
Ramsay flashed a smile at Sansa whose eyes were red at the rims.
"And you owe Lady Sansa an apology, Reek. You did bad things to hurt her, that's why I had to punish you. You understand that, don't you, Reek, why I had to punish you?"
The broken man nodded.
"Now, apologize to Lady Sansa."
Roose was holding on his seat, eyes burning with shame. But couldn't stop what was occurring nonetheless.
"Reek, apologize." Ramsay echoed.
"I'm sorry."
"Look at her, Reek. In the eye. She needs to see you sincere and true."
Reek met Sansa's eyes again. Brown against azure. "I'm sorry,"
"For what?" Ramsay asked.
"For killing your brothers..."
Sansa looked down and sniffed. Her hands forming to fists.
Silence reigned like poison.
"There!" Ramsay grinned with arms outstretched. "All's ended well, I suppose." Even Roose let out a comforted breath and shook his head.
Reek was soft and convinced. He wasn't meaning to be presented as a gift. He was meant to torture Sansa with memories she was so vulnerable with, not yet beating and biting her as what he does to his whores. Ramsay has no claim on her. Yet. But he was punishing her for this morning's rendezvous with the archer, and he was locking her neck with a chain he knew she would not fight against. He was telling her in subtitles, the things he can do and the mechanics he can well-plan to impose his power over her. And he was succeeding at first light.
"He's yours now, my lady," Ramsay spoke and Sansa stood even without his urging. She walked to Ramsay and had him face to face. Without a clue, Ramsay continued, "You can do to him as you ple—"
She slapped him.
The strike from palm to cheek cracked the air like a firework.
She slapped him again with the other cheek before anyone can make a move.
The silence was incredulous that one can hear a pin that fell to the floor. All eyes were wide except hers. She stared at him coldly as a tear broke out from an eye. Her face was hard and austere, and even Reek has never seen this side of Sansa. Every feet was dug to the floor and every mouth was left agape, and every movement was choked like they were hardened in ice. She had become a ghost in their midst. She had probably grown an extra head or birthed a snake or sprouted wings by the way they stared at her. They all looked stupid in her sight.
Ramsay's eyes ignited fire and his face fondled shock while raising his hand to cover the jaw that had reddened.
Sansa turned to her heels and without lifting her skirt, she spun off with apathetic disgrace as all eyes stared at her exit.