Chapter 41: Reek

He would not run. He could not run.

I will deliver my lord that castle, Reek resolved. I will. I must.

The ruins of Moat Cailin were visible at a distance, obscured by mist. His horse jostled between his legs, rubbing his thighs. Reek did not mind it. He observed himself. For the first time in weeks, he did not stink. Lord Ramsey had gifted him not only fresh clothes, but the rare luxury of a bath in preparation for this task. But Reek could never forget how the past few weeks, months, or years had gone. Years? It can't be years, can it? Yet when he looked at himself he did not recognise what he saw. His hair had gone white. His cheeks were hollow to the touch, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He was missing his toes, forced to hobble when on his feet. I have an old man's hands, he thought. More skin and bones and half-healed scars than flesh.

Reek looked away from himself. He was too hideous to bear, well and truly worthy of his name. Fit only to inhabit the dungeon that he had called home for so long, drowning in darkness, with only Lord Ramsey and his games for company. Instead he turned his eyes ahead, to his task.

I've come this way before, a traitorous part of his mind thought, but Reek quashed it. That part of him had come to Moat Cailin atop a mighty steed, an army at his back, raging and ready to make war against the Starks, the banner of the kraken to back him in battle. The part of him that approached Moat Cailin now was on a sickly mule, carrying the standard for peace, not worthy of the title man. He was not even a dog. He was a worm; a worm in human skin, graciously given a new lease on life as a servant to Lord Ramsey.

The air was wet and heavy as Reek rode, little puddles dotting the patchwork of snow and dirt on the ground. Reek proceeded carefully between the puddles; already, he could tell he was being watched. He could feel the eyes prickling against his skin. He cast his gaze up from the ground, taking in the collapsed wall that was supposed to ring the fortress and the towers lying beyond. They were no much better: one straight with it's top shattered; another whole but crooked, threatening to topple; the third slimy with moss and infested with vines that had wormed their way into the mortar, cracking the stonework.

Pale faces peered down at him from all three. The faces of my people, the treasonous part of him again interjected. As he drew closer the road began to become lined with rotting corpses half sunken into the bog. Crows picked at their flesh, flies buzzed above. The corpses had long since bloated, pale and swollen. The sight reminded Reek of himself, of what he had become. The garrison won't recognise me, he thought. They knew Theon. But Theon was dead now, no better than those bodies slowly sinking into the bog. There was only Reek.

And yet, he thought, I must be a prince again.

"Stop!" a voice rang out, with a familiar accent. "What do you want?"

"Words!" Reek answered, his voice scratchy and uneven from disuse. "Peace."

Inside, Reek knew, the ironmen was likely discussing whether to admit him entry or to fill with arrows. It made no difference to him. A death like that would be a thousand times better than returning to Lord Ramsey a failure.

Then the gatehouse doors flung open.

"Inside!" a low voice hissed. "Hurry! Before they get you." It belonged to a lone ironman, half-dazed and crazed, hair wild about his head. A hand grabbed him and pulled him off his mule, then pulled him to his feet again. The familiar cold of steel was on him again before he knew it, a knife on his throat. "Who are you?" the man asked, sleep-deprived eyes wandering across Reek's face, red.

"I am ironborn," Reek lied, the words acid on his tongue. "Look at my face. I am Lord Balon's son. Theon."

"Lord Balon's sons are dead," the man said.

"My brothers, not me," Reek answered. "Lord Ramsey took me captive after Winterfell. I've been sent to treat with you. Who commands here?"

There was a moment's hesitance, then the blade was withdrawn. "Lord left Ralf Kenning in command, but he took an arrow in the belly and the bloat got him. Dagon Codd rules us now."

Codd... The name rang a bell in Reek's head. The Codds were not well regarded amongst the ironborn. The men were said to be swindlers and thieves; the women so wanton they spread their legs for their sons and fathers. It did not surprise him that Uncle Victarion had chosen to leave them behind.

"Take me to him," Reek commanded, affecting his best manners as prince. It felt forced, unfamiliar. Like a worm squirming in a man's shoes.

The man shrugged and sheathed his dagger. "This way, m'lord." The guard led him through a door and up a spiral stair, dusty black stone reminiscent of the walls of the dungeon in which Reek had been born. Hell, the only things missing were the rats scurrying across the floor. Moat Cailin was in the middle of a marsh, and from the stench in the air one could tell. The floor was damp; not quite slick but certainly rotted in places.

"How much of the garrison is left?" Reek asked as he hobbled after the man.

"Some, but not many," the man said. "Two of three towers is now unmanned. Most of us are dead and gone. If not from the fighting than by the disease. The water here isn't good, tainted. But that's why we have the ale."

Moat Cailin has already fallen, Reek realised. One more assault by Roose or Ramsey and it's all over.

The hall they eventually arrived it was high-ceilinged, drafty and made of dark stone. Only a single dull fire graced it with light, filling a hearth meant for much bigger flames. A dozen drinkers sat around a massive stone table, used in days past for grander feasts and gatherings than this sorry lot. The seat at the head was mine, once. His mind drew a blank as they turned to look. They were all strangers to him. The sons of thralls and salt-wives, most of them.

"Dagon Codd?" Reek asked.

"Who's asking?"

"Lord Balon's son," Reek answered. "Theon Greyjoy. Here at the behest of Lord Ramsey, who captured me at Winterfell. I'm here to treat. Lord Ramsey is prepared to be merciful if you offer your surrender before sundown." He pulled out the letter they'd given him and tossed it onto the table.

A man - presumably Dagon - scoffed. "Ironborn do not surrender."

"My lord's army lies to the north, his father's to the south. Even Lord Balon bent the knee when Robert Baratheon came. He knew if he did not he would have died. As you will if you do not accept my lord's terms." Reek gestured to the parchment on the table. "Give up now and my lord will grant you safe passage to Stony Shore. Read it."

Dagon rose to his feet and spat on the table. "I'm no craven. Dagon Codd yields to no man."

Reek felt his breath clench in his chest. If I fail now... The thought of what Lord Ramsey would do to him was enough to send piss running down his legs. "Is that your answer?" Reek asked through clenched teeth. "Does this one speak for you all?"

"Lord Victarion commanded us to hold, he did," one man said. "Hold here till I return, he told Kenning."

"Kenning's dead," another retorted.

Yes, yes! Reek leapt at the chance. "And my uncle is distracted elsewhere. He will not be returning. The kingsmoot crowned his brother, Euron, and the Crow's Eye has other wars he'd rather fight. You're on your own. My uncle won't come back for you. If he cared he wouldn't have left you behind. He thinks of you as the shit on his shoe. He scraped you off as soon as he could, and left you behind to fester."

The words struck home, Reek could tell. Perhaps a little too well. Dagon keened with wounded pride, a sneer stretching his face. "Liar," he said. "Liar, I call you. Why should we believe you?"

"Read the parchment," Reek retorted. "It's still sealed."

"If we yield, we walk away?" a man asked, leaning heavy on a crutch.

Reek nodded. "Lord Ramsey treats his hostages honourably, so long as they keep faith." He is kind, Reek thought. Kind to take my fingers and leave me my hands, kind to take my toes and leave me my feet. Kind to take my cock and not my balls. Kind to take off only little bits of skin, a piece at a time.

"Enough," Dagon snarled. "You are ironborn! Why are you all behaving like cravens? Begone now. Before I gut you and hang you by your entrails. Before-"

Dagon did not get to finish his threat. His words caught in his throat, then he toppled over, an axe jutting out of his back. Blood leaked from his mouth for a moment, bubbling on his lips with his breath, then he was dead. The man responsible merely shrugged. "I want to live," he said.

Reek afforded himself a painful smile. Lord Ramsey will be pleased with me. "Leave your weapons here," he told the men. "Anyone armed will be shot on sight."

With only a little grumbling their scabbards came off. Then they were down the steps, through the gates. Nearly sixty, all told. Nearly sixty of his men all behind him. Reek led them out the same way he'd come in, the path winding and narrow through the bog. The going was slow, and even Reek was painfully aware of how exposed they were. Even still, this was better than the alternative. Sixty men saved, Reek thought.

A rider came down to meet them. "Is this all?" he asked.

"All that are still alive."

"I thought there would be more," the man said, frowning. "We launched three assaults. They were all repelled."

We are ironborn, Reek thought, in a impetuous burst of pride that he quickly smothered. He was a worm, only a worm. Worms were not proud.

They arrived at camp with the barking of Lord Ramsey's hounds to announce their presence. Reek stumbled off his saddle and took a knee. "Moat Cailin is yours, my lord."

"So few," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "I had hoped for more. Stubborn folk. They must all be starved." Lord Ramsey gestured to one of his madmen with a cruel glint in his eyes. "Fetch some food and ale for them, will you? And show their wounded to the maester."

The gathered men quickly dispersed, and Lord Ramsey's gaze landed on Reek. Reek bowed his head and shivered. Ramsey's hand came to his neck, lifted Reek's gaze gently to meet his with fingers on his chin. He tutted. "Did they really take you for their prince?" He snorted. "What bloody fools these ironmen are. The gods laugh."

Reek felt a strange compulsion to defend them. "They just want to go home, my lord."

"And what of you, hmm?" Lord Ramsey asked. "What do you want? To be free, to go home like them?"

Reek shivered. "I am your Reek," he answered. "My place is by your side. If I must have a reward I would ask for wine, the strongest skin's worth that you have, my lord."

"Good," Ramsey softly intoned, patting his cheek. "You are my Reek. Don't worry, you'll get your wine. I'll even give you a special treat. We'll move you from the dungeon to the kennel, so you can sleep with my hounds. Would you like that, hmm? To be a dog instead of a worm?"

Reek nodded, and so it was. A collar was made for him, sharp leather with a trailing leash. That night a skin was thrown in with his dinner, a scrap of chicken the dogs got to before he did. But Reek did not care. The wine was sweet and sour and strong as promised. Even with the howling of the hounds beside him and the sounds of men screaming outside it was best night's sleep Reek had gotten in... months, most likely. By morning Reek was finally let out of the kennel, though only on his hands and knees. Lord Ramsey was off, he'd sent a letter down to his father to tell him that the road lay clear.

And yet, in spite his success, what little sense of happiness Reek had managed to scrape together lay in ruins. All around him his men were dead. They had been flayed, tortured by night. Now they lay scattered, missing heads and hands and eyes and long flaps of skin. They had been the screams he'd heard. Reek counted the bodies and mourned them quietly. Sixty-three. Seeing their corpses brought about in him a wave of rage he struggled to squash. They had surrendered. They had surrendered. They had surrendered to a worm, and the worm couldn't keep them safe.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek was led forth after only a little while. Ramsey greeted them on the road, and together they watched Lord Roose's van come in, a thousand scruffy peasants, a hundred mounted knights to keep them orderly. A dozen wagons stuffed with provisions. And a man in smoky grey plate at the head. When he removed his helm it was not a face Reek knew, though when Lord Ramsey knelt it was obvious who he was.

"Father," Lord Ramsey greeted him. Lord Roose did not much resemble his bastard son. He was smooth-shaven, pale, with lips so thin that when he pressed them together they seemed to disappear altogether. Reek got the impression that Roose Bolton was not one for rage. He shared only Ramsey's eyes, but those eyes were ice, whereas Ramsey's were fire.

"Rise," he simply commanded. "Walk with me."

Reek stood still, till Ramsey tugged on his collar at his father's beckoning. And so the three of them set off away from the van.

"How are things here?"

"The North is ours," Ramsey boasted. "Winterfell is a ruin. Stark's little wolflings are dead. I saw to it myself."

"Surely you misremember," Roose shook his head. "You did no such thing." He glanced back at Reek. "Theon Turncloak, now dead, did that. You never laid a hand on their sweet little heads. Because if you had, how many friends do you think we'd have?"

Reek's head pounded. He felt suddenly sick. We dipped their heads in tar...

Lord Ramsey scowled. "We are lords of the North now. By the Iron Throne's decree. They are not our friends."

Lord Roose stopped in his tracks, cast his gaze over his son. "Sometimes I wonder whether you truly are my seed. Boltons have been many things over the years, but never before have we been fools." He started walking again. "We appear strong for the moment, yes. We have powerful friends in the Lannisters and the Freys. For now, at least."

"For now?"

"The king agreed to name me Warden of the North, but he has thus far failed to approve my request that you be named a Bolton."

Ramsey stood shocked. Shock turned to seething anger. "What?"

Lord Roose's lips parted to reveal a row of white teeth in what some might have called a smile. "Oh, it gets worse," he said. "Lord Stannis has left the Wall. Lord Arnolf tells me he marches west, though he knows not why. Karstark says he laid the perfect bait in the Dreadfort, yet Lord Stannis did not bite."

"Perhaps Karstark is more Stark than he lets on," Ramsey said. "But this is an opportunity. We ought to treat with Lord Stannis. If one king will not grant me my rights then perhaps another might."

"No, you fool," Roose said, emotionless yet exasperated. "Lord Stannis will do no such thing. Grant the North to the man who partook in the Red Wedding? Legitimise the baseborn son of the man who betrayed his liege lord? Do you know nothing? Our power rests in the image of Lannister power and the absence of a Stark for the lords to rally around. Those two things alone are all we have."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Ramsey asked.

"You are supposed to wait," Roose replied. "Our hold is weak for now, but it can be strengthened. Slay Stannis and the Iron Throne will have no choice but to legitimise you."

"Then give me leave to lead the men and I will bring you his head," Ramsey almost begged.

"Stannis is with his army," Roose said. "Exhausted and depleted as my men are by a long campaign in the south, we would be fools to advance on him now. No. We must bring him to us. Build a trap, then lure him in."

"I thought we already tried that," Ramsey retorted.

"This time with bait he can't ignore. Winterfell."

Ramsey licked his lips, a sour look on his face. "I laid waste to that place. It's a ruin now."

"No, the ironmen laid waste to it," Roose insisted. "And in ruins it may be, but it is still the heart of the North. We should move our seat there. If I am right, Stannis will seek to gather support from the northern lords. We cannot allow that to happen. So we have to hurry him. If it seems as though we are tightening our hold, he will have no choice but to march. After all, if we can properly entrench ourselves then Stannis will be forced into a full war to remove us. He cannot afford that, not if he has any intention of taking the throne. Thus, a speedy war will be in his interest, to be able to capture the North before winter comes and march south before the Lannisters can entrench. One decisive victory won with overwhelming force. That will be Lord Stannis's plan. When he marches he will call his allies to come with him. All of them. Our friend Lord Arnolf Karstark included. Understand?"

Ramsey nodded reluctantly, jaw tight with rage at being rebuffed.

"Now go," Roose said. "And leave your pet with me. I'll have him."

"You'll have him?" Ramsey asked, indignant. "He's mine!"

"All that's yours is yours at my behest, boy. You best remember that. Now go. If you have not ruined him, he may yet serve some use."

Ramsey shot Reek a poisonous look before he let go of his leash and went back to rejoin the van. Reek felt like crying. Pain, that look had promised him.

Roose watched Ramsey walk away. "Tell me, does he truly think he can ever rule the North?"

"He fights for you, my lord," Reek blurted out, panicked. "He's strong."

"A bull is strong," Roose said, "but that does not save it from slaughter. I have seen him fight in the yard. He's ferocious, I'll grant, but not fearsome. He swings his sword like he's hacking meat."

"He's not afraid of anyone, my lord."

"He should be. Fear keeps you alive. Forces you to think. You should tell him that, next time you see him."

"To... To be afraid?" Reek felt a bolt of terror shoot through him. "My lord... If I do that... He'll..."

"I know, I know," Roose said dismissively. "His blood is bad. He has no temper. This rage, it is unbecoming of him. But I have no other choice. I had another boy, once. Domeric. A quiet boy, but most accomplished. A deft hand in the yard. Alas, he thought himself a man, desired a brother, and disobeyed me when I warned him against seeking out my bastard. A sickness of the bowels, the maester said. I say poison. And I don't think I have to tell you who I suspect for the crime."

"Lord Ramsey..." This felt dangerous, this discussion. As though Lord Roose was about to ask him to betray Lord Ramsey.

Roose nodded. "I have a new wife, now. A fat Frey one. Young, too. She has a fertile stench. I'm fond of it. But I expect Ramsey will see to any babes I sire upon her before long. My new wife may well weep to see them die, but I will not. I couldn't stop him even if I tried. Legitimised or not, he is my heir. My only heir. And I'd sooner leave my house to a bastard than a babe. Boy lords have been the bane of many a house in the past. It leaves them weak."

Reek nodded, his throat dry. He could hear the wind blustering off the leaves of the wood nearby. "My lord..." Reek licked his lips. "Why did you ask for me to stay?"

"Theon, yes?"

Reek felt his eyes widen, bowed his head, trembling with terror. "No, my lord. I'm Reek, just Reek."

"Yet you address me as my lord. Your betray your highborn heritage with your tongue. A peasant might say m'lord, as though it were one word."

"I'm Reek, m'lord. Reek. Please. I'm not the Turncloak. He died at Winterfell. I'm no highborn. I am not even a man. I am a worm. Just a worm, a quiet little worm."

"I mean you no harm, you know," Roose said patiently. "I owe you much and more. The Starks were done and doomed the moment you took Winterfell. All the rest of this is just squabbling over spoils. But you did the deed, Reek."

Reek stood silent, head bowed, shivering, unsure of what to say.

Roose stopped walking, observed Reek. "You helped me once, by taking Winterfell. Now you will help me again. And if you do, then I will help you."

"M'lord?" This is a trick, he thought. Lord Roose plays with you. The son is the shadow of the father. Lord Ramsay toyed with his hopes all the time, giving him respite one moment only to rip it away the next.

"Lord Stannis thinks to flank me from the west. Lord Wyman plots in the east. The Lannisters threaten to break faith with me in the south. On all sides, my enemies rear their heads..." Lord Roose looked Reek up and down. "You're too thin, too weak for war. Yet I hear you broke the siege as envoy, convinced the Ironborn to come willingly to terms, to their deaths. Is this true?"

Reek nodded hesitantly. "It is, m'lord."

"Good." Roose's eyes shone. "Then I might well have a reason to keep you from Ramsey."

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Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. My work schedule is about to get busy for a little while, so apologies in advance if I don't upload as regularly as usual for the next few months.