Chapter 48: Reek II

"Who is this?" Lady Barbery Dustin demanded. "And where is the boy? Did your bastard refuse to surrender him?" She leaned forwards to inspect him closer. "And this old man-" Barbery recoiled. "Oh, gods be good! What in all the hells is that smell? Has the old wretch soiled himself?"

"He has been with Ramsey," was Lord Roose's clipped reply. "Lady Barbery, allow me to present you the rightful lord of the Iron Isles, Theon Greyjoy."

Reek swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, dizzy, his throat seemingly tightening of its own volition, his heart beginning to race. No no no no. Don't say that name. He'll hear it. Ramsay'll hear it, and he'll know, and he'll hurt me for it.

Lady Barbery gave him a second look over, expression plainly stunned before her features soured, lips pursed in disgust. "He..." she said after a long moment, "is not what I expected. What did your bastard do to him?"

"Removed some skin, some bones - or so I surmised. Small pieces. Fingers and toes. Nothing too essential."

She looked at him like he was a hunk of rotted meat. "Is he mad? Why is he like that?"

Roose could only shrug. "So what if he is? What does it change?"

Without his control, Reek began to shake his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "I'm not him, I'm not the Turncloak. Please, m'lord, m'lady, there's been some mistake. I'm not him. I'm not the Turncloak. He died here, at Winterfell. My name is Reek. Reek, m'lord, m'lady."

Reek watched as disgust fused with pity on Lady Barbery's face. "Aye," she agreed with a sigh. "You reek." Her head turned to Lord Roose. "And what have use have you found for... Reek, my lord?"

Cold eyes flicked over Reek, gleaming with possibility. "I haven't yet decided, though I have some ideas."

"Well, whatever your ideas are, do they require the lad to smell like he's just loosed his bowels in his breeches?"

"No, most don't."

"Then for the sake of all the gods can you have him washed? I mislike having to hold my nose."

And with a wave of Lord Roose's pale hand, Reek was shunned. Cold-handed serving girls led him away from the hall, through the bowels of a ruined Winterfell. Not for the first time, Reek was grateful for the springs beneath the keep. For beyond the castle itself, winter had long since come and entrenched itself. It seemed every outdoor path was lousy with black ice - liable to crack one's head if you weren't careful. Drifts of dirty snow had piled high on every wall, tall enough at times to hide entire doors and passages, meeting with icicles the length of longswords hanging precariously from battlements and ledges, scattering with every cutting gust of wind into every nook and cranny. It tasted funny on the tongue - a mix of bitter soot and ash thrown up from the sacking of the keep as well as the snows.

Blackened beams still littered place. Every now and then one might stumble onto a pack of bones, scraps of skin or hair or a smear of dried blood, or if one was lucky a rotting corpse - though Ramsey's hounds had long since seen to most of them. Mercifully the mists were so thick that one struggled to see very far beyond arm's length when outdoors - or else Reek feared the true extent of the damage might be known.

In a sense, it was a small mercy that the lords of the North had been so slow to answer Lord Roose's summons. It gave him time to do his best to make repairs, to beat back the sense of death and despair that now infested a place that a younger Reek had only known to be full of life. To rebuild the kitchens and barracks, to clean away the shattered glass of Winterfell's once-famous gardens, to erect new gates, and re-roof the collapsed hall. And though much work had already been done using what remained of Winterfell's existing men, much still remained. Tents swarmed the yard, half covered in grey snow - most the castle still unsuitable for living. Yet memories of that life swarmed around Reek as he walked through the passages and halls. A shadow in the flickering torchlight, a distant laugh, the subtle growl of a wolf.

"Turncloak," one of the men hissed at him as he was led away to his bath. Reek ignored it. He was the traitor who'd slain his own foster brothers, delivered his men from Moat Cailin only to see them flayed. Roose Bolton might make use of him, Ramsey might indulge in his twisted pleasures with him, but any true northman was like as to loathe what he'd become, to desire nothing more than to hack Reek's head off.

And how loathsome I must look! Reek thought. The missing toes on his left foot had forced him into a sort of limping crab-walk, back forever hunched. His visage was no better to look upon - flesh hollowed out from his cheeks, hair white and coarse and thin and patchy, teeth mostly smashed into uneven lumps of enamel that made it painful to eat any real foods.

He could tell he was a horror by the way the women treated him as he climbed in the bath. Washerwoman was the polite way of saying camp follower, which was the polite way of saying whore. Of the ones who bathed Reek, some seemed veteran, hardened enough to suffer twenty brutal rapes in quick succession and still be able to laugh and jape with their rapists right after, demanding coin for their cunts. Others seemed softer, younger, like prissy little maidens. None were, of course. It was all an act, a way to earn coin and a little kindness along the way.

But for him, none of the softness was on display. They scrubbed his flayed skin roughly, scraping off the dirt and grime in a quick, quiet way that suggested they wanted nothing more than to be away, to be done with him. Once he was clean he was clad in new breeches and boots and a tunic and even a mantle of sorts - nothing quite yet lordly, but far better than the rags he'd become used to.

And off he went, limping through the halls of Winterfell. The stone was grey - grey everywhere he looked. The ground was white with snow. All around, all Reek could see were Stark colours, and his dazed rambling carried him through the passages and out into the open. Even through his new boots he could feel the coldness of the earth underfoot, the harshness of a bladed breeze on his face. But it was warmer in the godswood, strange to say. Here there were no snows, and the turf beneath his feet was soft and warm, almost inviting. The frost and ice of the surrounding lands were left behind as one entered this most precious sanctum of the old gods, cloaked in gentle steam wafting off the surface of the pools.

Reek was no stranger to this wood. He'd played here as a boy, skipping stones and giving chase to the boys he would one day betray. He'd stalked squirrels between these vast trunks, shared his first kisses here, come here for refuge after suffering bruises at the hands of Jory and Robb.

Reek gazed up at the bleeding eyes of the heart tree and, unbidden, began to weep.

The tears came quietly at first, cloudy droplets rolling down his cheeks, but before long his eyes were red and desperate, gut-wrenching sobs were spilling out. Here he stood; broken, bloodied, betrayed and betrayer both. Here he stood, in the last untarnished place of his youth, the last place the cold lump of meat he called his heart could still find warmth. And though Reek had prayed to the Drowned God his whole life, he fell to his knees before the heart tree, before the old gods.

He'd never known the godswood like this, grey and ghostly all the same; yet draped in mists thick enough to be blankets, dancing with lights, echoing with voices from a half-forgotten past. Above his head were beady, black, judging eyes. Maester Luwin's ravens, Reek knew. Luwin might be dead, but this was still their home.

It felt like some strange purgatory; neither the heavens nor the nether but merely some timeless place beyond the worlds themselves. A place for the damned and devoted alike to find some strange absolution. The weirwood's red eyes stared down at him, its great mouth open as though to laugh or shout. But no sound came, and as Reek sobbed he felt the face in the heart tree gaze at him, felt the heavy carved features soften with pity - even though nothing moved.

Reek found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Here he was, ready. On his knees, even though he was a son of Pyke. But the Drowned God was now far away, leagues to the west and east. The only god he might find was the one right before him.

"Theon," the wind seemed to whisper to him.

Reek bolted up from his knees, stumbling as his tear-streaked face whipped around in search of the voice. "Who said that?" he called, his voice too meek, too weak from crying to make a demand of his words. Reek felt his hackles rise. Was this another of Ramsey's japes? Another way to torment him? To ruin the last unspoiled thing in his life?

Then, again, in the opposite direction: "Theon."

Reek's head snapped around. Again, there was nobody to be found. The voice was faint, deep as a god's, hateful as a ghost's. How many died here? Reek wondered. How many the day I took Winterfell? How many the day I lost it?

A deep despair came over him; a sensation not unlike drowning. He considered begging for death, but decided against it. So far from the seas, my end will be in one of the hells, for certain. Where my torment will continue with a new torturer. Where I will pay the price for my sins. The price for all those innocents, slain at my hand.

"Theon," the wind whispered to him again, seemingly in a gentler tone. It felt almost like a reassuring voice. Comforting. Familiar.

Reek felt his tears slow, felt his sobs stop, trembling with exhaustion as he stared at the face carved in the heart tree. Every inch of his flesh ached. Yet he felt the tiniest spark of hope alight in his chest, the tiniest flame of life still flickering away inside a corpse. Theon gathered his resolve, turned away from the heart tree, and beat a hasty retreat from the warmth of the godswood back into the bitter chill, Reek no more.

Above him, the thick carpet of clouds had darkened as night encroached. Though his visit to the godswood had felt fleeting, like mere minutes, in truth he'd spent hours bowed beneath the bony limbs of the heart tree. The time had almost come for dinner. Theon readied himself to face Lord Roose again, to face all the scant few the lords who'd come so far to stand by the Leech Lord's side.

The doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead of him; newly made and crudely fitted in a rush by resentful craftsmen. A pair of spearmen guarded the entranceway, eyeing Theon as he slipped past them and into the warmth of the hall. Men lined the benches sparsely, able to spread their legs far without knocking knees with another. It was a dismal sight, to see Lord Roose had attracted such little support. Of note aside from Bolton men there was Lady Dustin, Roger Ryswell, Lord Harwood Stout, and a few Freys to fill the ranks, most accompanying Lord Roose's fat new wife.

No more than a half-dozen vassals had sworn to Lord Bolton's name. In a kingdom with easily four-dozen houses. A bad showing by any standard.

But Theon did not concern himself with this, and simply found and sank into a seat in the corner of the hall, eager to let the evening slip by. Eager to put as much distance between himself and Ramsey as possible. Under Lord Roose's watchful gaze he might have been safe, but Theon was not about to take any chances.

He nursed a lone cup of wine as he watched everyone eat. It was humble fare - most of Winterfell's stores had already been burned and looted. Not that he could manage anything else anyhow. A nibble at a scrap of dry bread had sent bolts of pain shooting through his jaw. And he was not in the mood in any case.

"You do not eat," Lady Dustin noted, having shifted to sit nearer to Theon.

Theon shook his head glumly.

"No taste for pork pie, eh?" she asked him with a smirk. "And I thought Ironborn enjoyed a feast before battle?"

"They do," Theon said. "But we are not before a battle, my lady."

"Are we not?" Lady Dustin questioned. "Stannis has already taken Deepwood Motte. He could be upon us in a week if he so desired. No. Stannis will come. He must. And when he does, he'll find himself facing Lord Roose."

"A hard-fought battle," Theon acquiesced, though in truth he knew it would be over the moment Lord Roose sent the signal to Lord Arnolf to turn his cloak.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Lady Dustin said. "Stannis Baratheon may well be a fine warrior, and a fearsome commander, but he is no Roose Bolton. Roose has no feelings, you see. The leeches sucked the passions out of him. He does not love, nor does he hate. To him, this is just a game. Some mild diversion between flayings and leechings." Lady Barbery took a sip of her wine. Why was she telling him all this? Was she drunk? "Truth be told," she continued, "Roose has higher ambitions than most know. Robb Stark may have declared himself king of the north, but I reckon that if anyone dies it, it'll be Lord Roose who actually becomes king. And why not? The Lannisters are a spent force, held aloft only by the fertility of Tyrell soil and the abundance of soldiers that soil feeds. The Freys are not likely to object to one of their own becoming a queen. And once Stannis is gone, Lord Roose's authority will be cemented, and all those absent lords insolent enough to refuse a summons will flock here to bow and scrape - none of which have any lost love for the Iron Throne. And then who'll be left to oppose him?"

Theon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He struggled for words, careful not to make any utterances which might earn him a punishment. In the end, he opted only for silence as an answer to Lady Barbery's question.

Not that she seemed to care. Her attention was turned to the head of the hall, where a guard had shuffled out from one of the entranceways and was bent over Lord Roose, his furs caked white with snow, and was whispering something in the Leech Lord's ear.

Lord Roose's head turned slowly to face the guard, eyes searching. Then, he nodded curtly once.

The guardsman scurried from the hall, snow shaking off his shoulders as he went, and was gone only a few minutes before he returned, followed by a stream of men, led at the front by someone enormously fat.

"Manderly, Umber, Cerwyn, Slate..." Lady Barbery was muttering, eyes flicking intently over the new arrivals. It seemed that enough lords had arrived just now to more than double the number of men at Lord Roose's command.

The man at the front stopped before the head of the hall, and offered a shallow bow. Lord Roose eyed him up and down, expressionless. "Lord Wyman," he finally replied. "I was not expecting you."

The fat man at the front of the line of lords frowned. "Truly?" he asked. "I sent a raven ahead of me, with apologies for my late arrival. I was delayed, you see. But I suppose that the snows which held me back must have confused the raven too."

"I see," Lord Roose said, lips pursed with suspicion. Doubtless, he was not happy to see such a vast group of lords - and presumably all their retainers and a substantial number of their men-at-arms too - arrive at Winterfell without notice. And all without his defences granting him even a slight warning. But he had positioned his men westwards, so it stood to reason that some of the approaches might be more lightly guarded. "Nevertheless, your arrival is welcome. Take your seats and sup. I'll have the servants bring in more food. Take rest from the strains of travel."

The fat man nodded and claimed his seat, sending some of his own men to bring in more food. The rest of the lords that had followed him into the hall all offered their courtesies to Lord Roose and then joined him. Wine and pie and cake and meat flowed amply to them, and Lord Wyman gorged himself. From somewhere a bard was summoned, and song filled the austere quiet of a hall that was suddenly full.

Lady Barbery snorted at the sight. "He is craven to the bone, that one."

"He's here, in spite the threat Stannis poses."

"Aye," Lady Barbery agreed. "I said he was craven, not that he wasn't clever. If Lord Wyman ever had to face Stannis in battle, you can be sure he'll piss himself. His son died at the Red Wedding, and yet here he is, making merry with Roose Bolton, sharing his home with all those Freys you see there. He's even promised his daughter to one of them! Oh, I don't deny he'd like to kill us all. Of course he would! But he doesn't have the gall for it. Blood runs deep. And the Manderlys fled their way here from the south, allowed themselves to be hounded from their lands instead of standing their ground like warriors might. The fat man is only here because he knows better than to earn the ire of Lord Roose. But even I thought he might have the courage to stay home, to not go straight into the arms of the man who killed his children." She shook her head. "Like I said, craven to the bone."

Theon observed the merry lord, red-faced with his jowls swinging below his cheeks as he japed and laughed. Lord Wyman certainly fit the look. But something in his gut didn't agree with the notion. Lord Manderly's sons had acquitted themselves well in battle, hadn't they? They'd died as warriors should, with pride.

And though his face seemed merry, split by a grin, Theon saw the scheming gleam in those fat-enfolded eyes. Lord Roose seemed to see it too, judging by the way he watched Lord Wyman's every move.

Our fat lord is not quite as craven as he seems, Theon guessed, though he kept his thoughts to himself, lowering his gaze back to the wine in his cup. He watched his reflection in the liquid; observed the sunken eyes, the patchy head of stringy white hair, the hollow cheeks, the broken teeth - the perennial look of despair etched onto his face the polar opposite of Lord Wyman's laughs and smiles.

And neither am I, Theon decided, then and there.

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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future