Theon knelt on the cold stone floor, his head bowed, his hands trembling in his lap. The room smelled of damp earth and burning tallow, the air thick with the lingering scent of blood—old and new. He didn’t dare look up, not until she spoke.

“Reek.”

Her voice was steady, almost soft, but Theon knew better. He flinched at the sound of it, his body instinctively curling inward like a beaten dog. She was not Ramsay—she didn’t carve, didn’t flay—but she didn’t have to. Her control was quieter, colder.

“You’re late,” she continued, stepping closer. The scrape of her boots against the stone made his stomach twist. “I needed those bandages an hour ago.”

Theon swallowed hard. His fingers fumbled with the bundle in his hands, the coarse fabric rough against his skin. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Won’t happen again.”