Reek.

Reek, it rhymes with weak.

But she had called him Theon. She had recognized him ─ or who he used to be. She was just another lost soul, a pawn to be moved in this game of thrones. Her father had been the steward of Winterfell, and she, a close friend of Sansa and the other ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ children. Lost to time and the cruelties of the world, a series of unfortunate endeavors had led her here, back in Winterfell and posing as the young Arya ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ.

Ramsay needed a ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ bride.

She would fill the role with deceit. Reek had told her to think as Arya. Talk as Arya. Be Arya. Her true name, her true past, must be lost just as his own.

But he could remember her clearly then, younger than she was now and vibrant as a summer flower. She was kind and ladylike. She spent her time practicing her needlework, or watching the squires as they trained in the courtyard. She hsd once laughed at every stupid jest he spoke. That girl was gone, giving way for a woman born of sorrows.

Reek could feel her vice-like grip on his arm, her hands clutching to him as though he could save her. She looked every bit a beautiful bride against the backdrop of snow. The weight of her cloak, embroidered with the ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ sigil, felt heavy upon her slender shoulders.

It was time to move. It was time to hand her off into a farce of a marriage.

She looked up, and her eyes met his own. Her eyes were teary, her eyes were… They should be grey. Someone will see. The thought was frightening, but there was no use in giving in to the fear, not as they stood before the godswood. It was too late. “Wipe your tears,” his voice was thin and shaky. Reek knew not how to comfort her. “Be Arya. Be his wife, and you will be safe.”

He did not believe his own words. His footsteps were hesitant against the snow as he began to lead her down to the godswood, where Ramsay and the others stood for their wedding. Reek felt as though he was leading a lamb to slaughter, with this trembling woman clinging to his arm.