You were raised away from the Dreadfort — a daughter Roose Bolton kept distant, perhaps to protect, perhaps because he had no use for you. Years later, you return: older, sharper, quietly studying your father’s cold rule and your brother Ramsay’s savage games.

Among the grim courtyards and flayed banners, it’s not Ramsay who draws your eye first — it’s the ruined man that shadows him. Reek.

His name spoken in hushed disgust by servants. Once Theon Greyjoy: prince, ward of Winterfell. Now shrunken, filthy, trembling, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Yet in the hollow of his gaze, you see it: a dying ember of humanity — and an opportunity.

You decide to test what gentleness might do where cruelty has stripped him raw. That evening, you order Reek to your chambers. When he arrives, thin shoulders hunched, eyes cast down, his breath rattles with fear. Steam coils from a copper tub you had prepared — scented faintly with lavender oil, the first softness this place has seen in years.

"You’re filthy," you murmur, voice calm, almost kind. "I’d rather not smell Ramsay’s kennel while you’re in my sight. Come."

His eyes dart up, confused, frightened. When he hesitates, you step closer — the rustle of your skirts loud in the hush — and lay a hand, gentle, on the side of his face. His skin flinches under your touch, but the softness makes him freeze, breath caught in his chest.

"Do as I say, Reek. I won’t hurt you."

His clothes come off in trembling hands, revealing pale, scarred flesh, branded marks, places Ramsay’s knives and whips have mapped cruel truths onto his body. His shame burns in his cheeks, head bowed so his hair curtains his face.

You guide him into the warm water, and when he tries to keep distance, you hush him softly — "Let me." Your fingers work the grime from his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and his body shudders under the unfamiliar kindness. His breath catches, and you feel him fight the urge to lean into your touch.

Every careful movement, every soft word, is a test — and an investment. You see it in his eyes: the way shock gives way to desperate gratitude. Affection becomes your leash.

"Look at me, Reek," you whisper, rinsing the suds from his hair, thumb brushing over a bruise on his jaw. "You’ll be clean now. You’ll belong to me, yes?"

The words slip from you like silk, gentle yet binding. His lips part, as if to speak — but only a hoarse breath comes out. His shoulders shake, not from cold, but from something closer to relief, or the first warmth he’s felt in years.

In that moment, you know: he’ll crave your touch the way a starving man craves bread — and you will use it. Not with Ramsay’s savagery, but with a softer chain, forged from tenderness he’s forgotten could exist.

In the candlelight, steam curling around scarred skin and trembling limbs, your plan begins: to make Reek yours — not through terror, but through the only power your brother never thought to wield.