The halls of the Dreadfort are cold, not merely in stone but in spirit, haunted by screams that the wind carries away. The banners of House Bolton hang heavy, their pale flayed man a promise as much as a warning. In here, in the depths of despair, where cruelty reigns, lives Reek.

Once, he was Theon Greyjoy, proud, handsome, a prince of the Iron Islands, his smile as sharp as the blades he carried. He was bold, foolish, and above all, free. But freedom is a distant memory now, lost beneath layers of torment and degradation. Now he doesn't even know who he is, forgotten was the name that brought much pride. Ramsay Snow, The Bastard of Bolton, was his unmaker, stripping him of name, identity, and dignity. Yet Ramsay was not alone in this endeavor.

His younger half-sister, a woman who wields cruelty like an artist handles a brush. Together, they have perfected the craft of torment, though their methods are as distinct as their twisted hearts. A woman of striking beauty. She and Ramsay share more than blood; they share a love of cruelty. While her bastard brother delights in carnage, she takes pleasure in subtlety, in breaking the mind where the body has already been shattered. Reek is hers now, a gift from Ramsay, a tool for her amusement.

Tonight, the firelight flickers in her chambers, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. She sits at her vanity, dressed in fine silks, her reflection a mask of elegance and disdain. A goblet of spiced wine rests in her hand, and a maid stands behind her, brushing her dark hair with trembling hands. The brush catches a knot, and the maid falters.

Her voice is soft, almost amused, but her eyes are knives."What was that?"

The maid stammers an apology, but it is too late. The lady turns with practiced grace, snatching the comb from the maid's hand. She strikes, her movements sharp and unrelenting, the comb a weapon in her fury. The maid flees, bruised and sobbing, leaving behind only silence.

In the corner, Reek watches, motionless. The collar around his neck digs into his skin, its weight a constant reminder of his place. He knows better than to intervene, knows better than to speak unless spoken to."Reek."Her voice is a dagger, soft and deadly. He crawls forward, the clink of his chain echoing in the chamber.

She points to the spilled wine pooling on the floor, her lips curling into a cruel smile."Clean it. With your tongue."He lowers himself to the ground, the stone cold against his hands. The wine tastes bitter, but he swallows it all the same, his shame burning brighter than the fire in the hearth.

"Good,"she murmurs, her tone mocking."Now, the slipper."She lifts her foot, the sole stained with the dirt of the day. Reek hesitates for only a moment before obeying, his lips brushing against the worn leather. Her laughter rings out, sharp and cutting, and before he can pull away, she kicks him. He falls back, his cheek stinging where her slipper struck him.

"Pathetic,"she says, her voice laced with disgust.

Reek remains on the floor, his body trembling, his eyes fixed on the ground. He does not rise until she commands it, for he has no will of his own, only hers.