If Ramsay’s bitches had not dug him up, he might have stayed buried till spring. By the time Ben Bones pulled them off, Grey Jeyne had eaten so much of the dead man’s face that half the day was gone before they knew for certain who he’d been: a man-at-arms of four-and-forty years who had marched north with Roger Ryswell. “A drunk,” Ryswell declared. “Pissing off the wall, I’ll wager1. He slipped and fell.” No one disagreed. But Theon Greyjoy found himself wondering why any man would climb the snow-slick steps to the battlements in the black of night just to take a piss.
As the garrison2 broke its fast that morning on stale bread fried in bacon grease (the lords and knights3 ate the bacon), the talk along the benches was of little but the corpse4.
“Stannis has friends inside the castle,” Theon heard one serjeant mutter. He was an old Tallhart man, three trees sewn on his ragged5 surcoat. The watch had just changed. Men were coming in from the cold, stomping6 their feet to knock the snow off their boots and breeches as the midday meal was served—blood sausage, leeks7, and brown bread still warm from the ovens.
“Stannis?” laughed one of Roose Ryswell’s riders. “Stannis is snowed to death by now. Else he’s run back to the Wall with his tail froze between his legs.”
“He could be camped five feet from our walls with a hundred thousand men,” said an archer8 wearing Cerwyn colors. “We’d never see a one o’ them through this storm.”
Endless, ceaseless, merciless, the snow had fallen day and night. Drifts climbed the walls and filled the crenels along the battlements, white blankets covered every roof, tents sagged9 beneath the weight. Ropes were strung from hall to hall to help men keep from getting lost as they crossed the yards. Sentries10 crowded into the guard turrets11 to warm half-frozen hands over glowing braziers, leaving the wallwalks to the snowy sentinels the squires12 had thrown up, who grew larger and stranger every night as wind and weather worked their will upon them. Ragged beards of ice grew down the spears clasped in their snowy fists. No less a man than Hosteen Frey, who had been heard growling14 that he did not fear a little snow, lost an ear to frostbite.
The horses in the yards suffered most. The blankets thrown over them to keep them warm soaked through and froze if not changed regularly. When fires were lit to keep the cold at bay, they did more harm then good. The warhorses feared the flames and fought to get away, injuring themselves and other horses as they twisted at their lines. Only the horses in the stables were safe and warm, but the stables were already overcrowded.
“The gods have turned against us,” old Lord Locke was heard to say in the Great Hall. “This is their wroth. A wind as cold as hell itself and snows that never end. We are cursed.”
“Stannis is cursed,” a Dreadfort man insisted. “He is the one out there in the storm.”
“Lord Stannis might be warmer than we know,” one foolish freerider argued. “His sorceress can summon fire. Might be her red god can melt these snows.”
That was unwise, Theon knew at once. The man spoke15 too loudly, and in the hearing of Yellow Dick and Sour Alyn and Ben Bones. When the tale reached Lord Ramsay, he sent his Bastard16’s Boys to seize the man and drag him out into the snow. “As you seem so fond of Stannis, we will send you to him,” he said. Damon Dance-for-Me gave the freerider a few lashes17 with his long greased whip. Then, whilst Skinner and Yellow Dick made wagers19 on how fast his blood would freeze, Ramsay had the man dragged up to the Battlements Gate.
Winterfell’s great main gates were closed and barred, and so choked with ice and snow that the portcullis would need to be chipped free before it could be raised. Much the same was true of the Hunter’s Gate, though there at least ice was not a problem, since the gate had seen recent use. The Kingsroad Gate had not, and ice had frozen those drawbridge chains rock hard. Which left the Battlements Gate, a small arched postern in the inner wall. Only half a gate, in truth, it had a drawbridge that spanned the frozen moat but no corresponding gateway20 through the outer wall, offering access to the outer ramparts but not the world beyond.
The bleeding freerider was carried across the bridge and up the steps, still protesting. Then Skinner and Sour Alyn seized his arms and legs and tossed him from the wall to the ground eighty feet below. The drifts had climbed so high that they swallowed the man bodily … but bowmen on the battlements claimed they glimpsed him sometime later, dragging a broken leg through the snow. One feathered his rump with an arrow as he wriggled21 away. “He will be dead within the hour,” Lord Ramsay promised.
“Or he’ll be sucking Lord Stannis’s cock before the sun goes down,” Whoresbane Umber threw back.
“He best take care it don’t break off,” laughed Rickard Ryswell. “Any man out there in this, his cock is frozen hard.”
“Lord Stannis is lost in the storm,” said Lady Dustin. “He’s leagues away, dead or dying. Let winter do its worst. A few more days and the snows will bury him and his army both.”
And us as well, thought Theon, marveling at her folly22. Lady Barbrey was of the north and should have known better. The old gods might be listening.
Supper was pease porridge and yesterday’s bread, and that caused muttering amongst the common men as well; above the salt, the lords and knights were seen to be eating ham.
Theon was bent23 over a wooden bowl finishing the last of his own portion of pease porridge when a light touch on his shoulder made him drop his spoon. “Never touch me,” he said, twisting down to snatch the fallen utensil24 off the floor before one of Ramsay’s girls could get hold of it. “Never touch me.”
She sat down next to him, too close, another of Abel’s washerwomen. This one was young, fifteen or maybe sixteen, with shaggy blond hair in need of a good wash and a pair of pouty25 lips in need of a good kiss. “Some girls like to touch,” she said, with a little half-smile. “If it please m’lord, I’m Holly26.”
Holly the whore, he thought, but she was pretty enough. Once he might have laughed and pulled her into his lap, but that day was done. “What do you want?”
“To see these crypts. Where are they, m’lord? Would you show me?” Holly toyed with a strand27 of her hair, coiling it around her little finger. “Deep and dark, they say. A good place for touching28. All the dead kings watching.”
“Did Abel send you to me?”
“Might be. Might be I sent myself. But if it’s Abel you’re wanting, I could bring him. He’ll sing m’lord a sweet song.”
Every word she said persuaded Theon that this was all some ploy29. But whose, and to what end? What could Abel want of him? The man was just a singer, a pander30 with a lute31 and a false smile. He wants to know how I took the castle, but not to make a song of it. The answer came to him. He wants to know how we got in so he can get out. Lord Bolton had Winterfell sewn up tight as a babe’s swaddling clothes. No one could come or go without his leave. He wants to flee, him and his washerwoman. Theon could not blame him, but even so he said, “I want no part of Abel, or you, or any of your sisters. Just leave me be.”
Outside the snow was swirling32, dancing. Theon groped his way to the wall, then followed it to the Battlements Gate. He might have taken the guards for a pair of Little Walder’s snowmen if he had not seen the white plumes33 of their breath. “I want to walk the walls,” he told them, his own breath frosting in the air.
“Bloody34 cold up there,” one warned.
“Bloody cold down here,” the other said, “but you do as you like, turncloak.” He waved Theon through the gate.
The steps were snow-packed and slippery, treacherous35 in the dark. Once he reached the wallwalk, it did not take him long to find the place where they’d thrown down the freerider. He knocked aside the wall of fresh-fallen snow filling up the crenel and leaned out between the merlons. I could jump, he thought. He lived, why shouldn’t I? He could jump, and … And what? Break a leg and die beneath the snow? Creep away to freeze to death?
It was madness. Ramsay would hunt him down, with the girls. Red Jeyne and Jez and Helicent would tear him to pieces if the gods were good. Or worse, he might be taken back alive. “I have to remember my name,” he whispered.
The next morning Ser Aenys Frey’s grizzled squire13 was found naked and dead of exposure in the old castle lichyard, his face so obscured by hoarfrost that he appeared to be wearing a mask. Ser Aenys put it forth36 that the man had drunk too much and gotten lost in the storm, though no one could explain why he had taken off his clothes to go outside. Another drunkard, Theon thought. Wine could drown a host of suspicions.
Then, before the day was done, a crossbowman sworn to the Flints turned up in the stables with a broken skull37. Kicked by a horse, Lord Ramsay declared. A club, more like, Theon decided38.
It all seemed so familiar, like a mummer show that he had seen before. Only the mummers had changed. Roose Bolton was playing the part that Theon had played the last time round, and the dead men were playing the parts of Aggar, Gynir Rednose, and Gelmarr the Grim. Reek39 was there too, he remembered, but he was a different Reek, a Reek with bloody hands and lies dripping from his lips, sweet as honey. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with sneak40.
The deaths set Roose Bolton’s lords to quarreling openly in the Great Hall. Some were running short of patience. “How long must we sit here waiting for this king who never comes?” Ser Hosteen Frey demanded. “We should take the fight to Stannis and make an end to him.”
“Leave the castle?” croaked41 one-armed Harwood Stout42. His tone suggested he would sooner have his remaining arm hacked43 off. “Would you have us charge blindly into the snow?”
“To fight Lord Stannis we would first need to find him,” Roose Ryswell pointed44 out. “Our scouts45 go out the Hunter’s Gate, but of late, none of them return.”
Lord Wyman Manderly slapped his massive belly46. “White Harbor does not fear to ride with you, Ser Hosteen. Lead us out, and my knights will ride behind you.”
Ser Hosteen turned on the fat man. “Close enough to drive a lance through my back, aye. Where are my kin18, Manderly? Tell me that. Your guests, who brought your son back to you.”
“His bones, you mean.” Manderly speared a chunk47 of ham with his dagger48. “I recall them well. Rhaegar of the round shoulders, with his glib49 tongue. Bold Ser Jared, so swift to draw his steel. Symond the spymaster, always clinking coins. They brought home Wendel’s bones. It was Tywin Lannister who returned Wylis to me, safe and whole, as he had promised. A man of his word, Lord Tywin, Seven save his soul.” Lord Wyman popped the meat into his mouth, chewed it noisily, smacked50 his lips, and said, “The road has many dangers, ser. I gave your brothers guest gifts when we took our leave of White Harbor. We swore we would meet again at the wedding. Many and more bore witness to our parting.”
“Many and more?” mocked Aenys Frey. “Or you and yours?”
“What are you suggesting, Frey?” The Lord of White Harbor wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I do not like your tone, ser. No, not one bloody bit.”
“Step out into the yard, you sack of suet, and I’ll serve you all the bloody bits that you can stomach,” Ser Hosteen said.
Wyman Manderly laughed, but half a dozen of his knights were on their feet at once. It fell to Roger Ryswell and Barbrey Dustin to calm them with quiet words. Roose Bolton said nothing at all. But Theon Greyjoy saw a look in his pale eyes that he had never seen before—an uneasiness, even a hint of fear.
That night the new stable collapsed51 beneath the weight of the snow that had buried it. Twenty-six horses and two grooms53 died, crushed beneath the falling roof or smothered54 under the snows. It took the best part of the morning to dig out the bodies. Lord Bolton appeared briefly55 in the outer ward56 to inspect the scene, then ordered the remaining horses brought inside, along with the mounts still tethered in the outer ward. And no sooner had the men finished digging out the dead men and butchering the horses than another corpse was found.
This one could not be waved away as some drunken tumble or the kick of a horse. The dead man was one of Ramsay’s favorites, the squat57, scrofulous, ill-favored man-at-arms called Yellow Dick. Whether his dick had actually been yellow was hard to determine, as someone had sliced it off and stuffed it into his mouth so forcefully they had broken three of his teeth. When the cooks found him outside the kitchens, buried up to his neck in a snowdrift, both dick and man were blue from cold. “Burn the body,” Roose Bolton ordered, “and see that you do not speak of this. I’ll not have this tale spread.”
The tale spread nonetheless. By midday most of Winterfell had heard, many from the lips of Ramsay Bolton, whose “boy” Yellow Dick had been. “When we find the man who did this,” Lord Ramsay promised, “I will flay58 the skin off him, cook it crisp as crackling, and make him eat it, every bite.” Word went out that the killer59’s name would be worth a golden dragon.
The reek within the Great Hall was palpable by eventide. With hundreds of horses, dogs, and men squeezed underneath60 one roof, the floors slimy with mud and melting snow, horseshit, dog turds, and even human feces, the air redolent with the smells of wet dog, wet wool, and sodden61 horse blankets, there was no comfort to be found amongst the crowded benches, but there was food. The cooks served up great slabs62 of fresh horsemeat, charred63 outside and bloody red within, with roast onions and neeps … and for once, the common soldiers ate as well as the lords and knights.
The horsemeat was too tough for the ruins of Theon’s teeth. His attempts to chew gave him excruciating pain. So he mashed64 the neeps and onions up together with the flat of his dagger and made a meal of that, then cut the horse up very small, sucked on each piece, and spat65 it out. That way at least he had the taste, and some nourishment66 from the grease and blood. The bone was beyond him, though, so he tossed it to the dogs and watched Grey Jeyne make off with it whilst Sara and Willow67 snapped at her heels.
Lord Bolton commanded Abel to play for them as they ate. The bard68 sang “Iron Lances,” then “The Winter Maid.” When Barbrey Dustin asked for something more cheerful, he gave them “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown,” and “The Bear and the Maiden69 Fair.” The Freys joined the singing, and even a few northmen slammed their fists on the table to the chorus, bellowing70, “A bear! A bear!” But the noise frightened the horses, so the singers soon let off and the music died away.
The Bastard’s Boys gathered beneath a wall sconce where a torch was flaming smokily. Luton and Skinner were throwing dice71. Grunt72 had a woman in his lap, a breast in his hand. Damon Dance-for-Me sat greasing up his whip. “Reek,” he called. He tapped the whip against his calf73 as a man might do to summon his dog. “You are starting to stink74 again, Reek.”
Theon had no reply for that beyond a soft “Yes.”
“Lord Ramsay means to cut your lips off when all this is done,” said Damon, stroking his whip with a greasy75 rag.
My lips have been between his lady’s legs. That insolence76 cannot go unpunished. “As you say.”
Luton guffawed77. “I think he wants it.”
“Go away, Reek,” Skinner said. “The smell of you turns my stomach.” The others laughed.
He fled quickly, before they changed their minds. His tormentors would not follow him outside. Not so long as there was food and drink within, willing women and warm fires. As he left the hall, Abel was singing “The Maids That Bloom in Spring.”
Outside the snow was coming down so heavily that Theon could not see more than three feet ahead of him. He found himself alone in a white wilderness78, walls of snow looming79 up to either side of him chest high. When he raised his head, the snowflakes brushed his cheeks like cold soft kisses. He could hear the sound of music from the hall behind him. A soft song now, and sad. For a moment he felt almost at peace.
Farther on, he came upon a man striding in the opposite direction, a hooded80 cloak flapping behind him. When they found themselves face-to-face their eyes met briefly. The man put a hand on his dagger. “Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer.”
“I’m not. I never … I was ironborn.”
“False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?”
“The gods are not done with me,” Theon answered, wondering if this could be the killer, the night walker who had stuffed Yellow Dick’s cock into his mouth and pushed Roger Ryswell’s groom52 off the battlements. Oddly, he was not afraid. He pulled the glove from his left hand. “Lord Ramsay is not done with me.”
The man looked, and laughed. “I leave you to him, then.”
Theon trudged81 through the storm until his arms and legs were caked with snow and his hands and feet had gone numb82 from cold, then climbed to the battlements of the inner wall again. Up here, a hundred feet high, a little wind was blowing, stirring the snow. All the crenels had filled up. Theon had to punch through a wall of snow to make a hole … only to find that he could not see beyond the moat. Of the outer wall, nothing remained but a vague shadow and a few dim lights floating in the dark.
The world is gone. King’s Landing, Riverrun, Pyke, and the Iron Islands, all the Seven Kingdoms, every place that he had ever known, every place that he had ever read about or dreamed of, all gone. Only Winterfell remained.
He was trapped here, with the ghosts. The old ghosts from the crypts and the younger ones that he had made himself, Mikken and Farlen, Gynir Rednose, Aggar, Gelmarr the Grim, the miller’s wife from Acorn83 Water and her two young sons, and all the rest. My work. My ghosts. They are all here, and they are angry. He thought of the crypts and those missing swords.
Theon returned to his own chambers84. He was stripping off his wet clothes when Steelshanks Walton found him. “Come with me, turncloak. His lordship wants words with you.”
He had no clean dry clothes, so he wriggled back into the same damp rags and followed. Steelshanks led him back to the Great Keep and the solar that had once been Eddard Stark85’s. Lord Bolton was not alone. Lady Dustin sat with him, pale-faced and severe; an iron horsehead brooch clasped Roger Ryswell’s cloak; Aenys Frey stood near the fire, pinched cheeks flushed with cold.
“I am told you have been wandering the castle,” Lord Bolton began. “Men have reported seeing you in the stables, in the kitchens, in the barracks, on the battlements. You have been observed near the ruins of collapsed keeps, outside Lady Catelyn’s old sept, coming and going from the godswood. Do you deny it?”
“No, m’lord.” Theon made sure to muddy up the word. He knew that pleased Lord Bolton. “I cannot sleep, m’lord. I walk.” He kept his head down, fixed86 upon the old stale rushes scattered87 on the floor. It was not wise to look his lordship in the face.
“I was a boy here before the war. A ward of Eddard Stark.”
“You were a hostage,” Bolton said.
“Yes, m’lord. A hostage.” It was my home, though. Not a true home, but the best I ever knew.
“Someone has been killing88 my men.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Not you, I trust?” Bolton’s voice grew even softer. “You would not repay all my kindnesses with such treachery.”
“No, m’lord, not me. I wouldn’t. I … only walk, is all.”
Lady Dustin spoke up. “Take off your gloves.”
Theon glanced up sharply. “Please, no. I … I …”
“Do as she says,” Ser Aenys said. “Show us your hands.”
Theon peeled his gloves off and held his hands up for them to see. It is not as if I stand before them naked. It is not so bad as that. His left hand had three fingers, his right four. Ramsay had taken only the pinky off the one, the ring finger and forefingers89 from the other.
“The Bastard did this to you,” Lady Dustin said.
“If it please m’lady, I … I asked it of him.” Ramsay always made him ask. Ramsay always makes me beg.
“Why would you do that?”
“I … I did not need so many fingers.”
“Four is enough.” Ser Aenys Frey fingered the wispy90 brown beard that sprouted91 from his weak chin like a rat’s tail. “Four on his right hand. He could still hold a sword. A dagger.”
Lady Dustin laughed. “Are all Freys such fools? Look at him. Hold a dagger? He hardly has the strength to hold a spoon. Do you truly think he could have overcome the Bastard’s disgusting creature and shoved his manhood down his throat?”
“These dead were all strong men,” said Roger Ryswell, “and none of them were stabbed. The turncloak’s not our killer.”
Roose Bolton’s pale eyes were fixed on Theon, as sharp as Skinner’s flaying92 knife. “I am inclined to agree. Strength aside, he does not have it in him to betray my son.”
Roger Ryswell grunted93. “If not him, who? Stannis has some man inside the castle, that’s plain.”
Reek is no man. Not Reek. Not me. He wondered if Lady Dustin had told them about the crypts, the missing swords.
“We must look at Manderly,” muttered Ser Aenys Frey. “Lord Wyman loves us not.”
Ryswell was not convinced. “He loves his steaks and chops and meat pies, though. Prowling the castle by dark would require him to leave the table. The only time he does that is when he seeks the privy94 for one of his hourlong squats95.”
“I do not claim Lord Wyman does the deeds himself. He brought three hundred men with him. A hundred knights. Any of them might have—”
“Night work is not knight’s work,” Lady Dustin said. “And Lord Wyman is not the only man who lost kin at your Red Wedding, Frey. Do you imagine Whoresbane loves you any better? If you did not hold the Greatjon, he would pull out your entrails and make you eat them, as Lady Hornwood ate her fingers. Flints, Cerwyns, Tallharts, Slates96 … they all had men with the Young Wolf.”
“House Ryswell too,” said Roger Ryswell.
“Even Dustins out of Barrowton.” Lady Dustin parted her lips in a thin, feral smile. “The north remembers, Frey.”
Aenys Frey’s mouth quivered with outrage97. “Stark dishonored us. That is what you northmen had best remember.”
Roose Bolton rubbed at his chapped lips. “This squabbling will not serve.” He flicked98 his fingers at Theon. “You are free to go. Take care where you wander. Else it might be you we find upon the morrow, smiling a red smile.”
“As you say, m’lord.” Theon drew his gloves on over his maimed hands and took his leave, limping on his maimed foot.
The hour of the wolf found him still awake, wrapped in layers of heavy wool and greasy fur, walking yet another circuit of the inner walls, hoping to exhaust himself enough to sleep. His legs were caked with snow to the knee, his head and shoulders shrouded99 in white. On this stretch of the wall the wind was in his face, and melting snow ran down his cheeks like icy tears.
Then he heard the horn.
A long low moan, it seemed to hang above the battlements, lingering in the black air, soaking deep into the bones of every man who heard it. All along the castle walls, sentries turned toward the sound, their hands tightening100 around the shafts101 of their spears. In the ruined halls and keeps of Winterfell, lords hushed other lords, horses nickered, and sleepers102 stirred in their dark corners. No sooner had the sound of the warhorn died away than a drum began to beat: BOOM doom103 BOOM doom BOOM doom. And a name passed from the lips of each man to the next, written in small white puffs104 of breath. Stannis, they whispered, Stannis is here, Stannis is come, Stannis, Stannis, Stannis.
Theon shivered. Baratheon or Bolton, it made no matter to him. Stannis had made common cause with Jon Snow at the Wall, and Jon would take his head off in a heartbeat. Plucked from the clutches of one bastard to die at the hands of another, what a jape. Theon would have laughed aloud if he’d remembered how.
The drumming seemed to be coming from the wolfswood beyond the Hunter’s Gate. They are just outside the walls. Theon made his way along the wallwalk, one more man amongst a score doing the same. But even when they reached the towers that flanked the gate itself, there was nothing to be seen beyond the veil of white.
“Do they mean to try and blow our walls down?” japed a Flint when the warhorn sounded once again. “Mayhaps he thinks he’s found the Horn of Joramun.”
“Is Stannis fool enough to storm the castle?” a sentry105 asked.
“He’s not Robert,” declared a Barrowton man. “He’ll sit, see if he don’t. Try and starve us out.”
“He’ll freeze his balls off first,” another sentry said.
“We should take the fight to him,” declared a Frey.
Do that, Theon thought. Ride out into the snow and die. Leave Winterfell to me and the ghosts. Roose Bolton would welcome such a fight, he sensed. He needs an end to this. The castle was too crowded to withstand a long siege, and too many of the lords here were of uncertain loyalty106. Fat Wyman Manderly, Whoresbane Umber, the men of House Hornwood and House Tallhart, the Lockes and Flints and Ryswells, all of them were northmen, sworn to House Stark for generations beyond count. It was the girl who held them here, Lord Eddard’s blood, but the girl was just a mummer’s ploy, a lamb in a direwolf’s skin. So why not send the northmen forth to battle Stannis before the farce107 unraveled? Slaughter108 in the snow. And every man who falls is one less foe109 for the Dreadfort.
Theon wondered if he might be allowed to fight. Then at least he might die a man’s death, sword in hand. That was a gift Ramsay would never give him, but Lord Roose might. If I beg him. I did all he asked of me, I played my part, I gave the girl away.
Death was the sweetest deliverance he could hope for.
In the godswood the snow was still dissolving as it touched the earth. Steam rose off the hot pools, fragrant110 with the smell of moss111 and mud and decay. A warm fog hung in the air, turning the trees into sentinels, tall soldiers shrouded in cloaks of gloom. During daylight hours, the steamy wood was often full of northmen come to pray to the old gods, but at this hour Theon Greyjoy found he had it all to himself.
And in the heart of the wood the weirwood waited with its knowing red eyes. Theon stopped by the edge of the pool and bowed his head before its carved red face. Even here he could hear the drumming, boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM boom DOOM. Like distant thunder, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once.
The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling112 his name. “Theon,” they seemed to whisper, “Theon.”
The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. “Please.” He fell to his knees. “A sword, that’s all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek.” Tears trickled113 down his cheeks, impossibly warm. “I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands.”
A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. “… Bran,” the tree murmured.
They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. “I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me … laughed at me … they …”
A voice said, “Who are you talking to?”
Theon spun114, terrified that Ramsay had found him, but it was just the washerwomen—Holly, Rowan, and one whose name he did not know. “The ghosts,” he blurted115. “They whisper to me. They … they know my name.”
“Theon Turncloak.” Rowan grabbed his ear, twisting. “You had to have two heads, did you?”
“Elsewise men would have laughed at him,” said Holly.
They do not understand. Theon wrenched116 free. “What do you want?” he asked.
“You,” said the third washerwoman, an older woman, deep-voiced, with grey streaks117 in her hair.
“I told you. I want to touch you, turncloak.” Holly smiled. In her hand a blade appeared.
I could scream, Theon thought. Someone will hear. The castle is full of armed men. He would be dead before help reached him, to be sure, his blood soaking into the ground to feed the heart tree. And what would be so wrong with that? “Touch me,” he said. “Kill me.” There was more despair than defiance118 in his voice. “Go on. Do me, the way you did the others. Yellow Dick and the rest. It was you.”
Holly laughed. “How could it be us? We’re women. Teats and cunnies. Here to be fucked, not feared.”
“Did the Bastard hurt you?” Rowan asked. “Chopped off your fingers, did he? Skinned your widdle toes? Knocked your teeth out? Poor lad.” She patted his cheek. “There will be no more o’ that, I promise. You prayed, and the gods sent us. You want to die as Theon? We’ll give you that. A nice quick death, ’twill hardly hurt at all.” She smiled. “But not till you’ve sung for Abel. He’s waiting for you.”
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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stomping
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的现在分词 ) | |
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7
leeks
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| 韭葱( leek的名词复数 ) | |
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8
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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9
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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10
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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11
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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12
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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13
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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14
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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15
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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16
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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17
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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18
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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19
wagers
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| n.赌注，用钱打赌( wager的名词复数 )v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的第三人称单数 )；保证，担保 | |
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20
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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21
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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22
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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23
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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24
utensil
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| n.器皿，用具 | |
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25
pouty
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| adj.撅嘴的，容易生气的 | |
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26
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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27
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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28
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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29
ploy
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| n.花招，手段 | |
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30
pander
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| v.迎合；n.拉皮条者，勾引者；帮人做坏事的人 | |
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31
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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32
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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33
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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34
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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35
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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36
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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37
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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38
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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39
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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40
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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41
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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43
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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44
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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45
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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46
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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47
chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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48
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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49
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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50
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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52
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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53
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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54
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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55
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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56
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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57
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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58
flay
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| vt.剥皮；痛骂 | |
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59
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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60
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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61
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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62
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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63
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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64
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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65
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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66
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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67
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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68
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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69
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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70
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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71
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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72
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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73
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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74
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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75
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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76
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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77
guffawed
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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79
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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80
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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81
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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83
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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84
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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85
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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86
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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87
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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88
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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89
forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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90
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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91
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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92
flaying
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| v.痛打( flay的现在分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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93
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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94
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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95
squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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96
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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97
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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98
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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99
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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100
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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101
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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102
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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103
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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104
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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105
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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106
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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107
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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108
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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109
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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110
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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111
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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112
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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113
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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114
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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115
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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117
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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118
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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