"Some, but not many," the man said. "Two of three towers is now unmanned. Most of us are dead and gone. If not from the fighting than by the disease. The water here isn't good, tainted. But that's why we have the ale."
Moat Cailin has already fallen, Reek realised. One more assault by Roose or Ramsey and it's all over.
...
The hall they eventually arrived it was high-ceilinged, drafty and made of dark stone. Only a single dull fire graced it with light, filling a hearth meant for much bigger flames. A dozen drinkers sat around a massive stone table, used in days past for grander feasts and gatherings than this sorry lot. The seat at the head was mine, once. His mind drew a blank as they turned to look. They were all strangers to him. The sons of thralls and salt-wives, most of them.
"Dagon Codd?" Reek asked.
"Who's asking?"
"Lord Balon's son," Reek answered. "Theon Greyjoy. Here at the behest of Lord Ramsey, who captured me at Winterfell. I'm here to treat. Lord Ramsey is prepared to be merciful if you offer your surrender before sundown." He pulled out the letter they'd given him and tossed it onto the table.
A man - presumably Dagon - scoffed. "Ironborn do not surrender."
"My lord's army lies to the north, his father's to the south. Even Lord Balon bent the knee when Robert Baratheon came. He knew if he did not he would have died. As you will if you do not accept my lord's terms." Reek gestured to the parchment on the table. "Give up now and my lord will grant you safe passage to Stony Shore. Read it."
Dagon rose to his feet and spat on the table. "I'm no craven. Dagon Codd yields to no man."
Reek felt his breath clench in his chest. If I fail now... The thought of what Lord Ramsey would do to him was enough to send piss running down his legs. "Is that your answer?" Reek asked through clenched teeth. "Does this one speak for you all?"
"Lord Victarion commanded us to hold, he did," one man said. "Hold here till I return, he told Kenning."
"Kenning's dead," another retorted.
Yes, yes! Reek leapt at the chance. "And my uncle is distracted elsewhere. He will not be returning. The kingsmoot crowned his brother, Euron, and the Crow's Eye has other wars he'd rather fight. You're on your own. My uncle won't come back for you. If he cared he wouldn't have left you behind. He thinks of you as the shit on his shoe. He scraped you off as soon as he could, and left you behind to fester."
The words struck home, Reek could tell. Perhaps a little too well. Dagon keened with wounded pride, a sneer stretching his face. "Liar," he said. "Liar, I call you. Why should we believe you?"
"Read the parchment," Reek retorted. "It's still sealed."
"If we yield, we walk away?" a man asked, leaning heavy on a crutch.
Reek nodded. "Lord Ramsey treats his hostages honourably, so long as they keep faith." He is kind, Reek thought. Kind to take my fingers and leave me my hands, kind to take my toes and leave me my feet. Kind to take my cock and not my balls. Kind to take off only little bits of skin, a piece at a time.
"Enough," Dagon snarled. "You are ironborn! Why are you all behaving like cravens? Begone now. Before I gut you and hang you by your entrails. Before-"
Dagon did not get to finish his threat. His words caught in his throat, then he toppled over, an axe jutting out of his back. Blood leaked from his mouth for a moment, bubbling on his lips with his breath, then he was dead. The man responsible merely shrugged. "I want to live," he said.
Reek afforded himself a painful smile. Lord Ramsey will be pleased with me. "Leave your weapons here," he told the men. "Anyone armed will be shot on sight."
With only a little grumbling their scabbards came off. Then they were down the steps, through the gates. Nearly sixty, all told. Nearly sixty of his men all behind him. Reek led them out the same way he'd come in, the path winding and narrow through the bog. The going was slow, and even Reek was painfully aware of how exposed they were. Even still, this was better than the alternative. Sixty men saved, Reek thought.
A rider came down to meet them. "Is this all?" he asked.
"All that are still alive."
"I thought there would be more," the man said, frowning. "We launched three assaults. They were all repelled."
We are ironborn, Reek thought, in a impetuous burst of pride that he quickly smothered. He was a worm, only a worm. Worms were not proud.
They arrived at camp with the barking of Lord Ramsey's hounds to announce their presence. Reek stumbled off his saddle and took a knee. "Moat Cailin is yours, my lord."
"So few," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "I had hoped for more. Stubborn folk. They must all be starved." Lord Ramsey gestured to one of his madmen with a cruel glint in his eyes. "Fetch some food and ale for them, will you? And show their wounded to the maester."
The gathered men quickly dispersed, and Lord Ramsey's gaze landed on Reek. Reek bowed his head and shivered. Ramsey's hand came to his neck, lifted Reek's gaze gently to meet his with fingers on his chin. He tutted. "Did they really take you for their prince?" He snorted. "What bloody fools these ironmen are. The gods laugh."
Reek felt a strange compulsion to defend them. "They just want to go home, my lord."
"And what of you, hmm?" Lord Ramsey asked. "What do you want? To be free, to go home like them?"
Reek shivered. "I am your Reek," he answered. "My place is by your side. If I must have a reward I would ask for wine, the strongest skin's worth that you have, my lord."
"Good," Ramsey softly intoned, patting his cheek. "You are my Reek. Don't worry, you'll get your wine. I'll even give you a special treat. We'll move you from the dungeon to the kennel, so you can sleep with my hounds. Would you like that, hmm? To be a dog instead of a worm?"
Reek nodded, and so it was. A collar was made for him, sharp leather with a trailing leash. That night a skin was thrown in with his dinner, a scrap of chicken the dogs got to before he did. But Reek did not care. The wine was sweet and sour and strong as promised. Even with the howling of the hounds beside him and the sounds of men screaming outside it was best night's sleep Reek had gotten in... months, most likely. By morning Reek was finally let out of the kennel, though only on his hands and knees. Lord Ramsey was off, he'd sent a letter down to his father to tell him that the road lay clear.
And yet, in spite his success, what little sense of happiness Reek had managed to scrape together lay in ruins. All around him his men were dead. They had been flayed, tortured by night. Now they lay scattered, missing heads and hands and eyes and long flaps of skin. They had been the screams he'd heard. Reek counted the bodies and mourned them quietly. Sixty-three. Seeing their corpses brought about in him a wave of rage he struggled to squash. They had surrendered. They had surrendered. They had surrendered to a worm, and the worm couldn't keep them safe.
Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek was led forth after only a little while. Ramsey greeted them on the road, and together they watched Lord Roose's van come in, a thousand scruffy peasants, a hundred mounted knights to keep them orderly. A dozen wagons stuffed with provisions. And a man in smoky grey plate at the head. When he removed his helm it was not a face Reek knew, though when Lord Ramsey knelt it was obvious who he was.
"Father," Lord Ramsey greeted him. Lord Roose did not much resemble his bastard son. He was smooth-shaven, pale, with lips so thin that when he pressed them together they seemed to disappear altogether. Reek got the impression that Roose Bolton was not one for rage. He shared only Ramsey's eyes, but those eyes were ice, whereas Ramsey's were fire.
"Rise," he simply commanded. "Walk with me."
Reek stood still, till Ramsey tugged on his collar at his father's beckoning. And so the three of them set off away from the van.
"How are things here?"
"The North is ours," Ramsey boasted. "Winterfell is a ruin. Stark's little wolflings are dead. I saw to it myself."
"Surely you misremember," Roose shook his head. "You did no such thing." He glanced back at Reek. "Theon Turncloak, now dead, did that. You never laid a hand on their sweet little heads. Because if you had, how many friends do you think we'd have?"
Reek's head pounded. He felt suddenly sick. We dipped their heads in tar...
Lord Ramsey scowled. "We are lords of the North now. By the Iron Throne's decree. They are not our friends."
...
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