Chapter 245 - The Dog and the Dragon

The Painted Table Chamber had gone cold. Sea wind carried flurries in through the gaps, and though the braziers burned, the heat never reached the far corners. A thin crust of frost still clung to the stone walls.

Ramsay Bolton stood at the center of the hall.

He wore a freshly stitched leather jerkin, his hair combed neat.

He gave Theon Greyjoy his command.

"Reek, sit."

Theon's knees bent and he dropped into a crouch. His body pressed low, his backside nearly grazing the stone, both hands braced on either side of his knees, a hound squatting on its haunches.

He opened his mouth. Shattered teeth. Tongue lolling out.

"Reek, roll over. Reek, bark."

"Woof woof woof woof woof woof..."

He put real effort into it, forcing the sounds up from his throat, a deliberate, phlegmy imitation of a dog's bark. His eyes fixed on nothing. Only the floor tile just ahead of the tips of Ramsay's boots. As if those boots were the only coordinates he had left.

Laughter filled the hall.

Drogo's bloodriders, Dragonstone's garrison, a handful of Bolton men, all of them laughing.

Only Sansa Stark wasn't.

She sat in the chair to Drogo's right, both hands folded over her knees, watching the man crouched on the floor below.

Theon never looked up.

He was avoiding her eyes. Among all the northerners in this room, he was the only one who would recognize her. He kept his gaze nailed to the tips of Ramsay's boots, like those two boots were the only fixed point in the world.

Ramsay stepped forward and spread his hands toward Drogo.

"Trained for you, Khal. Absolute loyalty." He let that sit for a moment. "I tested him — sent him into Moat Cailin to talk the Ironborn into surrender. He did it. You can use him to keep pressure on the Crow's Eye, make sure his loyalty to you holds."

Drogo leaned back in his chair, eyes settling on Theon's hunched form. "Mm," he said. "I can see that."

He raised one hand. "Bring the Beggar King in."

Daenerys Targaryen's breath caught.

She sat to Drogo's left. She turned her head and looked at him, lips parting slightly, like she was about to say something. She didn't. A thin, quiet unease sat behind her eyes.

Ramsay hadn't noticed. He was still caught on the title. "The Beggar King? Who's that?"

"Wait and see," Drogo said.

Iron chains rattled at the side door. The door swung open.

Two Unsullied came through, dragging a limp body between them, one on each side. The man's legs trailed along the ground, his ankles twisted outward at angles that weren't right, his arms hanging dead and useless.

When Viserys Targaryen was dragged into the center of the hall, his silver-white hair caught the light of the braziers for just a moment.

His eyes were still purple. But the sharp, caustic gleam that used to live in them was gone. They'd gone murky. Hollow. He lay slumped on the floor tiles like a moth with its wings crushed flat.

A low murmur moved through the hall. Northerners leaned together, whispering. Some pointed at the silver hair. Others just stared at those purple eyes.

Drogo stood, came down a few steps, and stopped beside Ramsay.

"You can give him any command you like. Have them fight each other. Have them bite. Have them crawl." He paused. "Whatever you want."

Ramsay crouched down.

He leaned in close to Viserys's face, tilted his head, and studied him for a moment. "His hands and feet are broken. Fighting's no fun. He can't even stand up."

He turned to look at Drogo. The corner of his mouth curled up. "Have them lick each other's arsehole clean."

Drogo's brow moved.

He hadn't expected the little flayer to be quite that twisted.

The words were already out. Everyone in the hall was waiting on his answer.

"Do what you like with them," Drogo said.

Ramsay turned and snapped his fingers at Theon. "Reek."

Theon scrambled to his feet.

Fast, but folded into himself, shoulders pulled forward, neck drawn in. He shuffled over to Viserys's side, crouched down, and reached for his waistband.

Viserys's body snapped rigid.

"You dare touch me," he said. His voice was wrecked, but that old high pitch was still there underneath, some last remnant of it. "I'll kill you. I am a true dragon. Touch me and I will kill you."

Theon's hand shook. He stopped. He looked at Viserys, his lips trembling.

"Please, my lord." His voice was somewhere between a sob and a beg. "Please — Lord Ramsay will punish me if you don't. Just let me..."

"Get away!"

Theon's hand went back. He grabbed the waistband and yanked.

Viserys fought. His broken arms scraped against the stone, but the shattered bones had nothing left in them. All he could do was press his hips and backside down as hard as he could, trying to pin the trousers against the floor with his own weight.

Drogo watched and had to admit: Ramsay had a genuine talent for this.

Viserys had had his hands and feet broken and still wouldn't bow. But Theon Greyjoy? More obedient than a dog now. One look and he dropped. One whistle and he crawled over.

"Get away!" Viserys wrenched sideways and bit down on Theon's wrist.

Theon cried out. His hand stayed.

Two Bolton men stepped in from the side, one on each flank, and pressed Viserys's shoulders and waist flat against the floor. He couldn't move. Only his broken leg kept twitching, two short, spasming kicks.

Theon wrenched hard.

The trousers came off entirely. Two thin, dirt-smeared buttocks laid bare.

Someone in the hall laughed.

Theon brought his face close to the exposed flesh.

Viserys, face pressed against the floor tiles, made a sound. Short. Compressed. A whimper with no room left in it. His silver-white hair had spread into the dust in front of him.

Daenerys Targaryen's hands closed into fists. She watched Viserys pinned to the floor, this man who had sold her, who had beaten her, who had called her "little slut", and still. He still had the same blood running through him as her.

Sansa Stark spoke first.

"Enough."

Her voice wasn't loud. But it landed in the gap between one laugh and the next, and it was perfectly clear.

The hall went quiet.

The Bolton men turned to look at her. Ramsay turned to look at her.

Theon stopped.

He finally raised his head. He looked directly at Sansa Stark.

His face was smeared with grime. A dry crack of blood ran across his lip. His eyes were red, and the tears pooled at the bottom of them caught the firelight and gleamed, just for a moment, just a trembling flash.

That one look held too much. Gratitude. Shame. Fear. And something that had been gone for so long it was almost unrecognizable: a human being's eyes.

"Stop this farce," Sansa Stark said. Her chin was lifted, her hand gripping the armrest. "I won't watch any more of it."

She looked at Theon. "He was my father's ward. He lived with us for many years."

Ramsay's smile pulled back, just slightly.

Her father's ward. Then the red-haired woman in front of him had to be Sansa Stark. He'd been watching her since he walked into the Painted Table Chamber, she'd been sitting at Drogo's side the entire time. He'd already worked out what she was to Drogo.

"Do you know, my lady," he said, "it was precisely this ward who killed your two younger brothers."

"No." The words came out before Sansa Stark could stop them. "He killed a farmer's sons."

The moment they landed, she regretted it. Her lips pressed tight. Those few sentences were enough to put Bran and Rickon, safe somewhere in the North, directly under the Bolton shadow.

What was done was done. Trying to cover it now would only look worse.

Drogo looked at Sansa Stark.

"He didn't kill Bran and Rickon because he never found them."

He turned to Reek. "If you had found them — you would have killed them both. Wouldn't you."

Reek raised his head.

His face was half-lit by the candle flames, the other half lost in shadow. His cheekbones stood out sharp in the darkness. Moisture welled slowly in his eyes, trembling in the firelight, bright and fragile.

It didn't fall.

He looked at Sansa Stark. And for a long moment, he said nothing.

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