[ It’s all Theon can do to laugh, a brittle and fragile sound that does nothing to mask his unease. He’s hopelessly lost now, and there doesn’t seem to be a light that can guide him on his way.

He makes no move to defend himself. He would almost be happy to let Ramsay kill him, just to end the tempest in his head. There was a time when he would only offer that honor to Robb, but Robb had refused, and now Robb is gone. ]

It looked like you. It sounded like you.

[ He remembers it. He never did forget, but he’s tried to convince himself that his memories were faulty. Seeing it again has him torn, but he dares to push. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s already lost one finger, and his life has begun to mean little to him. ]

You called yourself Reek. You didn’t use your real name. Not until—

[ He still looks confused, eyebrows furrowed in doubt despite recounting events in such a confident manner. ]

Not until you and your men put Winterfell to the torch.