[ He sleeps, but not deeply. His breathing is shallow and his body is rigid, like he could wake up at the sound of a pin dropping. It’s how he slept the entire time he was in Ramsay’s keeping: on guard, ready to be frightened, ready to be hurt.
He’s awake and upright by the time the first knock sounds. There’s a moment of confusion and terror as he glances wildly around the room, a moment in which he begins to reach into the caverns of his memory to remember the name that was given to him, but then he remembers. Not the Dreadfort, not Winterfell, not even Westeros. He hasn’t physically been there for nearly a year, despite what the marks on his body say. ]
I—yes.
[ His voice still sounds too thin and weak, even too his own ears. Clearing his throat does nothing to help it. He wonders how it can be possible that Ramsay took that from him as well. ]
no subject
He’s awake and upright by the time the first knock sounds. There’s a moment of confusion and terror as he glances wildly around the room, a moment in which he begins to reach into the caverns of his memory to remember the name that was given to him, but then he remembers. Not the Dreadfort, not Winterfell, not even Westeros. He hasn’t physically been there for nearly a year, despite what the marks on his body say. ]
I—yes.
[ His voice still sounds too thin and weak, even too his own ears. Clearing his throat does nothing to help it. He wonders how it can be possible that Ramsay took that from him as well. ]
You can come in.