The last thing Ramsay Snow says, before the blade of Robb’s sword meets his neck, is that there’s a gift for him in the dungeons.
You’ll recognize it, he had added. If you have doubts, tell your lackeys to follow the stench.
Robb goes himself after throwing Roose Bolton in one of his own cells. Whatever this is, it’s personal, and he won’t send anyone else to do the job for him.
He has to get to the deepest level of the dungeons in the Dreadfort to find out what the Bolton bastard had meant; until now, all the prisoners he had passed by had smelled bad, but no more than you’d expect from someone who has been staying in a dungeon’s cell for a while. But the moment he starts walking through an hallway that seems otherwise deserted and a stench so strong that almost makes him throw up fills his nostrils, he knows that this is the right place. He takes a second to compose himself and walks forward for a bit until he hears some noise.
It comes from a small cell, near the end of the hallway. Robb raises a hand, halting the two knights following him, then reaches for a key that hangs on the wall, just outside the cell, and sees if it fits. It does. The moment he opens the door, he hears a strangled whimper and then hurried shuffling.
He turns the torch he’s carrying towards the corner of the cell. There’s someone huddled over there, bare feet as filthy as the floor. Whoever this is, they’re hiding their face against the wall, they’re dressed in rags that look as if they’ll fall off sooner than later and they’re visibly shaking.
Then Robb realizes that whoever this is, someone cut off two fingers on both of his feet.
He takes a step closer.
“Who are you?” he asks.
The other man turns towards him oh-so-slowly, keeping his head bent down.
“Please don’t,” he answers, his voice itching, and Robb feels cold all of a sudden. It isn’t unfamiliar, but he can’t place it. “He sent you for a test, hasn’t he? Not that – don’t ask me that.”
Robb figures that he has to be Ramsay Snow.
“He’s dead,” Robb says. And when the other man’s fists unclench he sees that he’s lacking two fingers on his left hand.
“… dead?” the other man replies, confused, his voice small, and then he raises his head to look up at him, tentatively, and –
Seven hells, Robb thinks, it can’t be. He’s thinner, and his hair used to be darker, and he used to look at least ten years younger, and his voice never sounded that small, which is why he couldn’t place it before, but there’s no doubt of who this is.
Why would Snow even say that he was a gift for Robb, otherwise?
fill: we had the greatest expectations, robb/theon, adwd spoilers, 1/?
The last thing Ramsay Snow says, before the blade of Robb’s sword meets his neck, is that there’s a gift for him in the dungeons.
You’ll recognize it, he had added. If you have doubts, tell your lackeys to follow the stench.
Robb goes himself after throwing Roose Bolton in one of his own cells. Whatever this is, it’s personal, and he won’t send anyone else to do the job for him.
He has to get to the deepest level of the dungeons in the Dreadfort to find out what the Bolton bastard had meant; until now, all the prisoners he had passed by had smelled bad, but no more than you’d expect from someone who has been staying in a dungeon’s cell for a while. But the moment he starts walking through an hallway that seems otherwise deserted and a stench so strong that almost makes him throw up fills his nostrils, he knows that this is the right place. He takes a second to compose himself and walks forward for a bit until he hears some noise.
It comes from a small cell, near the end of the hallway. Robb raises a hand, halting the two knights following him, then reaches for a key that hangs on the wall, just outside the cell, and sees if it fits. It does. The moment he opens the door, he hears a strangled whimper and then hurried shuffling.
He turns the torch he’s carrying towards the corner of the cell. There’s someone huddled over there, bare feet as filthy as the floor. Whoever this is, they’re hiding their face against the wall, they’re dressed in rags that look as if they’ll fall off sooner than later and they’re visibly shaking.
Then Robb realizes that whoever this is, someone cut off two fingers on both of his feet.
He takes a step closer.
“Who are you?” he asks.
The other man turns towards him oh-so-slowly, keeping his head bent down.
“Please don’t,” he answers, his voice itching, and Robb feels cold all of a sudden. It isn’t unfamiliar, but he can’t place it. “He sent you for a test, hasn’t he? Not that – don’t ask me that.”
Robb figures that he has to be Ramsay Snow.
“He’s dead,” Robb says. And when the other man’s fists unclench he sees that he’s lacking two fingers on his left hand.
“… dead?” the other man replies, confused, his voice small, and then he raises his head to look up at him, tentatively, and –
Seven hells, Robb thinks, it can’t be. He’s thinner, and his hair used to be darker, and he used to look at least ten years younger, and his voice never sounded that small, which is why he couldn’t place it before, but there’s no doubt of who this is.
Why would Snow even say that he was a gift for Robb, otherwise?
“…Theon?”
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