Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

At the break of dawn, Eddard Stark crawled out from beneath his fur blankets and stepped out of his tent.

Overnight, a half-man-high wall of snow had piled up in front of the tent flap.

Eddard inhaled deeply, the icy morning air stabbing his lungs.

Snow continued to fall, heavier than the night before.

The once-familiar landmarks of the North—the frozen lakes, forests, roads, and hills—had vanished beneath the storm's relentless grip. Only the faint outlines of nearby tents were visible through the blizzard.

A squire brought over damp pieces of wood, struggling to light a fire. Though it eventually produced smoke, no warmth came from it.

Eddard had long since grown used to cold, hard rations. He washed down a bite of stale bread with a gulp of rough ale, feeling a small warmth kindle in his belly.

Ser Alliser Thorne arrived, his face drawn with exhaustion, delivering his grim report:

"One dead last night, three missing. Four horses down. We managed to save one…"

Eddard listened silently to the tally of frostbite casualties, then spoke in an even tone:

"Finish breakfast, and we march."

"Yes, my lord."

The journey southward was proving to be an ordeal, as Eddard had expected.

Along the way, groups of Northerners joined the column—farmers, villagers, and their families. But unlike the disciplined Night's Watch, these ordinary folk included the elderly, women, and children, making progress agonizingly slow.

Each day brought more deaths from the cold.

Eddard couldn't stop the grim thoughts that gnawed at him. How many of these people would survive to reach the Neck?

What would they do if they encountered the wights?

What if their supplies ran out?

Eddard forced himself to push these thoughts aside. After choking down the last of his meager breakfast, he gave the order to march.

The blizzard showed no signs of letting up. Progress was excruciatingly slow, closer to crawling than marching.

At best, they managed ten miles a day.

With daylight hours growing ever shorter and the nights stretching endlessly long, their pace slowed even further. Covering five miles in a day became a small victory.

That evening, as darkness fell once again, the column made camp beside a frozen river.

"This is the White Knife," Eddard said with certainty, his tone calm and assured.

The world around them was a uniform white, the landscape buried under layers of snow. But Eddard, once the Warden of the North, recognized their location immediately.

He pointed toward the southwest, into the gloom.

"Three more days in that direction, and we'll reach Winterfell."

Ser Alliser Thorne frowned. "My lord, surely you're not considering going to Winterfell? Forgive me, but heading that way would mean a detour. Our supplies are already running dangerously low…"

"You needn't worry. I'll go to Winterfell alone. You and the rest of the column will continue southward."

Ser Alliser hesitated before nodding. "As you say, my lord. Allow me to send a few riders with you for safety."

Eddard shook his head. "No need to assign anyone. In the morning, I'll ask for volunteers to accompany me."

"Understood."

---

The next morning, Eddard emerged from his snow-covered tent, chewing on another cold, hard meal as he listened to the latest frostbite report.

Just as he prepared to gather the volunteers, a scout galloped into camp.

"My lord, we've encountered another group heading south."

"Did you see their banner?" Eddard asked.

The scout nodded hesitantly before replying, "It's the pink flayed man, my lord."

"The Boltons," Eddard said quietly, the name heavy on his tongue. A bitter smile crept across his face.

At a time like this, what was the point of holding onto old grudges between House Stark and House Bolton?

With the White Walkers as a common enemy, any previous disputes among the Northern houses needed to be set aside. Unity was their only chance of survival.

"I'll go meet them," Eddard said, mounting his horse.

The scout led him southward, and before long, they reached the Bolton encampment, also set up along the frozen river.

The two camps were closer than they'd realized—had the night been clearer, they would have spotted each other long ago.

"Who's in charge here? Is Lord Roose Bolton present?"

"No, my lord," a Bolton guard replied. "Lord Roose isn't here. This camp is under Lord Ramsay's command."

Eddard suppressed a flicker of disdain for the Dreadfort's infamous bastard. "Take me to him."

"This way, my lord."

The guard led Eddard through the camp. Soon, a young man in crimson armor, surrounded by knights, strode toward him.

"Ramsay Bolton?"

"Yes, Lord Stark! I've admired you for so long. What an honor to meet you here!" Ramsay exclaimed, a broad smile plastered across his face as he grasped Eddard's hand.

His enthusiasm felt forced and unnatural. Eddard resisted the urge to pull his hand away, enduring the overly familiar greeting.

"My men are camped upriver. We should combine our forces and travel south together," Eddard said.

"Of course, of course! Northerners should look out for one another," Ramsay replied, his tone oily. "Oh, and Lord Stark, I have a small gift for you."

"That won't be necessary—"

"No, I insist!" Ramsay waved a hand, calling out, "Reek! Come here!"

The guards around Ramsay stepped aside, revealing a trembling old man shuffling forward.

The smell hit Eddard first—an unbearable stench of filth and decay.

"Reek," Ramsay sneered, kicking the man forward. "Show Lord Stark your face."

The man, shaking uncontrollably, pulled his matted hair away from his face, revealing a grimy, disfigured visage.

Eddard frowned. "Ramsay, who is this?"

"Don't tell me you don't recognize him!" Ramsay laughed, turning to the man. "Go on, tell him your name!"

"I… I'm Reek, my lord," the man stammered, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Your real name!" Ramsay snapped, kicking him again.

Reek sobbed, his words a pitiful chant. "I'm Reek… I'm nothing but Reek…"

Ramsay kicked him hard in anger.

Reek flew backwards and tumbled several times in the snow before coming to a stop.

"That's enough!" Eddard was a little angry. "Ramsay, treat your people well. The gods are watching."

"Lord Eddard, he is not one of my people. He is certainly not one of the ancient gods." Ramsay said with a smile, "Can you really not recognize him?"

Ed looked at Reek again and saw the man struggling to get up from the snow.

His whole body was extremely dirty, as if it was covered with excrement, emitting a suffocating stench. His hair was dry and his skin was dark, as if he had not taken a bath for hundreds of years.

Eddard's stomach churned as he studied the man more closely. The hollowed eyes, the haunted expression—there was something familiar there.

"Is it… Theon?" Eddard finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No!" Reek howled, collapsing to the ground. "No! I'm Reek! I'm just Reek!"

Ramsay's laughter rang out. "Yes, Lord Stark! This is none other than Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, your former ward. My, how the mighty have fallen."

Eddard stared in horror. The man before him bore no resemblance to the proud young Greyjoy he once knew. This broken creature had been utterly destroyed.

"You've gone too far," Eddard growled.

"Too far?" Ramsay raised an eyebrow. "Have you forgotten what he did, Lord Stark? He betrayed you, took Winterfell, and led the Ironborn into your home."

"That doesn't justify this cruelty," Eddard snapped. "The Boltons swore an oath never to use flaying again."

"Oh, I haven't flayed him," Ramsay said with mock innocence. "Right, Reek?"

Reek nodded frantically. "No flaying… No flaying…"

As Reek spoke those words, he instinctively clutched his hands through the icy gloves. He could still feel the phantom pain from the fingers that had been cut off.

Those fingers were removed because he had begged Ramsay to cut them.

Ramsay had skinned his fingers down to the bone, leaving the raw, exposed flesh to dry, crack, and rot in the freezing air. Reek had endured whippings, branding, and countless other tortures, but nothing compared to the agony of skinned flesh.

The pain had driven him to the brink of madness. No living being could endure such suffering.

So, he had pleaded with Ramsay for mercy, begging him to cut off the flayed fingers entirely.

Ramsay had obliged every time, enjoying the spectacle of Reek's desperation. It was one of his favorite games.

Reek understood the rules of the game perfectly.

How could he not?

Once, he had forgotten those rules and tried to bite off one of his skinned fingers himself, hoping to end his torment. That act of defiance had enraged Ramsay, who punished him by taking an extra toe in retaliation.

"Master never mistreats me," Reek said hastily, his voice trembling. "Every punishment I receive is what I deserve. Reek, Reek, I am as worthless as dirt…"

Eddard's fury boiled over. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, his jaw clenched.

But it wasn't Theon, his former ward, whom he wanted to strike down.

It was Ramsay Snow—the monster of House Bolton.

Eddard longed to unsheathe his blade and end the vile creature standing before him. But he knew that now was not the time for infighting.

He was no longer the Warden of the North. He had no authority to judge Ramsay Snow.

"Lord Stark," Ramsay said with a grin. "How do you like my Reek? A fine specimen, isn't he? If you're fond of him, I'll gladly gift him to you…"

"Keep him," Eddard said coldly, turning on his heel. "He's your creation."

Ramsay's laughter followed him as he walked away.

But as Eddard mounted his horse and prepared to ride back to his camp, he found himself unable to forget the sight of Theon—broken, filthy, and barely human.

He didn't want to stay here any longer.

Ramsay looked at the other's receding back, then suddenly turned to look at Theon, his face darkening:

"Reek, Lord Eddard seems very dissatisfied with you."

Theon was shaking as if he had epilepsy, with snot and tears flowing out of his nose:

"Master... I... I deserve it... I..."

"You really deserve it." Ramsay snorted. "Tooth or finger? Your choice."

Theon wailed but did not dare to resist. He recalled the pain he felt when he ate this morning and the fact that he only had seven fingers left. After struggling for a moment, he said:

"Finger... Master... I choose finger..."

"Okay, come on."

"Thank you... sir... for your mercy..."

---

Eddard returned to his camp, his mind heavy with the image of Theon's hollow, haunted eyes.

He thought back to the boy who had once been his ward, who had grown up alongside his own sons.

His former adopted son has been tortured to the point of insanity.

Even though Theon had betrayed him, Eddard would rather chop off his head with a sword than let him be tortured by Ramsay like this.

"Lord Stark, shall we prepare to move out?" Ser Denys Mallister approached, his tone respectful.

Eddard snapped out of his thoughts and composed himself. "I'll be heading to Winterfell. You'll lead the column south from here. Ahead lies the Bolton camp—join forces with them and continue toward the Neck. Avoid conflict if possible."

"As you command, my lord."

Eddard issued his instructions, then selected a few volunteers to accompany him. Together, they turned their horses toward Winterfell.

Yet after only a few miles, Eddard found himself reining his horse to a halt.

He hesitated for a moment, then wheeled around and rode back toward the Bolton camp.

---

"Lord Stark! What brings you back so soon? Have you reconsidered my offer?" Ramsay's mocking grin spread wide as Eddard dismounted.

Ignoring the jeering tone, Eddard fixed his gaze on the trembling figure standing behind Ramsay.

"Theon Greyjoy," Eddard said, his voice steady and cold. "Will you come with me to Winterfell?"

Theon flinched at the sound of his name. Tears and snot mingled as he turned his face toward Eddard, his expression a mixture of hope and terror.

"Winterfell?" he croaked, his voice weak and raspy.

"Yes. Back to Winterfell, where you spent ten years of your life. But let me be clear: I'm not offering to save you. I'm taking you to face judgment. Under the watchful eyes of the gods, I will swing the sword myself and take your head, as justice for the Starks you betrayed."

Theon froze. For a moment, the tremors that wracked his body stilled.

Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at the tall man on the horse before him.

Eddard Stark—his former guardian, the man he had once admired above all others.

The promise of death didn't terrify him. Instead, a strange sense of peace washed over him.

This is your chance for redemption, he thought.

Say yes.

"Reek!" Ramsay's voice shattered the fragile moment, yanking Theon back into the nightmare.

"You want to leave with Lord Stark? Is that it?" Ramsay asked, his tone deceptively light but laced with menace.

Theon's body began to tremble again, his mind clouded by fear. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Answer me, Theon!" Eddard demanded, his voice sharp. "Better to die with honor than live in shame. Find your courage!"

"Reek," Ramsay interrupted, his smile widening. "Would you rather die with Lord Stark? Or stay here, alive and well, with me?"

Theon's mind raced, chaotic and fragmented. Memories of Ramsay's games, the pain, and the terror swirled in his head.

A wave of nausea rose in his stomach, and he collapsed to the ground, vomiting into the snow.

Ramsay burst out laughing. "It seems Reek won't be joining you, Lord Stark. He can't even sit a horse in his state."

Eddard clenched his fists, his frustration mounting. After a long moment, he gave a single, curt nod and turned his horse to leave.

As his figure retreated into the distance, Theon slowly lifted his head.

His hollow eyes followed Eddard's departing silhouette, and within them, for the first time in years, a flicker of clarity began to emerge.

(End of Chapter)