[ the vale of arryn is a place of noble men, lords and knights honorable to a fault. he should not fear them. or rather, he should fear them less than the men of the dreadfort, but the valemen had love for the starks, the royces especially, and should they recognise him, well, they would call for his head the same as the northmen, for what he did at winterfell and his betrayal of robb stark (the man who named him brother and friend) can never be forgiven. no, the tarred, headless corpses decorating winterfell's gates were never bran and rickon, but that hardly excuses everything else that came from making himself prince of winterfell. mercy, he thinks, hoping once again for a swift end, to die a man's death. ]

[ he moves to stand again. his stench is a foul thing. but then he sees sansa, or alayne, or whatever name she would have him call her by, looking at him, really looking at him, and suddenly, he cannot move. can only kneel there, staring, his body as still as the stone statues in winterfell's crypts, missing parts twitching madly as he watches recognition pass over her face. then his name, his other name, falls off her tongue and his head starts to shake in denial. ]

No, [ he spits out, more frightened than ever. it's too late, though. sansa stark knows him too well. and yet he has no choice but to tell her that she's wrong, that he isn't theon greyjoy. because he isn't, not entirely, not anymore. the bastard of bolton saw to that by stripping him of his identity bit by bit, finger by finger, toe by toe. the memories of the various methods of torture that transformed him from theon to reek are unpleasant, and that's putting it mildly, but they help him remember what he is and what he's not. ]

M'lady is mis—mistaken. I'm not him, I'm not the turncloak, he died at Winterfell. I know my name. I do, I swear it. You have to know your name, [ he tells her whilst counting his fingers, reminding himself of the cost, what will happen if he forgets. ]