[ she shows him compassion and suddenly his sunken cheeks are wet with tears. she deserves an apology, the truth, for this might be his only chance, but his fear of ramsay, what the bastard of the dreadfort will do to him should he forget himself, is stronger than his desire to repent for his crimes and voice the truth about what really happened at winterfell. who knows, though, maybe in time that will change, but for now (sadly) he remains more reek than theon, a shade of the person she once knew. reek, reek, it rhymes with bleak. ]

Thank you, my—m'lady.

[ quietly, his body stilling until she mentions his tattered rags. slowly, reek raises his head, stiff fingers clutching at his soiled tunic, the missing three made obvious by the way the wool stuffing causes them to remain straight. it's a queer sight, to be sure, especially when his faux fingers start to bend awkwardly as if broken. ]

No, [ he says, shrilly. ] Lord Ramsay gave me these clothes, he … he said that I was never to take them off, save at his command.