The hour of the nightingale, the last stretch of darkness before daybreak.
Dawn had yet to come, but Winterfell was already bustling.
Torches crackled in the cold wind, illuminating the soldiers lined up in the square.
Iron boots clattering on stone, warhorses neighing, and officers barking orders mingled together, breaking the ancient castle's long silence.
Ramsay stood before the silver mirror in his bedchamber, his arms spread.
Theon knelt at his feet, his hands trembling as he fastened the clasps of Ramsay's mail, then the straps of his breastplate and the iron rings of his pauldrons.
Every movement was painstakingly careful, lest he hurt his master-or rather, give him a reason to punish him.
Ramsay looked down at Theon's tousled hair, the faintest smile curling his lips. Suddenly, he grabbed a fistful of it and yanked backward.
Theon winced in pain, forced to tilt his head back.
"You look more frightened than usual today." Ramsay bent down, speaking almost directly into Theon's ear. "Are you worried about that bastard? Or yourself?"
Theon's lips trembled, but no words came out.
Ramsay smiled, released his hair, and patted his cheek. "Don't worry. I told you I'd skin him and make you winter clothes. I never break my word."
He turned around, letting Theon drape a pink cloak made of some unknown material over his shoulders and buckle on his sword.
Once fully dressed, Ramsay strode out of his bedchamber, down the corridor, and over to the stables.
Throughout it all, Theon followed him like a shadow, not daring to utter another word.
An attendant had already brought his warhorse, a tall, powerfully built Andal steed, black from head to hoof, white breath streaming from its nostrils.
Ramsay swung into the saddle in one smooth motion.
Head bowed, Theon hurried to the kennel