here in the dark, dark forest this is the thing he has wrought. This body of mismatched limbs and sunken eyes, graveyard mud clinging to the crevices of blood-stained skin. What holds it together, keeps those tenuous limbs from falling back to the earth where it belongs? There is a hand, whittled down to the thinness of a stillborn babe’s, white like bleached bones. Sometimes, that hand comes out, curls against the jagged red line that curls into a mockery of smile across his throat. The breath that wheezes carries the sound of rattling bones.
“He cannot speak,” Theon is told, “but he remembers.”