Stannis snorted. "You fell. Umber saved her. If Mors Crowfood and his men had not been outside the castle, Bolton would have had the both of you back in moments."
Crowfood. Theon remembered. An old man, huge and powerful, with a ruddy face and a shaggy white beard. He had been seated on a garron, clad in the pelt of a gigantic snow bear, its head his hood. Under it he wore a stained white leather eye patch that reminded Theon of his uncle Euron. He'd wanted to rip it off Umber's face, to make certain that underneath was only an empty socket, not a black eye shining with malice. Instead he had whimpered through his broken teeth and said, "I am — "
" — a turncloak and a kinslayer," Crowfood had finished. "You will hold that lying tongue, or lose it."
But Umber had looked at the girl closely, squinting down with his one good eye. "You are the younger daughter?"
And Jeyne had nodded. "Arya. My name is Arya."
"Arya of Winterfell, aye. When last I was inside those walls, your cook served us a steak and kidney pie. Made with ale, I think, best I ever tasted. What was his name, that cook?"
"Gage," Jeyne said at once. "He was a good cook. He would make lemoncakes for Sansa whenever we had lemons."
Crowfood had fingered his beard. "Dead now, I suppose. That smith of yours as well. A man who knew his steel. What was his name?"
Jeyne had hesitated. Mikken, Theon thought. His name was Mikken. The castle blacksmith had never made any lemoncakes for Sansa, which made him far less important than the castle cook in the sweet little world she had shared with her friend Jeyne Poole. Remember, damn you. Your father was the steward, he had charge of the whole household. The smith's name was Mikken, Mikken, Mikken. I had him put to death before me!