Chapter Text
She does not know what day it is. She does not know how long she has been in this tower or how many days it has been since her terrible farce of a wedding to the Bastard of Bolton. It was nothing like her wedding to Halys, where there was laughter and happiness and food.
Food.
She is so hungry.
It's raining. She can hear the drops outside her window but the bars keep her from straining out to catch the water on her tongue. When Daryn was still small, they did that; they'd stand outside the keep and catch snowflakes.
Daryn is dead now, food for crows.
Food.
Her stomach aches with emptiness.
No one comes. She waits for someone to storm the tower to rescue her, but no one has come. She has not seen hide nor hair of anyone in days. Is it days? She isn't quite certain. A few times she calls out with a hoarse voice which sounds nothing like her own, but no one answers. When she can sleep, she imagines Wyman is gathering men in White Harbor to save her and, when he does, there will be a feast.
She cannot remember when last she ate. Perhaps if she could catch one of the rats...
But she is too slow, always too slow.
There is so much pain. It is worse than losing her husband and son, worse than what the Bastard of Bolton has done to her, worse than when she broke her arm when she was a child; her stomach feels as if it eating itself in desperation, and the pain is so great.
She screams, begs, pleads for someone to bring her food, but no one answers. With weak hands, she beats upon the door, but there is nothing. As she sinks to the floor, she looks at her hands, at the ten fingers there, and thinks a person does not need them all. She knew a man once who had shortened fingers and he was fine.
The first bite hurts but not nearly as bad as the ache in her belly.
A woman can live with nine fingers.
No one is coming. She does not trick herself now. Donella knows she will die here in this tower, and no one will remember her at all. She asks the Old Gods to save her, her last hope, but they don't answer either.
Make it stop, she pleads as she lies in the center of the floor, gnawing on her right thumb, the last of her fingers. Please make it stop.
It doesn't stop.
Her stomach does not hurt anymore, but she cannot move either. Now her head aches, the world seeming to spin even as she remains still. Even in her weakness, Donella understands she is about to die.
She thinks of Halys and Daryn and all the others who have gone before her. Perhaps they will greet her when she passes, and they will feast.
She'd like a feast.