11 Month A, 233AC

The dungeons of Winterfell were cold and dark at the peak of summer, but in the depths of winter the cells were as frigid as the grounds outside. Moisture turned to a thin crust of frost, and men' breath hung in the air in thick clouds. Lucan shivered against the cold, though he had become used to the chilling cold. In truth, he had considered himself lucky to be alive at first. He had been loyal to Theon, despite what he had done to his family. His father had plotted against his lord, an unwise move under even the most ideal circumstance. Aeryn had swept into the North like a whirlwind, and Lucan found himself caught up in it. Theon was defeated, probably dead, and Lucan knew that he could not survive the dungeon forever. His brother Asher should have ransomed him by now, Flint's Finger was not rich by any means but should have had enough to make good his release. That boon was not forthcoming, so the time had come to beg for some kind of audience.