Yeah so I just really want Theon to kill Rhamsey in the same manner he killed that wildling and saved Bran...

Same as before, the white haired bowman thought as he watched the creature taunt its prey. He thought back to the day three years ago when he had saved someone else in these same woods in the very same way. It's different this time. Same jape, but with different mummers. He exhaled the cold forrest air through his nose and watched the opaque white puffs appear and disappear. And this time, I don't give a damn for thank you's. This time, it was for Jeyene. For Lady Hornwood, for Kyra. For Squirrel and Able. For Frenya and Holly. Rowan, Willow and Myrtle. For Winterfell, for the Ironborn. For all of them. And for himself

He narrowed his eyes and his braceless right hand began to shake as he pulled the string taught. Not from fear. Not anymore. He stilled his hand and steadied his aim, transfixing his sight on the back of his prey's neck. He saw the slightest movement in the arm that held the blade to Jeyne's throat as Jon lowered his sword. He saw the panic on Jon's face before it could even manifest.

He let go.

Time seemed to slow as he watched the quiver glide through the cold air and lodge itself into the animal's neck, ripping, tearing, piercing its way through the sinew.

The white haired kraken stepped out of the shadow of the large oak and hobbled to the thing that lay dying next to some pines at Jeyne's feet. Jon stared at him, not immediately understanding.

"Who..." he began, but when he saw the older man's eyes he trailed off. He knows me. He knows who I am. Or who I was.

The girl's eyes were red, and he could see dried, flaky mucus caked beneath her black tipped nose. She did not sob nor cry nor even whimper. She was silent. He could see part of her exposed neck, the porcelain skin weeping fat sanguine tears of blood. He could see where the blade had begun it's unfinished slice. He tore his eyes away from her and looked at the dying monster in the red snow. He was coughing blood and begging for mercy, for it to end.

Haltingly, he closed the short distance that separated them. He looked down at his once torturer. The man's glacial eyes were a foggy, unfocused in a glaze of agony, looking through him, at the tree the bowman had been hiding in the shadow of. Then a sudden sharpness, a spark of recognition as he recognized the white haired man that held a bow and quiver. He looked at his assassin and spat a word out at him with such disgust, such venom, and hate, that the white haired man almost took a half step back.

"Reek."

A bubble of blood and saliva burst and gurgled in Rhamsey Bolton's mouth as he spat the word at the seven fingered man. Jeyne gingerly touched her savior's arm as the Ironborn bent closer to the man with an arrow in his neck. Every muscle in his face was relaxed, though not eyes. It was not hate that was there, not loathing, not triumph; but unadulterated disgust. It lingered there for a moment, then left, leaving his eyes just as blank as the rest of his face.

Theon Greyjoy bent lower and corrected the dying bastard:

"Theon."