what is dead may die never die, but rises again harder and stronger
George R. R. Martin
The ground beneath him was cold and hard from the frost. Red leaves powdered in white frost lightly covered the surface Theon was sprawled on. The wizened faces of the weirwoods seemed to stare down at the boy sprawled on the ground with a knowing look. The red faces stared uncomfortably at him, boring into his very soul. Slowly but surely, his eyes adjust to the glaring sunlight that beat down. The sky was a clear blue without a cloud in sight for miles and miles the type of sunny weather at Winterfell that was rare and cherished by Theon.
Theon looks down at his hands, completely dumbfounded. His last memory was of a different Winterfell. One shrouded in darkness as the night made its way to conquer mankind, it was the Great War against the night at Winterfell that was imprinted in his memory for all of eternity.
"Hey get up" a familiar voice called out to him "unless you're too scared for another bout." The person attached to that voice kicks a practice sword in his direction. It's a voice that sends Theon reeling. A voice that reminded him of a past life, a life he thought he'd never go back to again. He can feel the hair on this back of his neck raise up and a chill travel down his back. It's a voice he's known his entire life, a voice he missed so dearly, a voice he wished he would hear once more.
A pair of worn boots show up in his line of vision and a hand reaches down, an offer to help Theon stand up. He takes a deep breath as he looks up to take the hand.
"Robb?"