"Turncloak" - he whispered to himself for one thousandth time.

This was so unfair. He was too young, he didn't know any better. He didn't learn to hate his enemies, his captors. Instead he did quite the opposite. Strived to be one of them, strived to belong. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

He tried to correct the mistake, tried to choose his family over Starks and stick with it. Stick with it completely. Stick with it no matter what, but it was too late, too late. He was too emotionally invested and wasn't fooling anyone, couldn't fool anyone, not even Bran.

'Turncloak' - the voice of Ser Rodrick whispered again in his head.

And the old man was right. He was a traitor, traitor to both sides. Not because of what happened or what he did, but because of how it made him feel inside. Feel like a weak man with divided loyalties who should have never left Robb and stayed with him as his loyal dog, who should have stayed on Pyke, instead of rushing to war eager to prove himself, eager to please his father and for what? For what? He wanted to scream, but instead he whispered again...

"Turncloak"- whispered that cursed name into the emptyness of the cold night one last time and then he died.

If only he could have done something, done something differently, but what? He was too young, too young to know any better, too young to hate them all as they deserved. His father for his foolish rebellion, the Starks for making him pay for his father's mistakes. He was paying for his family's mistakes for almost as long as he remembered and then they all dared to claim he betrayed them as if he ever belonged to either family! This was so unfair! And yet even in death the voices insisted on mocking him...

'Turncloak...' - and then he realized he was still thinking still agonizing even in death. He must be in seven hells, paying the price for his sins, for two innocent orphan boys that he slayed.

"Seven hells?" - the amused voice asked. - "Why would we need seven hells when your kind is so good at creating your own?"

"What do you mean?"

"Reek, reek it rhymes with sneak" - the voice in the darkness laughed in the sing song manner. - "Rings any bells?"

"No" - Theon replied in confusion.

"Good, that means your punishment is over" - the voice replied as a matter of fact.

"What punishment?"

"Do not worry your pretty little head about it." - the voice replied in iritation. - "It is over. Get it? What is really important however is what happens next."

This time Theon prudently kept quiet awaiting his fate.

"Long story short we find the situation you are in - amusing, and so we are curious to see what choices you make the second time around. You will not remember this conversation obviously. Same as your punishment. That would defeat the whole purpose of experience. However it is also the reason why we are not taking everything away. It would be awfully boring to see you making all the same stupid choices. Also we feel the situation would benefit if we provide you some company. Now, off you go!" - few moments later Theon's tormented mind finally succumbed to the all consuming darkness.

The next time he opened his eyes he was standing alone in the middle of the vast forest clearing in his hunting gear, bow and arrow useless in his usually able hands. The deer was gone, instead the memories of the events leading to his death during the sack of Winterfell came rushing in. The memories of the last fateful year. He didn't know how, and yet he knew they were yet to happen. Unless he did something about it.

Suddenly, behind his back he heard the characteristic sound of someone shifting his weight while wearing the suit of armor. Instantly he turned around raising his bow in the process only to find a slender young woman staring at him with suspicious eyes. She was approximately the same height as him and her black suit of armor was nothing he ever saw before in his life, intricate set leaving quite a bit of her upper torso exposed. One might even call it impractical and ridiculous, but then again to the absolute majority of Westeros population the concept of a woman wielding a sword was nothing short of blasphemy. And she was armed all right. The bastard sword in her right hand was quite long and looked downright lethal especially if you paid attention to the way she held it - effortlesly as if the oversized blade had no weight at all.

She was easy on the eyes, with her long auburn hair and aristocratic features, definitely pretty. Theon might even have called her beautiful if not for the haunted look that clung to her face.

"And who might you be fair lady?" - Theon carefully asked, not lowering his bow but minding his manners just in case. She had an air of nobility around her and with that sword in her hand he didn't want to piss her off, too much.

"You first." - she challenged him instead.

"My name is Theon.." - he paused for just a second, 'Theon of the House Greyjoy' he meant to say, but instead he said - "Theon Turncloak."

She gave him a curious look and lowered her blade by just an inch in the process and then finally gave him her name in return:

"I am Lady Aribeth de Tylmerande. Betrayer of the city of Neverwinter."