Omake – The Wolf Pack

Brannan Frost leaned back in his chair. The tavern that he and his fellow captains and first mate's were in was just how he liked it. Deepwood Motte had embraced the sea mans life and made it a point to have certain taverns that were targeted not just for the crew of the ships of the Fleet of the North, but also some for the officers.

This one, was not the Bilge Rat, with cheap, watered down grog and whores by the dozen. It was not the Beached Squid with it's aggressive barmaids with dresses cut so low, just the act of walking threatened to have them spill out into the open and it's deranged cook who if rumour was to be believed, escaped the Ironborn and spent a week clutching to a floating raft of hull planks before being washed ashore. No, he was in the Northern Port. Well back from the waterfront, this tavern had developed a reputation for being a quieter establishment. It's low ceiling and heavy crossbeams, along with lanterns for light and the style of furniture was all aimed to have the feel of being on a ship, without the constant movement. The wine was good, the food was rich and the bar maids actually knew to deliver the food and leave when appropriate. All in all, he loved the place.

He had worked his way into his position. Child of a whore and one of her many clients, he grew up in the streets of Winterfell at the best possible time. He could read and write without struggle. He could do maths and knew his maps. He didn't care much for Religion, but had no protest against any that did, so long as they weren't sticking it down his throat. Unless they were Ironborn. Fuck the Ironborn. He had joined the merchant fleet as soon as they would have him. He'd started as a junior sailor and damn well earned his way as he moved up the chain of command until at the age of Twenty Eight, thanks to losses between a storm and the bloody Ironborn, he'd been the Bosun and most senior person left alive to limp their ruined hull back to the North. The owners said the ship was not worth repairing. With the new designs coming out, they could purchase a new, faster, better cargo hauler for less than the cost of the repair. Leaving him standing on the dock with his final pay, a bonus for getting the scow home, a pat on the back and no idea what to do next.

As chance would have it, word in the taverns was of a new type of ship. The Sloop. Fast, agile, decent crew, all of whom were trained to fight. Good northern Breachers. Cannons! It was his dream boat. For too long, he'd watched Ironborn flee into the weather, unable to give chase. He'd been in five separate boarding actions. He knew his way around a sword, but he was no Knight. He was as common as muck!

He'd joined the Northern Navy the next day. He'd told them he wanted on the Sloop. He told them his experience and skills. He'd all but begged! This! This was his chance to make a name for himself!

He was a Bastard he was told. Commoners, without a House, could never be an Officer he was told. That sunk him. A chance to really be someone and an accident of birth sunk him. Then he was told that there was an opening for a House Frost. He could found a House, all for one small little price. A tiny catch. 10 Years in the Navy, starting off not as the Bosun of such a fair ship, but as the Captain.

Him! A Captain! With a coat of Arms and all! You could have knocked him down with a feather! Those cursed recruiters with a sense of humour! He felt ten years older by the end of the meeting. He wasn't sure he could take that many Up's and Down's in a single hour.

He'd chosen a proper Coat of Arms the next day. Grey with Green Trim. A white icicle as the symbol, the sort of icicle you get hanging from the sheets after a night at sea in a storm. Pretty to look at but can kill a man if you arent careful. Then he was taken fore the Manderly's and given a pat on the back, a patent of his Name and House, and told to have fun. The Feasting was amazing! Theon the Genius was even sitting at the same table as him! The Boomsquid himself!

It was the happiest day of his life. Well, next to the day he was given his boat. The Black Wind. One of the first sloops to hit the water. It was the quickest boat he knew of at the time. It had less than half the draft of his old boat, making it comparable to the Ironborn's biggest in it's ability to move through shallow waters. Two masts, 10 Cannons, including two of those new 'Long Guns' at the bow, for when you give chase, and More sail area than he could believe. A complement of 40 meant it got a bit crowded below deck at the start of a cruise, but these were northern sailors! A little hardship didn't hurt much and The Boomsquid himself had made sure that every ship had two people in a dedicated role that was new to him. A Doctor and their assistant. There was a sailmaker to repair the sails, some of the crew were carpenters, all in all, it was a damned fine command.

His first cruise had been a shake down. A week at sea to get everyone familiar with the bitch and run some drills. The second, had been along side four other Sloops and and a Cog. A week at sea to test the tactics they had hammered out and see what worked. The third was the test. The North had put a lot of money and time into helping Theon Greyjoy design and build these. Now to see if they worked.

Which lead to the now. Him and Garent Flynn, his first Mate who grew up on Bear Island. Four other Captains, all young, eager and aggressive. New to their commands!

He was The Old Man.

By dint of Age, and command, he'd been made Commadore of their little fleet. The Wolf Pack, or so Manderly had called them. Vicious wolves to cull the weak Ironborn and Lannisters. To do things that needed to be done. To harrass and nip at their heels till they stumbled so their throats would be torn out.

Him. A Commadore. If only his Mother could see him now. Actually, no. He was glad she couldn't or she'd be flirting with anyone with coin to spare.

"Righto lads. Time to get to it."

The other's finished their chats and leaned forward to catch his attention as he looked over them. Gods, they were young for such a command.

"I've spoken with the Bosses and we've got our orders. We are heading South in two days." He grinned as he saw the eager light enter their eyes. "There is going to be a fleet of Trade ships going a long way south. All the way to Dorne" He let their surprise register before he continued. "Unfortunately for them, that means they have to go past the Iron Born and the Lannisters." He paused and let a hungry smile emerge. "Our orders are to head out a week ahead of them and range back and forth. If it flies the banner of the Lannisters or is Ironborn, it's a fair prize. We won't be capturing. We won't be raiding. We will be sinking anything that might be a threat to good honest Northern Sailors."

"There will be a half dozen of the bigger war ships with the fleet. Our job is to scout ahead and take targets of opportunity. Any questions?"

The youngest of the Captain, Benjon Ford raised his hand

"No. Wait. Ok, lets just hold a moment here. Lads, we are all Captains. We have equal trust on us by House Stark. The Boomsquid himself helped design our boats. We are equal in rank and I'm apparently only in charge because I'm the old man to you fishermen" He grinned to show it was a joke. "Now, knowing that, that I'm going to be trusting you ith my life and the lives of my crew out there. What do you want to say?"

Benjen swallowed slightly and nodded "I was just curious. How do you know these things? Like that Lord Greyjoy was one of the designers?"

"Really? Oh, thats simple. I was a Bosun on the Northern Star, a trade cog, which was hit first by Ironborn and then by a squidcursed storm. All the officers were dead or overboard and I was the highest ranked sailor left, so I captained her home to White Harbour and got paid out by the owners. Then I joined the Navy. They liked what I saw and arranged for me to get a Patent of Name, which was given to me by Lord Manderly. I then travelled up to here to take command of the first Sloop and from there, you know the rest. What you don't know is that Lord Theon himself was there at the time. He was there when I got my Name and shook my hand at the end of the night."

The looks of Awe from the other Captains were gratifying, but he thought it best to scupper them right quick.

"You know, I never forgot the first thing he said to me."

"Huh?" "What did he say?" "Really?"

"Aye. It was at the feast that night and I was lucky enough to be sat at his table. Here he is Lord Theon Greyjoy. The man who changed the North. He isnt a great big man like the Umbers. He is actually kind of boring looking. Bit of a pretty boy too. But he has this presence. I will never forget it"

He took another swig of his wine.

"It was when the roast boar had been delivered. I was just sitting there, not sure what to do. I was out of me depth, when you get one of those pauses when for a moment, everything is quiet."

The other heads nodded, appreciating not just the story, but the storytelling.

"That was when I was realised, he was looking at me. "Frost!" He said, getting my attention "You alright there?" Well. I just nodded. What could I say? Lord Theon had noticed me! Thats when he spoke up again "Good, now pass the salt over" and I did so."

There was a pause and then everyone burst into laughter as Brannan Frost poured more wine into everyones goblets.

"I'll see you lads at Sea! We know what to do and our pennants. Lets go hunt some squid!"

LXIII: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 2

AC 300, King's Landing, the Crownlands

Theon
- - - - - -

A medieval society usually stinks, to a modern olfactory sense. Poor hygiene, little plumbing, it all combines into something malodorous. Something grim to noses.

Usually. Winterfell hadn't smelled like a flower when I'd first gotten there, but the Starks at least practiced good waste disposal practices for the time. Those only improved, even as the population of the surrounding lands grew in the wake of the industrial revolution. Now it smelled of steel, the woods, and smoke, depending on where you stood. It didn't really get horrifically stinky unless you were right by a smelter, or by the dump or waste processing areas. There's only so much you can do, after all.

King's Landing though? From the moment we rowed into Blackwater bay on our little fishing boat, the stench was almost nauseating. It felt like pushing through an invisible curtain of stink, making my skin crawl and eyes water. It hung in the air, like a part of the city itself there to greet us and remind us constantly of where we were. Even the night brought no relief-I almost imagined the miasma was making the stars fade above us.

Combine that with the stink of the nearby fish market outside the Mud Gate, and it was amazing anyone could live here at all.

"You'll get used to it," Bronn spoke, the sellsword observing me shrewdly as we pushed our carts of fish through the gate. The goldcloaked guards gave us a cursory inspection, waving their torches over our carts. Bronn handed over a few dragons to the apparent leader. He smiled behind his helmet guard, and waved us through. Ramsay, Oberyn and I pushed the cart as Bronn guided it from the front. And Meera? Who knew where she was?

We entered the city streets proper, barely illuminated by torch and candlelight from the streets and windows of the houses interspersed with warehouses and markets. People wandered in the street: Some lost looking souls begging for bread, prostitutes calling out to men, a few old men, guards striding about their watch...

We pushed the cart past them all, turning a corner to follow a street that was a block removed from the city walls. We didn't talk; No sense drawing attention to ourselves. It seemed like all of King's Landing was similarly quiet. Attempting to remain hidden.

A tavern sign, illuminated by lanterns, hung ahead of us. The name, written in crooked letters, read "Debtor's Relief." I quirked an eyebrow as Bronn knocked on the front door. It swung open, a stout man with a prominent neckbeard answering.

"Half a man is still good," he spoke.

"If the Half-Man's made of gold," Bronn replied. The stout man smirked.

"That he is... Well! Come on in. Bring your fish," he said.

"We have to unload it, too?" Ramsay muttered.

"Think of it as reinforcing your loyalty to your current job," I murmured back, gathering some fish in a canvas bag and carrying it in. The rest of us followed, one by one depositing the catch into the larder in the back of the tavern. The tavern owner's wife and children set to smoking the fish, filling the air of the cramped space with something other than the horrific stench outside. For that, I was grateful.

It didn't take too long to get it all inside, and after that the owner gave us a smile and directed us upstairs.

"You'll find what you be needin' up there, Mister...?"

"Underhill, and associates," I spoke up. Bronn turned a glare on me, and I winced. "Sorry master."

Bronn gave me a smack, and I grunted. I felt Ramsay tense nearby, but a quick glance from me made him stand down.

"Show some respect, damnit!" Bronn grumbled. He looked to the tavern keeper. "Sorry about that... New meat. Still think he's got things to say worth hearin'."

"Bah," the tavern owner grunted, "I blame the Wolves! With all their fancy magic and mechs... Think they can turn the world upside down!" He shook his head. "It ain't natural!"

"No disagreement here," Bronn said. "Come on lads! Up we go... You sleep on the floor," Bronn growled at me. I looked downcast, appropriately brow beaten. We trudged up the steps, Bronn opening one of the doors for us. We shuffled in, and he shut it behind us with a last evil glare at me.

"... Think they bought it," Bronn said cheerfully.

"I guessed that's what you were doing," I said dryly. "That or you wanted an excuse to get paid for hitting me."

"Do I get paid for hitting you, my lord?" Bronn asked, looking quite serious.

"Do it again, and I'll flay you an inch at a time," Ramsay snarled. I rested a hand on Ramsay's shoulder.

"Easy Ramsay... My mouth does get me in trouble often," I said. "I'm just glad this wasn't one of those cases..." I shrugged off my tattered robes, as my fellow infiltrators did the same. I set down my large pack on the bed, and opened the clasps as Bronn lit some candles. Oberyn just chuckled, and I looked up at him.

"What?" I asked. He pointed under the bed. I stooped down, hand on my weapon... And spotted a snoozing Meera, her arms tight around her new sniper rifle. I snickered.

"I didn't know she snored," I said.

"I did," Ramsay said.

"So did I," Oberyn volunteered, getting a look from Ramsay. The Dornish prince just smiled at him. I sighed and walked over to the meager table in the room, where Bronn was unfurling a map of the Red Keep.

"Darling, you really should try to help me with the kids," I said dryly. "I feel like I'm the only one doing any work in this relationship!"

Bronn raised an eyebrow at me. "Given how hard it is to look at you, I am doin' all the work!"

I grinned, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're getting a raise for that."

"I don't work for you yet, my lord."

"You're complaining?"

"No," Bronn smirked, as Oberyn, Ramsay and a roused Meera shuffled over to the table, "just making things clear..."

"Apologies," Meera said. "Getting over the wall was a bit exhausting... I needed a break."

"No big deal," I said. "You find anything significant around us?"

Meera glanced at Bronn, then back at me. "This tavern doesn't seem to have attracted any real attention," she said. "There was a little after the Goldcloaks stopped by for an inspection, but they moved on."

"Good, we don't have to wait on them," Bronn said. He gestured to the map. "I suggest one last run through before we go-Never know what we'll expect." He walked over to a chest in the corner of the room, and shoved it aside. He pulled up floorboards, and began pulling Goldcloak uniforms out. He set it in a pile beside him, as the rest of us looked over the map of the Red Keep.

"Okay," I said, after looking it over. "Meera? You remember where to set up shop with the rifle?"

"Here," she said, pointing to a guard tower near the main entrance. "Easy enough to get up there, now that I've rested."

"Don't forget to plant your bombs here, and here," I said, my finger on points just above the gatehouse. "If we have to leave in a hurry, I'm hoping the gatehouse coming down will be enough to keep any pursuit from catching us."

Meera nodded. I looked at Ramsay and Oberyn.

"Royal Apartments are in Maegor's Keep, on the third level," I said, pointing there. "We have to get across the drawbridge. Ramsay, remember to plant bombs on the drawbridge mechanisms: If we need it, it should be a good excuse to run."

"Ah, yes, most people run away from things exploding," Oberyn said with a sage nod.

"Other than that...?" I looked at Meera. "Meera, remember the flare colors. Green, everything's fine and mission is accomplished. Yellow, we're going to need some help. And red-"

"Blow the gatehouse with one bomb, then use the other to blow a hole in the wall for another escape route," Meera said automatically. She scowled. "I remember."

"Well now I know," I said dryly. "We have a lot of things to get right... And I'd prefer to get this done without anyone knowing we were here." I looked at Ramsay. "That means... No assassinating Joffrey, or the Queen, or anyone else unless we absolutely need to."

"You're right," Ramsay said with a nod, "I wouldn't have enough time to have real fun with him anyway."

I decided to skip asking if that was a joke: Given Ramsay, it probably wasn't.

"All right," I said, taking a deep breath... And immediately regretting it. "Let's get going... I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

"Before or after yer face stops being so green, milord?" Bronn asked, handing me a cloak and helmet. I rolled my eyes.

"Shut up..."

LXIV: The Wolf in the Night, Part 1

AC 300, Antlers, the Crownlands

Roose Bolton

Roose Bolton held his own council on many things, especially those to do with the New North and the rise of industry. His sons had both accomplished much, in their own ways: One a genius inventor feared across the realm, the other an accountant who had helped House Bolton's fortunes redouble every year. His house was feared and respected, where before they were merely feared. And the process of turning metal, shit, and dirt into weapons of war that mowed down hundreds of men... Roose could not have dreamed of such amazing possibilities. Not in a thousand years.

Yet here they were. Following their Wolf King, slaughtering anything stupid enough to oppose them. True power. True prestige.

The Boltons had tried to take back the North, many times. Stabs in the back, flaying in the night. The Starks had repulsed them each time, their "kindness" and "compassion" seen as mere weakness. Yet it was that same kindness that had won them Theon Greyjoy, and made them what they were. Iron, steel, oil, fire: All well enough on their own, yet even Roose could comprehend the bonds between men that facilitated this. Like the interlacing tendons and muscles that let a man move, laid bare.

How small, how feeble his ancestors had been. Oh, Roose would never surrender the glory of the knife: The pleasure of the kill. But there were other pleasures in life.

Being admired. Being applauded. The look in the eyes of those he outmaneuvered in a business deal or trade agreement. The disbelieving looks on the faces of the Southrons as the wonders his son and Theon Greyjoy devised destroyed them. They did not comprehend this power, this genius. To them, the Northmen were like demons or gods astride the battlefield. Utterly incomprehensible, their traditions and valor failing them like pleas to the gods from cornered prey.

All this, Roose Bolton enjoyed. All this convinced Roose Bolton that the Starks could lead the North. That they were still strong. And what was a Bolton if not an admirer of strength and cunning? What did a Bolton wish to be if not strong?

"My Lord, the raiders are about to break into sight of Antlers," his captain, a young Lord Slick, spoke urgently. Roose slowly looked at the captain, reflecting that the young man did not cringe at his gaze.

"Show me," he ordered. The captain bowed, and led his commander out of the tent. Roose strode through the encampment in the woods, his men offering bows or salutes as he passed. He returned it, inwardly musing again.

After all, many of these men served houses who always jockeyed for position. Tried to get one over on the Dreadfort's masters. Tried to climb higher. In another time, he might have sent these men off to their deaths to ensure they could not threaten his position.

Now? They followed him almost without question. The rivalries were contained to courts and business... And to sports, of course.

Killing them off in war would be wasteful. They all contributed something, yet all went to his benefit and their own. Curious, so curious...

They reached the edge of the woods, a command post dug into the ground disguised with nets covered in leaves and grass. He stepped down into the small bunker, his staff waiting. Among them was a tall, dark skinned girl with the gear around her neck: A Gearwife. What was her name again...?

"Sanya Waywood, my Lord," she spoke. She held out a farseer. "Latest model."

He took it, noting that the girl blushed a bit when she saw him. That too was hard to get used to: That women would turn red and wet merely at the sight of him! Or because of his voice, he supposed. He looked through the glasses as Captain Slick stood by him.

The raiders had split into three groups-Moving fast, using the dark colors of their coats and the twilight of the setting sun to make themselves harder to see as they galloped around Antlers. The old castle's defenders had several torches and beacons lit up. Strangely, even in the growing darkness he could see very, very well...

The defenders were letting loose many arrows, and he counted them as he observed. Strange... They seemed to have many more than before...

A burst of fire erupted from the battlements, and hundreds of flaming arrows left the castle. Most of the raiders evaded, but many were hit, falling to the ground. Roose felt his captain wince next to him, watching through his own farseer. Again, it was strange: He would have ordered Slick flayed for such weakness in the past.

Yet here he was, not flaying him. Instead, he gave him orders:

"Have the raiders return immediately," Roose spoke. "I wish to know exactly what that is."

"Aye my lord," Slick said quickly. He motioned to some of the men, and a few flares were launched from the trees in random areas. It took some time, but the raiders returned. The leader of them, a Lord-Lieutenant Snowbane, reported almost immediately. Roose listened to his observations: Of carts on the battlements, the number of men manning the castle, and the number of their men lost. When Snowbane was finished, Roose looked to Waywood.

"Gearwife Waywood: These fire carts. What are they?"

"I'd have to observe them for myself, my Lord," she said carefully, "but from the description they seem to be crude rocket weapons: Like fireworks. Just attach them to arrows, light the arrows, and you can shower the enemy with fire arrows."

"What kind of range can we expect from such weapons?" Roose asked again. Waywood did some work on her slide rule, humming thoughtfully.

"Based on Lord Snowbane's report? A thousand yards at least."

"Very well," Roose nodded. "Captain Slick? Prepare the men for a night action. I want the artillery concentrated on the battlements: Cease fire when we launch the green flare. While we march, have several troops carrying torches move about the treeline. I wish to give the impression of a major force organizing for an attack from this direction."

"Aye my lord," Captain Slick said with a nod.

It was relatively straightforward from there: Organizing the assault force, and marching them through the woods. A few stragglers fell, but their comrades got them moving again. All following him, and his sigil on the back of his longcoat. All in awe.

They broke through the tree cover, their own torches extinguished. They had to move by the light of the stars and half moon above now, and the light provided by the castle. Indeed, the artillery was firing: At this range though, their shots were not as accurate as he'd hoped. Striking the battlements directly was optimistic: Many holes were appearing in the lower walls and towers, but not the battlements.

Roose supposed that even with slide rules, such bombardments were difficult at night. He would speak to his son about combining these new farseers with their artillery...

They passed through a marsh, quickly. Yet it was easy to see that the defenders of the castle could see them. Much jeering and shouting was being issued from the battlements as they approached. Roose checked through his farseer: Yes, they were scrambling fire carts of some sort. They would fire and pelt his troops with flaming arrows. That would be unfortunate.

"Soldier, your Rocketfaust," he ordered a man in armor nearby. The man paused and immediately slid his weapon from his shoulder, handing it to him. Roose knelt in the marshy ground, setting the weapon on his shoulder. "Hold the glasses to my eyes," he ordered. "You men, form ranks and open fire when I give the order."

"Aye sir!"

"Yes sir!"

The young man held the glasses to Roose's eyes. He checked the iron sight of the weapon, did some figures in his head, checked again. The glasses let him see the smug face of the man holding a torch, to light up the carts. He pulled the trigger.

BOOM! The rocket was launched, screaming up for the battlements. Roose was able to see the terror on the face of the young man just before the rocket impacted. Then he had to look away: The carts were exploding, covering the top of the castle gatehouse with flames.

"Open fire!" Roose bellowed, and the bangs of several muskets rang out. It was easy for his men to make targets, given most of them were on fire. Roose procured another Rocketfaust, and ran ahead with a few troops. His musketeers continued firing on the battlements, as the artillery continued to barrage the castle. He held the weapon up, and targeted the doors.

BOOM! The doors exploded from the shot, many cries of dismay greeting him. Roose pointed the flare up and ignited it, bolts of green fire shooting into the air. The pounding of the artillery ceased. Roose look back at his captain.

"Take this castle! Charge!" He ordered. Slick nodded, and sounded the charge on his horn. The men bellowed in glee, and they rushed into the burning castle. Guns and swords and spears greeting the defenders. Roose cut the head off a lad trying to skewer him with a spear, then blew the guts out of a fat man wielding an axe with his Viper. What few knights there were tried to challenge them in combat: He shot them dead.

As his captain presented the Lannister flag to him, and his men cheered his name around him, Roose Bolton looked around. He waved and nodded, enough to show his gratitude to his men. It would have been difficult taking the castle all by himself, after all. Yet they acted like he had.

Strange. Very strange... And stranger still when the Gearwife from before happily spread her legs for him in his tent. He hadn't needed to force her at all!

All she wanted was him to sing for her. And he supposed that wasn't too much of a price to pay.

Still... The future was just not what he'd expected it to be. And yet, rather than being upset about that... He was content!

Strange... So strange...

LXV: Operation Virtuous Mission, Part 3

AC 300, King's Landing, The Crownlands

Theon

The trek to the Red Keep didn't take too long from the tavern-We just had to follow the wall, as the four of us tromped along in our Goldcloaks and other assorted attire. There were few people who met our eyes or even stayed in our way. Even in the darkness, the white cloaks of the city guard stood out.

"We're getting a lot of attention," Oberyn murmured to Bronn, marching ahead of myself and Ramsay.

"Good. It's the right kind of attention," Bronn responded softly. We turned the corner of a dilapidated manse, the great gates of the Keep rising like a mountain against the stars ahead of us. I shook my head as Ramsay mumbled something.

"Yeah... It's unreal how big it all is, isn't it?" I muttered to Ramsay. My friend and sort of apprentice nodded.

"Such a structure is so absurdly huge... The engineering required... Why go through the effort?"

"Showing off, of course," I said dryly. "Come on Ramsay, why else do we make things that blow up?"

"It's fun, of course," Ramsay said. "Also, doesn't take nearly as long as it would to build something completely unnecessary."

"We'll just have to accept that the Southerners have strange ideas of what's impressive," I said.

"Only you could look upon the Red Keep and call it unimpressive," Oberyn chuckled.

"No, it is very impressive... Just inefficient," I said. "Seriously, all this time spent waving your cocks at one another. Could have been put to so much better use."

"Yes. Instead, you make steel cocks that shoot bits of metal to kill men at long range," Bronn observed. "Nothin' about cock wavin' there."

"That serves a real purpose," Ramsay said defensively. "It's not a bluff: It's actually accomplishing something. Namely, the deaths of your enemies."

"So, it's less how big it is and more about what you can do with it?" Oberyn chuckled. "I applaud you, young Boomsquid. You have great wisdom as well as brains!"

"And cockwaving that kills men at several hundred yards. Not bad," Bronn said, still marching perfectly as we rounded another bend. I sighed.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," I muttered.

"What's a cigar?" Asked Oberyn. I rolled my eyes.

"Nevermind..."

"As much as I'd like to know... We're enterin' the main plaza. Be silent and look scary," Bronn said. "Don't answer questions, just glare."

"How's this?" I asked, glaring. Bronn and Oberyn gave me a glance, then looked ahead.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever works, lad," Bronn said.

I frowned, and looked at Ramsay. "That bad?"

"No, no... It's just fine, Theon," Ramsay said with a nod. "Very intimidating."

"You're a terrible liar," I muttered. Ramsay shrugged.

"That's what the gun is for," he said.

"Shut it," Bronn hissed, as we stepped out onto the main thoroughfare. I sighed and glared at anyone who entered my field of vision. Fortunately there were not many people out: Mostly guards. They glared at me, I glared back. The main thoroughfare was largely deserted, a grand road right to the gates of the Keep.

We passed several statues and platforms, probably of many important guys. I couldn't be bothered to remember them. Or read their exploits. Look, I had a lot of things to do, and I didn't remember all the miscellany of the universe I got downloaded into. Give me a break. I'm sure it'll come up in Winds of Winter or something. Be very, very important.

We reached the gates after far too long a hike. Honestly, no wonder they were stuck in the middle ages for so long: They had to build this crap and maintain it.

That and everything else. Like the tendency to hang dead bodies on walls. Like, a lot of them.

"Our boy's been busy," I mumbled. Ramsay snorted as we marched through the gates, only getting cursory looks from the guards standing watch.

"Completely amateurish," Ramsay said. "You can't see the bodies clearly, just one spike shoved through their stomach... They'll fall off in no time. You'll lose any intimidation factor you had if you have your victims sliding off their poles."

"Is it bad that I'm agreeing with him?" Bronn muttered. He looked around. "Follow me."

We walked across the vast open courtyard, trying to keep in formation. I looked around, studying the torch lit apartments and troops surrounding us. It seemed far too... Relaxed, for a city under siege. Too few soldiers. Too few people.

"This seems... Too easy," I muttered.

"You're complaining?" Oberyn asked.

Ramsay hummed. "Nobody's challenged us yet."

"The Unsullied wouldn't be kept in the city proper," Bronn said. We went up massive steps, rising from the courtyard to the massive pedestal supporting Maegor's Keep and the other main buildings of the castle. A few servants were out and about, amid the gardens. Which even in starlight were very pretty.

"No... But I am concerned about a city under siege just letting four Goldcloaks patrol wherever they want," I mumbled. "Not even asking us for our ID?"

"Considering how they've been treating the servants under the King's orders, it doesn't surprise me," Bronn said flatly. "Unless you really think I'm going to betray you while your friend has a Viper at my back?"

"He doesn't have it out yet," I muttered.

"Don't tempt me to change that," Ramsay grumbled.

We made it to Maegor's Keep, walking across a drawbridge. I tried not to look up at the spikes on the Keep. I knew I'd just be looking for my father's head. And Nursey's. I know, they'd probably have rotted away by now but... I didn't need that distracting me.

"Drawbridge gears," I muttered to Ramsay. He nodded, and he pulled out dynamite from his pack. I pulled out a stick from my pack as well, and slid it under the gears. We stood up, the shadows concealing us. I hoped, anyway. We took a few faster steps, keeping up with Bronn and Oberyn.

We took a corridor to the right and ascended the stairs. The castle offered some protection from the horrible stench of the city outside, torches burning, tapestries decorating the walls.

"It's not supposed to be this quiet, is it?" Oberyn asked.

"I didn't lurk out in the corridors, I had minions for that," Bronn said. "Besides, you're paying me enough not to betray you."

"You're acting a bit defensive," I said, as we walked up the staircase. I slid my hand under my cloak, checking my revolver. Yes, it was still there.

"Again: A Bolton with a Viper at my back," Bronn stated. We made it to a floor decorated in rich golden tapestries, stags and lions emblazoned across all of them. The torches were burning brightly. There was plush carpet, too.

"Royal Quarters," Oberyn murmured. I waved Bronn forward.

"After you," I said.

"So different from before," Bronn observed. I rolled my eyes again. I was doing that a lot on this mission.

We walked down the corridor, our steps muffled by the carpet. We saw a member of the King's Guard standing in front of an ornate door. He stood up straighter as we approached.

"What is it?" He asked gruffly. Bronn smiled, stepping forward up close.

"Bit of an issue outside, milord."

"What sort of iss-URK," the King's guard member was soon unable to say anything else. In my expert scientific opinion, it was because of the dagger in his throat. Bronn yanked the knife out, and shoved the gurgling corpse aside. Oberyn grabbed him and scowled at Bronn.

"Are you kidding? You can't just cut his throat like that!"

"Why not?" Ramsay asked. I sighed.

"The mess?" I asked. Ramsay frowned and shrugged.

"So we shove him into another room. Simple."

Oberyn did that, betraying that he'd had a bit too much experience in hauling bodies around. I decided not to think about it, and looked over the door. Bronn tried the handle.

"Locked," he said. I rolled my eyes.

"Of course it is," I said. I pulled out a package and bent over to stuff it into the keyhole. I pulled out a flare, and snapped it on.

"Back up everyone," I said. "Ramsay? Pull the carpet up."

"Of course," Ramsay said happily, pulling the rug up. Bronn and Oberyn both backed up, the latter closing the door he'd hidden the unfortunate knight behind.

"It's not going to explode, is it?" Bronn asked. "Would be a bit noticeable if it did."

"No, it's something called thermite. It will just melt the door lock and let us get in without having to make a lot of noise breaking it down," I said, a bit testily, as I pulled my goggles on. "Don't look directly at it."

I pressed the flare to the package, and backed up as it threw out a shower of sparks. The keyhole glowed bright white, and soon melted into slag onto the floor. The wooden door began to burn too, which I quickly put out with a handful of sand from my pack. I kicked the door open, pulling my revolver. Ramsay followed me, yanking out his Viper.

"Sansa? Hello?" I called. "It's Theon... Here to rescue you? I brought Bronn and Ramsay!"

Silence. I looked over at Ramsay, who sighed and stepped back.

"I mean... Ramsay stayed behind!"

Still nothing. I rushed over to a nearby door, and yanked it open. Nothing. Ramsay and Bronn checked the other doors, while Oberyn knelt down by a little table and sampled the wine. I frowned deeply, as Bronn looked at me. He wore a helpless expression.

"They should be here! They're not gonna be anywhere else!" He said.

"Ramsay, no killing him," I said sternly. Ramsay pouted, as Bronn looked relieved. "Well, where did they go?"

"With the Unsullied? Unlikely," Oberyn said, sniffing the wine. "If I had to say... The Queen Mother and her offspring would flee to the only safe place left..."

A block of ice dropped into my stomach. "Oh... Shit..." I looked at Bronn. "Where would they go?"

"King's Wood. Plenty of ways to a boat that your Navy wouldn't spot," Bronn said quickly, "and one o' Tyrion's plans had that as an escape route-"

"Best shot then, let's go!" I ordered. I stormed out the door... And then backed up as several Goldcloaks emerged from the stairs. They rushed the door. I slammed them shut, and Bronn shoved a dresser in front of it. Loud pounding issued forth, as we met in the center of the royal apartments.

"Can I kill him yet?" Ramsay growled. I sighed and lightly whapped the side of his helmet.

"Not helping in this situation, Ramsay. For whatever reason, they're after us."

"I assume you have a brilliant plan to get us out of here then, Lord Boomsquid?" Bronn asked earnestly. I smiled cheerfully, and pulled out a stick of dynamite.

"... One that doesn't involve blowing up everything?" Bronn furthered pressed. I shrugged.

"Not everything..."