A/N: It looks like Seastark is the popular choice for Jon and Dacey's new house name which works for me.

This is your reminder not to compare this story to canon because it isn't canon. That's what makes AUs, and fanfictions so much fun. Thanks for the support.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Seventeen

Quentyn:

Dead.

It was difficult to believe, but all the whispers and the rumors and gossip that swirled through the city of Lys told the same story: Princess Daenerys Targaryen walked into the flames of her husband's pyre and died.

Burned to ash, Quentyn's stomach turned the first time he heard this morbid account. The disgust washed away the dismay he had been feeling upon learning that the Targaryen princess they were after was dead before they could even reach her. They were still in Lys because his uncle wanted to wait to hear if different sailors brought different stories about the Princess, but they did not. They all spoke of her demise, of believing herself immune to the flames, wishing to wake dragons, but all that was found was ash and bone.

And just like that, Quentyn thought, our trip was for naught.

He had reached the pillow house where his uncle was staying. He made his way through the stone path that cut through the pristine gardens where several marble statues were positioned of muscular men and winsome women. Guards patrolled the paths and stood outside the doors; Unsullied soldiers watched Quentyn pass them in mute inspection.

Everywhere Quentyn looked he saw groping and kissing, fondling and fucking. Even the statues were lewd, depicting naked maidens in provocative poses.

The air was heavy and perfumed, naked men and women walked brazenly, serving drinks and entertaining their patrons. He had been in here before, so he knew the way to his uncle's room. Quentyn hoped to find his uncle alone and not entertaining guests since he had invited him to meet him at this arranged time.

Has he heard from Father? he wondered, much had been happening when Quentyn and his uncle took a ship from Dorne to the Free Cities. The Lannisters were broken, losing the capital. Tywin Lannister was dead. Amory Lorch was dead. Uncle Oberyn had been wroth at the news, not even his paramour, the soft-spoken Ellaria could cool his temper. He took to his room, brooding over not being the one to send Tywin Lannister to the Seven Hells. Furious, that another had taken his vengeance from him.

Most who had hurt my aunt were gone, he thought there was justice in that. He climbed the stairs, awkwardly passing a couple of men, who could not wait to start having their fun in their rooms. At the top of the stairs was a tapestry, skillfully woven, and like every other that covered the walls of this pillow house depicted an act of coupling. He tilted his head trying to make sense of the entangling limbs of the lovers who were writhing in ecstasy. It didn't look comfortable to him, only strange, but after another beat, he walked on, his cheeks warm.

His body could not help but react to this place. It was designed to attract the senses, not just sight, but the perfumed smells had a way of stirring inside him. He tried to ignore it, but it was instinctive, something that slipped past his discipline. The sounds were no better, obscene and loud. He heard the sounds of fucking, grunts and moans, of bliss and lust, even the whimpers were wanton, sounding just as loud as any lustful shout. Passing a room, he heard giggling and then the intimate sound of flesh hitting flesh, but he did not linger. The sounds of their pleasure chasing after him.

Quentyn felt like some awkward boy wandering where he wasn't allowed. He had difficulties speaking to girls who were modestly dressed. Now here he was dropped into a cauldron of bubbling lust and simmering passions. He felt uncomfortable and foolish, unable to forget the first time he was approached when he had come to visit his uncle. A pretty girl with hair as black as sin, smiled sweetly at him, complimenting his eyes and wanting him to take her. He could still remember her hands on his arm, soft and warm. Then he thought about what she would say if she saw him here with this girl. He stammered an apology and declined, backing away from her as if he was a frightened rabbit and she a hungry wolf.

The corridors that led to his uncle's quarters were richly furnished with splendid wood carvings from the Summer Islands were neatly arranged on both sides. It looked to belong in the castle of some great lord and not some pillow house in Lys. However, he knew this particular one was for the very wealthy and powerful, making him wonder how much his uncle had to pay just to stay here. Knowing Uncle Oberyn, he likely owns it, Quentyn thought, or at the very least is friends with the owner, aware of his uncle's many friends that he had made during his exile. When he reached his uncle's door, he made sure to knock hard and loud against the closed mahogany doors.

"Enter," A voice called him inside, and Quentyn tentatively opened the door to walk in.

Prepared to make a quick retreat if his uncle was entertaining.

"You can open your eyes, nephew," His uncle sounded amused, "because you're about to trip."

Quentyn did. Seeing his uncle was right, his foot nearly caught in a loose fur rug of a shadowcat. He then looked up to see his uncle was smiling, languid in his repose. He wore a silk robe partly opened to see his lean chest and dark curls. His face seemed to glow, a sheen of sweat lingering across his brow. "Uncle," he said, choosing to remain standing instead of joining him on one of the two couches. At the table in front of his uncle were many empty goblets, pitchers, and bottles, but Quentyn thankfully did not see any sight of the numerous guests his uncle must have hosted.

"Help yourself," Oberyn saw him looking at the glasses, "I'm sure one of them is still full," he raised his head, stretching as he did.

Quentyn declined. He was about to ask why his uncle summoned him when he heard the noises coming from behind the closed doors that led to his uncle's chambers. They were lewd and loud, and familiar. He recognized his uncle's paramour, Lady Ellaria. He flushed, nearly wincing when she let out a very satisfied moan.

"Lady Sarra has a gifted tongue," Oberyn remarked mildly, unbothered by the sounds his paramour was making with another. "Do you wish to sample it?"

"No," Quentyn didn't look towards his uncle, but he knew he was likely grinning.

A solid thumping sound followed that made him find the shadowcat rug particularly interesting while ignoring the thread of thought that was trying to weave what he was hearing. "Is there somewhere we can talk, Uncle?"

"Is here not good?" Oberyn smirked, "You could knock and tell them to behave," he chuckled, "But I'm not sure they'll listen."

Quentyn's next words failed to carry over the obscene din happening in the closed room. He was certain he heard a third voice, a man's voice, with the two women. His face felt warm again, and his body was reacting despite his effort to smother it. Not waiting for his uncle, he saw the open doors of the balcony and went for it, without sparing his uncle a look or that room another thought. The air was cool against his flushed face. The scent of the night crisp, helping to clear his muddled thoughts.

He heard his uncle join him. "Drink this," putting a goblet on the parapet of the balcony.

The drink was refreshingly cold. Some sort of iced wine, he guessed, with a citrusy taste. "Thank you."

"Your father's message finally arrived. With the Targaryen princess dead, we must chart a new course." His uncle was leaning on the stone railing beside him, his back to it. "A tragedy," he said softly, looking up at the night sky, dazzling and twinkling starlight shone down on them. "The end of such a house in such a way," He let out a slight tsk.

"Why do you think she did it?" They had never discussed the details of the news. Both had been so surprised at the news itself and needing to change their plans that it had faded away, into the background. He had thought about it, about her, a princess that his father was set allying with. They never got that chance. He never got to see the fabled valyrian beauty of a princess from House Targaryen.

The songs don't end with the prince learning the princess he set to find had died before he had a chance to rescue her. He nearly chuckled at the mere ridiculousness of such a ballad. The minstrel would be jeered before he finished his second verse. That was why songs were sweet or sad, moving in their own way while life was messy, and unfair. Death didn't wait for its cue to appear. It just came and went as it pleased.

He took another sip from his wine. This would make for a poor story. He looked at the bottom of his glass, not able to see his reflection in the liquid, but he knew what he'd see. I would make for a poor prince in those stories.

"I did not know the girl," His uncle finally answered, after mulling over the question, "But I do not think it was Targaryen madness that led her to that pyre." His arms were crossed, still leaning up against the railing to look at the stars. "It was grief, having lost her husband and her son." He shifted, his tone taking a softer edge, "Which can be its own sort of madness."

Quentyn suspected it was not the Targaryen princess on his uncle's mind, but another princess.

Their pensive silence was interrupted from the sound of giggling. It was coming from the balcony below them. Having already been looking out, Quentyn saw the two lovers. The woman had her back to the man. She was naked from the waist up with a thin cord of silk wrapped around her waist. Her arms were resting on the parapet while she lifted and then wiggled her arse, a gesture the man took as an invitation coming up behind her. It was only a few short seconds before he looked away, but the images seemed ingrained in his mind, especially hers. They only sharpened when she started moaning, his grunting followed. Their noises formed a salacious chorus that he tried to blot out.

Oberyn Martell did not comment on the lovers below them. He merely poured Quentyn another drink. His eyes glittered when they met. He took the drink like a dying man, but his fingers suddenly felt awkward, and his palms were sweaty. It took both hands to hold and then drink from the glass. He hiccupped into the cup after the woman let out a long, lewd moan. The citrusy taste exploded in the back of his throat, as he coughed the drink up.

"Relax, nephew," Oberyn gave Quentyn's back a quick pat. "You are not the first struck speechless by her pretty voice," His uncle misread his embarrassment as excitement. "You feel that thrill? At how it grows and burns inside you?" His voice was low, "It is a different form of pleasure to still feel without partaking, but it can be just as enjoyable," he paused, as if expecting what came next, a louder moan laced with ecstasy. "Right now, the man below us believes he is the greatest lover this whore has ever had."

Quentyn was thankful the night's darkness shadowed his face. His uncle's words slipping into his mind, stirring desires that he's tried to ignore or control. I am not my sister, he would say, I am not my cousins. His fear of showing himself as much a fool to a woman behind closed doors as he's proven to be in public. His thoughts of his awkward failings with women stilled at his uncle's next words.

"That is a ruse," he revealed, "to conceal how she really feels, a veil of pleasure to please him while she endures his sloppy rutting."

"T-They do that?" He stammered out the question as this fresh truth struck him.

"Of course," Oberyn chuckled, "You can tell," he said, as if it was as simple as reading a single passage in a book. He closed his eyes, letting their lewd noises wash over him. "She is good," He shook his head, "But too eager," he sounded disappointed that her performance could be so easily spotted while it had completely fooled Quentyn, and clearly fooled the man below them.

What was worse? Quentyn thought dismally, Disappointing one's bride that it was plain to see on her face or being so poor at pleasing her that she merely feigned pleasure so that you would finish. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, tempering his earlier excitement.

The lovers had finished their balcony performance, retiring within their chambers where they thankfully closed their doors behind them.

"That is what we have been doing, nephew," Oberyn observed pointedly, "Dorne has been content to watch. I wonder if my brother found the same satisfaction at watching the Lannisters' demise that we would've felt if we had inflicted it on them, ourselves?" There was a bitter twinge to his tone. "I think not."

"They're dead," Quentyn said softly, "And father didn't need to lose a single Dornishman to see them fall."

If his uncle heard his words, he gave no reaction to them. "The luxury of merely watching has come to an end. Doran realizes that Dorne must pick a side." He withdrew a folded piece of parchment from within his silk robes. "We have been given our new instructions." He didn't wait for Quentyn to ask the question, "We are to make peace with the Baratheon," His mouth twisting slightly.

"Which one?"

"Stannis," Oberyn's plain dislike of the idea etched in his expression. "Even Dorne is not so bold as to recognize a second son's claim over the elder." He was walking back to his room. "We leave in the morning and since we're making peace with the stag, I plan to drink and fuck to help me forget until the sun rises." He opened the doors, "Anything here," referring to the pillow house, "Is on me, nephew, a parting gift," he winked, "Per

haps, a chance to sheathe your sword before we set out once more."

Theon:

The traps were empty, and the stars were bright.

He knew they would be, but he still checked them, because sleep did not come to him as swiftly as it once had. Every day they moved closer to Winterfell the nights grew shorter and darker. If he stayed in his tent in his bedroll, all he'd have were his gloomy thoughts to keep him company. Here, he looked around the patch of woods where he and Jacks put up some traps; here, he didn't have to dwell on what was awaiting him at Winterfell or what he had left behind.

In the day, his thoughts seemed to get more entangled, about the Starks, his place with them, and his own future with his family. He knew what he wanted, and it was not going to Winterfell. But that's where I'm going. They had left Moat Cailin that morning traveling the last stretch of the Fever River before they'd left much of the Neck behind them. Good riddance, tired of mud and the fat flies, and all the other nuisances that seemed to pile up at his feet. With the traps checked, he could return to his tent, try to sleep, try to forget where he was going, and who he was leaving. Instead, he kept moving away from their encampment, Jacks knew he had slipped off, and when he called out asking where he was going, Theon had answered with Shitting.

Jacks' laughter followed him for some time after that. Now, he could not hear it, could not see the shadows of their encampment, if he looked up, he may be able to spy what little smoke remained from their fires, petering upwards in a hazy black trail, but he didn't. The trees were tall and the branches wide, so with his back to it, he kept going. There were a few more traps they set further ahead, in the vain hope of catching something plump and tasty, but he suspected they'd be as empty as these ones.

"I can fight," Theon could hear his voice inside his head. The memory playing as clearly before him as the woods he was walking through.

Lord Stark had not replied for a long second. His face didn't even betray if he had listened to him or not. "I know, Theon," he had finally said.

The whole memory from the beginning slid into place, playing in his mind's eye.

They were alone in Lord Stark's solar at Riverrun. It had been a sennight since Bolton's wedding, and Theon's mood had only begun to improve, until he was summoned to see Lord Stark.

He had been waiting for Theon, sitting behind his desk, even with a wounded leg, Lord Stark was an imposing figure. Sitting there, Theon had thought of the statues of the dead Starks in Winterfell's crypts. At how they sat on their thrones, swords across their laps, and a direwolf at their feet. There were no direwolves at Lord Stark's feet. Those were for his children, and Theon doubted he had a sword across his lap, but when he entered, he still felt that chill climb up his back. Feeling like an intruder, who did not belong.

"King Stannis has asked about you," Lord Stark did not greet him with pleasantries or offer him anything to drink or to even sit.

Theon stood there, feeling like the boy he had been when he first met Lord Stark. "Has he received word from my father?" He asked, even though he already knew the answer. Balon Greyjoy would not come to the call of a Baratheon king. Before he was a king, Stannis Baratheon delivered a terrible defeat to the Iron Fleet, defeating Theon's uncle. A costly blow that allowed King Robert and his armies to invade the Iron Islands. The beginning of my father's fall. But he did not feel any particular bitterness churning in his belly that used to stir when he thought of his father's war.

"No," Lord Stark answered. His grey eyes that the Bastard and Arya had inherited were two hard flints that made Theon think more of the former's resemblance instead of the latter. There was a pause before he spoke again. "I have decided you will be going to Winterfell."

"What?" Theon's disbelief overruled his caution. His anger rolling over his respect, "But why?" He felt his hands clenched into fists at his sides, "I can fight!"

"I know, Theon," Lord Stark tolerated his outburst, but his expression conveyed that it was not worth risking a second time. "There are still matters I must discuss with the King, but they must wait until I return from the Vale."

So I'm your prisoner? The words were nearly out, before he regained his senses, and clamped them down, and the anger that burned with them.

"This is not a punishment, Theon," Lord Stark said, but to Theon, it was the only thing he could call it…

The sound of the woods stirred him from his reverie. The memory was gone like a dark eddy of water. He looked to see two golden glints of light piercing the darkness, staring right at him. "Nymeria," he greeted the intruding direwolf, at her approach, he saw no red muzzle and assumed she had been no more successful in her hunt then their traps had been. "This way," he spotted the marks in the tree, the ones he made to signal the path where the last of the traps were placed, but when he went to walk in that direction, she did not follow.

The tinge of annoyance from his memory still remained like faint ripples so with a look, he dismissed Nymeria, intending to go his own way. He heard before he saw, the rustling of branches, the footprints crunching over the dry leaves and then in what felt like an instant, Nymeria was now in front of him, blocking him. "What?" He dispelled an angry breath but made sure to keep his tone cool. In that moment he may be sick of direwolves, thinking of what they represented, of Lord Stark, of his dismissal, their rejection, but he still knew never to lash out at one.

Nymeria took his question with an unblinking stare, unmoving in her stance. It was only when he tried to move around her did, she move to stay in his way, blocking his path. He stifled a yawn, starting to feel the first pulls of weariness. This insistent tug that was fraying his nerves since he was still far from his bedroll. "What do you want?" His voice was a cold crack in a still night.

It wasn't Nymeria that answered, but something else, a familiar sound, that made him look in the direction of where Nymeria had emerged. "Is that a?" Straining himself so he could try to hear it again, to make sure he wasn't imagining it. He didn't have to wait long to hear it, and the sound made Theon laugh, because not only did he know what it was, but that it was close. He turned back to Nymeria, whose eyes seemed to gleam in triumph at his realization. He rolled his eyes and urged her to lead which she proudly did. He followed in the direwolf's wake, hearing the sound get closer and closer until Nymeria eventually stopped in front of a tree, tilting her head to point in the direction of where it was.

There roosting between a thicket of branches was an agitated turkey. Its wings flapped nervously, having caught the direwolf's scent. It protested their presence with a warning gobble, that made neither of them feel threatened. It was too high up for even a direwolf of Nymeria's size which was likely why she sought him out. It had picked a good spot to rest for the night if any other predator had sniffed it out, but unfortunately for it, Nymeria brought him. The direwolf was circling the tree in slow, taunting strides as if to make clear that the turkey's death was nigh.

Despite the late hour, Theon still had his bow and a few arrows with him. He brought them more out of instinct, having grabbed them without thought in the same way he takes his coat and his gloves. The turkey was trapped, flapping its wings in a final bluff to frighten them away. Its gobbling was low and angry, but the last sound it made was a wet rasp from where Theon's arrow struck it and then the soft thud from when its body fell out of the tree and onto the ground.

It had not been an easy shot, at its height and in this darkness which made Theon rather proud of it. Already preparing the story he'd tell the others, the next morning. Picturing and then relishing their surprise when he reveals he found and killed a turkey. They had plenty of rations and other game from what Theon and Nymeria had caught earlier in the day, or yesterday, he amended, but he knew this turkey would be the preferred choice for breaking their fast later this morning.

Nymeria sniffed the turkey, but didn't grab it, looking between the dead bird and then to Theon. "I know," he said to the direwolf, "You'll get some," He assured her while grabbing the bird, "We should head back," He yawned, the weight of weariness beginning to press harder over him. Nymeria took the lead which suited him since he trusted her instincts and senses better than his as the hours grew later and darker.

A dream, a nightmare.

That was what Theon had first thought when he saw their ruined camp. The prized turkey dropped to the ground. His eyes taking in the tattered tents, the dead bodies. Nymeria's agitation sawed through the haze of dismay and weariness that was threatening to engulf him. He watched her run off up a hill, but before he could get his feet to follow, he saw something.

A bronze emblem on the armor of one of the attackers. The nearby fire of a burning tent made the metal shine, so he could have no doubt what it was. A kraken.

Theon didn't know how many steps it took him to reach the corpse, falling on his knees beside it. He cast a quick glance at the large red wound in its chest which showed how he had been killed. His fingers were fumbling with the clasps, trying to remove it, before angrily, he tugged it, with a grunt, he heard the ripping of cloth, pulling it free. The kraken was crudely done, and old. It was smaller than his palm. He looked down at it, remembering such tokens used to be given out by his family for leal service.

Confusion, anger, and fear blended in a thrust of gut-wrenching pain as dawning washed over him. Father has condemned me. Theon's fingers clenched around the kraken token. His son, his heir. He's killed me. His legs buckled, and he found himself falling into a crouching position. A web of dread spread through his chest, because he knew this was no accident. These raiders may have been lost. The Fever River befuddled many, opening up new ways and closing others as if by magic, but he suspected there were other ironborn ships. More raiders, likely attacking across the north including Moat Cailin. All while I was in the Starks' hands.

He didn't want me to return. With this order, he's killed me. Theon couldn't believe it. For years, the Iron Islands were there, waiting for him, his home, his lands to rule. He was going to return. He was his father's heir. He may have been with the Starks, but he was still a kraken at heart. It was all his to rule. He felt a fist close around his heart, and he thought it was his father's. Balon Greyjoy, callous and distant, sneering at him. No Greenlander will rule the Iron Islands. His father's shadow seemed to say. No wolf will sit on the Seastone chair.

You're one of us, her voice jolting him out of his stupor, You're the sea wolf! He quickly rose to his feet. "Arya?" He shouted into the night, not thinking more than a minute or more had passed since he and Nymeria had returned.

There was no answer.

Panic spiraled in his chest. Pushing through the rush of weariness from the late hour and his lack of sleep. I cannot rest now. He looked to where her tent should have been, but it like the others had been destroyed, a husk of burning cloth, whipping and lashing, sending a blur of orange glow in its direction. He felt the bile rise in his throat. His feet had already started moving in that direction.

A growl caused him to stop before he could reach it. The heat of the fire washed over him, warm, too warm, he tried to shield his eyes, while also trying to see through the thick smoke that made his eyes water. Arya. The name couldn't escape his throat, coughing instead. Another growl made him turn to see Nymeria, who was standing atop a small hill, looming over him. Of course, feeling foolish for forgetting about the direwolf. "Nymeria," he called to her, while climbing the hill to reach her. "What is it?" His question trailed off when he saw a body at the bottom of the hill. It was small. Even from here, he could tell it wasn't Jacks or one of the other guards. It was a girl's.

Theon half ran, half stumbled down the hill to it. "Arya?" He called, as if thinking the body would answer. It's a corpse, the thought tried to push through his daze, but he refused to see it. He reached it, panting, hands on his knees. He felt a stitch go up his side, but he ignored the discomfort, taking in the body to see who it was. Lyanna, the truth of it didn't sink in right away. When it did, he felt relief which then twisted with guilt.

His stomach turned. Theon was no stranger to corpses, having killed some, and seen many on the battlefield, but looking down to see the young face of Lyanna Mormont, it felt different. He turned away, feeling a cold sliver of discomfort slide down his back. When he did, he noticed the footprints, still caked in the mud of the riverbank. Theon saw he wasn't alone in noticing, Nymeria was already ahead of him, following them, so he followed the direwolf.

He had followed the direwolf's lead before on their hunts, but this wasn't for a quail or a turkey. They were looking for Arya. They followed the tracks until they reached a deeper indent by the river. A boat, Theon realized, they took her. Nymeria was pawing at the muddy ground. He wasn't sure if it was a scouting ship or it had gotten lost on the river, but the result for him was the same, they were gone.

Theon peered out along the dark surface of the river as if willing for the ship to reveal itself to his gaze, but he saw nothing. He sighed and turned away. "She's alive," he told the direwolf beside him, Nymeria remained agitated at what he perceived was their helplessness. He made his way back to the camp and tried not to think whose hands she had fallen into. If they knew she was a noble lady, they wouldn't, he stopped himself from thinking that through, his stomach twisted angrily. All too familiar with the ironborn and their salt wives.

Theon had never thought much about those women. Those who were captured in raids. They were faceless, nameless to him, thinking of them as well-earned prizes for his people after successful raids. Now, the knowledge of them sunk in him like the fangs of a snake. Its poison spread through him, forcing him to think of her in such a state. His stomach roiled in protest, trying to push the unpleasant thoughts away, not wanting to think of them, but her face flashed across his vision. Her grey eyes searching for him.

FUCK! He kicked a discarded helmet in frustration, shouting and cursing, as the anger flared inside him. He ignored the burst of pain in his foot, watching the helmet skitter across the ground, clanging loudly each time it hit the dirt. He fell to his knees, tired and angry. A knot of tension nested in the back of his mind. Her name, her face lurking around the edges of his thoughts as he tried to think of what he could do next.

He could no longer go to Winterfell. There wasn't a single castle he could now trust between him and the Stark's castle. The ironborn have surely struck other places. The news of their attack would spread throughout the north. His arrival to any of those castles would lead to either his immediate execution or a prolonged time spent in the dungeons, but he imagined death was more likely.

They would not be wrong to kill me, he thought, believing the blame for his execution fell solely on his father. A plan was slowly forming in his mind. Theon knew what he had to do. He hated it, but he knew there was no other way. The Bastard would listen, he'd hear my last words, Theon knew Snow would, he loves her too much not to. He didn't think any other would if he fell into another one's hands.

Snow wasn't too far. They had only parted company a few days ago. There were fewer if any castles along the way. It would be the safest for him to travel. If Snow listens, believes, then Theon had a chance. She had a chance. That was what cinched it for him. It was a slim thread of hope, his only hope, but if it could save her, he had to try.

He went to retrieve Lyanna's body. The other corpses had been ravaged by fire, hers remained untouched. He'd see it buried, before he set off. He did not care for her, and knew she felt the same way towards him, but she was Arya's friend, and she deserved better than to be left where she lay. My people killed her. It was the least he could do.

He could not bring it despite her sister being with Snow, knowing the body would not keep, but he'd mark her grave for them. If they wished to retrieve it later. He didn't know the rites the Mormonts had for their dead. Theon knew the Starks were buried in the crypts beneath Winterfell, while Theon's own family believed to send their bodies into the sea.

Theon stifled a yawn, he was about to set out to travel while the night was still dark, and he had yet to sleep. He wasn't worried. Nymeria will help me. She'll lead us right to where the Bastard is.

"Right to my possible death," he murmured to himself. His father had seen to that when he invaded the north, while Theon remained a hostage to the Starks. Father has condemned me to die. He walked up to the riverbank, the murky river water lapping at his feet. You think of me as a greenlander, father, but I haven't forgotten our ways.

He crouched down. What is dead may never die. He cupped some of the cold water, knowing it wasn't saltwater, but he prayed the Drowned God would hear him all the same. He splashed his face. But rises again, harder and stronger.

A/N: Yes, Daenerys is dead. I was never really sure if I ever was going to include her, even when I threw in that Quentyn chapter in the last story. That was more a potential seed that I could come back to if I chose to bring her into the story. However, I just wasn't that interested in her and her dragons for this AU story, especially the big ripples their presence would make. I'm not a gardener like Mr. Martin or even a talented writer like him. This isn't a job, its just some fun hobby I do. I'm sure this is an unpopular choice, but I hope if you can't understand my decision at least respect it.

Theon's part can just be summed up as: Theon's not having a good night.

Using bows and arrows at night? I probably butchered that entire segment so let's just call it creative license, Please? Turkeys do apparently roost in trees at night, unfortunately for this poor bird, Nymeria knows an archer. They are also found in the north.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire