A/N: I have no words other than I'm sorry.

He grunted in pain as he hit the floor for the hundredth time that afternoon. "Score one more for the flayed man," he heard Domeric cheer his victory, the latest in a long, long line of them.

"Damn you to heck Bolton," Tristan growled. Careful not to put too much pressure on his claw, he pushed himself to his feet, he stumbled but was caught by Elmar, who'd been waiting nearby.

"Are you-" his squire asked him, but Tristan shook him off.

"I'm fine," he said. "Again."

Domeric nodded and raised his sword, his blunted sword.

"I think not," Luwin spoke, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his face set in disapproval. "My prince you've put more than enough pressure on your hand for one day."

"My hand is fine Luwin," he snarled, spinning on the master. "Or did you mean my claw?" He held up the ruin of his left hand.

Theon's last work, an arrow loosed at the height of the assault, it had punched right through his left palm. The injury and the stress of the battle had caused him to pass out. While he'd slept, Luwin had been at work, saving his hand, to an extent. The fingers wouldn't open wide enough to let him grip anything larger than a fork. With some effort he could work some reins into his grip, which meant he at least wasn't confined to travel by foot or carriage. But his sword... his whole life the bastard sword had been his weapon, held in two hands for greater control and power. No longer.

"It is still a hand, my prince, now come on in, there are matters that must be discussed, and I need to make sure you haven't done lasting harm to it."

He tightened his grip on his sword, but Dom stepped back and Daryn held out a placating hand. "Tris, come on, don't fight on this one."

I can't fight anymore. Since Luwin had cleared him to get of bed he'd been in the courtyard as many hours as he could, and spent every one of them getting his arse handed to him by each of his friends in turn. He thought back longingly to the days when he could take Daryn, Dom and Cley in pairs, now even Cley was comfortably beating him. If I can't fight, then what am I?

He let his friends and squire take him over to the side and sit him down gently, like he might shatter if they were too rough. He held out his hand obligingly, he could do that much at least. Carefully, Luwin unwrapped the hand. His curled fingers soothed by the cold air. Luwin examined them carefully. "Clench," he said. Tristan obediently clenched his fist and, without waiting to be told, rotated the wrist, the agony shooting through his wrist, a sharp and delicious pain. "Release." He released his grip and his fingers settled back a few scant centimetres into his claw. "Try opening." He tried, but they wouldn't open any wider, they never would. "Not yet." Not ever.

"Is there anything else, or can I get back to training."

"We're due to hold a council," Luwin said. "You don't need to swing a sword for that."

"It would make them so much more fun though," Tristan said, but didn't fight it, he came north to lead the fight against the ironmen, so he would sit on the bloody council.

There were seven of them, Luwin, Cley, Daryn, Domeric and himself, sat on one side, and the representatives from the North sat across from them, Mors Umber, Cregan Manderly, Roger Ryswell of the Rills and Beren Tallhart. None but Daryn and Cley were lords in their own right, the rest were sons, brothers, cousins and nephews, the lords were marching, either with Robb in the south or Rodrik in the North, marching without him. He didn't sit in his father's – in Robb's chair, he wasn't worthy of it. Instead he took the chair to the side and the others sat around him.

"Is there any news?" It was as good a way to start the meeting as any.

"Ser Rodrik reports success in the Wolfswood," Luwin said, glancing down at his list of issues to get through. "He expects to have Deepwood Motte back under northern control by the time we have this meeting."

Tristan grunted. "So, Torrhen's Square, Deepwood Motte, Moat Cailin, is there anywhere left in the north under ironborn control?"

"Nothing of note," Roger Ryswell said, sitting forward, a victorious smile on his face. "We've evicted the ironmen from the few villages they seized in the rills."

"And we've done the same in our lands," Beren piped up, a would be warrior youth, only in his young teens.

"Raiders?"

"It would seem Lord Balon's ships have had enough of raiding," Cley said. "No reports of new ships have come in lately, and the people uprooted have come to Winter's Town. There'll be nothing but corpses and coral to pick through for the ironmen if they come again."

"Which brings us to another issue," Luwin said, sitting back, plucking at his list. "Winter's Town is nearly overflowing, and we lack the supplies to feed them for long, they've been of great help reaping the last of the seeds we can sow before Winter, but we can't maintain it."

"My cousin Lord Manderly once again extends his offer to help feed the people of Winter's Town throughout the coming winter, any necessary payment can be deferred until summer and victory have come." Ser Cregan was solemn and true, a good representative of his house.

Luwin pursed his lips. "I think that may well be our only option."

"Very well, Ser Cregan, send the request, what else?" Tristan asked. This was all going very well.

"There... is the matter of Theon-"

"He dies," Tristan cut across Luwin. "I have made my decision on the matter, as soon I can swing a sword again, his head will be mine."

Luwin had at first tried to dissuade him, to try and get him to trade Theon to Lord Balon for an ironman withdrawal, but Tristan would hear nothing of it. And with victory nearly secured, Tristan needed no more hesitation, if his hand would just bloody work!

"Then there is only one more matter." Luwin pulled out a thin sheet of paper, stamped with blue ink. "Your mother has written again, my prince, urging you to return south as soon as possible and with all possible strength."

"What is going on down there?" Tristan demanded. This was letter number four, surely Robb had everything in hand? He couldn't have fallen, but his mother needed him for some reason, what could it be.

"We don't know, my prince," Daryn said. "Elmar tried writing to his father, but Lord Frey is being unresponsive."

"Or maybe he's just late," he muttered to a few chuckles. "I came here to drive the ironmen from the North and recover Winterfell. I will go south when that is done, or if I'm needed, not before."

"You're mother seems to think you're needed," Daryn pointed out. "Maybe something has happened with the King?"

"If something had happened to Robb, we would know by now," he replied. It had been weeks since they'd heard that the Lannisters and Tyrells had saved King's Landing from the army of Stannis Baratheon. He may not know as much of warfare as his brother, but he'd seen a little of it now. Lord Greyjoy had used the opportunity of a weakened North to attack, Tywin had thinned out the Riverland defences before punching right through them, and quickly forged an alliance with the Tyrells to save King's Landing. If something had happened to Robb, the Lion of Lannister, now seated as Hand of the King, would have swept up through the Riverlands and taken them back. But of all they didn't know, the Lannisters and Tyrells were still huddled around King's Landing. "Robb is alive and well. He must be or we're lost." Because I would be king if Robb were dead.

They seemed to agree on that point. "Well the return host has been gathering," Daryn said. "With winter coming more volunteers are arriving from all over to join the march south, most are older than I'd like, but,"

"More winters does not mean less skill Roger Ryswell reminded Daryn. "They come to spare their kin one more mouth to feed, unlike most of the footmen marching with Robb, they don't go home intending to return, that gives them a certain edge over those with mothers, sisters and lovers waiting for them."

"When I go back south, how many will march with me?"

"If we take back the men who came with us as well, six thousand, Dom replied.

"And the Tyrells bring over one hundred thousand to the Lannisters. Every one of their losses has been replaced three fold," Ser Cregan said.

"Let's let Robb worry about the war in the south," Tristan said, his anger at not being able to fight the war starting to boil over. "Is there anything else on the agenda for the day?"

After a few more issues like a river dispute, poaching in the wolfswood and illegal foresting, they were done, so Tristan left, he was overdue for dinner with his brothers.

"Are you getting better?" Bran asked as they ate quietly.

Tristan nodded, pushing his fork through a chunk of duck meat before popping it into his mouth. Each of them were eating with only a fork, knives left clean at the side of the plate. Ever since his injury using a utensil in each hand was a struggle and his anger boiled every time he was forced to try and hack and cut at his food to make the portions small enough to eat without making his chest burn. One day, he'd almost hurled the plate across the room, only the fact that all the notables of Winterfell were there held him back. Someone had noticed his predicament though, and from then on, all dinners were served with the food cut up into portions small enough that everyone could eat using only a fork. He suspected it was Luwin, but it could have been any of them, they were all better to him than he deserved.

"Little by little Bran, but I'll never be back to how I was," he said, forcing a smile. He always said that when bran asked how he was doing with his training. The words seemed to make Bran happy. He'd been scared at first of upsetting Bran. Should he say that he would never improve, would that make Bran angry given how he'd been crippled compared to how Tristan had been weakened. But what if he said the reverse, what if he said he was improving, how he knew his injury was not as bad as his brothers, but would that only remind Bran that he couldn't improve his walking, that would never come back. He'd found an answer that worked, and so he kept using it for now. There would be time for Bran to confront another hard truth later, but for now, he needed his shield around him, time for his innocence to reassert itself before adulthood came to him. As his older brother, it was Tristan's job to be that shield.

Bran smiled and nodded. "What about you two? How are your lessons with Luwin going?"

"Good, he was teaching us the names of the stars earlier, I've nearly got them all!"

"Then you're better than me already," he chuckled, he never got how you could tell one star from another, they all looked exactly the same.

"What about you Rickon?" He asked.

Rickon grunted and pushed his food around his plate.

"Rickon?"

Rickon glowered at him. "I heard Cley talking with your Frey friend," he said. Rickon refused to call Elmar by his name, apparently he did not have the best relationship with the two Frey wards her mother had accepted, Big Walder and Little Walder, and that was spilling over onto his squire. "They said you were going south again."

He sighed. "I will be at some point Rickon, but-"

"But you just got back! You can't go now!"

"Rickon-"

"You and Robb promised you'd bring everyone back, but father's dead, your hand hurts and Robb and mother are still not here!" He was starting to scream now. Bran scrunched up his face and looked away from it. "And now you're leaving again! It's not fair!" He swept his arm across the table and scattered his food onto the floor.

"Rickon Stark!" He bellowed, leaping to his feet and staring at his youngest brother who sat back, suddenly fearful, eyes watering. He sighed and walked around the table, avoiding the spilled food. He knelt beside his brother's chair. "I know, Rickon, I know what we promised and we were wrong to say that we would be home soon. What we're fighting for now... it's so much bigger than before. We're fighting for the North now, all the North, and that means we have to be away from you." He reached out and stroked Rickon's auburn curls. "I'm sorry that we aren't here, I know things are changing, and I know you deserve more, but Rickon, these are things we must do, it's our duty as Starks."

"Father said Starks look after each other. You and Robb let Theon take Winterfell."

He bowed his head, rage burning in him. "I know," he said. "But it won't happen again. When I leave, I will instruct that there will be at least two hundred men guarding Winterfell at all times. No one will take it again. That's a promise I can keep. And there is some good news. We got Arya back, Rickon, we got your sister. I have no doubt that Robb will send her home soon, she'll help look after you."

"And mother?"

"Mother will be home as soon as she can, perhaps she'll bring Arya herself. I'll get her to write to you when I see her, I'll have her write to both of you, Bran can read it to you."

Bran, who'd been looking at his plate suddenly looked over and smiled. "I will," he said.

"You see Rickon, everything's going to look up from now on. No more harm will come to you." Rickon reached over and hugged his head tightly. He wrapped his arms around rubbed his brother's back gently. "It's all going to be okay Rickon." He had to bite back the words 'I promise', those words had been whispered to Rickon as a lie before, he couldn't do that again.

"When you go, will you fight with Robb again?" Bran asked.

"I will," he said, pulling out of the hug and looking at Bran. "Although, in truth I haven't actually fought at his side since the war started. But this time I will."

"Even with that hand?" Bran smiled at him, pointing at Tristan's claw.

He stood tall and held the crooked thing out. "Aye, even with this, you wait and see my dear Brandon, you wait and see."


He lay sprawled on the dirt once again as the crows circled above him. Not this day it seemed. He got to his feet again, snatched up his sword once more and nodded at Daryn, who nodded back.

"My Lord," Elmar approached with a skin of water and a sword under one arm. He took the water and took a swig.

"Thank you Elmar," he tossed the skin back.

"My Lord, I think you should try this one," he said and held out the training sword.

He raised an eyebrow. "I have a sword, Elmar," he held up his sword, "and it's served me well for years."

Elmar nodded, crestfallen. But as he turned back to Daryn to signal his readiness to try again, Elmar found his voice. "It's not serving you well now though. You're not getting any better."

Silence fell across the yard. He turned back, slowly, to look at his squire. "What did you say?" He said quietly, dangerously.

Elmar stiffened, then puffed his chest out just a little, meeting his stare. "My lord, you're still trying to fight as you were, perhaps a new sword, without the familiarity will serve you better."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your sword is designed so it can be used with one hand, but is better with two hands, perhaps one of these would better serve." He held out the sword again. "This one is designed to be used one handed, perhaps... with your injury..." his courage was faltering under Tristan's gaze.

"Perhaps he's right Tris," Cley piped up, stepping beside him and laying a hand on his arm. "Yes, perhaps a new sword would be better, the unfamiliarity might help you develop to compensate for your injury."

"And if it's designed to only be used one handed, you won't be instinctively trying to use it two handed," Domeric added nodded. "Elmar may be onto something."

"It can't hurt to give it a go," Daryn added.

He bit back his retort. "Fine," he took the sword, drawing it and handing his sword to Elmar. It felt awkward in his grip and too short as well. Wrong. It was just wrong. "I'll give it a go." He was already a glutton for punishment, why not try with a different sword.

He waved everyone back and took his position opposite Daryn again. Lord Hornwood got into stance and Domeric stepped between them. "Tris has got a new sword, so let's go back to basics," he said, looking between them. "Daryn, try striking, be measured, Tris, defend, nothing more."

"Fine fine," he muttered, "let's get on with it."

Domeric stepped back, cutting down with one arm. "Go." Daryn stepped forward and swung at Tristan's head. He raised his sword and blocked it. Daryn struck at his head again, once to the left, once to the right. He blocked one, then the other, stepping back, twisting the sword in his grip, trying to make it comfortable. "Again." He stepped back and hastily blocked another cut at his head, then another, then a third, then saw the cut going for his side. He stepped into the blow and forced it away. Daryn attacked again, and again, and Tristan blocked again and again and again.

"You're getting it," Daryn smiled, attacking with greater vigour and speed, the blows coming faster. He missed one, taking a blow on his lower left arm which was dangling uselessly now it wasn't on his sword. A thrust slipped past his guard and hit his chest. He grunted in pain and stepped back. Daryn let him get into stance before attacking again.

Block, block, sidestep, guide, dodge. Coming as fast as the darkness in a winter's evening, he was finding the old rhythm coming back to him. Not perfect, not even adequate really, but it was there. Twice he has to snatch back his left hand, but the footwork was there, his steps compensating for his shorter blade.

It couldn't last. Daryn landed a blow on each shoulder before he charged forward, slamming into him and driving him to the ground, his sword flying from his grip.

Out of the focus of battle, he heard the claps from the spectators. "Well done Tris!" Dom said and Elmar helped him to his feet while Cley snatched up his sword.

"Much better," Daryn added, clapping him on the back when he was back on two feet. He shook them off, staking his sword back and pointing it at Dom.

"You next, now." He'd felt something, something familiar.

They quietened around him. Dom nodded, and drew his sword.

They trained... and trained. When dusk fell he returned to his chambers, aching and sore and the next day they trained again, over and over, pausing for food and water and short rests. And the same the next day, and the next.

On the fourth day, the letter arrived.

"How could she not tell me this?!" He yelled at Luwin.

"She feared the letter might be intercepted, as she said in the opening paragraph."

"Luwin, I'll warn you, my sword arm is becoming better by the day."

"I have noticed, you've been doing well."

"But this!" He gestured to the letter from his mother. "Robb is lying in a bed, slobbering like a simpleton, while I've been here re-learning how to use a sword."

"At least he lives, and he will no doubt be making a full recovery in time," Luwin, assured him. "But your mother needs you in the south now, you can't delay. I've already sent out the summons for your army to gather, by his last letter Rodrik is already returning with prisoners from Deepwood Motte, with luck, you can leave within two weeks."

He nodded. "Good, without Robb, the war..."

"So far the situation is held, but they need direction, and that is why you are needed."

"As Robb's brother-"

"No, as his heir," Luwin said. "You must be there should the worst happen, and without him, you must step into his shoes, lead the war."

He paled at the very thought. "Then I... I should..."

"You should get back out into that courtyard and swing that sword a little more. You're going to be using it for real sooner than expected. Especially with your solution to your left hand."

He nodded. It had been another idea of Elmar's, another good idea of Elmar's. The boy was certainly proving himself a useful squire. "Is the real thing nearly ready?"

"I'll instruct Mikken to work faster," Luwin said.

"Do so, I'll tell the others, make sure they're ready."

"Before you do," Luwin said. Tristan turned to him. "There is one more matter. The Turncloak, what will you do with him?"

"What I always intended, I will kill him."

"When?" Luwin asked.

Tristan thought. His sword arm was improved, and with news like this...

"Tonight."

Dusk was painting the courtyard a bright bloody orange as Theon Turncloak was brought out of the dungeons. His shiny black hair had matted to his face, a rough scraggly beard rasped across his chin and his once fine clothes had gone to rags. Two guardsmen dragged him towards the block in the middle of the courtyard. All of Winterfell, from guardsman to gardener, from cook to cobbler had turned out to watch Theon die. Tristan waited, standing beside the block, sword held by Elmar as the traitor was brought to him. Hisses and saliva flew at Theon with every step, but the guardsmen kept him from being beaten. He would like to have let them all have their turns with him, but that was not how this was done, he'd seen father do it enough to know that it had to be done properly, no matter how he felt. Closest to the block were those that Theon had wronged most. Bran and Rickon, their wolves chained so they didn't interrupt, stared at him with pure venom; the bedmaid Kyra, who Theon had taken and raped in his father's bed, grinned as Theon was brought to the block, eager for the blood. Beth Cassel. Normally she kept the welt from her near hanging covered with a scarf, but today, the fading red mark around her neck glinted darkly against her pale skin.

Theon was dragged to a halt before him. He bit back all the personal attacks he wanted to make against Theon, and instead uttered the words he'd heard his father say time and time again. "Theon of the House Greyjoy, for treason against King Robb of the House Stark, first of his name, and the harm done to the people of Winterfell, I Tristan, of House Stark, Prince of Winterfell, do sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?"

Theon looked him hard in the eye. "Sorry about the hand."

He clenched his claw tightly. "Anything else?"

Theon shook his head. "Get it over with Stark."

Tristan nodded at the guards who forced Theon's head down and placed it on the block. He held out his hand and Elmar placed the sword in it. He looked at the blade, his face shifting and flickering in the cold steel. He looked down at Theon's neck, and brought his sword down in a single clean cut.