Winterfell

"Like I said, something's going on with those two," Theon snickers as he watches Mikken hammer out Lady Momiji's brigandine plates. "She came out of the Lord's solar with tail wagging and a pep in her step whilst in her nightwear. I saw it with my own eyes!"

"I'm sure ye did," Mikken huffs as he hands the plate for the apprentice to attach. The heat of the smithy is a welcome from Winterfell's cold yards, even when it's not snowing. But the blacksmith is not so keen on someone coming here to interrupt his work with some rumours, especially the ones coming out of Theon's mouth. "Best be not spreading gossip of M'lord, ye hear? Also, give me some of that drink."

Theon hands him the cup and goes to pick up a plate from the table, but the heat from it makes him think otherwise. "How's her armour going?"

"Would be finished already if yer not here. Ya know how hard it is makin' armour for someone with a tail? Lotsa things to consider," Mikken grumbles, handing back the water. "She be here not long from now, so no time to waste. Hafta work fast."

"You know who else is going too fast?" Theon smirks, pausing for some flair. "Robb. Damn boy got suitors all around him; from Mormonts to Cerwyns to daughters of landed knights, but he chose the she-wolf. Imagine the Lords' and Ladies' faces once they figure that out…"

Mikken's eyes widen in surprise. "Ye mean it's official?"

"Might as well! Our little Lordling asked me for love advice before leaving, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before he announces it to the others. Dare I say, they may have rutted?"

"Gods, don't make me picture that," Mikken groans.

"Hey, I'm simply a friend who wants to see him succeed. So when he asked for counsel, as his vassal and friend, I gave him one."

"Which are…"

"The usual."

"The usu- Bwah!" The two break into raucous laughter, distracting the smith's young apprentice at work. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Mikken turns to the boy with a wide grin. "Oy lad, didn't Greyjoy here gave ya the same advice?"

"Yes Ser and Milord. You told me how to… Say it. To Rose in Winter Town," the red-haired boy answers, a little bit of anger and red apparent on his face.

"Oh yeah, I remember you, kid," Theon chuckles as he sips on his wine. "When was it, two months ago? How did that go?"

"…Milord, I think you already know."

"Pray that Lord Stark doesn't heed yer advice, young man. Else there'll be one less mischief in this here castle," Mikken warns, though most of it is in jest. "Speaking of, why are ye here and not with Lord Stark?"

"Don't know, why don't you ask him?" Theon answers briskly, finishing his cup. The air is getting quite stale with that little question. "Hey, how goes those bolts I asked?"

"Ah yes, here they are." Mikken pulls out a full quiver from under the table. Theon inspects them by pricking his finger on the tip. "Metal heads fer ten bolts and twenty arrows, enough for the young Lord's hunt. Sharp and barbed, just like ye asked. Now, coins?"

"Here," he pulls the pouch from his belt and hands it to Mikken; not his coins but Bran's since the she-wolf wrung him dry. "Thanks for the help, and finish up Lady Momiji's armour, you hear?"

"I get it, now shoo!"

Exiting the smithy, Theon is greeted by the bright glare of the sun and a cold breeze; the North's proper welcome, even if he never fits here. A clear sky is the sign of good hunting, so he has no time to waste. At the West gate is the hunting party. Twenty guards flank Bran atop his Dancer and the Reed kids as well; Ser Rodrik said it's necessary protection after the assassin and Wildling threat. Not gonna have much to hunt then, their sound will spook the animals half a mile away. Then again, we've hunted through it during the feast. "Ready?" he asks, climbing up his mottled grey-and-white horse.

Bran nods, but his baggy eyes are far from happy. He looks far frailer than before beneath his furry cloak. Hoping that it'll change, Theon leads the hunting party out of Winterfell.

It was less than two weeks ago that Bran's state took a turn. Maester Luwin theorised that the screaming fits were caused by a fever of the mind, but Theon suspects it to be the whispers of that creepy boy Jojen Reed, the one with pea-green eyes. Whatever the case, Bran now secludes himself in his room and seldom come out, only with the Reeds or Lady Reisen as company. And with her gone, now he's just with the Reeds. That boy told him ill things about dreams, as if everyone doesn't have nightmares now and then. Gods, why did you leave with them, Robb? I can't handle a bunch of brats.

He prides himself in being better at fighting and hunting than Robb, yet none of that convinced the young Lord Stark to place him by his side. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik is enough to keep Winterfell's peace, so why? Because you don't want me to outshine you? Want to make yourself look good for the other Lords?

…Or is it because I'm still the Starks' hostage?

A foul ghost that haunts him, and no amount of fucking can kill it. It's the reason why he's here, why he can meet Jon and Robb to befriend them: he's the Starks' prisoner. It was his father Balon Greyjoy who committed treason, yet Theon paid the price. Robb learnt much from Lord Eddard, so he may hold me in the same light. We trained together, we ate together, and this is my fate? He grips his reins tighter, the rope creaking in his hand. I'm a man grown, so when can I return to Pyke? When my father dies? Never?

"Oh come on, cheer up," a girl's voice breaks his anger, though he realises that it wasn't aimed at him. Meera Reed pats Bran's unresponsive leg, comforting the boy. Theon takes a good look at her: short, slim, likes to wear scales instead of silks, carrying weapons… I'm starting to suspect the Stark boys to have a certain taste in women, he smirks. Maybe Jon is the same, and Rickon as well. "Father said that forests are blessed by the Old Gods to heal one's spirit. Being here will surely drive away your foul dreams, though I must confess," she looks around wide-eyed, "never been to a forest this large before. Nor dry."

Though Theon is well acquainted with the Wolfswood, he's still amazed by how colourful it is at this time of year. Leaves of oak and ash tree paint the landscape golden like an everlasting sunset. The coming of Autumn welcomes the winter… And the Others. A cold chill runs down his body; he truly hopes that Robb's claims are mistaken, else…

He shakes his head. No need to foul the hunt, one of the few times he can leave Winterfell. So instead, he watches the red leaves fall and a woman painting in the trees. Feeling content, he rides to the front of the group to see if-

Wait what the FUCK!? He turns his horse around, but catches no glimpse of that red-dressed woman from before. Theon rubs his head, thinking that he needs a bit more sleep next time.

"You alright there?" asks the Reed boy, his creepy eyes staring back at him.

"Maybe need more sleep, that's all," he grumbles before riding on.

"Everyone needs a good dream now and then," the boy continues much to Theon's annoyance. "Some people see a lot in their dreams. For example, I dreamt that you drank saltwater in the Wolfswood. You said it tasted like blood and smoke but kept on drinking anyway."

"Didn't do that, never planning to do that. There's not even a sea in the Wolfswood, boy."

"Yes there is," Jojen insists, "I saw it in-"

"Your dreams, and everyone knows you should base your decisions on dreams. Sorry to say but we're not in a dream, this is real life," he laughs, but Bran flinches at his words. It was Old Nan and now Jojen. Bad influences all around. "You know what I dreamt of? A hot broth from a delicious rabbit soup, which we will catch from this hunt."

"Lady Reisen won't like that," Meera muses.

"Well lucky us that she's away. Speaking of which…" Theon rides up close to a set of prints barely visible in the melting snow. New ones, he notes the dung, so the games must be close by. "Bran, see those tracks near the blackberries? Tell me what animal made it and the direction it went."

Bran's horse Dancer trots up close, nearly stepping onto the fresh prints. It takes him a bit before declaring: "Deer, going South-West of here."

"Should be a bit quicker. Mycah, care to tell me about those tracks near your feet?"

"Ah!" the guard quickly leaps back, stepping into a wet pile of leaves. After careful consideration, he erroneously says "squirrels, must be."

Theon sighs. "Care to correct him, Bran?"

"Rabbits, maybe half a dozen."

"Stay as a guard, Mycah. You ain't getting much around being a hunter," he jests. "Come on, let's get us some dinner."

Theon and a couple of skilled guards track down the deer: a good sized doe that falls with a single arrow to the skull. Pulling the arrow out, he commends himself for the good shot. Lady Momiji would be quite proud.

Bran, Meera, and Jojen are the ones to track and hunt the rabbits. Turns out, her fish spear and net is as useful on land as it is on water as they're able to catch and kill five rabbits with it. Bran is also getting used to the crossbow, bringing down a rabbit and a fat-looking treecat that almost went unnoticed. "Two out of three bolts, not bad," says Theon as he brings them back for the guards to carry. "Still want to continue? It's only been past noon."

Bran nods quite enthusiastically, so different from the gloomy boy just this morning.

And so they head deeper into the woods, crunching the golden leaves underneath and- Theon swings his head round, swearing that he saw the woman again. Maybe I'm the one who needs so medicine, he sighs. Before long, the group encounters a very exciting track: a boar's track, not as big as the one Lady Reisen killed but impressive nonetheless. "Well now," he takes a boar spear and descends from his horse, "I'll be getting myself a new pelt."

Due to the danger, Theon tells the Stark and Reeds to stay back as Mycah, Gyles, and two others accompany him with bows at the ready. It's a fat one, some juicy thing that'll fill our bellies. He can't help but to lick his lips at the thought of roast boar. The one at the feast was cut too small for it to satisfy his stomach.

But the deeper into the Wolfswood, the tracks turn a bit… Strange. The boar moves back and forth a bit, circling around as if threatened by something, before bursting through a bunch of bushes and trampling saplings. He follows the track, hoping to find the boar at the end of it, but finds instead drag and blood marks in the snow and leaves. There's bootprints as well; clearly someone killed the boar before they did. "Didn't know hunters staying this close to Winterfell."

"Maybe a mountain clansmen," Gyles shrugs.

"Let's pay them a visit. I want to see the beast they've slain."

Theon whistles a jolly song whilst following the tracks. This is not near any settlements he knows of, but maybe he's just misremembering it. After all, some mountain clans like Branch and Woods live in the Wolfswood. But as they come up on the little campfire, unease slowly sets in. Smoke drifts from the burnt wood, having been put out mere seconds ago. There are axes and leather packs strewn about, none of which looks like mountain clan's property. Most damning of all is the strung up boar, its body half-cut with the knife still stuck in it. Someone doesn't want to be seen.

The guards draw their bows taut while Theon lowers his spear. He's not adept with it, but it's the one in his hands. "Mind showing yourself?" he asks no one with a smile. "Quite rude to greet guests with suspicion."

"You are in the Starks' territory!" Gyles shouts, hoping for a response. "Come out or we will root you out!"

The weapons look too nice for Wildlings, or perhaps they stole it from the Night's Watch? He counts the tracks and comes short of seven. We can take them on.

The rustling of a nearby bush alerts them and a guard lets loose an arrow into it. "We've come in peace!" they shout. Why does the voice sound so familiar?

"Then show yourself."

Coming out of the foliage are… Not what Theon expected. Five of the men are fully armed with mail and steel helms, and some carry shields with them. His heart drops upon seeing the heralds: a red bony hand, a grey leviathan…

And a golden kraken prowling a black sea.

The man at the head of the group approaches them with hands raised. "I mean no harm," he rasps out before looking straight into Theon's eyes. He smells of salt and sweat, seaweed braided through his hair and a cold look in his eyes. And if were not for his voice, Theon would have only seen him as some dirty vagabond. But instead…

"Uncle Aeron?"

"It has been a long time, nephew. We need to talk."

Winterfell

"The hells do you mean I can't leave?"

"Tis' simple: you can't leave," Ser Rodrik nonchalantly states as he pours himself and Maester Luwin a cup of wine. The smell of bird shit in the rookery does not ease Theon's nerves. "Though Lord Stark have assigned the three of us to care for Bran and Rickon, that does not mean you have the leave to do what you want."

"Rodrik is correct," the maester clears his throat with the warm wine. "Lord Eddard has entrusted Rodrik and I to care for Winterfell, which also means making tough decisions in his stead. However, this," he taps the table, "is not one of them. Even Bran understands what needs to be done."

"The boy didn't understand, he barred my Uncle from being a guest here!"

"By putting a sword over his knees, the proper way to refuse guests," Ser Rodrik adds. "Even Wildlings know what that gesture means and they're less civilised than the she-wolf.

"Tch, the boy can't fucking walk and he dares to use his knees against-"

Rodrik slams his hand on the table, causing the empty cages around them to rattle. His eyes are full of anger as he glowers at Theon. "You will not insult Lord Bran, you hear me, Greyjoy? Did your courtesy leave as well as your common sense?"

Yeah, but I'm still stuck here. Theon sinks back to his seat with a scowl. If these two won't budge, then he has little chance of ever leaving Winterfell. But he still holds it out for that sliver of hope that they'll change their mind; surely they must have some sympathy for him.

"What do you plan to achieve by doing this, Theon?" asks Maester Luwin. Though clearly unhappy, his voice is not nearly as angry as Ser Rodrik's. Gods, Lady Momiji was right, his face does look like a rat, Theon smirks, causing the maester's eyes to twitch. "If Aeron Greyjoy's accounts of the Iron Islands are correct, it means that you are not the successor of the late Balon Greyjoy. After all, your sister Asha is older than you and your Uncle Euron proclaims as the rightful ruler of the Iron Islands."

"He declared himself King," Theon reminds him. "King of the Iron Islands. He means to betray the Iron Throne."

"Just like your father before. And like him, he'll break the Iron Fleet on the Redwyne's prow. Their numbers are not as great as before," the maester sighs, tapping his fingers on the table. "Gods, if only we have a raven to tell the King of what we know…"

"You… You can't simply ignore my Uncle! Do you even know who the Crow's Eye is!?" Though more than a decade away from any Greyjoys, nothing will make him forget of the Crow's Eye. From the way Uncle Aeron shivers when describing him, to the tales men whisper in the dark about him… As far as Theon knows, Crow's Eye is Harren the Black reborn but with far more cunning.

"A fool," Ser Rodrik sips on the wine. "A traitor. Some say a monster. That's what you get if you were raised there for a tradition of reaving breeds ill will. Look at the Wildlings for an example. Gods help them when the King's justice strikes true, but I feel no sympathy."

"He has demons by his sides," Theon whispers, practically pleading for them to change their minds. "What if he could control dark sorceries? Turn the sea red or call down storms or-"

"Demons," the maester scoffs. "Followers of the Drowned God call weirwood trees and the Seven demonic, yet they never seem to reflect on their own faith. Euron Greyjoy may have a couple of foreign priests beneath his sail that the Ironborns call demonic. But even if they're sorcerers, I sincerely doubt that they'll be able to do anything. People like the warg are rarer than Valyrian steel, so we have no cause for concern."

"That and the Sunset Sea is not under the North's jurisdiction," Ser Rodrik reminds him. "We have no ships. So unless the Iron Fleet land on our shores or the Iron Throne summons us, we shall focus on more immediate things. The Lannisters are a good cause for concern, as well as the upcoming harvest feast. How's the numbers though, Luwin?"

"Harvest has been very plentiful for the past few years, though the question lies on the length of upcoming winter. The Wall's talk of the cold brings us no comfort, and neither is the lack of ravens from the Citadel."

"Heh, hard to believe. They say the Others march on the Wall, yet they still have time to ask for clean parchment," Ser Rodrik jests, causing the two to laugh heartily.

As Theon watches the conversation drift away with the wine, he realises how useless it is in convincing the two old men. So instead, he apologises for his rudeness before stomping down the tower. Entering his room, he slams the door and slumps down on the bed, a long groan escaping from his throat.

…

Like Jon, he's not alien to some brood and gloom. Unlike him however, he likes to share it in the company of a woman. At least, that would be the case if this one isn't so… Painful. Looking out his window, Theon can see the dark edges of the Wolfswood. My Uncle is waiting there, waiting for me… He pulls out the small bottle he has under the bed and drinks from it, but in frustration he throws it against the wall. "Gods damn it," he bites his knuckles.

Is he sad for his father's death? No, not really. The man was never really all that involved with him. He even reckons that he won't feel that much if his Uncle Aeron is to pass for he looks nothing like the Aeron Theon remembers. But of all these things, giving up the chance at the Seastone Chair and making his own name…

That he won't give up.

The bastard often said that he and Theon are no different, but Jon at least has Stark blood in him. Theon… Aeron called his blood watery and Theon never felt home with the Starks, not with Lady Catelyn here. Just when I thought I would have peace, Robb plans to bring her back. What a lousy thing, he snorts.

But now a single opportunity presents itself. And all he needs to do is to get to the Wolfswood.

…

*KNOCK KNOCK*

Theon quickly hides his supply under the bed before straightening out his hair. "Who is it?"

"Hodor," says Hodor.

"Don't need you here, prick. Go away."

"Hey, don't be mean to Hodor," says Bran. "He's just a dimwit."

"I wasn't talking about him."

"Oh…" The voice sounds very dejected.

However, knowing that this would probably be the last time the two can talk to each other, Theon relents. "Fine, you can come in," he sighs. "But don't mess up the place." Unlocking the door, Hodor's large form ducks down to enter the room, causing Bran to hit his head on the doorway. Theon snickers as the boy is placed down on the bed while the large man sits in the corner, smiling. "How's your day, Hodor?"

"Hodor."

"Fantastic to hear. Bran?"

"I think it's the first time I've been in your room," says the boy as his eyes wander about. "It's… Small. And cosy."

"I know. Your mother said that a prisoner doesn't deserve lavish quarters. Not much to impress girls with, I can attest to that."

"…Sorry."

"Hey, it ain't your fault," Theon smirks, patting Bran's shoulder before gripping it tightly. "But you know what is? That shit you pulled in the Wolfswood. So, did you come here to ask for forgiveness?"

"…Jojen told me to do it," Bran confesses, not keeping eye contact. "He-He said that you leaving will be very bad. A-And that I saw bad things in my dreams," he sniffles, "the dream demon showed me what would happen if you leave, bad things. I don't want you to…"

"Nice to hear the decision to keep me prisoner was decided by two good counsels: a creepy boy and a boy's creepy dreams. Winterfell is in good hands," he jests, laughing dryly at his own joke. Hodor laughs along, but the man doesn't seem to understand it. "Anything else?"

"…My dreams. They said that our futures have been written down, in books and strange light things. Our fate, the demon said-"

"Many things, I'm sure. Didn't Old Nan's stories ever told you that demons lie, Bran? To get something out of you? What, did it tell you that you'll never walk again?" The boy keeps his head low, maybe feeling guilty of keeping him here. So instead, Theon kneels and hugs Bran, surprising him. "Just because some silly dream told you that it's your fate to not walk doesn't mean that it's true. You're never one to stay still, whether that be with Dancer or asking Lady Momiji how to fly. Gods, that fall never broke your spirit, did it"

"No…"

"Good." He ruffles the boy's hair before letting him go. "It's getting dark out, so why don't you go and eat supper? Hodor, come here."

"Are you coming?" Bran asks ash he is being secured onto Hodor's back.

"Those two old coots' scolding is a good enough meal for me," he pats his stomach. "Go on, and tell me how that deer tastes. My kill, so it better be good."

"…Alright. Theon?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are. See you later, Bran." He watches Hodor walk down the hall before locking the door. Theon may not like kids much, but he'll be lying if he says that he won't sorely miss the boy. "See you when you're older, kid," he sighs before pouring himself his last cup of wine. Leaving Winterfell is a cause for celebration.

Wolfswood

Due to the feasting guards during supper time, Theon manages to easily sneak through the main keep and out of Winterfell in mere minutes. After all, he knows their patterns and behaviour like the back of his hand; nightly excursions to girls in Winter Town aren't possible without a little bit of craftiness. All he needed was a good length of rope and some weights.

With the muddy ground beneath his feet, he keeps close to Winter Town's shadows before sprinting towards the Wolfswood. Reaching the edge of the forest, he leans against the tree to catch his breath and look back at Winterfell. Though there's a few torches at the walls, none are moving fast from an alert. "You've outdone yourself, Theon," he giggles to himself. "I'm fucking free!"

He continues deeper into the Wolfswood with only the light of the moon and red comet guiding him. Lighting up a torch right now would be a mistake. Even so, he can't help but to jump and skip through the forest; he's been yearning for a return ever since being taken to Winterfell. But he can't waste time. Not long from now, the Starks will finish supper and question why didn't Theon join them. And with his belongings, he can't hope to out-race horses on foot.

He passes by a familiar weirwood and a fallen tree before entering the boar's track again. And not long after, he sees the glow of the campfire in the distance. "Oy Uncle!" he waves his hands, causing all the men sitting around to stand to attention. Theon rushes over to be near the flames, greeting his Uncle who stands with a driftwood staff. "I'm ready to go."

"Are you now?" the priest asks with some suspicion. He circles around Theon with a careful eye, looking at his gloves and arms and clothes and- "Is this all you have?" he pats the bag. "Ten years of living with the Starks amounts to a small bag and some… Jewels." The priest turns up his nose, clearly insulted by some aspect of the young man.

"I did not live in Winterfell, Uncle. I was their prisoner. My home is back at Pyke."

"Yet you hunt with the wolves," says the bearded Volmark man, "and wear silver like a whore." He reaches out with his axe and pulls out Theon's necklace from beneath his shirt, a fine ornate thing he bought from White Harbour. "What's the meaning of this then? You paid gold for this shit?"

"Are you accusing me of not paying the iron, Ser?"

"Ser?" the large man guffaws, holding the belly beneath his mail. "I'm not some painted knight of the greenlanders. I am Gunthor, an Ironborn! A man of the sea and follower of the Drowned God and his prophet! And who are you, boy who smells of summer?"

"I am Theon Greyjoy." He grasps the end of the axe, pointing it away from him. "Son of Balon Greyjoy and the rightful heir to the Seastone Chair, Gunthor. Remember that when you pull your axe against me again. And if you're so curious, I killed a Wildling for this necklace," he lies. "The man killed a Night's Watch for it and I kill him in turn."

"Killed a savage," says the Drumm man, a gaunt looking fellow with a grey beard. "Barely half men, those things."

"And I killed him all the same. Let me ask, did you do that for your nice helm?"

Before the other could protest, Aeron thumps his staff. "We must leave soon. Boy, did you have their leave?"

"No. And don't you call me boy, Uncle. I've fucked and killed like any Ironborn."

"And you've yet to taste the sea and captain a longship. Gunthor, Rolf, pack up all the meat you can carry. The forest here is unkind," the priest whispers, his eyes nervously scanning the dark. "We're too far from the sea and the wind howls with the Storm God's tempest. Let us leave before those tree worshippers notice his absence."

Like Theon, none of the men here ride horses. Must be hard to fit on a longship, he reckons, and bet my feet will be very sore come the morn. They light up torches as Theon help them navigate through the forest. The occasional wolf howls give them pause, and he realises that they've encountered them before. "One bit me in the leg," says Qarl One-Eye who's holding the Greyjoy shield. "Killed it, I did, and its fur made a fine cloak," the man smiles as he pats the pelt on his shoulder.

Though he would like to catch up on the goings on of the Iron Islands, his Uncle's appearance always catches him off guard. He looks nothing like the jolly man who pisses in hearths for bets and giggles. No, he looks dour, sunken even. His hair is long and unkempt with the occasional braids of seaweed. He knew that his Uncle was imprisoned by the Lannisters during the failed rebellion, but… What happened? "I never took you for a godly man, Uncle. They call you a prophet now?"

"The Drowned God must have his servant, and I've come to take the place." He downs another gulp from his waterskin. "I've become His prophet for I hear His voice in the waves. He leads us towards our salvation, to finally join Him in His drowned hall beneath the sea."

"You… Hear him?"

"Damphair heard the command to bring you back," Gunthor shrugs. "So you must be of some import to His will."

Theon wants to laugh. That makes his Uncle the third person who rely on the voices in their heads for counsel, and who knows many more in Westeros. Gods, the world is going mad. "Well, I sympathise with you, Uncle. Crow's Eye is unfit to be King."

"My own Lord swore an oath to him," Gunthor spits hard into the dead leaves. "The boy has a softer head than you."

"What am I when I return to the Iron Islands, Uncle? A Prince? King? Lord of Pyke?" Damphair stays silent on the matter, muttering prayers between his cracked lips. Suit yourself, going to find out one way or the other.

Another wolf howl breaks the silence, this time far closer than he would like. "Keep the fires up," he whispers to them. "Wolves keep bay from the flames and steel. Just keep an eye out and we'll be safe."

"I'm not scared of fire, squidboy."

They stop in their tracks; he recognises that voice. Looking up, he sees a familiar dark silhouette seated on a weirwood branch, her tail swishing and her red eyes reflecting the torchlight. From her voice, there's no doubt that she's smiling. Qarl curses and pulls out a throwing axe but Theon quickly drags his arm down. "I know her," he assures the Ironborn, but all look up with tension in their muscles. Clearing his throat for he knows that it's on the line, he greets the she-wolf. "Good evening, Lady Momiji. How goes the Northern-"

"Save your chattering, I'm not a damn crow," she growls, the sound sending goosebumps up his arms. "Care to tell me why you're out here in the middle of the night? With men who smell of salt?"

Dark shapes move about in the dark, their eyes glinting from the torch. Those are not treecats. "…I'm leaving Winterfell."

"Oh, now that's interesting," she cackles. "And since you're sneaking around, I'll take that it's not an official leave. Why? And be quick, the wolves are hungry."

I can see that, Theon gulps as he watches a wolf's drool drip down its mouth. "Family matters, Lady Momiji. Complicated family matters. Uncle?" He motions the stiff looking Damphair to explain the situation. Though there's a bit of hesitation and fear, the man relents.

"My brother Euron, the heathen and blasphemer, has taken the Seastone Chair and commands the Iron Fleet to their doom. My nephew, Theon Greyjoy, has been prophecised by the Drowned God to fell the sinner for he is untainted by the Crow's Eye's reach. That is why I must bring him back to the Iron Islands… Lady Momiji," he finishes it by bowing his head, but the wolves keep drawing closer.

"Heh, so that's why you're leaving. For some glory on a faraway island."

"Aye, and you know what that'll get me? The Seastone Chair, that's what. Not long from now, you'll call me krakenlord instead of squidboy for I will rule one of Westeros' strongest navies. I will help Robb fend off the Lannister. I will raze Lannisport and send those Lannisters a message. Robb will regret the day he told me to stay put in Winterfell," Theon thumps his chest proudly at his claims. After all, proving his worth to none other than the she-wolf would be quite the feat.

"Your sister's tougher than you, and she's a woman," Qarl laughs. "You mean to hold the Seastone Chair?"

"You have doubts on my claims?"

"I doubt you know the sea, greenlander."

"I can learn, One-Eye. And I know a thing or two about sorcery, even if I can't conjure up-"

"Quiet," Damphair whispers, "no more talk of magic. Crow's Eye have demons under his wings, so we must not fall for the same tricks!"

"Demons?" she says intrigued as her tail stops moving.

"Demons of storm and smoke, aye," the priest clarifies. "They eat men whole and bathe in darkness, tainting the Drowned God's sea with their discord and sins. Tis' no doubt the work of the Storm God," he shakes his head.

"Black smoke…" She stays silent for a while as wolves stare them down, as if contemplating whether or not to kill them where they stand. Theon fingers the hilt of his dagger, but he knows that it won't be enough to stop her. Luckily for him, she gives a positive answer. "Sounds like real trouble, so I'll leave it to you, squidboy."

"Truly?"

"Ridding demons from an island is a tale worthy to be told and remembered," she chuckles. "But I want your promise. Kneel." He quickly falls to his knee, head down beneath the branches of the weirwood. "If I ever catch a whiff of betrayal or hurt towards the wolfboy, I'll hunt and gut you like a salmon. Do I make myself clear?"

"I swear, Lady Momiji, that my actions will not harm you nor the Starks."

"Good." With the clap of her hands, he rises to see the wolves galloping away in the dark. Never knew she had her own pack, or perhaps they're at her call and beckon? "I will not inform Winterfell of this but I will tell the wolfboy. Hold your promise true and we'll see each other again, squidboy."

"Wait!"

"What?"

"A simple question: what happened back at the Wall and after the feast? Something interesting between you and Robb? Saw it with my own two eyes," he smirks.

A snowball hits his face. "Nosy brat," she grumbles before flying off in a flurry of snow and leaves. That was a vague answer, but enough to paint a vivid picture in Theon's mind.

"Who the bloody hell was that!?" Damphair exclaims, his mouth agape. "She can fly!?"

"Unholy beast," Gunthor mutters.

"Yep. That's Lady Momiji Inu-something, Lord Stark's wolf bride. I'll tell you all about it later. For now, let's keep on moving."