At the Red Keep…
"*GASP!* *huff* *huff*"
Daveth shot straight up in the bed, breathing heavily as his nerves worked overtime to settle him down. The cold air stung his lungs, causing his body to shake; his eyes widened with his pupils dilating slightly before turning left and right to examine his surroundings while his mind worked to put the back pieces together so as to comprehend where he was. It took a while, but Daveth managed to steady his breathing and calmed down long enough to realize that he was in his bedroom. Was what he had seen nothing but a mere dream? Had he actually crossed over into the next world? Nothing made sense anymore.
Outside the night sky was dissipating; the darkness and stars were disappearing. Off in the distance, the sun was slowly rising – as marveled by the beautiful red and orange colors of the sunrise, certain parts famous for its warm hue.
While he shifted his position, Daveth felt something heavy on his left hand. Glancing over, the Young Stag saw his own wife Sansa sleeping beside him. Her chest rose and fell with each exhalation; her head moved slightly which brought several strands of her red hair to fall over her face.
'Sansa? How long was she…? Was she here this whole time?' he guessed.
Brushing Sansa's hair out of her face with his right hand, Daveth gazed upon his wife and attempted to sit up properly but falters. His movement caused Sansa to stir in her sleep before gradually waking up. The Wolf Queen yawned and rubbed her eyes as Daveth regained his balance.
"Mmm, what is going— D-Daveth?" Sansa stared at him.
'Then… then it did happen. I wasn't hallucinating. What in Seven hells is going on?' He raised a hand to touch her face, but stopped short. "Sansa—"
*SLAP!*
The Young Stag felt a sudden, yet sharp sting across his cheek. Sansa had slapped him! It didn't hurt, but the act caught him completely off-guard—possibly as it was meant to be an emotional response. Before Daveth could even get a chance to protest he was interrupted as Sansa threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight embrace which coincidentally knocked him back down onto the mattress with enough force to hit the back of his head against the bed's headboard. The sting on his face was gone, only to be replaced by a slight discomfort to his head.
"Gah!" Daveth grunted.
He then felt Sansa trembling against him, followed by something wet on his shoulder; Daveth held his wife close and massaged her back as she sniffled and squeezed tighter.
"You… you're alive! Don't you ever scare me like that again, you stupid idiot," Sansa murmured.
"Sansa, I…"
All the commotion from inside the room quickly drew the attention of nearby Kingsguard; even some of Daveth's royal councilors and family members arrived on the scene upon being woken up so early in the morning. Catelyn Stark, who had recently woken up to tend to two of her three grandchildren, was just as surprised as nearly all in attendance.
"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," said Tyrion quite surprised.
Varys still had a borderline freaked-out expression on his face, still distrustful of magic and, by extension, red priests. What Vaeraleah told him earlier still bothered him deeply. Olyvar Frey and Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon arrived not too far behind, still rubbing sleep out of their eyes before finally noticing what the commotion was about.
"By the Gods," Olyvar gasped.
"Brother!" both Myrcella and Tommen exclaimed with glee.
Both the Baratheon prince and princess joined their sister-in-law in embracing Daveth who, still in a state of confusion, felt his oxygen being cut off by his wife, sister and brother. As much as he appreciated his family being there for him, the Young Stag was currently feeling a much strong desire.
"I c-can't… breathe; you're… choking me," he gasped, his voice straining.
Sansa, Tommen and Myrcella all realized what Daveth was telling them and immediately removed themselves from him, allowing the Young Stag to catch his breath. Allowing steady inhales and exhales, Daveth still retained a slight bit of confusion.
"How is this possible?" implored Barristan, ushering the King into a sitting position.
The Young Stag shook his head. "I… I don't know, Ser Barristan."
"What do you remember?"
"I was… ill. Worse than I've ever felt. Couldn't breathe, and then… that's all I remember. What happened?"
Tommen approached his brother. "You were dying."
Daveth blinked. "What?" he sounded startled if not somewhat surprised.
Sansa and Catelyn were somehow not primarily focused as the twins Lyonel and Cassana were fussing rather loudly; Daveth's ears perked up at the sound and shifted his focus from Tommen to his children as his mother-in-law brought them over.
"It's all right, little ones," Catelyn hushed as she handed them over to the parents. "Your father… is awake."
Sansa took Lyonel in her arms and Daveth took Cassana, placing her on his lap.
'Are they… getting bigger?' he noticed.
"Dada," Cassana patted her arms against her father's bare stomach.
Sansa smiled, an emotional sense of relief flooding her. "Yes, sweetie; Daddy's better now."
As the twins grappled at and pulled at their parents, Varys quietly cleared his throat. "Your Grace, although most of us here are still rather bewildered about recent turn of events… my little birds heard a song from both the north and the east. They bring news of recent events such as these fanatical zealot upstarts—"
"—Lord Varys," the Wolf Queen nearly chided; she was kind of upset that Daveth had just woken up and the eunuch was dropping day-to-day business back on him, until…
"—and the whereabouts of Arya Stark."
Sansa and Catelyn froze and stared at the Master of Whisperers mouths agape; in a short span of time, Varys utilized his vast network of spies to locate the missing Arya Stark at the Queen's request. Daveth, meanwhile–still comprehending Varys' words–switched from being confused to serious.
'Much has changed in my absence, it would seem,' he thought. "You mentioned north and east. Care to elaborate?"
Varys appeared slightly confused as the King was. "Reports are rather conflicted, but my birds mention Queen Sansa's sister somewhere near either the Lonely Hills or the Hornwood forest. The other seems to suggest the Stark girl being somewhere across the Narrow Sea… in Braavos."
"The Lonely Hills and Hornwood forest are in the North," Sansa mentioned. "And Braavos… why there?"
"Difficult to say, Your Grace. My birds are working around the clock trying to figure out why, but until then we only have a single lead to follow."
Olyvar looked at Catelyn. "Do you think there was an attempted kidnapping?" he asked.
Catelyn was uncertain. "But who would do such a thing?"
"I think I a suspect in mind," Daveth added, ignoring the sudden stiff muscles in his shoulders; uncomfortable as he was, the Young Stag steadily stood up – still holding Cassana in his arms as Sansa stood up with Lyonel in hers.
"Easy, love," she warned.
Myrcella marched next to Daveth's right side. "You just got better, brother. Don't push yourself to—"
"I know, 'Cella. Your concerns have been noted," he complied. "Now, all we have right now are theories. One person comes to mind about Arya's spotting in the North, but we'll need someone to investigate and verify the rumors if need be—"
"While the other investigates in the east," the Baratheon princess finished.
Daveth nodded. "Grand Maester, assemble the Small Council. We have much to discuss."
"Daveth," Catelyn called out, her mouth almost dry. "Who is your suspect?"
"Ramsay Snow."
At the Dreadfort…
It was a cold morning in the Dreadfort; within Bolton territory, the North's weather was already changing rapidly. With the arrival of winter, snowflakes were drifting down from the skies above as the temperature dropped. For centuries, the North was always the first of the Seven Kingdoms to experience the seasonal changes. And with that, every noble house in the North scrambled to gather and preserve the harvests from the fields to feed not just themselves but also their neighbors should one northern house experience a food shortage.
Several of Lord Roose Bolton's guards stationed on the battlements occasionally rotated while on lookout to detect any potential threats to their liege lord's holding. Two were the furthest away, too distracted to see what was occurring below them. Without making a sound, an arrow shot up from below – hitting one Bolton watchman through the eye, causing him to lean forward and fall off the battlements. Before his companion could sound the alarm, another shot up and pierced his neck. Gagging and gargling on his own blood, the Bolton archer stumbled over the railing.
With the sentries disposed of, grappling hooks were thrown and gripped deep into the stone. Climbing up the walls of the Dreadfort, several cloaked figures stealthily infiltrated the castle in search of something… or someone. Once inside, one of the figures removed their hoods – revealing to be Theon Greyjoy, the redeemed Lord Reaper of Pyke, Lord of the Iron Islands-in-exile and bannerman of House Stark.
Turning to his comrades, Theon waved them over. One by one, each infiltrator removed their cloaks which bore the sigil of the direwolf sewn onto their leather armor.
"All accounted for?" Theon whispered.
One of the Stark men nodded. "Present, Lord Theon," he whispered in response.
"Are you sure about this?" another implored. "If any of Lord Bolton's men spot us, any act of hostility could lead to war."
"Please, as if House Bolton hasn't any reason to start one by Ramsay Snow tormenting Winterfell's denizens… or that same bastard 'kidnapping' Robb's sister," Theon retorted. "We've all heard the rumors. True or false, we can't simply ignore this."
A few of the nearby passages were clogged with Bolton troops: armored knights in woolen surcoats and fur cloaks, men-at-arms with spears across their shoulders, archers carrying unstrung bows and sheaves of arrows. Keeping their heads down, Theon could see half a dozen seasoned Bolton men guarding the doors of the Great Keep. Although far, the Greyjoy was close enough to listen in.
"Another bloody bath?" one complained, referring to a nearby maid carrying two pales of steaming hot water.
"She had another bath last night. How dirty can one woman get in her own bed?" another asked.
"Lord Ramsay's command."
"Get in there, then, before the water freezes."
Theon suspected they might be referring to 'Arya Stark.' That somehow made his blood boil a bit. 'What has the bastard Ramsay been doing to her?' his grip on his bow tightened. "Stay low, and keep an eye out for more of them."
His men nodded and crept around the halls of the Dreadfort as quietly as possible; ignoring the passersby mentioning 'Lord Ramsay' or 'Lady Arya'. A few of the Stark men were growing incredibly angry the more they heard what was being said about their lord's sister. Turning a corner, Theon and his men passed a room where it suddenly became quite loud.
"Ah! Ah! Yes! Yes! Oh! Ah! Oh!" screamed an unidentified woman, her moaning voice filled with lust and desire.
Theon ignored the noise emanating from the room, as did the Stark men. Noticing more Bolton guards coming their way, the infiltrators crawled out onto the battlements and climb the wall again to look for another entrance from the battlements. Eventually, Theon spots a nearby Bolton man-at-arms and quietly pulls out a small battle axe. Sneaking up behind him, Theon raises his right arm—hand still gripping his weapon—and quickly brings it down onto the guard's head from behind.
*WHAAM!*
Getting his axe stuck, Theon roughly pulls out his bloodied weapon—knowing for certain that the Bolton guard is dead – only to notice a nearby servant staring at him in terror. Moving quickly before any cry for help could be exclaimed, Theon rushed over and held the sharp end of his axe at his throat.
"Arya Stark," his breath frosted the air.
"I-I don't know—"
"Where is Arya Stark?"
"Th-the tower o-over there!" he pointed at a large structure.
Theon glanced and noticed it, before returning his attention towards his hostage. "You tell anyone we're here or if you so much as think about going to Roose Bolton or his bastard son Ramsay Snow, I'll come back to finish the job; for we do not sow."
Pushing the servant away, Theon watched him scurry off before he and his men turned towards the tower. The Greyjoy felt the cold air fill his lungs, ignoring the increasingly dropping temperature and snow descending upon him. Word of suspicious activities at the Dreadfort was too great to ignore; surely Theon knew that Robb Stark had been harboring nearly similar suspicions too. If he had indeed made mistakes, he would atone for them. But if not, then more chaos was sure to follow.
Theon knew the risks of this operation. He fought on the battlefield with Robb during the Stag Sedition against the traitor Renly Baratheon, he fought at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Good training in his youth, more so when he actually got a taste for actual combat. The Starks were more a family to him than any of Balon Greyjoy's loins, more kind and tender to him compared to the beatings his brothers used to give him back on Pyke. This would be an act of returning kindness to the family that raised him even though he was technically considered a ward/hostage.
Climbing nearby steps, Theon and his men approached a nearby door to where he assumed would be to 'Arya Stark.' Leaning against the wooden door, Theon heard a quiet sound.
"*sniffle!* *sob!*"
Realizing that those were cries of anguish, misery and sorrow, Theon instinctively pushed the door open and entered the room—where the scene before him would shock him. Laying on a pile of wolfskin furs on her bed in the darkest corner curled up into a ball, the young woman bore ugly purple bruises across her pale skin. Theon wanted to believe he had found Arya Stark, but something wasn't right; she was too tall and timid, nothing like the Arya he knew growing up.
"Lady Arya?" one of the Stark men called out.
'No, this isn't Arya Stark,' Theon thought.
Slowly, she turned her head. Theon looked closely at her face, noticing her dark, perhaps too dark eyes shining with tears, dark hair and pretty white teeth. She was skinny and had a small bosom, even if there were bite marks, scratches and bruises covering her body with the exception of her face.
"Jeyne?" he realized. "Jeyne Poole?"
The Stark men looked at each other before they realized the duplicity.
"The-Theon?" her voice ached. "Is that you?"
Theon approached her; Jeyne, however, stiffened involuntarily and pulled her wolfskins up to her chin.
"By the Drowned God," he gasped quietly when he noticed signs of her abuse, "what did he do to you, Jeyne?"
"No. This is some trick. It's him, it's my… my lord, my sweet lord, he sent you, this is just some test to make sure that I love him. I do, I do, I love him more than anything." She whimpered, a tear ran down her cheek. "Tell him, you tell him. I'll do what he wants… whatever he wants… with him or… or with the dog or… please… he doesn't need to cut my feet off, I won't try to run away, not ever, I'll give him sons, I swear it, I swear it…"
One of the Stark men cursed. "Gods curse that bastard."
"Someone's bound to hear her. She's making too noise," another objected. "Lord Theon, we have to get back to Winterfell and hurry. Now."
Theon noticed, but stayed a bit longer. "Jeyne, look at me," he told her. "You know me. It's me, Theon Greyjoy, remember? I know you too. I know your name."
"My… my name?" she shook her head. "My name… it's…"
He put a finger to her lips. "Your name is Jeyne Poole, one of Vayon Poole's five daughters. Your father was the steward of Winterfell. Your best friend is—"
"—Sansa Stark," Jeyne said, her lip trembled.
He nodded. "Yes. We can talk more later, but you need to be quiet now," he extended a hand to her. "Come with us, Jeyne. With me. We're taking you home. Away from him."
Jeyne's eyes widened. "Please," she whispered. "Oh, please."
Theon slipped his hand through hers as he drew the girl to her feet. The wolfskins fell away from her. Underneath them Jeyne was naked, her small pale breasts covered with teeth marks. He ripped off one of his wool cloaks and wrapped it around Jeyne, to cover herself and keep her warm against the bitter cold. One of the Stark men gave her a quilted doublet and a well-worn pair of breeches.
"Now we are going out and down the steps," Theon told the girl. "Keep your head down and your hood up. Don't run, don't cry, don't speak, don't look anyone in the eye."
"Stay close to me," Jeyne said. "Please don't leave me."
"I'm not leaving you," he promised as they quickly exited the bedchamber.
For a moment Theon felt almost giddy. None of the Bolton men ever looked their way, they never saw. But on the steps the fear returned. By now, the Dreadfort was filling up with more troops. The rescue party knew that they had to escape from the castle and return to Winterfell as quickly as possible. But the guards inside huddled with spears and swords to their chest with their backs turned against the icy wind and blown snow; nearly every gate was closed and barred and the battlements growing more thick with sentries.
"It's cold," Jeyne whimpered as she stumbled along at Theon's side.
And soon to be colder; beyond the Dreadfort, winter was waiting with its icy teeth.
"This way," one of the Stark men said.
The passage twisted to the left. There before them, behind a veil of falling snow, flanked by a pair of guards. Dogs below began barking loudly, startling Theon, Jeyne and the Stark men. Bolton troops began scouring around the Dreadfort, alarmed by something. Each of the Stark men took defensive positions in front of Theon and Jeyne.
"He's coming," she whimpered. "Oh gods, he's coming. He's coming, he's coming, he's coming, he's coming."
Theon clapped one hand around Jeyne's mouth, grabbed her around the waist with the other and pulled her farther away. Just as Jeyne feared, approaching them with 20 armed men was Ramsay Snow, shirtless and had bloody scratches on him, grinning wickedly from ear to ear.
"Well well, what do we have here?" Ramsay's voice was drenched in sadistic fondness. "This is turning into a lovely evening. Trying to escape from your lawful husband are we, Lady Arya Stark? You know what happens when you bore me or anger me, right?"
Jeyne clenched Theon closely, who gripped his axe tightly. Although the Stark men knew they were outnumbered, each formed a defensive formation around the two.
"Go, Lord Theon. You too, Jeyne," one said.
"We'll hold them off. Get back to Winterfell, and hurry."
Ramsay grinned as he unsheathed two very sharp daggers from his waistband. "Oh no, I don't think any of you intruders are going anywhere with my rightful prize."
On que, Ramsay charges and the Stark and Bolton men engage in battle. The dogs bark and snarl in their targets. Ramsay fights effectively with his daggers. Jeyne Poole let out a shrill, high scream as Bolton and Stark men stumbled backwards, blades driving point through flesh and bone and spilling blood across the battlements.
"Intruders!" one of the Bolton sentries shouted.
"Guards! To the battlements! Kill the intruders!"
Far to the north of the Dreadfort, a warhorn blared loudly. Theon and Jeyne both were left with no choice but to leave, listening to the shouts, screams and cries as the Stark men were gradually being overrun. More Bolton troops would be en route to their location. Sprinting to their known location, Theon was taken aback to realize the hooks and grappling rope used to climb the walls of the Dreadfort was thrown off by the cold, strong wind gusts. It was a very long drop to the bottom.
Theon gulped, knowing full-well that the longer they stayed the more the realization they would either be likely captured or killed would grow. Shouts rang from their left. Theon knew that his men were likely dead.
'If they take us alive, they'll take us to Ramsay,' he thought. Gripping Jeyne's hand in his, Theon looked at her. "We have to jump."
Jeyne's eyes widened as she looked down at the ground. "But-but it's too far!" she panicked.
"We can't let those men catch us," he countered. "If they do, we're dead! We don't have a choice. Come on, Jeyne! We have to go! Now!"
She trembled in fear, but shakenly gripped Theon's hands tightly as if her life depended on it. The Greyjoy gripped Jeyne's hand with one, and held her waist with the other. Locking eyes with her, Theon inhaled sharply and held his breath.
"One, two… three! Jump!" he yelled.
In a do-or-die moment, both Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne Poole jumped off the battlements of the Dreadfort and plummeted straight to the bottom. The only thing running through their minds was that there was enough snow on the ground to cushion their inevitable impact… and if they were to die, then it would all be over soon. Quick and painless.
Chapter End
Author's Note: Another chapter done; King Daveth Baratheon is back from the dead, ready to jump into the fray once more. And Lord Theon Greyjoy makes a daring rescue attempt at the Dreadfort with only a few men. The scenario has been set for an inevitable conflict in the North with House Stark and House Bolton, whether planned by a lord or not. Think Theon made progress in his development on his own? But what of Sansa Stark's initial reaction when Daveth woke up? Too much or was it just natural? I'll let you decide that on your own. Thoughts? Let me know.
Silent Wolf Singer: Another good chapter. Although, Daveth needs to take it easy.
RHatch89: Awesome update :)
oneironaught101: Wooweee what a cliffhanger.
C.E.W: So now Theon has rescued Jeyne and are on the run. Problem is, won't be long before Ramsay takes care of the Stark men in the Dreadfort. Won't take long for him to realize Jeyne is missing and is not in the Dreadfort. A search at the Dreadfort will take a few minutes so I'd say Theon and Jeyne could have at least twelve minute head start which is one mile on foot at best, and if they get their hands on horses then they can at least be four to five miles from the Dreadfort and Winterfell is a long way away. The real problem will be the hounds if on foot, have a good way of tracking their prey with scent. They may not known Theon's but they'll know Jeyne's considering she's been at the Dreadfort for some time. Unless she gets rid of her scent, she might as well as be sending a note to the Boltons with directions to her location, so she needs to either get rid of her scent or change it.
As for Daveth, he needs to take an easy... Sansa, Myrcella and Tommen will insist on it and regain his strength. He's going to need it considering there is a little religious war going on in his city.
mpowers045: I bet Ramsay kill Roose and take over Dreadfort
Hear My Fury: Way to go Theon! Hopefully he can make it out of there in one piece. Once they get Jeyne back to Winterfell I think Robb's gonna demand answers. Roose I keep telling you, you should have given Ramsay to Daveth, This whole situation would have been avoided if you did that. Also, I'm not excited for the Battle of Winterfell, I have a feeling a lot of people are going to die. i just hope Sansa, Jon or Jaime aren't among them.
mitchn: Loved the update! Yes, it would see like a classical angry born out of worry moment from Sansa. She almost became a widow so she bound to be emotional. I loved how Theon matured into the hero he was destined to be (to bad Ramsay's psycho girlfriend did not get her head cracked open). Will Sansa or Jeyne deliver the infamous, "You are going to die tomorrow Lord Bolton. Sleep well."?
—Oh, I believe Sansa will be absolutely pissed and deliver the infamous "You are going to die tomorrow Lord Bolton. Sleep well." when she learns what happened to Jeyne Poole, her oldest and closest childhood friend.