Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story. Thanks especially to all those who took time to review. The feedback about the story rating was certainly very reassuring, which gives me a little more license to ramp up the bedroom action. Thanks again!

Anyway, after ending the last chapter on Sansa's upward flight to power, I thought I'd open this chapter with someone on the opposite trajectory. Enjoy.

Chapter Thirteen: A Broken Man

The dungeon walls had given way to a wide-open field and a blue sky that stretched overhead. But the light blinded Reek, making his pale eyes burn and water. The chains had gone from his ankles, but he felt the ghost of them still, chafing his skin and cutting to the bone. His filthy rags had been cut away. But now Theon's old cloak weighed him down, as heavy as a smothering pall. The binds on his wrists had been swapped for soft leather riding gloves. But the flayed skin wept and burned, and the stubs of his fingers screamed with pain when the fabric touched them. He appeared free of his fetters, but his captor lurked over his shoulder, smiling crookedly as this travesty of Theon Greyjoy hauled his emaciated frame into the saddle of a destrier.

"Who are you?" Ramsay asked, approaching the horse and patting its flanks.

Reek was caught in a moment of terrible indecision. He was Theon, but he had become Reek and now he had to be Theon again. Is that what his master meant? Or was he seeking reassurance that, no matter what today brought, he would always be Reek? The wrong answer would cost him dearly and, no matter how he agonised, he never seemed to get the right answer. 'Reek' felt like the safest answer because 'Theon' was a bit above his station. But he was meant to be Theon. He shivered and choked, but a choke was neither right nor wrong and Ramsay was still waiting. Ramsay didn't like being kept waiting.

"Reek!" The word rattled through broken ribs and out through equally broken teeth.

Ramsay sighed like a patient father dealing with an obtuse child. "We've been through this already, haven't we? Today, you're Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands. And have you got the terms of surrender?"

"Y-yes, Master," he stammered, fumbling for a rolled-up parchment in a bag around his shoulder.

Quick as a viper, Ramsay grabbed his wrist and squeezed it tight, sending pains shooting up Reek's arm. "Tell me what it says, Reek. I told you to memorise it, remember? The Ironborn in that castle must think it's come from you."

Malice glimmered in his dull blue eyes, a look that made them seem even more protuberant. Reek knew if he got this wrong there would be hell to pay. And knowing the hell to pay, he found his mind going blank as he was thrown onto the spot. He stammered and stuttered as he tried to form the words, even though he did know the answer.

"F-food," he blurted out. "They get food if they surrender…" Reek the words framed in his head now, all he had to do was calm down and be rational. "If the Ironborn peacefully surrender Moat Cailin, my lord will give them food and safe passage back to the Iron Islands from the Stony Shore."

Ramsay smiled approvingly, making Reek's heart race with relief.

"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

The journey to Moat Cailin began in earnest, flanked by a small company of Bolton men in plain dress. No one spoke, but his captors disguised as companions kept shooting him suspicious glances, as if he might try to break for freedom at any second. But, in Reek's experience, escape was not worth the capture and the thought couldn't be further from his mind.

Instead, he concerned himself with trying to get back into Theon's skin. But Theon's skin had been cut away a long time ago, his old self deconstructed one stab at a time, reducing him to a shadow. Less than a shadow. His black hair had turned white, his body a network of scars and wounds left festering under the fine silk shirt he'd been given for the mission. He felt like nothing more than an imposter wearing Theon's finery. An idiot child dressing up in his father's clothes, finding the boots far too big to fill. He might as well be wearing motley.

By late afternoon, the broken towers of Moat Cailin came veering into sight. Banners bearing the kraken of his House were hanging from the jagged battlements. The sight of them, rather than instilling in him some dormant Greyjoy pride, served only to remind him of how far he had fallen. And he knew, once again, he should have died at the Twins, at Robb Stark's side. There would have been a semblance of honour in that. But, he had betrayed Robb and now he was set to betray his own people. Or Theon's people, at least. Reek had no people. Reek didn't have himself anymore. Reek only had Ramsay.

"Go on then, Turncloak," said one of his guards. "You're on. Play your part well, if you want to keep what's left of your limbs."

Having suffered what he had suffered already, those dire warnings left little impression on Reek. But he shuddered at the sight of the endless black bogs that surrounded Moat Cailin, the denizen of the Crannogmen bog devils that had laid siege to the castle for months. Even Roose Bolton himself had almost been killed while crossing these treacherous lands.

From the top of the destrier, Reek surveyed the scene. It looked peaceful. Stagnant waters rising from black mud, dead trees half-submerged in the ditches. Where the land looked solid, he knew it was not. It was deep, sucking sand that pulled down unwary travellers and drowned them at its ease. Only the Crannogmen themselves knew those lands and the Crannogmen were not their friends. An enmity evidenced by the broken corpses that littered the crumbling walls of Moat Cailin. Many wore Bolton colours, others were Freys and some were Ironborn. All united now, having suffered miserable deaths far from home while attacking a ruin. But a ruin that formed the gateway to the North.

"You first, Turncloak," said another guard.

Long past caring whether he lived or died, Reek gladly obliged. Not even the sight of the blood blossoms growing from the corpses turned him, now. He looked past it all and vanished inside himself as his horse trod the causeway leading to the castle.

Only when an arrow whistled past his head did he snap out of his reverie. A cry of alarm was lost in his chest as another and another arrow shot past him, spooking his horse. The ambush appeared out of nowhere, but seemed to come from everywhere all at once. Arrows were shot from below ground, over ground and from under water. They came from the trees, appearing through the fine mists that drew a shroud over the impenetrable swamps.

His horse reared up in fear, trying to buck him off. Nor did it have to try very hard. Reek was thrown to the ground, met with a mercifully soft landing. All the same, it hurt and he had landed in the dangerous, sucking sands and felt himself bring dragged under. Helplessly, he watched his guards run into the ambush, only to be cut down by arrows, poisoned darts and even a man, a full-grown man, running out of his hiding place and cutting one guard's throat. In the meantime, Reek fought free of the sucking sands only to be captured and pulled to the ground, a blade instantly thrust at his throat. The kiss of the steel blade instantly cut into his skin and he screwed his eyes shut, knowing the end was soon to come. Finally, the blessing of death was granted and he didn't even have to worry about telling Ramsay what happened.

Until…

"Wait!"

It was a woman's voice, but the blade fell away from Reek's throat immediately.

"Who are you?"

The question was directed at him.

"Reek!" he spluttered, eyes still screwed shut. "My name is Reek!"

Rough, heavy hands grabbed his face and dragged him back onto the causeway. They didn't feel like the hands of a woman, but they were. Moreover, a woman he recognised. She gripped him hard, her face almost kissing distance from his own, Lady Maege Mormont. Her brow was creased in a frown.

"I know you, don't I?" she murmured.

Still gripping him, now by the scruff of the neck, she dragged him away from the castle and down the causeway. Panic stricken, Reek struggled and tried to flee. But she held him fast in her powerful arms, more used to wielding an axe than the emaciated form of the Lord formerly known as Theon Greyjoy.

As she hauled him, almost effortlessly, deeper into the swamp, more and more people emerged. Most were little Crannogmen, no larger than children. Others were Greenlanders, like Maege herself. All of them were Stark loyalists, who remained fighting south of the border against the Boltons. Reek's insides turned to water. Ramsay had been bad enough; the remnants of Robb's army would make the bastard of the Dreadford look half a child.

"Hallis!" she called out. "Hallis Mollen, you're needed."

Reek found his tongue, at last. "Reek! Reek! My name is Reek!"

Hallis Mollen, the old Winterfell guard, always did have a reputation for stating the obvious. And he hadn't lost his touch. "Your name's not Reek though, is it? Theon fucking Greyjoy."

A peculiar sense of longing closed over Robb as he entered the old war council room. A feeling made all the more acute since no one had been inside since the last time he had used it, before he left to attend Edmure's wedding at the Twins. The map table was still there, with the pieces still where he set them, while planning his raids along the Westerlands. It was all covered with a fine layer of dust that made everything look grey. Probably the dust of his own dreams, he thought wryly to himself.

The chairs were still arranged around the table, and he could look at each one and remember who should be sitting there now. At his right, Greatjon Umber. At his left, his mother. He remembered the others just as easily. Something under the table caught his eye and when he stooped to retrieve it, it turned out to be Talisa's bag of medical supplies. Setting it on the table, he opened it to find a jar of ointment, half-used; a roll of bandage linens that had become unravelled and her old ivory comb. Strands of her hair were still tangled around the teeth. Just for a moment, he felt like she had simply forgotten the bag, and would return at any second to retrieve it. But, of course, she was never coming back again and the realisation still seemed to hit him square in the gut.

Even now, he could go for long periods without thinking of her – up to and including falling in love with someone else – and suddenly she would pop back into his head. He would remember she was dead, and the shock of the fact would reverberate through him all over again.

Putting the bag away in the nearest cupboard, Robb sat himself at the head of the table and presided over his council of ghosts. The game had changed so dramatically now, that he barely knew where to begin. He looked down the length of the table, where the wolves were still grouped around the Riverlands and the North Trident regions, and spreading down the Westerlands. With one swift movement, he leaned across the table and swept them all off the map, wiping out his figurine army in one go. The wooden figures clattered to the stone floor, noisily echoing around the rafters.

There was just one wolf left, sitting over Riverrun. It seemed he was facing extinction.

"I thought I heard signs of life in here."

Robb had been so lost in thought, he hadn't even heard the Blackfish enter the room.

"Uncle, you startled me."

Brynden didn't sit down. He leaned against the edge of the table, casting a wary blue eye over the alterations Robb had just made.

"I think you're going to need some rose shaped ones, soon."

Robb raised a pained smile. "Lady Margaery knows who I am."

"What?"

"I know I should have told you sooner," he confessed. "But the time didn't feel right. I didn't know what was happening between us- "

"So, what is happening between you?"

Sheepishly, Robb met his gaze. "I still don't really know. She said she's working to ally House Tyrell to House Stark … but what does that mean? It doesn't sound definite."

Finally, Brynden sat down and turned his full attention to Robb. "If the Tyrells change sides, then this is the best news we could have hoped for. Surely you understand that?"

"Of course I do," he replied. "I'm not completely useless in the field of politics, uncle. But I still need a plan to take back the North, and the Tyrells will be an advantage, I need more than that. They're just one army and I need my own back. To get my army back, I need to liberate the North from the Boltons. Before I can do that, I need to get North, past Moat Cailin. To do that, I need my army back. You don't need to look far to see the mess I'm still in, Uncle."

Brynden looked thoughtful for a moment. "The Boltons haven't got Moat Cailin. The Ironborn are still occupying it and, last I heard, Victarion Greyjoy has recently sent reinforcements."

"That's hardly encouraging," Robb replied. "The Ironborn mean to hold it and I need to get past them. Even if I do, does that mean I abandon the Riverlords who still support me? Do I leave House Frey for now and concentrate on taking back the North?"

"Now is not the time for revenge, Robb," Brynden stated, gravely. "I know it's tempting, but that can come later."

Robb sighed heavily. "If we could win over the Lords of the Vale, all our problems would be solved. Has there been any word from Aunt Lysa?"

Brynden looked away from him, his brow creasing. "That was something I meant to tell you, actually. Lysa died, not so long ago. I didn't want to add to your problems by telling you."

"Dead. What happened to her?" he asked, worried. He had never met his aunt, but still the news darkened his mood.

"Suicide, apparently. Jumped through the moon door," Brynden explained. "Lysa was never happy, Robb. I can't say it came as a complete surprise. The only reason I'm shocked is because I never thought she would leave that boy of hers."

The new Lord of the Vale was his weak and sickly cousin, Robert Arryn. From what Robb had heard of him, he would sooner follow his mother's policy of hiding in the Eyrie than take any kind of action.

"Perhaps, in the meantime, it would be best if I concentrated on winning over the Vale," he ceded. "There's no use planning a military campaign with army I might not even have."

"Yes, you do look rather lonely on that map," said Brynden, casting another wary eye over the painted map table. "But don't forget: you still have us, the Tullys, and the Mallisters and Blackwoods. If we can spring them out of their Frey traps, they can join our host and begin marching North with you. Having the Tyrells onside will help keep them convinced this is definitely a good idea."

But it wasn't just the army he wanted. He wanted Margaery, too. That was still something he suspected Brynden had guessed at, but he still had no wish to talk about it. No matter how hard he tried to shake that feeling, it persisted. It followed him around like an old stray dog. While he grieved Talisa, he was falling sharply for another.

"Where are the Freys?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "I know they're not the brightest stars in the sky, but surely they've worked out I'm here. It's not as if there's anywhere else I could go."

The Blackfish laughed. "I wouldn't bank on it, nephew. No, they're probably leaving all the leg work to the Tyrells. Gods, imagine the look on that old stoat's face if you end up marrying the girl and getting that force at your back."

Later that afternoon, when he was back out in the practise yard, he got another taste of how big that army was. He had been sparring with Riverrun's captain of the guards when they were spotted. Well over a thousand men, all marching on Riverrun from the south, the golden rose of House Tyrell flying from masts carried by the standard bearers and outriders. Robb joined Brynden up on the battlements, watching the never-ending procession of man marching.

"What's the meaning of it?" he asked, looking up at his uncle.

Brynden's expression was unreadable. "Best case scenario is Lady Margaery has fallen so head over heels in love with you that she's had her brother call the rest of their banners to join us immediately. Worst case scenario is that she's played you and she's called the rest of her banners here to up the siege and capture us all."

"No," he replied, almost defensively. "She wouldn't have done that."

Still the procession continued. There seemed to be no end to the Tyrell men marching on the Riverlands. They had known, from the off, that hitherto the Tyrells had only come with a token force. It had never been a true representation of the sheer numbers they could, potentially, muster. But this, what Robb was seeing now, was a lot more like it. At the heart of them was a huge golden wheelhouse, drawn by numerous horses. He could not guess at who was in there. Lord Mace Tyrell himself, if the splendour of the vehicle was anything to go by.

Whatever was happening down there, it was clearly something and it made Robb's stomach sink.

Mystified, Margaery stumbled out of her pavilion, clutching Jeyne's hand so they wouldn't become separated in the crowds that suddenly descended on them. The road to Riverrun was wedged into a bottleneck between the river and the dense forest, which forced the hundreds of men into a single file as they neared the castle. It was probably a good defence measure, should the castle ever come under proper attack. Now, for two women trying to make their way in the opposite direction, it was proving a tricky course of action.

"Are they all from the Reach, my lady?" asked Jeyne.

"Yes, I think so."

Garlan and Loras had already gone into action, trying to shepherd the footsore soldiers into the open fields on the other side of the Tumblestone. There was plenty of room for them there, but it involved fording the fast-flowing river. Still, it was enough to relieve the pressure and afford her and Jeyne space to move.

"Why have they come? Did the Queen Mother send them?"

"Cersei cannot command our bannermen," Margaery answered. "Only my father can do that."

It was a pertinent question, though. For weeks now, she and Garlan had existed with just a token force of Tyrell troops. This was still not the full force – that was a number the Riverlands simply couldn't cope with. However, it was far more than simple 'backup'.

Eventually, they made it past a bend in the river, where the land widened and they escaped the cramped bottleneck. It was there that the great, golden wheelhouse had come to a rest. It hadn't a hope of making any farther along the road, not until the men were successfully detoured to the other side of the river. Margaery regarded the wheelhouse through narrowed eyes, her mind racing as she tried to second guess what all this chaos was about.

However, she wasn't left wondering for long. The rear door opened, a familiar and very welcome face leaning out to greet her.

"Margaery, my dear, come inside quick, I would speak with you."

"Grandmama!" she called out, by way of greeting. "Just a moment."

She had to think quick, but set Jeyne to helping the wheelhouse's horses get fresh water and hay from a nearby field. With the girl occupied, she was free to join her grandmother in the back. Already she was consumed by the feeling that something awful had happened. As such, she got straight down to business as soon as she propped up on cushions in the back of the wheelhouse.

"Why have you come? None of us were expecting you … or your reinforcements."

"They're not reinforcements, child," said Olenna, adjusting her wimple. "They're our escort, while so close to Lannister lands. By morning, we'll be turning around and returning to Highgarden. I couldn't write to you, our ravens were going astray."

"Why?" her tone was sharper than she meant it to be. "Grandmother, what has happened? What about our plans?"

There was a moment's pause in which she could tell Lady Olenna was framing her words. The look in her eye was odd, though. For a moment, she thought she even saw a hint of fear, there.

"Elinor and Megga have been arrested and detained by the Faith Militant, at the whore Queen's instigation," Olenna explained. "Yours and Loras' names are being dragged through the mud, our house is being insulted and now our kin are being attacked in the streets. Your father will no longer stand for it and, for once, I agree with him."

Margaery could scarce believe what she was hearing. "Elinor and Megga? Why? They're just girls, they have done nothing. And what's Loras supposed to have done? He is Kingsguard. If Cersei thinks to use my loved ones against me-"

"Of course, she will," Olenna cut in. "She's been planning this from the start. It's the reason she armed the Faith, it's the reason she bankrolled them – she thinks to turn them into her own personal militia. What's worse, it's a militia hiding behind a veneer of religiosity – what could be more divinely justified than that?"

Does Cersei Lannister even remember what the inside of a sept even looks like? Margaery found herself wondering. "So, this Faith Militant are just doing Cersei's bidding now? Is that the measure of it?"

"You know about the new High Septon, this man they call the Sparrow?" Olenna's voice had dropped to barely a whisper. "Lady Merryweather informs me that Osney Kettleblack had a hand in the old High Septon's death to make room for him, at Cersei's instigation. The same Osney Kettleblack once sent to your chambers to seduce you, where you were to be caught in the act and paraded naked through the streets as a common harlot."

The honeytrap was so obvious she and the girls had laughed at the hapless knight and promptly sent him packing. Nothing had happened and there were plenty of witnesses to attest to the 'nothing' that happened that night. Margaery still wasn't grasping the size of the problem or how it had dragged down her beloved cousins. As for Taena Merryweather, she was a Tyrell spy embedded deep in Cersei's bedchamber. She had tipped them off before poor Osney even knocked on the door of the Maidenvault.

"Kettleblack was arrested as well," Olenna continued. "He was put to the lash and started talking, as any man would."

Margaery groaned. "A man will say anything to end his pain. Surely this wretched Sparrow knows that? So, did he implicate Elinor and Megga in something? What of Loras?"

"I don't know what he said," Olenna replied. "But Taena told me the plan Cersei concocted. After being caught seducing you, you were to be branded a whore and he was to be sent to the Wall to take the black. While there, he was under instructions to kill the new Lord Commander, Jon Snow. Eddard Stark's bastard son. I think Cersei wanted the full set of wolf pelts. After that, he was to be given a lordship and a castle. Who was that singer Joffrey hired for you?"

"The Blue Bard," Margaery answered, feeling numb. "Was he arrested, too?"

Olenna nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course he was. He was put to torture and started singing like a canary."

"The moon tea," said Margaery. "I got Elinor some moon tea."

"Precisely. Which of course, was now meant for you."

They could say what they wanted about her. It was nonsense and no one would believe the word of a man put to torture. But it didn't alter the fact that Elinor, Megga and some of her friends were now rotting in dungeons below King's Landing. No doubt, if she returned to the capital now, she would be joining them. For now, there was nothing she could do.

"Our alliance is broken, then?" she asked.

Olenna laughed drily. "You could say that."

"Good," she replied. "Actually, that's very good. I had been worried, you see, about how we could break our alliance without impugning our House. Now that mad bitch Queen has done it for us. Grandmama, we should be pleased!"

Olenna leaned forward in her seat, her hand resting on her walking stick, looking at Margaery as if she might be running mad. However, the old Lady knew her granddaughter. "From that, I assume there is a much better prospect hiding around here somewhere. Do tell, child. Your father is already on his way back to Highgarden with the rest of our forces. It's not too late to recall them."

Margaery drew a deep breath, composing her thoughts. It was a long story, she supposed, so she cut to the chase. "You know how I came to Riverrun hoping to find Sansa Stark?"

"Yes, is she here?"

"No, but her brother is. Robb Stark isn't dead. He didn't die at the Twins, or anywhere else. He's in Riverrun now, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike back against the Lannisters."

Olenna's face did not change at all, but she fixed Margaery with a sharp, penetrative look. "Well," she said. "That is interesting."

"Yes," Margaery smiled. "I quite agree."

The prow of the ship knifed through the choppy seas, making the vessel rise and lurch. Jon looked back over his shoulder, to where the wet and miserable city of Braavos vanished in the thick mists that seemed to permanently shroud it. He could just about see the great, mossy-green titan straddling two the islands, its eyes alive with flame. It was the first time in his life that he had ever set foot on foreign soil and, despite it being such a dismal archipelago, it left him hungry for more.

Just as he suspected, Aemon had died. They were lodged in a tavern on the main island, burning broken sticks for firewood in an effort to stay warm. The old man had faded fast. Jon's only consolation was that at least Aemon found out his young great-great-grand niece was still alive and well, flourishing in the cities to the east. The old man had implored them to go and find her, to guide her through the rest of her journey and bring her home to Westeros. She had hatched dragons, they said. Aemon died believing she had fulfilled the terms of an ancient prophesy.

Jon didn't know what to make of that. But nor could he change his route. Dragons and exiled princesses had to wait. Robb could not.

However, one thing had changed, since Aemon's death. Instead of travelling on to Oldtown with Gilly and the baby, Sam had decided to come with him. Gilly and the baby too, of course. Now it was the four of them, embarking on a strange and bizarrely thrilling adventure across the country. Him a man of the Night's Watch who'd never set foot on southern soil before and her a wildling, who'd never seen the other side of the wall. At least they had Sam to get them through.

"How's it going, Sam?" he asked, looking to find his old friend. "Found your sea legs, yet?"

His answer was a pitiful wretch over the gunwale.

Come the dawn, however, and the boat steadied as they neared land. The early morning mists lifted and Jon was greeted by the sight of a rugged coastline stretching as far as the eye could see. He could see the port of Gulltown, and all the little houses and businesses that made it what it was. Seabirds wheeled overhead, the gulls that gave the place its name. But rising above all that, reaching for the skies above them, was the most breath-taking mountain range he had ever seen.

"Those must be the Mountains of the Moon!" Gilly sounded awestruck as she stopped by his side, looking up at the snow-peaked mountain tops. Unlike Sam, she had thoroughly enjoyed every moment of their sailing. "Did you say we're going up there, Lord Commander?"

Jon had tried to explain that she didn't have to call him that, but she persisted all the same. "We are, but you can stay below if you like?"

"No!" she retorted. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. Imagine what you can see from up in those mountains. We'll be able to give a wave to everyone back at Castle Black!"

Her enthusiasm was oddly infectious, however Jon limited his own expectations. "I'm hoping I'll get an audience with some of the Lords of the Vale. House Tollet may listen, if we're lucky. Maybe even House Royce. I doubt House Arryn will look twice at us, but you never know."

He barely knew why he was bothering. But his father grew up there and it was Eddard Stark's name he was relying on to get this audience. Surely they would help Robb, if not the Night's Watch? It was a long way to go to waste one's time and Jon's mood was pessimistic, at best.

By the time they disembarked at Gulltown, it was past noon and Sam was finally coming around. Back on dry land, he rallied fast as the ground remained still and solid beneath his feet. Gilly had the baby bouncing on her hip, Sam loaded their bags onto a pack mule and Jon prepared to lead the animal by its bridle. It was a long journey that lay ahead of them and they set off in earnest.

"High as honour," said Gilly, as they made their way down the harbour. "Those are the words of House Arryn of the Vale, aren't they?"

Jon and Sam confirmed it together as they led the mule between them. Sam was teaching her to read and he was impressed by her speedy progress.

"Where'd you read that, Gilly?" he asked her.

"On the banner that man's holding," she replied, nodding her head toward the end of the wharf.

Jon spotted them immediately, noting that they were walking straight toward them. There were four of them, all in the blue and white colours of House Arryn. Concerned there might be trouble afoot, Jon moved ahead of his companions ready to deal with the men at arms.

"Lord Commander Snow?" the one in charge asked. The others scowled over his shoulder.

"Aye, that's me," said Jon, finding Dark Sister's hilt just to be safe. This situation grew more peculiar by the second and he misliked it.

"Good to meet you, my lord," said the man-at-arms, diffusing the tension immediately. "You're to come with us to the Eyrie, where Lord Arryn awaits you. He and your good friend, Lady Alayne, sent us to escort you."

Momentarily struck dumb, Jon almost forgot himself. Who the fuck is Lady Alayne, was his first thought. But he was quick enough to pull himself together for sake of convenience.

"Oh! Lady Alayne," he said, smiling from ear to ear. "Gods, I haven't seen her in years."

"Better get a move on then, hadn't we? Come on lads, get these mules loaded up and let's get moving. Lady Alayne expects us there by evenfall on the morrow."

Jon just went with it. Whoever Lady Alayne was, she was clearly calling the shots in the Vale and he needed the help of her and her kind. It wasn't until later, when they reached the foothills of the mountains that Sam found him again, that he revealed his ignorance of the lady.

"So what's the story with you and Alayne?"

Jon shrugged and stifled his bemused laughter. "I have no idea, Sam. I'm looking forward to finding out, though!"

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Well, I hope you enjoyed the Theon update. Although sort of based on book events, things will pan out differently for him now. He'll be back again soon. First Stark reunion is coming soon, as well. Update coming next Thursday. Thanks again!