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Chapter Sixteen: Dead Like Me.

"Do you think House Borrell really are related to them squishers?" Pod's expression was earnest as he met Brienne's gaze across the cookfire. The rabbits he was meant to be preparing for their supper lay momentarily abandoned on a flat stone, the bloodied cutting knife still in his hand. "It's the webbed feet that prove it, don't you think?"

Brienne tried not to roll her eyes. She had enjoyed Nimble Dick's stories rather more than she let on. They livened up what could have been a soul crushingly dull journey through Crackclaw Point. But, it seemed, some were taking them a little more seriously than others. "It's just an old folk tale, Pod. Get on with the supper."

She replied more tersely than she intended. She always did and she didn't feel good about it. Pod was a good lad, and true. He didn't look at her with the contempt others had for her. He didn't make sly remarks about her height, her looks or her clumsy, lumbering gait. And, better still, he had stuck by her side through some trying times.

Pod came with her and Nimble Dick and, when they reached the place where Dick said he sold a map to a fool, he stuck with her when that fool turned out to be Shagwell of the Bloody Mummers, along with Pyg and Timeon. He didn't even flee when Dick took a morning star to the face, killing him instantly. Like a faithful dog, Pod stayed at her side.

Brienne sheathed Oathkeeper, deciding that the blade had been polished enough for one evening. "You're doing well, Pod."

He'd resumed skinning and deboning the rabbits and looked up at her startled, as if she had spoken a foreign language.

"Thank you, my lady," he replied, falteringly.

Brienne couldn't say for certain where she had led this poor boy now. She knew they had left the Crownlands and the Vale, without impinging too much on the Riverlands. But they couldn't be far from the spot where all three territories met. If her estimations were correct, then they were somewhere between the Trident and the Mountains of the Moon. An expanse of land so vast it left her with quite an error of margin.

In the Riverlands, Sansa's uncle was holding against a Tyrell siege. In the Vale, her aunt was up in the Eyrie. The only fool she'd managed to track down was Shagwell and Sansa definitely wasn't with him. It had her feel nauseas to think he could have been looking for Lady Stark, too. But which way would she have gone? It was a question that had Brienne in spasms of indecision. If she went one way only to learn she wasn't there, it meant weeks of trekking back the way they came, over to the opposite side of the realm. And what if Sansa wasn't in the Riverlands, either? Westeros was a big place and finding one girl was like searching for a tree in a forest.

"What was that?" Pod quickly snapped from being lost in skewering their supper to being hyper alert. His eyes darted left and right, from the marshlands to their left and the rocky road to their right. "Did you hear that, milady?"

Brienne pressed a finger to her lips, motioning for him to be silent and still. She didn't hear anything, but she wasn't so complacent as to just brush the boy off. Just to be safe, she reached for Oathkeeper and rose to her haunches. Wet footsteps could be heard, the sound of sucking mud, drawing nearer. Months on the roads had taught her that anything could come out of that darkness.

"Squishers," said Pod, wide eyed.

"Don't be silly, Pod."

It was much too late to put out the cookfire now and she began to regret not taking greater cover. But by the time the huge horse appeared from the darkness, she was already on her feet. Still it managed to take her by surprise, for the horse itself was as black as the night and she saw the whites of its rolling eyes before she saw its body. The face of the man mounted on the destrier was contorted by heavy scarring, twisting more as he grinned at them.

"Seven blessings, ser," she said, testily. If he cut up rough, she would answer in like kind. But not a moment before, if she could help it. "We're just about to sup, would you care to join us?"

She prayed he would say no and be on his way. But from the tail of her eye, she could see Pod desperately trying to get her attention. Meanwhile, the newcomer looked from her, to Pod and to the rabbit now sizzling over the cookfire.

"Aye, don't mind if I do," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Of all the thick cunts I expected to run into out here, you were among the last, Podrick Payne. I'd have thought you'd have your head snipped along with that dwarf."

Pod reddened but kept his silence. His unwillingness to defend himself exasperated Brienne.

"You're welcome to join us, ser-"

"I'm not a knight," the man cut over her, dismounting his horse. "And what might you be doing out on the road this late at night."

By now, Brienne had the story at hand and reeled it off with the same automatic manner as a septa reciting prayers. How knew, perhaps the man had seen Sansa.

"I'm looking for my sister. She's a fair maid of fourteen, with red hair and blue eyes and-"

"And her name's Sansa Stark and she's no more your sister than I am," the man cut her off again, his scarred face twisting into a crooked grin. "Don't horseshit me, woman. The Lannisters sent you and there's only two people they'd send their servants out hunt-"

"I am not their servant," Brienne cut in, her patience snapping.

"But they sent you, didn't they?" he made the question sound like a challenge. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Pod and started issuing cooking instructions. "Well, you'll be searching with me now. And the only way you'll take that girl back to King's Landing is over my dead body."

Brienne sighed heavily, it would be useless counter-arguing so she didn't bother. Instead, she imagined all the ways she could lose this man somewhere along the road.

Rusted hinges whined in protest as the double doors were pushed open, revealing a porchway all in darkness. The light from the guard's lantern barely touched another set of locked doors mere feet away. Solid oak and reinforced with iron bands and studs, both barred and locked, Robb waited impatiently for the guard to let him through. Once in, he was greeted by a gust of cold, damp and foetid air blowing straight up from the bowels of Riverrun's dungeons. Dressed only in a thin nightshirt, tucked into breeches he hadn't even laced properly, he shivered against the cold. Not even the beacons and wall torches could touch that deathly cold.

It was damp, as well. Beneath the foundations of Riverrun, a subterranean stream fed into the Tumblestone and it was that stream that seemed to seep into the very brickwork of the dungeons. The walls glistened in the light of the lantern as they passed, the air filled with the musty smell of rising damp.

Braced against the cold and the unpleasant smell, Robb followed the guard down a flight of stone steps. Deeper underground, they reached a long, narrow vault lined with locked cells. All but one was empty, although recent 'guests' had included both Jaime Lannister and Rickard Karstark.

"Where is he?" he asked the guard. The echo of his own voice startled him.

"At the end," replied the guard. "Farthest along, so there's no hope of escape."

The journey walk felt longer than it really was, a feeling exacerbated by the fact that he couldn't see where he was putting his feet. Even with the lantern and one wall torch set at the midway point, the darkness still closed over them.

"Here, my lord."

A third person, a turnkey, suddenly materialised from the darkness and ducked out of sight again before Robb could take a proper look at him. The sound of keys jangling echoed through the dungeons, enough to set his nerves on edge. He could only imagine the effect it had on those unfortunate enough to wind up occupying the cells.

Now that the moment had come, Robb was doubting himself again. Margaery had cautioned him against what he was about to do. The Blackfish had all but forbidden it. Lady Olenna told him it was an exercise in futility, unless he was planning to expedite matters with a swift blow to the back of Theon's head. Even with all that advice fresh in his mind, he'd lain awake in bed, tossing and turning restlessly.

Ever since Theon betrayed him, sacked Winterfell and killed his brothers, he'd been consumed with anger. More than anger, he'd been tormented by a myriad of questions. Why? What for? Did Bran and Rickon suffer? Were they still alive when Theon burned them? When did they die? All these questions and more tormented him on a daily basis. The anger he could live with. It would even dissipate over time. The loss of Winterfell, he could come to terms with. But the unanswered questions would drive him insane.

The answer to those questions lay crumpled in the dirty, stale rushes in a corner of the rear cell. At first, Robb couldn't make Theon out. He seemed to blend perfectly with the dull, grey-brown walls and matted rushes. But the white hair and scuffed boot stuck out against the filth, and Robb discerned the emaciated leg attached to the boot and the rest quickly followed.

The sound of the key in the lock had awoken Theon and now lay sprawled on the ground, one hand shielding his eyes from the light of the lantern as though Robb had walked in there with the sun on a stick. A moment later, he scurried into the far corner of the cell like a startled rat. Speaking of which, the torn carcass of said rodent lay in the rushes. It looked suspiciously like it had been gnawed on. A tenuous foundation of pity began to underpin the layers of contempt that Robb held for this creature.

"I'll leave you to it, my lord," said the guard, placing the lantern on the cell's rickety table. "I'll be with the turnkey beyond. Bang on the cell door when you're ready."

Robb nodded his thanks and entered Theon's cell properly, allowing the door to be closed. Shut in together, Theon cowered in the corner with his arms wrapped protectively around his head. He constantly muttered under his breath, words often indistinguishable. When he could be heard, he repeated over and over that his name was Reek. Silent, Robb watched him, wondering exactly what Ramsay Bolton had done to him. How many others was he doing it to? Who was he torturing now he'd lost Theon? He remembered the ploy to sell little Jeyne Poole to Theon, passing her off as Arya… the possibilities made him feel sick to the stomach.

"You're curling up in that corner as if it's a viable hiding place," Robb stated, flatly. "It really isn't. I can still see you, although I would rather not."

Ever since losing Winterfell, Robb had been alone with his anger and his questions. But now he was here, seeing what he was seeing, and he no longer knew how he felt. He remembered the Theon he grew up with and the Theon in front of him now bore no relation at all to that person. A contrast so stark Robb wondered whether he'd imagined the old Theon. A strange, protracted dream that had somehow led him here.

But there was no denying the facts of what he'd done.

"Why, Theon?" he asked, lowering himself into a chair with uneven legs. The chair, the table and a stone slab bed was the only furniture in the cell and Theon had availed himself of none of it. "Why did you do it?"

"Not Theon," came the reply. "Not Theon-"

"I know it was you," Robb cut in, growing angry.

"Reek!" the prisoner retorted. "Not Theon: Reek."

He still had his arms wrapped around his head, muffling his already weakened voice. Robb fell on him, pulling his arms away by the wrists to expose his face.

"Look at me!" Robb tightened his grip on his prisoner's wrists, making him wince with pain. Past caring, he tightened his grip even more. "We were like brothers. I trusted you when everyone told me not to-"

He broke himself off, got up and composed himself as best he could. It was his fault for trusting Theon, even Margaery was of that opinion. But the betrayal was all Theon. Bran and Rickon, that was all Theon. He turned back to find him sobbing in the corner, that pitiful choking sound he'd made when first brought to Riverrun.

"Do you keep repeating this lie about Reek thinking I'll start to believe it?" he asked, more calmly now. "I know who you are, Theon. I'm not a fool."

"No!" Theon yelped back, as if stung. "No. M-master… M-master made Reek. Theon's dead. Dead like you."

"I'm very much alive, thank you," he replied defensively, as if convincing himself more than Theon.

What if he wasn't? What if they really were both dead? He'd been killed at the Twins and Theon at the Dreadfort. They'd both had everything cut away from them. One metaphorically and the other literally. Robb was at least grateful to be on the metaphorical side. All he knew for sure was that they were both here, both reeling from betrayals and losses beyond counting. In the end, they had taken each other down.

"Did Ramsay do all of this to you?" asked Robb, looking down his nose at Theon.

He nodded. Even that seemed to cause him pain.

"Piece by piece," he murmured and held up his hands.

Every other finger was severed, some at the first knuckle, some beyond that. He really had been hacked away one piece at a time. Most of his teeth had been pulled as well, Robb noticed that when he first got there. Then Theon rose to his feet, standing stoop-backed as he began to unlace his breeches. Realising what he was doing, Robb tried to stop him but it was too late. But, of course, there was nothing to see. Just an ugly, twisting scar that made Robb's stomach roil. He turned away quickly, instantly trying to forget what he had seen.

"Seven hells, will you cover up," he snapped.

The rustle of fabric informed him the show and tell was over, it was safe to look back. At least Theon was still on his feet and looking at him now.

"So, Ramsay cut you away and rebuilt you as Reek?" he asked, trying to get to grips with something so grotesque.

When Theon replied, he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to be a Stark. I wanted to be you."

Robb stifled a laugh. "I don't think Ramsay was ever going to cut Theon away and rebuild him in the image of Robb Stark."

"You asked why I did it," Theon reminded him. "That's why. Now Theon is dead and I am Reek."

"It's a shame you didn't want my brothers," Robb said, curtly. "Why did you kill them, Theon? Rickon was a baby and Bran was a cripple. What threat were they to you?"

Now they were back on his mind, the anger returned. But he needed the answer, even if he didn't like it. Theon cringed away again, the choking noises coming from somewhere at the back of his throat. But Robb wouldn't let it go.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice echoing around the cell.

The noise made Theon flinch. But even when he seemed to recover himself, he remained silent. His brow furrowed, displaying scar tissue lining his forehead. Ramsay really had left no part of him unflayed. His moth flapped open, displaying gaps between yellowed teeth where other teeth once were, but no words seemed to form.

"I-I'm sorry," he whimpered. "M-master-"

Robb's temper snapped. "I'm not your fucking master, Theon. What's wrong with you?"

He caught the prisoner before he could shrink back into the corner and curl up like a hedgehog again. Robb wasn't standing for it, no matter what Ramsay had done to him.

"Master!" he repeated, panic-stricken. "Master will punish me!"

Normally Robb would have been mystified, with Theon he was just furious. "Do you mean Ramsay? He's not fucking here, Theon. Do you think I'm working with him? Do you think I've let him take Winterfell from me just as a trap for you? He betrayed me and soon I am marching North to kill him."

Theon was trembling violently, eyes wide with alarm. "No! No, you mustn't. Ramsay will catch you, he'll get you. He'll destroy you like he did me. You must stay here-"

"And leave my people in the hands of that monster?" Robb laughed bitterly as he added. "And I never knew you cared so much, Theon!"

"Please!" Theon pleaded, falling to his knees in the rushes at Robb's feet. His hands were clasped together in a manner of prayer. "If you go North now, he will catch you and flay your army-"

"Enough!" Robb shouted over him, pushing him away so hard he fell backwards in the rushes. "What I do is my concern and none of yours."

Theon retreated back into his corner, but Robb was past caring. It wasn't as if the poor wretch was hiding, there was nowhere for him to go. No difference was made. All the same, the incessant cringing and whimpering was getting on his nerves. Then, finally, Theon spoke.

"Not dead," he blurted out. A second passed, before he repeated himself slowly. "They're not dead. Bran and Rickon."

Robb had been standing with his back to Theon, and now slowly looked over his shoulder. Theon was scratching at his skin, tormenting himself as if he'd betrayed a confidence. Resting on his haunches, he rocked back and forth, struggling to keep himself together.

"What did you say?"

He drew a few deep breaths before continuing: "Bran and Rickon escaped. Osha, the wildling girl, helped them. She cut a guard's throat and stole them away. I took the dogs out hunting them, but couldn't get a scent. We lost them at the river. Ramsay came, pretending to help, and he said I should take two other boys of an age with Bran and Rickon and … and … and…"

He stammered off into silence, struggling to articulate the two innocent children he had slain and burned.

"And what?" Robb snapped at him.

"And I burned them and hanged them from the walls of Winterfell," Theon blurted out, breaking down in tears. "They were the miller's sons. But Bran and Rickon are alive."

Stunned into silence, Robb found himself at a strange sort of a crossroads. He wanted to believe his brothers were alive. Of course he did. But could he believe it when the news came from the lips of Theon Greyjoy. He had trusted him once, and never would again.

"Do you think telling me this will save your life?" he asked.

Theon looked up at him again, straight faced and dead in the eye. "The only hope I have left is death."

Robb smiled crookedly. "Do you think death will be the end of your suffering, Theon Greyjoy? There's a special place in the seven hells for people who murder innocent children. For people like you."

He didn't know if he even believed in any gods anymore. Old, new, fire gods, drowned gods … none had exactly been of much help to him, recently. But he wanted to see the look on this wretch's face at the prospect of torments to come.

Theon didn't look in the least bit bothered. "I know. I think I've already been there."

Whether or not Theon was telling the truth had Robb in a quagmire of agonised indecision. A dying man would say anything to save himself. But Theon welcomed death and Robb could well see why. However, he lied all the time. The years at Winterfell, where Robb thought of him as a brother, were all a lie. And this, Bran and Rickon alive, would be the cruellest lie of all. If Robb opened himself up to that hope only to have it dashed … it didn't bear thinking about.

"Is it true?" he asked, looking Theon in the eye. "Are they alive?"

Theon nodded. "I'll swear before the heart tree. Bran and Rickon escaped."

Robb knew he could ask and ask, but he could never bring himself to fully trust what Theon said. But he had said it, and the seed of doubt was planted. And there was no denying how badly he wanted it to be true. It would be the sweetest thing of all, if Bran and Rickon were still out there, just waiting for him to take back Winterfell. Just waiting to come home.

"I don't know whether I can believe you or not," he said, at length. "But one thing is true, Theon. Before you betrayed me, I thought of you as my brother in all but blood. A Stark in all but name."

With that, he could bear no more. He banged on the cell door, the noise echoing down the long chamber beyond. The remains of the dead rat were beside his boot. "I'll leave you to the rest of your supper, Greyjoy."

Once back in the castle proper, he could see the beginnings of dawn penetrating the darkness of night. A new morning, a new day. Feeling dirty from his time in the dungeons, in the company of the Turncloak, he made his way to the baths on the ground floor and soaked in the hot water. All the time he thought of his brothers and the children Theon says were burned in their place. The Miller's sons. Theon was fucking the Miller's wife, he recalled. He had been for years. A kinslayer as well as a turncloak? Possibly. He'd certainly suffered the fate of both.

Several hours later, still without sleep, he found Margaery waiting for him in the common hall. She greeted him with a smile that lit up her whole face. He didn't realise how much he needed to see her until she was right in front of him.

"Look what arrived by messenger, this morning?"

She held up an old, faded green samite cloak emblazoned with a golden rose. The Tyrell wedding cloak. The Stark wedding cloak was in the closest upstairs, in his chambers. Finally, it was time.

That morning, Sansa had entered Sweet Robin's chambers with his breakfast tray, finding the boy sitting up in bed and inspected a huge sword. His little face had been alight with awe as he turned it over, carefully avoiding the sharp edges as Jon instructed. Her brother was sat beside the bed in the chair she normally occupied, she came to a rest at his side.

"Look, Alayne!" said Sweet Robin. "It's the sword of heroes, just like you said."

She and Jon exchanged a knowing look.

"See, what did I tell you? That blade has been passed from one Lord Commander down to the other, from the Age of Heroes to this very day. But, perhaps you should hand it back for now? Here's your tray."

Luckily, the prospect of food had him handing over the sword without throwing a tantrum. Something that had Jon sighing with relief just as much as her. However, he needn't have been worried about his sword. Sweet Robin wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between it and a toothpick. But, as she leaned down to place the tray on Robin's lap, she got a better look at it. It actually was Valyrian steel. She could see the patterns and ripples that ran the length of the heavily tempered blade. It really was rather beautiful.

"I'm going to need your help packing my strongbox today, Alayne," the boy said.

Sansa had tried to tell him that her name wasn't Alayne and that he ought to call her Sansa. But, apparently, he liked Alayne and he didn't even know Sansa Stark. It had worried her, at first. As if this disconnect would cost her the alliance. But she soon realised it was just one of her little cousin's quirks. He knew they were the same person, but he'd just gotten used to Alayne and he never did like change.

For now, she was curious about the trip he wanted to take.

"So, where are we going, my lord?" she asked. "To the Bloody Gate?"

Sweet Robin smiled and laughed lightly. "No. No. I'm calling my banners, Alayne. Then we're marching North to take back your home from the Boltons, then we're going North again to fight the white walkers, just like you said. It's my turn to be a hero now."

Sansa was weak-kneed with relief and swept her little cousin into a hug. A hug he returned gratefully. Words could not express her gratitude. Sure, he was difficult. Now he was a lifesaver.

"I think we ought to go to Riverrun first though," she said. "There's someone we need to pick up and bring with us."

As always, the finer details didn't concern him. He'd made the grand gesture and that was what made him smile. "Talk about it to Lord Royce. If he tries to say no, tell him I'll throw him through the moon door."

Sansa laughed as if it were a joke, but there was no way she would do any such thing.

"So, when do we leave?" asked Jon. "The sooner the better, I think. Time is running out before the Great Other reaches the wall."

Sansa sincerely hoped he was dramatizing for Sweet Robin's sake. By the half-smile on his face, she guessed he was.

"We can set out at first light tomorrow and the others will follow us," said Robin, looking up at Sansa for approval. She smiled and nodded at him. "Yes, tomorrow it is. We will ride out ahead of the army, so I can lead them, can't I?"

"Of course," replied Sansa. "A Lord must always lead his army. Only your brave standard bearers will ride before you."

He looked ecstatic at the notion. So much so, he lost interest in his breakfast and wanted to get up and dressed right now. To Sansa's delight, he was a little lordling on a mission. A mission she, Jon and Robb would be all too happy to direct from the backseats. She drew a deep breath as it all came together.

Then Baelish could be delivered to Brynden Tully and finally be made to pay for his crimes. For Baelish was the sole remaining plot on Sansa's plans. He couldn't be allowed to find out that Robb lived, although word had spread among certain Vale Lords. And if he did find out, he would have to be kept under lock and key to stop him slinking back off to Cersei. It was times like these that Sansa remembered she wasn't as in control as she thought she was.

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

Before I sign off, I want to wish all my US readers a happy Thanksgiving for tomorrow (I think it's tomorrow anyway). Enjoy yourselves, stay safe and have a blast.

Apologies for being a day early with this update, but I'm off to London tomorrow. Just as before, this short trip away won't affect Before the Dawn, which will be updated on Sunday, as per usual. So, see you then.

Thanks again and take care.