Welcome to another chapter of this fanfic.

I have been keeping things largely centred on Theon, Jeyne and the Starks, so I will use this chapter to branch out a little.

As much as I am fond of little Winterfell stories, I think I should move forward. You can consider this chapter to be the beginning of most storylines, the real "meat", if you will, of the fic.

BTW see if you can guess the first POV from the first two paragraphs. That's why the gap's there. The "n"'s are there to stop auto-closing it.

Speaking of…

8 years later

The Dreadfort looked more frightening from the inside than the outside. The triangular merlons in the walls looked less like teeth close up, and if you looked over them, the lands adjacent were… charming, in a blank, empty sort of way. There were few rocks, only grasses buried by crisp snow, and the few dead drees on the banks of the Weeping Water were topped with stilled snowfall, and crows cried out lamentations for their deceased companions at the tops. Mayhaps those who grew accustomed to it, from the right side of the dungeons, namely, outside them.

Lord Roose Bolton was a joyless man, dispassionate and cunning, or maybe that was a front, an organised, carefully built up puff of smoke used to hide his true, more revolting actions. Few could ever read Roose Bolton, and only one man could get a full handle of the real Lord of the Dreadfort. That man was Roose himself. Of those few that could read him, including clever Maester Tybald, Steelshanks Walton, his most trusted lieutenant in wartimes, and Domeric Bolton, Lord Roose's son and heir, it was the latter that probably was the best at it.

n

n

Then again, saying that I know Roose Bolton better than anyone is like saying I'm better at being Domeric Bolton than anyone. Domeric smiled, a slight smirk filled with only partial mirth. He glanced at the Weeping Water, knowing that in a few more hours he would be riding up it, going to meet his brother. Domeric wondered what he would be like, what we would look like. He had heard of the mill, and apparently it wasn't exactly safe. He had heard tell of some low-scale raids and rape happening: a crofter's son had apparently been caked in mud, had his throat slit, then been flayed up in a cross, with wild flowers sewn in his hair.

Father was apparently assembling a task force of a mix of the best trackers, hounds and mounted men-at-arms in and around the Dreadfort to trace this problem back to its source. Domeric would have to leave now, before they had finished rounding the men up, so they could not be used to track him, which he suspected was another task of theirs. Father had forbidden him to ride his favourite horse, a beautiful courser that had the same colour coat as his eyes. This left his charger, slightly larger and with the same speed, but it had a wild personality, more prone to charge a scent of blood than squirm at it. With a less-controllable horse, Domeric would have a hard time avoiding being tracked.

His best option would be to slip out as a merchant with a cart (Father had ordered that he not be allowed through the gates.), whilst counting on the young cadet guards at their shift during this night being too inexperienced to overthink a merchant passing through the night, too cowed by authority to question the authenticity of the written grant of leave by Domeric Bolton (they couldn't, anyway: it was an official document), and too unknowing of horsemanship to know that a lowly merchant in rags would not be able to afford, let alone take good care of, such an expensive courser.

He decided the time was right. It was the hour of the wolf, and the bastion slept. He missed the company of all of Lord Redfort's sons, but he felt especially close to Mychel, who was of an age with him, and Jon, who had taught him more about jousting than even his aunt Barbrey or Lord Redfort ever could. He had heard that Ramsay was a year older than him, so maybe he would act as a bit of both. Yes, he read the account of famous tourneys Jon gave him as a farewell gift (he was currently on Steffon Baratheon's tourney at Storm's End), and he kept in regular contact with Mychel, but a brother… he was never quite sure if Father loved him for being his son or for being his heir, and he had never wanted to follow House Bolton's path. Didn't he deserve to have a family member that showed him true, real affection?

Perhaps. Such thoughts could wait. All that mattered was his horse, and the journey. Mounting up, he dug his spurs in (swan necked, rowelled) and began at a walk, the cart being pulled behind him. He approached the gate and saw the two youthful guards, Wole and Stocke, standing with spears in front of the portcullis. At his approach, they crossed them. Domeric bowed his head slightly, so that they couldn't see his face. Wole approached slightly.

"Who are you?"

"Jory. A merchant."

"Why do you want to leave?" he asked. "Name your purpose for passing."

"M'lord's son said I could leave for Barrowton. I'm going to trade the horse feed m'lord gave me for the grain I brought. I'm going to trade 'em for sheep, sell those to a crofter or someone at the Winter Town."

"Do you have proof of this leave?" asked Stocke

"Here." He passed it to Stocke.

"Hm… official enough." Neither could read. "On your way. Open the gates!" He boomed the last setntence.

"Thank you." said Domeric. He continued on through the gate and down the path. The snow had covered it tonight, but he had memorised it. It wasn't easy going, the cart's wheels getting slightly bogged down in the snow, but the trusty steed was just that, and it pulled the cart through the snow with little to no trouble. Once he was out of sight of the Dreadfort's sentries, he stopped his horse in the middle of the empty road, just before a crossroads, looked round to make sure no one was watching, then unharnessed the cart and ditched it off the road. Then he mounted his horse, and set off at a gallop down the right path.

Brilliant. This is what he enjoyed the most. Riding down a deserted road, wind in his hair, feet clenched tightly in the stirrups. He went even faster, and, as much as he enjoyed it, he felt a feeling of urgency, to avoid having his Father find him, so that he could meet his brother. It was only me and Father. Mother was left so weak after my birth. She caught a chill, a light one, not even in winter, and she was too far gone. Maybe if I hadn't resisted so much, when I was being born. Maybe then she'd still be here…

He didn't see much of Mother before she died, either. Her chills happened every few days, and sometimes would sideline her for almost a fortnight. He had little memories of her, the only real one he had was her singing to him. There was a story behind that song, sang by that hushed, hoarse but still kind voice, a story that was never taught to him. Father was oddly quiet about Mother, he never much seemed to talk about her. No matter. All that matter is that he had a brother, out there, somewhere, and by the Gods, he was going to meet him.

3 weeks earlier

Asha looked at Theon's newest letter. It…. it seemed a bit off. Like he knew something was coming. Something terrible. Or perhaps she was just overthinking it. Maybe he had been feeling down recently. Or maybe he was just teasing her to see how she'd react.

3 years ago, he had told her about something the maester in Winterfell told him, about a special Myrish ink that only showed when held up to light. When his next letter showed up, it was blank. She had held it up to a candle, thinking herself a genius for picking up on his hint… but discovered that he hadn't actually written anything on there in the first place, hidden ink or not.

No, that wasn't it. Occasionally she had had to contend with Theon's penchant for pranks, and this wasn't part of it. He never tricked her like this. Thinking on it, she decided to ignore it and go through the day. She joined Father in his solar today, as he had called her there yesterday. He had said he wanted to talk about something important. So she waited until he came to the door and allowed her entry.

The solar in Pyke was dreary and smoky, as was the rest of the castle. Two maps were spread on the tables, weighed down by loose tiles. One showed the Iron Islands and Westerlands, another Westeros from as far north as the The Wall to as far south as King's Landing. "Asha." Father said as he closed the door and strode to the two adjoining tables. "A war will come soon."

"Really?" She was unsure how to feel about this: if successful, they could reach the strength House Hoare once called there own. If not… well, more Theon situations.

"Yes. I'm certain of it." Balon looked at her with a restrained ambition, and unrestrained pride. "I know I have derided spies and whisperers as the tools of Greenlander cowards, but that does not mean I am without knowledge of how useful information is. I've sent traders from Lordsport to King's Landing, and enough money for them to stay a while. They got to talking with some sailors from the Free Cities, Pentos would be my guess, as that's what they were talking about. Tell me , do you remember tales of the Rebellion?. The end of it, precisely." It was never Robert's Rebellion: the Siege of Pyke were still bitter memories in most ironborn minds.

"Yes. After Rhaegar died," Asha began carefully. "You attacked the Mander, where Grandfather died, and Tywin Lannister sacked King's Landing. Then Sta-… then Dragonstone was taken, but Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys had fled." Asha finished.

Balon Greyjoy smiled, a smile that looked more like, in truth, a death rictus. "Yes, and they went off the map for a few years. Until, about five years ago, tales began to go around the Free Cities like wildire, telling of a mysterious "Beggar King". By some unimaginable sorcery, the smile widened. "Now, who could this Beggar King be? I will never claim to be a learned man like the Reader, but I know that the title of King isn't common in Essos. And, as he is relatively close in the grand scheme of things, being in the Free Cities, he must be someone interested in the Narrow Sea. Either, he is an unrefined, weak, deposed, Ironborn-wannabe pirate king from the Stepstones, or he is Viserys Targaryen, who is trapped across the Narrow Sea without coin, an army, or importantly, ships."

"You worked all of this out yourself?". Balon nodded. That… was actually quite clever of him. Too clever…. "Does Euron know of it?"

Balon shook is head and his almost-permanent scowl returned upon his face. "If he got wind of this, he would jump on a swift deck and race off there faster than a Codd from a battle, stopping only to burn everything that floats in his path, be it a ship, driftwood or Basilisk Islander "coconuts", whatever those are." He shook his head again. "Victarion would do much the same, but he'd be too proud and itching for a fight to not try and root out those pirates in the Stepstones on the way. The Damphair would say these Targaryens were "unholy" in the eyes of the Drowned God, as they practice incest more than a Codd after a battle. That's why I told you. Make your regular run to the Arbor, like you do every few few years, but go farther, head for Sunspear, then Lys, then through the Stepstones to Tyrosh and King's Landing, then Pentos. Find out more there." He clasped her by the shoulders, the grin returning, smaller. It looked almost fatherly now. "You sail in three months time. That's when you usually leave, and we can't have anyone getting suspicious. You'll make House Greyjoy proud, daughter. I know you will."

Asha stood straight. She bowed her head. "That I will. Though I must ask: what brought this on?"

Then the scowl returned. "Theon." he spat. "Not only does he cavort with Greenlanders, he enjoys it. Theon Greyjoy, the blood of Pyke!" he hit his hand on the table. "I'd always been holding on to hope that he wouldn't be such a wolf. But no." Father sighed. He looked… tired. "This is why this is essential. Why I sent out the men. I needed something important, so that you could prove yourself. Yes, you are one of the most natural born reavers I've seen, but few will respect you, and they won't respect Theon, thank the God. Next is Euron, and with him comes death. He will work out a plan with me gone, and his power will exceed mine, for his ambition does too. All I ever wanted was for us to be free. Euron… he wants something. He had one black eye and one blue, but now for some reason he hides the black…"

He sighed. "Something is wrong there. I have a few theories but they are all impossible. I sometimes think that he is playing all of us for fools, all of us. And the rest… Aeron is a priest of the Drowned God, so he cannot rule, and neither he nor Victarion have the gift for ruling. The Drowned God gives and the Drowned God takes away. Harlon, Quenton, Donel, Urri… hells, even Robin, rather then Euron. You need to lead them, Asha. You. My brothers are either dead, or cannot or will not lead, so you must."

"You needn't worry, Father. I will sail East, and I will find His Grace."

—

Jon Arryn

-and tell him I will be aboard Fury tomorrow to discuss the offer by the Lyseni. He will know what I am talking about."

"Yes, my Lord Hand. Right away." As Devan Seaworth scurried off, Jon leaned back in his chair in his office in the the Tower of the Hand. He didn't feel perfectly at ease saying something like that in the open, as even this Tower had its passages, chock full of Varys's little birds. The Vale was a simple place, elegant and rather quiet. Growing up there, it has seemed massive and wondrous, and now, after having dutifully managed the realm for 15 years, he desired it even more. A place I can sleep peaceful, whilst younger men look after my people.

But tranquility had to wait. He was busy thinking on the great secret that had dangled in front of his eyes for more than a decade. The Royal children were bastards. Who was the father? They did not know. He was going through possible suspects one at a time. Robert had neglected to share her bed for years, but he had been awfully… active, for lack of a better term, in the first few years. The Queen was seldom in public when not with the King or at social events, instead she was always somewhere or other, managing to vanish but without using any secret passageways: there were no known tunnels in Maegor's Holdfast.

He had no doubt that her secret had to be known by someone: perhaps a suspicious washerwoman who noticed Her Grace going everywhere with someone. Who though? Who new about it, and, more importantly, who was the man? Well, it had to be someone with weak or similar genes, as all the children looked like Lannisters. That ruled out Summer Island (exiled) Prince Jalabhar Xho, Ser Balon Swann, of the blood of the Marches, Stannis and Renly, both Baratheons. Littlefinger… no, there was no trace of black hair in any of them, and they were either tall (Joffrey), plump (Tommen)or average(Marcella), whilst Littlefinger was short. Little chance. It had tp be someone who had an excuse for being with the queen. A servant? No, word would've reached him by now. It was a dead end. It had been for weeks. There wasn't any suspects.

So maybe… no. No, he would not believe that of the hallowed institution, the Sworn Brotherhood, even in its current state. But what other option was there? It had to be someone who could follow the queen around with impunity, and someone who was of a high-enough rank of knight or noble that they could pass with impunity around guards and the like. So who else?

Stannis would believe it, albeit with a few pinches of salt, but would everyone? He doubted it.

(…)

The docks of King's Landing were smelly, with a distinct and characteristic aroma, a mixture of sweat and rotting fish and the standard stench of the city, they were nevertheless a source of livelihood for the people who lived here. "And a source of irritation to everyone else." Jon muttered under his breath. Once, a Braavosi representative of the Iron Bank. He took one look at the harbour, and then proceeded to spout at least 8 different ways to improve it for both economic efficiency and general safety. Jon had been embarrassed that one was "Don't let unregistered boats remain in dock." There were at least 20 unregistered ones in the harbour at any second. one even belonging to Lysa, a Braavosi cog that was a wedding gift from Baelish. He distrusted something about that boat.

He turned his focus to another boat, off in the distance. Fury. One of the most powerful ships to ever unfurl a sail, dipping 300 oars over 3 decks. With catapults fore and aft, and with scorpions on either side, any ship trying to attack it would have to contend with heavy artillery fire. The ship was faster than it seemed, though. Fury grew larger as his own man, not in Aryyn colours, rowed him towards it. Jon himself was wearing blue, but a rich, dark cyan doublet, covered with a black leather jerkin. He was also wearing black trousers and grey boots. No-one would think him in Arryn in those colours. Even so, he kept his head down.

Upon reaching the far side of the ship, hidden from view of the harbour, a rope dropped into the water. Jon, who was strong for his elderly age, began to climb up, occasionally stopping for breath. Fury was rather big. Upon reaching the top, he was helped on by a man with common features and brown hair, whom he recognised as Davos Seaworth. He found Stannis Baratheon in the great cabin. The Lord of Dragonstone was sitting by the table there. To his right were large cupboards and chests, filled with maps and navigating equipment, no doubt.

He looked up when the Door opened. "My Lord Hand, he said, standing up. He looked to Davos. "Thank you. That will be all." Davos bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Stannis walked back to behind his desk and sat down, motioning for Jon to do the same. Jon pulled up a chair and sat as well. "I believe I have narrowed down our search for the culprit. It has to be someone who has an excuse, a reason to able to follow the queen around with impunity. It has to be a Kingsguard."

If Stannis was surprised he did not show it. He ground his teeth. "Who?" he asked.

"I know not." Jon admitted." It could be anyone except Ser Barristan Selmy."

"And Ser Jaime Lannister." Stannis added. "Although that would explain why all children are purely Lannisters."

"I do not think it likely, but stranger things have happened. The Kingslayer is a possibility at the moment, no matter how unlikely it is. It must be a Kingsguard, and if it's none of the others it must be him."

Stannis thought about this for a moment. "We should start not by writing them out, but be prioritising the investigation of those that are most likely. So, the unlikely ones are Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan. Yes, it's almost impossible, but we have to find out the truth."

"And Ser Preston. A Lannister would be too proud to take a bannerman as their concubine. Greenfield's family is sworn to Casterly Rock."

"Right." Stannis nodded. "So that leaves Sers Arys Oakheart, Boros Blount, Meryn Trant and Mandon Moore."

"It has to be someone handsome enough for the queen to take into their bed, and one whose genes not very strong. I think that Ser Arys would fit the plate best. First Man lines are weak South of the Neck, with the exception of the Blackwoods. Houses descended from them wouldn't have strong genes. Ser Arys is a Reachman whose family is descended from the First Men, and the Lannister colouring would have won out every time."

"Ser Arys does not strike me as the person who would break his vows."

"Nor me. I suppose we shall have our answer soon enough. I can set men out to report on them, mayhaps have a private word with the steward to make sure our men go where the queen goes. Change some schedules around or something."

"I believe that is the best course of action. Put focus on him especially, always at least one man in his presence. We don't have many in the Watch that can be relied upon, but one serjeant stands out. He's a Stormlander, joined after the Trident. He'll hold some respect for Robert, so I can trust him to make his men listen closer. Of course, the Queen is often guarded solely by Red Cloaks, so that could be a problem."

"Perhaps I could visit Chataya's, hire someone to try and get a reaction out of him. Mayhaps someone with dark skin, he told me once, in casual conversation, that the only girl he'd ever nearly bedded was a Dornish merchant's niece that had travelled to Old Oak with the merchant, only he was, ah... premature in certain areas. I've got to visit it anyway, Varys informed me that his little birds had heard whispers of a black-haired babe with blue eyes, born during a light storm."

"Robert's." Stannis answered at once. "All those with a drop of Baratheon blood have black hair and blue eyes, and for some reason, they are all born during storms. Only thing about us that I haven't been able to explain. On the other hand," Stannis said, clenching his jaw. "You said Varys gave you this information. You are aware that he is more likely to be able to ply his trade in that whorehouse than deliver trustable information about it?"

"Yes, but I don't see why he should lie about this. On another note, I have discovered something peculiar about the Hand's tower. Unknown to many there is a secret tunnel that connects the brothel to it. I discovered the entrance in 284, mind you, but only a few months ago did I realise where it actually went. It was late at night and I couldn't sleep, so I followed it. It may be of use to us, we could smuggle her in past the guards., or hide things in there." He shrugged. "Just a thought."

"I don't see why this whore plan of yours is necessary. Do you think the Queen would not be proud enough to demand that they be exclusive?"

"Likely, but not certain. If he is willing to break his vows, we'll investigate him more."

"Breaking vows is breaking vows. Laying with his queen is treason. If he lays with this whore, we'll know he's more likely to but not know for certain. If not, again, we don't know for sure, as they could be exclusive."

"It's still useful." Jon Arryn insisted. "We can still work something out."

"Very well, my Lord Hand. Forgive me, I must needs go inspect my other ships now. Good day."

"Good day, Lord Stannis."

Jon climbed back into the boat, watching the city grow in the distance, as the skiff was paddled towards King's Landing."

News did not travel fast on Pyke. That was a good thing most times, but not now. This was terrible, where had they got this information? The men in King's Landing were his, they were meant to report only to him. "What stupidity propelled me to trust a Codd? I do despise him less than other men, and this is how he rewards me? Why am I not surprised?" he laughed mirthlessly into the gloomy sea breeze.

"Father? said his son timidly. Dalton Pyke was a weakling, a meek, small, sickly and sad teenage boy, comprised of five feet of skin stretched over bones. He had the dark hair of the Greyjoys, but his was tangled, dry and more dark brown than black. His eyes were hazel, watery and tired, his skin pallid in some places and with sallow blotches elsewhere, his mouth small, his teeth loose and chin weak. Boys bullied him, men mocked him. Even Theon and Asha, those kind-hearted wretches, admitted that little good could be said of him.

He had fathered him on a girl he had taken as a salt wife at the Mander, where his Father had died. The girl squirmed and shuddered and cried, and gave him such a disappointing lay that when she announced she was with child, he disowned her as a salt wife, not caring whether the son lived or not. He did, and sadly he was as disappointing as his mother. The boy was 13, turning 14 soon, and was still as pathetic a soul that no-one even pitied him. Euron found his suffering amusing at times, and annoying most times.

He was useful, through no skill of his own, sometimes, as a spy. So many people made him hurt and suffer that everyone stopped to insult him, then continued. He was thoroughly ignored by people that were not mindlessly wandering Pyke, so no-one payed any attention to him. He also too scared to be disobedient, he did was told. It was a good thing he had deployed him now, of all times, but he needed to think so he ejected the wretch from the room by his collar, then punched him in the stomach when he persisted in his annoyance.

As the sounds of pained groans grew quieter, Euron brooded on the truth. His plan for rule had been shattered, as it had been hinging on Asha not being worthy to stake a claim to the Seastone Chair. Euron didn't even need to manipulate Balon into declaring himself king: Theon was a Greenlander in Balon's eyes, and when the time came, he would rise up again, harder and stronger. But Balon wanted Asha to succeed him, although no woman could rule the Ironborn. This would create discontent on the isles, a lot of it.

He had first heard rumours of the Beggar King long ago, so he had sent men to investigate. He had spied, by complete chance, a Pentoshi cog bound for Lannisport, as he was simply relaxing with a spot of sailing. He had made landfall, waited for the same ship to exit Lannisport, (most small Free City boats were merchants, and all seafaring merchants aim to be richer on the homeward leg.) and sprung on it. That's when he heard whisperings of their "client". Euron was intrigued, so he tried to find out more. Sadly, slaves are slaves, and they took their secrets to the grave.

Nonetheless, Euron planted the seed in Balon's head, and it had indeed, bore fruit with Balon being unwitting. He had thought out his plan and saw no way it could fail. Once Balon "fell" from a bridge during the war, Euron would stake his claim. He would cite his victories at the Mander and Lannisport. He would've been present at Asha's war councils beforehand, so that then he could spin her successes as his own. He would demonstrate his vast hoard that he had carefully accumulated by reaving quietly throughout the years. He would then take the throne, initiate Phases Two and Three of his plan, and rule forever.

It was fail-proof. But apparently, it was not. Or.. maybe it was just not idiot-proof. Maybe… maybe his men had decided to get drunk someplace, and spouted on about their adventures in the East of Westeros. Lucas Codd drunk like a fish, if a fish drunk ale. He had to find out. So he traced the boy back to his favourite hideout, the library, and sent him out with a task.

Left-Hand Lucas Codd arrived the next morning, smirking even whilst hungover. He and his men joined him on the rocks beneath the wooden bridge. Euron pushed a crab the most comfortable-looking and sat, staring daggers at the sorry lot of would-be spies.

"So recount your journey, please. All of it." he began.

"We set off from Lordsport six months ago, at your brother's instruction. You told us to report to you first, and we swore to do that. We took passage on a merchant's ship from Lannisport, then hired enough boys from Lannispot's underbelly to sail longship we stole from the soldiers there. We went down towards Oldtown, stopping at Crakehall, the Shields and Banallon port. Once we arrived, we ditched the Lannisport boys and booked passage on another ship, this time to King's Landing. We weren't bothered by Stepstone pirates though."

"So there you ran into the men in the employ of a Pentoshi magister called Illyrio, there to deliver their master to King's Landing. You then met with Magister Illyrio briefly, told him I'd be interested in contacting him, and then left for Lordsport"

"Yes."

Euron nodded and sat up. He walked a few paces, found a small black rock he liked, and began to toss it up and down in his hand. "Then how," he asked, taking lazy aim and then snapping his wrist forward, violently propelling the rock into Lucas Codd's nose, "did Balon know?"

Two of his men had stepped up in defence of their captain, one with his hand on his hilt, the other taking his axe out of his shoulder strap. A look from Euron made them ebb, though. "We don't know, cap'n." Lucas started in a nasal and pained voice. "We don't know, we reported to you first."

"What did you do between arriving at Lordsport and reporting to me?"

"Well, it was late and we was tired, me even more so, due to enjoying the... "company" of the Myraham's captain's daughter." Lucas Codd explained. He was beginning to sweat. "So we went for a drink in that Otter Gimpknee's inn. I don't remember what happened exactly, but Rian here" He indicated the guard with the sword. "He went off with one, then so did Ryk" Finally, he indicated the guard who had not drawn a weapon, but had helped Codd up. "and then it was just me and Dave here"

"It's Rodney..." the guard muttered but Codd went on. "I remembered talking about the trip, but quietly as I could, and then Tris Botley came out of nowhere and ran off." Euron froze. Tris Botley? That seal-eyed prick with his head in the clouds for Asha?

He groaned. On the mark. I used the least untrustworthy, least suspicious, least unpredictable men on the isles... but I forgot to idiot-proof my plan. It all made sense, if you connected the dots right. Tris Botley had been barred from entering Pyke by Balon: he detested unwelcome attention at crucial moments, and he was awaiting news of the east, so he barred free entry to lords and great reavers.

Tris knew this, so he would have gone to Lord Sawane. Lord Sawane informed Balon, who knew to only tell Asha about his intel. Luckily, the men had not been so stupid as to shout his name. Otherwise, he would have been lost entirely. What am I know, then?

Dismissing the Codds, he scolded himself. I don't have the luxury of whining. I have to think of another plan. So he weighed his options in his head.

Stopping Asha from this voyage was impossible. He knew Balon would organise everything, and, as Balon had left the rulings on Pyke to the keeper of the castle, that had been what was going on. Asha was sailing. That was for certain. So he had to get her to fail her mission.

Maybe finding this Beggar King first? He'd have to find a way to escape the Iron Islands, and he did, but it would mean he would have to leave until Balon died. But then, Illyrio seemed cunning, or at least ambitious, to hide such a high-importance man in his manse. He would be suspicious if an exile Ironborn showed up out of the blue.

So he would have to come to him on his own terms, with a gift, a precious gift. But he couldn't raise a fleet without the Islands. So he would have to win or buy one, and stop Asha from ever reaching Pentos. Maybe... yes.

He had a solution. He just had to check whether Victorion was in... he had to pay a visit to someone.

3 days later

Theon thought whilst sat on his bed. His room in Winterfell was small but airy, with light streaming in through the windows. He left the walls blank. Dragons were going to be of more use for weapons than decor.

Theon had grown since he had arrived at Winterfell. More muscular than in his past life, he still retained his natural lean frame. His hair was still longer than in the past life, but he kept it cut to the point that it reached just above the small of his back. His black eyes were cool and dark, not the lively, brighter tint they had been last time.

Last time... and here he sat, unable to do anything. The Bastard of Bolton was running around with the first, the real Reek, torturing, killing, raping the honest people of the North. The North had been his true home, in both lives.

Many boys found homes in unlikely places, it was a tale as old as history. Lord Stark spent his youth before Robert's Rebellion in the Vale, and Aegon the Unlikely gallivanted about squiring for a hedge knight. But for others, it was different. Like for Domeric Bolton and for him.

Domeric Bolton, from what he'd heard of him during his welcoming back feast that Lord Stark had begrudgingly attended, wanted a brother. His mother had been delicate, prone to sickness and coughs and chills, never getting pregnant ever again after his birth.

Theon tried to warn him off of visiting Ramsay Snow as subtly as he could, telling tales of the Battle of the Redgrass Field. Unfortunately, Robb picked that moment to challenge Domeric to a drinking game. Robb had been a lightweight despite his size, always. It was no wonder that he'd gotten drunk off one cup of Lord Bolton's strongest. Within another and a few sips, Robb was slurring and had to be taken to sober up by Steelshanks Walton.

Domeric wanted a brother replaced. Theon, his whole family. Pyke was smoky and dreary, it's people rude and crude. Rodrik had been worse than in his previous life, including killing a thrall that annoyed him. Marin had been better, but that was little good when Rodrk came...

Theon's fingers brushed the small scar on the left side of his face. Those who have been through that, wardhood, or something similar in Argon's case, a whole new family... usually they come out on the other side doing something similar. Anyone could have a ward, within reason. But one raven reached the Eyrie. One squire had reached Ser Duncan. One messenger had reached the Redfort.

One had said: "This boy shoes promise. By your leave, I will raise him, so that he may rule justly." Out of the kindness of their hearts, or for some political reason, they had taken them in; and treated them well. One had found someone selfless, one had found someone who tried his best to do good.

They passed that love on. Lord Stark treated me like his own son, the Unlikely went up with the roll of heroes in terms of diplomacy, with the Conciliator and the Good, and Domeric, had he been judged by any standards but the Bolton's, would have a reputation as one of the greatest and fairest lords ever.

Me? I took Winterfell. He remembered the sadness in Bran's eyes when he entered his bedchamber. The Prince of Winterfell's reign had been a bad thing, and what came next... I failed Robb. I let the flayed men ravage his kingdom for my pride and my ambition. I failed him in the first life. And by the Old Gods which I follow, I would rather be flayed again than let that happen again.

Eddard Stark, Aegon Targaryen, Domeric Bolton. If he wanted to go further, Robert Baratheon, Jaime Lannister, Prince Doran Martell, Petyr Baelish, Jaehaerys and Alyssane... all had, on some way or another, whether through war or peace, special feats or quite control, whether good or bad or morally repulsive, they had achieved greatness, found goals, had their lives changed... in wardhood.

I can't even defend the people I want to. Well...

...

Hells if that was going to happen! He had to keep trying. Ser Rodrik, eventually he had to say yes...

The Weeping Water was placid and slow-moving, a mournful sound emerging as the river babbled over pebbles, oddly like a human crying in grief. Or maybe he was just thinking too into it. Maybe it wasn't that deep. Unlike the river. It looks like anyone could drown in it- He stopped himself. Gods, I need sleep.

He couldn't though, not whilst he knew the truth. When he came to the place where his brother was said to be, it was empty. Luckily, his brother had left a hound there, so he fed it a few hunks of meat and gained its trust. Now here they were, a man grown, his horse and his bastard brother's dog, hunting along the banks of the river.

He stopped as the dog did, at a bridge. He looked over it. This is the first bridge that crosses out of Bolton land. Beyond that bridge are the Hornwoods. The dog ran along the bridge, and onto the other side. Domeric sighed, and dug his spurs in. Come on, where are you? Domeric thought, irritated.

Hornwood land looked much the same as the land of the Bolton's. He passed an inn on his right, obviously for people to profit off the bridge. He had heard stories and songs of ambitious petty lords and cruel false knights holding up travellers over the bridge, but that was not likely to happen here, a few miles east there was a ford, after all.

He galloped down the small pebbled road. He had not travelled down it before, but he knew it. It met with the dirt road from the eastern ford of the Weeping Water at the edge of the Hornwood proper. From then on it was as the crow flied, straight as a lance.

Domeric continued on for a time, passing crofts and a holdfast. Finally, after nearly two days without sleep, he laid down by a low wall, and slept next to his horse, for warmth. He hardly suffered from nightmares, but his deprivation of rest caught up with him, and he dreamed of a thousand crows, as one particular crow flew north whilst a wolf looked on.

He had no idea why he was so terrified of it.

Waking up sore and exhausted, he mounted up and set off at a slight pace, trying to question villagers and passers-by alike. He had not wanted to disturb their rest last night, but he may as well have left them alone, as they had not seen anyone. Continuing on, he soon reached the edge of the Hornwood. A group of men-at-arms, three spears, an axeman and a longbowman eyed him suspiciously, but let him pass.

He headed into the woods and waited for the dog to discern his brother's smell from the scent of musk and pine and dung. He had to make water for some reason, despite only taking a small drink from the skin of clean water that he had filled up before his quest.

After he finished he heard two men talking. He looked over at them. They seemed common, with dirty, pitched clothing under rusted mail, no clean clothes or plate here. One of them, a slim man who wielded a sword, was clad in boiled leather, a browned mail coif and an iron halfhelm. The other was bigger and burlier, wielded a battleaxe, and was clad in a rusted byrnie and kettle helm.

They may know where my brother is. He called out. "Greetings!" They looked over at him. The big man's eyes went wide temporarily. He began to gesticulate wildly, but the other one ignored him. "You don't look like you're from round here." the slim man said. "Where you from?"

Hmm. He probably shouldn't tell them kid full identity yet. "I live near the banks of the Weeping Water." he said. "You?"

"The same." replied the slim man. He had a mouthful of broken teeth and rotten breath that made Domeric want to gag, but he repressed it. "We're hunting."

"Oh? What for? I passed a few animals on the way."

The slim man laughed. "Ramsay has only need of one animal. A pretty one, she is. Almost as good as your horse."

"She must be quite the looker, to be better than Fiercefoot here. I named him after he killed two stableboys and bit another."

"Hmm. Our boss might like that horse, but he may like you better." And with that, he began to draw his sword. Bandits, Domeric's mind worked out. He closed the distance, drew back his fist, and swung a haymaker.

It connected with the man's teeth, breaking them even more. He dropped the sword back into its scabbard and fell back into a bush with a pained cry, his ankle making a crack as it got stuck in a tree root. Domeric turned, drawing the longsword he had packed for emergencies. Regretting his choice to only bring boiled leather armour, his other foe, who was already advancing, swung his axe, which was sharp but rusty. Domestic moved to intercept.

Nevertheless, his swing forced a half-unaware Doneric back a step. He blocked the follow up then pushed back, the big man trying to move to his side. Domeric pivoted and cut. It turned out that that was a feint, but Domeric caught the whistling axehead on the backswing. The steel song was horrid and high-pitched, like a robin had just trod on a caltrop.

They remained that way for a few heartbeats more, parrying and swinging. The big man was large and armoured but slow, and Domeric was quicker, almost as strong, and had a better weapon, but the big man (who was also probably mute) had experience: he had done this before. They stayed in this dance of steel and death until Domeric made to swing, then looped down and cut the axehead off the battleaxe.

The big man looked confused for half a moment, but he barely missed a beat in the long run, as he pushed off his heel and stabbed straight at Domeric's neck. He had not been expecting that, but a swift twist and the fact that he had cut it almost perfectly across the shaft meant he only got a shallow cut. The man then turned, parrying Domeric's swing in the way (if only because he sacrificed half his shaft to do so.) and ran.

Coward , thought Domeric, but he then saw that he was running towards his mate, who was leaning up against a tree limping on his bad leg. The mute took the slim man's sword with a flourish, and the slim man threw himself on the floor with a grunt of pain to avoid the point of Domeric's castle-forged steel.

Domeric faced the big man again, and almost lost his head to him when the man on the floor stuck out a foot and almost tripped him. He managed to regain his balance even as his opponent's sword crashed against his, sending shockwaves through his arm. He responded with a wild looping cut, which resulted in the big man losing ground, a lot. He can't use a sword, Domeric realised.

Advantage, Dreadfort.

Domeric jabbed at the belly of his foe, which forced him to turn. Domeric pivoted and met the man's blow, knocking it aside, the man all but throwing himself back to compensate. Domeric continued, he was cutting here and there, either touching steel or air. Finally, the big man was disarmed, the sword joining leaves on the forest floor. The man looked uncertain... then swung himself forward, partially deflecting Domeric's cut with his armour's angle, as his fingers made for Domeric's sword hand.

Only partially, though. The cut was still deep enough to cause him to fall to the floor, his grip loosening. Domeric hamstrung him when he saw he was making a break for his sword, then kicked him on his side, put the sword through the chest of the man, twisted. He would have to bury him later. Outlaw or not, I killed no coward, that's for certain.

Domeric paused for a moment. I killed him. His first true kill, it had been. Yes, he had hunted foxes with Father on occasion, one time had to put down a horse at Barrow Hall, but he had never taken a man's life with his own sword. He had injured a mountain clansman whilst being journeying to Heart's Home, and then he had to defend himself from the man's son (what was his name? Shalla? Shamma?) but a man-at-arms in service to Lord Redfort had killed the man, not him.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a tiny thunk, followed by the sound and feel of a throwing knife piercing his skin and settling lodged in one of his vertebrae's ends. He fell to his hands and knees with a gasp. Pulling himself up, he saw the slim man's grinning face, as he leaned against a tree, his hand dropped after he had thrown the knife.

He glanced left, still smiling. The smile turned into a death rictus quickly, as three arrows sunk into him. The first pierced his heart, killing him instantly. Another flew into the man's side. The last sawed through skin and flesh and mailed coif to pin the man to the wall as he fell. He never had time to stop smiling, as his broken and missing teeth flashed dimly in the dawn glow.

_

How had the squid convinced him to do this?

Ser Rodrik Cassel pulled at his whiskers for what must have been the hundredth time since journeying off. Lord Stark trusted his word and allowed Jory to train the other guardsmen as long as he was away, but how had the squid convinced him? Some kind of YiTish mind trick...

He had argued about something or other, so... eloquently and long and emotionally that he remembered, it was threatening to bring tears in the master-at-arms' eyes. Still, what sorcery had he said to allow him to convince him to go off on a wild goose hunt in Hornwood territory for the Leech Lord's bastard.

Still, he could not deny Theon had the right of it. Everyone south of the Neck thought Northeners were barbarians. If so, they would take those words back when hearing tell of Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton. He killed and raped indiscriminately, setting innocent maidens out in the woods, hunting them with dogs and flaying them, but only after raping them.

Even Roose Bolton seemed to have had enough: he had heard tell that he was preparing to root him out of the Weeping Water for good. His plans may have to be cancelled, as Theon had decided it was the perfect time for a hunt. Theon had first suggested it after they camped outside the Hornwood castle, and so far it had worked pretty well.

He had found the wife of a miller who wanted money, then sent Alyn out to tell the Bastard's Boys, as Theon named them, to tell them about her. Then, providing an item of her own (a wild goose feather from one of Theon's arrows that she had touched, sardonically enough), and tricking Ramsay and his 4 men into leaving Ramsay's mother at the mill and setting out. It was sound, tactically.

Alyn led them straight toward the larger group of those of which the Boys had been split, consisting of Ramsay himself, Reek, his right hand, Damon, his scout, who had run into them first and been ran through by Rodrik himself., and Ramsay's older hound. The rest was slaughter. They attempted to turn back when they realised they had been ambushed, Reek galloping directly into Alyn's blade. Ramsay drew his falchion and began to injure, but not kill, guards left and right, and the dog was trampled under hooves before it could do any real damage.

Now that Ramsay had been tied up and bound, he went to see what the commotion he was hearing all of a sudden was. He craned his head and saw Theon Greyjoy, Larens and Mathis, both longbowmrn who had trained under Theon, and another man, hunched with a throwing knife poking out of his boiled leather tunic. "Ser Rodrk." Theon called, "we shot one full of arrows. Domeric here finished off the other one before."

"Domeric Bolton? Lord Roose's son and heir?"

"The very same." Domeric smiled. "If it's not too inconvenient, is there a chance I can get this treated?"

"We're stopping at Hornwood before heading to Winterfell, don't worry." Ser Rodrik said. "As for the Bastard... Alyn, please fetch him." Theon's eyes went wide. "Gentlemen... we got him." Domeric Bolton's smile widened. Clearly Theon had told him about the man and the misery he caused.

But when the fleshy form of the Bastard of Bolton, Theon looked at him calmly enough, but his eyes showed a hint... no more than a hint... of... fear?

A fortnight later

Roose Bolton had journeyed off on search of Winterfell about a fortnight ago, ever since word reached them of his Bastard being caught hunting a girl for sport in the Hornwood. Roose had simply buried his face in his hands and sighed when the news arrived.

He felt... displeased. The bad blood had gone with the anger, out, but even so , sometimes he felt the missing blood ready to boil over in rage. He had doubled the amount of leeching when he realised that. That was a mistake. He barely had enough energy left to get up.

He had mounted his horse and rode slowly due to his exhaustion, but his horse was trusty despite its age, and they made decent time. At camp, he heard tell of two men, a freerider and his squire, raping a woman. He beheaded the freerider, but kept the squire alive as he head been convinced to by the freerider.

Upon reaching Winterfell, he was given chambers in the guest hall. The next day would decide whether his Bastard lived or died. Well, it was in fact more like whether they decided to hang him or decapitate him. His money would be on Ice descending come the morrow. The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword.

He sat down on his bed. He thought about just how lucky he was. Usually, he prized skill over luck: luck would fail you just as soon as it helped you, but skill's only failure was in fact your own, unless something absurd and ridiculous happened. On this occasion, something absurd and ridiculous had happened.

So it had really been a stroke of good fortune when Stark's ward and master-at-arms issued forth from Winterfell to the Hornwood to put an end to his bsstard's needless depravity. And something more. He had not wished too see it, but upon closer inspection of the mill, and interrogation of Ramsay's mother... yes indeed.

Ramsay's mother must have taken it upon herself to reveal his parentage. That, or some talkative fletcher or the like noticed the colour of his bastard's eyes. So, of course, Ramsay decided the best course of action would be to kill his trueborn brother. Roose was... unsure of what he would do. After all, what is a father to do when one son slays another?

Execution would be necessary, of course, as an attack on House Bolton could not be tolerated. But he could not kill someone of his own blood, that was unacceptable too. He would have to think his way out of this predicament, this paradox. He could not slay his son, but his bastard had to be slain.

He would have to think about the trial later. Sleep could wait. It had very little necessity in the grand scheme of things, and being asleep meant being defenceless. That was why he kept the door locked when he could, or sometimes barricaded with a chair, why he kept his sword nearby and a dagger in his boot at all times, and why he only slept about 4 hours each night.

He turned his attention to Domeric. His plan to use him to bring House Bolton up in the world was successful so far. Once a tourney that was not a small occasion for a nameday showed up, Domeric would be sent south on a fast horse. Even if he did not win the tourney, he would make a good first impression, and there were always mock duels that could hold some water with the nobility.

Once that date rolled around, he had to get a comprehensive search of all potential brides. He would announce this loudly after the tourney, of course. Most men would think that something so unpredictable and wild as a tourney would be used in a plot, but some were too perceptive, so we would only announce after the occasion.

In the meantime, he had sent Gastwik and Keynes, both serjeants under Steelshanks Walton, off 10 years ago posing as sellswords, touring the whole of the kingdoms and staying in a major or even Great Lord's castle for cheap, as they had been well provided with gold by him. They were to survey the looks, personality and influence of several highborn ladies.

He was loath to part with such competent men and that tidy sum of money (though it had only been a year's upkeep), but he had word from Keynes that they had reached the Twins, and would stay there about a year longer to complete their initial survey of the Freys. Not exactly prestigious, but wealthy, with their hoards of dragons growing... it might just do. He had also sent off a troublesome guard named Luton on a smaller quest around the North, but he had turned up naught so far.

Soon his men would arrive back at the Dreadfort with an (admittedly outdated) mental and literary almanac of all eligible maidens in the running for being the future lady of the Dreadfort. Next tourney his plan would succeed. To be fair, it rested a lot on unforeseen factors, but he was no gambler, he played cyvasse, not dice with his assets. Domeric would win due to his skill, not his luck.

If the boy performed up to his usual standard of competency, House Bolton would rise to power unforeseen since the time of the Red Kings. They had never married a powerful house outside of the North for centuries, millennia even. The Dreadfort's power rested in the saddle of Domeric's lean, grey courser.

Three days later

Maester Luwin's Logs

It has been two days since Ramsay Snow was banished from this world, and for some reason, I have felt... ponderous, as of late. Like something was wrong with the world, but in a good way, like a feeling that a saviour had come and was rescuing Westeros right under our noses.

Nevertheless, I doubt it is my duty to report on my personal feelings as much as it is to write down important events here at Winterfell in the aid of history. Should anything come of Eddard Stark's reign, something important, the execution of Ramsay Snow will probably fade into nothingness, in my opinion. On that note, I digress:

Ramsay Snow was an ugly young man, which everyone would admit. I doubt even the finest cloth from any corner of the world would disguise that. Long and dry dark hair, queerly pale and close-set eyes, broad nose and small mouth. A fleshy, pale body that was only disguised by a handful of torn rags, caked with blood, and mud, after his capture by Ser Rodrik Cassel.

Few men know and fewer will know what drove Ramsay Snow to the point of his depravity, but doubtless it started early, as most types of madness do. To fully understand the truths behind people, we have to take a close look at their past. With that, I shall transition into the tale of Ramsay's birth, told by Lord Roose Bolton himself to the court today.

The Lord of the Dreadfort said that the events took place exactly 20 years ago, but he has managed to keep his age a secret which he would not divulge. This tale begins when a younger Lord Roose, having already succeeded his Father to lordship and became a widower for the first time, which lines up with the timeline: Lord Torrhen Bolton died at the ripe old age of 85 in 277 AC, and Roose's first wife Myranda Locke died in 272 AC, and Ramsay Bolton was stated to be 19 at the time of death.

Lord Roose was hunting a fox along the Weeping Water, which he said had been a favourite pastime for him for many years (if such a seemingly emotionless man has favourite pastimes). This time, he came upon Ramsay's mother: a peasant woman, apparently "pretty, in a common sort of way", who had married an elderly miller, washing clothes in the river.

Seeing that his animal had come up lame, the woman offered Lord Roose a chance to stay at the mill. That night, after a period of glossed-over mundane events, Lord Roose laid with this woman, fathering a bastard without his knowledge. He said that the encounter was consensual, and done as the woman had previously laid with the killer and allegedly disliked it. And so it was for almost a year. Until a fateful day nine months later.

Lord Roose said that during the time between the date of his fox hunt and the date of the woman's arrival at the Dreadfort, the miller had bled to death after taking a wound and contracting gangrene, then attempted to amputate his dominant arm himself out of impatience, and then trying to bind it one handed. Needless to say, by the time his wife had come back from a nearby village with a hedge healer, he was dead.

Anyhow, the miller's widow trundled to the Dreadfort with a babe in her hands, telling of how the miller's brother had ejected her from the mill when he saw the child's eyes. Lord Bolton states that he knew the child was his when he saw his pale eyes. Not wanting to sully his reputation when he was so early in ruling, Lord Bolton hung the miller's brother, sent the woman back to the mill, and gave her chickens and pigs every year on the condition that Ramsay was kept ignorant of his father.

The woman, perhaps driven by petty spite, ignored this order, and allegedly helped find Ramsay his Bastard's Boys, the untrained men-at-arms that helped Ramsay commit his terrible crimes. Oblivious, Lord Bolton sent a troublesomr guard named Reek to Ramsay's home, where he and Ramsay became insuperable, and joined in his hunts (though Lord Roose admits he does not know if Ramsay grew up as a monster naturally, or whether he was coached by his mother or Reek.).

We shall never know more about these facts, however, for when Lord Stark inquired about the miller's wife, Roose stated that she had died in custody in the Dreadfort, bringing this tale to a close.