Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and favourited/alerted this story. It all really means a lot, so thank you.

I keep forgetting that the show changed the name of Theon's sister, so in this I'll be sticking with her book name: Asha. If I try to call her Yara I know I'll accidentally slip up at some point.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Pay the Iron Price

The road to the Stony Sept stretched out before them, seemingly without end. But Catelyn preferred not to dwell on distance. Instead, she counted every forwards step, advancing slowly towards their final destination. In the meantime, she distracted herself with the sights, sounds and smells of the Reach. She had never been this far south before and, for as long as she could remember, her thoughts had been with the North, where she knew her future lay. Had circumstances been different, she would have enjoyed her new surroundings thoroughly.

Their route, avoiding the King's Road and the place it ultimately led to, took them through areas of unparalleled beauty. They rode through fields, bursting with ripening harvests of barley, wheat and rye. Dirt tracks led through fragrant orchards, apple trees picked dry as the huge southern army passed beneath their drooping boughs. In the open spaces, vineyards stretched out over the rolling hills; the mass of grapes visible from miles away and colouring the landscape in a mottled red, purple and green. Not even thousands of marching men seemed to shatter the tranquillity for long.

However, reality was never far from Catelyn's mind. She sent ravens back to Riverrun, informing Robb of what was happening. But she had never once received word back from him. His silence was grating on her, irritating at first but now causing her to worry. Something was happening, but this far from home she couldn't even begin to guess at what. Being in the dark left her anxious and irritable, effects exacerbated by the endless journey.

Despite all else, one thing brought Catelyn some security. Petyr Baelish had not been seen at all since he left Bitterbridge. She knew well enough he was there to break the Tyrell-Stark alliance and he was not a man to give up easily, if he knew the end result would be to his advantage. She recalled the night before they left, how Petyr had been waiting for her in one of the castle stairwells. She couldn't even guess at how he knew she would pass that way.

Once they had begun the approach to the Goldroad, Catelyn returned to the Tyrell litter. There, she found the usual company of Mace Tyrell, Lady Olenna and Alerie, with Margaery seated between them. They reclined on their cushions, chatting quietly among themselves and watching as the countryside rolled past their window. But with the Stony Sept barely a week's ride away, it was time to return to business. Catelyn had not yet had time to tell them about Baelish's offer.

When she finished telling all, Lord Tyrell looked rather perplexed. "Forgive me, Lady Stark, I thought Lysa Arryn was your sister."

"Oh, she is. But she refused to raise the Vale for us. She's refused to come down from her halls since Jon Arryn was murdered." Catelyn suppressed a sigh at the memory of their last meeting. "I did not dissuade Lord Baelish from attempting to coax Lysa onto our side. But, at the same time, I would not count on her support."

Olenna drew a deep breath, exhaling in a sigh. "I don't suppose anyone's listening to the boy yet? I heard he's a sickly thing and wont to throw tantrums whenever he doesn't get his own way. Although supremely irritating, no doubt, it may be to our advantage. If he wants to join the war, he'll just pull Lysa's hair and scream until she agrees. And what boy his age doesn't want to join a war?"

"That one," replied Catelyn, flatly. "Little Robert is sickly and frail. As such, Lysa keeps him wrapped up in swaddling and feeds him from her own breast morning and night."

She wasn't sure if the boy really was ill, or if he just needed a good smack. No illness she knew of consisted of screaming, biting and throwing tantrums. But the child was not hers to discipline, however much he had tested her during her last stay at the Eyrie. As for Lysa, Catelyn genuinely feared for her sanity. However, she said nothing about that in front of the Tyrells.

"I don't suppose Baelish gave you any clues about how he plans on levering Lysa out of her tower?" Lady Alerie asked. "He's not one to show his full hand, even at the best of times."

"They know each other well enough. From Riverrun and from being at court together," Catelyn explained. "But Petyr does not know how Jon Arryn's death has changed her. He will find out soon enough, I fear."

Mace's mouth turned downwards, but remained unfazed. "Hmm. That's a pity."

A pity indeed, she thought to herself.

They skirted the Wolfswood as far as they could, delaying the moment they had to enter for as long as they could. Once inside, every sound was amplified and every direction looked the same. Trees, trees and more trees. Their stout, damp trunks stretched seemingly for miles overhead, blotting out the sun and throwing them into deep shadow. Poor light, poor navigational skills and the echoing noise soon left Jon completely disorientated. As such, he hung back and let the Glovers and their men ride ahead of him. They seemed to know every twist and turn in the path intimately.

They still had their Ironborn prisoner, Allyn from Harlaw, bound at the hands and tethered to Lord Glover's horse. Now he was gagged as well, preventing him from shouting or calling an advance warning to any Ironborn who may be lurking in the dense woods. A precautionary measure, seeing as the Ironborn weren't exactly known for their overt operations on dry land.

As they neared Deepwood Motte, Jon could hear the distant sound of waves breaking over the shore. The smell of sea air beginning to penetrate the sharp tang of damp pines and moss. A sign that they were nearing their target. Soon after that, his nerves began to prickle. Whether imagined or not, he felt the tension rise as they neared the ancient keep. It was almost like being back at the Neck, with hundreds of unseen eyes tracking his every move.

"How will we get them out?" he asked Lord Glover, one evening. "Will it be a siege?"

"None of us have time or patience for that, boy," the Lord replied. "No, our new friend here will help us."

He nodded to their prisoner, still tethered to the arse end of a horse even though they'd set up base camp in a clearing. They would make the rest of the journey on foot, but loaded up with weapons. Jon had been polishing and honing Dark Sister every night before he slept. He gripped the pommel for comfort, and frowned.

"You're not going to let him go in there and ask those inside to yield the castle back to you, are you?" Jon didn't say what was in his mind, but he thought it naïve and foolish.

However, Glover was smiling. "I wasn't born yesterday. You're the one going in there, because you're his prisoner now."

Jon almost choked on his own heart as it leapt into his throat. "What!?"

Glover's large, gauntleted hand landed on his shoulder, patting it firmly for reassurance. "Don't look at me like that, like we're throwing you to the dogs. We'll have you covered the whole way there."

He still didn't understand. Instinctively, he backed away and put up his hands in a placatory gesture. "I cannot singlehandedly take your castle from the Ironborn. I don't even know the layout, Lord Glover!"

"Hush, boy!" Glover scolded, but gently all the same. "You'll be just enough to distract the Ironborn for a few minutes, whilst me and my men burst through the postern gates and over the drawbridge. We will cut your bindings, then you reach for your sword – which will be conveniently hidden under your shirt – and only join the fighting once we're leading the way. Understood?"

Jon, still wide eyed with shock, managed a mechanical nod. "So, I have the sword sheathed and strapped to my bare back? I can just reach behind my head, like usual, to fetch her."

"Just, widen your collar a little. They won't have time to snatch her from you, anyway. Our assault begins when they see you and raise the portcullis. Got it?"

Again, he nodded. But it was with deep reservation that he held out his hands, hours later, for the bindings to be tied and knotted. Further questioning was prevented when he was gagged for good measure. He had to at least look a real prisoner.

The woods were dark. Dark enough to approach Deepwood unseen, the boughs of the trees adding protection by masking their approach from the curtain walls. All the way, Jon was led by their real prisoner who was kept in line by an archer who had an arrow trained on him from the side lines. All the while, the man kept chattering a stream of curses against them.

"The drowned god take you all, I'll never be allowed home after this. A traitor to my own people, that's what you've made me…"

As the stream of vitriol washed over Jon, he shifted his eyes sideways to where the archer tailed them, keeping the arrow directed at the Ironborn's head. As they approached Deepwood, he could see that it was dawn. Mists wreathed them, shrouding their progress even after they left the woods. The archer watching over them was able to also leave the woods, but he halted by the stout trunk of an ancient oak tree. Behind them, Glover and his men stole through the woods silently, spreading out among the trees and undergrowth to mask their own approach. Still, Jon felt horribly alone as he allowed himself to be led up to the watchtower beside the portcullis. The drawbridge was raised, too. The moat prevented them advancing farther.

The man leading him stopped his inane chatter, giving way to ragged breaths as he called out: "It's me, Allyn of Harlaw. I have a prisoner that Asha will want to meet right away. A Stark of Winterfell, no less."

"Asha's not here," a voice called down from above. "She's gone to help her brother. You'd know that had you really been to Winterfell."

They hadn't expected this. Jon nervously jerked himself round, to look back at where Glover's troops were still moving through the thick morning mists. It was a strong sea mist, mixed with morning dew. Wet and impenetrable. But Jon could still make out the figures moving, nebulous and indistinct as they were. Allyn, however, was keeping his cool. He gave a good wrench of Jon's ropes as if he were a dog that needed bringing to heel.

"We'll have to wait for her, then," Allyn shouted up at the watchman. "This here's Jon Stark of Winterfell who I found in Torrhen's Square. Brother of the King in the North, son of the late Eddard Stark. Don't believe me, on your head be it."

There was no answer. Jon strained his ears, listening for even the smallest of sounds. But nothing came for several long, painful minutes. Then, chains creaked as the drawbridge began to descend in stuttering stages. It seemed to take forever, but then the portcullis finally raised as well. There was a snap as the bridge hit the ground, clearing their way in. A sound soon joined by the rustling of bushes and the snapping of twigs as Lord Glover's men rushed from their hiding places, ready to storm the castle. They raced past Jon and Allyn, almost knocking them both of their feet. But one stopped and cut Jon's ties, freeing him in an instant and then pulling the gag from his mouth.

Already the Ironborn were trying to winch up the portcullis again, but it was too late. Glover's men were inside, and the sounds of fighting tore away the tranquillity of dawn. Jon reached behind him, under his shirt and found Dark Sister's hilt.

By the time the hunt began, the sun was climbing high in the sky. Robb had watched, helpless and frustrated, as Theon had ridden out of Winterfell with a pack of hounds at his heels. There were three others with him, all Ironborn. It was Reek who led the way, however, waving one of Bran's old coats around so the hounds could get its scent. Robb's stomach churned as he lay, concealed, in an incline in the ground.

Only Ramsay was with him. Their men were back at Winter Town, a mile or two down the road. Meanwhile, they hid their clothes beneath roughspun tunics and dipped all banners to mask their approach to the Castle. But none of their preparations had made the wait any easier. Then, to cap matters, Theon and party did not leave until late.

"Do you know any of them?" asked Ramsay, voice low even though the others were much too far away to overhear.

"No," replied Robb, curtly.

There were severed heads mounted on the curtain walls, a sight that made his stomach churn. Guilt swept over him as he realised he could have prevented their deaths. However, he could not dwell on that now. The echoes of the dog's incessant barking had faded away and they were clear to make their move.

"They're going towards the Acorn Water," Ramsay pointed out, peering over the ridge in the ground.

A cold wind swept over them both, ruffling their beige roughspun cloaks. Under their drab clothes their weapons were concealed. They even had dirks secreted in their boots, should any Ironborn chance upon them as they belly crawled closer and closer to Winterfell.

"I want a hundred men riding from here," he said, gesturing the space around them. "And I want two hundred to swing north with us, that way we'll intercept Theon at the water. When he sees us, he'll try to retreat. But he'll run straight into Umber's men coming up behind him."

There was a hungry look in Ramsay's pale blue eyes. "Excellent idea, your grace."

With no time for small talk, Robb got up to return to their men in Winter Town. But Ramsay quickly put out a hand to stop him.

"You know you can't kill him, he's more valuable alive than dead," he explained. His eyes glittered, hungry again. "When we capture Theon, I think it would be for the best if I took custody of him. To make sure you don't do anything hasty."

Robb frowned, wondering why he was being bothered with this now. "Let's ford that river when we come to it, My Lord." With that, he broke into a run back towards their concealed camp.

Dark Sister swung a graceful arc, Valyrian steel rippling in the morning light. She hit something, slicing through it like butter, and came away red and dripping with blood. Jon watched, dazed, as the unknown Ironborn dropped dead at his feet, his head separated from his shoulders in one clean strike. The sounds of battle raging all around him seemed to fade as he became lost in his first ever human kill. A sickening dread that filled him as he watched the man's blood seep into the dirt. The man hadn't made a sound as he died.

He would have done that to you, Jon told himself. That thought snapped him out of it and he jerked round, ready to follow the Glovers inside the curtain walls. A horn was sounding now, waking the sleeping invaders with a start. That was to their advantage. The Ironborn weren't even dressed, but the Northmen were already breaching the walls. Instead of putting up a fight, many of the Iron Islanders were fleeing to their boats. Boats that would sail straight into Patrek Mallister's blockade. If they were really lucky, they would be able to seize one or two of the Iron Fleet and use them in their own war. Paying the iron price, Theon called it. He ought to be proud of them.

Meanwhile, the invaders were trying to strip the castle bare before fleeing. Lord Glover cut down several who were trying to make off with silver goblets and plate gold. The household staff, who lived full time at Deepwood Motte, were also fighting. Serving girls threw pitchers of boiling water down over enemy heads. Spit turners were skewering fallen foe and finishing them off. The air was alive with the sound of steel on steel, followed by the screams and grunts of dying men. It was all a cloud of confusion as Jon fought his way through the press, aiming for the steps to the curtain walls. As soon as they had those walls, they had the advantage.

Just as he reached the foot of the stone steps, a large Iron Islander barrelled in front of him with axe raised high. The idiot left his middle and chest completely exposed to Dark Sister's savage bite. Although the stroke felt to Jon like it had barely nicked the man's jerkin, his guts spilled out in a hot and steaming mess. Sickened, he turned and ran for the steps, rushing up them two at a time. A stream of Glover man at arms followed close behind. They cut down the Ironborn watchers within minutes, clearing the way to the merlons and crenels.

Once he found a good spot, Jon paused to look down at the inner yard, where the fighting raged on. With Asha Greyjoy absent, the Ironborn were swiftly losing heart.

"Don't grow complacent, boy!" a soldier yelled over the din at him. "Come, secure the Castle and admire your handy work later."

Still, he took a moment to catch his breath. Only then did grab a bow and quiver of arrows abandoned by the Ironborn. For now, only the battlements were theirs. But it meant they could rain down arrows on the retreating enemy. Something they set to with great enthusiasm.

By early afternoon, Robb and his men were sweeping north with their destriers in a fierce gallop. They churned up the earth as they went, no longer caring for any trail they left. All he could hear was the pounding of iron shod hoofs, drumming relentlessly against frozen earth. Nor were they bothered about hiding their identities. Roughspun tunics were gone and the Stark direwolf was back snarling from the standard bearers staff. Alongside him, Grey Wind had been unleashed and was racing alongside their mounts, hungry for flesh. There were almost two hundred mounted men with him, all racing hard behind him.

They followed the Acorn Water, watchers scouting the way and clearing the roads lest any innocents ended up trampled. Only when one of them blew the horn did they slow down.

"An obstruction ahead?" Robb asked, swinging down off his mount before it had even stopped properly.

All he could see was the old mill on the river. He had visited it once or twice when his father was Lord, Theon visited even more so. But Robb couldn't name the place. Soon he noticed the woman's body lying in the grass nearby. Her arms were splayed, as though still trying to deflect the blow that had killed her. Horses were grazing close by, heedless of the blood and gore spattered on the stones around them.

"Those horses aren't ours," the outrider, one of Karstark's men, informed him. "The Ironborn must be up ahead."

Robb felt sick at the sight of the dead woman and, to his shame, he had forgotten her name. He looked toward the mill itself, still a half mile down the beaten earth track. Suddenly, his mouth ran dry with nerves and he reached for his sword, never once taking his eye off that old mill.

"Everyone, follow me," he commanded.

Silence fell swiftly as the horses all came to a halt and the men slid from their saddles. On foot, they made their way to the mill itself. Noises could be heard coming from within, but there was no one standing guard outside. If that wasn't Theon inside, there was definitely something deeply sinister going on in there. Despite them all being heavily armed, they approached with caution. When they reached the door, all eyes turned to Robb in expectation. Unfazed, he motioned for them all to stand back while he directed the sole of his booted foot straight over the handle and kicked it in with a loud crash. Wood splintered beneath his kick, the noise so sudden and loud it made the people inside yelp with fear. At least, those inside who were still alive. Two dead boys, the Miller's sons, were laid out on the floor, one of them having his head removed by none other than Theon Greyjoy. Reek was cowering in a corner, grinning from ear to ear as he met Ramsay's gaze. Robb could fathom little beyond his own overwhelming sense of utter revulsion.

For a long moment, they all stared at each other dumbly, not knowing what to say or do next.

Jon drew back an arrow as he took aim between the merlons, carefully selecting his target. They all moved so fast that it was near impossible to keep them in his line of sight for too long. Still, he loosed the arrow and watched it sail home, hitting its target between the eyes of a man who'd been about to plant an axe in someone's head. He fell like a sack of shit into the blood churned mud.

But there was still no time to sit back and take stock. They had to clear the way for Lord Glover to take back his Castle keep without any Ironborn barring his path. But they were easily being driven off easily now. Those that hadn't already been cut down had fled, with only a handful so stubborn as to try and stop the Glovers.

Straight away, Jon drew another arrow and pointed it between the same two merlons. Only now did he realise he had no more targets. But his heart was racing, blood pumping through his veins and his head was still in the heat of the battle. He could not relax, nor drop his guard. Nor did any of the others who now lined the battlements. They kept their arrows drawn and taut, waiting for the all-clear.

"Is this it?" he asked no one in particular.

"Wait," the man next to him counselled. "Take nothing for granted."

Below him, the wide circular courtyard was littered with corpses. Puddles of blood reflected the high afternoon sun, gore glinting ruby red. By this point, Jon was blind to it. The little broken bodies reminded him of Sansa's doll chest – they didn't even seem real. Meanwhile, time stood still. He could feel the tide stilling in the sea, the day itself in suspended animation. Until he noticed the Kraken banners flap and flutter to the ground, like someone had cut the strings on a child's kite. It landed in the dirt, soaking up the blood of the Ironborn. Seconds later, the mailed fist of House Glover was back where it belonged and a sudden cheer rent the tense silence. Jon's voice was suddenly among them, calling out in relief and jubilation. His first proper battle had been fought and won in what felt like the batting of an eye.

Between leaving the Mill and returning to Winterfell, Robb had killed Theon a hundred times. In his imagination, at any rate. The real thing was bound, gagged and stripped to his small clothes. Initially, he was only stripped to make sure he had no concealed weapons, but Robb soon saw the benefits of forcing him to march back to Winterfell near naked. It amused him. However, they had been forced to kill the other Ironborn they found him with. They had tried to fight, despite being outnumbered by Robb and his men. Their bodies were left for the crows to pick clean while Theon was forced to dig a grave for Miller's wife and the boys he had murdered.

"You need to keep him alive until Bran and Rickon are found," Ramsay cautioned, while Theon worked. "He might know something of where they were heading."

"If he does, why was he wasting time killing those two?" he asked, nodding to the small bodies wrapped in a Stark standard. It was all they had for a funeral shroud. "He knows nothing."

Ramsay shrugged. "If he does, you'll never find out for sure once he's dead."

Robb had made no reply. But during the return journey, he began to have his doubts. Doubts that were pushed aside as Winterfell came back into view. Then they all prepared for the real fight to begin. Theon was forced to go first. Nudged along at sword point. When he stumbled and fell, Robb's horse trampled over him, almost losing balance. Robb cursed him, kicked him as he climbed back to his feet. Not even then could Theon bring himself to look at him. His breath was ragged beneath the gag, his eyes directed at the ground.

"Recover at least a shred of honour and tell your men to leave our Castle in peace," Robb commanded.

Swords were drawn, archers formed up behind Robb with arrows ready to loose. Men stood in formation before the drawbridge. But when the portcullis was raised, the Ironborn came out with their hands in the air. They took one look at their "Prince" and laughed openly. Robb noted that there were only ten of them left.

"We yield," one man called. "This folly was none of our doing."

Robb looked over at him. He was older than the rest, and looked like he had been axed in the face. Dagmar Cleftjaw, if he guessed it right. But the surrender had been so swift and quiet that Robb suspected the man was playing a trick.

"Are you not even going to fight for your Prince?" he demanded of the man.

"Our Prince?" he laughed back, approaching Robb with a smile twisting his face even further. "You mean him," he jerked his head towards Theon. "He's all yours. Just promise me my men are free to leave your Castle, and we will not never trouble you or yours again. He killed some of your people, but it was him alone. My men never wanted to be here in the first place, but we're all answerable to him."

"Theon goes nowhere," Robb insisted. "He's my prisoner now."

Cleftjaw shrugged. "He's all yours. I understand that and I'll make sure Balon does too."

"Can we go home now?" It was another of the Ironborn who called over, drawing both Robb and Dagmar's attention. "If we set out now, we can reach the coast in a month. If we're lucky. I hate being this far from the sea. My saltwife awaits."

Robb looked back at Dagmar. "Is this all of you?"

Dagmar nodded. "That's all of us." He paused, drawing breath that whistled between his mutilated jaws. "This isn't what we do. We're raiders and reavers, harrying your coast. We don't fare well this far from the sea. Take it back, keep that little gob shite, Theon, and let this be an end to it."

"Those are your terms and for the sake of my men and my people, I accept," Robb ceded. "Now go. But if I see another Kraken on my shores again, I'll have you cut down and fed to the wolves. And tell Asha Greyjoy she will never see her brother again."

The old sea dog saluted as he led the Ironborn away in peace. "It's Asha old Balon wants to take over, once he's done. She'll not what that Greenlander getting in her way."

With that, he was gone. Not one of Theon's men made to put up a fight for him. They never even looked back over their shoulders as they mounted their shaggy horses and rode off into the sunset. Pathetic, Robb thought to himself. Utterly pathetic. Beside him, Theon shrank and shivered in abject humiliation.

Thanks again for reading this! Reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Sorry for this seeming rushed, but there will be more fall out to follow in the next chapter.