Special thanks to QueenSherica14, EllieCast4, and Drakena!

It was as Theon feared: Ramsay was to be sent south and Theon has never been so aware of time's passing since he learned of it.

Every moment spent locked in his rooms became unbearable eternities of seconds, minutes, hours, and days. But he knew that would change once Ser Rodrik finished choosing the guardsmen who would escort Ramsay passed the Neck, and Maester Luwin organized the supplies they'd need to reach their destination. Then every moment will seem to go by lightning quick. And once Ramsay was taken out of Winterfell, whatever scheme Lord Roose had planned to deal with his bastard would be beyond Theon's ability to stop.

If only Theon had not squandered his last chance when he failed to reach Ramsay in the dungeons. It had been a foolish, desperate attempt to be sure, but Theon believed he had to do something— anything to stop Ramsay from going free. Only to falter at the end, though Ramsay was only a few steps away because Theon had been unwilling to do anything to reach him.

Theon believed he could wheedle his way past the guardsmen with little issue, but when he was unable to convince them to stand aside with words, Theon drew his dull blade—a dull blade for a dull boy—and then tried to bluster at and bluff Gaven and the others.

Ser Rodrik and Lord Eddard had taught him long ago never to unsheathe his blade unless he was ready to kill. Theon and his Ironborn had killed Winterfell guardsmen before, and he never gave it another thought until he was left with nothing but his thoughts. By the time Theon realized what their blood on his hands meant, he'd already gloved them with colder blood—thick and sticky as tar. Theon couldn't bear to stain his hands like that again, though he knew the price of his failure would destroy all he held dear. This meant in the end he could only wave his sword about and posture as he spouted empty threats. Then when Ser Rodrik came down into the dungeons...

Theon sighed as he stepped over a root half-buried under the snow.

Yet another rebellion lost before it began.

I should be used to losing by now, Theon mused bitterly as he wandered through the godswood, nearly a moon after his attempt to kill Ramsay Bolton failed miserably.

Theon was grateful Ser Rodrik allowed him to roam as he liked. Though after the incident in the dungeons, he was forbidden to see Rickon or the Frey boys even with oversight. Yet, another opportunity Theon squandered.

I should have gone to them, even under guard, before I moved against Ramsay. At least then I might have beheld them one last time. But I was too ashamed. Too ravaged with self-pity.

Theon laughed to himself. It was more of a grunt than a chuckle. Suppose I still am.

The hot spring pools spread throughout the godswood controlled the depth of snow that fell in certain areas within its walls. The heat caused the melt to seep into the ground and add to the rivers and streams that flowed beneath the castle. Theon still had to trudge through a carpet of snow nearly a foot deep, however, and the sound of his boots and four large paws crunching in the snow was the only sound to be heard in the otherwise peaceful wood.

Shaggy bound behind Theon. The direwolf was set free within the godswood more routinely now as he had grown too large to fit within the kennels. It had been the failing of them all to have not built larger quarters for the direwolves before the war—and before ice and snow ground almost everything besides the most essential actions to a halt.

Summer sometimes joined his brother to frolic in the godswood, but often remained with Bran in the castle, as Grey Wind had done with Robb when he ruled Winterfell as Lord.

Shaggy trotted ahead of Theon, but not before the wolf forced Theon's hand to sink into his thick, stiff black fur. First over his muzzle, his wide forehead, neck, between his wide, muscular shoulders, then along his spine, and finally down his rump and wagging tail. Shaggy disappeared behind a stand of trees and brush, and then a moment later Theon heard the wolf take off deeper into the wood. He suspected Shaggy caught the scent of a squirrel or hare, and soon or late, whatever the prey turned out to be, it would get laid at Theon's feet.

Theon followed a faint trail in the melted snow that led to the weirwood. Many still came to the godswood to pray to the Old Gods despite the relentless snows and biting cold. Theon had seen them leaving the godswood as he entered. Only a few realized it was the mad Ironborn woman under hood and cloak who passed by them. Those who did catch on gave Theon a wide berth and cut him with their suspicious stares.

Theon curled his thoughts away from the memory of those looks. He'd hoped to never see such hateful stares from those people again in this lifetime—and to never deserve them. But he'd unnerved the people of Winterfell with the barbarity of his recent actions and reminded them to be wary of the Reaver King's daughter who wandered their courtyards and stalked their towers.

There was little snow around the weirwood, it had been scraped down by the knees of those who had come to prey to their gods. Theon had not come to do the same. When he last stood witness before the old gods he gave Lady Sansa to Ramsay before the weirwood, under the falsehood he was the last family remaining to her. The gods had not forgotten Theon's deception, no matter what world he crawled upon, or the costume of flesh he wore. Theon dared not stand before them again.

Osha bid he meet her in this place. The castle proper was too dangerous to conspire within, but the wilding believed no one would spy upon them in the godswood. It amused Theon to know Osha trusted kneelers not to besmirch the sanctity of the weirwood, but it did not surprise him. The woman's fealty to Winterfell and its people had truly bloomed since that fateful day in the wolfswood. Osha, like Theon, had gotten herself entangled in the same warm, tranquil trap the Starks made for them.

The loyalty Osha showed Theon was helpful after he was removed as Lady of Winterfell and his subsequent confinement. When he told her what Ramsay and Lord Bolton were capable of, the wilding believed him and agreed to give aid where and when she could, and became his eyes and ears. Theon never told Osha he planned to kill Ramsay, not directly, but she was no fool. When he asked her to retrieve his sword, it could only mean one thing.

Osha had taken many great risks aiding him, and had her part in Theon's scheme been revealed, Ser Rodrik certainly would have her back in chains, or worse. And still, Osha helped him. Trusted him. It was a gift Theon hoped Osha would never come to regret giving him.

Theon waited, his back to the weirwood until Osha arrived. The wilding appeared lightly protected against the cold. Versus Theon's heavy cloak, layers of wool and linens, Osha wore loose brown robes and a thin wolfskin shawl sat over her shoulders. Her dark hair was loose and was long enough now it reached past her shoulders to her middle back.

As Theon lowered the hood of his cloak and winced at the full sting of icy air, Osha bowed her head toward the weirwood and offered it her prayers, then approached Theon after she was done.

"Milady."

Theon smiled slightly and inclined his head. "Any word yet?" he asked.

"The maester gathered all the provisions together today. The escort will leave in two days."

Theon closed his eyes. Two days. So soon.

"How many guardsmen?"

"Five hands of guardsmen and two hands of camp followers. Don't know all the fightin' men going, but Ser Knight put the dungeon goaler in charge of 'em."

Gaven. Of course. The guardsman had proven his worth when he stood fast against Theon's murder attempt. Gaven was also a veteran of the Rebellion and had experience with traveling long distances, even over water. That experience will be even more necessary now that winter has come and buried the land in deep flurries of ice and snow.

"And Wyn, will he be among them?"

"Hardfoot?"

Theon blinked twice. "Who?"

"The one who lost near all his toes crawling back to Winterfell. That's what everyone's calling him now."

"Oh. Yes, him. Is he going to be part of the escort?"

"No, just learned not to limp along without a stick, hasn't he?"

Theon nodded, relieved. His suspicions of Wyn had lessened over time, but not diminished entirely, so it was good to know Ramsay would have no potential ally in the escort. If only Wyn's absence was all it took to ease Theon's troubled mind...

Before Theon could ask his next question, Shaggy loped into the clearing with a limp, bloody hare in his jaws. The wolf approached Theon, laid the carcass on the ground, and pushed the body with his snout until it touched Theon's boots and then leaped at Osha. The wildling had grown more accustomed to the direwolf, but not so comfortable she did not yelp with alarm when Shaggy barreled into her suddenly.

Shaggy nudged Osha's belly with his snout before he tilted his head up and lazily licked her face.

"Down, ya beastie!"

Theon smiled as the wildling tried to push Shaggy away and largely failed.

"How fares Rickon?" Theon asked once Shaggy stopped lapping at Osha's face.

Theon thought the direwolf would return his attention to the rabbit carcass and begin devouring it, instead, Shaggy turned around and fixed Theon with an inquisitive green stare.

"Well enough, from what I can tell," Osha replied as she wiped Shaggy's saliva and the hare's blood from her face before it could frost on her skin with ungloved hands. "I haven't seen the little lording about much. Him and those Frey lads haven't been let out of their rooms exceptin' for meals and such since Rickon chewed on the big one."

Theon nodded before he went over and stroked the underside of Shaggy's jaw and the top of his head. As the wolf to nuzzled and licked his ear, again regret swept through Theon at not taking the time to learn why Rickon attacked Little Walder. His negligence in the matter weighed on him almost as heavily as his failure to end Ramsay.

Even in his frenzy, Theon understood had he succeeded he would never be allowed near Rickon and the Frey boys again. He knew he would be locked in his rooms until the Iron Born attacked the North, and then lady or no, Theon would find himself taking Ramsay's place in the dungeons. Or perhaps Rodrik would have his head the moment news of reavers sacking the along coast reached Winterfell. Theon wondered if the old knight would hesitate when the raven with the order from Robb arrived.

No, it will not be Ser Rodrik at all. Theon thought grimly as he leaned down and rubbed his nose against Shaggy's cold, wet snout, the wolf's breath humid and coppery.

He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. I'd more as like sit in the dungeons until the war's end. Or maybe sent South to Riverrun to receive the king's justice like…

Theon straightened so quickly it startled Osha and Shaggy.

"Milady?"

Theon tried to answer Osha, but the idea he struck upon had stunned him into a stupefied silence.

Could I? Dare I?

Ser Rodrik would never allow such a thing. The knight was lost to him, because in his desperation and haste, Theon destroyed what trust Rodrik favored him. And beyond the dangers inherent in his idea, Theon remained Winterfell's hostage. No matter what titles were given to him, whatever freedoms, they were polite conceits, and Theon was a prisoner Rodrik must keep close.

Shaggy nudged Theon's shoulder and Theon absent-mindedly scratched the wolf behind the ear as he tried to think of some way to water the seed of a plan germinating in his mind into something that might bear fruit. An impossible plan—a dangerous plan, but Theon could not sit paralyzed with fear and let Ramsay escape the hook he hung upon after indulging his depraved predilections. And the bastard would escape if nothing was done to stop it because Roose Bolton had no choice but to make an attempt to free or kill him.

Ramsay's death would be the best outcome, the one Theon prayed for, but in either instance, the guardsman Ser Rodrik sent to deliver Ramsay would die. Theon had already sent eleven men to their deaths, good men, he could not bear to have it happen again, not if it was within his power to stop such tragedy. This mad, impossible plan was Theon's last chance to do so.

Theon glanced at the sky. It was growing darker, and business about the castle was ending for most. The hour was also right for Ser Rodrik to be well-occupied...

"Where is Bran?" Theon asked Osha.

The wildling was right to look surprised by the question. Osha, more than most, knew how thorough Theon's efforts to evade the Lord of Winterfell were, and why that was.

"The Great Hall with the Reeds last I saw 'em. Are you well, milady?"

Theon smiled; Osha's concern warmed his heart. "I am," he said.

Though it was a lie. Theon intended to go before Bran for the first time in many moons and ask the young Lord to grant him the impossible, and he couldn't begin to guess how the boy might respond to his request.

But don't I? Theon's smile grew wider, which made Osha's expression grow more worried in response.

Theon's savage smile was one born from a terrible irony because he did know his request was sure to be granted if he chose his words carefully. Bran would not deny him, not in this, and the reason why twisted like a knife in Theon's heart. But what other choice did he have but to bare his chest to that bitter steel?

Theon hugged Osha and Shaggy before he left them in the godswood. Earning warm, rough licks from the direwolf and wary concern from the wildling. He cherished them both and let that feeling of tenderness strengthen him as he made his way to the Great Hall.

Within, Bran did indeed sit with the Reeds, Hodor—always Hodor—and Summer. Guardsmen were also there, though they stood far from the high table where Bran and the other two children conversed in quiet voices. Hodor stood near, silent and looming. Summer was lying in front of the table, seemingly half asleep, but his tawny furred ears remained alert and pointed.

Theon smelled food in the air—something roasted and pickled—held by the heat in the room. The table was clear, but the children had taken their meals recently. Did he just miss Rickon and the Walders? Osha made no mention of them joining the others for supper. Theon also wondered if he would have been allowed inside if the boys had been there.

Bran and the Reeds turned as the guardsmen who stood sentry allowed Theon inside. The Hall was too hot after the chill of winter air and Theon immediately felt sweat dot his brow and coalesce behind his neck where the fur was thickest on his cloak. When Bran's gaze landed on Theon, the boy stared at him with pinpricks of resentment in his eyes. Theon had intruded where he was not wanted. If his cause were not so dire, Theon might have turned and quickly run from that unwelcoming glare.

The Reeds' curious stares were easier to endure.

Though Jojen Reed was of an age with Robb and Jon, he looked younger than either. Howland Reed's son was slender and small, and taller than Bran by a head. He had pale skin and short, wavy, burnt-yellow hair that drooped over his brow and half-hooded his muted green eyes. The look in Jojen's eyes was familiar to Theon. Those eyes had seen too much and held more sadness than anyone so young should ever know.

Meera Reed, a maiden, was several years younger than Theon. When she stood, the girl was an inch or two taller, though they shared a similar leanness. Unlike her brother, Meera possessed a honey complexion but had the same pale, green eyes as Jojen. Her long, braided brown hair framed her face, which Theon thought pretty, though in a way that was more a womanly comeliness than a girlish one.

Like Jojen, Meera wore an ensemble of green clothing: a jerkin made of lamb skin and wool, woolen trousers, and a cloak lined with fur dyed a similar shade of green.

Theon had exchanged few words and pleasantries with the Reeds, and of the two, Meera seemed the more open-hearted. Theon might even call the girl friendly towards him despite a long history of vitriol between Crannogmen and Ironborn that reached back centuries.

Hodor did not acknowledge Theon's arrival or the thick tension in the air that followed, the giant just stared into one of the hearths that burned brightly in the Hall.

As Theon strode closer to the high table, Summer raised his head. When he did not growl or bear sharp fangs at Theon's approach, Theon read nothing into the wolf's calmness. The direwolf never growled when Theon came near Bran as he'd done in the time before, but Summer's indifference did not mean the beast nor Bran did more than tolerate him now.

"What do you want?" Bran asked with no infliction in his voice, and it reminded Theon of the Bran who came back from beyond the Wall—distant and hollow. Though Theon doubted very much that there was no passion roiling beneath the bland demeanor this Bran pretended to have.

"Lord Bran, I…" Theon inhaled a slow, deep breath. "I wish to make a request of you."

Bran's pale brow rose. "Oh?"

Theon heard a warning in that word and remembered he was not wanted here and tolerated only so far. He needed to be quick.

Best start now. While I still can.

"If you will allow, My Lord, I wish to be sent South with the prisoner's escort."

Bran until then had sat stiff-backed in his chair, but after Theon made his request, the boy leaned back and tilted his head. Theon noticed Summer had done so as well, his ears dancing over his head.

"Why?"

"To see that Ramsay Snow is brought safely to King Robb and so that I may bear witness to his numerous crimes."

"That's not what I meant, lady Greyjoy," Bran said. "Why should I let you leave Winterfell? Have you forgotten your place here? You spoke so well of it before."

Theon saw Bran's eyes now held the same callous cruelty of that day Theon confessed his vile words about the boy before all of Winterfell. The nature of Bran's attack was not unexpected, however. And queerly, Theon felt comforted by Bran's anticipated response.

Theon straightened and stood tall, spread his feet apart, and clutched one hand over his wrist before he answered.

"I have not forgotten, My Lord."

"Then—"

"You would not be setting me free. Nor will I escape. Should you give me leave to join the escort I would remain as much a prisoner as Ramsay Snow until we reach Riverrun."

Bran had frowned at Theon's interruption, but his expression turned ponderous, if not gentle as he considered Theon's words.

Confronted with the confusion that clouded Bran's innocent face, Theon struggled to maintain his façade of calm indifference. The look on the boy's face brought up memories Theon wished not to think of again. He didn't want to be reminded of taking Winterfell and then going to Bran's rooms to cajole the boy into surrendering the castle without further bloodshed—though a dozen guardsmen and brave small folk had died bloody by then. Sprawled on his featherbed, the bewilderment Bran showed then so closely mirrored the expression he wore now, that it made shame bubble in Theon's stomach.

Before Bran could find another question to ask, Theon spoke instead. Plotting his words carefully so manipulation nor falsity rang in a single syllable he uttered. Bran remembered the wolfswood too well and would recognize the wheedling tone Theon used with the wildlings. Theon needed to lay himself bare to the knife of Bran's hatred—splayed and ready for the skinning.

"If it should ease your mind, I will submit to chains for the journey. Or sit in a cage alongside Snow if needs be."

Meera, sat on Bran's left, flinched at Theon's suggestion, and turned to hear Bran's reply. Though Meera knew how to hunt and track, and Theon has seen her wield a spear as well, if not better, than Robb, that did not mean she had no awareness of the mores and expectations that came with being a lady. Meera understood how being chained and caged—the indignity of such a thing—could damage a highborn woman's honor beyond repair. Because it would be assumed all manner of degradations were visited upon such a woman in that situation, Meera's concern was not at all unwarranted.

Jojen Reed sat to Bran's right, continued to stare at Theon with his sad, old eyes, and showed no reaction other than mild interest in any of what had been said thus far.

"It would be dangerous travel, even from the comfort of a carriage, lady Greyjoy." Bran's lips twitched—with a smile or something closer to a scowl, Theon could not decide. "Men die on such treks during winter."

"This Winter is young yet, and not so perilous," Theon replied, once again carefully, only leaving a thin edge of doubt—of fear—in his voice. "Ser Rodrik and the king would not send men out to certain death. I trust we would reach the South, alive and well."

It was all but certain some number of those sent would perish on the long journey. From exposure, hunger should supplies and game become scarce, accidents, bandits, or illness. Any number of misfortunes may befall travelers in winter, be they unwary and unprepared or not. Every Northerner is taught from birth winter can and will kill you, and Bran was no exception. Theon hoped it was a truth the boy would be willing to ignore for his own reasons.

"I must decline your request, lady Greyjoy," Bran said.

"May I ask why?" Theon said, though he already knew the answer. All they said to each now was rote, predictable, and cruel.

"You are House Stark's honored guest and ward. You may perish on the King's Road, or as you pass through the Neck. It would be irresponsible to lose you while you still hold some value to House Stark."

Bran did not smile as spoke, but his words were sharp, and he meant for them to cut. Theon turned his gaze to the floor and then closed his eyes. He knew it would come to this, yet hoped it would not. A fool's folly, he saw that now.

False courtesy and formalities were useless, and Theon could no longer depend on either to shield him from the brunt of Bran's resentment. So, he cast them aside and buried them with all hope of reconciliation—of peace—between him and Bran forever more. Theon will salt the earth behind him and call it a victory.

Because I must. There is nothing I can do about Lord Bolton and his regards, but Ramsay… I will see his end or die in the trying.

Theon raised his head and looked at Bran, mirroring the boy's cold, imperious expression. Not even the words he spoke next, silken as they were, held any caring in them. Theon can only embrace that cold now, and the numbness that followed.

"Would it not please My Lord to have me gone from your sight? From your home? Might it even bring a sweet smile to your face should I perish starved and frozen?"

Bran sat straighter in his chair. So did Meera. Even Jojen's sad green eyes turned wide and bright with interest.

"What did you say?" asked Bran.

"You despise me," Theon replied, his demeanor and words were carefully soft. Though nothing could disguise the unspoken malice behind either. "I believe nothing more would bring you such joy as my death. I have even volunteered for the method. Now is your opportunity to drink deeply from the cup of revenge you have longed thirsted for."

Bran's lips worked themselves into a snarl, and his eyes burned with affront and fury.

"I don't want—"

"Am I worth the lie about to fall from your lips?"

"Shut up!" Bran shouted. "I am no liar!"

Theon ignored the tremor in Bran's voice and the glassiness that shined in his eyes. It shamed Theon to goad and prod the boy—but he'd set his course in the godswood. Theon couldn't stop now, not when he was so close to getting what he wanted.

"I mean nothing to you," Theon pressed, his voice low and dark, almost seductive in its timbre. "Nor do I serve any further purpose here. Send me South, My Lord. Send me away from you and into the unforgiving jaws of winter, and grant your heart's desire."

As Bran's thin chest heaved and he bared his teeth, Summer rose to his paws. The direwolf was nearly as big as Shaggydog and stood taller than the high table. He growled at Theon with curled lips and bared fangs, a mirror to his master.

"Go."

"My Lord?"

"I said, go. Because you're right." Bran shook his head. "I don't care too much for you, Greyjoy. So, leave and die shivering in the snow!" the boy hissed, as months of rage and resentment finally erupted to the surface, undisguised—clear and true at long last.

"Bran—" Meera Reed said as she put her hand on his arm, but Bran pulled away from her.

"I said go!"

Theon nodded and turned around on stiff legs. He'd won—but his victory did not taste sweet. Indeed, nothing had ever tasted so bitter.

"Lady Greyjoy," Bran called to him.

Bran did not intend to offer kind words of farewell, and Theon knew he was right to guard his heart before he turned back and saw the look in the boy's eyes.

"My Lord."

Bran leaned forward; his palms flat against the table as he fixed Theon with hateful, glittering eyes that wanted—needed—to inflict pain, returned in kind.

"Tell me, when you went mad down in the dungeons," Bran taunted, "it's said you soiled yourself. Servants even needed to clean your mess all those days you lay in sweet sleep. I'm curious: how did you find the experience?"

Meera Reed's lips tightened in disgust at the question, and she looked away from the petty spectacle. Her brother's sweet, pale face and ancient eyes never changed. Hodor was as ever, silent, and his gaze never left the fires.

Summer's growl still rumbled somewhere deep in his massive chest, and his hackles were raised down to his haunches. His amber eyes dilated almost entirely black, glared at Theon with enmity that did not belong to him.

Theon held Bran's expectant, vindictive stare for a long moment before he lowered his head and closed his eyes. He took another deep breath; relieved Bran's question was one he could answer truthfully and without pain. He exhaled then looked up with clear eyes and smiled gently at the boy.

"Humbling."

Whatever Bran expected to hear, the answer Theon gave had been unexpected and made the boy blink owlishly and deflate back in his chair. Theon gave a nod to the children who sat before him and hesitated slightly before he inclined his head at Hodor, then curtsied and left the Great Hall, and the flaming ruin to rival Harrenhal within, behind him.

Dizzy and nauseous with guilt, Theon forgot to raise the hood of his cloak and drew stares as he made his way to the Guard Hall. He absorbed every accusing eye knowing he deserved their cold judgment, and far worse, for what he had just done.

And I am not finished, Theon thought grimly.

Guardsmen watched Theon closely as he weaved through the Hall as if he might draw the nonexistent sword on his hip and attack one of them. Theon carefully avoided their stares and searched the chamber until his gaze landed upon Ser Rodrik with Hallis Mollen. The men Both, armored and cloaked, stood at a table where they likely discussed patrol routes and the guard rotations in and around Winterfell. Such had been Theon's duty, but after he was relieved of his position, the responsibility fell to Ser Rodrik to coordinate the castle's defenses with Hallis.

Within the Hall stood or meandered three dozen guardsmen in the main gallery where swords, shields, halberds, and other equipment hung on the walls or from stands placed around the room. Theon smiled, despite his low mood, as he recalled how Ser Rodrik or Jory would often have him polish the shields and armor until they gleamed to build discipline. Robb, ever sweet and eager to help, would sit with Theon on the cold, stone floor in front of a burning hearth surrounded by bronze, iron, and steel until they completed Theon's punishment—though it was never called punishment—together.

When the guardsmen's chatter and bustle as they prepared to leave their duty, or return to it, all fell silent at Theon's entrance, Rodrik and Hallis looked up from the schematic of the castle and duty roster spread across the table they stood at. Rodrik's eyes quickly landed on Theon, and his wide chest heaved notably with a weary sigh as guardsmen parted to let Theon through.

Theon's wistful smile was gone by the time he reached the two men.

"Ser Rodrik. Captain Hall—"

"What has brought you here, my lady?" Rodrik asked. He sounded tired, and Theon wagered he'd done much to fatigue the knight these many moons.

"I have come to inform you before anyone else, out of respect, that Lord Brandon has given me leave to join the escort to Riverrun."

Rodrik stared at Theon for a moment. Then he squinted as if he did not comprehend the words told to him. Disbelief came to the knight's face first, then not long after, his incredulity transitioned rapidly into anger.

"You will not," Rodrik said, his tone low and stony. Anger simmered not far beneath and threatened to erupt forth at any moment.

"I am, ser."

Then Ser Rodrik's was wrath upon him completely. Theon knew Rodrik to be a good knight and a fine man, but if he had struck Theon at that moment, it would not have been a wonder. Of course, the knight did not strike Theon, but he did come around the table and stood before Theon, and glared down at him as powerful gusts of air from the knight's nose swept over Theon's face like a hot wind.

"I know not what you did to convince Bran to allow this folly, but I swear by the Seven you will not set one foot away from this castle!"

Theon watched Ser Rodrik stormed past him and headed toward the exit. The radiance of his anger caused guardsmen to part before him hurriedly before they were burned by it. As Rodrik wrenched the door open and let a burst of frigid air into the chamber Theon cast a shallow prayer to uncaring gods that the knight would enact the final step of his plan.

Rodrik stopped just as he took a step over the threshold. The wroth that had stiffened the knight's posture appeared to leave him as he closed the door and turned around. Ser Rodrik's gaze once again landed on Theon. The anger in his eyes had faded, but Theon could see it was replaced with something far more dangerous: Clarity.

Had Ser Rodrik seen through the trap laid out for him?

"Leave us," Ser Rodrik said and there was no confusion he meant for the guardsmen to vacate the room, Hallis included.

The captain and the guardsmen dispersed, some to go on their duty, while others retired to the barracks within the Hall. The rest returned to their homes in winter town, or to relieve themselves at the pleasure house. Then it was just Rodrik and Theon alone in the torchlit chamber.

Rodrik's eyes were drained of anger by then, but now he pinned Theon with a look so clear and probing, he fidgeted under the knight's scrutiny.

"I see you now, lady Quenlyn," Rodrik said finally.

"Ser?" Theon replied as if his heart had not begun to pound wildly—and as if that same fear had not nearly stolen his breath.

"You thought in my lather I would go to Prince Brandon and demand he rescind his consent to allow you to join the escort," Rodrik said. "And that his mislike of you would make him too willful to be moved."

Theon said nothing for a long moment as he considered making false denials, but he could not bring himself to speak them. There was no point in further deceit now.

"He will not be moved, I assure you," Theon said instead.

"For now, but I will put sense into him, and then—"

"You have said Bran mislikes me," Theon interrupted, "but you make light of the depths of his hatred, ser." Theon shook his head. "All this time he's had nowhere to put that poison, but now I have given him the draught to pour it into.

"To finally be rid of me, Bran will not change his mind. I have seen to that as well."

Once more there was a long silence. Rodrik's frown turned deep as he looked at Theon not with contempt, it was nothing so harsh. The expression was troubled, but there was no heat to it Theon could see. The look dismayed Theon more than any rage the man might have shown him.

"Who is he?" Ser Rodrik asked suddenly, hardly above a whisper, but with such passion, it shook off the remaining tatters of Theon's resigned detachment.

"I don't—"

"Who is he, this man who has caused you to blithely toy with a little boy's heart? Tell me, my lady, what is Ramsay Snow to you that you would risk a cold, hard death?"

Theon looked away. Part of him wanted to answer Rodrik. If Theon could confess even a half-truth, then he might share this burden and he would not feel so heavy, so fearful every waking moment. But he couldn't, because the truth he carried inside was his, and only his. And no one will burn with him, or because of him, ever again.

Theon looked at Rodrik, ice in his veins and a wall behind his eyes.

"I only wish to see justice done, ser."

"Very well, lady Quenlyn," Rodrik said, the frustration and disappointment in the knight's tone constricted Theon's throat. "Keep your foul secrets. But I meant what I said: Whatever you did to rile Prince Brandon, time will settle him."

The knight turned and strode to the door, but before he opened it, Rodrik looked back over his shoulder at Theon. His features, often so wrinkled and stern, now appeared flat, distant, and dutiful.

"And then I will put a stop to your nonsense."

Another bitter gust of icy air filled the chamber when Ser Rodrik let himself out of Guard Hall.

"No," Theon said as he remembered the vast ocean of hate in one little boy's eyes. "You won't."