Mid April, 300 AC
The tree was watching him.
Theon stared back, refusing to let himself be cowed. The weirwood was so large as to be obscene, the trunk at least a dozen feet across. Its eyes were red as blood, its mouth a gaping horror. Burnt bones lay within jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole.
"Ever seen one that big?" Dywen asked. Theon noted the lack of m'lord with annoyance.
"A tree is a tree," he answered, spitting at the tree's roots to vent his spleen.
Whitetree was quiet as a tomb, drifts of snow piling up round the abandoned huts. One sod roof had collapsed under the weight of the snow, crushing two rangers who had chosen to take shelter there for the night. Theon had begun his first ranging with twenty men plus himself; to lose one tenth of his men to a poorly built wilding roof was infuriating.
It had been snowing for days and days, thick wet flakes that were perfect for snowballs and hellish for the horses. The first few days north of the Wall had been even worse. Freezing rain had pelted the rangers, stinging at their bodies like knives. Smiler and the garrons were forced to move at a snail's pace, picking their way over the icy ground. The freezing rain had left its mark on the trees as well, branches glazed over as if with glass.
"We will move out once the men break their fast," Theon ordered, turning his back on the tree.
Dywen sniffed at the air, wooden teeth clacking.
"Storm's coming too soon for that. A bad one, aye. We'll never reach Craster's in time, and the gods only know what welcome we'll find there."
Theon surreptitiously inhaled. There was the stink of horses and the vague smell of cold that stung at his nose, but that was all.
"I have the command," Theon reminded the gnarled old man. I'll not be undermined by a filthy poacher; knowing how to track elk and hunt pheasants does not give him any gift to predict the weather. It had been snowing like this for days; there was no sign of it worsening. Even if he was right, how bad could an autumn storm be?
"So you do, m'lord," Dywen said evenly. He did not turn on Mormont; he'll not turn on me, Theon reassured himself.
By the time the men finished breaking their fast the wind had picked up, wailing like a lost child. The sound made the hairs on the back of Theon's neck stand straight up, his skin rippling with gooseprickles. No man opposed Theon's orders to prepare to move out, though he heard a few grumbling behind his back. Theon deliberately ignored them as he mounted up on Smiler.
As one of the few who knew the way to Craster's Keep, Dywen rode at Theon's side. He led them straight into the wind's teeth. Within minutes Theon's hood was blown back, exposing his cheeks to the bitter cold. The snow seemed thicker now, gusts of wind blowing snowdrifts in their faces.
Theon could not say whether it had been minutes or hours when he gave the order to turn back. They should have been able to easily ride back through the path the horses had cut through the snow, but between the wind and the falling snow even Dywen could not mark the way they had come.
By the time they reached Whitetree Theon's cloak was soaked through, and his temper was rising. Dywen could have better warned him, but no, he'd let Theon make a fool of himself. Theon snapped orders for the men to set up camp. The horses and garrons he ordered to be picketed in the hovel with the caved in roof; at least they would be protected from the wind.
Supper was a dismal affair, the men huddled together in the largest hut as they gnawed at hard cheese and black bread. Theon volunteered for the first watch, unable to abide any more of the rangers' company.
The wind tore at his cloak, still wailing. Like the miller's younger boy. The miller and his wife had light brown hair, but their youngest son had hair almost as black as Theon's. Thankfully Rickon's hair was the darkest of the Starks, a deep red-brown. How the boy had shrieked when Reek broke down their door. Theon ignored the wind just as he had ignored the boy, searching for a pleasant daydream to pass the time.
To his annoyance the first thought that came to mind was Robb embracing him like a brother, chastising Jon Snow for daring to threaten him. He didn't lay a finger on Bran and Rickon, Robb said in the daydream. They were only miller's boys; he had no other choice. Robb was offering him Sansa's hand in marriage when Theon pushed the vision aside. Robb would have beheaded me himself, if I hadn't taken the black.
No, he needed a different daydream. Theon was picturing the captain's daughter and her heavy breasts when he remembered the dozens of sluts that awaited them at Craster's Keep. Surely a few of them had to be pretty; Ser Piggy's wildling girl was a tasty dish, even with her body soft from whelping.
The mutineers would have worn them out by now; Theon and his rangers would be welcomed as heroes when they slew the turncloaks. Theon would likely be the handsomest man they'd ever seen, poor things.
The snow was thick as fog when Dywen emerged out of the darkness to take the second watch. The world was a blur of white, the hovels vanished beneath the drifts. It felt as if he had been wandering for hours when he tripped over a tree root.
Theon grabbed at the rough bark, pulling himself to his feet. To his shock the weirwood felt almost warm against his gloves. He was clambering up into the red mouth almost before he knew what he was doing, shoving the bones out of his way. If he could not find a hut, this would have to do.
He grinned at imagining the appalled look on Ned Stark's face. They were never my gods; why should I fear them? The old gods had not saved Lord Eddard, no more than the Drowned God had saved Theon's brothers.
Theon curled up beneath his cloak, pulling his knees up to his chest. A pulse throbbed low in his ears, the rhythmic thump-thump of a beating heart that lulled him to sleep.
He dreamt, and his dreams were filled with blood.
Five enormous towers loomed over a godswood, their shadows dark in the moonlight. A red direwolf looked up at a weirwood with a cruel face. The wolf began to contort, whimpering as it fell to the ground. Its fur sloughed off in great clumps, revealing pale skin and luminous blue eyes. Theon should be stiff as a board, seeing that ample bosom, those long legs, but bile rose in his throat instead. She was a child still, his foster sister… Sansa sliced at her arm with a stone, pressing the wound against the weirwood's twisted mouth. It drank her blood greedily as her eyes rolled back in her head, her body limp against the trunk. Theon screamed, and the nightmare was gone.
A grey wolf paced within a cave filled with tree roots. Some were thick as a man's waist, others slim as a babe's finger. They twined and twirled together, forming two great thrones. A boy sat upon one of them, his face drawn. Soft furs covered his useless legs; his eyes were white and staring. Theon recoiled, looking away from the horror that was Bran, only to see the other throne.
If Bran was a horror, this man was an abomination. He was old, very old, his skin as white as the wispy hair that grew to the floor. One eye was missing, a root growing through the empty socket. The other eye was red as blood, and even as Theon turned to run he still could feel its gaze.
Theon screamed as he woke, his teeth clenched tight against a stick. Had his men turned on him in the night? The snow had stopped, the weak light of dawn barely enough to see by. Again he heard that pulse throbbing in his ears, a slow, rhythmic thump-thump… Theon's heart was racing, that pulse could not be his own.
Theon tried to sit up only to find that he was bound fast, ropes tight against his legs and arms. The ropes were oddly hard, pale as bone. He forced itself to look more closely, dread flooding his veins. Not ropes. Tree roots. The light was fading, why was it fading? It was only when he was alone in the darkness that Theon realized.
The tree had closed its mouth.
