Late January, 300 AC

Night fell quickly beneath the Wall.

Even inside his fur-lined gloves, Theon's hands were cold and stiff. Steam rose from Smiler's nostrils, white shadows that fluttered against the darkening sky. As dreary as Pyke, but for the color. Where the Iron Islands were jagged teeth of dark stone, here soft mounds of pale snow covered the frozen ground. There was no scent of salt upon the air, nor the stink of fish, but a cold smell that stung at his nose when he breathed too deep.

Ahead of him a black brother swore as his feet sank beneath him. There weren't enough horses for all, not after the slaughter on the Bridge of Skulls. Theon laughed as the man shouted curses, trying to free himself from the snow that trapped him up to the thighs. Horses knew how to pick their way down the snowy covered road, but not all men shared the talent.

A ranger dismounted, black cloak flapping in the wind, then another. It took three of them to pull the man out. "Watch yerself," Hungry Hareth told the sodden man. "See where it dips? Must be some hollow underneath." The short poacher was always giving advice, whether it was wanted or not. I'd advise him to shut his gob. At least when he was stuffing himself he was silent.

To Theon's annoyance the black brothers were as rough spoken as the ironborn. Most were of low birth, rapers and poachers and thieves and killers. Hardly the men I'd choose, but someday they'll serve me just the same. He smirked imagining Jon Snow's reaction upon meeting his new brothers. The sullen boy thought too highly of himself for a bastard, but these men had surely beaten it out of him quickly.

Smiler brayed his annoyance as a garron drew too close beside them. The black brother astride the garron was an ugly man, his face pocked with boils, one eye covered in a bandage rust colored with dried blood. Theon's smirk slipped away.

I gave you a bag of silver and you never came back, you bloody bastard. He should have known better than to trust such a one as Reek, but his choices had been so few. Damn his eyes. The serving man's one pale eye had been sly and strange, the other hidden beneath Maester Luwin's bandage. Had bandits taken him upon the road, or was Reek off in some town, getting wine and women with Theon's silver?

Or perhaps the wound had taken him. Lady Hornwood's nails had scored Reek deeply, and green pus had oozed from the slashes when the maester changed the dressing. A braver man might have refused to tend the wound, but Luwin had never been brave. Theon wondered if the little grey man yet lived.

He had the right of it. Better the Wall than the executioner's blade. Ser Rodrik had spluttered with rage when Theon had declared his intent to yield Winterfell and take the black. He should have thanked me, the old fool, it spared his little Beth the noose. Theon had not wanted to hang the sobbing girl, but he'd seen no other choice to hold the keep against the castellan's force. Not until the maester had come to him.

Let the old man cling to his crown. He'd never prefer Theon to that bitch Asha anyway. How many ravens had he sent to Pyke without an answer? Three, or was it four? I took Winterfell with thirty men, and he could not spare a single bird to thank me.

He should have known Balon Greyjoy would ignore his victory. Old done men always thought themselves wise, and Balon thought the greenlanders were weak and easily cowed. More fool he. If it were true Ned Stark would never have smashed the walls of Pyke. Theon had fought beside the northmen in the Whispering Wood; they were as brave as any ironborn, and better disciplined. Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte could not subdue them; the North would never be conquered easily. Taking Winterfell was the only way, and Theon had done it.

The wind howled, tugging at him with cold fingers. A strand of black hair fluttered in his face, the same black hair that fell past Asha's eyes. Your prize will be the doom of you, she had mocked him. Put Winterfell to the torch and fall back while you still can.

They were fools, all of them, to attack the north. Even Dagon Greyjoy, the Last Reaver, had known better than to waste time on such slim pickings. Lannisport was the sweeter fruit, and it had been so ripe for plucking. By the time Lord Tywin had smashed Stannis on the Blackwater, the ironborn could have reaved half the gold of the west and returned to Pyke unscathed. A good plan, Robb had said, clapping Theon on the shoulder like a brother.

I could have been Lord of Casterly Rock, yet here I am, freezing on the Wall, all thanks to my father , he thought bitterly as a ranger passed him with a sullen look. All sins were wiped clean when a man swore his vows to the Night's Watch, but even so...

Theon thanked the gods that few of the men at the Shadow Tower were northmen. He had been delighted to find Jon Snow gone when he reached Castle Black, off on a ranging with Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and almost all the northmen in the castle.

Still, those left behind were not exactly amiable. A boy with enormous ears named Pypar had stared at him for days before challenging him to spar. Theon had trounced him, but he could not enjoy the victory much. A lucky blow had near broken his arm before he knocked the boy to the ground. Rather than cower in shame at his defeat, Pypar had wiped his bloody nose and declared he was Jon Snow's friend. The one-armed blacksmith had said no such thing, but his eyes were always watching. Theon was almost relieved when the rangers departed Castle Black to chase after raiders.

The old castellan, Bowen Marsh, had led the rangers after the wildlings, pursuing them all the way to the Shadow Tower and past it to the Gorge. Theon had never seen so great a chasm, and he wondered why a bridge had been built over it. The Bridge of Skulls it was called, and it was well named. It was there that they had met the wildlings in bloody battle, and over a hundred rangers had been slaughtered before the wildlings broke.

As the last few turned to run, Theon spotted a thick man carrying a scythe, his watery eyes full of hate. The rangers called him the Weeper, and Theon's arrow had made his throat weep blood. He'd been aiming for his eye, but no one else knew that. The second arrow had taken him in the cheek and made an end. The black brothers had cheered at that, their shouts and curses music to Theon's frozen ears.

When the last wildlings were gone Lewyn of Plankytown had cut out the Weeper's eyes and stuck his head on a pike. It seemed the Weeper had done the same to many a ranger, including the Dornishman's cousin. Men had surrounded Theon to clap him on the back; even Bowen Marsh had praised the shot.

Yes, Theon could rise high in the watch. There were few lords or knights to begin with, and their number was dwindling. Eddard Stark's brother Benjen had disappeared over a year past, and the ranging to find him had vanished too. Just before they left the Shadow Tower, news had come that Lord Commander Mormont was dead, along with almost every man he'd taken north. There had been some great battle on a place called the Fist, and the few who survived had mutinied at a place called Craster's Keep. Whoever Craster was, he was dead now.

The road back to Castle Black was long, and many of the rangers spent their time arguing over who might replace Mormont as Lord Commander. Theon listened carefully as the black brothers ran through the possible candidates. Ser Denys Mallister, commander of the Shadow Tower, was well liked by some but old and grey. His second-in-command, Qhorin Halfhand, had taken men to join Jeor Mormont, and was presumed dead.

Of those left at Castle Black, Bowen Marsh was a steward, not a warrior. Ser Endrew Tarth had been young, fierce and strong, but he'd died on the Bridge of Skulls, as had Ser Aladale Wynch. Cotter Pyke had charge of Eastwatch, but he was as uncouth as he was lowborn.

Whoever the brothers picked, Theon wasn't worried. He had been too hasty when he named himself Prince of Winterfell. He would show that bitch Asha that he could be patient. Theon was not yet twenty; he had time to watch and wait. A few more battles like the last one would build his reputation with the watch. Thank the gods that Jon Snow had died with Mormont. Without him around, men would soon forget what Theon had done at Winterfell.

In the meantime, he would find ways to amuse himself. He'd barely had time to taste the women Mole's Town had to offer, let alone try a wildling woman. They said Craster had kept dozens of women, wives and daughters, locked up safe in his keep. So many women, all alone with no man to protect them.

Theon smirked. They would reach Castle Black two days hence, and Theon knew just what he should do when they arrived. Bowen Marsh had too many cares resting on his thick shoulders, burdens that Theon might assist with. Those dreadful mutineers might still be hiding at Craster's Keep, and Theon was just the man to sort them out. That night Theon fell asleep huddled in his cloak, dreaming of soft laughter and warm pillowy breasts.