April 300 AC- January 1, 305 AC

Content warning: this chapter contains domestic violence, rape, child murder, and suicide. The descriptions are brief, a similar level of graphic as canon, though not as bad as the worst scenes in ADWD. Please be advised.


All was darkness.

Theon Greyjoy sweated and strained, held fast by the roots. How could a tree have roots inside its trunk? Let alone ones that moved of their own accord. They wrapped about him like rope, like chains; even if the weirwood's maw gaped open again, he would not be able to flee. This is but a dream, nothing more, Theon told himself.

"When I wake," Theon said aloud, "I'll have the damned tree chopped for firewood, and piss on the stump."

The roots gripped him harder, as if they had heard. His ribs ached; he could barely breathe, and when he did, the air smelt of piss and nightsoil. That only made Theon angrier. He filled his thoughts with visions of axes, and imagined them hacking away at the thick, ancient trunk as it wept red sap. Somehow, the world grew even darker; his head swam, his lungs burned as he choked and wheezed.

"An odd way to die," said a mild voice.

Out of the darkness he stepped, a lean man near Theon's age. But where Theon was black of hair and eye, this man's hair was as white and pale as his skin. One eye gleamed red; the other was gone, the socket raw as if the wound were fresh. A great bloody splotch spread over his cheek; a weirwood bow was slung over his shoulder. Whoever the man was, Theon would have cursed him, had he not lacked the strength.

"You seem to be in some difficulty," the archer observed. "Whatever did you do, to arouse such anger?"

Again Theon saw himself clamber into the weirwood's gaping mouth, but this time he heard its leaves rustling in the wind. Oathbreaker, they whispered. Raper. Murderer. Kinslayer. He saw himself asleep, dreaming of Sansa pressing her bleeding arm to a weirwood's greedy mouth, of Bran sitting in a cavern, staring into nothingness, whilst beside him a corpse lord turned to stare at Theon.

Finally, Theon found his tongue.

"Liar," he rasped. "All of it, lies."

He stared at the archer's one red eye, at the empty socket, and gave a rusty laugh. "You're a liar too. After I chop down this festering tree, I'm going to find you, and feed your bones to the dogs."

The archer frowned. His visage flickered between youth and extreme old age, until all of him was a corpse, with a death's head instead of a face.

Theon laughed again. "Or maybe not. You'll rot to pieces before then, won't you?"

"I have grown weak, yes," the corpse rattled. "I was born long before your grandfather's day. The years have made me little more than a shade, clinging to life. You are young and strong." The teeth bared in an awful grin. "And oh, so very foolish, to trespass blindly into my domain."

A hard punch drove into Theon's belly. Something warm dripped down his stomach; when he looked, he saw that he was naked, with a great gash in his navel. Strangely, the blood was not red, but silver. It sprayed like a fountain, and the corpse took it all, pulling itself back together, its eye shining brighter than a star. A flick of a worm-eaten finger, and Theon was falling, falling, into the depths of a empty pit.

It will be over soon, Theon told himself, shivering in the dark. When dawn came, the black brothers would search for him. The fools needed a leader, and Theon was the only one they had.

In the meantime, he consoled himself with waking dreams. Flames crackled and hissed as the weirwood burned. Women giggled and gasped as he plowed his way through Craster's wives, all of them young and buxom and comely and endlessly grateful to meet a real man, here in the wild beyond the Wall. Theon barely noticed when the corpse returned to drink its fill, once, twice, thrice, though he scratched a tally mark on his arm with his fingernail each time.

After the sixth time, there came another visitor.

The walls of a Wintertown brothel melted away, as did the whore he was swiving. The mists of the Winterfell godswood rose, steaming and swirling, their breath warming the cool night air. Theon stood beside the black pool, his bow in his hand, his quiver on his back. And in the branches of the heart tree, there perched a crow. It looked at him coldly, its three beady eyes judging him.

Caw, said the crow.

Smooth as silk, Theon bent the bow, slipped the string into its notches, drew, and loosed. The crow did not even try to dodge. Yet rather than take the bird in the throat, the arrow veered aside, and stuck in a branch, thrumming. The second arrow went just as wide, as did the third.

Whoreson, Theon cursed. He wished he could drown the damned thing in the pool; maybe that would finally wake him from this odd, overlong dream. What are you supposed to be, the corpse's little pet?

I am no man's pet, the crow cawed, outraged. Its voice was queer, neither male nor female, yet both.

Oh? Theon laughed, to cover his fear and astonishment. What are you, then?

I am many, and one, and none, the crow said, spreading dark wings that shone with iridiscent splendor. I am all who have come before, and all who will come again. I see all, yet know nothing; I know all, yet cannot see the ends which lie ahead.

The third eye gleamed, piercing him like a blade.

But I can see you, Theon Greyjoy. Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer. I see you, and find you wanting. Yet while there is life, there is hope. Repent of your sins, and I shall try to help free you from your chains.

What sins? Theon scoffed, his mouth dry. I've done nothing wrong.

The crow cackled, bating its wings. Take care, Greyjoy, it warned him. I know a story—

This time, when the arrow missed, it spun in midair. Theon blinked. Now it floated before him, the steel arrowhead almost brushing against the tip of his nose.

Very well, the crow said. I suppose the lesson shall have to be learned the hard way.

Then the crow and the godswood were gone. He was within the walls of Riverrun, kneeling at Robb Stark's feet. Upon his head glimmered a bronze circlet, surmounted by nine black iron longswords; it was the King of Winter to whom he knelt.

"I accept your oath," Robb said. He tried not to smile like the boy he was, but there was nothing boyish about his grip as he pulled Theon to his feet. "It's a good plan. Soon we'll have Tywin Lannister wishing he never stirred beyond his Rock. You're sure you can win Lord Balon to our cause?"

"Have I ever failed you before?" Theon drawled. He clapped Robb on the back. Were they younger, he might have ruffled his hair as well. "The Iron Fleet will sail, and Lannisport will be ours."

"Good. May your journey be swift, and the winds fair." Robb smiled grimly. "My lady mother will have to eat her words; she begged me not to send you."

Theon shrugged, his smile stiff. "Whyvever not? I should think myself the ideal envoy to mine own father."

"So I said. Lady Catelyn fears Lord Balon cannot be trusted; that I should keep you here, as hostage—"

Cold winds blew at his back as Theon Greyjoy struggled to bring forth the sword. He was eleven again, and Ice was taller than he was, as tall as Lord Eddard Stark.

"Here, lad." The northern lord loomed over him. His cool grey eyes stared through Theon as he accepted the blade; his voice sternly pronounced the condemned man's sentence.

Valyrian steel gleamed dark as smoke. Lord Eddard lifted the greatsword high above his head, and brought it down. Blood sprayed like a fountain; the head toppled, bouncing, the eyes staring at Theon. Robb Stark and his bastard brother Jon Snow were staring at him too, wide-eyed and solemn. In answer Theon made himself grin, and say some passing jape.

Again and again and again, each time a different holdfast, a different condemned man. Years passed, and Theon grew taller and leaner, his smile wider, his japes sharper. At last came the day Bran was to join them. The seven-year-old was as small as his pony, as nervous as his brothers once were when they were as young as him.

The deserter looked terrible when they cut him down from the holdfast wall. The alderman had tried and judged him before he sent for the Lord of Winterfell, but Lord Eddard always thought it his duty to hear from the condemned himself.

"What is your name?" Lord Eddard asked.

The deserter coughed. His lips were cracked, and dry as dust, so dry Theon could not help wetting his lips.

"Gared," rasped the deserter. "M'lord."

"How long were you at the Wall?

"Forty years."

"Your commanding officer?"

"Ser Waymar Royce."

Lord Eddard frowned. "A good man. Young, though. Where is Ser Waymar?"

Gared shuddered, hugging himself like a child. "Beyond the Wall- no. He's gone, gone, gone."

"The penalty for desertion is death," Lord Eddard reminded him. "Have you any last words?"

Gared stared, his mouth working soundlessly. "Burn me," he finally said.

"You do not wish to be buried?"

The deserter shuddered again; in the distance, a crow screamed. Brow furrowed, Lord Eddard gave the command. The head was forced to the stump, the sword raised, the sword descended.

The deserter was old, his face lined and scrawny, with holes where his ears should have been. Yet when the head bounced to Theon's feet, it was his own face he saw, as always. As always, he made himself smile, and kicked the head away with a laugh. Let them see he was not afraid; they must never know how he feared the day would come when Lord Eddard asked for his last words—

The ruin of Lordsport swallowed him up. Theon stood upon the docks, a boy of ten, staring out across a desolation of shattered walls and splintered ships. His mother embraced him, sobbing, the taste of her tears as salty as the sea.

"Let go, Alannys."

Lord Balon Greyjoy's voice was as cold and impassive as the isles themselves, but his lady wife showed no sign that she had heard. His lips thinned; his eyes hardened. With a hard yank he wrenched his last living son away from his mother, who crumpled to the docks with a wail of piercing grief. Theon had never heard her make such a sound before, not even when they brought word of his older brothers' deaths.

"Alannys," his father said again.

This time his mother heard. Her back straightened; she clenched her jaw. When she stood, she was the Lady of Pyke. It was the Lady of Pyke who turned her back on him, and strode away quickly with guards following at her heels.

All was silent as they waited for King Robert Baratheon to descend from his ship, to come and claim his prize. Lord Balon stood behind his son; his hand gripped Theon's shoulder so hard he could feel it bruise.

"No tears," his father hissed under his breath. "Tears are for women, not for you. And never forget what you are."

"A Greyjoy?"

Lord Balon's grip tightened; Theon bit back a yelp of pain.

"A hostage," his father grunted. "A chain wound about my neck, to keep me sweet." He spat onto the docks. "Well, chains can be snapped."

"Father?" Theon did not understand, but then trumpets blew, and gulls screamed, and the corpse lord came for him once more.

It seemed the corpse lord had barely left when the godswood once more surrounded him, the crow squawking at him angrily from its branch.

Go away, Theon shouted.

What had it meant, showing him days gone by, days he'd gladly forgotten? He had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve such unwanted sights. He reached for his bow, but this time it was not there. The crow cackled at him, laughing, the Others take his eyes.

Fuck you, he snapped. And fuck Eddard Stark, for making a hostage of me.

Stark took you, the crow cawed. He did not make you. Who made you a hostage?

Theon paused, confused. Robert Baratheon, he finally said.

Baratheon made you a hostage, the crow agreed. Why?

Because of Lord Balon's Rebellion, he admitted, the words bitter on his lips.

How could his father have been so stupid? The Iron Islands could never hope to defy the might of the Iron Throne, not by themselves. With the North and the Riverlands as their allies, though, they would have stood a chance. What was Lord Balon thinking, to mass his ships for an attack on the poor western coast of the North, when the wealth of the Westerlands was ripe for the taking?

The crow tilted its head, as if it could sense the chill running through Theon's veins. The ships... the ships were massing to attack the North long before Lord Balon knew his son was coming home. For all he knew, when word came of reavers on the Stony Shore, Theon would have been at Robb's side, and it would have been Robb who struck his head from his shoulders.

It doesn't matter, he told the crow. I was a hostage all the same. They killed my brothers, and they might have killed me just as easily. They never let me forget my place, and I never forgot that I was a kraken, held helpless in the jaws of a slavering wolf. I am no oathbreaker, no more than I am a raper, murderer, or kinslayer.

Still you refuse to see. The crow's voice was cold, yet somehow more feminine than before. Have it your way, then.

And then he was in the long, smoky Great Hall of Pyke. On the dais stood the Seastone Chair, a great kraken hewn from oily black stone. Empty, as it often was. Lord Balon was away again, off to Great Wyk to tend to some matter. The seat to the throne's left was empty too, with Lady Alannys gone to Harlaw. But the right hand seat...

"More ale!" Rodrik bellowed, his face red from drink.

Thralls scurried to obey Lord Balon's eldest son and heir. They filled his horn to the brim, then poured ale for his companions on the dais. Like Rodrik, all of them were in their early twenties, or younger, just barely come of age. At nineteen, Uncle Aeron was younger than his nephew Rodrik, and older than his nephew Maron, but every eye looked to him nonetheless. He was in fine form, swigging ale like water before clambering atop the table with a set of pipes.

As Aeron blew his pipes to raucous approval, Theon sat and listened, hoping his brothers would not notice him. Boys of eight were not welcome here, now that the feast was over and the drinking begun. At best, Rodrik would cuff him for his impudence, before Maron's sharp tongue flayed him as deep as any knife. Still, it was better than visiting stupid Harlaw. Let Asha have Rodrik the Reader all to herself; their mother's brother was the dullest man in the isles.

"Let go of me!" A doe-eyed girl yelped as Rodrik yanked her into his lap. Her gown of soft blue wool was too fine for a thrall; she must be ironborn, the sister of one of the revelers. "Lady Alannys—"

A hard kiss silenced her, as did the grip of Rodrik's hand upon her neck and shoulder. Men pounded the table, cheering as Rodrik yanked down the front of her gown, her small, freckled breasts on display for the world to see. A few sloppy bites and kisses while the girl squirmed and shrieked, then Rodrik released her. His friends on the dais laughed as she fled, clutching her hands over her chest and sobbing. Lady Alannys would have been most displeased if Rodrik had gone any further. Ironborn women were not thralls, even the ones stupid enough to linger in the hall whilst men got drunk.

When Rodrik grabbed a passing thrall, she made no attempt to protest. Of course not; any thrall deemed worthy to serve at Pyke had to know their place. Still, there was something queer about her smile as she pulled off her roughspun gown before Rodrik could, revealing a thin shift stained and covered in stitches where it had been torn and mended.

The thrall was just bending over Rodrik's lap when a firm grip yanked at Theon's ear, and Sylas Sourmouth dragged him from the hall. The steward's breath stank of wine as he dared scold his lord's son for intruding on the revels of men grown.

Yet all Theon could think of was the thrall's queer smile, and of the smug, loutish look on Rodrik's face. Maron never had to lower himself to swiving thralls. He charmed his way into the skirts of merchant's daughters and tavern maids, making them beg for his favor until he grew tired of them—

The deck of the Myraham rocked beneath his feet. Sails billowed as a fresh wind filled them, Seagard disappearing behind the cog's stern. When Theon made for the forecastle, he found not only the fat-bellied captain, but a girl of perhaps twenty who shared his look. Fine dark hair she had, heavy teats, and full lips that quirked when she blushed at the sight of Theon's approach.

As if from a distance, Theon watched himself charm the captain's daughter. What was her name? He could not remember; he rarely used it. A few words of idle flattery soon had her bringing the meals to his cabin; a few gentle, deft caresses soon had her looking at him with wide, curious eyes, letting his hands explore beneath her gown.

Soon Theon was watching himself fuck the captain's daughter every morning and night, her gasps and squeals sweet music as he taught her how to please him. Even within this strange dream, the sight was enough to make him hard, and his hand quickly helped him find release as he watched her bed sport improve with each swiving. Theon had not been surprised when their first coupling left a small patch of blood upon the sheets. If anything, it amused him, to have won the affection of an untouched maid, common though she was.

Too common, he thought as he watched the shores of Pyke draw closer while the captain's daughter begged to go ashore with him. "You could find me a place in your kitchens," she said, eyes shining. "And I could make you peppercrab stew."

Theon watched himself undress her, idly talking of salt wives. The captain's daughter stared at the other Theon, besotted. She did not protest when he caressed her breasts, when he bit her nipple, when he pushed her head into his lap, though she did struggle when he made her swallow his seed. Yet to his annoyance, even that had not served to temper her enthusiasm.

"I can't stay here now," she said.

Had there been that wobble in her voice before? Afterward Theon had not even recalled the girl's name, let alone the words she spoke.

"Why not?" The other Theon said, lacing up his breeches.

"My father," she told his back. "Once you're gone, he'll punish me, milord. He'll call me names and hit me."

"Fathers are like that," the other Theon said. Lord Balon certainly hit his son harder than any southron merchanter would hit his daughter. "Tell him he should be pleased. As many times as I've fucked you, you're likely with child. It's not every man who has the honor of raising a king's bastard."

And with that, the other Theon left, the cabin door closing with a thud behind him.

The captain's daughter remained, bewildered and unmoving. Why was he still watching her, not himself? This was not his memory. But try as he might, he could not leave the cabin. Instead he watched as the girl hugged herself, licking her lips with a grimace. She shook her head, as if scolding herself for misliking the taste of seed, then set to packing the clothes strewn about the cabin with tender care. By the end, tears were streaming from her eyes, though she never made a sound, not until she began talking to herself.

"I pleased him, I did," the girl sniffled. "He said so." She bit her lip, her brow furrowed.

A blink, a flash, and the cabin was gone. The captain's daughter stood upon the pier, looking up at Theon as he turned away with the pack of clothing in his hands.

"Please," she said. Her eyes were red, though not so red as her father's face. "I do love you well, milord."

"I must go." The other Theon hurried away after the Damphair, leaving the girl behind.

Bereft, the captain's daughter watched him go, until the captain grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back toward the ship. She stumbled up the gangplank, half blind from weeping, the captain cold and silent at her heels. Really, was that all she had to whine about? Theon's own brothers had treated him worse than that, let alone Lord Balon.

"Milord will change his mind," the captain's daughter sobbed as the captain grabbed her wrist again, this time pulling her below decks. "He will, he will."

Her father paused, his grip loosening. Perhaps he would call the girl by her name; it irritated Theon, that he still could not recall it. "You'd best hope he does, you little bitch," the captain grunted. "I've no place for whores or harlots on my ship, who spread their legs for every man in sight."

Another blink, another flash. The captain's daughter paced the deck of the Myraham, forlorn, her eyes fixed on the strand, where the other Theon stood talking to his bitch of a sister, not knowing Esgred was Asha. When their walking brought them near, the captain's daughter leaned over the rail, so far she almost fell as she called for the other Theon in a plaintive voice, only to be ignored.

A blink, a flash. A galley with black sails and a dark red hull rolled upon the sea, and Lordsport roiled with the clamor of the ironborn. Unnoticed, the fat-bellied captain of the Myraham huffed and puffed as he ran toward his ship, bellowing orders to his crew. Clever man, Theon thought, amused. If there was ever a time to slip anchor, it was now.

Theon's smirk faded when the captain's daughter emerged from the cabin, drawn by the shouting. Her gown stretched tight over her swollen belly. When the captain saw her, his eyes hardened, his fists clenched.

"Time for you to be gone," the captain said coldly. "Bad enough all of Lordsport knows my shame; I'll not have another port closed to me by your whoring."

"Father," the girl pleaded. "Milord will come for the babe, he will—"

"He won't!" The captain roared.

Soft and bland, Asha called her, and she was, soft and bland and vulnerable, helpless to defend herself against blows that fell like rain. Balon Greyjoy never hit so hard; it was if Theon could feel every punch, every slap. His head spun, his belly churned; he felt a bone snap in his arm with a flash of white-hot pain—

Pyke's curtain wall loomed up before him. The captain's daughter looked small as a mouse as she staggered toward the gates. Her lip was split and broken, her skin mottled by bruises. One arm she held cradled to her breast, the crude sling made from a scrap of black cloth. A pitiful sight, enough to melt even the cruelest heart— but not enough to move the guards of Pyke.

"Your bastard's no concern of ours, slut," one of them sneered. "Your precious lordling's a black brother now. He'll be freezing his balls off on the Wall till the day he dies." The guard spat at her feet. "There's for him, the fat-headed jackanapes. Now get, afore I show you how a real man fucks a witless whore."

Theon's arrow took the guard in the eye, or would have, had it not vanished like mist. Helpless, he could only watch as the captain's daughter backed away, trembling. How dare they treat her so? The babe she carried might be a Pyke, but it had Greyjoy blood all the same. What, was there no place for her in the kitchens? Even a pregnant wench could work, and when she whelped, why, she could be a wet nurse for some milkless lady or merchant's wife—

"I've no need for another kitchen wench," Otter Gimpknee said curtly. It was morning, and the inn was cold and empty. The air stank of smoke and sex, mingled with sweat and vomit.

"Please, m'lord." The captain's daughter's eyes were wide, her belly like to burst. "I can make the finest peppercrab stew you'll ever taste—"

Gimpknee roared with laughter. "Men don't come t' me for food," he told her.

"I know," she trembled. "But- but every other inn and tavern turned me away, and I thought- the men must be hungry, when they're done—"

The captain's daughter froze as a gnarled hand reached out and stroked her belly. "Poor lass," Gimpknee sighed. "I've no wish t' see a young girl go hungry, and you've a sweet face. Too sweet, for the likes o' me."

Bile rose in Theon's throat as the hand wandered, pinching and groping, ignoring the look of panic in the girl's eyes—

A cramped room, a smoking fire, a straw mattress upon the floor. A band of whores clustered round the captain's daughter. She lay on the mattress, stripped to the waist, grunting and screaming as she labored to bring forth her child. Theon tried to look away, yet his neck would not move, nor his eyes close. Hours passed, and still her agony went on. When the babe finally slid out, it was to gasps and groans of relief. It was a boy, a boy with a head covered in fine dark hair—

"You've healed enough, Alla," Gimpknee said. Frowning, he pulled the captain's daughter away from the babe sleeping in his basket. "Mouth don't pay as well as cunt, and this one wants a taste o' mother's milk—"

Thank the gods, it was then the corpse lord came again. Theon had no wish to see any more of the poor girl's fate, but he had a bone to pick with that bedamned crow.

I treated a woman ill, he admitted, when the corpse lord left and the three-eyed crow returned. I seduced her, fucked her, got her with child, and left her to rot.

You did, the crow agreed. Callous you were, indifferent to her pleas. She warned you of the fate that would befall her, and you looked away.

But I never meant to be cruel, Theon insisted. I am no raper. I never forced a woman, not once. That was Rodrik's way, not mine. No woman ever left my bed sobbing, I swear it.

Not even once?

Theon hesitated. Unbidden, he thought of a nightmare long since forgotten, a feast of the grisly dead that only ended when he beheld Robb and Grey Wind enter the hall. They had bled from a thousand savage wounds, and Kyra had bled from the savagery with which Theon took her when he awoke, marking her with his teeth before fucking her like a beast, leaving her bruised and sobbing.

Once, he said, with a pang of guilt.

It was not Kyra's fault that the nightmare had possessed him with a fury, no more than it was the cap- no more than it was Alla's fault that he had abandoned her without so much as a silver stag to raise his babe.

I am a raper, he said heavily. That fault is mine, and I own to it. But a murderer I am not, nor kinslayer, nor oathbreaker. I have killed men in battle, yes, but never without cause. I never laid a hand on my father, nor my uncles, nor even Asha, sorely though she tested me. And I broke no oaths. Of those sins, at least, my hands are clean.

Think hard, Greyjoy, the crow warned, implacable. This is the last chance; you will not like what comes next.

Theon's anger flared. Was it not enough, to know his bastard would grow to manhood in a brothel, the son of a whore? Was it not enough that he must share Alla's suffering, suffering he never meant to cause? He meant her no harm; he was heedless, not cruel.

You and your riddles can go to hell, Theon snapped.

After you, cackled the crow.

This time, the visions came on fast, so fast they seemed to blur.

Theon watched himself drink with Benfred Tallhart within the timbered hall of Torrhen's Square, laughing and japing. Then suddenly they were by the Stony Shore, Aeron Damphair stalking ahead while a pair of ironborn dragged Benfred toward the churning waves. The other Theon had walked away, but now he was forced to watch the drowning, every moment of it as Benfred fought for breath before finally going still.

One moment Theon watched himself pace Winterfell's forge, waiting for the new sword Mikken had forged him; the next Mikken was choking on his own blood, with an ironborn spear through his throat. One moment Farlen was leading Theon and his hounds on a merry hunt; the next he lay dying at Theon's feet, his neck and shoulders hacked half to pieces, the blood staining Theon's hands as he dropped the axe.

You killed that one yourself, the crow cawed in his ear as Theon bent over, retching. And for a crime he did not commit.

I had to, Theon said, almost choking on bile. Someone had to be blamed for Gelmarr and Aggar and Gynir's deaths.

And why did they have to die? said the crow.

Theon paled. No—

Too late. The Acorn Water burbled at his feet, as clear and blue as the cloudless sky. What? This could not be the day he feared. Confused, Theon watched himself stride toward the mill, leading a horse lamed by poor jump as they chased after a deer. He was only sixteen, still basking in the glow of conquering Barth the brewer's wife, who had made a man of him upon a ragged blanket in the godswood.

The miller's wife was just as comely, and only a few years his elder, with lush breasts and a merry laugh. Alas, her husband was away, hauling fresh milled grain. As they had no other beasts to carry a lordling back to Winterfell, he rode the miller's wife instead, quietly, so as not to wake the child slumbering in the loft.

After that pleasant encounter, he had visited her often when the miller was away. When she grew fat with child, the miller's wife was almost insatiable, though he avoided her for some time after she had the babe. Squalling infants were not to his taste; when he visited her again, the dark-haired babe was able to toddle about after his brown-haired elder brother. While the boys played in a nearby field, Theon played with the miller's wife. She was just as tight and wet as he remembered as he plowed her against the wall, sunlight pouring in the open window—

The sky turned dark, and blood splattered across the wall. A horrible scream echoed over the world as he watched the miller's wife beg for mercy, her boys terrified and silent as Reek grabbed hold of their skinny arms—

Butchery, cold butchery. One blow of Gelmarr's axe for the miller's wife, and another for each of the boys. Aggar and Gynir stood guard at the door as Reek began his bloody work. Theon could not look away, as the other Theon had. Reek took to his task with relish, savoring the solution he had proposed, but Theon's stomach heaved, his eyes watering from the stink of death and blood.

Yet when the men left the mill, the vision did not end. The sun rose, and set, and rose again. Wheels creaked in the distance as a wayn approached, pulled by an old horse and driven by a man in his late twenties. The miller was as brown-haired and plump as his wife, though his features were coarse and plain.

"Robyn?" The miller called as he took the horse into the stables. "Hallis? Tym?" No one answered.

"Gods, I hope the lordling's not here," the miller told the horse as he unhitched it. The horse snorted, shaking its head.

"Heward, she's too pretty for you, they said. And what if she is? Better t' share honey than gorge on vinegar. So what if a handsome youth catches her eye?" Heward patted the horse's greying snout. "You're too old to be hauling flour by yourself, anyhow. When he tires o' her, mayhaps he'll give her some coin, for the boy, and we can get you a friend t'share the load."

An icy chill ran down Theon's spin as the miller groomed the old horse carefully, humming quietly under his breath. When that was done, he filled a trough with hay, patting the horse's head as he bent to eat.

"Should have seen 'em by now," Heward muttered. "Hallis?" He called. "Tym?"

There was no answer, save the wind, and the soft sound of the horse chewing hay.

"Down by the pond, mayhaps." The miller sighed. "A longer walk than I'd like, with all the grain to unload. Hmm. A bit o' cheese, I think, t' keep up my strength."

Dread crept over Theon as he watched the miller turn toward the house.

No, he begged. Please, no.

No one seemed to hear. Again Theon must watch, helpless to change what he had done. The next sound he heard was a desperate, low groan, followed by a piteous wail as Heward clutched his wife in his arms, sobbing her name as snot dripped down his lips and chin. He sobbed even harder when he saw the bloody rushes that marked where Reek had killed the boys, their discarded tunics lying limp upon the floor.

It was Reek's idea, Theon pleaded as the miller returned to the stable, a rough hewn chair grasped in one bloody hand. The horse looked on, whinnying, his ears back. I never wanted it to come to this, I never did.

Who swung the axe? The crow squawked. The miller had found a length of rope, his thick hands working quickly. Again the horse whinnied, but the miller paid him no mind.

Gelmarr, Theon wept. Reek. The rope flew over a beam; the miller climbed atop the chair.

Who gave the order? The crow demanded. Who sired the younger boy?

I did, Theon sobbed, at the same moment the chair toppled to the ground, and the horse screamed.

Then, blessedly, they were in the godswood again. The heart tree stared solemnly down; the three-eyed crow perched once more upon its branch.

Theon Raper, said the crow, bating its wings. Theon Murderer. Theon Kinslayer.

Theon Oathbreaker, Theon choked.

It was if a dam had burst; Theon's sins poured over him like a crashing wave. How many times had he and Robb soaked in the hot pools together, talking of what they would do when they ruled Winterfell and Pyke? What castles they had built in the sky, those foolish boys. He could still see Robb, a boy of twelve, wide-eyed as he proposed rebuilding Sea Dragon Point to make trade easier with Lannisport and Oldtown.

"Lord Manderly would love that," Theon had drawled, mussing Robb's hair as he ignored Jon Snow's scowl. "Ironborn longships are the best for trade, or so my grandsire Quellon was wont to say. With northern timber and ironborn sailors, we could take the Stepstones, and charge tolls of every ship that passed our waters."

"Maybe," Robb frowned. "Maester Luwin says no one has ever held the Stepstones long."

"Even the Targaryens couldn't hold them," Jon Snow pointed out. "Not even when they had dragons."

"More fools they," Theon yawned. "A fleet of longships would be all I'd need, with the right man to lead them."

"You?" Jon Snow snorted. "You've not been on a ship in years."

"Easy, Jon," Robb said. His bastard brother quieted, sullen, and Robb gave Theon a shrug. "There's plenty of other ways to find glory."

Oh, what glory he had found. Theon could still hear the hush of the Whispering Wood the moment before the battle began, his blood running hot as he charged, riding at Robb's right hand. And Robb had seen his worth, had given him the mission to Lord Balon, taking the oath which Theon freely gave...

The black pool rippled at his feet. Winterfell's gatehouse lay before him, two small, tarred heads mounted on iron spikes. Theon would have vomited again, had the scene not vanished so quickly. Now he looked upon a lady's bedchamber. Robb lay upon the bed, a letter clutched in his fist as he wept in silence. He tore at his hair, he beat his chest, cursing Theon with the same oaths he'd once taught him. When he snatched up a dagger, Theon's heart stopped, until a brown-haired maid intervened, soothing Robb with soft words and softer kisses until he dropped the blade.

The water rippled. He looked upon a massive solar, big enough for a giant, with walls of black stone. Roose Bolton stood before a map, his pale eyes cold, cold as the smiles of the men who stood beside him, all in grey surcoats blazoned with blue towers.

"Winterfell fallen, and Stannis beaten," the Lord of the Dreadfort sighed. "And boy kings are not known for their prudence, I fear. It is time we made new plans..."

The water rippled. Twin towers stood astride a river, with a bridge between them. On the riverbank tents were burning and men were screaming and dying, but it was to the hall that the vision flew, swift as the crossbow bolts plunging into the men of Robb's honor guard as they shielded their king from the slaughter. Bolts had already pierced his leg and under his arm—

Enough, the crow said, and the pool went dark. What's done is done.

And it was all my fault, Theon said, numb. He had seen too much; he had drained the cup to the bitter dregs.

Not all, the crow said. Your actions bore grave consequences, yet each man must answer for his own deeds, in the end.

The end. Theon shuddered. Is that what this is?

Yes, and no, the crow replied. It is a crossroads.

That made more sense than it didn't. Not that it matters, anyway, Theon said. I cannot change the past, nor make amends for what I have done.

You could try, the crow said, its third eye gleaming. Would you, if you had the chance?

Theon shrugged. I don't- yes. Yes, I would, if I could. He gave the crow a doubtful look. Can you free me?

No, the crow squawked. It almost sounded sad. But perhaps there is someone who can. Once you chased him from his home. If you are ever free, it is you who must help him find the way back. Until then, sleep, and do not dream.

And Theon slept. The corpse lord came, the corpse lord went, and each time the crow came after, scratching a tally beside those he had made on his arm. There were over fifty when he suddenly woke, the taste of lightning in the air. Theon Greyjoy lay in the godswood, beneath the heart tree. The carved face was different than before, the features almost as familiar as his own.

Bran?

Cold sweet air poured into Theon's lungs. He lay in the darkness upon a bed hard as stone, a ray of sunlight slim as an arrow's shaft falling across his face. The light was growing, why was it growing? Almost blind, Theon covered his eyes as the world turned white, and he realized.

The tree had opened its mouth.

End Part IV


nervous laughter* what the fuck? So, uhm. Sound off in the comments?

This was a very heavy, dark run of chapters, but we have a breather up next. Part V: Wolf Pack will begin with a Meria Sand prologue in which she spends time with Willas, and attempts to persuade that cranky old biddy Olenna to attend her wedding.

As you might recall, The Weirwood Queen received several nominations in the r/TheCitadel awards for ASOIAF fanfic.

r/TheCitadel Awards Results

•Best Ongoing Fic- WIN

•Best Worldbuilding- WIN

•Best Chapter: Chapter 81, Olyvar I- WIN

•Best OC: Sister Edythe- WIN

•Best Oneshot: A Drowning Grief- THIRD PLACE

As the rules prohibited multiple wins for the same fic, I only get to officially keep the award for Best Ongoing Fic ;) Suffice to say that I am absolutely blown away by the love for Weirwood Queen! I had hoped for at least one win, but with such great competition, I never thought a sweep would be possible. Thanks so much to everyone who voted! If you're not on r/TheCitadel, you should consider checking it out, it's a great community.

Full award results are here. I'm excited to read a lot of these fics once I'm finished writing TWQ and have free time again, lol. I've heard especially good things about Sunrise, a Quentyn Martell-SI fic by Constellat1on.

NOTES

1) The concept of a nightmare tree was inspired by the Sinning Tree in Yu Yu Hakusho. I forgot the tree devours the life force of the victim until *after* I got the idea of Brynden using Theon as a juice box. The part with Alla, the captain's daughter, was very hard to write, but her fear of her abusive father comes from canon. Unfortunately, many "fallen" women in the medieval era were forced to turn to sex work, as stigma led them to be turned away from most other employment.

2) At the beginning of ACOK, Theon is a callous, misogynist asshole. Desperate to prove his manhood, to avoid people laughing at him, he becomes much worse. I'm sure lots of fans cheered when Ramsay backhands him at the end of ACOK, but then, of course, GRRM flips the script in ADWD.

This chapter was extremely necessary, but took a lot out of me to write, given the subject matter. Theon is such a banal sort of awful. There are thousands of him in our world, men who see women as playthings, who would rather turn to violence than be laughed at, who never consider or care about the fallout of their actions, or the harm they cause others.

While I was not interested in the torture porn that is the Reek plot, I did want Theon to face accountability for his sins. That being said... Theon was a hostage. He was forcefully separated from his family and his culture. Ned was kinder than Tywin or Stannis would have been, but the fact that Ned had Theon, his hostage, carry Ice at executions is deeply fucked up. And that's our introduction to Theon!

"They forced [Gared's] head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword." AGOT, Bran I

"Lord Eddard had tried to play the father from time to time, but to Theon he had always remained the man who'd brought blood and fire to Pyke and taken him from his home. As a boy, he had lived in fear of Stark's stern face and great dark sword." ACOK, Theon I

Is Theon being dramatic? Probably. Does he have a valid point about his precarious position as a hostage and how that affected him? Uh, yeah. Theon's streak of callous misogyny is a way of asserting power to cope with his hostage status, and imitate the cruelty of the environment where he grew up.

Anyway, Theon's arc in TWQ stands in deliberate contrast with Jaime's. Both spend around five years in isolation, but while Jaime focuses only on swordwork to regain his former identity, Theon is forced to confront his own past sins, albeit in a brutal fashion, and rejects his former identity.

Torture does not make people better, but Theon does get some perspective. He's not going to suddenly be a Good Person; he's an asshole with a budding conscience. I don't know all of his Part V arc, but I do know the shape of it. He will not be a POV, but he will be an important side character.

3) In law school, I learned that there are three general approaches to punishment.

Incapacitation is the idea of preventing crime by removing the offender from society via incarceration or the death penalty. Long term imprisonment is rare in ASOIAF, as it was in the medieval world. Frankly, the Night's Watch shouldn't exist; penal colonies are a modern invention, and although prisons did exist in a limited context during the medieval era, the way they functioned was *extremely different than modern prisons.

In the attempt to consolidate their judicial administrations, urban communes sought to confine deviants, dissidents, and criminals in the building of the prison, which the magistrates usually founded in or near the main government compound. Unlike today, then, most medieval prisons were both central and visible.

...Medieval polities rarely provided their prisoners with the range of services that are customary (and mostly free) today, such as meals, medical aid, spiritual guidance, and recreational and educational programs. Accordingly, the prison's centrality ensured that inmates – and not just the edifice – were visible and accessible... many different people frequented these compounds: local magistrates and prosecutors, of course, but also priests, physicians, families, friends, charitable officials, business partners, and even prostitutes. Thus, medieval inmates were never fully cut off from surrounding society, which, in turn, placed a further check on the staff's conduct.

Human traffic flowed both in and out of the prison...They left their cells to beg, pursued their legal affairs, and attended family events... during the major liturgical feasts, prisoners were "offered" by some governments at the local cathedral on behalf of the city... it is no wonder that donations to alleviate prisoners' conditions and for the release of the poorer among them peaked in that very period.According to one study, over 25 percent of Londoners' wills between 1376 and 1531 contained bequests for the material benefit of prison inmates.

In sum, evidence of the prisoners' social ties with the extramural world confirms that prison life in the Middle Ages was as far from its present stereotype as a "hellhole," as it was from our modern conceptions of prisons as "total" institutions.

You really should check out the rest of the article, it's only 8 pages, and absolutely fascinating :)

Retribution is the idea of preventing crime by harshly punishing an offender, giving society a sense of vengeance. Most punishment in ASOIAF takes this form, from lopping off the fingers or hands of thieves to gelding rapers and executing deserters. Pro: it is swift, cheap, and returns the offender to society if their crime is not capital. Con: it is permanent, potentially debilitating, and does not address the reason for the underlying offense or make the victim whole.

Rehabilitation is the idea of preventing crime by addressing the underlying causes of the offender's behavior, whether that be personal or societal issues. This punishment does not really come up in ASOIAF canon, though I suppose you might see instances of families or communities trying to correct a person's behavior rather than give them over to their local knight or lord.

Incapacitation and retribution are often claimed to serve as a form of deterrence, with people abstaining from criminal behavior lest they face consequences. However, even the US Dept of Justice admits that there's very little evidence that that is actually the case.

"Laws and policies designed to deter crime by focusing mainly on increasing the severity of punishment are ineffective partly because criminals know little about the sanctions for specific crimes.

More severe punishments do not 'chasten' individuals convicted of crimes, and prisons may exacerbate recidivism."

There is, however, another approach to punishment. Restorative justice is the idea of examining the harm a crime creates, then determining how the harm can be repaired while also holding the offender accountable for their actions. What does that mean? Well, it's complicated, and depends upon the circumstances and context of every crime/offender. But at the very least, I think it's a concept worth examining.

You can find me on tumblr as RedWolf17; my ask box is always open.