Theon

His dreams had been unsettled these past days and sleep often did not come easily. When he did sleep he often woke with a start, breathing hard and feeling oppressed and frightened, as if he was in danger. But he couldn't remember his dreams, other than a general feeling that he was drowning, being pulled downwards by some savage weight.

He blinked at the book in front of him. There was another weight on him. He had been doing a lot more studying about the Iron Islands and he had come to a sudden and terrible conclusion: his father was an idiot.

He didn't like that conclusion, in fact he hated it. He was Ironborn, a follower of the Drowned God, the only remaining son of Balon Greyjoy. But he had to admit that the Greyjoy Rebellion had been a total disaster from beginning to end. The timing had been more than poor, it had been stupid, it had united the rest of Westeros (except for Dorne) against the Ironborn and it had given King Robert a moment of glory.

All it had gotten the Ironborn had been death and destruction. If his father had wanted an independent Iron Islands again, why not convince old Quellon Greyjoy to declare independence during Robert's Rebellion? It was senseless.

Theon closed the book slowly and then looked at the window. Something was happening. Lord Stark had been closeted in his solar for more than two days now, apparently talking to someone from the North. Who exactly that person was, well it was a mystery. Lord Umber was rattling around Winterfell being irritated, Robb was in the middle of his own studies and Snow… well, he'd found him in the catacombs the other day, in front of the tomb of Lyanna Stark. He'd been crying.

Normally Theon would have smirked and done his best to say something rude about that sight. But he hadn't had the heart to do so for some reason. Why? What was wrong with him of late? What was this feeling of pressure, of being pushed and then almost torn in two.

He yawned raggedly. He needed sleep. A lot of sleep. But first some food.

It was a quiet meal. Lady Stark sat next to Robb, due to Lord Stark still being locked in his solar, with Lord Umber next to Robb. He liked the GreatJon, whose booming laugh and quiet wisdom enlivened any room. To one side Bran and young Robert Arryn were busy asking Domeric Bolton a lot of questions (again) about being a knight, whilst Sansa watched them all with a smile. On the other side Arya was busy making faces at Rickon whenever Lady Stark wasn't looking, making the little boy giggle until he got the hiccups. And then there was Jory Cassel on one of the other tables, making hesitant small talk with the Arryn boy's nurse. Something was going on there.

After Theon thought about sneaking out and seeing a whore, but he was too tired. His mind was singing with tiredness by now and he waved goodbye to Robb and went to his room, where he undressed and then virtually fell into bed, remembering at the last moment to pull the sheets over him. And then he slept.

It was the smell that bothered him enough to crack an eye open. It was a smell of death, of putrefaction. It was a familiar smell and – he came bolt upright. He was sprawled in the broken remains of the boat from the dream that had left him with that odd wound. The ship had been run ashore – he could hear breakers to either side of him – and the oars were shattered and broken. Where were the rowers? He peered around and then almost voided his stomach. They were scraps of broken bones wrapped in tattered rags, strewn about the place.

The only thing that was intact was the mast and he looked at it fearfully before he climbed shakily to his feet and looked about. He was dressed in shabby, rusty armour, with an empty scabbard hanging to one side from a worn strap that attached it to his belt. Where was he?

And then he saw the shore. It was not sand, it was not rock, it was not earth. It was made from bones. Shattered bones. As far as the eye could see. He looked up. There was no sun, or if there was a sun it was hidden in the twilight all around. Tendrils of fog roiled about, making it hard to see what was there.

Suddenly a hand landed on his shoulder and he was violently thrown onto the shore. He landed in a spray of bone fragments that went everywhere and he cried out in revulsion, before somehow finding his feet shakily and looking about. When he saw the other figure he recoiled. It was Rodrik.

If his brother had looked bad before, he looked far, far, worse now. The black robes were grey and tattered, his skin was black and peeling enough that in places he could see white bone. One arm was a broken stump that ended at the elbow and there seemed to be something wrong with his neck, from the way that he peered at him.

"There… you are… little brother…" Rodrik's voice was a tired wheeze, as if he was about to collapse. "Finding… you again… was… difficult. As you… can see."

Theon stared at him in horror. "What are you? What are you really?"

A noise that might have been a lugh came in answer to his question. "Why, your… brother. And… a servant of… the Drowned God. What is.. dead can never… die."

"Why have you brought me here?" Theon found himself shouting the words. He was angry and afraid and… he stopped breathing for a moment. The shore was familiar. "I told you that I did not want to come here! That I chose the other shore!"

Something that might have been disgust crossed the features that putrefaction had left of Rodrik's face. "Your choice? It means… NOTHING boy! You are… Ironborn! A Greyjoy! You... must be brought back. It is… your destiny… There is… a fate… that awaits you… The… Drowned God… must have his due… So I… brought you here. Despite the… cost."

Theon looked around them wildly. "Maron. Where is Maron?"

"Bone and… ash. Cost. As I… said." The thing that had once been his brother pointed to a spot behind Theon. "Come. We have… someone to meet."

Theon looked behind him and then felt the blood drain from his face as the fog blew aside just long enough to reveal a distant throne on what looked a mound of white rocks. Wait, no. They were not rocks. They were skulls. And on the throne there was a slumped figure. Who was slowly looking in his direction.

Terror stabbed into his heart and he looked back. "No. I will not."

The rotted face leant forwards. "You are a… Greyjoy, boy! You serve… the Drowned God."

A hundred, no a thousand thoughts went through his mind as he stared back at his dead brother. And then he heard the sound of someone far behind him walking on the shore of shattered bones. Walking slowly. Walking towards him.

Theon closed his eyes for a long moment. And then opened them again. And as he did he felt something in his hand. He did not look at it, he had no idea where it had come from, but suddenly he knew instinctively what it was. "No," he said quietly, "I do not."

Rodrik's face twisted into a snarl as his remaining hand came around to slash at him, but before it could start its downwards leap Theon thrust the Weirwood stake that had somehow appeared in his hand into his brother's chest. Black ichor burst from the wound and a foul stench filled the air, but Theon ignored it all and just pushed that stake all the way into the spot where Rodrik's heart should have been.

The thing that had been his brother jerked and screamed – and then collapsed, as if all the tendons had been cut and as the body hit the ground it broke apart into a black smear of foul liquid and stained bones. Theon stared down, panting – and then he heard a scream of rage and the slow steps behind him speeded up.

I can't look at it, I don't want to look at it, he thought as he bunched his muscles and then ran for the beached boat. The mast. He had to get to the mast. It was important.

Rodrik had thrown him further than he had thought, as his feet slipped and slithered through the bones and the skulls underfoot. He fell not once but twice and he sobbed with terror as he heard the thing behind him start to catch up. And then he was at the boat, leaping over the sides and then hurling himself at the mast.

"Old Gods," he shouted as he touched it. "Hear me! I choose you! I deny the Drowned God! Hearken to me!"

The mast shuddered as the face of the Heart Tree that he had seen before reappear. Are you sure Theon Greyjoy? This cannot be undone.

The boat rocked as something pulled at it, something with a hideous strength. The air was foul with a stink that he had never even dreamed could ever exist – and something was close enough that he could feel its fetid breath on the back of his neck. He knew that he should not look at it, not if he wanted to retain his sanity.

"I am sure! I choose the way of the Starks! I would lead my people away from death! I choose you! The Old Gods!"

Light exploded from the mast, no – from the tree that was suddenly there. Light that drove out all the shadows, light that drove away the gibbering screams that he heard diminishing behind him.

Theon came awake with a scream – and when he ran his hands over his face the scab from the previous odd wound was gone. And around his neck there was a leather throng that had not been there before, with something metal. He peered at it as he panted. An image of a Heart Tree.

Robb

When the word finally came as they broke their fast that Father was out of his solar and wanted to speak to him, as well as the GreatJon, Domeric and Jon, Robb let out a sigh of relief. He had no idea what had been taking his father so long to plan. According to Mother and Luwin, Father was consulting with an important visitor from the North, or so Father had told them – without divulging a name.

And so he led the little party down the corridor, before pausing. Theon had appeared and was running towards him, looking as if he had either dressed in the dark or in a tearing hurry.

"Robb! I need to talk to your father at once," Greyjoy panted. There was something different about him. He looked shaken and – wait.

"Your face – that mark from that dream has gone!"

"Aye," Theon said in as serious a voice as he had ever heard from him. "T'was another dream about the Old Gods. And your father told me to tell him the moment that I had another one."

"You're in luck then lad," GreatJon boomed, "Ned's finally out of his solar and whatever the hell's he's been doing in there. Sent word for us to join him. You'd best come with us."

"What's that?" Jon pointed to a leather strap that could be just seen around Theon's neck, part-hidden by the rumpled shirt he was wearing.

Theon paled a little. "I think that it was a gift from… from the Old Gods."

Everyone stopped walking for a moment and then stared at Theon Greyjoy.

"The Old Gods?" The GreatJon asked in astonishment. "I thought that you Ironborn followed the Drowned God?"

Theon looked at the tall lord. "This Ironborn is a follower of the Old Gods now," he said in a low voice. "I deny the Drowned God. His way is a way of death. Death and madness."

They resumed their walk, only this time in silence and as they walked Robb thought about the change that had come over Theon since he had returned from death. Things were now very different. Was that difference for good or evil – his money was now on good. But the more things changed the less he recognised from the previous time he had lived these days.

One thing was for sure though – he was feeling a pull to the woods again. Stronger than he had felt it before. Something was there and in the next day or so he needed to go there. Go there urgently.

They reached the door to the solar and Robb knocked politely. When he heard the muttered "Come!" he opened the door.

Father was inside, seated at his desk, which was now piled even higher with papers and books. The great map to one side had been moved and was hanging in a different place – and there was something about it that caught his attention. There were marks on it, on places North of the Wall. Wait, in places that he had never seen before?

"Theon, your pardon but I did not summon you," Father said, puzzledly.

"No, Lord Stark, you did not – but you did say that if I ever dreamt about the Old Gods again I was to come to you at once. Well – I have. Last night. I dreamt… that I was back on the same boat as before, but that it was wrecked upon an island – the island that I was trying to get my brothers to steer away from in the last dream. Lord Stark, it…" His face shuddered in horror. "It was a place built of bones. A place built of death.

"Rodrik was there again, but he was… changed. Rotted further. In tattered clothes. He said that I had been brought back, despite the cost – and then he tried to take me to see that figure on the throne that I told you about. I think it was the Drowned God. It smelt of… death. I fought my way out of it – I stabbed my brother with a piece of wood – Weirwood I think, although I don't know where it came from – and then I ran to the boat, and to that mast."

His face was haggard at the memory. "Something was following me, Lord Stark – the thing from the throne. I knew that if I looked at it, it would drive me mad. I knew it, Lord Stark. So… so I called to the Old Gods. And… I said that I chose them. I rejected the Drowned God."

Tears were rolling down Theon's face now and Robb reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, in an effort to comfort him. "You did the right thing," Robb muttered quietly. "The right thing."

And then Theon reached to his neck and pulled out a leather throng, with a silver disc attached to it. There was a Heart Tree engraved on it. "I woke up with this, Lord Stark."

Father stood and peered at it, his face set in lines of shock. Then those lines relaxed a little. "You have been favoured by the Old Gods, Theon. Favoured indeed. Very well – you must stay here and listen. Afterwards you must go to the Godswood with Robb. Robb – you must tell him where you have come back from."

"Father?" He said the word in shock.

"Theon is not what he was. You must tell him." Father nodded once and then returned to his desk. "Now – I must introduce someone. A man from further North than we are familiar with."

Footsteps scuffed in the corridor and then a man with greying hair and dark garments walked in. He looked at them all carefully and then nodded formally before closing the door behind him and then stalking over to a chair and sitting with a sigh.

Father then glared at them all, which was surprising. "This man, by the way, is here under my protection. And his name is Mance Rayder."

There was a stunned pause – and then just as GreatJon Umber started to gather his legs under him and fumble at the dagger at his belt, Lord Eddard Stark stood abruptly. "Sit DOWN GreatJon! He's here under guests rights – under my protection! You cannot harm a hair on his head!"

The room rang from the sound of Father's shout, and GreatJon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth and the bravest man Robb had ever met, actually quailed at the sound of Lord Stark's anger. After a moment he tried to find his voice. "But-"

"Guests rights, GreatJon. You don't harm a hair on his head." Father glared at them all, before sitting with a sigh of his own and then passing a hand over his weary face. "And besides – he needs our help. His people need our help. Take a look at the map, all of you. Go on – now."

Frowning, Robb stood up and then walked over to the map, followed by the others. As he approached it his eyes widened. The area North of the Wall had new markings on it, denoting settlements. A lot of markings. And names for entire areas. Thenn was a new one to him. As was Hopemourne.

"Father, what are these places?"

"Wildling settlements." Father was watching them all carefully. "There are a lot more of them than we all might have thought."

"How many of the buggers are there?" GreatJon burst out in puzzlement. "I've never heard of these places. Well – apart from Hardhome. That's a place of dark memory according to the Night's Watch. No-one ever worked out what happened there."

Father looked at Rayder, who was sipping wine from a goblet and watching them with a wry look on his face. Noticing the sudden attention he placed the goblet on the nearby table and sighed. "I can call on a host of the Free Folk. And when I say 'host' I mean at least a hundred thousand people."

All but Father stared at him as if he was mad and then GreatJon guffawed with laughter. "A hundred thousand people? North of the Wall. Don't be daft man, that's far more than live in that icy hell hole. Ned – he's lying to you!"

But all this got him was a shake of the head. "GreatJon, what do we know of the lands beyond the Wall? Truly know? The Wildlings have been there a long time – since before the Wall was built. And they have long memories and presumably no small amount of skill at surviving in that area. So – no, I don't think that he's lying. And take careful note of what he said – that he could call upon a host of that number, not that such a number is the total number of people North of the Wall."

"Lord Stark is right," Rayder sighed. "I don't know what the total number is there. Perhaps twice what I can call upon?"

GreatJon's amused scorn seemed to be giving way to horror. "By the Gods," he muttered. "So many…"

"Your pardon Lord Stark," Domeric Bolton said suddenly, "This place, Hopemourne… why is it the Northernmost location? Is there a reason for that."

And that seemed to buy him a smile of approval from Father. "A good question Domeric." The smile fled his face. "That is the fortress of the Others, we think at least. That is where I saw the Night King, in my vision when the Heartstone was returned here by Lord Umber."

They all stared at that point on the map in some dread. "So that's where the bastards come from," GreatJon breathed. "So far North."

Robb turned and then stared at Rayder who smiled cheerily back at him. "You said you could call upon a host – for what purpose?"

"Is this your son Lord Stark?" Rayder smirked slightly at Father's nod. "Smart lad. I was going to assemble a host, storm Castle Black, get my people through the wall at the tunnel there, settle the Gift and then knock the heads of the Black Crows together until they realised that the Free Folk would help defend the Wall against the Others." He then sipped some more wine. "Because the Others are coming. And death marches with them."

Robb turned to see the blood thunder into the face of GreatJon Umber, before grabbing his arm. "Guests rights GreatJon. Be calm."

"Besides," Father sighed. "He's right. We need to get the Wildlings South of the Wall. It's imperative."

The group collectively stared at him.

"Oh, by the Old Gods…" Father stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Think about it for a moment. The Others are coming. The Wildlings know this, the Wildlings have seen them!"

"We have," Rayder said sombrely. "They strike Southwards with every day that passes, killing the Free Folk and animating their bodies. We are running from them – and we have nowhere else to go but South of the Wall."

"GreatJon, think about it. Every Wildling that dies to the Others becomes a wight. Every one of them. And if Rayder's count of the numbers of Wildlings is correct…"

Father's voice drifted into silence and Robb found himself experiencing the horrible feeling of all the blood apparently draining from his face. "By the Old Gods," he choked out, "The Others would be able to send scores of thousands of wights South against the Wall, if not hundreds of thousands!"

A deadly silence filled the room for a long moment as each man in there thought about the prospect of such an event. And the face of GreatJon Umber was whiter than parchment as he sank into the nearest chair.

The silence was broken by Father as he stood up, his chair scraping the floor as he pushed it back. "Which is why I have been talking to Rayder. We have been discussing what needs to be done. Winter is indeed coming, a hard and terrible winter – I feel it in my very bones. Perhaps that is why the Others come. A long winter, a long night, a long, terrible, terrible night. We will need every source of strength as we fight that long night. Every sword and every shield.

"The Gift is almost deserted now, for many reasons. I would have it farmed, I would have it settled, I would have it feed the wall. The New Gift too. Winterfell has some measure of control over both and I was considering settling new lords and smallfolk there once the winter was over. But that was before I knew what comes. Before I knew the threat. Well, enough is enough. I will tell the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch that the Stark in Winterfell commands that the Wildlings be allowed South to settle in the abandoned areas of the Gift and New Gift. And I will not take no for an answer."

There was a silence whilst they all absorbed that, and then a worried GreatJon leant forwards a little. "Ned – many of the other lords of the North won't like it. Wildlings South of the Wall…"

"Are better than wighted Wildlings North of it, under the control of the Others! There's a war coming. And they all know that the Others have returned. They have all sent pledges of allegiance and help, they all have the blood of the First Men in them and they all heard the call from the Hearthstone! I will write to them, telling them of my decision. We have a war to fight, a war that our ancestors started and which we very nearly failed to realise was still going on."

"My father will understand," Domeric said suddenly. He was still at the map, looking at all the new settlements that it now showed. "Father is… pragmatic."

Oh, I know he is, Robb thought as he remembered the knife going in and Roose Bolton's mutter that Jaime Lannister send his regards. But that was then. This is now.

Rayder was looking at Domeric in slight puzzlement, which brought a small guffaw to the lips of GreatJon. "Oh, his father's a most pragmatic man. This is Domeric Bolton from the Dreadfort. You know, Roose Bolton's son."

Father looked over at Rayder, who was looking at Domeric with wide eyes. Oh, he knew of the Boltons alright. Not that Bolton, but he'd heard of the older one. "I am not saying that it will be easy," Father said softly. "I am not saying that there won't be a lot of difficulties in places. And I will say that the Wildlings – free folk as they are – will need to swear to stop the raids at once and settle down in the Gift for as long as the coming long winter lasts. No raids, Rayder. No trouble."

"I cannot promise anything, but I will do my best," Rayder said with a solemn nod. "The chiefs of the Free Folk know what awaits us if we stay North of the Wall."

"Can't you just command them?" Theon asked with a frown. "You are supposed to be the King Beyond The Wall."

The Wildling who had once been of the Night's Watch looked Theon up and down. "It's not that easy lad," he said eventually. "I am not, ah, a 'king' as you might know it. I lead because I am the only one with a plan to save our people from the Others. And once you've seen your first White Walker, and felt that chill as they approach, then you'll understand why they follow me."

Much to Robb's surprise Theon did not bristle when he heard the word 'lad'. Instead he frowned in thought before nodding.

Father looked around the room. "Much still needs to be discussed, so I will not keep you. GreatJon, please stay. We need to discuss matters with Rayder."

Robb and the others nodded and then walked to the door. Opening it Robb caught Maester Luwin in mid-knock, and the older man jerked back in surprise. "Ah! Your pardon, Robb. Is Lord Stark free?"

"Come in Luwin – what is it?"

Luwin bustled in with what looked like a message. "A raven from Storm's End, Lord Stark."

Robb felt his ears prick and he turned back into the room. "From Renly Baratheon?" He asked the question at the same time as his father did.

Luwin's eyes swivelled slightly and then twinkled a little with amusement, before he sobered. "No, my Lord. From His Grace King Robert."

Robb looked at Father with a frown. "What's he doing at Storm's End?"

Father grasped the message and read it quickly. When he looked up he seemed… nonplussed. And then he looked at it again. "'His Grace King Robert Baratheon, king of the Andals and of the First Men, etc., etc. Ned – I write in haste as I must catch the tide back to King's Landing. I came here on a whim and I found something long hidden. Stormbreaker has been found again. Ned, a war is coming. I need your counsel – I will write again from King's Landing. And I am sending my bastard son Edric North to foster with you. Take care of the lad. He is young but I am proud of him. Be well my friend. Robert.'"

He raised both eyebrows. Life was definitely turning from the previous path. And then he wondered how Mother was going to take the arrival of King Robert's bastard son. Hmmm. This would be something to watch.