Sorry for the delay on this, but I was at the conference from hell two weeks ago and was then buried in work, which continues, and there's worse to come as I'm off to Bermuda for yet another conference next week. I need to stress something - some readers have said that the Jaime-Robert fight last update was unfair. Yes. I admit that. That's because Jaime Lannister versus Stormbreaker could only ever end one way - the way that it happened. Jaime Lannister is a complex and frankly at the start of ASOIAF, unlikable character. For him to develop he needed to be broken first. In the books it took his capture, the loss of his hand and a lot more. Here - Robert and Stormbreaker have done the job.

Domeric

Robert Arryn trotted Surefoot around the carefully laid out course. The lad was a fast learner and Surefoot was a perfect fit for him. The little pony was reacting to his nudges of the foot with aplomb and an immediate understanding of what his rider wanted.

Hopefully those two would go far together, as they grew up together.

He sighed for a moment. The future. What lay ahead?

"Young Lord Robert looks as if he's learning fast," said a very familiar voice behind him and he turned with a smile. Lord Redfort was standing there, watching the heir to the Vale with a careful look on his face. Then he smiled at Domeric. "You've done well, lad."

He bowed respectfully and then clasped Lord Redfort's proffered forearm with a grin. "Thank you, my Lord. It's good to see you again."

"And you Domeric," came the reply, along with a hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations on your impending marriage. She's a very pretty girl."

He flushed a little but then nodded. "Thank you my Lord. She's a remarkable girl."

Lord Redfort nodded and then looked back to young Robert, who was still riding with a look of deep concentration on his face. "Lord Arryn would be proud of him. I'll write to him of all you have taught him. Knowing Jon Arryn you can count on his gratitude. Young Lord Robert has a good bearing in that saddle."

"The second thing I taught him," Domeric said wryly. "The first thing was the same thing you taught me – the health of your horse is paramount. Hooves, feed, coat, tail."

The older man nodded at him and then slapped his shoulder. "Well said." He looked at Domeric carefully. "Have you told your betrothed of your plan?"

Domeric nodded seriously. "I have."

"And her thoughts?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the precious piece of cloth that never left his presence, before handing it over. Lord Redfort peered at it curiously and then raised his eyebrows as he spread it across the back of his hand – before chuckling slightly. "A favour – of the new banner you plan for House Bolton?"

Domeric smiled a little and then nodded as he looked at the red on white diagonal on a black background on the piece of cloth. "A break from the past," Domeric explained. "Red instead of pink as well." Lord Redfort looked at him quizzically and he sighed. "I cannot ask Sansa to marry me and take up that old banner. Not… not given the fact that the original flayed man on it was a King of Winter. A Stark. It would be an insult to her."

The Lord of the Redfort looked at him gravely for a long moment – and then nodded gravely. "Who made it?"

"Sansa. Her needlework is most impressive. As is her Direwolf. I imagine that by the time we marry Lady will be quite large. I wonder what my father will say?"

"Does he know?"

"No." He took the favour and folded it very carefully, before putting it away. "But I think he suspects. And after the death of my half-brother… it's me or my cousins, the Boltons who were with the Company of the Rose. They don't hold to the old ways. I know, I've talked with them."

Lord Redfort pulled a face. "I heard about your half-brother. A bad business."

That familiar sense of sadness enveloped him. "He hated me. I never suspected. We had never met, but he hated me nevertheless, just for existing. How could he have such hate?"

"From what I've heard, Domeric, he was a lunatic." Lord Redfort looked back at Robert Arryn. "I'll write to Lord Arryn today. He'll be grateful, as I said. The Vale – the Redfort – will support the future Lord of the Dreadfort."

Domeric clasped hands with the man he had been fostered to – and then he sobered. "Winter is coming. We have a storm to survive first."

"Aye, but we are as strong as stone," Lord Redfort replied.

"And our… minds are sharp." He looked at Robert Arryn and Surefoot, still determinedly trotting. "There's much to do."

Theon

He waited outside the room, sitting on a bench. He felt nervous. But then he'd been nervous ever since Robert Baratheon had loomed into sight in that gatehouse, that huge form that he had first seen at Pyke all those many years ago. The Demon of the Trident had devastated the Iron Islands and become the Demon of Pyke, at least in his dreams and nightmares in those weeks after the fall of his family home.

But then that why he was here, now. His father had started a war that he had no hope – not the slightest hope – of winning. His father, in one of oh so very many miscalculations, had ruined the lives of so many on the Iron Islands.

Including his. Especially in that future that would never come to pass.

The door opened and Ser Barristan Selmy stepped out. He looked at Theon gravely, who repressed the need to swallow convulsively and instead stood up. "His Grace will see you now," the old Kingsguard said quietly. "He has a suspicion about what you wish to talk about with him."

Theon nodded and followed the older man into the room. There he saw the King of Westeros, clad only in breeches and rather damp about the torso as he towelled himself off briskly. His Grace was powerfully built, heavily muscled about the shoulders – and with sagging skin about his stomach. He looked like a man who had once been fat but who had lost weight in some places whilst gaining muscle in others, and that his body was still coping with the changes. To one side sat Stannis Baratheon, who was reading raven messages with a scowl.

"Theon Greyjoy," Robert Baratheon rumbled as he pulled a shirt on. "You wished to see me? Ned said that you'd approach me. And he thought he knew why. So – what do you want?"

He stood there, staring at the King for a long moment. "Your Grace," he said hoarsely, "I wish your permission to change my name. I no longer wish to be a Greyjoy."

The King sat on the end of a table and stared at him shrewdly. "As Ned thought. Very well – why?"

He took a deep breath. "My family's legacy – no, Father's legacy is one of… one of foolish decisions. Madness. He ruined the Iron Islands when he declared independence from the Iron Throne and then attacked Lannisport. He thought that… that your hold on the Iron Throne was tenuous. He was wrong. And my brothers and so many others paid the price for his mistake. He holds to the Old Way. The Iron Price. The Drowned God. And I… I do not."

Stannis Baratheon swapped a keen glance with his brother before staring at him. "You deny what your father believes?"

"I do," Theon nodded. "I deny it. Especially the Drowned God. I worship the Old Gods now. And that's why I can't be a Greyjoy. I can't lead the Iron Islands if I don't worship a…" He struggled for the right words. "A mad creature that claims to be a god."

The other two men stared at him. "The Drowned God is mad?" the King asked, carefully. "How do you know this?"

And so he told them both. About the dreams. About the shades of his brothers, and where they had tried to take him. About the… thing on the throne of bones, on the isle of bones. About the mast. And the voice. By the time he finished talking about it all he was hoarse and red eyed – and the King and his brother were both staring at him as if they'd seen a ghost. Perhaps, based on his face, they had.

"Let me see that pendant, lad," the King rumbled as he walked up to him, and Theon tugged the weirwood pendant into view. He always wore it, day and night. Just in case the dreams ever happened again. "A gift from the Old Gods, eh?"

"Yes, your Grace," he muttered. "And a worshipper of the Old Gods can't rule Pyke. Not that I want to. I'm of the North now. I have a direwolf. I want to stand besides House Stark."

"It means giving up your birthright," Stannis Baratheon grated. "Are you sure about that? Truly?"

He wanted to laugh bitterly, but held it back. "I care nothing for my birthright. Or my father. I have been a hostage here at Winterfell for years now, but the Starks have given me far more affection than my birth father ever did. Balon Greyjoy…" He paused for a long moment, bitter words on his lips. "My father never showed me much affection. He only liked my brothers once they were old enough to reave. And I'm told that he's even more bitter now than he was before. If I returned to Pyke tomorrow then he'll scorn me as a Greenlander. Especially because I have Mist, my direwolf. He'd probably order his murder."

The King didn't say a word, but just stared at him with his head tilted to one side. as he assessed him. "Gods," he said eventually, "I never thought about what it would be like to be raised by that sour streak of vinegar, Balon bloody Greyjoy. You poor bugger."

He searched for the right words but ended up just shrugging. "It's what I was used to at the time your Grace. When I arrived here at Winterfell, even though I knew that I was a hostage, it was… different. Better."

The two Baratheons swapped another look before the King sighed mightily and then returned to the desk. "Bloody hells," he muttered. "Good for Ned." A large set of fingers drummed on the table for a moment. "Alright then. So what do you want to be called?"

Theon cleared his throat. "I thought - Greymist. House Greymist. I want to find a holdfast somewhere here in the North and be a sworn banner to House Stark. I want to build something here your Grace. Something worthwhile. Something far better than what my father would have me do. I want to be of the North."

The corpses of the men and women of Winterfell that had haunted his dreams, the shadow of that future that would never now come to pass, danced before his eyes for a moment – and then he blinked as it all vanished. Something of that must have flashed across his face, because the two Baratheons both looked at him carefully and then swapped another look with each other.

"Giving you permission to change your name will not please your father much," the King said eventually. "Not that I give a fuck about that, as your father is an idiot. But you are his heir and this is not something to be done lightly, lad. There will be implications. And perhaps even complications."

"I know, your Grace," he sighed. "And I am sorry for it. But I do not do this lightly. Because I worship the Old Gods, if I ever returned to Pyke and tried to rule, well, I'd die in my sleep inside a week. Or fall from one of the towers. By accident of course."

"The Ironborn would not accept you?" Stannis asked the question carefully. "Worshippers of the Drowned God are that jealous of their god?"

"I doubt that many would admit that their god is a mad twisted thing," Theon muttered, his mind going back to those gibbering screams and the smell on that isle of bones.

"You'd be surprised, Theon Greyjoy," Lord Stannis replied as he looked down at the messages. "It seems that the war on the Iron Islands has spread. Victarion Greyjoy tried to take Harlaw some weeks ago. He lost. Your uncle, The Reader, beat him and is in open revolt against your father. And it's said that there are supporters of the Old Gods amongst his supporters. Oh and it's said that your sister fights with Lord Harlaw."

He straightened a little. Asha always had been the clever one. "Then she can rule the Iron Islands. With my uncle Rodrik's support. They'd be far better than my father. They're needed there. I'm needed here."

There was a rasping noise as the King rubbed his chin with one calloused hand. "I'll think about it," he said eventually, before raising his other hand as Theon opened his mouth to protest. "This is a decision that will affect many, as I said. Given the situation on the Iron Islands, the news that you've renounced your father's name might have some impact – or none. I need to talk to a few people. Think it over, just to be on the safe side. There's no need to rush. Come back in two days. Don't get me wrong lad. If you want to stay in the North, I'll not stop you. I think better of you for saying that you want to be a banner to Ned and fight the Others. But I need to talk to a few people."

The door was opened behind him by Ser Barristan Selmy and Theon bowed to the King and then strode out. Mist had somehow found out where he was and was sitting there waiting by the bench outside. He smiled and ruffled the fur between the direwolf's ears. "It seems I'll have to wait a bit longer, Mist. But that's alright. We're staying in the North." The direwolf yipped and then bounded down the corridor ahead of him. He had some plans to make. Greyjoy or Greymist, he was of the North now. And there was nothing that his damn father could do about it.

Robb

He was in the Godswood, staring at the carved face on the Heart tree and wondering, yet again, who had created it. Man? Green Man? Child of the Forest? How old was it? He sighed and then looked at the pool, watching how a blood-red leaf was drifting on it, blown by the wind. To one side sat Grey Wind, who was watching him carefully.

"I thought I'd find you here," said a voice on the other side of the pool and he looked over to see Jon approaching, Ghost padding at his side. "Best place to sit and think in Winterfell." He sat down next to him and a companionable silence fell. The two direwolves sniffed at each other and then both sprawled out next to them and seemed to fall asleep.

"I wasn't expecting to feel sorry for that bloody man," Robb said eventually. "Odd, that."

Jon frowned slightly but then nodded. "I know what you mean. The moment I laid eyes on Jaime Lannister I hated him. Him and his swagger and his smirk. And knowing what he did in that future that you saw…"

"He pushed Bran out of that window," spat Jon. "I can't forgive something like that." Another silence fell. "That said, seeing him like that… begging on the floor to be killed after being humiliated like that… I felt sorry for him. First I delighted in seeing him beaten like that, but in the end…"

"Aye," Robb agreed, reluctantly. "I felt the same way. Delight at first and then… pity. Odd, that. I remember seeing him in a cage after I smashed him in battle, but he was never as broken as he was at the end of that 'fight'. He never stood a chance did he?"

"No," Jon muttered. "Stormbreaker broke him. It judged him. And it found him wanting."

Yet another silence fell as the two sat there and stared at the Heart tree and the pool respectively, whilst the direwolves started to snore slightly. Robb looked at Grey Wind and smiled slightly. "Has Arya talked to you about warging?"

"She has."

"Make any sense to you?"

"A little. The thing is though that she's young and believes things more easily than we older siblings. We still think that some things are impossible. She didn't. Which is why she can warg and Bran is starting and we… we still think that somethings aren't possible."

He looked at his 'brother'. "That made sense."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Good point." He paused. "In that other future… I would have dreams sometimes. About seeing the world through the eyes of a direwolf. And just before I was murdered Grey Wind was very restless. Almost as if he knew something."

Jon shivered. "That other future of yours… thank the Gods it will never happen now. The thought of Ironborn here in Winterfell…"

He nodded. "Father talked to Jojen Reed. He had a greendream, or something like that. He remembered being in the crypts, escaping Winterfell when they came – with Bran and Rickon. It might be that Theon didn't kill them in that other future." He smiled slightly. "I never told you that one of the last things I did before that wedding at the Twins was to make you my heir did I?"

Eyebrows raised, Jon just stared at him. "Why did you do that?"

"I thought Bran was dead. I thought Rickon was dead. Sansa was a prisoner of the Lannisters and Arya was just… missing. We never knew what had happened to her, she just vanished from King's Landing when… when Father was executed." He said the last words as quietly as he could. They were alone there, but the words were still… horrifying. As was the thought. The memory of the moment that he heard the news of what had happened before the Great Sept of Baelor still made his blood run cold.

Jon shook his head in astonishment. "Your mother must have been furious."

"She… coped. I had no choice at that time. And then I died."

The silence that followed was the longest one of all. "I'm glad you came back and warned us," Jon said eventually. "Thank the Old Gods."

"Aye. And we know what's important now. The real war." He paused and then smirked a little. "We've both seen the Wall. How do you think the Kingslayer will cope with life there?"

Jon smirked back. "Badly."