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Chapter Text

Ext. Castle Black. A man rides up on a horse in a great hurry. As he comes closer, we see that the man is Theon. He rides up to the gate where a guard is stationed.

Theon: I ride from Riverrun with news of the war. I need to speak with Jon Snow.

The guard waves him in, and he rides inside.

Int. Jon's chamber at Castle Black. The room is small and furnished simply with a bed, a bedside table with a bowl of water, and a chair. Theon is pacing as he waits for Jon. He will talk to no one else. Jon approaches. He looks confused but concerned.

Jon: What's going on? What's the matter?

Theon: What's the matter? Where do I begin? My favorite horse died. I was right outside of Last Hearth and had to purchase one from their stables. They only breed palfreys. Those of course are the logical choice for a man making his way to the Wall. But I prefer a courser in case I am ambushed on the way by a high lord or even a low one. Palfreys are a miserably ugly breed. I'm sure you understand.

Theon turns to Jon and pauses.

Jon: I...suppose that's true? So what happened with...

Theon: And then! Just as I tried to mount my new horse to continue on my way, a thread on my doublet came loose and the whole sleeve fell off into a pile of mud. Fortunately, the finest tailor in the castle was available to make me this new jacket with a set of matching trousers. Take a look at them now. You can touch it if you like.

Jon is wearing the faded and torn black padded doublet of the Watch. Theon is wearing a seafoam green doublet with yellow stripes and puffy sleeves. The gold buttons on its front glimmer in the candlelight while Jon's iron buckles are dull and rusted. Theon holds out an arm, and Jon hesitantly touches the sleeve.

Jon: Very fine indeed, now would you mind...

Theon: It's made with the finest fabrics from White Harbor and in a newer style as well. The tailor was older than I like, but he made the most of his stiff fingers and weak eyes. I understand why the Greatjon would choose him if he had no other prospects. Fortunately, Lord Umber was not around to delay the making of my clothes, his being predisposed with the war effort after all...

Jon: Yes, tell me more about...

Theon: And then! Just when I thought the journey might end smoothly, I'd decided to take the night to indulge in the brothels of Mole's Town. The tansies surrounding the town were lush and plentiful, but the girls were much too stupid to use them properly. The whore did not even wait until I'd finished to stuff herself with them. A bastard of a high lord is the most she could hope for, but she did not even give it a second thought. I swear these whores are spoiled with the dullards and Johnny-come-quicklys at the Wall. They have no propriety when servicing a real man. Not that you would know. I'm surprised you haven't thrown yourself from the Wall out of sheer boredom.

Jon: So watching one woman after another cry is your raison d'etre? I'm sorry, I prefer to talk to them.

Theon: You enjoy their endless prattle? Always on about we and us. It's not my fault they believe their own lies. They think because we've shared a bed that our souls are bonded. Well, a moment of weakness does not entitle an eternity of servitude.

Jon: Are we still talking about whores? Are you here to join the Watch?

Theon: Why would I choose this godforsaken profession? A crust of bread a day and a night atop a mattress of ice? No thank you.

Jon (after a beat): So why are you here? What's going on with –

Theon: Speaking of, what are the prospects for girls up here? Surely Mole's Town is not your only option. Any whores in the castle? Or what about those wildling women? Are all of them as frigid as Osha?

Jon (clearly uncomfortable): I wouldn't know anything about that. I mean, I met one, but...

Theon: You? Met a girl? Well well, maybe the Watch is not as bad as the rumors claim.

Theon sits on Jon's bed as if preparing for the tale. Jon sits across from him on the chair.

Theon: So tell me about her. How long have you known her?

Jon (blushing but preening): Just a fortnight.

Theon: And her maidenhead?

Jon does not speak but grows redder.

Theon (stunned and jealous): You did it? You finally lost it? Now I must see this girl for myself. She must be more beautiful than the ladies of Highgarden.

Jon: That's not the reason why I...why we... Anyway, I don't fully understand it myself, but she says that I saved her so we're married now.

Theon (laughing): Sounds like she's got issues but then again so do you, so match made by the Seven? Truly though, how does she look? Give me a number.

Jon: Oh, I can't do that.

Theon (grinning): Is she ugly?

Jon: What? No!

Theon (horrified whisper): Is she fat?

Jon: Not that it matters, but no!

Theon: Come on, I'll tell you about my latest fling.

Jon: I don't really –

Theon waves at Jon to shush him. He thinks for a moment before speaking.

Theon: Body 6, Face 5. Her nose alone would make it a 3, but she has our mother's eyes.

Jon: Sorry, whose eyes?

Theon: Anyway, Robb's dead.

Jon looks shocked.

End scene.

Chapter Text

Int. Castle Black's ward the next morning. Lord Commander Mormont and Jon stand to greet Ser Rodrik Cassel as he approaches. Lord Commander's Raven is perched on his shoulder, preening its feathers. Theon is lazily fletching arrows in the background.

Ser Rodrik: Lord Commander.

He bows solemnly in greeting then turns to Jon, smiling fondly.

Ser Rodrik: How is the cold treating you? Are your bones as stiff as mine yet? (He laughs.)

Jon: It's not half as bad as that Winter Robb and I built the ice fort in the godswood.

Rodrik: Don't bring up the night I failed to bring the little lord back in the castle. Lady Catelyn would not let me forget it for an age.

Jon: If she wanted Robb inside, she should have come herself. It was his idea to sleep out there in the first place.

Rodrik: I thank the Gods that the two of you convinced the stablemaster's son to bring all that straw to pile around you and keep out the cold.

Jon: Yeah, Stumpy was a good sport that night. That was back when he could still push the carts. How did he lose his foot again?

Rodrik: Just a bit of frostbite from an ill-advised night outside wearing boots soaked through from carting hay through the snow all day. Don't you concern yourself with his folly, boy.

Jon (nodding solemnly): Speaking of Robb, have you heard – ?

Lord Commander (interrupting loudly): Enough pleasantries. What business do you bring to the Wall?

Raven: Wall, wall. Corn, corn.

Lord Commander (to Raven): Hush, I'll feed you later.

Rodrik: I bring a prisoner for the Watch.

Lord Commander: Only one? That hardly seems worth the trip.

Rodrik: Aye, Lord Commander. I asked the King for a battalion to watch the ice melt, but they're indisposed fighting the war, you see.

Theon has been watching and takes notice of Jon starting at the word King.

Raven: War, war.

Jon: Did you say –?

Theon jumps up to intervene.

Theon: So the news has not reached Winterfell? Gods be good, I feared this to be the case.

Rodrik (shocked and angry): What in the seven hells are you – ?!

Theon: My dear Ser Rodrik, it is good to see your face, but I weep that I must be the one to bear you the sad news. Our beloved Robb is dead. Would that I had gotten to him just a moment sooner. Curse these sluggish legs of mine! I could do nothing but hold him as I watched his life's blood drain. His skin grew cold and white as snow while his eyes turned dark as pitch. No more is there any reason to fight, for our true King has passed from this life and onto the next. My heart breaks for him, but I must move on and follow the path of duty. It has led me here to this cold oasis where the squabbles of the Southron Lords are as distant and unimportant as the buzzing of flies around a dung heap. Do not deny us brothers for the Watch on account of this “war”. Let them find their way as I have mine.

Lord Commander (to Jon, after a beat): Who the fuck is he?

Raven: Fuck! Fuck!

Jon opens his mouth to respond, but Rodrik speaks first.

Rodrik: I saw your men with my own eyes. They lay siege to Winterfell on your orders!

Theon: No, you misunderstand me. They are not my men but my father's. As you know, Robb sent me to treat with the old fellow, but he'd misjudged his feeble mind. When I finally met him face to face, he spouted nonsense about the leadership of women. A woman leading an army? Why the very thought makes me want to vomit. My sister likes to think of herself as cocksure, but trust me, she is quite impotent.

Rodrik: I'm talking about you, not your sister.

Theon: Oh surely, I only wish to give you context on my poor father's addled thoughts. He even demanded that I renounce my loyalty to Robb and join the Ironmen in their fight against the North. Abandon Robb?! How could I turn against my brother, who through his grace and love granted me my freedom? Desert my dearest friend and comrade for my father, my own blood and heart? Never! I would return to Robb to fulfill our contingency and in time we would turn to attack the Iron Islands, my one true home. I had to keep this plan a secret, you understand, and swore an oath to the old man. In turn, he coerced onto me a handful of weak men and a broken ship and demanded that I take Winterfell, the only home I'd ever known. As I traveled with these men, the same thought kept running through my head. My father or my brother, with whom should I side? Though Robb had ten times the virtue of my true kin, the laws of blood cannot be denied. I will not betray my family, no. (Beat where Jon looks shocked before Theon hastily moves on.) But the old man had seen to that as well. He commanded a horde of his most loyal warriors to guard me at all hours. Every one of them a behemoth of a man and bloodthirsty besides. I knew that I must escape and warn Robb of the impending ambush. He would understand my failure without a word of admonishment. He always did with only a stern scolding against my fierce and dominant disposition, you see. My father could not understand this, but then again he always found me too posh and genteel. These are my faults and I admit to them freely.

Beat where Jon looks confused.

Jon: What were we talking about again?

Rodrik: I know you well enough by now to recognize a lie when I see it. Before we scared your friends off back to Pyke, I met with their leader, a Mr. Stygg, charming fellow. He informed me of your plan to sack Winterfell.

Theon: Ah Stygg, one of my sister's cronies. He'd say anything to frame me.

Rodrik: He had an oddly detailed plan for their invasion: back doors we leave unguarded...

Theon: Only insights gleaned from the childhood stories I shared. Robb and I did love to play Chase around those towers.

Rodrik: ...the number of able bodied men remaining in the castle as well as their names and ages...

Theon: Oh dear, it seems I have too much faith in the good nature of men. I had regaled them with tales of the humble servants of our House. I had hoped they would inspire the pirates to foresake their evil ways, but it seems that was just a fantasy.

Rodrik: ...a document detailing my inevitable execution including how to recognize when the masses are becoming too unruly, the best sword to strike the final blow based on the thickness of my neck, and a cute little drawing of my head resting on a pike with Xs for the eyes.

Beat.

Theon: That's just the Ironborn version of MASH?

Rodrik: You might have the others fooled with this act but not me. The only thing I do not understand is your choice to hide here, but I will find out and then Ro–

Lord Commander: Enough! The Watch cares not for talk of Kings and War. The quarrels of men is their business alone. Bring forth the prisoner.

Rodrik gestures to someone off screen and two men pull up a heavy wooden cart. Atop the cart is an iron cage, in it sits Ramsay. He is covered in a mysterious brown substance. All on screen react in disgust as he's brought out. Ramsay is sprawled against the bars of the cage. He looks almost comatose from boredom.

Lord Commander (grimacing): What an...interesting man. What did you say his name was?

Rodrik (holding his nose): He calls himself Reek.

Jon (gagging): I can't imagine why.

Rodrik (still holding his nose): He's a servant of Lord Roose Bolton's son Ramsay Snow. We picked him up outside of Hornwood after he and his late master murdered their Lady. He tried to run like the little bastard, no offense Jon...

Jon: None taken.

Rodrik: ...but he didn't get very far. We found him laying next to his dying horse.

Lord Commander: So that mess on him, it's from the horse?

Rodrik (clearly uncomfortable): The horse...right... Anyway, do with him what you will, I have matters to attend to back at Winterfell. (To Theon) Hide here as long as you like, boy, but if I get one word of you deserting, I'll hunt you down myself.

Theon: Do not trouble yourself with such worries, Ser Rodrik. The carefree days of my youth ended when Robb breathed his last breath. I am not a boy now but a Crow, and I fight for the good of all men.

As Theon speaks, Ramsay perks up and looks over at him. He is very interested.

Rodrik (to Jon): You'll keep him in line?

Jon: Aye, Ser, you can count on me.

Ramsay: And me!

Everyone looks at him. All but Theon are surprised. Theon is annoyed.

Theon: I do not need the minding of a filthy servant, and I will not be ward of a bastard, no offense Jon.

Jon: None taken.

Ramsay (to Theon): We're all prisoners here. Who are you to speak so highly of yourself?

Raven: Theon! Theon Greyjoy!

Theon: Why does that bird know my name?

End scene.

Chapter Text

Ext. Castle Black's ward. It is a cold but sunny day. Men are sparring with metal practice swords. Jon is showing Theon and Ramsay around. Ramsay has bathed sometime in the interim and is wearing the dull black garb of the Watch. Theon is wearing a black and teal doublet with deep black trousers. Jon gestures to a man at the stable shoveling horse dung.

Jon: Here we see a humble builder-in-training. If we were in any other castle, this man would be the bastard son of the bastard son of a stablemaster, perhaps nicknamed Shovel for the ease of the household. With his mother dead, there is no one to remember his birth name and no one to care. Maybe a tale close to your own heart, Reek.

Ramsay has no response in words or facial expression. Jon continues undaunted.

Jon: Here this man is called Bunyon, his own name chosen. Even the lowest position in the Watch is deserving of the highest respect. We bear no titles. We have no family but each other. We follow only our Lord Commander and protect the peace.

Theon: Yeah, great job at that.

Jon: You're too kind, but I'm just a steward. We decide in what direction we must go, but the builders and the rangers move us forward. They are the true heroes.

Bunyon spills a large pile of horse dung. Another man suited up to ride north of the Wall strides up to mount a horse and slips in the mess. Jon doesn't seem to notice.

Jon: Our fiercest rangers will be riding with our Lord Commander today. He will meet with the ombudsman for North of the Wall Affairs to lodge a complaint about recent wildling skirmishes, including the raid on our castle...

Theon: Wait, isn't your girlfriend a wilding?

Jon: My wife, and yes. She was unfortunately a part of that attack.

Theon: And you're cool with that? Her just invading your base like that. No big deal if she accidentally killed a couple of your Brothers?

Jon: We decided when we married that we would not discuss politics. She has her views on the matter, and I have mine. Though I wish they hadn't planned it for the weekend after our wedding. It left no time for a honeymoon.

Ramsay (speaking in a conspicuous commonfolk accent): You know, m'lords, my master had himself a similar conundrum the night of his wedding. He couldn't decide how much time was proper to wait after the death of his first wife before taking a second. I told him that it didn't matter. Might be some lords would say it's never enough time, might be they'd say you should remarry before the first wife's even cold. But when love truly strikes you, it'll just feel right, I told him. And wouldn't you know it –

Theon: How strange... Your voice seems to have changed since yesterday. Perhaps you've developed a bit of laryngitis?

Ramsay (innocently confused look): I'm not sure what you mean, m'lord, but then again there are many things I don't understand. I was born in a pig sty, and the smell just never left. That's why they call me Reek.

Theon eyes him suspiciously, but Jon nods in sympathy.

Jon: As I said, we have many commonfolk here who have elevated themselves beyond their station. Why Qhorin Half-hand himself...

Theon: Yes, yes, you worship the poor and useless. Now about your wife and those attacks...

Sam, Pyp, and Grenn approach in sparring gear.

Sam: Training time, Jon! Have you made friends with the new recruits?

Jon: Ah yes, let me introduce you. Sam, Grenn, Pyp, this is Theon, my childhood friend from Winterfell. Now don't think you need to treat him any differently because of his upbringing, but be warned. He trained under the same strict master as I did plus he adds in his own style from his days in Pyke. So keep your form tight, and watch your back if he's your sparring partner.

Theon (flattered): Oh certainly, I was classically trained in all the arts of battle. Long-range is my preferred method, though I'm quite deadly up close. Now where are the practice swords for the highborn? Surely we do not have to use these rusted iron clubs.

Pyp (unimpressed): We keep them locked in the dungeon so they won't be stolen, right next to our feather mattresses and adequate food stores.

Theon: Pyp, right? That's a peculiar name. From which House do you hail?

Jon: Theon, remember you're a man of the Watch. Our titles are no more, and though they come from common blood, Pypar and Grenn number among our most promising junior members.

Grenn: We've been here just as long as you!

Sam: Now, now, Grenn. Save that energy for your sparring.

Theon: And you? You do not number among the commoners?

Sam (somewhat nervously): I have cast aside my past. I am steward to our Maester, friend to all Brothers, and nothing more.

Theon: But still, you must recall your name. Or has the cold numbed even your mind?

Sam (insecure pause): I am Samwell Tarly, firstborn son of Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill.

Theon (grinning): Firstborn, you say? And what crime did you commit to warrant your banishment?

Sam looks deeply uncomfortable but does not respond.

Theon: I can't imagine why a father would give his first to the Watch. Well, I understand in your case Jon, but you, a trueborn son? Why that's practically unheard of. Servant to a Maester, that's no role for a Lord-in-training. And sparring with all these lowborn, your skills with the sword must be dull as dirt by now. Though it would give me no pleasure or challenge, I ask that you train with me alone. Let me sharpen your blade. As my first bit of advice, I say you must find the right weapon. Too many use a broadsword when they are neither tall nor broad. That crude weapon is no trouble for me to wield, however my tall, slim frame is best complemented with its like. Though I'm not aware of any armament that matches your figure, I'm sure we'll eventually find something that works.

As Theon speaks, Sam grows more and more pale.

Sam: I...I must say...Please excuse me, I've just recalled that I forgot to bring the Maester his wine.

Sam leaves. Jon has finally been angered by Theon's attitude. Ramsay looks thoughtful.

Jon: What do you think you're doing? There's no need to put Sam in his place; he knows it well. He cannot hold his own in battle, but he is loyal to the end, sharp as anything, and...

Theon: I thought you said your wife was a wildling, not a overstuffed meat pie.

Jon: Now that's...

Ramsay: Most folks say the firstborn has the strongest blood and it gets diluted with each get, son and daughter both. That's why the first deserves the Lordship. But sometimes he has something rotten in him that must be purged. If he isn't a trueborn leader, the weakling must be sacrificed for the good of the House.

Awkward silence.

Ramsay: That's what my master always said. His precious words numbered as many as the stars in the sky, but it's hard to keep them straight in my head. Too filled up with straw to hold much else, he always said.

Pyp: Right, let's get to sparring then. Grenn, you're with straw head over there. Seems a good match for you.

Grenn: Hey!

After sparring together, Jon and Theon are watching the others. Pyp is facing off with a nameless Brother, and Grenn is managing to hold his own against Ramsay. They seem to be enjoying themselves. Jon is engaged in watching the sparring match but Theon looks bored.

Jon: On your left, Grenn!

Grenn is hit hard on his left shoulder but he shrugs it off and keeps fighting.

Jon (shaking his head): He's getting better, but Gods protect him if he goes up against someone with true skill.

Theon: You're wasting your time on these men. They are commoners to the bone: simple folk who cannot learn the arts of the noblemen.

Jon: How many times must I say this? You cannot think as you did at Winterfell. We are beyond that here.

Theon: And who among us would you choose to have your back in a fight? A master bowman or a whoreson?

Jon: They may be one in the same!

Theon (laughs): You don't truly believe that. Now tell me, I know already that Sam is your wife here, but who would you take if you had to choose between Pyp and Grenn as a mistress and who would you kill.

Jon (baffled): What are you going on about?

Theon: A game I learned from my father's men to test your own loyalty. Choose three of your best fighters: one as your saltwife, one to fuck, and one to drown.

Jon (horrified): I would not kill any of them. They are my closest friends.

Theon: More words you do not believe. One must be more useful to you in battle than another, more loyal to your ends.

Jon: That's not what friendship is.

Theon (rolls his eyes): Yes yes, we must be good and true always. But if you had to choose between the two of them. If a man came and told you that you must kill one, or the both of them and you will die, you would choose. Now tell me that choice.

Jon (after a long pause): I guess I would kill Grenn.

Theon (grinning): So it's brains over brawn for you. Interesting, although not surprising considering your wife. You'll see how that will serve you in battle, but I'm inclined to agree with the intent.

Jon: Since it's so easy for you to decide who should live and who should die, what choice would you make?

Theon: I'm not married to any of them. I just met them after all.

Jon: So I must choose but not you?

Theon: Okay, you've twisted my hand. I would fuck Grenn, marry Pyp, and kill Sam.

Jon (shocked): You'd kill Sam?

Theon: I'd kill him first! It would be a pleasure.

Jon: You must be mocking me. He's such a gentle soul; it would be like slaughtering a newborn pup. Although, I recall, you had similar intentions for Ghost and his brothers...

Theon: You're confusing mercy with glory. No one cares how many pups you've drowned, but killing a firstborn son of a major Lord. That is a notch in your belt.

Jon: Anyone who knew him would know there was no honor in it.

Theon: And how many have met such a shy, weak man? Has he won many tourneys? They will recognize the name, and that's enough.

Jon: Well, it's clear you've put a lot of thought into this. And me, am I just a bastard to you truly? Someone you would sacrifice for glory?

Theon: There's no glory in killing an obscure bastard. Make a name for yourself first, and I might consider it.

Theon watches Jon's face grow even darker.

Theon: It's a jest only! I see the Watch has not improved your renowned sense of humor.

Jon: You try having a sense of humor as you watch your brethren fight your wife and her allies.

Theon: Of course your marriage troubles you. You chose the first woman you fucked.

Jon: You know how I feel about that!

Ramsay comes up wiping sweat from his brow and panting heavily.

Ramsay: Good match, friends? I heard you were playing a game.

Jon: Not much of one...

Theon: Yes, it's called wife, fuck, drown. Among three of your men, you reveal your loyalties. I imagine as a servant, these games are beyond you...

Ramsay: I think I've heard of this one! Who are the three men?

Theon: Sam, Pyp, and Grenn. Though Jon might shed tears if you decide to kill Sam so be wary of who you choose.

Jon rolls his eyes.

Ramsay (weirdly happy): Well of course I'd take Sam! Is that your pick as well? (to Theon)

Theon (annoyed but righteous): You see, Jon, not such an usual thought.

Jon (unamused): And the others?

Ramsay: You mean you can choose another to fuck, marry, and kill?

End Scene.

Chapter Text

Ext. Just north of the Wall. Jon, Theon, Ramsay, Grenn, and Pyp are riding horses. Theon is wearing a deep azure doublet with silver filigree. The others are dressed in faded black cloth and leather. The trees are without leaves. A light snow is falling. All is quiet.

Grenn: What a peaceful ride today. Do you remember when we were sworn in Pyp? Wolves and wildlings everywhere. We had to race to escape them.

Pyp: I told you, that was just a dream. Rode out and back, done. Nothing else happened.

Grenn: Well then, why do I have this scar on my leg from the attack?

Pyp: Your first night of watch duty, you were asleep on your feet, fell down the steps, scraped up your knee, bled all over the stone. There's still a dark stain where you fell. Olin swore up and down you hit your head too, and since that day...

Jon (interrupting): Well, men, looks like we've made it to the heart tree. She sits in stone silence, judging all who come. You cannot hide your nature from her, for her roots grow deep.

The tree is thick, sturdy and tall with an imposing spread of branches. The wood is a gray-brown with patches of the bark worn through long ago. They look like battle scars. She has a face carved low on her trunk. Her lips curl in a grimace, and her brows are so heavy they almost completely conceal her eyes.

Jon: Who's going first?

Theon and Ramsay sit in silence for a moment before Theon sighs and dismounts.

Theon: If I must...

He approaches the tree, with a disgruntled look at its expression.

Jon (prompting): Night gathers, and now my watch begins...

Theon (quickly and loudly as if he didn't hear Jon): Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. I shall eat only gruel and cloak myself in rags.

Grenn: That doesn't sound right...

Pyp elbows him into silence.

Theon (continues): I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the blackened fingers, the missing toes, the mattress stuffed with horse dung, and the ale that tastes the same going down and coming up. I shall stand atop the ice until my skin turns blue, and when I die, they shall toss my corpse unceremoniously over the edge. Brothers will place bets on how far I'll fly. I pledge my life and dignity to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.

There is a long pause. Then a sudden wind shakes the leaves of the tree. There is a groan from the trunk that seems to come from the mouth of the tree. Theon, startled, jumps back. He glances around to see if anyone noticed, and then bends over to pretend that he was brushing something off his boots. While he is wiping at the shining black leather, the tree's lips part. Theon jerks his head up. The mouth stretches wider as Theon's eyes grow large with fear.

Theon: Is it supposed to do that?

Jon: No fear, Brother. The trees are more powerful North of the Wall. The Children of the Forest tended these roots.

Tree (with a deep and regal voice): Thank you, Jon, but I can speak for myself. (The tree clears its throat and a squirrel pops out of its mouth, chitters angrily, and then runs away. The tree now speaks in a scratchy and high pitched squeal.) Ah, that's better. Have you come to prune my branches, Jon? They're an awful sight lately. (She shakes her branches and several dead leaves fall. A small, twisted branch pops out and lays over her face. She lifts her brows revealing crossed eyes. Her lips are thick and coated in dead brown moss, giving them a fuzzy appearance.)

Jon: Not today, I'm afraid. We have some new members to be sworn into the Watch. You see before you Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy, ward of Ned Stark.

Theon is still crouched in fear before the tree, his hand clutching at a dagger sheathed in his belt.

Tree: Theon Greyjoy, that is a name I've heard before. Now where was it...?

Theon (perking up at the recognition, he straightens up and dusts off his coat): So word of my feats has traveled even this far north. Perhaps you heard tales of my excellent marksmanship at the Battle of the Camps? Or my invaluable scouting of the Whispering Woods? Or even my fad inspiring sense of style? (He shows off his current clothing, definitely not Watch garb.)

Tree: Ah, now I remember. A raven cawed it into my ear at a godawful hour this morning. Not the most pleasant awakening I've had. So you wish to join the Watch, Theon Greyjoy? And what do you hope to accomplish.

Theon: Hope to accomplish? With this sorry lot? If I could spark some brilliance in this colorless mass, I'd lead a charge to rout the wildlings. Then we'd ride south to join the war effort, and I'd inspire the Watch to take gold and glory for themselves. Become our own kingdom with our own lands.

Tree: A lofty goal, but not original, I'm afraid. Mance Rayder told me that one already, and that was barely two decades ago. Tell me something new.

Theon: Something new? I have to convince you I'm worthy to join this rotten ragtag bunch of frostbitten, brain-addled, psychopathic...

Tree: Ah there we go. So you are...

Theon: I'm not finished yet. This flea bitten, shit-scented, moronic...

Trees: Yes, yes...I see now that you are suited for the stewards. Anyone that comfortable assigning blame...

Theon: I said I'm not done! These barely coherent, indecisive, poorly assembled lumps of flesh. You should be begging me to join them. They are lost without direction from a true nobleman. Even the highborn among them have spent so long in the cold, they've forgotten their purpose in life.

Tree: I already said steward. What more do you want from me?

Theon: Jon is a steward as well as that heap of birdshit they call the “Lord Commander.” I'm not joining that ragtag group of might-have-beens at the bottom of the pile. They barely deserve to be in my presence.

Tree: Fine, you can be a builder. Have fun shoveling horse shit for the rest of your life. Next!

Theon: I'm not a builder! I refuse to be assigned to a job like a commoner! I am the son of a Lord, the only remaining! I deserve to be...

Grenn and Jon have to drag Theon away. The screen goes black. When it comes back, Ramsay stands before the tree in Theon's place and Theon is angrily muttering to himself at the side.

Tree: And who are you?

Ramsay: They call me Reek. My mum was a washerwoman, a slut who slept with any man she could. Not even she loved me, and I toiled in shit until my Lord, Roose Bolton, had the good graces to give me as a christening gift to his son Ramsay. It was only then that I learned what life could be. I spent my days laughing and drinking until he had the misfortune to die. I'll never move on from him. He was my world, and life is bleak and dark as the depths of winter without him. I came to the Wall because I have nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Tree: Okay, you could have just said shit farmer. I didn't need your entire backstory. Gods, these humans like to prattle on so. Anyway, what do you bring to the table?

Ramsay: I've spent my days in shit. It's like home to me. I'll be a builder like Theon.

Tree: Hold on now, you don't get to just choose your group. What do you think I'm here for? What job does that leave for me? If everyone just came up and said, I think I'd like to be a ranger, and I said, sure, done, we'd have 500 rangers and nothing else. I've spent millennia assigning men to these roles, but every godforsaken human thinks he knows better than the tree. Tell me young man, how would you feel if someone came up to you and said, hey, you're shoveling that shit wrong, do it this way?

Ramsay: No one knows shit better than I do.

Tree: Exactly, so I guess you shall be a builder too... Wait...

Jon: Two new builders then. I'll inform Lord Commander Mormont.

Tree: I said wait! One more question, young Reek, if you could choose only one: animal, vegetable, or mineral.

Ramsay: Animal.

Tree: Ahah! Wrong answer for builder, my friend. You are going to be a ranger. I've still got it.

The tree reverts back to its frozen severe face while the others stare blankly at each other.

Jon: Maybe next time we should use a different tree...

End Scene.