Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Theon swept Jeyne up in his arms and leapt from the wall. For a moment, they hung like snowflakes in the air, and then the ground rushed up to meet them. Theon closed his eyes against Jeyne’s scream. The fall seemed to warp the sound, morphing it from a shriek to the whinny of horses. The muffled impact of their bodies on snow became the sound of hoofbeats.

Theon opened his eyes and found himself riding amongst the dead. To his left was Fat Tomard who had died in Kings Landing and on his right was Pate who had died in the Whispering Woods. More ghosts rode ahead and behind as they came down from Winterfell’s gate through the shade of the winter town. At the head of the column flapped the direwolf banner of House Stark.

“You seem quiet this morning,” said Tomard. “Too much in your cups last night?”

“I died,” Theon told him.

“Did you now? A lad like you could do to learn some moderation.”

“Moderation?” Theon laughed. “We flew, she and I. We flew.”

The men around them chuckled at that. “Flew did you? And who’s the lucky lady?” Tomard asked. “Not my daughter, I hope.”

“It was Lord Ramsay’s wife.”

“Just so long as it wasn’t mine,” Cayn called from behind. “Lord’s son or no, I’d have to give you a thumping for it.”

Theon laughed at that and had trouble stopping. The guardsmen recoiled as if they thought his madness was catching. “A thumping,” he gasped. Lord Ramsay would have given him far worse than that if the fall hadn’t killed him. Who knew what his lord would have flayed from him this time. Truly, it was a fine thing to be dead.

The Drowned Men of his childhood had spoken of death as an endless feast in the Drowned God’s watery halls. When Theon had first come to Winterfell, they’d made him read The Seven-Pointed Star in the hopes it would prove civilizing. The book promised seven heavens for the righteous and seven hells for the unworthy. By rights he aught to be in one of the latter, but in truth death was like nothing so much as a day in a late Northern summer.

Theon and his fellow ghosts rode west into the hills with the morning sun warm on their backs. He had all his fingers, teeth, and toes and nothing hurt. After a time, they came to a holdfast where a bound man awaited them. It was here he saw the Starks. Robb and Lord Eddard he’d been expecting, but Bran and Jon did not belong. It was the miller’s boys Theon and his men had killed and last he’d heard Jon Snow was alive and well upon the Wall. Bran shifted nervously on his pony as some guardsmen cut the prisoner down and it was all wrong.

“What is this?” Theon muttered to himself.

“An execution,” Jory said, coming up beside him. “Lord Stark will want his sword for it. Best get it ready.”

That made even less sense to Theon. How could you execute a ghost? The prisoner was a ragged thing in black, down both ears and a finger. It came to Theon then that he remembered this man and this execution.

“This is the day we found the wolves,” Theon said. The day they learned of Jon Arryn’s death and the king’s coming. “This is the day it all started to go wrong.”

Jory frowned at that. “This is the day you find your wits. Get a move on,” he said, giving Theon a shove in the right direction.

Theon played his part in the production as if in a dream. The prisoner said his words and then Lord Stark said his. He took the sword Theon offered and used it to take the man’s head. It bounced off a root and rolled up against Theon’s boot.

It was in a much better condition than the last severed head to land at Theon’s feet. He stared into its brown eyes as yet unclouded by death. “What was his name?” he asked quietly.

Lord Stark had listened to the man’s words and lectured him on his oaths, but he had not asked the dead man’s name any more than Ramsay had asked his goat man or Theon had asked the miller’s sons. Perhaps he imagined it was easier to kill a stranger than a man named. Theon’s nightmares would say otherwise. He laughed darkly and pushed the head away before taking charge again of Lord Stark’s sword.

Jory road beside him on the way back towards Winterfell as the Stark boys rushed on ahead. He kept shooting Theon queer looks. “What was that back there?” he asked finally. “You said something about wolves and things gone wrong.”

“Today’s the day we found the wolves,” Theon explained. “Six pups, one for each of them, plus their dead mother besides.”

It was then that Jon came back up over the rise, calling for his father and brother to see what they’d found.

“Here we go,” Theon said and spurred his horse on.

The scene was just as he remembered. The dead she-wolf lay as big as pony in a frozen puddle of her own life’s blood. Robb stood beside her on the riverbank with Grey Wind in his arms looking as pleased as anything at his discovery. Theon’s horse misliked the smell and danced restlessly under him. He stilled the beast with his hand. There was nothing to fear here.

Apparently Jory didn’t agree. “Robb, get away from it!” he called, his sword already in hand as his horse reared in panic.

Robb grinned up at them. “She can’t hurt you,” he said. “She’s dead, Jory.”

Theon and the others dismounted then to calm their horses and take a closer look. Ice clung to the dead wolf’s fur, but Theon paid no more attention to that than he did the conversation flowing around him. He bent down to study the pups. Though young enough that their eyes were still closed, they were bigger by far than any new-born dog.

He picked up one he thought might be Lady. She was smaller than the others, her coat a mix of cream and grey. Lord Stark had executed her on the order of the king as Theon had often imagined he might be. It gave them a certain affinity.

Lord Stark found the bloody antler in the mother’s throat and held it up for all to see. A hush fell among the men and Jory looked at Theon sharply. They all knew it for an omen, this time and the last, though none could say of what. In retrospect, it was painfully obvious, yet what could be done about it? Theon hugged poor Lady to his chest as Lord Stark tossed the antler away and cleanses his hands in snow.

“I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said.

Jory shot Theon another of his looks. “Maybe she didn’t,” he said. “I’ve heard tales…maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”

“Born with the dead,” Tomard chimed in. “Worse the luck.”

“No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”

Theon had had lines here, he was sure, but, for the life of him, he could not recall them. Something about killing them? He missed his cue to speak and the boys carried on begging for the pups lives without him.

“Lord Stark,” Jon said eventually, as formally as if he were at court. “There are five pups.”

“Aye, five,” said Jory giving Theon another hard look.

Jon nodded. “Three male, two female, just like your trueborn children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”

There was some more talk after that, but Lord Stark caved eventually as he always did when his children wanted something. Jory and Desmond gathered up the other pups as they all mounted back up. Theon’s mare did not care to have a wolf on her back, but she settled down quickly enough.

Jory reined in beside him as they made their way back towards the bridge. “There’s only five,” he said.

“Wait for it,” Theon told him with a smirk just as Jon pulled up and turned back for his pup.

A moment later, he returned to them smiling with Ghost in his arms.

“There’s your sixth, Jory,” Theon said. “An albino lost in snow.”

Jon gave him a long, chilling look. “He’s not lost, Greyjoy. He’s mine.”

Chapter Text

The silence grew oppressive as they rode. Jory kept shooting Theon queer, darting looks. Once, twice, three times he opened his mouth as if to speak before closing it again. “How could you know about the wolves?” he asked finally. “You might have glimpsed her on the way to the holdfast, but you could not have counted the pups. Are you—” he chuckled nervously “—are you some sort of greenseer now?”

“I don’t know what I am.” Was there even a word for a man who had died and yet found himself alive in the past? His people said that what is dead can never die, but Theon had never heard of anyone rising like this.

Jory frowned at that. He was of an age with Theon’s uncle Aeron, although Jory wore his years better, or at least with less seaweed in his beard. Someone had once told Theon that House Cassel had been founded by a Stark bastard four or five generations back. Looking at Jory, he could well believe it. The man had the dark brown hair and long Northern face of a Stark, but his eyes were brown instead of grey.

Theon had always liked him. On the journey from Pyke to Winterfell, when the other Northmen had mocked Theon’s tears or threatened to give him something to be sullen about, Jory had bade them stop. Seeing that ten-year-old Theon didn’t know how to use a lance, he’d taken it on himself to teach him. When word came Jory was dead, Theon had told Robb to call the banners then gone to his room and cried.

Theon owed the man some measure of truth, but it was hard to explain. “I…died last night,” he said. “Only it wasn’t last night. It was two, near three, years from now and I’d lived through all the horrors in between.” He shuddered.

It sounded mad said aloud, and yet Jory nodded like it made any kind of sense. “I see,” he said slowly. “In your dream…you said today was when it all started to go wrong. Is it them?” he jerked his chin towards the wolf pup in Theon’s lap. Jory had one of his own, Shaggydog by the look of him, but he carried it like he was afraid to touch.

Theon shook his head. “Jon was right, I think, about the gods wanting the wolves with them. They kept the boys alive. Losing them doomed the girls.” Glancing around to see who was listening, he steered his mare in close to Jory’s gelding. “There’s a letter waiting,” he told Jory in a conspirator’s whisper. “Jon Arryn is dead. The king is coming to make Lord Stark his new Hand.”

Jory’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a pity about Lord Arryn, but it’s a great honor to be named Hand of the King.”

“An honor that saw Lord Stark executed for treason while his House fell to ruin.”

Jory’s face hardened. “No,” he said. “I’ll own you were right about the wolves, but you are wrong about this. Ned Stark doesn’t have a treasonous bone in his body.” He seized Theon’s arm, nearly pulling him from the saddle with the force of it. “Do not mistake him for your traitor father.”

Theon wrenched his arm back. So that was how it was. He’d spent ten years in the North making what he’d though were friends only to learn their true loyalties remained with the Starks. It should not surprise him that Jory was not different. He would find no help here.

“I mistake nothing. Your loyalty will get you killed,” he warned and put his spurs to his horse’s flanks.

Voices called out as Theon galloped past, but he ignored them. Others take Jory. Others take them all! His eyes were burning by the time he reined his mare in. He hurriedly dashed the tears away. Reek had wept as the mood struck him, but he was Theon again with Theon’s pride.

He’d been a fortnight shy of his eleventh nameday the first time he’d seen Lord Stark execute someone. For weeks after, he’d been plagued by nightmares of Jory holding him down for Ned Stark’s sword. Waking up, he’d told himself it would never happen. His father loved him too much to risk it, Stark was too honorable to stoop to child killing, and Jory would not stand for it if he did. People believe what they want to believe, him included. He’d been wrong about his father and likely the rest of it.

“You understand, don’t you, Lady?” he whispered, cuddling the pup like he would one of Ramsay’s girls.

She was already twice as much as Stark as Theon had ever been, and still Lord Stark had killed her to please the king. He bet Jory had held her leash for it. Her brothers had howled like their hearts were breaking when they scented her bones. Theon doubted his own kin would be so troubled if it had been him sent home in a box so long as it cleared the way for Asha or Uncle Euron.

Theon had died friendless and despised, yet the gods had seen fit to send him back. What good was that if no one would listen to him? He could change nothing but his own choices. He’d not take Winterfell, for a start. That way lay ruin and heartache. He wouldn’t even go to Pyke unless Robb made him, though it would likely mean his head when his father attacked. Maybe Robb would be merciful and they might die together at the Twins. Theon smiled. That would be a sweet thing.

So long as Westeros continued on its path, there were no good options where Theon might live. There were only ones where he might avoid being tortured before he died. He had no future here. Maybe he never had.

“We should just go to Essos, you and I,” Theon said, worrying his doomed wolf pup’s ears. “We’ll keep riding straight to White Harbor and take the first ship to Braavos. I’ll be a sailor as befits an Ironborn and you’ll be the first direwolf raised on fish.”

It was all foolishness, of course. Lady would need milk and Theon neither provisions nor the coin to buy them. Besides, Stark men would be after them the moment they realized he’d fled. Theon sighed and gave it up. He’d come back from the dead and was as trapped as he’d ever been.

Theon steered his mare towards the side of the road and let her nose the snow in search of grass while he waited for the column to catch up. Jory gave him a hard look when they did. Theon favored him with the easy, practiced smile not even Ramsay’s hammer could break. Whatever he did to save himself, Theon would do it alone.

Chapter Text

Theon could tell at a glance that the Jeyne who found him just inside the kitchen door was not the girl he had rescued. Her eyes were too bright and her expression too cheerful to have seen the things his Jeyne had seen and experienced the things she had experienced. Theon’s heart sank. If he was here and Jeyne was not, then she was back there, with Ramsay. Everything he’d done to her thus far would feel like child’s play compared with what he would do now that she’d defied him. A wife didn’t need all her fingers and toes to bear sons, after all. Jeyne, Jeyne, it rhymed with pain and now the poor girl had no one left to save her.

This Jeyne smiled with she saw him, blushing prettily, before she looked past him towards the Stark children. They say in a rough circle on the floor in front of the ovens, forcing the servants to divert around them like a boulder in a stream. She took a half-step towards them and gasped. “It’s true! Lord Stark really did give them wolves.”

“Or the gods did, depending on who you ask.”

Sansa had squealed with delight when Theon handed her Lady and declared her to be the most beautiful wolf in the world. Arya, cuddling her own Nymeria tight, insisted it was boldness that mattered more in a wolf pup than looks and the two had set to squabbling. Little Rickon had seemed almost frightened at first, though he came around when Shaggydog licked his face. Farlen had been summoned from the kennels to teach the children how to care for their beasts and Gage had dutifully warmed a bowl of honeyed goat’s milk as directed.

The children sat around it now, dipping in rags for the pups to suck. Robb had to help guide Rickon’s hand to keep him from making a mess. Grey Wind whined piteously each time, forcing Robb to lavish him with attention. The kitchen staff bustled around them, but the children were so focused on their wolves, it was as if they existed in a world apart. It was a wholesome sight and yet Jeyne frowned.

Theon frowned at her frown. “What is that face? Are you…jealous?”

“Of wolves?” Jeyne scoffed.

“Better a wolf than a plate…or a kraken.”

Jeyne startled at that, her gaze darting from Theon’s face to the sigil on his tunic. Stark serving men and men-at-arms were permitted to wear the direwolf while on duty, but Theon never had been, not even when squiring for Lord Stark. He wasn’t one of them, not truly, and the Starks wanted everyone who saw him to know it. Theon had told himself he was proud of the little gold krakens stitched on all his clothes and that his family would be too. As it turned out, he’d forgotten that no one on the islands wore their House sigil. The krakens on his tunics had set Theon apart on Pyke as much as they had in Winterfell.

“You—” Jeyne began before she was interrupted by Sansa’s shriek.

Arya had somehow managed to upend the milk bowl. Everyone had gotten splattered, but Sansa had gotten the worst of it. Milk dripped down her face and soaked her bodice. “Why do you always have to ruin everything?” she wailed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Arya said, only adding to the mess by wiping her sister’s face with her own milk-soaked skirt. She was giggling too much to sound truly contrite.

Jeyne made a sound of disgust. “That’s the second dress of hers Arya’s ruined this sennight and now she’s spoiled one of Sansa’s as well.” She shook her head. “That girl has no respect for the dignity of House Stark.”

“Is that why you bully her with all your name calling? Or do you just want what she has?” Theon asked. Forced to watch their perfect little family from the outside, it was hard not to hate them sometimes.

The girl had the grace to look ashamed of her behavior, hanging her head. Then her expression hardened, as she raised her chin. “I would make a better Arya Stark than stupid Horseface and a better sister to Sansa besides.”

Theon shuddered. The gods would be cruel to make her live out that fantasy twice, but then, they were not know for their kindness.

“Everyone wants to be a Stark.” Him, Jeyne, Jon Snow, Barbary Dustin, and likely half their retainers and bannerman. Theon laughed darkly. “We’d wear their skins if we could, but would you—“ He shook his head. “If you knew Arya was headed for a fall, what would you do? Would you save her?”

Over by the stoves, the two sisters were throwing milk-sodden rushes at each other while their younger brothers laughed. Jon just sighed and got up to fetch a fresh bowl. Robb’s shoulders shook with suppressed mirth until Arya lunged and nearly dumped Nymeria from her lap. “‘Ware the wolves,” he snapped in his lord’s voice.

For a long moment, Jeyne said nothing as she watched their antics. She hummed, head cocked, as she considered. “What sort of fall are we talking? Down the stairs? Into her bowl at dinner?” she asked, sounding amused at the prospect. “Or do you mean something worse, like pregnant with a foreign sellsword’s bastard?”

“Worse still. Big enough to topple House Stark entirely.”

Jeyne breathed sharply. “All of them? The whole House?”

Theon nodded.

“Well then, of course I would! For Sansa.”

“For Sansa,” Theon murmured.

Chastened by their brother, the girls made a show of comforting their pups. Lady buried her face in Sansa’s milky bodice and began to suck.

“You’re like Mama!” Rickon laughed, pointing.

The others chuckled too. Even Sansa managed a smile.

Once, he had thought to marry her. Not for her own sake, but so he might be Robb Stark’s brother and Ned Stark’s son. The Northmen could hiss kinslayer all they liked, but no Stark had ever named him family. Theon was either a ward or hostage, depending on their mood, treated either way like a cross between a household retainer and a caged beast they might some day be forced to put down. They’d never been deliberately cruel, he knew now what that was like, but neither had they been especially kind or welcoming either. All except for Robb. He alone had been Theon’s friend, but even Robb had never named him brother.

Robb’s cheeks flushed as he laughed, his eyes sparkling. He caught Theon’s gaze over his sister’s head and smiled.

They’d never been brothers, but Robb had trusted him. He’d given Theon a task. Not only had Theon failed it, he’d betrayed him in the worst possible way. Theon owed it to him, not just to not do it again, but to at least try to spare him all that was coming.

“Robb,” he said. “I would do it for Robb.” Now all he needed to do was figure out how.

Chapter Text

At the king’s welcoming feast, Theon was once again seated near the Imp and Benjen Stark and far from those he’d rather sit with. The king sat in the center of the high table in what was normally Lord Stark’s seat. On him, the great chair with its carved wolves was a considerably tighter fit. Back when Theon was ten, King Robert had seemed impossibly tall and completely terrifying as he threatened to bash in Theon’s father’s head with his bloody war hammer. Now he was just another fat old man, his strength dissipated on women, wine, and rich eating.

If the king lived, all of their problems would be solved, but what could Theon do to stop it? Warn him to be cautious while hunting? Robert did not strike him as the sort of man to heed such advice. There was nothing Theon could do short of spiriting himself to Kings Landing and throwing himself between the king and the boar. As inconvenient as it was, King Robert’s death was fitting. A pig killed by a pig. Theon giggled at the thought.

“What’s so funny?” the Imp asked.

“Has Winterfell ever seen such a royal assemblage?” Theon smiled wide.

There were four current and future kings by his count, plus an assortment of princes and princesses. If Theon’s plan worked, Joffrey was the was the only one who would wear a crown after Robert. As much as it pained him to think of the mewling little shit on the Iron Throne, it was preferable to seeing Robb crowned and killed.

“I supposed it hasn’t,” Lannister allowed. “You’ll note that Robert’s crown is a real one, and not some driftwood nonsense.”

Theon answered that with as cool a smile as it deserved. He might have spoken as well, but the minstrel in his alcove on the far side of the high table struck a cord and began to sing. Theon froze. He knew that voice. Half-rising from his chair, he strained to get a better look. The singer was better fed and less care-worn then he’d been at the wedding, but he was unmistakably Abel. Theon collapsed back in his seat, his thoughts awhirl.

Tyrion Lannister insisted on spending the better part of the meal poking at Theon, mocking his family and situation. In his last life, Theon had tried to give back as good as he’d gotten, but this time he couldn’t be bothered, not when he had the mystery of Abel to solve. The singer had been sent by Jon Snow to rescue the Lady Arya, but he was no black brother. The man was as much a wilding as his washerwomen, so what was he doing here now and how had he gotten around the Wall?

Eventually, Benjen Stark left to seek out his nephew and Lannister was pulled into a conversation with his niece. The second his back was turned, Theon was off like an arrow to the minstrel’s alcove. He leaned against the wall as he waited for the song to be done. Abel gave him a queer look, but kept playing.

“Abel,” Theon said once he’d finished his song. “Just you this time? No spearwife washerwomen?”

The man’s high harp made an unpleasant sound as Abel jerked his hand across the strings. “Spearwives?” He gave an unconvincing chuckle, his shoulders high and tense. “No, spearwives here. Just me,” he said with a smile, as his hand dropped to the dagger at his side.

Theon eyed the singer’s blade. As tense and wary as the other man was, he’d be mad to draw it. Outside the feast was another story, but he should be safe here. “Why have you come? You’re not here to steal a bride, I’m thinking.”

Abel’s lips quirked, but he kept his hand on the dagger. “Definitely not. Those Stark girls are a bit too young for my tastes. No, I’m here to see the king, though I can’t say I’m impressed by him.”

Theon snorted. “You’re not the only one. Will Mance Rayder be pleased or disappointed when you report that to him?”


“Mance,” Abel laughed, throwing his head back. The tension seemed to melt from his body as he let his hand slip from the hilt of his blade. “We are of one mind on these things, Mance Rayder and I.” He chuckled again and shook his head. “For a moment there, I thought you knew me for Bael the Bard come again.”

The name tickled at something, but Theon couldn’t say where he’d heard it. “Who is that?”


“Would you like to hear the tale?” At Theon’s nod he began to pluck an airy tune and told it.

Bael the Bard had been King-beyond-the-Wall in the days of some Lord Brandon Stark or the other. Stark had insulted him, called him a craven. To prove him wrong, Bael had crossed the Wall and made his way to Winterfell. There, he took Lord Stark’s bread and salt under the false name of Sygerrik, or deceiver in the Old Tongue. All night he played for Lord Stark and he played so well that Stark promised him the boon of the most beautiful winter rose in his garden. Bael took his daughter instead. For the better part of year, Stark’s men scoured the North while the Watch searched beyond the Wall, all to no avail. He’d given up hope of ever seeing her again when, one night, he returned to his rooms to finder her there with a newborn babe in her arms.

“She must have been desperate or mad to brave the Wall with child,” Theon said.

“Oh, no,” Abel chuckled. “She never saw the Wall, let alone climbed it. She and Bael never even left Winterfell. They were there the entire time, hiding under Stark’s nose. Can you guess where?”

Theon frowned, thinking of tracks that should have been there and swords missing in the dark. “The crypts,” he groaned.

Abel grinned. “Just so. Seems you’re clever after all.”

No more clever than Brandon Stark, either of them. Theon shook his head. The boys had been under his nose the entire time while he ran around the woods like a fool. Theon hadn’t even thought to search the crypts, hadn’t dared enter them, even after Luwin begged him to bury the miller’s boys there. Wex had been the one to notice the lack of human footprints. How many clues had Theon missed back then? The singer’s sly little smile made him suspect he was missing something now too.

“Is this tale well known beyond the Wall?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

“In story and song.”

Osha. She’d been the one to kill his men and let the wolves out. Hiding in the crypts must have been her idea as well. It was no surprise Theon had been tricked by a man like Ramsay, but an unlettered spearwife turned kitchen slut? Theon’s hands curled into fists. He’d kill her the next time they met. It had been her little game of hide-and-seek that had forced his hand and cost the miller’s boys their lives.

“Sing it,” he ordered and stomped back his seat mad enough to spit fire. Lannister raised a questioning eyebrow, but Theon ignored him in favor of his wine. After a moment, Abel began to play a jaunty tune about Lord Stark’s stolen winter rose.

“Lyanna,” the king moan.

Theon snorted in his cup. He may have missed more than he cared to think about, but at least he knew more than someone.

Chapter Text

The morning of the king’s hunt, Theon paced outside of the Great Hall as he waited for Bran to finish breaking his fast. For his own part, Theon was too nervous to eat. The fate of Robb, House Stark, maybe even Westeros as a whole, depended on whether he could pull this off. The very thought of food made him ill.

Bran was the key. If the boy did not fall, there would be no assassin. Without the assassination attempt, Lady Stark wouldn’t travel to Kings Landing and kidnap Tyrion Lannister on the way home. Without that provocation, the Lannisters would have no cause to kill Jory and the others, lay waste to the Riverlands, or doubt Lord Star’s loyalty. There was nothing Theon could do to stop Joffrey’s usurping uncles, but, even if the Starks got involved, it would be Ned leading their armies, not Robb. Likely Balon, the cold bastard, would take advantage of the kingdom’s distraction to attack, but there was nothing Theon could do about that either. He’d been dreaming of his own death for ten years. Since Ramsay, those dreams had not been nightmares.

Theon had practically worn a path in the flagstones by the time Bran finally emerged from the Great Hall with Summer at his side. In truth, Bran had yet to settle on a name for his wolf, but he would always be Summer to Theon. Boy and beast both startled as Theon fell in beside them.

“Are you coming on the king’s hunt?” Theon asked.

Bran shook his head. “I’m going to climb the First Keep and feed my birds.” He pulled a fistful of corn from his pocket and showed it to Theon before shoving it back in.

“You should come on the hunt instead. They’ll be birds to feed and walls to climb in King’s Landing, but a hunt with a king is an honor few men can claim.”

Bran paused, his head cocked. “Will you be coming?” he asked.

“Of course!” Theon grinned.

“Mmm, then, no,” Bran said cheekily and skipped off.

For a moment, Theon was too stunned to react. The boy had cared little for him, even after Theon had saved his life. How had he forgotten that? It figured Bran’s dislike would make it all that much more difficult to save him now. Theon took a deep breath and rushed ahead to cut the boy off. Bran stumbled backwards to avoid colliding with him.

“If you won’t hunt, you should at least seek out Jon.”

“Jon?” Bran’s nose wrinkled. “Why should I do that?” he asked. “He’s been so mad, lately,” he added, quiet and a little sad.

“He’s going to take the black and he’s no Benjen Stark to be allowed home whenever it pleases him. This may be your last day with him. Anything can happen at the wall.”

Bran flushed an angry red. “Nothing will happen to my brother!” he yelled, his hands curling into fists. “What do you care, anyway? You don’t even like Jon.”

Theon didn’t like Bran much at the moment either. Why could he never just do as he was bid? Why did he have to climb? To run? Why could he not have been an obedient hostage as Theon always had?

“Listen, you—” Theon seized Bran’s doublet and yanked him in close. The wolf who was not yet Summer rumbled warning low in his chest, but did not attack.

“My brothers are dead. Do you hear me?” Theon gave the boy a little shake. “They are dead and gone. I never even said goodbye to Maron,” he said, his voice cracking with grief he had never allowed himself to feel. “I never got the chance and now I will never see or speak with him again. You have an opportunity I would kill for, but you would spend it climbing.” He sneered and released the boy with a shove.

Bran stumbled backwards before steadying himself on his wolf. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he stared at Theon like he’d never seen him before. He had looked at Theon like that the night he took Winterfell. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach came back with a vengeance.

“Oh, go do as you like.” Theon sighed, dismissing the boy with a flick of his hand. “You always do.”

Bran took a cautious step back, then another, before he turned tail and fled. Summer lingered behind to glare at Theon with narrow, golden eyes for a long moment before chasing after his master. Theon pressed his hands against his mouth and screamed his frustration. Why had he done that? Bad enough he had overplayed his hand, but to let him go?

Now Theon would have to hunt Bran down and make him stay on the ground. He aught to throw the boy in the crypts and lock him in since he was so fond of it there. The wolf would likely savage him and the Starks would see to it he spent the rest of his life in irons, but it wasn’t as though they’d flay him for it. They would never know Theon had saved them either.

Theon dropped his hands and set off in search of Bran. He’d barely gone five steps when Robb caught up to him.

“Theon? Theon!” he called, running over. “Did you not hear me calling? Come, you must ride with me on the hunt or I will kill Prince Joffrey.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Theon japed, hiding behind his practiced smile.

Robb laughed. He seized Theon’s arm and dragged him off towards the stables. The yard before them was chaos. Between the main party, the huntsmen, and the guards, nearly a hundred men would be joining them on the hunt. The stablehands rushed to and fro as first one southron knight and then another demanded his horse be brought out first.

Robb pursed his lips as he took in the sight. “We shall fetch our own horses,” he informed Joseth the stablehand in that lofty way of his. The groom’s shoulders slumped with relief at the pronouncement.

Horses whinnied greetings from their stalls as they walked past. Soon, many of them would be gone, headed south with Lord Stark and the king. Now that Theon had failed to save Bran, the assassin would hide in one of those soon-to-be-empty stalls. If Theon could find and kill him before he struck, House Stark might yet be saved and Theon would get a purse full of silver and a Valyrian steel dagger out of it. It was a shame about Bran’s legs, but his plan might yet not be a total loss.

By the time the entire party was saddled and ready to ride out, Theon had more or less resigned himself to once again seeing the expression of horrified grief on Robb’s face when he heard about Bran. It was unavoidable now. And yet, as they made their way to the Hunter’s Gate, he saw Bran and Jon walking together. Theon smiled. It seemed he’d accomplished his mission after all.

Chapter Text

Thanks to Theon’s good work, the king’s party left this time on the day they had planned. Bran rode with them. Theon came down to the yard to see the fruits of his labor. Bran climbed aboard his new horse unaided except for the mounting block. The horse wasn’t Dancer or used to wolves either. The gelding danced nervously at Summer’s presence. Bran laughed as he calmed his horse down.

Jory found Theon there, smiling like a fool over his success. Theon tensed as the older man approached him. He hadn’t been avoiding Jory, exactly, since the day of the wolves. They had both just been so busy with preparations for the king’s visit. The few times they’d spoken had not been in private and the entire time Jory had stared at Theon as if he were trying to bore though his skull to read his thoughts.

He seized Theon’s arm now and marched him behind the stables. Jory pushed him against the wall and held him there. He looked furtively first one way, then the other, before leaning in close. “You were right about the wolves, the letter, and this business about Lord Stark being the new Hand,” he said. “What else do you know? You must tell me how to protect him.”

Now it was Theon’s turn to check for listeners. The nearest of the king’s knights seemed miles away, but he kept his voice low just the same. “You were right too. Ned Stark doesn’t have a treasonous bone in his body. After King Robert died, the Lannisters accused him of treason as a pretext for executing him after Lady Catelyn took the Imp prisoner for what the Lannisters did to Bran.”

“To Bran?” Jory reared back, his eyes wide. He looked frantically about the yard, his nostrils flaring like a hound’s as he searched. The boy was still where Theon had left him, seated atop his horse and swinging his legs back and forth as he waited for his turn to ride out. “Bran!” Jory shouted. The boy looked up and Jory began to run.

Theon caught his arm and swing him back against the side of the stables before he could get far and pinned him there. “It’s over,” he said as Jory struggled against him. “Bran’s fine. It’s over. I stopped it. It never happened.”

At length, Theon’s words seemed to sink in. Jory stilled. Theon let go and stood back. “Yesterday, while we hunted, he would have been pushed while climbing on the First Keep,” he explained. “I saw to it that he stayed on the ground.”

Jory nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping with relief. “So the crisis is averted then? They’re all safe?”



Theon hesitated. He wanted to say yes, but he couldn’t help thinking about the boys in the crypt, hiding beneath his nose while he chased the wrong leads. “I…I stopped him from falling, but I don’t know what he heard or saw that made them push him in the first place. Be on your guard and make sure the children keep their wolves.”

“I will,” Jory promised. “Thank you. You’re a good man, Theon Greyjoy.” He clapped Theon upon the shoulder and went to find his horse.

He’d only spoken out of ignorance, but his words kept Theon warm as he watched the king’s party depart in what seemed an endless stream of men, horses, and wagons. The silence left in their wake made him feel as if he’d been struck deaf. Lady Stark ushered Rickon inside once they’d gone, leaving only Robb and Theon to see Jon Snow off.

The brothers embraced like they feared to let go as Tyrion Lannister and Benjen Stark mounted up. The wolves play wrestled beside them. Grey Wind and Ghost rolled over and over, white on grey and grey on white. Stark colors.

At length, Jon pulled back. “The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black,” Robb said with a smile, his hand still gripping his brother’s arm.

“It always was my color.” Jon smiled back, although it looked somewhat strained. “How long do you think it will be?”

“Soon enough,” Robb said and pulled him into another embrace. “Farewell, Snow.” He slapped his back.

Their audience shifted restlessly on their horses and Jon pulled away again. “Be well, Stark,” he said and went to mount up. The wolves seemed far more reluctant in their parting. Jon had to call Ghost to his side. He favored Theon with one curt nod before riding out.

The moment Snow’s party cleared the gates, Robb dragged Theon up upon the battlements so they could watch the departing figures grow smaller and smaller against the horizon. Robb sniffled a few times, but his eyes remained dry. Just as Snow and his companions disappeared from sight, Grey Wind threw back his head in a mournful howl. It was answered by Shaggydog from somewhere in the castle along with the barking of dogs, but no other wolves called back. They were too far away to hear. Robb sniffled again.

“He’ll do well on the Wall,” Theon assured him. “He’ll be lord commander.”

Robb kicked at the base of the wall. “I wanted Jon to be my steward when I was lord, or maybe captain of my guards, but Mother won’t allow it.”

“With good reason!” The history of Westeros was filled with cautionary tales about overly-ambitious bastards. Jon Snow was no Ramsay Bolton to poison his true-born brother, but there was no denying his jealousy. “You can’t truly think he’d be happy as your servant while his brothers rule their own holdfasts. Your father raised him like a lord. This way he gets to be one and none of you have to bleed for it.”

Robb glared. “Oh, what do you know?” he snapped and stormed off to sulk with his wolf.

Theon wandered his way to the godswood. On his seventh day, his parents had dipped him in the sea and named him before the Drowned God. It was the Northern gods of the land, though, who had whispered his name back to him when he needed to hear it the most. Theon, Theon, Theon . They had brought him back from the dead and raised all the ghosts he’d made as well. What is dead could never die, would never die again if Theon could help it.

He sank to his knees before the heart tree. Its red leaves made him think of Tullys, but the long, pale face carved into its trunk had a very Stark expression. Theon had seen Bran once, looking out at him from behind those red, weeping eyes. Today though, they seemed empty, a house with no one home, a vessel waiting to be filled.

“Did I do what you wanted?” Theon asked. “Is this why you brought me back?”

The gods gave no answer, not even to say his name. A cold wind drew icy fingers down his back.

Chapter Text

There was a hole in the heart of Winterfell with so many of the household gone, but it was not the bleeding wound that it had been. The wolves did not howl night and day. The servants didn’t go about speaking in nervous whispers. No one seemed to doubt they would see their kin again. Rickon had thrown a screaming tantrum when he realized his family wouldn’t be back for moons and moons, but he and Shaggydog were less inclined to bite with his mother around.

Freed from Bran’s bedside, Lady Catelyn ruled ably and well. Where Robb had spent much of his time drilling with the guard and visiting distant holdfasts, his mother preferred to issue invitations and hold court once a fortnight. Some of her rulings were gentler than those Robb might have made, but an established lady could get away with such mercies in a way a boy lord could not. She kept Robb by her side as she ruled. Sometimes she would even ask his opinion, laying down a trail of leading questions until he arrived at the answer she wanted. In public, Robb played the dutiful and obedient son. In private was another matter.

“Did you see that?” Robb complained as they did simple parry-repost drills in the yard after the day’s court session. He had wanted to hit something and Theon was ever obliging. “She treats me like a child!” He put every ounce of his anger into his strike.

“You are a child,” Theon said tiredly. He was tired all the time lately. He barely managed to parry in time and his repost was sloppy.

As before, Jon’s leaving had brought them closer together. Last time, Robb had been worried for his brother and the survival of his House. This time, his concerns were somewhat pettier. It seemed Robb grew strong in the face of true adversity and petulant without it. Theon felt less a lord’s advisor and more a nursemaid.

“Joffrey is two years younger and he has a real sword.” Robb struck back.

Theon rolled his eyes. This song again. Joffrey has a real sword. Joffrey gets to drink as much wine as he likes. Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey.

“And would a real sword make you a man?” he asked, actually managing to score a hit.

“Yes!” Robb hurled his blunt tourney sword into the dirt. His shoulders slumped. “No. I don’t know!”

He yanked off his helmet and threw that down too. He’d been trying for a beard again and it was coming in red and patchy. At the end of the day’s court session, his mother had quietly suggested he shave it until he was old enough to grow one properly.

“What will it take?”

Theon laughed, pulling off his own helmet. “You think I know?”

In his last life, Theon would have said manhood was a bloodied sword, his cock between a woman’s legs, castles, crowns, and the regard of his fellow men. He knew now that castles and crowns were traps for the unwary, and regard and reputation little more than wind and lies. As for the rest of it, all the battles he’d fought and women he’d bedded had not stopped Theon from being unmanned by Ramsay in ways that still gave him nightmares. True manhood must be made of stronger stuff, but, for the life of him, Theon couldn’t say what it was.

“Is it so bad to be a child while you are one?” he asked. It certainly seemed preferable to being dead at six-and-ten.

Robb sighed and picked up his things. “I just want her to respect me as father does. Can she not give me that?” He trudged towards the armory to put his gear away.

Theon trailed after him. “My father says that anything given may be taken away. Of course,” he laughed darkly, “anything bought with blood can be taken just as easily.” He shook his head. “If you would be a man, then be a man. Stop waiting for someone else to name you one. Know your name and no one can take it from you.”

Placing his sword on the rack, Theon turned to find Robb giving him one of those queer, searching looks he’d been seeing directed his way more and more lately. “Theon, are you well?” he asked. “You seem…different, of late.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Theon lied with a smile.

In truth, he had not been sleeping. It was not just the nightmares which kept him awake, but the nagging sense that he had missed something. He would wander himself to exhaustion through the halls, the grounds, the crypt, even, only to fall into bed and wake screaming. He knew Winterfell now better than he ever did, yet he could not find what he sought.

His restlessness had come upon him suddenly. He’d been fine at first, but, on the day the assassin would have attacked, he’s found himself as tense as a bowstring, waiting for an alarm which never came. The feeling grew worse with each passing milestone. There was no raven from Lady Stark in White Harbor because she’d never left Winterfell. Lord Star did not write about killing Lady because she was apparently still alive. Bran did not wake because he’d never been asleep in the first place. Theon was a taunt bow with neither arrow nor target. The feeling was unbearable.

Tyrion Lannister arrived on his appointed day in the company of some men of the Night’s Watch and something loosened in Theon’s chest. He’d had moments of doubt as the moons dragged on. So many things were different. Had he truly changed them, or merely had a terrible dream? After all, he remembered everything Ramsay had done to him, yet here he was, fingers, toes, and teeth all present and accounted for.

Lannister wiped those doubts away. His clothes were the same as Theon remembered. His companions were the same. The only thing that was different was what Theon’s own actions had changed. The dwarf was greeted with courtesy rather than suspicion. The wolves did not growl and neither did Robb. Lady Stark offered bread and salt and a place at her table for supper.

The conversation at table that night was queer. Lannister had been at the Wall, one of the true wonders of the world, in the company of two members of House Stark, but all Lady Catelyn seemed to care about was Jon Arryn.

“What did you think of him?” she asked as they dug into their pigeon pie.

“A capable Hand and a fine man, if a bit dull,” Lannister said, sipping his wine. “Though I suppose managing our Robert could wear down even the sharpest of men. You’ll want to watch for that in your lord husband.”

Lady Stark smiled thinly. “And your sister, was she fond of him?”

“As fond as she is of anyone not her own reflection.”

Theon laughed at that. Lady Stark shot him a quelling look before turning back to Lannister. “And where was she when Lord Arryn died? Where were you?”

The amusement drained from Lannister’s face as he set his wine goblet back down. “This meal is beginning to feel a great deal like an interrogation.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lady Stark said with an unconvincing smile.

Theon and Robb exchanged a confused look. Clearly he knew no more than Theon. “Who cares about Jon Arryn? Tell us about our Jon,” Robb ordered. “Tell us of the Wall and the Watch and your adventures!”

Lannister studied Lady Catelyn for a long moment before complying. Jon Snow had had his struggles at first, but seemed to be settling in well and making friends. The Wall was cold and impossibly tall. The Watch was a crumbling institution and Benjen Stark was missing. That bit of news seemed to distract Lady Catelyn from all thoughts of Jon Arryn. This time there was no Bran to make them all laugh by suggesting the children of the forest would help him.

Lannister and his companions left the following morning without Lady Stark making any attempt to take him captive. For the first time in moons, Theon fell asleep that night without any wandering. He still woke up screaming.

Chapter Text

Theon was summoned to Lady Catelyn’s solar from the training yard along with Robb and Ser Rodrik. It was about the king, Theon was sure. The raven carrying the message about Jory and the rest had never come, but this one was inevitable. Lady Stark would likely want to make a formal announcement and hold a ceremony to mourn him. They’d been too busy worrying about Lord Stark and planning for war to bother with any of that last time.

Maester Luwin was already waiting there when they arrived, his hands tucked into his wide sleeves. Lady Stark stood behind her desk, her face a cold, bloodless mask, her eyes rimmed with red. Theon’s heart sank. That wasn’t the face of a woman whose husband would be returning home after being released as Hand. Nor was it the face of a woman whose husband would be far away for years serving as regent. She hadn’t loved the king well enough to look like that at news of his death. Something had gone very, very wrong.

“Mother, what is it?” Robb rushed towards her.

Lady Catelyn held up a letter. “The king is dead,” she said flatly. “Ned, your father—” Her mask cracked. She took a deep breath and brought her face back under control. “The queen writes that Lord Eddard Stark and his men were killed attempting to seize the throne.”

“What?” Theon gasped.

Ser Rodrik made a sound like he’d been struck. He and Maester Luwin both began to cry. Their lord was dead and so were Rodrik’s nephew and fifty other good men besides. Jory’s death should be like a knife to his belly, but Theon felt nothing. It was as though he were watching the scene through a sheet of ice. He had saved Bran and somehow Lady as well. How had that made things worse?

“No!” Robb pounded his fist on the desk, too angry for tears. “He can’t be! Father would never!”

“He would not,” Lady Stark agreed, steel in her spine and rage in her eyes. “During the king’s visit, I had a message from my sister, Lysa. Luwin knows of it.”

Luwin nodded. “Yes,” he said, wiping his still streaming eyes with his wide grey sleeves. “She wrote in a secret code, accusing the Lannisters of poisoning her lord husband.”

A tear broke free from behind Lady Stark’s cold mask. “I urged him to go south to get to the bottom of it.” Another tear slipped past. “He had not wanted to, but I talked him into it.”

“We both did, my lady,” Luwin said quietly.

Theon ground his fist into his temple. She had told him this before, in this very room. How had he forgotten? It was the boys in the crypts all over again. Theon had chased after a false lead and an innocent child had suffered for it.

“Bran. Sansa.” She had written this letter in Theon’s last life. Why had the queen written it in this one? “Arya. Jeyne. What does the queen write of them?”

Lady Stark’s mask broken entirely, her face crumpling like the letter clenched in her fist. “She writes nothing. I fear they are dead,” she wailed and began to sob.

“No!” The word sprang from every man present, angry from Ser Rodrik, horrified from Maester Luwin, and disbelieving from Robb. He took his mother in his arms and held her close. “We can not give up hope,” he said, his voice choked with tears. “They have their wolves with them. We would know if…we would know.”

Theon didn’t believe it either. He wouldn’t, not until he stood over their bloody corpses and maybe not even then. It was an easy enough thing to substitute one body for another. Bran had been clever enough to rescue himself before and he even had use of his legs this time.

“Think on it, my lady,” Theon said with a smile. “The Lannisters have never been shy to brag about their child-killing and they would want you to know if they held your children hostage. If the queen does not mention them, it’s because they’ve escaped. The Lannisters do not know where they are. They’re probably hiding in the crypts,” he laughed, “waiting for the right moment.”

Ser Rodrik shot him a dark look. His cheeks and great white whiskers were wet with tears, but his eyes were dry again and hard with anger. “If the gods are good, the boys are right and the children live. Either way, there is naught we can about it.”

“We must do something! Mother, what must we do?”

Lady Stark managed to pull herself together, withdrawing from her son’s arms and wiping away her tears. “You are the lord now, Robb. It is for you to decide. The queen,” she said, her voice full of venom, “the queen bids you come to King’s Landing and swear your allegiance to King Joffrey.”

“You must not!” Ser Rodrik lunged forward as if to physically restrain Robb from going. “This is Lord Rickard all over again. If you go, they will hold you hostage for the North’s good behavior or else execute you for your father’s supposed treason. Either way, you will never leave the city alive. You can not go! Bad things happen to wolves below the Neck.”

“If you do not go, you defy the king. It will be war,” Luwin warned, his expression grave and anxious.

Robb cast about the room as if in search of a solution, looking from one face to the next. Ser Rodrik nodded his support of whatever Robb decided. Maester Luwin’s face was pinched with worry, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded too. Theon could scarcely breathe. Boy lords were the bane of their houses, Lord Roose had told him that once. This Robb was even more boyish than he had been the first time around. Theon prayed he made the right decision. He could not guess what that was.

Robb met Theon’s eye. “If I would be a man, I must be a man.” He took a deep breath and turned to his mother. “I will never bow to the family who murdered my father.”

“War it is then,” Lady Catelyn said quietly, her face suddenly twenty years older and impossibly sad.

“Yes.” Robb nodded, his back as straight as a sword. “Maester Luwin, call the banners. We go to war.”

Theon slumped back against the wall, his hands pressed to his face. He’d managed to convince himself that the gods had sent him back here for a purpose, but he had wrong. It seemed the gods were as fond of cruel japes as his dead brother Maron. All Theon could do was laugh and laugh.