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Bran came home from his ride sweaty and content. The light was late afternoon golden, shadiws lengthening. Summer joyfully gamboled down the hill towards the gates of Winterfell, and Bran followed on Dancer, laughing.

"Race you to the gates," he called out, knowing very well that Summer would win.

Winterfell was beautiful at any time of day or night, if you asked Bran, in any weather, during any season, though Bran had really only known the one, this long, unnaturally prolonged summer, and it certainly was beautiful now: Sprawling, sturdy, messy, an organic jumble of wall and stone, ever expanded with the passing generations, safe.

Bran steered Dancer toward the stables with small cues of the reins. They were a good team. She was nine years old, now, and Bran nearing fifteen, truly a man grown. Bran released the leather straps from his saddle, stretched to grab the bars installed along the stables' ceilings, pulled himself up, then swung his way to the bench. A stableboy was quick to take care of the horse as Bran slid his way across the bench then transferred into his chair. With each new generation, Winterfell has grown and changed, Maester Luwin once told him. It certainly had changed for Bran.

The way from the stables to the main halls, once a earthy trail, had been fortified with stone and wood, as had many other paths across Winterfell, to ease Bran's access, though many parts of his home Bran could only reach if someone carried him - Hodor, mostly. Even now, Hodor still carried him as easily as he had when he was a skinny boy of eight.

"Carry me!"

A weight slammed against Bran's back, threatening to topple him backwards. It was Rickon, laughing into Bran's hair. Rickon leaned forward on outstretched arms, stabilizing the both of them, and Bran obediently wheeled them forward. Rickon was getting quite too big for this game in truth, but Bran savored it. There were few enough big brotherly feats of strength he could otherwise perform, crippled as he was.

"You're late," Rickon accused, "they called for dinner twice already."

Bran critically sniffed at his armpit. Might be his sisters would complain that he didn't wash the stables' smell off before dinner, but Bran was hungry and didn't plan on missing a bite. Well, one sister; Arya would never complain.

It was rare enough for them all to dine together like that: Arya was only visiting, accompanied by Meera, her sister-in-law. Thick as peas, they were. Jojen, indisposed by both the fragility of his health and his responsibilities, had stayed in the Neck. Bran hadn't known whether to be saddened or relieved. Relieved, if he was quite honest. He liked Jojen, but his head had been troubling him enough as is...

Sansa, too, had come back only months ago, widowed and desirous to recuperate in her cherished childhood home. She hadn't loved her southron husband, she said, but he'd been kind and gentle, and she was saddened by his death. She exchanged long letters with her sister-in-law, and sometimes carried them blushing to her chest.

Only Jon was missing, though he had come visit them in the past, and Bran and Robb had rode up to visit him, more than once, just as Robb had promised, long ago, during these darkest times of their childhood, when they were alone and abandonned in a seemingly crumbling world: It will be an adventure...

All had been well in the end: Their mother came back, their father came back, their sisters came back, though all of them had been scarred by their losses: Bran of his legs, Sansa of her wolf, Arya by violence, their mother most of the use of one hand, their father stricken by a deep grief that chilled Bran to contemplate. Goodness prevailed, as Maester Luwin once said. They were the Starks of Winterfell.

Several generations of Starks, now, as Robb and Wynafryd had set to work quickly after their marriage: Young Halys was now three (and had inherited both the Tully red and the wolf temper), while Ed (short for Edwyle) was a babe still suckling at his mother's teats.

Bran liked Wynafryd, he also liked Halys, and Ed, and all of them, really, this big, loud household of theirs, Bran had no complaints whatsoever, except his same, old, eternal one, this childish cry he had learned to suppress: But what would he do, what would his place be, in this life, for his House, the realm, was he important at all, or just a spare who survived beyond his time?

Maester Luwin tried to impassion him for books and knowledge, to show him paths of wisdom and erudition, as scholar, or counselor, or Lord, maybe even, as Bran still was one of his father's heirs, after Robb, after Edwyle, now, probably. And Bran liked books well enough, and valued knowledge as one should, but he didn't love learning, nor did he love careful and wise deliberations, and this kind of soul-searching only led him back to the fact that he knew, they all knew exactly what Bran had been born for, what he loved: Riding and sweating and climbing and shooting, rashness and harshness and joyful tumbling, the daring deeds, the scary stories, wildness. Bran could do all of this, still, he could: He rode and sweated and tumbled with Summer, he climbed, dangling from Winterfell's barred ceilings on strong arms, he shot arrows, even, had taken some lessons from Theon Greyjoy, though he would never be good. He could do all this and love it, but he couldn't do it in a way that mattered.

You know what you were actually called to, part of Bran distantly remembered, but didn't. The crow, the world cracked open, an eye cracked open. This was so long ago. A hurt child's brief folly. The world settled. The pack settled. They were safe and warm and happy. Who cared for bad dreams and hurting foreheads? Anyway, it's not like Bran sat there, day in day out, bemoaning his fate. He was a man grown now, had moved past such self-pity. Yes, he wished some things to be different than they were, but he also was content, he had learned to be.

Meera and Arya told tales of their frog hunt. Sansa sang a northern song. She sang very well. Wynafred balanced Edwyle against her plump belly. Her belly was plump from fatness, not from child, and her arms and thighs were fat as well, her hair thick and lustrous. Robb had grown a beard. Theon Greyjoy, their father's ward, was smiling and joking with one of the serving men. Nothing new on that front. The direwolves, huge beasts that they were, tumbled and played around each other but knew better than to jump over benches or tables. Visitors that were new to Winterfell might sometimes be taken aback: A jolly dinner shared with monsters, but the people of Winterfell were well used to the sight.

The day after tomorrow, Robb and their lord father would ride out to visit some of their bannermen, as was their duty. The household would then be Bran's responsibility, at least, to some extent: Maester Luwin and his lady mother, Vayon Poole and Jory Cassel tended to have things well under their control. Still.

The truth was that Bran had recently been plagued by fits of... anxiety, he decided to call them. He dreamed, again. He dreamed of Summer, this was normal, they all shared the wolf dreams, they were a pack. He dreamed of the crow as well, the crow of his childhood. This world is wrong, it warned, in his dreams. You know the truth. You must open your eye. You must come to me. You must learn to see. And Bran saw, indeed, sometimes in the middle of the day. He dreamed with eyes wide open. Shadows and flutters and smears of blood. Then, the headaches would come, a pecking drill against his forehead. Bran didn't tell Maester Luwin about this, because he knew what Maester Luwin would say and do. He would give him sleeping draughts and tell him not to fight so hard. He didn't tell anyone else either, because it was bad enough to be crippled, there was no need to be crippled and crazy.

At night Bran couldn't sleep. Or rather, he had woken. He stared into Summer's yellow eyes, heart hammering. Summer had come to sleep next to him, lately, protective. Summer, too, knew something was off.

"Hodor," Bran ordered. Hodor slept next to Bran as well, at the bottom of his bed, in case Bran might need him. He needed him now. "Take me to the weirwood," Bran ordered.

Bran didn't usually visit the weirwood at night, nor much often otherwise, truth be told. He remembered spending so many hours praying, as a child. Praying for his family's wellness, to get his legs back, for everything to be good and right again. Bran never stopped paying his respects to the gods, as one should, maybe it's just that he hadn't felt much need, calm and predictable as his life had again become. But now that he dreamed of blood and crows again, and sex, frankly, lots of sex, and ice, and fire, and of things he couldn't name, Bran felt oddly compelled.

"Take me there," he told Hodor, and Hodor uncomplainingly did.

A light summer snow had fallen, lightening their way. In the weirwood, the air was warmer, and the snow didn't keep. The floor was swampy, Bran and Hodor sometimes sank in near to the ankle, though they knew how to pick their way across the roots. The hot pools steamed.

"Sit me down here," Bran ordered, and Hodor did.

Bran leaned his back against the pale bark of the weirwood, legs stretched out in front of him, feet just a few inches from the nearest pool. The damp earth was near warm under his hands. There wasn't much wind tonight. Bran listened carefully--to the rustling and whispering, to the soft creak of wood, to a slight splash in the water - just nearby. A small animal? The air over the pools was thick with fog, and dark besides. It was hard to see. Summer would know, of course, but with some focus, Bran thought he saw as well. A face. A night-time bather?

Yes, a bather. The swimmer submerged with another small splash, then reappeared a bit further, closer, and more to the right. Swam across the pool in long, assured strokes, then stood. It was Theon Greyjoy, lean and ghostly grey under the moon's light. He smiled at Bran, wrung out the water from his black hair, then walked away, naked, as if unperturbed. Two steps, and he had vanished among mist and wood. Bran briefly wondered if he had disturbed the man's night bath with his arrival, then decided he didn't care. It was his godswood, and it was a strange time to be out and bathing anyway.

Theon anyway had been strange, lately. Stranger than he generally was. Bran always thought his father's ward somewhat unpleasant and had never warmed to him, even as a child, but times were when Theon acted as a honorary big brother of sorts to Robb at least, who admired him. A rude and disreputable big brother, certainly. But come time, and maybe especially since Robb's marriage, and maybe Sansa's marriage, and Arya's marriage, Theon had come to float around Winterfell, smile fixed on his face, mean and harsh when training in the courtyard, his commentary growing ever more bizarre, not that Bran generally paid much attention to him.

Theon had once helped him with his archery skills, Bran had to hand that much to him, had shared a few useful pieces of advice, on how to generate power even from his seated position, on how to maintain focus. The truth was simply that Bran didn't particularly care for archery; he'd have preferred fighting with a sword, or jousting, or grappling, even. Still, he had dutifully learned.

Bran stayed in the godswood until he felt ready to fall asleep again. He had slept there, sometimes, as a child, he remembered, before.

The next morning, Bran wheeled past Theon in the courtyard, who sat, fletching arrows. Theon looked up and said, "Has your eye cracked open?"

"What?" said Bran, neck tingling.

"Haven't the gods told you? Didn't you listen yesterday?"

Theon laughed, as if he was making a joke.

Bran's dreams were too close to his skin to dismiss. How did Theon know about the eye? "Have the gods told you?" he asked.

"Why would your gods speak to me?" said Theon, and stuck one finished arrow into the earth, with somewhat more force than necessary.

Why indeed, Bran though, and decided he had no stomach for their disagreeable ward this morning. Maester Luwin had promised him history lessons and Bran meant to do some exercises on his bars besides. Bran had grown strong in the arms, chest and shoulders over the years, which he was proud of. He left Theon to his arrows.

He couldn't help but ask Maester Luwin about it, later. Robb and their lord father were off touring the lands, Arya and Meera had continued their journey, and even Sansa had gone out riding, to visit her dear childhood friend who had married a lesser son of House Flint. There was little excuse for Bran to avoid his lessons, in other words, but Maester Luwin always had had a sweet spot for Bran, and was easy to distract with questions.

"Has Theon been acting strange, lately?" he asked Maester Luwin.

"Don't let Theon trouble you, my young Lord. Did he trouble you?"

"No, I mean. He didn't do anything bad. I just found him strange."

Maester Luwin nodded, softly rustled through his papers.

"You know, Theon is his father's heir, he was a younger son, as you are," Maester Luwin said. "He was taken as hostage by King Robert and your lord father to secure the peace, after the Greyjoy rebellion." Bran already knew all this. "Ever since then, he's been a ward of Winterfell. An enviable lot, many would say, though I suppose Theon doesn't always quite know what to do with himself."

This, Bran could uncomfortably understand.

Bran allowed Maester Luwin to walk him through the family tree of the old Starks and Karstarks again, which wasn't particularly passionating information, but a Lord of the North must know such things.

Nearly against his own better judgment, Bran started paying more attention to Theon. It was weird, he supposed, how little attention he had paid him throughout his life. Theon was simply there, and that's all there was to it. Theon was there, to make crude jokes, inappropriate comments, to snigger unfairly whenever someone said something slightly silly or vulnerable, to put children into commoners' wives' bellies (this was more rumor than certain knowledge, admittedly), and to somehow just always know how to say the worst thing in any given situation. He was there to fight, too, to carry their Lord father's sword, to escort, to hunt, to stand guard, to man the walls, eager and willing. Bran would never forget how hungry Theon would have been to go to war for Robb, though maybe that hadn't been for Robb, really.

"The ironborn take pride in being fighters and raiders, rapers and warriors," Maester Luwin explained. "On the islands, cruelties are considered strengths. Theon has known a gentler life in Winterfell, but he was taken old enough to remember, and I worry he sits uneasily with it. I've always warned your brother to be careful around him."

Bran had rarely considered what Theon might remember, from before, though he never needed to be told to be careful around him. It seemed like all in Winterfell had always known, instinctively, to be careful around Theon. And yet, Theon had never caused any of them harm. Or had he?

Bran took to observing Theon, sometimes from his own eyes, sometimes through Summer's. Maybe he did so only out of boredom. Or to divert himself from another set of eyes that plagued his nights: The crow, and her pecking, and moaning, and warning.

Theon was slippery, though, and hard to observe, and didn't do that many interesting things. He rode and swam, ran and trained, shot and laughed and, well, that was pretty interesting, sucked teats and let his cock be sucked behind the stables, behind the kitchens, out in the woods... Once, as Bran watched through Summer's eyes, Theon looked up, though, directly into his eyes, even though Summer was hidden behind the bushes, and laughed. Bran woke abruptly, back in his own bed and skin, sweaty and blushing. He did his best to avoid Theon during the days to come, ashamed. Bran wished he could suck some teats, in truth, have someone suck his cock, but it was useless, he wouldn't feel anything...

Maester Luwin hadn't fathered children, either, nor did Knights, nor did Septons, nor did the brothers of the Night's Watch. All of which was better than to be like Theon, anyway.

Theon never mentioned Bran's watching. Maybe he hadn't really spotted him. He did mention the crow again, though.

"There's one eye missing," he commented on the black bird sat on the windowsill, dreamily, to nobody in particular.

"And why haven't you grown your wings, yet," he told Summer, as he crossed him in the courtyard.

"We've all been drowning all this time," he told one of the smiths. "We just can't tell." He was ignored, as he usually was.

"Have you noticed Theon being particularly strange, lately?" Bran asked Rickon.

Rickon shrugged. "Theon has always been strange. I don't like him, anyway. I don't care. I can pull myself up this bar more often than you, do you want to bet?"

Bran laughed. "Oh, I absolutely bet you can't."

In the evening, Bran spotted Theon walking the outer walls, a slight, dark figure, cloaked in black.

Theon stood for a long time in front of the gatehouse, his cloak turning and twisting with the wind, though what he stared at, Bran couldn't guess.

Bran confronted him, when he next saw him up close.

"Why do you keep talking of crows and eyes and wings?"

Theon looked at him strangely and for a second Bran feared Theon might deny it, might claim Bran was hearing things.

"Why do you ask me this, when it is you who puts these thoughts into my head?" Theon said.

"What? I don't put anything into your head," Bran protested.

"It is you," Theon insisted.

Was Theon joking? He wasn't smiling, though. Was Theon crazy?

"What do you mean?" Bran asked, carefully.

"You shouldn't even be here," Theon said.

"Where should I be, then?" Bran asked, playing along.

"Up North," Theon said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Mating with the trees or whatever. Riding the crow. How would I know how you do the things you do."

"What things do I do?" Bran asked, though the tension in Theon's neckline scared him.

Theon laughed. "Pecking holes into my head! Feasting of my corpse! Making use of me, all of you!"

All of us? Bran couldn't ask more, though, Theon was scaring him. Some of his father's men rounded the corner and Bran hastened to attach himself to them, leaving Theon behind.

"I think Theon is mad," he told Maester Luwin, during their next lessons.

"How so?" asked Luwin, and the whole story came out: Theon's nighttime swims and wanderings, the bizarre comments, their last conversation.

"I fear this might be a nasty prank," Maester Luwin said, "but I shall talk to him. It's not right of him to try to scare you so."

The next time Bran saw Theon, he was sitting with the men, joking and laughing. He looked relaxed and normal. Bran supposed Maester Luwin had been right: Theon had pulled his leg, had tried to spook him, and had succeeded. Theon always had a nasty sense of humor. Bran felt slightly shamed to have been such an easy mark, but also slightly angry. Enough attention paid to Theon for now, that much was certain.

Traders announced themselves, carrying pelts and cloths and spices. Bran received them, tutored by Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole, did his Lordly duties. Men from the Night's Watch passed by Winterfell, and Bran wined and dined them, eager to hear their stories. He was sad that Jon was not among them, though his half-brother had thought to send letters, including a long, closely written one especially for him. Bran much looked forward to reading it. The black brothers brought troubled news, as well. Wildlings pressing against the wall in increasing numbers, unclear why. Rangers missing. Weather worsening. Bran rode out with Jory Cassel and Alyn and Shadd, to settle some trouble in a nearby village. He didn't take Theon with, though Jory had suggested it. At night, his dreams worsened, and so did the frequency of his daytime visions and headaches.

"This borrowed time is ending," the crow of his dreams said. "You must come. Come and see!"

Everybody kept telling him how much he looked exactly like his brother Robb, especially when he attended to Winterfell duties. Bran dimly remembered Robb's Lordly face and Lordly voice as he had tried to play Lord of Winterfell at fourteen. Was this what he sounded like now? He hoped his brother and father would come back from their journey, soon, even though he also enjoyed being - briefly - the eldest.

"I'm very proud of you, Bran," his mother said. "I'm always proud of you, you know that."

Bran knew.

Bran considered asking his mother for counsel about Theon and Theon's maybe-madness or maybe-pranks, but didn't. He loved his mother, but his mother wasn't reasonable with her mistrusts.

Bran wished he could ask Old Nan about the crows and winged wolves and mating trees. She might know just the correct story to make sense of it all, but Old Nan had passed several years ago. It still ached Bran to remember her, sometimes. And Osha, Bran's other once-time dubious source of Northern wisdom, had long left them, released from her bondage after a few years of good service.

Thus, in spite of being surrounded by good men and much love, Bran remained quite alone with his unease. It would be easier to dismiss Theon, if Bran hadn't been dreaming of exactly the same things. This, of course, he hadn't told Maester Luwin....

Was Theon mad?

Maybe he was. Theon knew a few things, none of them pleasant:

One, the crows were picking at his head, day in, day out, one eyed crow, three eyed crow, normal eyed crows with a thousand eyes, or maybe none, what did it matter. Ravens, too. They picked and picked, and his head was bursting. Sometimes, when the birds had picked viciously and consistently enough that Theon hadn't slept for two days or three, he could see, from somewhere between his ears: White trees, black skies, red flames, twisted tentacles, one bottomless black hole.

Two, Theon was a dead man. He was a ghost and a corpse. He had been dead for a good while, now, and it was strange that nobody noticed. Though maybe it wasn't so strange, as Theon kept mimicking life, beyond his wordly welcome. He breathed and moved, he ate, from time to time, he fucked.

Three, this world was false, and its falseness would soon give. It was funny, how earnestly they all kept at it, as if all was right, when nothing had been right, not ever. Or maybe it had, maybe the only wrongness had always lied within Theon, what did he even know? The wrongness had seeped through the cracks of Theon's joints, first, from his fingers, from his cock, from his teeth, pressing and breaking, but gradually, Theon had come to understand: the world was cracked, as well.

"The other is coming," he warned Bran, the next time he saw him, but Bran paid him no mind.

Theon had long learned that it didn't much matter what he said. Nor what he did, really. Theon had but one task in life, which was bound up in his undead flesh body: A flesh token for peace. His speech wasn't necessary. Unfortunate, Theon so loved to hear himself talk!

Maybe Theon once dreamed of escape, as a child, long ago. Yes, he certainly had dreamed of heroic escape as a child, all while obediently staying put. He might have dreamed of being released as a youth, as reward for friendship and good behavior, for love and thanks. Ha, silly, that. Theon Greyjoy certainly knew how to be full of himself. He was older than that, now. Not all men were born to matter. And as Maester Luwin had oft pointed out, as many had oft pointed out, Theon's fate was gentler than most's.

At night, Theon drowned. Which was funny, because Theon had never drowned in truth. Most terrible things Theon experienced in his mind had never happened to him in truth.

Men of low faith and lesser courage had their sons drowned as infants: A quick dip into the ocean, low on harm and low on pain, but that was no true drowning, of course, and unbefitting a son of Balon Greyjoy. Theon would have been drowned upon his coming of age, as was proper, before his first raid, maybe, as Maron and Rodrik were, (for Asha, it was after her first moon blood), he'd have been drowned for real, and would have had to survive for real, proving his worth. He had been plucked from the islands too young for all that, though. Undrowned, he remained. Theon had tried to perform the ritual on his own, at around fourteen, in the godswood's pools. Had weighed himself with stones, tried to stay down beyond his need to breathe, but it was no use: Always, he'd end up back above the surface, greedily sucking in air.

Theon was also unmurdered, unhung, uncut, unharmed (mostly), as had also oft been pointed out to him. Theon wasn't quite sure why such things were pointed out to him so often, because he didn't remember himself complaining. Maybe it had been a preventative, lest he developed the inopportune desire to complain. Which he hadn't. Or maybe complaints had been read, in his eyes, in his words; Theon had a habit of saying just about the worst thing in any given situation. Theon had a habit of being just about the worst, the wrongest thing.

Theon was grateful, he was. Genuinely. So what if he also was bored, and mad, and vile? He felt his debt of undeserved life, of unfair unharmedness thrumming with each breath.

Anyways, Bran.

What are you trying to do to Bran, Maester Luwin asked him. You shall not try to perturb him, or the Lord Stark will hear of it. Theon swallowed his laughter, lest he seemed too insolent, but this was ridiculous. What would the Lord Stark do about it, order him trashed? Theon Greyjoy wasn't afraid of a little pain. Theon had never faced enough consequence for his going-ons, many whispered, he was aware. It's true he was selfish.

Bran featured in each of Theon's dreams, Bran spoke straight into Theon's head, piercing, with the voice of the crows, and the rustles of the trees. Demanding. Bran apparently didn't know this of himself, yet. Theon was willing to believe. But he did. This, Theon didn't tell Maester Luwin, obviously...

Bran watched him as well. Bran the boy, not Bran the god. This, Theon was aware of. Robb had watched him, too, once: What was Theon Greyjoy up to? Didn't he do such interesting things?

These days, Robb was older than Theon, even if he was younger in years, but a man grown, which Theon would never be. Robb didn't look much at Theon, any more, which was, well, understandable. He had duties and loves to attend to, a life. Theon would have murdered for him. He would have died for him. But this is not what he had been called to do. What he had been called to do was to remain. Again, Theon's fate was gentler than most's.

The ravens started arriving.

King Robert was dead. This, as far as Theon was concerned, was pleasing news, but he knew to hold his tongue. King Robert had no heirs, no real heirs, from his loins, and trouble was brewing. Robert had two brothers, both of whom proclaimed themselves king.

There was turmoil at the wall. More turmoil than usual. Three deserters spotted in short notice. Widlings. Tales, spun and yelled and raved, of monsters and others. Bran looked at Theon, when they learned. Spooked. What are you looking at me for, Theon thought. He smiled at him, innocent.

Balon Greyjoy was dead. Fell from a bridge, they said. Euron made himself king, they said. Oh God, Theon thought. Oh my God, oh God, oh God--

Theon woke to his nuncle's laughter in his ear and a hot rag turned on his brow. He removed it and sat up.

"Keep still, my lord" Maester Luwin said. "I was cleaning your wound."

Theon had split the skin on his forehead, between the eyes, when falling, turned out. He laughed, it was funny. A third eye for the corpse. Whatever might he do with it? Maester Luwin didn't smile.

"What worries you, Theon?" the maester asked.

Theon laughed again, annoyed. "Aren't we all worried?"

"I suppose we are," Luwin admitted.

Luwin folded his rag back into his satchel.

"My lord Theon," he started again, carefully. "I just hope you understand that when you were taken to ward by Winterfell, you accrued a responsibility, but so did Winterfell. You are part of this household, and will benefit from its protection, as long as--"

"And who are you to tell me this?" Theon interrupted, even more annoyed. "By which authority--"

"I'm sure the Lords of Stark will say the same, when they come from their journey, which will be soon, considering the news, they have cut it short--"

"Oh, and why would I care about that, actually, considering Robert Baratheon is dead, and Balon Greyjoy is dead, what exactly would I still be doing, here?"

"Theon..." Luwin said, looking at him sadly.

"Thank you, Maester," Theon said, courtesies curdling on his tongue.

Outside, the trees had started yelling. It was deafening. The leaves screamed, the roots, the bark. Theon's forehead leaked silence in response. This tiny, ridiculous little nothing wound. The ravens screamed as well, and the horses, and the stones. Everything yelled.

The men carried on their daily works as if it wasn't so, though, grim and brave. None reacted to the noise, so Theon didn't either.

Corn was counted, guards tightened, patrols sent out. Conscientious but confident. Winterfell was strong, and far remote from all trouble.

The Lords of Stark came back, as well, and Robb saw it fit to briefly gaze at Theon.

Robb had kissed his wife, first, of course, hugged his children, hugged his brothers, kissed his lady mother, spoke to the master of guards, and master of horse, and Maester Luwin, maybe, but when he had done all that, he also came to see Theon.

"How have you been faring, Theon?"

Robb had found him on the hill leading to the godswood, crouched in the grass.

"Well enough," Theon said, because it was the truth. "You?"

"All the same," Robb said. "Our outing was successful, I think. It was high time to tour the hill clans, especially for them to see me, but the North remains strong, even in such troubled times... Some funny stories, as well, if you care to hear them."

It was hard to hear Robb over the yelling of the trees and the screaming of the earth, actually, but Theon acquiesced all the same. They walked along the edge of the wood, circled back towards the training court.

Robb had grown tall and strong, bigger than his father, bigger than Theon, certainly, who spent a lot of his time training with his sword, and shooting his arrows, and cultivating his strength, if only because he couldn't endure stillness well, yet had grown rather sparer with age, if anything. Robb, though, had mass; a wide chest, heavy arms, thick auburn hair and a thick auburn beard. With his pelts and boots, he looked just as a northern Lord should, able to root out trees and withstand several winters.

"Enough of our journey," Robb decided. "Tell me of you! I miss spending time with you..."

Theon had to smile very hard, at that, suddenly scared of what might spill from his lips, from his forehead.

"I've been thinking of riding out north with Bran," his mouth spilled.

"With Bran?" Robb said, eyebrows moving in surprise. "Why would you ride north with Bran?"

"He needs to go there."

The trees were yelling really loudly, now, it was terrible. Their yelling had a rhythm, and the rhythm spelled Other. Like a wooden drum: the Other, the other, the Other.

Theon rubbed his forehead, and missed Robb's answer. "Sorry," he said. "Say again?"

"I asked if this was Bran's idea."

Theon laughed, because wasn't that the mother of all questions. Had this been Bran's idea? Whose doing was this all, really? Certainly not Theon's, that much was certain.

"I don't know, yet," he confessed.

Robb snorted, softly, baffled but not angry. Their walk had lead them back to the courtyard. Their paths would now diverge again.

"You've really grown strange, Greyjoy," Robb said, not without some fondness. "I haven't been able to follow you for some while, I think."

He clasped a hand on Theon's shoulder, like a good Lord does one of his good men. Theon thought his forehead bled, even though it probably didn't.

Bran woke with a start. Again.

Maester Luwin was standing by the open door, as did Boren the guard. Bran had screamed loud enough to call attention to himself, he realised.

"What is wrong, Bran?" Maester Luwin asked.

"Night terrors, I suppose," Bran said in direction of his navel, embarrassed. It was one thing to have night terrors loud enough to wake the castle as freshly broken boy, another as man grown. Bran was shamed.

"Do you want to tell me more about it?" Maester Luwin asked.

Bran shook his head. It was too raw and too confusing, and Bran loved Maester Luwin, but the maester had never been very good at answering these types of questions. Questions like: Who was the crow? Was there really a three eyed crow up north and what did it want from Bran? Should Bran listen to it, or ignore its call? What did any of this have to do with others? What did any of this have to do with trees?

Bran would have been willing to dismiss all this as echoes from bad childhood memories. Past ravings, from after his terrible fall, reignited by current uncertainties. Maester Luwin had once taught him as much. Sometimes, when something very bad happened, one will keep dreaming of it, at certain points of one's life. It didn't mean more than that. Only strange, then, that Theon Greyjoy should know about it.

"I'll make you sleeping draughts," the maester offered. Bran smiled at that, faintly.

Bran walked with his lady mother, through the glass gardens. It was warm, there, and the air was sweet.

"Can dreams be true?" Bran asked his mother.

The lady Catelyn had slight strands of silver in her thick auburn hair, which was coiled and braided into a long tress. She wore a dark blue coat, lined with fur, but because of the glass garden's warmth, she had unclasped it, and held if folded over her arm. The gown she wore underneath was brown and silver, and she carried herself with grace. There was pride to be found, certainly, in having such a handsome mother.

"They can be true, on some level," the lady Catelyn said, "though we must attend to reality first."

"So dreams are always separate from reality?"

The lady Catelyn smiled, and smoothed one of Bran's locks back behind his ear, like she might have when he was a babe.

"Not always," she admitted. "I'd have thought you already knew this. Our dreams can sometimes guide us, though we must choose judiciously. What have you been planning?"

Bran opened his mouth and closed it. Always practical, his mother.

"Honestly, I have no idea, yet," he admitted.

"Tell us, when you are ready," the lady Catelyn said. "You know your father and I would support you in most journeys you could choose."

There was a slight layer of ice, on the outside of the glass, which gave the light a soft, milky quality. The vegetation in the glass houses was luxuriant, as always. Fruits, vegetables, but also flowers, which were needed for nothing in particular, except for being beautiful and smelling nice. Look at us prosper, the flowers said.

"In fact, your father and I might have been remiss in not talking of this with you sooner," the lady Catelyn continued. "You must forgive me, you grow so quickly... You could stay here, of course, keep learning with Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole. The work you do for Winterfell, when your father and brother are absent, is very important, you know that. But we considered sending you to White Harbor, also, if you wanted to learn more of trade, and establish our connections...

"But as I said, we would support you in most you could choose. The burden and privilege of a second son and fourth child is a certain amount of choice."

Of a second and crippled son, they both knew.

Bran had lost heart from telling his mother of crows and trees. She would love him either way, he knew, but as they stood here, surrounded by the earthy smell of the gardens, and by sensible practicalities, it seemed obvious that Bran was merely plagued by unhappy dreams, that their House was strong and affluent, and that nothing in particular was needed from Bran just now, except his attempts to be the best son he could be, considering all circumstances.

Theon Greyjoy walked out of the woods and through the courtyard, fully naked in spite of the chill, lean and dark, and bleeding from the mouth, black hair tangled like roots. Not bleeding much, just the way one might after having bitten one's tongue, after ripping open one's lips. Thin lines of red down his chin.

"They used to feed flesh to the bones of your trees, did you know that?" he said, when asked why he was walking around like that.

Joseth laughed, not unkindly. "And you're to be the next flesh sacrifice, Greyjoy? Get dressed and stop drinking, you're scaring the horses."

Theon lowered his head and obeyed, near timidly. He trotted through the yard and towards the buildings, when he spotted Bran. Their eyes met. Theon fell. Bran could swear the very minute their eyes met, life extinguished from Theon's limbs, like a candle snuffed out. Boneless, he crumbled to the floor.

Under cries of alarm, the nearby workers circled around him. A breath or two, and Theon was back sitting.

"I fell," he said, sheepishly, pushing away the hands that touched him.

"You fainted is what you did, Greyjoy," Joseth grumbled. "You should go see the maester."

"We should call the maester."

"I fell, but he flew," Theon said, pointing an arm towards Bran.

As heads turned into Bran's direction, Theon fled.

Theon was obsessed with him, that's what he was, Bran decided. It was creepy and weird. Robb had told him that Theon suggested riding out north with him, had asked if it'd been Bran's idea. It hadn't and Theon had not discussed this with Bran. And this scene again, today. Bran was not so easily cowed, though, and he resolved to take Theon in charge. His lord father never considered Bran's useless legs a suitable excuse to lack courage, and neither did Bran.

Bran slipped back into Summer's skin, and resumed his sleuthing. Carefully. His suspicion was that Theon, somehow, listened in on his dreaming, to what Bran said out loud when dreaming, probably. He must therefore be sneaking after him. And he just happened to be in the godswood just when Bran went there at night? This was strange. Theon was lonely and of little use, Bran supposed, and that could make a man grow twisted. But was he dangerous? Bran didn't tell anyone of his suspicions, because he feared that if he did, Theon might simply get punished, and Bran didn't want to hurt him. Plus, he didn't want to attract undue attention to his own dreaming.

He solicited the help of some friends, TomToo and Caulden, who oft accompanied Bran on his rides.

"Just keep some watch of him, when I can't, and tell me what he does throughout the day," he ordered. "But keep it quiet."

Theon did all the same things he'd always done. Sometimes, he sat with the men at dinner or breakfast, telling tall tales and playing dice. Or he didn't, but that wasn't new. He attended to his duties and nobody had particular complaints about him: He patrolled on horseback with Tomard, Varly, and the rest, trained in the yard. When nobody had particular need of him, he'd roam, on foot or horseback, through the woods, on the ramparts, across the plains. He liked to shoot arrows, sometimes for hours.

"He's normal, doing normal things," Caulden reported.

"But does he tell people weird things?" Bran pressed.

"Well, yes, but that's for the course. I just don't listen too hard to him."

"But does he talk of me a lot?" Bran pressed.

Caulden shrugged and spat out into the grass. Caulden was kind and strong, but preferred things kept simple. "Not really," he said.

His father and brother were preoccupied with Theon Greyjoy as well, Bran learned, sitting in his father's scholar as they discussed current events.

"Ironborn raiders have attacked the Reach," Maester Luwin knew to report. "The'y been spotted all along the coast, near down to the Arbor. The shield Islands have been conquered."

"The South is in disarray," Lord Eddard said. "As terrible as this is, these news don't directly concern us."

"Shouldn't Theon be here?" Robb said, suddenly. "Certainly, these news concern him."

"We thought it best to discuss this first in his absence, specifically," the Lady Catelyn said.

"I believe Theon was perturbed by the news of his father's death", Maester Luwin said. "I talked to him about it, and he was, tense, I think. Worried."

"Well, Theon is still the heir to Pyke," Robb said. "Shouldn't this matter?"

"Euron Greyjoy was voted into power, so it is said," Maester Luwin replied, "and that's a thorny question..."

"Again, the South is in disarray," Lord Eddard said, "but we are in a strong and safe position. It is not judicious, I think, to currently get involved, and therefore not judicious to get Theon involved."

"Theon might involve himself, mightn't he?" Robb said.

"He might," Lord Eddard allowed. "With Robert's and Balon's deaths, we are not beholden to keep him hostage any more. But if he does, he would do so on his own. We are not getting involved."

"Theon told me stories of Euron Greyjoy, when I was a child," Robb remembered. "If half of what he implied is true, Euron Greyjoy is not a man fit to be king."

"Lots of men who are not fit to be king become king," the Lady Catelyn snapped, "and Theon Greyjoy's testimony is not needed to know Euron Greyjoy is bad news."

Bran thought of Riverrun, which he had never yet seen with his own eyes, and considered the losses his mother was risking, when she, too, insisted on not getting involved in southron troubles. His father must be aware of it as well, for he squeezed his mother's hand.

"Right," Robb said.

"If we are in agreement in this, let's turn to the news of the wall," their father said.

He laid his hand on a rolled-up piece of parchment. "Jon had sent us frankly alarming reports. To be honest, the details beggar belief. But this report is co-signed by several eyes, thus, we must contend with the matter..."

After their meeting, Bran felt the need to let the wind blow through his hair and to think. He went out riding with Dancer, and Summer. The times when his family thought to protest his outings were long past: Bran was wilful, and, with Summer at his side, quite safe.

If wights were real, and dead men could rise, and worse, didn't it stand to reason that dreams and magic and three eyed crows might be as well? If Bran's dreams had pointed to catastrophe and northwards, and they subsequently learned all this was true, didn't it stand to reason that Bran should listen?

The reason why Bran had found Theon Greyjoy naked in the woods that one night was that Theon spent most of his nights in the woods, Bran learned. Theon Greyjoy slept badly and little, apparently, and had developed a habit of roaming around the weirwood, sometimes kneeling in front of its face, as if in supplication, sometimes orbiting around the thick trunk, all while throwing mistrustful gazes at it, sometimes throwing stones at the ravens. At least once, he masturbated and ejaculated against the bark, which Bran, slipped in Summer's skin, felt offended by. He swam the pools, as well, often remained submerged long enough that Bran might have worried for him, if being in Summer's skin wasn't nigh incompatible with worry.

Bran watched Theon shoot his arrows, in the afternoon. The lack of sleep didn't seem to impair his aim much. Theon was good. The best Winterfell had seen, maybe. When he was younger, he had loved to show off, Bran remembered. He didn't much any more, kept at his practice with a certain grim detachment, as if it didn't matter much, and he yet wouldn't stop.

"Why do you spend so much time in the godswood?" Bran asked him, when Theon was done collecting his arrows.

Theon shrugged and made to move past him.

What, after all this pestering him? Bran was indignant.

"Theon!" he called out. "Will you talk with me?"

Theon stood, looking hesitant. "Yes," he said, finally.

"There are news of the wall," Bran said. "News of troubles. And others. It was you who first warned of others."

"No, it is you."

"It isn't--" Bran sighed. "What is it I must do up north, Theon?"

Theon splayed his fingers, as if counting them. "Meet the three-eyed crow, supposedly." He shrugged.

Theon could pass as crow himself, dressed black in black as he oft was. Bran tried to see it: The black hair turned feather, the beaky nose turned actual beak.

"There's wights up north. Jon writes. Dead men rising again."

Theon smiled, mirthlessly. "What is dead may never die."

"They rise again with black hands and blue eyes."

"I don't have black hands nor blue eyes," Theon remarked.

Theon's hands were light brown, his eyes black.

"Well, you're not a wight, are you?"

Theon laughed at that.

"My father means to recruit men and send them to the wall, as reinforcements. They are gathering now. There is worse danger brewing beyond the wall, they say."

"There is worse danger in the sea."

"Do you mean your uncle Euron?" Bran asked, irritated by what seemed to him to be strange jumps in logic, but remembering Theon's involvement in matters beyond Bran's own troubles.

Theon Greyjoy smiled. "The one-eyed crow."

Wait, what? "I thought three-eyed."

Theon laughed. "Or maybe a thousand."

Theon sniggered some more at that, as if he had made a real good joke.

Bran was irritated and oddly chilled. Theon irritated him. Theon had always irritated him. Ass, Jon used to call him. One of the stable hands passed by, and Theon shot her a rakish grin, as if he hadn't just spent half a conversation playing the madman and the fool. The girl blushed. Bran tried not to roll his eyes.

"You are heir of the seastone chair, Robb said. And you don't need to be our hostage any more, our father said. Do you plan on meeting your uncle? On retaking your seat?"

Theon looked distracted. He looked behind Bran, to the lines of the trees, worried at the thin gold chain around his neck.

"That's a whole lot of talking about me in my absence, it would seem," he complained, smiling unpleasantly. "Well, I very much don't plan on meeting my uncle. And I'm all alone in the world, how would I retake my seat?"

Oh... Bran felt bad for having asked.

Theon kept smiling, as if this was all nothing to him. "Did they mention the whereabouts of my sister, in those ravens about my nuncle's activities they send you? Or of my other nuncles? I meant to ask Maester Luwin this, or your brother, but since you're here... "

"They... haven't said, no. I think my lord father meant to speak of all this with you, soon, though."

Bran felt a weird need to make excuses for his father. He's very busy, you see. And he's been very sad for a long time now...

"I'm sure he did," Theon said.

"Theon, I don't understand what's been happening to me," Bran blurted out, if only to divert from his lord father. "Or to you. Something's been happening to you as well, hasn't it?"

"Crows picking me open, hurting me," Theon agreed.

Oh... Bran hadn't been hurt by the crow, he didn't think.

"But why do you say that I'm doing this?" Bran prompted, energized to continue his inquiries. He wanted to understand. "Am I a crow?"

"Are you? I don't know."

"What is it you know, Theon? Can you try and tell me?"

Theon looked at him, then, to Bran's dismay, and maybe also Theon's, his eyes filled with tears. Theon shook his head.

"Sorry," Theon said, between tears. Theon wiped away his tears, then laughed. "Sorry," he said, again, laughing. "Forgive me."

Bran didn't understand.

"Do you think Theon might have been very unhappy for a long time now?" Bran asked his brother Robb. Baby Ed was crawling over both their laps, so they were somewhat distracted.

"I... Gods, Bran," Robb said, plucking Ed back upright. "Yes, maybe. Probably."

Ed stretched out his hands and Bran helped him over to his side.

"I've been neglecting him for some time, I suppose," Robb said. "We were best of friends, once."

Ed giggled, clawing into Bran's hand.

"It's not your fault," Bran comforted.

"I suppose not," Robb agreed. "I suppose it's nobody's fault, here, really. Just the way things went."

"Just the way things went," Bran echoed.

Theon stood in the godswood, naked. Wet, as well, he had just risen from one of the pools. The earth around his feet was dark brown, black, nearly. Bled in, Theon thought. Theon, in contrast, had never been much bled. A few punches, here and there, a trashing that broke skin, the bruises of training, squabbles, rough sex. A life of gentle captivity, though even that was not well said: Aren't all men, somehow, captives of their stations.

Theon imagined it: The ships riding through the sea, black banners fluttering. The raiders' shouts, clanging metal, blood darkening the waves. His birthright. This was not all hypothetical to Theon, because he had seen it, long ago, as a young child. He had seen blood darkening the waves, fire melting down walls, scores of men dying in violence. Maester Luwin once suspected Theon of being ill-suited for peace, which wasn't true. It angered Theon to even think of it, then his anger seeped through the cracks of his joints and the holes in his head.

Eddard Stark had spoken to him, after all, as of course he would: Lord Eddard was a dutiful man, and Theon was one of his duties. Had been.

"First, Theon," the Lord Eddard said gravely, "I want to express my condolences for your losses."

The Lord Eddard's once brown hair was now all grey, though it still reached to his shoulders, fine and straight. Grey were also his eyes, his short-cropped beard, his tunic, the gloves covering his hands.

Theon gazed at the great ancestral sword, Ice, ceremoniously propped against the wall. It didn't scare him any more.

"With the changed political situation," the Lord Eddard was saying, "you are of course free to go whereever you might go. None will stop you. You are your own man. I also want to extend my welcome for you to stay with us, to remain part of my household, if you so desire."

Theon felt blood trickling from his forehead, even though he was sure he wasn't. Briefly, he felt blinded by hate.

The Lord Eddard looked at him, Theon noticed, as if expecting Theon to make a declaration. That, Theon would not.

"Thank you, my Lord," he just said.

The stones were weeping blood, Theon saw, all around them. Weeping so much blood that Theon and the Lord Eddard stood in it to their ankles. The Lord Eddard didn't comment on it, though, therefore, neither did Theon.

And that had been that.

Now Theon stood naked in Lord Eddard's godswood. Shivering. He had fucked the stable girl there, before. She was half new at Winterfell and enjoyed whispering excited fantasies of iron raiders and pirates. As a youth, this would have pleased Theon very much, now, it made him tired. But he had enjoyed fucking her in sight of the weirwood, so that was only fair. In retaliation, or maybe just because why not, the tree now made Theon walk in circles, all round and around again. Circling the white bark, filled with silence. Theon was tired, and cold, and would have liked to stop.

In the morning, he exchanged some friendly greetings here and there, avoided breakfast, and went to shoot his arrows.

Obviously, what Theon should do was pack his things and leave. Was it shameful to stay even one day longer, like an animal in love with his cage? But where would Theon go? Joining Euron was unthinkable. As for a homecoming behind the king's back... Theon didn't know the whereabouts of his mother, if she still lived. He didn't know the whereabouts of his sister, nor any of his nuncles. He didn't think he'd recognise any of their faces. He had revelled in the fantasy so often, as a youth: The son and heir returned, triumphant: Behold, Theon Greyjoy! You could go wherever you want, Theon Greyjoy. You'd have to do it alone, certainly, and find your own way, isn't that what heroes do?

The salt had been sucked out of his veins. Earthy gods whispered through his veins. Submerged in the stillwater pools, he could hear the sea roar in his ears, but it was no use. Did this make for a bad song?

Bran came to find him again. As of course he would.

He looked like Robb. A banal observation: Bran always looked like Robb, as was oft remarked upon, especially when he tried to attend to his duties. Stubborn, eager, barely contained impatience. Theon was not the only one to see this. If Bran had looked a different way altogether, Theon would still have been bound to him.

"I have talked with my mother, with Maester Luwin, with my brothers, with so many people now of this which I've been avoiding. I will ride north. To the wall, first, and then probably beyond, even though I don't know how I'll find the way. Maybe you'll know. Will you ride with me?"

Theon nearly said no. Just to make it known that he'd been forced.

Bran looked at him with his Robb-eyes, patiently waiting. More patiently than Robb ever had, in fact.

Theon laughed. Who was he fooling? As if it had ever really been a question what it would be like.

"We'll fly," he assented.