34

Rickon

Steadying his hand and cupping the small flame, Rickon lit one of the candles that stood next to the statue of his father. He blew out the small stick he used and looked up at the face of the statue. He didn't recognize it at all. He couldn't remember a single thing about his father. Not what he looked like, the sound of his voice, the feeling of comfort next to him. Only a shadow.

He sighed. "You weren't supposed to Lord either, were you?" If Uncle Brandon hadn't been murdered by the Mad King then he would have become Lord of Winterfell. "Was it all a giant mess to learn for you too? Did every advisor give more than you could handle? How do you take it all in without falling?"

The only response was a quiet echo of wind muttering against dust and stone in the darkness. A sigh of the dead.

Rickon rested a hand on Ice's pommel, looking down at the statue's feet. Of course he wouldn't get a bloody answer. He didn't have magic like Bran or dragons like the Targaryens. He was just another Stark.

Remembering that Barbrey told him not to be down in the crypts for too long, he left the company of the dead and returned to tending to the living. Then again, with all the dreary and sullen faces around, there wasn't much of a change.

Rather than going straight back to the Great Hall where he was expected, Rickon took a detour to the forges to take a look at the dragonglass weapons being made there instead. The entire place was filled with warmth, so much that Rickon completely understood why so many others of the Winterfell staff were enjoying their meals here instead of the kitchens or elsewhere. Even with the extraordinary warmness Winterfell had, the forges were always the best.

There were many weapons being made and men practicing with them, testing their balance and the weight. Podrick was with a Winterfell soldier and one of the smiths at a table with many weapons, holding a dragonglass axe in his hand and giving it a few empty swings.

"The blade's a bit big, don't you think?" Podrick asked.

"Aye, not ideal for a normal axe," the soldier replied, "but we have to make them like this. Any smaller or thinner in the body and they become too weak. They'll break too quickly and leave a man with only a stick after about ten good swings. It's glass, not steel."

The smith folded his arms and shook his head. "As if anyone'll live long enough to get more than ten swings in."

The men all looked at each other, worried, but no one objected otherwise.

"We'll do what we can," said Podrick. "Just hope that the King can get his aunt's dragons to fight with us." He handed the axe back to the soldier. "How are the swords coming- oh, Lord Stark," he nodded when he noticed Rickon. The soldier and the smith did likewise.

"Hello, Podrick." Rickon walked up to the table and looked at what he saw. Arrowheads, daggers, a pair of axes, and some spearheads. He picked up one of the daggers resting in a leather sheath. "All is well with the forging?"

"Aye, milord," the smith replied. "We've just finished the final design for the swords, and so far we have enough weapons for at least thirty thousand-"

"I don't mean about the numbers," Rickon said, "are you all doing well? Do you need anything to help?"

"Oh, um… I wouldn't say it's my place to say-"

"Then I order you to say it anyway." Rickon said.

The smith looked at Podrick and then back to Rickon. "I know we need to make as many weapons as we can, milord. But a little more time out of the forges might do us all a damn good bit. One day out of ten just isn't enough."

Rickon looked around the forge, at the many smiths working hard. Ever since Jon left, these forges have been kept lit day and night. It was either steel or dragonglass that went in and out. But the men attending all of these duties, their faces were empty. There was no sight of intense focus or energy in their eyes, only dreadful gazes at their work. Granted, the work was good, but a man with passion will go further than one without.

"Listen here!" Rickon yelled out into the forge. All the men working halted and looked at him. "That's enough for today. I want all of you to take the day and tomorrow off. Find a friend or two and drink till you piss yourself, find a tavern and have a banquet, make love to your wife or go get one if you haven't got one already, wrestle in the damn snow like children, do something fun. That's an order!" Just about everyone looked at each other wondering if this was serious or not. For further emphasis, Rickon turned to the soldier. "What's your name?"

"Farkas," the soldier replied.

"Let the night smiths know of this when they awaken for their shift. And also relay to them that If anyone here does not follow the order I just gave, they are to be stripped naked for the rest of their working hours in the forges. Am I clear?"

"Aye, milord." Farkas looked up and narrowed his eyes. "You heard Lord Stark! Either drop your damn britches or drop your damn hammers!"

All of the smiths set their work down, settled their forges, setting their tools aside, finishing the last touches on pieces, and dashed out of the forge as fast as they could. The busiest and loudest place in all of Winterfell was now dead quiet.

"Lord Stark," Podrick started, "are you sure that was wise?"

"The logical thing to do is keep them working. But would you want to keep working the same damn job day after day with your fingers callusing with only an hour to rest?"

"Well no-"

"Right, no one wants to do that. And once they have time to do the things they want to, they might just remember why they need to work so hard. Do I need to order you some rest as well? With all the drilling and the training with Brienne-"

"Erm, I actually like it, my lord," Podrick said with complete sincerity. "It's hard work but it makes me happy knowing I'm getting better each day."

Rickon shrugged. "That's alright, I suppose. But don't men your age go out looking for women to woo?"

Podrick started to laugh, but not for the reason Rickon thought. "I mean no offense, my lord, but you're sounding much like my grandfather used to before I became a squire. He liked to speak of the subject of women often, chastising me for not chasing every pretty girl on our lands even though I was only ten years old."

"Seven Hells," Rickon sighed, "I'm sounding like an old man then? If only I had the looks then people might stop treating me like a damn child." Podrick opened his mouth to speak, but Rickon hushed him. "I know, I know. Twelve namedays old is hardly the age to be considered a man."

"I wasn't going to say that, my lord. I was going to say that not everyone sees you like that. I mean, there are some things to still grow into, to put it kindly, but the past few months have surprised many of us. Breinne, myself, Tormund, and many of the other Wildings."

"But not the people it needs to." Rickon argued. "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"I have my shift to watch over Lord Brandon soon."

"Then go have yourself a pint of something warm or filling before you do." Rickon took his leave of the forges and Podrick, going to the Great Hall where he had to do his lordly duties. As he walked through the courtyard, he saw Shaggydog wrestling with Summer near the entrance to the kennels.

"Shaggydog! Come!" Rickon called. The black mess of fur rolled to his feet and dashed over to Rickon's side. "Good boy." Shaggydog was almost as big as a small horse. Hopefully there were still a few years of growing left in the wolf and maybe Rickon would be able to ride Shaggydog into battle like people said Robb did with Greywind.

Summer had padded off to the Godswood… where Bran most likely was. There hadn't been much conversation between the Stark brothers lately. Not since Bran had been delving in greensight so much learning all sorts of things from the past. Maybe there would be a chance now? He just needed a little bit of advice or guidance from someone who knew the position he was in, and who better than Bran? He had to be Lord of Winterfell at Rickon's age.

Barbrey and the others would wait a little while longer and Rickon changed course and entered the godswood. Usually it was quiet, like the trees protected the land within from the noises outside. But now, there was something new. It was a strange melody.

There, as usual, was Bran at the heart tree with eyes clouded with white. Summer had rested himself at Bran's feet and surrounding them and the heart tree were the Children of the Forest. The music was coming from them. It was a harmonious singing of no words. At least to Rickon it sounded like there weren't any words, but somehow in his heart he felt a collection of emotions suddenly stirring within him.

One Child turned her face and Rickon could see under the hood of her green cloak that it wasn't Leaf, it was Acorn. She had a more longer face than the rest. "Welcome, Lord of Winterfell."

"Why do you sing to the trees?" Rickon asked.

Acorn smiled at the question. "The Weirwood is a powerful door for the Old Gods to speak to us in this world, to guide us. They whisper to us through the winds and the roots. Our songs are prayers to make wider the door for the Raven to use his power more than he can without." she pointed to the crying face. "Listen."

Rickon gulped but stepped closer to the tree, placing a hand next to the face as he leaned in. A subtle yet present sensation electrified through his body when his ear was inches away from the mouth, but he couldn't hear another… at first.

A brief gust of wind bit at the tops of Rickon's ears and through it, he heard the faintest of words.

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."

He gasped and pulled away, looking at the face in shock.

The voice he heard… Was that his father?"

Bran suddenly gasped, startling Rickon. His brother's eyes flashed and finally he returned from wherever he was. Panting for breath and looking around. "Damn!" Bran shouted before continuing to gasp for air. "I can't find the damn thing!" he yelled to the Children, it seemed.

"Bran?" Rickon said.

Blinking, his brother looked at him. "When did you get here?"

"Just now." He looked back at the face of the heart tree. "I think I heard father's voice." A stillness swept them both. Taking his hand off the tree and backing away, he stood next to Bran and Summer. "What is it you were looking for?"

Bran leaned back, fists tightening. "It's a long story. You wouldn't understand."

Rickon bristled. The refusal of response had become a growing frequency with Bran.. at least whenever it was between them. He'd spend lots of time with Meer and Wolkan, but hardly any with him. "I'm not a child, Bran. You can stop thinking I can't understand deeper things."

There was a piercing gaze that Bran gave. One that appeared as if he was seeing right through Rickon. Given his powers, he probably did. "Was there something you needed, Rickon."

"I just wanted someone to talk to. Things seem to be harder than usual and I need some advice. And lately the people around who give me their advice don't understand."

"I felt the same when I had to be Lord. It just takes some time to understand. Be patient…" 

He wasn't listening. That damned raven power he got was causing Bran to make too many assumptions and just assume his first rationalization was the truth. Was Rickon the only one that noticed? Where was Meera Reed?

"I have been patient for months now, I'm doing what I think's right and the best I can but apparently it's either not enough or it's wrong."

"You're still learning," Bran said flatly, "you missed a lot of years growing up here."

Rickon sighed and shook his head. "You're not listening either, idiot." He muttered, giving up on his own brother to help him. Rickon left the company of the great Three Eyed Raven and ignored Meera's greeting as she passed him by with a small basket of food.

Pausing, Rickon turned his head to look back at Bran and the agitated cripple who could barely spare a minute for him was as relaxed and happy as a cat when Meera presented herself to him.

The leather of Rickon's gloves scrunched when his fingers curled into fists. The two of them could both piss off.

"Lord Stark," Rickon's attention turned to one of the Dustin men approaching him at a quick pace. "Lady Dustin demands your presence in the Great Hall."

Damn, he forgot about the summons earlier. "I'm coming," He scoffed and followed the guard into the castle to meet with Lady Barbrey, Maester Wolkan, Brienne, and many others.

"There you are," Barbrey glared at him when he arrived. "What do you think you're doing sending every smith out of the forges for the entire day? They don't have time to spare for drinking and whores!"

Before Rickon could even start to explain, Barbrey presented several letters in front of him. They looked like replies to his ravens to White Harbor for Lord Manderly's help with hosting a holiday. But no one told him they arrived.

"And what is further business about a festival? Rickon, we are on the verge of winter and war. I told you we don't have time for games and feasts!"

"You don't understand," Rickon began, taking in a breath to try and cool his head from the boiling feelings in side, "I had the idea that if we had a chance to just stop for a day or two-"

"We can't stop!" Barbrey scolded. "Every weapon made is another man armed and another number added to the ranks. Every day spent training is a higher chance of surviving the war. And every grain of wheat spared is another warm meal against the cold."

"I know, but it's too much-" he was going to say that it was too much for everyone around him, that people were becoming soulless creatures at work like wights, that they needed something to liven their spirits, to help them be happy, to look forward to tomorrow, but no one let him explain.

"You of all people here don't get to say it's too much!"

Finally, something inside him snapped and his voice erupted from his mouth. "YOU'RE NOT LISTENING TO ME! WHY WON'T YOU BLOODY LISTEN TO ME!?!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. He didn't mean to be so loud, it just happened.

"Rickon!" Barbrey shot back, "that's enough!" She strode up to him and stared daggers down at him. "You don't get to be a child anymore, so cease this nonsense and grow up." She grabbed his wrist and tugged him to follow, but his anger was great and he immediately jerked away.

"Get away from me!" He stepped away.

Barbrey reached for him again, but Shaggydog growled and came forth. He barked and snapped his jaws at Barbrey's fingers, barely missing them when she darted back. One of the guardsmen drew his sword but dared not get any closer when Shaggy barked and snarled at him too.

"Rickon! Stop this now!"

His fists tightened. "Leave me alone." He stormed off and once he was out of the room, the growling stopped and Shaggydog rushed back to his side. He would go back to his room, but his door would get broken down again. He'd have to go where the adults wouldn't look for him. Not the Crypts or the Broken Tower… the Library. No one would ever think to look for him there.

The hours that passed by proved Rickon's idea to have been a good one. He could hear people calling him out, looking for him and so on while he sat quietly alone in a dusty corner of bookshelves with his wolf.

All the time he was there, he tried to think of who, if there was anyone, he could really turn to for help. But he came to realize that ever since Jon and Sansa abandoned him to go south, he's always been alone. Osha rejoined the company of the Wildings, and Bran was too busy with trees, wood children, and Meera to spare any time for his own brother, all of the adults were too busy being adults… at least he had Shaggy.

Jon had said to him that Winterfell and the people were his to protect and lead the day he left, but why wouldn't anyone let him? He could admit without shame that he wasn't educated, especially in the finer details of laws, the economics of trade, and the other things a lord needed to know to help his people flourish. But damn all of those things against this instinct in him, trying to guide and tell him what to do. But no one would let him. They were all too busy believing they knew what a child doesn't.

It was getting dark now and the library was becoming a place of boredom. He ventured a walk outside but made sure he went unseen. He wasn't a master of stealth, but his time in the wild with Osha had taught him many tricks on how to hide and dart out of sight when he needed to. He made it up to one of the lesser patrolled sections of the walls of the castle and rested his arms on the stone, looking out to what was before him.

The night sky was filled to the brim with clouds, and yet there were cracks all throughout in which bright moonlight broke in and illuminated various parts of the land. It was nice to finally find some quiet. No more training, no more lessons, and no more ruling… not that he was doing much of it anyways. All he ever really did was listen to what the others told him to do and did it. Any time he tried to do things himself, it was like a stone wall formed around him and nothing but the 'guidance' of his councilors would rip it down so he could move again.

"What to do…" Rickon sighed, and his breath condensed into a thick puff of fog in front of his eyes, blinding him to the land. When the vapor cleared, a ray of moonlight had moved over the woods outside the castle.

Living on the run out of sight was so simple compared to all of this nonsense. He definitely would survive longer out there than being cooped up here. Winterfell wasn't the place he left, not that he could remember much of how it was.

He raised his head, gazing at the woods, longing for them and the peace he would have on his own, and the command over himself. He wouldn't need to fetch anything before he left, he knew how to live in the cold with nothing. It was damn better than living here.

His throat suddenly felt like it was being pulled down into his stomach. He looked down at Shaggydog with a sad smile. He hadn't cried since he had to leave Bran that night in Queenscrown. Now he wished they never found each other, or rather that Jon had never found him. "Let's go, boy. We don't belong here."

Bran

Waking up never used to be a problem for Bran. He was disciplined about it, got up without a fuss, eager to get on with the day rather than waste time in bed. But after last night all he wanted to do was stay under his furs for the rest of the day with Meera.

His eyes fluttered open as he stretched his arms and yawned. His hand brushed over Meera's shoulder and she shuddered at his touch. He looked at her with joy and a little pride that he had achieved in having sex, especially with the woman he was in love with. It had always been a constant dread that he'd never be able to with any woman because of his broken legs. What kind of woman would want that unless she were paid? But his fears were conquered and he felt a new part of him born.

He was just about to pull the furs over them and enjoy a few extra minutes of rest before the door of his room swung open. Now, Bran pulled the furs up to cover Meera's breasts and her dignity as she awoke with a start.

It was Lady Brienne but not dressed in her armor for once, just a simple blue tunic and breeches.

"Knock before you enter!" Bran shouted, half angry and half embarrassed.

Brienne looked at Meera and ignored the awkwardness of the situation as she stepped into the room, right up to the bed and handed a note to him without a single word uttered. She looked absolutely worried.

Bran took the note and found it was a very straight forward message in Rickon's hand.

I can't be what you won't let me be so let Bran do it

Don't come looking

Bran sat up, double checking the words to make sure his dreariness wasn't clouding his mind to mistake the meaning. "Where is he?" Bran asked.

"Not in Winterfell," she said, "I was woken by one of the gate sentries who found a trail of footprints leading out of the castle. A set of young boy's and a large wolf. When I searched his room, the only things on his bed were Ice and this note on it."

He ran? But why? They had Winterfell back and all their enemies were gone except for the dead of course.

"Does anyone else know?"

Brienne shook her head. "I've summoned the guard to search the castle first just in case he's still here. I haven't had the chance to tell anyone else."

Bran nodded. "I don't think he's still here. Send our best hunters out to follow his trail and gather those in our close council to meet in the Great Hall."

"I'm not sure we'll be able to follow the trail, my Lord. There's a blizzard about to overtake us."

Bran swung a fist onto the furs. "I'll look for him then. Ravens, Summer, they'll serve better than trackers will. Get the others together first. I want to know who's fault it was for this in the first place." Yesterday at dinner, he heard about Rickon's explosive tantrum. He thought he explained things fairly well when they spoke in the Godswood. Dammit to the Seven Hells, why was his brother being so difficult?

Brienne went off and Meera got dressed first before helping Bran. They didn't need a full preparation, although a bath would have been nice if they had time to spare. Only a shirt, woolen breeches, and a warm pair of socks were all Bran had put on before getting in his chair and wrapping his heavy cloak around him.

Meera pushed him down the halls and it appeared that the news of Rickon's disappearance woke the entire castle up. Guards were rushing through the halls, some fumbling to get their clothes on as they did, and many of the servants were practically running in search of what they should do.

By the time Bran was brought to the Great Hall, he was the only one there apart from Meera.

"He wouldn't leave if he was just angry," Meera said.

"He's impatient." He told Meera, "from the way we talked, he wanted everything fixed and done now."

"It didn't sound like it to me," Meera said, narrowing her eyes at him, "I heard a little and you practically gave him three words and drove him off. You couldn't have spared an hour? Half of one even?"

"I had to look for the blade, Meera,"

"And yet you weren't sending me off to get back to your work."

Bran's mouth went dry. She had him there. When she came they must have talked and shared the food she brought for the rest of the afternoon. He pinched the bridge of his nose and others finally joined them in the Great Hall.

Wolkan came forward fast, "The cellars, dungeons, and towers have all been searched so far. Some men went into the crypts but haven't returned yet."

"I can't believe this-" Barbrey began.

"Enough!" Bran yelled, silencing everyone. He took a breath and collected his thoughts. Meera was right, he did brush Rickon off when he should have spared some time. His brother needed guidance, not some nag and lecture. "Everyone, take a seat." Wolkan, Brienne, Podrick, Tormund and the Freefolk, and the other Northern Lords present sat down respectively and allowed a quick silence to calm them down. "He's not in the castle anymore. That I know without a doubt."

Barbrey spoke up. "I sent some men with the hunters to join the search, but they won't get far with the storm."

"Hmph," Tormund grumbled, "leave a southerner to get stopped by a storm. I'll send some men to go and look. A blizzard's as fine as a sunny day for them." While Barbrey gave him a scowl, Bran was inclined to accept their help more than hers.

"That will do greatly for us, Tormund. Thank you. But first we all need to talk… I think it's my fault he ran off."

"You don't have to take the blame, my lord," Barbrey said, "a spoiled child has no one to blame but himself when he lashes out."

"It's not hard to find who's to blame," Tormund said with a soft but somewhat angered voice, "just find a pond and look at the reflection."

"You have no say in this, Wilding, You know nothing-"

Tormund stood up and stepped forward. "I know more than you southern pig fuckers do about loyalty. I was there when you wouldn't let the boy get more than two words out his mouth before shouting down at him, and I was there when every man and woman of the North swore their allegiance to House Stark again, and I was there when Jon left the little wolf in charge. You all agreed that his duty was to become a leader, and yet the moment he tries to, you deny him. If that's what loyalty is south of the Wall, I think I'll just go back north when all's fought and done if we live, because that's not how we follow our leaders. Doesn't matter how old or who they are, if we pledge to follow, we do it."

"He's young," Barbrey countered, "he needs to be taught-"

"So teach him then, but don't call it that when you're controlling him."

Barbrey shook her head. "He wanted a damn celebration thrown. This isn't the time for a party or festival-"

"Have any single one of you listened to him? Have any of you tried to? Because like it or not, someone else will always know something you don't. He's not a boy looking to sit on his arse to play, he is the Lord of the North, sworn to lead his people. If he wants to celebrate then do it. You lot could use something to smile about these days." The ginger-bearded Wildling trudged off with his men following behind him.

Lord Mazin scoffed at the Wildlings' departure. "We don't need those reavers-"

"Quiet!" Bran shouted. "One more word out of you about them, and you'll be shoveling latrine pits until a wight has to take the shovel from your cold dead fingers." He sighed once everyone quieted down. "Tormund is right. We're all at fault in this."

"My Lord," Brienne objected, "please don't encourage…"

"No, Brienne… We've pushed Rickon too far away."

"He is the Lord of Winterfell," stated Lady Barbrey, voice even. "And as such he must learn his duties with the coming storm upon us."

Bran sighed. "Aye, he does, and he knows it. And he's been doing just that but it hasn't been enough for us." Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. "We haven't had any faith in him to be his own yet."

"My lord," Lord Mazin stood up. "He's far too young to start-"

"Excuse me?" Lyanna Mormont glared at Lord Mazin back into his seat.

The old man cleared his throat. "I meant that he hasn't the wisdom or knowledge yet. The seat of House Stark is still too large for him to fill. Lady Mormont had years to learn and build the respect she has. Lord Rickon couldn't last for one. If logic trumped over tradition, Lady Sansa should have taken the responsibility until he was ready."

Some people, Lady Barbrey included, nodded in agreement and they continued to talk amongst themselves while Bran drifted into his own thoughts, realizing what he had been ignoring when he was immersed in his own duties.

The faith in Rickon to be the Lord of Winterfell was waning fast. The people wanted a man grown to lead them, not a wandering boy thrust into the position for name alone.

A realization came upon him, a significant resemblance in his family's great history he learned as a boy that was nearly repeating itself today.

Lady Barbrey was speaking. "We must send a raven and request Lady Sansa back where she belongs-"

"Osric Stark." Bran said, breaking through the conversation.

"What?"

Lord Rodrick Forrester spoke up from his seat. "The 927th Lord Commander of the Night's…"

"Yes yes," grumbled Barbrey. "I know of Osric Stark the Cold Wolf. The ten year old Lord Commander that led for six decades. What of him?"

Bran continued. "He was a Prince of Winter sent to the Wall simply to lead for other men, just like Rickon has been. Elected a Lord Commander when he didn't want to be."

Barbrey frowned. "The situation is far more precarious than then. There aren't Wilding thieves and raiders attacking the Wall today as they did a thousand years ago."

Bran met her gaze. "Does that make it any less frightening for my brother, after having been on the run for most of his life? Osric took command anyway because it was his right as the elected Lord Commander, and his men obeyed because they were sworn to. He did what none believed he could and led them through blood and ice. Despite the objections along the way, they followed his path he set out for them because it was his word. Can anyone say they have displayed the same trust and loyalty for Rickon?"

There was silence among the others… only broken by Brienne, her head hung in a tired shame. "We've been expecting him to take in years of knowledge in only a few months. That's not a reasonable thing to ask of anyone. Especially an orphaned child who lost as much as he has."

"Then what do we do?" Rodrick Forrester asked.

"We try having some faith in him," Bran said. "Tormund was right. Did anyone bother to ask Rickon why he thinks a festival is a good idea right now of all times?"

"What possible reason can there be?" Barbrey asked. "We all rejoice that King Aegon has been crowned and ended the war with the Lannisters, but with winter upon us and the dead behind it, we can't spare the time or the food."

"Maybe we can. But only Rickon knows why. It's time we did what he asked for and simply listened for once. I want messages sent throughout the North. Our Lord is missing, keep watch for him. And someone take me to the weirwood. I'm going to help find my brother."

"Lord Stark," Lord Rodrick objected, "you'll freeze to death in that storm-"

"Then get me an extra cloak! If I lose my brother because of my negligence then I damn well deserve to freeze." Not being one to waste any time right now, he immediately warged into his flock of ravens.

All were nestled in the confines of the Broken Tower, protected from the oncoming storm. There was still time before they could not traverse through it.

The flock fluttered out and took to the sky. The oncoming winds pushed them forward fast and swift in the direction where the hunters were headed. Flying low to the ground and following the trail, the ravens glided over the hills and into the forest around Winterfell, searching for Rickon with every sense that man could only wish he had better.

Theon

"Oy! Get up!"

Theon shuffled from where he slept as the kicks and verbal warnings woke him up. First thing he tried to register was where he was exactly. Last thing he remembered… was… something and nothing? His head was aching like mad, so much that he couldn't focus on his memory.

The sudden smell of wine and rum overtook his senses. He squinted as torchlight blinded him the moment he looked around. He caught a glimpse of a barrel, and a wineskin slipped off his chest to his side. "Where am I?" He groaned.

"The wine cellar, you daft fool. I'll have your fuckin guts if I catch you down here again, Greyjoy. Now shove off before I stick you in that cunt you got."

The insult awoke Theon a little more from his hangover. It was enough that he was able to collect himself just enough to think. That's right, he got drunk yesterday afternoon after… he couldn't remember that far yet. All he could remember was being angry and sad. 

"Try to stick me with anything, and you'll find yourself watching sharks dine on your balls." Theon threatened back before taking another drink of whatever was in the skin. It was rum.

"Ha! At least I still got mine," the wine keeper grabbed at his groin and shook it at Theon proudly.

The conversation, as polite as it was, did not proceed any further than that. Theon left the company of the wine barrels and wandered aimlessly to wherever his feet felt like going. It was night time.

There was a corner in the corridor covered in shadows looking quite comfortable. Theon slumped down into it, catching his breath and trying to remember what had happened. He had just met with Varys about the reports regarding Yara's search for Euron. He wasn't at the Iron Islands, or anywhere close to Westeros. Last anyone saw of the Iron fleet was by a trading cog of House Velaryon at Bravos heading further North three months ago. Where in Seven Hells was he now?

Then after the meeting… he went off to practice his sword in the yard with the other Ironborn… then Bronn showed up to spar and wouldn't shut up about him being without a cock.

It was coming back now. The insults he could take, but finding a whore in his room courtesy of that damn prick pushed him over the edge. He ran out when he started to feel the wrong things.

Seeing the girl naked on his bed, it was like Ramsay was next to his ear, holding his shoulders playfully with that terrible smile of his.

"This isn't happening to you for a reason. Well, one reason. I enjoy it."

He ran out of his room as fast as he could, trying to run as far as he could from the memories of pain and Ramsay. His arrival in the Wine Cellars was the best destination he could ask for to drown it all out.

"If you think this has a happy ending, then you haven't been paying attention."

Theon had to get back to his room. Hopefully the whore was gone, or else he'd find a good spot in Aegon's Garden to sleep on.

He avoided other people as much as he could, and where there weren't people, there was torchlight that burned through his eyes into his brain. The effects of the rum remained, including those that impaired his logic, such as knowing where he was going. By the Drowned God, just how drunk was he to be struck with such pain? He followed the darker corridors until hardly a glimmer of daylight reached him. In fact before he knew it, the only light around was that of candles. He'd gone deeper into the castle, into parts he'd never been in. They weren't sealed off or isolated, he just never bothered with them before, and neither had he bothered with the heavy wooden door in front of him.

With as strong a push as he could muster, Theon opened the door and nearly fell inside.

It wasn't his bedroom, it was an old store room, and yet signs indicated that this place had been visited often and recently. Crates and chests were wiped clean of dust in some areas while others were still covered in a layer of it.

"What are you doing here?" A feminine voice asked.

Theon turned around and was approached by Lady Melisandre. His head cleared up a little more now that he was in the direct presence of someone else. "Just wandering drunk."

"Bored of the rising events already?" She asked.

"Upset." He looked around the room for more clues as to what people had been doing in here. "Anything of use down here?"

"It was mostly discarded items belonging to House Targaryen. Banners, armor of their foot soldiers, a few books and clothes in their style. We're still going through it all. But there have been a few treasures found here and there. What is it you hope to find if you take a look?"

"I don't know. Something to help me find an answer to my problems." He took a drink of his rum. "I don't suppose you could tell me a prophecy or something like you did for Daenerys?"

The Red Lady smiled. "Prophecies are dangerous things. Everyone has a role to play, even you."

What a universal answer that was, one that made Theon shake his head. "My role's already been played. I'm the oathbreaker."

"Once before, but in your eyes I see a fate determined by a choice you will have to make. To run or to stand."

If those were his options, he knew what would happen. "That's rather vague, don't you think?"

"As much as a man torn between two families, expecting something else to determine his decisions for him." Melisandre turned and left Theon to his own devices.

What was he supposed to make of that "wisdom" he was given? He didn't know what to do and just wanted a push in the right direction. Was that so much to ask for?

He looked back into the room. Old Targaryen relics… perhaps he could find something that no one cared for, like the cloak of the Rogue Prince himself, or the morningstar of Maekar. His rum was almost gone anyway, so he needed something to give him a release, and vanity was the closest available option.

He started with the chests, not feeling any strength to attempt prying open the crates. Going for the ones untouched, he gathered a select few in a space empty enough to empty each of them if he wanted to. With four relatively large chests in front of him, Theon started with the smallest. The lock was old but still strong. The hinges on the other hand were worn and loose. With a properly leveraged pull, the lid came off with ease. Inside was not a very rewarding find, however. Just a collection of books. He never was a prospective reader. And by the looks of it, these weren't educational books or historical. They were all fairy tales and romances. This had to have belonged to a lady of the Targaryens in her youth.

Theon moved onto the second chest. This one had no lock. Inside this one was much different. The first thing he saw was a finely made cloak fit for a King. The mantle was made of a scale type of hide, and the cloak itself was woven linens and wool of the finest qualities. With a swoop, Theon pulled it over his shoulders. It was warm and smelled old like this room, but there were hints of smelling oils. If only his father could see him in it. He'd grow red with anger and probably toss it into the sea for being something too rich and pretty.

Underneath the cloak was something less valuable by far. What fool would put away a broken sword blade instead of reforging it?

Carelessly, Theon went to pick the broken blade from the chest and toss it aside, but he cut his thumb and index finger both when he touched the edges. He hissed and sucked at the wounds. Damn thing was still sharp.

The pain in his fingers annoyed Theon enough that he nearly kicked the chest, but he noticed that a few drops of his blood fell on the blade and filled in engravings on it. With his other hand, he carefully picked up the blade and held it close to his light. He wiped away his blood and saw that there was not only quite a bit of engravings on the blade, but faint ripples like those of Valyrian Steel.

A breath of excitement escaped him. Now this was a find. If he could get this reworked, he'd have a fine dagger or maybe even an axe at his side his father would have been jealous of. House Greyjoy lost their Valyrian Steel weapon three hundred years ago during the conquest of Aegon Targaryen.

His eyes went to the engravings again. They weren't in the common tongue, there were runes. Had he not grown up in Winterfell, he wouldn't have recognized them as runes in the Old Tongue. Maester Luwin had put many old books in front of him, Robb, and Jon when they were doing their lessons. Before the Andals came, the First Men used runes, but they had just as well become a dead language. Only House Royce kept the runes of the First Men alive.

Whatever the runes said was a mystery to him.