"My lady," one of the men said, striding toward Sansa. "We've just retrieved ravens from Riverrun. One of them was to you. From a Winafrid Snow?"

Sansa snatched the letter from him, unrolling it eagerly. She couldn't even wait to get back to her tent, simply stood in the middle of the muddy walkway as everyone else parted around her.

Sansa,

The fisherman will let you fish off his island for a 'fair wage.' He doesn't like your friend but agreed to meet him if your introduction goes as planned.

I'll be a little longer getting your necklace back to you than I said. I'm off to see my father. If there's anything I should know, write to me by name at his home.

Winafrid

Sansa stared at the letter, willing it to burst into flame, to not exist, for the words to form into any different shape. Slowly, she felt her Cersei-mask sliding into place as she looked up from the letter with dead, vicious eyes. "Thank you," she replied to the man, still standing there watching her. "Was there anything else?"

"No, my lady," he stuttered. "Your brother– His Grace wanted to talk to you after supper–"

"I'll be there," Sansa replied, striding off into her tent.

She stood in the middle of its emptiness, wishing she could scream. Wishing she were surrounded by stone walls and not cloth that every man in the camp could hear through.

Theon had gone back to Pyke. After everything, every change, every trust she had in him, it hadn't affected anything that mattered. He was back with the Greyjoys, enacting some new terrible scheme for her to defend against.

Still standing in the middle of her tent, Sansa clenched and unclenched her fists. A slow, deadly calm stole over her, freezing her anger into something more useful.

She was Sansa Stark, once Queen in the North, and her body would have to be cold and rotting before she let the loss of any one man stop her. No matter how much she'd grown to depend on him.

She strode to her writing desk, ignoring the vicious way she slammed parchment on the table and nearly tore the map of Westeros as she unfurled it.

Theon could wait. The rest of the world could not.

With the Tyrell alliance brewing, Sansa had to be more certain of her next moves than she had ever been. The Starks were still more vulnerable than she liked. Her mother with the Tyrells, Arya off any path she'd walked before, Bran and Rickon alone in Winterfell, and Jon up at the Wall, with no assurances whatsoever. Perhaps he'd die without a Red Priest around to resurrect him. Perhaps he'd join the Wildlings for good. Perhaps he'd keep his oaths and live out the rest of his days as a Man of the Watch.

Don't fight in the North or the South. Fight every battle everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy; everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before.

Sansa had seen most things before even without resorting to her imagination. Baelish's words were more useful now than they had ever been. She stared at the map of the kingdoms, going through her list of possibilities.

Dorne – two factions, either side could help them, but not significantly. They could be the grain of sand that tipped the scale in either direction.

The Stormlands – firmly in Stannis's grasp as the rightful heir. Stannis liked Starks as well as he liked anything but he hated rebels. After he gained the throne, he'd be coming for Robb's head. If Stannis died, Gendry would be next in line. But the kingdoms needed to be united to face Daenerys and the dead. Gendry couldn't do that. The Lannisters couldn't do it. Perhaps Stannis could.

The Reach – with Margaery still talking to Robb, there wasn't much else that needed to be said.

The Riverlands – her grandfather, Hoster Tully, would die any day, leaving Edmure in charge. A disastrous fate for the Riverlands but at least Edmure was loyal to Robb. If Edmure died, the Blackfish– No. Sansa refused to consider it, refused to be Baelish. Stupid as he was, Edmure was still her uncle. He'd have Stark support. And, if she could manage it, he'd have her protection against his own stupidity.

The Westerlands – 20,000 Lannister men were with Tywin at Harrenhal and the rest, under 10,000, split between the Mountain and Casterly Rock. Robb would keep the Mountain's half on the run. If he could hit the Mountain's troops before he ran to the castle, Robb could even continue on to take Casterly Rock. If, somehow, they could also keep Tywin from reinforcing King's Landing, Stannis would easily take it – with enough men to keep it, perhaps even from dragons.

Sansa took a deep breath, collecting her nerves. If Margaery made Robb push on to King's Landing to attempt to win the Iron Throne, Sansa's message to Davos and preventing Tywin's reinforcements would ensure that Stannis had enough men left that Robb would fail. Should she let Tywin reinforce so that the Lannisters and Baratheons could slaughter each other? Of course they needed every man against the dead and Daenerys, but a Stark on the Iron Throne could rally more troops for the fight in the North. Sansa had to consider… should Robb take the throne? Had she already failed her brother?

The Starks would be lucky to have 10,000 men left after taking Casterly Rock, even if the tricks she had hidden away worked perfectly. The Tyrells had 40,000 and could muster more if they truly needed it. But they were poorly equipped for a siege; still more poorly equipped for an assault by boat. Even assuming Stannis was the only man of his troops to survive the Battle of the Blackwater, he'd be doing nothing but recruiting more men the moment his rear touched the Iron Throne.

Even with the Tyrells reinforcing the Starks, Robb stood no chance. Stannis wouldn't need to match their numbers; he'd weather a siege better than any commander alive. He had done it before. With even a few thousand properly placed men, Stannis could hold the Starks and Tyrells off until dissent tore them apart and sent them home.

Sansa let out her breath. Her calculation to help Stannis had been correct. Stannis would be king; Robb needed to march home.

Only three kingdoms were left – the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North.

Sansa was aware of Baelish's plotting in the Vale. She could try to press his hand but with Catelyn still alive, he was unlikely to do anything as brazen as marrying Lysa. Which meant that Lysa would remain inert, her army locked away. Perhaps Sansa could expose her aunt for Jon Arryn's murder but without a proper handle on Robin Arryn, at best it would make the Vale unpredictable. If Robin knew Sansa had been the one to expose his mother, he'd side against the North. Even if Sansa managed to hide her own hand, the chances that Robin would side against them were still too high. No, the Vale needed a handler installed before it could be brought into play.

The Iron Islands–

Sansa's gut twisted painfully. Theon was there. He'd all but abandoned her and Robb, ignored her warnings of betrayal and desolation, and marched home. And the Iron Islands were currently attacking the North.

This was the crux of it. With the ironborn ravaging the North, Robb's support from the Northmen wouldn't last – maybe not even till Casterly Rock.

Theon had asked her to write to him, hadn't he? Wasn't a Theon who asked for advice already different from the Theon who had gone to Pyke in her last life? Desperately, she wished it.

Everyone is your enemy; everyone is your friend.

If Theon were her enemy, the letter she'd sent warning Bran not to let more than half his men leave the castle and not to yield it to anyone – not even Theon – should prevent Theon's previous plan from succeeding. If he came up with some new terribleness, she'd have to deal with it as it developed. But as The Great Game went, Theon had never been a proper player. Sansa was worried about Margaery and Baelish and Robb's own errors, not Theon Greyjoy with one sword and one ship to his name.

If Theon were her friend…

Sansa stared down at the map, toying with possibilities.

. . .

Theon stood on the deck of the ship, gripping the handrail till his knuckles turned white. Slowly, resolving from fog into the stones of his childhood, his daydreams, loomed Pyke. Somehow, it seemed smaller and more imposing than he expected. A grim air hung about the island, like a wake for one not yet dead.

"I could be your salt wife, you know," the captain's daughter said, sidling up to Theon against the rail. "Our ship has never carried the Heir to the whole Iron Islands, before."

"For the last time, no," Theon said, barely flicking his eyes from the distant castle.

The girl had a stupid look to her face. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have cared, would have taken her in the time it took to breathe, but he'd grown quite fond of clever girls. He'd grown quite fond of a specific clever girl, if he were feeling honest, which he rarely was. One with hair as red as flame and blue eyes that caught the light and–

The captain's daughter took his arm. Theon shook her off. "Go and tell your father to send my things ashore," he said. "We've almost docked."

With a disappointed scowl back at him, she stalked across the deck, swinging her hips as she went. She was pretty enough, really, especially if she didn't smile her stupid smile. But he'd turned her down. Repeatedly.

"By the Drowned God," Theon muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I must be mad."

But his other hand traced the necklace sitting inside his pocket. He knew it wasn't madness that had stolen his wits.

. . .

The single horse the dockman had been able to procure was a pitiful thing, with scars for a plow harness dug into its side. Still, Theon rode it up the hill to the gates of Pyke, wondering if the returning sons in all the legends had ever felt as nervous or ill-prepared to greet their own family.

At the gate, a soldier with armor that barely fit stepped forward, spitting upon the ground. "State your business," he said, looking up at Theon with a wary squint.

Theon sat straighter in his saddle. "I'm Theon Greyjoy, Heir of the Iron Islands, come home to–"

The soldier gestured to the man working the other side of the gate. "Open it."

Theon frowned at them as the gate slowly creaked open. A common soldier had cut him off. Him, Theon Greyjoy, here at Pyke! Maybe the man hadn't believed his claim. He'd show him. He'd be back, with his father at his side and point at the man that hadn't believed him–

And what? Stake him out on the beach as the tide came in? For interrupting? Would Robb, noble Robb ever have considered that? A flare of anger cropped up and Theon only barely shoved it aside. Theon wasn't Robb. He wasn't a Stark. He shouldn't have to be.

And Sansa? a little voice asked. Would her opinion not matter, either? He shoved that voice aside, as well.

Finally, the gate stood open. Theon's horse skittered backward but he guided it calmly with his knees. I bet I'm the only decent horseman on the entire island, he realized, annoyed that no one here would even know it.

"My family," Theon asked as his horse walked through the gate. "Are they home?"

The soldier squinted up at him. "Yer father is. Sister ain't."

So. Maybe he had believed Theon's claim, after all. Theon didn't know how to make heads or tails of that.

. . .

"Father."

"Nine years, is it?" At the far end of the darkened hall, Theon could barely make out Balon Greyjoy, sitting in his chair before the fire. "They took a frightened boy. What have they given back?"

Theon stepped closer, trying to appear confident. "A man. Your blood and your heir."

"We shall see. Stark had you longer than I did."

Theon swallowed. "Lord Stark is gone."

Balon turned to stare at his son. "And how do you feel about that?"

Theon said nothing. His hand clenched around the Lannister locket. How did he feel?

"Wolf got your tongue, boy?" Balon said.

"What's done is done," Theon replied.

Balon's smile held no pity. "Is it? Stark lost his head moons ago–" Theon couldn't hide his flinch. "–and the whelp gave you freedom to go whoring off across the kingdoms yet you went anywhere but here. What am I to make of that?"

"I'm here now," Theon replied, knowing it for the most inadequate answer he could have given. He didn't even need to hear his father's scoff to know it had been coming.

"To what purpose?" Balon asked, his pale eyes unflinching.

Theon swallowed. "You're attacking the North, you've taken Deepwood Motte–"

Balon raised an eyebrow. "And you're here to help? To use your knowledge of the North against your other family?"

Theon fought not to swallow again. Sansa had warned him about Pyke, about his family… and he could feel himself a hairsbreadth from doing it all again.

He took his time forming the words, making sure he got them right. "There are other ways. Better ways. Robb Stark offered us an alliance–"

Balon laughed. "So that's why you came. The Stark boy's trained raven: his offer tied to your leg. Out with it, then!"

"They would be our allies!" Theon burst forth. "They would give us Casterly Rock, they would fight at our side and you're throwing it all away!"

"Careful, boy," Balon replied. "I throw away nothing. We are ironborn. We take what is ours. You'd do well to remember that."

"Then take it!" Theon said, hating the frantic tinge to his voice. "Take Casterly Rock! Robb would attack by land as we attack by sea! It's a good plan! It's my plan!"

"Is it?" Balon said, his eyes dancing in mockery. "One day back home and already you expect to direct my fleet?"

Theon hated the way a single look from his father made him falter. "I'm your son. Who else would lead the attack?"

"Your sister, Yara, earned command of 30 ships and brought me Deepwood Motte. You earned nothing and bring me an offer and a fool's promise."

Theon's hand tightened in his pocket, feeling the edges of the necklace dig into his palm. "Yara won't hold it," he said, feeling his anger rise. "The North will rise up and take it back. They'll never stop until they have."

"Good," Balon replied. "Then we'll stomp on their necks until we break them."

"They won't break, not ever when it comes to defending their homes. I know the North, Father, I lived with them! It's not too late to make peace, to–"

"What are our words?" Balon rose to his full height, staring down at his son. "Our words, boy."

"We do not sow," Theon replied.

"We do not sow. We are Ironborn. We are not subjects, we are not slaves, we do not plow the fields or toil in the mine. We take what is ours. Your time with the wolves has made you weak."

He started to turn away, to leave, and something within Theon broke. "You act as if I volunteered to go. You gave me away, if you remember! The day you bent the knee to Robert Baratheon, after he crushed you. Did he take what was yours, then?"

Balon's full-handed slap sent Theon reeling. He fell into the table. A pitcher clattered to the floor, a broken plate bit into his hand.

His father continued out the hall and Theon couldn't stop. "You gave me away! Your boy, your last boy! You gave me away like I was some dog you didn't want anymore! And now you curse me because I've come home!"

Balon turned. "You are a dog, a cowardly mutt dreaming it could be a wolf. There is no kraken in you. Get vengeance for your fallen brothers, become the wrath of the sea. Rise up or go back to your kennel and heel for your masters."

His father left. The door slammed shut behind him.

. . .

The stone walls of Theon's old bedroom threatened to close in all around him. He stared out the window, letting the steady rhythm of the waves crashing against the castle below wash over him. This used to be where he entertained dreams of being a fearsome reaver out of legend, setting fire to the entire coast, reveling as the greenlanders cowered.

The room is too small, he insisted on thinking, refusing to acknowledge that he was the one who had gotten bigger.

His father and sister were doing exactly what Theon had always dreamed of and he had never felt less proud.

Theon dropped his head into his hands, refusing the calming sight of the waves. His family had taken Lord Glover's home. They'd taken Moat Cailin, intending to cut off any reinforcements from Robb. It wouldn't work. Every last man, woman, and boy left in the North would rise up against the ironborn – with sticks, if they had to. The North was not the Riverlands, to be cowed by whichever lord won their petty conquests. They were the blood of the First Men. They bowed to no one but Starks and dragonfire – and the latter they had regretted for centuries.

Theon thought of his father, sounding so proud of his petty accomplishments. Don't take a castle you can't keep, Sansa had once told Theon. But wasn't that exactly what his father was doing, only instead of with Winterfell, with the entire North?

He didn't need Sansa's knowledge to tell him the Northerners wouldn't stand for it, no matter how many lives it took. No one stood against the North on their own territory.

Besides, if the ironborn had successfully conquered the North the last time around, Theon was pretty sure Sansa would have mentioned it.

Sansa.

Cursing himself, Theon flung open his door, practically running down the halls of Pyke. It had been a long time since he last visited the maester but he remembered the way. The old man's grim face cracked briefly with surprise at his guest, before settling back into its perpetual distaste.

"Are there any letters for me?" Theon asked, without a greeting.

Grumbling under his breath, the maester stood, all-too-slowly hobbling over to the stack of parchments on the edge of his desk and rifling through them. "This arrived before you did," he said. "From a Winafrid Snow. A dedicated Northern paramour, to send ravens delivering her poetry."

It was meant as an insult, of course, as everything was on Pyke. Theon had never cared less. He snatched the parchment away before the maester could finish offering it.

Dearest, loveliest Theon,

I waste away with loneliness, missing you. I stare out to the sea and think of you, and the fisherman to whom you spoke. I think of all the amusing tales I used to tell you and have so many more that I wish to say.

My friend to whom you introduced the fisherman once told me a story you might find amusing. In his father's house, my friend was looked down upon. So, the only responsibility he was allowed was tending to the privies. Now, if it were a large house, the privy would have had miles upon miles of tunnels and passageways. Instead, living in the hovel my friend did, he could only dig the privy hole wider. So wide, in fact, that a man could have crawled through. Forgive my crassness, but if the shit had been water, one could have sailed an entire boat right up to it and climbed inside!

What a laugh, spending that much effort on a privy. I hope you're laughing, where you are.

It must be wonderful, finally being away from those horrid, awful Starks. I never liked that red-haired girl. Far too fond of her own opinions. Beware of the opinions of those around you. Keep your own counsel and choose those who share it wisely. The opinions of the vicious and small minded are hard to ignore if you give them leave to speak. Do not fear anyone's judgment but the gods', your own, and those whom you deem clever. Or, if I may be fully impudent, those you deem a lunatic.

Your lunatic,

Winafrid

"A strange girl," the maester snorted. "Calling herself 'lunatic' as an endearment. Does it work on you, I wonder?"

Anger clenched Theon's hands into fists. "You read my letter?"

"Of course!" the maester laughed. "A letter from a bastard girl to the Greyjoy son who hadn't been home in a decade? Lord Balon himself read your little letter!"

Theon's entire vision drifted into red. "What did he say?" He didn't know if he was more worried about the code being cracked or his affections being found out or simply embarrassed at yet another way he was being treated as less than his father's heir.

The maester patted Theon's cheek. Theon flinched away. "He said it was time one of his children took a salt wife."

Bile rose in Theon's throat. A salt wife? Sansa? He couldn't think of a less fitting thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Theon could only stalk off, slamming the door to his room behind him as he read through the letter in private again and again. He blotted out his rage at his uselessness, soaking up her words.

If his letter to Sansa had established Davos as the fisherman, it would make her mutual friend Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. One who was certainly looked down on, in case he hadn't been sure. Which made Tyrion's father's house far from the hovel described, but instead… Casterly Rock. If Theon was interpreting her letter correctly, there was a secret way inside it – through the miles and miles of tunnels and passageways that comprised the sewer. A disgusting method, to be sure, but if a boat could be sailed right up to it…!

The Greyjoys could take Casterly Rock. They could take it easily.

The rest of the letter made less sense to him but he studied it no less thoroughly. He could guess that her wish that he was laughing could be an inquiry after his wellbeing, but he couldn't be sure. Theon had not laughed a single time since he'd come to Pyke. If it were truly her wish, she'd be sorely disappointed. He was sorely disappointed.

Her advice on opinions and judgement he couldn't tie to any specific event. Perhaps she had meant them more generally anyway, as their actions had already shifted the ground on which he tread. Of course he would keep his own counsel. Who here even wanted to share it, anyway?

But there was one part, not even intentionally meant by Sansa that kept snagging his mind, drawing it back until he felt the letters themselves had worn grooves in his eyes. Those horrid, awful Starks. Theon traced the ink with his thumb. He missed the Starks. He missedhis captors; missed them terribly. Robb, with his affable grin, even Catelyn, with her ever-disapproving looks in his direction. Occasionally, he'd catch amusement hiding behind her disapproval, even at his worst antics. He remembered her embrace when he'd brought Sansa back, how she'd claimed him as a better brother to Sansa than her darling Robb.

And of course, Sansa. The most beautiful girl he'd ever known, the cleverest, the kindest – and she'd included him in her own counsel. Not even Robb knew her secret. Not her mother. Around them, she still spoke in riddles and lies about spymasters. To Theon, she had told the absolute, lunatic truth.

Shame flooded through him that he'd been considering joining his father against the North. The cut on his hand still stung. He missed his father's love. He missed his affection, his approval–

Theon swallowed. He was still lying to himself. He remembered the truth now, in the hazy memories of a child, but the emotions no less fierce. He remembered Balon's rages, his impossible expectations and endless criticisms. He remembered how fiercely he'd longed for his father to notice him, to love him… and he couldn't remember ever receiving it.

No, when he thought of missing a father's love, it was not Balon he pictured. He remembered sitting before a roaring fire, listening to Ned's voice as he calmly talked Theon through the proper care of his armor. He remembered Ned's laugh when Theon had thrown Robb into the dirt in the sparring ring. "Good, Theon!" Ned had called out, grinning. "Keep it up and he may get some sense knocked into him, yet!"

He remembered soon after he'd first arrived, huddling into the wall of the cold stone castle, his shoulders jerking sharply each time he sniffled.

"There you are," Ned said softly, crouching down beside the boy. "Half the castle's been out looking for you. Did one of the boys hurt you? Did they say something?"

Theon shook his head, burying it deeper under his crossed arms.

"What is it, then?"

Theon didn't reply, simply sat in his huddle trying to rein in his sobs. Ned never moved, never made an impatient sound. He just waited next to the pathetic boy as if he had all the time in the world and not an entire kingdom waiting at his beck and call.

"I…" Theon finally managed. "I miss them. My family. My mother. Will I ever–" He choked back another sob. "Will I ever get to see them again?"

"Of course you will, lad," Ned said, drawing Theon into his chest. With his face pressed against Ned's leather tunic, Theon only sobbed harder. "There's no shame in missing your family. It would be a shame if you didn't. It'd mean you didn't love them. Go on, let it out."

True to his word, Ned waited with Theon as he cried. Catelyn would have rubbed circles on his back, would have made cooing, motherly noises, but Ned simply sat, a calm, unshakeable, constant presence. Castles could fall and oceans rise and Theon knew with a certainty deep in his bones that if he were still crying, Ned would still be sitting next to him.

When Theon's tears finally slowed, Ned stood, offering a hand down to the boy. "When you see your family again, you can tell them all about the North. I heard Ser Rodrik took you and the boys out tracking in the snow, last week. He says you're doing quite well."

Theon wrapped his fingers around Ned's larger ones, following him down the hallway of Winterfell. A warmth surged inside the boy that not even the strongest Northern cold could touch.

Almost a decade later, Theon sat in his room at Pyke missing the exact opposite family. His fingers traced their usual circuit over the lion in Sansa's necklace. With a sudden burst of courage, Theon opened it.

Ned sat inside. He smiled up at Theon, that rare smile bordering on a laugh that he reserved only for his family at his fondest. It wasn't a perfect likeness, but it didn't matter. It was Ned.

"I'm sorry," Theon whispered to it, feeling the traitor tears roll down his cheeks. He scrubbed them away before they could fall on the painting. "I'm sorry I didn't do more. I'm sorry I couldn't protect your lands from my own kin."

If someone had asked him yesterday, Theon would have said he had one sister and two dead brothers. If someone asked him today, his count would be considerably higher.

"But I'm a Greyjoy," Theon whispered hopelessly down at Ned. "I can't just abandon my own blood."

. . .

Theon's letter was not the only correspondence that left the Stark camp penned in that same girlish hand.

The raven bearing the second letter had a much longer journey, through forests and stormy skies and at last, across sands so vast they stretched like oceans.

A maester gently untied the scroll from the raven's leg. Though he noted the blank seal with surprise, topped only by his surprise at the raven's place of origin, his even steps carried the message up the long, winding stair of the Tower of the Sun. In a sitting room brightly lit by the fading light, with a breeze wafting the gauzy curtains away from patterned windows, sat the named recipient of that most curious letter.

"My prince," the maester said, bowing as he extended the scrap of paper. "A letter from Riverrun."

"Riverrun?" Oberyn Martell said with a grimace, his curious fingers slitting the seal and unrolling it. "We've no interests that far north."

The maester made a hum of agreement. By all accounts, he should have delivered the letter and left, but he stayed, hoping Oberyn wouldn't notice the breach in etiquette. An unexpected, unsigned raven from that distance brought more curiosity than any maester worth his chain could bear.

Oberyn's eyes flicked through the message. He paused. Then, slowly, he read it again. Oberyn laughed. A lazy grin followed his laugh, spreading across his face as he handed back the paper. "What do you make of this?"

Prince Oberyn Martell,

The Wolves march for justice, but they are not the only ones who seek it. A Mountain stands in our way, a Mountain who is not ours to kill. The Lions are ours. Though, as they rule the Mountains, a Wolf could be inclined to share a kill among friends.

It was an easy code to break, so much so that calling it one at all seemed an insult to codes. Worse yet, it was unsigned. Not the Young Wolf, not his mother, not even his bannermen lay claim to this strange message. The maester looked up from the letter. "What are you going to do, my prince?"

Oberyn was still grinning. "It seems Dorne has friends in the North – and a Mountain to level."