Jon

He didn't feel different. Shouldn't he feel different, now that he was King? He didn't know. He still just felt like himself. But he was different. Or rather, people looked at him differently. He wasn't just Jon Snow, or Lord Snow as Ser Alliser had taken to calling him, anymore. He was Jon Stark, Third of his Name, the King in the North and of the Trident. How was a King supposed to feel? He didn't know. His father had never prepared him for this. Jon had been educated as a Lord, true. And he was reasonably sure he could rule a holdfast or serve as castellan of a castle. But rule the entire North? How was he supposed to do something that he was never trained for? Or, for that matter, ever expected to do?

Even his quarter's at Castle Black had changed. Instead of the barracks, he was quartered at the top of the King's Tower. The first King ever to actually use it, despite it's name. As he slouched in the large, comfortable chair in front of the fire he faintly heard the snap and crack of the banner of House Stark stirring in the wind through the timbers of the roof above him. For so long he had been denied the use of House Stark's banner because of his status as a bastard. Now that banner was his. And he would have to do everything in his power to see it fly over all the North again. As he sat brooding before the roaring fire in his hearth, he thought of what he read in Robb's letter and the one from Lord Manderly. Robb's was straight, clear and to the point. Lord Manderly's however painted a much more blurred, and more dire, picture for him.

Well, first things first. In the morning he'd explain to Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon exactly what they were facing from the North. And that was not going to be a pleasant conversation. The Umbers and Mormonts had been fighting wildlings for thousands of years and had built a fierce hatred between them. And considering what he wanted them to accept, well, the best he could hope for was a lot of shouting and cursing. But it was something that had to be done.

Maester Aemon had given him some strong advice as well earlier in the evening when he had sought him out. The ancient Maester had told him, "Kill the boy, Jon Snow. And let the man, Jon Stark, be born." It was good advice. And he intended to listen to it. Jon would kill the boy inside him and let himself become the King that the North needed. With that decision made, he finally heaved himself up from the chair he had been lounging in and made his way to bed.

When the sun rose the next morning, Jon Stark was already awake to greet it. He'd been up for hours already. Most of that time had been spent in the Great Hall with Sam and Gilly. Sam had kitchen duty in addition to his duties with Maester Aemon and Gilly, well, she tended to go wherever Sam went and pitch in wherever she could. It felt good to just talk with the two of them. And Sam had been a good sounding board for his ideas. What he lacked in physical courage, Sam more than made up for with his mind. Jon could use a man like Sam by his side and had toyed with the idea of releasing Sam from his vows so he could stay with him. Sam had put a stop to that train of thought though. Jon's circumstances were unique. It would set a bad precedent for the King in the North to start releasing people from their vows just because he felt like it. And besides, the Watch needed every man they could get. So in the end, Jon had left the idea alone.

As Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon made their way into the Great Hall to eat, Jon steeled himself for what lay ahead. Nodding to the chairs across from him, he watched as the Northmen, and woman, made their way to their seats. Here we go, he thought.

Jon began, "Smalljon, Dacey, Ser Marlon. I promised you all that I'd explain why it was so important that we burn the bodies last night. I'll warn you now, this is going to sound completely mad and you're all likely to start wondering if you just made a mistake making me King."

"Your Grace," Smalljon asked? He had a confused tone in his voice and his face was clearly showing his confusion.

Holding his hand up in a placating gesture, Jon continued, "Two years ago, just before Robb called the banners and the day I said my vows to the Watch, we found two bodies just inside the trees to the north of the gate here at Castle Black. They were both sworn brothers and Rangers, Othor and Jafer were their names. They had gone with my uncle beyond the Wall on a Ranging. We brought them back through the Wall and had them laid out in the courtyard for Maester Aemon to examine in the morning. He never got the chance to. Their bodies came back to life that night and attacked the Lord Commander."

"Their bodies did what!?" Dacey asked in an astonished voice.

"They came back to life. Only they weren't really alive. Both men had brown eyes when they left on their ranging. They had blue when they came back. Blue eyes that glowed. When they attacked Lord Commander Mormont, I tried to stop them. I cut Othor's arm off with my sword, but it didn't even slow him down. And his arm kept moving and grasping at me. Even though it was laying on the ground."

"Your Grace," Ser Marlon said slowly. "You'll have to forgive me, but this tale..."

"I did warn you that you'd say it's mad. We eventually killed Othor and Jafer by burning them. But not before they'd managed to kill several Men of the Watch. That's why it was so important that we burn the bodies."

"But why did they come back to life," asked Dacey?

"The Others. It's been eight thousand years, but the Others have returned."

Turning in his seat, Jon called out, "Sam! Come here! You too Edd! I need the both of you to tell what you saw on the Great Ranging."

The looks on the faces of Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon when Sam and Edd finished their tale ranged from incredulous to doubtful to shocked. After a few minutes, Smalljon ran his hand through his beard and looked shrewdly at Jon.

"That's all well and good, but why tell us all that? We're Northmen. We burn our dead anyway. What aren't you telling us?"

Jon gave a small rueful grin and a nod of his head to Smalljon. "What I haven't told you is what we need to do about it. Just North of the wall there's an army of Wildlings led by Mance Rayder. If we leave them there, they'll be slaughtered by the Others and their army of the dead. To be raised again and used against us."

"Hold on," Dacey shouted! "You want to let those Wildling fuckers through the Wall? They've been murdering and raping the North for centuries and now you want to just let them in? Are you out of your Gods damned mind?!"

"No, I'm not. If the Night King and his army reach the Free Folk, they'll all be slaughtered and the Others will raise them back up to join their ranks. Mance Rayder has an army of over one hundred thousand on the other side of the wall. How long do you think we could hold the Wall against a hundred thousand wights?"

The small group at the table, and all the men of the Night's Watch within earshot fell silent when Jon finished talking. After a few minutes, Jon said in a soft, quiet voice, "If the Wall falls, we all fall with it. And the rest of Westeros soon after."

After what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, Ser Marlon Manderly said, "Do we have any other choice?"

"Yeah," Jon replied. "We do nothing, let them all get turned, cower in our castles and eventually join them."

As another long pause ensued, Jon faintly heard some of his former brothers in the Watch saying things like, "Wildlings, south of the Wall? I never thought I'd see the day." "He's got a point. We've all seen what will happen to those poor buggers if we leave them out there." "Just the thought of letting wildlings through the Wall turns my guts, but I don't think we have a choice." And occasionally he heard, "Fuck em. They've fought us for thousands of years. Let the fuckers die."

Finally, Smalljon said, "I'm not sure whether to believe you or not, Your Grace. I don't have reason to doubt you, not when I can look you in the face and see the haunted look in your eyes. But the other houses in the North won't be swayed so easily. You're going to need proof before they'll be happy about letting the Wildlings through the Wall. Hells, I'm not happy about letting fucking Wildlings through the Walls. But if what you're saying is true, I don't think we're gonna have much choice in the matter."

"I'm not asking you to be happy about it. But it is the decision I'm making as King. Once we're done here, we're going to go out through the gate and ride to Mance's camp. We're going to offer him terms to bring his people through the Wall and settle in the Gift. In return, his men will garrison the castles along the Wall and help fight off the Others."

"I don't like it, Your Grace," Dacey Mormont said. "I don't like it even in the smallest bit. Hells, I'm utterly opposed to it. It goes against everything I've ever believed in. But if what you're saying about the Others and their army is true, I'll support you. Because we don't have a choice in the matter."

"Thank you, Dacey." Turning to Ser Marlon, he saw the Northern Knight with an intense scowl on his face as he thought things through. Finally, he nodded his acceptance.

"Aye, Your Grace. I don't see how we have any other choice."

"Thank you. Get your things ready. Mance's host isn't far, but it'll take us time to reach his tent."

When the small group broke up, Jon made his way to Donal Noye. The one armed blacksmith was, for all intents and purposes, in command at Castle Black until the Officers returned.

"You agree with this, Donal?"

"Don't see as I have much choice Jon. You're King in the North, you're doing what you think is right. But for what it's worth, yes, I agree with what you're doing. I hate it, but I agree with it. It needs to be done."

"Thank you, Lord Commander."

"Lord Commander? Lad, I'm just a blacksmith."

"Maybe. But until there's an election, by order of the King in the North, you're hereby appointed Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"Jon, I don't think the King has that power."

"Honestly, I don't know if I do. But I can't afford the Watch to be leaderless right now. You're the best man here. The best man the Watch has to offer. I need you to lead the Watch."

"I'm not real comfortable with this lad, but I'll do it for now."

"You're a good man Donal Noye. And you'll be a worthy successor for Lord Commander Mormont.'

With that, Jon strode away and saddled his horse in preparation to ride beyond the Wall. As he swung up into the saddle, Ghost padded up beside him, his eyes were bright and eager, almost as if he knew they were going back where he belonged. When Jon rode up to the Gate, he saw a number of guardsmen in Stark livery and carrying the Stark banner. Along side them, were men in Manderly, Mormont and Umber colors all bearing their banners. Once his party was fully assembled, the gates creaked open and they rode up beyond the Wall.

Baelish

His solar at the Eryie was practically overflowing with raven scrolls and bits and pieces of parchment and foolscrap brought there covertly by those in his employ. Each and every bit of paper contained information. Most of it was little more than dross, some was powerful enough to bring down a dynasty. And as he had told Cersei Lannister years ago, "Information is power."

The more information he gathered, the more prepared he became for any eventuality. And the scroll in his hand contained information that was extraordinarily valuable. Thankfully, he wasn't totally unprepared for it. But it still upset his plans. Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, had been named King in the North. He had been warned this was a possibility from one of his men in Robb Stark's camp. Now that possibility was a fact.

He had a man in the Night's Watch, a man that he compensated extremely well, that had sent him the scroll. A week ago Lord Umber and Lady Mormont had arrived at Castle Black with a letter from Robb Stark. A letter that legitimized Jon Snow as a Stark and named him King in the North. The day after they arrived, they left again. But not heading south. The entire group had headed North, beyond the Wall. His man mentioned a plan to allow the Wildlings south of the Wall.

It was the other part of the letter that was confusing to Petyr. It was the reason given for allowing the Wildlings south. His man claimed that the Others of ancient legend had returned. That the Night's Watch had seen them beyond the Wall in the Lands of Always Winter. His first thought was that the man had been drunk when he wrote this. His second was that he had gone mad. His third thought was to take the message at face value, whether it was true or not. The Watch, or rather his man, obviously thought it had merit or he wouldn't have included it. His fourth thought was how he could use the information to his advantage.

He was currently Lord of the Fingers, Lord of Harenhall, Lord Regent of the Vale and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. His hold on the Riverlands was tenuous however. The Freys would not be pleased when they learned that he had been named Lord Paramount, and not Lord Walder or Lord Emmon. He would have to tread carefully there and soothe some ruffled Frey feathers. At least until he could arrange an "accident" to usher in a more agreeable Lord of the Twins. What all that meant was that he nominally had control of two of the seven kingdoms. And until this scroll was delivered to him, he had a plan to gain control of the North through Sansa Stark.

Now that plan had been thrown out the Moon Door that young Lord Robert loved so much. With Sansa's brother Jon being named King in the North, the Northmen already had a figure to rally around. He had planned things very carefully. He had given Jeyne Poole to Roose Bolton so he could pass the girl off as Arya Stark and "solidify" his claim to Winterfell. He then would revel the true parentage of the girl to the North, turning all the North against the Boltons because of "their" deception. After that, he would have revealed that Sansa Stark was alive and well, and under his protection. The North would rally around her and be honor bound to support him in exchange for his commitment of the Vale and the Riverlands to restore the North's rightful ruling House.

Obviously that plan wouldn't work now. And the truth about "Arya Stark" would rally the North to Jon instead of to him and Sansa. In short, he needed a new plan. One that allowed him to consolidate his power base. The question now was how best to go about it. Focus on the Vale and Riverlands and let the North wither on the vine? That could cost him the Vale when Sansa learned of it. Throw his support behind the North? That last possibility appealed to him the most. With the North, the Riverlands and the Vale united together, the Stormlands split but largely supporting Stannis and Dorne sitting on the sidelines while "covertly" planning a Targaryen Restoration, the Iron Throne would never be weaker.

But there were issues with that. Chief among them being that the North would not recognize his claim to being Lord Paramount of the Trident. The Starks would almost certainly support the Tullys and would help them retake Riverun. Only slightly less problematic was that supporting Jon Stark as King in the North would do nothing to help him eventually sit on the Iron Throne. Even if the King in the North did support him in his quest, he'd be doing so at the cost of over half of the Seven Kingdoms. The North alone was nearly as large as the other six kingdoms combined, though it was sparsely populated. Add in the Riverlands and the Vale and the Kingdom of the North would easily be the largest power on the continent.

That was not a situation that would be favorable to him. He would need the North to cede the Riverlands and the Vale to him after the war, or he would need to betray the Starks and forcibly remove them. If the Stark boy willingly ceded the most fertile and populous region of his Kingdom and the region with the best heavy cavalry on the planet, he didn't deserve to rule. And if he betrayed the Starks his own reign would be in peril as his word would count for nothing with the other great houses. Whereas his betrayal of the Lannisters would likely be looked on favorably by all but the Westerlands.

Perhaps he should cut his losses with the North and give Sansa to the Lannisters? That would incense the North and parts of the Riverlands as well, but it would solidify his hold on the Riverlands and Robert Arryn was easily pliable enough that he wouldn't risk losing the Vale. Oh, the Royces would object quite forcefully, but they wouldn't go against young Lord Robert if he told them to stand down. And Robert would do whatever he told him to do as long as he thought it was his idea. While that might be the safest option, it was the one he didn't want to implement unless he had to. That would entail a drastic shift in his plans while her brother being named King in the North was a relatively minor bump in the road.

Petyr sat in his chair tapping the raven scroll gently against his chin as he pondered his options. Vaguely, he wondered if he was playing the most complicated Game of Thrones since Aegon united all Seven Kingdoms under his rule. With four different men all claiming to be King of various versions of the Seven Kingdom, there was certainly an added layer of complexity, and danger, to the Game now. As he pondered all his options, he slowly came to the conclusion that, for now, his best position was to take no position. He would continue to solidify his control of the Vale and Riverlands, do his best to undermine the Targaryen's position and make a return far more difficult and publicly support the Iron Throne. He also needed to find a way to finally break Stannis. He had thought the defeat at the Blackwater, and loss of a large portion of the Stormlands support would have broken the man. But he was still sitting defiantly on Dragonstone. Granted, he didn't have much of an army, but that could change quickly should any of the Southern Houses decide that Tommen was too weak to rule. Or should Stannis decide to hire sell swords.

Regardless of what the other players ended up doing, he was playing a very dangerous game. It was a game that would either see him on the Iron Throne, or see his head on a spike. But it was a game he relished. And out of all the various players in the game, the only ones he even remotely respected were Tywin Lannister and Varys. Tywin for his cunning and sheer brutality when it was called for, and Varys for his extensive network and ability to manipulate people. Varys was nearly as good a manipulator as he was. And with his network, it was always a stimulating exercise disguising your true moves from him. And now it was time for his next move in the Game.

Reek

His Master was angry. His Master was always angry. And as always when his Master was angry, he had taken that anger out on him. His Master had beaten him and then flayed him on the inside of his thighs and his back. Reek's screams had echoed throughout the dungeons of the Dreadfort. His Master had also taken slivers of weirwood and hammered them under the nails of his remaining fingers and toes. The pain had been so intense that he had begged his Master to cut them off. But his Master had refused.

Instead his Master had terrified him even further. After leaving him sobbing, chained to the cross in the dungeon, weirwood sticking out of his fingers and toes, blood flowing freely from his freshly flayed flesh, he had returned and as gently as possible, removed the weirwood from his body and bound his wounds in fresh, clean cloth. And he had done so without saying a word. After that, he had personally half carried him up the stairs, with every step bringing fresh agony from his tortured legs and feet, and brought him to his own chambers. And waiting in his Master's room, was a large tub filled with hot, scented water.

As he Master looked purposefully at him, Ramsey said, "Take off your clothes, Reek."

He knew better than to question his Master. Whatever his Master commanded, he would do. So, as quickly as his mangled limbs and hands would allow him, he removed the soiled and foul smelling rags that his Master allowed him to wear.

"Get in the Tub, Reek."

Reek was confused. He hadn't been allowed to bathe in, well, he wasn't sure how long it had been. His stench was meant as a constant reminder to him of his place in his Master's service.

Seeing his hesitation and confusion, his Master gestured again at the tub and said, "Reek, I want you to get in the water. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?"

"No, Master," he replied. Shaking in fear, Reek awkwardly climbed into the wooden tub, his pain wracked and broken body protesting all the while. The hot water brought fresh agony to his new wounds. His flayed flesh felt like it was burning as the hot water soaked through the bandages. His blood started to stain the water pink, while the dirt and dung that clung to his pale and drawn skin and white hair warred with the blood to change the clear water to black.

As his twisted and bent body settled into the tub, his Master picked up a cloth, soaked it in the water and gently began to wash the filth from his body. While his Master gently washed him, he began to speak.

"Reek, I need you to pay very close attention to me. I need you to do something for me. Something that will be very difficult for you."

"What, Master?"

"I need you to become someone. Someone very different from yourself."

What? His Master had spent endless amounts of time to teach him that he was Reek. And now he was telling him to be something else?

"Ha..Have I disappointed you, Master? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Reek sobbed out. He couldn't take more punishment.

"No, Reek. You've done exactly what I asked of you. But now I need you to do something very difficult. I need you to become Theon Greyjoy."

Reek's mind froze and his body stiffened. No, he wasn't Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. Only Reek. Never Theon.

In fear, he stuttered, "I'm, I'm, I'm n...n...n...not Theon. I'm Reek. C...Can't be Theon. Only Reek."

"Shhhhh, shhhhh. It's okay Reek. You're not actually going to be Theon Greyjoy. I only want you to pretend to be Theon. You'll still be Reek. But I need you to make other people think you are Theon Greyjoy."

Jerkily nodding his head, Reek signaled his acceptance. He couldn't refuse. He couldn't take anymore pain. His Master had promised him that he would eventually beg to be killed and Reek was so very close to that point. This could be what pushed him over that edge. He didn't know how to pretend to be Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. His Master was still explaining what he needed him to do while continuing to wash his abused body, but what was left of Reek's mind was still reeling. He knew he would have to please his Master. It was that or be punished severely for his failure.

Days later, as his Master's party approached the remains of Moat Cailin, his Master told him it was time for him to play his part. Reek was terrified. How would anyone ever believe he was Theon Greyjoy? He was Reek. He would never be believed, despite his Master dressing him in armor engraved with the Kraken of House Greyjoy and giving him the sword that once belonged to Theon Greyjoy. His body was so broken and weak he could barely stand under the weight of the armor and sword. His limbs were bent and twisted to the point that it was almost impossible to ride the horse his Master had told him to ride, never mind actually swinging the sword he was given. Then to add in the sheer agony it was causing his tormented and destroyed body trying to sit on the horse properly. Only a fool would believe he was actually Theon.

When he finally reached the ruined walls and towers of Moat Cailin it was all he could do to keep from weeping from the constant excruciating pain radiating from every point of his body. But he still had a role to play. His Master told him to think of it as a game. His Master liked to play games. The games never ended well for anyone that he played them with though.

When a voice hailed him from the Drunkard's Tower asking who was approaching, he had to force himself to wrench his gaze up and look at the guard in the eye. It was an action that would have instantly infuriated his Master and caused him to remove more bits and pieces from him. But now, it was what his Master wanted him to do.

In a shaking voice, Reek responded, "I'm Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands. I'm here to parley with your commander on behalf of Lord Bolton, Warden of the North."

"Theon Greyjoy is dead. His sister told us he was dead. That means either you or her is a liar. I know Asha Greyjoy. I don't know Theon. Why should I believe you over her?"

Reek started shaking in fear. He was failing in what his Master ordered him to do. If he was lucky, his Master would only flay him more. He had to convince them to let him through. It was at that moment, when he was practically shaking in fear at what his Master would do to him, when something seemed to break free deep inside Reek's mind. From the deepest, darkest corner of his mind what was left of Theon Greyjoy broke free of the chains that Reek had put around him in a desperate act of self preservation. In that brief moment of clarity, Theon knew he was broken irreparably. That he was both Theon and Reek, despite what his "Master" told him. Deep within him, he could already feel the pathetic creature that was Reek begging to be let back in control, that it was the only way he could survive. But for now, Theon was able to beat him back and remain in control.

In a much stronger voice than that used by Reek, Theon responded, "I am Theon Greyjoy. I was captured by the Boltons when they took Winterfell from me. Let me speak to your Commander and I'll see you all get safe passage back to the Iron Islands. What have you got to lose? One man against all the Ironborn here, what chance would I have?"

As the guards holding the arrows on him considered what he said, Theon thought to himself that he would have even less chance than they knew after all that Ramsey had done to him. He was so weak that he could barely grasp a sword, let alone swing one. Above all, at this moment, he still had to pretend to be Ramsey's creature, Reek. Otherwise the best he could ever hope for was dying along with the rest of the Ironborn when Ramsey assaulted the remains of the fortress. And knowing his "Master," his death was sure to be long and exceedingly painful.

Eventually, the guard jerked his head towards one of the two remaining towers and said, "He's in the Gatehouse Tower. No tricks or it'll be the last thing you ever do."

Nodding his head in acknowledgment, Theon nudged his horse forward and had to stifle a groan of agony as the horse's movement brought a fresh wave of pain washing over him. Within himself, the side of him that was Reek begged to take back over, telling him that his Master would be very angry if he found out. Reek was terrified of what his Master would do to him. Theon knew very well what Ramsey would do and told Reek to shut up. But he was beginning to panic now. He couldn't keep Reek at bay for long, and Reek could never do what Ramsey had ordered. Theon had to do it. But he had to do it quickly before he collapsed back into being Reek.

When Theon reached the Gatehouse Tower he painfully dismounted from his horse, wincing from his numerous injuries. As he hobbled into the remains of the tower, he saw the men there staring in horror at him. He had been abused and tortured so often and to such extremes that he appeared to have aged forty years.

Making his way up to the small group of men in the tower, Theon asked them in a now raspy voice, "Who's your commander?"

"Who's asking," replied one of the men?

"Theon Greyjoy. Who are you?"

"Dagon Codd. Commander's Ralf Kenning. Not that he'll be around much longer."

"And where is he?"

Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Dagon Codd said, "In there. Dying from a fucking poisoned arrow. Fucking Cranogmen."

Nodding jerkily, Theon walked as best he could into the room where the Ironborn commander lay. The stench coming from the man was worse than even he had smelled before Ramsey bathed him. The man's wound had obviously turned and the smell of rotting, putrid flesh filled the room. Gingerly kneeling by the bed, Theon looked at the man and knew that he was looking at a dead man. And judging from the man's eyes, he knew it as well.

With an effort, Theon pulled out Ralf's knife from the belt by his bed and held it up for the man to see. When Ralf saw it, he nodded weakly and closed his eyes, ready for the mercy stroke. Putting the knife against the man's throat, Theon muttered, "What is dead may never die," and as quickly as he was able, slit Ralf's throat and watched the black poisoned blood ooze out thickly through the wound.

Painfully climbing back to his feet, Theon limped back out to the men in the remains of the Great Hall. As they looked at him, he saw a slight approving look in their eyes. While they would never admit it, they all knew that Theon had given their commander a merciful death instead of allowing him to linger. That small act earned him an equally small amount of respect from the remaining warriors.

After giving the men Ramsey's terms, that they lay down their arms and he would feed them and give them safe passage back to the Iron Islands, he stepped back and let them talk. Of them all, only Dagon Codd objected. Shit, Theon thought. The man smelled a trap. If he was allowed to rally the men, his own life wouldn't be worth the shit on the bottom of his boots.

But before Theon could even open his mouth to try and convince them, an axe slammed down into Dagon's head and split his head like a ripe melon. Looking at the man that had just killed Dagon, he asked, "Food and safe passage home in exchange for our surrender, right?"

Replying quickly as he felt Theon slipping and Reek returning, Theon nodded his head and said, "Yes. Lay down your arms and you'll be fed and escorted to the coast to go home."

Nodding their heads, the men dropped their weapons and began making their way out of Moat Cailin towards the waiting Bolton force where they were swiftly gathered together and searched to make sure they had honored their agreement. As Theon watched, he hung his head in shame. He knew, in his gut, that Ramsey had no intention of ever allowing these men to leave the Neck alive. But he had no other options. It was do what Ramsey wanted or suffer the consequences. As the last of the Ironborn filed out of the ancient fortress, Theon broke down and cried bitterly before surrendering himself to Reek once again.