He guessed that she really wasn't lying when she said that her home was probably as cold as the Wall. Through his the layers of furs he wears, he feels a strange throbbing in his heart.

Lord Derrick Rosbull is seated at the high table, watching and contemplating the actions of the young ironborn lad.

"My lord," he kneels.

When the old man nods, he rises.

"Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands."

"I know that."

"Well," Theon shrugs, slightly out off by the old man's bluntness.

"What are you doing here?"

"My lord, I came hoping to see...her."

The old man nods, a flicker of understanding passing his face. Weakly, he rises. He leads Theon through a maze of corridors and through a high tower.

And there she was, her face, marble. Her lips cold as ice and pale as a ghost. But still, every inch the girl he loves. He walks to her slowly. Holding on to her cold and hard hand.

His lips open to say the 3 words he had wanted her to hear so much. The 3 words that could have fixed everything. But he was too late.