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The inside of the castle was warmer than he’d expected. Heat seemed to radiate right through the walls. When Theon brushed his fingers against the old stone, he imagined hot blood pulsing through a tangle of veins, as though he were caught in the belly of some monstrous beast. Even so, it was nearly an hour before he managed to rub the feeling back into his frozen fingers, sitting in front of the fire and cursing the northern winds.
“How are you settling in, Theon?”
He turned to find Lord Stark standing in the doorway of his new bedchamber, still clad in his traveling cloak. A ghost of a smile lingered on his lips, and his gloved fingers clutched a slip of parchment with little drawings of wolves scrawled in a clumsy, childish hand. Right before the guards marched him into the castle, Theon had caught a glimpse of the Stark children running out to meet their father in the yard, throwing themselves into his arms as Lady Stark pressed kiss after kiss across her lord husband’s face.
May the Others take them all. “Quite well, my lord.”
“Good. That’s good.” Eddard Stark cast an eye around the bedchamber. It was bare save for the goose-down feather bed, a rough-hewn wooden table, and Theon’s chests sprawled across the rushes. “The servants will be in shortly to unpack your things. You’ll want a bath, I expect.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ll have one brought up for you, and you can join us for supper when you’re ready. But before I leave you to yourself, I would like you to meet my family.”
It wasn’t a question. “Now, my lord?”
“If you please.” Lord Stark smiled tiredly, but Theon kept his face carefully blank. “It will only be my lady wife and children. I will not overwhelm you with the rest of my household just yet.”
“Yes, my lord.” I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Lord Balon and heir to the Iron Islands, and I have nothing to fear from a pack of wolves. He pushed himself away from the hearth and got to his feet, following Lord Stark from the room.
They made their way down the long corridors in silence, passing strangers with grey direwolves sewn onto their breasts. Each man greeted Lord Stark with a warm smile and eyed Theon with undisguised suspicion, as though he had somehow managed to sneak into the castle without permission.
Do you think I want to be here? He remembered the stories that his maester used to tell him, tales of savage northmen who mated with wolves and worshiped trees with bloody eyes. I know what you are.
At the top of a flight of stone steps, Lord Stark led Theon into an airy solar. An arched window overlooked the yard, and the faint sound of clanging steel echoed throughout the room. A massive oaken table was pushed against the back wall, where the rest of the Starks stood waiting for him.
Lady Stark drew his eyes at once. She was younger than Theon’s own mother, dressed in a simple blue woolen gown with dagged sleeves, her long auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders. A pretty woman, Theon admitted, but her eyes gave nothing away. She was balancing a squalling toddler on one hip, while a small boy stood at her side, fidgeting with the laces of his doublet. He had the same auburn hair as his mother, though his eyes lit up at the sight of Theon.
It took Theon a moment to notice the other child in the solar, standing slightly apart from the rest of the family. Though he seemed to be of an age with his brother, the boy was a spitting-image of Lord Stark: the long solemn face, dark hair, and grey eyes. With his chin raised high and his arms stiff at his sides, he looked as out of place as Theon felt.
“My sons have been most eager to meet you.” Eddard Stark strode across the room, taking his place behind the dark-haired boy and placing a steady hand on his shoulder. He gestured towards Lady Stark. “Theon, I have the honor of introducing you to my wife, the Lady Catelyn of House Tully.”
“Be welcome at my lord husband’s home and hearth.” Lady Stark graced him with a courteous smile. “We are most honored to have you as our ward.”
Your hostage. “The honor is mine, my lady.” He paused. “But there’s three.”
Lord Stark frowned. “Three?”
“Three children. My sister only told me of two.”
“I see.” Lord Stark’s hand tightened on the dark-haired boy’s shoulder; the child fixed Theon with a haughty stare. “What your sister meant is that I have two children by the Lady Catelyn. My son Robb and my daughter Sansa.”
He gestured to the two red-haired children. The boy—Robb—shot him an amiable smile, though Theon did not return it. Little Sansa had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms.
“And this is Jon, my natural-born son,” Lord Stark said, nodding to the other boy. “He and Robb are of an age together.”
Theon stared at him. “You raise your bastard with your trueborn children?” He winced. “My lord?”
Jon Snow narrowed his eyes. A flush was creeping up his neck, but he scowled at Theon all the same.
“Jon is my son,” Lord Stark said sharply. “And that is the end of it.”
It was Theon’s turn to flush. He glanced at Lady Stark and saw that her smile had grown somewhat fixed. She had no love for the bastard, Theon suspected, and who would? To think what Lord Balon would say if he knew that his heir was being acquainted with some baseborn brat. Better yet, to think what he would say of the honorable Ned Stark if he knew that he’d fathered a bastard at all.
“Do you really have krakens in Pyke?” Robb Stark blurted out. His face fell as he glanced up at his father. “Oh—pardons, Father—may I ask him a question?”
Lord Stark nodded. “You may.”
Robb grinned and turned back to Theon, staring at him as though he was some exotic beast from across the narrow sea. “Well, have you?”
Theon couldn’t tell if the boy was mocking him. “So the stories go.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Well—no. But my Uncle Aeron swears he fought one when he was five and ten.”
“Father, I want to go to Pyke and see a kraken too!” Robb looked up at Lord Stark, his blue eyes impossibly wide. “Oh, please, will you take me? Please, Father, please?”
“Robb, your father has only just returned from Pyke,” Lady Stark said. “He’s like to be sick to death of traveling by now.”
Theon glowered at the boy. “We wouldn’t have you , anyway. Not anymore. Besides, northmen don’t take well to Pyke.”
“ I would,” Robb insisted as his mother narrowed her eyes.
“You would do well to speak to my son with a bit of respect,” Lady Stark said, using one arm to rock the little girl as the other came to rest on Robb’s shoulder. “He is your lord’s son and the heir to Winterfell.”
Not my lord. Never my lord. But it wouldn’t do to shame himself so early on. “Yes, my lady. Forgive me, I—forgot myself.”
“Anyway, I would take well to Pyke,” Robb continued as though his mother hadn’t spoken. “‘Cause I can swim. Jon and I race in the moat all the time.“
Theon couldn’t help himself. “A moat is no ocean.”
“It’s water.”
“Does a moat have waves? Salt? Storms? Krakens?”
“Oh, I wish! I wish our moat had a kraken!” Robb hooted with laughter, turning to his bastard brother. “Imagine that, Jon!”
Jon Snow cracked a smile. “But a great big kraken could never fit inside Winterfell’s moat.”
“We’d build a bigger one! And then we could fight it off with our swords!”
Your wooden swords. Theon could feel Lady Stark’s eyes on him, waiting for him to challenge her son again.
“We could chop off its legs!” Jon grinned. “Or tie them all together and make it sink!”
“And then we’d be kings of the kraken!” Robb declared, thrusting an invisible sword into the air.
Both boys dissolved into a fit of giggles as Lord Stark cleared his throat, turning back to Theon.
“Excuse my boys,” he said, casting a fond look at his sons. “They like to laugh.”
“Most fortunately for you.” Lady Stark gave Theon a chilly look. “Robb has a sweet nature. He doesn’t take slights to heart.”
“That kraken will take my sword to heart!” Robb put in, grinning up at his mother.
Her gaze softened as she mussed his hair. “Hush, child. You tell more tales than Old Nan.”
The thought of his own lady mother came sudden and unbidden, a blow to the chest that left him breathless. Theon wondered if she would even have the time to grieve for him, now that Rodrik and Maron were dead. Perhaps Asha would shed enough tears for them both, though Theon had never known her to weep. She screamed when they took me, though. They had to pry her fingers out of mine . . .
The sight of the Starks was suddenly too much to bear. “Do I have your leave to go, my lord?”
“You do.” Lord Stark nodded to the doorway, where a guardsman had appeared. Theon recognized him from the ride up north. “Jory will show you back to your bedchamber.”
The man smiled at Theon, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Come along, lad.”
Theon followed him without a word. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Lady Stark was smoothing out the wrinkles in Robb's doublet.
The frozen air rang to the song of steel as Winterfell’s men-at-arms sparred in the courtyard. Theon sat on a stone bench in front of the armory, watching a giant of a boy lead a grey destrier back to the stables. He tried to recall the boy’s name, but it was already long gone, just like everything else that Winterfell’s maester had droned on about that first night.
“Robb and Jon will be happy to give you a tour,” the old man had assured Theon. “When you are ready to explore the castle, all you need to do is ask.”
The memory still shamed him. Theon didn’t need two little children to show him around a castle, especially not some sullen bastard. He was a Greyjoy ; he had spent his whole life in castles. But little Robb Stark made the offer every night at table, though Theon refused him with cool courtesy each time. The child even badgered him after supper, following him from the Great Hall and talking his ear off about whatever caught his fancy.
Not Jon Snow, though. The boy always watched Theon from a careful distance, ready to steer his brother back towards their bedchamber the moment that Theon was gone. Anybody could see that he was seething with jealousy at Theon’s high birth, prideful as he was. It was a wonder that Winterfell had more love for a bastard than for the trueborn heir to Pyke.
But he’s not a hostage .
Theon watched the steel flash through the yard beneath the pale afternoon sun. How his lord father would rage at the sight of these men of the greenlands, playing at warriors in this wasteland of ice. They were no true heroes, not like Lord Balon or Uncle Victarion or Dagmer Cleftjaw. Even his sister could disarm these men in a fight, he was sure of it.
The thought of Asha made Theon’s stomach hurt. He tried to remember the feel of her hand in his, her leathery fingers, the calluses lining her palm, but the memory was already fading. Soon I’ll forget the smell of the sea too.
There was a sudden tap on his shoulder, and Theon’s head snapped up.
The little Stark lordling was standing at the end of the bench, clad in his riding leathers. His face was flushed from the cold and his hair stuck up in every direction, making him look as though he had just weathered a storm. Maybe he had—the snow never stopped falling here, and Theon had spent most of the morning in front of the hearth, trying not to look out the window.
“What do you want?” Theon asked warily. “Is it your lord father?”
The boy was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What do krakens look like?”
Theon blinked. “You already asked me that.”
“No, I asked if you’d ever seen a kraken.” Robb’s eyes shone with anticipation. “But what do they look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar!” When Robb grinned, Theon could see a gap where one of his baby teeth had fallen out. It gave him a slight lisp. “Your uncle must have told you all about them. Go on! What do they look like?”
He scowled. “Big.”
“How big? Bigger than a castle? Bigger than all of Pyke?”
Theon could have hit him. What gave a Stark the right to speak of Pyke? “They’re big,” he snapped. “And that’s all.”
“Oh. You’re no good at stories,” Robb sighed, collapsing onto the bench beside Theon. He frowned up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is boring.”
“Well, I didn’t ask you to join in.”
“But I’m bored .”
“Do I look like your mother, Stark?”
“Oh, you can call me Robb.” The boy smiled. “So what should we play, Theon?”
His own name sounded foreign on Robb Stark’s tongue. “We? Who said anything about ‘we’?”
“Well, I already played Monsters and Maidens this morning. And Old Nan told me a story after my lessons ‘cause I did my letters proper.” Robb swung his legs back and forth as he prattled on. “I could play Lord of the Crossing with you, but I promised Jon that I would wait ‘til he was done. What else can we play, I wonder . . . ”
“I’m not playing anything with you!” Theon spat, already sick to death of the boy. “I’m ten years old and nearly a man grown. I don’t play games with five-year-olds!”
Robb’s legs froze. “What?”
For half a heartbeat, Theon almost felt bad. “I—you heard me. Are you deaf as well as irritating?”
“But I’m not!” Robb insisted.
“You are. You’ve been following me around all week and I’ve n—”
“I’m five and three moons!” Robb said, wide-eyed. “I haven’t been five in ages !”
Theon stared at him. “What?”
“Five and three moons. You said five.” Robb huffed. “You forgot the three moons.”
“Nobody cares about the moons except for children.”
“Well, that’s stupid. How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just ten.”
“When is your name day?”
“What does it matter?”
“I want to know how old you are.”
“And I’ve just told you—”
“But you forgot the moons!”
“Gods, alright!” Theon snapped. “It’s the ninth day of the fifth moon. Happy?”
“So you’re—” Robb started to count off on his fingers. “One . . . two . . . three . . . fou—”
“Six moons,” Theon said irritably. “I’m ten and six moons. If you must know. Not that it matters.”
“Oh!” Robb stared up at him with mingled admiration and delight. “You’re quick at sums, Theon!”
“As I should be, seeing as I was learning them when you were still soiling your swaddling clothes.” That only made Robb giggle. “It’s true . I’m not a little babe like you.”
“I’m not a babe,” Robb said with the utmost seriousness. “My sister Sansa is a babe. I’m five and three moons.”
And as though that settled the matter, Robb went back to swinging his legs.
It was all Theon could do not to shove him right off the bench. Did the boy take pleasure in torturing his father’s hostage? Would he report back to Jon Snow later so they could laugh at Theon together?
“So what are we playing, then?” Robb asked, his eyes following the men practicing in the yard. “Come-into-my-castle?”
Theon glowered at him. “Why don’t you go and play with your bastard brother instead?”
“Jon is with Maester Luwin doing his letters. He got extra ‘cause he missed yesterday. He wasn’t feeling good.” Robb paused his swinging to frown up at him. “And you shouldn’t call him a bastard, Theon.”
“But he is a bastard.”
“Yes, but it’s not very nice. ‘Cause once I said so, and Father heard and told me off.”
“Well, he’s not my father.”
“Even so, Jon doesn’t like it.”
Theon mustered up as much dignity as he could. “I am a Greyjoy of Pyke, the son of Lord Balon and heir to the Iron Islands besides. The feelings of a bastard boy hardly concern me.”
“Jon is my brother!” Robb’s eyes flashed, suddenly as fierce as the bastard himself. “You don’t call him a bastard! You don’t !”
Theon was so taken aback by Robb’s anger that he almost forgot to laugh. “Or what?” he mocked. “Will you run to your lord father? Or will you hide behind your mother’s skirts?”
“I don’t hide. Not ever. ‘Cause wolves never hide.”
“Is that what you are?”
“I have the blood of the wolf,” Robb declared. “Just like my lord father and his lord father and his lord father too.”
Mayhaps it was below him to rile up a child, but Theon had certainly earned a bit of amusement. “You look more like a pup than a wolf to me.”
“Pups grow up.”
“Only if they survive the winter. What is it that you Starks are always going on about?”
“ Winter is coming ,” Robb supplied instantly.
“What kind of words are those? Isn’t it always like winter here?”
“It means that—well, my father says—” Robb bit his lip. “Something about the cold. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I’m asking you. The future lord of Winterfell should know his own words.”
“I do know them. And you’re not supposed to talk to me like that.” Robb leveled him with an exasperated look. “You know, this is why Jon calls you bad words when you’re not listening.”
Theon snorted with laughter. “The motherless bastard curses me ?”
“I told you not to call him that!” Robb crossed his arms over his chest, which made him look remarkably like Lady Stark. “Why won’t you just play and be nice? I’m trying to be your friend.”
The laughter died in his throat.
“Friend—?” Theon spluttered. “I had friends. Real friends, not little northern brats. Before your lord father stole me away.”
“My father doesn’t steal people.”
“Then how exactly did I end up here?”
“You’re his ward.”
“His hostage, you mean.”
Robb blinked, uncrossing his arms as a look of genuine concern came over his face. “Your lord father is a traitor, Theon. Didn't you know?”
Theon could hear his voice shaking, but he refused to falter now. “‘My father’s only crime was—” What was it that Uncle Victarion had said, back when Father first called the banners? “—was abiding by the Old Way. The Drowned God created the ironborn to be reavers. It’s in our blood.”
“Ser Rodrik says he’s an usurper and a pretender, and that’s why Father was away for so long.”
Careful now. One word of treason will shame Father all over again. “The ironborn were kings of old.”
“So were we,” Robb pointed out. “Jon and I have seen the Kings-in-the-North down in the crypts. But now there’s only King Robert.”
“I know. That’s why my brothers are dead.” So where are my tears? “You can ask your lord father if you don’t believe me. He’s the one who put them to the sword.” That wasn’t strictly true, but Robb didn’t need to know that. Rodrik had been killed by Patrek Mallister at Seagard, and Maron had been crushed by the collapse of the south tower, but still . . . Lord Stark would have killed them if he’d had the chance.
Robb frowned. “Well, then they must have been traitors. Father wouldn’t have killed them if they weren’t.”
“You don’t know that.” I am my father’s son, and Balon Greyjoy’s son doesn’t cry. Not even for his brothers, it seems. “You don’t know anything. Now leave me be.”
Robb didn’t move. “He wouldn’t.”
Theon didn’t bother to answer.
“He wouldn’t .” Robb chewed his lip and stared at his feet. “‘Cause my father only kills criminals and traitors and sometimes deserters.”
Which one am I? Theon tried to picture his brothers’ faces in his mind, but they blurred together and became Asha’s instead. How can I still hate them, even now?
Robb looked up again. “But it’s sad that your brothers are dead. Even if they were traitors. It’s still sad.” He paused. “Theon?”
Mayhaps if he just kept silent, the boy would grow bored and go bother his lady mother instead.
“Theon?”
He turned back to the yard, watching as a man with a chipped pink shield went flying into the armory wall, his helm clanging against his skull.
“Theon!”
Asha would be with Mother right now, watching over her while Father locked himself away to lick his wounds. Or else she was throwing axes in the yard, looking up at the same sky he was, all alone on Pyke.
“Theon. Theon. Theon .”
“Gods, what now?” He never could follow through with a plan.
“It’s only that—” Robb hesitated. “Was it your brothers who taught you how to hold a bow?”
Theon looked up. “What?”
“I saw you shooting arrows with Ser Rodrik yesterday. Just before my lessons.”
“So?”
“So I’ve never seen anybody hold a bow like that. I thought maybe you learned it at Pyke. From them.”
He stared at Robb, looking for any signs of a jest, but the boy’s face was as sincere as ever. “Dagmer Cleftjaw taught me. My lord father’s master-at-arms.”
“Well, he must be good. You hit the target nearly every time. I think you’re quite good too.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“For true?”
“For true.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “I mean—yes, well—everyone told me so back at home. Uncle Aeron says I’m better with a bow than even Rodrik or Maron were at my age.”
Robb pounced on his words like a hunting hound. “Then you could teach me!”
“What?”
“How to shoot! You could teach me, and then I’ll be as good as you!”
“You want me to teach you ?”
“You’re my father’s ward, right? We’re supposed to train together, you and me and Jon.”
“You have your master-at-arms,” Theon said slowly. “Why can’t he teach you?”
“I want you to teach me,” Robb insisted, his eyes entreating. “Why not? You’re nearly a man grown. Besides, I want to hold a bow the way you do.”
It had been a rather good round of shooting. Theon had only meant to practice for a few minutes, but he hadn’t been out of the castle in days, and a bow in his hand always helped to quiet his mind. Ser Rodrik had watched him loose arrows for over an hour, bursting with praise after every shot. Yet somehow, it was far more satisfying to hear it from Eddard Stark’s own son. Theon found himself grinning like a fool.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine, I’ll show you. Seeing how much you need my help.”
Robb gave a whoop of triumph and jumped to his feet, spraying snow all over Theon’s boots. “When can we start? On the morrow? Today? What about now?”
“Now?”
“You said that you were doing nothing! You said! You said!”
“Gods, fine,” Theon grumbled, allowing Robb to grab him by the hand and yank him back towards the armory. “You’ll make a good lord, you know, always ordering me about.”
He grinned as Robb twisted around and chucked a fistful of snow at him.
“Now that’s not very proper of you, Lord Stark.”
“I’m not a lord yet !”
“No, no, I suppose not . . .”
A fire was blazing inside the armory, and Theon was already loath to step out into the cold again. He watched as Robb darted across the room and grabbed two bows from the wall, chattering away to the blacksmith. Mikken , Theon remembered suddenly.
Well, a round of shooting was just the thing to warm him up—even if he had to put up with the little lordling. No matter. If it meant holding a bow in his hands again, Theon could humor Robb Stark for an afternoon. Just this once.