[Winterfell, 2nd moon, 291AC]
Theon Greyjoy sat on the edge of his bed, a woolen blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders. The chamber was cold, even with the embers of last night's fire still faintly glowing in the hearth. It was always cold in Winterfell, even in summer. A cold that clung to his bones like salt air once had on Pyke. But this chill was not the spray of the sea or the salt-kissed wind that howled from the Iron Islands. It was quieter here, more ancient, as if the stones themselves whispered of old kings and long winters.
He stared out the small window, eyes scanning the courtyard below where two guardsmen practiced with blunted swords. His hands itched to hold a blade, or better yet, an axe, but instead he clasped them between his knees and let his thoughts drift.
Home. He had not used the word in two years. He wasn't sure if Pyke was even that anymore.
He could still see the waves crashing against the cliffs, the narrow bridge swaying in the wind, and the sound of the sea hammering the rocks far below. He remembered the reek of seaweed and damp stone, the slick feel of moss beneath bare feet. He remembered the caws of gulls and the clinking of chainmail as the household guard patrolled the cold, dripping halls.
He remembered Asha.
They would play in the sparring yard when Father was away, racing each other up the stairs of the Sea Tower or sneaking into the kitchens to steal dried squid and crusty bread. She had always been faster, quicker with a stick, and sharper with her tongue. She'd mock his every stumble and laugh when their older brothers called him soft. Rodrik and Maron. They'd wrestle him to the ground and shove his face in puddles, calling him "maid's son" and "wet pup." But Asha had never been cruel. Not truly.
He missed her. And his mother. Even the sour smell of Father's hall.
But all of that had vanished when the rebellion died. The sea had closed over his family, and he had been left adrift in the wolf's den.
Winterfell.
A place of rules and duty. Of watchful eyes and silent halls. Lord Eddard had never once struck him, but Theon sometimes thought the quiet was worse. There were no shouts, no curses, no threats of drowning. Just cold stares and expectations he never quite met.
He dressed slowly, pulling on a plain brown tunic and black breeches. A servant knocked but did not enter. That was the way of things here. No questions, no warmth. Only order.
He stepped into the corridor, boots clicking softly on stone. The guards he passed straightened, their eyes watching him as if he were a crow strayed into a wolf's den. He did not smile at them.
As he passed the Lord's Solar, he heard voices inside. One belonged to Eddard Stark, steady, solemn. The other was sharper, firmer. Alaric Stark.
"…two more years, maybe less, if the thaw is early," Alaric was saying. "The canal will change everything. From Blazewater Bay to White Harbor by boat."
"Assuming the various bandit groups don't sabotage it," Ned replied.
"They won't." Alaric's tone left no room for argument. "We'll station men all along the digging camps this year. Let them try."
The door opened suddenly, and Alaric emerged.
He was tall—taller than Theon by quite a bit, broader too. His cloak was black wool lined with wolf fur, his eyes cold as the snows outside. They locked with Theon's for a brief moment. Alaric said nothing. He gave the boy a slow, deliberate look, as if weighing him like a sword in the hand, then turned and walked toward the Great Hall.
Theon let out a breath and followed.
[The Great Hall of Winterfell]
The hall was warm with hearth fires, the scents of baked bread, roasted boar, and spice filling the air. Long tables stretched beneath the carved rafters, and servants bustled between them. At the high table, the Stark family had already begun to gather.
Alaric sat at the center, the seat of the Lord of Winterfell, though Eddard still ruled in name. Ned sat to his left, his face unreadable as always, while Benjen Stark occupied the seat to Alaric's right, laughing at something his wife, Dacey Mormont, had just said.
Lady Catelyn sat beside Ned, her posture perfect, her eyes occasionally flickering to Jon Snow and Theon, both with carefully hidden displeasure, and yet, the bastard was still afforded a greeting by her, as if she were trying to be cordial. The children clustered together nearby. Robb, Jon, and Rickard sat shoulder to shoulder. Sansa, Lyarra, and Arya were already arguing over something, while Bran watched on with childish amusement.
Theon took his seat at the end of the table, as far from the head as could be.
"A raven came this morning," Alaric said, lifting his cup. "From Lord Artos Stark of High Hill."
The name silenced most conversation.
"He requests his children be fostered here at Winterfell," Alaric continued. "Osric, his heir, now a boy of one-and-ten. The twins, Branda and Berena, eight years of age, and even his youngest Edwyn, a boy of 3, the perfect age to become friends with little Bran."
"A wise request," Ned said. "Better they learn our ways before they must wield sword or pen."
"Lord Artos also asks to send Ser Harald and his bastard sons, Edric and Elric Snow. Ten years old, both of them."
Benjen raised an eyebrow. "Bastards?"
Alaric shrugged. "They're strong lads. I see no reason to turn them away."
Ser Torrhen, seated just below the dais, spoke up next. "A second raven arrived from my brother. Ser Benjicot also wishes to send his second son, Harlon, and Alysanne to Winterfell. Harlon is one-and-ten, Alysanne eight."
Alaric leaned back in his seat, folding his hands as Ser Torrhen continued. "He means to voyage with his wife and Cregard, their eldest. Training the boy on the sea. Alysanne and Harlon would be safest here."
"Then send word that they'll be welcomed," Alaric said. "And the same to Lord Artos."
Ned nodded. "We might consider other wards as well. There are sons of Karstarks and your cousins, the Umbers, old enough. Perhaps one of Lord Tytos Blackwood's boys? Strengthening ties with the Riverlands is never amiss."
The conversation shifted to logistics, quarters, training, tutors. Theon felt his stomach churn. More wolves. More trueborn northern sons. More eyes watching him like a stray dog in their yard.
He poked at his meat with his knife, then muttered, "Careful, my lords. Soon there'll be more wolves here than sheep to feed them."
Robb didn't laugh. Arya snorted. But it was Jon Snow who grinned.
"We could always make a Greyjoy into stew," Jon said.
Theon stood so fast his chair scraped the floor. "Say that again, you bastard."
Jon rose too, though slower, calm. "Just a jest. No need to cry."
Theon reached for his knife, but before he could touch it, something struck the table beside him with a violent thunk.
A throwing knife.
Still quivering, embedded in the wood just inches from his hand.
Theon froze. All eyes turned to the head of the table.
Alaric Stark was still seated, one hand outstretched from the throw. His gaze locked with Theon's, not a trace of warmth within it.
"Sit down," Alaric said. "Or leave."
Theon backed away, heart hammering in his chest. The shadows of the hall seemed longer now. He turned without a word and stormed from the room, his footsteps echoing off stone.
He didn't stop until he reached his chamber, slamming the door shut behind him. He pressed his back against it, breathing hard.
He hated this place.
He hated its stone walls and silent guards.
He hated Jon Snow. And Alaric fucking Stark.
And most of all, he hated the boy staring back at him in the cracked mirror.
Not Greyjoy.
Not Stark.
Just a shadow in a wolf's den.
[Winterfell, the next day, Theon's Quarters]
It was morning, the sun rising upon another day, and yet, Theon still couldn't shake what had transpired last night.
Theon sat there for a long time, his hands clenched into fists, chest rising and falling like a ship caught in a squall. The cracked mirror above the washbasin threw back a distorted image of his scowl. His jaw ached from how tightly he'd been clenching it.
The throwing knife had sung through the air like a hawk diving for prey. Not a warning. A declaration.
Alaric Stark hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. The throw had spoken well enough: you are watched, and you are nothing here.
Theon's breath came in short, angry bursts.
He had not come to Winterfell willingly. He had come as a hostage. A prize from a war his father had lost, a reminder to Balon Greyjoy that his ambitions had drowned with his sons. Yet over the past two years, he had been dressed in wool, fed from the same table as the wolf cubs, trained by the same masters-at-arms.
But never one of them. Never a wolf.
He stood suddenly and tore the mirror from the wall, smashing it to the stone floor. Shards scattered like broken teeth.
There was a knock at the door.
Theon spun, heart leaping into his throat. "What?"
It opened just enough for Robb Stark's head to peer through. "You alright?"
Theon turned away, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. "Do I look alright?"
Robb stepped in and shut the door quietly behind him. He looked older than he had even a year ago, broader in the shoulders, a touch more like Eddard in the set of his mouth. "It was a jest," he said.
Theon gave a hollow laugh. "If I had drawn on Jon, would it have been a jest then?"
Robb didn't answer.
Theon paced like a caged cat. "He knew what he was doing. That bastard—"
"You're not helping yourself, Theon," Robb interrupted.
Theon froze. He looked over his shoulder. "Helping myself? Is that what I should be doing, Robb? Playing the loyal pup, grinning through every bite like I'm grateful for table scraps?"
"No one said you had to—"
"I'm not one of you!" Theon shouted, his voice cracking against the stone. "I'll never be."
Robb's expression didn't change. "I know."
Those two words struck deeper than any knife.
Robb hesitated, then added, "But you're not a prisoner anymore, not really. My father treats you fairly. Alaric, too, although cold, he hasn't laid a single hand on you now, has he? You're trained like us, you dine with us. No one's stopping you from being more."
"They are," Theon growled. "You just don't see it."
Robb folded his arms. "Then prove them wrong. Or go back to Pyke. No one's keeping you."
Theon turned slowly. "You think I can go back? My father would spit in my face for the way I talk, the way I dress. I'm not Ironborn anymore, and I'm not Stark either. Besides, someone is stopping me, that very cousin of yours who skewered my brother Maron like… well, a squid."
"Then be Theon," Robb said, simply. "Whoever that is."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Robb opened the door.
"They're practicing in the yard. Jon included." He paused. "You could come."
Theon didn't answer. When the door shut, he stared at it for a long time.
[Winterfell, The Training Yard, Midday]
Steel rang on steel.
The yard echoed with the sounds of practice swords and the grunts of boys turning into men. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, dusting the ground and clinging to the cloaks of the watchers.
Ser Rodrik Cassel barked orders from the sidelines, one hand on his thick mustache, the other pointing toward errors in footwork or posture. "Watch your stance, Robb! You're a Stark, not a startled goose!"
Robb and Jon sparred in the center ring. Their movements were quick and practiced, neither yielding easily. Rickard Stark, Benjen's eldest, stood off to one side, watching with wide eyes and fidgeting fingers.
Theon leaned against the wooden railing, arms crossed, face unreadable.
Jon Snow moved like a ghost, light on his feet. Robb was solid, all Northern steel and grit. They circled, feinted, clashed. Jon dropped low, then rose in a sudden burst that nearly sent Robb stumbling.
"Good!" Ser Rodrik called. "Better!"
Theon's gaze shifted toward Alaric.
The Lord of Winterfell stood beneath the covered archway with Ser Torrhen, observing with a watchful stillness. Alaric said little, but everyone knew he missed nothing. His eyes flicked from stance to grip, movement to reaction. It wasn't just training, it was selection.
It always felt like that.
Theon turned to leave.
"Greyjoy," came a voice behind him.
He turned. Jon stood there, face glistening with sweat, wooden sword in hand. His breath misted between them.
"You going to skulk all day or pick up a blade?"
Theon's lip curled. "You want another knife tossed at your head?"
Jon shrugged. "He only throws steel for things worth hitting."
Theon snatched a practice sword from the rack and stepped into the circle. "You always this smug, bastard?"
Jon twirled the sword in his grip. "Only when I win."
They squared off, circling.
"Begin!" Ser Rodrik barked.
Theon lunged first, fast and aggressive. Jon parried cleanly, countered, and the duel was on. They traded blows, both quick and sharp, moving like wolves circling in the snow.
But Theon was not like Jon.
He fought as though he had something to prove, because he did. Each strike was a shout, each dodge a desperate attempt to stay above water. Jon fought with calm, letting Theon exhaust himself.
Theon overextended.
Jon swept his leg, and Theon landed hard on his back, wind knocked from his lungs.
Laughter rang around the yard. Not cruel, not mocking, just honest.
But Theon felt heat rise in his face.
He stood, shoved Jon's offered hand away, and stalked off without a word.
[Winterfell, The Godswood, Evening]
Snow blanketed the sacred grove in white, softening the world to a hush. The heart tree stood in its circle of silence, red eyes watching as they had for thousands of years.
Theon sat at its base, legs folded beneath him. His hands were scraped from his fall, the bruises beneath his ribs aching.
He didn't know why he had come here.
He did not pray to the old gods. He had not believed in any god since he was ten.
Still, the silence was comforting.
Steps crunched softly behind him.
He didn't turn. "Come to gloat?"
"No," Alaric Stark said.
The Lord of Winterfell stood beneath the ancient branches, arms folded, breath clouding the air.
"I was watching you today," Alaric said.
Theon laughed bitterly. "I noticed."
"You're not as good as Jon. Not yet."
Theon stiffened.
"But you're faster than Robb. Meaner too. If you fought like a Greyjoy, you'd have won."
Theon looked up, confused. "What?"
"You fight like a Stark because you think it will make us accept you. But a wolf is not a kraken. And neither is a sheep."
Theon blinked. "What do you want from me?"
Alaric stepped closer, his voice quiet. "I want you to stop pretending. You shall continue to be raised here. That matters. But you're also Ironborn. That matters too. The day you stop trying to be both, and start being yourself, is the day you stop being a shadow."
Theon stared up at him.
"I don't trust you yet," Alaric admitted. "But that doesn't mean I want you to fail. If the day comes when you must choose who you are, choose wisely."
He turned and walked away, leaving Theon alone in the falling snow.