Chapter Text
Theon presses his palm into the snow, fingers splayed. The white substance gives away with a faint crunch, and when Theon removes his hand, a small handprint remains. His hand is slightly wet now, and cold. Theon burrows a finger sideways into the powdery wetness, tests the material's strength. The snow is crumbly, but when compressed, it holds form.
Fascinated, Theon starts pushing the white powder into a mount, then into a wall, much like he might have at seaside, working with sand, next to the salty waves. That particular memory squeezes at Theon's chest, making it hard to breathe. He is very far away from the sea.
"First time seeing snow, lad?"
It's Jory Cassel, one of the Lord Eddard's men. Jory has mostly been kind to Theon, but Theon's eyes are threatening to overflow and the last thing he wants is to be found out like this.
"No," Theon lies, gritting his teeth into what might pass as a smile. "I see that ugly bastard's face every day," he adds, grasping for the first haughty association that comes to his mind.
Jory frowns. "Lord Eddard cares about Jon very much, Theon," he warms, quietly.
Theon's fingers anxiously twist against the snow, dark against white. "I didn't mean it like that," he mumbles, but Jory doesn't seem to hold it against him.
"The best thing to do with snow is this." Jory tells him, forms a ball between his hands, then throws it far down into the courtyard, where it breaks against a wooden beam.
Theon imitates him, but his heartbeat doesn't slow down for a while, even after Jory left, walking past Theon's back, neither hitting nor pushing.
-
"Now, you'll be a hostage, but you're also your Lord father's son, not some baseborn wretch. They'll prefer you alive, they might be decent to you, even. This is how it is done. Your freedom to spare your House. You'll have to serve, and most of all, you'll have to survive. Keep your pride and keep your smile and remember who you are."
That was Dagmer, warm calloused hands heavy on Theon's shoulders. Back then, Theon felt hot and steely with determination, oddly pleased at being the recipient of such advice, in spite of everything else. He would be proud, and unbreakable. He'd survive, and he'd escape, and he'd prove his worth.
His Lord father hadn't any wisdom to share at their parting, just stared at him with a mix of grief and hate and fury, eyes hollow in his hard, gaunt face. Would his father have loved him best had Theon died in battle, like his brothers did, instead of meekly walking to sacrifice?
"The most important thing for you is to survive, Theon," Dagmer insisted, as if sensing some of Theon's preoccupations.
But the truth of the matter is there isn't much to survive. Theon is well-fed, and well-clothed, better fed, in fact, than they usually were on Pyke. Lord Eddard introduces him as his ward, not hostage, asks his men to keep an eye on him while being attentive to his needs. Theon is to be taught and trained 'as befits his station', the Lord Eddard says, and the glances thrown his way are mistrustful, yes, and he is closely watched, as well as disciplined, but there's nothing much to fight against, nothing to prove his heroism in. Even what discipline he endures is always so fair and mild compared to what he grew up with on Pyke, so all that's left to be is an obedient little hostage. His father would spit at the sight.
"I vanquished you, villain!" Robb shouts, knocking the stick out of Theon's hand with one well-timed swoop.
Robb is a mere tiny child, though strong for his age, and this shouldn't have happened, had Theon been paying attention. Theon has trouble paying attention. His mind wanders.
"I won, I won!" Robb triumphs, making a game out of it.
"You haven't won shit, Stark," Theon says, shame heating up his face. "I'm disarmed but unbeaten, just try and make me obey!"
Robb brandishes his stick like it was a ceremonial sword. "I'm the lord protector and you're a villain," he assigns. "Kneel, and I'll cut off your head!"
A few days ago, Lord Eddard took Robb to watch an execution. Lord Eddard cut off a brigand's head; one forceful swing of his blade, and the man lost his life in a spray of blood. It has left quite an impression on Robb. Truth be told, it has left quite an impression on Theon as well.
"Come and make me," Theon taunts. When Robb attacks, he catches Robb's sword arm, like Dagmer once showed him, twists, and punches him in the armpit. Robb drops the stick with a cry of pain. Theon kicks against Robb's knee to topple him, and, ignoring Robb's cries, drops his own weight on the boy, screaming loudly, like the men do on raids, to better cow the enemy. Robb eyes are wet with fear. He wriggles and struggles, but Theon has him locked down.
Theon is heaved off Robb's body by one strong arm, then slapped in the face, forcefully enough to fling him off his feet and onto his back, splashing against the muddy snow. Rodrik Cassel is staring down at him, whiskers trembling in rage.
"Go on," Rodrik says. "Stand."
Theon tries to rise as respectfully as he can. Rodrik slaps him again, hard enough for Theon to fall back down, ears ringing.
"I'm taller than you, aren't I," Rodrick says.
"Yes," Theon says.
"And stronger, aren't I?"
"Yes," Theon squeals. "Ser," he adds. The green landers care about their Sers.
"Stand when I am talking to you."
Theon stands, mistrustfully bracing for the next blow.
"I don't want to know what you were taught back on your islands, about terrorising the defenceless, maybe, but in this courtyard, we train with honour."
Theon's face is wet; he hopes it's blood, or mud.
"He disarmed you, you lost. That's one thing. Learn to lose graciously. But worse is beating down on a child. Do you beat down on children on the iron islands?"
In Theon's experience, having been beaten down on fairly regularly, you do beat down on children on the iron islands, but now this seems like a terrible taint.
"No," Theon lies.
"In this courtyard, I won't stand savagery. I want to see discipline, respect and artfulness. Robb, stop crying and stand up. You'll train with me."
-
Theon tries to cultivate his hates. The men here are soft, and weak, as his father told him, spoiled by the lush endless green lands of theirs that they don't ever need or want to leave. Moaning about honour. Grovelling and deferring to the next higher up. Inviting merchants in, buying what they wouldn't dare take.
But Lord Eddard's men are well-trained, visibly strong, and on average bigger than the average ironborn. They might not dance the finger dance, but they throw trunks and boulders for fun, ride tall, muscular horses, and never shy away from fights. The amount of riches that can be found in Winterfell is stunning--tapestries and heavy oaken furniture and chests full of furs, endless stocks of food, and does it matter if it was bought or taken? Lord Eddard possesses miles and miles of land and he may take what this land gives. Warm water gurgles within the walls of Winterfell. The smooth tiles remain warm and dry even under naked feet, a mastery of building and craftsmanship, so the Maester Luwin says.
Theon tries to imagine Winterfell turned to smoking wasteland, burned and broken, like the last he saw of Pyke's coastline, but he can't visualise it. He fantasises about the outer walls breached, men crushed under the rubble, the path cleared for an invading army, like the felled southern tower that he keeps dreaming of at night, but Winterfell seems unbreakable. Pyke was damp and draughty, mouldy and bare, the rock decaying. When the fighting was done, blood covered the uneven stone, and Theon's father was made to kneel in front of the king.
Lord Balon claimed it was precisely the islands' meanness and leanness that makes men strong and fierce and indomitable. That, and the sea. Theon is, however, far away from the sea. Rodrik Cassel claims honour and discipline make men strong. Maester Luwin says tireless diligence and knowledge is necessary to keep a people safe. If Pyke was so easily squashed, there might have been failures of upkeep. Maester Luwin would not have left Pyke alive, had he dared set foot on the islands. They would have staked him face down in the rising tide and savoured the cries he made while drowning.
"If you don't have maesters on the Iron Islands, who taught you anything?" Jon asks, doubtfully.
"Maesters can't be trusted. My father's best man Dagmer taught me how to sail, and about swords--"
"Right, but what about reading, for instance? You do know how to read?"
Jon's clever grey eyes are trained on Theon, more curious than challenging.
"Are maesters the only men who read?" Theon japes.
Jon, Robb and Maester Luwin silently look at him and it takes Theon a moment to realise they really do wonder if he can even read.
Theon briefly considers playing the brute they are looking for, but then explains:
"My lady mother taught me." Little Jon is sensitive on the topic of mothers, so that's a win, even if recalling the mother he might never see again near drives tears into Theon's eyes.
"That's good, that's good," Luwin lauds, nodding kindly.
"Though the knowledge women can acquire is naturally limited, of course... The Lord Eddard asked that you join our lessons, and I will teach you what I know."
Keep it to yourself, Theon thinks, and would come to think this often about what Maester Luwin has to say, but since the Lord Eddard asked for him to be here, that's where he will be.
--
Theon is to be a hostage to his father's good behaviour, so it was said. His father is far away, though, and doesn't believe in good behaviour.
Lord Eddard explained it differently: Your presence in our home ensures the peace, Theon. He looked at Theon gravely as he said this, like a man who never wants to go to war again but who would, if need be, if betrayals had to be squashed, if his king demanded it.
Theon then is a hostage to his own good behaviour, it would seem.
"Help me up again," Robb demands.
Robb is coveting an apple that can't be reached by either one of them alone. It might be easier to just climb up the tree, Theon thinks, but Robb prefers this method: Theon lifts him up on his shoulders, and, sitting or standing, Robb gets to be the one to pluck.
"I could just drop you," Theon says, fingers curled around Robb's calves. "I could drop you on your head and break your neck."
Robb tramples his foot harder into Theon's right shoulder, leaning forward.
"I know you won't," he says. "You like me and you're one of us."
Theon does like him, curse his heart.
"My father said you're to be like a big brother who'd help and protect me, though he told me not to believe everything you say and to tell if you did something bad."
Theon laughs.
He's been laughing increasingly, lately. For one it helps against the want to cry, for another it follows Dagmer's words, but most of all, life truly is funny, if you look at it the right way.
For instance:
"I'd like having a big brother," Robb tells him.
That's a new tune. Robb has so far insisted on his own advanced age and status. What with the Lady Stark popping out new babes every two years or so, the freshest one called Bran, being the eldest must be getting old.
Theon, having been so kindly freed from his own mean savage brothers, gets invited to be Stark's eldest sibling, savagery disallowed though. That's hilarious. Brothers kill and wrong each other all the time, besides, so what is this supposed to guard against.
Robb hands him an apple. His cheek are ruddy, his eyes smiling. Theon accepts it, gently sets the child down, holds the apple in his hand, and takes a big bite.