Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

"M'lord. M'lord. Theon." She reaches out a trembling hand, grasps for his sleeve. "Don't do this. Please," she begs. "Please. Theon. Please."

"Stop it," Theon says, wrenching his arm away from her.

Reek is observing them, sly laughter in his eyes.

The children are held up by Rednose, one small arm clutched in one big hand each, one to the left and one to the right. The elder is greyfaced and silent, the younger is wailing.

The mother wails the loudest: "Theon, Theon, m'lord, Theon," until Theon gives the order to shut her up. Gelmarr obeys with a swing of his axe.

Not like that, Theon wants to say, as the blood gurgles against his breeches, but of course like that, how else but like that--

"M'lord," Reek says. "You'll want to do this yourself, I reckon?"

He's holding out his knife for Theon to take.

Both children fell silent now. All that can be heard is the creak of the water wheel, the gurgle of the stream, the children's panicked breathing. Or maybe it's Theon's panicked breathing.

I have no choice, Theon thinks. It's too late now. Too late for pretence as well, too late for anything but infamy. These men know him for what he is. They know him like no one else ever knew him before. There's no salvaging the deed, not even in playing the Lord who bears to swing the sword himself.

"Go ahead," he tells Reek.

Reek's lips curl, red and wet, as if he was about to laugh, but then he bows his head instead, scrapes the floor with his foot.

"All as m'good Lord commands," he croons, all deference, and twists the knife into the boy's neck.

"The mother," Reek asks, later. "You were intimate, m'lord?"

Reek has become too intimate, after everything, acting slick and familiar.

"I don't see how that concerns you in any way," Theon snaps.

"None at all, m'lord prince, I beg your pardon," Reek yields.

"It's just, I haven't had no woman since I was with Lord Ramsay. It makes a man grow excitable, you'll know what that's like."

Reek's eyes meaningfully wander to the Lord Eddard's unmade bed. Theon's neck crawls at the presumption. A prince shouldn't allow such bold talk from his serving man.

Theon wants Reek to shut up, but therein lies the problem: There are quite graver things than who might fuck whom that Reek needs to keep silent on.

"You could've shared her with us," Reek continues, interrupting Theon's thoughts. "I mean, what with her kids killed, and her killed, what difference would it have made."

There is an unmistakeable glint of insolence in Reek's eyes, now. Theon's anger spikes.

"I won't stand this savagery!" Theon hears himself flare, palms sweating in his balled fists, shame creeping up his chest.

Reek has killed off Gelmarr, Aggar and Rednose, Theon knows he has, though he doesn't know how, leaving them both the only two remaining witnesses of what happened at the mill. This knowledge confers Reek too much power. Clearly, then, the way forward is to get rid of Reek, but Theon hasn't found the courage yet. He fears a trap. Reek would have prepared for that eventuality. But now I must kill him.

"I most beg your pardon, m'lord prince," Reek croons again, eyes lowered, somehow managing to both diffuse Theon's rage while increasing his unease. "I am a vile creature, I admit it. It must be because of how I was taught."

Theon's neck is wet with sweat, his head pounds. What little sleep he found these days has all been night terrors, one more unsettling than the next. Every single person alive in Winterfell hates him or holds him in contempt. Theon barely dares to touch his food, who knows what poison might have gotten poured in.

"M'Lord Ramsay, he liked to go on a hunt, did you hear? Human hunt. He'd let out the hounds, run the girls down. Starve them beforehand sometimes. Whole groups, he'd select them. He liked the fighty ones. They'd all get hurt, oh, so terribly hurt. Chewed up, trapped. Fucked, too, of course. Well, none ever escaped."

The people of Winterfell don't even appreciate how lucky they are to be ruled by Theon and not the likes of this Ramsay, Theon thinks, the bitterness of self-pity choking at his throat.

"The fucking was important, you see," Reek explains, apologetically.

Theon once fucked his way through half Winterfell, yet that didn't make any one of them love him better. Barth won't look at him any more, even though her tongue once enveloped his groin, nor will Genna nor Kirsty, though they used to tangle with him in the hay. Gage avoids his gaze, Farlen he had to kill, even Kyra starts to fear him.

Reek wrings his hands, his face is lowered. "M'lord was very cruel, it's true. Very cruel. I saw much cruelty. But you're not like that, are you?" He manages to infuse a note of vulnerability into his voice.

Theon shakes his head, near against his will. What is happening to him? This is not how anything should have been going. I wanted to do good by them , he thinks. I wanted to prove myself better than--

"No harm shall come to those that serve me well," Theon says, dizzily, remembering the crunch of bone as they severed the boy's heads. "Serve and obey and you shall be rewarded."

Through the opened window, the wind whines, the leaves rustle. No wolf can be heard.

Reek's smile is wide and wet.

Chapter Text

Rowan bites into a slab of greased brown bread. She chose her seat right in front of Theon, not out of any kind of affection, but because she and her sisters won't leave him out of their sight, not since they recruited him into their folly of a plan. Her long legs sprawl under the table.

Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing lean forearms. Firm muscles slide as her fingers grip. Theon might once have found that attractive, but Reek is a sexless creature whimpering in horror at the thought of flesh touching. Theon's own forearms are brittle bone covered in skin, hidden under ratty black fabric. He sits hollow-bellied; his mouth hurts too much to chew.

"Have you talked to your sister?" Rowan asks, in between bites.

"She's not my sister," Theon says, though in a way, she is. "And no."

Ramsay hasn't called for Theon to join them, nor ordered him to bathe his bride for a while. It makes Theon anxious. For one, he can't know what state the girl is in, how hurt she might be. And he worries that Ramsay might somehow have sniffed out their plan, reading it off Reek's porous mind.

Jeyne, the girl's name is Jeyne. Rowan doesn't know this, doesn't know which girl she'll risk her life for. It makes Theon laugh.

Rowan mislikes this. "If the bastard hadn't already smashed your little teeth in, I'd punch them right out of that grin," she growls.

"Don't call him that," Theon reflexively whispers, looking over his shoulder.

"Be less useless," Rowan hisses. "You owe the girl as much, don't you think?"

I do, Theon agrees. He really does.

"You don't care about her," he challenges. "Only about what politicking you need her for, or the money."

"Money?" She sounds truly baffled. "You think we fight for money?"

Theon shrugs. "You whore and you kill your way through Winterfell, but you do all that for free, then."

"Are you this stupid? Money passes hands as is expected, aye, but we whore for information."

Theon would laugh, if he still remembered how. Must be some information they are gathering on Winterfell's musty dicks and hairy asses. "You don't seem much informed," he says.

"How did such a half-wit as you manage to topple the seat of Stark, it beggars belief. Where are you going."

"On a walk." If it pleases m'lady.

All this talk of whoring and toppling and Rowan's strong straight teeth are turning his entrails into snakes; Theon needs to move.

Rowan will follow anyway, if she doesn't decide to keep him by force, she'll have to: He might be running straight to his Lord Bolton to pour out his treacherous little heart.

"Might as well stretch them legs," Rowan says, near amiably, striding at his side.

It snowed a lot over night. Theon walks with difficulty: Even using already well-trodden paths, he keeps sinking in way past his knees, and he lacks the strength for this kind of exercise. He keeps going, though. The wind blows around their ears, cutting through all layers of their garb, chilling Theon's ribs.

He aims for the outer walls. Might as well give Rowan the tour. She follows uncomplainingly. Reek may walk freely within the castle walls. The guarding men are used to him and his wanderings, though not to him being accompanied.

"Woman, what in seven hells do you plan with that?" one of them shouts at Rowan, laughing, as they let them pass.

"You'll show me where you got in" Rowan says, once they are out of earshot.

"Here," Theon tells her.

The wind blows at her red-brown curls. She looks unbelieving.

"Where, here."

"The walls. We climbed."

"And?"

"And then we swam the moat and climbed some more, killed the guards at the door, let the rest of us in. We were less than thirty."

"Sneaky," Rowan says. Reek the Sneak. "Useless for us now, though."

"I told you."

Rowan stares out into the white openness beyond the walls.

There's nothing to see, there. In between the low-hanging grey skies, the icy haze, the constant snowfall, the world is reduced to vague shadows, barely visible beyond a few arm lengths from where they stand, leeched free of colour. Grey and white.

"The Stark colours," Theon comments. It's their land. It's always been their land and never mine.

"Broken up and slaughtered by you," Rowan says.

"I didn't..." Or did he? "Not just me, I mean..."

"Butchered the boys, sold the sister, betrayed your king, does it matter who else did what else."

Theon shivers. "It wasn't my king I betrayed..." he corrects, foolishly. I was a Greyjoy, a son of Pyke. It wasn't these boys they butchered, it wasn't this sister they sold, and as for which king he failed the most--

"You were Stark's ward, bound by law of blood, what else but betrayal do you call this."

The wind bites, stood up here. It is too cold to remain motionless. They make their way back down the snow-covered stairs. The stone is slippery under Theon's maimed feet.

"What do you know of being stolen," Theon says. "Of trying to remember your name."

Rowan spits into the snow. "I know more than you, turncloak. The weak get stolen, that's the way of life. The Northern way. The way forward is to be strong, to make your own name. But you..." She stares down at him, like he was a piece of vermin. "You're an honourless spineless kneeler rat."

She's right, Theon knows. Reek is a piece of vermin, and Theon is an honourless spineless kneeler rat, it is the truth. He's always been weak.

"And yet you need me," he says. "Whores leeching off my lies."

Rowan pushes him. They're past the stairs, now, and she pushed in anger, not with the aim to kill. But Theon has been starved into frailty. His missing toes hamper his balance. He falls sideways, cracks his head against the corner of the wall, sinks down into a heap. The heat of the blood welling provides some comfort. Go on, he thinks, beat me, before his eyes slide shut.

He wakes to a slap. He's been unconscious only for a few breaths, though Rowan looks duly worried. She does need him and his lies, after all.

"Stand up, turncloak," she says.

He tries to obey. He checks the back of his head with one gloved hand. The cold is already freezing the wetness into his matted hair. His glove comes back bloody.

Rowan reluctantly offers an arm to pull him to his feet. She seems loathe to be touched by him. Once stood upright, Theon walks well enough on his own. He is used to pain and used to injury, after all. Rowan rubs her hand off on her trousers.

"What will you do with the girl, once you rescued her?" Theon needs to know.

"We'll keep her protected, of course."

Of course.

"You must never hurt her," Theon says, slowly limping forward. "She's been hurt a lot."

Rowan keeps quiet for a while, matching pace with Theon's hobbled gait.

"You have my word," she says, finally.

Theon once hurt girls. Little Beth, with the noose around her neck. Palla, whom he dangled like a price to enforce his will. Kyra, whom he betrayed. And Jeyne, of course. Jeyne most of them all. Theon, Prince of Winterfell, had the men whipped, who dared hurt Palla. He wanted to prove himself better than that. But he wasn't, of course, never once. Theon Turncloak has been whipped as well, in the meanwhile, and cut and burned and flayed and whipped some more, until his flesh turned into a tangle of scars. It didn't better him much, as it didn't better them. And yet, he's the one who's still breathing.

Help me, Jeyne begged of him.

"I'll help you get her out," Theon tells Rowan.

Outside the walls, the drums are picking up again. A steady, haunting rhythm. Then the low moan of the horn.

"Stannis," Theon says. "Stannis is here."

"Umber," Rowan corrects.

Chapter Text

The sun is warm on Theon's skin, the water pearls down his brown arms, his wet hair curls around his ears. He clambers up the mast, quick like a squirrel, then swings himself back into the sea, shrieking in delight.

Nuncle Aeron joins him with a splash. Theon is most pleased at getting to spend an afternoon playing with his favourite nuncle, and on Aeron's own ship, no less. Aeron is usually drunk, which can be scary in its own right, but he is always, always kind, and he hasn't hit Theon, not ever.

"Race you to the prow," Aeron shouts, then makes a show of getting his feet tangled in seaweed to let Theon win.

Later, they let themselves dry on deck, the sun beating against their bellies. Aeron brushes the water from his short-shorn hair. His smile is bright and mild.

Theon knows part of the reason for this splendid day was to get him out of the way of the tensions mounting within the walls of Pyke.

"Will Father really go to war?" Theon asks.

"You've been listening at doors, nephew."

One doesn't need to press one's ear against any door to hear his parents fight over this. His mother is opposed.

Aeron sighs. "Probably, Theon."

Theon trails the lines of the wooden planks with his fingers. He grew up with songs of raids and glorious battle, still he can't imagine what it would be like, for the iron islands to rise up to war.

"The war will be brought to us, should your Father proclaim himself king," Aeron explains, "though Balon thinks of striking first, to discourage that. Prove ourselves too strong to be controlled."

Theon splays his fingers against the sunlight, creating shadows. "Why would he want to be king, then?"

Theon can't ask his own father that, or he wouldn't dare.

"I'm the worst man to ask about this, nephew," Aeron sighs. "I'm just a merry drunk. Though it's no secret that life on the islands is mean and bleak and meagre."

"And father being king would help against that?"

Aeron stretches his long legs, levers himself into a stand.

"Enough of that, Theon. Ask your nuncle Rodrik, you'll be better served."

Theon frowns, but doesn't push his luck. Nuncle Aeron is always, always kind, but when pressed in ways he mislikes, he's wont to vanish into seaside taverns for days on end, juggling and dancing until he forgot what the last talk was about.

"Whatever the Lord Reaver decides, I'll follow," Aeron says, with a tone of finality. "Look around, though. Only when the longships are assembled will the times be ripe for war."

The port is half-empty. A number of fishing boats, a handful of ships, including Aeron's, which is not yet completed in full. Small huts and cabins line the coast, clinging to the steep slopes that build up into Pyke's wild rocks and exposed hills. The houses are black and grey, made from the islands' dark stone and whitened wood, but decorated in colourful shells from the sea. Women are gutting fish, boys are knotting nets. A drummer is practising, syncopating against the beats of the metalworkers.

"Speaking of!" Aeron smiles. He leans forward conspiratorially. "Do you want to see the last piece missing from this brave ship?"

The missing piece still stands in a seaside hangar, awaiting its final polish. Gerrad, the much complimented artist, is happy to show off his work.

Theon has seen naked men swim and naked men wash and naked men do other things, as such Aeron's figurehead elicits little curiosity, though the tentacles growing and twisting where the balls should be certainly is a novelty.

"It was all your nuncle's idea," Gerrad says. "I like it, it's creative. Everybody with their mermen and naggas and sea monsters and drowned maidens. This is special."

"Your father hates it," Aeron whispers, once Gerrad left to resume his other work. "Thinks it's unserious."

Well, it is somewhat unserious.

"I think it's very serious," Aeron says, "though not all might be wise enough to see. Most of all, though, it commemorates a win."

Theon knows the story, they all do, how Aeron bet his new ship against a herd of goats in a pissing contest, and won.

"We all need to win just the one time, don't we," Aeron says. "And we're all given one gift from the God."

Aye, and Aeron's gift is pissing far and lengthily, they've all heard this song.

Theon tries to think of any one special talent he might posses, but can't think of anything.

"What's my gift?" he asks his nuncle.

Aeron laughs. "Well you tell me, Theon."

Theon swims easily enough, but so does anyone else. He's not too bad with a bow, though Dagmer says he'll need to train much more seriously than that to become great. Can a gift from the God be something you need to train very hard on? Theon is his father's trueborn son, but only a third son, and he isn't so sure being his father's son is such a gift besides.

"I think I don't have any," Theon says.

Aeron lays a hand on Theon's head. "I'm sure you do. Tell me anything special about yourself."

Theon rakes his mind.

"Mother told me I was birthed with the navel string tied thrice around my neck. They thought I'd die but then I didn't."

Aeron laughs. "The gift of survival, then? You better not choose that tale to brag on, the world might take you up on it."

Aeron pats his hand against the side of his wooden ram, like one would a horse. "I think we'll have it painted gold." He winks at Theon, looking over his shoulder, then gently steers him back out into the afternoon sun.

"Enough of all that. This talk of war is making you grim. Are you as worried as all that? Ironborn are made to fight and die fighting, it's our way."

Outside, the wind blows Theon's hair into knots. A string hung with shells jingles with the breeze.

"Worries and prayers never helped any boy, I'll tell you that. Better to dance and to laugh. C'mon, nephew. Would you rather go back home, or do you want us to try and catch ourselves some food?"

"I want to catch some food!" Theon decides.

He doesn't want to go home just yet.