[Wintertown, 7th moon, 295AC]
It had been a week since Lord Alaric Stark's nameday. Winterfell had hosted a feast in his honor, filled with roasted boar, mulled wine, songs from the North, and to Theon's disgust, stories of Alaric's supposed wisdom and strength. No one had asked what Theon thought. They never did.
He walked alone now, down the muddy, half-frozen road winding through Wintertown. Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon, heir to Pyke, dressed in a thick sable cloak fastened with a kraken clasp, looked every inch the nobleman. At six-and-ten, he called himself a man grown, though in truth he often felt more like a prisoner than a lordling. His breath fogged in the chill morning air as he passed merchants hauling salted meats, weavers tending to newly built stalls, and ironmongers barking at apprentices. The sights were familiar, but not the scale.
Wintertown had changed.
What had once been a sleepy hamlet, little more than an overgrown village huddled against the looming walls of Winterfell during the long winters, was slowly becoming a true town. The change was slow but certain, homes of packed earth replaced by timber and stone, a proper market square developing with a raised platform at its heart, even a budding godswood.
'A task that began in earnest following the arrival of that antlered bastard,' he thought grumbling
Alaric Stark's reforms had drawn displaced families from the Wolfswood, farmers ruined by raiders from his father's rebellion, bandits, and landless men seeking opportunity. Theon could not deny the improvement.
And he hated it.
Everything was improving under the silent rule of that cursed Stark. The one they all looked to. Alaric, the emotionless one. The tall, grim bastard who ruled Winterfell as if he were some ancient First Man reborn. Theon was certain the man found joy in tormenting him, not with beatings or cells, no, but through small, invisible cuts. Being ignored. Being humiliated. Being called "ward" with that flat tone, that sharp edge.
He stopped outside a freshly painted wooden structure tucked between a smokehouse and a potter's shop. No signage announced it as a brothel, but the red curtains and the way men loitered around the entrance made it clear enough. Word of it had reached Theon through Serwyn, one of the guardsmen with loose lips and looser morals.
He needed this.
Inside, the warmth embraced him, scented with lavender and perfume that tried to hide the sweat and lust beneath. A curvaceous woman with auburn hair greeted him with a knowing smile. Theon tossed her a few silver stags, coin gifted by Ser Rodrik in hopes Theon would buy a new doublet. He had better uses.
She led him up a narrow stairwell to a small chamber with a featherbed. What followed dulled his frustration, though not for long. When he left, late in the afternoon, he reeked of wine, perfume, and bitterness. A wineskin, half-empty, dangled from his belt. He took another drink.
"Still better than freezing with the wolf pups," he muttered to himself as he stumbled toward Winterfell.
[Winterfell]
The gates loomed before him, massive, ironbound wood flanked by granite towers. Two Greycloaks stood watch, their helms glinting in the slanting light. They glanced at Theon but said nothing. Theon didn't return the courtesy.
He made his way toward the training yard, his boots crunching on half-frozen mud. The clang of steel echoed across the bailey. Dozens of men trained under Ser Wylam Slate's watchful gaze, new Greycloaks, most of them. Ser Wylam, lean and lined with scars, barked orders like a sailor at war, his gravelly voice sharp as a blade.
But it was not the guards who held Theon's attention.
On the far end of the yard, gathered like wolves in a ring, were the Stark boys, and those they called the "Wolf Pack."
There was Robb Stark, already 3-and-10, auburn hair damp with sweat, his face bruised but eager. Beside him was Jon Snow, the quiet one, always watching. Rickard Stark, son of Benjen, short and wiry but fast as lightning. Osric of High Hill, tall and serious, the image of a lord-to-be. Harlon of White Harbor, the charming one, with a laugh like a drumbeat. Roddy Dustin, dark and brawny. Dorren Snow, sullen and silent. The twin bastards, Edric and Elric Snow, sparring together like mirrors.
The two Umber brothers, Smalljon and Derrick, were sparring with one another as Torrhen Karstark dueled with his kin Ser Ellard.
Jeor Mormont, the Bear's cub, trained among them, too. His father remained at Winterfell to oversee the delivery of blacksmith tools bound for the Wall.
And at the center of it all, instructing them with quiet authority, was Alaric Stark.
Theon watched from the shadows beneath the barracks eaves, swigging again from his wineskin. He could not help but sneer. Look at them. Alaric barking orders like he was some king, and they all listened. Even Robb and Jon, once mere pups, now bore themselves like knights. The Wolf Pack had grown into something more than boys, they were becoming warriors.
"Bastards playing at knights," Theon said aloud, voice thick from drink. "How quaint."
The words carried.
Jon turned first, brows knit. Robb paused his footwork mid-step. Even Alaric looked up.
"Careful, Greyjoy," Robb said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. "Your tongue wags too freely."
Theon smirked. "Just speaking truths, Stark. A pack of bastards, led by a bastard. No wonder the dogs obey."
Jon's expression hardened. Elric Snow took a step forward, but Edric held him back. Theon saw it and laughed. "Don't worry, little Snow. I'm sure your "lady" mother would've been proud, whoever she was."
The next voice cut like ice.
"You're a gutless squid, Theon."
Robb again. His tone had dropped to a growl, his blue eyes burning.
"What did you say?" Theon's steps wobbled slightly as he drew closer, his hand twitching toward his belt, though no sword hung there.
"You heard me," Robb replied.
Theon spat. "You think you're a man, boy?"
"I know I'm more of one than you."
Steel rang out as blunted training swords were fetched. Jeor Mormont and Harlon Stark handed one to each of them. A circle formed. Even some of the Greycloaks stopped their drills to watch.
Theon flexed his fingers. He was taller, broader, with years more experience. But he was also drunk. Robb's stance was clean. Balanced. Ser Rodrik had taught him well.
Theon struck first, sloppy, wild. Robb parried cleanly, countered with a slash across Theon's ribs that would've drawn blood if not for the dulled edge.
Theon roared and pressed forward, swinging harder. Robb danced back, nimble on his feet, sidestepped, and brought the flat of his blade down across Theon's shoulder. The crack echoed. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Shut up!" Theon bellowed, swinging again, and missing.
Another strike from Robb, this one a jab to the gut. Theon stumbled.
"Yield," Robb said through clenched teeth.
"Never."
So Robb struck again.
And again.
The final blow caught Theon behind the knee, dropping him like a felled tree. He landed in the mud, gasping, sword clattering from numb fingers.
Silence.
Alaric said nothing. He didn't need to. His gaze alone was judgment enough, those two blasted direwolf pups held in a servant's arms yipped and barked, almost as if they were laughing at him.
Theon lay on his back, staring up at the grey northern sky. His chest heaved, lungs on fire. Around him, the Wolf Pack looked down, not with pity, not even amusement.
Just disappointment.
Robb offered a hand. Theon slapped it away, rolled over, and forced himself to stand. His pride burned hotter than his bruises.
"Next time," he said, wiping blood from his lip.
Robb nodded. "We'll see."
Theon turned, stumbling toward the keep. As he passed Alaric, he felt the man's eyes on him, cool, unblinking.
Like he was nothing more than a problem to be dealt with.
[That Evening, the Great Hall]
The long hearths blazed with roaring firelight, casting flickering shadows against the grey stone walls of the Great Hall. Banners hung in the rafters, wolves on white dancing with the swaying tapestries, but Theon Greyjoy barely spared them a glance. He sat near the end of the long feasting table, opposite the lord's dais, a place reserved for retainers and lesser guests. He had not been invited closer.
Not that he wanted to be.
The hall buzzed with chatter and clinking goblets, the benches packed with Stark bannermen and their household. Those who hadn't yet departed Winterfell following Alaric Stark's nameday celebration were still here for provisions, meetings, or matters of oaths and steel. The tall lords of the North, every damned one of them, laughed and feasted like they were at court in bloody King's Landing. As if it were a golden age. As if he wasn't sitting at the edge like some half-forgotten guest.
Theon chewed on a hunk of crusty bread, tearing at it with the same resentment he gnawed at every waking hour. He sipped watered wine from a pewter cup, bitter and cold. His plate, though filled, held little joy, salted pork, turnips, boiled oats, the usual fare. He scowled at it anyway.
From the dais, Lord Alaric Stark spoke softly with his sworn shield, Ser Torrhen Stark, and with Maester Luwin, who stood by the high seat with a sheaf of parchment and a patient smile. The lord of Winterfell wasn't drinking. He rarely did. Always watching. Always judging.
Theon looked away.
A shadow fell across the bench beside him. Two boys approached, neither quite boys anymore.
"Evening, Greyjoy," came the smooth, practiced voice of Domeric Bolton. The heir of the Dreadfort was pale and sharp-featured, his smile faintly amused, but never cruel. His black doublet bore the flayed man of his house in deep crimson embroidery.
Beside him stood Rodrik Stark, Ser Torrhen's son, a few moons younger than Alaric, taller than most his age, his hair dark like his father's. He wore turquoise and golden yellow, sword at his side. His smile was uncertain.
Theon stiffened.
"Mind if we sit?" Domeric asked.
Theon took a long drink. "It's a free hall. Sit where you like."
They sat.
An awkward moment passed. Rodrik cleared his throat. "You fought well today," he offered, not quite convincingly. "Robb's got quick hands, but you—"
"I slipped in the mud," Theon snapped, glaring. "And I was half-drunk."
Rodrik blinked. Domeric raised a brow. "A fair excuse."
"No, it's not an excuse," Theon growled. "It's the truth. You northern pups act like you've won some great battle when all you've done is chase each other in the snow."
Rodrik stiffened slightly. Domeric only shrugged. "Better to fall in the snow than drown in wine."
Theon's hand curled around his cup. "Watch your mouth, leech."
That shut them up.
Rodrik looked away, embarrassed. Domeric's expression grew colder. He stood, motioned to Rodrik, and together they walked back toward the knot of household knights and young lords laughing near the hearth.
Theon watched them go with a sneer.
He returned to his meal, the wine now tasting more sour than before. The music had resumed, a girl singing in a lilting northern tongue accompanied by a harpist. Theon barely heard her over the dull hum in his head.
"…the Sea Dragon's Point holding is ready," said Maester Luwin's soft voice, drifting down from the dais. Theon froze, ears pricking like a hound.
Alaric didn't reply immediately, only nodded.
Maester Luwin continued, "The castle is complete. Benjen may take residence at his convenience. We've installed a modest garrison, a godswood with a heart tree sapling taken from Winterfell's own, and the first of the fishing villages have been finished as well. Stone-walled and stocked. Two settlements, one at East Cove, the other at Whale's Hollow."
The old man glanced, just briefly, toward Theon.
Theon met his eyes for an instant.
And the maester looked away.
Theon felt his chest tighten. So they were building new homes. New ports. New walls. On the coast. On what should have been his sea.
A low chuckle sounded down the table.
"Fish and stone for the squid's kin, eh?" roared Greatjon Umber, seated two benches closer to the dais. His massive frame shook with laughter. "Give it a few years, and we'll be pulling drowned rats from our nets!"
More laughter followed. Other lords joined in, Ser Wylam Slate, old Lord Hornwood, even dour Tytos Blackwood, who'd been visiting the North.
Theon felt heat rise in his cheeks. He wanted to stand, to shout, to hurl his goblet across the floor.
He did none of that.
He sat in silence. Swallowed his shame with another gulp of wine. Like he always did.
And Alaric Stark? He didn't laugh. He never did. He simply watched, unmoving, unreadable.
Later, as the hall emptied and the hearth fires dimmed, Theon wandered out into the courtyard, boots crunching softly on frost. His thoughts swirled with wine and rage, but something deeper too, something bitterer. Not just anger. Envy.
Alaric had everything. Power. Respect. A castle of cold grey stone. A following. Men who would ride for him, kill for him. He had Robb and Jon and a pack of wolves at his heels.
Theon had… nothing.
Not even the laughter of the Iron Islands. Not anymore.
He walked past the stables, where a few grooms were bedding down horses. He ignored them. Slipped behind the eastern tower. There, against the cold stone, he leaned and closed his eyes.
He didn't know how long he had stood there until another voice spoke.
"I saw your match with Robb."
It was Dorren Snow, the younger bastard brother of Alaric. A broad-shouldered youth of 4-and-10, lean-faced with eyes like his father's.
Theon snorted. "Come to gloat?"
"No." Dorren stepped closer, arms folded. "You fought well. Drunk or not. Robb's gotten good, but you hit harder."
"You lot all have such kind words after I'm beaten."
Dorren said nothing for a time. "You ever think of going back?"
Theon's eyes narrowed. "To Pyke?"
Dorren nodded.
Theon stared into the dark. The sea wasn't visible from Winterfell, but he could feel it, somewhere far beyond the trees and hills and snow. The salt air. The crashing surf. It had been years since he'd felt it on his face.
"They wouldn't want me," he said at last. "Not as I am. Not after what my father lost."
Dorren tilted his head. "Then make yourself into something they'll want. Or don't." He turned, walking away. "But don't waste time snarling like a chained dog. You'll only tear your own throat."
Theon remained still.
Eventually, the cold crept deeper into his bones. He pulled his cloak tighter and trudged back toward the keep, jaw set.
If Alaric thought him broken, he was wrong.
If Robb thought him bested, he was wrong.
He would go back one day.
Not as a prisoner.
Not as a ward.
But as something more.
Something they'd never forget.