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When Theon is twelve, he tries to run away.
The candlelight flickers as he packs his bag, methodically gathering only what he needs. He tries to make as little noise as possible, though he knows that his room is secluded enough that no one would hear. He slings a quiver of arrows across his back and grabs his brother’s bow from its mounted rack.
Only that morning had Ned Stark come to him, looking somber in a way Theon had never seen him. He tends to avoid the Lord of Winterfell. Memories come rushing back when he sees the man; Ned’s hand on the back of his neck, leading him onto a ship; his mother sobbing as the ship pulled out of the port; seeing Winterfell for the first time. But when Theon does have to be near him, Ned had always seems so confident, so assured. At first Theon had wondered if his father had finally forsaken him, deciding a rebellion was worth the life of his last son. He’d scrambled as far back against the wall as he could, half-hoping the stone would swallow him up before Lord Stark could behead him.
Ned had seen the fear on Theon’s face and moved slowly to lean down to Theon’s level, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
Your mother is dead.
The words ring in Theon’s ears as he pads down the stone halls of the castle. No one else is awake, making his escape that much easier. In the early days he’d dreamed often of escaping the walls of Winterfell. In all his dreams he’d battled his way out, sword clashing with the guards aiming to keep him imprisoned. The quiet walk is considerably less climactic, but he breathes a sigh of relief.
Your mother is dead.
He hadn’t wanted to believe Ned, had thought this was a trick his captor was playing on him. But above all things, Ned Stark had always been honest with him, starting with the day Balon handed Theon over like a dog he didn’t want anymore.
“How?” Theon had asked, his voice high and thin as he had tried to hold back tears. Ironborn don’t show weakness.
Lord Stark had chosen his words carefully, using words like rebellion and madness. Theon thinks it’s funny, in a sick way, that Ned had described his mother’s grief that way, as if losing her three sons in a pointless war was her own fault to bear. Theon hadn’t said anything then, but her blood was on Ned’s hands, just like Rodrik’s and Maron’s.
“When will I leave?” Theon had asked. The line between Ned’s brow had furrowed. “For her funeral,” he clarifies.
The hand on his arm tightens. It’s not possible.
Yeah, fuck that.
So Theon makes his way to the tunnels below the castle in the dead of night. No Stark could keep him from honoring his mother. Alannys, the woman who rocked him to sleep, sang to him when he cried, kissed his forehead when she woke him in the mornings. Despite all the drawings he’d done, her face, and even Yara’s, had begun to fade from his memory. Four long years he’d been in Winterfell and in that time he’d already lost the sounds of their voices, the echoes of the songs they’d sung in the grand halls of Pyke. Theon didn’t want to lose their faces, too.
The wrought iron gate at the back of the castle whines as Theon gingerly swings it open. He pauses, listening for a guard to rouse, but hears nothing. He lets out a breath and slips easily through the gateway.
Theon makes it all of ten paces before Ned Stark steps out in front of him.
“It’s late for a stroll, Little Theon,” Ned says. His voice is teasing.
“Only my family can call me that,” Theon snaps. He knows what his disobedience will cause—punishment, or worse. But the anger is bubbling hot within him and for once, he can’t stop himself. He’d always been expected to take his imprisonment with grace, the way only a prince would. But he feels angry all the time, angry at Ned for taking him, angry at his father for letting it happen, angry at the Stark children who get to be with their family.
Ned considers Theon carefully. “Follow me,” he says. For a moment Theon thinks Ned might turn towards the Kingsroad and take him south to the Iron Islands. Instead they turn north and Ned leads him into the Godswood. Perhaps Ned will kill him there and let his body rot in the snow for his insolence.
They wander silently, only the sound of snow crunching beneath their boots filling the air. They’re heading for the heart tree in the center of the Godswood. Until he arrived in Winterfell, Theon had never seen a weirwood tree, the unyielding landscape of Pyke inhospitable to such grand trees. He remembers the first time he went with the Starks to the heart tree. Everyone was suddenly serious (more so than usual, at least) as they approached the tree with red leaves and a face carved into the side. He wasn’t sure what was happening and hung back as the family huddled close. A small collection of rocks laid next to a trickling stream and Theon kicked one. It made a satisfying plop so he kicked another, watching as the ripples spread out in the water. One by one he kicked the rocks, one by one they plopped into the water.
“Theon!” Someone barked. He froze just as his foot was poised to kick the final rock. All of the Starks had turned to look at him. Lady Stark looked furious, eyes wide and mouth thin. It must have been her who shouted his name. She didn’t usually speak directly to Theon and he preferred it that way.
“Let’s go back to the castle,” Maester Luwin said, and shuffled away from the family. He placed a hand on Theon’s back and led him from the Godswood. “The heart tree is a sacred place,” he told Theon as they walked. “It is a place of peace and reflection. Not for kicking rocks.”
Now Theon stands alone with Ned at the heart tree, no rocks to be kicked.
“Come closer,” Ned says and urges Theon to approach the tree. Gently, he takes Theon’s hand and places it on the smooth, white bark. “Close your eyes.”
Theon does, although he’s not sure why. “Listen,” Ned tells him. He tries, but there’s nothing to hear, just wind rustling through leaves.
“I don’t hear anything,” Theon says.
“Don’t think. Listen.”
It makes no sense to Theon, but he tries to clear his mind anyway. He listens to the wind, to the rustling leaves. He hears owls calling in the night and water flowing in the stream. He hears a voice.
It’s not Ned’s voice, it’s too far off. The voice moves like the wind, weaving in and out and high and low. It sings the song of Harlaw and the Ten Towers, of waves crashing against a rocky shore. Alannys.
“I hear her,” Theon says in a hush so he doesn’t scare her away. Warmth blooms in his chest at the sound of his mother’s voice. It feels like homecoming, even though the air smells more of dirt than salt. He commits each word, each inflection, to memory so that he can carry her voice with him always. She’s here with him and everything else fades.
Theon isn’t sure how long he stands there listening to his mother sing but slowly the wind dies and her voice goes with it. Theon opens his eyes and realizes his cheeks are stained with tear tracks. He turns to Ned, who’s still beside him.
“I am sorry you can’t honor her memory with your family,” Ned tells him. His voice is thick with conviction. “But you can always find her here.”
Theon nods. Dawning light is just beginning to rise above the trees, a feeble wave of yellow stretching to meet the night sky. They leave the Godswood, following their own tracks in the snow. Theon silently promises his mother he will return soon.
Ned takes Theon back to his room and lifts the boy into his bed. “You will always be a Greyjoy,” Ned tells him. “But you can have a family here, too. If you want.” He leaves Theon then, to catch the hours of sleep he missed. It feels strange, but Theon thinks he wouldn’t mind having a family made of wolves.
When he rouses, the sun is high in the sky. Food has just been laid in the hall for a mid-day meal. Theon sees Ned sitting at the front of the hall and gives him a short nod. He sits next to Robb, who’s laughing open-mouthed and loud at his youngest sister. Jon is wrestling young Bran into a seat at the table and Bran shrieks with delight as he tries to escape his half-brother’s hold. Across from Theon, the red-haired Stark, Sansa, eyes him. From her dress she pulls a small trinket made of glazed wood.
“It’s a kraken,” she tells him as he passes him the carving. “I carved it for you.” The toy is crude, with the tentacles making sharp angles instead of gentle curves. The head of the beast looks more like a triangle than it should. All the same, Theon takes the carving from Sansa and holds it gently in his palm, as if it were made of gold.
Yes, he thinks. I can have a family here too.
----
Theon stands in the Godswood, his brother’s bow in his hand. Sansa had brought it to him only hours before he and the Ironborn took Bran to the heart tree. Despite everything, the bow had endured.
The sounds of war rise up around them, and yet still the fighting hadn’t reached the weirwood. A wight shrieks, only a few hundred yards away. Winter is coming.
Theon closes his eyes. He listens to the wind, to the rustling leaves. He hears the clash of swords in the night and fire raging in the fields. He hears a voice.