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For the first time in memory, the sound of the nine-string fiddle resounded in Winterfell’s Great Hall.
Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands, had come North, bringing her rakish crew with her. And for the first time in memory, the reavers had come North in peace.
The queen had come to formally sign a pact of alliance and mutual prosperity. She had also come to meet her young nephew, a boy of six, and her even younger nieces, one still an infant in her cradle. Family was in short supply these days, and Greyjoys were especially rare, indeed. True, these children bore a different name, but they were still her family, just the same.
The music was foreign to the ears of the Northmen in the Great Hall, but not unwelcome. The townsfolk tapped their feet to the music, some adding the rap-tap-tap of spoons to the mix. The nine-string fiddle sang above it all, a rich, cheery tune that rippled and swept about like the ocean breeze.
Some of the crowd had formed a loose circle in the center of the hall, surrounding a group of ironborn, who took turns performing some kind of folk dance. It was quite acrobatic, involving a series of smooth spins, fleet-footed footwork, and athletic leaps.
The high-pitched laughter of a child rose over the lilt of the fiddle and the stomp-stomp-stomp of giddy feet.
“Slow down!” called Sansa, though her son seemed to have gone temporarily deaf. Robb tore across the Hall on wild, if ungraceful, feet.
Yara lept from her seat, and swift as a seabird catching a leaping fish, plucked up the boy and flipped him upside down. “Are you ignoring an order from your queen?” she asked in a mock-stern tone. Scooping little Alarra under her other arm, Yara strode towards the dancers.
“Come, dance with me!” she cried.
Robb frowned. “I can’t, I don’t know how.”
“You’ve iron in your blood, lad,” Yara replied. “You’ll learn.” She righted the boy to his feet and led the two children into the ring.
As she began to demonstrate a few simple steps, Sansa turned to her husband, watching intently from his seat at her right hand. “She reminds me of Arya.”
Theon laughed. “If Arya were here, she’d have already snuck out to practice her archery skills in the yard.”
“I don't know, these ironborn dances might interest her far more than the court styles mother taught us. They’re so…” Sansa reached for a word.”
“Raucous?’ Theon offered with a sly grin.
“I was going to say, ‘unrestrained,’”
“Fun also works,” Theon teased.
“Oh come now, you always loved when the lords would visit and we’d all pile in here to dance.”
“That’s because I was usually paired with you.”
Warmth crept across Sansa’s cheeks. She remembered the secret thrill, when the dancing master would summon Theon to be her partner. The boy was older than her, Jon’s age, and had that devil-may-care look in his eye matched by an ever-present smirk.
All she replied, however, was, “Admit it, you love a good wolf's-lope.”
‘Mmmm, what do I get if I do?”
“A kiss.”
“A kiss for an admission? Interesting. What do I get, then, if I scream it from the rooftops?”
Sansa smacked his arm playfully.
“Your Grace! This is a day of peace!”
“True, but I was provoked by the antics of an utter rapscallion!”
“Oooh, yesterday you called me a scoundrel. It seems I’m moving up in the world.”
Sansa turned toward the dancers. “Queen Yara! Save me from this scoundrel brother of yours!”
Yara laughed. “You married him, he’s your problem now,” she called out.
“She has a point you know,” quipped Theon, this time earning himself a prodigious eye roll from his wife.
Yara relented. “Alright, Queen Sansa, in the name of diplomacy, I’ll take him off your hands. Come brother, let’s show these wolves what a kraken can do on the dance floor.”
The twinkle abruptly vanished from Theon’s eyes, which darted towards the floor. Odd, Sansa thought. He truly does love to dance. The Theon she knew would leap to his feet and show off, likely with some boast about the superiority of ironborn dance technique. Yet now he seemed almost...trapped.
“Yeah, come on, father! Dance with us!” cried Robb.
The wail of the nine-string fiddle danced around them like a dolphin at play. Insistent, showy, and so very foreign to this Northern hall. Theon’s smile was nowhere to be seen.
Why, he has no idea how to do this dance!, Sansa realized. He came here so young, he must not remember.
Yara extended her hand towards Theon, an invitation, a command. By now, the musicians had paused, waiting for a signal from their queen to start a song anew. Hundreds of eyes traveled from her to their errant prince. Their lost prince.
Beside Sansa, Theon eyed his sister’s reaching hand. The tension in his body reminded her of a skittish horse. He breathed a quiet, resigned sigh only Sansa could hear and began to stand. Suddenly, Sansa knew what she had to do.
Quick as a snake, she caught Theon’s arm. “On second thought,” she said, turning to Yara, “This wolf would like her turn on the dance floor as well. Why don’t you and Theon teach me this ironborn dance of yours?”
Yara grinned. “By all means.” She took Sansa’s other hand and led her into the ring. At first, Sansa felt resistance from her other hand as Theon held back. She squeezed his hand. Trust me, my love. His arm slackened and Theon followed behind her.
The music started up again. Sansa could feel the rhythm through the floor as a hundred ironmen and northmen alike stomped their feet. The fiddle, of course, was the star of the show.
“Alright, Queen Sansa, relax your shoulders a bit, there you go,” said Yara. Theon listened intently, mimicking along out of Yara’s line of vision. Soon enough, Sansa stood alone in the center, spinning to the fiddle and the cheer of the crowd.
Colors flashed as she spun, lords and ladies and seamen alike in their finest garb. Moving so fast, it was impossible to tell northerner from islander. The music blended everyone’s accents away, just another note in the song.
Then, Theon swooped in, lifting her into the air, turning in place the whole time. The steps may be new, but the man can dance.
He laughed as he slowly lowered her to the ground. “Thank you.” he whispered, his face a hair's breadth from hers. Sansa kissed him then and there, inciting a new wave of cheers, mostly from the ironborn surrounding them.
The nine-string fiddle was a foreign sound in the halls of Winterfell, but it wouldn’t be for long.