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The gods, Theon reckoned, saw him as a constant source of amusement.
After all, they had given him a son, a son who by all accounts should not be, whose very existence was, by no exaggeration, a miracle. And of course, such a child would be born on the ninth day of the fifth month. Robb’s name day.
Yes, Theon had no doubt that the gods looked upon him and laughed.
The absurdity of the situation had only grown as the child did. He was five years old today, and seemed well on the path to develop the sturdy build of a Stark. He was five years old today, and the lad seemed bent on growing into the spitting image of his namesake.
Few agreed with Theon. Everyone insisted that Robb had his father’s look, with the striking sea-green eyes of House Greyjoy and copper hair that fell somewhere between Sansa’s Tully auburn and his own curls. But Theon knew better. He could see Robb Stark’s smile in his son’s face.
Today was Robb’s nameday, one five years old, the other thirty. Or at least, it would have been thirty, had the elder Robb lived to celebrate alongside his nephew.
Theon imagined his friend striding into the Hall, Grey Wind padding by his side. Perhaps he was holding a nameday present tucked under one arm, some toy or a child-sized bow. Perhaps his hair was starting to see its first silver strands (over which Theon would tease him mercilessly, of course). Perhaps his face bore a spare scar or two, souvenirs from a wedding gone wrong or a war gone right.
And perhaps, thought Theon, a boy would follow Robb into the Hall. A tall, gawky thing, adulthood not too far in the future. His name would be Eddard Stark. Of that, Theon was sure.
A wild burst of laughter chased away the ghosts. Theon couldn’t help but smile as Robb — little Robb, Robb Seawolf — darted across the Great Hall. The boy weaved and ducked around the gathered crowd at the head of a pack of children, all cavorting around, giddy at the thought of the brightly-colored banners and tasty treats.
Five was an important age here in the North. Even for a summer child, the first few years of life were the riskiest. Five full years evading illness or accident spoke of many more to come, the maesters say. Five years for the five points of a weirwood leaf, reply the old wives of the North. Five years, and a parent could breathe a little.
Admittedly, one couldn't quite relax with a child like Robb. If trouble was to be had, the lad would surely find it.
I suppose there’s plenty of myself in you after all, thought Theon. Me and your aunt Arya. Sansa and Robb had always been the well-behaved ones...at least until a mischievous kraken or a wild little sister provoked them beyond all reason.
Laughing to himself, Theon swiped a tart from a passing servant and made his way to his wife.
Sansa was in her element, directing the festivities with the deftness of a seasoned battle commander. Be it a siege against Death itself, a parley of the greatest egos in Westeros, or a joyous gathering for the young prince, the Queen in the North knew her trade well.
Seeing Theon, Sansa excused herself from a conversation with Lord Manderly, who in this moment was clamoring for new trade agreements between White Harbor and the Free Cities. The lord boomed a good-natured chuckle, clamped Theon on the shoulder, then lumbered towards the table where Lord Hornwood was rather tipsily singing old battle songs with Lady Dustin.
“Lord Manderly giving you trouble?” asked Theon.
“Not at all. But your sister should watch her back, or the Iron Islands are going to have some stiff competition with White Harbor soon enough.”
Theon laughed. “It’s the Lyseni who should watch their back. Or else they’ll be up to their ears in shellfish, mark my words. My sister is nothing if not competitive.”
Sansa smiled in agreement. “Alarra down for the night?”
“I just came from her chamber. She refused to go to bed until I told her the story of Duncan Egg. Again.”
“Truly her father’s daughter.”
“Me? Sansa, she clearly gets it from you, Lady Sing-Me-The-Ballad-Of-Florian-And-Jonquil-For-The-Fiftieth-Time.”
“Excuse me, that’s Queen Sing-Me-The-Ballad-Of-Florian-And-Jonquil-For-The-Fiftieth-Time, thank you very much.”
“My apologies, your Majesty.” Theon swept into an exaggerated bow.
“You’re really something else, you know that, husband?”
“I’ve heard something to that effect before, wife.” He pressed his lips to her hand with no hint of mockery.
Sansa shook her head, grinning. Then she glanced toward the table behind him and raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of stories…”
Theon turned.
“—charging through the Whispering Wood with that great beast at his side. Brought down the Kingslayer himself, as though Lannister were the green boy and Robb, the greatest sword in the land.”
Their son sat perched at one of the long tables, staring spellbound as Lord Hornwood recounted Robb’s prowess in the War for the Five Kings.
“Aye, the Young Wolf had the battle cunning of a man two score his senior,” added Manderly.
The young boy’s eyes widened. He turned towards his father. “Is that true? Really?”
Theon’s lips quirked. Having himself ridden at Robb’s side during said battle, he thought the praise was all the more remarkable for being only somewhat an exaggeration. “More or less,” he said with a small smirk.
“More or less?” boomed Hornwood. “More or less? The man was the Hungry Wolf returned! A King in the North like the Kings of Old.” He grinned at his young audience. “You have some big boots to fill, young Seawolf.”
Robb frowned in concentration. “King Robb...my mother’s brother Robb Stark,” he began. “Robb, like me.”
“You were named for him,” said Theon quietly.
“What was he like?”
How sweet, the child’s voice. How sharp the blade it thrust into Theon’s chest.
What was Robb like? How could he conjure him in mere words? Robb Stark, who was valiant king and fearful boy and truest friend and unwilling captor all at once? Robb, his best friend, his enemy.
“Well,” started Theon. “He —”
“He was bold, as I tell you, bold but careful, bold but wise beyond his years,” Hornwood interjected. “He was just and stern in equal measure, a Stark through and through. He treated his men fairly and had care towards the smallfolk as he did the great lords in their halls.”
The man paused, a bit thoughtful. In a softer voice, he said, “He did his best. He was a king you would be proud to follow to the edge of the world...or into the lion’s den.”
Silence drifted in like snowflakes. Sansa smiled at Hornwood in appreciation.
“I’ll raise a glass to that,” said Manderly, taking a swig of wine.
By now, Theon had managed to collect his thoughts. “He was a man who thought nothing of brushing aside centuries of enmity to reach out to a lonely boy far from home. That’s a rare thing, lad. A rare thing. Trust. Honor. Compassion. Some people would call that foolish, or weak.” Theon shook his head. “But the Starks know better. What do we say?”
“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Robb recited.”
Yes, the pack survived, thought Theon. Even you, Robb, even you. We saved as much of you as we could, Sansa and I. We saved your name and your principles, as much as we could.
He shot his son a small, proud smile. “Exactly. And Robb Stark knew a thing or two about building a pack.” Theon swallowed. “He was a man anyone would be proud to call brother.“
Sansa met his eyes, then squeezed his shoulder. He responded with a slight smile.
He frowned as a hard look creeped upon her face. No, not hard. Fierce, determined. He suddenly understood that his wife recalled a very different story when she thought of her brother. A boy who had to grow up too fast and died too early. They had all lost their childhoods, Sansa and Theon and Robb and Jon and Arya and Bran. Rickon...Rickon who had lost everything.
But the Queen in the North was working tirelessly, with a woman’s courage and a wolf’s will, to make the world a place where a boy named Robb could grow up and grow old.
He watched as she turned to her son. “He was a boy, like you.” That was all she said.
Robb Seawolf didn’t seem to notice the shiver that ran through the adults at the table. He cocked his head at his mother’s words. Suddenly, he leapt from his seat.
“I’m not a boy! I’m a wolf!” he cried. He threw back his head. “Ooo-ooo-oooooooooooo!”
A choir of children joined in with exuberant howls. “Arooooooooo! Ooo-ooo-ooo!”
Robb dashed towards his friends on wild legs. “Ooo-ooo-ooooo! Arooooooo!”
Soon enough, the wailing chorus drowned out any hope of conversation as a rowdy (and likely overtired) pack raced around the Hall.
Theon turned to the assembled lords. “Starks,” he sighed, shaking his head.
“Seawolfs,” replied Sansa with a wry eyebrow. “Come, we’d better corral your son.”