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In his third year as a hostage at Winterfell, Theon begins to plot his escape.

He’d had the dreams since he first came to the North, frightened, homesick, completely alone and distrusted by seemingly everyone he met just for being ironborn. Some of the dreams were nightmares – running through the wolfswood with baying hounds at his heals until he finally falls down and Lord Stark comes to take his head with a gleaming, black blade. Some of the dreams were triumphant and gleeful. In those, he would return home to his mother’s arms, his father’s pride, and everyone else’s general adoration, hailed as the prince who escaped the wolf’s jaws. But it’s not until Theon is twelve and some moons that he begins to feel like he could seriously do something about his predicament. By now, the people of Winterfell are too used to him to distrust him actively. He’s proved himself a dutiful enough squire to Lord Stark and acceptably courteous to Lady Catelyn. The Starks’ eldest son and heir has taken to following him around, always full of curiosity and amiable chatter. For all that he is insufferable, there’s something adorable in his tenacity, and the only other person even remotely close to Theon’s age within the castle walls is the bastard Jon Snow. But Snow is sullen, boring and has disliked Theon from the first day they met. So humoring Robb Stark is about his only option besides being completely alone, and he had had enough of that his first year at Winterfell.

In any case, at this point, no one truly expects Theon to make a bid for his freedom. Surprise is crucial, Dagmer Cleftjaw had told him of raids. Take them unaware, and you deplete numerical advantages significantly. Theon repeats this bit of wisdom to himself sometimes when he first begins to contemplate a possible escape. Take the bastards unaware. It would be damned good to see one of Dagmer’s ugly smiles again.

It starts out slowly, tentatively. Theon has never been good at being patient, but in this he forces himself to wait. He realizes well enough that he only has one good shot at it – any mistake or misstep can ruin everything, and he shudders to think of what might happen if he were to run and got caught. He starts by watching and taking note of things inside the castle – the switching of the guard, the servants’ routines. He maps out the passageway and hallways in his head. One evening he finds a blueprint of the castle in the library, and the next, makes a copy of it onto a fresh piece of parchment that he hides among his things. The blueprint is not terribly detailed and feels most like a sketch, but it’s to scale, and Theon adds meticulously to it from his own observations.

After a while, he begins to study the area around the castle. More maps populate his secretaire – a detailed one of the immediate area outside the castle walls and two other less detailed ones of the North in general. He takes Robb riding in the wolfswood and learns the terrain by heart best he can. While Robb chatters happily about one thing or another, pleased that Theon is paying significantly more attention to him, Theon takes mental notes of the paths and the tree patterns and learns to orient himself even on the bleakest of days without the sun. To make the outings more fun, he and Robb make a day of each one – riding, fishing, climbing trees. Theon tries to teach Robb how to shoot down birds with a bow without much success. The first few times they go, Lady Catelyn sends a chaperone with them from the Winterfell garrison, but after a while, and a solemn promise from Theon to not go too far, they are allowed to head out on their own for a few hours at a time. Usually, Theon can convince Robb to keep secret if they venture out further or in a different direction than usual.

Theon uses hunts and the times he must ride out with Lord Stark to executions or other business for the same purpose. His maps get more detailed, his ability to orient in the lands around the castle better. On hunts, some of the men comment on how he has a great sense of direction for someone so young. Theon feels himself swell up in pride, even though he knows where his abilities come from. He would be no where near as effective outside the wolfswood.

He makes sure to always know where west is. If anything, when the time comes, he will need to go west.

He asks Farlen for tracking lessons. Theon enjoys hunting – no one questions it. He pays attention when the attendants skewer game over a campfire after a hunt and wonders if he could figure out how to roast a just-caught fish. It’s a long way to the coast from Winterfell, and even further to any proper port town. He might be on the run on his own for a while. He’ll need to know things, though he hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Every time he hits the bullseye while practicing his bow, Theon thinks of his escape. If only it were as easy as letting an arrow loose. But he’ll never be able to fight his way out of Winterfell. He’ll need to sneak out. He’ll need a good head start, for surely they’ll come after him with hounds and trackers.

He lets another arrow fly and closes his eyes. Robb whoops gleefully behind him, announcing that it is a perfect shot once again.

Theon turns and grins at him. Robb smiles back, eyes bright and awe-struck. He’ll miss someone looking at him like that. Although perhaps if he manages to get home after all, his father will look at him with pride. That will be enough. That will be better.

The North is large and inhospitable. Winterfell is too far from the sea, surrounded by loyal bannermen and the closest port to the west is on the Saltspeare. But to get to Saltspeare, he would need to go through Torrhen’s Square first, then down the river. Castle Cerwyn is near there too and Theon feels a shiver run down his back when he thinks of having to avoid all the possible search parties that Lord Stark’s nearby bannermen may be commanded to deploy. But this way is closest. The only other options are Deepwood Motte and the Stony Shore.

There’s no true port at Deepwood, but there are docks set up for middling size ships to come down from Bear Island and to deliver provisions to Deepwood itself when it’s easier to take them by sea than through the thick woods surrounding the caste. It would be a longer trek, however, and through thick woods with plenty of possibility of getting lost, even if the woods would be good cover for avoiding any Glover men. As soon as he hits the coast, Theon figures he could bride his way onto a ship going south or, if none were available, threaten or bribe the fishermen trading up and down the coast from the Stony Shore to take him along in their boats. He could help them fish, even.

Cutting straight through to the Stony Shore would save him time in the long run, even if the initial trek on land might be longer than to Deepwood and he would have to be more precise about it. The river that forms the northern boundary of the Rills spills into two twin lakes, the northern one being just on the edge of the wolfswood. He could make his way along the banks of the lakes and down the river to the coast, then around the Rills to the first port in Blazewater Bay. House Ryswell are Stark bannermen, but the Rills are large and not quite as crawling with holdfasts and Stark men as the way to and from Torrhen’s Square would be.

Theon figures where he ends up going will likely depend on the opportunity he gets to get out of the castle undetected and with the expectation of a large-enough head start. He can’t even begin to imagine how he will orchestrate that. But when it happens, he’ll be ready with his maps, his needle compass that Uncle Victarion gave him as a present for his nineth nameday, his bow, and a meticulous knowledge of the woods directly surrounding Winterfell in nearly all directions.

He’s going home. He’s nearly ten and three and his planning has taken him almost a year, but eventually it will pay off and he will make a daring and glorious escape. Theon can feel it.

On his thirteenth nameday, Theon charms a kitchen wench into sneaking him some Arbor wine. All the Stark children get great feasts in their honor, as children of lords ought to, and even Jon Snow receives a celebratory dinner, if a far smaller and more family-oriented affair, overshadowed by Lady Stark’s pained expressions. Theon is accorded no such attentions, and although he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, the feeling of loneliness persists more than on other days. When he is older, Theon will round up some of the young men from Winterfell’s garrison, and with Lord Stark’s leave they will trample down to Winter Town for drinks and whoring and a boisterous night out. But at ten and three, Theon is wary of the stolen wine and cautious that he might be given up to Lord Stark if he mentions it to any of the men.

Still, drinking alone leaves a bitter taste, so when Robb comes knocking on his door with some trivial present he cobbled together and insisting that no one should spend their nameday alone, Theon lets him in, and in a fit of mischief fills half a cup for Robb as well. When Jon Snow comes around an hour later in search of Robb, they’re positively giggling – Robb tipsy from the half-cup of wine and Theon having downed at least a third of the bottle.

Snow, morose as always, looks on with disapproval. “You know we’re not allowed to drink without Father knowing,” he tells Robb. “He’s being a poor influence on you.”

Theon is too drunk to care, so he only snorts and takes another gulp from the bottle. “You want some more, Robb?” he asks, smiling slyly at Snow’s disapproval.

Robb grins and holds out his cup. “Yes, please.”

“Stop it or I’ll tell Father!” Snow snaps as Theon pours a bit of the wine into Robb’s cup.

“You’ll do no such thing.” Robb insists, lifting his chin imperiously. “It’s Theon’s nameday and we’re drinking to his health.”

“Your Father lets you drink a cup at namedays, does he not, Snow? Yours too, even though you’re only a bastard.”

Jon scowls. “it’s not the same.”

“You can have some too, Jon,” Robb says, trying to be placating.

Snow doesn’t take Robb up on the offer of wine but goes to sit beside him in what Theon recognizes as a fit of protectiveness. Theon would rather he not be there at all, but at least as long as he’s not making a fuss…

“You interrupted a story,” Robb tells Jon, nudging him a little. “Theon was telling me about the last hunt.”

Theon’s sly smile grows. He knows just the way to increase Robb’s amusing wide-eyed wonder and Snow’s aghast disbelief. He spins them a wild, half-drunken tale of a unicorn legend and of how they found unicorn tracks in the woods, but of course none of the men will ever tell. Theon could never remember later the specifics of the story – why the unicorns were in hiding or why no one wanted to speak of them. All he knows is that Robb had been flushed and excited and giggling throughout and that Snow had seemed thoroughly unimpressed, but did not dare contradict him when every attempt ended in Robb hissing at him to hush and let Theon finish.

Theon goes to bed that night warm and sleepy from the wine and laughter, thinking that Robb is sweet, really, as far as Starks go. But when he dreams, he dreams of home, of Asha’s laughter on the wind, his mother’s voice calling for him to not wade too far out into the surf as the sea swallows him up to the waist, and his father’s hand, warm and heavy, on his shoulder during his last nameday feast on the Islands.

Not a week later, Robb disappears.

And Theon knows: this is his chance.

The thing is, no one realizes anything is amiss until midday meal. Robb is at breakfast as usual, but when they get to morning lessons, he asks to be excused, pleading a headache. When questioned, Robb says that he is not ill but the headache is making it difficult to concentrate and he would like to sleep. Morning activities and chores keep everyone busy, so Maester Luwin doesn’t go to check on Robb until it is almost time to dine again. Not finding Robb in his room, the consensus is that Robb had decided to sneak off somewhere and skip lessons, but that he is unlikely to miss a meal.

When Robb doesn’t appear at midday meal and none of the servants who are asked have seen him since morning, concern begins to set in.

As the household is busy questioning staff and trying to see if they can devise where Robb had gone hiding, Theon takes to the yard with his bow. He is still half-convinced that Robb has simply decided on a bit of mischief. He may be the perfectly behaved lordling most days, but he’s also only eight. The only thing that seems odd to Theon is that all of Robb’s partners-in-crime – primarily himself and Jon Snow – are accounted for, and it’s unusual for Robb to cause mischief on his own.

In another hour, Jon Snow comes to Lord Stark in tears, saying that he and Robb had argued and Robb had said he’d prove him wrong and he’s likely snuck out of the castle into the wolfswood to do just that. Another quarter of an hour later, Lord Stark is organizing search parties in the front courtyard.

Theon is mildly concerned – how far could Robb have gone, even if he did manage to sneak out of the castle grounds? Yet, he’s been gone several hours now and lately there has been some talk of poachers in the woods and bandits on the Kingsroad. It’s likely mostly gossip and rumors of jittery smallfolk, but still disconcerting. Not to mention that the wolfswood is know for, well, wolves – although their population seems to have thinned out severely over the past decade.

Another half-hour goes by in preparations and organization of search parties and a second sweep of the castle and godswood. No sign of Robb.

They send a raven to Castle Cerwyn, in case this is some ill-advised attempt by Robb to visit with Cley Cerwyn in secret, but no one is about to wait for news. Besides, if Robb is on foot, he would not get there until morning. Theon thinks the entire thing is bogus – there’s simply no reason for Robb to make a secret trip to Castle Cerwyn.

Theon climbs the ramparts and watches the chaos in the courtyard bellow. Just about the entire garrison is being assembled; Farlen and the hunters have brought out the hounds. They will spread out around Winterfell – a party to the north, another to the east, another south. Another three will head for the wolfswood and then break up into smaller groups for a more methodical search of the wooded area and—

The realization strikes Theon like a knife to the side.

Oh.

He scampers down from the ramparts and makes a dash for his room. He locks the door behind himself and takes a deep breath. Focus, Greyjoy.

If the search takes long enough, the search parties in the wolfswood will spread out thin and be entangled in thick underbrush in many places. The going will be slow while they search for one small child, who really could be anywhere. For all Theon knows, Robb could be playing some silly prank and hiding on purpose. It wouldn’t be hard, after a time, to break away from a search party and ride as fast as he can deep into the woods, his disappearance unnoticed for hours. Between finding Robb, bringing him back, and all the hysteria that’s likely to attend the situation, no one will notice his disappearance long after nightfall. He will have his head start, and one boy making his way through the woods at night can be far swifter than a search party with tired-out hounds.

In the courtyard, the search parties were almost formed up.

He has five minutes. Maybe ten.

Theon’s head is buzzing and his nerves feel like they’re on fire. He dives under the bed and fishes out a leather travel pack; stuffs it full – maps, compass, tinderbox, waterskin, fishing hook and line, spare shirt, a thin coil of rope, and the small purse in which he keeps the entirety of his savings. He grabs some ornate cloak pins as well, the ones inset with gemstones, for their potential monetary value. Theon ties the pack to his belt and hides it under his cloak, then hooks a dagger onto his belt and hides a second one in his boot. On his way down, he stops by the kitchens and pockets some bread rolls. Next – the armory for his bow and a quiver stuffed with too many arrows.

Then he’s standing in front of Lord Stark, his heart racing, and genuine desperation in his eyes.

“My lord,” Theon begins, in as steady a voice as he can manage. “I would like to go on the search as well. I could be of help. I know these woods well, and Robb and I have played there enough that I might wager a guess at which way he’d likely go. I’ve also been learning about tracking and I’m not half bad at it. I’m nearly a man grown now and…” He trails off, forcing himself to not look away from Lord Stark’s grim, stormy face.

“Very well,” Lord Stark says after several moments of hesitation and waves Theon over to join the search party heading west, lead by Jory Cassel, while he takes the one going northwest. Theon takes a deep, steadying breath as he mounts a young, skittish mare.

An hour or so later, their search party breaks up into smaller search parties and then smaller ones still in another hour to cover more ground faster. Theon tracks carefully where they’ve gone and how the smaller search parties splinter off. His best bet, he figures, is to head mostly west, deeper into the woods, and cut slightly southward. Then, once he’s gotten his head start, cut more sharply southwest and to the lakes just north of the Rills.

Soon enough, Theon leads a group with three other young men. He knows the area better than they do and he’s higher born than they are, so they follow his lead without question. When he suggests, at one point, that they split up and meet back in about an hour or two, they do not question him. Theon rides at a walk for some quarter of an hour, shouting Robb’s name at odd intervals and listening to see if he can hear the others.

He’s nervous, jittery, half-numb with excitement and fear, but he’s going home, and that thought keeps him steady. In the back of his mind, he wonders where Robb might have gotten off to and if he’s well. But there’s nothing Theon can do, no matter what he’d lead Lord Stark to believe. He’s only one man and nearly all of Winterfell is out looking for Robb. What has or will happen to him is not in Theon’s control.

What is in Theon’s control is his own fate.

Hs stops and listens intently. The woods are still and silent other than the occasional bird call. Theon waits another minute, takes a deep breath, turn his horse, and puts his heels into her sides.

“Go, girl, go!”

He manages to ride at nearly a gallop for some twenty minutes, then a canter for half an hour at least, then a trot for another hour. But finally, the foliage becomes too thick, the ground under them too treacherous and uneven. Theon slows the mare to a walk and ponders his options. The woods are getting thick and the light is fading fast now. As much as the horse feels like it offers him security, she is only slowing him down in this terrain, and she will be easier to track later.

Theon dismounts and pats her on the side, lets go of the reins. The mare looks at him with large, confused eyes, and it takes Theon a minute to scare her off. Finally, she trots off, huffing and snorting; Theon stops to briefly consult his maps and compass before plunging headfirst into the underbrush, headed southwest.

Headed home.

It’s getting dark and Theon’s nerves are starting to settle a little. He likely has a few more hours before he has to start worrying about the pursuit. He slows his run to a walk for a chance to catch his breath and take stalk of his surroundings. The woods are thick here, but a little patchy in places, letting in light and the thick underbrush giving way to rich dirt and gnarled roots here and there. There are no swamps or marshes in this stretch of wood as there are further north, so Theon is not too afraid of wondering into one of those. He hopes that is not what befell Robb.

Where could the lad even have gone? Theon shakes his head. It’s none of his business now.

He keeps walking.

A sudden rustle from somewhere to his left makes Theon jump. He grabs for his bow and pulls an arrow from the quiver. Nocks it. There are wolves in these woods, but also deer and smaller game, Theon reassures himself. But we haven’t seen any bears. Even if it’s a wolf, he can take down a wolf. He’s done it before on hunts.

What if they’ve come for me? Found me? No, that was ridiculous. He would have heard a pursuit. There would have been hounds.

There’s another rustle and that odd feeling of not being alone. Theon raises the bow and takes a step forward. What if it’s a poacher or a bandit or— He trips over a gnarled root bulging up from the dirt and nearly keels over. Theon curses under his breath, finds his feet, and lifts the bow again. He can’t see anything in the thick foliage and it’s getting dark.

Then, suddenly, more rustling. “Is…is someone there? Hello?”

Theon startles and the bow bobs recklessly in his hands. He lowers it a little. That’s a human—a child— That’s Robb. He curses again, more fervently. “Robb? Is that you?”

“Theon! Theon, help me!”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Down—down here.”

Down? Theon slings the bow back over his shoulder and carefully inches further through the gloom. A voice in the back of his head is telling him he shouldn’t be stopping. Not even for this. Not even for him.

He almost misses it – probably would have in the dark if he weren’t already anticipating a ditch or slope of some kind given what Robb had said. It is likely an old, abandoned trapping pit, still partially covered by branches and leaves. Its sides had crumbled on the far side, making for something of a slope. Robb is sitting on the ground, one leg tucked up to his chest the other stretched out, his arms around himself to ward off the cold. His auburn hair stands out against the dark dirt sides of the pit.

As soon as Robb sees him, he makes a small squealing sound and jumps up, only to fall down again with a muffled cry.

Shit. “Are you hurt? What are you doing down there?”

“I fell,” he admits sheepishly. Theon notices his voice is rough, a little hoarse, although he’s not sure if that’s from the cold, because he’d been yelling for help, or crying. “My ankle hurts. I can kind of stand on it but not enough to climb—can you get me out of here?”

“Aye, hold on.” You’re wasting time, the voice in the back of his head tells him. Theon winces. The search parties will have much better luck finding him if Robb isn’t at the bottom of some ditch and it doesn’t look like the boy will have any voice left soon with which to call for help. I’m not heartless, he tells himself and thanks the Drowned God that he’d managed to take some rope.

The rope isn’t long, but it helps him keep his hold on the slippery dirt slope as he goes down into the pit through its crumbling side and then comes back up with Robb latched around his neck. When they’re on even ground, Theon sets the boy down against a tree, instinctively checks him over for more injuries. He’s shivering badly and his ankle is no good – badly twisted or sprained – and his face is puffy like he’d been crying, but otherwise he looks alright.

Robb is talking. Telling him how he’d snuck out using some tunnels going through the crypts or something, hoping he’d be able to prove Jon wrong about the unicorn legend, but had gotten lost and couldn’t find his way back. He hadn’t noticed the pit in his distress and fallen right in on the side where the wall was still intact. “You’re lucky all you hurt is your ankle,” Theon tells him. “All of Winterfell is out looking for you.”

He makes to stand up, but Robb grabs at him, clutching his arm with both hands. “Wait, where are you going?” His eyes are wide, impossibly blue and trusting. “Where is everyone else?”

Well, fuck. What is he going to tell him? I’m going to leave you here until someone comes, bye? He knows it shouldn’t matter. He’s wasting time and it’s not like he’ll ever see Robb again. But Robb is looking at him like he looks at the trees in the godswood, with reverent awe and desperation. Theon fumbles for something to say that won’t make him feel like a complete ass.

Robb wiggles, confusion starting to seep into his relieved and adoring expression. “Theon?”

“I, um—we had to spread out to cover more ground faster and all. It’s getting dark. You wait here, alright?”

Robb’s eyes go even wider and his grip on Theon’s arm tightens. He’s strong for an eight-year-old who’s been out in the woods alone all day, but Theon could still pry him off easily enough. It’s only that a tentative attempt to do just that makes Robb’s eyes fill with tears.

“I’m just going to go back and fetch the closest search party,” Theon tries to reason with him. “Robb, you can’t walk and I don’t know how far I’ll be able to carry you. You’re getting heavy.” It’s true enough – Robb is on the smaller side for his age and Theon has started his growth spurt and lately he’s been putting on muscle from training like he hadn’t done in childhood. Still, a man grown would have a much easier time carrying Robb any significant distance and Theon figures they should still be pretty far from any search parties – at least if he did things right. At any rate, the woods around them are silent.

Robb, however, is shaking his head vehemently. “I can walk. Please, just don’t leave, I can walk, I promise.” He stands, but as soon as he tries to step his face scrunches up in pain. He’s still holding on to Theon’s arm with as tight a grip as he can. Theon catches him around the waist and sits him back down.

“You’re not going to walk on that ankle if you want to be able to ever walk on it again. Stay still.” He uses his most commanding voice and Robb obeys, curling up on himself, but still not letting Theon go. “I will just get help and come straight back,” he promises, feeling a little guilty, but the anxiety from how much time he’s lost is starting to eat away at him. Anyway, the search parties are being methodical. They will find Robb eventually – in a couple of hours, maybe a little more. No way Lord Stark wraps up the search before he has his son, even if it’s dark. Especially so. They’ll light torches and keep going.

“What if you can’t remember how to get back to me?” Robb reasons, his voice pathetically pleading. “It’s getting so dark. What if…what if a wolf comes or something?”

“The wolf population in these woods—” Theon starts to argue, but cuts himself off. Get out of here! The voice in the back of his head is screaming. Leave the stupid little wolf pup to be found by the bloody Starks and get away! “No wolves. They haven’t come for you yet, have they?”

Robb shakes his head, but he looks dubious.

“I won’t get lost. Do I ever get lost? No. Now, you can’t walk and I doubt I’ll be able to carry you far.”

“Then stay with me until they find us,” Robb pleads, the tears finally spilling over and running down his cheeks. “Please, Theon. I’m—I’m… I’m scared.” Robb looks down, ashamed at the admission.

Theon bites the inside of his cheek. This was not supposed to happen. He was not supposed to find Robb. He certainly wasn’t supposed to feel so stuck and fucking obligated now that he had found him. “What are you crying for? You’re too old to cry like a mewling babe,” he snaps. It comes out far harsher than he had intended.

Robb whimpers, but it does have the effect of the boy letting go of him to rub frantically at his eyes.

“If I stay with you, who knows how long it will take them to find us. You’re cold aren’t you?”

Robb nods vigorously. “Very.” Theon notes that the temperature has dropped significantly in the past hour. He knows it will only get progressively worse. He’s quite screwed up his chances of making any kind of fire to stay warm overnight himself, as Robb, once found, will tell Stark’s men about seeing Theon and they will know in what direction to start the search. He won’t be able to switch directions until dawn for fear of getting lost. This was not supposed to happen.

The fear and anger at this turn to the situation force Theon to his feet. “So, it’s best this way. I’ll be back. You just…stay there.”

“Theon,” Robb’s voice is small and he looks up at Theon through a curtain of messy curls falling into his face. He looks miserable. Something wet lands on Theon’s nose and it takes him several moments to realize that it’s started snowing. For fuck’s sake it’s summer, he thinks in frustration. “Please, don’t leave me.” There’s something utterly hopeless in Robb’s voice and an odd expression in his eyes, like he doesn’t believe Theon when he says he’ll come back. He shouldn’t, Theon admits to himself.

But there’s nothing to be done for it. “Don’t you trust me, Stark?” he asks, already backing away.

Robb seems to think about this for a moment, then nods, biting his lip. “I’ll stay put,” he promises, and curls up on himself, his hair already full of snowflakes.

Theon backs away a couple more steps, then turns and walks, finally breaking into a jog once he’s out of Robb’s line of sight. He tries to not think too hard about what has happened, to tell himself that the search parties will find Robb soon enough – two, three hours, maybe four. Could be longer if they’re particularly incompetent. But no, he couldn’t have gotten that far before letting his horse go, and the search parties were mounted, even if the going would get slower once it is completely dark. The moon is large, almost full, but it’s half-hidden by soggy clouds and the treetops, only some of its light filtering down. I have to think about myself, Theon tells himself. At worst, some two-three hours for them to find him, another couple of hours for everyone to get back to Winterfell. How long until they realize I’m gone after that? How long to decide to mount another search party? The horses would need to be watered, the hounds fed, and both beasts and men would be tired from the nearly day-long search for Robb. If he was lucky, they would not set out until the morning. All he had to do was keep moving and pay attention so he didn’t get lost. The moon would be his guide, at least while it was still out.

But his mind won’t cooperate. He can’t stop thinking about Robb, curled up under the tree where Theon had left him, snowflakes starting to cover his head, hurt and cold and so very small. Theon’s entire being seems to be at war with itself over this: he could freeze like this before they find him – rubbish, he has a fur cloak – what if some animal comes for him; he couldn’t run or climb a tree on that ankle – the wolves in these woods are few and far between as you’ve often lamented on hunts, Greyjoy. Theon stumbles and nearly runs headfirst into a tree. He leans against the trunk, breathing heavily. His imagination is overflowing with images of Robb being torn apart by some wolf or going still under a blanket of snow. He tries to tell himself it shouldn’t matter, that it’s no concern of his. If anything, he should want Ned Stark to experience loss and pain and hopelessness – to have his joy torn away from him.

But Robb trusts him. Robb has done nothing wrong. How long will it take him to realize that Theon has lied? Would he even realize or simply think Theon got lost, or couldn’t recall how to get back to him? Theon had never wanted any harm to befall Robb – and it was different leaving when he didn’t know where Robb was and had only a very small chance of making any difference in the search. Now that he knows, now that the choice is his…

He tries to make himself walk again. He can’t run. Every step feels full of guilt and dread. Memories of teaching Robb how to hold a bow in the yard and Robb laughing at even the worst of his jokes intermingle with the hysterical images of Robb’s violent death alone in the woods that Theon’s mind has decided to conjure up and inflict on him. Home, I have to get home, he tries to remind himself. But all he can hear in his mind is how terrified Robb had sounded when he asked him to not leave.

“Fucking wolf pup,” Theon groans, stopping and hiding his face in his hands.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf gives a short bark of a howl, as though on cue. It’s so distant and faint that he might have imagined it, or it might not have been a howl or a wolf at all, but some bleating nightbird. But Theon’s heart still skips a beat and in that moment he knows he’s lost.

The snow has begun to fall in earnest, reflecting what moonlight filters in through the trees, and making everything brighter. When Theon gets back to Robb, the boy is right where he had left him, curled up against a fat tree trunk, snow covering his hair and shoulders. He doesn’t move at all until Theon is kneeling right in front of him. When he does look up, his eyes are glassy and it seems to take him a moment to recognize Theon.

“You came back,” Robb whispers, the corners of his mouth quirking up into the ghost of a smile.

“I told you I would. Unfortunately, not with help. I realized I don’t know where exactly the nearest search party it and it’s too dark and you’re too cold. So, we’ll just have to make the best of it together.”

Robb nods eagerly, uncurling a little. “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” he says, parroting something Lord Stark tells his children sometimes. Theon makes a face but decides to not comment.

“Come on. Arms around my shoulders, legs around my waist.”

Robb doesn’t need to be asked twice. He practically launches himself into Theon’s arms and wraps himself around him like a leach, his arms wound tightly around Theon’s neck and legs squeezing his sides, perhaps a little too tightly. Theon hoists him up, makes another face at the realization that Robb is a relatively small and light child, but Theon fully expects needing to stop now and again and for his arms and shoulders to be sore the next morning.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me,” Robb mumbles against his neck. Theon doesn’t answer – he’s half-ashamed, half-furious with himself. Robb clings to him and Theon can feel every tremor that runs through his body. It shouldn’t make him feel a strange, tangled mess of emotions, but it does.

“Well, then you have more faith in me than most here,” Theon says for lack of anything else to say. It comes out sounding bitter.

Robb doesn’t notice, because he merely sniffles and says, “You’re my friend. Of course you wouldn’t leave me. I wouldn’t leave you.”

Theon rolls his eyes even though he knows Robb can’t see. “That’s nice, Robb. Now be quiet so I can concentrate on where we’re going.”

Robb does as he’s told. Theon is thankful for the silence as he begins the trek back toward Winterfell. He’s not certain where the nearest search party is, but he has a decent idea of what direction they should be moving in. It would be harder if the sky was completely covered with clouds, but despite the summer snows, there’s enough moon to guide him. In the dark and the silence, Theon contemplates his choices and finds them woefully lacking. All his planning, all his careful, tedious work was for nothing. Probably would stay for nothing as someone as suspicious as Lady Catelyn would surely find fault in his sudden disappearance from his assigned search party. Lord Stark too. He would likely be watched carefully from now on, and even if he isn’t, who knows when a good possibility will present itself again. If ever.

It could be years.

And for what? For Lord Stark’s son? An entitled, coddled brat… Theon huffs aloud in frustration. No matter how much he tells himself that he has no attachment to Robb, that Robb is nothing to him – should be nothing to him – he can’t help the affection he feels for the boy. It comes out of nowhere and if what he is doing right now isn’t proof of it than nothing is. If you were so concerned for his life, Theon tells himself bitterly, in a voice that could almost be his father’s – you could have taken him with you as a hostage. It’s a wild idea, for a multitude of reasons – Robb would slow him down, Robb would fight him or run away when he realized that was happening, a million other things. Yet it sticks in his head, and Theon’s rancor with himself is about equal to the unwanted affection he feels for Robb.

Some half an hour in, Theon stops to rest, setting Robb down beside him. Robb leans against him as to not put weight onto his hurt ankle. He’s still terribly pale and shivering all over. “Do you know how much longer it is?” Robb asks, biting at his lower lip.

“No,” Theon says, a little harsher than he intended, but he’s been lost in fantasies of returning home with a Stark child as a hostage and what accolades that might have won him. But instead he’s here, walking in the wrong directly. Because he’d allowed a snotty child to charm him into submission. You shame the very name Ironborn with this weakness, a voice that could be Lord Balon’s, could be Rodrik’s or even Maron’s whispers in his ear.

“Oh,” Robb says, and drops his eyes, sensing Theon’s irritation. “Are you…mad at me?”

“All of Winterfell is out looking for you and we’re trekking through the bloody snow in the woods in the dark. What do you think?”

“Oh,” Robb repeats, tearfully this time, hugging himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be trouble. I just wanted to prove to Jon that you weren’t lying and that the unicorns are real. I didn’t think I’d get lost…”

Theon stares at him. He hadn’t really paid attention the first time Robb explained what had happened and now the absurdity of the situation actually hits him. “Of course I was lying,” he says in bewilderment. “Well…not lying but…I was exaggerating, Robb! Unicorns don’t exist.”

Robb looks up at him with wide eyes as blue as the sea on a clear summer day and there’s utter distress in them. “Really? It did sound a little fantastic but it’s…such a nice thing? And aren’t there unicorns on Skagos? Why can krakens and direwolves exist but not unicorns?”

Theon runs a hand through his hair, snorts a laugh. “For fuck’s sake. And Maester Luwin says you’re a bright lad.”

Robb sniffles and hugs himself tighter. Something about finding out that unicorns do not exist – or perhaps that he caused a lot of trouble for nothing – makes him hug himself tighter and his face crumble into that expression he gets when he’s about to cry. “Can we keep going?”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“Yes, you are. I know that face. What are you crying for? We’ll be in Winterfell soon enough. You’re far too old to cry over bloody unicorns.”

Robb bursts into tears in earnest now. “I’m not! I’m just tired, and hungry and cold—and—and—I’m cold, Theon.” He looks up at him, tears streaming down his face, and Theon wants to snap, I’m always cold in this frozen shithole you call home, but something stops him. Perhaps that annoying feeling of affection that made him choose to take Robb home instead of pressing onward with his plan. The poor boy did look terribly cold and Theon was, on the opposite, quite warm from the exercise of carrying Robb.

Maybe he’ll stop crying, Theon thinks as he unties his own cloak.

When he drapes it over Robb’s shoulders and bundles him up, Robb’s crying immediately stifles to sniffling. He looks up at Theon uncertainly, eyes wide. “What are you doing?’

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Won’t you be cold?” Robb cocks his head to the side, but clutches at the cloak, which is far too big for him, all the same, wrapping it tightly around himself.

“Not while I must carry you around. Come on, let’s get going.” He hoists Robb back up into his arms, readjusts him, which is made initially harder by the overlarge cloak he’s bundled in, and starts walking again. The cold air bites at his skin, but Robb’s heavy enough and Theon tries to pick up the pace. The exertion keeps the cold tolerably at bay. Robb’s sniffling subsides after a minute or so and he goes back to hiding his face against Theon’s shoulder, his breath warm and wet against Theon’s neck.

“Warmer now?” Theon asks after some time, thinking he should probably check in on the boy now and again.

“Yes,” Robb says. He sounds calm. Thank the Gods. “Thank you. For the cloak and—and for carrying me.”

“Wouldn’t want you to freeze and all. Your lord father and lady mother wouldn’t like that much.”

From the vibration of Robb’s body, Theon thinks he’s stifling a giggle. Little shit. Then Robb goes very still for a moment, before mumbling against Theon’s neck so quietly, he almost doesn’t catch it. “I love you.”

When Theon’s brain catches up, he nearly drops Robb into the snow out of shock. Somehow, he manages not to. Then, tells himself he misheard. But he hadn’t and the need to say something back makes his skin crawl and itch, as though he could get out of this uncomfortable predicament by shedding it. You shouldn’t, Theon thinks. You don’t know what you’re saying. I almost left you to fend for yourself back there.

He’s saved from having to respond by the sudden, very distant, sound of shouting. “Hear that? That would be the search parties,” Theon says. “You’re safe, wolfling. I told you we’d be back in no time.”

It takes them at least another fifteen minutes to reach a place where they can see torches through the trees and another ten or so to actually get close enough for Theon to shout and get the search party’s attention. The man who finally reaches them is Jory, which is fine enough by Theon – Jory is a good sort, mostly, and while he’s surprised to see Theon, when he realizes the large bundle in his arms is Robb, his eyes go wide and the rest of his face slack in relief.

“Greyjoy…how—never mind, later. Is Robb…?”

“Hurt? No.” Theon realizes Robb hasn’t looked up at all, even though he’d certainly have recognized Jory’s voice. “Well, his ankle is in a bad way and he’s cold, but nothing terribly alarming.” He’s starting to shiver himself. The temperature has dropped again, as far as he can tell.

“Let’s get back quickly,” Jory motions for them to follow him. “Were you not on horseback?” Jory looks confused more than suspicious, at least.

“I sort of lost it,” Theon says sheepishly. “I had to pull this one out of an old hunting pit he’d fallen into and get through some underbrush…the mare ran off.”

“You didn’t tie her up?”

“I was a little preoccupied with—” Theon begins to snap back, but Jory shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter. You found Robb and thank the gods for that.” They reach the other three men in Jory’s group and the horses. “You can ride double with someone,” Jory says. He reaches for Robb.

But as soon as Theon tries to hand him over, Robb’s hands fist tightly in his doublet and he finally looks up to gaze at Jory blearily. “Jory, I’m going with Theon.” When Jory doesn’t immediately respond, Robb adds, “Please.”

“Come on, Robb,” Theon says reasonably. “Two grown men can’t ride double. Not with how the horses must be tired. And you wouldn’t want someone to walk back, would you?”

Robb does not loosen his hold on him at all. He shakes his head. “No, but please…can’t we make it work somehow?” Theon recognizes the note of whining in his voice. Half the time, Robb tries to sound older and more commanding than he is, but the other half – usually when he’s tired or upset – he sounds exactly his age, if not younger. This time is one of the latter.

Jory gives a long sigh. “Well, Clarence here is slight and small for a lad of six and ten. He could likely ride double with me.”

“Thank you,” Robb mumbles and buries his face back into Theon’s shoulder.

Theon just nods and sets Robb down for a moment to mount. Jory helps Robb mount in front of Theon and after some fidgeting around they find a comfortable position. In minutes they’re riding back to Winterfell by light of the torches. Robb is making an effort to not be a complete dead weight that Theon has to balance along with picking their way through the darkness on a skittish, tired horse, but he’s still pressed up flush against Theon. Now that they’re riding, Theon can feel every inch of the cold and has half a mind to take his cloak back, but Robb is still shivering, it would be inconvenient to do while riding, and he’d just frankly feel like an ass doing it now.

“Aren’t you cold, lad?” Jory asks at one point, and Theon thinks he’s one of the very few people in this damned place who would. But then Jory is a particularly good sort, all things considered.

“Robb needs it more; I’ll live,” Theon mutters, not really wanting to discuss the matter. He just wants to be back already so that he can beat himself up for his insanity and idiocy in the warmth and privacy of his own room.

Luckily, this part of the woods had thick underbrush and most of the search had been done on foot or at a walk, so it doesn’t take them particularly long to get back to Winterfell. Even so, by the time they come riding through the main gates, Theon is shivering even more than Robb and cursing himself all over again. The last thing he needs from all this is to catch a chill. As soon as they’re within the courtyard, Theon dismounts and pulls Robb down as well. Perhaps because he’s tired, or cold or both, everything happening around him feels half surreal. People are shouting, running, someone claps him on the shoulder hard enough that Theon nearly falls over, the horses are baying nervously at all the noise.

Lady Stark comes running toward them some thirty seconds later, Jon Snow trailing behind her, obviously eager to see what is happening but not wanting to get underfoot. Theon hands Robb over to his mother as the buddle he is, and she has to set him down almost immediately. They’re surrounded by other members of the household within seconds and Theon doesn’t stick around to see, stalking off toward the nearest entrance. He brushes shoulders with Maester Luwin on the way in, but the old man doesn’t seem to notice, too intent on getting outside. That suits Theon just fine. He practically runs to his room and locks the door as soon as he’s there.

There’s a fire burning in the hearth and the room is warm. His things are thrown about haphazardly where he had left them in his hurry to pack and leave. He hadn’t thought to see this room again.

He knows he should at least change out of his damp clothes, but suddenly his knees go out and he slides down the wall onto the floor. Slowly, as though in a daze, Theon pulls his knees up to his chest and drops his head in his arms. What have you done? What the bloody fucking hell have you done? The tears come out of nowhere and he squeezes his eyes shut to not cry. His father and his brothers are screaming at him from somewhere deep in his head, You’re useless and you’re soft! That is why your own brothers hated you and your father and sister never write to you— He lets out a small, chocked sob and bites down on his lip hard enough to taste blood. I couldn’t leave him, I’m sorry, I couldn’t—he—I— He’s ruined it all. Foolish and impulsive, like everything else he does. He could be so far away by now. If he had followed his plan, he could be at the lakes in a week, if he had managed to cut far enough south and steal a horse at one of the villages along the edge of the woods. In a fortnight he’d be in Blazewater Bay. Another fortnight and he’d be standing triumphant before his father and embracing Asha and his mother. What would he be doing now in a fortnight? At the next moon?

The pressure between his temples threatens to burst his skull. Theon jumps to his feet with something that’s half a growl, half a groan, and chucks his pack across the room. It slams against the far wall and lands with a dull thud. He reaches for the next thing he’s got and prepares to launch it against the wall as well—

It’s his bow.

He stares at it for a moment, numb with the conflict between destroying everything within reach and feeling like this weapon is as much a part of his body as any limb. The bow is smooth and familiar under his fingers, a comfort that hasn’t changed between home and here.

He falls back to his knees, the bow clattering to the floor beside him. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Theon stays like that for what feels like hours, until his knees are sore and his eyes hurt from how hard he’d squeezed them shut to not allow any tears to escape. He can taste bile in the back of his throat and he doesn’t know if the queasy feeling in his stomach is how much he hates himself for his weakness or because he hadn’t eaten anything for half the day. There’s nothing to be done about that though, nor his shame or the situation in general. He had made that bed when he chose to turn back in the wolfswood. Now, he has to make himself presentable so that no one could accuse him of more than there was already proof.

Theon forces himself to his feet and puts in some effort to change out of his wet clothes, put away his bow, hide his maps, striker and needle compass. He wishes he could have a bath, but the household must be entirely preoccupied with Robb and the returning search parties – he would wait forever for one. He doesn’t want to see anyone, so going down to the kitchens to see what may be left over from dinner is out of the question. Instead, he fishes out a roll he had nicked from kitchens that afternoon before leaving and curls up with it by the fire. He’s exhausted, but he doesn’t think he could sleep if he tried to go to bed.

He needs to think of what to do now. He thinks he can explain away the horse, and maybe even disappearing from his own search party. Badly, but he can. At least there’s nothing that anyone can prove otherwise for certain. Even if they searched his room and found his maps and compass, there is nothing incriminating in that and they could not prove he had them with him. And, in the end, the fact that he had returned with Robb is his best argument. Who here would believe that, given a chance to escape, the squidspawn would willingly return? Theon can barely believe it himself. No, no one could know anything for certain. But they could suspect and probably watch him closely, at least for now—

A knock on his door makes Theon jump. He stares at the locked door as if it is about to sprout fangs and legs and eat him alive. His first thought is to snap, go away! – but that wouldn’t do if anyone of any import is outside. He wishes he could simply say, come in, but it’s locked, so he will actually need to go and face whoever has come to bother him. Finally, he settles on, “Who is it?”

“It’s Maester Luwin.”

Theon sighs and gets up to open the door. “I was going to bed,” he says, without preamble, and forcing himself to meet the maester’s eyes.

Luwin’s expression is unreadable as usual. “May I come in?”

Theon shrugs and walks back into the room, Luwin following him in. “Jory Cassel said that you were the one who found Robb and brought him back. Robb confirms it.”

Theon can’t tell if the old man sounds surprised or not and it’s a little unnerving. “Glad I could be useful around here,” he says, bitterly, before he can stop himself.

“I’m certain everyone is very grateful. Lord Stark would speak with you.”

Theon tenses, despite himself. “Now?”

Maester Luwin shakes his head. “No, not now. On the morrow. It is best everyone rests now. I’ve brought you a soothing draught and warming one as well – if you wish. Jory also said you were without your cloak.”

Isn’t Jory talkative all of a sudden, Theon thinks, but manages to not say. “I gave it to Robb…How—” He swears he doesn’t really care, but it would probably help his case if he asked. “How is Robb?”

“He’ll need to stay off his ankle for a fortnight or so and I won’t be surprised if he’s caught a chill off of this. Otherwise, he’s shaken but unharmed. He’s sleeping now.” Maester Luwin shakes his head and there’s that fond half-smile on his face, the one he gets when speaking about any of the Stark children. But when Luwin looks at him again, his expression becomes serious, and Theon can’t resist the instinctive clenching of his muscles. “Are you well, Theon? I would have expected you to be out among the men, regaling them with tales of tonight’s heroics.”

Is the old man mocking me? Well, he can’t do anything about it either way. “I’m only tired. May I go to bed now or is there anything else?”

The maester gives him a long, penetrating look but doesn’t press the issue, wishes him goodnight and finally leaves. Theon locks the door behind him and decides that he just as might go to bed.

He wonders if he will dream of home, and both hopes for it and dreads it.

Despite Lord Stark’s apparent desire to speak to him, Theon’s morning proceeds without interruption. He eats breakfast, trains and attends lessons with Maester Luwin. Lord Stark is present at breakfast, but he does not speak to Theon or bring up the incident from the day before. It is not until right before the midday meal that Theon finally receives a summons to Lord Stark’s private study. He goes, holding himself as straight and aloof as he can, hoping, and not quite succeeding, to seem carefree and unbothered by anything.

Lord Stark regards him with a long, unreadable look before speaking. It’s like he would read my mind, Theon thinks. At least the thought causes him a modicum of amusement.

“I believe I must thank you, Theon. For bringing Robb back safe and sound.”

Bringing Robb back, Theon repeats to himself, letting the words roll over him, even as goosebumps run down the back of his neck. Not finding him but bringing him back. The unspoken instead of leaving him there to be eaten by wolves while you selfishly escape hangs unspoken between them. “Of course, my lord. It was only luck that I was the one to find him. Could have been anyone.”

Something about his answer clearly falls wrong, Theon realizes, at least judging by Lord Starks long pause and appraising gaze. “Nonetheless it was you. I am, however, pleased to see you display such humility in the matter. You are growing up into a man now, it seems.” Another beat. “A man of honor, I would hope.”

Theon forces himself to meet Lord Stark’s eyes. “Of course, my lord.”

“Though I was baffled to hear that you let your horse go? Did something happen?” The switch in tone puts Theon on edge – casual, conversational, suddenly. Almost paternal. A change in tactic.

“I—I did not let her go, my lord,” Theon says, breathing in and reciting what he had been practicing all morning and the night before as he fell asleep. “I heard Robb calling for help, but to get to him, I would have needed to make my way through some thick underbrush. He seemed distressed so I was in a hurry to get to him. I tied her up—or tried to—but I must have missed on the knot… She ran off, my lord. Forgive me.” Theon looks down, hopefully creating a believable enough picture of shame.

“How far away was Robb?”

“Some…some ways into the underbrush. I couldn’t say for certain…”

“He told us that he didn’t call out to you until he heard your voice.”

“Well, we were…” Theon falters. He hadn’t expected anyone to question Robb in such detail or for Robb to really remember everything, given his state the night before. “Calling his name during the search.”

“He said you weren’t calling for him but, well…expressing some frustration.”

That is a delicate way to say he’d been cursing at something, Theon figures. “I might have been. I don’t recall in such detail, my lord. I’m surprised Robb does. Everything is a bit of a blur now.”

He gets another long look from Lord Stark which seems to just scream, I know you’re lying, boy, but he doesn’t say anything. “Well, under the circumstances I think we can disregard this entire situation with your horse. Small price to have Robb back safe with us. But you cannot be so careless, do you understand? A good horse is a valuable possession.”

“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry. I will be more careful in future.”

“I understand you were distressed yesterday, and eager to find Robb. Which, I suppose, is why you wondered off from the search party you were assigned to.”

It takes all of Theon’s self-control to not wince. He takes another breath and a moment to recall the other half of what he’d rehearsed. “We decided to split up to cover a greater area. We were to meet back in an hour but I…I got lost a little.”

“Nearly a league off at least.” There’s a strange mixture of amusement and sternness in Lord Stark’s voice and it takes all of Theon’s willpower to not crumble and completely give himself out.

“I was eager, as you say, my lord. I thought, at one point, I had a lead. I’ve taken an interest in animal tracking and… I was wrong. Forgive me.” Better to apologize and act the part of stupidity and contrition than the alternative.

“Your friendship and care for Robb is admirable and I’m glad to see that it carried the day.” Lord Stark seems to be choosing his words carefully and it clearly pains him to do so. Theon supposes he is far more used to bluntly stating what he thinks rather than dancing around the issue. “But do you remember what I said at the start of this conversation? About being an honorable man?”

“Yes.”

“That includes honesty and keeping your word. I expect those things in my household, Theon.”

“I understand.” Theon once again forces himself to meet Lord Stark’s eyes.

“I would be very disappointed to find out that you have behaved dishonorably.”

“I have not, my lord.” Theon straightens, chin up and shoulders back, buoyed by the understanding that Lord Stark is not intending to carry out a formal accusation. If he had, he would have done so already. He opens his mouth to add something about caring about Robb or wanting to do his duty, but quickly closes it, deciding to not push his luck.

Lord Stark sighs and nods thoughtfully, clearly unconvinced, but unwilling to have this discussion further. “You may go, Theon.”

Theon bows and leaves the study. He wanders down to the dinning hall for his midday meal, shaken and relieved all at once, but not at all hungry. That could have gone a lot worse, he tells himself, but it’s also obvious that Lord Stark suspects the truth and Theon suspects he will not have another chance at an escape for a very long time.

Mostly what Theon feels in the aftermath is anger. It’s easier to manage than sadness or regret or fear. At least he can make some use of it, channel it into training or getting over his apparently pathetic attachment to Robb. He’s mostly angry at himself, but that’s not the point, and if he tries hard enough it stops really mattering who exactly he’s angry with. He finds himself lashing out – at Jon Snow, which isn’t anything new, and at Robb, which is. He’s angry with himself but Robb is the reason why he’s fucked himself so badly.

Robb, on the other hand, is apparently determined to make sure they become attached at the hip now.

For one, Robb will not leave him alone. He has few opportunities to be a pest, at least. Robb attends lessons as usual and is carried down to the dining hall for meals by Hodor, but he is confined to his room for the rest of the time, both out of necessity to rest his injured ankle and, Theon suspects, as punished for sneaking out. But over the following two days he takes every opportunity to glue himself to Theon’s side and chatter cheerfully about whatever comes into his head. Theon vacillates between ignoring him, to brushing him off, to being almost-rude. Robb always reacts with the same half-hurt confusion in his eyes. It’s better like this, Theon tells himself. Logically, he knows he should distance himself from the overeager wolf pup. After what happened, that should be obvious.

At dinner on the second day, Robb finally tries to address the subject directly.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks, quietly enough that his parents, who are listening to little Sansa recount some silly fairytale, won’t hear.

“No,” Theon says with a shrug.

Robb chews thoughtfully on his lower lip. “You’ve been ignoring me.”

“I’m not mad at you, you’re just annoying sometimes.” He doesn’t really mean it and he hasn’t said something so outright hurtful to Robb since his first year in Winterfell, but he has to discourage him somehow.

He glances over to see the reaction his words have had. Robb is staring at him, strangely pale and sad. Theon notices he’s eaten little of his dinner and he hasn’t even touched dessert. Thinking of it, he’s been less talkative through the entire meal. “I’m sorry I snuck out,” Robb says. “I didn’t mean to worry everyone and to cause all this trouble. I know you had to spend your evening looking for me and then had to carry me back. I really am sorry. Please don’t be mad at me?”

Little spoiled brat, Theon thinks, bitterly. Of course he figures this is all about him. He sighs, a little dramatically, and sits back in his chair. “I’m really not mad at you for sneaking out. I mean, I still think it’s stupid you thought unicorns actually exist but whatever. Sneaking out through the crypts seems like an adventure in and of itself – of course now your father is going to make sure that that particular exit rout is secured to all hell.” Theon can’t help sounding bitter about it. How ironic is it that the perfect escape rout is likely now completely blocked off forever to him because Robb discovered it first through eavesdropping on his father and Maester Luwin and then had to go and make a mess of that knowledge? “Besides,” he shrugs again and doesn’t meet Robb’s eyes. “I volunteered to go on the search. No one forced me.”

“Thank you,” Robb says quietly, looking down into his plate. “But if you’re not mad, then why—”

“Robb?” Lady Catelyn’s voice cuts their conversation short. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She gives him a look. “Are you ill?”

“No. I think I’m tired.”

Robb gets shooed off to bed and Theon is left to finish his meal in peace. He doesn’t really want to push Robb away, Theon realizes morosely. It’s rather lonely without him, lonelier than Theon has been for the past year, since he and Robb had started getting closer. He’s stuck at Winterfell now for a while. No getting around that. Maybe he should have considered this distancing thing sooner. Perhaps now it’s too late and simply unproductive.

If only he wasn’t so homesick all the bloody time.

That Robb’s misadventures end in him catching a chill after all worries everyone but surprises no one. Theon doesn’t think much about it as he practices with his bow on a rare sunny morning. They’ve all gotten colds before – an unpleasant affair but typically not fatal. He asks after Robb out of courtesy when he runs into Lady Stark mid-morning. She gives him a rather formal response that indicates Robb is generally no in danger of dying, even if she looks worried. It’s enough for Theon to go on with his day.

After midday lessons, Jon Snow accosts him in the yard. “Robb asked to see you,” he says.

Theon raises his eyebrows at Snow. “Why?”

Snow shrugs. “I never know why he would, but—”

“Well, you don’t know much anyway, so not terribly surprising that.” Theon grins.

Snow scowls and glares at him. “He’s bored having to stay in his room most of the day and now he’s sick on top of it.”

“Why don’t you run along and play with him then.”

Snow is still glaring at him. “When you went to look for Robb and brought him back, I actually thought—”

“You’re not very good at that remember?”

Snow scampers off with the same sour expression on his face. Theon goes outside for afternoon training, thinking that maybe he should stop by and humor Robb for a few minutes later. But after dinner, he runs into Kyra, who is accompanying someone on a late errand to the castle from Winter Town and the Gods know he doesn’t get to see her pretty face often enough. By the time she leaves and Theon makes his way upstairs, Robb is asleep.

Snow glares at him all through breakfast and morning training. Maester Luwin seems preoccupied during their lessons and Lady Catelyn doesn’t look like she got much sleep. Robb is clearly not doing any better and Theon finds himself plagued with memories of the boy’s shivering and paleness in the moonlight, the desperate way he had clung to Theon on the way back to Winterfell.

Theon finds he’s rubbish in the yard throughout the afternoon and Snow’s silent guilt-tripping is getting tiresome.

Theon makes his way upstairs immediately after dinner.

Robb’s room is dim and stuffy-warm. There’s the sickly smell of medicinal herbs and Theon fights down the panic that sudden spikes in his chest. He hates sickrooms, he hates not knowing what he should do or say. He’s no good at being this sort of comforting. There’s no one with Robb at the moment – the household still preoccupied with dinner and evening chores. Theon gingerly makes his way into the room, wondering if maybe Robb is meant to be sleeping and he shouldn’t be here.

Robb, in fact, is a small cocoon of blankets on the bed, ginger curls tousled across the pillows. He blinks up blearily at Theon, not immediately processing what is happening. He has the recognizable flush of fever across his cheeks, and he looks quite miserable, even as he attempts to push himself up into a more dignified position. Theon feels a small coil of sympathy contract within his chest. “Lie back down, stupid, it’s just me,” he half-whispers, stepping closer to make sure Robb can see his face in the dim light of the room. “How are you?”

Robb sniffles pathetically and rubs a hand over his nose. “Sick.” He sounds sick, but he tries to smile even as he says it. “I’ll be fine.”

Theon nods in agreement. “Of course you will. Snow—he said you wanted to see me?”

Robb’s face turns even redder as he adds the blush of embarrassment to the flush of fever. “I just, um…” He’s saved briefly from having to explain by a sudden coughing fit and Theon casts around quickly for some water. There’s a jug and glass on the bedside table. He pours the glass half full and hands it to Robb.

“Thanks,” Robb mumbles after taking a few sips and setting it aside. He’s visibly exhausted even after that much effort and lies back down with a small whimper.

Theon sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. “That bad, huh?” It’s hard to hate the boy when he looks so miserable. Same trick you fell for in the woods, a voice at the back of his head tells him snidely. Theon tries to not groan aloud.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Robb asks, eyes closed.

Is this what has been bothering him? Theon thinks, bewildered. Enough to inflict Snow on me? “I’m not mad at you, I told you,” Theon says, trying to not sound irritated. “Would I be here if I was?”

“Theon? Do you think the Gods are mad at me?”

“What?” That is not a question Theon could have expected. Really, Theon figures all Gods are probably mad at everyone all the time, given the state of the world.

“They made me sick as punishment.” Robb peeks up at him through a curtain of messy curls. Isn’t this a question he should be asking his parents or Old Nan or the Septon or something?

“I’m really not the one to ask about the Gods and their stupid ass feelings,” Theon says. Robb’s eyes go a little wide at the blasphemy, but the corners of his mouth quirk upwards. Theon lets out a long breath and reaches to brush the curls off Robb’s forehead. He’s hot to the touch and Theon feels that sharp pinch of sympathy again. “Wolfling, the Gods aren’t punishing you. You were freezing when I found you. This is like…the most predictable outcome. Hodor could have guessed it.”

Robb closes his eyes again and hums in agreement. His hand sneaks out from the blanket cocoon, finds Theon’s wrist and latches on. “Theon? If you’re not mad at me, can you tell me a story?”

Drowned God be good, what have I signed myself up for? “Old Nan might be better to ask. She’s full of stories.”

Robb makes a face. “I don’t like her stories. I like yours.”

When have I told you stories? Theon wonders, baffled.

“And I’m supposed to be sleeping,” Robb admits. “But I can’t sleep. My head hurts and I just feel all achy…”

Great. If Robb is supposed to be sleeping, then Theon getting caught keeping him up will probably not do him any favors. But something keeps him from saying no out of hand.

When Theon doesn’t answer right away, Robb looks up at him pleadingly and with that same awestruck trust he had had in the woods. Thinking about it, Robb looks at him like that often – when they’re training, when Theon is practicing with his bow, when he’s telling jokes or coming up with pranks to play on Old Nan or one of the stable boys. It’s a flattering look, as if Robb thinks Theon is terribly clever or brave or something just for doing normal things at an average amount of effort.

Maybe that’s just the way things are for boys with their older brothers—older friends. Theon still remembers being five or six and how Maron had been the center of his world. He would have done anything to please or impress his brother. Rodrik had always been so much older he felt more like the adults around Theon, like his uncles. He had also always had a vicious streak. But there had been a time in their lives when Maron had played with Theon and Asha, had been the one to help Theon learn and practice the bow. There had been a time in their lives when they’d acted like brothers. It was only the last couple of years when Maron had been deemed old enough by Rodrik that things fell apart completely. And yet… Theon still remembers clearly, Maron standing alone in the armory the day the siege began, staring blankly at the wall, his hair a tousled mess, Rodrik’s absence from his side an obvious wound. It wasn’t a hole Theon could have hoped to fill, but he had handed his brother a bow and said, don’t think too much, like Maron would tell him years ago when Theon overthought every shot. And the sad half-smile he’d gotten in return was the welcome dagger lodged in his heart that twisted painfully when the South Tower fell.

Theon can’t say anymore if he had loved his brothers. Somewhere, deep down, he must have. They were blood. And when he was very young, he had lived with the dread of their disapproval and the wild hope that they would be proud of him some day. He had wanted to be like them. There had been a point when he had tried to turn to them for protection if not affection. It seems to be that way with brothers. But Rodrik had not known how to be a proper brother to him, and Maron had betrayed that star-struck hero worship Theon had once offered him. But maybe he isn’t being fair. Theon’s the youngest, after all – what would he know of being oldest?

He looks down at Robb and wonders if this is what it feels like to be the older brother. To be looked at like that.

Maybe Robb has designated him his older brother because he wants to know what it’s like to not be the oldest. To be the one who gets to ask for safety and affection. Would that Theon had much of either to give him.

“Theon?” Robb blinks slowly, groggily, still watching his face. “What are you thinking about?”

He’d been lost in thought. Theon shakes his head slightly, as though to clear it. “Thinking how bad of a thrashing I’ll get for keeping you up.”

“You’re not keeping me up. I told you I can’t sleep anyway. Just one story? Please?”

He’s still on that. Theon rubs the hand Robb isn’t holding on to over his face. If he’s completely honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to say no. Whether older or younger, he doesn’t really have siblings anymore. Not here. Here all he has is Robb. And he’s screwed up his chance of going home, so he just as might keep his head down for the long haul. Would it really be so bad if he played at having a little brother for a bit? But if he’s going to do that, he’s going to do it right, the way Maron never could and Rodrik never wanted to. He doesn’t ever want Robb to stop looking at him like that…

“Scoot over, wolfling.”

Robb’s eyes fill with glee and he moves over just enough to allow Theon to switch his position so he’s sitting on one side of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Robb immediately crawls under his arm and curls up against his side, his head nestled against Theon’s chest. Theon tugs on the furs to pull them back up around Robb’s shoulders.

“Right, so, a story…” He tries to think of something even remotely age appropriate. “How about the one about the dashing pirate captain and his mermaid salt wife?”

Robb makes a content noise, even though Theon is certain he has no idea what this story is meant to be about. Truth told, Theon only remembers pieces of it, an old fairytale his mother used to tell him and Asha, and Asha would then re-tell when they got older, but with forbidden juicy details that Lady Catelyn would probably be horrified to hear repeated to her young son. Well, too bad, Theon thinks, almost giddily, Lady Catelyn isn’t here. So he tells the story as he remembers it – part his mother’s version, part-Asha’s and part his own additions and detours. It comes out a poorly structured, meandering thing, but Robb doesn’t seem to mind. After some time, his breathing evens out as he doses off, still using Theon as though he were a pillow or a soft toy.

Theon has finished two stories by the time Maester Luwin comes. His face turns stern when he realizes what’s going on, but Theon merely gives him a meaningful look and nods at Robb, who’s sleeping peacefully in Theon’s arms by now, soothed by the stories and Theon’s hand carding lazily through his hair. Theon watches the maester’s face work to stay as neutral as possible, but Theon can still tell as he passes from surprise, or perhaps dissatisfaction, into acceptance.

Theon cannot quite resist the smirk that tugs at his mouth. The wolfling is mine now, he thinks, with a strange feeling of glee and pride and something dangerously close to tenderness. He really should watch himself.

But as Lewin leaves them in peace and Theon looks down at Robb, contemplating on how to extricate himself gently enough to not wake the boy, he thinks that maybe he can let himself have this one thing. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.