Note: This is a prequel to my other fic, Lightning (Struck Before Me). Cross posted from AO3.
When the ships landed upon their shores, Theon watched from afar, locked inside the castle. He was a boy, not ten name days old, small and useless compared to his older siblings. Kept away from the true fighting, hidden away with the women and babes, he didn't see his brothers fall to the swords of their enemies. It stung inside, the thought of their bodies broken and maimed. That his father had to cower to the greenland invaders.
What right had they—men who hadn't paid the iron price and didn't know the ways of ironmen—to their home? Their allegiance?
The day his home was sieged the women whispered and he couldn't help but here them. The larder is near bare. Never was full in the first place, truly.
Long as he could remember he was taught of their might, the way of the Ironborn. He learned at his mother's knee, trailing his father, toddling after his sister, and from his brother's fists. His lord father spoke of dead dragons, of stags, lions, roses, wolves . . . creatures that spent their days sowing. For all their bluster, they have no balls. Their teeth and claws fare naught against the Ironfleet. They were painted as weak, lackluster, worth less than the sand along the shore.
Theon stared at his feet, feeling smaller than ever before. Not even Rodrik and Maron's taunts and fists had belted him in such a manner. His hands quaked a bit, though he tried to hide it. A shadow blotted out the sun above him, but he dared not look up.
Just minutes ago, his lord father had knelt before the greenlander king—a man whose name had invoked curse upon curse until just hours ago, when it all had ended—grumbling out oaths and sweet words that rang false to even his young ears.
"Theon Greyjoy," the voice was soft, hard, but warmer than any Theon had heard in days. Even the servants had been more abrupt with him as food became scarcer and hope fled like the morning fog.
His name was repeated, a bit more forceful, causing him to look up.
The man in front of him was younger than his lord father, thicker and stronger looking as well. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, a far cry from hard near black eyes of his father. Kinder than father's. He dashed the thought away as quickly as it came. His life was in the hands of these men.
There's no reason for them keep a runt like you alive! His brother's last taunts came back to him as he waited for the man to say something, anything. You're not even a spare heir! Perhaps father will take pity and send you to the maesters! At least they're of some use!
They're dead now. Theon reminded himself. He couldn't deny the tiny spark of Ha! that was quickly consumed by guilt. I'm the heir now
"My lord," Theon's voice was softer than he meant it to be, but the lord in front of him heard him all the same.
"Do you know who I am?" The lord asked. Dark hair fell around a long face that watched him as if carved from the rock face that lined the beach. It wasn't one he knew. Not that he knew many greenlanders. His eyes trailed over the man's person quickly.
The armor he wore was crusted with the signs of battle. Blood, mud, and sand. Theon swallowed as he tried to discern from the minute details what the man seemed to expect of him. He found nothing that tugged at the few lessons he was forced to attend with the maester.
As the third son his father had expected him to learn to read, write, and perform basic sums. To be, perhaps, a captain of his own ship one day. He had never been meant to rule.
Not before today.
After a moment he shook his head, but forced himself to meet the man's eyes. "I'm sorry, my lord."
He flinched—though he tried to hide it—when the man reached forward and settled a hand on his shoulder.
"My name is Eddard Stark."
There was a pause. Theon wracked his brain, pulling at the details he had been forced to memorize. He knew the name, at least the last. Still wary, he tried his hand, "Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
Lord Stark nodded, face set in a solemn mask, and dropped his hand away from Theon's shoulder.
"What's to become of me?" Theon ventured after another long pause.
"King Robert has declared your father will keep his status as Lord of the Iron Island and you, as his heir, will accompany me home to Winterfell to foster."
While he hadn't attended many history lessons, Theon had spent time with maps, for as long as he could remember. Maps of the sea and maps of land. Westeros, Essos, islands, and parts of Sothoros. It was an important part of his studies. An ironman must know the world and the sky to find their way about the sea. Winterfell was the center of the North, far from any ocean.
"How long?" He wasn't sure if it was something he should ask, but he wanted to know.
How long would he be away from the spray of the crashing waves. The scent of it. The taste of salt upon his lips after a swim. He had grown surrounded by water. What would it be like to be surrounded by naught but grass and rock? Trees?
"You'll be a man grown when you return."
Swallowing thickly, Theon glanced away, looking towards where his sister Yara stood, tall and straight backed with her chin held high alongside the other women folk and what remained of their household.
"When are we to leave," Theon ventured quietly, eyes falling back towards his boots, "Lord Stark?"
It took two moons, maybe longer, from the time his father knelt until the first moment Theon saw the high walls of Winterfell upon the horizon. They had been riding for over a fortnight, an experience that he wished to have done without. The horse he'd been set upon was tethered to one of Lord Stark's guard's mounts. The hours of riding made him sick in a way that the rolling waves beneath the deck of a ship made others.
His legs ached near constantly as well, though at least that was getting better.
"You'll get used to it." One of the soldiers told him when he stumbled that first night they stopped as his legs quivered when his feet touched the ground. The man had steadied him with a firm hand and steered him to set nearby while the camp was made.
I would be happy to never sit upon a saddle again.
The mainland was different from the Iron Islands, shockingly so at times. The sheer number of trees in some areas they passed, the height of them and the width of their trunks . . . if only they had such forests at home. The ships they could have built!
One evening, as they camped near a small wood, and he stepped a bit away from his guard to make water, he spent twice the time it took to stare at one particularly large tree. Its trunk was so thick, Theon could have wrapped his arms around it at least thrice, if not four or five times.
Winterfell was large, sprawling, and he could see the tops of trees poking above the eighty-foot walls in some places. It was surrounded by fields and there was a sprawl of trees farther than the eye could see in the distance. Smallfolk greeted Lord Stark and his men with cheers and waves, stopping their work. Though there were some men in the fields, there was also many women. Many of them stopped to stare at the soldiers as they passed. Some cried out in welcome, dropping their work to greet men that trudged along behind the Lord.
The people here were in some ways like the men and women who dotted his home island, worked the docks and ships, but in others they were quite different. The dirt upon them was earthy, their hands and nails covered with it from lives spent sowing the earth and not reaping the benefits of the sea.
He was thankful that the clothes he'd been given were discrete, fit for the son of a lord, but gave no homage to his house. The eyes of the people swept past him and focused on what these men and women considered a happy occasion.
Their husbands and sons and brothers were home.
He would always remember the first time he laid eyes upon Lord Stark's family. They, and the household, had been forewarned of their lord's arrival. Even if they had not been, the size of the force that trailed behind Lord Stark would have given them away. While many of his bannermen had split off for home, a few hundred men from the immediate vicinity of Winterfell and the castle itself traveled with them.
Lord Stark was the first to enter the inner gate and the first to dismount. A dozen boys ran to greet them, most of age with Theon or younger, reaching out to take reins and steady mounts as men dismounted.
Theon was the last to dismount, but it was no matter. His eyes were taking everything in.
"Welcome home, my lord."
The gentle, love filled voice caught his attention as it filled the air. Even yards away Theon heard the words with ease. There was a southern lilt to the speech, unlike the northern accent of the men that had held him captive for the past weeks.
Lady Stark. He realized, eyes catching on what had to be the lord's wife and children.
She was beautiful, more so than near any woman he had lain eyes on before, with long red hair and vivid blue eyes that stood out from afar. Her smile was sweet, gentle, as she was pulled up from a curtsey by her husband. There was a babe in her arms and after greeting his wife, Lord Stark stared down at the child before leaning down to press a kiss to its forehead.
The moment was broken by a little girl, hair even brighter than her mother's toddling into the lord's legs, prompting him to lean down and greet her as well.
Theon wrinkled his nose as he was helped down from the saddle; strong hands fit under his shoulders and after a moment he was swung around and set upon the ground.
The children were younger than he, half his age perhaps. They were dressed in nicer clothes than he had ever worn.
For the most part they seemed happy, the lord was smiling broadly. His normally still face as lively as the sea on a windless day as the sun sparked off it, more so. After the girl child was greeted, Lord Stark turned to the two boys that stood to the right of the woman. His sons.
Twins?
The lord stilled but a moment, glancing towards his lady wife, before wrapping his arms around both boys. The closest to Lady Stark had dark red hair, and Theon knew his position likely meant he was the eldest and heir. The second had curls that were just as dark as the lord's.
After a long moment, Lord Stark pulled away from them before hugging the red-haired boy again with one arm, ruffling his hair. The boy smiled up at him, highlighting a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
But a moment later, the lord turned to his other son and grasped the boy's chin with gentle fingers and tilted his head gently to the side. There was a deep rosy mark crossing from just to the right of the center of his forehead down towards his right temple in an arc. A scar. A relatively new one at that.
Theon had a few himself, courtesy his brothers and had seen many marks upon sailors who spent their lives working with hooks, nets, and daggers in dangerous waters or after raids. At the beginning of the war many men had crowed within his father's halls tales of might and paying the price regarding their new wounds. Their words gained laughter and grins from wenches and cheers from men.
In the end the halls had been near silent. Not even jeers or japes had dared been muttered.
Trudging slowly forward, Theon's fingers tugged lightly at the cloak he'd been gifted to ward off the northern spring chill. He stopped a couple yards away, not wanting to intrude in the moment. I am to be their prisoner. No use in earning their ire so quick.
He watched as Lord Stark squeezed his son's shoulder gently, gaining a small smile and the gaze of grey eyes. The boy took more after his lord father than either of his siblings. It was odd, though, that he wore a grey so dark it was nearly black, where his siblings were adorned with grey and white.
If he had not been watching them so close, Theon might have missed the look between the lord and lady, but he saw it. It was not quite the look his own mother shared on occasion when her concerns of his brother's treatment of him had been dismissed by his father.
Theon swallowed thickly.
Lord Stark straightened and turned, gaze quickly finding him.
He squared his shoulders and did his best to stand tall.
"Theon." He stepped forward as Lord Stark bid him and was greeted by three curious pairs of wide eyes and one flat lipped closed off stare from Lady Stark.
"My lady," Lord Stark settled his hands upon Theon's shoulders, "King Robert has requested that we foster Lord Balon Greyjoy's son and heir, Theon Greyjoy, within our home."
Her blue eyes stared at him, daggers of ice colder than the frigid early morning air he had mounted his horse to the last fortnight. He fought to prevent the shiver that ached within him.
She knew. She knew he was but a hostage, forced away from his home and family to this far off land. How could she not?
Lady Stark stepped forward, arm tightening around the bundle in her arms, eyes trailing over him. "Welcome to Winterfell, young lord."
No smile was spared for him from any Stark but the little red-haired girl who was too young to know what his presence meant.
She doesn't even know what war is.
He wished he was in her place then, in any of their places. Wished with all his heart that it was he that knew naught of death and loss. That he was home surrounded by the ocean and not the sea of brown and green outside these walls. If only his father had been the one to drag the little red-haired boy, or the dark-haired boy with the scar into his castle's great hall.
The hands squeezed his shoulder again before dropping away.
Theon stepped forward and bowed, remembering the lessons his mother had insisted each of her children learn no matter their protests. Courtly etiquette. His sister had hated it the most.
"Thank you, Lady Stark."