Part I: Dark Waters

Theon wondered whether it was strange to dream in memories, to live each over and over and paint them in colors of dusk. He knew men who claimed to dream of the future, but his own dreams were riddled with ghosts of the past. In his first few months at Winterfell, he dreamt only of the sea, and still, as the years wore on and his dreams took him elsewhere, images of Pyke continued to haunt him— how the dark waters had seemed to burn when Robert Baratheon's forces attacked, how the bodies had piled up on the shore, the night air filled with the screams of dying men, his men.

But the good dreams were somehow more haunting. Theon thought often and longingly of the towers of Pyke, how they'd loom proudly on gray days, its high bridges swaying treacherously in the wind. Once, Theon had loved to race across them, fearless, bold, young, while the foaming sea below churned and crashed against the jagged rocks. Theon missed the sea more than anything— the cool, slick feel of coursing through the water and the taste of salt on his lips. It had been five years since Ned Stark had taken Theon from his home, and five years since Theon had laid eyes upon the sea.

He'd just been about to slip beneath the waves again when the distant sounds of wood striking wood woke him. Bleary-eyed and grumbling, Theon stumbled to his window to see what the commotion was all about. Robb and the bastard Jon Snow were sparring with practice swords in the yard below.

"Do they have to practice so bloody early?" Theon mumbled to himself as he dressed, although he knew it was he who had slept late— it had been a good dream today. Good dreams had a way of sucking him in, making him stay beneath the waves awhile longer.

By the time Theon reached the courtyard, Snow had raced off after little Arya, and Robb was leaning against one of the castle walls, gulping water ravenously. Sweat beaded his forehead and darkened his auburn curls. It was a hot summer day— well, hot for Winterfell at least. Theon had been grateful to discover that Winterfell wasn't quite the perpetually frozen wasteland he'd originally imagined it to be.

"Bested Snow this time?" Theon asked, leaning against the wall beside Robb.

Robb shrugged, taking another long pull from his skin.

"Well, you sent him running, it seems," said Theon.

"We're a fair match," Robb replied mildly, though Theon had seen the bastard boy yield from the ground, while Robb stood over him. But that was Robb— never one to boast, though he had ample reason to.

"Fair match, my ass," Theon said, grinning.

Robb just shook his head, but a smile crept at the corner of his lips, and Theon felt his own grin broadening.

"Gods, it's hot," said Robb.

"You look like you could use a swim," Theon said.

Robb turned to him, incredulous. "A swim?" he asked. "We're hundreds of miles from the sea, and we'd drown if we tried swimming in the river."

"You might," said Theon. He yawned, stretched, and then started across the courtyard. "But we're not going to the river," he said, without so much as a glance back toward Robb.

Just as Theon knew he would, Robb followed.

"Where then?" the younger boy asked when he caught up, curls bouncing.

"You'll just have to see," Theon replied. His grin was crooked, toothy.

Robb rolled his eyes but continued to follow Theon anyway. When they reached the gates of the godswood, Robb stopped in his tracks.

"You don't mean to take me to that little pool by the weirwood?" he asked.

"It's deeper than you think," Theon said, opening the gate and beckoning Robb in.

Theon led Robb to the heart tree, though the latter knew his way around the godswood better than most. Before the great weirwood lay a shimmering black pool. Theon wished there was a bigger lake in the godswood, or that he had the freedom to go seek one elsewhere, but there was only this pathetic little pool. It was deep enough to get a decent dive in, though— far better than nothing at all.

Robb paused before the heart tree, studying that unsettling face etched into its ashen trunk. Bark as white as bone, leaves as red as blood. The tree made Theon uneasy to behold; the very sight of it made his skin prickle and his hair stand on end. It was here, beside this pool, that Lord Stark cleaned his longsword after executions. Someday it may be my blood he cleans off that sword, after he's taken my head, thought Theon. And what will you do then, Robb? Will you be the one who unsheathes his sword for him? Will you help clean the stains of me off Ice before this very tree if the time comes? Or will you grieve for me? Will my head leave my shoulders in your dreams each night?

Theon shuddered, but he made himself smile. It came to him as easily as breathing now.

"You Starks are a grim lot," he said to Robb, who still seemed to be contemplating the heart tree. "I came here to have some fun."

Theon began to strip, taking everything off, from his boots to his smallclothes. Robb followed suit, no longer preoccupied by the heart tree. For a moment, the boys just stood there regarding one another, pale and wild and bare, two heathens kissed by the sun of the godswood.

Robb, though nearly two years younger, was already burlier than Theon. He was broad of shoulder for his age, and supple; he'd grow to be strong as an ox someday. And someday he'll be Lord of Winterfell, thought Theon, and what's to become of me? Theon discarded the thought as quickly as he'd discarded his garments.

Where Robb was husky and strong, Theon was lean, corded, and quick. He slipped into the water without a word, making sure to send a splash Robb's way.

The coolness of the water felt good against his bare skin. As Theon worked his way down to the bottom of the pool, he felt smooth, graceful, and free. It was a strange feeling, freedom. Strange and wonderful. Here he felt like a Greyjoy. He felt as if he didn't need air at all. He could spend the rest of his life here, and he wouldn't ever need to breathe again. By the time his hand skimmed the gritty bed of the pool— about forty feet down, he guessed— Theon's ears rang, and his head felt empty. He made his way back up to the surface of the pool, the morning light barely discernible through the murk of the water. The air tasted sweet and warm when he broke the surface, and his head spun.

Near the edge of the pool, Robb was thrashing in the water, slipping beneath the surface.

"Seven hells," said Theon, before taking a big gulp of air and plunging below the black water once more. He darted swiftly to Robb, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pulled him ashore. Despite the coolness of the water clinging to his skin, Robb was warm, always warm. And he was breathing, heaving in fact, thank the Gods.

No, Theon told himself, there is only one god, the Drowned God, and I mustn't let myself forget.

Theon let go of Robb only when he'd managed to drag him a safe distance from the water's edge.

"What the fuck were you doing?" Theon asked, finding his feet.

"I— I thought— you— were drowning," Robb huffed between gasps of air. His thick hair was plastered to his face.

"I think you're the one we should be worrying about," Theon said. He knew that Robb was safe now, but he still felt hot with fear, and his heart hammered.

Robb leaned back against a large stone and stared up at the sky, seeming to savor his rattling breaths.

"You were down there so long I thought…I thought you must be dead," he said at last.

Theon laughed. "If I ever die from drowning, don't bother to weep for me, I deserved it then." I'm the last living son of Balon Greyjoy, he thought, saltwater courses through my veins, for the sea is my blood.

"Gods, I'm a shit swimmer," Robb blurted, breaking into a smile of his own. His cheeks crinkled up in that way Theon liked so much, and his teeth gleamed.

"Well, you're no liar," said Theon. It was never easy to find things Robb wasn't good at. Theon was proud to have found another. Any Ironborn boy of twelve who couldn't swim would be mocked for the rest of his life. Robb was lucky he hadn't grown up at Pyke.

"The pool is deeper than I thought. I didn't expect it to drop off right away," Robb admitted. He shivered. "It's colder than I expected too."

"You're the northman," Theon said with a shrug. He stepped back into the pool and let himself float on his back. "Besides, the sea's much colder than this, and leagues deeper too."

Neither boy spoke for some time. Theon felt as if he could fall asleep right there, on the surface of the pool, and wake up hours later without having moved. His eyelids were drooping when Robb broke the silence.

"You could teach me," he said quietly. "To swim, I mean."

Theon stroked lazily to the edge of the pool nearest the rock Robb had propped himself against. The Stark boy's blue eyes were meek, hopeful, and for a moment he looked younger than his twelve years, lordling that he was. Theon felt a warmth swell in his chest. He felt admired, important. It was an odd feeling.

"I suppose I could," he said with a shrug, trying his best to sound bored.

And then Robb smiled. He stumbled to the pool's edge with his arms out for balance, that stupid, giddy grin on his face, and Theon couldn't help but smile too, for real this time. Languid in the water, with his best friend beaming down at him, Theon felt, for the first time in years, as if he were home.