Bodies littered the shores of Pyke for what seemed like miles. Life essence of both Ironborn and their oppositions flowed like a crimson eel through the water. The clanging of steel against steel and mixed battle cries had long since been silenced; all that remained was the crash of the waves against the coast, dragging and pulling the fallen corpses into the sea.
Theon kneeled before the great ocean with his face in his hands, hot tears streaming between his fingers.
He screamed at the Drowned God for hours; days even for taking his brothers, his kin; for letting his father allow him to be given away as a hostage. His voice was hoarse and raw and was nothing more of a whisper.
The siege of Pyke had ended, and Theon sat alone and alive.
There was a hand on his shoulder.
"Theon"
A tall man with dark hair and the greyest eyes he had ever seen called out his name once more.
"Theon"
Theon woke with a start and locked eyes with Maester Luwin. He gave Theon a moment to catch his breath before he spoke, "Lord Eddard wishes you to meet him at the stables after you break your fast." Maester Luwin touched the back of his hand to Theon's forehead. "Are you well child?" Theon swatted his hand away and grumbled, "I'm fine."
The Maester eyed him for a beat before he straightened his back and said, "Make haste, do not keep Lord Stark waiting."
And he didn't.
After he had broken his fast, Theon pulled on his riding gear and furs and trudged down to the stable yards with him arms wound around himself trying to keep the cold away.
A year had passed since he had been taken from the Iron Islands to this cold, hard place. The terrain was rough here as it were in Pyke; though the air wasn't moist and the sea didn't lick the land at every turn. Winterfell held a chill that seeped into Theon's bones. He was a kraken amongst a den a wolves; an outsider.
A stable hand helped Theon onto his pony and pointed him in the direction where Lord Stark and a few of his bannermen surrounded the northern gate. Those grey eyes were on his. Theon breathed in deep and set his pony to a trot.
There was a man with only one hand struggling in bindings. He sputtered curses and spat at Jory Cassel as he held him still. A thief, Theon presumed.
Eddard Stark waved Jory and his men off. "Take him to the block," he commanded. He looked behind him to see Theon holding onto the reins of his pony until his knuckles were white, he dared not say a word.
"Come here boy."
Theon brought his pony to stand beside the great equine. "Yes my lord?"
"You saw that man in chains yes?"
"The thief?"
Eddard nodded and looked beyond the north gate as he spoke, "A man must become familiar with death so he may not fear it."
Nothing frightened Theon more than the finality of it. "But, I am not a man yet my lord."
"Aye, but it is never too early to start." With that, Eddard took his mare to a gallop and met up with his bannermen outside of Winter Town.
Maester Luwin had told Theon months ago that he would have to witness an execution one day. Theon didn't understand, nor did he want to. The very thought made his head spin and his stomach clench uncomfortably.
The man kneeled before the tainted block with his hung held low. Lord Stark dismounted his horse and stood before thief, hands reaching behind him for Ice.
"In the name of Robert of the house Baratheon, the first of his name, king of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven kingdoms and protector of the realm. I Eddard of the house Stark, lord of Winterfell and warden of the north, sentence you to die." He had spoken it with an ease as if he had many times before.
"Strike true!" The man spat. The great sword came heralding down and slue his head clean from his shoulders.
Theon winced but kept his ground and held his chin in the air in spite of the bile that crept its way into his throat. The life's blood of the thief sprinkled into the grass and soil, mere inches from where Theon's pony stood.
Back in his chambers long after evenfall, Theon shook uncontrollably. It was not from the sickeningly cold air that hung in his room, but rather the vision of a sword being swung and a head being dismantled from its body. It resurrected images from his Lord Father's rebellion. Blood and bodies and those screaming in sheer agony. The thief hadn't even cried out.
War changes a man. He could remember Lord Stark saying. It pushes him to become stronger; noble. Or it destroys the mind, never leaving him a waking moment of peace.
Theon was almost sure that that must've been the case concerning himself.
He angrily wiped at the tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks. Theon was on his way to being a man now! Men do not weep at death!
"A man must be familiar with death so he may not fear it." If he repeated enough, maybe he could believe it.
"Theon?" A six year old Robb Stark stood between his chamber door and the hallway.
Theon narrowed his eyes and quietly yelled, "Get back to bed Robb before someone sees you!" Robb tilted his head to the side. "But, you're crying."
"Am not!" Theon sniffled. "Now leave me." Theon turned his back to Robb and brought his knees to his chest. "I do not need your comfort." He heard the door close a moment later and he sighed. His shoulders quivered as a sob rocked itself through his chest.
"It's ok Theon." Robb's voice was so small and timid. He reached a hand out to lay on Theon's arm. Rubbing his eyes with his sleeve Theon responded "N-no it's not, I am almost a man grown!" Theon knew it wasn't true. But he'd be damned to let someone see him whilst he was weak.
Robb said nothing to that; instead he pressed his forehead to Theon's shoulder. They stayed like that for a while; Theon silently crying with Robb close to his side.
"I promise to never make you cry." Robb had spoken it so soft that Theon had almost missed it. Theon looked at those large and round blue eyes and hooked an arm around Robb and squeezed the pad of his shoulder. "I know."