By all counts, Jon Snow had received a thrashing to remember, but when we woke it was pride that he felt. There was a sharp knock at the door, and he sat up, wincing as more of his weight shifted onto his arse.
"Yes?"
"It's Robb." The other boy's voice sounded subdued.
"Come in."
Robb entered, shoulders stooped. When he looked up at Jon, his eyes were red. "You alright?"
Jon nodded. "You?"
Robb grimaced, and then grinned a little. "I think we both got our arses handed to us."
Jon doubted that Ned Stark had been as hard on Robb—and he knew as he had known last night that it had pained Ned Stark to do what he had done. That he did what he did for his promise to keep Lyanna's son safe, even from himself.
"Fa was hard on you," Robb said.
Jon shrugged. "I earned it."
"I told him," Robb began uncertainly, and then hesitated. "This morning, I told him he should punish me the same, so that's how I…how I know. I'm sorry I got you in trouble."
Jon looked at the boy with admiration. "Let's forget it happened."
"I may hit Theon Greyjoy if he says anything about it this morning," Robb agreed, and Jon snorted.
"I'm sure hitting Theon will help a lot of things," Jon said sarcastically. "Like earning yourself another thrashing."
Robb grinned, and just like that, it was alright again. "Let's go practice with Mallory then. He said he'd teach us some archery, and you know that bores Theon. We won't have to see him if you don't want to."
"A day without Theon is a good day," Jon said. "And I don't want to sit on my arse ever again after last night."
Robb winced. "Me either. Archery it is, then. Should we ask Arya to tag along?"
"Your mother might want to have words with us if she catches wind of that," Jon grinned.
"She won't have anything to say about it," Robb said. "If she doesn't find out about it."
"You just got yourself a thrashing," Jon teased him, shrugging on his coat. "I don't think you want to earn another on the same day. Come on. Mallory's probably already on range."
/
"Theon Greyjoy."
The sharpness in Ned Stark's voice froze Theon as he walked the outer rim of the wall. Theon turned his head, forcing his body not to flinch.
Ned was alone, his firs wrapped around his shoulders. His face was unreadable. "You rose early this morning."
You fool, Theon. You fool. As if slipping away early in the morning would make him forget.
"Yes, Sir."
Ned tilted his head slightly, and then he folded his arms.
Theon shivered.
"Come here."
Theon stepped forward slowly, warily. Don't flinch. Don't flinch. It'll make it worse.
Ned shrugged off his furs and wrapped them around Theon's shoulders. "You want to catch your death?" he asked roughly. "Winter is coming."
Theon stared at him in disbelief. "Sir" –
"I spoke with Robb this morning," Lord Stark cut him off. "He told me he was at fault for what happened last night. Is that true?"
Brave, foolish Robb.
And Theon was such a damn coward, because he wanted to shout yes sir at the top of his lungs and if it had been even only a few weeks ago, he thinks he might've. "No, Sir," he whispered.
Lord Stark's face remained impassible, and he stood in silence as if waiting for more.
"It was mine," Theon's voice was barely a whisper. "It was my fault, Sir."
Lord Stark nodded once, briskly. "Very well," he said. "I have punished Robb and I have punished Jon Snow. It is only fair that you face the same."
Theon was trembling violently, and he cursed the weakness that betrayed itself in his body. "Yes, Sir," he whispered.
Lord Stark had not laid a hand on him in the six weeks since he had come to live with them, but Theon had been a fool to believe that would last.
He drew in a sharp breath. He won't throw you against the wall and he won't call you names until you cry like a stupid child and he won't hold a knife to your throat and he won't beat you until you bleed, at least. The knowledge wasn't all that comforting – mostly because he did not, in fact, know what Lord Ned Stark would do.
"Come," Lord Stark instructed.
The walk back down the wall and into Lord Stark's study was the longest one of Theon Greyjoy's life.
"Sit down," Lord Stark instructed.
Theon sat down gingerly, clenching his hands tightly.
"No son of mine brawls in the halls of this house over ill-spoken words," Lord Stark said sharply. "And no son of mine ridicules someone over his birth."
Son.
The last time he had been someone's son –
Theon didn't want to think about that other father.
"Do you understand me?" Lord Stark asked sharply.
"Yes, Sir," Theon said miserably.
Lord Stark looked as if he wanted to say more; as if there was something he wanted Theon to understand – but then he stood and gestured for Theon to stand.
Theon did, shrugging off the furs Lord Stark had wrapped around his shoulders.
Lord Stark guided him over the large oak desk; rested one heavy hand on the small of Theon's back. His other hand fell on Theon's backside with a sudden sting, and Theon lurched forward, biting down hard on his tongue.
He tasted blood, and then braced himself; steeled himself for more – for a belt or a fist or god knew what else.
Lord Stark paused for a long moment. "I am not Balon Greyjoy," he said finally, his voice firm. "This is all you have to fear from me." And then his hand was falling again on Theon's backside again, fast and heavy and hard – and it was painful, but it was a sting and nothing more, and it was perhaps relief that made Theon start to cry like a child.
It was over sooner – far sooner – than he had expected, and then Lord Stark pulled him upright, sat down in the chair, and looked at him intently.
"Lord Stark? May I go?" Theon asked shakily.
"No," Lord Stark said flatly, and then he stood again and Theon felt as if he might be ill. And then – Lord Stark pulled him into his arms, and Theon nearly disappeared inside of them before he had time to register his utter shock.
"My lord" –
"Hush," Lord Stark commanded. He released him, and then ruffled Theon's hair with one hand. "Look at me, child."
Theon hardly dared.
"There will be no more brawling in my house," Lord Stark said firmly. "No more ridicule of Jon Snow for the circumstances of his birth. No, child, I said look at me. I take no pleasure in this, but I promise you I will raise you as my own sons, and that means doing what is necessary."
"Yes, Sir." Theon's voice was barely a whisper.
The man stared at him for an unbearably long moment, looking as if he wanted to say more. Finally, he nodded. "Very well," he said. "You may go."
If Theon had been braver or stronger or any of the things Balon had always reminded him he was not, he would have walked out calmly. As it was – as he was – he nearly ran from Lord Stark's study.
/
He thought about rejoining Robb and Jon – he could see them practicing archery with Mallory far below where he walked along the outer wall – but they were both braver; both stronger than he was.
They wouldn't want to see him anyway.
Theon found himself wandering to the southern end. He rounded a corner and came face to face with Sansa, who was leaning on the guard rail, shaking with tears.
"Oh," the sound escaped his mouth, and he debated turning and running.
She whirled on him, and then her hands flew to her face in embarrassment. "You," she said. "What are you doing here?"
"I – I'm sorry," he said feebly. "You – are you alright?"
Sansa raised her chin haughtily. "Yes," she said, but her chin wobbled slightly. "I'm fine."
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly, and he half-expected her to slap him for even speaking to her; especially when she was like this.
But Sansa surprised him as all the Starks surprised him, and she stepped closer and linked her arm through his as she took a deep breath. "I think my brothers hate me," she said.
"Oh," Theon repeated. "Well. They hate me too."
She smiled slightly. "No they don't," she said firmly. "Robb's jealous of you. So is Jon, I think. But they don't hate you. They do hate me. Arya's the fun one. She's brave and funny and likes swords and hates dolls and" – she stopped, and he could see the effort it took for her to hold back the emotion.
"They're wrong then," Theon attempted loyally. "It doesn't matter if you like archery or swords or any of those things. I – I don't think I do, not really. Don't tell them," he added quickly, and Sansa was actually smiling now. "And," he added after a moment's thought. "I think that you're kind."
She stared at him, her sharp eyes eerily reminiscent of her father for a moment, and then she raised her head high and released his arm. "Thank you," she said regally, and he was reminded once again of who she was – this child a year younger than him who already stood like a queen.
All of the Starks – Robb with his talk and his swordsmanship and Arya with her ferocity and even Bran, the little Northman with the aptitude with his small bow – but it was Sansa who stood like a ruler.
It made Theon shiver. "Are you alright?" he asked.
"Yes," Sansa said, composed once again. Her look sharpened again – again he saw Lord Stark in that look – and she considered him carefully for a moment. "Are you?"
He stared back at her. "Um," he said. "Yes?"
Sansa smiled and pulled her cloak closer around herself. "Good," she said. "Have you talked to Jon and Robb since the…fight?"
Theon shook his head.
"You should," Sansa said. "They don't hate you," she added again, and then she waved her hand to where they were practicing below. "Go," she said imperiously.
Theon went, feeling still unsure what had just happened but entirely sure that Sansa Stark terrified him more than the rest of the Starks combined.