"Rickon! Watch your feet! You know Mother will be upset if you get dirty."
Sansa's shouting had little effect as Rickon, with his unnamed direwolf pup, sprinted out of earshot. She took a moment to collect her wax tablet and parchment before following him out of the Godswood.
Tucking her writing supplies into a satchel she took a moment to admire the leather stitching. It was a gift from her friend Jeyne Poole for her name day. It was a simple bag made special by the trim of roses stitched in white. Of all her presents, the bag had seen the most use. She hardly went anywhere without it.
"Sansa!"
Speaking of which, Jeyne was walking through the yard as Sansa emerged from the Godswood and called out to her.
"Where have you been?" Jeyne asked.
Sansa pointed to Rickon who was now trying very hard to climb Robb's legs, while the pups tussled around the yard. She even noticed Lady and Berena nipping at each other. Sansa's first instinct had been to keep Lady close and clean but with Green Eyes taking charge, all the little wolves were soon prowling and learning to hunt.
"Rickon wanted to visit the Godswood and I was finishing up a poem." Sansa explained.
Jeyne leaned against one of the inner walls, her smile dimmed. "Is it one of those weird poems that the Shepherd asked you to write?"
"Not at all." Sansa denied. "This is a special verse that I'm writing for Robb's name day."
"Can I see it?" Jeyne leaned forward.
Sansa slipped the parchment to her friend while she watched Jon lift Rickon onto Robb's shoulders. The trio all laughed at something Rickon said.
"You wrote this in that weird language!" Jeyne complained. "You know I can't read it."
Sansa apologised and tucked her work away. "I'm sorry, Jeyne, but the rhymes don't work in the common tongue."
"The common tongue was good enough before." Jeyne muttered, walking toward the Keep.
"Jeyne, wait!" Sansa hurried to catch her friend. Following into the main hall she saw Jeyne make her way to her rooms and Sansa could hear tiny sobs the whole way. Sansa pulled Jeyne to a stop outside the Poole quarters. "What is wrong?"
"Oh nothing! Just you and your siblings are all busy doing secret Stark stuff."
"It's important stuff, Jeyne."
"Says who?"
"Says my father!"
Jeyne shrunk back at that statement. "Either way, what is Lord Stark thinking? Letting you learn from that savage? Septa Mordane says that he's done no good and should be sent away from Winterfell." There were still tears in her eyes as she rallied.
"Septa Mordane is not Lord here. She has no say in what my family decides is important."
Hesitating, Jeyne shifted topics. "Well- well-, what about marriage? No Southern Lord is going to want to marry you when he finds out you're being taught by some stranger in green robes and praying in the Godswood. You barely go to the Sept anymore, Sansa!" Jeyne accused.
It was true, with the extra lessons from Beorn and time spent with the direwolves, Sansa had found herself only going to the Sept for weekly service with her mother. Where she used to find contentment and enthusiasm when listening to the prayers of the Seven, now she felt somewhat hollow. The words were still pretty and the sentiments behind them were nice, but there was just something special about sitting in the leaves, braced against the Heartree, praying in quiet, that a Septon's sermon fell short of. Guiltily, Sansa also noticed that she had more spare stags since she wasn't giving it up to collection. Sansa hadn't brought it up with her mother, but she knew Bran and Arya had already stopped going all together.
Septon Chayle was nice enough, if a bit awkward at times. It was Septa Mordane that was starting to get on her nerves. Even with less lessons, the older woman had seen fit to cram what time they did spend together with lots of "advice."
An awful lot of that boiled down to, "Beorn is an evil savage, Father is being tricked, remember that you're going to marry a great Southern Lord, and Arya is a lost cause." It was all getting very tiresome. What was worse was that she'd found the Septa passed out in the sewing room more than once, with an empty bottle at her side! If this kept up she was going to ask Mother about setting Mordane straight.
"I don't want to fight." Sansa implored.
"Do you even still want to be my friend?" Jeyne cried.
"Oh, Jeyne!"
Sansa rushed forward and enveloped her friend in a tight embrace. Resting their heads together, Sansa waited until Jenye had stopped sobbing, wiping away a few of her tears in the process.
"This wasn't part of our plan, Sansa."
"What do you mean?"
"You were supposed to be the perfect lady. Then when you were betrothed we'd both go South. I'd stay by your side when you ruled and find myself a brave, gallant Knight to fall in love with. Now, the servants are saying that Lord Stark is going to arrange for a Northern marriage." Jeyne told her.
"I know." Sansa told her.
"You know?"
Sansa nodded. "Father told me before my name day."
"And you're going to go along with it?" Jenyne was shocked.
"Yes, but, I wouldn't leave you behind Jeyne." Sansa added. "You can come with me wherever I go and I'll make sure you have a good husband. Besides, why can't we be happy here, in the North?"
Jeyne blinked and sniffled. "You'd still take me with you? Really? But I'm just a steward's daughter."
"Your father's not just a steward. The Poole's have served the Starks for generations. Even longer than the Cassels. I'm surprised your father hasn't told you about it."
"Father is usually busy, he trusts that Lady Stark will ensure I'm taught what I need."
Sansa rolls her eyes. "Well I'm sure your ancestors would want you to know your own family history. You should ask him tonight!"
Jeyne hesitated then noticed some servants moving through the Great Hall. "You must have duties to attend to. I'm sorry for dragging you away."
"Mother asked that I spend time with some of the Bannermen's daughters. Would you come with me?"
Jeyne's eyes widened. "Would that be proper?"
A good question. Sansa didn't have much experience with other Noble Ladies. She had been much younger when the Lords had gathered to celebrate Rickon's first nameday and from what she could recall, they had spent most of the time throwing snow around in the yard. She and Jeyne were nearly adults now.
Swallowing her fear, Sansa locked arms with Jeyne and passed her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. "I'm the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North." Sansa straightened her back and frowned in a way she hoped replicated her father's cool composure. "I've decided it is proper."
Together the pair climbed the First Keep stairways to the upper levels. The sewing room door was open, projecting mutterings or the occasional laugh from within. Sansa made eye-contact with Jeyne then strode in.
It was the most crowded Winterfell's sewing circle had ever been. Sitting beside the fireplace was Lady Umber and Lady Karstark conversing with Lady Tallhart.
A cluster of the married women from Houses Cerwyn, Condon and Quall were sharing some food by the tables. Standing over the chest of needles and thread were yet more guests including Oma Umber. The only open chairs were by Alys Karstark and Eddara Tallhart.
When Sansa was finally noticed, everyone stood and greeted her. Sansa did her best to return the greetings and join in with the group. Lady Karstark made polite enough inquiries about her siblings, though there was a strange focus on Robb. Ladies Umber and Tallhart complimented her dress then praised her mother for the celebration feast and her hospitality.
Leaving the older women to their conversation, Sansa took her sewing supplies and joined Jeyne with the girls closer to her age.
"Good afternoon, Lady Alys, Lady Eddara. Do you mind if we join you?" Sansa asked.
"Please do. We were just about to ask Lady Jeyne about life here at Winterfell." Alys replied.
The only daughter of Karhold was of an age with Jon. She was tall and skinny, her brown hair was woven into a simple braid that Sansa had noticed many of their visitors preferred.
Eddara nodded along, "I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the grounds. The castle is massive, truly a sight to behold. It must be a monumental task to keep the household in working order."
The second child of Lord Tallhart was a comely girl with ruddy blonde hair styled into two short braids.
"We didn't notice any of your Mother's ladies-in-waiting, are they somewhere else?" Alys asked.
Sansa frowned. "Mother arrived from Riverrun with three ladies. Sadly, I never met them. One caught a fever and passed on, the other married a Knight from the Stormlands, and her final Lady had to return to the Riverland when I was but a babe. Mother never sent for replacements."
Jeyne spoke up then, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm not really sure how the household is managed, Sansa and I spend most of our time in lessons with Septa Mordane."
Alys and Eddara seemed surprised.
"We heard there was a Sept here," Alys commented. "I never expected you to have a Septa. What's that like?"
Sansa explained some of the basic lessons Septa Mordane had taught her, Jeyne and Arya. Her new acquaintances understood most of it even commenting that they learned similar things, to a point.
"I guess there's not much of a difference between your Septa and our Matrons." Eddara pointed out.
"Matrons?" Sansa asked.
Eddara nodded. "Most of the Houses in the North have Matrons. It's similar to your Septa. Someone to educate you and teach you valuable skills. They're usually either a family member or a member of a friendly House. My matron is Lady Tanner, she's kin to my mother."
"Do you have a matron, Alys?"
"Arra." Alys nodded. "She was one of my cousin's matrons but came to live at Karhold when I was five. She's very shrewd about some things, but she runs a large dyehouse in Hilltop and I've learned quite a lot."
"Her husband must be quite wealthy to own such a property." Jeyne said while sorting through her sewing supplies.
"Her husband doesn't own it, Lord Bardurn does."
Sansa fumbled with her cloth bolt. "Is Arra's husband one of Bardurn's vassals then?"
"No, Arra runs the dyehouse, Lord Bardurn owns the building." Alys stated.
It seemed so strange to Sansa, Jeyne looked similarly gobsmacked.
Their guests took in their visibly confused hosts. "Arra's father is a merchant who does quite a lot of trading with Lord Bardurn. If I remember correctly, Arra took over the dyehouse from Lord Bardurn's good-sister many years ago." Alys explained.
"I've never heard of a Lady doing something like that. What does Lord Karstark think of it?" Jeyne probed.
Alys turned her head and called out. "Mother? What does Father think of Arra?"
Lady Karstark turned to them, "Arra? Arra Cogstan? He thinks well enough of her. I believe he would prefer she'd go a little easier on her prices but I doubt that can be helped."
Alys turned back. "Nothing untoward. Arra's been dyeing clothes for Karhold for decades. I believe she even coloured my aunt's bridal gown."
"Ladies aren't supposed to be merchants." Jeyne asserted.
Alys looked to Eddara for some kind of help. Sansa suspected she was missing something.
"Ladies of Sansa or Alys' station wouldn't, of course." Eddara hesitated before moving on, "Women of lower status often have to, it's quite common, Lady Jeyne."
"I believe that Wintertown's Linen House is run by a woman," Alys informed them. "I know for a fact that Hilltop's bakery is run by a mother and her three daughters."
"I… I don't understand." Jeyne appeared rather lost, her stitchings untouched in her lap.
"Jeyne, if I may call you that." Eddara gently stated. "Your family and mine are not often in the position that we can sustain our Houses solely on taxes alone. We must find other sources of funds. Whereas the Greater Houses can finance merchants or own buildings, our wealth is made through work. Especially once we reach marrying age, it'll be harder to find a match if we don't have some existing skills."
"The stories and songs never mentioned that." Jeyne told Sansa.
"I imagined the stories were about Princesses and Queens." Eddara pointed out. "The idea is nothing new. In fact my family began from one such woman."
"Truly?" Sansa asked for her benefit as much as Jeyne's. "I must admit I've only just begun being taught about Father's Bannermen. Would you care to enlighten us Lady Eddara?"
"Certainly, Lady Sansa." Eddara reached over and refreshed herself with a drink. "The Tallharts are Masters of Torrhen's Square, but we did not build it. Thousands of years ago my ancestors were simply small folk sworn to the Warg Kings of Sea Dragon Point. They were loyal but unhappy. My ancestors made their living off their deer herds. The Warg King gave his skinchangers the right to take any animal they could control as their own property."
"Does that mean they fought against the Kings of Winter?" Sansa asked.
"More than a few times I believe. At least until the final war." Eddara confirmed. "King Gerrick Stark was the one to finally conquer Sea Dragon Point. It was on his final march that he encountered my family. The Stark army had marched through the Southern Wolfswood and stopped to make camp. That night they discovered hundreds and hundreds of rats had eaten through their supplies and spoiled the rest. The Warg King had sent the vermin to starve out his enemies before they could face him in battle."
Jeyne gasped in shock.
"King Gerrick's only choice was to either march back to Winterfell or scour the nearby villages for supplies. His men were saved when a group of herders arrived at their camp. The leader introduced herself and asked the King if he had come for the Warg King's Crown of Claws." Eddara paused here.
Sansa laughed, "Don't leave us in suspense, what did the King answer?"
"He said 'No, I have come for the Warg King's head, his crown shall be left to the crows.' Then my ancestor and her children bent the knee. They brought King Gerrick to their deer and allowed him to slaughter half the herd. After the war, she was summoned to Winterfell and again knelt before the King. For her charity her family was granted that same piece of the Southern Wolfswood and even lumber rights to the sentinel trees within its borders. She and her children took the name Tallhart and the sentinel trees as their sigil."
Jeyne clasped hands with Eddara. "That's amazing, Eddara!"
"Thank you."
"Does that mean Torrhen's Square wasn't yours originally?" Sansa wondered.
"You're correct, though we were given the lands by the Starks we were in fact sworn to House Ryder, the former Kings of the Rylls." Eddara explained. "When the Rylls rebelled, a prince of Winterfell rode against them. Torrhen Tallhart was Lord at the time and he led a rout against what was once the keep of Red Stables on Bridle Lake. After the war, Red Stables was renamed to Torrhen's Square and the Tallharts were made its masters."
"Do you still have your herds?" Jeyne asked.
"Indeed we do, as we are only a Masterly House we have to sustain ourselves somehow. My mother," Eddara gestured to Lady Tallhart, who had a fine deerskin cloak draped over her chair. "is in charge of the harts. They are essential to our House's prosperity. We do a lot of leather working and sell it to merchants from the Westerlands and Riverlands."
"And Lady Tallhart oversees it all?" Jayne clarified.
"From breeding, to feeding, to butchering and tanning. Mother ensures that the skins are delivered to our port." Eddara confirmed. "Working the skins is one reason I love leatherworking so much."
"Jeyne is excellent at it as well." Sansa told her.
Jeyne blushed, "Leather's not like lace though, it can't be used for proper dresses."
Ignoring her, Sansa passed over her satchel to the other girls. Then sat back as Jeyne was complicated on her work and enjoyed their shock when her friend revealed she'd made the whole thing from scratch in less than three days.
A hand gently landed on Sansa's shoulder, looking up she smiled at her mother and made room for her to join. All in all it was one of her favourite days she could remember.
'I wonder if Father would let Eddara and Alys stay for longer?' Sansa thought. 'I wonder if they could bring their Matrons?'
/
Robb blinked down at the trail of ink that trailed off halfway through his word. He was learning very quickly that writing reams and reams of text was not easy on the hand or the mind. He had no idea how Maester Luwin did it.
Leaning back, Robb cracked his neck while taking in Winterfell's library. He'd spent dozens of hours in here, sometimes with Father and sometimes alone. None of his family would label him a reader, yet he pushed past his own boredom to study the Stark Histories.
One condition of being given access to the books was that he had to make a sincere effort to learn the Old Tongue. A necessity if you sought to browse anything written before 1000 BC. If you wished to read the older texts you had to contribute to making a new copy.
Robb and Jon had made it somewhat of a contest on who could learn the fastest, and he was intent on winning. For his first copy, Robb had selected the writings of Theon "The Hungry Wolf" while Jon parsed through the records of Brandon "The Shipwright."
Father had been surprised at his choice and Mother somewhat unhappy. Regardless, Robb had to face the truth, he was half-Andal. Despite the First Man origins of House Tully, his mother's line had left their pasts behind when the Seven came to the Riverlands. Theon Stark was one of the reasons the Andal Warlords never conquered the North. That was a man who interested Robb, a King who saved his Kingdom and was forever remembered.
Reaching over, Robb slid the ancient book into his lap; though it was not as ancient as they first assumed. A careful examination of the runes inscribed on the cover revealed that it was a copy made a decade before the conquest. Maester Luwin suspected it was a regular practice at one time. Another practice that Robb was helping to revive.
Carefully flipping to his marked page Robb recalled where he'd left off.
'Right, Theon had just received another report about the Andals clashing with the Petty Riverland Kings. He was particularly worried about the rumors that the Gardener Kings had welcomed the invaders to his court.'
The Hungry Wolf did not write often and he had the annoying habit of not providing exact dates. Robb flipped through lazily, but sat up straight when he saw a crude drawing of the Bolton Sigil at the header of the next section.
/
This is a day to remember. A messenger arrived at court, whose coat bore the Flayed Man.
I stayed my blade long enough to learn he bore a message from the hand of the Red King, that cur Rogar, asking for my aid.
How I laughed, even my friend Barris could not withhold his humor. A rare sight from the Mountain Bear.
Word has reached Bolton from the Flints that a fleet of these Andals has sailed through The Bite and made camp at the mouth of Weeping Water. The Huntsman fears they mean to take the Dreadfort.
While my gut tells me to leave the Flayed Men to their graves, I cannot deny that I yearn to test the mettle of these foreigners. Refugees from the Riverlands tell of some warriors called "nyghts" that break the flanks of men like water upon the sand. I'd like to see them break a line of Stark Riders. They would find our long spears and thick shields not so easy a foe.
I will admit, I fear their closeness to Skagos if the Dreadfort did fall. I have sent word to the Great Shepherd, though I doubt they have not already heard.
Regardless, I have ordered a muster and bid messengers ride hard for Last Hearth.
I shall return to Winterfell with blood on my axe and perhaps more.
I sit now in my solar. My leg cramps horribly. The cut in my knee itches despite Dysa's careful bandaging.
These swords, "Iron" the Andals called it, are incredible. It almost made me believe they were gifts from their strange Gods. Though the prisoner's say it is widely used across Essos. Their secrets shall be ours soon enough. The Wull and his scouts captured some craftsmen when we assaulted the Andal camps.
As I've written before, the Weeping Water was truly a great battle. Now that the bodies have been burned and the maneuvers of the field accounted, I find it prudent to write on the greater achievement. The crown of the Red Kings now sits upon my hearth.
Rogar's stubborn pride was easily my greatest asset. As expected, the Boltons would take nothing less than the vanguard and were determined to bloody the Andals. The Umbers say that Rogar wrote to me after weeks of debate. It is undoubtedly a signal of weakness for a King to seek the aid of his sworn rivals.
Just recalling the battle has my blood pumping. I shall write quickly and then return to Dysa.
Rogar and his footmen met the Andals head on and it was just as described. The metal-clad knights fell into the Flayed Men with ease that took my breath. The Bolton spears may have warned them off in some places, but the bronze tips only bent and cracked the enemy's armor. Rogar eventually ordered what men he had left to wrestle the knights to the ground. They were an effective stoppage that allowed my army to secure victory. Though it was not a rout or even a slaughter, a true battle.
(I would note the brave actions of Harryn Hornwood, a minor vassal of the Boltons. When the Andals cut down part of my guard and threw down my banner, he and his men reclaimed it and returned it to me. A sensible man, Hornwood, and supposedly one of the Bolton's "least-favoured" bannermen.)
It was that night, after I gave suitable rewards to my commanders and arranged a betrothal for my brother, that I bid Rogar take a meal with me in private.
(For bringing me Sevenstar's head, my old friend, Barris, shall see his daughter wed to my House. Karlon always did enjoy stouter women and his Mormont bride will be with child soon enough.)
The Huntsmen joined me with the crown of the Red Kings shining upon his brow. Such swagger he had. The idiot plainly hadn't taken stock of his losses. When I pointed out that he had less than 2000 men remaining the man looked fit to break guest rights. Though he was quick to catch on. The Glovers and Umbers were camped between us and the Dreadfort, far enough away that they'd not shared bread and salt that day. He'd never make it there in one piece.
I will give him his due, he blustered and haggled for another hour before finally seeing the bloodbath that would follow.
What would my forefathers say if they were there that night? To see the Red King cast his crown down before the King of Winter.
Such a curious title, perhaps unfitting, it seems too small.
For what foe would dare stand against me now?
Yes. These Andals have challenged not just one Kingdom, but the whole North.
They shall see what happens when Winter Comes.
It is good to be home again. Andalos is a dirty, dry place. A land without weirwoods.
I will not write of what I have done. I doubt any of my sons or grandsons will need a reminder of my victories.
I return to the North to find a new daughter born and a brother who has made me proud.
In my stead, Karlon ruled as the Stark in Winterfell. Joren has just learned to pronounce his own name and was safer under his care.
What I did not expect was for betrayal to rise in my absence, more so after the Boltons came under my rule. The Ryders have always chafed, it seems they could not ignore my consolidation of the Kingdom.
As for the Boltons? Rogar will not march while both his sons live within Winterfell's walls.
The traitors expected the Barrowlands to follow them to war for their own crown, but their hope was hollow. The Dustin instead sent word to Winterfell and joined Karlon on the march.
Honours and privileges were given and the last of the Ryders to bear the name waits in the dungeon. I shall sentence him tomorrow. Then the arduous process of remapping the Rills begins.
For Karlon though, more is needed. I have not told him yet but already I have spoken with Lord Umber and defined a border that will make up the western edge of his new lands. He shall keep a watch on the Narrow Sea and Andalos, while taking land and power from the Boltons.
We are powerful now and I plan to wield the power of the North as it is needed. Our neighbours, these Andal Kings, shall learn what it means to earn our fury. I await their insults with eager breath and an empty stomach.
/
"Robb!"
The heir of Winterfell rocked back. Snapping his gaze up to see Theon, Theon Greyjoy, laughing at him from the doorway.
"Got your head in the books, Stark?"
Carefully, sliding his copies back in place, Robb rewrapped the Stark Histories.
"The words of ancient kings can be enchanting, I will not lie." Robb replied.
Theon watched him tidy up the library, doused candles and refilled ink. "Bran said you were going through the life of The Hungry Wolf. Learned any lessons?"
Robb chewed his lip. Theon was making another joke but it was not a pointless question. Theon Stark had a taste for war, that much was clear even in the folk tales. His victories led to a thirst for it that had been seemingly unquenchable. Robb was eager to reach the writings about the Ironborn invasions and his battles Beyond-the-Wall.
Warring with the Ironborn. Robb's father had continued that fine tradition, as had Theon's he supposed. Time changes many things, but Robb wondered if some traits were dug too deeply into the blood to be forgotten. After all, the Boltons had given up their crown for thousands of years. But not even 500 years ago they had struck their banners and fought against Winterfell, with the help of the Greystarks no less! Were men trapped by time? It wasn't a happy thought.
Robb smiled as he half-listened to Theon's newest story about a rumble with some lads at the tavern. They eventually make their way all the way into Wintertown and find their usual seats at the tavern.
"You've got more and more on your plate, Stark. Your Lord Father isn't giving out breaks every once and awhile?" Theon took a quaff of his strong ale.
"Aye." Robb nodded. "I think he's realised that he'd been giving me a second son's education rather than an heir's."
"An heir's education. I suppose I should be getting one of those." Theon commented.
Robb frowned. "You are. Father doesn't exclude anything just because you're in the room."
Theon pushed his third empty mug to the side. "I know. A good man, your father. What he's teaching me..." The Greyjoy looked morose, a state he only showed in public when he'd had too much to drink. Mercifully, the tavern was empty save for a few sleeping greybeards. "I can't help but feel like a waste of space. How much can I learn about the Iron Islands from a solar in the North. Maester Luwin has given me some books, but books written by Maesters from the Citadel are hardly going to tell how to captain a ship, how to rule my future lands. If I ever rule any future lands."
Robb leaned forward. "What do you mean, if? You're Lord Balon's only living son. You're his only heir!"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Theon argued. "I'll be kept here until my father dies. That could take years! Look at the Freys! I'll be an old man with nothing but bastards and no wife. What a glorious Lord Reaper I'll be, to have never sailed a ship in my life. At best one of my Uncles will rule in my name. What a glorious life that'll be." Theon was devastated and Robb had never heard such hurt from his friend.
"You should tell my father about your worries. He'll help you find some way around this." Robb insisted.
Theon shook his head. "Lord Stark has always kept his distance for a reason. All it would take is one raid, one word to the King that my father has broken the accord and my life is forfeit. If that day came, Lord Stark would do his duty." Theon reached for his refilled tankard, but Robb pulled it out of reach. "I'm not a toddler Robb. I know that me being here is meant to bring the Iron Islands closer to the throne once I become its Lord. I wonder sometimes, though, if I'll not make a mess of it all."
"Fuck that!" Robb stood and slammed his hand onto the table. Theon rocked back and tipped off his chair. "You can't just sit there and mope, with nothing but tears and drink on your feet. We are going to go to my father and speak with him. He'll have some kind of idea. You can't just give up now, Theon."
The redheaded Stark jumped over the table and pulled the taller boy up to his feet. "Your namesake was called The Hungry Wolf, not because he laid on his back and waited for a meal to be dropped into his belly. His enemies gave him that name because when he saw a prize, he took in his jaws and devoured it whole! Now get moving, the sun won't wait."
Robb shoved his foster-brother out into the road and paid for their meals. Taking a deep breath as they walked back to the Keep, Robb reflected on his earlier assumption. Time changes things, Theon Stark was the King of Winter one day and King in the North the next. If one Theon could earn glory, then who was to say another couldn't do the same?
/
A/N: Thanks to all the commenters and reviewers! I know it's been a long while but I appreciate everyone who came back to the story.
The Stark children are still quite young (Arya, Bran, and Rickon especially) and I don't know how to write children. I've tried to keep them somewhat immature but I don't think I've succeeded. I hope you enjoy this chapter and some AU history that doesn't technically "conflict" with canon. I'm more so making up my own history to fill in the ambiguous spots in ASOIAF canon.
Theon is kind of a hard situation for me to tackle, this fic is shaping up to be a bit more on the happy rather than angst side. While I think he's an interesting character in the books, I'm reluctant to let him become the same villain as before. So I'm searching for some not too OOC ways of changing his story.
As always, comments and feedback are appreciated.