The voyage back to the Greenlands began more or less how Theon remembered. The king took a separate ship south to King's Landing, leaving Theon alone with Stark, his surviving bannermen, and the crew of the galleon ship, Nier.
The first time he made this journey, Theon's thoughts had been preoccupied with the terrible fate that awaited him once he reached his jailer's castle to the east—Winterfell. This time, Theon knew he had nothing to fear. He knew he'd find mercy and shelter under the Starks' roof. So instead he spent the sennight-long trip wondering how it all went so wrong?
He tried staying near Ned more this time and hoped to overhear something, anything, that might hint at what other changes there might be, but Ned, Jory, and the other Stark men would fall silent any time Theon approached them.
It wasn't like that last time. Before, Ned tried to speak with Theon numerous times about what to expect when they returned to Winterfell. Theon had ignored Stark, of course, certain only a dungeon and darkness awaited him. Or worse, being tortured to death and no one knowing what became of him.
Finally, one day, Theon managed to corner Jory on the Nier's quarterdeck and asked the future guard captain why no one onboard would speak to him. Jory had always been kind to Theon in his other life, and Theon hoped this Jory Cassel possessed the same willingness to treat Quenlyn with similar kindness and give Theon the answers he sought.
"I think you should speak to Lord Stark about that," Jory said stiffly without meeting Theon's eyes, then he tried to step around Theon and make his escape.
"I have tried to speak with Lord Stark," Theon said, aggressively blocking Jory's retreat despite his much smaller size. "But he, like everyone else on this ship, continues to ignore me. Is it because I'm Ironborn?"
Jory looked genuinely surprised by the question. "What? No. It's—it's your manner of dress."
Theon looked down at his clothes—a heavy woolen tunic, trousers, and boiled leather boots—then back at Jory. "But we are at sea. I don't understand?"
"Your clothing is not decent for a noble lady to wear."
Theon opened his mouth to protest, but in the end, didn't know how to respond to Jory's declaration. He couldn't believe the men onboard the Nier had been looking at him side-ways this whole time because he wasn't wearing a dress. As Theon stood frozen in stunned silence, Jory gently pushed him aside and strode away.
After learning of this, Theon went to his private cabin on the ship—he had to share one with Jory and several bannermen last time—and let himself fall apart. He curled up on the small featherbed and tried not to cry too loudly. Theon almost wished being Ironborn was the reason they shunned him. To be reminded his place among the Greenlanders would be lower than ever as a woman, only made his situation more agonizing to contemplate.
Theon made his peace with being a girl on the Iron Islands not long after his memories returned. And as Balon Greyjoy's daughter, he would have protection from the worst of what it meant to be a woman, and advantages most, man or woman, would never have. But now he was a girl who would soon live in the Greenlands, and he'll be expected to act like a lady. Like Sansa Stark. Behaving any other way was unlikely to be tolerated.
He'd wanted—expected—to grow up like Yara did the first time. Taught to fight and how to captain a ship, and wear bloody pants if he wanted to! Now, he wouldn't be allowed to do much besides be useless at anything that mattered.
Theon screamed into his pillow.
Gods, he might have to take a husband! As Ned Stark's hostage, Theon could be married off, if Baratheon willed it so. If Theon had still been a man, ready to inherit, he would have some latitude to marry into another Iron Born family to secure his rule. But as a girl, he was likely to be sold off to ease tensions between the North and the Iron Islands and given very little choice in the matter.
I'll be stuck getting fucked by some minor Northern lord and squirting out his spawn forever!
Theon screamed into the pillow until his throat was sore, and his lungs burned.
When Catelyn Stark came out to greet her returning husband, she hugged Lord Stark, then eyed Theon like he was covered in mud and shit. But Theon had expected the reception and ignored the woman's predictably hostile demeanor. The men that had come home to Winterfell from the rebellion were already falling in with the guards and soldiers left behind to protect the castle. There were many loud, happy greetings. One, in particular, brought a smile to Theon's face, and a pang to his heart: Ser Rodrik welcoming back his nephew.
Theon remembered there was to be a welcome home feast for all the returning conquering heroes, and they did not invite him. Not that Theon would have wanted to listen to a bunch of Greenlanders celebrate killing his people, anyway.
"Well, you cannot go around dressed like that!"
Theon was startled to find Lady Stark suddenly standing in front of him, her hands on her hips, looking down at him with solemn blue eyes.
"My Lady?"
Catelyn leaned her head back, and the look in her eyes softened, just a little. "Girls should not wear men's attire. Come. Did have you any appropriate clothing brought with you?"
Lady Stark was already walking as she questioned Theon, and he followed her as she leading him toward the Great Keep.
"No, My Lady."
Theon left everything except a week's worth of changing clothes fit for the crossing, his bow, and the practice sword Yara gave him, behind at the Pyke. Taking anything more would just be a stinging reminder of everything he's lost, and Theon knew all too well that led to nothing good. As they approached the Great Keep, Theon reminded himself to keep his weapons carefully hidden once they were unpacked.
"Then we will have some made for you."
Theon knew better than to protest, not now, and quietly followed the woman into the Keep, only speaking when asked a question. Lady Stark showed him to a room with little furnishing besides a bed, a dresser, a chamber pot, and animal skin carpets.
"This will be your room while you stay with us," Lady Stark said.
Theon's brow lifted. These aren't the chambers he had last time. They were larger, and in the wrong part of the Keep.
"You must be tired, I know, but you've been traveling for more than a week and, frankly, you need a bath. Someone will bring a tub up for you."
"Thank you, My Lady."
Lady Stark settled a curious stare on Theon for a moment. It felt odd not having the woman scowling at him. But with her expression more or less neutral, Theon could see Catelyn was also much younger than she was the first time he came to Winterfell. She'd always been pretty, but in the flush of her youth, Catelyn Stark was stunning.
"Well," she said finally, "if you are hungry, I'll have food brought to your room as well. What do you say?"
"Um, thank you, My Lady?"
Lady Stark's lips twitched. "I'll take that to mean you are, indeed, hungry. After you've bathed and eaten, Lord Stark will wish to speak with you. When you are ready, the guard will bring you to see him. Understood?"
Theon nodded.
Lady Stark returned the nod and left Theon alone in his new quarters.
Later, when he was sitting in the tub washing his hair, Theon wondered why he had seen none of the Stark children. The first time Ned brought Theon into Winterfell Robb was clinging to Lady Catelyn's skirts, and little Sansa rested on the woman's hip. Was it possible these Starks had no children?
No. That demon twat threatened Robb with an unspeakable death should Theon attempt to save him. Robb, at the very least, was alive. And what about Jon? Was the bast—was Snow here?
Just how much differs from the world he knew?
They were all bloody infants! Or near to it. Both Robb and Jon are five name days, Sansa can barely toddle, and Arya is a baby. Bran and Rickon weren't even born yet.
Theon is the oldest by five years.
Theon was longingly watching Ser Rodrik put twenty Stark guardsmen through their paces on the practice yard when he laid eyes on Robb for the first time.
Theon hadn't had many opportunities to practice with his weapons since arriving at Winterfell, not under the watchful eyes of Lady Stark. One would think with three small children to focus her attentions on, Catelyn Stark had little time to spare on a ward. One would be wrong.
Theon lost count of how many fittings and stylings he had to endure while Lady Stark and the newly arrived Septa Mordane fussed around him, measuring and remeasuring. Commenting on rather or not Theon's hair looked better up or down, curled or straight? It all seemed to go on forever, and Theon hated every moment. Once Arya was old enough to realize she hated it too, Theon swore an oath to do everything in his power to aid the girl's future escapes.
The day he was able to watch the Winterfell guards drill Arya's was teething, and the babe was fussy and wailing constantly, which distracted Lady Stark. And Septa was busy tending to Sansa in Catelyn's place, thus leaving Theon free to do as he please.
Theon hid amongst the animal pens as he watched the training session. He was small, and the men were well diverted, so Theon hadn't attracted their attention. Though the long, billowy dress Lady Stark made him wear did little to help Theon keep a low profile.
Theon hoped to convince Lord Stark to let him use the training yard in the future. He remembered all his training from before, but he knew he'd need to keep honing those skills to have any chance of being a match against a fully trained man. He needed to practice and build up his strength. If he let his body lay fallow too long, what meager muscle he'd built up training with Yara would soften and become useless.
Looking on, Theon tried not to think about how all the men in front of him doing their drills would be long dead before the war against the dead came to Winterfell. Most died with Robb or fell to Ramsey during the sack. Theon and his men put the rest to the sword when they refused to kneel after the Ironborn took the castle.
Those killed at the Red Wedding were like to die again, but the others—Theon would not let that happen this time. Whatever his failures, Theon could do at least that much.
"Ow!"
Theon instinctively wheeled around with his fist raised, ready to strike out at the person who'd pulled his hair. The sight of a small, red-headed boy wearing a red and black leather cuirass, wool trousers, and leather boots, who looked only four or five name days, stayed Theon's hand.
"Rickon?"
The boy looked just like the youngest Stark the last time Theon saw him before his escape from Winterfell—all shaggy red hair and big blue eyes.
"My name is not Rickon. My name is Robb!" the little boy said.
"Robb?"
Could it be true?
"Your hair is real black. It's pretty."
"You're just a baby!" Theon exclaimed, shocked at the sight of the child standing before him whose full-height barely reached Theon's shoulders.
The little boy's face scrunched into an endearing little scowl that made Theon's stomach flip and his hands twitch. Robb looked adorable, and Theon wanted to pull the boy to him and rub their cheeks together. It was an impulse Theon only recently learned to endure since he remembered who he was.
When he'd had a man's body whenever Theon saw a cute child, which was too often since all the little Starks had been irritatingly sweet-faced, he could tamp down on any weird urge to hug them, or even ruffle their hair. As a woman, sometimes it was all Theon could do to keep himself from squealing like a dumb girl whenever he came across some darling thing or another. Even Yara's taunting over the years could not rid Theon of the urge.
"Arya is a baby! I am not a baby!" Robb said.
"No, no, of course not, my little lord," Theon said with a wry grin.
"I'm not a lord, either."
"No?"
"No. One day I will be, but a long, long time from now, Mother says."
Theon tasted sourness on his tongue and forced the smile on his face to remain steady.
"Your mother has the right of it," Theon said.
"What's your name?" Robb asked.
"The—Quinn. Quenlyn Greyjoy. I'm from the Iron Islands."
Theon held out his hand to Rob, and the boy shook it with a very solemn expression on his tiny face.
"Where are the I-ran Islands?"
"Far West of Winterfell and across the sea," Theon said.
Robb's big, blue eyes grew even rounder. "That far?"
"Far enough."
"Then why are you here so far from home?"
Un-knotting the whys and what fors of Theon's stay at Winterfell as Ned Stark's ward probably wasn't a conversation Theon should have with the man's son, so he quickly changed the subject.
"I hear you have a brother. Jon?"
The previously concerned look on Robb's face lightened, and the boy barked: "Yes!"
"Where's he? I haven't noticed him around at all."
"He don't—doesn't leave his rooms much except to eat meals, or when we take lessons from Maester Luwin. And to play—I mean—practice swords."
Theon had had little reason to believe Jon's situation differed from the first time. But he hoped since Lady Stark was much kinder, or at least was more willing to tolerate Theon, then the woman might also be more accepting of her husband's bastard son as well. Seems that wasn't the case.
"More's the pity," Theon murmured.
"What's that mean?"
Theon finally encountered Jon Snow later that same day; it wasn't an entirely accidental meeting, as he went out of his way to look for the boy until he found him.
Jon was in Theon's original room in the Great Keep. Theon hadn't expected to find anyone there. He'd only looked in on his old room out of curiosity. After thinking about it, it was obvious why he'd been moved to another part of the Keep. Theon's current rooms were nearer to Sansa and Arya's rooms, and farther from Robb and Jon, and in the future, Bran and Rickon's quarters.
Last time, Theon never much cared about what Jon did or where he went, unless the boy skulked behind Theon and Robb, being nearly as underfoot as Arya. The most consideration he'd given Snow was how best to attack the boy with cruel japes concerning his base-born status—and Theon had a million of them. That had given way to less venomous verbal assaults once Robb began sticking up for his brother, and without being able to freely attack Jon, Theon switched to ignoring the boy unless they were training together. But everything was different now.
When Theon entered his old room, he found Jon reading. His small, skinny body huddled over a reading desk as he scrutinized the large leather-bound tome in front of him. The half-melted candle on the upper corner of the desk was casting a soft yellow light on the book's gold-leaf pages, allowing Jon to see the words written on them in the shadowy, windowless room.
Theon wondered what the book was on? It looked ancient, and Maester Luwin rarely let anyone take any of the older books from his library. Not even Lord Stark could just pull one without asking first. Maybe it came from one of the castle's other libraries.
"What're you reading?" Theon asked.
Jon raised his head and looked over at Theon standing just inside the open doorway.
Jon looked the same age as Robb and wore clothing similar to his brother. Only every piece was solid black. Jon and Theon shared the same pitch-colored hair, but Jon's was shorter and wavier. The boy was as pale as ever—and pretty as ever, especially for a boy. Full, pouty red lips he'll keep when he gets older, a fine pointed little nose, and grim, gray-brown eyes like his lord father's.
"Who are you?" Jon asked.
Theon crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at the boy. "Can't you guess, Jon? Who could the new girl in the castle be, hmm?"
Jon scowled adorably. Theon didn't know if the look was drawn because the boy was thinking of an answer, or if Jon sensed the mocking riff in Theon's tone.
"The Greyjoy girl?"
"That's right."
"How did you know who I am?"
Theon shrugged. "Heard about you. And you look like Lord Stark."
"Oh." Jon looked at Theon quietly for a moment before he took a deep breath and his tiny hands gripped the edges of his desk, as if bracing himself against an oncoming blow.
"I'm his bastard son," Jon said.
Theon shrugged again. "Yeah. So?"
Jon's cheeks turned bright pink before he turned away and looked down at the book on his desk—hiding the smile on his lips.
So cute.