When he's four and ten, Theon has his first moon's blood.

Theon wasn't naive, he knew what the blood in his small clothes was and what it meant. He'd been expecting it for some time now. How could he not? He'd grown several inches taller over the last year; his hips were wider and backside and his chest—his breasts—he can't pretend they're anything else now—have filled out as well. And there was hair between his legs. Theon knew—knew—his flowering was inevitable. Yet he'd done nothing to prepare himself for its coming.

It struck him when he was in the training yard trying to regain some semblance of his sword skills. It was slow going, that. Theon was never a great swordsman in his last life and going by his current rate of improvement, he won't be one in this life either, no matter how hard he trained. But with time, he hoped to be competent enough with a blade to defend himself against a moderately trained swordsman.

Robb, Jon, Arya were laughing and running around just outside the boundary of the training yard. The boys were still in their training leathers and Arya was wearing a light woolen gown that was already dirty at the hem. After she'd gotten bored of watching Theon swinging his practice sword around, Arya talked the boys into playing swords with her. They were using wooden swords, of course, so it was considered just play and not swordplay.

A handful of castle guards watched Theon practice. Often sniggering whenever his form was wrong, or his arm became unsteady from fatigue and his swings went crooked. And to Theon's chagrin, the errors happen far more than they should after months of trying to refine his lackluster ability with a sword.

Though the guards' taunting of late declined as Theon improved, he rather they be well away from him while he trained.

Theon's practice sword was mid-swing when his abdomen and lower back seized. He'd noticed the sensation building earlier and ignored it—thinking it was the normal stitches he got when he pushed himself too hard. Then the pang became a cramp and it squeezed Theon's entire middle like a vice. He doubled over and clamped his free hand above his hip and was barely able to bite off a yelp of pain.

Slowly the cramp relaxed, and the pain receded until Theon only felt a persistent stitch in his side that didn't seem to be going away.

"You okay over there, girl?" One of the guards watching asked.

Theon looked over at him ready to grit out he was fine but stopped when he saw the guard who spoke and the two others beside him had looks in their eyes that held little concern in them. He knew those looks. He'd seen them aplenty in the brothel in Winter Town. Theon's certain he'd worn the same expression himself when he was a man.

The guard who'd asked if Theon was all right, an older man not much older than Jory, wore standard Winterfell guard armor: a white tabard with a direwolf emblem embroidered on the chest. The tabard was over gray chest armor and chainmail under that. He also wore boiled leather trousers and boots. His helmet coif was pulled back and hung down his back, revealing short, curly brown hair.

The guard also wore a leer that did not involve looking at Theon's face.

Theon looked down at his body and realized how form-fitting his training leathers had become recently. When Ser Rodrik first gave the padded leather suit to Theon it'd fit loosely around his chest, waist, and around his thighs. He was meant to grow into them and then given newer leathers when the old ones no longer fit.

Theon hadn't thought he needed new ones—these fit well enough. He could still move freely, and the tighter fit even let him draw his bow more smoothly. But there was no denying the way the clothes fit Theon now displayed the curves of his figure. Even more so while he was half bent over.

Theon straightened and let his hand fall away from his hip. He wanted to hold his head up high and tell the guard to bugger off and calmly walk off the yard, but shame burned through him instead of any sense of dignity. He'd been flailing and prancing around like a whore in front of these men for weeks, maybe months, without even knowing it.

You've always had a talent for deluding yourself, haven't you? The thought whispered harshly through Theon's mind.

"Are you alright, Quinn?" Jon asked having stopped his play with Robb and Arya.

Theon couldn't let himself speak not unless he wanted the boys and Arya—those men—to hear his voice crack the moment he tried. Theon nodded then put away his practice sword and gathered up his bow. Theon never left his bow in the training yard, not after the first time he did it and he later found the string cut.

Robb and Arya joined Jon in looking at Theon with concern. Not wanting to worry the children further, Theon smiled brightly and made sure his voice was steady before he replied.

"I'm done for the day, I think," he said.

"I wanna see you shoot arrows!" Arya said plaintively.

Arya enjoyed watching Theon use his bow. Though she must have seen him do so a hundred times already, it still thrilled Arya to watch a girl loose arrows better than any man in Winterfell.

At four, Arya is a tiny little thing who barely stands up to Theon's waist. Her dark hair is a mess of loosened, stringy braids on top of a face that's round, pudgy, and irresistibly squishable in Theon's opinion. Though one might lose a hand in the attempt.

"I know," Theon said. "Tomorrow. Promise."

Arya sighed dramatically but quickly turned to Robb and Jon and ordered them to keep playing swords with her.

"Hey! Careful!" Robb shouted when Arya didn't wait for his reply and just stabbed him in the side with the wooden sword in her hand.

Robb knocked Arya's sword back and went after the giggling girl with mock vengeance in his eyes. As Robb chased Arya, Jon continued to watch Theon, the concern on his face no less potent.

"I'm fine, Jon. Go on. You know Robb can't hold Arya back for long without your help."

A slow smile spread across Jon's face before he nodded and rejoined his siblings in their play. The smile Theon returned shrank when the pang in his side flared into a sharp, needling pain. Theon took a deep breath and marched off the yard gripping his bow without looking at the guards. It took all his willpower to resist the urge to cover his arse with his bow.

When he was out of sight of anyone who might want to pay attention to him, Theon grabbed his side and slowed his pace as he made his way back to the Great Keep and his chambers. Once he was in his chambers, Theon planned to immediately remove his leathers and let them out, so they were no longer as form-fitting. Or perhaps add a wider tabard to the vest or a half kilt to the trousers. But after he closed himself inside his rooms, Theon realized he just wanted to lay down.

Stripping down to his small clothes, Theon noticed the feeling of stickiness in his underpants. When he looked inside them, he saw an oily, slick, reddish-brown stain on the crotch. He stared at it for a good long while, his mind not wanting to acknowledge the implications of what he'd found.

Burn it.

How? Theon asked the fearful voice demanding he hide the evidence of his flowering. Where?

The kitchens. There's always a fire burning. No one will notice. Do it now.

Theon closed his eyes and didn't move.

She'll send you away. You know she will. You'll have to leave them.

Theon sat on the bed.

Lady Stark used to speak often of betrothing Theon to a Northern Lord's son, or a Northern Lord. During their long hours in the Lady's solar, she spoke of what Theon's duties would be once he joined another household as his Lord's lady-wife. But after Lady Stark turned him away, Theon had heard no more talk of being betrothed since then.

Theon shook his head.

She won't.

She will! The quiet voice hissed.

Theon thought of all the women before him who went to husbands, many whom they never met before their wedding night, because it was required of them. He thought of Lady Sansa, the one from before, who agreed to marry Ramsay. For Theon to cower after so many have met their fates with courage…

"If that is the outcome, then so be it," Theon said aloud. "I am no craven."

Yes, you are.

Theon spent the rest of the evening hours reworking his training leathers. Letting them out around the chest area and adding a half-kilt to the trousers. He worked into the night, skipping supper, and ignoring the cramps.

The strips of wool cloth Theon put in his small clothes before he retired were spotted with blood when he woke up the following morning. Changing into new undergarments, Theon replaced the cloth, dressed, and then went to his lessons.

When he was working on his training clothes, Theon concluded he needed help. Not to cover up his moon's blood, but aid in dealing with it. If he were back home, his mother would have prepared him before it happened. Though he'd have gone to Yara afterward for more practical advice.

Theon wouldn't—couldn't—go to Lady Stark. Though he feared she'd send him away Theon knew it would hurt near as bad if he went to Catelyn and she didn't care at all. And right then, Theon felt too vulnerable, too naked to endure the cold winds that swirled around Lady Stark like the coldest winter storm.

Theon sat with Sansa, Septa, and four other young girls in a circle of chairs within the Sept. Three of the lasses, all low-born, would become Sansa's handmaidens once she was older. They joined her lessons so they might serve her better when the time came. Only Jeyne Poole, the high-born daughter of Winterfell's steward, was there as Sansa's companion.

Theon had long since mastered the skills the younger girls were there to learn. He was an able dressmaker, knew his courtesies, learned to dance and play the harp, and could recite poetry reasonably well. He mostly helped the other girls now; especially when Mordane needed to focus her attention on Sansa, as she was Sansa's teacher, and not theirs. After Theon turned five and ten, he would no longer be expected to attend Mordane's lessons. It was assumed he would need to concentrate solely on his marriage prospects by then.

In less than a years' time, Theon would be paroled from Septa's lessons, and Arya convicted to them.

Mordane ended lessons after a long lecture on the Seven and dismissed the others from the Sept. Theon remained behind. His hands were tangled up in his skirt, and he stared at the floor—waiting for the woman to notice he was still sat in his chair.

"Now this is unusual," Septa Mordane said. "Finally decided Ser Rodrik's yard isn't the proper way to be a lady, have you?"

Theon looked at the woman who was appraising him with interest.

"I would like to speak to you, Septa, about…"

"About what, child?"

Theon couldn't get the right words to come out—or any words to come out. He just sat there with his mouth working like a fish flopping around on the sand. His face was burning from a blush that started from his neck and climbed up to his hairline.

"What is wrong, lady Quenlyn?" There was a strange hint of concern in the septa's voice that made Theon's eyes water, and he looked down at the floor again to hide them.

This was humiliating. He should leave and handle everything by himself. It was disgusting how weak he was being about his flowering; he'd wager Yara would not be whimpering like a babe over something so simple a matter.

Weak as a man. Weaker still as a woman.

"I see," Mordane said.

Theon looked up and saw Septa Mordane had come and sat in one of the chairs across from him. Her eyes were not warm, not exactly, but there was a gleam of understanding in them.

"When did it happen, girl?"

"Yesterday," Theon whispered, grateful he didn't have to say what 'it' was.

"Feel tired? Pain below your belly—in your sides?"

Theon only nodded, the tears that had been brimming in his eyes dripped down his cheeks.

"And you've bled," Mordane said not as a question.

"Yes."

"The bleeding will continue for several more days, normally. Was there much blood?"

"I—I don't know. No?"

"What are you using in your small clothes to absorb your flow?"

Theon looked down and didn't answer. The shame burning through him wouldn't allow him to talk about the ribbons of unused cloth packed inside the crotch of his underpants.

"Speak up, gir—" Mordane hummed. "Speak, young lady. This is women's business we discuss! You will need to deal with such things for a few decades more at least. Best start now."

"I—I am using scraps of cloth," Theon said finally.

"That's fine if your flow remains light, but should it turn heavy you will need pads made to handle it," Mordane said. "I will ask Lady Stark to provide—"

There must have been a look of alarm on Theon's face, for he certainly felt panicked at the mention of Lady Stark's involvement, and Septa paused.

"I see. I will acquire a supply for you," Mordane said. "Take one apart to see how they are made. You've the skill to make your own if you wish to."

"I… Thank you," Theon said.

Mordane hummed again then looked at Theon as though she wanted to say more but was unsure if it would be welcomed.

"Quenlyn, with your moon's blood you need to be aware of your hygiene even more. Do you understand?"

Theon's ears were burning, and he wanted to bury his face in his hands, but he managed to ground out a yes at the septa.

"You need to decide how you will groom yourself, as well. Southern ladies are expected to remove all hair from between their legs. In the North the custom is less rigid, so I hear."

Theon nodded. He remembered Ros removed all but a small patch of hair above her quim, but every other woman Theon had lain with seemed to keep themselves closely trimmed instead of bald.

"Do you shave your legs?" Mordane asked.

The question confused Theon, but he shook his head in reply.

"If you decide to groom between your legs using a razor or a knife, practice on your legs first. You can also use walnut oil, or bandages soaked in ammonia in a pinch."

Theon frowned. "I… see," he parroted Mordane's words. "And what do I use to keep myself clean… um, down there?"

Septa Mordane smiled. "That is a good question."

Theon returned a smile.

Maybe there was more he could learn from Septa after all.