By the time he's six and ten, Theon is the happiest he's ever been since he came to live in Winterfell.
Robb, Jon, and Arya followed him around like ducklings after their mother. Sansa used to join them, but as time wore on, Theon watched Sansa grow into the young woman she was before King's Landing. A proper young lady, with unerring manners, and impeccable poise and taste—one who had no use for her father's Ironborn ward.
Even so, Theon smiles every time he sees her, haughtiness and all.
Theon found he liked being looked up to like an older sibling. He liked it so much he did his best to be the older sister Yara was to girl-him—watchful, but never overbearing. The sister Yara was to boy-him had been quick to give Theon brutal thrashings when he was acting like a twat, and he didn't dare go so far against Robb and Jon. Though there were times he was sorely tested to crack their little skulls.
True to his oath, Theon does all he can to aid Arya's flight from her lessons, and Septa Mordane's concentrated efforts to tame the girl. When escape was impossible, he guided Arya toward acting out more subtle rebellions, which he imports are more useful than the brash, bold ones she's taken part in so far.
"Then what should I do, then?" the girl groaned. "How should I rebel?"
"By giving your enemy what they want."
"She wants to enslave and subjugate me! I refuse!"
Theon laughed. "No, she wants you to pay attention and learn. So, do that, but in the way of your own choosing."
They're lying on their sides on top of Theon's feather bed, facing each other as they plotted and schemed against Septa Mordane. Both had a cheek resting on a hand propped up by an elbow. Theon's longer legs hang over the side of the bed with his bare feet almost touching the floor, while only Arya's slipper-covered feet stuck out over the other side of the bed. Safely away from judgmental eyes, Theon wore a pair of dark blue trousers he'd made and a white linen tunic. Arya had on a powder blue dress, white silken hosiery, and matching slippers.
Even at the tender age of six, Arya reminded Theon of Yara. Both were rowdy and quick to recognize and pursue their wants and needs. Arya was also savagely honest in the way only very young children can be, and the girl's hilarious, unfiltered outbursts made Theon like her even more. She was also much cleverer than Robb and Jon ever were at the same age.
"Choose to learn to sew?" Arya said. "Choose to curtsy and mind my manners? Why would I?"
"And do you think you need to do any of it perfectly? Or just adequately enough to disorder your opponent?"
When confusion wrinkled Arya's tiny face, Theon sighed.
"What does your enemy want from you?"
"For me to be a proper Lady."
"No," Theon said slowly, "that's not what your enemy wants, not at all. What your enemy wants are your time and attention."
"What do you mean?"
"Septa shits on your stitching and punishes your restlessness because she thinks you aren't concentrating hard enough," Theon said before pressing the tip of his forefinger against the center of Arya's forehead, making the girl laugh. "And that you are heedless of the time she spends trying to teach you.
"To change how she looks at your efforts you need to lower her expectations. Tomorrow, during your lessons, do a really bad job on your stitching. Like it's your first time holding a needle. And do it all very slowly. Don't act bored, don't run away, just sit and be the worst stitcher there's ever been."
"But Septa will scold me! Sansa will make fun!"
"That's fine," Theon said mildly. "Smile and promise to do better next time. And when next time comes, actually do a little bit better. Not a lot, but enough so Septa can tell you're improving and that you're really trying, but still do it slowly. She'll tut, but she won't come down as hard on you because she'll see the effort you're putting in."
"Is… Isn't that like lying?" Arya asked.
"No. It's an effort to create the illusion of greater effort."
Arya purses her lips and narrows her gray eyes at him. "Sounds like lying to me," she says.
"'Arya,'" Theon starts before squinting his eyes and lowering his voice to mimic Lord Stark's, "'your mother tells me you stole away from your lessons with the septa, is that true?'" Theon raised his voice to match the high lilt of Arya's voice next. "'Oh, no, Father,'" Theon cried, clasping his hands together like a forlorn mummer performing on a stage, "'I only left for but a moment!'"
"I—I—don't sound—that's not the same!"
"'Arya! What are you doing in the training yard? Didn't you promise not to leave your lessons again?'"
Arya winced and cried out in surrender. "Okay, okay!"
She looked adorable and Theon is tempted to pinch one of her pudgy cheeks.
Oh, why not?
"Hey!" The girl protested and knocked Theon's fingers away with a backward swipe of her hand.
Theon smiled. "So, what have we learned?"
"Fake being shit, then get better—slowly—so it looks like I'm learning and not wasting Septa's precious time?"
"Right. Do it right and it'll buy you a fortnight of goodwill, and maybe even get you out of lessons early if you're convincing enough. And it works with most tasks Septa gives you to learn."
"Did it work for you?"
"Well, not with needlework, I already knew how. My mother taught my sister and me long before I came to Winterfell."
Arya looked at Theon like she's never seen him before. "You learned about being a Lady on the Iron Islands?"
"Oh, yes," Theon said, "my mother is a proper Lady. Wanted me and my sister to learn all about how to be good high-born wives someday."
"You?"
Theon didn't disagree with Arya's astute assessment of he and Yara successfully becoming refined ladies, but still, he glared at the girl and yanked one of her sloppily plaited braids.
The four of them journey into the godswood passed mid-morning, well after lessons were taught and drills completed. The weather was fair but crisp, and there was only the need for light cloaks.
Arya had asked Theon to train her with a bow, and he agreed to do so if the girl re-stringed, oiled, and waxed his bow. It was about due for some maintenance, and Arya needed to learn how just in case Lord and Lady Stark allowed her to have a bow of her own someday.
Robb and Jon joined them, and Theon was happy to have them along. With their longer, more intensive training with Ser Rodrik, and their daily lessons with Maester Luwin, Theon and the boys spent less and less time together of late. They shared meals, but the days of the three of them enjoying each other's company in playful repose were waning as Robb and Jon grew older.
Theon had known it was bound to happen. He was a girl now and on top of that, five years older than Robb and Jon. He and the boys, by writ of their sex, were destined to be shuffled apart to live in different worlds.
Theon was less bothered by the world of men moving beyond his reach than he expected. Perhaps it was because he'd already experienced some of it the first time around. He remembered his letters and sums, and most else Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin, and Lord Stark taught him about warcraft, so Theon didn't feel as though he was being denied essential knowledge in that regard. And while he'd had much fun drinking and over-indulging in his whoring—none of those had served him well in the end, and he didn't miss them.
Well, Theon did miss the women—he missed them a great deal…
After he turned six and ten, Theon takes to wearing dresses like those Sansa had worn after they escaped Ramsay. He made most of them himself: severe, black, sometimes gray dresses made of heavy wool and leather with high collars. The dresses weren't much suited for fighting, but they made Theon feel like a mountain with words craved on its face that read: "Look all you want, approach if you dare, but never think you shall climb and reach the top!"
Unfortunately, Theon hasn't grown as tall and intimidating as the older Sansa, but his unwelcoming attire did keep all but the most belligerent boys and men away. Those needed to be persuaded away, and Theon pulls on the mask of the man he used to be for that. He sneers and acts too good for them, and it feels wonderful to recapture a bit of the boy he once was for good reasons.
Septa Mordane does not approve, of course. But Theon convinces the woman telling a too-forward man to fuck right off, and loudly, every now and then is the best way to protect his maidenhood, surely.
Septa sighs in defeat. "Fine, it's your reputation. Such as it is."
Theon grins cheekily at the woman, and Mordane shakes her head in exasperation.
"Do not speak in such a manner around the Lord and Lady. I'll not have them thinking I had anything to do with teaching you such behavior."
Theon doesn't need to be told that—he's not a fool.
The day they all went into the godswood, Theon wore one of the more modest black dresses in his wardrobe. The dress is made from raw silk—a far more forgiving material to work with than its slippery refined sister, silk—and it possesses few notable flourishes besides some of its stitching. It was light on his body, yet capable of protecting Theon from the slight chill in the air with its long, fitted sleeves, and wide hem that swooped just high enough off the ground Theon's matching black slippers were visible.
When they found a large enough clearing deep into the godswood Arya lowered to the ground, not caring if her dress was dirtied, and began laying out everything she needed to maintain Theon's bow: a small clay jar of oil, another jar that was filled with wax, some rags, and a handful of corded sinew bowstring. Robb and Jon carried quivers full of arrows and two target stands each which they started placing against trees around the clearing.
Theon left them to it and decided it was time to deal with his aching feet. He dropped next to an old oak, took off his slippers, and massaged his soles—it seemed like he'd stepped on every loose rock on the way there. Once he'd lowered the soreness in his feet down to tolerable pangs, Theon yawned and decided to rest his eyes until the young Starks finished their tasks.
After a few minutes, Theon heard sounds of scuffling and half-muttered curses. When he popped open an eye, he saw the boys rolling around on the ground, both struggling to gain an advantage over the other as their tiny fists swung inelegantly and landed blows infrequently.
They were supposed to be setting up the targets, not rolling around in the dirt like dogs!
Theon jumped to his feet and stalked over to boys and wrenched them apart. Soon, Theon lamented, I won't be able to manhandle them like this anymore. Currently, he was taller, and could readily best them at arm wrestling, but probably not for much longer. Robb was growing taller and heavier as the days passed, and so was Jon, albeit a mite slower.
"What are you two lack-wits doing?" Theon shouted, holding them both up and apart by the collar of their cloaks.
Robb and Jon just shot bratty glares at each other and neither seemed interested in answering Theon's question. Robb had a bloody nose, and Jon's right eye was starting to puff and redden. Theon knew he was in for it once he brought the boys back so disheveled and marked. Irritated, Theon considered adding a few more injuries to the little shits since he was going to get punished anyway.
"Do you know who's going to get in trouble if Lady Stark sees you two in such a state? Me! And then you, because I will absolutely make sure the shit rolls downhill! You hear me?" Theon said shaking the boys in his grip.
"Lady Stark doesn't care how I look!" Is what Jon growled, but Theon could hear Jon's unspoken, 'Doesn't care about me,' underneath the declaration. Then Jon hiked his chin at Robb and said mockingly, "He's the one who has to stay all scrubbed and pretty, because what will people say?"
Robb snarled like a skinny, red-headed wolf and lunged at Jon. Theon jerked him back before his outstretched hands could do more than scratch over Jon's black jerkin.
"They were fighting because they saw each other staring at your legs," Arya, sitting cross-legged on the ground a few feet away, said conversationally.
Robb stopped trying to rip Jon's heart out and froze, so did Jon, and all three of them looked over at the girl.
"What?" Theon said.
"Yeah, I saw," Arya said as she poured oil onto a tattered, old rag. She then took the rag and began rubbing it over Theon's bow, her gray eyes never leaving her work. "After you took off your slippers and your dress rose to your knees, Robb and Jon were looking."
"Shut up, Arya!" Robb shouted.
Arya shrugged. "It's true," she said, twisting the bow around to check if she coated it all over properly.
Theon made a face. Theon didn't think he looked provocative enough to lure anyone's eye: his not terribly impressive bosom encased behind enough fabric to stop an arrow, crossed ankles, all while wearing a dress even a Silent Sister would consider conservative.
And, besides, Robb and Jon are far too young to be—
Theon looked at the boys again. Their faces had been slightly ruddy from the going at each other like two flailing puppies, but now the flush had spread all over their faces, and it'd clearly been brought on by something other than exertion.
Theon didn't want to believe it—Robb and Jon were only one and ten! Even Theon, the randy little beast that he was as a boy, hadn't contemplated running his hands under a girl's dress until he was thirteen. Glancing down at the boys, both their sweet little faces still a-flush, Theon snorted and shook his head. He tried to imagine ever getting all worked up over a glimpse of some girl's calves.
Some thigh, aye, maybe…
Gods, these Starks. Even their lechery is tame as milk.
Theon still can't take their crushes seriously. He should have, but he's too busy fending off the attentions of actual men to worry about the infatuation of two green boys he considers brothers more now than he ever did the first time.