Theon cursed under his breath after the arrow he just loosed struck three inches outside the bull's eye. Out of the ten arrows he's shot so far, six have missed the center by a considerable margin, and that last bolt was the closest he's come to landing true. Theon took a deep breath to calm his nerves, released it then pulled another arrow from the quiver bag belted around his hip, and nocked it.
It took more concentration and muscle than he should need to hold the bow steady causing him to struggle to even pull back the string. His arms shook under the strain, which weakened his ability to aim properly as well. He loosed again, this time too fast because he couldn't hold the string back long enough, and that time the bolt struck off-center by half a foot.
It's the worst shot he's taken so far.
"Pathetic!" Theon grumbled. His malaise had weakened him far more than he thought.
It's been weeks since he had the time, or the energy to use the training yard, and when he finally has an abundance of both, Theon discovered he'd regressed to being no better than mediocre with a bow. Even at twenty meters, he could barely hit the center of a target and often launched arrows more outside the square bullseye than inside. He was even worse with a sword now too and decided he wouldn't bother picking one up again until he was back to form with a bow.
He was sure he'd get his skill back with both with time, but who knew when that would be? By now Lady Stark held Tyrion Lannister prisoner in the Vale, which meant war would soon come roaring across the land and Theon would be too busy preparing Winterfell for the upcoming conflict. The train-ing yard would be filled with Stark men drilling for war, and Theon would have fewer opportunities to make use of its training facilities then.
At least, for now, there was no worry of war, and the Yard was uncommonly freer than normal with so many guardsmen gone to the capital, and because Ser Rodrik routinely took two-thirds of the remaining guards out to patrol Stark lands and deal with wildling attacks on nearby settlements.
Robb had wanted to send out even more men to protect the smallfolk, but Theon insisted, adamantly, that there always be three hundred men garrisoned in the castle. A hundred and a half to sufficiently post every wall and tower, and the other half ready to relieve so there were fewer gaps during watches. There was little reason to think anyone was going to employ the trick he used to breach the Winterfell, but Theon had no mind to take any chances and, thankfully, Ser Rodrik's support headed off Robb's proforma resistance to anything Theon suggested of late, which meant Theon didn't have to.
Theon pulled another arrow from the hip pouch and nocked. The bolt went wider than the last, landing on the outer edges of the target.
"Fuck!"
"Lady Quenlyn, mind your language if you please," Maester Luwin admonished.
"Sorry," Theon mumbled as he deftly snatched up another arrow from his quiver.
Behind Theon sat the maester and Bran. On the table in front of the pair was an old, yellowed map of Westeros. Around its edges small steel and iron icons in the shape of Westerosi house sigils held it open. Theon had spent hours of his life pouring over that map, and he could redraw it from memory if he had to. Equally familiar was the sharp tapping of Luwin's ash wood pointer.
Luwin, it seemed, had lured Bran from his rooms by offering to give the boy lessons out of doors instead of within the maester's tower, or the Great Hall. While he practiced, Theon only half-listened to the lectures and quizzes Luwin gave the boy, but still noticed the young lord's lack of enthusiasm.
Tap.
Bran sighed. "The Reach. Sigil— A golden rose on a green field. Words—'Growing Strong.'"
"Their lords?"
"The Tyrells."
Tap. Tap.
"Bran."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"The Iron Islands. Sigil—a Kraken. Words—'We do not sow,'" Bran said listlessly.
"Lords?"
"The Greyjoys."
Theon stalled midway through his next draw. He remembered this. He remembered when Luwin and Bran first spoke those words!
Theon could hardly fathom how such an inconsequential moment like this one could repeat itself, while far more momentous events appeared to change for little to no reason. And surely, Theon despaired, it was the not knowing that unsettled him most of all.
Theon also recalled the words he spoke next, and Maester Luwin's arch response to them. Theon re-member Luwin's condescension made him angry. To be mocked by an old man who should be bowing and scrapping to him caused Theon to fume over the slight for days afterward.
Well, Theon thought, his lips curling into a half-smile, not this time.
Theon lowered his bow and let the string of his bow go slack as he turned around. He allowed his un-easiness to fade and playfulness to steal its place. "Greyjoys: also famed for their skills at archery, navigation, and lovemaking," he said.
Luwin leveled a flat look at Theon before he leaned into Bran and said, "And also failed rebellions."
"Oh. Well… Yes. There is that." Theon said in a dramatically serious tone before he caught Bran's eye and winked.
Bran let out a snort of laughter and Luwin frowned, less amused. The maester raised his arm and made circular motions with his pointer. "Lady Quenlyn, please return your attention to target practice and refrain from further color commentary."
"As you wish," Theon replied with the same mock seriousness before he beamed a callow grin at the pair. Then he turned around, raised his bow, and badly missed the next shot, that time a little bit on purpose.
"Oh, Fu—fiddle-de-dee! Gone askance again!"
The grin on Theon's face broadened when he heard Bran giggle and Maester Luwin's put upon harrumph of exasperation.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Word of the Lannister's attack King's Landing reached Winterfell late in the evening and Robb called Jon, Bran, Ser Rodrik, and Theon into his solar where Maester Luwin read to them the contents of the letter sent from the capital.
Theon had been a fool to think he could avoid feeling the hurt. He'd wanted to believe his foreknowledge was enough to protect himself from the blow, but one look at the anguish Ser Rodrik tried in vain to hide behind his gruff exterior was all it took to tighten Theon's throat and send hot tears flowing down his cheeks.
Even after the Ironborn had battered him to his knees and with Theon's sword hung clumsily over his neck, Ser Rodrik never showed pain nor fear. And when he cursed Theon even then the knight did not speak in anger or hate, the man's eyes had been clear, and his voice was steady. Yet at the news of his nephew's death, the knight's stolid façade was cracking apart for all present in the solar to see.
While Luwin recited the contents of the letter, he, Robb, and Jon pretended not to notice Ser Rodrik's struggle to keep his composure, Theon and Bran wept. Their sobbing only grew louder after Luwin called out the name of every Winterfell guardsman the Lannisters butchered in the streets.
Theon knew he should at least try to compose himself. He wasn't a child, but in the back of his thoughts he was all too aware the slaughter of Septa Mordane, and many others would soon follow. So, he can't stop weeping no matter how hard he tries.
Luwin's calm reading of Lord Stark's injury and unconscious state, as well as the Stark girls being un-harmed, ended the missive. No one spoke for several minutes and only the sound of Bran and Theon's sobbing filled the silence until Robb stood up and strode purposefully over to Ser Rodrik who stood ramrod straight near the door.
"I am sorry for your loss, ser," he said after placing a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.
Ser Rodrik bowed his head. "Thank you, My Lord," he replied and there are no breaks in his low, flat voice.
Robb turned away from Ser Rodrik and focused his attention on Luwin who stood opposite the knight.
"I want letters drafted and ready for raven wing by morning," Robb said.
"You're to call the Banners?" Luwin asked.
"No," Robb said. "Not until we learn the full situation in King's Landing. For now, we will fortify the North against invasion. It will serve as the first and last warning to the Lannisters, who have cravenly attacked my father and slaughtered our men in the streets. The North—I—will not stand for it!"
The pronouncement shook Theon from the fog of his grief, and he looked at Robb through bleary eyes. Robb was preparing for war days before Lord Stark's commands to secure the North. And they only learned of Tyrion's capture through the letter from King's Landing. Was Robb's early decisiveness a good thing? Or would it hasten the Stark purge in King's Landing?
Theon could not begin to guess at what would happen anymore. The one thing Theon didn't need to wonder about was why Robb reacted more assertively this time.
Robb turned back to Ser Rodrik. "I want our forces here ready to mobilize at a moment's notice. You can leave it to Hallis if you need—"
Ser Rodrik thrust out his chest and lifted his chin high. "I will see to it, Lord Stark," said the knight, his voice gruff with indignation.
Robb nodded then turned to face the rest of the room, he met the eyes of all present, even Theon's.
"If there is no word of conditions in King's Landing one way or another within a sennight, I call the Banners, and the North marches south."
Theon would have been far busier if not for Luwin. The maester had food, horses, weapons, armor, and even needles and thread, and the carts and wagons to carry it all, requisitioned weeks before. Which left preparing Winterfell against a protracted siege Theon's sole concern while Robb, Ser Rodrik, and Jon readied its forces to wage war in the South.
Readying Winterfell didn't distract Theon completely, and neither did the upcoming conflagration of steel and blood between Stark and Lannister. Jory's death and the attack on Lord Stark was a grim reminder Bran was about to use the saddle Tyrion Lannister designed and fall into the clutches of wildlings. And after not remembering Lady Stark's run-in with the catspaw, Theon dared not let his memory lapse in such a way again.
There were some details Theon could not recall about the day Bran was able to sit a horse again after his fall, but some things he was unlikely to forget. Even when he was Ramsay's, Theon thought back on it because Theon had begun to sense a gulf widen between himself and Robb that cold morning Bran laughed and whooped as he galloped around the wolfswood clearing.
Robb badly hurt Theon twice. Once without meaning to, and again out of anger and fear by way of chastisement. Theon took the scolding in silence. Not angry, not then, but surprised and hurt.
Theon thought Robb would be grateful Bran's life was saved by the arrowhead and tuft of goose feather Theon put through the wilding's heart. But it wasn't thanks he got though, it was shouting full of wroth and disapproval the likes of which he never heard from Robb before. Yes, the seeds of Theon's betrayal began to germinate as he bowed to his new lord and master.
How little did Theon understand then what it was to have a true master, and even less so what it truly meant to live on his knees.
Still, regardless of Robb's berating, Theon knew if he hadn't killed the wildling, Bran might have been dragged off, knife to throat after Robb was killed by the spearwife, Osha. Or worst of all, maybe both Stark boys could have been killed. The possibility of any of those coming to pass made Theon's blood turn to ice and he refused to stand aside and do nothing.
Fate had led Theon to save Bran before, and he swore he would save him again. All Theon had to do was show up and keep a close eye on the boy.
Theon failed to do either and only had himself to blame…
Again.
Theon had asked Maester Luwin to inform him when Bran tried his new saddle but erred when he made his request too casually. Theon thought if he showed too much interest it would arouse suspicions, especially in the mind of one as sharp as Maester Luwin. If Theon had fostered a closer relationship with Bran, wanting to share the moment wouldn't have been strange, but due to the difference in their ages, which was even wider now, and his guilt, Theon never felt entirely comfortable around either Bran or Rickon. That skittishness is why he didn't learn of Bran's test ride until the boys were long gone from the castle
Once Luwin told Theon the boys left with a contingent of house guards towards the end of their daily planning sessions, he excused himself and hurried out of Lady Stark's solar. There was no time to return to his rooms and change clothes, nor time to gather his bow, so, before he headed to the stables, Theon grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows from the training yard. Utterly dismissing the disapproving stares and murmurs of the men training there.
Clutching the bow and quiver in one hand, Theon jogged to the stables, only to end up squandering more precious moments when he discovered the only steed available was Smiler. Of course, the black stallion couldn't have been Smiler. Smiler was on the other side of the Sunset Sea, but the resemblance was close enough that Theon froze when the stable hand led him to the animal's stall.
"Will Midnight here do, milady?" The stable hand asked, rousing Theon from his stupor.
"I-Is there another horse I can take?" Theon asked the boy, a lad with a shock of spikey brown hair, dark brown eyes, and the shadow of a burgeoning mustache. He could not have been more than three and ten. He must've been one of Joseth's newest hires, too, or else Theon would know his name.
The boy shook his head. "No, milady. Ta' other horses need waterin' and feedin'. The rest are bein' re-shoed," he said.
"I—I understand. Saddle this one as quickly as possible."
"Yes, milady," the boy said before he hurried off to obey Theon's command.
"Thank you," Theon whispered as he stared at the horse—Midnight.
Theon pushed Midnight as hard as he dared toward the wolfswood. Theon wasn't used to sitting a horse wearing a dress, but he steadily became more used to it as he rode on. The bow and quiver he took from the training yard were slung across his back.
With only a vague recollection of where he might find the boys, Theon galloped north-westward. They hadn't gone too far from the castle to test Tyrion's saddle last time, Theon remembered that much, which meant he didn't need to take his search too far if he reached them in time. But if Bran wandered deeper into the wolfswood again, Theon was going to need a lot of luck to find them.
When he reached the tree line, Theon slowed Midnight to a gait and penetrated the wolfswood. The late morning sun did little to make visibility through the dense trees easier, so Theon carefully guided Midnight around the densely packed trees and through the thick underbrush. In part to make sure he didn't miss signs of Bran or the others, and also to avoid injuring himself or Midnight.
Theon listened intently, hoping to hear Bran's joyous hollers, but other than the rhythmic thumping of Midnight's hooves, Theon heard little else. After a while, he was tempted to call out to the boys, even if it risked alerting the wildlings.
Perhaps I should get the wildlings' attention, Theon thought. If Osha and her people did stalk the woods, he rather they found him than Bran. There was also a chance Bran might hear Theon and come to him and they could ride out of the wolfswood together.
Just when Theon was about to start yelling, Theon heard a battle cry echo through the trees. Then a blood-curdling scream followed it a few moments later. Theon spurred Midnight's sides with his heels and aimed the beast where he thought the sounds came from.
Another cry came, this one louder than before. Theon could hear the clash of steel now too, which meant Theon was closer to the origin of the sounds. When a third and final shout came Theon was finally able to spy the back of Robb's cloak perhaps fifty feet ahead. He saw Osha too, and like last time, she was crouched at Robb's side while his gloved fist gripped a handful of the dark, untamed hair on her head.
Not wanting to give away his presence, Theon slowed Midnight to a stop before he carefully climbed down from the saddle. He unslung his bow and kept his eyes on Robb's back. A man ordered Robb to drop his sword. The wildling Theon killed with his bow last time… From behind.
Seven hells! There was no time to sneak up behind the man, and every chance he'd be seen or heard before he did!
And, Theon wondered, can I make that shot—any shot—the way I am now?
Recalling how weak and shaky his hands have been lately, Theon didn't think he could reliably hit Drogon at five paces.
Again, the man ordered Robb to drop his sword. Panic quickened Theon's heart when Robb slowly bent down to obey the wildling's command. He had to do something before Robb disarmed himself!
Thinking fast, if not wisely, Theon tossed aside the bow and the quiver. He also undid his cloak and let it pool to the ground around his feet. Though his gown covered almost every inch of skin below his neck and revealed little of his figure, Theon hoped a pretty face and a thin waist were enough to entice the wildling. Gods knew his tits weren't going to.
After a little more deliberation, Theon also freed his hair from its bun to gentle his appearance more.
Theon took a deep breath then strode confidently forward.
"So, someone found the little lord!" Theon said with a daring, almost unbothered tone as he stepped into the clearing.
Robb turned and looked at Theon with a mixture of confusion, anguish, and fear written all over his face. He was half bent over, but he still held his sword. If Theon had come a few seconds later... Theon sauntered past Robb and the kneeling Osha, smiling as if he knew some secret no one else in the world knew. The wildling who'd captured Bran eyed Theon as well, his grime-covered face twisted with surprise. Theon came to a stop when the wildling's fluster give way to caution, and he pushed the edge of his knife against Bran's chin, causing the boy to hiss in pain.
Theon glanced down at Bran for half a second—he couldn't show too much concern if his hastily made plan was to work—but it was long enough to see blood start to seep from a shallow cut on the left side of Bran's jaw.
"Who are you?" asked the wilding.
"Someone who wants to help you escape south," Theon replied, careful to keep his smile mild and steady.
The wilding eyed Theon's attire and grunted. "Why would one o' you fancy kneelers lift a hand to help wildlings?"
"I would gladly aid you free folk if you promised to take me with you."
That seemed to take the wildling aback, and the knife he pressed to Bran relaxed slightly. Either due to Theon's offer to help them escape the Others, or him calling them free folk, Theon could not be sure, but seeing his offer intrigued the man, he pressed on.
"My horse is nearby and I have coin." At the mention of coin, Theon saw the intrigue in the wildling's watery blue eyes turn into greed. "Enough to buy passage all the way to Dorne."
"Dorne?"
"It's the southernmost kingdom in Westeros," Theon replied, knowing anyone who wanted to escape the white walkers would leap at the chance to get as far south as possible.
The wilding licked his dry, cracked lips. "Show me the coin."
Theon hadn't brought his purse, there'd been no time. The only coin he had were the two dragons and five stags sewn into the hem of his cloak.
"The money's is with my mount," Theon said.
"Well, get it! Or—"
Something behind Theon caught the wilding's attention and he snarled. "You! I said drop that fucking blade! Now!" The wilding growled and pushed his blade against Bran's neck, adding another shallow cut to the boy's chin.
"You shouldn't hurt him," Theon said pointing down at Bran, hoping to draw the wilding's attention away from Robb again. "Or the other one. They're Ned Stark's heirs."
The wilding showed two rows of black, half-rotted teeth when he sniggered. "Got us a couple of high-born brats to use as hostages then! Should keep the rest of 'em off our arses."
Then the wilding looked behind Theon again and let out an even nastier laugh.
"We probably don't need two of them, though."
"I've no love for these Starks," Theon said, "but I don't recommend killing one."
The wildling's eyes darted back to Theon. "Why's that?" he asked.
"Because the rest of them will pursue you to the ends of the world if you do."
"I'll gut this little cripple if they come after us!"
Theon shook his head. "High born down here may despise each other, but they will not tolerate small folk slaughtering one of their own. Murder the firstborn heir to House Stark and threaten its second son, and every house from here to Dorne will want your head. Nowhere on Westeros will be safe to you."
Theon swallowed and pointed down at Bran, and he prayed he would not vomit before he got his next words out.
"They'll come for you just as hard even if you do the cripple."
Doubt clouded the wilding's face, but Theon knew the man wouldn't ponder what to do for long. The simplest thing he could do is have Osha take Robb's blade and kill him with it, and then kill Bran and Theon. If they could leave with the horses and Robb's steel, without any witnesses, they'd still be better off than they were before.
Theon glanced down at Bran then up again when he saw tears running down the boy's pale cheeks.
Ignore it.
Ignore it!
Theon needed to buy time for Jon and the guardsmen to find them or failing that, get the wildling to take him as a hostage.
"But a prisoner like me would benefit you," Theon said.
"What makes you more valuable than one of these Stark brats?"
"It's because I'm not as valuable that I'm more useful to you."
The wildling studied Theon for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"I am daughter to Balon Greyjoy. Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands."
The wilding spat a missile of phlegm at Theon's feet.
"Bah! Ironborn scum!"
Theon forced a grin. "You're familiar with my people, I see."
"The cunts have raided my clan's shores as far back as I can remember!"
Theon was surprised to hear that, but still nodded as if he'd known all along.
"The Starks hold me hostage to prevent the Ironborn from doing the same to their shores," Theon said, "and if my father should defy their parole, I lose my head.
"That makes me the best hostage you could possibly have."
"Horseshit! Sounds like your life ain't worth a cunt hair!"
Judging by the impatience he heard building in the wildling's voice, Theon didn't think he could keep the man lured for much longer.
"I'm important enough the Starks won't needlessly jeopardize my well-being, but not so important the whole of Westeros would rally should I be lost. Certainly, none will swear bloody vengeance if I die."
"And you somehow think you'll be safer with the likes of us?"
"I have been the Stark's "ward" half my life. I'm not safe now. If you take me with you, I would finally be free of these Greenlanders and their craven threats."
"Don't listen to her," Osha said. "It's a trick-Ah!"
"It's no trick," said Theon quickly. "And there's something else you should consider."
"What?"
"The boy's a cripple. Carrying him around will slow you down." Theon took a slow step forward and tilted his head and smiled suggestively, mimicking the seductive mannerisms Osha used on him. "But my legs, they work just fine."
The wildling grunted, seemingly unfazed by Theon's subtle flirtations. "A cripple can't run away while I'm sleeping or taking a shit," he said
"You speak true, but a helpless cripple like him can't care for himself, either. I've seen how often servants must clean him after he's pissed or shat himself. A nasty business, constantly wiping someone else's ass."
"Fuck that! I'll let 'im wallow in his filth!"
"You could," Theon nodded sagely, "but the smell! And Winterfell has hounds, good ones, and they'll follow his stench right to you."
While the wilding meditated on Theon's words, Theon was careful to keep his eyes on the scroungy man, too ashamed to look down at Bran as the boy began to sob louder.
"Shut up with that blubberin'!" The wildling barked down at the top of Bran's head, then he looked at Theon. "And you're coming along willingly?"
"If you can take me far from these lands so I might someday find my way back home, then I would be very, very grateful."
The wilding responded to Theon's suggestiveness this time and flashed a rotting grin as his eyes roamed over Theon's body.
"Is that so? Fuck, I ain't never had any high born cunt before," he said, licking his dry, cracked lips.
When the sword slid under his scruffy chin, the wildling's lascivious grin vanished, and as most men would he froze instinctively when he felt the blade's edge nibble at his throat.
"Aye, and you never will. Drop your knife."
The anger in Jon's normally somber tone added a guttural, serrated edge to his voice. He didn't sound like a boy when he spoke to the wildling. No, to Theon, Jon sounded more like Jon Snow, King in the North. A man who'd fought wars and killed countless men. A man would not balk at killing one more.
The wilding heard death in Jon's voice as well and dropped the knife. Then Jon growled at him to take his hands off Bran and the man quickly obeyed that order too. Jon threw the wilding to the ground and held the point of his sword over his throat and shouted: "Come out!"
Moments later four Winterfell guardsmen stormed into the clearing with their swords drawn.
"Take her!" Theon heard Robb say moments before he rushed over to check Bran who was laying on the ground, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. Theon could still hear him crying.
"Gods! Bran, are you alright?" Robb asked when he saw a deep gash in Bran's upper thigh. But while heaving sobs tore at his breath, Bran could give him no answer.
Theon dared to approach the pair then dropped to a crouch in front of them. "Bran. Bran, I'm sorry," he said.
"Leave me alone."
"I didn't mean—"
Bran slowly, deliberately, lowered his arm from his face and glared at Theon with eyes clouded black with hatred.
"Get away from me!" Bran hissed through clenched teeth, venom dripping from every word.
Theon flinched away so violently he lost his balance and dropped onto his behind. And there he remained: immobile, eyes turned down, as the guardsmen led the bound up wildlings away, and long after Robb carried Bran away.
Tears prick at the corners of Theon's eyes, but he held them in. Weeping would earn him forgiveness from no one. Nor relieve him of the shame burning molten hot under his skin.
Is hurting frightened children all you're good at? Is that why you do it so often?
Theon clawed at the dirt under his hands. I didn't want to! I swear, I didn't want—
"Quinn."
Theon looked up. Jon adorned all in black, his sword now sheathed on his hip, held his hand out to Theon. He studied Jon's pale, newly breaded face, and saw whatever rage there'd been when he disarmed the wildling was gone. But didn't Jon hear what Theon said? See how he made the boy cry?
So, how? How could Jon not be outraged after all the terrible things Theon said? How could Jon not be disgusted?
Why does he still want to help me?
"Quinn. Take my hand," Jon said.
Theon's fingers trembled as he reached out and took Jon's strong hand in his. After Jon pulled him to his feet, they stood face to face in much the same way they had in the godswood all those weeks ago. They stood so close Jon was able to place his gloved hands on either side of Theon's face, and before he could protest, Jon leaned in and pressed his lips against Theon's forehead.
The kiss was gentle and warm and then gone too soon. When Jon pulled away the smile on his generous lips was as warm as his kiss had been. Even his Stark gray eyes, cold and distant for so long, now shone with kindness, and Theon's heart stuttered.
He thought Jon would never look upon him with such tenderness again.
"Thank you," Jon said.
Unable to speak, Theon could only nod as the hot shame that had been burning inside him until now transformed, and a different kind of heat blossomed under his skin. Theon squeezed Jon's hand and held on as they left the clearing together.