When Theon is twenty the war begins.
The day the raven announcing Lord Eddard Stark's arrest and imprisonment for treason arrived, Robb called the banners. With Winterfell now openly preparing for war, Ser Rodrik was named Winterfell's Castellan, and Bran was declared the castle's new overlord. Theon remained acting Lady of Winterfell, though he did not expect to keep the position once Robb was gone.
Until then, Theon would try to help as much as he could. And he did try. He truly did. He diligently attended counsel and completed every task he was given to make himself useful to both Robb and Bran. Hoping his unwavering and unquestioning obedience would soothe the boy's anger. But Bran's quiet, ice-cold rage proved so insurmountable, it might as well have been The Wall itself. And Theon was too weakened by heartbreak, and diminished in ways he was not prepared for, after the last missive from King's Landing.
When Robb shunned him, at least Theon could wrap himself in sweet recollections of times past. When he, Robb, and Jon were children laughing and playing in the godswood. Theon could remember young Robb resting his head on Theon's lap going on and on about the adventures he'd have when he became a knight like Ser Rodrik. And swearing with a child's earnestness that he would marry 'Quinn' someday, all while Theon smiled down at the boy indulgently and stroked fingers through his fiery red hair.
But there were never good times between Theon and Bran to fall back on when Theon sat across from him and stuttered through daily reports. Wilting under Bran's glare... No. Bran did not glare at him, Theon realized. Glaring would mean Bran acknowledged Theon was even in the room. Bran would rather pay attention to a bare wall than listen to Theon speak.
Then there was Bran's new helper. Newly assigned to give the boy the mobility he needed to get around Winterfell and fulfill his new duties. How many years did Theon avoid Bran's new companion? And now he was always sat at Bran's side; quiet and huge and impossible to ignore. The gentle giant of a man only fueled the guilt already burning away at Theon's insides.
It was too much. Not even Robb's new civility was enough to gentle Theon's unease. Nor was the tentative rekindling of Jon's friendship. So, Theon begged off the daily counsel and kept himself locked away in Lady Stark's solar once more. Safely out of Brandon Stark's path.
Theon's desperate need for isolation only intensified after Robb's bannermen began trickling into Winterfell. Near a thousand men marched through the gates, and another thousand camped outside the castle's walls. At first, corraling so many people and finding space to quarter them allowed Theon to keep his distance from Bran. Many of the bannermen didn't accept Theon as Lady of Winterfell easily, but most expressed their displeasure through sidelong glances, whispers, and strained courtesies. Theon found their dislike a gentle summer rain compared to the maelstrom of hate he received from a nine-year-old boy.
Then the Karstarks and Umbers paraded into Winterfell. And not long after, so did Roose Bolton. All of whom Theon was dutybound to welcome with open arms, and see to it all their needs were met.
Theon could abide the Karstarks and Umber's leering and barely concealed loathing, but their bellowing proclamations of loyalty to House Stark scraped and bled him raw. He wanted to scream that they were traitors, one and all, just like him. Worse than him, because they willingly served the Boltons—served Ramsay—without needing their skin and fingers and toes cut away before doing so. And he seethes with a hatred of them that even outrivaled his hate for Robert Baratheon.
Finally, Theon had to contend with the heartache of knowing what no one else in Winterfell would know for almost a fortnight, as few secrets were allowed to flow from that damnable Red Keep. That the whole of the House Stark had been purged from the capital. Only Lady Sansa and Arya remained. One was held hostage in a gilded cage, while the other wandered the slums of King's Landing, starving and alone.
The massacre will remain hidden until after Eddard's execution on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. The Lannisters wouldn't need to hide their dark deeds by then. They would even flaunt their brutality by lining Lord Stark's, Mordane's, Jory's, and a hundred more heads on pikes over the Red Keep's walls.
Since he refused to run and hide in his bed again, Theon, when his responsibilities to Winterfell did not bind him, secluded himself in the small sept erected to honor Lady Stark and her faith. In the sept, Theon could cry freely and not have to explain why Eddard Stark's imprisonment upset him so.
He used to only spend time in the dusty, cramped little building during Septa Mordane's lessons, and never considered it a refuge in all those years. But he did now. It was familiar, and there was no risk of Northmen stumbling upon him in this place. Certainly, not Roose Bolton who inspired such fear and loathing in Theon, that he could hardly breathe when he was forced to smile sweetly and show the man a warm welcome.
When Septa maintained the sept, the woman kept a fire burning in the iron, chest-high fire kettle throughout the day. The fire from the pit would cast shadows on seven pillars lined against the rear curved wall of the sept. On those pillars sat seven little statuettes.
Three of the statues were carved from ivory: the Father, the Mother, the Maiden. Three more out of stone: the Warrior, the Smith, and the Stranger. And queerly, Theon thought, the final icon, the Crone, was craved from never rotting weirwood. Each statue represented one of the Seven. Seven gods Theon did not worship, yet he had little choice but to believe they could be as real as the ocean deep. For if demons existed, surely so did the gods.
The fire pit stand went unlit these days. So did the little fireplace Mordane only stoked when the days were cold enough to overwhelm the heat from the pit and beeswax candles set in the silver candelabras placed on each of the septs seven walls. Also gone were the punishingly hard-seated chairs Theon and the other girls were forced to sit in because Mordane believed a constantly sore bottom was character building. With war and winter coming wood had more important uses now, one of them being kindling.
So, Theon had to sit on the floor, often in front of the hearth where he would stare at its long-dead ashes. As if he were a mad witch trying to divine the future, or maybe the past, from the cold dregs. He only had his heavy black cloak and dress to guard his flesh against the chill and the cold stone beneath him, and it was still more comfortable than sitting in one of those arse-breaking chairs.
Dark gray clouds always blanketed the sky of late and very little light came through the windows, stained or otherwise. If not for the candles, candles Theon went out of his way to light every day he came to the sept, he would be sitting in near-complete darkness. Despite his melancholy, Theon no longer wanted the dark as a friend. The darkness felt too much like closing his eyes to all that was wrong in the world. And he would be twice damned for a craven if he blinded himself to Mordane's death—and to all those who'd died in King's Landing. He would face the grim reality of it and mourn them the way they deserved. And do it with eyes wide open.
Theon had been going to the sept for a sennight when he heard himself pray for Mordane soul. He didn't realize what he was doing—what he had been doing—until he replaced a candle on one of the candelabras that evening. As he lit the candle with the flame of another, Theon closed his eyes and whispered, "Watch over her," as he pictured Mordane's wizened visage in his mind.
Theon froze and realized he'd been feeling those words every time he lit a candle in the sept. They were even in his heart when he sat and stared at the cold hearth. But until he lit that candle, Theon had never given shape and sound to the words.
Who am I praying to? He wondered as he stared at the candle's tiny yellow flame, an incredulous and bitter smile on his face.
Why beseech beings he thought cruelly indifferent at best and knew were capricious and evil at worst? The gods saw no one's face and knew no one's name, not even those devout like Septa Mordane. What utter foolishness it was to pray to such creatures!
And yet…
Theon went back to the cold hearth and lowered to the stone floor and prayed to gods he misbelieved. For Mordane held faith in them, and that was good enough for him.
There were two quick raps on the door before Jon let himself into the solar. Theon looked up from the ledger, his tired eyes flashing with after images of Catelyn Stark's neatly written script. An unconscious smile stole to Theon's lips when he saw Jon, who once again had become one of the few bright spots in his existence. Then he remembered Jon and Robb would leave Winterfell on the marrow, and his smile wavered.
"Lady Quenlyn, a word?"
Will you ever call me Quinn again? The memory of Jon saying it in the wolfswood, and his kiss still brought a warm flush to Theon's face.
"Of course."
Theon didn't bother inviting Jon to sit because they both knew he wouldn't. Jon did not sit or laze about much since Robb called the banners. Jon was always in motion. He was Robb's shadow, supporting his brother in every way he could as Robb went about his lordly duties. Or Jon was drilling with the soldiers about to march off to war.
It always should have been you beside Robb. Not me, Theon lamented.
"I wish to speak to you about Rickon," Jon said.
"Is something wrong? Is he feeling unwell?"
Jon shook his head. "Nothing like that. But… I'll be gone soon, you see…"
"He's going to miss you very much," Theon said, thinking about how when Jon did find a moment or two to spare, he spent them entertaining Rickon.
"I know. He'll be lonely once I'm gone south, and with Bran so…" Jon shot a worried glance at Theon.
Theon smiled faintly at Jon's hesitation. "It's fine, Jon. I can face what I did to Bran."
Jon nodded again then stared at the floor for a moment. Then after letting out an audible breath, he looked at Theon with serious eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips as well.
"Bran may not understand now why you said those things, but someday he'll come around," Jon said.
Theon was not so certain. "Would you forgive someone who gave life to every hurt and fear and uncertainty you have, and do so with a smile on their face?"
Jon stared at Theon for several heartbeats. "I would be hurt, deeply, for a time," he replied, "but I could forgive them if I knew they meant not what they said."
Theon and Jon sat in silence for what felt to Theon a very long time. His eyes became ensnared in Jon's gaze as the hidden meaning in his words quickly sunk in. As the moment stretched on, Theon grew more uncomfortable and afraid. Because while it was wonderful to speak to Jon as a friend again, nothing was changed between them since the godswood. All the reasons Theon must hold Jon at bay still remained.
Didn't they?
Theon swallowed. Dare he consider Jon in ways he knew to be dangerous? To fan the embers of hope he'd ruthlessly smothered after the godswood. Jon was here, not at the Wall, and his path was no longer clear. Didn't that mean Theon could…
It was so very tempting. A temptation Theon knew was akin to reaching into an open flame with his bare hands. If he tried to grab that fire, he would burn until there was nothing left but the bones and ashes of his selfish yearnings.
He couldn't. And he shouldn't. Because there was every chance Jon is still the one. The one to rise when Robb falls—the one to bring the realms together. And if that is so, Theon has no right to deny fate.
Nor was Theon so fell as to deny Jon the love he might find in the arms of the Dragon Queen. A love destined to save the world. What were Theon's petty desires compared to that? What were they balanced against Jon finding happiness and belonging at long last?
"You wanted to speak on Rickon," Theon spoke into the silence, somehow managing to hide the tremor in his voice. For a moment Theon thought he saw disappointment glint in Jon's gray eyes. Then Jon blinked, and it was gone.
"Yes, my lady. I know you have many duties, especially now, and I hesitate to—"
"What do you ask of me, Jon?"
Jon sighed and then said, "Will you look after Rickon while I'm gone?"
Theon's first instinct was to say he didn't have the time. Jon said so himself how busy Theon will be, and he would believe Theon's cowardly excuse without doubt or bitterness. But how can he say no to Jon? Who, after so many years, has only ever asked one other thing from him?
"I… Yes. Of course, I will," Theon said. "But are you sure the boy will welcome it? He barely knows me."
Because I have willed it so, Theon added silently. I all but delivered him into Ramsay's hands and can scarcely think of no greater crime.
A sly smile touched Jon's lips then.
"Well, that could be a problem, I suppose." Jon turned to the door and opened it wide. "C'mon," he said and a second later Rickon dashed into the solar, Shaggydog hot on his heels.
Rickon wore a tan-colored tunic spun from wool, with dark green trousers, a short fur-lined cloak, and soft leather shoes. If not for his wavy red hair and Tully's blue eyes, the boy's modest dress alone would have let him blend in with the children running about winter town.
Rickon came to a stop in front of Lady Stark's desk, his chin barely even with it before he raised to his tip-toes. The boy placed his hands on the edge of the desktop and peered curiously over the surface. His gaze flittered over every item on the desktop that caught his attention. Shaggydog also hopped up and placed its front paws on the desk next to Rickon, and stood two heads taller than the boy. The direwolf's long pink tongue hung limply over the side of its toothy lower jaw, its glowing green eyes also searching. No doubt for something tasty enough to devour.
"Jon! What in the world—!" Theon exclaimed, rearing back in surprise, only to quickly lean forward again to snatch up Lady Stark's signet stamp before Rickon's chubby little fingers could grab it off the desk.
"Want!" Rickon whined, pointing at the stamp in Theon's hand.
"No. Jon—"
Not to be thwarted of a prize, the boy stretched his arm and half his body across the desk to claw at the pen next to the ledger Theon read from before Jon's arrival. Theon scooped it up first.
"Mama let me play with it!" Rickon pouted after sliding back off the desk.
He is... Ridiculously cute! Theon shook his head and scowled at Rickon to unloosen the tight, squelchy feeling the boy's adorableness put in his chest.
"No, she didn't!" Theon said. "Come up with better fibs!"
The pout on Rickon's face turned into a look of shock. He couldn't believe his obvious lie had been noticed so quickly. Rickon turned to Jon for help and only received a grin and a shrug. Finding no aid from his traitorous brother, the boy's expression turned mischievous, and he looked up at Shaggydog and locked eyes with the beast.
Theon narrowed his eyes at the pair, suspecting some plot was afoot. The direwolf dropped down from the desk and lowered out of sight, which was troubling since it stood taller than the desk even on four legs. Theon yelped when a swift, black furry shape leaped at him from his left flank.
"Stop it!" Theon shrieked as Shaggydog perched itself on his lap and began licking all over his face with its warm, rough tongue. The direwolf's breath was a humid, gamey mix of raw meat and wet grass.
When Theon turned his face away to keep the direwolf from licking his mouth, he saw a gleeful Rickon pick up an inkwell and promptly stick his finger into it.
"Don't you dare!" Theon said when Rickon reached over and pulled a sheet of paper from a stack of blank parchment on the desk.
Ignoring Theon's warning, Rickon placed the tip of his ink-stained forefinger against the paper and began scratching out illegible scrawls. When his fingertip ran out of ink, Rickon dipped it back into the inkwell, this time really twisting it around to get as much ink on it as possible before continuing his scribblings. When he was done, Rickon lifted the paper and showed it to Jon.
"Good work!" Jon cheered.
Rickon beamed at the compliment then put the paper down and grabbed another blank sheet from the stack.
Theon managed to grip a handful of long course fur on Shaggydog's side and push its snout back so he could pin Jon with a stare that promised retribution. Jon shrugged, and there was a shameless smile on his face. So rare was the sight, it cooled Theon's anger—but only for a moment.
"Of all the brazen—"
"What is it the Ironborn say: Better to ask forgiveness than permission?" Jon said, biting his lower lip to hide his humor. Completely unaware of the devastating effect it had on Theon.
"Look! Look!"
Theon and Jon both turned to Rickon and saw the boy holding up a very crude, very blotchy drawing of Shaggydog.
"What artistry!" Jon said and Rickon giggled, pleased to receive another compliment. Though Theon was sure the boy had no idea what artistry meant.
Rickon put the drawing down and reached for another sheet of paper with eager, ink-stained fingers. Theon sighed then gave up holding Shaggy at bay. Once he did, the direwolf immediately resumed aggressively licking his face.