Chapter 5 – "A Father's Word to the Heir"
The night wind whispered through the towers of Winterfell. Most of the great hall had gone quiet, the fires dying down to embers. Only the Lord's solar remained lit, a single candle flickering beside a map of the North.
Ned Stark stood before it, arms folded, eyes narrowed. His eldest son, Robb, stood nearby—stiff in posture, the lines of boyhood fading quicker than a father could bear.
"You're quiet," Ned said at last.
"I've been thinking," Robb replied.
"About your brother's words today?"
Robb hesitated. "Yes. And about Theon."
Ned turned, gesturing to a seat. "Sit. There's something we must speak of."
Robb obeyed.
"Theon Greyjoy is not here as a guest," Ned began. "He is a ward, taken to ensure his father's good behavior. If Balon steps out of line, Theon pays the price. That's the truth of it."
Robb frowned. "Then Cregan was right?"
"In part." Ned's eyes were tired. "But war is not only fought with swords, Robb. Sometimes peace is built on... appearances. On gestures."
"You want me to be his friend."
"I want you to try."
Robb looked down at his hands. "He's proud. Arrogant. He thinks this place is beneath him."
"He is Ironborn. That pride is bred into his bones. But he is also ten, alone, and in a strange land. And one day, if the gods are kind, you will be Lord of Winterfell. You must learn to guide wolves and krakens alike."
"I don't trust him."
"You don't have to," Ned said. "But if you find a way to treat him well, he may yet grow into a man of use—to you and to the realm."
Robb was quiet for a moment, thinking. He remembered Theon's smirk, the way he tried to stand taller than them, as if age granted superiority.
But he also remembered his father's weary face, and the grief he never spoke of.
"I'll try," Robb said finally. "But he won't come between me and my brothers."
Ned's mouth twitched slightly. "I wouldn't expect him to. Cregan and Jon—"
"They're my brothers. Blood and bone."
"And they'll shape you, as you'll shape them," Ned said. "But remember this, Robb. Friends are not born—they're made. Even when it's hard."
Robb nodded, though doubt still lingered in his eyes.
Later that night, he found Theon in the practice yard, throwing a dagger at a post.
"You're holding it wrong," Robb said.
Theon turned, wary. "Oh?"
Robb picked up another blade and demonstrated. "You're flicking too much. Watch your grip."
Theon tried again. Closer this time.
They didn't laugh. Didn't trade stories.
But they trained.
And that, Robb thought, was a start.
Yet even as days passed, and meals were shared, and training grew more frequent, Theon remained a shadow on the edge of the bond Robb had with Cregan and Jon. The three were wolves. Theon was not.
He was tolerated. Respected in practice. But never truly embraced.
Still, time wore away edges. Theon's smirk softened. Robb learned to read the truth behind it—the way the Ironborn boy covered fear with bravado, loneliness with arrogance. He began to recognize the hesitation in Theon's voice when asked about his home, the way he never mentioned his mother, the look in his eyes when he watched Robb and Cregan laugh.
One cold morning, as they rode together through the Wolfswood, Theon said quietly, "I miss the sea."
Robb didn't answer right away. He just nodded. "I miss my uncle Benjen. It's not the same, I know. But missing is missing."
That was the first time Theon smiled—not the cocky one, but something smaller. Honest.
They hunted together after that. Sparred more. Argued over sword grips and saddle care. Robb caught himself laughing once at Theon's dry insult about Ser Rodrik's beard, and Theon, surprised by it, had smiled again.
Still, there were lines. Cregan's eyes always narrowed when Theon came too close. Jon barely spoke to him unless needed. Kael growled when Theon lingered.
Robb understood. He never forgot who Theon was. But he also saw who Theon could be.
And as his father had said, someday he would be Lord of Winterfell.
If he could hold a sword in one hand, and an old enemy in the other—then perhaps, Robb thought, peace might not be a dream.
Because even wolves might need krakens in the storm to come.