At dawn, Winterfell still lay wrapped in silence, its courtyards dark and empty, save for the faint glow of torches on the walls. Theon Stark rose from his bed before the first cockcrow, as he always did. He dressed quickly, slipping from the solar with the stealth of a shadow, and moved through the sleeping castle like a thief.
He had already written a letter that morning, addressed to Lord Manderly of White Harbor. The missive was direct yet courteous, requesting the names and services of skilled mountain surveyors, men who knew the bones of the earth and could reveal what riches—if any—lay beneath the stony veins of the North. He sealed it with the direwolf sigil of his house and handed it to a trusted rider at the gate. The rider would carry it east with all haste.
That duty done, Theon turned to the next. His father had been firm: "The North may respect a clever mind, but they will only follow a leader who is strong in body and spirit. Knowledge without strength is nothing here, Theon. You must train."
So Theon did. Every morning, long before others woke, he ran through the dark forests surrounding Winterfell, his breath steaming in the cold air, boots crunching over frostbitten leaves. He sprinted, climbed, and pushed his body to its limits. He performed deep squats and pushups until his arms trembled, hung from oak branches to harden his grip, and pulled his body up again and again until his muscles burned. By the time the castle stirred awake, he had already conquered the first trial of the day.
But today was different. Today was his first day with a sword—or at least, its wooden cousin.
When Theon entered the yard, the clangor of training filled the air. The yard rang with the shouts of boys and the curses of men as they struck at dummies, sparred, and tumbled in the dirt. Martyn Cassel barked orders at green recruits, his voice sharp as steel on stone. Nearby, Bennard Stark's sons hacked clumsily at straw dummies, their brows drenched in sweat.
Theon stepped forward, and the first to notice him was Roderick Dustin. With a wide grin, he called out loud enough for all to hear, "Look who graces us with his presence—the genius wolf himself!"
Laughter rippled through the yard, smirks and grins turning his way. Theon met it with a crooked smile and shot back, "Then bow down before me!"
The yard erupted in louder laughter, and even Roderick barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Smartass," he muttered, but the edge of affection softened the word.
Martyn's sharp voice cut across the laughter. "Enough. Theon, come here."
Theon obeyed, walking with a calm confidence that seemed unusual for his age. Martyn's eyes weighed him carefully. "Today you begin. Are you ready?"
"Yes," Theon replied simply.
Martyn handed him a wooden practice sword. "Good. Start with the dummy. Strike it, and let me see what you know."
Theon stared at the practice dummy for a long moment, then lowered his gaze to the sword in his hands. The wood felt familiar, not because of this life, but because of the memories that haunted him—the countless blades he had wielded as EMIYA, the Counter Guardian of Alaya.
He closed his eyes. And with them came the torrent of memory.
The screams of the innocent.
The wails of the guilty.
The blood of children, men, women, kings, and heroes alike—flowing together, indistinguishable. He had been executioner, assassin, and servant to a will beyond his own. He had slain gods and legends, monsters and saints, each death staining his hands deeper until no amount of water could cleanse them.
For a heartbeat, the weight of millennia pressed upon him.
Then he breathed, slow and deep, and let it go. That world was gone. This was the North. This was Winterfell.
His eyes opened. Calm, steady.
With a slow step, he advanced to the dummy. He raised the wooden blade, inhaled once, then brought it down in a single vertical strike.
CRACK!
The sound exploded through the yard like thunder. The wooden sword cleaved into the dummy with unnatural precision and force, splintering its wooden frame and cutting deep into the stuffed core.
Every sound in the yard stopped. Blades froze mid-swing, curses died on lips, and even the crows perched on the battlements seemed to fall silent. All eyes turned toward Theon Stark.
Martyn Cassel's mouth opened slightly, his eyes wide in disbelief. He stepped forward slowly, staring first at the shattered dummy, then at the boy who stood so calmly with the wooden blade in his hands. "Was… was that your first time?" he asked, voice unsteady.
"Yes," Theon replied simply.
Martyn's gaze flicked back to the ruined dummy. In all his years training green boys, he had never seen such precision, such effortless power. Most lads struggled to even hold their swords properly on their first day. Even Lord Bennard's sons fumbled with footwork and balance. But Theon? His strike had been clean, sharp, the strike of a seasoned warrior—or better.
Martyn let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "By the Old Gods… truly, the Starks are blessed. The North may have found not only its genius wolf, but its warrior wolf as well."
Theon only lowered the wooden sword, his expression calm, hiding the storm of memories that lingered just beneath.
---