The memory of that day in the training yard lingered like a stormcloud over Winterfell. The echo of wood splitting, the shock on Martyn Cassel's face, the silence of the boys—it all set in motion something no one expected.
When Theon's first strike shattered the dummy, Martyn had wasted no time. He went straight to Lord Rickon Stark's solar, his voice still carrying the tremor of disbelief as he recounted what he had seen.
Rickon sat silent at first, his heavy brows furrowed. Then, suddenly, a booming laugh filled the chamber. "Thanks to the Old Gods!" he roared, his eyes glimmering with both wonder and pride. But the laughter faded as swiftly as it came, replaced by a sharp, serious stare.
"You will watch him," Rickon commanded. "Not for a day, not for two. Watch him closely. If he shows this skill again, put him against the elder boys. Let me see how far this blessing runs."
Martyn bowed. "As you command, my lord."
And so it began.
Within two days, Theon had not only matched every boy of his age but defeated them one by one. His footwork, his reflexes, his strikes—they were not of a child fumbling with a sword for the first time, but of someone who had lived a hundred lives in battle. When the older lads mocked him, he humbled them. When they came at him in groups, he cut through their defenses like water slipping through cracks.
By the third day, even the elder boys—some near-grown, their hands calloused by hunts and skirmishes with bandits—fell before him. Their pride turned to shame, their jeers to grudging silence.
When Martyn returned to Rickon with this new report, the Lord of Winterfell was again astonished. "You're telling me," Rickon said slowly, "my little wolf bested not only those his age, but the elder boys as well? The ones who've tasted blood outside these walls?"
Martyn nodded grimly. "Not once, my lord. Many times."
Rickon's eyes hardened. His voice cut like steel. "Then put him with seasoned warriors. Let him taste real steel."
Martyn's mouth fell open. "My lord… he is but a child."
"Do as I say," Rickon replied, tone brooking no argument. "If the Old Gods have seen fit to bless my son with such skill, then we must temper that gift like true steel. He will not be coddled."
Martyn bowed stiffly, though shock lingered in his eyes.
---
The Present
Theon now stood in the yard, a real blade in his hands—not sharpened, but steel all the same, blunt-edged yet heavy. Around him circled six seasoned warriors of Winterfell, men who had fought wildlings, bandits, and raiders on the frozen coasts. They attacked with ferocity, shouting as their steel came down in heavy arcs.
But Theon moved like a shadow given form. Every strike they threw was met with flawless defense—parried, turned aside, or evaded by a half-step. His counters were swift and merciless, driving men twice his size back on their heels.
One warrior lunged from behind, sure of catching the boy unaware. But Theon twisted, raising his blade without even looking. The steel clanged as he caught the blow perfectly, as though an unseen eye guided him. In the same breath, he pivoted and struck his attacker's knee, sending the man crashing down with a grunt.
Moments later, the yard was silent save for the groans of defeated men. Grown warriors lay sprawled across the dirt, clutching bruised ribs and aching limbs, their pride more wounded than their bodies. They looked upon Theon not as a boy but as something other—something touched by gods or fate.
From the balcony above, Rickon Stark watched with a face carved from stone. No smile, no laughter—but in his eyes burned a fierce, undeniable pride. Beside him, Lady Gilliane Grover's hands clutched the railing tight, torn between fear and awe. She was a mother, and every clash of steel against her son's small frame set her heart quaking. Yet beneath the worry, pride welled up, and joy shone faintly in her eyes. Her little wolf was no ordinary boy.
---
When the training ended, Theon strode from the yard calm and unshaken, though sweat dampened his brow. He went straight for the baths, where the heat of the water eased the ache from his muscles. Afterward, he dressed, pulling on fresh clothes, when a knock sounded at his chamber door.
"Enter," he called.
The door creaked open, and Roderick Dustin stepped in, a grin on his weathered face.
"I bring good news, young wolf," Roderick said, closing the door behind him. "The Manderlys are sending the mountain surveyors. They'll arrive tomorrow from White Harbor."
Theon's eyes lit with satisfaction. He remembered the Manderlys' letter—how they had no surveyors at the time but promised to find some. Now, it seemed, they had delivered.
"Good," Theon said, his voice steady but his mind racing with plans. "I cannot wait to meet them."
Then he looked at Roderick, a mischievous glimmer crossing his face. "Come, Lord Roderick. Let's walk through Wintertown. I want to see the faces of our people."
Roderick chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Aye, then. Let us see what tales they spin about their genius wolf today."
Together, they left the chamber, stepping into the crisp Northern air.
---