Chapter Text
Theon had long since accepted that he would never truly grasp all the strange traditions held in the North.
Naturally, as a resident of Winterfell, he had become accustomed to their sayings and their folktales and their superstitions, but it was always a private relief to remember that he would not be bound by them for the rest of his life. He would go to the godswood when he was invited by Robb or summoned by Lord Eddard, but had always much preferred to soak himself in hot springs or chase Robb between the tall dark trees than to gaze upon the bleeding eyes of the old weirwood that the Starks put such stock in. It disconcerted him to stand under that ancient gaze, and so he never did.
Thus, he didn’t dwell much on the strangeness of Bran’s fifth name day, writing the oddities off in his mind as more Northern superstition that affected him little. In truth, he had spent much of the day trying to quell the bitter feeling in his chest – his own seventeenth name day had passed with neither comment nor congratulations only two weeks prior, and it stung to see such recognition heaped upon young Bran. Not that Theon showed as much. He wore a smile when he tousled Bran’s hair and told him he’d soon be growing a red beard like his older brother, though Bran seemed in too much of a fretful mood to take well to the teasing. Strange behaviour, Theon thought, for a boy who was to be honoured with a feast that same night.
In fact, there was much about the day that Theon found strange. He remembered Bran’s name days all the way back to his first and, while a more splendidly laid table was typical, it didn’t usually warrant a full feast. None of the Starks’ name days had, to his memory.
When Theon went to ask Robb about it, he’d looked almost as fretful as his little brother. Though that fretfulness melted away to discomfort and annoyance when Theon questioned all the celebration.
“I hope you’re not being an ass to him about it. I’m sure even you weren’t all smiles on your fifth,” Robb said, a little colour rising in those pale cheeks of his.
Theon could scarcely remember his fifth name day, except for a vague recollection that his uncle Euron had been visiting at the time. His ninth name day was the first that he remembered clearly – the view from his bedroom window of King Robert’s siege engines shattering Pyke’s main watchtower lingered more in his mind that any memories of feasts or celebrations.
He smiled, elbowing Robb gently in the ribs. “Men of the Iron Islands don’t put much stock in name days anyway, save for counting when a boy is old enough to hold a spear. Is that what young Bran’s nervous about? Having to start training with Ser Rodrik?” It seemed an odd thing for the boy to worry over, given how eagerly he watched the older boys training each day.
“More like nervous he won’t be able to start training at all,” Robb muttered. For a moment, it seemed he would say something more, but then he abruptly clammed up. “Stop being deliberately obtuse, Greyjoy. I won’t put any bad omen on Bran by talking of it, save to say that I’m sure he’ll grow to be a fine and proper man.”
Theon was sure of that too, knowing the Starks and their honour, but he couldn’t see why it would need stating. Robb gave him an expectant look though, so he laughed and said, “Well, of course he will. And I won’t begrudge him for earning us all a feast either.”
Though Robb still seemed annoyed at him, he left the conversation there, excusing himself to go and check on his mother. Whatever he would need to check on her for, Theon couldn’t say, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue and take himself off to the archery range for some practice.
While there, Theon ran into Jory Cassel and tried to glean more information from him. Not that he truly cared so much for Bran – it was the thought of coming across as ignorant that grated at him, and he still didn’t understand the import being placed upon the day. Jory only looked at him queerly though, and told him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t risk earning his lord’s ire by putting a bad omen on his son’s fifth name day. Then, just as Robb had, Jory insisted Bran would surely grow to be a proper man and take a wife someday. It seemed such a peculiar thing to feel the need to say, but Theon nodded along and mumbled a similar sentiment.
The day only grew odder and odder.
A little past noon, Theon was strolling past the stables when he overheard voices within. The one voice was obviously Bran’s, and the other Theon suspected belonged to Jon Snow – Lord Stark’s sullen bastard, too craven to even pick up a sword and join them in training despite being only two years shy of manhood. Honestly, what good was having a bastard who couldn’t even fight and die for his father’s house? Whenever Theon gave him a well-deserved needling for his lack of participation, Snow only glared at him loathingly and snapped that he was still trained with the dagger and would happily use it to cut Theon’s smile right from his face. He never made true on those threats though, no matter how much Theon teased – normally it was Robb who put a stop to it in the end.
In the stable, Jon Snow spoke far more gently to his half-brother than he had ever spoken to Theon.
“It is unlikely to come to pass that way. And even if it does, would it be so bad?” There was a pain in Snow’s voice, perhaps too subtle for Bran to hear, but Theon recognised it plainly.
“But then I could never be a knight, or a lord!” Bran protested, and Theon did not need to see his face to hear the tears in his voice, “And everyone would think me less of a man.”
“You would prove them wrong. And you could be a squire still,” Snow reasoned, though it sounded completely unreasonable to Theon. What noble man would linger in the post of squire, without the chance of rising beyond it? “Our father would not allow you to be relegated to any dishonourable position, and your mother certainly wouldn’t.”
“But I- I just don’t want to. I want to be like Robb.” Bran’s voice was tremulous as he spoke and he sounded nothing like Robb at all, Theon thought unkindly.
“And you will be,” Snow soothed, “You will be, Bran. It is so rare to happen more than once in a family, and I may not be of your house but I am of your blood. A strong man such as our father wouldn’t have his seed falter twice.”
“Are you sure?” Bran asked, that childish warble still in his voice. Theon was sure he had never sounded so soft when he was a boy himself – his brothers would have kicked that right out of him.
“Sure as anyone can be. I’d bet my boots on it.”
Bran seemed to think a moment, then asked, “Will you come with me? To the godswood?”
“You know I can’t. It will just be father and the maester, but I promise it is not such a frightening thing. Maester Luwin will only put some sap on your forehead and take the measure of your height and your head and the beat of your heart. Then it will be over, and you will know yourself to be a true man, and you will come home to a grand feast.” Theon thought he might have heard a waver in Snow’s voice on those last few words, though it was subtle.
“And what if… What if I’m not a true man?” Bran’s voice was very quiet. Theon could barely hear it through the stable wall.
“Then you shall have a feast anyway, and you will smile and show them all that you are not ashamed, as you have no reason to be.”
“Is that what you did? I don’t know if I could…”
Jon Snow sounded sad enough that Theon almost felt a twinge of pity. “There are no fifth name day feasts for bastards, Bran. I had nothing more than the ceremony itself.”
Theon realised as he listened that he had lingered long enough – too long, actually. Anybody who walked by would know he was eavesdropping, which was hardly a noble thing to do. Still, he couldn’t help running through the conversation in his head as he strode on towards the kitchens in search of a drink. Snow had always been a strange character, but his words to his brother only made him stranger in Theon’s eyes; he couldn’t understand what had been meant by any of that conversation. Evidently there was some sort of ceremony, one that Snow had failed. That didn’t surprise Theon, given he was craven and a bastard on top of that, but it seemed odd that Bran should be so worried as a trueborn Stark, and a hale and healthy lad by all accounts.
With his curiosity still plaguing him, Theon went about the remainder of the afternoon. As the sun set, Theon saw from his window Bran being led to the godswood by the old maester and his lord father. Even from a distance, it was clear to see the grim expressions they all wore. Theon tried to pay no mind to it as he finished dressing for the feast, polishing his golden kraken broach with the corner of his furred cloak and then fastening it to his doublet.
A feast meant the women of Winterfell would be in a more amenable mood afterwards, bellies full and cheeks flushed from wine, and Theon was eager for that. And even if no woman was forthcoming, he could still let himself into Robb’s chambers and take satisfaction with him – though he might not be so welcome there, if Robb was still irked at him from their earlier conversation. Normally, he could rely on Robb to be open to those advances though, and Theon wanted to make the most of that while he still could. It would no longer be an honourable thing to do next year when he reached his majority, no longer forgiven under the guise of boyish fumbling.
He made his way down to the feast with a smile on his lips, greeting the young lady Sansa and her friend – the steward’s daughter, with a name too common to remember – who had arrived at the same time as him, though they sat apart.
It was odd, he noted, that neither Lord Eddard nor Bran – who the feast was ostensibly in honour of – were present for the first course of food. Theon was almost hesitant to begin eating lest it be considered an offense, but then, everybody else did and so he joined them. Besides, he soon forgot their absence, happily jesting with Robb about the hunt a few days past where they had brought home two plump turkeys – the larger of the two having certainly been the one Theon shot down, though Robb argued otherwise.
The first course of food was mostly diminished and the drink starting to run dry when the great oaken doors at the hall’s end swung open and little Bran entered before his father and the maester. No words were spoken, which Theon found strangest of all. Evidently, tonight’s ceremony had determined something of import about Bran’s future, but nobody spoke of it directly.
Instead, the feasting masses looked upon Bran – the bright smear of red on his forehead, the new fur cloak pinned around his shoulders with a shining direwolf broach, and the proud smile on his face – and burst into rowdy cheers and the sloshing knocking together of cups. Completely ignorant to the cause of the celebration, Theon cheered too and drank until his lungs burnt for air, then drank some more because, well, everybody else was doing it.
The second course of food came then, grander than the last, all red meat dripping with fat, black and bitter beer, and sweet carrots and turnips and parsnips still glistening with the herb butter that they were roasted in. As he ate, Theon made note of the relief he saw upon all of the Starks’ faces. Lady Catelyn kissed her young son on his red-stained brow, Lord Eddard kept a firm hand squeezing his shoulder through much of the feast, and Robb had lost all the nervous energy that had plagued him earlier in the day. Away from the rest of them, Theon even noticed Jon Snow looking relieved, though there seemed also to be an inkling of melancholy in those dark eyes of his. Then again, when was that boy not moping about something or another?
When the eating was done, Theon invited a serving girl back to his bed – though impatience meant that it wasn’t the bed where he ended up fucking her, but up against the wall of the stable.
In the aftermath, the girl – whose name he had neglected to ask, though he suspected that he’d bedded her before – stroked his back and sighed against his ear. “Oh, what a splendid night. And I suppose we shall have the same for your ceremony next year, ser.”
Theon laughed as he pulled away from her embrace, readjusting his smallclothes and breeches. “I am well past my fifth name day now.”
“Forgive me, ser, I know women are told little of these matters of men. But surely there is the proper ceremony on your eighteenth, when it is all confirmed? Or is it just that you won’t have a feast, since you’re… Well, perhaps it’s only the Starks who get one.”
Theon bristled at that. Why did the stupid girl have to go and kill the mood with that sort of talk, words that seemed to belittle him for not knowing Northern customs and for not being a godsdamned Stark? As if he ever needed a reminder of that.
“Of course there will be a feast,” he snapped, straightening out his fine doublet, “I only meant that it will be a far grander one, given that the ceremony for the eighteenth is far more important than the fifth.” Not that Theon knew, but that much seemed obvious – older was always more impressive.
“Yes, certainly, ser. And less worrisome too, since you already as good as know the result,” the girl said, letting her skirts back down, “I hope I didn’t offend.”
Theon told her she hadn’t, but he went to his bed alone anyway, sending her off with barely a word more.
For the rest of the night, the thought plagued him. How could he already know the result? He scarcely understood what the ceremony determined! But then, he knew that Jon Snow had failed while Robb and Bran had both passed, and that made it easy to draw conclusions. Theon was a trueborn son of a lord, and near better with a sword than Robb himself – certainly better with a bow. He shouldn’t debase himself by doubting his own value as a man.
After that day, Winterfell returned to normality, and no one made mention of Bran’s feast, or of the red stain that lingered on his forehead for near a week before finally fading, or of whatever ceremony he had undergone. With time, it faded to the back of Theon’s mind too.
That was, until the next year when Theon’s eighteenth name day and the time for his own ceremony came upon him.