Theon thumbed over the kraken embroidered over his doublet, it wasn’t often he wore one with any sigil, but that day he’d felt nearly sentimental. Missing the rock and salt, the high winds that tore across the sea and whipped his hair back. It was a small token, one gifted to him by Lord Stark, but it was all he had left to remind him of his home other than his reflection. Was it truly home, he often thought, or simply a collection of memories, sensations, and scents?
He had more to call home within the walls of Winterfell.Still thumbing over his own embroidered piece, he wondered how long it must’ve taken. To match each stitch so perfectly as Sansa was doing on her own needle-point. “Stars on Lady’s collar?” He questioned, looking around for the direwolf. “Why have you chosen stars?” It was an innocent question, one asked out of curiosity rather than to patronize. “You may be a little right,” Theon went on to laugh, Bran was not as skilled with a bow. “Perhaps it’s not about difficulty, but rather, what we excel at. I confess I cannot climb the way your brother does and he cannot shoot a bow as well as I can.
Sansa chose stars because they pleased her, an excuse to use the thread she had so prettily pleaded with her lady mother to acquire. A great many choices she made with no calculation, no set end envisioned — her mockery of Arya alongside Jeyne a notable example, actions oft born out of irritation or boredom rather than abject hatred. Though this was not to say Lord Stark’s eldest daughter lacked sufficient wit; only that, as children were wont to do, she often selected whichever path offered the least resistance. And Sansa could hardly admit such whimsy to her father’s ward, so swiftly did her mind turn, examining all possible explanations for one suitably impressive.
“They mean to stand in representation of the gods,” she told him sagely. “For surely no other power could have guided you to Lady’s litter, nor be more deserving in recognition of their blessing.” Iron Islanders worshiped the Drowned God, Sansa knew from her lessons. At times she pitied the elder boy, in a soft, regretful way, saddened to imagine a time when she might no longer know home’s comforts, its steadiness and protection. “A sword is truly what he ought practice in.” All within Winterfell’s walls knew of the boy’s wish to become a knight. “Although certainly Ser Rodrik knows better than I what Bran requires improvement in. Or perhaps,” she told him with a faint smile, “he merely hopes another might challenge your skill at the bow.”