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I.
Theon remains quiet as icy sea water raises to his navel. The chill is so intense that it knocks the breath out of his lungs for a few moments. His feet instantly seize in pain, and his groin throbs painfully, but he refuses to dwell on it. He hears a few curses here and there, but Theon has no doubt that these men wouldn’t abide him showing any sign of protest. Or weakness, in their eyes. So he soldiers on, acts like nothing can bother him, and doesn’t show any sign of weakness as he pulls the small boat forward, towards the beach. The other men are already walking forward, pulling the small boat between them. Not for the first time in a fortnight, Theon finds himself grateful that he is navigating in southern waters. While winter has come on the whole region, it still hasn’t reached the kind of freezing temperatures rivers and the sea have reached in the North.
The water lowers to his tights, and then as they keep moving forward, to his calves. Then it becomes less and less hard to keep moving. Already, Theon can see figures waiting for them on the beach. He can recognise the ones of a few dothraki men, all in their ragtag furs, as well as the foreign dark curls Missandei has circling her head. Two more figures are there, men from the look of it. But Theon can’t recognise them.
When finally he and the other ironborns reach the shore of the beach, dragging their embarkation far enough on the sand that it won’t risk getting pulled back in the water by the waves of the sea, Theon helps stow it in the sand. Then, and only then, he turns around to face the Queen’s adviser and her foreign guards. And the two men with them. An elder man, and then someone who has Theon freeze again, but from shock this time.
Jon Snow.
The bastard of Winterfell. The bane of his youth. The only remaining man from the Stark family.
For a brief moment, Theon’s mind is filled with the thought that Jon is finally here to grant Theon justice, and swing the sword on him to take his head for the crimes Theon once committed. He has dreamt of it so many times during his captivity, hoping deep in his heart for this day to come. The gods, either the Drowned god or the old ones, have finally made this happen.
But something in this doesn’t make sense. Why is Jon waiting for him here, in Dragonstone? And why now, moons after he fled the North to join his sister in whatever journey was needed to have her rule the Iron Islands?
Then more questions flood Theon’s mind, and he finds himself even more confused. What is Jon doing so far South? Isn’t he supposed to be at the Wall. He is even reminded of something Ramsay told him once, about the Night’s watch having elected Jon Snow, a bastard, as their new Lord Commander. If it was the case, how come Jon isn’t there, leading his men? What is he doing here of all place? And isn’t Sansa with him?
Jon is walking towards him now, face as solemn as ever, his lips in his usual sulking pout, a frown covering his features. Jon gets closer and closer, until he is just a few strides from Theon and Theon realises that he has been staring at him in shock for an awkwardly long moment. He is reminded that there are men standing behind him. Men from whom he will need help if he is to go through his wish to rescue his sister.
“Jon.” He says in a loud, clear voice, trying not to stammer or seem hesitant. He even walks towards Jon, trying to show his confidence of old as he walks to Jon as an equal, and not the cowering wimp Ramsay made of him. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Jon keeps looking at Theon with his face grave. His eyes look at Theon in ways which has Theon’s stomach fluttering as if he has swallowed minnows and they are trying to find their way out of his guts. It feels like Jon looks at him both as if he doesn’t recognise him, and as if he is looking at a man who has slain his whole family. Which isn’t far from what Theon did. With any hope, at least Sansa made it back to him. That would be one thing he didn’t mess up. He swallows down his guilt and fears, before taking a step forward, trying to show himself both confidant in front of his men, and friendly towards Jon Snow.
“Sansa.” He says as he takes some more steps forward, towards Jon, towards this man who obviously wishes him dead. “Is she alright?” Theon asks, genuinely concerned for the girl who he grew to love as a sister. He is just away from harms’ reach of Jon, and he can feel his bravado fade in tatters.
Two strides and Jon is on Theon, seizing him by the neck and moving him forward like Theon is but a rag doll in his hands. His first impulse is to cower in fear. Look down so that his eyes won’t insult his better. He knows his place. He is a good Reek. Theon.
So, he looks up at Jon again, even though it is the last thing he wishes to do. He looks in the eyes of a man who so obviously wants to hurt him, kill him even. He tries to not show the fear which gnaws at his innards. He tries to do that. If not for him, then for Yara. Yes, for Yara.
“What you did for Sansa, is the only reason why I’m not killing you.” Jon tells him with a low voice which shows how much restrains he must put on himself to not do just that.
Theon does look down at that, feeling like he is on the verge of crumbling down. A part of him desperately wants him to kneel on the ground, and ask Jon to do just that. He seems to have a fine sword. In his dreams, it was always Ice, the great sword of the Starks. But this one seems nice enough. A swing of it and the job would probably be well and truly done.
But then footsteps are heard coming closer, just a few strides towards them, and Theon sees Jon glimpses briefly in that direction, before he shoves Theon away like he might get dirty from being in contact with him any longer. Theon looks down, feeling ashamed of being weak in front of so many strong men. He has this urge to bring his harms around himself and rock himself as he did when he was with him.
“We’ve heard your uncle Euron attacked your fleet. We thought you dead.” The stranger says with a common pronunciation, looking like he is close to his sixtieth nameday.
Theon looks towards him. It’s better to look at anyone else that at Jon in this moment. There’s something kind in this man, fatherly even. Somehow it reassures Theon enough that he can bring up his façade of confidence again.
I wish I was. I am here only because I’m a coward. It’s Yara who should be here, not her wimp of a brother.
“I should be.” Is all Theon manages to say.
“And your sister?” The fatherly man asks him.
It has Theon look down in misery for a moment. I failed her. I left her to her death. I let my uncle take her as captive. Gods know what he’s doing to her right now. Is she dead? Bile raises in his throat, and Theon has to swallow down to keep both it and his cries down. He looks back at the man’s inquiring yet soft eyes. Looking at them and only them help ground Theon.
“Euron has her.”
Theon manages to say. He can’t see or hear anything behind him, yet the disappointment coming from the ironborns seems to fill the air. They know the truth, Theon has told them the moment they brought him up on their ship. Yet it’s like they’re rediscovering the truth of the matter.
“I came to ask the queen for help to get her back.” Theon says, feeling more courageous now that his purpose comes back to him.
“The queen is gone.” Jon Snow tells him, his voice still harsh and cutting.
“Where did she go?” Theon says, trying to act as if his world is not just on the verge of collapsing from these few words.
Missandei tells him about the Lannisters attacking the Tyrells and slaughtering them. For a moment Theon nearly feels relief that their group was not the only one to fall, though he has this inkling that facing his uncle was a worst experience than facing an army of Lannister men. Jon says a few more words about the queen taking a dragon and flying there with a fleet of dothraki to go and salvage the food and the gold. At some points words confuse themselves together in a buzzing cacophony that Theon can’t hear anything.The queen is gone reverberates through his brain, getting louder and louder, until Theon cannot hear anything but that.
“Greyjoy. Oy, Theon!” Jon Snow says, louder this time.
Theon blinks out of the darkness he had faded into. He looks at Jon Snow and the man behind him, then at Missandei who looks at him with something soft in her eyes. Theon looks down, unable to face all these eyes turned on him anymore.
“Our queen’s friends and allies are welcome in her home in her absence. Follow us and we will lead you to your rooms.” Missandei says in a voice clear and loud so that every man on the beach can hear her.
Theon glances at the man he grew with and has known for most of his life, trying to determinate if it is safe to walk forward or if the man will keep blocking his way. Jon still looks at him harshly, as if he wants to reduce him to ashes by his glare alone. He forces himself to not look down, to try and not look weak in front of his old nemesis. He is Theon. If he is not worth much these days, certainly he is still worth more than a bastard.
Or are you?
“Your grace. The dragonglass. We must still look at the few weapons made to ensure the smiths have the good of it.” The older man says towards them.
Your grace? Who is he calling that?
“Aye. We must do that.” Jon Snow says, looking at Theon a few more moments before turning his back on Theon and walking away with his companion.
Theon watches Jon Snow walk away in long, strong strides, the older man falling into steps after him. He feels both so shock, and confused by this.The King in the North. He remembers these words being chanted in his ears in a loud chorus of men’s voices, his own voice joined to them. In another time, what feels like a lifetime ago, and with another young man, whose eyes were so kind, yet as unyielding when challenged or angry.
A throat is cleared close to him, and Theon sees that Missandei is looking at him expectantly. Theon starts to walk towards the exotic woman, legs stiff from the exertion, being tensed for so long, and being soaked through the bones by the sea. He feels like he is in that awkward place where he is not Theon anymore, but not Reek yet. His feet move as if they have a mind of their own, while Theon follows the queen’s adviser, soon followed by her guards. It’s only when they are halfway up the long and exhausting flight of stairs leading to the keep that Theon thinks about looking back for the other ironborns. He shouldn’t be surprised that the rougher men have taken back the small embarkation to row back to the main ship instead of following them to the castle. It’s in true ironborn ways after all, to pick the sea over a stone building over solid ground. Theon feels even more guilt and shame gnaw at him.
It’s like Theon blinks, and then he finds himself in front of the room he used the last time he was there. With Yara in the room next to his, laughing loudly as she boldly fumbled either a man or a woman, depending on her mood. His eyes become blurry unbeknown to him. It’s with shaking hands that he opens the door and walks in the room, recognising it even though there is no trace of him anymore. There is nothing he could have left here, not even a thread in the end of his purse. Yet the memory of being here, in this room exactly as he could hear his sister just a stonewall away from him fills him with something warm and biting.
“Theon. Are you alright?” A feminine voice says just behind him.
Theon can only nod, throat too tight to voice anything. He’s shaking. he can feel himself shake uncontrollably, and he knows his breathing is coming in and out more erratically. A tingling sensation on his cheeks alert him that tears are falling freely from his eyes.
“Theon. We will find her. The queen won’t abide her friend and ally being kept a captive.” Missandei adds, voice softer. Her eyes probably filled with pity.
Something soft touches his shoulder, but Theon flinches so hard at the contact that the hand leaves him in less than a blink of an eye. His breath becomes so laboured in his chest that Theon feels like he is going to choke to his death in the end. Footsteps move away from him, then the door is softly shut, as if to not disrupt him any more than he already is.
Theon finally allows himself the tears and the sobs he has kept buried in him ever since he has been fished out of the sea after fleeing his sister’s ship. He sinks on his knees, unable to remain standing anymore. At some point, crying is not enough for him anymore, he needs to do something more to quell the impotence, the shame and the guilt which are eating at him. He hits the ground with his maimed fist, his hand exploding in pain. He does it again, welcoming, embracing this salvaging sensation.
Then again, and again, and again.
II.
Theon finds himself starring at the horizon. He is mesmerised by the sight of the sea, so vast and uninterrupted by any landmark, blurring into the pale sky as they seem to merge together. There is something soothing about sitting here, on the top of the cliff giving on the stairs which led to the beach, everything so small and seemingly meaningless from his vantage point. The grass is still somewhat green and soft, though it is starting to dry into yellow, brittle strands as winter falls on them. Theon has had worst to cushion him as he sits, his arms around his legs and his chin over his knees.
His mind seems empty for now. He has felt like his mind was floating through a haze of cotton since he woke up a few hours ago, after having dreamlessly slept through the rest of yesterday and most of the morning of this day. His head still throbs from crying so hard, and having been exhausted without any proper rest since that night on the ship leading to Dorne. His eyes sting from all the salt of yesterday, and his whole body feels sore from falling asleep right where he has fallen in sobs, on the hard, stony floor of his room.
He awoke once, gods know after how long, feeling dead tired, but with a need so urgent to take a leak that it hurt. Theon had untucked himself from his clingy breeches, which had cooled and dried on him. He had no other clothes with him, no possessions whatsoever. He hates doing it, yet he had found himself with no other choice than to strip bare and hang his clothes to dry before hiding his maimed body under the thick layer of sheets of the bed. He doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that during his long, deep sleep, a servant came into his room, took his clothes and had the time to clean them and have them dried before replacing them in his room. A part of him feels grateful for the gesture, the unexpected kindness. But another part of him feels creeped that somebody went so close to him while he remained out cold.
When he finally awoke, Theon felt so weirded out by the silence of the room, by the absence of any noise around him, that he felt like he was suffocating. At first, he roamed the halls of the castle, but found himself either creeped out by the dragon statues everywhere, or felt too uneasy by the passing servants or dothraki guards, all of whom seemed to look at him with suspicious or pitying eyes. So, after avoiding an area, and then another and another, Theon found himself walking up the mountain, where it seemed like nobody would venture.
And as the hours went by, Theon has found himself lost in his numb mind, mesmerised by the horizon as he tries to find a semblance of peace and calm after the events of the last fortnight. Gloves held between his knees, he absentmindedly toys with his bruised knuckles, scratching at the scabs until he bleeds again, then pressing on them until the welcome pain warms him. There is nobody to stop him from doing it, and he is too weak to do it for himself. Yara would… He feels too raw to think about his sister, yet alone about her captor.
He doesn’t know what to do about them, but certainly the queen will know. He just has to bid his time until she comes back from her battle, and then he will talk to her, ask her for her help. She will know what to do about it. She must.
It startles him when he hears footsteps getting closer and closer to him. Who would even bother to come here? He releases his bloody, ugly hands and hides them under his armpits, hoping that whoever comes by will leave him well alone.
No such luck.
He sees the dark furred cloak before his eyes raise to the stern looking man. Jon Snow. Of fucking course. This one looks at the horizon for only a few seconds, before he looks down at Theon with eyes filled with anger, resentment and disdain.
“Turncloak.”
One word. Just this one word is enough to have Theon spiral through memory lane, until he is reminded of all the loath and the hatred turned toward him. To the memory of two little boys, so innocent as they played around, before turning their heads toward them as they heard the gallops of their horses. The face of Rodrick Cassel comes to his mind as the man looks at him like he is the worst bug he has ever seen, then spits this word at Theon. Bran as he looks at him with betrayal. Ramsay, as he looks at him with his piercing pale eyes and sticks a blade under the skin of his small finger.
Theon closes his eyes and swallow down the bile churning at his throat. He focuses his eyes on the horizon, trying to find back some of the peace he had just a few moments ago.
“Won’t you tell me why you did it?” Jon asks him, anger making his voice raise.
Theon flinches at the question. Years of trying to find the words to explain his mistakes, and yet he finds himself unable to utter even one word about it. He feels like blades are clawing at his skin, at his innards. He realises that he is rubbing his sore knuckles against the rough cloth under his arms. Yet he just can’t stop it now that he as begun.
“Is there nothing you will say to justify yourself?” Jon asks even more loudly.
Theon’s eyes remain focused on the horizon. A lump forms in his throat and his eyes start to sting. He breaths harshly through the nose, willing them away. He wants to say something to explain himself, his innards tear at him from the inside to let out the words he has wished to say for all those years. Yet his mouth won’t open. Not again. Not after Ramsey and that only time he willingly opened himself and shared his guilt.
“Say something!” Jon Snow shouts at him with impatience and irritation.
Theon cringes from the shock of being shouted at. It’s not that he is not used to. He has broke Theon in that habit. Ever since Ramsay, Theon cringes in fear at the smallest shock. And then there has been the men with Yara. Or the first few dozen times of having a dragon fly less than twenty feet from him. Theon has been better at controlling his shows of fear with the help of Yara.
But he has never heard Jon snow shout at him. Not like that, like he’s going to do violence to him. There have been jests, and groans and insults at him. It has been fair game between them. But Jon Snow has never been keen on raising his voice. Mayhap for fear of lady Stark hearing him and having him punished for it.
Theon is brought back to the present when he feels yet again a hand pull at his neck and his whole body is lifted and manhandled until his face is just a few inches from Snow. He yelps in surprise, regretting the sound the instant it leaves his mouth. Out of habit, he keeps his eyes on the ground. It is disrespect to look his master in the eyes. You can do that only when you answer him, to assure him that you’re not lying. But then he is reminded that it is a Reek habit, and he is Theon. Theon! So he raises his eyes to meet Jon’s ones. He grits his teeth, and lift his chin in challenge, like he would have done before… before.
“We’re just a few feet from the edge. It’s really high there. If I were to push you down from here, it is a sure thing that you would die. Would you die without even saying a word in your defence?” Jon Snow asks him, voice loud and more confident than Theon has ever heard.
Theon feels his eyes widen. He has wished death, a swift, painless one, for so long. Sometimes he even dreamt of Jon snow being the one to grant it to him.
“Would it matter?” He asks with a fraction of his defiance and bite from the Theon of before.
Jon’s eyes crease in anger.
He once would have wished for a swift death. Yet it’s not him anymore. He is Theon. Nobody cared for Theon, until Sansa said his name and looked at him with something soft in her eyes. And then Yara looked at him like he was someone. Her brother, Theon. Someone more than the lonely wimp that was Reek. He knows his name, and nobody will get that away from him again. Not when Yara counts on him saving her.
“Release me.” Theon says, loud and clear. He might be shaking from the nerves, but his voice doesn’t give up on him.
“Then say something.” Jon groans between his grit teeth.
Theon must be more surprised than Jon when his fist collides with Jon’s jaw. He barely registers the pain in his fist, or the blood, his blood, smeared on Jon’s skin. Jon releases him instantly, too shocked to keep his hold on him. And Theon backs up until he feels the distance his great enough both from Jon Snow and the edge of the cliff that it’s safe to stop.
He watches Jon, his emotions in turmoil. He feels scared, and small and ashamed. Yet he also feels angry, and outraged that Jon Snow would threaten him such, act like Theon’s life is so casual that he can jeopardise it to satisfy his need for justifications. To his merit, the bastard looks shocked too, and there is something like guilt which seems to cross his angry frown. Then he brings a hand to his cheek and rubs it, as if surprised by the pain there. Then he looks at his fingers, red with blood.
Theon feels like he’s going to be sick. He hides his hands back under his arms when he feels the eyes of the bastard look at them, then at his face. The man looks confused and disgusted.
Theon does what he is best at. He turns around and flees with hurried hobbled steps.
III.
Theon goes back to his room. It doesn’t matter anymore that it all feels too quiet, it feels like he is closed in on himself, with no place to breath. He doesn’t feel safe outside anymore. Not with Jon Snow somewhere outside this room, looking to kill him. Or worst, looking at him with something which comes close to pity.
He labors at finding his breath. He came as close to running as could get with the state of his feet, hurrying to remove himself from Jon Snow’s field of vision, then from anyone else’s once he was back in the more populated halls of the castle. He feels self-loathing swallow him at the memory of Jon’s eyes on him. He should have said something. He should have found one of his old quip and put the bastard back in his place. He should have done something more… something more Theon.
Coward.
Cockless Theon.
Little Theon.
Useless.
His mind gets filled by the laughs and jeers of his uncle Euron and his men. Soon joined by the ones of Ramsay, and then his boys and Miranda, cruel and piercing like blades gnawing at his skin, cutting deep into his flesh until his mind can’t take it anymore and Theon feels himself recoil into the comfort of becoming Reek.
Reek who can become so small that nobody sees him, only master. Reek who can be good, who has learnt his name. Reek for whom it is accepted to leave in fear and cowardice, because he is so weak that nobody expects anything from him, least of all for him to stand up for himself. He closes his eyes, shutting himself from the word around him.
When he opens them again, it’s to find that the clear sky of the afternoon has been replaced by pitch darkness. He struggles with his bleary thoughts for a while, feeling both dizzy and exhausted his head throbbing with pain. He shakily leans on the wall to stand up from his crouched position in the corner of the room, but then wince in pain as his whole hand seems on fire. Theon looks at it, feeling bile raise in his throat as he sees not only the bruised and bloody knuckles, but also the red smeared under his nails, and the red gauges all over the skin of his hand. The flesh has been torn in some places, showing red flesh and scabs of dried blood. His other hand looks just the same when he looks at it. Theon rushes to his chamber pot, throwing up a mix of bile and saliva. Even when it feels like he has nothing more to throw up, his body is wrecked by dry-heaving.
Picking himself up after that is even harder. He shakes and feels ever so weak as he manages to stand up, then half walks, half trips to his desk, where he leans heavily to remain upright. His hand shakes so badly when he grabs the pitcher of clean water and serves himself a cup of it that he spills nearly as much water out of the cup than he manages to get in. The cool water on its way down his parched, burning throat feels like heaven. He feels somewhat more like himself as he keeps drinking greater and greater sips, taking his time doing so to insure he doesn’t choke on it.
When he feels somewhat more like himself, having emptied the cup two times already, Theon pours some in the basin there at his disposition, then cups some in his hands and splashes it on his face. The cold water finishes waking him up. Theon cleans himself some more, splashing his chin to insure there is no more bile there, then his throat and his neck. His skin his sore there, most probably a dark blue after having been pulled by the throat repeatedly. But he still forces himself to rub there to get it cleaned. He grits his teeth painfully when comes the time to clean his hands. They both look grotesque and disgusting, yet he forces himself to remain stoic as he rubs them clean, watching them closely to insure there is no more blood there. He doesn’t manage to clean under his nails though. It’s not like it would be much improvement to get them clean, what with a nail missing on the little finger of his left hand, then his ring finger and his index there having been cut until ugly stumps remains in their stead, His right hand looks somewhat better for the fact that only the little finger has been cut off there. But his hands are thin, though they have gotten better after moons of eating better has filled his whole body in a healthier way, and with the pale skin taunt on his bones, the red marks of him scratching there look even more unforgivable. Yara would berate him for mistreating himself so badly.
His stomach groans unhappily, reminding him that he has not eaten since… he doesn‘t even remember since when. He remembers having eaten on the ship coming here, maybe the morning Dragonstone came into view. But nothing since. Dread fills him as he realizes it is now the night of the next day since their arrival, and he still hasn‘t eaten anything yet. Yara has seen to it that he doesn’t skip a meal. Not even when he feels too sick, or riled up, or anguished to swallow down even one bite. Even if it was just half a portion, she would still insure that Theon swallows at least that, so as to keep him used to eat his three meals. He still feels sick from his shameful episode of the afternoon, and then his poor reaction as he escaped into himself in the most shameful way. He feels too disgusted and nauseous to entertain the idea of eating. But Yara would want him to eat. Part of being Theon means looking up for himself at least for the small things like sleeping, eating and cleaning himself up. And he must be Theon. Reek can’t help save Yara, but Theon still has some chances of doing so. He has to put them all on his side.
Somehow, reminding himself of the need to be Theon to save Yara grounds Theon more than any other thought has ever done. He covers the top of the basin with a cloth to remove the sight of blood from his view, then starts to walk toward the door to make his way out of his room.
He freezes when he puts his hand on the handle. His gloves. He needs his gloves. He can’t go out with his hands on display. He always hides his hands from view, no matter how hot it is, if only to ensure that nobody, him more than anyone else, has to look at the grotesque appendages Ramsay has turned his hands into. Where has he seen them last?
The cliff, his mind provides after a few moments of deep thinking. He had them between his knees so that he could more easily mess with his knuckles. But then Jon Snow came, and pulled him up by the throat. Theon must have lost his gloves when he was made to stand. They must have been carried away by the wind, far above the sea by now.
He closes his eyes and takes deep breath. Eating is too important than the state of his hands. Being Theon is more important than hiding here for fear of being belittled by strangers and ending up starving.
Opening the door is made harder by the fact that his hands are on display. Each step becomes easier and easier, though Theon doesn’t dare looking too long at the servants and dothraki guards he sees, for fear of getting distracted from his purpose by looks of disgust or pity. Mercifully, the halls are nearly empty seeing as it is dark, and probably most occupants of the keep are already asleep.
He expected the kitchens to be deserted at this hour, leaving him free to serve himself and eat his food here before going back in his room. He is surprised to see the older man who called Jon Snow his king sitting at a small table probably used by the kitchen aids, munching on some bread, a tankard of golden ale in front of him. He looks up at Theon, and this one freezes for a moment on his spot near the entrance.
“You hungry, lad? Don’t mind me. There’s still some stew in the cauldron over the fireplace. Must be cooler at this hour, but still edible enough if one of the guard finds himself hungry.” The man says with a friendly voice.
Theon is taken aback by the tone of voice, unused to having anyone talk to him so kindly, so normally. Even his sister would rarely talk to him with this kind of tone, favoring exasperated or irritated ones with him. It feels surprising to have anyone not looking at him with pity, disgust or anger, and talking to him as if he is worth some respect. For one moment, Theon is reminded of Ramsay being kind and respectful to him, at the beginning, while he was still Theon the Turncloak. He had managed to lure Theon into opening up about himself and Theon had told him things he never said aloud or to anyone else. Truths he didn’t even realised he had within him back then. Ramsay had given him back hope, about himself and the future. Before walking him in the room with the cross, and starting the long and agonizing process of transforming him into Reek.
“You’re not forced to take the stew, boy. Have a look on the counters, there’s plenty else if you fancy that better.” The fatherly voice says, common accent thick yet not unpleasant to the ears.
Theon looks up at the man again, having just realised that he must have stared down at nothing for some while, or long enough that the man felt the need to talk him out of his stupor. The man drinks from his tankard and nods at Theon, like he is saying “Go at it, that’s the thing.”. Theon doesn’t know what to make of him, but the man seems genuinely kind, which is a rare thing nowadays. He walks to the counter, taking a clean plate there and filling it with some cheese and a slice of bread. There is also some kind of big sausage, which smells spicy and weird. He glimpses sideway towards the man, and sees that there is some in his plate. It must not be too bad. The stew is lukewarm, not yet too cold. He serves himself a bowl of it, and put it on his plate, before serving himself a tankard of the golden ale. Maneuvering it all between his two damaged hands is hard enough, yet Ramsay would often have him transport such from the kitchen to his rooms, many halls and stairwells away. He thinks he should be able to manage well enough, though it is shaking a bit in his hands.
“No need to bother yourself, lad. You can come here and eat your piece. We’re the only two here, there’s room enough for us both.”
The man says when he sees that Theon is taking a few steps in the direction of the doorway. Theon freezes on the spot. A huge part of him urges him to go away with his price, to find himself a discreet corner where to eat. Another, smaller voice tells him that if he leaves, he does the coward thing again, and that’s not the Theon he wants to be. Besides, the man does seem genuinely kind towards him, which is a rare treat he is still not used to.
His feet take the direction of the small table before Theon has time to hesitate too much. If he wants to affront his uncle and rescue his sister, he will have to get used to doing scary things. Approaching a friendly looking stranger is the less scary things he’ll have to do. He tries to show confidence as he takes a seat opposite the older man, and nods politely at him before biting in his slice of bread. The man eats too, though less hurriedly than Theon. They are mostly silent, until Theon takes a few sips of the ale and makes a face.
“You too, uh? I always say ale is ale, you shouldn’t think about it, just swallow it. Yet this horse piss is particularly awful. The Ironborn one any better?” The man asks him with an interested look.
I’ve had worst.
But Theon doesn’t voice it. Instead he takes another few swallows, this time expecting the bitterness.
“Not by much. It does taste like piss, but it’s still better than this one. Is this from Dragonstone?” Theon asks politely.
“No. That’s Dothraki ale. Might actually have some horse piss in it for all I know.” The man says, his eyes truthful even though he is obviously japing.
“Did you taste the one in the North? Then you might be used to the better stuff.” Theon tells him, feeling sheepish at the thought that he is unworthy of praising the North, even for something as insignificant as the way they brew their ale.
“That’s true.” The man says with pleased surprise. “I’ve been to many places, in Westeros and Essos alike, and I can tell you, the Northern dark ale is quite among the best. Though they easily get beaten in matter of wine and spirits.”
“You’ve been to many places? How come?” Theon asks him, now intrigued by the strange, friendly man.
Besides, they talk about the man, there is less chance of them talking about Theon.
“I used to be a smuggler, before king Stannis had me named a knight. His Onions knight I was called, because I smuggled onions to him and his men during the siege of Storm’s End. But before that and for many years I traveled east and west, trading goods, smuggling others here and there. Having quite the low scum life. Not unlike a pirate, or your people for that matter. Though less violent.”
Davos Seaworth. He is reminded of some Northern lords who laughed and japed at King Stannis naming as near a commoner and a once-criminal as his hand of the king. Theon had laughed then, still so innocent and unaware in his own ways. Now he looks at the man differently, trying to see in him what Stannis Baratheon, and then Jon Snow, have seen in such a man to seek his advice. His bold honesty seems to be the man’s most endearing quality. Yet, as he speaks of his travels, and the obstacles he has encountered, Theon understands that it might be because he has an interesting perspective on life and its challenges.
At some point, he is so engrossed in the story of how Davos bluffed his way around a lannister steward - to whom he managed to make eat a whole handful of fermented crab under the pretense that it can grow a man’s libido nearly instantly - so that he could sneak in barrels of wine from Lys, that Theon doesn’t realizes he has cleared his plate and his tankard. Without stopping his anecdote, Davos raises from his chair with both their tankards and his plate, that he fills while talking, before sitting down again. He offers some more bread, wrapped around a few slices of sausage and cheese, and tells Theon that it’s how they eat it near Pentos. By then Theon is pleasantly lulled by the ale, and finds himself genuinely intrigued in tasting food the way other cultures eat it. He feels stuffed when the food is all down in his belly, not used to eating so much in one meal. Yet the sensation is not unpleasant. Being so full from food, with enough alcohol to make him feel light as he laughs with a new comrade, reminds him of the good times at Winterfell, when a lord would visit and everyone would enjoy a feast with food and wine, or ale until everyone felt full to the brim.
But then everything seems to clash down as Davos mentions fingers.
“Pardon me questioning , maybe I should mind me own business, but is it your uncle who took your fingers?” Davos asks him, nodding at Theon’s hands while looking at him with curiosity.
Theon hides his hands under the table as fast as if boiling water has been spilled on them. Somehow, he totally forgot that his hands were uncovered and on display, that the knight must have seen the full extent of their damage by now. He wants to run away, feeling too uneasy to talk. Yet something in the way Davos looks at him, eyes devoid of pity or disgust, makes him feel strong enough to stay on his seat. He takes a few deep breaths, feeling like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. He feels his eyes itch and suddenly the food doesn’t sit so easily in his belly. But he still forces himself to not sick up, or run.
“No. That was someone else. He took worst.” Theon answers him, voice hoarse.
The compassionate eyes make him feel small and impossibly young. Theon can’t stop himself from squeezing his hands, alternating between them as the pain grows into each one. He is reminded of him. He took so much from him, more than skin and limbs. More than his name and his confidence. Yet he is also reminded of being so very young, and a telltale voice goading him.
“Little Theon.”
“I’m sorry, lad. It really isn’t my business talking about that. I though you might have a story a bit like mine. Mine fingers were cut, shortened by my Lord Stannis, when he knighted me. He was punishing me for my smuggling life, but also rewarding…”
“He took Yara.” Theon cuts him, voice low and hoarse. “My uncle. He took my sister.” He adds to make things clear for the other man.
Theon has tears at the corner of his eyes. He looks down to hide them, and forces himself to breath so as to quell his racing heart. He doesn’t even know why he talked. The ale? The echoes of the past of feeling good in his skin, at home and in pleasant company? The way the man talks to him, like he’s someone worth the attention?
“Oh. A horrible thing, that. I’m sorry for the reminder.” The man tells him in a sad and compassionate voice.
And with that, with these comforting words Theon doesn’t feel like he deserves, everything pours out of his chest. His whole shame and guilt, all the words he wishes to tell someone, his sister maybe, but can’t for the lack of said someone.
“It’s all my fault. I abandoned her. I should have died trying. Or just tried something, anything. But he had an axe on her throat, and there was nobody left standing but me. All his men were around us, doing horrible things to the corpses of the fallen. And I got so scared. I did the coward thing and jumped from the ship. I abandoned her, my sister, the only person who trusted that I could do something with my life. I was too scared to stay and try to defend her.” Theon says, voice broken and tears running down his cheeks.”
“And well you did, lad. You would be no use to her dead. My father used to say: better be a coward for…”
“I’m such a coward. That’s what everyone says. The other ironborns, Yara’s men, they all say that I should have died brave and proud, like a true ironborn, rather than survived by cowardice. I’m not one of them. I don’t deserve to be.” Theon continues, feeling even more bitter about himself at hearing this word which has plagued him for too long now.
“No, you misunderstand me, son. That’s not at all what I meant.” Davos protests loudly.
But his words get dismissed by Theon as he finds himself lost in his own guilt.
“I don‘t even know if she still lives. Maybe Euron has already killed her. Sometimes he keeps captives for many moons to torture and have fun with them. Only when he gets bored he ends them. But sometimes it takes only a few days. And she‘s on his way to claim the sea chair. He wouldn‘t risk her surviving and turning her back on him.” Theon says, suddenly feeling like he’s going to sick up.
“Calm down, lad. Theon. There is no helping anyone when you’re in such a state. Take some deep breaths and we can discuss this more calmly.” Davos says, a note of exasperation in his voice.
Hearing his name brings Theon back out from his deadly fantasies. He finds himself back in the room, in the present and with a very concerned Davos looking at him as if he’s a vial of wildfire ready to combust. Theon grabs his tankard and downs its remnant down his throat, disappointed that there’s nothing more than a sip or two. He’s too riled up to go grab some more. So he just remains on his seat, joined hands squeezed painfully tight over his laps.
“Good. Good, son.“
Theon closes his eyes at that, remembering one man who called him that, but with loathing and disappointment in his voice. And then the other man, who Theon wishes and dreams he would have called him such. Both of them are dead now.
“Now stay calm a moment. Imagine. Just imagine, for one very small moment, what would have happened if you didn’t jump off the ship. What could you have done, alone against all these men? Your uncle had your sister with an axe to her throat. A step from you, and he could have slit her throat. And then what?”
Theon doesn’t let the man finish whatever line of though he was trying to explain. Just the vision of Yara, her throat exploding in blood and then her as she gurgles through the blood pouring out of her, life going out of her eyes in a matter of seconds, just that vision is enough to have him flee the room, bile raising in his throat. He hears his name being called, then a muffled curse as he’s already far in the hallway when it’s ushered, but doesn’t stop. He must have climbed a few sets of stairs and turned in a few halls when it all is too much and he does throw up.
IV.
The next morning finds Theon sitting on the beach, feeling particularly gloomy. After having wandered the halls of the castle for a few hours last night, feeling confused and shaken and not knowing where he had fled in the first place and how to get back to his room, he had finally garnered some hours of sleep. Only to be haunted by images of Euron holding Yara by the throat, and her throat being torn opened until red splashes everywhere. She would then rise and look at him with lifeless, accusatory eyes, lips moving but no sound coming out of her bloody mouth. He saw again and again the violence on their ship as Euron’s men hacked at the corpses of Yara’s men. Dozens of men were screaming in the distance, their agony a long torment as they begged and screamed to their death. But all his attention was focused on Yara, who charged at him and pounded at his chest with her fists, gnawing at his flesh and tearing it away until there was nothing left of him anymore. And then a voice would raise just beside where his ear used to be.
“Little Theon.”
Over and over again, until it merged into another one, one he knew even better, one which was still at the core of his being.
“If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.”
Theon would wake then, gasping for breath, and shivering from being drenched in cold sweat. By the time the dark sky started showing some lightness, Theon was too exhausted from his nightmares and delusional visions to try to sleep some more. Instead he found himself leaving his room and seeking somewhere where to sit and think without risking having anyone run into him. And threatening to kill him if that someone so happened to be Jon Snow.
Theon now feels pretty much ashamed of himself. The man, Davos Seaworth, was a kind one. Kinder than anyone has been to him in way too long. After a few hours of breathing in the fresh air, seeing the light of the day and the waves of the sea sloshing just a few feet from him, Theon has come to realise that the man must have tried to reassure Theon. He just didn’t know that Theon is not good anymore with being reassured or comforted. He doesn’t remember much of the discussion, yet he has the feeling he owes the man an apology for having left him in such an hurried way, rushing out of the room as if he had a monster chasing him.
With his hands being all bruised, knuckles covered in scabs, torn flesh healing all over his skin and some parts of his hands being blue from squeezing them so harshly last evening, Theon has found himself with the need to busy them so as to not unconsciously damage them more. Bad enough that they look grotesque already, and that since the events on the cliff with Jon Snow he has lost his gloves to hide them away, he certainly doesn’t need to find a way to damage them more to appease his anguish. So he busies them by making forms in the sand. Like he used to do all those years ago, when he was still a young boy, playing on the shores of his home. A old memory of these bittersweet time in his life resurfaced as he started tracing shapes with his finger in the wet sand. Yara once showed him how to use the moist sand to shape it into forms. Sometimes it would merely be balls of sands to throw at each other. But sometimes it would also be cakes, loaves of bread, and then later ships and castles to be conquered.
It has been an absentmindedly process. Him molding with his disfigured hands haphazard shapes. Then arranging them into some kind of structure. At some point, the disfigurement of his hands stopped to matter entirely, and Theon found himself smiling as fond memories, ones buried so deep within him that he hadn’t realised they could even exist, came forth in his mind. He remembers Yara, before she grew hard and boyish to match their older brothers’ guiled brutality. While she still had a genuine smile towards him and would laugh sweetly. While she was his best playmate.
Then his father rebelled, and there was war and men went on ships to their death. Theon was taken away by the enemies, who later became friends, then family before becoming enemies again. And then there was Ramsay. Who tore so much away from him that even in his best days, Theon doesn’t feel like Theon anymore.
But Ramsay didn’t take this memory away from him. He took so much from him, and tinted nearly everything else with shame, guilt and anguish. But Yara playing with him in the sand was so deep that even Ramsay couldn’t get to it.
The structure in the sand gets more and more complex, somewhat like Yara would do with her more dexterous hands. Theon always watched with rapped attention, both awed and jealous by the creations she would do with this most unexpected material. Now he is older, and knows better how to use his hands. If she could see him now, maybe it’s his sister who would look at his creations with such feelings.
“We’re at war, your sister’s been taken captive, and all you can find to do with your hands is child’s play in the sand? Should I even be surprised?” A voice tells from somewhere above Theon.
The smile vanishes from Theon’s lips. His hands freeze over the wall he was making around his structure, then he hides them under his arms so that he won’t have to suffer Jon’s Snow’s disgust over them in addition to his disgust of Theon’s whole identity.
“You’re here looking. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much better yourself.” Theon says, not looking up at his old pain in the rear.
It’s funny how some habits are hard to get rid off. Wanting to quip back against Jon Snow is still one of them. It still feels lame, even to his own ears. The assurance which had once made his japes so stingy is gone, beaten away from him. But he still has some words left to him.
“I didn’t know it was you at first. I saw someone here and wanted to see who it was.” Jon Snow says with annoyance.
“You could have turned your back when you recognised me. But you stayed. You intend on trying to drown me this time?” Theon asks him, feeling too defensive to actually jape.
Jon Snow sighs, then kicks in the sand in annoyance. Some of it lands on Theon’s structure, and a wall seems to collapse under the weight of it. He looks away, not allowing himself to feel sad over it.
“No, though I could kill you if I wanted. Probably no one would begrudge me that if I did.” Jon Snow says, voice harsh and cold as ice.
Theon still doesn’t look up at him. He keeps his eyes somewhere on the sand separating them, not wanting to look at the man who once was a boy Theon grew up with, yet not wanting to look down and show weakness. It’s hard not doing so, yet he wants to try. For his sister if not for him. Yet he can’t refrain himself from cringing at the hurtful words.
Something lands just beside him with a soft flop. He nearly jumps out of his skin from the shock. Thankfully, Theon is still calmed enough that the reaction is minimal in comparison to what it could have been if Jon Snow was someone more violent. His eyes get on the projectile, only to widen in surprise as he recognizes his leather gloves. He looks at Jon Snow, who is watching him with a queer expression. Theon swallows down, before snatching the pair of them like a mouse trying to grab the bait without triggering the trap. For certainly, it must be a trap.
“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour on the cliff. It was a dishonorable thing to do. I shouldn’t have lowered myself to such a thing.” The bastard says, looking up at the horizon as he says so.
Theon looks sideway at him, before angling his body so that he can put his gloves on without having the bastard see the state of his hands.
“Then now that I’m down on the beach, you won’t kill me? You won’t try yourself at drowning me, saying how easy it would be to do just that with everyone’s approbation?” Theon says, not even sure himself if it’s a question or some form of cynic jape.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Turncloak.” Theon cringes at the word, feeling the echoes in his ears of the many men who called him that. “I could still end you for what you did to us. For your betrayal to Robb and the North.” Jon Snow says, voice louder from anger. “The desire is till there.”
Theon cannot come up wit any answer to this, even an half-heart jape. He looks sideway at the bastard of Winterfell, the boy he kept teasing relentlessly for being an outcast like him. He has grown, and stands tall and proud like his father used to. Theon envies him for that. He raises from the sand, annoyed of looking so small in front of him and needing to crane his neck to look at him. At least when he is up, he regains the height advantage. He’ll still take that one inch as a small victory.
Jon takes a great breath, before talking again, voice cold and grave.
“Why did you do it, Greyjoy? What did we ever do to you that you would rather betray us?” Jon asks him, looking sideways at him.
Theon scuffs at that.
“Us?” He says with derision.
Jon looks at him straight in the eyes, shoulders more tensed and jaws clenched in anger.
“Robb. You betrayed Robb. You held Bran and Rickon hostages. You betrayed the Stark family. You betrayed everyone of us, even me.” Jon tells him levelly, hurt and anger in his voice.
“I never betrayed you.” It’s Jon’s turn to scuff, but Theon doesn’t let him talk and raises his voice in anger and hurt. “You never trusted me to begin with. Always whispering to Robb behind my back that I was just a hostage, I could not be trusted for my blood and where I came from. I would turn on him the moment an opportunity to do so arise.”
“And I was right. You did betray him in the end.” Jon tells him with resentment clear in his eyes.
Theon has trouble swallowing. His heart clenches painfully in his chest. The memory of clear blue eyes, coppery locks and a jovial laugh fills him, remembering the boy, then the man he once saw as a brother. That he still wishes he could call his brother.
“Won’t you explain to me why you did it? Won’t you say something, anything?” Jon asks him after a moment, looking him straight in the eyes with a turmoil of emotions in his eyes.
Theon can’t have it anymore. He wants to talk, tell his point of view. But the words just won’t leave his chest. Not after all the laughs and the mockery everyone treated him with. And certainly not after Ramsay passed years taunting him with this, using this weakness to break him until nothing of Theon was left standing.
Jon makes the mistake of grabbing his arm, and Theon flinches out of his grasp with such violence that Jon is left frozen in place with shock, looking at him with wide eyes and open-mouth.
“You want me to say something? What about this! Who do you think you are to come at me and ask justifications for me betraying your family? You abandoned them first. You and your damn quest for honor. Robb needed you. Your sisters, and Bran and Rickon. They needed you. And where were you? Up on the top of the wall, acting like nothing south of it mattered enough that you could move your ass and come to the rescue. Your father got killed. Robb got betrayed left and right and then mutinied. Your brothers were chased out of their home and claimed dead. Sansa got sold to… a monster. She… She was hurt, and beaten, and had to jump down the fucking wall of her home to escape. And you didn’t lift a finger. Not once. You stayed at your damn wall, acting all so noble and honorable while your family was cut to pieces. I tried to do something. I did wrong, but at least I tried.” Theon yells bitterly, before his voice breaks at the mention of Sansa and what he witnessed of her treatment.
Tears run down from his eyes and he breaths harshly through the sobs which try to break free from his throat. But Theon is angrier than anything else. He hasn’t felt this angry against somebody else than him since… since… he doesn’t even remember.
“You weren’t there when wildlings came to Winterfell and tried to kill Bran after his accident. I was there, and I saved his life. Not that anybody ever thanked me for this. I walked south to help Robb retrieve your father, and then avenge him and rescue your sisters. I fought with Robb in the battle of the Whispering Woods, and helped him capture Jaime Lannister. I tried to give him our fleet to help him. I really tried. But I failed. And then I did mistakes over mistakes. But at least I was there and I tried. Which is more than you ever did for Robb and the rest of the family.” Theon keeps yelling, tears running down his cheeks, anger and resentment pouring out of him without him being able to control it.
Jon looks at him with a gaping mouth, face frozen in pain and sorrow. Theon should stop there. He really should. But a dam has broken in him and he just can’t stop it anymore.
“Even after Ramsay… Even after he… he had me for years… Sansa needed help and she had nobody else. Nobody would come. I helped her. I couldn’t help myself, but I helped her. I… I…”
Theon’s voice breaks then. He hiccups, and shakes so violently he must look like a madman. He tucks his arms back around him. Jon Snow doesn’t look much better. The bastard doesn’t say anything, looking at him like he is wounded. Then Theon looks back to the horizon and the waves of the sea. But there is nothing soothing in them anymore.
He is reminded of Yara, who might be dead now. Or worst. Somewhere over the waves of the sea.
With rage he kicks at the structure he made in the sand, and stomps on it until it is barely recognisable.
The bastard still doesn’t say anything.
Theon leaves him there to stand alone, too distressed by his own problems to bare to remain any longer.
V.
He was too angry to go to the solitude and quietness of his room. Just a few halls away from it, Theon decided to walk around the castle instead. The Dothraki let the guests do so, as long as they don’t try to steal anything, or go into rooms they are not allowed to. Theon found himself wandering the halls, sometimes climbing a flight of stairs just to see where it would lead him. He needed to take a few breaks once in a while, either because his feet hurt too much to keep going, or because he needed to take some breath. But Theon has found himself getting stronger and stronger through the moons since his escape from Ramsay. And it’s not like he has found anything more useful to do while waiting for the queen to be back.
When he feels hunger gnaw at him, Theon descends the many flights of stairs to go to the kitchen. It helps that he has his gloves on now. He feels less intimidated by the sight of the dozen of servants he crosses pass with to go there. Half a dozen cooks are in the kitchen when Theon goes there. He expected to find it emptier, the midday meal being over and the hour too soon to start the evening meal. But it still doesn’t deter him from going in.
They all look at him as if surprised by his presence. There’s two lads who look at him with disgust clear on their features. But the three lasses, and the older woman, look at him with curiosity.
“Um, I missed the dining meal. May I grab something to eat for now?” Theon asks them respectfully, trying to show them the politeness of not taking foods without notifying them first.
The matron of the place seems a bit surprised by the request. Probably everyone who comes here simply take food without any other word to them. He can’t even imagine what it is like to have dothraki men enter the room like they own the place.
“Of course, m’lord. On that table here, serve yourself.” The matron tells him politely, before going back to work. All the other aids return to their menial tasks.
Theon grabs a plate, then help himself around the bread, the cheese and slices of ham with a few greens. He doesn’t want to socialise for now. So when he sees that there’s a group of the horses riders sitting in the small dining hall near the kitchen, he passes by and walks further away, to a door leading to a small balcony. Mercifully empty. The sight of the mountains and the sea is breath taking. More so when two huge shapes are seen moving in the sky over them. The dragons. They were thought long gone a few years ago. But now they’re back, just as are direwolves. Theon still doesn’t know if he feels more awed or more intimidated by it. A part of him wonders if kraken, the real creatures and not mere squids a tenth of their size, are going to be seen soon in the sea. It would be the next logical thing to happen, now that the sky is roamed by dragons and the earth is walked by the huge wolf beasts. Yet, for all that it would be an interesting thing to happen, Theon isn’t even sure if he really entertains the idea of krakens in the sea anymore.
He eats his food the way Ser Davos has shown him the last evening. He wraps his bread around the ham and cheese, pleased by the combination of all of them together. Some pickled radishes and cucumbers give it an even more interesting taste. He used to love eating, a few years ago. That too, seems to be coming back to him. The white dragon does a dive near the water, and brings out a big fish, still flapping as he flies back up with it trapped in his mouth.
“Fascinating beasts, aren’t they? Makes one nearly wish to have one of their own.” A voice says behind him.
Theon glimpses at the newcomer, a fat bald man cladded in fur-trimmed robe. Lord Varys, the spider, or master of whispers. Just as he did for Ser Davos all those years ago, Theon remembers a time when he used to laugh about the eunuch, saying all kinds of bad japes about the man. After what happened to him, and after learning how hard it is to stand like a man when what seems like the most defining attribute to be such has been removed, Theon has a different kind of appreciation for the man who climbed through the spheres of society and managed to advise lords, kings and queens.
He still feels uneasy about the man, though. It always seems like the spider has something on you that you wish would stay hidden forever, or like he plays many games with many faces with you. Nothing about the man ever seems genuine to Theon’s eyes or ears.
“And some would rather have something else entirely different. You were born to seamen, and then raised by Northerners. If you had a choice, would you rather wish for a kraken, or a direwolf?” The man says as he leans on the rail guard just besides Theon.
It’s eyrie how the man asks straight the question that Theon was asking himself just a few moments ago. It nearly seems like reading into people’s mind will have to be added to the spider’s weird talents. He remembers the day they found the mother direwolf, and then her five pups. One for each child. He felt bad for them then, babes with no mother. A horrible fate. He was the first one to suggest death, knowing plenty well how it feels to be abandoned, left alone to strive on your own. The pups would not make it alone. A clean death would be the end of their misery. But Bran, and then the bastard argued against it. It seemed like the gods had given one wolf for each Stark child, gender corresponding to each one of them. And then even the bastard had found a wolf of his own. An albino, the runt of the litter for the illegitimate child. How Theon was jealous of him. He wished then to find a direwolf of his own.
He still wishes he had gotten one that day. Things would have gone so differently if he had somehow managed to get one as a sign that he belonged.
But he didn’t.
“The kraken is my sigil. I assume it would be unfit to pick anyone else.” Theon answers the spider half-heartedly.
Yara would sometime tell him that their great, scary uncle Euron had one. That the sea loved him so much that it had provided him such an ally. That’s how he managed to kill so many enemies. Theon shudders at the idea of how dreadful his already scary uncle would actually have been if he did have a kraken with him.
“Hmm. I despise spiders, despite being called one. The sight of one, with so many legs and moving in such a queer way irks me. I would not pick a familiar for the sigil or the image I bare. I would choose one for it’s use to me.” The Spider tells him in what seems to be a wondering tone.
“And which animal would you pick then?” Theon asks him, more for being polite than by actual interest in the answer.
“I don’t know. It’s actually the first time I wonder about such a thing. Maybe I would pick a dragon myself. Great creatures, both feared and respected equally. You could cover great distances by flying on the back of one, such as does queen Danaerys. Though it has it’s many drawbacks.” Varys answers him cryptically.
Theon doesn’t bother to ask him to clarify himself. He doesn’t even know why the man is talking to him in the first place. Is it to befriend another man in his condition? The not really a man one?
“My birds gave me news from Kings Landing. Euron went there with Ellarya and Tyene Sand. And your sister too. While It seems like there isn’t much to salvage from the dornish women, your uncle made it out of here with your sister, still looking fine, though shaken up a bit.” Varys tells him, looking straight at him with what seems like sympathy in his eyes.
Theon drops on his plate the last bits of his food? One part of him wants to ask the gods why he can’t seem to enjoy a meal without having someone try to make him sick. For he is starting to feel sick again, great knots of anguish wrecking havoc in his stomach as his mind is filled with thoughts of his sister. And their uncle. For all that he has traveled with them for a few fortnights to cross the sea between Essos and Westeros, and that he has passed still a few more fortnights with them between staying here for a few days before providing them transport to their lands, Theon doesn’t have much thoughts for the Sand women. All his thoughts go to his sister.
She lives. At least there is still that. But then, so did he while he was a captive for Ramsay. And the creature which came out of his dungeons still isn’t worth being called a man these days. He doesn’t even want to imagine what his uncle is doing to Yara, what tortures he is using to break her. It has been what now, a fortnight? One and a half since he got his hands on her? His sister is strong, Theon can grant her that. But it still worries him sick the idea of what his uncle is doing to her.
“The queen shall arrive this evening or tomorrow. With any luck, she will have good news for you.” Lord Varys tells him, seeming unfazed by the tremors making Theon’s hands shake.
Theon only nods to show the man he heard him. He doesn’t trust himself to try to voice an answer.
“I can’t wait to see this world being rid of vicious men like your uncle. Though I dread the idea of him being replaced by someone worst than he is. For a time, we had Joffrey to bring ruin over our heads. A vicious boy who would torture women and harass everyone else. But then he died, and it seems like the gods punished us by bringing forward Ramsay Snow, or Bolton depending of which perspective you look at it from. What an horrible man.” Lord Varys says, voice soft even though he is talking about such horrible things.
Horrible, yes. A man? Theon still has a hard time believing Ramsay could be one. He still sees him as a monster, or more accurately as some god of pain, impossible to sneak away from and too smart to be fooled.
“And then he was killed. I think there are songs about the battle of the bastards, the great Jon Snow, against the horrible bastard of Bolton. Some says Jon Snow cut his head, and others that he beat him to death in a furry such as Gods’ one. But I heard a few times that it’s lady Sansa who ended the man, gave him to his hounds to be eaten alive.” Lord Varys says with his eyes still looking at the flying dragons, voice soft and wondering.
Theon’s heart stopped the moment he heard the first few words. That Ramsay was dead. He feels shaken to his core by hearing such words. Certainly it isn’t possible. Ramsay, dead? No, it must be a farce, some lie of a kind. Ramsay is undefeatable, like some god. It can’t be possible. He shakes is head in denial of such claim.
“Oh, lad. You didn’t know. I though it might be so, but wasn’t sure. Ramsay Bolton is dead. He is.” Lord Varys assures him.
“No, he can’t be.” Theon tells him, eyes unseeing, whole body wrecked by tremors.
“But he is.” Lord Varys says, before Theon cuts him harshly.
“So were Bran and Rickon Stark. Everybody knew it. Yet they lived, it was all a lie.” And two other boys died in their stead.
“Indeed. But now it’s the truth. Ramsay Snow was killed, Winterfell was taken back by Jon Snow and lady Sansa. Jon Snow could tell you, if you were to ask him. So could Lady Sansa if you were to write to her. It is the truth.” Lord Varys tells him,
But by now Theon is backing away from him, feeling like he is on the verge of being sick, or worst. His eyes lose focus and for one moment he sees himself in that dark slimy room, with rats screeching in the shadows and unforgiving flames dancing on the walls. Voices shoot in his head.
If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention. Reek. Reek! REEK!
“You have to know your name. I’ve learnt. I know it now.” Theon keeps, saying, again and again.
“Theon. Theon! Calm down lad. You are okay and safe. You are.” A male voice says nearby, too soft and with a pronunciation so different that Theon cannot confuse it to the one screaming in his head.
“Theon. My name is Theon.”
Theon says, mumbling over and over again. He looks up, then he sees the pinkish sky. He wants to throw up at the colour. But then he sees the waves on the sea, and the dragons flying in the distance.
“Theon. And I’m on Dragonstone. The queen. I’m waiting for the queen to s… save my s… sister.” Theon says, half shaking, half rocking himself in his arms.
“Aye. Aye, Theon. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t think… I guess I just wanted to let you know that even though things seem hopeless for your sister, they aren’t. You’re safe, and Ramsay is dead. And so might be Euron soon.” Varys says with a soothing voice.
Theon barely registers the last words. All he can think about is these simple words.
Ramsay is dead.
Varys keeps talking, voice soft and reassuring, though it turns concerned after a while. But Theon doesn’t listen to him anymore. Breath comes harshly to his lungs, and he feels like no matter that the man has helped him some, in a few moments he will loose sense of his identity no matter that someone is there to say his name.
He turns away and rushes back inside, bumping into none other than Jon Snow and ser Davos. He barely mumbles an apology, before walking away, ignoring Davos’ call of “Are you alright, son?” and Jon’s curse.
VI.
A knock at his door startles Theon out of his stupor. Or well, as much as could be. His mind is too foggy for him to think clearly. He looks outside, and sees that the sky is now as dark as could be. Why would anyone come see him at this hour of the night?
There is another knock on his door, followed by a voice. A most dreaded one.
“Theon? It’s me, Jon. May I come in?”
Theon refrains himself from cursing. He feels too sluggish to come up with an answer. Too much strong wine. He usually doesn’t drink that much. He’s not used to being drunk anymore. He hates how it dulls his wits, makes him feel like he loses his sense of self.
“Leav’ me ‘lone.” He says inarticulately, not wanting to yet again have to talk to anyone.
Can’t I just be left alone? ‘Was doing fine on my own.
Gods, his throat hurts. It feels like he’s been screaming himself raw for days. Flashes of visions of Yara with her bloody, gapping throat and resentful eyes come to his mind, soon joined by visions of Ramsay, a corpse bloody and undistinguishable torn between hounds’ powerful jaws, and then the charred bodies of two children. Many more horrors invade his mind, and Theon finds himself bent over his bed, retching in the chamber pot standing at the ready there.
He rubs his mouth on his wrist, then gasps in pain as it feels like he has just burnt himself. With the help of the few lit candles nearby, he watches his naked arms through bleary eyes. And then curses anew when he sees the bloody marks of him clawing at his skin there. His hands to at least half his forearms look like they have been stuck though gloves filled with razors and nails. There are blood stains all over his sheets, and Theon finds himself heaving in the bucket again, throwing up mostly bile from the emptiness in his stomach.
“Theon? Are you alright? By the gods, what happened to your arms?”
Footsteps rush to his bed, and then a weight settles on the mattress, just besides Theon’s crouched body. A hand touches his shoulder to help him support himself on his shaking elbow, and then another hand grabs his left arm where the skin is not torn, raising it to peer at it more closely. Theon cringes and shakes violently, the touch on his repulsive body unwelcome.
“Don’t touch me. I said don’t.”
He rasps aggressively, trying to pull away from the strong hands even though he’s too weak to manage anything. The hands leave him, and he recoils on the bed, curling himself all small against the head of the bed. He peers at the man sitting not too far from him like he is waving a hot poker in his hands and will try to burn him if he’s not watchful enough. Theon doesn’t understand why Jon Snow is looking at him in a mix of concern, disgust and sadness, and even less why he is here in the first place. Theon watches like a prey about to be pounced on and torn to pieces as Jon Snow raises from the bed, and then goes to the table against the wall. He grabs the wineskin there, smells it with a frown, then shakes it to see that only a few drops are left there. Theon drank it all. Then Jon smells the content of a pitcher there, before filling a cup with its liquid. His steps are heavy as he walks back to the bed. With the leather jerkin and the hairs pulled back the way they are, the bastard reminds Theon of another man, his father, Lord Stark. He offers Theon the cup of water, remaining far enough from him, as if he doesn’t want to spook a wounded animal.
“Here, are you good enough to drink on your own?” Jon asks him levelly, voice neither angry nor kind.
Theon takes the offered cup, but his hands shake so much and he ends up spilling some on the sheets. Jon stretches his arm to help him hold the cup as he brings it to his lips, and swallows some sips of cold water. The water his heaven on his irritated throat. He gulps it all down in a matter of seconds, feeling his head clear some as the water makes its way to his belly. Jon takes the cup away when he sees Theon is done with it, then he raises again to go to the table.
“Why are you here?” Theon asks him with his voice still slurred.
He doesn’t understand why Jon is here, in his room, acting… kind? It’s all too eyrie for Theon to understand, and not understanding it freaks him out to a point where he’s instinctually scared. Jon comes back with a cloth, drops of water falling on the floor on his way back to the bed. He sits back on the bed, then grasps the hand closest to him. Theon struggles weakly against him, but Jon insists and remains firm, though gentle enough not to hurt him. He gasps when he feels the cold, wet cloth come in contact with the tender skin of his hands.
“Because you suck at taking care of yourself.” The bastard answers him, his voice devoid of any bite.
“That’s no concern of yours. And I doubt you’re here for that.” Theon answers him, annoyed from having to insist to get the truth.
The cold water numbs his damaged skin, and Theon feels relief wash through him as Jon continue to gently rub his skin clean. A tiny whimper escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Theon finds himself blushing in shame. He hopes Snow didn’t hear it, but from the sideway glance Jon gives him, it must be a lost cause for Theon. Feeling too knackered and sluggish to fight or struggle through this weird treatment from his once enemy, Theon finds himself slouching in his pillows.
“I was walking by your room. I heard you scream yourself hoarse. Something about having forgotten your name. You screamed many more things.” Jon Snow tells him.
Theon tenses with unease and shame. What else has he shouted that Jon Snow would stop at his door and decide to come here to comfort him? The name part is already shaming enough, he prays he hasn’t said something else damaging to the little of a reputation he has. But then he grows confused. Even if Theon was having a nightmare, it still doesn’t explain why Jon Snow of all people would stop and come at his rescue.
“What else did I scream?” Theon asks him, dreading what escaped his mouth to the point that he might be sick again.
Jon doesn’t look at him for a long while. He goes rinse the water into the basin, then comes back and grabs Theon’s other hand. Theon still cringes from the contact, but this time he lets Jon tend to his wounds without a protest. Another whimper escapes his mouth when the cold water makes contact with his hand, then he sighs in relief. It comes to Theon’s mind that even Yara didn’t do something as caring as this to him. She has her own kind of caring for someone, his sister. But rubbing him clean with such gentle hands is not one of them. Yet Theon can’t say he has any complain to make towards Jon’s way of caring for him, though he still doesn’t understand why he’s doing any of it.
“You said you were sorry. Many times, and to many people. To Robb, to Yara. To other peoples whose names I don’t remember. You begged to be killed.” Jon tells him, eyes not looking at him at first. Then he looks Theon in the eyes as he tells these last words. “You said that you were sorry to your master. That you loved him. That you could be good, you have learnt.” Jon tells him with a concerned frown.
Theon looks down in shame. Then he pulls and pulls at his hand until Jon Snow frees him, just in time for Theon to crouch over the edge of his bed and be sick over the bucket again. He feels boneless as he collapses on the bed, then starts to weep like a little child. Before long he’s sobbing, wailing loudly in a way he hasn’t done in a long while. A hand comes on his arm, and another on his back, running circles there in a soothing way. Theon cries even more loudly at that, not feeling like he deserves show of kindness. Not after everything he has done. Jon Snow remain quiet all through Theon’s breakdown. Theon doesn’t know any words which would comfort him, and thus relish in the quiet presence above him. At some point Jon removes his boots, one hand always on Theon, before joining him on the bed. Jon sits with his back resting against the headboard, and then he brings Theon closer, back against his leg.
“I loved him. I hated him. I still do after all he did to me. But I also still love him.”
Theon says shakily when he feels calmer. His eyes nearly fall shut of their own accord, yet the need to talk is too strong, and for once, Theon allows himself to go through with it.
“H…He hurt me. He did things to me, horrible things I could never forgive. He made me feel small, and useless, and like I mattered to no one.” Theon says with a voice so small Jon Snow probably can’t hear him. “The feeling was already there. But he made it worst. Until pain, and loneliness were my hole world. But then he was there. He cared about me in his own, twisted way. I belonged. He made me feel that.” Theon says with raw pain in his voice.
He sniffs a few times, but no more tears come to his eyes. The wet cloth is brought to his hands, folded so that no blood is on the outer side. Theon takes it gratefully, and starts cleaning the salt from his cheeks, and then the mess under his nose and his chin.
“If there’s one thing I learnt while I was part of the Night watch, it’s that you don’t pick who you love.” Theon must have quite the confused look on his face, because Jon chuckles lightly. “Not a brother. I found myself on the other side of the Wall, with wildlings. There was that girl. Bad tongue, always picking at me and japing about me. She was rude, and would belittle me all the time. I fell for her. She pierced me with arrows when I left. She pierced through bone. She knew how to shoot. She’s dead, but I still love her.” Jon says with softness in his voice.
“Who knew? Jon Snow likes to be mistreated by his girls.” Theon jokes lightly.
He regrets it nearly instantly. What can be said of him after all? He fell for a brute, a crazy monster who will probably go down in history as the worst atrocity born into mankind.
“Who knew we could share such similarity to our love choices?” Jon answers him lightly, a hand still running circles on his shoulder.
It has been so long since someone has touched him in such a way. Even when it was Ramsay, Theon still would not enjoy the touch fully, knowing that it would turn into a violent one anytime soon. For all that he still doesn’t fully trust Jon Snow, Theon finds himself relaxing even more into the touch, trusting him to not hurt him.
And trusting him enough to finally open himself about the words which still hurt him so deeply.
“You were my family. The only one which mattered. Robb was my brother, and so were Bran and Rickon. The girls were my sisters. And Lord Stark was the man I wished I could call father. I didn’t see it at first. He made it clear that I wasn’t a Stark, would never be. I didn’t belong. I though I could be Ironborn, the prince who returned from years a captive. But my father would not trust me, and neither did his men. I didn’t belong there either. But I had to take a side. I chose my blood. I would try to make my father proud. I chose wrong. No matter what I did, it was never enough, never. I did stupid things to show him I was worth to be his son. But I was nothing to him. He was no father to me. My only father died from losing his head in the south.” Theon says, voice breaking a few times.
Jon sighs, his hand still rubbing circles over Theon’s back. Theon still can’t believe that Jon Snow of all people is here doing that, taking care of him and giving him comfort. Theon swallows a lump in his throat as it comes to him that Jon is acting like he is family. He doesn’t deserve it. But it feels so good.
He is nearly asleep when Jon leaves the bed. For a moment, Theon wants to protest, to ask him to not leave him alone. He can’t stand the loneliness. But then he hears sounds of laces being unlaced, and something heavy being deposited on the chair near his bed. Theon has his back to it all, and for a few moments, he is in another room, on another bed, with another young and strong man undressing before joining him on the bed. But there is not threat of pain or shame when this man presses himself against his back, and his arms might be strong as they come around him, but they are also so very gentle. Theon wants to cry from how good it all feels to be held.
“Jon? What… why are you doing this? You hate me.” Theon asks him, voice unconfident.
Jon sighs, then talks with a voice soft.
“I don’t hate you. I was angry with you for what you did, and I still resent you for some of it. But then, things are not always so simple. I wanted to go help my family. I died inside to do something for them. But I was needed at the Wall too, and I couldn’t turn my back on them and what was happening. I found myself so preoccupied by it that I forgot about everything else. And then I realised that everyone seemed lost or dead, and I could have done something but didn’t do anything. What you said this morning was true, I feel that guilt.” Jon stops there and takes a break, breathing shakily for a small while. “I talked with Davos, Varys and Missendai. They told me about how bad you were feeling about your sister. They said you seemed to need help. And all that time I was there, taking out my anger on you, not caring one bit that you were not in any state to explain anything. Sansa barely talked about Ramsay. She said enough that I understood I didn’t wish him on my worst enemy. She told me you were there too. I forgot that you might have suffered too.”
With that, Jon takes Theon’s hand in his, the worst one at that, and then runs small circles in his palm with his thumb. Theon’s breath come in shakily, and then he sighs in gratefulness.
“You didn’t come here just for the good in your heart, though, isn’t it?” Theon asks him, half japing, half scared that it is all just an act of pity.
“The castle, in the sand. Why did you do it?” Jon asks him.
Theon frowns in confusion. What does this rubbish thing had to do with anything?
“It was just me remembering being a kid, and playing in the sand with Yara. Being happy. I wasn’t really looking at the thing I did this morning. Why, you found it inspiring?” There’s not really derision, just curiosity.
“Being happy? Remembering being happy made you build Winterfell in the sand?” Jon tells him, voice melancholic.
Winterfell. Theon frowns and tries to remember, and then it comes to him that he built the main keep, and then something like the library tower. He built the walls surrounding a shape with twigs found on the ground which could have passed for an emulation of the gods tree there.
He built what felt most like a home to him.
He must have said something about his thoughts, too lost between drunkenness, tiredness and the relief of feeling good for once after so long. Jon tightens his arms around Theon, and Theon shivers from how good it feels.
“I still remember when we were kids, with you just arrived home. Robb had all your attention during the day, and you became best playmates. I was jealous. Of him and you both. But then, when came the night and I had bad dreams, you were the only one who would let me stay in their bed, and would hold me close and comfort me. Later you were too busy doing grown-up things like visiting brothels, and then I grew and I had Arya. But I still remember the time you were here for me when I needed it. I wish time had stopped then and we would always have been home together. All of us.”
Theon remains quiet for a few moments, remembering with fondness those precious years they shared together.
“What about tomorrow?” He asks, somewhat worried to lose again something he just found back.
“You could still be Theon Greyjoy, the annoying brother who ruins my life.”
“And you Jon Snow, the sulking bastard of Winterfell who ruins the mood for everyone?” Theon laughs lightly.
“Hey, I can be much better now!” Jon says, half laughing, half outraged.
Jon laughs with him, then becomes more serious.
“Me too.”
He says, more seriously and with the hint of a promise in his voice.
If you let me, is left unsaid, but the way Jon tightens his hand in his own is all that Theon needs to know that Jon knows, and will let him that chance.
For the first time in years, his sleep is filled with dreams, glimpses of home and a better future.