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“Baratheon or Bolton, it made no matter to him. Stannis had made common cause with Jon Snow at the Wall, and Jon would take his head off in a heartbeat. Plucked from the clutches of one bastard to die and the hands of another, what a jape. Theon would have laughed aloud if he’d remembered how.”
Theon Greyjoy, A Dance with Dragons “A Ghost in Winterfell”
Stannis Baratheon never got the chance to execute Theon Greyjoy. But it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Everything had been set for Theon to lose his head in front of Ned Stark’s gods, on Ned Stark’s lands, and in front of many of Ned Stark’s people, but scouts had come riding into the king’s camp by the frozen lake spouting frantic messages about the eminent approach of an army made up of Freys and Manderlys—and Ramsay Snow himself in his unflayed flesh.
All throughout the battle, Theon wept. His guards thought his tears were from the joy of being able to live another day, but they were far, far from the mark. If Lord Ramsay Bolton wins, he’ll force me to be Reek again. I’ll have to thank him for saving my life while he flays another finger for my stealing his wife, even if she’s just a lamb in a direwolf’s skin. Stannis should’ve killed me when I still remembered that I was Theon.
“I am Theon. Theon is my name.”
“Sure it is, turncloak,” replied one of his guards in a bored voice. Or at least it would have been bored if the guard wasn’t also anxious about the outcome of battle.
Fortunately, all the anxiety and tears were unnecessary. The Freys and their heavy horse all drowned in the frozen lake, while the Manderlys made short work of Ramsay Snow and the few Bolton men foolish enough to march with him.
~
Winterfell. For the third time in his life, Theon was led through the gates of the ancient castle as a prisoner. Oh, Ned Stark had called him a ward and Roose Bolton a guest, but he had been a prisoner all the same. Stannis Baratheon didn’t waste his breath to call Theon anything other than what he was, and Theon found that oddly comforting.
Roose Bolton, or his head, rather, occupied an exalted place in Winterfell: the sharp tip of a spike. He was joined by his friends of Frey and any man who had dared fight for the Boltons when the king’s forces attacked the castle. The Manderlys, Umbers, Mormonts, Cerwyns, Ryswells, Dustins, Stouts, Harwoods, Flints, Tallharts, Hornwoods, and every other northern house had little love for King Stannis or his cause, but even that was more than they held for the Boltons or the hosts of the Red Wedding.
The king and all the northern lords were presently convening in the great hall, assessing their losses and examining prisoners. So naturally Theon was present. Since Theon’s leap of faith with Jeyne—Lady Arya, I must not forget her name! —Lord Manderly was the only lord looking the worse for wear. His multiple chins had saved his throat from being slit by Hosteen Frey, but Theon imagined that it was only a matter of time before King Stannis finished the job. All of us have blood on our hands, and now that winter is here the red blood shines all the brighter.
“Your Grace,” began Lord Manderly. “I believe we should discuss what to do with our highborn prisoner, for are there any besides Theon Greyjoy? I do regret that Lord Bolton and his son lost their heads before they could be questioned. And the Freys.”
“The Freys had it coming,” said Lady Dustin with a shrug. “There would be blood on my gown if only I was strong enough to yield a sword.” The others all nodded at her statement, and Theon could hear murmurs of “the North remembers.”
Stannis watched all this with a passive expression on his face. Victory at Winterfell had brought no joy to the man, and seeing heads on spikes brought him no pleasure. He crossed his arms and addressed Lord Manderly.
“Your Grace?” Stannis snorted. “I find it passing strange that you’re suddenly recognizing me as your king after you murdered my Lord Hand. Who was sent to you in peace as an envoy.”
“I did not kill Lord Davos,” replied Lord Manderly in a calm voice.
“How very convenient for you.”
“I sent him on a mission to find my liege lord, a trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark. And the boy’s direwolf, of course, so the realm will believe who he is.”
Stannis stared at Lord Manderly, thrown off by the fat lord’s admission. Then, after a long while, the king started to laugh. Theon was disturbed by the sound, a strangled bark made by a man on the verge of despairing at the utter absurdity going on around him.
“Your advisors have forgotten to inform you of recent events, Lord Manderly,” said Stannis eventually. “The late Lord Stark has no trueborn sons living. He killed them and hung their corpses from the walls of this very castle!” A gloved finger pointed to the corner of the hall where Theon stood flanked by two guards.
Theon could feel all the eyes in the hall turn toward him, and he wondered who would be the first lord to call for his head then and there. Again. Slinking away would have been Theon’s preferred action, but the piercing gaze of the king rooted him to the spot.
“The turncloak has admitted to the crime,” continued Stannis, “And there is no evidence to the contrary.”
“As a matter of fact, there is evidence to the contrary,” countered Lord Manderly. “Theon Greyjoy’s squire told Robett Glover and myself that Bran and Rickon Stark hid in Winterfell’s crypts when Ramsay Snow burned the castle, and afterwards one boy headed north while the other sailed over the Narrow Sea to Skagos.”
The crypts? That’s where they went, that’s why I couldn’t find them. And that’s probably where the missing swords went, not to the hands of vengeful spirits. “Wex? He’s mute,” said Theon in a low voice to himself, but the room had fallen so silent that he might as well have shouted at the top of his lungs.
“So you sent my Hand on a smuggling expedition on the word of a mute, a mute claiming that Theon Greyjoy isn’t guilty of the crimes that the whole realm knows he’s committed? Forgive me, Lord Manderly, if I don’t believe a whit of what you’re saying.” Stannis ground his teeth, and Theon wondered how much longer the fat lord would try the king’s limited patience.
“Greyjoy lied.”
“Why would anyone lie about such a monstrous crime?”
Pride. If I didn’t have two heads I would’ve been laughed at. And Ramsay would have skinned my lips if I had breathed a word of the truth. What’s the worst that can happen if I’m honest now? Death had long ceased to frighten Theon. “I did not kill Bran and Rickon Stark, Your Grace,” said Theon in a clear voice. “But there’s no way that I can prove it. The boys are likely dead anyway, and all the fault lies with me.”
Lord Manderly frowned at that, and Stannis crossed his arms again and stared intently at him, disgust etched on his hard face. Still, Theon felt a small weight lift from his chest.
“Very well. Turncloak, I won’t take your head in front of the heart tree of Winterfell as I intended. I’ll take you with me to the Wall instead. Mine own army and the last strength of the North are set to march there soon to deal with the true enemy who threatens the entire realm.”
“The Wall?” interrupted Mors Umber. “Your Grace is going to let the turncloak take the black?”
“You forget who commands at the Wall.”
Of course, thought Theon. I should’ve expected this. Good King Stannis is washing his hands of me and throwing me to…
“The bastard’s only a boy,” said Roger Ryswell.
“So was your Young Wolf, but that didn’t make him any less a son of your precious Lord Eddard. If vengeance for the Starks is what you all want, let Lord Eddard’s last known living son decide Theon Greyjoy’s fate, with his direwolf looking on.”
The northern lords all looked at each other, considering the idea. No one voiced any objections, save for one of the mountain clan leaders:
“Does the boy have the belly to do what needs to be done?”
Stannis’ eyes flashed with anger. Or was it simply irritation? Theon couldn’t tell.
“I can personally attest to the fact. Lord Commander Jon Snow is a Stark, no matter the name he has or doesn’t have.”
Theon had never heard Stannis Baratheon say anything good about anybody. He wondered what Snow had done to earn the respect of such a hard and unforgiving man. Had Snow flayed a man while acting deaf to pleas of mercy? Hunted game and fucked his quarry while she screamed? No! This is Jon Snow the king is talking about, not Ramsay Snow. Theon shook his head hard, as if the action could erase all traces of the man who had been a true bastard in body and soul. Robb’s brother was never cruel, and the king doesn’t condone cruelty.
Theon was truly frightened now, but not solely for himself. For Theon doubted that Jon Snow would be so kind as to take his head before exposing his one last serious, crucial lie…
~
Jeyne cried the whole journey to the Wall. Her face had become lined with the frozen streaks of her tears, and said tears would multiply whenever someone mentioned how happy she must be to soon reunite with her brother. Theon always wanted to shake her, to tell her that Lady Arya never cried. Highborn women learned to conceal their tears and appear strong even when they weren’t. But Jeyne was never a highborn lady, and who can remain strong if they’ve been left alone with Ramsay Snow?
Thankfully, Jeyne calmed down when she rode with Theon and sat with him during meals served around miserable little fires. Theon wished she would find comfort with someone more appropriate, such as Alysanne Mormont, to stop the mutterings from the men that Lady Stark had been bewitched by the traitorous turncloak. Some lord or another even brought up the matter with the king, who was unconcerned:
“If the turncloak stops the girl from wailing all hours of the day, then by all means let them share each other’s company. It will not do to deliver Lord Snow a puddle of tears in place of a sister.”
A sister…
Asha had cleverly ransomed herself from King Stannis with help from the Braavosi banker, on the condition that she and her few men fight for the king. She was the only one who had managed to get Jeyne to smile. Daily, Asha would describe how Ramsay Snow’s head was rotting on a spike, the rest of his body no more than ash scattered to the wind. Theon didn’t have the heart to tell his sister how much good her bloody descriptions did him as well. He regretted not spitting on the head when he had the chance, but at the time Theon had been worried that the head would come back to life and start whispering: Reek, Reek, you’re still so weak…
Theon was no longer scared to call Ramsay by his true surname, Ramsay Snow instead of Ramsay Bolton, and he considered that good progress. Asha didn’t understand why Snow or Bolton mattered at all; everyone knew the man was a beast, and a dead one at that. But Theon knew how much power there was in a name.
Asha offered to teach Jeyne how to hit a man where it would hurt, for surely her brother would be proud to learn that his little sister could now protect herself? However, this suggestion backfired as Jeyne started crying again and pulled her hood tighter around her face. Asha could only look at Jeyne with pity in her eyes, more pity than when she looked at Theon. That was unsettling.
“Was Jon Snow horrible to his youngest sister?” Asha tentatively asked Theon one day.
Theon almost laughed at her question, as anyone who had truly known the Starks would have done. But it was too cold to laugh, and the matter too serious. “No. He was always fond of her, and I think Arya loved Jon more than anyone. She was always trailing after him, and he would laugh and ruffle her hair.”
Asha bit her lip. “Then why does the poor girl act like she’s to be wed to that monster all over again?”
Because Jon Snow is the only person alive who knows that Jeyne is not Arya Stark. Oh, I know the truth, but who will believe the word of Theon Turncloak? Lord Manderly believed that Theon hadn’t slain the Stark boys, but only because it gave him a reason not to have killed the king’s Hand.
Theon fiddled with his gloves, trying to think of an explanation that made sense beyond the obvious. “Perhaps she’s ashamed of herself.”
“Ashamed of what?”
“Of marrying a madman without putting up a fight? I know you would, sweet sister. You’d be halfway to Valyria by now, everything else be damned, if father had forced you to marry any relation of Lord Bolton’s.”
Asha didn’t have anything to say to that.
~
A host of Night’s Watch brothers was waiting for the king’s party in Castle Black’s courtyard. Lord Commander Jon Snow was not hard to identify, especially with a snow-white direwolf by his side. Gods, the wolf is huge. Grey Wind was only half that size when I last saw Robb. Theon tried in vain to find any resemblance of Robb in his bastard brother’s face, but the only resemblance he could discern was that of Eddard Stark—same long face, same dark hair, same grave, ice-cold grey eyes. Though Eddard Stark had neither a scar around his right eye nor a scar across his neck.
Theon watched as Snow bowed and welcomed King Stannis as protocol demanded, but his eyes anxiously searched the newcomers, desperately looking for a girl who he’d soon realize was nowhere to be found.
“Lord Snow,” greeted Stannis. “As promised, I was able to save your sister from Ramsay Snow.”
You didn’t do a damn thing, Your Grace. Just ask Jeyne. I got her out of Winterfell, though I failed miserably in saving her from Ramsay Snow. To his right, Asha’s eyes widened and looked at him warily. Did I just say that out loud?
Snow nodded distractedly, and finally he spied a knight helping Jeyne down from her horse.
“Arya?” Jon Snow’s grey eyes were shining and his mouth had widened into the most wonderful and happy smile that Theon had ever seen. Wait, he had seen that smile before—it was the same smile that Lord Stark wore whenever he played with his children or danced with his wife, a smile of pure love. Theon had always wanted Lord Stark to smile at him like that, to give him the praise and recognition that his real father never had. But that never happened, for Theon was only a ward, only a prisoner.
Snow ran toward Jeyne with all the excitement of a young boy about to get his first real sword, or perhaps of a knight reuniting with his maiden fair after a long war. Snow’s monstrously large direwolf wagged his tail like a newborn puppy as he bounded along at his master’s side.
This is not going to end well.
Jeyne had buried her face in her hands, sobbing harder than ever. Her hood had fallen from her head, and the wind was blowing strands of dark brown hair that had come loose from her braid. Like that, Jeyne still looked enough like Arya Stark to fool anyone, man or beast. Theon held his breath, counting down the moments until she revealed her traitorous brown eyes. Jeyne, Jeyne, all you know and cause is pain.
“Arya?” Snow’s voice was kind. “There’s no need to be afraid. You’re home now, and I’ll make sure that no harm will ever come to…”
Jeyne lifted her head and met Jon’s eyes with her own.
Snow’s face froze, but not before his smile disappeared faster than a swipe of Ramsay’s flaying knife. He stared at Jeyne hard, as if a few more moments were all it would take for her to transform into the sister he so loved. But life wasn’t a song, and Jeyne’s eyes remained as brown as brown could be. Snow’s right hand buried itself in his direwolf’s fur, and the wolf, who Theon had known to be as silent as a ghost, let out a sad whine.
The king immediately sensed that something was amiss. “Is something wrong, Lord Snow?”
“This girl is not my sister,” responded Snow in a soft, strangled voice. “Her name is Jeyne Poole, the daughter of my father’s steward.”
It was too much. Theon began to laugh. And laugh and laugh, all common sense leaving him as the weight of his one last lie, his one last sin was lifted from his shoulders. All his crimes were finally out for the realm to see, and no more secrets still lurked within him. His lungs began to ache from the laughter mixed with the cold air, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Greyjoy!” yelled Stannis. “What is the meaning of this?”
Theon hunched his shoulders and pulled his cloak tighter around himself, trying to hide at the side of his horse. However, Asha pushed him forward as others backed away, clearing a direct line between him and Snow. There was no pity in Asha’s eyes this time.
“Greyjoy?” Snow looked at Theon in confusion, noting, beyond a doubt, his white hair, slumped figure, and haunted eyes. Come on, Snow, you know me. I competed with you for your father and Robb’s attention, though I only had success with the latter. You know my name. “Theon?” Snow shook his head in disbelief and looked down at his wolf. Ghost bared his teeth, answering his master’s question.
Snow turned to Stannis. “Ask him, Your Grace. Ask him why he deceived the entire North into believing that this girl was Arya Stark.” The wolf started to advance on Theon. Snow’s attention was back on him, and his voice matched the sudden coldness in his eyes. “Was betraying Robb and murdering Bran and Rickon not enough for you?”
Robb. Please don’t mention Robb. “I did not kill your brothers. My lord.” Once Theon would have refused to honor Lord Stark’s bastard son with those words. But Theon had called worse men than Jon Snow better titles. Worse bastards.
“How dare you lie to you me.”
“The turncloak might not be lying,” acknowledged Stannis through clenched teeth.
“What…How…” stammered Snow in a very un-lordly like manner. Ghost stopped moving.
“Question him yourself. Give the turncloak a trial, then burn him alive or send him ranging north of the Wall, it matters not to me. The northern lords and I have agreed that you should be the one to decide Theon Greyjoy’s fate and see that justice is served. Eddard Stark would do no less, and I expect his son to do the same.”
Snow glanced from the king to Theon and back to the king again, trying to make sense of the situation. He seemed to have realized that all attention was on him as Lord Commander, and that he better start acting like one again.
“Very well,” said Snow eventually. “Guards, escort Theon Greyjoy to a cell at the bottom of Hardin’s Tower, as all the ice cells have frozen over. Your Grace, your chambers are prepared for you, and my men will show everyone else suitable accommodations.” He turned to Jeyne, who had fallen to her knees, shaking.
“Jeyne. I…I’ll…I still promise that no harm will come to you here at the Wall. On my honor as the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”
“Thank you, my lord. Can…can you make sure that nothing bad happens to Theon? He saved me.”
Snow didn’t answer her. He excused himself from the king, turned on his heel, and all but fled the courtyard, direwolf at his side.
~
The cells at the Wall were an improvement from those at the Dreadfort. The cold killed all the rats and erased the smell of filth and shit that usually permeated such places. After weeks—okay, one or two days at the most, Theon was awoken from his slumber by a man in black holding a bowl of warm porridge.
“Best eat up, turncloak. Lord Snow requests your presence, and this might be the last meal you set eyes upon.”
Theon was sorely tempted to ask the porridge bearer what crimes had sent him to the Wall, but he nodded meekly. More guards than surely were necessary escorted him to Snow’s solar, located in the back of the armory. As if I’m strong enough to even lift a piece of steel, let alone swing it with any accuracy.
Snow was sitting alone behind a large desk littered with candles, parchment, and books. The direwolf was sitting on his right, of course.
“Please leave Theon Greyjoy alone with me, Rory.”
“But m’lord! Is that safe?”
Snow casually placed a hand on Ghost’s head, idly stroking the white fur.
“I feel very safe,” replied Snow, words directed straight towards Theon. The threat was obvious, and Theon involuntarily stepped backward into one of his guards. He was pushed forward as the door slammed shut.
Theon was uncomfortably reminded of the occasions Lord Stark had called him into his solar. He had known he was truly in trouble to merit such attention, such as when he had knocked Old Nan down a staircase or when his…ah, his dalliances with the serving girls had become known. The fact that Snow had grown to look even more like Eddard Stark since leaving for the Wall didn’t help matters. Theon couldn’t bear to meet Snow’s eyes as he was questioned, recounting tales from the Whispering Wood to his reign as Prince of Winterfell to jumping with Jeyne. Snow wore the same frozen expression throughout the whole exchange, though the wolf barred his teeth at all the right places.
When Theon had no more words to say and had sat in silence for an indeterminable amount of time, Snow asked one final question:
“Do you regret what you did?”
“Yes.” There was no need to explain any more, and frankly Theon didn’t have the strength to.
“You deserved to suffer. Though maybe not at Ramsay Snow’s hands, from what Jeyne has told me. Thank the gods that bastard is dead.” Snow rubbed at the scar on his neck, which Theon wondered about.
“Their wolves are still alive, I’m positive of that. Bran and Rickon’s. Summer saved me from a horde of wildlings, and Shaggydog is hunting unicorn.” Theon’s breath caught in his throat and he risked a look at Eddard Stark and Jon Snow’s eyes. But Snow was already at the door, informing the waiting guards to escort Theon to the castle courtyard while he consulted with the king.
~
Jon Snow now had the chance to execute Theon Greyjoy. No Bolton army was going to stop things now, and White Walkers would never appear in broad daylight. The entire garrison at Castle Black had gathered in the courtyard, and Theon was praying for the Lord Commander to appear quickly and get things over with. The king’s knights were whispering that the Red God finally had a sacrifice, while the mountain clansmen had gleeful expressions on their faces. Theon ignored them all, choosing to focus on Jeyne and her kind face. Jeyne was standing next to Princess Shireen and Queen Selyse, looking thoroughly dejected. The tip of her nose had been lost to frostbite as he had feared, but she was still pretty. But not Lady Arya.
Snow and the king finally graced the courtyard with their presence. Stannis was glaring at Snow, and unlike most men, Snow glared right back.
“Finish this matter once and for all, Snow, your own head be with it. Then we can get back to dealing with the real enemy.”
Stannis is angry with Jon Snow’s decision. But not so angry that he’s forcing him to do something different. Theon didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign.
“Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy,” started Snow in a loud and clear voice, “You are charged with attacking Winterfell, burning the castle to the ground, putting its inhabitants to the sword…”
Theon closed his eyes, letting the list of accusations wash over him. He didn’t object to anything said, for all of it was true.
“…lying about the identity of Arya Stark, purportedly murdering Bran and Rickon Stark, and finally, betraying King Robb Stark, who you had sworn fealty to.”
A small sob left Theon’s lips before he could control it. Robb, Robb, it rhymes with sob.
“As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and a son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, I, Jon Snow…” Snow paused and unsheathed his sword, one with a white direwolf pommel. Valyrian steel glinted, and Theon remembered all those times when Lord Stark would take Ice into his hands, whether to practice or behead a traitor. Though smaller, this bastard Valyrian steel sword looked just as deadly. Jon Snow’s more like his father than he realizes.
“..give you a choice.”
“What?” said Theon, puzzled. Aren’t you sentencing me to death?
“You heard me, Greyjoy. I’m giving you a choice.” Snow laid his sword on the ground, followed by his black cloak. “The sword or the cloak. I can take your head here and now, as you’ve done plenty to deserve it. Or you can wear a black cloak and have your crimes forgiven once you say your vows. You might not deserve forgiveness, but perhaps you can begin to atone for your sins by serving the realm.” Snow’s eyes flicked back to the king, who nodded. Albeit grudgingly.
Theon’s puzzlement flipped to shock. He’s offering me a choice. That’s more than Ramsay offered me, or my father. I had a choice to stay loyal to Robb, but I wasted that. I best not make the wrong decision here. The sword was the easy route. Death would be an end to pain, and no doubt the direwolf Valyrian steel sword would slice through his neck in one stroke. No longer would I have to remember Reek or feel the phantom pain of my missing parts or stare at a face so like Lord Stark’s and be reminded how much I helped destroy the family I always dreamed of being mine. But the cloak…the cloak was life, but a hard life in a hard place.
“Can I think about it?”
Snow’s eyes widened, not believing what he was hearing. Theon twisted his head to look at those around him. Stannis ground his teeth, looking irritated. Pity had returned to Asha’s eyes, her mouth a sad frown. A beautiful woman with long honey-colored hair arched an eyebrow from her balcony. Every northern lord looked livid, though their anger was likely directed toward Snow and his attempt to be honorable. Jeyne promptly burst into tears.
Snow was silent for a long time. Finally he nodded, resheathing his sword and donning his cloak anew. “Take all the time you want. I won’t be going anywhere.”
~
Later, much later, Theon found himself once again in front of Jon Snow.
“If I take the black, can I say my vows in front of the old gods?”
“Why them?”
“They know my name.” And perhaps the gods of Eddard Stark sent me to his son for this reason. Theon’s decision had all come down to names. If he died now, he would be forever remembered as the Turncloak. But by taking the black, there was the chance that he would be remembered by a better, more honorable name—Theon, if he served the realm better than he had served the Starks.
Snow frowned. “The closest weirwood tree is a day’s march beyond the Wall.”
“I’ll say them in front of your direwolf instead.” Ghost, with his red eyes and white fur, looked enough like a weirwood tree with a severe face.
Theon expected Snow to refuse, but Snow seriously considered the suggestion before assenting.
“Why are you doing this, Jon?” Whatever feeling compelled Theon to use Snow’s first name didn’t seem to cause its owner any offence. Snow looked at Theon gravely, opening and closing his sword hand.
“Perhaps the gods are saving you for something. They certainly saved me for something.” Snow closed his eyes and rubbed the scar on his neck again. “As the king likes to say, a good act does not wash out the bad, nor does a bad act erase the good. I believe that you still have a long life before you, and that you can move on since you seem genuinely sorry for what you’ve done.”
Theon didn’t know how to respond to that. He wondered if Robb would’ve shown him the same mercy and had faith, actual faith in him. He didn’t have any love for Snow, he was still grateful and didn’t wish any harm to come to him.
“The northern lords won’t be happy with you.” Strangely, Snow smiled at his words.
“Your fate was not their decision. Let me worry about them, for you have enough other problems to deal with.”
Do I ever.
~
On his first day as an official brother of the Night’s Watch, Theon was told to report to Ulmer at the archery butts for training. The Lord Commander had made the training mandatory for every Black Brother with two hands and two feet, a category Theon fell into despite all of his missing parts. Ulmer wasn’t old, and he wasn’t young either. But he was strong, and rumor had it that he could hit a squirrel’s eye from the top of the Wall.
Ulmer looked Theon up and down, and the frown that formed on his face clearly showed that Theon was found wanting. But his words were civil: “Lord Snow told me that you were quite good at archery.”
He did, did he? I could outshoot Jon and Robb with my eyes closed, but I did have five years on them. But now…Ulmer’s use of the past tense hit closer to the mark than Theon would ever admit. Aloud.
Theon had a bow and a string shoved unceremoniously into his hands. He examined them.
“This bow’s not strung.”
“Then string it. If a man can’t string his own bow, he doesn’t deserve to shoot it.”
Theon would have felt offended if the grizzled man wasn’t speaking the truth. His first attempt was unsuccessful. As was the second. And the third. Ulmer walked away to instruct other men as Theon struggled to string the thing. It wasn’t his lack of fingers that hindered him, but rather the lack of muscles in his arms that prevented him from bending the stubborn piece of wood. Sleeping with dogs, eating rats, and cowering in fear of psychopaths had not done his body any good.
When Theon finally had the string attached to both ends of the bow and presented it to Ulmer, the instructor unstrung it and told Theon to do it again. Of course. As Theon groaned and bent to his task again, he noticed Ghost watching him silently from atop a snow bank. I’ll remind you what Theon Greyjoy’s made of, Snow, and I’ll prove that you were right to give me a choice.
~
Once Theon had proven himself sufficient in stringing a bow, the real challenge of shooting began. He nearly dropped the bow and arrow when he had tried to hold it like he had before, before when he was a whole man. Theon tried hundreds of variations in grip and posture (missing toes were as much a hindrance as missing fingers, sadly), willingly taking suggestions from Ulmer and the Black Brothers practicing archery. And then slowly, slowly, things began improving. Theon was finding the target more often than not, and then he was hitting close to the center more often than not. Eating three meals, sleeping on a real bed in a private cell, and taking a hot bath every day also did wonders. The bath was very important, and it took effort not to cry when he sank into the hot water.
As Theon concentrated on archery, the Wall remained a buzz of activity. For the first time in many lifetimes, there was a real army present, not just ever decreasing numbers of the Night’s Watch. With the king’s army, the wildlings, and the last strength of the North, the Night’s Watch was able to sufficiently man its castles and send out patrols while the commanders debated what to do next. A sense of normalcy also started to develop: King Stannis and Lord Snow argued regularly (and smiled at each other, if the rumors were to be believed), Melisandre prayed nightly at magnificent fires, men got drunk on ice cold ale, and wildling musicians sung and drummed throughout the frigid nights.
Ghost continued to watch Theon. The direwolf unnerved Theon, not because he believed that Jon Snow was somehow aware of everything his wolf saw and did, but because he felt that the Old Gods were watching him through those weirwood-red eyes. And judging him.
~
One morning at the archery butts, Ulmer thrust a handful of arrows into Theon’s arms.
“Try practicing with these.”
Theon studied the arrows, noticing the smooth black tips.
“These are dragonglass arrows.”
“So they are,” grunted Ulmer.
“But…” Theon stuttered. Dragonglass was precious, and the Wall had nowhere near enough to kill an army of Others and their thralls. “Shouldn’t someone else be given these arrows? Someone better than me? With ten fingers?”
“You’re better than you think, Theon,” replied Ulmer. “Lord Snow asked me about your progress, and I told him that you’re proficient enough to be trusted with dragonglass arrows.”
Ulmer called me by my name. Not turncloak, not Greyjoy, but Theon.
“Thank you,” said Theon quietly. “For the arrows and…” for using my name.
Ulmer simply shrugged. “Thank me when we get out of this winter alive. Lord Snow hasn’t yet said what the Starks do when winter is here.”
~
The battle that everyone had been anticipating arrived on the eve of what could only be described at the Long Night. What else would cause the sun to rise and set within the span of a few hours?
Theon was in the dark as to what any actual strategy was, for he wasn’t privy to the council of the king or the Lord Commander or any of the other lords. Jon Snow hadn’t personally spoken to Theon since the day he had donned a black cloak, not that Theon minded. He was simply one brother of the Night’s Watch among many, and Snow had more important things—the defense of the realm, for one—to take care of. Snow did find time to spar with the king in the mornings and laugh while doing that, but Theon was likely hallucinating.
Theon was put under the command of Ulmer, who oversaw hundreds of archers stationed on top of the Wall. His job was simply to shoot arrows at the Others and their thralls, which suited him just fine. He didn’t have the strength for hand to hand combat, and his missing toes meant that he couldn’t run toward or away from any enemy. Ulmer regularly took stock of his men and lectured again and again not to use a dragonglass arrow unless given permission, for rarely would an actual Other be a sure shot from the Wall until…
The Others had an ice dragon, as if reanimated mammoths and direwolves weren’t enough. It couldn’t fly over the Wall due to some magic in the ice, but that didn’t prevent it from doing damage. Its blasts of ice entombed men and wreaked havoc on the fortifications top of the Wall, destroying catapults.
Hundreds of arrows had been shot at the dragon to no avail. Not that men were stupid for shooting at the beast, but Theon realized they were going at it all wrong. The dragon had two, potentially three weak spots: its eyes, its open mouth, and the Other riding on its back. And all targets would need a dragonglass arrow to truly destroy them. Theon wanted to tell all this to Ulmer, but Ulmer wasn’t anywhere around him. Theon sent a prayer to the old gods that the instructor hadn’t fallen as he notched one of his precious few black arrows. Now or never…
His muscles screamed as he held the bow taught, following the unearthly blue eye of the ice dragon. The dragon’s wings kept getting in the way, and even flying in place the dragon still bobbled in the air. Then, as the mounted Other screeched and the dragon opened its mouth for another blast of ice, Theon saw his opening and let his arrow fly. His arrow was only one of many, but only one of many found its mark and caused the dragon to drop like a stone. It hit the ground with a sickening crunch that could be heard seven hundred feet up in the air. Theon could hear yells and cheers from the men around him, but he only had the energy to sit on the ground in utter exhaustion, hands still tightly wrapped around his bow.
Ulmer found Theon later, once all the corpses at the base of the Wall had been burned that day. Theon hadn’t been so happy to see someone in a long time
“The ice dragon had a dragonglass arrow through its eye,” commented Ulmer in a serious voice. “The tip pierced its brain, killing it instantly. No one saw who shot it, though.”
“It could have been any archer. And,” added Theon in a dejected voice, “The Other riding the dragon wasn’t killed.”
“True, but dragonglass will find it soon, or maybe Lord Snow’s Valyrian steel sword. As to who shot the beast? I know my men, those with all their fingers and those without.” He placed a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “Well done, Theon Dragonslayer.”
~
By some miracle, the Long Night never came and the king and Lord Commander figured out a way to get the Others to disappear—or at least retreat for a very long time. The days became longer and warmer, so much so that the maesters seriously thought that winter was giving way to spring after only a fortnight. King Stannis was making plans to march south and finally win his throne, with help of the North and some 20,000 sellswords from Braavos.
Good riddance to him, thought Theon. Oh, Stannis wasn’t an evil man like Ramsay Snow or a cold-blooded psychopath like Roose Bolton, but Theon could do without his soldiers who still professed that the Red God needed a sacrifice whenever Theon passed by. Truly, though, Theon was glad the king had prevailed in his battles and hoped he would serve justice to those who had murdered Lord Stark and Robb. Robb. But with Stannis leaving the Wall, someone else would be leaving it as well…
Jeyne had spoken to Theon as often as she could, even if most times she talked while Theon listened. She was usually in the company of one of Princess Shireen’s guards, as she spent most of her time with the princess.
“I like Princess Shireen. She’s very kind and hasn’t laughed at my nose.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” A girl with scars from grayscale would be more understanding of physical deformities.
“Princess Shireen said that I could come south with her to King’s Landing after the war as a lady in waiting, or simply as a friend. That city still gives me nightmares, but I think I can face them. Shireen told me how she got over her nightmares of the stone dragons on Dragonstone.”
“How generous of her.” Theon fought to keep his voice neutral, for it wouldn’t do to cry in front of Jeyne. She alone understood the trials he had suffered with Ramsay Snow. Jeyne, who had known so much pain and finally seemed happy about something.
Jeyne seemed to sense what Theon was feeling. “I want to stay here with you, but girls aren’t allowed to join the Night’s Watch, and I don’t terribly want to be a wildling. You saved me, and I wish there was a way I could repay you.”
“Repay me by being happy. And by finding people who love you because you’re Jeyne.”
Jeyne gave him a shy smile and lightly kissed his cheek. “I’ve found one person already,” she whispered.”
Theon felt a warmth flow through him that had nothing to do with his fur-lined cloak.
~
Theon was beginning to enjoy life at Castle Black. Thanks to Ulmer, he was gaining nominal respect due to his skill at archery, and he enjoyed tasks that sent him to the library or to the ravenry to help Clydas with the birds and letters. After all, Theon was a steward. Lord Snow had assigned him to the order based on his ability to read and inability to fight, a decision that Theon didn’t fault even if his former self would’ve been highly insulted. Theon Dragonslayer was not and did not want to be the same man that Theon Greyjoy had been, for all Theon Greyjoy had amounted to was Reek. And Reek was best forgotten.
Before his morning duties, Theon sometimes liked to watch the coming of the dawn from the top of the Wall. It was calming, and apart from a few guards he was alone. Alone with silence. This morning, however, the winch cage trundled upward earlier than the usual shift change. Theon wondered who was crazy enough to take a frozen stroll from the top of the world this early in the morning…
“Ghost, to me!” came a shout followed by a whistle.
Snow, of course.
Theon hurriedly hid himself among the ruins of a broken catapult. Not that he had any reason to hide from Snow, but Theon didn’t want to ruin the peaceful silence with an awkward conversation. He still had trouble separating Lord Snow from Lord Stark.
The winch cage traveled up and down once more, and a tall figure wearing a golden cloak came to stand next to Snow.
Now it’s Snow and King Stannis, two serious men who never seem to sleep. The two seemed to have come to the top of the Wall for the same reason as Theon—the dawn and the silence. They stood together for quite some time, the direwolf standing sentinel at his master’s side. Stannis was the first to speak.
“Why are you smiling, Lord Snow?”
“The most beautiful sunrise in Westeros,” answered Snow, gesturing to the east where the sun was just peaking over the horizon. The Wall was now taking on an ethereal quality as it absorbed the brilliant yellow, red, orange, and pink-colored rays emitted by the rising sun.
Stannis scoffed.
“I apologize if my sentimentality offends you, Your Grace.”
“Whatever sentimentality you regrettably posses is beside the point. You’re just incorrect.”
Now this is interesting. Watching Snow and the king debate the merits of a sunrise certainly ranked among the last things Theon ever thought he’d be doing.
“You’ve never seen the sun rise from the walls of Storm’s End. The sea turns more colors than you can imagine.”
For a moment Stannis was lost in thought. The king must’ve been recalling a pleasant memory, for Theon noticed that Stannis’ expression was calm. And that he wasn’t grinding his teeth.
“Perhaps you’ll see it someday. I will have need of a Kingsguard once I sit the Iron Throne.”
Snow’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth, likely prepared to say something about his vows, but Stannis beat him to it.
“Refrain from preaching your vows at me once again. If you wish to do your duty and ‘guard the realms of men,’ you can do that perfectly well as the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard rather than rotting here on the Wall. I need someone I trust to sit on my small council and to act as my sworn sword.”
Snow was dumbstruck, and finding that he couldn’t formulate any sensible words, he simply stared at the king, grey eyes meeting blue.
“You gave your first life to the Night’s Watch, Lord Snow. I’d consider carefully what you want to do with your second. I expect an answer by sunset.” With that, the king turned on his heel and walked away, and the screeching of the winch cage followed soon after.
Theon was rather dumbstruck as well, starting from when Stannis used the words Kingsguard and trust. He watched as Snow sat down on the ice, clearly lost in thought. Occasionally he would run fingers angrily through his dark hair or bury his face in his hands. Theon considered the king’s offer and the implications it held for the future of the Wall. Snow certainly had an interesting dilemma, though Theon doubted the Lord Commander would use such a world to describe the situation. If he was truly on his second life and had fulfilled the vows proclaimed before the Old Gods having already died once…
Theon cleared his throat, deciding to intervene. Seeing Snow and King Stannis standing next to each other brought back memories long kept hidden and choices long regretted, and Theon didn’t want Jon Snow’s notorious honor to get in the way.
Jon, Jon, it rhymes with dawn.
“You will accept.”
Snow jumped up and spun around, his hand reaching for his sword as Ghost started advancing, sharp teeth barred. He stilled when he spotted Theon huddled at the base of the broken catapult.
“How long have sitting there?”
“Long enough to know that you’d be a fool to reject Stannis Baratheon’s offer.” Once again, the king had said. “What has he offered you before?”
“He offered to make me Lord Jon Stark of Winterfell.”
Gods, this matter is more interesting than I thought. “And you refused? You’re more honorable than anyone gives you credit for.”
Snow looked away, sighing. “You’d be surprised. By all rights Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa, or my brothers, who are out there somewhere.”
Just by saying that proves that honor runs in your veins as surely as Stark blood. “Let me repeat myself: You will accept. Refuse King Stannis now and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. I doubt he’ll make another offer, given how you responded to his last one.”
“There’s no way you can know that.”
“My king made an offer, and I’ll regret to my dying day not taking it.”
That got Snow’s attention. “ ‘My king’? Are you talking about Robb?”
Yes, I’m talking about Robb! I should’ve died with him, despite all that I’ve done here on the Wall. Theon nodded. “You know how I betrayed him. And the stupid, stupid reasons why. But what you don’t know it that before I left for Pyke he stood with me and called me brother. He had a vision of Winterfell and Pyke being great allies, closer once I came into my inheritance as ruler of the Iron Islands. He…he held out his hand to me and asked me to promise that I would do all in my power to see it done, and I shook it as Grey Wind looked on.”
Snow was now looking at him strangely.
“Jon, you have no reason to stay at the Wall, nothing to atone for. The fact that you were born a bastard doesn’t count.”
“You never killed Bran and Rickon. I know that for certain.”
“Maybe not. But why do you think it took me so long to choose between the sword and the cloak? I’m still responsible for the death of two innocent little boys—boys who were put to the sword just so I could assuage my damaged pride. And then…”
Snow’s facing was starting to harden again. Better stop listing my crimes. Snow knows them all anyway.
“I betrayed my king. I betrayed a man who trusted me. I betrayed the only true brother I ever had. I betrayed Robb. Your king once explained at length how hard it was to choose between his family and his king back when the Targaryens still ruled. Well, I made the same decision as just, dutiful Stannis Baratheon. A whole lot of good that did me.”
Theon didn’t remember speaking at such lengths to Jon Snow before, and he certainly didn’t remember confessing such personal things. Living at Winterfell for ten years with him hadn’t made them close, and being brothers of the Night’s Watch hadn’t exactly caused brotherly feelings to develop between Snow and him. Still, there was a certain respect between them, and it felt good to say all those things. Snow had loved Robb too.
Ghost padded toward Theon, teeth not visible this time. Theon tentatively held out a mangled hand, which was licked by a pink tongue.
“Please tell me you don’t actually want to stay at the Wall for the rest of your life.”
“No, I don’t.”
The sun had climbed well into the horizon before Snow said anything more.
“Be sure to take your evening meal with the rest of the Night’s Watch tonight. There’s an announcement that I need to make, and I would not want you to miss it.”
Jon, Jon, it rhymes with gone. “Is it to say you’re leaving the Night’s Watch to…”
“Wait and see,” said Snow, cutting him off. A smile began to form on his face.
Jon, Jon, it rhymes with move on. But then…but then so does Theon. I’ve confessed my sins, I’ve taken my suffering, and I’ve started to make a new life and name for myself here at the Wall.
Theon Dragonslayer was ready to move on.
END