Chapter Text
He can see through the weeping eyes of the weirwood. Through the eyes of the seabirds heading inland, over the tops of the pines. Through the eyes of the thousands of strangers in the wolf’s hall. Smallfolk and servants and lords alike. All strangers, to someone, to themselves, to their past selves. A drowned god has many faces.
So he saw with perfect clarity when Theon Greyjoy walked through the gates of Winterfell.
His clothes hung in shreds, like a man shipwrecked. But he looked every inch the prince. Theon walked without a trace of a limp, his mangled toes restored. He wore a straight, proud spine and a familiar smile upon his lips, a ghost made flesh once more.
A silver direwolf glinted proudly over his heart. No gift from a god at all, this was Theon’s doing. And of course, the giver’s.
When Theon paused before the doors of the Great Hall, his god was the only one to see his hand briefly flutter to the pin. The pack survives, he thought. With a deep breath, he flung open the doors.
A wave of silence washed over the room as a hundred eyes converged on Theon, framed in the doorway like the hero in a stained-glass window of a sept. Gradually, the hush was breached by whispers of “Sea Wolf”, and “It’s Theon Sea Wolf.” The Drowned God had spoken true. The name had caught on, as such names always do.
Theon, for his part, didn’t notice his audience. Later, he would take in the vast hall and grim, empty seats. Later, he would seek Stark-dark hair in the crowd. But for now, Theon could see nothing but Sansa.
Sansa, who would have stumbled back, if she was not already seated. She had seen his face many a night, sometimes accompanied by Robb and her parents and the other ghosts who haunt her sleep. His face was ever rendered in mist and shadow, as disheartening as a broken promise. It was the best a mere dream can do.
But the Theon before her now stood as solid as stone, haloed in daylight from the open door behind him. Ghosts dwelled in the night. The day was for the living, only. Living.
She took in his scarless skin, his whole hands. She glanced at his torso, which the torn remnants of his clothes struggled to conceal. Sansa frowned in confusion. She had sent him to sea with a gaping wound in his gut, and here he stood, whole.
No Red Woman this time, she thought. No fire-priest to bring him back. How? How? I must be mad.
It’s just like in the stories, whispered another part of herself. This is how the stories end.
She riled. But life isn’t a story, I’ve learned that now.
“Life is nothing but a story,” murmured a different voice, a Stranger’s voice, in Sansa’s head. “You’ve much yet to learn, my dear.”
Sansa startled, thoroughly spooked. But the voice didn’t return. Then Theon approached, brushing aside Sansa’s perturbed thoughts like so many cobwebs.
She met his eyes and felt a flicker of spring in her chest. She hadn’t realized how deep the winter had clung to her. She hadn’t noticed that, despite everything that had happened, despite the long journey to King’s Landing and back, despite her solid throne in the warm wolf hall, she had never left the frozen godswood.
But now, Theon had returned, and brought the thaw with him. Sansa smiled.
It was the sort of smile that told Theon that he made the right decision when he set out towards Winterfell. The sort of smile that called a man home from sea. Theon’s pace quickened, and soon he was practically running towards Sansa.
Just before reaching her, he took in the throne and wolf-crown for the first time. Theon checked, stumbled, then recovered. He cleared his throat, and knelt at her feet with a performative flourish.
“My Queen.”
The Drowned God smiled to himself, amused by the ambiguity of the moment. My Queen can mean many things, when spoken by a prince on his knee.
Sansa stood and pulled Theon to his feet. She brushed a trembling hand upon his face. His skin felt warm and solid and so very much alive. She felt his breath brush her hand.
Suddenly, she was in his arms, and the scent of saltwater flooded her senses.
Theon closed his eyes. An impossible memory flashed before him, her lips on his, warm against barren cold. That kiss was a fairytale gone wrong.
This kiss was a libation.
The god accepted the offering. A god has many faces. So does a kiss born of suffering and succor.
Theon stood on a parapet, overlooking the courtyard. The Drowned God watched him through the eyes of builders and smiths, merchants and artisans, all rebuilding a life in the thawing ground.
Spring had come to Winterfell at last.
“Something on your mind, my lord Sea Wolf?” said Sansa from behind him.
Theon smirked. “Just enjoying the sun, my Queen.” He slipped an arm around her growing waist and pulled her against his side. As he turned his gaze back to the bustle below, he said, “I’ve had a raven from my sister.”
“Oh?”
“She thought we’d like to know that Arya’s ship has been spotted.”
“Arya! Where? Is she on her way home?” There had been no word from her sister nor sighting of her ship in nearly a year.
“Well, apparently a selkie caught sight of her off The Lonely Light, heading towards Ironman’s Bay. So sounds like it, yes.”
Sansa raised an eyebrow. “A… a selkie?”
“Aye.”
“And does your sister employ merlings to bring her news of Bravos, then? And of course, everyone knows krakens are terrible gossips.”
Theon laughed. “Such a skeptic! I’ll have you know krakens are quite real, my love. Although the only kind that gossip walk on two legs and bear the name Greyjoy.”
“As for selkies,” he continued, exchanging his Northern accent for the roguish clip of the Iron Islands. “The Northmen have their wolf-wargs, we Islanders have our seal-folk.”
Sansa snorted. Theon inwardly marveled at her ability to make even a snort seem graceful.
“The point is, Arya’s likely on her way. And seeing as she’ll want to appear at the gate and shock us with her stealth, I figure we ought to head her off with a feast waiting for her on the table.”
Sansa laughed. She did that a lot, nowadays. “Theon Greyjoy, you’re wicked.”
“No, I’m just well-practiced in the art of annoying sisters. And besides,” he said, giving her another squeeze. “There’s much to celebrate.”
Sansa’s hand reached to her belly. She fiddled with the fabric of her gown, thoughtfully.
“Theon,” she said. “How are you feeling about, well, the situation?”
“The situation?” He turned to her, grasping her arms. “For a long time, I didn’t think I’d ever…I couldn’t…Sansa, I lost everything. I died. And now, I’m standing here, with you, with everything. I feel damn well pleased with ‘the situation.’”
“Right, but I didn’t mean that, exactly. What I mean is, how do you feel about the name?”
Theon smirked. “I’d say we’ve got a lot of people to honor and a lot of names in need of babies to bear them.” He bowed his head in mock solemnity. “I offer my services for this noble task, my Queen.”
“Theon. You know that’s not what I meant.”
Theon’s mischievous grin slid off his face. He fiddled with a crack on the parapet wall. “I know.” He bit his lip, brow furrowed in a thoughtful expression. “I fought hard for my name, my love.” Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak, whispered the wind. The Drowned God could heal his wounds and send him home, but the memories would remain.
“I fought for it, and won it back. But…” He turned to Sansa. “I won more than that. I won myself. And I know who I am.” He took her hands, pressing them to his lips. “You couldn’t have married a Greyjoy, I understood that when we wed.”
Sansa remembered the discussion well. It was such a terrible thing to ask, after all he’d been through. But what choice did they have? The North bled for the freedom to follow the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Sansa could not hand off her seat in Winterfell to a Greyjoy. And any children with that name could threaten Yara’s hold on the Iron Islands. No, the squid in her belly must be named Stark.
Still, she squirmed. Her name had been a heavy one to bear, and she had the scars to prove it. The name was laden with centuries of blood and vengeance and bitter memory. It was a name that made martyrs and nurtured nemeses. Was it what she wanted for her child, this scion of Stark and Grejoy?
Even the name itself spoke of ill-fate. Stark. Austere and barren. A name fit for a long, winter night.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. She thought of the dead rising, of the blue eyes of the Night King. All men must die. She thought of the stone Starks with their iron swords, Ned and Robb and Lyanna with her blue rose crown. And deeper, deeper, how many others lie waiting? Theon Stark, Edrick Snowbeard, perhaps even Bran the Builder himself.
A spring breeze whistled through Winterfell, rustling Sansa’s russet hair and Theon’s thick curls. Winter came, it sang. The pack survives.
“Theon, I’ve been thinking…”
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. There already was. A legion of them.
“Let’s make a new name.”
“What?”
“I think it’s time we build something new. Look around! Winter came, the worst winter of all, death came for us, and spring is here.”
“But the House—”
“We can start our own House.”
“You’re mad. The lords bend the knee to a Stark.”
“Yet they bent the knee to a Snow.”
“Yes, but he was really a Stark, regardless of his surname.”
Sansa grinned, eyes blazing. “Exactly.” She paused, giving Theon time to reach for, and fail to find, a good rebuttal.
“Anyway, entire Houses have been wiped out,” she continued. “There are new Houses with new lords. A Stark reigns beyond the Wall, a dragon is loose somewhere in Valyria, and a Greyjoy queen has forsworn reaving. The world is changing, Theon. We can make a new dynasty to match.”
Theon was silent. His gaze landed once more on the courtyard below. Then, “Greystark?” he ventured.
Sansa rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember your lessons with Maester Lewin? Greystark’s taken already.”
“Well, what did you have in mind then?”
The Drowned God pricked his ears. Some legends begin with a red comet ablaze, others with the murmur of a name.
“Seawolf.”
Theon said nothing. Sansa pressed on. “It’s perfect, look. The people have already chosen it. It’s a name for a legend. For a dynasty, even.”
“Seawolf,” Theon repeated, brushing his hand across her swollen belly. “Robb Seawolf, first of his name.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Fine then. Robb Seawolf, first of her name. I’m fully supportive of reigning queens, you know that.”
The Drowned God, perched on weirwood branch and seastone, nodded with approval. Then, he turned away and looked elsewhere, to other waves rolling and tossing in the sea of life and death, and the stories it carries within them.