Chapter Text
His time on Pyke had already taught him not to expect grand welcoming parties. Still, Theon had to remind himself that punching the fat, scowling guard was not going to gain him entry into the camp, unless he planned to fight the boy’s tall, bearish looking partner as well.
“––one of you just fetch the King yourself, then. I’ll wait here. Just be quick about it.” There’s no time to waste. Robb should have already mobilized his army. Why is he still so far South?
The boy raised his oblong nose towards Theon, beady eyes looking him up and down. “Like hell the King’ll see you. If you’re some sort of sellsword or hedge knight, keep on travelling. We’ve got no work for you lot here.”
“I’m not a fucking sellsword,” Theon spat, suddenly over-conscious of his worn and filth-spotted appearance. “I need to speak with the King immediately. Drag him out from bed, if that’s what it takes. Tell him that Theon has returned and requests an immediate counsel.”
“I think we’re already having a lovely little counsel here. Don’t you agree, Dom?” He gave Dom a thoughtful look, and Dom returned an ever-unsmiling nod. He hadn’t spoken a word since Theon had dismounted from his wheezing horse, demanding entrance into the camp. It had been well past a fortnight since he had left the ports of Seagard, and most days he had ridden hard from dawn till dusk–– it was a wonder that the poor beast was still standing. It had helped none in the fact that Theon had spent three days riding in the wrong direction; news of Robb Stark’s march was all the folks in the Riverlands seemed to speak of, but every story spoke of a different battle, fought in a different location. At night, Theon mused bitterly to himself that he was going to be stuck chasing Robb’s tail for the entirety of the war, perhaps becoming the next Late Lord himself.
“If you’re Theon Greyjoy, then where are all your men and ships?” Theon could count the gaps in the guard’s teeth as he gave him a mocking grin. I wonder if I could fit a quarrel between one of them. “His Grace sent him off to treat with his father, to earn us the ships we need to take King’s Landing.”
“Aye, he did. He’ll probably be wondering where they are. Perhaps you should let me tell him.”
“Why not just tell me? I’ll make sure to deliver the news, I promise.”
This fool had better sleep with one eye open. “Fine. You tell Robb Stark yourself that you were the one who was daft enough to turn away––”
“––is that you, Greyjoy?”
Theon didn’t recognize the voice at first, but finally being acknowledged by his name brought him a rush of relief nonetheless. “It is, as I’ve been trying to convince your guardsmen. I did not think I would be so quickly forgotten here.”
“We did not think you would return,” said the Greatjon, fumbling to lace his breeches with fingers and stumps. “Some of the men had started placing bets.”
“How thoughtful of them.” Theon did not bother to feign a smile in the dark, pushing his way past the suddenly silent guardsmen. “I hope you don’t mind waiting until the morrow to declare the winners. I must speak with Robb immediately. Is His Grace still awake?”
“Aye, discussing matters with Karstark and Bolton. Too much talk. That’s all we seem to do nowadays. I’m glad to take a piss whenever I can–– I’ve no interest in treaties or arrangements… I find matters settled in blood far more dependable then those settled in ink.”
You share that much with my father, at least. But what was Robb doing discussing treaties? He had made it clear in his letter that negotiations with the ironborn were not possible, that he had to act now or risk losing the North entirely. “Have we not sent any men North yet?”
“North? We’re heading South, boy. At this rate King’s Landing will be ours within the year, perhaps quicker if you’ve brought as many ships as you promised.”
Theon felt his throat go dry. They mustn’t have gotten the raven. They didn’t know of Balon Greyjoy’s plans to take the North while Robb busied himself with the Lannisters. Gods, we’re so far South, we’ll be lucky if we still have half our strongholds by the time we’ve marched back…
“You did remember the ships, eh Greyjoy?”
“Ships are coming, alright,” said Theon. “But their sails are pointed in the wrong direction.”
* * *
It took all of Theon’s resolve to not shiver fiercely at the wind as he stood in silence within the tent; the material held upon the four stilts seemed thinner than normal, and the breeze seemed even colder than it had felt outside, before he had been forced to tell Robb Stark that his father planned to attack and capture the North. If Theon never had to speak a word again, he would die happy— never had he ever hated the sound of his voice so much as he did when hearing himself report the news. He had forced himself to look Robb in the eyes as he did so, too, allowing himself the most unpleasant experience of watching as Robb’s initial look of relief at Theon’s return melted away like summer snow, an expression of horror and disbelief slipping across his sun-bronzed face instead. During his explanation, Karstark repeatedly made noises of anger and disgust, Umber continued to interrupt Theon mid-sentence, and Bolton asked too many damned questions. But Robb had remained silent, without even a sigh or sound of upset at the news. The lack of reaction bothered Theon even more than the other three men combined.
After the situation was more or less explained in full — Theon made sure to exclude the rude treatment his family had afforded him or any of the other embarrassing details — the three men began to discuss and argue amongst themselves about the most appropriate course of actions, forgetting the existence of their king entirely for the moment. The Greatjon seemed intent on attacking the Ironborn before they could be attacked, while Bolton remained on the topic of reorganizing the strength North into a more easily defendable formation. Karstark had little to add from a strategic point, as he seemed most eager to swear loudly and vow death upon “every ironborn scum in Westeros” for acting like “traitorous whores”; he could only repeat the fact that all the battles they had won in the South, all the men they had lost to capture strongholds and advance towards King’s Landing, would prove meaningless now that they had to march right back north. As the three continued their verbal volley with each other, Theon couldn’t help but suddenly feel as young and helpless as the day he had arrived in Winterfell, Robb looking just as small and confused as he remembered at their first meeting.
“My mother,” the Boy-King’s head snapped upwards, towards Lord Bolton. “We must send a raven at once for her to return. Where is she? When did we hear from her last?”
“We haven’t heard word of Lady Catelyn’s whereabouts since we heard of Renly Baratheon’s death.”
Roose Bolton said something else afterwards, but Theon had not heard a word of it. Renly is dead? Was he killed in battle? He had heard whispers of the Baratheon brothers during his fortnight of riding as well, that Stannis and Renly both had declared themselves as Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and that neither would bend the knee to the other. There had been word of two Baratheon hosts moving towards each other— perhaps the battle was a short one…
“…put someone else on guard duty and send them both to Riverrun. Have them escort Lady Catelyn back to me personally— if she is not there, they are to ride for her last location and search until they find her. I do not want her going anywhere without me, in case she tries to do something… rash.”
Theon completely forgotten about Lady Catelyn. She must have left the host not long after himself, if she had been with the Baratheon host prior to their battle. Thank the old gods and the new she isn’t here. That’s all this counsel needs is a mother crying for the babes she left behind when Robb called the banners. With her here, we’d be marching without sleep back to Winterfell until she made sure they still had all the hairs on their head. Theon wanted to laugh to himself, but the guilt in his stomach couldn’t even permit him that much.
Karstark rose to his feet. “At the very least, I think we can all agree that a morning beheading would be best.”
Theon tasted bile, but he managed to hold his expression still.
“Beheading?” Robb sounded half a child as he spoke the word. It took him a moment until he realized what it meant. “Lord Karstark, surely you aren’t suggesting—”
“It seems you’ve forgotten the reason why we’ve had Greyjoy all these years. The day has finally come that he serves his purpose. If we do not punish Balon Greyjoy as promised, foe and allies alike will question our resolve. Northerners do not make empty promises.”
“I do not recall ever promising to behead Theon.”
The Greatjon made a gruff noise. “Lord Eddard made that promise. Now the duty falls to you.”
“Truly? Were any of you present when he said this?”
No. But I was. Theon had to fight every urge to speak or move, knowing it was time for him to remain a statue. King Robert and Lord Eddard, staring down at the back of Balon Greyjoy’s bent neck. The image remained clear in his head even after ten years, but he could not remember the words that they exchanged— only that there was a mention of his name, and an echo of ward between the three men. Theon had recognized a bizarre tone that skewed the word, like the face of a mummer in disguise. A mask to hide the ugly truth.
”Even if my father had made such a promise, I am not my father, and I will not behead a man who has committed no treachery. Theon has returned to our cause of his own will, and of mine own will I declare him a free man.”
“Are you mad?!” Karstark’s voice rumbled with indignation. “He must at the least remain our prisoner! We could ransom––”
“If Lord Balon valued Theon’s life, I do not think he would let him leave so easily.”
I never said I left easily. Nor had Balon even tried to stop him— if anything, he had urged him to leave, to let Theon himself prove that he was the “traitorous whore” they thought he was.
“Unless he planned to use him as a spy,” said Bolton, folding his arms.
“If you three had your way, Theon’s head would be on a spike before our next meal. Balon would not have much use of a dead spy.”
“He knows you have a soft spot for him,” Umber pointed accusingly at Theon. “Don’t be a fool and play into his plan!”
Robb held the Greatjon in a gaze of icy fury Theon had never seen before. “I appreciate your concern, Lord Umber, but I do not appreciate your tone nor your resistance towards my judgement. Regardless of my “fondness” of Theon, my decision stands. I will not behead an innocent man, and I do not think any good would come of doing so.”
The Greatjon fumbled at his words, face mixed with embarrassment and anger. Fortunately, Robb cut him off before he could speak.
“—however, until you three are convinced that Theon does not plan to betray us, he will not be permitted to send any ravens and will not be permitted to leave his tent at night without an escort.”
Theon felt his breath sucked from his lungs. A part of him wanted to feel happy that Robb was so adamantly defining him when everyone else wanted him dead, but he couldn’t help but feel the bitter blow of Robb suggesting such treatment. Keeping me on a chain will prove nothing, except that you don’t trust me either.
Robb turned to Karstark before any more complaints could arise. “How many men did you leave at the Karhold?”
A scoff. “Not fucking enough.”
“How many?”
“Maybe five hundred, nearly all green boys.”
“What about the Dreadfort?”
“Eight hundred,” said Roose Bolton, “But I’m afraid none are fit to lead or command.”
“Last Hearth?”
“Even less than the rest,” admitted Umber.
Robb leaned against the table with both arms, staring down at its map with furrowed brows. “We’ll have to mobilize the eastern forces to help reinforce the west. Unless the ironborn plan to sail around Dorne, they will land along the western shore and then move out to the mainland. Should Moat Cailin fall, we shall be lucky to ever step foot in the North again. Next, prioritize holding Deepwood Motte, Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square…”
Too late. All too late. Theon shook his head, partially because it had grown light at how wrong everything was. “My sister will have already reached Deepwood Motte. She left from Pyke the same day I did, with thirty ships, and soon my uncle Victarion will lead the iron fleet in an attack upon Moat Cailin–––”
“And you never thought to send a raven to warn us?” Karstark turned a scowl towards Theon.
“Of course I did! Something must have happened to the bloody bird.” Theon had been forced to sneak into Maester Wendamyr’s tower to send the message; he had not trusted the Maester enough to send the letter without informing his father of its destination. A knot of guilt sat in his stomach at the memory– I’m no bloody Maester, how was I to know if I sent the right bird? I should have taken my chances with Wendamyr and left Pyke before he could tell anyone. Else I could have just put a knife in his heart after he was done. The more he thought about his actions, the more he came to regret each one.
“I’ve sent many a raven sent in my years, and I’ve yet to have one of my own messages displaced.” Bolton spoke softly, as he always did.
Theon bristled. “Do you accuse me of lying?”
“Do you admit to it?”
“No. I sent a raven for Riverrun and left on the first ship that would take me.” I had to pose as a commoner to do it, too. To think I’d have to smuggle myself away from my own home.
“Enough,” said Robb. “We’ll be needing ravens of our own now. Write to every holdfast in the North, warn of them of the invasion and tell them to rally their men. Send garrisons of men from the Dreadfort and Winterfell to make for Moat Cailin. If Deepwood Motte has not yet fallen, send men from Karhold and Last Hearth to repel the attack. We can’t allow our forces to be spread too thinly–– the ironborn will hope to find small armies to pick off one by one. They’ll struggle against larger numbers in a well-manned stronghold. What we lack in numbers we will have to compensate in strategy. On the morrow, we ride North with the full strength of our host.”
“Your Grace, if we do not maintain our occupation of the South, all of our battles will have been for naught! If you were to leave half the host here––”
“I have made my decision, Lord Umber. We have not fought for the North’s independence only to have it snatched from us while our backs are turned.” Robb gave each of the men a long, cold stare, and Theon couldn’t help but feel as if he had received the chilliest of them all. “We ride at dawn. You may excuse yourselves. Theon, I’ll have a word.”
Karstark and Bolton left as commanded, but the Greatjon lingered several moments longer, clearly considering further protest. You've none to blame but yourself if you mislike the decision. You shouted 'King in the North' as loudly as any of the rest. Fortunately, he seemed to think better of it, marching out of the tent with only a disapproving huff.
Theon had expected to feel better once the three men had left, taking their criticizing looks along with them. He was disappointed to discover that Robb Stark wore one of his own. “Gods, Theon, what happened?”
“Suffice it to say my homecoming did not go as expected.” He flashed a mocking smile, but felt his own face twist against it. “I delivered my father your terms, but he... he spat in my face, burned your letter as soon as he read it. He’s forgotten me entirely. He’s fashioned my sister as if she were his son, even seems content to make her his heir. To think, a woman—”
“I sent you to treat with Balon, not bicker with him over inheritance. Did you do nothing to rally him to our cause?”
“He wouldn’t listen to me. He took one look at me before he made his judgement, told me that I turned soft from my time in the green lands.” He had accused him of belonging to the Starks, too, which Theon had denied. Yet here I am. “He took your appeal for ships as a sign of weakness. He knew the North would be poorly manned—”
“Did you tell him that?”
Robb might as well have slapped him across the face. “Are you mad? Of course I didn’t.”
“Before you left for Pyke I had only my southern foes to worry about. Now I risk losing the North itself.” He gave an aggravated sigh. “My mother was right, I never should have sent you. If I had sent Blackwood––”
“––you would have been lucky to have had his head returned to you! My father had already hosted his longships before I even arrived.” A wretched tightness grappled at Theon’s throat as he remembered. He had already planned to rebel, had set his eyes on the North before I even returned. He was prepared to trade my life for his crown. Ten years away, and I was already dead to him.
“He’d go to war for a crown I was willing to give him?”
Of course it sounded absurd in such terms, but now Theon could only hear Robb's ignorance in the question. His ignorance, but it was I who had forgotten. “You cannot give the ironborn anything. A gift can be taken away as easily as it was given. In the old way, we take what we deserve. We pay for what we want with iron.”
“We?” Remarked Robb, venom in his tone. Theon felt his blood begin to boil.
“It’s bad enough to have Umber or Bolton questioning my loyalty. I don’t need your doubts too, Stark. You do realize that I betrayed my family by coming back? My own people? I will never sit as Lord of Pyke now. The isles will only remember me as Theon Turncloak. Every commoner will learn to curse the very mention of my name.”
“Aye, they may. But it is your father who has broken his treaty. He is the traitor, not you.”
“I’ll still be son of a traitor, then.” And who would trust a man who turned on his own father?
“I know it must have been a difficult decision for you.”
The words reeked of formal insincerity, turning Theon’s face sour. “No, you don’t know. What have you ever known of such decisions? You’ve never had to soil that bloody honour of yours. You can always make the right choice. Tell me, what do you do when all options end in betrayal? Pyke was my home just as long as Winterfell. By rights, it would have been mine one day. And now I’ve abandoned it. I’ve abandoned my people, my birthright… for what? To be scorned by you Northerners as a traitor all the same?”
“Theon––”
“Would you have done the same, in my position? Had you been taken from your brothers and sisters, been fostered away from home for half your life— would you have forsaken your own house, your own blood? Turned your back on the Stark name, and stayed loyal to your captors?”
“Of course not.” Robb answered without hesitation, though he drew grim with regret as he realized his mistake.
“Aye, of course not. Blood comes first for you Starks.” Not so much for Greyjoys, it seems. I might as well have been a stranger for all my father cared. Theon would at least grace Balon with the same honour–- he was no father to him anymore. “You’d best be glad that I didn’t pick up that habit these past ten years.”
Robb retreated into silence as he stared solemnly back down at the map. He didn’t look up when he finally spoke again.
“Did you really consider betraying us, Theon?”
Theon swallowed hard, unnerved that Robb had the boldness to ask the question aloud. When denied a verbal response, Robb Stark found his answer in Theon’s guilty expression.
“I knew you would come back.”
That makes one of us, thought Theon. He left the tent without another word.