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Life was never kind and the Gods were never benevolent like the beguiling words that fell from the mouths of their preachers. This much he knew, both from what he had witnessed and experienced.
He was only 8 the night Pyke engulfed in flames, how the red hot fire had raged on and swallowed whole houses and people despite the tirelessly crashing waves. His mother had wept and clutched at him as if she herself was drowning in the ocean of blood and steel below their tower. Amidst the troubling noises of men dying and swords clashing, the only sound that a terrified 8-year-old could understand was Lady Alannys’s prayers - desperate mutters from a mother whose sons were being slain by the blades of strange men.
He didn’t remember much what happened after the last war cry had died out, besides his mother’s agonizing shriek and his father’s unyielding gaze. Asha had stood by the damaged arch door connecting to the throne room, where only weeks ago his father and brothers had feasted and boasted about restoring the Iron Islands to its former glory. Faces that had toasted to King Balon Greyjoy were now dead and replaced by foreigners from the greenland. He was too young to fully grasp the meaning of death, but at that moment he knew very well what it could do to people. How it had forced the composed Lady of Pyke to tear out her hair and wail like a newborn when a grim-faced man took his hand and pulled him from her grip. He wanted to yank free and run back to her but as soon as he met his father’s eyes, every sense of defiance in him stilled. ‘Behave like a man’ - The look seemed to say - ‘Be more like your brothers’ - And so he did.
The last son of Balon had walked away from home with his head held high, pretending to remain unfazed by the sound of rustling armors and his mother’s anguished calling. He only flinched when her scream was cut short by a sharp slap. His hands didn’t shiver when passing by his sister at the doorway. Her expression was among the few sights he wished to forget about that wretched day but never quite could - one forged from grief and demolition, something extremely ill-suited on the face of a small young girl. Nevertheless, he upheld Balon’s final expectation. Only when they rode past a makeshift funeral for soldiers who died from the battle did Theon shed his first tears. He couldn’t help but wonder - where was their Drowned God when they needed him the most?
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Ever since they had arrived at Riverrun, this was the first time he had seen Lady Catelyn at the sept. It was much grander than the small sept that Lord Eddard had ordered to construct for her at Winterfell but less organized, evidently lacking a woman’s touch. The late Lord Tully never remarried after his lady wife passed years ago, and with both of his daughters off to their husband’s house, it was no surprise the sept almost looked abandoned. Thick layers of dust covered the statues and burned down wax pooled into piles on the table. Almost no one ever came here anymore, the war had driven all of the Trident’s men to battles and her women to the farms or healing wings. Even the few septas who remained took up responsibility in the kitchen, working day and night to relieve the hungry bellies of thousands of Robb’s soldiers.
Gradually, this spot had become his sanctuary, a place for him to escape the squabble of prideful high lords and their grudging glares. He was not blind to the looks thrown in his way when he rode alongside the King, or the dirty talks Robb’s bannermen murmured to their sons when they thought no one would notice. There were times when he had let their words get the better of him, but those days were gone. Because no matter what he vowed or accomplished, the Northerners couldn’t see past his last name and the crimes committed by his father. To them, he was merely a squid stranding ashore, washed up to the great white land and doomed to wander among wolves. ‘A stranger’ - One might say, but he knew better. Strangers were at least free to come and go. Theon was a hostage.
He flicked his eyes toward the woman in the middle of the room, who seemed to be praying with her hands clasped together. ‘Good, if I can be quick enough…’ - He jumped off the hidden cove behind the Mother’s statue and slid out, using the shadows to his advantage. After what had just happened today, he was in no mood to meet anyone, least of all Lady Catelyn Stark. The deal he had proposed earlier in front of Robb and all of his bannermen was nothing short of wishful thinking. He knew that, but it was definitely better than waiting for Lord Walder Frey to open the goddamn gate and let them through. The old man had managed to outlive many of his own children and grandchildren with his cunning and treacherous nature, it was unlikely he was going to submit or, more preferably, die anytime soon. ‘Maybe if I had volunteered to kill the bastard in his sleep, it would have been more plausible.’
“Lord Greyjoy, leaving so soon?” - And there went his efforts and peace. After a few moments of serious consideration on ignoring her, he finally decided against it. If war and death couldn’t make him run like a coward, a woman shouldn’t either.
“Yes, my lady. I’m on my way to the training yard.” - He stepped closer to her but nonetheless kept his distance. If Snow topped her blacklist, he was pretty sure to be somewhere on the second or third row.
“Surely you could spare some time to talk with me?” - It was more of a command than a request and to which he gave a curt nod, slightly perplexed by her odd demand.
“Do you come here often?” - Lady Stark inquired, eyes fixated on the statue of the Father.
Theon pondered on lying to her but quickly dismissed the thought. If she could find him here, she must have known about his other visits as well. - “Yes, my lady, quite often.”
“Have you accepted the Seven, then?” - Catelyn’s lips curled up into a smirk, the closest thing to a smile he had seen on her face since Ned Stark and the girls were trapped at King’s Landing. - “A wise choice, I must say. I always think of your Drowned God as harsh and… vicious.”
“No.” - He stressed the word a little to express his offense. - “I come because it’s quiet here.” - He was tempted to add ‘something clearly ruined by your presence’ but forced himself to stay shut.
“A pity.” - There was a short pause before she continued. - “I was rather… surprised to hear the deal you offered earlier. Tell me, Lord Greyjoy, do you believe that plan would work?”
“I… I do believe so, my lady. My father may have been too ambitious, but he’s not a fool. The plan would greatly benefit both the North and the Iron Islands, especially with winter coming so fast.” - Winter meant frozen water and frozen water was something the Ironborns despised even more than storms and outsiders. The cold could drag on for years and with fish being a stable part of their diet, they wouldn’t last long without aids.
“You are certain you can persuade your father?”
“I promise to try my best.” - He was Balon’s last living son and the future of their house. That alone had to be enough.
With a nod, Catelyn fell silent as if contemplating his reasons. Even in the dim light, her red hair glowed like copper, smooth and neatly styled. He could already see the woman Sansa would soon blossom to be, with her mother’s red crown, strength, and manners. Theon remarked absent-mindedly as his thoughts drifted to the Stark girls. It was always a wonder how the Gods could make those two sisters. He vaguely remembered their little quarrels and pranks, which had mostly ended in one of them being grounded and severely scolded. Assuming the conversation was over, the young man turned and headed out. He was indeed needed at the training yard, this part was not a lie, Robb had wanted him to teach archery to the new recruits.
“Theon.” - Catelyn’s soft voice stopped him at the doorway. - “What is Robb to you?”
“Like a brother, my lady.” - He said without hesitation, ‘Now and Always’.
“Never forget it, then.” - With that, Lady Stark quickly brushed past him and disappeared into a group of chattering soldiers.
He shifted his eyes from the spot where Lady Catelyn had stood earlier to the Tully banner on the opposite wall. ‘Family, Duty, Honor’ - he had learned their words by heart from the lessons they had to take with Maester Luwin. ‘Family, Duty, Honor’ - what was he to them, then, when Ned Stark had adopted him as his ward all those years back. Was he family, or a mere duty that Lord Paramount of the North needed to fulfill to the Iron Throne? Or worse, just a demonstration of their honor? His eyes skimmed through all seven of the statues circling the room, each as silent and eerie as the first, they stood proud, almost formidable in a way. The candle inside the Crone’s lantern flickered suddenly, illuminating the dome above and the stony faces of those around her. ‘The God with seven faces’, he cited the words of Septa Mordane, ‘who looks after all aspects of human’s life.’
‘Why did Ned Stark die a traitor’s death, then, if the Father is just?’ - Theon found himself asking. - ‘Why separate Catelyn from her children if the Mother is all merciful?’. Only the whistling sound of wind passing through the crevices on nearby stone walls answered him, as well as the Red Fork’s steady burbling flow. Theon suddenly thought of his mother and the day house Greyjoy fell. Sometimes in his dream, he could still hear Lady Alannys’s pleas and prayers - how despair had clawed at her throat and pain had plagued her voice - for them not to take her boys away. He wondered whether Lady Stark did the same, whether she too prayed to the Seven Gods and beg for her children’s safe return.
He gave a short, mirthless laugh at the thought and gripped the hilt of his sword firmly. ‘If Gods actually gave a shit about people, they would never have to start a bloody war.’
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Cold. The freezing breeze sent shivers down his spine and goosebumps all over his body. He felt his bones crack as he tried to move a hand around his head, an unconscious behavior he had adopted every time he woke up since Ramsay Snow… ‘No’, he quickly corrected himself, ‘Lord Bolton now’, God forbade anyone addressed his master as anything else. The dogs had become restless and barked noisily at people passing by. Lord Ramsay had not fed them in a few days to prepare them for his next hunt. The notion made his stomach churn violently, as much as he felt sorry for the poor girls, a part of him still envied them. ‘At least they get to die.’
He slowly got up and limped out of the kennel, visibly shaking, the tattered rags only served to keep his modesty, not warmth. Winter was already here at Winterfell, he could feel it every night in the iron cage among the dogs. ‘Be grateful that you are not out there in the snow.’ - Lord Ramsay had told him sometime last week, after so many beatings for spilling the wine over his lord’s fur coat because his hands couldn’t stop quivering. Moving as fast as his flayed thighs and maimed toes could allow, Reek arrived at the kitchen moments later, obviously breathless. It wouldn’t do him well to dwell on those thoughts, he decided as the kitchen maid handed him a tray of breakfast. There were duties to attend to if he wished to go to sleep tonight with all of his fingers intact.
The soldiers were still snoring in the Great Hall when he got there, a common sight whenever his lord hosted a banquet, especially when last night was Lord Bolton’s wedding to Lady Sansa. Reek was thankful to be allowed near the hearth, the warmth felt so heavenly that he was almost tempted to stay. But of course, he didn’t, fear of being punished outweighed any sense of pleasure in him. ‘Focus’ - The slave reminded himself, he needed to be quick. Checking around to see whether he could spot any of Ramsay’s men, Reek let relief wash over him when he found none. He immediately changed his course and headed toward the laundry chamber to snatch a clean towel, his heart thumping wildly for this act of disobedience. ‘You have to do this, the least you could do for her.’
The chamber Lady Sansa resided in was dark, too dark compared to the brightly lit hallway below. He could see that the windows were wide open, heavy snow covered the nearby table like a white linen tablecloth. Walking as lightly as he possibly could, Reek placed the breakfast tray on Sansa’s bed stand and hurriedly backed off. There was no way he could meet her eyes after what had happened last night. ‘You’ve known Sansa since she was a girl, now watch her become a woman’ - The words rang in his ears like rolling thunders as the images came rushing back. He could never forget her screams and tears when Ramsay had held her down and forced himself in, how she had clutched to the bedsheets and bit her lips until they were all bloody. Reek never wanted to be there. In another life, he had known this girl since she was a mere babe in her mother’s arms, he had seen her take her first steps and dance her first dance. But what could he have done? His opinions didn’t matter, not anymore.
“Theon?” - The figure on the bed stirred, leaning herself on her left elbow to sit up.
“No, milady. Reek.” - Theon was dead, the master made sure of it. Theon was a bad person and a liar, Theon had to go.
“Do you remember me, Theon?” - Sansa went on and pretended not to notice the terrible name Ramsay had insisted on using. - “You have to help me, Theon, please.”
“Not Theon, milady. Reek.” - No, not Theon. The poor slave could sense tears pooling in the corner of his eye. Lord Ramsay would hurt him if he heard, maybe another finger, maybe a toe…
“Look at me. You have to help me, do you hear? You betrayed my family and killed my brothers, you have to help me get away.” - Sansa was angry, very angry. How could this man stay alive when her brothers were all dead? It was not fair.
“No, please, he would hurt you. It could get much worse.” - He tried not to flinch at his own words. It could, it always could. At this point, he had known so many fates worse than death itself.
“He already did. Please… ” - Her voice trailed off as she felt the dizziness come back. It had bothered her since last night and hadn’t got any better. Hopelessness overwhelmed her as she broke down sobbing on the shoulders of her family’s enemy. Winterfell had once been her safe haven, now every corner, every step stank of blood and horror.
With all his strength, Reek cradled the weeping lady and gently guided her toward the empty chair. He then proceeded to close the windows and fetch her the clean towel, one he had risked everything to get. The poor girl seemed almost transparent in the morning light, her auburn hair disheveled and contrasted starkly with her fair complexion. And there were bruises, so many of them scattering over her neck, hands, torso, and legs. Something in him stung like poison upon seeing them, a part of memories that he refused to surrender surfaced to the front of his mind. Once he had vowed to a boy with the same hair color that they would get their sisters back, once he had been so brave and honorable…
Reek jerked suddenly as if he had just been caught stealing. ‘No, this is bad. The master would know.’ These were naughty thoughts, and naughty thoughts would cause him so much pain. The slave stilled upon recalling his fate before turning to an obedient pet, the cross that had reeked of his own vomit and piss, the cell that had witnessed the tortures and mind games that broke him apart.
“Clean yourself, milady. Hide the cloth under your mattress when you finish, I’ll fetch you a new one the next morning.” - His voice hushed and hurried, it barely came out louder than a whisper. - “Please eat your breakfast and behave. It would hurt less if you listen to him…” - He sprinted out of the dark chamber before Lady Sansa could reply.
For the next few weeks, every day without fail he would knock on her door with a tray of breakfast and a clean towel. He tried to get there as early as possible to stay a while longer by her side, tending to her bruises and cuts with bits of healing palm stolen from Maester Wolkan. Gradually, the black and blue marks would lighten to yellow or green and her scrapes soon faded to faint lines of scars. One time, Yellow Dick and Skinner caught him fumbling in the laundry room and decided to have their fun. They made him clean up snow in the front yard without a shovel and take them in his mouth afterward, in exchange for them not telling Lord Ramsay about his misdeed. By the time he reached Lady Sansa’s room, his hands and arms had swollen from frostbite and jaws badly bruised. This was the first time Sansa had sat on the floor with him and held him close. Reek had been terrified to the core by such kindness and attempted to wiggle out several times, but her grip only tightened. When she asked him what had happened, the dutiful slave only shook his head and lowered his gaze.
When Lady Sansa had earned enough trust from her lord husband to wander around unaccompanied, Reek would often find her at the Godswood for hours on end. He never had the nerve to join her, in fear of disturbing her peaceful moments. It always puzzled him as to why people turned to their faith in the hour of need. Reek never needed anyone other than his master, by whom he had been created and taught, but he once knew someone who did, someone as distant and sweet as dreams of summertime. It was a woman of silky black hair with voice of a mermaid and hands soft as feathers. How she had prayed to the God beneath the crashing waves to protect her sons and bring them home. How spectacularly had her God failed her…
Taking one last look at the Lady of Winterfell, Reek turned around and headed to the kitchen where he had been requested. The damned creature was certain Gods were the cruelest of them all - why granted someone hope of salvation when surely none could be given?
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To be honest, they had endured for far longer than he had expected.
‘You’re a good man, Theon.’ - the boy had said with a voice oddly calm for someone who had just witnessed so much death and destruction. Everyone around them was dead or dying, the snow-covered ground looked almost black from the Ironborn’s blood and corpses. From afar, he could hear the dragons' roar, the intensity of which was enough to strike fear into the heart of any man. ‘This is the end.’ - He thought sadly as rounds of undead soldiers surrounded them, their gaze unfocused and hungry. He could faintly hear the inhuman growls on top of his own ragged breathing as his mind unhelpfully recalled Euron’s sneer. ‘The dead can’t swim’. In that case, the people of the Iron Islands would be safe at least, along with his sister. ‘But not the crypt’, he painfully realized, ‘not Sansa…’
It happened so fast that he hardly had time to process. The chilling wind numbed his clammy fingers and froze drops of salty sweat on his brow. The Night King was coming, he could sense the biting cold that came in his wake, even the red-leaved weirwood tree seemed to shudder before the inevitable terror. The white walkers and their newly resurrected wights stood like statues, almost silent except for the occasional hisses and groans. ‘They are waiting.’ - He noted, the broken spear weighted as heavy as a stone in his hand. After what had seemed like an eternity, the steady sound of approaching footsteps caught his ear. ‘He’s here.’ - His blood ran cold as the beastly creature came into view, regal as a king on coronation day.
And then he charged forward, abandoning all sense of reason and sanity. He just knew he had to, for Bran and Rickon whom he had wronged, for Robb whom he had betrayed, for Asha who had never given up on him, for her… Everything else blurred before his teary eyes. It was almost like a waking dream, Theon thought, only the spear and the aching cold felt real. His body twitched at the intrusion, for a moment, he couldn’t feel pain, only warmth as gushes of blood seeped through the woolen fabric and onto his outer coat. Fatigue was the next thing he noticed. Despite his increasingly drooping eyelids, Theon stared into the frightful eyes of his attacker, pulling one last act of defiance at the threshold of death. ‘Not bad for someone who has lived their whole life a coward.’. His head collided with the ground mere seconds later, above him was the endless night sky.
Fear spread its tentacles to every fiber of his body as consciousness slowly evaded him, giving way the great nothingness known as death. The man almost chuckled, funny how humans still dreaded something after a lifetime longing for it. His miserable existence flashed before him in a series of distorted images and mingled voices. There were so many things he wished he could have done, promises he wished he hadn’t broken. ‘Don’t die so far from the sea’ - He could see Pyke again, a towering silhouette above leagues after leagues of white sand and salt water. ‘Now and always.’ - Grey Wind stood idly, gently nudging his giant head at Robb’s side after the battle of Whispering Wood. ‘You have to help me.’ - The ravens cawed in unison on the white bony branches as Ramsay tore off Sansa’s maiden cloak and clad her in house Bolton’s color.
The dying man struggled with each shortened breath, desperately hanging on to the living realm with as much strength as he could gather. He couldn’t go, not just yet when she was still in danger with those monsters. ‘You have to help me.’ - Her words burned like fire in his throat, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste that he had long been familiar. ‘Please…’ - The Ironborn pleaded in his head, to any God who was willing to listen to a sinner as misguided as himself. - ‘… save her…”. For a fleeting second, he wondered where would he go to in the afterlife, be it the watery halls of the Drowned God or the Seven’s paradise, but swiftly dropped the idea. For the like of him, only hell awaited.
Before darkness consumed him entirely, Theon let his weakened mind roam to her one last time, every small detail of her forever immortalized.
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Dull white snow was all he could see, from where he was standing to the thin line at the horizon. Even the endless sky above had seemingly given way to the great wasteland and drained itself of the signature pale blue color. It was very quiet now, the man noted, except for the passing breezes that sent shivers up and down his spine.
Theon filled his nostrils with the freezing air and breathed out slowly, enjoying a rare moment of serenity as a genuine smile graced his face. How long had it been since he last laid eyes on nature only to appreciate its beauty? How long had it been since a young boy from the faraway sea first marveled at the sight of melting summer snow? ‘Too long’ - He decided as his legs carried him forward with no specific direction in mind. - ‘Far too long.’ - The raven-haired man just knew he had to move, one step in front of the other. The falling chalky specks had formed a layer on his bony shoulders and dampened his tousled hair, but he didn’t care. He was free, at last, free from the chains and shackles that the cruel world had thrust upon him. Amidst this vast terrain, he was a man of his own, not Ramsay Bolton’s pet, Ned Stark’s ward, or Balon Greyjoy’s son. He was simply Theon.
He didn’t remember how long he had been walking, it could have been either hours or merely minutes when the man finally spotted something dark on top of a snow dune. Almost immediately, Theon turned and began trudging up the steep hill, eyes fixated on the mysterious object. Whatever it was, he just felt naturally drawn toward it, like a moth to bright flames. ‘I have to get there’. His heart fluttered after each heavy step, something was beckoning him to come closer, something both comforting and alarming. A sensation of warmth and anticipation engulfed him as his ears caught on to a faint whisper. ‘Theon’ - The ghostly voice seemed to say with a strange familiarity that he couldn’t quite place. - ‘Come, come back to me.’
“Leaving so soon?” - Theon stumbled and fell face first onto the snow at the sudden address. It took him a few seconds to gather his breath and locate the person who was talking.
When he did, he couldn’t believe his own eyes. - “Robb…?”
“You have changed quite a lot, haven’t you? I almost mistook you for some old man.” - Robb extended a hand toward him and Theon grabbed it reluctantly, clearly avoiding his childhood friend’s gaze. Shame and guilt were bubbling inside him like boiled water as his thoughts drifted back to the day Ramsay told him of the slaughter at the Twins. ‘To the Young Wolf.’ - The sadistic man had cheered gleefully in his banquet. - ‘Forever young.’
“You… you’re here. I am dead, then?” - He had to be, after the battle of Winterfell and the Night King’s haughty stare. His abdomen stung sharply upon recalling the unsettling memories.
“Not really. It’s up to you, actually.”
The odd answer made him look up from the snow-covered ground and Theon almost choked on his tears. Robb was standing nearby, close enough for him to see lines of deep ragged scars snaking around his pale neck in a mixture of light pink and angry red colors. Ramsay’s booming voice suddenly rang like city bells in his mind. ‘The boy king’s head was chopped off and replaced by his puppy’s.’ His eyes flickered to the network of crisscrossing scars one more time as his fists clenched tightly, the tips of his remaining fingers throbbing from the icy winds. All of that was because of him, permanent evidence of his betrayal and foolishness.
The words slipped from his mouth almost unconsciously. - “I should have died with you.” - It came out no louder than a murmur.
“No, you shouldn’t have.” - Robb seemed so peaceful when he finally spoke - “Believe me when I say I was deeply upset by your doings, so was mother. But your actions didn’t cost us the war.” - His voice was lower now, laced with sadness and disappointment. - “Mine did. I sealed our fate the moment I married Talisa. If you hadn’t gone back to Pyke, you would have been just another corpse.”
Before Theon could throw in any self-deprecating remarks and denial, the ginger continued. - “We know, Theon, that you didn’t murder Bran and Rickon. Father showed us when we met him again. We have all been watching.”
The dumbfounded Ironborn took a few breaths to calm his nerves. He had dreamed of this moment more times than he could count while serving under Ramsay Bolton, during the freezing evenings he had spent curling up next to his master’s bitches. Some nights Robb would behead him for his crimes in the Godswood. Some nights he would be burned alive, screeching and begging for a quick death as the flames melted his flesh. Some particularly terrible nights would cause him to jerk awake in tears when Robb had refused to kill him and allowed Ramsay to break him even further. But this, kind gestures and friendly encounter, he had never expected this to happen.
“It has been a few years since our death, you know. We have moved on now.” - As if sensing his friend’s inevitable nervous breakdown, Robb broke the silence again. - “For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”
“No, no, no…” - Theon stuttered instantly. This was wrong, he must have been dreaming. A turncloak did not deserve forgiveness, he did not deserve anything but punishment and pain. Flashes of the two farm boys’ charred bodies hanging lifelessly, of Ser Rodrick’s accusing glare and Maester Luwin’s defeated sigh overwhelmed his senses. ‘I could have saved them”, his numbing fingers quivered violently as he raised them to eye level. ‘But instead I let them die, instead, I let their blood spill and did nothing.’
Too lost in the incessant rambling, he didn’t notice a hand had covered his own in a firm grip. - “But in the end, you saved them, didn’t you? You saved Bran and Sansa.”
The mention of her name immediately stilled the troubling voices in his head. Sansa, he remembered her. He did save her once, didn’t he, when they jumped from the walls of Winterfell to the snow piles below and he had sheltered her fall with his own body. Sansa, he knew that name, in both of the lives he had left behind when that broken spear penetrated his body. His rapid breathing started to slow down as his thoughts wandered to the brief talk they had shared before the battle. The way her eyes had glimmered when she held his maimed hands and brought them close to her cheeks. How a few drops of hot tears had poured onto his flayed skin as she bid him good luck.
“Are… Are they alright?”
“All of them are safe. Sansa, Bran, Jon, and Arya. They won, because of your help” - Robb said lightly, placing a hand on his friend’s slumped shoulders. - “Now, would you follow me?”
They walked toward the dark thing on top of the dune in total silence, with Robb taking the lead and Theon trailing shortly behind. The raven-haired man had bitten the inside of his cheek several times to rid himself of any lingering doubt about Robb’s existence. It felt surreal to him even then, when his tormented mind had finally accepted the ginger’s odd behaviors. If Robb and whatever had transpired between them was true, then the Gods must have lost their freaking minds to send him to the same place as the Starks. He was not a religious person, but sinners and good men were never meant to mingle in the afterlife. ‘At least they listened to my plea.’ - The Ironborn released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. - ‘At least they keep her safe.’
It was not a high slope, but the knee-length snow had made it significantly harder for them to walk through. By the time they reached the top, the howling winds and snowing had surprisingly died down and if Theon’s senses could still be trusted, he would say that the air felt somewhat warmer. In front of them stood a normal sized wooden door, one similar to those found in Winterfell’s guest rooms. He quickly glanced at his companion, patiently waiting for Robb to explain himself.
“You’re not dead, Theon.” - Robb advanced a few steps to stand by the door. - “It is your choice to stay or leave.” - The handle swiftly turned and revealed a small guest room, dimly lit by a pair of burning candles.
His knees almost buckled upon seeing the two occupants inside. On the simple bed, he saw another version of himself resting, with bandages wrapped neatly around his torso and eyes tightly shut. He almost looked peaceful from this angle, the man thought absentmindedly, if one could look past the protruding cheekbones and bruising patches of skin. When his eyes traveled to the person sitting in the nearby chair, something caught in his throat.
“Sansa…” - Happiness erupted in him at the sight of her lean figure, who was donning an elegant blue gown that almost looked purple in the lack of light. ‘She’s safe’. He couldn’t help but feel tears pooling as his eyes skimmed through her features, trying to assure himself that she was indeed unharmed.
“She has been by your side for quite a while.” - Robb added softly, there was something in his tone that reminded him of Lady Catelyn. While Sansa might inherit their mother’s appearance, it was Robb who took after her personality the most. - “It pains her that you haven’t woken yet.”.
At that exact moment, Sansa tilted her head slightly, just enough to shed light on the previously overshadowed countenance. Theon gaped in shock. Her beautiful blue orbs were now stained with fresh tears and dark circles, giving a clear impression of fatigue and sleeplessness. Even her normally perfect braids seemed to be in disarray when a few stubborn locks had fallen down on either side of her shoulders. For a full minute, both of them stood glued to the doorway, neither dared to move or breathe loudly despite knowing fully well she couldn’t see them. Until…
“Theon… please.” - A gentle pleading escaped her. - “If you can hear me, wake up… Come back to me.” - The desperation in her words was enough to make his guts twist.
“As I said, it’s your choice.” - Robb shifted on his feet, a pair of Tully blue eyes boring into Theon’s ocean gray ones, and raised one eyebrow toward his sleeping form. - “And I suggest you make it quick.” - He knew what that meant. From this distance, he could see the extent of damage on his unconscious body, how the too pale lips had gone nearly ashen and his breathing was becoming more and more labored. ‘I wouldn’t last until sunrise’. Theon could see it in Robb’s uneasy frown and the way Sansa had cradled his lifeless hand in her lap. ‘Unless I choose to return.’
Theon let himself mull over the notion of returning, torn between hope and despair as his wayward thoughts battled against one another. ‘This could be my second chance’. His heart whispered tenderly, this was another shot for him to make amends, to rectify his mistakes. But was he worth it, though? Was he worth wasting a gift as precious as life upon when many others were much more deserving? ‘I could stay by her side, I could protect her.’ As if she would need protection from a broken man, as if the Lady of Winterfell would require help from her family’s betrayer. The hollow gap between his legs ached as a painful reminder of his deformity, serving as proof that he could never move on, that he could never become what she needed.
“I… I don’t… I don’t know” - The Ironborn managed to squeeze out a few ragged words, uncertainty written all over his sunken face.
“Just ask yourself, what do you want?”
What did he want? Theon found him wondering. There had been a time when he had longed for something as sweet as death, for its grotesque fingers to clutch at him and lure him into the soothing darkness. But at the moment, the thought of spending eternity in this Northern paradise no longer appealed to him. What did he want? Once, his untamed spirit had yearned for many things - to be the Lord of the Iron Islands, to fight alongside Robb during battles, to see mother again... But none of that mattered now. Mother was dead, eaten alive by the guilt of outliving her children that she had flung herself from the highest tower into the raging sea. Robb was also dead, butchered by his own bannermen, and the Iron Islands was better off with Asha as their liege lady. What did he truly want? Theon was chewing impatiently on his cracked lips when he felt something warm on his left hand. Sansa had wept again, he noticed, her whole frame shook rhythmically as hot tears fell on the mutilated hand on her lap. His hand. The raven-haired man stared in astonishment. ‘I could feel her’.
All of a sudden, it dawned on him. Sansa. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to stay by her side and look after her like he used to, like when there were only the two of them against Ramsay and the world. His fingers twitched slightly at the blossoming warmth that was steadily spreading. She was all he could see now, with straight auburn hair that reflected the dancing candlelight and her trembling rosy lips. Theon stepped forward, allowing himself to give in to the invisible strings that were pulling him into the alluring chamber.
“Never forget it, then.” - Those were the last things he had heard from Robb before he was swamped by an ocean of bright, blinding light.
-----------------------
“Beds are no place to work.” - Sansa muttered sleepily as she inched toward him, bringing the heavy blanket closer to her chest. It was past midnight already, and judging from the look on Theon’s face, he wasn’t going to set those parchments down any time soon.
“It’s from King’s Landing. You know these can’t afford to wait until morning.”
“Seven hells, Theon. Bran is my bloody brother. I’m sure the ‘urgent matters’ could very well wait.” - Annoyance was clear in her tone. His sleeping routine had gotten rather erratic lately, especially since she was crowned Queen in the North and him being her Hand. ‘And husband’. His lips curled up at the thought.
Although they had defeated the Night King nearly two years ago, this winter hadn’t been easier for any of them, with food getting scarcer and almost every body of water thickly frozen. Even Asha had sent him a raven a fortnight ago stating that some trading ports on the Islands had to be abandoned because of ice buildup. After the Dragon’s Desolation, or whatever name the small folks had used to indicate the burning of King’s Landing by Daenerys’s army, the North and the Six Realms had been on relatively good terms. They had agreed on a mutual trading pact of many essential items such as coal, wood, and leather from Winterfell in exchange for grains, ale, and cotton from the South. In the latest letter, Lord Bronn of Highgarden had written that he needed to cut down their request for grains in half because of ‘an insufficient harvest’. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Theon had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the reason. He should have known this was bound to happen when a sellsword was put in charge of the most fertile valleys in Westeros.
Letting out a shaky breath, he quickly scrolled the papers and placed them on the nightstand. She was right. This was not something he could change overnight, better that he saved his strength for the court tomorrow. Before he could slide under the cover, Sansa had reached over and blown out the light, plunging their chamber immediately into darkness.
“Happy?” - Wrapping one hand around her waist, he asked tenderly.
“Quite.” - Came her soft reply as the ginger buried her head in the crook of his neck, syncing her breathing with his steady rhythm. - “I have missed you.”
Theon only hummed in response, too caught up in the moment to answer properly. Ruling a kingdom was indeed a taxing task and their duties as the Queen and her Hand had prevented them from spending much time together. He had just gotten back to Winterfell today after treating with Meera Reed at Greywater Watch about some issues regarding southern front security. Apparently, some desperate bandits had decided that it was wise to attack the fully armed wagon train.
“Sleep, Theon. Tomorrow is a long day.” - Sansa peeked up from her lashes to lock eyes with him, her voice full of concern. The court meeting tomorrow would the first he attended as her consort, and the dark-haired man could already anticipate the ruckus it would cause.
Even though he wasn’t seen as a traitor anymore after the near-death experience, her Northern lords hadn’t quite accepted him either. ‘Not as a capable Hand, much less their Queen’s husband.’ Besides their obvious dislike for his family name, the questions about his infertility had also been raised during the last court meeting when Sansa had implied her intention of marriage. Of course, she had been able to silence their insensitive comments with simply a glare or two, but he knew they would hold grudges. And both of them remembered all too well what happened to a Stark ruler the last time he lost favor with his bannermen.
“I’m sure our people will love you. Stop thinking too much.” - Sensing his discomfort, she started to stroke his hair and draw tiny circles on his scalp, which made him abruptly released a smile. ‘Her people’, Theon was tempted to say but didn’t find it in him to correct her. It was almost endearing to see this part of her again, the persistent optimism that had been buried deep under so many layers of grace and composure.
Instead, he nuzzled her hair, allowing himself to bask in her scent of winter roses and sandalwood as he quietly muttered - “Good night, my Queen.” - And placed a kiss on her auburn crown.
“And you, my lord husband.”
Sleep swiftly claimed her as soon as the words faded from her lips. He, too, drifted off to a peaceful slumber just moments later to the sound of her regular breathing. Whatever morrow shall bring, they would deal with it later. Right now, nothing else mattered but the two of them resting soundly in each other’s arms. It had taken him quite a while to get used to the idea of her body pressed up against him every night. And since he did, there hadn’t been a day when he woke up next to her that he didn’t count his blessings. Perhaps the Gods weren’t always so cruel. Perhaps the Gods could be kind to him after all.