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Theon has always been fond of finery. He likes dressing himself up in rich velvets and smooth silks and fine leathers. After all, he is a lord, the heir to the Iron Islands, Balon Greyjoy's only remaining son. He must dress the part. Cloaks, shirts, breeches, doublets, capes. His lithe and strong body carried them well. Left the kitchen maids gaping like trouts in his wake. Whores fell over themselves to gain his favour. He swaggered the drab halls of Winterfell, sweeping away the moroseness with the hems of his cloak. People shot him such awed looks. Looks of longing, looks of envy and looks of admiration. He lived for them. But what he would never let them know, is that when he felt velvet brush against his skin, he would close his eyes. He could almost imagine his mother, her velvet gowns and her hugs.
Theon stood in front of his looking glass and smiled. He really liked his smile. Pristine, white teeth in neat rows and red, lush lips stretched in a never fading smirk. Many a maiden had swooned at the sight of that smile. It spoke of mischief and of quiet superiority. The world was a joke and only Theon knew of it. He remembered the first time he had smiled at Sansa Stark. Blood had rushed to her smooth cheeks until it burned as bright as her hair. Theon had realised then, a brilliant smile on his part would leave many powerless against it. Make them weak in the knees, little Jeyne Poole, Sansa Stark, the scullery maids, stable boys and even that sullen Snow. That kind of power was intoxicating. He loved it. He did not have much to begin with after all.
Theon held his bow in his hands. He ran his fingers over the smooth yew. He nocked an arrow. He raised the bow and pulled the string taut. Good. The strain was perfect. Balanced and poised. Theon felt a deep calm wash over him, soothing all his heartaches and pushing their sneers and taunts far, far away. How he loved his bow and arrows. He remembered when he first held a bow. Rodrik had knelt behind him, held his arms steady and whispered quiet instructions in his ear. His arrow had hit its mark. Not the bullseye, but a good shot for an eight-year-old, Maron had insisted. They were not drunk. It was one of the few good memories he had of his brothers, something he had held on to tightly when they had died, when he was ripped from his family and home. He shot the arrow. A bullseye. He could see Maron’s proud smile, feel Rodrik’s arms and almost hear Asha’s loud laugh.
Theon was well known as an accomplished archer but not many know of his prowess in longsword. Perhaps rightfully so. He was not the best but he was far from mediocre. He was often knocked to the dust by Robb and Snow but he never took it to heart. He laughed it off. Excellence was not what he was behind after all. He just liked to brandish the blade striped in Greyjoy colours. He liked his sword, a gift from Dagmer Cleftjaw, his uncle. The man would smile whenever Theon impressed him in the sawdust. He must have done so a lot, for the man smiled often. Theon often wondered; would he be better at swordplay if he continued his tutelage under Nuncle? Maybe, maybe not. But no one could take the warmth away from his heart when the beloved sword shone in the summer sun. It was a piece of Pyke and a memory of pride.
Theon remembered the day Smiler was brought to Winterfell. Such a willful beast. He reared and bucked and bit anyone who dared lay a hand on him. But there was no denying the stallion’s beauty. he had been purchased at Lordsport and he was worth every dragon. A black destrier with silky fur, black as midnight and a flowing mane. Its powerful legs gleamed with sweat and hooves kicked up snow as high as Ser Rodrik’s head. Theon was never the one to believe in fate, destiny and such. But Drowned God have mercy did he fall in love at first sight. Mounting him had felt like it was meant to be. Riding him had felt like liberty, like he could ride away into the horizon and no one could catch him. The beast was pliant beneath his saddle, all signs of rebellion gone. By the time he rode back to Winterfell, Theon knew he had found a worthy mount. The likes of which he will never find again. Smiler. His Smiler.
Theon. Not Reek, never again. Theon was free from his clutches, so was the lovely Jeyne. The monster was dead, his name erased from the annals of history, from the memory of folk. But the survivors must bear their scars. Theon had hated them. His body had regained its strength. His hair was shorn away and grew back as raven curls. The Queen in the North, sweet Sansa, had forgiven him, thanked him for rescuing her dear friend and wept at his penance. He had fought to put her on the seat of Winterfell. Not the wardeness Lord Stannis intended, but a Queen. His amends to the starks. Her Grace fed him, clothed him, made him her master of archers. Of course, people whispered, called him Turncloak, spat behind his back at first. But Her Grace was quick to put a stop to it. Theon- the wayward prince, Theon- the sea wolf, Theon- the queenmaker, Theon- the maidens’ warrior. These were the names left in memory. The names which made him almost forget the horrors he went through.
But they all came crashing back as he saw the scars. Gouges and lines, pink and pale against his skin. nightmares etched into flesh. A proof of the violations he endured. He could not even stand his reflection until lovely Jeyne had traced them all with her delicate fingers. “scars bring honour to a warrior, my lord,” she had said, eyes lowered and a pretty blush on her cheeks. The years had been kind to her, given her a willowy grace and a regal beauty befitting a Lady-in-waiting. He had kissed her, soft and slow like she deserved, pouring his love-sick heart into it. Worshipped her like the goddess she was. Theon saw his scars in a new light the next morning.