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Chapter Text

He hasn’t climbed those stairs in years, and yet Theon remembers every single step. The one that’s a tiny bit lower than the others, the one with the crack down the middle, all of them worn and smooth, polished by generations of feet running up and down the flat stones. They’d used to jump down from the last landing, him and Robb, and probably every single child who had ever lived in Winterfell. 

His skin still feels damp from the bath. He should be going to bed, try to trap the warmth of the pools beneath a mountain of furs. And yet here he is, climbing a staircase he has no business using. It isn’t used at all these days, not by the servants, not by the guests. There’s maybe ten people left in the whole of Winterfell who know it even exists. 

The castle is full, thronged with more people than Theon has ever seen it hold, more even than when King Robert had been here. Most of them are camped outside, the Dothraki, the Wildlings, the hundreds of Unsullied Daenerys brought with her. His own men are bedding down in the Great Hall, among the rest of the soldiers. They’re probably drinking, celebrating what could be their last night. Only Bran might know when they will come. 

The lords and ladies have been given quarters in the warmest part of the castle. Theon’s assigned room is there too, a room with hot water running through its walls, a roaring fire, a bed ready made to sink into and forget the world for a few precious hours. He’s to share it with the smith, Robert Baratheon’s bastard, but that one prefers to stay down in the smithy. And Theon doesn’t feel ready for sleep. 

He'd arrived here the day before. Had talked to Daenerys, had even managed to steal an hour of Sansa’s time for a short talk. It had been good to see her alone, to make sure she’s well. The way she’d looked when they had parted… And now she’s finally back where she belongs. The Lady of Winterfell. It makes Theon smile. 

But there’s one person he still hasn’t seen. Theon knows he’s here, somewhere. Overseeing the preparations, organizing the castle’s defense… mayhaps he’s with the red-haired wildling, or the doleful-looking Commander of the Night’s Watch. Most likely he’s with the queen. 

The stairway is quiet, the only light the torch in Theon’s hand. There used to be torches mounted to the walls way back when, mostly for the servants who’d used the stairs to make their way to the children’s quarters without taking the greater staircase and risk running into more work along the way. 

The shadows dance on the walls as Theon climbs more steps, turning a corner – and almost dropping the torch when he finds himself face to face with the King in the North. Jon doesn’t look very kingly, the way he’s sitting on the stairs, leaning against the wall, one knee drawn up and his arm resting upon it. He’s not looking up, but Theon can see the tiny motion when Jon shakes his head. 

“I should have known that if there’s one person in Winterfell to find me here, it’d be you.”

Theon doesn’t know what to say to this. His heart is beating fast, the unexpectedness of meeting Jon here, like this, as if the years in between haven’t happened at all, has chased away anything Theon might have wanted to say to him. 

“I didn’t know you were here,” he finally says, nonsensical and stupid, an echo of what he’d said when he’d climbed out of the sea at Dragonstone and Jon had been there. 

“Neither did I,” Jon mutters, shaking his head once again. “Why are you here?” 

The question, the incredulous tone in Jon’s voice, stings like a slap. But there’s nothing else to be expected, and so Theon just shrugs. 

“To fight for – for Winterfell. For the living. Do what I can to help.” It sounds so ridiculous, but it’s all Theon has to offer. “I want to choose the right path for once.” 

“That’s good to hear.” It’s hard to tell in the flickering torchlight, but it looks as if Jon is smiling. “But I meant, what are you doing here – the stairs. Not Winterfell.” 

The answer to that comes on its own, before Theon can even think about it. 

“I had to.” 

It’s true. The moment he’d come through the gates, the memories had come rushing. Not of the Boltons, the horrors they had brought here. Not of the horrors he’d brought to Winterfell himself. Only memories of those stairs. 

“Why are you here?” Theon asks when Jon doesn’t react. “I thought you’d be with the queen.” 

“The queen…” Jon’s face darkens, pained lines forming around his mouth. “I’d rather not talk about her. Not now.” 

There’s something peculiar about the way Jon is speaking about Daenerys, but it’s not Theon’s place to question it. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers instead. “I’ll leave you to your – your–”

“Sulking?” Jon huffs, resting the back of his head against the wall. “I reckon I am.” 

“I was going for musings,” Theon says. “I’ll see you around, your gr–”

“Don’t.” Jon’s breath leaves him in a rush. He finally looks up, his dark eyes reflecting the fire of the torch. “I didn’t – I thought I’d–” His shoulders sag. “I haven’t been here since that day. Not once.” 

“Me neither.” 

It’s only a half lie. Theon hadn’t used those stairs since Jon had left for the Wall. Reek had. 

“I would’ve thought–” Jon bites his lip, swallowing whatever he was about to say. “It was you who started it.” 

It’s true. It had been his hiding place, not Jon’s. 

“Do you remember?” Jon’s gaze meets Theon’s, for just a fleeting moment. “The first time I found you here?” 

It’s been years. Years and what feels like several lifetimes. But there’s only one answer. 

“Of fucking course I do.” Theon hesitates, just a second, before he puts the torch into a holder and awkwardly sits down on the same step as Jon, against the opposite wall. “It was my sixteenth nameday.”

Chapter Text

It’s his sixteenth nameday, and everything could have been brilliant – if it hadn’t been for that girl. The girl and her alluring tits, mostly. Her round arse. And the wine. And Robb’s inability to keep his mouth shut about things that don’t concern him in the slightest, especially Ironborn custom–

“Greyjoy?” 

Theon almost groans out loud at the familiar, unwelcome voice coming from further down the staircase. Not that it matters, his torch would’ve given him away in any case, so Theon decides to launch an offensive. 

“Go away, Snow. I’m not in the mood for your face.” 

Predictably, Snow doesn’t seem to give three fucks about Theon’s polite request. It takes only another couple seconds before he rounds the corner, the usual dour look on his face as he regards Theon. 

“I was looking for you,” he mutters accusingly, as if that was Theon’s fault. 

“Well, you found me. Now be a good bastard brother and tell the lordling, if he could be bothered to apologize in person instead of sending you, he might consider himself forgiven.” 

“Robb didn’t send me,” Snow states, his brow furrowing. “I was looking for you.” 

“Aye, you already said so. Have you hit your head?” Theon puts on a look of deep concern. “Which year do we have?” 

Snow mutters something bastardly under his breath. It sounds like ass, and Theon smiles, mildly amused. 

“Yes, very clever. Now that you got that off your chest, how high are the chances you’ll fuck off again?” 

To Theon’s chagrin the bastard doesn’t move a muscle, only the dark glaring intensifies. 

“Alright, what is it?” 

Theon searches his mind for a suitable barb. One that makes Snow so uncomfortable he’ll leave with his tail between his – oh! Theon sits up slightly. 

“Did you mean to give me a nameday gift?” He flashes his widest smile. “If it’s sucking my cock, go ahead.” 

He moves his hands towards his crotch as if to unlace his breeches. Snow reacts beautifully; his face colours so rapidly Theon almost feels worried about him for a second. Even the tips of his ears go red. 

“No? Pity.” Theon silently applauds himself when that makes Snow’s jaw drop. “I haven’t had a decent cocksucking in more than a fortnight. The wenches in Wintertown really aren’t what they used to be. There’s one, Meg or Peg or something of the sort, that girl’s got an awful lot of–”

“Archery,” Snow barks, by now decidedly maroon-coloured. “I wanted to ask you for archery advice!” 

“But her teats are still the biggest I’ve ever sucked,” Theon finishes, proud of himself, and slightly turned on. “What was that?” 

“I wanted to ask you for archery advice,” Snow repeats. He looks as if he’s under torture. 

“How the fuck did that come to be?” Theon narrows his eyes. Something’s foul there. “Yesterday you told me how I’m such a worse fighter than you.” 

“Aye, sword fighter.” Snow’s eyes impossibly darken further. “But you do know your way around a bow.” 

“I know my way around a lot of things. If your offer from before still stands I could show you–” Theon interrupts himself when Snow starts to look like he’ll lunge any second. “Japes aside…  why?”

“You’re good,” Snow blurts out, his cheeks flaming once again. “Everyone knows Ironborn are good archers. You always hit bullseye, the bow looks like it’s part of your body–”

“Looking at my body, are you? ” Theon gesticulates at his curiously half-hard prick. “Are you sure you aren’t after this?” 

“This was a bad idea,” Snow mutters, looking a lot like he regrets his very existence. “I just–” 

“Wanted to be a good half-brother and do Robb’s dirty work of cheering Theon up again for him,” Theon finishes dryly, but to his surprise Snow shakes his head. 

“Robb’s still at the feast drinking with Jory,” he says, sounding offended. “It was my idea to–”

“Cheer me up? How sweet of you.” 

Theon carefully laces his voice with just enough sarcasm to hide the ugly truth: he’s touched against his will. They don’t have the best relationship, him and Snow, mostly due to Snow being a righteous, boring bastard. No trace of the hot blood bastards are said to possess, no spark, no fire… except for his mouth, maybe, Theon can allow that much. It’s a pretty mouth, even when it’s hanging open like now. Mayhaps a little too pretty. 

“Close your mouth,” Theon says, forcing his gaze away. “You always stand around like that looking like an idiot.” 

Snow’s mouth snaps shut into a pout. Drowned fucking God. 

“Are you going to do it? Or not?” Snow straightens, gazing down on Theon. 

“Aye, Uncle Theon is going to help you,” Theon hears himself say. This is a bad idea. “Tell you what, while his future lordship sleeps in tomorrow, you and I can start the day with a round of practice.”

Inexplicably, Snow doesn’t look happy at the prospect. 

“What? Wondering why I’m lowering myself like this?” Theon shrugs. “It makes sense that you’re asking me. I’m certainly the best archer in Winterfell.”

It’s nothing but the truth after all. Theon smiles. 

“Thanks. See you tomorrow then,” Snow mutters. 

His mouth is twitching, and Theon rolls his eyes. 

“Stop looking so smug with yourself, Snow.” Theon hesitates. Thanking him would take things too far. “Help me up, my arse is getting numb.” 

It takes Snow a moment before he grabs Theon’s outstretched arm, levering him to his feet with astonishing ease. For a short, skinny bastard he’s pretty strong. Together they walk down the stairs, neither saying a word until they reach the ground. For a moment they look at each other, before Snow mumbles goodnight and slinks off into the dark yard. Theon looks after him for a second before he turns his gaze towards the Great Hall. 

The feast will still be going if Robb is still there, and maybe he could find that girl from before again. She’d looked willing alright, and why wouldn’t she? He’s Ironborn after all. It’s what they do. 

Theon starts to whistle. 

Chapter Text

“You did cheer me up that day.” Theon smiles ruefully. “ And I never thanked you for trying.”

“Oh. I didn’t expect you to. Nor did I expect you to follow through with your promise,” Jon adds. “You didn’t appear until the afternoon.” His head is still tilted back, his eyes closed. “I waited for hours.” 

“I think I was sleeping in too.” Theon barely remembers the day after his nameday. Certainly not the archery lesson. “But I did appear in the end, didn’t I? Probably didn’t teach you a lot that day.” 

“Aye, you were in a remarkably foul mood. I wanted to strangle you.” Jon sighs. “But after that… You started dropping bits of advice every now and then.”

He shifts, opening his eyes and directing his gaze at the flame of the torch. 

“There were times when I held a bow in my hand and suddenly I would hear your voice in my head, telling me to lift my elbow, or straighten my back… Once – once when I needed to hit my target so badly, when I needed the first arrow to hit the – the bullseye, and fast...” To Theon’s surprise, Jon shivers. “I nocked that arrow, I aimed, my arm trembled – and there it was, your voice, as clear as if you were standing next to me. Take–” 

“Take a deep breath, Snow,” Theon says the rest of the sentence together with Jon. “And did you–”

“Aye. Straight in the heart.” Jon exhales a shuddery breath. “I was grateful for your advice then. I may have never said a word, but I very much appreciated every bit of it when we were – before I went away.”

“Oh, that was appreciation?” Theon raises one brow. “I always thought that was your murder glare.” 

The stairs aren’t exactly comfortable, cold and hard, but Theon barely pays his discomfort any attention. They are here, both of them. Alone. There won’t be another moment like this, another opportunity to make his peace with the things still standing between them. There’s so much he wants to tell Jon, so much he needs to say before they reach Winterfell. Before death comes for either of them, or both. 

“Murder glare…” Jon’s mouth twitches. “I reckon I was insufferable a lot of the time.” 

“Nah, sometimes you did smile. Not at me, mind,” Theon adds. “At Arya, mostly. Arya and–” 

It stings. It stings, it stings, it stings. There’s no way to anticipate Jon’s reaction, but maybe it’s time.

“And Robb,” Theon continues, his chest tightening until he feels short of breath. “He always made you smile.” 

Without meaning to, Theon buries his face in his hands, scared to look at Jon, terrified of what he might find. The silence grows louder with every passing heartbeat. 

“You and me both,” Jon finally mumbles. “Theon, look at me.” 

It’s a lot harder to comply than Theon would’ve thought, but finally he drops his hands, lifting his gaze. Jon’s eyes are wide open, the expression  in them unreadable. 

“What’s done is done,” Jon says. His voice is tired, but calm; his face impassive. “I don’t want to do this. Not tonight. We said what we had to say back at Dragonstone, didn’t we?” 

“Not his name. Only Ned’s.” 

“I couldn’t.” Jon half-smiles. “My mind was screaming it, Robb, Robb, Robb, but I couldn’t say it out loud.” 

“I thought if I said his name you’d kill me on the spot,” Theon mutters. “It wasn’t my place. It wasn’t the right time.” 

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Jon shifts his leg, his boot nudging Theon’s. “But what I do know… I want to remember him. Not just the horrible things that happened, but the good things too.” Jon’s half-smile turns into a real one. “Like that one time, when he caught his foot in that big root and started screaming that the tree was going to get him.”

The memory makes Theon smile, his heart aching with longing. 

“He was ten then. Too old to believe in stories of sentient heart trees.” 

“He said if you ever mentioned it again he’d murder you in your sleep.” Jon shakes his head, his eyes far away. “Or how he started to hiccup after having a cup of wine. He grew out of that too fast, it was hilarious.” Jon’s smile starts to fade. “I remember how he smiled when he teased me about my hair.” 

Theon breathes. In and out. It’s not hard anymore; instead there’s a small, warm glow starting to form in his chest. 

“What was it he said? That day when we were getting our hair cut?” 

“You mean that one time before King Robert arrived?” Jon gives a brief chuckle. “He said I had never met a girl I liked better than my own hair. And he was right. There was no girl.” 

He looks up, and Theon’s heart skips a beat.

Chapter Text

“What do we have here? Is it a mouse? A scared wench? Oh no, it’s you!” Theon smirks when Snow looks up accusingly. “Really, Snow? This is the place you chose to hide away?”

“It took me over an hour to find you the last time,” Snow says, his brows gathering. “I thought it was a good place.”

“It is, at night. Not during the day. Scoot over!” Theon doesn’t wait for Snow to do so before he lets himself slump down on the stairs next to him. “Took me five minutes at the most to figure out you’re the one loitering here.” 

Snow doesn’t answer, but his bristling at Theon’s words is too obvious to ignore.

“One of the maids told me someone’s here, moaning and groaning like a ghost. Scared her shitless.” 

“I was not–” Snow huffs. “Did Robb send you?”

“Correct. He noticed you didn’t seem your usual, ebullient self when Tommy was done with you.” Theon lightly smacks Snow’s knee, ignoring the dark glare that earns him. “But since he was urgently expected by his Lord Father, and out of the goodness of my heart, I offered to go looking for you. So, here I am!” 

Theon grandly gesticulates at himself, slightly disappointed when Snow doesn’t react. 

“I thought you’d be a little more impressed. Anyway…” Theon leans back to give Snow a thorough once-over. “What is it that makes you hide in my favourite hiding place? Is this really about your hair?”

“He cut it too short,” Snow mutters, lifting a hand to his curls only to drop it again. “I look ridiculous.” 

“Aye, and your hair’s shorter on top of that,” Theon says, laughing at his own lame jape. Snow on the other hand doesn’t look amused at all. “Oh, come now! You know you look perfectly normal.” 

Snow mutters something Theon can’t make out under his breath, but he doesn’t look convinced. 

“I’m serious,” Theon reiterates, trying to sound somewhat sincere. Snow is a pretty boy alright, nevermind the length of his hair. “Why the fuck does your appearance even matter? You’re not interested in getting your cock wet, remember?”

Snow harrumphs, his cheeks flashing bright red. 

“Oh, is that it?” Theon laughs when the blush on Snow’s face deepens. “I thought you’d given up on that after you fled from Ros’ chambers. Not that I’m complaining,” he adds, his thoughts straying off to that glorious day. “After all, we'd already paid her, so… Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Snow snaps, immediately clamping his mouth shut again, as if he’s already said too much. 

“Waste not, want not.” Theon shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t think those Brothers in Black you so wish to belong to will care three straws about the length of your hair.” 

Snow stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, but the look on his face is such an unhappy one Theon feels himself soften a little. 

“Hey, Snow, does it really matter? Even if you shaved your head you’d still be a lot better looking than most men. The notable exception being myself, obviously.” 

And Robb, but somehow Theon thinks that isn’t what Snow wants to hear right now. Finally, after an altogether too long and uncomfortable silence, the bastard looks up, his eyes narrowing. 

“What makes you think I care about your opinion?” 

“The fact that you’re still here and listening and haven’t stomped off in a huff. Drowned – sit back down, for fuck’s sake!” 

Theon grabs a handful of Snow’s doublet, pulling hard enough that Snow slumps back down with a muffled oomph, almost landing in Theon’s lap. 

“You’re not going anywhere until I can report to Robb that you’re sufficiently cheered up, or he’ll never trust me with a mission again.” 

Which isn’t that serious of a concern, for now, but then you never know. Better stay on the good side of Winterfell’s future lord. 

“Alright, I’m cheered up,” Snow mutters, his face so pinched up it makes Theon laugh. 

“Aye, you look the picture of merriment,” he drawls in his best sarcastic tone. “Seriously, Snow… What would it take to make you smile?” 

“Different company,” Snow growls. He tries to get away again, but Theon doesn’t let go. 

“Tough luck.”

He thinks about it, his fingers still firmly clamped in Snow’s doublet. There’s got to be something he can do, something he can offer Snow besides archery advice and teasing japes. Mayhaps what the bastard needs is a little reassurance from someone other than his siblings, someone who is a lot more experienced in the ways of the world. But then Snow has never trusted Theon’s words, so anything he’ll say will be taken as an insult or a joke anyway. Theon sighs, annoyed with Snow, and Robb, the whole situation really. 

“Can I leave now?” Snow futilely tries to remove his doublet from Theon’s grasp. “If Robb asks, I’ll tell him you did your best.” 

“As if,” Theon mumbles, still deep in thought. His best… Well, it wouldn’t kill him to at least try one more time. After all, praise never fails to cheer Theon himself up. He bends, tilting his head until he’s able to look Snow in the eye. “Are you going to believe me if I say nice things about you? 

“No.” 

It sounds decisive enough, but Theon decides to ignore that. 

“You’re a good swordsman. And you’re not hopeless with a longbow either.” 

Snow’s answer to this is such an unimpressed look it’s hard not to start laughing again. Alright, mayhaps that was too obvious. Theon takes a deep breath. 

“You’re rather pretty. No, I really mean it,” he says when Snow rolls his eyes. “Your hair aside, you’ve got the eyes and the mouth and all that.”

“Aye, now I feel so much better. Thank the gods I have eyes and a mouth.” 

Snow’s voice is sarcastic as all fuck, but his cheeks start to colour once again. The sight gives Theon hope that he’s finally on the right track, and so he rambles on, trying not to listen to himself too much. Or think of what his father might say if he heard him. 

“You know perfectly well how – your eyes are really pretty, even when you look as if you want to strangle me. And your mouth, well…” Theon drops his voice to a suggestive drawl as he’s going in for the kill. “If you were a girl I’d be all over you in a heartbeat.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Snow says, and now he’s looking up, his chin held high as if he suddenly decided to fight back. Good. “Easy for you to claim such a thing when there’s no way to figure out if it’s true.” His eyes are glittering, more spark in them than Theon has ever seen. “I’m not a girl, Greyjoy. And I don’t believe you.” 

It’s an open challenge, a dare, and for some reason Theon’s stomach bubbles with sudden excitement. Snow is bluffing, a smug tinge to his mouth. He clearly expects this to be the end of the game, probably thinks Theon will be uncomfortable, laugh and jape and finally leave him alone. 

No fucking way. 

“I’m full of shit?” Theon asks, leaning forward. “You think I don’t mean it?” He slowly starts to smile. “Think again.” 

And with that he closes the distance, his eyes falling shut on their own when his mouth finds Snow’s. 

Chapter Text

“You bit me,” Theon says into the silence between them. “It hurt like all hells.” 

“And yet you did it again,” Jon says, his mouth twitching. “And again, and again.” 

“I wanted to teach you a lesson.” 

It’s not a lie, but also not exactly the truth. Aye, he’d wanted to show Jon, make it clear once and for all that Theon Greyjoy wasn’t to be trifled with. And it had felt so good. A triumph over the sullen bastard, a clear victory in their ongoing game. The sweetest mouth he’d ever tasted. 

“It certainly stuck.” Jon lifts his hand, as if to touch his lips, before letting it drop again. “Robb caught me after dinner that night. I didn’t tell him anything, only said you were being your usual prick self.” 

“Aye, he would have believed that without a second thought.” Theon sighs, looking down on his gloved hands. “I’ll never know why he liked me in the first place.” 

“Because you were fun. Around Robb,” Jon adds, one eyebrow clambering up. “And because he was Robb. The day you came to Winterfell, a frightened boy far from home, he decided that he would be your friend. That you were worthy to have his trust. He loved you like a brother.” 

There’s no anger in Jon’s words, no reproach. He simply recounts what had been the truth, so long ago. So many wars, so many lives, so many wrong choices. What’s done is done, Jon had said before, but some things are never done with. Some sins only death can lay to rest, be it on the morrow, in a year, in ten – it doesn’t matter.

“I wrote to him,” Theon hears himself say, his own voice barely recognizable to himself. “I wrote a letter at Pyke, to warn him of my father’s plans. His face was before my eyes the whole time, his voice in my ears, quarreling with my father’s. I had to choose. I chose wrong. I burnt the letter.” 

The silence stretches between them. Not even the tears falling into Theon’s lap make a sound. 

“I chose the Watch over him,” Jon finally says. “I was on my way to his side when my brothers – my friends – came after me to bring me back. I went with them. I gave up one brother for many. I traded my love for him for my honour, and there hasn’t been a day where I don’t regret that choice.” He closes his eyes. “What is my honour compared to my brother’s smile?” 

Honour. It’s always the same. Jon’s honour, the questionable honour of House Greyjoy. Honour killed Ned Stark, it killed Robb, and it would have killed them, too. 

“We would have died with him.”

“Maybe we should have.” Jon sighs, turning and placing his feet on the stairs below them. “Maybe the Gods had other plans for us.” 

“Fuck the gods.” Theon sits up too, suppressing a groan when he straightens his back. No god, old or new or drowned, has ever listened to him. “If it was fate–”

“It has to be,” Jon interrupts, pressing his face into his hand as he leans forward, his elbow on his knee. “It’s the only way any of it makes sense, fate leading us here. All we did, just for this one night. Just to be here and play our parts in this last fight.” 

Their parts…. Theon knows what his part will be, if they let him. He needs to be with Bran, needs to do whatever is in his power for the boy who yielded Winterfell to Theon. Protect whatever it is that Bran has become, for the sake of Winterfell, or the whole of Westeros. For his sister, for Sansa, for – for the people he loves the most. And for himself. For the man he wants to be. 

“I will,” Theon says out loud, surprised at how firm his voice sounds. “Until my last breath.”

The silence falls heavily once again between them, until finally Jon lets his hand sink with a sigh. 

“Enough of this. Fate or not, here we are. Back in Winterfell, back on these bloody stairs.” He gives Theon a brief glance, his mouth quirking up. “I made a faithful promise to myself that day when we – when I bit you: no more. I swore to the Old Gods I would never return here. That I would avoid you where I could, for as long as the king was in Winterfell. And then I would leave to take the Black and forget any of it ever happened.” 

Jon lapses back into silence after this, but now he seems less tense than before, as if something has lifted from his shoulders. But Theon can still feel the weight of it on himself. They’re only half an arm’s length apart. Miles, it feels like. 

“You did come back,” he says. “Promise or not, you came back.” 

“I know.” Jon takes a deep breath, exhales. “I told myself it was convenient, nothing more. Taking these stairs instead of the other ones. I told myself it didn’t matter. You wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t – I knew you were saying your goodbyes to the children.” The stairs had been so cold that day. “I needed to get you alone. I needed to try.”

“And I needed to go.” Jon turns his head, his eyes just the same as the day when he left. “There was nothing for me in Winterfell.” 

The words are out before Theon can stop them. 

“I was.”

Chapter Text

Snow isn’t coming. 

It’s been at least half an hour since Theon had seen him slinking towards the main stairs to the children’s quarters. Half an hour ought to be more than enough to say farewell to a six-year-old and – well, it might take longer to say farewell to Arya. She’s always been Snow’s favourite. 

Theon gets to his feet with a huff. This may be a wonderful hiding place, but it's certainly not suitable for waiting. There’s no room to pace up and down, the walls are barely two arm’s lengths apart, there’s no window to look out of to pass the time… Theon sighs, settling down on the cold steps again. 

It’s asinine, hanging around here on the off chance that Snow will use this staircase instead of the main one. He’s probably long gone, off to pack the three pieces of clothing he owns. Not that any of them will be of any use up at that fucking Wall. Rumour has it the place is really cold, and Winter is coming. 

Ned Stark’s voice rings through Theon’s head at the last words, making him grimace. Typical of the Starks to have house words like this, grim and cold and dull, and in the end they always come true. Righteous pricks, all of them. Theon shivers, wishing he was wearing his cloak. Outside it’s snowing – snowing, in fucking summer – and despite being out of the cold winds, the staircase never warms. 

He should go. Give up on whatever it is he even wants to achieve here. It’s not as if Snow’s absence will change anything. Except maybe make Lady Stark more relaxed. And Robb will be sad, for a while. He’ll get over it. Snow’s sole contributions to life in Winterfell are disapproving glares and magnificent pouts anyway – except for these last weeks. Ever since the day of the lesson Theon had taught him, Snow has barely looked his way. 

“So what,” Theon mutters, shivering again when the words bounce off the walls in an eerie echo. He can live perfectly fine without–

Theon swivels around, almost sliding off the steps when a sound comes from above. The sound of footsteps, slow and shuffling, as if whoever is coming is reluctant to do so. Theon gets to his feet, turning his gaze upstairs, his skin prickling with goosebumps when the footsteps come closer, louder and more distinct – and stop. For a moment all he can hear is silence, then a resigned-sounding huff. 

“Oh, please.” 

Theon rolls his eyes, slinging his arms around himself in an attempt to get warmer, and mayhaps assuage the peculiar gnawing in his guts. 

“Either you get down here and talk to me like a man, or you take your little bastard tail between your legs and fuck off upstairs again.” 

There’s another huff, the footsteps start again and a moment later Snow rounds the corner, gloomily gazing down at Theon. 

“Greyjoy.”

Somehow he makes it sound like an insult, but right now Theon feels too relieved to care. Snow hasn’t vanished yet. He’s still here. They’re both here. There’s still a chance, however small, to – to do something, whatever this something might be. 

“Snow,” he says with a nod, immediately feeling like an idiot. That’s not how this is supposed to be. Snow is supposed to be the idiot between the two of them, not Theon. 

The silence starts to get grating as they stare at each other; Snow with his usual frown and flaming cheeks, Theon with growing exasperation. 

“When are you leaving?” he finally asks, anything to break the tension – and immediately feeling even tenser than before when Snow’s frown deepens. 

“As soon as you step out of my way and let me through,” he mutters darkly. “Go away, Greyjoy.”

Go away – Theon carefully breathes in through his nose, bristling with indignation. 

“I’m going nowhere,” he states, squaring his shoulders. “If you want to go, go.” He forces a smile, but it feels like a grimace. “Are you afraid of me? I’m not the one going around and biting people.” 

With a grand flourish Theon takes a step to the side, not a large step, just enough for Snow to squeeze past. It seems to take him a moment to sort his thoughts, but finally the bastard gives a little shrug, walking down the steps until he reaches Theon, another step–

“Wait.” Theon lifts his hand, lets it sink again. “Just–”

Snow stops two steps below Theon, turning back, his expression wary – but he does turn back. Once again they stare at each other, the tension in the air growing until Theon can’t take another second of it.

“Is it because of me?” he asks. “Are you leaving because I – because we–”

“Gods help me,” Snow mutters, his voice sounding tired. “You think way too highly of your impact on me. I’m going because I want to. Nothing you could do could make me leave my home.” 

“I’d hope not.” 

Theon shrugs, unsure how to proceed. This is not like him at all, the confusion, the ache in his stomach, the longing to reach out and hold Snow in place until Benjen Stark is safely gone and there’s no chance in hell Snow will catch up with him – it makes no sense. None of it makes sense. No one needs Snow here, no one wants Snow here–

“Don’t go,” Theon blurts out, wanting to bite his tongue the moment the words are out, and yet instead he repeats them, a plea instead of the suggestion he meant it to be. 

“Why would I stay? What’s left for me in Winterfell? You?” Snow’s eyes are darker than ever, challenging and intense. “Are we going to be friends now? Out there, in front of Robb and the whole bloody castle?”

No. Not that. 

Theon doesn’t say it out loud. It’s impossible, Snow must know that. They’ve never been friends, they don’t have anything that connects them, nothing to talk about, no common interests. A part of him wishes it was different, but it isn’t. 

“See,” Snow mutters into the silence, his shoulders sagging. “There’s nothing for me in Winterfell.”

“We could–” Theon breaks off again, his head starting to smart. “We could meet here, you and me. After dark, when the others are in bed, we could–”

“You think that’s enough? You think I’m going to endure Lady Catelyn’s coldness? Knowing she wishes I would just vanish everytime she sees me – for what?” Snow’s hands ball into fists, his mouth is a tight line. “Without Father I don’t belong here. I have to go. You think I’d stay just to have to hide away here? Because you’re too craven to–”

Theon lunges, his vision blurring before his eyes as he crashes into Snow. His fingers claw into the fabric of Snow’s doublet, pulling him in with a feeling all too close to desperation. This kiss is different from the other kisses, not a bite turning into something soft, something warm. No, this kiss is pure heat, an open flame, burning Theon’s lips, and maybe his heart, too. 

“I have to,” Snow whispers, so close, already gone, “I have to,” again and again until Theon feels ready to scream. 

Instead he moves in once more, stifling the horrible words from Snow’s mouth with his lips, his tongue, his hands in Snow’s hair, their bodies close and their hearts beating against the other, a dissonance, not together, not now and not ever, and Theon can’t bear it. 

“Fuck off,” he spits, almost a snarl, before he dives in again, just one last time, one last taste. “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck – off–”

They’re both out of breath, out of time, and yet it’s simply impossible to stop from holding on tighter, take more, one last time, one last–

“Stop,” Snow shouts, or maybe it’s a whisper, echoing up and down the stairs and all around them, until the words hit and Theon stops, panting, his lips numb and his vision blurred once again.  

“It’s not enough. You know it isn’t. You of all–” Snow shakes his head, taking a step back. “We both know that.”

Theon swallows, his throat dry. He knows nothing of the sort, he doesn’t even know what in all hells he’s even trying to do here. He wants to scream, raise his fist and punch Snow right in his tired, sad face, tell him to finally leave and never come back. He wants to beg him to stay. 

Don’t go. I’ll try, we can try, anything, just don’t go. 

Theon says nothing. 

“It’s not enough,” Snow repeats, and with that he turns away, around the corner and out of sight, until the sound of his footsteps fades and finally stops. 

The stairs are cold, but Theon doesn’t feel it as he sinks down on them. Not enough. Never enough. 

Chapter Text

“I often asked myself,” Theon says into the tense silence between them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “What it was that you wanted from me. If there was anything I could’ve said–”

“No.” Jon shakes his head, a half smile on his lips. “What I wanted was impossible.” 

“You wanted us to be friends,” Theon tries. 

“Yes and no.” Jon sighs. “What I really – I wanted you to treat me like Robb. We could have – the three of us, sworn brothers, a unit against – it couldn’t have been.” 

It sounds so little. The bare minimum even, a wish for someone belonging to you, someone to shield your back – a place to feel safe. Friends. Such a small thing to wish for, and yet… 

“It couldn’t have been,” Jon continues, “because I also wanted you to – to do that – to me–” His cheeks colour, the corners of his mouth turning down. He looks up. “I wanted more.” 

Theon’s breath hitches in his throat, his stomach somersaulting. It takes all his strength to not look away from Jon’s gaze, the regret in it. They both have so much to regret. So much still to fight for. 

“Theon…” 

It almost sounds like a question, the way Jon says his name, but Theon doesn’t have an answer. Not now, not with death on their doorstep. Not as long as he doesn’t know what Jon’s own answer would be. 

“What will you do?” he asks, finally looking away when Jon’s expression changes to confusion. “I mean, after – when the fight is won and we–”

When the fight is won… It seems impossible to hope for any other outcome than the extinction of all life, and yet… Against all odds, there is hope. As long as they have Daenerys and her dragons, as long as they have Jon fighting by her side, there is hope. 

“Oh.” Jon turns away. “I haven’t – King’s Landing, I suppose. I swore to fight for Daenerys. No matter what – who I – she’s my queen. Our queen.” 

“You love her,” Theon says, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest. “You’ll be king by her side.”

“No.” 

The decisiveness in Jon’s voice has Theon look up. Jon’s face is tired, pale. 

“I do love her–” Jon breaks off, his shoulders sagging. “In a way. She’s – there are things I didn’t know that – and now I can’t – it’s complicated. She’s the queen. Strong, kind-hearted, she’s–” 

There’s something wrong with Jon’s words, almost as if he means to convince himself – of what? Before Theon can find the courage to ask, Jon shakes his head, as if to get rid of the thought. 

“What about you?” he finally asks. “What will you do after the – afterwards?” 

It’s hard to think of anything beyond the night to come, but this Theon knows.

“I too have a queen,” he says. “She’s sworn to Daenerys as well. I will do what they command me to do. There’s – I have a crew now. The men who followed me to free my sister – some of them follow me still.”

Even here, to Winterfell, to almost certain death. 

“That’s good.” Jon smiles. “You’re worth following.” 

They reach out at the same moment, their hands meeting in the space between them. They’re both wearing gloves, and yet the touch is enough to send a surge of warmth through Theon. 

“When all the wars are done…” Jon bites his bottom lip, worrying it like he used to do as a boy, his pale cheeks starting to colour again. “Mayhaps you could take me sailing one day. I would like to see you as captain of your own ship.”

The image stands clear before Theon’s eyes, both of them on board of his ship, the wind in their hair and the brine on their faces. 

“I’ll name her the Sea Wolf,” he whispers. “She’ll carry us wherever we want to go, wherever the winds will take us.”

It’s a dream, Theon knows it is. A dream he will cling to when they come. When the end comes. 

“I’d like that.” Jon’s fingers close around Theon’s. “I’d like that a lot. How did you – where does that name come from?” 

“From you.” Theon smiles when Jon looks at him uncomprehendingly. “What you said at Dragonstone… I’m done choosing. Greyjoy or Stark–”

The sound of a horn blaring into Theon’s words has them both look up, then at each other. 

“We have to go,” Jon says, getting to his feet. He doesn’t let go of Theon’s hand until they both are standing, staring at each other. Jon’s face is a pained grimace, desperation plain in his eyes. 

“Fuck all of it. House Greyjoy, House Stark...” 

His voice is thick with something Theon recognizes as held-back tears, and suddenly Jon – strong, indestructible Jon – crumbles, all tension leaving his body as he sways against Theon, his free hand gripping Theon’s doublet.

“Fuck House Targaryen,” Jon whispers, barely audible, before he pulls Theon in, their lips meeting in a hard, blindsiding kiss. It’s over all too quickly. 

“I’ll come back on the morrow.” Jon’s hand drops from Theon’s doublet; he takes a step back. “Just me. No Stark, no Ta– just me.” 

There’s only one answer. 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Theon says. “No Greyjoys, no Starks. Just you and me.” It feels like a promise, a secret to keep them warm in the nights to come. “On the morrow, and every morrow after that until the war begins.” 

It is a promise. An oath. They won’t die. Not now, not here, not like this. Theon smiles. 

“If you die, I’ll kill you.” Jon swallows. “The gods bear me witness, if you die I’ll find all the fire priests in the world to bring you back, and then I’ll kill you.” 

“Will you now…” This time Theon moves on his own, brushing his thumb over Jon’s cheek. “I’m quivering in my boots, Snow.” 

Jon raises his hand, briefly covering Theon’s cradling his face before he takes another step, down the stairs. He smiles the half-smile that never fails to warms Theon’s blood. 

“Until the morrow then, Greyjoy.”