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His breeches are wet. The realization comes to him belatedly, languidly.
It can only be piss. For once, it is not his own.
Red Jeyne has a weak bladder, ever since Lord Ramsay sent her flying with a well-placed kick. When she falls to dreaming, her bladder fails her. It’s not her fault; she’s a good dog.
At his other side, Helicent snuffles like a pig. The line of her body is warm against his side. Theon shivers despite it.
The bastard’s girls are always shuddering and spasming in dreams. Willow even lets out low, croaking whines.
Grey Wind had dreamed too, once. His huge legs would twitch and jerk, lips peeling back in a phantom growl. When at last Grey Wind awoke, yawning, Theon would reach over and stick his hand into the direwolf’s mouth. Grey Wind’s teeth were blunt and familiar as they closed around his flesh, spitting him back out with a huff of annoyance. Theon wiped the resulting slaver on Robb’s surcoat.
Robb always spoiled Grey Wind rotten. Where the bastard’s girls fought over every scrap of gristle, the direwolf had eaten near as well as his king, feasting on great slabs of beef and mutton. And men, a voice whispered.
Grey Wind had a taste of knights, and crossbowmen, and sellswords. He took horses out at the knees, tumbling them and drinking up their screams.
The direwolf cut through the mud and gore like a blade, the smoke-grey of Valyrian steel. A glorious weapon, the Stark banner made flesh. But the field on which Grey Wind ran was not white. It was red and brown, with spots of Lannister gold, and Lefford blue, and Brax purple. Here and there a spot of Marbrand orange, and a thousand other houses Theon did not care to remember.
There were many things he did not care to remember.
Theon scratches idly behind one of Red Jeyne’s spotted ears. His breeches are still damp. Damp from swimming in Winterfell’s moat, damp from a soft summer rain, damp from snowmelt.
Now the moat has frozen over, and the rain given way to a heavy blanket of snow.
Though he tried not to, Theon could remember the summer rains. Some were gentle, and some were wild. One had caught him and Robb in the wolfswood—an unyielding torrent that turned everything to mud. Eventually, they found an outcropping of rocks to cower under.
Robb had been laughing, his cheeks gone ruddy. Theon glared, pouring the water from his boots and wringing it from his cloak, but it only made Robb laugh all the more.
Before long, a chill set in. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder at first, to drive it away, but the cold was persistent. It tore and took until there was nothing left.
And so that afternoon found Robb climbing in Theon’s lap, smiling like they were sharing some secret. Theon could feel the rumble of the other boy’s laughter and the humid breath against his ear. Robb was a hot coal in his hands, even through the layers of damp wool and leather, blistering Theon’s fingers as he groused and grumbled.
Theon does not complain anymore. He only shivers and does not remember.
Helicent is shivering too, trembling all over and whimpering low in her throat. If dogs dreamed, did they have nightmares too? Theon reaches out and runs a hand down Helicent’s thick neck. She jolts from sleep with a wounded sound.
For a moment, she snuffles at his hand, afraid. Who are you? Who are you?
There’s still a mat of blood on Helicent’s nape where Sara had snapped at her. Theon combs it out with ragged fingernails. At last, she gives the stump of his pinky finger a familiar lick. You know me. You know me.
Once his work is done, Theon lays back down with a sigh. At his right, Red Jeyne tucks a cold wet nose under his chin, like an apology. Theon rubs one of her velvet-soft ears between his fingers, like forgiveness.
Somewhere in the corner, Maude lets out a tired huff. Red Jeyne yawns in reply, and Theon pokes the pink of her tongue, letting her jaws close around him. His hand lays there limply, safe between her teeth, and Theon laughs—a low, rattling sound, like the wind stealing through gaps of brick and mortar.
Yes. They’re good dogs.