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It started with a glance.
The day was overcast and gloomy, fog rolling in from the sea, thick enough to be inscrutable. It wrapped around the cliffs of Pyke like a tattered shroud, doing little for the mood, which was generally dismal, despite the occasion being a joyous one.
Theon's father had never been one for joy, or the expression of it. He stared pensively out into the water, waiting for Rodrick and Maron, who had gone out to welcome the Bolton delegation by boat. His mother stood aside, weeping quietly into a stained kerchief.
Marriage.
At barely 9 years old, he couldn't quite fathom it. What little he knew was derived from his parents, and they hardly seemed the best example of the institution. From what Yara had gleaned from behind locked doors, he understood that he'd been promised off to some bastard boy from the Bolton crew, as a means to strengthen ties between both families. An implicit arrangement made binding.
He didn't bother to question the choice. Why him? Why indeed. He was his father's least favorite child, a sissy and a crybaby and might be a girl, for all the whining he does! His brothers made sure to remind him at every turn, with fists and words alike. He had grown used to their contempt, experienced so often now it no longer stung.
So here he was, bundled in sweaters and oilskins with water dripping into his boots, waiting to be trothed to a boy he barely knew. He tried hard to mask his discomfort, wary of his father's temper, but his teeth chattered despite the resolve. He clenched them harder.
A shrill foghorn pierced through the morning gloom, and Theon watched as their family vessel cast anchor in shallow waters. Maron's speedboat soon pulled up by the jetty they were standing on, and he willed his nerves to settle.
He knew very little of the Boltons, only that they canned fish and came from wealth. He'd seen some of their goods lining supermarket shelves the few times he'd been to the mainland. Later, he'd come to know they controlled most of the cold chain up north.
It made sense they wanted a good relationship with his own family. Everyone knew the best fish in Westeros came from the Iron Islands, and there was no better fleet than the Greyjoy's when it came to crabbing season. The hue and cry about industry monopoly and claims of exceeding allocated bluefin quotas? No one wanted to examine those too closely. A palm oiled is easier to shake. His father's just happened to be the slipperiest of them all.
The Boltons had arrived with a skeletal crew. Roose clasped his father's hand in greeting, an arresting figure in boots and black overalls. His eyes were blue and cold, like the ice their boats cut threw in Spring. They lingered on him thoughtfully as he cowered behind his mother's skirts.
'Rather small, isn't he?'
His father grunted.
'Useless runt. M'girl Yara's more of a boy than he is.'
Roose raised his eyebrows.
'I see.'
Theon slunk behind and watched as they ushered their guests up the cliff path. Yara had been furious to stay behind and hold court, but at least she'd been spared the cold. His knees knocked together as Maron and Rodrick sniggered ahead of him, accompanying a smaller figure in a raincoat.
He thought he'd gotten used to his father's constant tirades, but Theon flushed as he felt the embarrassment well up anew. He was to be given away to a new family, and this was how his father had introduced him. A useless runt. Don’t cry.
The smaller figure stopped, as if sensing his misery. His brothers shrugged and moved on, while the other turned around to meet his gaze for the first time. He was the spitting image of his father, black hair plastered to his forehead from salt spray. His eyes had a curious glint to them. They peered straight into his soul. No one had looked at him like that before, as though they knew him. As though they cared.
'Don’t cry.' Ramsay Bolton. A bastard child, a butcher's boy. His betrothed. His.
'I'll look after you.'