𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄, a child taken away from his family for the crimes of his father and uncles. He once was a prince in that place, a self-proclaimed one, a prince over people who had no love for him and of children that had been killed for his farse to be believed. He once was a ghost in that place, the faded reflection of the man he once was, a tortured creature whose dreams and thoughts and memories had been wiped by a cruel monster. Until the tree spoke to him, called his name, his real one, the one he was forced to forsake. A jump into the void and towards freedom.
He was now only Theon Greyjoy. Himself. Torture scarred his body and his mind, but he was sure of who he was, of his path and of his reasons. And most of all, he was sure there was nowhere else he wanted to be, now that the long night was no more a story to scare children, but reality. He now returned to the place that had been the only constant in his life, for better and for worse. To fight. No matter the price.
« Lady Barbrey. » Alone at the table, Sansa has just left ; the woman takes her place and Theon cannot say she’s a welcomed sight. Not because she has ever mistreated him ( even before, with that other name, she had never mocked him or anything. She’s just a reminder of those days, though. They both wanted to be Starks, but neither could — those were the words she whispered to him in the crypts of the castle. And yet here they are, under the direwolf banner, and Theon could almost feel Eddard Stark’s eyes on him from the higher seat, like he had as a child. He had once been a ghost in that place, but Winterfell was filled with too many ghosts already. « Lady Sansa accepted me at her side. There’s nowhere else I should be in this moment but here. »
❝ You came all the way from Pyke just to swear allegiance to the Starks? ❞ A wry smiles comes to her face, intrigued. He had changed, probably for the better. He wasn’t that scared, meek, little man hiding in the crypts of Winterfell; he had grown, he had found himself. The observation is enough to force a smile to her face -- she’s proud, something she she won’t say aloud. ❝ That’s a brave thing to say, Theon. But I expected as much; there’s no other reason for you to be here and I’m sure Lady Sansa appreciates it all the same, ❞
Back straightens at the table, soft smile never once dropping from her face, as she stares into him. She wonders what had made him change...? He disappeared from the castle without a trace, never to be seen again until this very day -- that was years ago. A spectre lurking behind the castle walls, to come and go at will, yet this time, he was staying. ❝ I’ve known you at a time when you weren’t yourself... I assume that you’ll be fighting? ❞ It’s the only thing they’ve prepared for -- the battle at Winterfell. Bolstering the castle’s defenses, bringing the Northern people to her in a last attempt to save themselves... the deed was honourable, but the question remained: Would it be enough? ❝ I won’t be fighting, ❞ She quips, amused, playful as she leans towards him, hands clasped on table top, ❝ I’m too old and my father never trained me how to do so... I will be in the crypts with the rest of the women and children, and the elderly. But Wyllas is, my sweet boy, I fear for him. I pray to the Old Gods to bring him back to me... I’ll have to pray you as well it seems. ❞
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