She was promised to Rodrik, the fucking drunk.
Theon reminded himself of this constantly. The girl with hair the color of the sunset on the sea was promised to the boorish brute that made his life a living hell. He consoled himself often of the fact she wasn’t promised to Maron, but that meant little. It didn’t take a genius to see the calculating look in those dark shark eyes and the way he smiled around her. Theon knew what it meant, as did everyone. No one would intervene, however. What the kraken holds it never releases, if that happens to be something promised someone else… well. You should have done a better job holding it yourself.
It wasn’t Theon’s place to try and claim her, and for the most part he made no move to. He would come into his own in several years. He’d command his own fleet, patrol the outer reaches of the Trident they now held, and perhaps sail farther still. He had dreams in him, desires. He held no illusion that he would sail so far as Crow’s Eye had, but part of him still wished it. There were magical things, wondrous things that would await the bold. He could be it, might be it.
If only his siblings didn’t constantly knock him down.
He strode through the yard, back towards the Bloody Keep. The axe at his side was bloody, and his boots soaking wet. Another failed practice, and one that had lost his sparring partner a finger in his rage. He was wounded himself, blood dripping down his waist as he stormed towards his room like a rising tide.
He didn’t see Sansa, was not even thinking of her as he rounded the corner and ran directly into the girl. What in the name of the Drowned God was she even doing in at this hour?
Even after all these years, she still was not used to the idea of having to marry Rodrik Greyjoy. Or the idea of getting unwanted attention from his brother, Maron Greyjoy. When she was honest with herself, she had not gotten used to anything Greyjoy. Balon regarded her as a nuisance, a Southron Lady - even though she was from the North - who needed nice and pretty things even though she would not get them. Asha Greyjoy, who mocked her every chance she got, for the same reason. And Theon. Theon Greyjoy was the only one of the House to show any sort of kindness towards the Stark-girl.
Luckily, she was free to do whatever she pleased within the castle. At least she was now. When she had just arrived on Pyke, she had been confined to the Bloody Keep, not allowed to leave the building for any reason. But it seemed that Balon Greyjoy had learned to trust her, despite her Stark-blood, and he had allowed her freedom of the islands. She had grabbed on to that freedom with both hands and went for walks whenever she could, if only to get away from the damp and dark halls of the Bloody Keep. Despite the fact that Pyke did not have a Godswood, she still prayed to the Old Gods, in secret, for the Ironmen held a different, darker God. The Drowned God.
She was deep in thought when she turned a corner, not seeing the young man that was walking in the opposite direction and walking straight into him. She yelped as she stumbled back, her hand against the wall of the Keep to keep her balance. “Theon.” She composed herself and stood up straight, a smile on her features, one reserved for the only Greyjoy that deserved on. “I beg your pardons, I did not see you-...” It was then that she noticed the blood covering him, her eyes growing wide at the sight of it. ‘You are hurt! Allow me to get a healer!” Back home, she would have gotten a Maester, but there were none on the island. Only the Drowned God’s priests.
