The Kraken and the Ladybug
Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader - Warnings: I know this is very rare for me, but it's basically fluff.
Theon Greyjoy fell in love with you when you were only children. There's nothing a woman's love can't heal, if not a broken man's heart.
Divider by @saradika-graphics
Request
His little ladybug.
Because you weren’t a wolf, no matter how much Stark blood ran through your veins.
No, you...
You were his little bug. With great emphasis on his. And wasn't he the luckiest man alive?
Theon was a complicated man, and he knew it well. The way he sometimes snapped at the hand that fed him, or the coldness that occasionally emanated from him for no real reason - those were signs enough.
He simply wasn’t a Stark. It wasn’t in his nature to be noble. He didn’t know how to give his life for someone else. Selflessness was not one of his strengths. No, people didn’t look up to him - not even half as much as they adored Robb.
He didn’t want to resent him. No, he truly didn’t. Robb was his best friend, and in all that chaos, something like a brother to him.
Until, of course, he wasn’t anymore.
But Theon didn’t want to think about any of that—not now.
Not when you were there.
He tried to place his steps as quietly as possible, climbing through the frosty thicket without making a sound. He could already hear it - or so he hoped - your laughter, your mischievous grin, you.
Carefully, he slid down the frozen slope the way he did every day. Every day at the same hour, you would be out searching for wild roses. It was adorable, really, how you could devote so much time to something others thought utterly foolish. Not even Sansa bothered to go into the woods to dig for flowers - and she loved everything beautiful.
But you, you were different. You were never afraid to dirty your hands or crawl through the mud on all fours. You had always followed your own mind, no matter how others looked at you for it. Your family’s opinion mattered to you, of course—but your family supported you in nearly everything. Sometimes your mother would remark that you should care more about things that might actually help you in life, but whenever she said it, it was with a motherly smile and a loving kiss to your forehead.
Your father, who could be so grave and serious, always smiled when you brought him a new flower and cheerfully explained, This is the gerbera. It stands for friendship.
Your brothers wanted to protect that light of yours, and your sisters were glad to see it shine. Even Arya, who rarely cared for flowers or anything of the sort, couldn’t help but smile whenever you tucked a daisy behind her ear and declared, she was the prettiest sword in Westeros.
Yes, you were special.
Your light shone bright enough to illuminate all of Winterfell. Your smile was infectuous, your laughter a melody. And when winter grew too cold - when your light began to dim, because honestly, who is joyful all the time? - everyone in the castle could feel it.
Because as brightly as your joy could shine, your sadness could extinguish every spark of warmth and happiness left in the North.
No one called you strange or different.
No, you were special.
And Theon Greyjoy was hopelessly in love with you.
He couldn’t quite say when it began.
When he first came to Winterfell, there wasn’t much warmth for him. Your father had taken him as a hostage, though now he so generously called him his ward. He was always kind to Theon, yes - but there was no warmth between them. How could there be, when one simple truth hung over them both: if Balon Greyjoy ever defied the North again, Theon would meet the same fate as all the others Ned Stark had so swiftly executed. It would be your father who took his head.
Your siblings hadn’t known how to treat him at first—until, somehow, he just became part of the family. Robb was closest to him, despite all the things Theon envied him for.
And then there were you.
He remembered thinking, at first, that you were simply not right in the head. While the others were always busy with whatever children did, you were the exception. More than once, he’d seen you sneaking into the woods to feed wild animals. Once, you even brought home a sick bird, hoping to nurse it back to health with milk and love. Your parents had disapproved - how were you ever to learn that life wasn’t always full of joy and kindness? - but after much pleading, they relented. It was hard, nearly impossible, to deny you anything.
You did everything you could - so much - and yet, after a long struggle, your bird died. You cried and cried for weeks.
Back then, Theon thought there was something wrong with you. He couldn’t understand why everyone was so patient, why your family seemed to grant you every wish. Didn’t you know life wasn’t some happy story? People died. Others were torn from their parents. How could you cry so much over a stupid bird? He had no sympathy for you – it made him angry, even.
But one evening, Theon came to understand the magic that surrounded you.
He’d had a terrible fight with Robb - he couldn’t even remember what it had been about. They were so young then, it was probably something foolish, a boyish quarrel. But Robb, usually so kind and warm, had finally snapped and said, “Your opinion doesn’t matter, for you’re not part of this family.”
Theon ran into the woods. He didn’t want anyone to see how hurt he was - but he was hurt. He knew it already, of course - he knew he was a Greyjoy, not a Stark - that he came from there, not here. But did they have to throw it in his face like that? He had spent months among them - playing with Robb, training with Jon, carrying Arya on his shoulders.
But it meant nothing. Because he wasn’t one of them.
So, he ran, and ran, and ran - until he found himself deep in the forest. He didn’t know where he was, and he didn’t care. They couldn’t see him like this. They mustn’t.
And yet, all he wished for was that someone would come after him.
But no one would risk their peace or comfort for the stranger boy. He would calm down eventually. He always did.
He sank against a tree trunk and raked his hands through his hair.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it, damn it. I don’t need them! I hate them all! I’m Theon Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy. Theon—”
His voice broke, and before he knew it, he was crying.
Theon Greyjoy didn’t cry. He never cried.
But now, he did.
He cried and cried, his shoulders shaking, his face buried in his cloak. Until-
“Theon?”
A voice—so soft, so cautious - that for a moment he thought he had imagined it. But then he heard a crack of branches nearby and sprang to his feet.
There you were. This time, there was no dreamy smile on your lips, no laughter echoing through the trees. You looked worried, concerned, heartbreakingly gentle.
“Stay away!”
You flinched at the sharp tone of his voice, and immediately, guilt pricked at him - but he didn’t show it. He was like a wounded animal, trusting no one who came too close.
Hands raised, you stayed where you were.
“I…”
“If you tell anyone,” He barked, “if you tell a single soul you saw me cry - I swear, I’ll-”
“I won’t.”
Your voice was calm, clear, completely sincere. He hesitated, then relaxed his stance - just enough that he didn’t look like he was about to attack you. He huffed and took a step back.
“What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be in bed or something?”
Lowering your hands, you took a small step toward him. He didn’t stop you.
“I saw you run off,” you said softly. “I heard what Robb said. He didn’t mean it.”
“Of course he did! Why else would he say it?”
You stepped closer, and closer still, until you stood right in front of him.
“My brother isn’t good with words. He tries, but it’s not in him. Not yet anyway. I keep telling him…” You shook your head, a sigh escaping your lips. “It doesn’t matter. What I mean is - you are one of us, Theon. You really are. Robb thinks so too. He already regrets what he said. Please… will you come home with me?”
Theon shifted, rocking on his heels. “It’s not my home,” he muttered.
You nodded gently. “It could be, though. Someday.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, as though you’d said something utterly absurd. He waited for you to laugh, or worse, to mock his tears. But you didn’t.
“I always thought you were mad,” he mumbled.
Instead of taking offense, you smiled. “I am.”
You held out your hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he took it. Your hands were warm and soft - so different from his. Your small fingers traced something into his palm. He frowned. “What are you-?”
A smile. “A kraken.”
It hit him cold and unexpected. He hadn’t thought you even knew his house’s sigil, let alone anything about him. You’d barely spoken before. Yet here you were, following him into the woods, drawing a kraken on his hand.
He swallowed hard and looked down at your joined hands.
“A kraken?” he whispered.
Your grin softened into something tender, something warm.
“You’re Theon Greyjoy,” you reminded him softly. “And you always will be.”
It happened quickly after that. And now, years later, he was still just as mad about you as he’d been back then - only now, things were different. Theon knew his place among the Starks. And though he’d never fully belong, he was part of the family.
At last, he left the icy woods behind and found you in a field full of wildflowers, on your hands and knees, digging out roots with soft precision. His features softened as he crouched beside you, eyes falling on the mess of soil and blooms around you.
“You’ve been busy,” he murmured.
You looked up, eyes lighting with joy and relief.
“Theon! You came!”
The next thing he felt was the damp earth beneath him as he fell on his back - you had thrown yourself into his arms, and both of you landed in the dirt. Instead of being angry or annoyed, he laughed. His arms wrapped around you easily, naturally. He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered, “Of course I came, silly. Someone must keep an eye on you.”
With a wide grin, you leaned down and pressed a long, warm kiss to his lips. He smiled against your mouth, one hand buried in your hair. He sighed as you drew back.
“A little longer,” he murmured, making you chuckle.
“In a moment,” you said brightly. “First, I have to show you my newest find.”
As much as his body urged him to be impatient, he couldn’t. Not with you. He had only this - secret meetings hidden in the woods, short nights that drove him nearly insane - but he would have endured anything, just to keep your smile alive. So, he sat up carefully, a warm smile on his lips, one hand still resting somewhere on you, just to feel you near.
“This is the Lisianthus,” you explained. “It stands for grace, elegance, appreciation, and gratitude.”
His eyes followed your fingers as you dipped them into the moist soil, gently lifting the root. The flower itself was round, its thin white petals curling delicately. His heart warmed as he watched you handle it with such care - he couldn’t remember ever seeing you just pluck a flower. No, you never killed them - you gave them a new home, tended to them, made them whole again with your love. Just like you had done with him.
“She’s beautiful,” he said quietly.
You bit your lip, glancing at the flower, then back at him.
“She’s for you,” you said softly. “Because I don’t know anyone more graceful - or anyone I could ever appreciate more.”
His heart skipped as you guided his fingers. He brushed the petals, then followed the stem down to the root. There was something strangely intimate about how you let him feel the pulse of that little life.
“You can plant her at home, wherever you like.”
He smiled - a real, warm, almost aching smile.
“I love her,” he whispered. “And I love you. My little ladybug.”
Now it was your heart that skipped. The blue green of his eyes glowed - nothing in the world had that color. Nothing in the world could be so beautiful.
“I love you too,” you whispered back.
You placed the flowers gently in a pile, wiping your hands on your dress.
“So…” you murmured softly. “About that a little longer…”
His lips curved into a wicked smile.
“You’d better be careful, little bug. Because once I’ve caught you…”
His hand caught your wrist - gentle but firm - and he pulled you toward him, stealing your breath. Your gaze dropped to his lips, so close to yours. He was close enough that you could feel his breath, yet not close enough to taste him. His hands slid up your waist, just tight enough to make you tremble. And when he spoke, it was a whisper against your lips:
“…I won’t let you go again.”
