#got theon

[ktoshka-xdd]

oh theon they could never ever make me form an opinion about you

[lumillsie]

ೃ⁀➷ theon greyjoy x mermaid!reader headcanons ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

╰┈➤ in which something has always called theon greyjoy to winterfell's strange lake

a/n : seeing as winterfell is a landlocked city, I did have to improvise a bit, but I'm hoping you will find my take on this request reasonable <3

a special thank you to @angelseraphines for reading this for me as I was writing and making sure that my portrayal of theon didn't stray too far from his canon-self

╰┈➤ it is a strange thing - that the lake outside the city walls never appears to freeze over. the people of winterfell have speculated as to why for centuries. some say that the lake remaining as it is is a blessing from the old gods, a reassurance that the people will always have water to drink and a reminder that their gods will never abandon them. others pass down tales to their children of the children of the forest, and the traces they left behind - the weirwood tree and its roots dipped into soil, the soil that leads into the lake.

╰┈➤ theon greyjoy was not born of winterfell, but he had done his best to see it as his home. he had grown to see robb as his brother, and he cared for the rest of the starks too.

╰┈➤ in spite of his great desire to be a stark, a true part of the family, theon was always aware that his position as a ward was in truth the position of a political hostage, dangled in front of his father to ensure his loyalty to the crown.

╰┈➤ even as a boy, he was drawn to the lake. he would climb atop the city walls and sit in silence for quite some time, simply gazing pensively at the lake. it too was a strange and different thing - just as he himself was.

╰┈➤ as he grew older, his visits to the lake became less frequent - he found other ways to mitigate the strain on his heart. he would oft visit ros at the pleasure house, he'd practice his archery, he'd join tourneys. and yet, there was still something within the lake calling out to him, drawing him in - and he never truly could forgo his visits.

╰┈➤ it was on the eve of his eighteenth nameday that he encountered you for the first time. you had noticed him long ago, and you watched him during every of his visits, even allowed him to get a glimpse of the shine of your tail a handful of times. most of the mermaids beneath the lake were old and uninterested in the people that walked on land. there was a time when they lived in harmony with the children of the forest, but as the children were hunted down and brought to extinction, the mermaids of winterfell lake swore not to allow the first men or their descendants to ever lay eyes upon them.

╰┈➤ you understood their fears, truly you did - you could see the sorrow in the eyes of the eldest of your cove, a sorrow you know dates back six millenia. you feared the people that walked on land too, but you didn't fear theon. you sensed the war in his mind, you recognised the sense of not belonging. you sensed it because you felt it too, a young, naive mermaid in a lake of ancient beings - a young, naive mermaid, the first to be born in a thousand years.

╰┈➤ his eighteenth nameday was the first time he rode out of the city to spend his day on the shore of the lake, and you knew that this was the only opportunity you would ever get to see him up close. you crept closer to the shore, allowing your tail and the top of your head to rise slightly above the water's surface and keeping your eyes glued to the image of the man before you.

╰┈➤ he noticed you then, as you unassumingly lifted your head above the water - allowing yourself to glance at him. you knew your elders could not hear of this moment, for you knew how enraged they would be with you. you could not bring yourself to care, for as enamored as theon was with the lake, you were just as enamored with the towering, thick castle walls and the mystery of what lies beyond them. just as something kept calling the greyjoy lad to the lake, something kept calling you to the city.

╰┈➤ a man often accused of vanity by the whispers that surrounded him, theon was enraptured by the otherworldly atmosphere that seemed to surround you. your features were different to what he had been used to considering beautiful, but he found them enchanting to look at nonetheless. he considered capturing you, for a brief moment - he wondered if it would prove something to the starks, that it was only him that could lure a creature of the deep to the surface. he wondered if it would make lord eddard proud, or if it would solidify him as the ironborn he was supposed to be.

╰┈➤ he called out to you then, beckoning you to draw nearer. the people of the iron islands oft spoke of mermaids - of how the grey king was one, and of how he became the king of the western islands and all seas beyond, as well of the drowned god and the mermaids that serve him within the confines of his watery walls. his mother spoke to him of mermaids too, but her tales were always much gentler. she would say that the ironborn would find the most beautiful of mermaids and take them to bride, that the half-fish women would shed their tails for legs and bear their husbands the most beautiful of children, part sea and part land - as all ironborn were meant to be.

╰┈➤ you crept closer to land, nearly close enough that he could reach a hand out to touch your shimmering skin, and yet with enough of a distance between you that you could turn around and return to the depths of your home. your first conversation could hardly be called much of a conversation, and while you could speak the common tongue ( you oft listened to the people speak within the walls, their voices booming and echoing through the cove beneath the city), you had a hard time figuring out what to say to him. for the most part, you simply looked at one another that very first day - until the day's end was near and the hour of the bat was drawing close.

╰┈➤ "I will return. when the sun's returned to the skies on the morrow, I will return. you best be here then." he spoke to you, a tinge of arrogance in his voice. it was as if he knew that you wouldn't defy his request, as if he knew his presence held some power over you - and it pleased him. he held so little power within the stark household, so the hint of it always inflated his sense of self. he knew that you too held some power over him, but he would not speak of it outloud.

╰┈➤ before he had encountered you, he had intended to visit ros that evening. instead, he returned to his chambers rather soon after dinner, content to sleep through the night and wait for the morning to come - the following morning he rose much earlier, quite soon into the hour of the nightingale. it was still dark out, but he wished to fulfill his duties for the day before he set out to see the lake, and the vision discovered the day before, once again. he usually wouldn't be permitted to leave the walls of the city two days in a row, but his nameday had just passed and lord stark was more lenient towards him during that time of the year.

╰┈➤ you waited for him until he arrived, choosing to draw near to the shore just as the sun appeared on the horizon. on this day, you were both much more relaxed. the moment he saw you smile he knew he had no intention of capturing you and bringing you to winterfell, content to keep these peaceful moments to himself - reluctant to share them with anyone else. you felt safer too, now that you had broken the ice and knew he wished you no harm.

╰┈➤ "speak to me of life beneath the waves" he demanded boyishly, that vein of arrogance pouring off his tongue. you minded not, noticing the sorrow beneath his gaze. you knew he was not born of here, and the people of the town oft whispered of the seaside boy taken from his home to come here. you knew it to be him the first moment you saw him dangling his legs off the castle walls. and so you spoke to him of life beneath the waves - of your sisters and brothers, all at least a millenium older than you, of the beautiful cove protected from the human eye and the ephemeral sights only you and your kin could lay eyes upon, of the elders and their refusal to allow you to draw near. he listened intently to all of it, hanging off every word of yours. he wanted to know all of it - wanted to know you more and more with every passing word that left your mouth.

╰┈➤ you spoke to him for hours on end. each time you declared to ask him a question too, he urged you to keep speaking. you spoke until the night drew nearer. he told you that he would return in half a moon's time, as he could not afford to leave the castle walls quite so often. "I will be here when you return, only if you will speak to me of life behind the castle walls" was what you said to him as he prepared to leave. he felt indignant at your words for a few passing moments, but reluctantly agreed to your request as he wished to see you again.

╰┈➤ the next time he returned, he had brought you something. a small iron pendant he acquired at the market, and he had given it to you teasingly, remarking that you should be flattered that the heir to the iron islands had deemed you worthy of such a gift. in truth, he spent the whole way to the lake pondering over if you would like it - and determining that you would with a small huff as his journey drew to a close. this time, he too spoke more freely - of his memories of the iron islands, of his family - mostly of his mother and her tales of mermaids. you laughed then and asked him if that was what he would desire, to which he winked at you playfully and told you that the possibility wasn't far off his mind.

╰┈➤ he spoke to you of what you asked of him too, of life in winterfell, beyond the walls you so often stared at. he spoke to you off lord stark, of his children and namely the boy he grew to consider his brother, robb stark. he spoke to you of archery, of his tourneys and his journeys. you listened just as intently as he had listened to you the last time you saw him. he didn't think he had ever felt this peaceful - at least not since the first time he sat atop the castle walls, the moment he first discovered the lake. as the pale hint of orange seeped into the blues of the sky, you reached out to him once and he grasped your hand in his for a few moments, opting to leave a kiss on the palm of your hand before he retreated to the city as the gentle dusk gave way to the dark night.

╰┈➤ he visited you as often as he could, without causing the stark family to worry whether or not he too was planning to incite a rebellion. he spoke to robb of you once, to assuage the concern his dear friend was beginning to show. he couldn't tell him the full truth, but he told him he met a girl who lived outside the castle walls near the city, and that he found pleasure in your company. he didn't give away too many details, but he was content knowing that robb wouldn't be too concerned with his frequent journeys. he didn't know that it was the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes that reassured his friend, as opposed to the words he so craftfully weaved together.

╰┈➤ it was during his seventh visit to the lake that he kissed you for the first time. you were confiding your sorrows of your elders' distrust to him, and he leaned down to place a kiss upon your brow, as he had begun to do from his fifth visit onwards. you looked up at him then, and he couldn't help leaning down and placing a chaste peck upon your lips, before returning to deepen it. something changed between you and him then, and you began to behave more like lovers from then on.

╰┈➤ his visits to the pleasure house had already grown infrequent the moment he met you. he still had his needs, of course - but he found it hard to find time for them as he was oft attempting to finish with his duties on time to come visit you or attempting to find something in the city that he believed you would like and hide in your cove, to keep only for yourself as he had kept your encounters only for himself. now, however, he was content to accept that he wouldn't be returning there anytime soon, thoughts of you drowning out the idea of anyone else.

╰┈➤ your relationship with theon was a playful one. he oft teased you and you'd respond by splashing water onto his tail in response. his touches were rough but kind, and his kisses were sloppy but loving. you were both content to behave as if there was no distance between what you both were, preferring to banish the question of 'what comes next?' to the back of your minds.

╰┈➤ on his nineteenth nameday, a year into knowing you - theon brought you a small cloth with the image of a yellow kraken sown into it. it was the symbol of his house, and as he couldn't quite cloak you in the traditions of westerosi weddings, he deemed this to be the most likely way to proclaim his devotion. you could wear it on your wrist, claim to your elders that you happened upon it on the shores of the lake and kept it to yourself. you didn't consider yourselves wedded, but theon's prideful exclamations of binding the world's most beautiful creature to himself would stay with you evermore.

╰┈➤ this lighthearted atmosphere was unfortunately not to last. when theon informed you of the king's family arriving to winterfell within a few days' time, you felt an inexplicable feeling of dread come over you. he had noticed it then and assured you that all would be well, that they wouldn't stay that long and that he'd return soon. nothing could keep him away from you, now could it?

╰┈➤ it would be weeks before he'd come to see you again and the sight of him twisted and turned your heart as if tearing it apart. he appeared as lonely and conflicted as he was on the day you first encountered him, the sorrow in his eyes as prominent as ever, dark lines appearing under them. he spoke to you of bran and his accident, of lord stark's capture and of robb's intention to raise the banners and march down south. this time you were the one attempting to reassure him, right up until the very moment he told you that he intended to march down south with robb. you knew that you shouldn't have been as shocked and opposed as you were, but you were afraid. you didn't know much of land, but you always knew of war - of bloodshed, demise and misery. you promised to pray for him then, even if your kind hadn't truly prayed since the vanishing of the children of the forest. you promised to pray to the old gods and the drowned god, to the faith of the seven and any others of whose existence you would come to know of. you saw him off with a heavy heart then.

╰┈➤ you attempted to listen to the people of the city from within your cove for months on end, keeping your ear to the ground for any new information on theon's wellbeing. the townspeople were just as in the dark as you were, and it only made you feel more helpless. you could slowly feel the hope within you begin to fade away as the days dragged on - that was until you finally heard his name from within the city. what you heard however, wasn't what you were expecting to hear. theon greyjoy had captured winterfell.

a/n : and that's it for my first post on this platform! I wasn't quite sure how to end it, but I'm quite content with the way I did. if you guys do want a part 2 that deals with this dynamic with post-reek!theon, please do let me know 🩷 I hope you've enjoyed reading this, and if you did - please do make sure to let me know as feedback is so incredibly important to me. thank you so very much for your time and I hope that you'll consider reading other works of mine that I hope to post on this page soon <33

PS. please do forgive me for adding tags of other characters to this post - it's the first one I've ever made and I'm trying to get my page out for people to see. That being said, I have no intention of tagging characters I don't write for, so please make sure to request them as well if you're interested in seeing more from me.

[novaursa]

Hello, Novaursa.

Would it be possible to write a story where Stark reader escorts Theon back to the Iron Islands and Theon, who's been a obsessed with her since childhood (maybe she was nice to him or something?), decides to try to force her into becoming his salt wife. He's not actually planning on taking a rock wife since he doesn't actually want anyone else, but she's not ironborn so by their laws, she can only be considered a salt wife?

Theon's uncle, Aeron, officiates the wedding while Baelon witnesses the event, kind of smug that his family is now getting revenge on House Stark.

Before all this, reader knew that Theon is at least a little attracted to her. She's seen his eyes on her on and off over the years, but she always thought it was a shallow joke of his so she doesn't know how deep his attraction really goes. When he betrays her, she's caught so horribly off guard. He was her friend/adopted brother, but he's betraying her and her family now. It's like a loop stuck in her head that leaves her in denial ("you wouldn't do this...").

When they consummate, Theon is already thinking of his need for heirs and trying for them from the first moment he touches her.

He succeeds.

Maybe he takes her with him when he overthrows Winterfell? Maybe Robb's reaction to the news somewhere in the story?

Cut whatever you need to if it gets too long.

Thank you!

No worries if you're not interested or I'm not being clear enough. Love your stories :)

The Iron Price

- Summary: You agree to escort your childhood friend back home and you pay the iron price for it.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Theon Greyjoy

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I hope you like it, dear anon. ❤️

The sea air still clings to your skin, salt drying in patches where your tears once were. You feel raw. Inside out. The cavernous hall of Pyke has grown dark now, the torches burning low and flickering as the tide pounds against the cliffs outside. You sit on the edge of the bed in his father’s ancient chambers—the ones Theon insisted be made ready. A wedding night suite, he called it, as though this were anything but a bitter mockery of the word. The salt still crusts in your hair where Aeron Greyjoy, with his long unblinking stares and wet ropes wound tight around his arms, had anointed you during the ceremony. His voice echoed with the grim cadence of ritual, chanting to the Drowned God as if some holy thing were taking place. “What is dead may never die,” he said. And Baelon, seated upon the Driftwood Throne like a ghoul come to life, had looked on with thin-lipped satisfaction, arms folded as though this were only the first move in a long-plotted game.

You remember Theon gripping your wrists, hard enough to leave bruises beneath your sleeves, dragging you to kneel beside him before the priest. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll thank me someday,” he muttered under his breath, low enough only for you to hear. “This is the safest place for you now.”

You didn’t speak then. Couldn’t. Your voice had gone somewhere unreachable after he told you what he meant to do, when he brought you here under the pretense of returning home, of honoring Ned’s memory, of seeking peace. You'd believed him—because he'd been your friend. Because you had watched him grow up beside your brothers, shared quiet mornings with him at the practice yard, once let him warm your hands with his in the snow. He used to look at you like a boy starving for affection, eyes sliding over your face like he was trying to memorize you. And gods, you'd seen it—the way he watched you. That sly grin, the careless flirtation that never seemed to stick, the way he’d wink and joke and say things like “If I were a true Stark, I’d marry you first.” You never took it seriously. Not until the moment he asked Aeron to bind your hands together with the salt-soaked cords, while you trembled in a gown you didn’t remember putting on.

“You wouldn’t do this…” you’d said once—pleaded, really. As he shut the door to the priest’s chamber, as you stared at him with disbelief twisting your gut. “Theon, you wouldn’t—this isn’t you.”

But it was. And it is.

Now he stands at the door of the chamber, freshly bathed, hair still damp and smelling of salt and oil, and he looks at you like you’re the prize he finally snatched off a board he never thought he’d win on. He shuts the door behind him softly, as though you’re lovers sharing something sacred.

"You’re beautiful in grey," he says, voice warm but strange, reaching for something familiar that isn’t there anymore. "Even now. Especially now." He steps closer, slowly, letting his eyes drag over your shape like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re here. That you’re his.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your voice hollow. “Don’t pretend this is something it isn’t.”

He pauses only for a second, then shrugs. “What should I call it, then? Vengeance? A reward? I've wanted you since I was a boy. Since the day you handed me your cloak at Winterfell when I was shivering in the snow. Do you remember that? No one else cared. Not Robb, not Jon. But you... you looked at me like I wasn’t a hostage.”

You do remember. You were no more than six. You’d offered it thoughtlessly, and he’d clung to that gesture for years like it was proof of something greater.

"Theon," you breathe, shaking your head. "Please—this isn’t the way."

His face hardens. “It’s the only way I could have you. Would you have ever looked at me the way you look at Robb or Jon? With honor?” He laughs bitterly, stepping between your knees and tilting your chin up. "You always thought I was playing, didn’t you? All those little looks—didn’t think I meant it. But I did. Every time."

You try to turn away, but he holds you firm, his fingers tightening like a vice. You can see it in his eyes now. The obsession. It burns low and steady, no longer masked by jest or youthful charm. He means to have you—not just tonight, not just for this twisted show of power—but always.

“I want children,” he says suddenly, his voice dropping lower. “Trueborn ones. Not bastards and whoresons. Sons with your blood and mine. That’s why you’re here. I need you whole. I need you to give them to me.”

Your stomach turns. You recoil, but he’s already pressing forward, already running his hands down your arms, over the fine, sea-damp fabric of the dress that had been chosen for you without your consent. “No one will ever take you from me again,” he mutters against your neck as he pushes you back onto the bed. “Not the Starks. Not anyone.”

You slap him, hard, before his mouth can touch yours. “I hate you,” you hiss. “You were my friend—my brother. And you’ve ruined everything.”

He only smiles, breathing hard as his hand comes to your cheek—not to strike you back, but to cradle it, almost gently. “Maybe I’ll make you love me again,” he says. “Maybe one day, you’ll look at me the way you used to. Before you forgot who I was.”

And then he kisses you, not like a man who’s won love but one who’s seized it, and you understand fully now—Theon Greyjoy never stopped being that cold, lonely boy in the snow. He just learned how to make people pay for not loving him.

The war camp smells of smoke and sweat, of damp leather and steel and pine. Eight moons of bloodshed have carved hard lines into Robb’s face, maturing him faster than grief alone ever could. His auburn hair has grown longer, curling damply against his collar, and he wears his father’s sword like a mantle of iron. The command tent is quiet save for the scrape of a whetstone and the soft rustling of parchment. Grey Wind paces outside, restless, sensing his master’s unease before the storm ever breaks.

It comes in the form of a raven. Black wings against grey skies, clawing at the canvas with more urgency than most. The Maester barely has time to hand the scroll to Robb before the young king tears it open with war-hardened fingers. His blue eyes scan the page, and then—still. Just for a breath. Then the parchment crumples in his hand.

“He’s taken Winterfell,” Robb says flatly. For a heartbeat, none of the lords assembled respond. It doesn’t make sense. Theon Greyjoy—the boy who used to smile too wide and brag about conquests he never earned. Theon, who had once been like a brother. “He used our banners to get close. Brought his men into the gates by night and turned on them.”

Roose Bolton lifts his head, cold and calm. “Greyjoy? The kraken boy? How many men?”

“No more than thirty,” Robb replies, his voice like flint against steel. “But it was enough. He knows the layout. He knew how to take it.”

“He means to hold it?” asks Greatjon Umber with a scowl. “He won’t keep it. The North remembers.”

Robb doesn’t answer at first. He reads again—not the declaration of war, not the details of the attack. But that part. The one that sinks into his chest like icewater.

“As salt wife of House Greyjoy, she belongs to the Drowned God now, bound by sea and salt, and carries the blood of wolf and kraken both. Through our union, I lay rightful claim to Winterfell, as father of the babe she bears and master of her heart.”

Robb slams his fist into the wooden table. The ink pots jump, a cup of mead spills. Grey Wind snarls outside.

“She would never—” He chokes on the words. “He took her. You all know he took her. She went with him under my banner. She thought she was escorting a brother home. And now—”

“Your sister carries his child?” Lord Karstark asks carefully, almost in disbelief. “By force?”

“She was his prisoner,” Robb growls. “Whatever vows he forced from her, they mean nothing. He wears them like armor now, calling it a marriage, calling it right.”

“He means to use her womb like a crown,” says Lady Mormont darkly. “Breed the North into his own bloodline.”

A silence settles. Uneasy. Heavy. Robb stares down at the letter again, every word an insult carved with careful ink. Salt wife. As if that’s all she is now. A kept creature, owned by the sea, made docile by saltwater and grief. And yet… Robb can’t stop the images that flood him. You, walking into Pyke unaware. You, whispering in the raven messages he hasn’t seen in moons. What you must have suffered. What you still suffer now.

“I will bring her home,” Robb says, voice low and resolute. “I will raze every stone of Pyke if I must. I don’t care if he’s gotten her with child—I’ll take her back. And I’ll kill him for what he’s done.”

“We should march at once,” Greatjon growls, standing. “No kraken bastard will ever rule Winterfell, not while breath lives in any man loyal to the wolf.”

Roose Bolton's voice cuts through the rising fervor. “He’s clever. He knows this insult will draw your wrath. He wants you to march south—or east. He wants you pulled from your campaign. The Lannisters will use it.”

Robb’s jaw tightens. His hand curls around the hilt of his sword. “Let them try. Let everyone try. If Theon Greyjoy believes he can take my home, my kin, my blood, and raise his sigil above Winterfell, then he is not only a traitor—he is a dead man walking.”

He looks up, fire behind his eyes. “Prepare the ravens. I want every bannerman loyal to the Starks ready to march within the fortnight. If Theon Greyjoy wants to sit my father’s seat, he can wait there until I rip him off it myself.”

[bakugou-klancey-lance]

“I’m going to go now” Brandon Stark “To where?” - Theon Greyjoy Bran - yeets

[moonlightsong]

(GIF Source: @fuckyeahironislands )

[novembernatta]

you’re a good man

[lyannaforpresident]

THEON GREYJOY // THE WINTER KRAKEN

he smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand

[novaursa]

Hi! Your an amazing writer and i’m so happy your requests are open 🫶 (feel free to delete this if you don’t like it, no hard feelings)

Would you consider doing Theon Greyjoy x Mermaid!reader where Theon meets reader while he’s at Pyke in the second season and reader seduces him (wether its 18+ or 16+ i dont mind) and it ends kinda fluffy? (as much fluff as that era of Theon can get at least lol)

No Man's Sea

Requests are closed

- Summary: He loved you in a moment, but was never meant to keep you.

- Pairing: mermaid!reader/Theon Greyjoy

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I've enjoyed writing this request very much. Thank you for sending it to me. 🫶

The sea crashed against the black rocks of Pyke like the beat of a war drum, unrelenting and ancient. Spray leapt high over the jagged cliffs, drenching the stone paths and castle walls with brine and wind. Grey clouds rolled across the sky like bruises, thick and low, casting the Iron Islands in their eternal twilight.

You stood among it all like something from another world.

Theon Greyjoy first saw you from the battlements, leaning carelessly against a moss-slicked pillar of stone, your cloak fluttering like a shadow made of silk. At first, he thought you might’ve been a hallucination born of too much wine and too little sleep. No Ironborn girl would dress like that—soft fabrics clinging to you like seafoam, hair shining with salt and sun instead of the damp, tangled hay of Pyke’s usual women. You turned your head slowly, as though you already knew he was watching, and your eyes—gods, your eyes—met his.

Something in him went still.

When he saw you again, it was in the yard. Somehow, impossibly, you had made your way past his guards and kin without anyone stopping you. You walked through the courtyard barefoot, feet slick with wet stone, and looked around with wonder—as if you weren’t from this place at all. As if you’d never seen it. Not truly.

Theon didn’t approach at first. He watched from the shadows beneath the archway, unsure whether to call for someone or follow the pull that had set into his chest like a fishhook. You didn’t notice the gawking men or the maids whispering behind sleeves. You moved through them like a dream, like the sea herself had risen up and taken the shape of a girl.

Finally, he stepped forward.

“You’re not from here.”

You turned again, slowly, as though you already knew his voice. Your lips curled into a smile that felt too knowing. “Neither are you.”

Theon blinked. “I am. This is Pyke. I’m a Greyjoy.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve been away longer than you’ve been home.”

He stiffened. “And what would you know of it?”

“More than you think.”

Your voice was soft, but it rippled with something deeper. There was a rhythm to it, a cadence like waves against a hull. Theon stepped closer, eyes narrowing, but unable to look away. You didn’t flinch when he drew near. In fact, your gaze wandered over his face like fingertips, studying every piece of him.

“Who are you?”

“Y/N.”

He waited, expecting more, but you offered nothing else. No family name. No village or origin. Just that single name, like it was all that mattered.

“You don’t look like an island girl,” he said after a beat, voice lower. “You look like you belong in the songs. Something out of Old Nan’s tales. A daughter of the sea.”

“Maybe I am,” you replied with a glint in your eye.

Theon scoffed, though he didn’t mean it. “You mocking me?”

You smiled wider. “Would you know if I was?”

Gods, but there was something about you that turned him inside out. Theon Greyjoy, who had bedded more girls than he could count—who wore smirks like armor and never cared for the names of the women he touched—was suddenly standing here, speechless, waiting on every word that passed your lips.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Not dressed like that. Not with bare feet on Pyke’s stones.”

“And yet here I am.”

A gust of sea wind caught your hair, and Theon could swear the scent of you was salt and something sweet—kelp and lilies and cold midnight water. He looked at you then, truly looked, and realized you weren’t beautiful in the way of court ladies or Northern maids. You were wild and strange and soft in the places that mattered. And you were watching him like you already knew how to pull him apart.

“You want something from me,” he murmured.

Your smile turned sly. “Maybe.”

“And if I want something from you?”

“I think you already do.”

He stared at you, lips parting, tongue running over the edge of his teeth. “Gods… you’re dangerous.”

“Then don’t follow me.”

But he would. They both knew he would.

You turned from him and began to walk, that strange flowing grace in your step like you were gliding over sand. But before you vanished into the gloom beyond the archway, you stopped and looked back, voice like the hush of tide over shells.

“Find me on the shore after nightfall.”

Then you were gone.

Theon remained there long after, heart pounding against his ribs like the surf against stone. He didn’t know what you were. Not yet. But he would go. He would follow. He had no choice. Something in his blood had already begun to sing.

Night fell on Pyke like a velvet shroud, thick with mist and wind, the moon casting pale light through tattered clouds as Theon Greyjoy made his way down the winding, treacherous path to the shore. The waves beat furiously against the rocks below, and the salt stung his eyes and clung to his cloak like a lover desperate to be noticed. Lantern light from the keep had long vanished behind him, leaving only the hush and roar of the sea and the pounding of his own heart as his guide. He had thought of turning back more than once—thought perhaps he’d dreamed you into existence. But something deeper than want pulled him forward. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t conquest. It was older than that. Older than Pyke. Older than iron.

He found you where the land met the water, standing alone on a flat, barnacle-covered stone as though you’d grown from it. Your back was to him, but he could see the pale shimmer of your skin in the moonlight. You were bare—utterly bare—your hair loose and wet and tumbling down your spine like seaweed on the tide. It clung to the curve of your back, to the dip of your hips, and Theon could do nothing but stand there and stare, mouth dry, chest aching.

“You came,” you said softly, without turning.

“How could I not?”

You turned then, slowly, the motion unhurried, regal in its silence. Your eyes met his, and he stopped breathing. You looked like something not meant for the world of men. There was no shame in you, no coyness, no fear. Just a strange calmness, the kind sailors whisper about in tales of shipwrecks and sirens. You stepped toward him, water lapping at your ankles, and his throat tightened.

“I thought maybe you’d be afraid,” you murmured.

“I am,” he confessed.

You smiled faintly. “Good.”

Theon dropped his cloak, the chill night air forgotten. He took you in as one might a vision—cautiously, reverently, afraid that the slightest misstep might wake him from this spell. He reached for you, but didn’t touch, not yet.

“I don’t know what you are,” he whispered.

“You don’t need to,” you said, and your hands found his, pulling him gently down into the sand and stone beside you.

When your lips met his, it was not with the frantic hunger he’d grown used to—no hurried clawing, no panting, drunken fumbling. You kissed him like it meant something. Like *he meant something. And it shattered something inside him.

Theon touched you like he was learning to feel for the first time. His hands explored the curves and lines of you with a kind of reverence he didn’t know he was capable of. Your skin was cool at first—cool like seafoam—but it warmed beneath his mouth, and he pressed kiss after kiss into your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. You arched into him, not commanding, not yielding, but inviting. And when he entered you, slow and deep, a sound left your lips that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

You moved together like a tide and its moon, a gentle rhythm that stole the breath from his lungs. He was used to being rough—used to taking, to proving, to winning—but with you, none of that mattered. Here, under the moon and the salt-heavy wind, he felt bare in ways he never had. Every sigh you gave, every tremble of your fingers on his skin, made him feel less like a conqueror and more like something vulnerable. Wanted. You looked up at him with such aching tenderness that it made his chest hurt, and for the first time, Theon understood why men went mad for women they couldn’t keep.

Afterward, you lay curled against his side, the sea crashing in a slow lullaby beside you. Your fingers traced circles over his chest, slow and absent.

“You don’t want to go back, do you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer right away. Then, “No.”

He turned to you, fingers brushing your jaw, his voice hoarse with something too close to desperation. “Then don’t.”

You looked at him, and he knew. Knew that whatever magic lived in your blood, whatever you truly were—it was calling you home.

“I have to.”

“No,” he said, leaning in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Not yet.”

You kissed him, slower than before, and he felt it—the goodbye hidden in its softness.

Then you rose.

Theon reached for you, but you were already moving, walking toward the water, the moonlight painting your skin like pearl. The waves welcomed you like an old friend, lapping at your ankles, your knees, your hips. You looked back once, and your smile broke him open.

“You’ll find me again,” you said. “If you’re brave enough to look.”

And then you leapt.

Theon surged forward, calling your name, but the sea swallowed you whole. He stared into the black water, heart racing, waiting for your head to break the surface, for your laughter to echo back—but there was nothing. Only silence.

And then, from the deep, a shimmer. Scales. Iridescent, glinting just beneath the surface before vanishing into the depths.

Theon fell to his knees, water up to his waist, hands trembling.

You weren’t just a girl.

You were the sea’s own daughter.

And he’d given himself to you like a fool to a myth.