Notes: Includes Robb, Jon, Jaime, and Theon. For any requests for other characters, please put them in my inbox!
Robb Stark: robb eats pussy in one of the best ways imaginable. he’d have his arms wrapped underneath your thighs with his hands resting on your hips. at first, he’s slow with it. he’d tease your slit, licking from your hole to your clit before bringing his attention to your clit entirely. he’d move his tongue in figure eights and then when you start to get really into it, he’d devour you like a starved man. he’s the type of person to moan and whine against your cunt with his eyes closed. he’d slurp and suck on your clit. and robb would absolutely love it when you pull on his hair because the pain turns him on. he loves getting messy with it and having your juices all over his face. and by the time you’ve came more than twice, robb’s lips are swollen and he’s looking at you with a blown out gaze, absolutely drunk on your pussy.
Jon Snow: jon is the embodiment of a munch. we all know what he did to ygriette in that cave and we all know that jon fucking loves eating pussy. he would start with small kisses on your lips, breathing in the scent of your cunt. nothing smells as amazing to him as a cunt does and i stand by that. he’s the type to practically makeout with your pussy. then he would just suck on your clit and absolutely devour you. his tongue would dip into your hole and his nose would rub against your clit all while you’re whining and moaning and pulling jon’s hair. he too would get drunk off of your pussy.
Jaime Lannister: i genuinely think jaime prefers fingering over giving head but when he goes down on you, he’s soft and gentle with it. he’s the type to keep his attention strictly on your clit. he would start with kitty licks before moving his tongue in a figure eight. he’d also make sure he could look at you as he eats you out, wanting to see your facial expressions and know that he’s pleasuring you good. he’d also finger you while his tongue is on your clit and make sure you cum both vaginally and from your clit.
Theon Greyjoy: i think theon is 100% cocky while he’s eating you out, especially pre-castration theon. he knows he’s good at it and the way you moan and tug at his hair while he goes down on you just solidifies how good he is at it. he’s the type to do kitten licks on your cunt one moment and the next he’s devouring you like he was born to eat you out. and he’d chuckle against your cunt when you let out a particularly loud moan, the vibration ultimately adding to your pleasure.
If you have any requests for characters, please send me an ask!
warnings: smut, lewd themes, oral sex(fem receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex
pairings: Theon Greyjoy x Fem!Reader, Sandor Clegane x Fem!Reader, Robb Stark x Fem!Reader, Jorah Mormont x Fem!Reader, Jon Snow x Fem!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Fem!Reader, Tormund Giantsbane x Fem!Reader
summary: the stamina that these men have and what they do with them, taking from the NSFW alphabet once again
a/n: tagging my sweet bestie @howlingofhounds
Theon has amazing stamina, but it takes him a while in between rounds to catch his breath and to be ready for another one. He won’t leave you wanting. Though if he’s not in an established relationship with you, he might just fuck and run. He’s not the most generous lover when it comes to one night stands, just there to fuck and get his fill. That’s not to say his stamina won’t come into play and you’ll be left a squirming mess under him as you’ve come so much.
He’s got a good amount of stamina. He can last quite a few rounds, and he’s not afraid to tire you out either. In fact, one of his favorite things to do is make you so tired that you can’t walk properly. Best to keep you complacent and boneless on his bed so that he can get himself ready for another round. He needs some time between rounds, but this man can and will take you to poundtown as often as he cares to. You won’t be left wanting with Sandor fucking you.
Literally the king of stamina. Don’t care what anyone says. Robb can fuck for hours, and he will last hours. You’ll be begging him for a little break, but the man will just keep pounding into you like it’s his favorite thing to do in the whole world(which it is!). Often, he’ll just bounce you up and down on his cock while he tries to get things done. You enjoy being his little fucktoy, but you get tired a lot. Still, Robb is a sweetie and he will take good care of you. He doesn’t need much time between rounds either, which can be a very dangerous thing for him to abuse. He’s just always raring to go.
Jorah has a good amount of stamina, but he does need time to cool off. He tries not to show it much, because he can be a bit ashamed of his age at times. He will spend lots of time worshipping your body first before he even thinks about getting to the main act. He won’t leave you disappointed at all, considering he wants you to feel good. He’s obsessed with making you cum a lot before he fucks you. He will last one good round and then he needs rest before he can go again. He can surprise you sometimes and go for two good rounds though.
Something about these Stark men…they have a lot of stamina. Jon has crazy stamina and at times, he will use it as a means to one-up you or to even punish you. He can be bratty and moody sometimes, so if you two have an argument, he’ll just fuck you to win said aguement. He wants you to see that he is a man, despite being a bastard. He fucks you with reckless abandon a lot of the time, and still after you’ve cum so many times, he’s not ready to let up. He’ll need a bit of time between rounds, but not too much. He’s eager to prove himself.
He has a good amount of stamina. He paces himself correctly, and he enjoys teasing you both a lot of the time. It’s part of his annoying cocky nature that has you both panting and whining for more. But it’s also the best way for him to keep himself from cumming too fast. He gets excited easily at times, so sex doesn’t always pan out the way he’d like to. So he uses his good stamina to have you both on the edge for so long. He needs some time between rounds, but he most definitely can go for a number of rounds.
Ahh good fucking luck with Tormund. He has no refractory period. A lot of the shit talking he does about his sex life is true and he fucks like a beast in heat. He will have you whining and crying for just a little break, and he will not be giving it to you. It’s best to just let him fuck you until you’re a puddle of mush under him and he’s cum inside you a number of times. He also has an insatiable appetite about your cunt and he will eat you out over and over until the bed is soaked with your juices.
summary | you and theon aren't good at sharing how you feel, but one thing's for certain: you do not want to marry roose bolton
warnings | MDNI 18+, written with season one theon in mind, some vulgar language, doesn't adhere to canon, probably ooc don't come for me i'm trying my best (first time writing for theon), not beta read so if there's an error kick me
word count | 2.5k
Laughter floated like music from Winterfell's great hall, humming all throughout the vastness of the garden.
You wished it actually was music.
There was a misconception that northerners didn't like music. This was the reason singers seldom traveled to the snowy lands beyond the Neck, and why harpists never dared for fear of losing a prized finger to frostbite for no more than a few coppers. Madness, you often scoffed at the matter.
Everyone liked music.
It was central to all of Old Nan's greatest stories. A song, a dance, a knight and a lady pressed chest-to-chest, lips mere inches from true love's kiss. "That's how all wars ought to end," she'd say over the click-clack of her needles, ignoring how the boys groaned while the girls listened eagerly at her feet, "with a love that can staunch the bleeding of a realm."
You believed in the power of song and dance, and even extraordinary kisses. But true love was where your belief suspended.
You weren't like Sansa and little pea-brained Jeyne, still young enough to think all men as kind and chivalrous as those in Old Nan's stories. You knew men could be unpleasant even when powerful, cruel even when courtly.
Still, you weren't yet too old for pretending. And tonight, you thought, seemed as good a night for it as any.
The winter roses had finally bloomed.
Here in the furthermost corner of the garden, your secret spot since childhood, the world appeared a wild thicket of pale blue petals and emerald leaves, competing only with the stars above for the title of Most Beautiful.
Sitting on a bench of carved stone, cold enough to kiss the backs of your thighs even through the thick layers of your finest dress and cloak, you gazed sightlessly at the petals. There was a dream in your head. A silly, girlish dream.
Some lord would happen upon you, a fair maiden alone in the night, snow melting in your hair. He would be stricken by you. Would walk amongst the flowers, considering each winter rose until he found the prettiest of them. He would pluck it, come forth and place it in your hair, introducing himself on a breath of sweet nothings.
In your dreams, the lord was young and handsome, with hair always slightly mussed. His eyes were the murky blue green of the Sunset Sea. He was bold and kind and eager, with a heart made for laughing. Familiar and brave and just a little bit bawdy. Capable of lighting a fire inside you that no one else could, of knowing what you needed even when you failed to know yourself.
He would be all this and more, you dreamt.
And he would not be Roose Bolton, you prayed.
"By your mother's gods!"
The curse jolted you from thought, head snapping to the concealed pathway leading to your secret spot. You instantly relaxed at the sight of your father's ward, maneuvering through the tangled shrubbery with practiced ease, careful to avoid thorns.
"What are you doing out here?" He sounded amused as always. "Trying to see how fast you can freeze a tit off?"
You smiled. "You know Robb would have a fit if he heard you talking about my—" the word wouldn't come out. It was as if Septa Mordane herself had pinched your tongue between her fingers, lecturing you on indecency.
Unintentionally, you wondered about Roose Bolton's methods on dealing with indecency from his lady wife... and prayed it held no correlation to their sigil.
Theon laughed and finished your sentence for you. "Tits."
You nodded—and if your cheeks grew warm, it was only from the cold nipping at your skin.
"You're right," Theon sighed dramatically. He was through the bushes now, shaking stray leaves off his cloak; but you knew from the grin he failed to hide that you were in for one of his shows. "It's insulting actually, that Robb believes I'd actually dishonor—no, not even that: ravage," he corrected, "his baby sister. Honestly! Look at me: do I look like some doltish brute to you?"
You tapped a finger to your chin. "Well, not you, necessarily. But the kraken on your chest does imply some level of brutishness."
"Slander," Theon called out.
"Truth," you rebutted with a giggle. "Though if I had to select a word for you Greyjoys, I'd pick 'willful' over 'brute."
"Is that your way of calling me brave?"
"It's my way of calling you bull-headed."
He laid a hand over his chest. "You wound me, Stark."
"Less than my brother would if he heard your folly," you pointed out.
Theon waved you off. "What Robb doesn't know won't hurt him." Then, his eyes narrowed with playful intent: "Unless you plan on telling him, that is."
"And betray your trust?"
"Bold to assume I trust you in the first place."
You feigned a gasp. "Maybe I will tell him," you threatened, knowing you never would.
He paused, as if considering holding back whatever he meant to say next.
Ultimately, his ever-present need to jest won out.
"Wench."
You tossed your head back, laughing. "Oh! So a girl's a wench now if she likes watching her brother chase foolish boys around the yard with a wooden sword?"
It would be far from the first time Robb had tried to lop Theon's head off for saying something lewd about you. But the fights never ended in blood, nor any injury beyond what Maester Luwin could heal a bruise-salve.
The boys were too close to hurt each other, and you were too good at calming them down.
"First," Theon lifted a finger, shifting his weight to one side in what you, Sansa, and Jeyne privately called his sassy pose, "I am far from foolish, so go on and jot that down, will you? Second," another finger, "when you put it like that, the whole thing sounds awfully Targaryen."
Your nose wrinkled at the implication. The Targaryens were a queer House with queer kinks, infamous for their incestual practices. Some considered it their right, holdover from the days of Old Valyria.
You, however, considered it vile.
"You're disgusting, Greyjoy."
"Says the one who wants to fuck her brother." He grinned.
Leaning down to scoop a fistful of snow, you chucked it at your father's ward with all your might.
He dodged—barely, nearly falling in the process.
Playfully exhausted, you asked, "Are you going to sit?" gesturing beside yourself to an empty spot on the bench. "Or are you too craven to cross?"
Between you lay the same cobblestone path that weaved all throughout the gardens. The path was wide, covering all ground except the plots of frost-crusted soil, giving life to greenery and blossoms. Gardeners tended to the paths, salting and weeding, ensuring they were safe to walk on. But here, in your own private corner of wilderness, the stone had become tangled with ivy, coated in ice several inches thick.
Despite years spent in the North, Theon was still only as good at crossing ice as Grey Wind would be at competing in a joust.
Actually, you thought with amusement, Robb's direwolf stood a better chance at winning a joust than Theon did at not breaking his own ass.
Never one to be another's fool, Theon confidently took his first step onto the path...
...then slipped, catching himself only by throwing his arms out to each side, finding balance only by a stroke of luck.
"I'm growing tired of Stark arrogance," he called out over your laughter. Except he didn't sound tired. He sounded like he always did: a breath away from a smile that could cleave your heart in two.
Unsure of what to say, you turned his earlier question back around on him.
"What are you doing out here? If you think it's too cold for a Stark, then surely it's lethal for an Island boy like yourself."
Theon paused his careful steps to glare at you. "I've lived over my life in the North, and the Iron Islands aren't much warmer." Determined, he said, "If a Stark can survive the cold, so can I."
You believed him.
But you didn't miss how he hadn't answered your question—no more than you answered his, you supposed, when he had asked the very same thing.
You and Theon were good at that. Half-truths and half-answers, dancing around questions like lovers in a private ballroom.
Miraculously, Theon reached the end of the path with all his bones still intact. He dropped beside you with a huff. His breath became a cloud of fog, and you watched as it drifted into nothing.
"Your presence is missed." He nodded towards the great hall, still buzzing from the grand feast within. "Not by me, of course. But your lord husband–" he cut himself off with an exaggerated cry as your elbow jabbed into his ribs.
"He is not my husband."
Yes, the Lord of the Dreadfort had made a bid for your hand.
Yes, your lord father was weighing the benefits such an alliance.
And yes, you knew it was your duty as a noblewoman to wed whichever lord most benefited your House.
But, for now at least, you had spoken true. Roose Bolton was not your husband. And if the gods were good, perhaps he never would be.
Rubbing his side, milking his "injury" for all it was worth, Theon argued, "May as well be."
"We're not even betrothed," you shot back, grumbling.
"Don't tell Lord Bolton that." He snorted. It was hard to tell if he was vexed or amused. "I've seen the way he looks at you. The old man's likely already spent in his breeches just thinking about your bedding ceremony."
Blugh...
As you fought to keep down the lemon cakes you'd had the feast, Theon brushed two knuckles down the soft velvet cloak covering your arm. His touch was light—but you felt it in your bones.
"Do you think Lord Bolton will buy you such finery?" he teased softly. Then, even softer, with a humor that frayed and cracked: "Or perhaps he'll have you dressed in the skins of his enemies."
The lemon cakes almost won.
"Is that true?" you asked warily. "The Boltons, they... they still flay men?"
In the recent past, your father had reaffirmed the centuries-old Stark decree outlawing flaying in the North. He took House Boltons silence on the matter for complaisance, but there were still whispers they continued the cruel practice from deep in the bowels of their castle.
It was all Theon could do to keep his grin from fully breaking. "Let me know if you find out," he ended up saying.
At some point, his knuckles had brushed all the way down near your hand. No longer was he feeling the velvet. Instead, he fiddled with the fur-trim near your wrist.
You weren't sure he realized he was still touching you—and you didn't dare mention it, didn't gaze too long at his fingers, for fear that if he realized, he might stop.
You sniffed. "Have I ever told you you're a nuisance, Greyjoy?"
His laugh turned to fog. "Often." He looked right at you; his eyes lit with something more beautiful than pale blue petals and twinkling stars. "Though I never tire of hearing it, Stark."
Ten years.
That was how long it had been since your father first brought Theon to Winterfell as hostage and ward. You had been prepared to hate him, at first. Between Robb and Jon, you felt you had enough pestilent older brothers around.
But Theon had never wanted to be your brother, no more than you could ever hate him.
Chewing your cheek, you gazed through the dark towards the sound of songless revelry. "I don't want to be made a Bolton," you told him.
Quiet, quiet, quiet—
—then: "Do women often get what they want in this world?" Theon asked.
They should, you wanted to say.
But like true love, a woman's ability to choose was just another thing that existed only in stories. Your fate rested in the hands of men; some honorable and some cruel, and others willful yet craven.
"What do you want?" Theon's question was unexpected—by the both of you, if his tone was any indication. "Out of anyone," he continued, "anything... what would you choose for yourself?"
The answer rested on the tip of your tongue, where it had lived for the past ten years. Simple, easy, one word and three letters, starting with Y and ending with U.
But that would be the full truth.
And all you knew how to give was half.
"Someone to get me out of this marriage mess," you said simply. You kept staring ahead at the winter roses, puffs of pale breath from your mouth and his, dissipating as one. "I'm not so witless as to think I can avoid marriage as a whole. I know my duty, and I swear to fulfill it—with misery in my heart, if need be. But is it so wrong to want a say?"
Theon said nothing. No japes, no jests. Just listening.
You sniffed and wiped your nose with the back of a hand—the one not graced with his fingers near your wrist, still fiddling with your cloak's fur-trim.
"I want someone brave and kind," you admitted quietly, "and just foolish enough to keep me laughing. Someone willing to go to my father and ask for my hand, but only after they're certain I want them to have it. Someone who will sing and dance with me, kiss me and place roses in my hair."
You closed your eyes. Envisioned that girlish dream and tried slotting cruel Roose Bolton into the role of the gallant, playful lord of your storybook fantasies. But you couldn't. You tried and tried, but Roose Bolton fit like a wrong piece in a puzzle, grossly out of place. The lord's face remained the same.
The lord's face remained Theon's.
Eventually, Theon took a deep breath. Removed his hand from our cloak, along with any chance of touching your wrist.
Your heart broke.
This was it, you thought. This was the truth of things.
Life wasn't like Old Nan's stories. There would be no song, no dance. Love wasn't strong enough to end wars. It wasn't even strong enough to spur bravery—truth—between two people who had known each other for nearly a lifetime.
You planned to get up. To leave, go back to the feast. Roose Bolton would be looking for you, you knew, and it was high time you stopped pretending, dreaming, thinking.
But then you heard the sound of rustling leaves.
Your eyes snapped open. You found Theon leaning halfway off the side of the bench, an arm outstretched toward one of the rose bushes. He appeared clumsy and awkward and determined as he tried snapping the stem of a particularly full bloom.
When he finally succeeded, he turned back to you with a boyish grin that made your heart soar.
Carefully, he tucked the winter rose behind your ear.
"You know there's about a hundred of these," he said of the flowers, voice softer than you'd ever heard it. He reached for your hand. Brushed a thumb over your knuckles. "I fear your standards are too low, Stark."
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
a/n | school’s kicking my ass five ways to tuesday, and i’ve got about 14 “finished” one shots sitting in my drafts rn that i am way too busy to edit. so i decided to just go ahead and post some of them, because we aim for readable around here, not perfection✊
besides, this one was a must because there aren’t nearly enough theon fics in the tags. so, here’s this! my contribution lmao. thanks for reading and hopefully you enjoyed!
(side note: wouldn't it be so unfortunate if reader still ended up marrying Roose Bolton? and Ramsay still takes Theon? and then they're just both in the Dreadfort, miserable and haunted and tortured by the incredibly hot awful Boltons? just a thought)
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:
⌯⌲ “Men speak of her beauty as though it were her sharpest blade. They are mistaken. It is her softness that is dangerous. A gentle word from her could make a man forget himself… and I have no wish to forget who I am in her presence.” - Willas Tyrell
⌯⌲ “She was promised once, in whispers and half-dreams. A golden thing I thought I might claim. But lions are not so easily taken… and she was never mine to begin with, no matter how I might wish it.”- Theon GreyJoy
⌯⌲ “She is the Mother’s mercy and the Maiden’s grace both, and I… I am unworthy of either. When she speaks, I feel as though the Seven themselves are judging me through her eyes. Yet still, I would kneel, if only to hear her voice again.” - Lancel Lannister
⌯⌲ “If the sun had a daughter, she would look as she does. I would cross every desert in Dorne just to see her smile again… though I fear I should die of thirst before I reached her.” - Trystane Martell
⌯⌲ “They speak of her beauty as if it were something distant, something to admire. They do not know her. They do not see how she looks at the world, as if it might still be kind. I would sooner lose every crown I might wear than lose that look in her eyes.” - Robb Stark
⌯⌲ “A beauty such as hers belongs in songs, not courts. I would sooner win her favor than a tourney crown… though I suspect the crown would be easier.” - Harrold Hardyng
⌯⌲ “They say the lions keep a golden daughter, fairer than any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms. Beauty is a weapon, and I would have it. A queen like that beside me… yes, the realm would remember what dragons once were.” - Viserys Targaryen
- Summary: A Stark daughter and Theon Greyjoy grow up side by side in Winterfell, bound by love long before war and pride tear them apart. When he returns to Winterfell changed by betrayal, ambition, and old wounds, what remains between them is not enough to save either of them.
- Pairing: stark!reader/Theon Greyjoy
- Note: I’m still trying to pin down something more solid to write for ASOIAF universe, so for now, here’s an angsty little one-shot in the meantime.
The first thing you ever learned of Theon Greyjoy was laughter.
Not his name. Not the Iron Islands, not his father’s rebellion, not the price your lord father had paid in blood and patience to keep a hostage prince beneath his roof like some finely dressed reminder that peace in the Seven Kingdoms was a patched thing, stitched shut over rot. Before you understood any of that, before Maester Luwin thought you old enough to know why Lord Eddard sometimes looked at the ward from Pyke with a gaze as flat and cold as winter water, you knew only the sound of a boy laughing in Winterfell’s yard as if the world had been made for his amusement. He was lean where Robb was sturdy, dark where your brothers ran red or auburn, quick with his tongue and quicker with his grin, and there was in him, even as a child, something untamed that did not wholly belong to the stone and snow of the north. You had stood with your hands tucked into the sleeves of your gown, no older than seven, your twin brother beside you with his cheeks red from the cold, and watched Theon loose an arrow straight into the straw throat of the target while Ser Rodrik barked approval at Robb for nearly doing the same. Theon had turned then, bright-eyed and proud, searching for someone to admire him. His gaze had found yours. It lingered. Then he bowed low with all the mockery and flourish of some southron fool from a song.
“Did you see that, my lady? I meant to split the world in two, but the target leapt in the way.”
You had laughed, because you were a child and he had made you laugh, and from that day on the thing between you had begun in the simplest manner possible, as so many tragic things do, with two foolish young hearts mistaking ease for safety.
Winterfell raised him, though never truly as one of its own. That was plain enough even when you were young. He sat at your father’s table, trained in your yard, hunted your forests, drank your ale, wore wool against your winds, yet there remained always that inch of distance no one named aloud. Robb called him brother near as often as he called Jon the same. Bran adored him in the thoughtless way small boys adore anyone older, handsome, and willing to teach them wicked little tricks. Rickon ran after him when he was half-feral with puppy energy and runny nose. Even Sansa, who pretended to dislike him, would go pink when he smiled at her, though she said his manners were dreadful and his jokes improper. Arya liked him better for those very reasons. Jon saw him truest, perhaps, and trusted him least. You saw all of it. You saw the swagger he wore like armor. You saw the slights that were not meant as slights but bit all the same. You saw how the servants obeyed him readily enough but never forgot what he was. You saw how your father was just, never cruel, but never warm. Theon would grin, jest, boast, charm the kennel girls and tease the kitchen maids and come to supper bright as summer lightning, but sometimes, when the hall had emptied and the rushes smelled of wine and smoke, you would find him looking into the fire with such stillness that he scarcely seemed to breathe. Those were the hours when the ward vanished and the hostage remained.
You were perhaps twelve when he first kissed you, though kissed was too fine a word for it and gives the thing more skill than it deserves. It happened in the godswood, where all dangerous softness in Winterfell seemed to gather beneath the red leaves and dark boughs. There had been an early thaw that afternoon, enough to turn the paths to damp earth and release the smell of pine and cold stone, and you had gone there to escape Septa Mordane, who said you read too much history and not enough prayer. Theon found you with a half-plucked twig in his hand, the bark peeled away by his nails, and dropped down beside you on the roots beneath the heart tree as if he had every right.
“Hiding?” he asked.
“Always,” you said. “From the septa, from Sansa’s songs, from Robb’s boasting, from Arya’s bruises, from Bran’s climbing, from Mother’s plans. Sometimes from you.”
“Cruel,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart. “And here I thought I was your favorite burden.”
“You are everyone’s burden.”
“Then I shall be a splendid one.”
He leaned in with that easy arrogance boys have before life begins knocking teeth from their mouths, and because you had already grown used to his nearness you did not move quickly enough. His mouth brushed yours, clumsy, warm, tasting faintly of apple and stolen ale. You stared at him. He stared back for one shocked heartbeat, as though he had surprised himself. Then he smiled, slow and dangerous and delighted.
“There,” he said softly. “Now I have done it.”
“Done what?” you whispered, though you knew.
“Ruined myself,” he replied. “I shall never be satisfied with anyone else.”
That was the first time you struck him and the first time he caught your wrist instead of letting you. Neither of you spoke for a little while after. The heart tree watched in red silence while your pulse beat against his fingers. Then he lowered your hand and said, not mocking now, not smiling, “I mean it.”
He was young enough then that he still believed meaning a thing was the same as being able to keep it.
There were years of half-spoken promises after that, though none either of you would have admitted were promises at all. Theon grew into beauty with the vanity of a boy too aware of it, and if half the maids in Winterfell sighed over him, he gave them reason enough. He flirted where he breathed, and bragged because it was easier than confessing fear, and moved through life with the reckless charm of one determined to seize what pleasure he could before the world remembered to be cruel. You resented him for that at times. You adored him for it too. He would come to you after hunting, cheeks stung by cold, hair windblown, and drop a rabbit or two at your feet as though he were some hero from the old tales returning with spoils for his lady. He would steal you from embroidery to walk the battlements with him under a bruised sky while snow gathered white upon the crenellations. He would tell you ridiculous stories of Pyke, some surely true and others invented wholesale to hear you laugh, of waves high as towers and priests drowned and reborn and cousins as mean as dogs. When he spoke of the sea his whole face altered, lit from some inward place Winterfell could never reach. Yet when you asked whether he wished to go back, his gaze would slide away.
“To what?” he said once. “A father who remembers I exist when it serves him? A sister who is a stranger? A place that took my name and left me mine only because your father found it useful?”
You had said, “It is still your home.”
His laugh then had been harsh enough to draw blood.
“Is it? And what is this?”
He had spread his arms wide to take in the walls, the towers, the white world beyond.
“A cage with warm fires? A debt repaid in mutton and courtesy? Perhaps. Still, I have been caged so long I dream in northern snow.”
You should have known even then that love built upon hunger and wounded pride was a poor foundation. But you were young, and youth is stupid in the same grand way kings are stupid, with absolute certainty and no comprehension of cost. You let him kiss you more than once after that first foolish theft. In shadowed stairwells and empty galleries, in the stable loft with hay dust thick in the air, in the godswood with the old gods looking on, on the wall-walk at dusk with the wind off the wolfswood biting at your ears. He would touch your face as if it were something he had no right to and meant to take anyway. He would say things half in jest and wholly earnest beneath it.
“When I am lord of Pyke, I will build you a tower over the sea.”
“I do not want a tower over the sea.”
“Then a ship.”
“I do not want a ship.”
“Then I shall conquer the north and keep Winterfell for you.”
“That seems difficult.”
“Nothing worth doing is easy.”
Sometimes you thought him vain, shallow, too eager to be seen. Sometimes you looked at him and saw only the lonely boy beneath the bright feathers, and your heart turned traitor against all sense. He loved you. You did not doubt that. The harder truth was that he loved himself in your eyes as well. With you he could pretend he was not a hostage, not a tolerated outsider, not Balon Greyjoy’s discarded son kept alive by Stark mercy. With you he could be chosen. You were too young to understand that being made into a refuge by a desperate heart could feel very like devotion and rot into bitterness all the same.
When King Robert came north with all his noise and silk and appetites, when the court poured into Winterfell like a gaudy disease, when your father’s face went grave and your mother began to count futures like a woman counting knives, the old life ended so quietly at first that none of you marked the sound. A betrothal here, a royal command there, talk in every hall of south and court and offices and honors. Your father would ride south to serve as Hand. Sansa was all aflutter at the thought of queens and princes. Arya glowered and went for her sword. Bran climbed where he ought not. Theon laughed at it all and said kings were only men with fatter arses, yet you caught him watching the preparations with an expression you could not name. On the last night before your father left, you met Theon in the godswood by habit more than plan, because endings draw the heart to places where beginnings once took root. The leaves whispered above you. The pool beneath the weirwood was black glass. He stood with one hand on the pale trunk, head bowed. When he heard you, he turned. There was moonlight on his face, silvering the line of his cheek, catching in his eyes.
“So this is how it breaks,” he said.
“Nothing has broken.”
“Your father rides south into a pit of snakes, and Robb will be lord here in all but name, and the children will scatter, and you speak of nothing broken. Stark courage truly is a marvel.”
“Do not mock me tonight.”
“I am not mocking.”
For once he was not. He came closer, and the playfulness he so often wrapped around himself was absent.
“Come with me,” he said suddenly.
“Where?”
“Anywhere. South, east, to White Harbor and onto a ship, I care not. Let Robb keep Winterfell and your mother her plans. Let your father keep his duty. Come with me and I will make something of myself large enough to deserve you.”
You stared at him, struck still by the audacity of it, by the impossible brightness in his gaze.
“You are asking me to abandon my family.”
“I am asking you to choose me.”
“That is the same thing.”
His jaw tightened.
“Only because they have made it so.”
“No,” you said quietly. “Because it is so.”
He went very still then, the way animals do when the arrow has struck but pain has not yet reached them.
“And if I wait?” he asked. “If I become the man they cannot deny? If I come to ask in honor?”
Your throat hurt.
“Then ask.”
He searched your face as if he hoped to find some loophole, some softer answer hidden behind the one you had given. At last he nodded.
“Very well, my lady. I shall ask.”
He kissed you then with such fierce desperation it felt like grief had taken bodily form. When he drew away, he rested his brow against yours and whispered, “Do not marry before I return.”
You meant to say something wise, something soothing perhaps, but what came out was the most foolish answer of all.
“Then return.”
The world, being the spiteful beast it is, heard and laughed.
Your father never returned alive from the south. The news came in blows, one after another, each seeming impossible until the next made it real. Lord Eddard arrested. Lord Eddard accused. Lord Eddard condemned. Lord Eddard dead, beheaded before the Great Sept while the city watched and the king-boy smiled his thin little smile. Grief made Winterfell ring hollow. Your mother was gone to war before you had time to cling to her. Robb was no longer merely your twin but a king in the making, hardening by necessity before your eyes. Bran lay broken first and then rose changed, with old shadows in his gaze. Rickon cried and bit and howled like a pup. Sansa was trapped in the snake-pit wearing silk chains. Arya had vanished. The realm split open. Men marched south under direwolf banners and your brother rode at their head while songs began to grow around him like weeds around a grave. Through all of it, Theon remained beside Robb. He drank with him, advised him, rode with him, laughed with him, swore to him. If you loved him before, you loved him worst then, because grief strips away illusion and leaves only need, and he became the nearest thing to comfort that did not belong to you by blood. There were nights before the host rode when you found him standing in the yard beneath torchlight with mail half-buckled and his horse already saddled.
“When this is done,” he said once, fingers catching yours in the dark, “I will ask him. King or no, I will ask Robb for you.”
“You speak as though you are not riding into slaughter.”
He smiled crookedly.
“I have no intention of dying before I steal a Stark bride. Think of the songs. Your lady mother would hate them.”
Despite everything, you laughed. He kissed your knuckles. Then more quietly he said, “I mean to come back to you.”
“Then do that,” you answered, because by then you understood enough of the world to mistrust grander vows.
He rode south with your brother. You remained behind with Bran and Rickon in Winterfell, because women in the north were expected to hold castles, children, and sorrow with equal steadiness. Ravens came and went. Victories were spoken of in the hall. Jaime Lannister taken. Riverrun relieved. Whispering Wood. Battle of the Camps. Your brother was named King in the North. Men cheered. Ale spilled. Yet every raven seemed to carry absence more than triumph, because every name listed among the living only reminded you how many others were not named. When at last word came that Theon Greyjoy had been sent as envoy to Pyke, to win the ironborn to Robb’s cause, you stood so quickly from your chair that the embroidery hoop fell from your hands. Maester Luwin looked up from the message with pity already in his eyes, though he knew nothing and everything at once, as old men often do.
“Lady Y/N,” he said gently, “it is a sensible course.”
Sensible. You wanted to laugh in his face. There was nothing sensible in sending a man like Theon back to the father who had never loved him, back to the people among whom he had become a stranger, back to the sea that had shaped every wound in him. That night you went alone to the battlements. The wind was brutal. Below, the dark stretched endless beyond the walls. You stood there until your fingers were numb and remembered Theon at twelve with hay in his hair and insolence in his smile. Remembered him at sixteen boasting he would put the stars to shame. Remembered him in the godswood asking you to choose him. You knew then, with the sick certainty women have before men ruin everything, that sending him home was not sending him home at all. It was sending him to judgment.
He did not write. That should not have surprised you. Theon was never a man made for letters and patient explanation. Still, each day without word wore at you. Then came whispers first, ugly and uncertain. Ironborn longships raiding the western shore. Deepwood Motte under threat. Torrhen’s Square taken. Men muttered in corners and stopped when you approached. Maester Luwin wore his worry like an old cloak. Ser Rodrik cursed the krakens and sharpened swords till sparks jumped. You learned the truth not from any careful hand but from chaos, as truths of that sort so often arrive. A rider came half-dead to Winterfell with a torn mouth and blood caked down one side of his face. The hall filled at once. Luwin read. Bran stared. Rickon began to cry because everyone else had gone so still. You did not need the words before they were spoken. Theon Greyjoy had taken Winterfell.
For a long moment the world narrowed to nothing but the hammering of your own blood. Someone said your name. Someone moved toward you. It may have been Old Nan, or Beth Cassel, or one of the guardsmen. You heard none of it properly. Winterfell. Taken. By Theon. Your first thought was absurd and shameful and human. He came back. Your second was worse. He came back for the wrong thing.
You saw him first from the steps of the Great Keep after the gates had opened under threat and fury both. He rode through them not like a supplicant returned in honor, nor like the swaggering boy who used to leap down from a horse and bow mockingly at your feet, but like a man wearing another man’s skin and hoping no one noticed where it pinched. He had dressed himself for conquest, dark mail and kraken clasp, sword at hip, pride sitting too stiff upon his shoulders. The ironborn with him looked at Winterfell as wolves look at a flock. Bran sat in his chair white-faced and wordless. Rickon clung to him with his mouth hard and eyes wet with rage. Maester Luwin’s expression was old pain made flesh. Theon’s gaze went over them, over the yard, the towers, the familiar stone, and then found you. In that instant something inside his face broke through, raw and naked and horribly young.
“Y/N,” he said.
Not my lady. Not Lady Stark. Just your name, like a plea.
The hall should have erupted then, but all seemed suspended for the space of that word. You descended the steps slowly, your skirts whispering against stone, every eye in the yard fixed upon you. When you stood before him, close enough to smell horse and salt and leather and the faint remembered note that was only Theon beneath it all, you looked up and said, “Is this your honor, then?”
His mouth twitched.
“Do not do this before them.”
“Before them?” You laughed, and the sound had nothing soft in it. “You have brought an enemy into my home, pointed steel at my brothers, raised your banner over my father’s walls, and you fear shame before them?”
Around you the air felt brittle, one harsh word away from shattering into blood. Theon swung down from his horse in a single smooth movement and stepped nearer.
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“No. You do not get my ear because once you had my heart.”
That struck him. You saw it. He glanced around then, at the watching men, the drawn faces, and lowered his voice.
“I had to do something.”
“You had to betray us?”
“I had to become more than a pet wolf in your brother’s camp.”
“So you became your father’s dog instead.”
One of the ironborn bristled at that, but Theon lifted a hand without looking back and the man held.
“You know nothing of it,” he said.
“Then tell me.”
“Not here.”
“There is no elsewhere. Not now.”
His jaw worked.
“They would never have given you to me.”
That was so nakedly not the heart of it, so childish a scrap snatched from a larger wound, that for a moment your anger nearly gave way to pity. Nearly.
“And for that,” you said, “you thought to steal my home?”
He took Winterfell in the end not with blood but with fear and bewilderment, which was perhaps the fouler theft. Men yielded because the young lord was crippled, because the castellan was absent, because surprise serves traitors better than courage ever serves the honorable. Yet once the first shock had passed the castle curdled around him. The servants obeyed with stone faces. The kennel dogs snarled when the ironborn came near. Hodor bellowed till they beat him into silence. Osha looked at Theon with open hatred, the wildling’s contempt honest where others’ was veiled. You bore yourself as your mother’s daughter, straight-backed, cold, speaking when needed and never more. In public you gave him nothing. In private he chased scraps. The first night after he took the castle he came to your chamber, not barging but standing outside the door as though he feared what lay within more than any sword. Beth would not leave you alone until you ordered her. Then he entered. Snow hissed at the shutters. Candlelight hollowed his face.
“I did not wish to frighten you,” he said.
“How comforting,” you replied. “Only my family, then.”
“They are alive.”
“Do you want praise for sparing children you once called brothers?”
He flinched.
“I came to speak to you.”
“Then speak.”
He shut the door behind him. For a little while he merely stood there, looking at the room as if it accused him. It did. The embroidery frame by the hearth. The carved chest from Riverrun. The cloak your mother had sewn for you before one winter feast. The little worlds of women and daughters, of continuities men with swords seldom notice until they are smashing through them.
“I had no choice,” he said at last.
“Do not lie to me. You chose.”
“What would you have had me do? Crawl back to Robb with empty hands and call myself his man forever? My father laughed at me. My uncles sneered. My sister looked at me as if I were some painted fool. They saw what your family made me.”
“My family fed you, clothed you, raised you when your own blood left you to rot.”
“As hostage.”
“As ward.”
“Do not dress chains in silk and ask me to thank you.”
He took another step toward you, frustration sharpening him.
“You do not understand what it is to belong nowhere.”
That struck deeper than he knew, because you had watched him belong nowhere for half your life. Still you said, “And so you would make others feel the same.”
He stared at you a long time then, and when he spoke again the anger had burned down to something rawer.
“I thought,” he said, “if I came here crowned in victory, if I proved I was no one’s kept boy, then perhaps you would see me.”
You could have slapped him for that. Instead you whispered, “I saw you long before this. That was the ruin of me.”
He came often after that, driven by some need he could not master and you could not soothe. Sometimes he spoke of practical matters, of men, stores, threats, ravens, how Ser Rodrik would surely come, how he must hold the castle, how the north would have to accept terms once it saw sense. He said these things as if saying them made them possible. At other times he spoke like the old Theon, with bitter wit and a smile sharpened by weariness.
“Do you know,” he said once while staring into your hearth, “I used to imagine being lord here?”
“Did you?”
“Aye. You beside me. Robb off warring somewhere glorious, Bran climbing into trouble, Rickon biting the servants, your lady mother disapproving from seven kingdoms away.”
Despite yourself, despite everything, some old treacherous part of you could almost see it, the impossible ghost of a life in which boys became better men than their fathers and the realm was not made of knives.
“You might have asked,” you said.
He gave a short, humorless laugh.
“And heard your lord father say no in that northern way of his where the word is never raised but always final?”
“You did not know what he would have said.”
“I knew enough.”
“No,” you answered. “You knew your fear.”
He looked at you then with such fury and hurt together it seemed a wonder he did not shatter under the weight of them.
“Easy for a Stark,” he said. “Easy for one born wanted.”
The injustice of that, and the truth tangled in it, left you cold for hours after he had gone.
Then Bran and Rickon vanished.
The castle woke to alarm and shouting. The boys were gone, Osha with them, Hodor too. Men searched. Horns sounded. Horses were saddled. Theon stood in the yard red-eyed and savage, barking orders with more panic than authority. When he learned they had slipped him, that the crippled child and wild little boy and giant stableboy and wildling woman had made fools of him beneath his own stolen roof, his pride curdled into something uglier. He rode out hunting them with dogs and ironborn at his back. You watched from the battlements under a sky the color of old steel and knew with a sick, animal certainty that whatever returned would not be your brothers.
It was not.
Theon came back carrying victory like a corpse. Two small bodies were hung in Winterfell’s yard and charred so badly that no face remained. The smell of burned flesh rolled over the stones and set the whole castle retching. A woman screamed. Someone dropped to his knees. Maester Luwin made a sound you had never heard from a man before, something torn from a place older than speech. For one blind moment the yard swam. You thought you would fall. Then Theon turned as if seeking you out specifically, as if he needed you to witness what he had done and still say his name the same way. Your feet moved before your mind did. You crossed the yard through smoke and horror, past ironborn who shifted uneasily, past servants weeping into their aprons, past the blackened little shapes that had broken the world, and when you reached him you struck him across the face with everything you had. The crack rang out hard enough to still even the muttering. His head snapped sideways. A red mark bloomed along his cheek. You would have struck him again, but he caught your arm.
“Do not touch me,” you hissed. “Those are not my brothers.”
His grip loosened at once. Something wild flickered in his eyes.
“You know?”
“I know Bran’s hands. I know Rickon’s height. I know them, you bastard. You think I would not know?”
He said nothing. Around you the silence thickened.
“Who?” you demanded. “Who did you burn?”
Still nothing. His face had gone pale beneath the slap-mark.
“Miller’s boys,” Maester Luwin said softly from somewhere behind you, voice broken.
It was not accusation that filled the yard then. Not only that. It was something worse. Recognition. The men, the women, the old, the young, the stablehands, the cooks, the guards who remained, all looked at Theon and saw what he had chosen in order to pretend power. Not a prince, not even a traitor worth song. A frightened child with a knife at a babe’s throat. Theon felt it. You saw him feel it. His shoulders seemed to draw inward though he stood upright.
“I had to show strength,” he said, but the words were ash already.
You looked at him as you might look at some strange thing washed up dead by a river.
“No,” you said. “You had to prove to yourself that you were cruel enough to be your father’s son. Tell me, was it worth it?”
He could not answer. That was answer enough.
After that, whatever fragile lie had existed between you was done. He knew it. So did you. Yet ruin has a way of circling the broken thing instead of leaving it in peace. One night, not long after the miller’s boys burned and the castle’s hatred of him had become a living creature, he found you again in the godswood. Winterfell had grown full of whispers and dread. Snow drifted down through the branches in slow white veils. The pool beneath the heart tree had a skin of dark ice along its edges. You stood before the weirwood with your cloak drawn tight, the red leaves above you black in the night. He came without escort. That alone told you how frayed he was. His hair was damp with melted snow. His eyes looked too large in his face.
“I knew you would come here,” he said.
“The gods still listen, do they?”
“Not to me.”
“Not to me either.”
He stopped a few paces off. For once there was no swagger in him, no bright insolence, none of the old easy performance. Only exhaustion and a desperation so naked it made him look younger than when you first knew him.
“They hate me,” he said.
“They should.”
“Aye.”
He laughed softly at that, but there was no humor in it.
“Even my own men smell weakness. Dagmer would have known what to do. Asha too. My father would have done worse and slept well after.”
“And you?”
“I do not sleep.”
Snow caught in his lashes.
“I thought if I took this place, if I stood upon these walls and made men say my name with fear, something in me would settle. I thought I would finally be one person instead of two halves forever at war.”
He looked around him then, at the white ground, the black trunks, the red leaves that seemed wet as wounds in the dark.
“Instead I have made myself a monster and still do not know whose son I am in my bones.”
You should have left. You should have said nothing. Instead, perhaps because grief had hollowed you too, perhaps because the godswood remembered younger versions of you both, you said, “You are Theon. That was enough once.”
He looked at you with such terrible longing that it hurt to bear.
“Was it?”
“For me.”
“Not for the world.”
“The world is not worth this.”
“No. It is all we have.”
“No. It is all men like your father teach you to crave.”
He took a step nearer.
“And what would you teach me?”
“Too late for teaching.”
“Say it anyway.”
The words came before you could stop them.
“I would have taught you that being loved is not the same as being owned. That mercy is not humiliation. That a man is not made smaller because he was spared. That he need not set every good thing ablaze to prove he has fire.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again they shone wet in the darkness, though whether from snow or grief you could not tell.
“If I had asked again,” he murmured, “truly asked, before all this, would you have come?”
There it was, the knife twisted at last into the oldest wound. You answered him with honesty, because lies between you had done enough harm.
“No.”
He flinched.
“But I would have waited.”
Silence fell between you then, immense and merciless. He let out a long breath that smoked in the cold.
“That may be worse.”
“I know.”
“Do you still love me?”
It was a monstrous question. It was the only one that mattered. You looked at him beneath the carved face of the old god, at the boy you had known, the man he had failed to become, the traitor, the frightened son, the killer of innocents, the lonely thing still reaching for you with blood on his hands. Your voice was very quiet.
“That is the worst of it.”
He made a sound then, almost a laugh and almost a sob, and turned his face away as if he could not bear for you to see it.
The end came as such ends do, with smoke, steel, and screaming.
Ramsay Snow was not yet named Bolton in open triumph then, not to most in Winterfell, but doom does not require a proper title. Men came under false banners and false promises. Treachery answered treachery. The castle that had endured winter, siege, kings, and wolves was given over to fire by men too craven to hold what they had stolen and too savage to leave it standing for others. In the confusion of it, amid clanging bells and shouts and the frantic stamp of frightened horses, you found Theon in the yard with a sword in his hand and ruin all around him. Flame crawled up the old timbers. Smoke turned the air thick and bitter. One of his own men lay dead nearby with his throat open. Another crawled with his guts in his hands. Above, sparks swarmed against the dark like red insects. He looked at you as if you were a ghost pulled from memory.
“You should be away,” he shouted over the din.
“And leave my home to burn?”
“It is lost.”
“Because of you.”
“Aye.”
Strange that he did not deny it now. Strange and somehow more terrible. He stepped closer, blade lowered, face striped with soot and sweat.
“Listen to me. There is a way through the lower gate by the glass garden. I can get you out.”
“Can you?”
“I can try.”
“Trying has never been your strength.”
The words were cruel, but the world had earned cruelty by then. He accepted them with a hollow sort of calm.
“No,” he said. “Perhaps not. Still, take it. Go north if you can. Find your brothers if they live. Find your mother. Find Robb.”
He swallowed.
“Live.”
Something in you twisted at the raw earnestness of that single word. Around you Winterfell groaned as if the stones themselves were mourning.
“Come with me,” you said, and it was madness, because where would he go, and who would spare him, and what could he ever be after this? Yet you said it because some ancient, foolish part of you still remembered the boy in the godswood asking the same.
He smiled then, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen on any man.
“Now you offer it.”
“I offer nothing,” you snapped, because tenderness in that moment felt like blasphemy. “I state a road.”
“There is no road for me that does not end with a noose or a blade.”
“Then choose which man’s judgment you prefer.”
“And if I am tired of being judged?”
“Then you have picked a poor world to live in.”
He laughed, an actual laugh this time, brief and disbelieving.
“There you are.”
A beam crashed somewhere above, showering sparks. He reached out suddenly and touched your face with grimy fingers, gentler than he had any right to be.
“You were always too good for me.”
“Do not make yourself noble now.”
“I am not. I am being honest for once.”
He bent and kissed you.
It was not like the kisses in hidden passages, nor like the desperate one by the heart tree when your father rode south. There was no youth in it, no illusion, no promise. It tasted of smoke and salt and grief. It was a farewell, and both of you knew it. When he drew back his forehead rested briefly against yours, and in the roar of fire and falling stone he whispered, “In another life I would have asked your father properly.”
Your eyes burned, though whether from smoke or sorrow did not matter.
“In another life,” you answered, “you might have been worth the asking.”
He shut his eyes. The words hurt him. You let them. You were hurt too. Then he straightened, hand falling away.
“Go,” he said. “Before I make one final ruin of this.”
You looked at him for one suspended heartbeat longer, trying perhaps to fix him as he had once been beneath all he had become, but memory is as treacherous as men. At last you turned and ran toward the lower gate while Winterfell burned behind you and the man you had loved disappeared into the smoke.
Years later, when songs and rumors and ravens had chewed his name to pieces and spat it back in forms both uglier and sadder than the truth, you would still sometimes dream of him as he had first been. Not Reek, not prince, not traitor, not broken creature haunted by hounds and knives and all the cruelties men devise to unmake each other. Just Theon, laughing in the yard, sunlight on his face, pride and loneliness warring behind his grin. In those dreams he was always turning toward you with a bow fit for a fool and saying something absurd. In those dreams you were always young enough to laugh. Waking was the hard part. Waking meant remembering your father headless in the south, your mother drowned in vengeance, your brother crowned and butchered, your home burned, your own heart given once to a boy who mistook love for rescue and became instead a lesson in what hunger can do when pride feeds it. Yet even then, even knowing all he did, you could not wholly teach yourself to hate the child he had been. That was your weakness, perhaps. Or your mercy. The north has little use for either, though the old gods keep their own counsel.
If there was any truth left to bury with him, it was this: Theon Greyjoy loved you. He loved you badly, selfishly, hungrily, with all the ruinous force of a man who had never been taught how to hold a good thing without fearing it would be taken. You loved him too, and that love was no cleaner for being sincere. It changed nothing. It saved no one. Songs prefer love to be redemptive, but songs are lies told over bones. Sometimes love is only another blade men hand each other with trembling fingers and call by sweeter names. In Winterfell, where snow covers blood until thaw comes, you learned that early and learned it forever.
And still, when the wind rose at night and rattled the shutters like knuckles against old wood, there were moments you could almost hear him laughing somewhere beyond the walls, young and vain and alive, before fathers and kings and war taught him what he was worth and he believed them.
