#* ── IF YOU LOOK BACK YOU’RE LOST. / THEON GREYJOY / REEK. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sailorshadzter · 5 years

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wolves always find their way home.

When she thinks about Theon, it hurts.

The pain steals the breath from her lungs, it douses her in ice. She spends the long hours after the battle among the survivors- she stitches wounds, she cleans burns. She does anything that she can to keep him from her mind- but he always drifts back. It isn't until Lord Royce touches her arm and tells her to go rest that she realizes the sun has been up for several hours now.

And so she walks the crumbling halls of Winterfell, knowing the home she had only so recently gotten back was nearly destroyed. It would take months of rebuilding to bring Winterfell back to its glory. She recalls walking these same halls back when Ramsay had lived- the chambers he had kept her in were destroyed now and she was thankful for it. Those rooms she had not returned to since taking Winterfell back with Jon.

Jon... She thinks of him as often as she does Theon, though with a much happier state of mind. Jon lived through the battle and though injured, he would be well enough to rise from his bed later that day. The same went for Arya, for Brienne. And for that she was so very thankful.

Though she had promised Lord Royce she would go to her chamber to rest, Sansa found herself climbing the stairs to the floor above that still yet remained in tact. Up there in a hall to the east was a hidden door that opened up onto the battlements. Well, what remained of them, anyways. She needed just a moment in the snow; a cold moment of solitude that would clear her mind before she did indeed try and rest. But as she stepped out into the afternoon sun, she found she was not the only one who needed a moment to himself out there on the battlements.

He turns to her as she approaches, his lips curving with the smallest of smiles. It's a I'm so happy to see you sort of smile, it's a I'm so thankful you're alive sort of smile. One that she feels in the deepest corners of her soul. Without a single word, they understand each other. Sansa comes to stand beside him, their shoulders just barely brushing as they look out over the courtyard of their home. By now, it's begun to empty out- beds have been found for those too injured to be moved, while those with lesser wounds have been taken in wagons to Wintertown for care. Their own family members are inside somewhere, warm and tucked into bed, safe. Alive. "I'm sorry," Jon finally says and Sansa turns to look at him, brow arching with her silently posed question. "About Theon."

The world stops turning for just a moment and Sansa steadies herself upon the railing of the battlement. "Wolves always find their way home," is all she can say in response, blue eyes closing as she fights against the rising wave of tears. She won't cry. Not again.

It's a moment later that she feels Jon hand upon her arm. She turns back to him and Jon tilts his head as that same hand rises up to tenderly touch her cheek. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," Jon nods, knowing well that Theon was as much part of their pack as he. More so... Theon had died to protect Bran. And he'd have died to protect Sansa, now and back then. What he'd done for Sansa alone had been all that kept him from killing him with his own two hands. What he'd done for Bran had merely cemented Jon's opinion of Theon. "I have something for you." He then says, reaching into his pocket for something. He extends out his hand and into her gloved palm he drops a direwolf pin. "It was found down in the crypts." It could have come from any one of the Stark graves down below and Jon thought it most fitting to give to the Lady of Winterfell.

Sansa clutches the pin tightly in her hand and for the first time in what felt like years, she smiles.

[ x x x ]

The following morning, she leans over Theon's body, wishing it had not come to this.

All around her, they are mourning their lost comrades. Sansa can't bring herself to leave him, not yet... Not yet. After all that had happened, after all that they had been through... Theon had left her alone. They had survived the worst of men, making it out from Ramsay Bolton with each other's help. She would never forget the day she first saw "Reek" and the feeling of red hot anger that had surged through her then. Anger at him for she still yet believed him to be guilty of murdering Bran and Rickon. But anger at Ramsay too, for destroying the once proud and arrogant Theon Greyjoy. It had not taken long for her to know the truth and that anger turned to sorrow, to pity. But then Ramsay began to hurt her and her pity turned to understanding.

Back then, all they'd had was each other. When everything was falling apart, they only had each other. And when she needed the courage to escape, to keep on living, Theon had given it to her. He would have died that day to keep her from going back with Ramsay's soldiers. He would have died in the godswood for her or for Bran or Arya or even Jon. Theon Greyjoy was as much a Stark as any of the rest of them.

All he had ever wanted was to belong to the family he'd been forced to become part of. All he had ever wanted was to be loved and respected as much as Robb. To have Ned Stark call him son, as he called all the others. Sansa reaches up for the silver direwolf pin Jon had given her the day before, pinned over her heart just that morning. Goodbye, Theon, she thinks as she slides the pin into place in the leather of his jerkin. For one last time, she smooths back his hair and then steps away to listen as Jon begins to speak.

When Jon has finished, she takes a torch from a man in Stark livery and returns to stand beside Theon's body. She takes a deep breath and touches the burning flame to the straw, taking a step back as the flame begins to take root. It grows bigger and bigger until she must take several more steps back, the flames overtaking Theon's body. She watches in silence as the flames consume him and all of the others, too; one by one, they say goodbye to their friends, their family. In the distance, Ghost howls one long, mournful howl, one that sends chills down her spine.

It isn't until she feels the touch to her arm that she turns away. Jon is there yet again, reaching for her before all those standing there. He takes her into his embrace and Sansa loses track of how long they stand there together. But finally, Jon tugs her gently away from the funeral pyres and towards Winterfell, towards home.

Wolves always found their way home.

#jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #theon greyjoy #jon x sansa #my writing #i wrote this

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moremousewrites · 5 years

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We Do Not Sow

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy/Reader

Summary: You meet Theon Greyjoy after years of absence. You once were Ramsay Bolton's lover but now you lead your own army. You're happy to see each other again

Rating: General, angst & fluff

Warnings: None

The journey from the Dreadfort to Winterfell was not a particularly strenuous journey in your opinion. The North was not your enemy, but rather it’s invaders. You had lived in the Dreadfort for many years as a lady of your house and leader of a relatively impressive band of fighters. They were called the Pierced Few as it was an initiation to have a body part pierced before joining said fellowship. You chose your septum and wore the golden ring as your crown. After the Battle of the Bastards, those leftover needed a ruler, you assumed the position with honour and despair. For a brief moment in your time at the Dreadfort, you were another of Ramsay’s lovers. He was no less cruel to you, yet you still found yourself in love with him. In secret, your heart broke to see him dead at the hands of the very nobles you were trekking to offer support to, now. Once you reached the gate and were granted entrance, you couldn’t help but feel guilt.

Winterfell was full of strangers. In truth, you were no Northerner. You were raised in the Stormlands and were arranged to Torrhen Karstark before he was murdered by the Kingslayer. Oddly enough, you grew fond of the North and decided to stay when you met the founders of the Fellowship of the Pierced in the northern forests. Back then, they were skinny and young. Now they were strong and wisened. You were proud of what you had accomplished with what was once no more than fifty boys who are now three hundred men. It wasn’t difficult taking leadership, either; all you did was kill the last ruler. You paid the iron price, a concept taught to you by Theon Greyjoy, the only familiar face you saw in Winterfell.

After begrudgingly bending the knee, Theon came to speak with you. “You haven't changed much, my lady” Theon looked very different now. You could tell he was in a better mindset since his days as “Reek”. He just looked healthier and somehow more confident which made you happy. It hurt you deeply to see him so broken at the Dreadfort, but stepping in would have resulted in punishment for the both of you.

“Really? I could hardly recognize you at all” You lied as you could pick him out of the crowd immediately. “It's good to see you again” you offered your hand to Theon. He grabbed your forearm and you, his. You were both looking for blades, even though you were the only ones that the other could trust in Winterfell. Some things would always remain the same. You tugged him forward and held him in a great embrace.

Theon sighed deeply and pulled away. “I’m sorry I couldn’t free you from him. When did you finally escape?” Theon asked, referring to Ramsay.

“The day he died. My men and the survivors of the battle regrouped and we came to fight amongst the North, not against it this time” You said. Theon had a forlorn look in his eyes.

It was no secret that Theon was always fond of you, you both knew it the very day you met. In fact, you and he had a short tryst before the battle of Whispering Wood. Needless to say, your stories were strongly intertwined and it led you to wonder what might have been had he never betrayed the North. “I’ve just rescued my sister, Yara. Euron abducted her” Theon avoided your eyes. He was trying to brag as best he could but he lost the skill over time.

“You must have been very brave” You took Theon’s hands in your own but he pulled away.

“I wasn’t, that’s how she was taken in the first place” He mumbled. He could have lied, but not to you. “(Y/N), it means everything to me that you are here again, but I know you don’t wish to waste your time speaking with me” Theon’s voice got only quieter. He still remembers the way you looked, willfully entering Ramsay’s bedchambers, avoiding Theon’s gaze. That was the most difficult torture; to see you made him ache with phantom pain that he could only feel vicariously through the same man who took his manhood.

Grabbing Theon by the shoulders, you forcefully shook him, making him look you in the eye. “I won’t entertain your wallowing. You cannot milk me for pity as I have wasted it all. You are still a lord to me, and nothing anyone has done to you could strip you of that honour” You looked to Theon for some sign of understanding. He nodded, and turned away. You grabbed his stubbled chin, gently this time, and in his eyes were tears.

“I love you, I have for some time now” Theon admitted. “But I cannot produce an heir and if we survive this war, I cannot stay in the North with you” He said to you.

You let go of his chin but held his hands again. “I intend to fight in this battle amongst my pierced men. I expect to die, thus eliminating my eligibility for an heir” You said to Theon who was shocked by your plan to fight in a doomed battle. “I have loved you, as well. But my first love was your destroyer. How can you love me knowing this?” You asked, unbelieving.

“(Y/N), what is dead may never die. He is gone and you are here.” Theon explained. “We will forgive anything for love” He reached forward and straightened your piercing. It was an odd intimacy that you welcomed.

“We will be killing the dead soon enough, Theon. It is time we live for the living” Agreeing with Theon, you leaned upward to lay a kiss on his tear-stained cheek. Your world may be ending, but at least he was in it.

#theon greyjoy #theon #got #game of thrones #theon x reader #theon greyjoy x reader

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quccnnorth-archive · 5 years

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Ramsay shows Sansa a new toy. A broken and battered Robb Stark, a present from House Frey.

ramsay bolton was the cruelest man to step foot on this planet. this, she could say without a shadow of a doubt. every day had been a new level of hell where he introduced a new level of torture to her, whether it be physically, mentally, or emotionally. today, was no different. the newlyweds sat in the great hall, eating their food in silence, theon – or reek, apparently now, watching in the corner as they got to eat food he could only dream of. it felt wrong to sansa, and although she harbored resentment towards everything theon did to betray her family, seeing the absolute torture he had gone through, not even being recognizable to himself as theon greyjoy – made her pity him. almost forgive him..‘ i have a present for you, my beautiful bride. ’ ramsay announced, his tone as enthusiastic as could be. the menacing smile on his face causes her to shiver, chills shooting up her spine. for the level of excitement he had, sansa knew whatever he had for her would be absolutely torturous. ‘ you’ll like this too, reek. ’ he mentions over to theon, beckoning him over. the empty shell of who she once knew seemed eager for compensation, but sansa knew better than to trust ramsay, she knew this would be something that could only hurt the two of them, though she couldn’t think what. ramsay calls for myranda to bring the gift in, sansa’s eyes looking up as she sees a figure accompanying her. in that moment, her fork crashes to her plate, the loud sounds of dishes clattering echoing through the stone room. theon, too, reacts, because she notices his body beginning to tremble violently. ‘NO!’ she hears herself yell out, rising from her seat to run closer to the other body, hand reaching out to cup the man’s face. his mouth was gagged, body beat to a pulp. IT WAS ROBB.

tears threaten to spill from tully blue eyes, sansa refusing to give ramsay exactly what he wanted from her: a reaction, a plea. theon, too, steps closer, terrified of the best friend he had completely betrayed, robb himself refusing to meet his eyes. instead, robb’s eyes only focus on sansa’s, begging internally for her to help him. ‘ well, well, well.. isn’t this a touching family reunion. ’ ramsay begins, walking closer to sansa. he grabs sansa’s face violently in his hands, watching as robb struggled to try to help, his eyes finally shooting to theon to take some action for the sake of his sister. yet, he remained still, head bowed down in shame, eyes fighting back tears that told stories of the nights he’d watch ramsay have his way with sansa. ramsay forces a kiss to sansa, her struggling against his grip. typically, she remained numb, stayed perfectly still as he did what he pleased with her. but with the presence of her brother, she felt a new sense of hope to get out of this living hell she was stuck in. ‘ now, now.. don’t let your brother think that his sister isn’t happy with her husband.. warden of the north, lord of winterfell. ’ he uses these words to tease robb intentionally, wanting him to be bothered over ramsay having what was once his. ‘ no matter, i think we can arrange for your brother to watch with reek tonight. your brother can see the woman i have made of you. ’ he laughs at the conclusion, sansa now suppressing the sob that dared escape her throat. robb, however, has seen enough. with every last bit of strength he has left, he manages to head butt ramsay, knocking him out. he looks at sansa with urgent eyes, already planning their escape. but before they can react, myranda is standing before them, knife in hand. ‘ not so fast! ’ she warns, wicked smile on her face. though they manage to run past her, sansa dragging theon along with them as they went to run free. he refused to leave, though, robb begging her to leave him behind. she swallowed, fearing this escape couldn’t be possible, though robb’s optimism was the only thing that allowed her to run through the halls of winterfell. their exit seemed to be inevitable, the castle gates becoming larger and larger in their field of view, though something stops them from exiting. an arrow soars past, shooting robb in the back. he screams out in agony, sansa screaming out as he’s hit. sure enough, myranda is standing behind them, theon at her feet. that bastard, she thought angrily, he’d betray robb twice over. though, in all fairness, she understood he was no longer theon. he was something else.. something destroyed beyond repair. ‘ sansa, run. ’ robb grunts out, trying to continue to run, the arrow not leaving fatal damage, but she refuses. sansa stands in front of robb, right in the pathway of the arrows myranda was aiming with an unfortunate accuracy. ‘ i’m going to kill you both. then there will be no stark claim left for winterfell, you’re just making ramsay’s job even easier. ’ she snides, eyes wide with excitement of the kill. sansa hears robb pleading with her to move, but she does not dare move a muscle. ‘ kill me then. ’ she says sternly, almost daring the other woman to do it. ‘ i don’t fear death anymore, in fact, i welcome it. death is the superior option to ramsay and what he’s done to me. ’ she uses the back of her foot to kick robb, urging him to continue to run while she’s distracting myranda. she braces herself for the arrow, clenching her firsts tightly, breath sucked in. she prayed silently in her head, begging her mother and father to greet her when she was with the gods soon enough. BUT NOTHING HAPPENED.instead, myranda’s arrow misses, bouncing off the wall. she sees the anger in the female’s eyes as she realizes theon was the one who stopped her. sansa’s eye’s widen with shock, robb grinning like a wicked fool as he realized that perhaps, his best friend was under there after all. lost in all of the chaos, sansa blinks and then suddenly finds myranda’s lifeless body on the ground, at least forty feet below them. ‘ come on! ’ theon screams out, his hand grabbing sansa’s, sansa’s grabbing robb’s. the three ran through the halls of winterfell almost as if they were reenacting one of their childhood games, though this time the danger was very real.she hears ramsay awaken, barking orders to ready the hounds and follow them. the stark siblings and their companion sprinted, robb slowing down due to the arrow still lodged into his flesh, wincing out loud in pain with each corner they turned, the arrow banging into the wall. sansa had no time to react to his pain, for she was too busy running for her life, dragging robb as hard as she could so he wouldn’t get lost behind. they make it to the edge of the castle, now realizing their only shot of survival is to jump into the snowy banks down below. sansa looks at her brother uncertainly, though deep down she knows this is what they have to do. the sound of a hound is heard running frantically towards them, theon urging them to jump before it catches up.. but then robb drops her hand. sansa looks at him questioningly, though the tears in his eyes show her what he’s about to do, and she begins yelling at him to stop, hand grabbing at him so they can jump down together. ‘ robb, don’t be dull. come on, we can get away. we can find bran and rickon – we can find jon. we can come back here, on our terms. but i need you robb, please. ’his eyes look to theon at the mention of bran and rickon, the other boy nodding in confirmation that they were alive, robb flashing a smile as the realization the stark children were still out there, and that they weren’t burned alive at the hands of his best friend. still, he didn’t climb back up to the edge with sansa and theon. he shook his head simply. ‘ they murdered mother. they murdered my wife – my unborn child. all of my men. they took everything from me, they humiliated me. they tortured me for years, and i feel like an empty shell of myself. i don’t deserve to survive when no one else did, sansa... ’ her eyes are now leaking, the eldest stark daughter grabbing desperately at the eldest son, trying to get him to simply just go with them.‘ theon, take her to jon at castleblack, please. i trust you, theon. i trust you to bring sansa there safely. i need you to do this for me. ’ the other man blinks back tears, swallowing at the lump in his own throat, knowing this means in a sense he earned the forgiveness he didn’t deserve from his best friend. sansa, however, is too mad at her brother to allow him to do this. ‘ you don’t have to do this, robb. we can all jump now. don’t be a martyr. ’ though, as soon as those words escaped her, she hears the hounds pounding up the stairs, right outside the doors they were standing behind. ‘ ROBB, NOW, PLEASE! ’ she practically wails, though he nods at theon and she knows what’s about to happen.‘ i’m buying you the time that you need. they’ll be too distracted with me to find you at first. sansa… i love you, please. live for me. go, now! ’ before she even has the chance to reply, theon’s hand is dragging her down the castle walls with him, the last thing she hears is the dogs reaching robb. the two of them land in the snow, scurrying as fast as they can to move past into the woods, robb’s agonizing screams echoing in her ears as violent sobs overcome her. despite this, she keeps running, promising she’d live for him. and that is exactly what she did.

#northernxking #✉ a raven for lady stark #THIS IS SO BAD #BUT I WANTED IT POSTED GBJRKGBTKRGBR #tw mention of rape #tw death

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roosetheflower · 7 years

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The Golden Rose - Part 2

A/N: Hey everyone, hopefully you are enjoying this fic so far! It’s about to get kinda spicy, so prepare yourselves.

Main Characters: Lauryn Tyrell (younger sister to Margaery and Loras Tyrell/original character), Roose Bolton, Ramsay Bolton, Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Reek, Petyr Baelish.

Once again, the cold grey air touched my skin; this time however, I knew where I was. I heard someone milling about my chambers, as I sat up, I saw an older Northern woman. She had her grey hair neatly pulled back, showing her sunken features. I smiled at her, as warmly as I could in this frigid place.

“Good morning m’lady.” She said timidly, looking down immediately.

“There’s no need to be fearful of me.” I said firmly, but gently.

“Lord Bolton has instructed me to wake you and to tell you that you will be eating breakfast with him, and his bastard son Ramsay in the great hall. Oh, and that Lady Frey has tragically...” She paused. “died in her sleep...” She trailed off at the last part, looking down again.

I let out a breath. I could hardly believe he had actually gone through with killing his own wife. I wondered what he would to with me once I was no use to him.

“Well then, help me dress.” I said simply, standing before her.

The great hall was as grey as the rest of Winterfell. I wore a simple Tyrell-green gown, with an A-line skirt, with long sleeves to keep me warm, very different from what I would have worn down south.

“My lady.” He rose from his seat, along with a young man. “I had our seamstresses work all night to fashion some clothes for you. I see they are well suited to you.”

“Yes, thank you, my Lord.” I said with a fake smile.

“This is my bastard son, Ramsay.” I watched the young man almost cower when he spoke the word bastard.

He took my hand, and gave it a small kiss. “It is a pleasure to meet you my lady, they always say the girls of the South are much more beautiful, and you clearly do not disappoint.” He said with a bit of a menacing tone, that I could not quite place. I just smiled.

“I heard about the loss of your dear wife, my Lord. Many blessings to you, she will be dearly missed, I hope.” I said, staring him down. I looked into his light eyes, as I took a sip of my spiced wine never losing sight of him. Another fake smile.

The entire meal we made uncomfortable eye contact, we said little. Ramsay excused himself after some time, leaving me and Roose.

“You think you’re pretty clever, don't you my Lady?” He said standing. I said nothing and just took another sip of my wine. “I want you to meet me in my chambers in more than 5 minutes.”

“Yes, whatever pleases you my Lord.” I spoke softly, looking up at him. He turned and walked away.

His chambers were large and warmer than I expected. The walls were dark and his bed had furs and pillows pilled high. There was a large fire going keeping it the cold of the North out. He sat in a chair by the fire. His not wearing his chain mail and leather, but just his blouse, trousers and boots. He looked good, and for some reason I was allowing my self to feel this way.

“Looks like I’ll be in need of a new wife.” He said approaching me, giving me another of his sinister smiles.

“I suppose so.” I said, as he cupped my left cheek with his hand.

I looked up at him, I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. This isn’t what I had expected from the elusively cruel Roose Bolton. We locked eyes, I felt my stomach pool with anxiety as he bent down and kissed me. His lips we softer than I thought they’d be. He was tender, we kissed for a little bit, before I pulled back. We shared another look before I couldn’t help myself anymore. I kissed him harder, and he kissed me back, aggressively, as if he hadn’t had real passion in so long. I began to undo the back of my gown, as he took off his blouse and began to undo his trousers.

I was completely nude, as was he. I lay down on my back on the furs of his bed. He knelt down to kiss me hungrily before sliding his fingers down the slit of my cunt. He slowly massaged my clit as I let out a moan. He then moved himself down, and began to eat me out with his tongue, tenderly. I moaned even louder. I could feel myself becoming more and more wet, as my stomach swirled. I could feel myself about to cum, when he stopped.

“You're a virgin, aren’t you?” He said with a small grin.

“Yes, my Lord.” I said catching my breath.

“Good.” He said, entering me with his full length. I didn't know what else to do except moan at his the shock of his size. He began to thrust in a rhythm. He groaned a bit, enjoying the pleasure of my body. He bent down to kiss me as he thrust faster. I moaned into his mouth as our lips locked. The similar swirling in my stomach returned, as I lost control of my moans and groans; as did he. He moaned into ear, I could feel his hips bucking. I began to cum as he pulled out and released himself onto my stomach. He handed me a cloth to clean self up, which I did. I sat up readying myself to go. He was already getting dressed.

“You can stay here, if you’d like. There are some books on the shelf over there to keep yourself busy,” He said doing up his trousers. He then came to me and tilted my chin up to him roughly, and kissed me.

I was so taken aback from everything. I thought this was going to be a prison, but I had just experienced the greatest pleasure of my life, I lay back and began to think, once again of what had just transpired as he left his chambers.

#game of thrones #Roose Bolton #ramsay bolton #Theon Greyjoy #reek #the north remembers #Winterfell #fanfiction #Smut #The Iron Throne #imagine #Tyrell #original female character #first person point of view #hbo

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incblackbird · 7 years

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It seems you have a lot of asks today so I will only ask two questions. Do you think Theon will get some of his looks back in the books? Not that I care I will love Theon no matter what he looks like. And do you think that scene with the ravens calling out his name and the tree has more importance than most actually think it does?

To the first question: I really don’t know, maybe “some” but he’ll of course never look like the old Theon again. I’ve never actually considered this question tbh but now I’m thinking that maybe his hair will become black again after a while. but idk, we’ll have to wait and see I think. To the second question: I’m assuming you’re talking about the moment I said is my favourite? i’ll post it again because if I’m gonna talk about it. It should be here. Theon found himself wondering if heshould say a prayer. Will The Old Gods hear me if I do? They were not his gods,had never been his gods. He was Ironborn, a son of Pyke, his god was the Drowned God of the islands… but Winterfell was long leagues from the sea. It had been a lifetime sinceany god had heard him. He did not know who he was, or what he was, why he was stillalive, why he had ever been born. ‘Theon,’a voice seemed to whisper. His head snapped up.“Who said that?” All he could see were the trees and the fog that covered them.The voice had been as faint as rustling leaves, as cold as hate. A god’s voice, or aghost’s. How many died the day that he took Winterfell? How many more the dayhe lost it? The day that Theon Greyjoy died, to be reborn as Reek. Reek,Reek, it rhymes with shriek. Suddenly he did not want to be here.- The Prince of Winterfell (ADWD)So, to answer the question. I know that there’s the theory that it’s Bran calling out his name through the tree, which might even be confirmed, I don’t even know? But tbh I’m not really intersted in that theory, or whether or not it’s true. I’m interested in Theon himself and what that means to him on a psychological level, so that’s what I’m gonna talk about. And there’s quite a lot to that moment. There’s him praying to gods who he rightfully says aren’t actually his gods, but he’s praying to them because he feels more affiliation with the northern culture (including the gods) than his own. Then there’s the sentences that basically encompasses his entire identity crisis. “He did not know who he was, or what he was, why he was stillalive, why he had ever been born.“ And this doesn’t just come out of nowhere either, his identity crisis is connected to his Stark vs Greyjoy crisis. Him being a hostage is basically the reason he has an identity crisis in the first place, because, as a hostage, he was used as a tool, his value came from his political status, it’s no wonder he doesn’t know who he is when he never realised he had the right to be “someone”. And to top it all off the gods (who aren’t his gods) are telling him who he is, he is “Theon” not “Theon Greyjoy” not “Reek” just “Theon”. The gods (or at least that’s what Theon believes) are allowing him to be himself. But Theon isn’t ready to be himself yet, because with being Theon also means to feel the guilt of Theon’s actions. Notice though, how he calls the man who took Winterfell and killed people “Theon Greyjoy”, there is a distinction between “Theon Greyjoy” and “Theon”. Theon Greyjoy is the person Theon tried to be in acok, the mask he wore, Theon is the real one and he isn’t ready to be Theon yet, he can’t deal with the guilt yet, he can’t deal with the responsibility yet so he reverts back to being Reek, this time not to protect himself from Ramsay but to protect himself from well himself, from the bad things he’s done that he feels so much guilt for that it hurts too much. He can’t forgive himself yet and move on, but as we all know, he will do so at the end of adwd!

#Theon Greyjoy #I guess this turned into meta #enjoy!#Anonymous

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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Theon

One moment he was asleep; the next, awake.

Kyra nestled against him, one arm draped lightly over his, her breasts brushing his back. He could hear her breathing, soft and steady. The sheet was tangled about them. It was the black of night. The bedchamber was dark and still.

What is it? Did I hear something? Someone?

Wind sighed faintly against the shutters. Somewhere, far off, he heard the yowl of a cat in heat. Nothing else. Sleep, Greyjoy, he told himself. The castle is quiet, and you have guards posted. At your door, at the gates, on the armory.

He might have put it down to a bad dream, but he did not remember dreaming. Kyra had worn him out. Until Theon had sent for her, she had lived all of her eighteen years in the winter town without ever setting foot inside the walls of the castle. She came to him wet and eager and lithe as a weasel, and there had been a certain undeniable spice to fucking a common tavern wench in Lord Eddard Stark's own bed.

She murmured sleepily as Theon slid out from under her arm and got to his feet. A few embers still smoldered in the hearth. Wex slept on the floor at the foot of the bed, rolled up inside his cloak and dead to the world. Nothing moved. Theon crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Night touched him with cold fingers, and gooseprickles rose on his bare skin. He leaned against the stone sill and looked out on dark towers, empty yards, black sky, and more stars than a man could ever count if he lived to be a hundred. A half-moon floated above the Bell Tower and cast its reflection on the roof of the glass gardens. He heard no alarms, no voices, not so much as a footfall.

All's well, Greyjoy. Hear the quiet? You ought to be drunk with joy. You took Winterfell with fewer than thirty men, a feat to sing of. Theon started back to bed. He'd roll Kyra on her back and fuck her again, that ought to banish these phantoms. Her gasps and giggles would make a welcome respite from this silence.

He stopped. He had grown so used to the howling of the direwolves that he scarcely heard it anymore . . . but some part of him, some hunter's instinct, heard its absence.

Urzen stood outside his door, a sinewy man with a round shield slung over his back. "The wolves are quiet," Theon told him. "Go see what they're doing, and come straight back." The thought of the direwolves running loose gave him a queasy feeling. He remembered the day in the wolfswood when the wildlings had attacked Bran. Summer and Grey Wind had torn them to pieces.

When he prodded Wex with the toe of his boot, the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Make certain Bran Stark and his little brother are in their beds, and be quick about it."

"M'lord?" Kyra called sleepily.

"Go back to sleep, this does not concern you." Theon poured himself a cup of wine and drank it down. All the time he was listening, hoping to hear a howl. Too few men, he thought sourly. I have too few men. If Asha does not come . . .

Wex returned the quickest, shaking his head side to side. Cursing, Theon found his tunic and breeches on the floor where he had dropped them in his haste to get at Kyra. Over the tunic he donned a jerkin of iron-studded leather, and he belted a longsword and dagger at his waist. His hair was wild as the wood, but he had larger concerns.

By then Urzen was back. "The wolves be gone."

Theon told himself he must be as cold and deliberate as Lord Eddard. "Rouse the castle," he said. "Herd them out into the yard, everyone, we'll see who's missing. And have Lorren make a round of the gates. Wex, with me."

He wondered if Stygg had reached Deepwood Motte yet. The man was not as skilled a rider as he claimed—none of the ironmen were much good in the saddle—but there'd been time enough. Asha might well be on her way. And if she learns that I have lost the Starks . . . It did not bear thinking about.

Bran's bedchamber was empty, as was Rickon's half a turn below. Theon cursed himself. He should have kept a guard on them, but he'd deemed it more important to have men walking the walls and protecting the gates than to nursemaid a couple of children, one a cripple.

Outside he heard sobbing as the castle folk were pulled from their beds and driven into the yard. I'll give them reason to sob. I've used them gently, and this is how they repay me. He'd even had two of his own men whipped bloody for raping that kennel girl, to show them he meant to be just. They still blame me for the rape, though. And the rest. He deemed that unfair. Mikken had killed himself with his mouth, just as Benfred had. As for Chayle, he had to give someone to the Drowned God, his men expected it. "I bear you no ill will," he'd told the septon before they threw him down the well, "but you and your gods have no place here now." You'd think the others might be grateful he hadn't chosen one of them, but no. He wondered how many of them were part of this plot against him.

Urzen returned with Black Lorren. "The Hunter's Gate," Lorren said. "Best come see."

The Hunter's Gate was conveniently sited close to the kennels and kitchens. It opened directly on fields and forests, allowing riders to come and go without first passing through the winter town, and so was favored by hunting parties. "Who had the guard here?" Theon demanded.

"Drennan and Squint."

Drennan was one of the men who'd raped Palla. "If they've let the boys escape, I'll have more than a little skin off their back this time, I swear it."

"No need for that," Black Lorren said curtly.

Nor was there. They found Squint floating facedown in the moat, his entrails drifting behind him like a nest of pale snakes. Drennan lay half naked in the gatehouse, in the snug room where the drawbridge was worked. His throat had been opened ear to ear. A ragged tunic concealed the half-healed scars on his back, but his boots were scattered amidst the rushes, and his breeches tangled about his feet. There was cheese on a small table near the door, beside an empty flagon. And two cups.

Theon picked one up and sniffed at the dregs of wine in the bottom. "Squint was up on the wallwalk, no?"

"Aye," said Lorren.

Theon flung the cup into the hearth. "I'd say Drennan was pulling down his breeches to stick it in the woman when she stuck it in him. His own cheese knife, by the look of it. Someone find a pike and fish the other fool out of the moat."

The other fool was in a deal worse shape than Drennan. When Black Lorren drew him out of the water, they saw that one of his arms had been wrenched off at the elbow, half of his neck was missing, and there was a ragged hole where his navel and groin once had been. The pike tore through his bowels as Lorren was pulling him in. The stench was awful.

"The direwolves," Theon said. "Both of them, at a guess." Disgusted, he walked back to the drawbridge. Winterfell was encircled by two massive granite walls, with a wide moat between them. The outer wall stood eighty feet high, the inner more than a hundred. Lacking men, Theon had been forced to abandon the outer defenses and post his guards along the higher inner walls. He dared not risk having them on the wrong side of the moat should the castle rise against him.

There had to be two or more, he decided. While the woman was entertaining Drennan, the others freed the wolves.

Theon called for a torch and led them up the steps to the wallwalk. He swept the flame low before him, looking for . . . there. On the inside of the rampart and in the wide crenel between two upthrust merlons. "Blood," he announced, "clumsily mopped up. At a guess, the woman killed Drennan and lowered the drawbridge. Squint heard the clank of chains, came to have a look, and got this far. They pushed the corpse through the crenel into the moat so he wouldn't be found by another sentry."

Urzen peered along the walls. "The other watch turrets are not far. I see torches burning—"

"Torches, but no guards," Theon said testily. "Winterfell has more turrets than I have men."

"Four guards at the main gate," said Black Lorren, "and five walking the walls beside Squint."

Urzen said, "If he had sounded his horn—"

I am served by fools. "Try and imagine it was you up here, Urzen. It's dark and cold. You have been walking sentry for hours, looking forward to the end of your watch. Then you hear a noise and move toward the gate, and suddenly you see eyes at the top of the stair, glowing green and gold in the torchlight. Two shadows come rushing toward you faster than you can believe. You catch a glimpse of teeth, start to level your spear, and they slam into you and open your belly, tearing through leather as if it were cheesecloth." He gave Urzen a hard shove. "And now you're down on your back, your guts are spilling out, and one of them has his teeth around your neck." Theon grabbed the man's scrawny throat, tightened his fingers, and smiled. "Tell me, at what moment during all of this do you stop to blow your fucking horn?" He shoved Urzen away roughly, sending him stumbling back against a merlon. The man rubbed his throat. I should have had those beasts put down the day we took the castle, he thought angrily. I'd seen them kill, I knew how dangerous they were.

"We must go after them," Black Lorren said.

"Not in the dark." Theon did not relish the idea of chasing direwolves through the wood by night; the hunters could easily become the hunted. "We'll wait for daylight. Until then, I had best go speak with my loyal subjects."

Down in the yard, a uneasy crowd of men, women, and children had been pushed up against the wall. Many had not been given time to dress; they covered themselves with woolen blankets, or huddled naked under cloaks or bedrobes. A dozen ironmen hemmed them in, torches in one hand and weapons in the other. The wind was gusting, and the flickering orange light reflected dully off steel helms, thick beards, and unsmiling eyes.

Theon walked up and down before the prisoners, studying the faces. They all looked guilty to him. "How many are missing?"

"Six." Reek stepped up behind him, smelling of soap, his long hair moving in the wind. "Both Starks, that bog boy and his sister, the halfwit from the stables, and your wildling woman."

Osha. He had suspected her from the moment he saw that second cup. I should have known better than to trust that one. She's as unnatural as Asha. Even their names sound alike.

"Has anyone had a look at the stables?"

"Aggar says no horses are missing."

"Dancer is still in his stall?"

"Dancer?" Reek frowned. "Aggar says the horses are all there. Only the halfwit is missing."

They're afoot, then. That was the best news he'd heard since he woke. Bran would be riding in his basket on Hodor's back, no doubt. Osha would need to carry Rickon; his little legs wouldn't take him far on their own. Theon was confident that he'd soon have them back in his hands. "Bran and Rickon have fled," he told the castle folk, watching their eyes. "Who knows where they've gone?" No one answered. "They could not have escaped without help," Theon went on. "Without food, clothing, weapons." He had locked away every sword and axe in Winterfell, but no doubt some had been hidden from him. "I'll have the names of all those who aided them. All those who turned a blind eye." The only sound was the wind. "Come first light, I mean to bring them back." He hooked his thumbs through his swordbelt. "I need huntsmen. Who wants a nice warm wolfskin to see them through the winter? Gage?" The cook had always greeted him cheerfully when he returned from the hunt, to ask whether he'd brought anything choice for the table, but he had nothing to say now. Theon walked back the way he had come, searching their faces for the least sign of guilty knowledge. "The wild is no place for a cripple. And Rickon, young as he is, how long will he last out there? Nan, think how frightened he must be." The old woman had nattered at him for ten years, telling her endless stories, but now she gaped at him as if he were some stranger. "I might have killed every man of you and given your women to my soldiers for their pleasure, but instead I protected you. Is this the thanks you offer?" Joseth who'd groomed his horses, Farlen who'd taught him all he knew of hounds, Barth the brewer's wife who'd been his first—not one of them would meet his eyes. They hate me, he realized.

Reek stepped close. "Strip off their skins," he urged, his thick lips glistening. "Lord Bolton, he used to say a naked man has few secrets, but a flayed man's got none."

The flayed man was the sigil of House Bolton, Theon knew; ages past, certain of their lords had gone so far as to cloak themselves in the skins of dead enemies. A number of Starks had ended thus. Supposedly all that had stopped a thousand years ago, when the Boltons had bent their knees to Winterfell. Or so they say, but old ways die hard, as well I know.

"There will be no flaying in the north so long as I rule in Winterfell," Theon said loudly. I am your only protection against the likes of him, he wanted to scream. He could not be that blatant, but perhaps some were clever enough to take the lesson.

The sky was greying over the castle walls. Dawn could not be far off. "Joseth, saddle Smiler and a horse for yourself. Murch, Gariss, Poxy Tym, you'll come as well." Murch and Gariss were the best huntsmen in the castle, and Tym was a fine bowman. "Aggar, Rednose, Gelmarr, Reek, Wex." He needed his own to watch his back. "Farlen, I'll want hounds, and you to handle them."

The grizzled kennelmaster crossed his arms. "And why would I care to hunt down my own trueborn lords, and babes at that?"

Theon moved close. "I am your trueborn lord now, and the man who keeps Palla safe."

He saw the defiance die in Farlen's eyes. "Aye, m'lord."

Stepping back, Theon glanced about to see who else he might add. "Maester Luwin," he announced.

"I know nothing of hunting."

No, but I don't trust you in the castle in my absence. "Then it's past time you learned."

"Let me come too. I want that wolfskin cloak." A boy stepped forward, no older than Bran. It took Theon a moment to remember him. "I've hunted lots of times before," Walder Frey said. "Red deer and elk, and even boar."

His cousin laughed at him. "He rode on a boar hunt with his father, but they never let him near the boar."

Theon look at the boy doubtfully. "Come if you like, but if you can't keep up, don't think that I'll nurse you along." He turned back to Black Lorren. "Winterfell is yours in my absence. If we do not return, do with it as you will." That bloody well ought to have them praying for my success.

They assembled by the Hunter's Gate as the first pale rays of the sun brushed the top of the Bell Tower, their breath frosting in the cold morning air. Gelmarr had equipped himself with a longaxe whose reach would allow him to strike before the wolves were on him. The blade was heavy enough to kill with a single blow. Aggar wore steel greaves. Reek arrived carrying a boar spear and an overstuffed washerwoman's sack bulging with god knows what. Theon had his bow; he needed nothing else. Once he had saved Bran's life with an arrow. He hoped he would not need to take it with another, but if it came to that, he would.

Eleven men, two boys, and a dozen dogs crossed the moat. Beyond the outer wall, the tracks were plain to read in the soft ground; the pawprints of the wolves, Hodor's heavy tread, the shallower marks left by the feet of the two Reeds. Once under the trees, the stony ground and fallen leaves made the trail harder to see, but by then Farlen's red bitch had the scent. The rest of the dogs were close behind, the hounds sniffing and barking, a pair of monstrous mastiffs bringing up the rear. Their size and ferocity might make the difference against a cornered direwolf.

He'd have guessed that Osha might run south to Ser Rodrik, but the trail led north by northwest, into the very heart of the wolfswood. Theon did not like that one bit. It would be a bitter irony if the Starks made for Deepwood Motte and delivered themselves right into Asha's hands. I'd sooner have them dead, he thought bitterly. It is better to be seen as cruel than foolish.

Wisps of pale mist threaded between the trees. Sentinels and soldier pines grew thick about here, and there was nothing as dark and gloomy as an evergreen forest. The ground was uneven, and the fallen needles disguised the softness of the turf and made the footing treacherous for the horses, so they had to go slowly. Not as slowly as a man carrying a cripple, though, or a bony harridan with a four-year-old on her back. He told himself to be patient. He'd have them before the day was out.

Maester Luwin trotted up to him as they were following a game trail along the lip of a ravine. "Thus far hunting seems indistinguishable from riding through the woods, my lord."

Theon smiled. "There are similarities. But with hunting, there's blood at the end."

"Must it be so? This flight was great folly, but will you not be merciful? These are your foster brothers we seek."

"No Stark but Robb was ever brotherly toward me, but Bran and Rickon have more value to me living than dead."

"The same is true of the Reeds. Moat Cailin sits on the edge of the bogs. Lord Howland can make your uncle's occupation a visit to hell if he chooses, but so long as you hold his heirs he must stay his hand."

Theon had not considered that. In truth, he had scarcely considered the mudmen at all, beyond eyeing Meera once or twice and wondering if she was still a maiden. "You may be right. We will spare them if we can."

"And Hodor too, I hope. The boy is simple, you know that. He does as he is told. How many times has he groomed your horse, soaped your saddle, scoured your mail?"

Hodor was nothing to him. "if he does not fight us, we will let him live." Theon pointed a finger. "But say one word about sparing the wildling, and you can die with her. She swore me an oath, and pissed on it."

The maester inclined his head. "I make no apologies for oathbreakers. Do what you must. I thank you for your mercy."

Mercy, thought Theon as Luwin dropped back. There's a bloody trap. Too much and they call you weak, too little and you're monstrous. Yet the maester had given him good counsel, he knew. His father thought only in terms of conquest, but what good was it to take a kingdom if you could not hold it? Force and fear could carry you only so far. A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.

The wood grew ever wilder. The pines and sentinels gave way to huge dark oaks. Tangles of hawthorn concealed treacherous gullies and cuts. Stony hills rose and fell. They passed a crofter's cottage, deserted and overgown, and skirted a flooded quarry where the still water had a sheen as grey as steel. When the dogs began to bay, Theon figured the fugitives were near at hand. He spurred Smiler and followed at a trot, but what he found was only the carcass of a young elk . . . or what remained of it.

He dismounted for a closer look. The kill was still fresh, and plainly the work of wolves. The dogs sniffed round it eagerly, and one of the mastiffs buried his teeth in a haunch until Farlen shouted him off. No part of this animal has been butchered, Theon realized. The wolves ate, but not the men. Even if Osha did not want to risk a fire, she ought to have cut them a few steaks. It made no sense to leave so much good meat to rot. "Farlen, are you certain we're on the right trail?" he demanded. "Could your dogs be chasing the wrong wolves?"

"My bitch knows the smell of Summer and Shaggy well enough."

"I hope so. For your sake."

Less than an hour later, the trail led down a slope toward a muddy brook swollen by the recent rains. It was there the dogs lost the scent. Farlen and Wex waded across with the hounds and came back shaking their heads while the animals ranged up and down the far bank, sniffing. "They went in here, m'lord, but I can't see where they come out," the kennelmaster said.

Theon dismounted and knelt beside the stream. He dipped a hand in it. The water was cold. "They won't have stayed long in this," he said. "Take half the dogs downstream, I'll go up—"

Wex clapped his hands together loudly.

"What is it?" Theon said.

The mute boy pointed.

The ground near the water was sodden and muddy. The tracks the wolves had left were plain enough. "Pawprints, yes. So?"

Wex drove his heel into the mud, and pivoted his foot this way and that. It left a deep gouge.

Joseth understood. "A man the size of Hodor ought to have left a deep print in this mud," he said. "More so with the weight of a boy on his back. Yet the only boot prints here are our own. See for yourself."

Appalled, Theon saw it was true. The wolves had gone into the turgid brown water alone. "Osha must have turned aside back of us. Before the elk, most likely. She sent the wolves on by themselves, hoping we'd chase after them." He rounded on his huntsmen. "If you two have played me false—"

"There's been only the one trail, my lord, I swear it," said Gariss defensively. "And the direwolves would never have parted from them boys. Not for long."

That's so, Theon thought. Summer and Shaggydog might have gone off to hunt, but soon or late they would return to Bran and Rickon. "Gariss, Murch, take four dogs and double back, find where we lost them. Aggar, you watch them, I'll have no trickery. Farlen and I will follow the direwolves. Give a blast on the horn when you pick up the trail. Two blasts if you catch sight of the beasts themselves. Once we find where they went, they'll lead us back to their masters."

He took Wex, the Frey boy, and Gynir Rednose to search upstream. He and Wex rode on one side of the brook, Rednose and Walder Frey on the other, each with a pair of hounds. The wolves might have come out on either bank. Theon kept an eye out for tracks, spoor, broken branches, any hint as to where the direwolves might have left the water. He spied the prints of deer, elk, and badger easily enough. Wex surprised a vixen drinking at the stream, and Walder flushed three rabbits from the underbrush and managed to put an arrow in one. They saw the claw marks where a bear had shredded the bark of a tall birch. But of the direwolves there was no sign.

A little farther, Theon told himself. Past that oak, over that rise, past the next bend of the stream, we'll find something there. He pressed on long after he knew he should turn back, a growing sense of anxiety gnawing at his belly. It was midday when he wrenched Smiler's head round in disgust and gave up.

Somehow Osha and the wretched boys were eluding him. It should not have been possible, not on foot, burdened with a cripple and a young child. Every passing hour increased the likelihood that they would make good their escape. If they reach a village . . . The people of the north would never deny Ned Stark's sons, Robb's brothers. They'd have mounts to speed them on their way, food. Men would fight for the honor of protecting them. The whole bloody north would rally around them.

The wolves went downstream, that's all. He clung to that thought. That red bitch will sniff where they came out of the water and we'll be after them again.

But when they joined up with Farlen's party, one look at the kennelmaster's face smashed all of Theon's hopes to shards. "The only thing those dogs are fit for is a bear baiting," he said angrily. "Would that I had a bear."

"The dogs are not at fault." Farlen knelt between a mastiff and his precious red bitch, a hand on each. "Running water don't hold no scents, m'lord."

"The wolves had to come out of the stream somewhere."

"No doubt they did. Upstream or down. We keep on, we'll find the place, but which way?"

"I never knew a wolf to run up a streambed for miles," said Reek. "A man might. If he knew he was being hunted, he might. But a wolf?"

Yet Theon wondered. These beasts were not as other wolves. I should have skinned the cursed things.

It was the same tale all over again when they rejoined Gariss, Murch, and Aggar. The huntsmen had retraced their steps halfway to Winterfell without finding any sign of where the Starks might have parted company with the direwolves. Farlen's hounds seemed as frustrated as their masters, sniffing forlornly at trees and rocks and snapping irritably at each other.

Theon dared not admit defeat. "We'll return to the brook. Search again. This time we'll go as far as we must."

"We won't find them," the Frey boy said suddenly. "Not so long as the frogeaters are with them. Mudmen are sneaks, they won't fight like decent folks, they skulk and use poison arrows, You never see them, but they see you. Those who go into the bogs after them get lost and never come out. Their houses move, even the castles like Greywater Watch." He glanced nervously at greenery that encircled them on all sides. "They might be out there right now, listening to everything we say."

Farlen laughed to show what he thought of that notion. "My dogs would smell anything in them bushes. Be all over them before you could break wind, boy."

"Frogeaters don't smell like men," Frey insisted. "They have a boggy stink, like frogs and trees and scummy water. Moss grows under their arms in place of hair, and they can live with nothing to eat but mud and breathe swamp water."

Theon was about to tell him what he ought to do with his wet nurse's fable when Maester Luwin spoke up. "The histories say the crannogmen grew close to the children of the forest in the days when the greenseers tried to bring the hammer of the waters down upon the Neck. It may be that they have secret knowledge."

Suddenly the wood seemed a deal darker than it had a moment before, as if a cloud had passed before the sun. It was one thing to have some fool boy spouting folly, but maesters were supposed to be wise. "The only children that concern me are Bran and Rickon," Theon said. "Back to the stream. Now."

For a moment he did not think they were going to obey, but in the end old habit asserted itself. They followed sullenly, but they followed. The Frey boy was as jumpy as those rabbits he'd flushed earlier. Theon put men on either bank and followed the current. They rode for miles, going slow and careful, dismounting to lead the horses over treacherous ground, letting the good-for-bear-bait hounds sniff at every bush. Where a fallen tree dammed the flow, the hunters were forced to loop around a deep green pool, but if the direwolves had done the same they'd left neither print nor spoor. The beasts had taken to swimming, it seemed. When I catch them, they'll have all the swimming they can stomach. I'll give them both to the Drowned God.

When the woods began to darken, Theon Greyjoy knew he was beaten. Either the crannogmen did know the magic of the children of the forest, or else Osha had deceived them with some wildling trick. He made them press on through the dusk, but when the last light faded Joseth finally worked up the courage to say, "This is fruitless, my lord. We will lame a horse, break a leg."

"Joseth has the right of it," said Maester Luwin. "Groping through the woods by torchlight will avail us nothing."

Theon could taste bile at the back of his throat, and his stomach was a nest of snakes twining and snapping at each other. If he crept back to Winterfell empty-handed, he might as well dress in motley henceforth and wear a pointed hat; the whole north would know him for a fool. And when my father hears, and Asha . . .

"M'lord prince." Reek urged his horse near. "Might be them Starks never came this way. If I was them, I would have gone north and east, maybe. To the Umbers. Good Stark men, they are. But their lands are a long way. The boys will shelter someplace nearer. Might be I know where."

Theon looked at him suspiciously. "Tell me."

"You know that old mill, sitting lonely on the Acorn Water? We stopped there when I was being dragged to Winterfell a captive. The miller's wife sold us hay for our horses while that old knight clucked over her brats. Might be the Starks are hiding there."

Theon knew the mill. He had even tumbled the miller's wife a time or two. There was nothing special about it, or her. "Why there? There are a dozen villages and holdfasts just as close."

Amusement shone in those pale eyes. "Why? Now that's past knowing. But they're there, I have a feeling."

He was growing sick of the man's sly answers. His lips look like two worms fucking. "What are you saying? If you've kept some knowledge from me—"

"M'lord prince?" Reek dismounted, and beckoned Theon to do the same. When they were both afoot, he pulled open the cloth sack he'd fetched from Winterfell. "Have a look here."

It was growing hard to see. Theon thrust his hand into the sack impatiently, groping amongst soft fur and rough scratchy wool. A sharp point pricked his skin, and his fingers closed around something cold and hard. He drew out a wolf's-head brooch, silver and jet. Understanding came suddenly. His hand closed into a fist. "Gelmarr," he said, wondering whom he could trust. None of them. "Aggar. Rednose. With us. The rest of you may return to Winterfell with the hounds. I'll have no further need of them. I know where Bran and Rickon are hiding now."

"Prince Theon," Maester Luwin entreated, "you will remember your promise? Mercy, you said."

"Mercy was for this morning," said Theon. It is better to be feared than laughed at. "Before they made me angry."

#ClashofKings

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