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The Starks Can't Save You

Summary:

Canon Divergence AU:

"You think you can save him, but you can't."

"Perhaps. But by the gods, I swear to you if I cannot save him, I will avenge him."

Theon saved Sansa from her wedding night, at great cost to himself. She in turn takes him to the Wall, fearing for his life and his mind, but when she arrives she finds not only one brother back from the dead, but two. No one has escaped the game unscathed, and even family cannot mend everything that's broken.

And nothing may able to mend Theon, but they try.

Notes:

Yes Robb is alive, yes he is pissed at Theon but he loves Theon too. This will be some angsty shit with very dark themes but no further Stark (nor Greyjoy) deaths and all the Starks (sans Catelyn and Ned) will be reunited.

Hello Everyone! I appreciate the feedback and love this story has received and I'm so thankful for all of you. I love my boy Theon and I fully intend to have him appreciated as he deserves, don't worry.

I also have recently posted the first chapter of my own novel for feedback, for any of you who are interested or have some spare time, I always appreciate feedback! https://betabooks.co/signup/book/36j6d5

Chapter 1: Where No Gods Dwell

Chapter Text

Madness has a certain effect on the eyes.

 

Sansa Stark discovered this when engaged to Joffrey Baratheon. In all appearances, he was perfectly suitable, a prince, a perfect match. But she was too young and inexperienced to notice the lapses in his personality, the moments where his mother was absent and bouts of cruel fancy would spring up in his behavior. She had no way of understanding that his too bright eyes were misleading, masking a darkness few anticipated. They dazed and distracted, lulling her into a false sense of security, one she couldn’t see through until she saw the crown upon his head.

 

Now again she can see the fatal gleam, this time in the eyes of Ramsay Bolton, her new husband. And again, she’s too late to recognize it. A cruel fate, to escape one madman only to wed another.

 

He guides her towards his— their room, and she cringes with every step, despising the eager bounce in the bastard’s stride. The moment those cursed vows left her lips his pretenses fell, his harmless, mildly smitten persona crumbling into dust the moment he knew she had nowhere and no one to run to. She is Lady Bolton now, and her new recognition of his unhinged smile and eerily soft voice come too late to do anything but bring her more dread.

 

Theon’s hobbled steps behind them do nothing to ease her fear. If anything, his mere presence only encourages the darkest of her musings, a voice (Cersei Lannister’s voice. It will always be her voice) taunting her with the question she’d been so foolishly avoiding before: what kind of monster could transform Theon—proud, stupid, strong Theon, into nothing more than a shadow?

 

And what will he do to you, stupid girl?

 

Cersei’s spectre hisses the words with such venom, such contempt, Sansa almost believes it is the woman herself and not her figment wreaking chaos in Sansa’s mind. But the feeling of shame the memory of Cersei inflicts, the poisonous tinge to her tone strikes Sansa with a bizarre and deeply disturbed pang of longing.

 

She barely resists the hysterical laughter that stirs as she ponders exactly which of the seven hells one must reside in order to miss Cersei Lannister.

 

Another glance at her husband , and his cold, predatory expression, and she concludes the thought likely isn’t far from the truth. Ramsay’s grip grows more insistent on her hip as they arrive at the threshold, and he simply shoves her through the door, his gentle farce long since ended.

 

He’s speaking to her now, his voice low and confident, but the words are lost on her. A haze has begun to settle around Sansa, muddling reality. She’s unsure whether this is a manifestation of her own fear, attempting to shelter her from what is happening, or if her sanity has actually begun to fracture. Either way, Ramsay continues, Sansa numbly witnessing him push her over the bed, feeling the ghost of his hands tearing at her wedding dress, running down her back. She can hear Ramsay order Theon to stay, and the even the stab of shame and disgust the words trigger can’t quite reach her.

 

She feels mildly betrayed though, at the echo of disappointment that courses through her when Theon obeys. Yet the feeling isn’t directed at him, it's at herself, for apparently she hasn’t completely destroyed her childish notions of protection, of rescue, as she thought she had.

 

She certainly should accept by now that no one can protect her, they never have been able to before and Theon certainly cannot protect her from Ramsay now.

 

Theon couldn’t even protect himself from Ramsay, how could he save her from the same fate? Her only protection is this emptiness, this fog disrupting her consciousness.

 

Until Theon speaks, and rips it away from her.

 

“Please Master, wait.”

 

Three words. Barely audible, but heavy enough to shatter her fragile shield, and tear her ruthlessly and painfully back into reality. Sensation bleeds into her perception with frightening intensity, as if compensating for her previous distance. Ramsay’s touch burns her skin, his wet and weighted breath crawling down her neck, and it's all she can do not to be sick if only because she is sure Ramsay would strangle her for such an action, or worse.

 

Most certainly worse.

 

But Ramsay has lost interest in her. The same words that tore her brutally into awareness have stolen his focus, his hands leaving her body, and his arrogant, pleased demeanor evaporating. He steps away from her without the slightest sign of reluctance, his newfound rage palpable in the air as he directs his full attention towards the toy he’s much more familiar with.

 

“Oh Reek . Stupid, useless Reek.” Ramsay purrs patronizingly, as if scolding a child. But a promise of pain rings in every syllable, and the sound unsettles her deeply—she can only imagine how it affects Theon, considering they are actually directed at him.

 

As if to punctuate her returned cognisance, the thought of Theon crushes in her a wave of guilt and relief.

 

Despite his sins against her and her family, she has known Theon for years, and she’s well aware what his action means. He cannot free her from the situation, cannot help her escape unscathed, but even though he’s arguably in a worse position than she is, he is attempting to buy her some time, at what is almost certainly going to be great expense to his own person. And that is where the relief intermingles with guilt—she feels entitled to his sacrifice in some way. She shouldn't feel guilty for it considering Theon murdered her brothers. She should enjoy his suffering as she’s attempted to do since the moment she returned to Winterfell.

 

But she quickly dismisses that part of her and its reasoning, because it is that very vindictiveness that caused her to miss Theon’s warnings to begin with. Instead, she allows herself to feel grateful for him, to feel pity for the pain he’s already endured and what he will certainly endure for his interference.

 

She’d like to think her mother would be proud of her for it.

 

But even with her acknowledgement of her better angels, she outright refuses to recognize the small sliver of hope still lingering like sickness in her heart. It is the remnants of a childish sense of order, an outdated, naive instinct of a little girl who always felt safe with Theon Greyjoy.  

 

The woman she’s become isn’t even completely sure he still is Theon Greyjoy, underneath all that fear.

 

“Come on Reek, speak up. What is so important that you would have the audacity to address me without permission, like a man? We know better than that, don’t we? You aren’t a man Reek, you aren’t even a bitch. What are you Reek?” Ramsay questions, his tone outwardly indulgent but still impatient.

 

Theon stares resolutely at the floor, his hands glued to his sides, but she can still see them tremble at every one of Ramsay’s words as if he’s being physically struck with every utterance.

 

“Nothing, Master.”

 

Ramsay smiles brightly at that, and Sansa thinks Joffrey's deranged smirks looked downright charming in comparison.

 

“Hmm. Well it seems you remember that, yet you dared to speak as if you thought you were Theon once again. So tell me Reek, what exactly is so important you forgot your place? Did you want to join in?” He steps closer to Theon then, as if he will lunge, but instead stage whispers into Theon’s ear purposely still loud enough so she may hear. “That might be a bit difficult with your... problem.” He chuckles at his own sick humor, before continuing, his tone dripping with malice. “I suppose you could just be jealous. Sansa Stark is a beautiful woman. Tell me, are you jealous of your Master , Reek?”

 

Sansa may not know Ramsay, but she’s been the target of enough of Joffrey's fits to hear the threat in such a question. If Theon answers the wrong way, it will result in a great deal of pain for the both of them, and quite possibly a worse fate then she would have faced should he have not intervened.

 

Sansa wants to scream as she prays that for once, Theon Greyjoy won’t say the wrong thing.

 

Except her prayers seem unnecessary. Though Ramsay towers in front of Theon now, his mere presence demanding a response, Theon doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he turns his eyes towards where she remains cowering by the bed, attempting to hold the pieces of her ruined dress in such a way to preserve at least some of her modesty. Her cheeks stupidly heat at how exposed she feels in front of him, still embarrassed despite the absurdity of that in this situation. But that notion is forgotten the moment she actually meets his gaze because—

 

By the gods, Sansa doesn’t know those eyes.

 

Did you ever? Cersei taunts, but her words are easily drowned out this time, lost in the overwhelming shock and disbelief screaming at Sansa to turn away.

 

Because she knows that gaze cannot belong to Theon Greyjoy, cannot belong to the man Robb once called brother.

 

Hopelessness and pain smother him like shrouds, and should he lie still, she thinks he’d  indeed look the part of a corpse. The brilliant blue of his eyes that once glinted with mischief and pride now appear murky and grey, as if Theon has drowned in the depths of his own mind—a cruel and ironic mimicry of his chosen god. Agony is etched deep into his features, apparent in every inch of his once carefree counternace. She sees no strength in him, no anger, no fragments of faith. At most she sees some sort of acceptance, which makes it all the more tragic. Such eyes don’t belong on a Ironborn heir, they belong on a slave, on a man condemned.

 

She cannot hold back a whimper when she remembers those very eyes staring back at her from her father’s face, just before the executioner's blade fell.

 

She wonders if Robb wore them as well, when the knife pierced his heart.

 

She violently wishes to turn away, to deny the truth, but it is that thought of her family that restrains her. Sansa will not refuse Theon now, not in this miserable moment, not in the face of his desperation. His eyes are frantically searching her, and while she cannot fathom what answers he believes he’ll find in her, when she’s been lost herself since it all began, she won’t scorn him now. She cannot find it anywhere in herself in the face of pain that potent, to be cruel to him.

Her father would want better from her and she certainly wants better from herself.

 

But as she wars with herself, her buried kindness defeating with ease the resentment she’s clung to with such ferocity, something changes in Theon. A calm sweeps over him, stilling his trembling hands and somehow even easing her own shaking a bit. There’s the faintest gleam in his eyes, something odd she doesn’t recognize. Then as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes, and with it, all signs of life in him.

 

The emptiness is even worse than the pain, and Sansa reels. She cannot quite understand how, but she recognizes his sudden shift as a goodbye, and isn’t prepared for the devastation that realization brings.

 

Tears spring to her eyes, and she prays to and curses the gods at once. Damn honor, damn justice, damn betrayal—Sansa has witnessed too many goodbyes in her short life to approve of anything Theon’s could entail. She doesn’t care it he did betray them, or if whatever he’s planning is some attempt on his part to make amends, even if it is for her benefit. She doesn’t want anything that results in her losing him.

 

She’s lost too much already.

 

She desperately tries to catch his attention, but as she suspected he would, Theon ignores her, looking back at the ground. He won’t risk looking any longer and drawing Ramsay’s attention back towards her, and he won’t face her silent pleas. He won’t relent on whatever it is she just watched him resolve, and now she is helpless to intervene.

 

Theon slowly steps towards Ramsay, clasping his hands behind his back. Ramsay watches him warily, obviously curious as to Theon’s actions but still distrustful of the man himself. She wonders briefly, if Theon is going to attempt to attack him while he’s unsuspecting.

But Theon drops to his knees at Ramsay’s feet, his head tilted down submissively, and whispers “Jealous of her, Master.”

 

Sansa’s heart stops.

 

Her thoughts stop.

 

Everything stops because she cannot possibly process the meaning in those words. What Theon is implying, what that would imply. In her wildest nightmares she couldn’t have crafted such an abhorrent punishment, nor could she ever envision Theon asking for it for anyone’s sake, much less her own. She must be misunderstanding, the stress has to be clouding her mind—

 

There’s no misunderstanding the complete and utter delight on Ramsay Bolton’s face.

 

He stares at Theon, shellshocked as Sansa herself for a moment before he almost tentatively tangles a hand in Theon’s hair, gasping gleefully when Theon does not flinch away, but leans into the touch and closes his eyes.

 

Sansa’s legs go weak underneath her and before she can steady herself she crashes to the ground, the pieces of her dress falling apart at the impact.

 

Ramsay doesn’t even register the noise she makes as she falls, nothing existing to him outside the broken man at his feet. His countenance is painted with a disturbing mixture of joy, smugness, and disbelief, as if he has impressed even himself with just how completely he’s destroyed Theon.

 

“Oh pet …” Ramsay drawls, stroking Theon’s cheek in faux affection. Though Sansa can’t even be sure it’s completely false. She can’t be sure Ramsay doesn’t believe himself fond of Theon in some twisted way, a psychotic fantasy amidst his obsession, or if  he’s simply drunk off the power he has over the man.

 

“Reek, you do surprise me,” he whispers. “Here I was beginning to worry this was the one thing I couldn’t get from you, despite my glorious work. I wanted it, but I didn’t quite understand how much more… satisfying it is to have you ask me for this. To want this.”

 

The gravity of those words are almost lost on Sansa in her shock, but once she registers their meaning she can’t fight the sudden, terrifying understanding they bring.

 

Theon knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn’t a gamble, it was calculated.

 

Ramsay has...gods...Ramsay has raped Theon.

 

And Ramsay said that wasn’t enough . He wants, has been waiting for Theon to ask for it. The logic there, it horrifies her, but she cannot stop herself from attempting to track his thoughts. Ramsay wanted this because now, he’ll  own every piece of Theon. Of course Ramsay would see it as the ultimate power trip to have the man whom he has broken in every other way willingly hand Ramsay the last scrap of himself, the only thing he’s managed to protect. It’s the perfect victory in Ramsay’s demented game.

 

And Theon, as lost and weak as he has been, has still resisted giving Ramsay that.

 

Until now. Until her.

 

Ramsay seems to stumble upon this conclusion just as she does, and glances back at her briefly, for the first time in the entire encounter recalling her presence. And if she has read every book in all the kingdoms, in every land, she wouldn’t find a word closer his expression than soulless.

“Perhaps I should have gotten a wife sooner.” He chuckles darkly, and then looks back to Theon, nudging him downwards. “Go on then pet. Ask me.” Theon doesn’t hesitate, shifting from a kneel to a bow with little grace and placing a kiss on Ramsay’s bloodstained boot.

 

“Please Master. I want this. I want you. Anything you wish, I am yours, I beg of you.” There’s nothing left in his voice now, nothing to show her the slightest sign Theon hasn’t left her alone here after all.

 

Ramsay laughs again, his wicked smile slicing across his face as he soaks in his victory, soaks in Sansa’s misery and Theon’s surrender. “Yes pet. Mine. Completely.”

 

He unlaces his breeches, and Sansa finally stops praying.

 

They’re already in hell—no gods can hear her here.



Chapter 2: Bloody Promises

Notes:

So I apologize in advance, this is most likely trash, but I have fought with this chapter for a month and I will jump off a cliff if I try and re write it again. Thank you guys for all your wonderful feedback, I hope you stick with me through this! Or at least tolerate this garbage. Hopefully I have an easier time with the next chapter. I want to get to Robb already I miss him so much. Also the aftermath of what Theon did has only barely touched him, things are going to get much worse in that head of his so be prepared.

Chapter Text

Sansa loves the sun.

 

She always has—she loves the warmth, loves the light, loves the dresses she can indulge in whenever the air isn’t biting at her skin. That’s one of the reasons she thought she would love the South. It was a place of warmth and opportunity, where princesses went to live happily ever after. As a girl she told herself fairytales of King’s Landing, of being whisked away to the best castle in the land and marrying a prince whom would love her all of her days. It was innocent daydreaming, fantasies only a child would believe. And believe she did.

 

 But now Sansa is all grown up, and nothing worked out how it was supposed to. Her prince didn’t love her. She doesn’t think he could have ever loved anyone really. And while the cold couldn’t touch her there, the acid words drifting through the breeze tore at her much more effectively than ice. The dresses were ploys to placate her, the galas and dinners a farce to flaunt power. Everything she glorified sickened her, and her idealized refuge became the stage for her living nightmare. Every day she was tormented by the twisted mix of the life she wanted for herself and the wretched reality others thrust her into. Cersei was a snake, always lurking, searching for the slightest slip of Sansa’s tongue so that she may brand her a traitor; Joffrey was the monster in every bedtime story, and all the heroes were dead.

 

But Sansa had still wanted to hope for something better. Winterfell seemed impossible to her then, what with her father dead and family scattered across Westeros. So, desperate and alone, she can understand now why she shifted her rose-tinted aspirations to Highgarden.

 

Highgarden. Fool. Loras and the Tyrells, they aren’t any different than I am. Than you are. Don’t let childish flights of fancy carry you away again Sansa darling.

 

Cersei spits the words into her mind, as always, but this time Sansa smirks a bit at them. The Queen makes a point: the Tyrells are no different from the others. Eager for power, driven by ambition and greed, they used and manipulated Sansa with no more remorse than Cersei. They might have been kinder, but they just wanted to gain her name, and with it, control of the North.

 

Still, as usual, Cersei is only half correct.

 

The Lannisters, the Tyrells, they are ruthless players in a bitter game—but Sansa isn’t. Not yet.

 

Not until she kills Ramsay Bolton.

 

During the night, it wasn’t thoughts of peace, of family or of sunshine that kept her sane. No, her solace was found in twisted fantasies of Ramsay’s poetic and brutal demise.When he barked at her not to look away, she imagined carving out his tongue with a rusty knife, watching as the blood stained his skin and pooled under her nails. With every possessive and cruel touch Ramsay inflicted on Theon, she pictured crushing another one of his fingers slowly under steel. Every time Theon cried out in pain, despite his efforts to remain silent, she longed to plunge the bastard’s own dagger into his eyes, to watch him wither and scream in agony. Somewhere between silent sobs and Ramsay’s sickening moans she arrived at her resolve: she will kill this man.

 

Your poor, kind Lady mother wouldn’t be so proud of you now, would she little dove?

 

No. Sansa guesses she would be horrified. Mother always worried about Arya, who dreamed of battle and glory and gore—Sansa? Naive, gentle, little Sansa? She would never expect this from her eldest daughter. No one would expect such ferocity from her. But mayhaps therein lies the problem. Everyone, herself included, seems to have forgotten a vital truth: Sansa is a Stark.

 

And she will gladly rip Ramsay Bolton’s throat out with her teeth like the wolf she is before she lets him touch her.

 

Likely what she will have to do, as she’s already dismissed escape. She has no allies here save maybe Theon, and she knows he will not light the candle to summon Brienne. He’s too frightened of Ramsay to defy him like that, and she cannot necessarily say she blames him. (The point is moot regardless, because there is no chance Brienne could get to her in time). So, she will fight. It will be a mutually assured destruction—she can’t leave herself to be found by Ramsay’s men, they outnumber her and could prove just as callous as their master. But at least she can attempt to ensure Ramsay won’t ever have the chance to hurt anyone again, much less anyone she cares about.

 

Though that begs the question: does that include Theon?

 

Last night all she could think of was saving him, of keeping him, of damning him for throwing himself in her place and blessing him for the same act. He hadn’t looked at her again, but she couldn’t miss the vacancy in his eyes, horrifying even in comparison to the sadness and fear from before. And even now, newfound mallious coursing through her blood she can’t bring herself to direct it towards him.

 

The truth is she’s scared for him, even still.

 

Last night Ramsay hadn’t touched her at all, but Theon… she can’t imagine anything worse. She’d been forced to lie there through the night while Ramsay brutalized him, humiliated him, and it wasn’t until the sun began to rise that Ramsay finally allowed Theon to dress, taking him with him when he left for his daily duties. Sansa remained blissfully forgotten by her new husband, but she’s not so stupid as to think such a luxury will last another night. It’s miracle enough he hasn’t stopped by all day, something must be demanding his attention, or have had the misfortune to attract it—whatever it is she’s thankful for the time it provides her.

 

Though she really, really hopes it isn’t Theon.

 

As if summoned, a quiet and hesitant knock startles her out of her thoughts. She freezes for a moment, terrified, not at all ready to face Ramsay but not prepared to back down either. Then a hoarse voice—not that voice whispers “My Lady,” outside her door, and the tension eases.

 

“Come in.” She gasps after a long moment, surprised at how great an effort two simple words require of her. The door eases open, slowly, and Sansa is both thoroughly relieved and mildly confused to see Theon cowering in the entryway. His hands are balled into fists, his frame shaking though she can’t deduce if the effect is from her presence or fear of Ramsay’s.

 

Truthfully Sansa wasn’t expecting to see Theon again. If she succeeds and kills Ramsay, she will have to kill herself before the guards can get to her, and if she fails she’ll do all she can to ensure Ramsay has no choice but to kill her. If she fails at even that, she imagines Ramsay will make her suffer so that she too won’t remember her own name.

 

None of these pictured scenarios included Theon showing up at the door, looking terrified yet somehow concerned. At best she imagined him possibly taking a chance to escape while Ramsay’s distracted with her, if only because Sansa cannot bear to think of him still here with that beast after she’s gone. She thought he would now view his debt to her as paid, and leave her to her own devices, (wisely) keeping his fate from being any more intertwined with hers.

 

But once again defying what is expected of him, here is Theon in the rags he’s worn since she arrived,  hovering unsurely in front of her. His entire posture emanates pain, and suspicious red patches near his ribs tell her that he’s likely encountered Ramsay again during the afternoon. Sansa cannot comprehend living in such a permanent state of anguish, certainly not while being forced to do labor on top of the torture.

 

It seems there is always so much she cannot comprehend, including Theon himself.

 

Her savior, her betrayer, her friend and her hostage. She can’t forgive him for what he did to Bran and Rickon, but how, how can she wish anymore harm on him after this? How can she not wish for him peace? How can she not wish for him suffering?

 

Gods she wishes she could speak to her mother. Her father—anyone from home really. To her own morbid amusement she would do just about anything to have one conversation with Jon , and if by some blessings she could see Robb...

 

Maybe they could answer her questions, could guide her down the right path. Even Bran always seemed to have a wise aura about him, though he was so small when she last saw him. But they are not here. Her parents are dead, her siblings dead or vanished, and all that is left of the childhood she longs for is the broken man standing in front of her.

And Theon might not be able to answer those questions either, but there are many answers he does owe her, while she can still collect them.

 

“Theon, why did you save me last night?” Somehow, the words sound more accusing than she thinks they would have should she have began with a harder question, though she does not mean them to. They seem to catch Theon off guard, and whatever words he had been building the nerve to voice are lost as the question crashes over him.

“I- I- Not Theon. Not Theon! Reek…” He scolds himself in a hushed (mildly panicked) tone, losing a battle with something inside himself. His eye twitches uncertainly, his fingers picking at scabs on his forearm absently and Sansa cannot help but look on with pity and sorrow. Part of her wants to strike him out of frustration, to shake sense back into him. To yell and yell until he finally yells back.  The rest wants to comfort him, to try and cajole him back to reality and hope that this thing Ramsay has created isn’t all that is left of him.

 

Sansa sighs and stares at the ground, trying to access how to proceed while checking her own whirlwind of emotions. She needs to remain at least somewhat calm for this, to grasp for some aloofness. This is almost certainly her last opportunity to gather any kind of closure with Theon, and she cannot let her own fear and fury rob her of it.  

 

After debating with herself a moment, she pats a spot on the floor beside her. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to sit on the bed, nor clean up the remnants of her torn gown. She forced herself to change into one of the dresses Ramsay placed in here for her, but knowing whose room this is now, she cannot bring herself to touch anything else.

 

“Sit,” She directs the order to Theon, impressed with herself when she hears how cool her voice comes off. “We have much to discuss and little time to do so.”

 

Theon almost doesn’t move. She can see his hesitation in the way his entire body tenses, his eyes darting around before once again settling at his own feet. Then, with an almost invisible nod, he limps forward, settling down quietly a few feet away from where she gestured. Sansa chooses not to push the matter, instead continuing on with her questioning.

 

“How long have you been with him?” She says slowly, forcing the words through her clenched teeth. Honestly, she dreads the answer, but somehow she feels it's important she knows this. Knows how long he has suffered. If only so someone besides them does.

 

Theon picks at a tear in his shirt, still keeping his eyes downcast as he thinks. “I am not entirely sure how long it's been since my Lady, but he caught me as I fled from Winterfell. I’ve been with him since then, first at the Dreadfort, then here. ”

Sansa is floored as she processes his response.

 

Years. Theon has been in that monster’s hands for years.

 

Gods, she had anticipated that he’d been here awhile, considering the state of his appearance, but she had assumed months, perhaps a year at worst. How can he speak to her now, while damaged, still at least mildly functioning? How has he been surviving though all of this alone? How after so many years of degradation and torture did he find the strength to stand up and protect her?

 

“Do you remember that night in the woods?” She asks abruptly, starting herself and likely Theon as well with the question. It isn’t what she intended to ask, isn’t in the realm of questions she should  be asking, but she can figure why she is, given her previous train of thought. She doesn’t know if he will remember that night, as she had all but forgotten it until a moment ago, but it seems important now. Certainly relevant.  

 

Theon seems lost by her sudden change in demeanor, her apathetic appearance almost entirely dissolving at the recollection. Even if she wanted to (stoicism was never her strong suit) she couldn’t have masked the sad eagerness in her voice, and while baffled, he looks as if he is at least attempting to remember for her.

 

After a brief minute, he shakes his head sadly. “I am sorry my Lady, I’m not sure which night you mean.” He sounds genuinely regretful too, and a bit afraid, as if she will lash out at him for a mere lapse in memory.

 

Sansa smiles bitterly, her gaze shifting to the window. “I suspected you wouldn’t. But I do, now. I was such a little thing then. Ten perhaps, I’m not completely sure. You and Jon and Robb were still a few years short of being men, that much I know. Though even then I was envious of  your freedom. I suppose it was as close to a rebellious phase as I ever came, and now that I think on it, I was similar then to how Arya always seems to be. You all spent the day fighting and exploring while I learned how to sew and paint, and I craved adventure as well. So, I decided I would go out on my own quest, and impress you all. While you three did venture out into the woods, you never went alone, you were always to stay together. I thought I would explore them by myself, so I could prove to everyone I could be just as brave, if not braver, than you boys. Gods, hearing it now I truly do sound like Arya.”

 

Sansa has to stop herself a moment, wiping away the tears that began to pool in her eyes at the mention of Arya. Her wild little sister with outrageous dreams and almost appalling behavior. They never got along, always desiring different things out of life, but now Sansa would give anything to get to be her big sister again. She had taken Arya for granted before, and now she might never get to see her again.

 

“Anyways,” she pushes herself to continue, voice still heavy with grief. “Fool I was, I waited until my last lesson of the day and told my tutor I wasn’t feeling well. She let me leave easily enough, but chided me a bit. But I didn't mind, too excited about my plans to heed her complaints. I was so eager in fact, I slipped outside and into the woods without any kind of protection, or anyone knowing where I had gone. I thought I’d be back before dinner, and could brag of my exploits afterwards when mother and father turnt in. But, as anyone else would have expected, I quickly got lost, the trees too tall for me to see Winterfell behind them, and the falling snow masking my footprints so I couldn’t simply retrace them. I was petrified, convinced I would die in the snow then, a idiotic girl trying to be something she wasn’t. I called out for my father, hoping that my absence had been noticed and he would find me before I froze. I hadn’t brought enough covering for the cold that night, and was shivering terribly. But it wasn’t my father who came looking, was it?”

 

She looks up then, fearing Theon will be staring at her with the same stupefied expression as before. But when she carefully meets his gaze, she catches a brief glimpse of recognition in dead blue eyes that fills her with absurd hope that perhaps Theon is still in there, somewhere.

 

“I- I saw you sneak away,” He stutters as first, as if surprised at his own voice. “I had wanted to practice with my bow a bit more before dinner, so I was heading to my room to get it when I saw you run into the woods. I wasn’t sure what to do, I knew we weren’t supposed to go into the woods alone, but I also knew I’d lose you if I took the time to find someone else, so I followed you myself.

 

A fond, nolgastic smile sweeps over Sansa’s features as she pictures Theon then: lanky and scruffy, his hair even more a mess than it had been when she left for King’s Landing. Some of the other boys teased him for being so skinny, so he was always trying to practice more so as to build up muscle.

“That’s right,” She says softly, another burst of anger and sadness stinging her when she sees the relieved look on his face. “You came in after me, without so much as a weapon. You found me crying, curled up on some dead log and you picked me up and told me everything was going to be alright. I should have been heavy for you, yet you still carried me back, and you didn’t laugh at me for trying to be brave, or for crying. I remember being so shocked because you were always japing and teasing, but you were so kind to me that night. All you said as you carried me home was not to go back into the woods alone because—”

“I couldn’t always be there to rescue you.” Theon whispers, looking so far away, and Sansa almost wants to let him stay there, in the past. Not to say a word and give him as much time as he can get out of these memories before reality sweeps back over him. But she can’t afford him long. She needs the truth.

 

“And when mother asked why we were late to dinner, you told her you got caught up practicing and I had set out to find you.” Sansa finishes gently, and without warning moves herself closer to him, grasping his hands.

 

Theon startles at her sudden proximity, staring at their interlocked hands with a bewildered expression.

 

“You saved me that night Theon. You put yourself in danger to make sure I wouldn’t get lost beyond recovery. And last night, you saved me again without reason or reward, when everything between us is different. I want to know why Theon. Why did you do it all?” Her voice is pleading, but hurt, and she squeezes his hands a bit to keep herself grounded.

 

Almost instantly as she says it, Sansa sees the struggle begin again in Theon’s mind as he wrestles with Ramsay’s conditioning. “Not Theon!” He stutters anxiously. “I’m not him anymore! He’s dead! My name is Reek! Reek! I know my name!”

 

“That is not your name,” She roars, desperate and angry. “You are Theon Greyjoy. You are the man who saved my life, who has saved Bran’s, who I have always thought of as another brother. You betrayed my family, you murdered my brothers—yet last night you saved me from the very Master you cower from, which makes no sense from someone who would do all that to my family. None of it makes any sense and Theon, I cannot read your mind and see your thoughts on us all, but regardless of status, of circumstances, of birth even, we grew up side by side as siblings. As your lady, as your sister, as whatever it is you see me as, I demand to know why, why you did all of it. I want to know how you can be so cruel and selfish as to betray Robb...to...to burn Bran and Rickon, then step in and receive scars that would have been mine?  How can you be savior and turncloak in the same breath? How can you be brother and enemy?”

 

How can you be a coward yet delude yourself with thoughts of bravery? We all have little deceptions we tell ourselves.

 

“Please Theon,” She begs, the strength leaving her. “Please, right now you are all but a stranger to me, and I don’t want to die surrounded by strangers.”

 

War rages between Theon and Reek. His countenance is pained and tears threaten to spill from his eyes as well, and there’s regret, so much regret she could choke on it. He bites his lip hard and Sansa sees blood begin to bubble up from the abused skin as he finally begins to speak.

 

“I betrayed Robb,” Theon croaks, and Sansa almost sobs a bit herself, because she knew this was coming. He’s said it before, he said it at dinner, she knew this would be what he said— “But I didn’t kill Bran and Rickon. They could be dead now, but not by my hand. The boys… the boys I murdered were two farm boys. Commoners, nothing to do with any of this. Bran and Rickon escaped and I… I couldn’t let people find out so I killed them and burned their bodies so everyone would believe it. I burned your home, I betrayed your brother...maybe if I hadn’t he’d be alive. At the very least, I should have been there. I should have died with him. I should have died for him. I would take it all back now but I can’t. I have no idea where your brothers are Sansa. You have no reason to believe me but that it is your truth. I’m so sorry.”

 

Sansa is speechless. All…all she was really hoping for was for him to tell her he hadn’t really burned them, that he hadn’t meant to, something stupid and irrelevant but that could make her feel slightly better. Something so that she could let herself take comfort in him for as long as she has left without her guilt crushing her, to give her some sense of why all this happened. This… she hadn’t expected. Bran and Rickon… how could they be alive? They… they could be out there, and she could find them. They might still be hiding somewhere... but something else strikes her in his speech, a part he left unanswered.

 

“I… I want to believe you Theon. That they are alive somewhere. I never imagined you could… you could kill them. It was devastating to hear, I was sure I was being played at first. But tell me, if not to repent for their murder then why did you do that last night? You could have stayed silent, no one could have faulted you. I didn’t even conceive there was… why? Why did you give him that, when you know all you’ve done is buy me some time?”

 

Theon looks at her then, and it is, indeed Theon. Not the one she once knew but—something. A ghost mayhaps, or just a man on borrowed time.

 

“Because Theon Greyjoy is gone Sansa. I’m… he’s broken me. He’s broken me beyond repair...but now you aren’t broken. What is another piece of a shattered man in comparison to keeping him away from you? ” He says softly, resigned, and this time Sansa doesn’t fight the tears, letting them fill her eyes and run down her cheeks. “It is a lot Theon. More than you can know.” Without really considering it fully she throws her arms around his too slim frame, pulling him close to her, burying her face in his shoulder and finally letting her tears freely fall.

 

Theon freezes for a moment, but just as she starts to pull away he puts his arms around her in turn. “I’m sorry I can’t always rescue you.” He whispers woefully and she grips him tighter, the words echoing both of their pain.

 

“ And I’m sorry no one was ever around to rescue you, Theon.” She says softly, running gentle fingers through his greasy hair as her mother once did for her.

 

Theon gasps at that, shocked, and within a few seconds she feels his chest begins to heave as he sobs with her. They sit like that awhile, the two of them, crying in each other’s arms like the children they should really still be.

 

And they wait.

Chapter 3: The Folly of Man

Summary:

Sansa and Theon escape the Dreadfort...now Sansa has choices to make.

Notes:

Sorry this chapter is a bit rushed, things have been crazy with midterms and all. But honestly I'm just ready to get to the Wall so I apologize if the pace is hurried.

Chapter Text

Ramsay doesn’t come.

 

Sansa clings to Theon, and remembers a time when Robb would do the same, oh so long ago.

 

Before both of them were taught by soldiers and lords (and likely even her father) not to allow anyone to see the depths of their pain, even each other. She can vividly recall herself sitting warm in her mother’s arms, Catelyn's stroking her hair softly and soothing her whenever she was upset. And with equal clarity she remembers  the scolding Robb received from their uncle when he broke his arm and they found him crying in Theon’s arms. She remembers the looks of disgust Theon would receive after tearing up on his first couple name days without his family.

 

Men could never display their hurt like a woman—to do so compromises the validity of their strength, somehow dismisses their capability.

 

Fools. Sansa never could understand why this myth of manliness prevailed despite the stupidity woven into every facet of it. As if somehow they are not human, as if somehow they do not feel with the same intensity and depth. Pretending indifference could never really protect them—could not make them truly indifferent.

Theon played perfectly into the absurd expectation his entire life. Almost as long as she’s known him, his demeanor consisted of a carefully crafted persona of apathy and arrogance. He threw empty words and walked with all the confidence of a king, but could never shake the loneliness of a prisoner. All his precious act did was ensure he suffered alone—save for the the occasional comfort of Robb.

 

And Robb. Her brave, gold hearted brother. Gods she misses him. She loves and hates him in equal measures—loves him for being the amazing and doting big brother she never deserved and hates him for leaving her alone. For dying on her, when he was all she knew she had left, except for Jon, who she doesn’t even know is still alive for certain. Robb had been such a perfect heir, and she knows he would have been the perfect King. He ran to war screaming of honor and justice when his heart truly cried out in grief and rage.

 

And his death, the result of an impulse, a battle-born act of love.

 

Except Sansa knew her brother, and Robb Stark only fell prey to his impulses born from pain. No amount of bluster heals a wounded heart, only leaves it to fester and grow until death takes its due. Men like Theon, like her brother—like all of them really, they convince themselves to repress their humanity will bring them some elusive power, and all it truly does is make them more vulnerable to self-destruction.



One cannot ignore their weaknesses—instead they must embrace them, know them intimately, and shape them into a weapon to use on those unsuspecting.

 

Is that a lesson you learned from my words or my mistakes, little dove?

 

Sansa doesn’t know.

 

But she does know that the weaknesses of men live close to the surface. They can be hurt much more easily than they appear. They never even notice how easily a woman can manipulate them, because they are trying so hard not to be aware of their emotions they cannot tell when they are being used against them. Cersei and Margaery used that fact relentlessly, and even Sansa herself has used it time to time.

 

It’s something she’s come to think of as fact: the strengths of women lie in places men are too cowardly to dwell.

 

It’s the reason why her dread transforms into utter terror the moment Myranda strides into the room instead of Ramsay.

 

Sansa instantly curls around Theon, as if she can somehow protect him (even though she’s likely in much greater danger from Myranda than he is). As she moves over him her hair falls over her shoulder and she notices Theon instinctively hide behind it. Sansa only catches the briefest glimpse of the panic in his eyes as he retreats, and he’s utterly Reek once again. Her eyes tear a bit in disappointment—she had hoped...but still, she tightens her grip around him and vows to herself that for what he did last night, she will try to keep him out of this as much as possible.

 

Myranda watches their reactions with mild interest, but her manic, wild glare is focused on Sansa alone. “My lady,” she purrs, the threat heavy in her words as she slowly stalks closer, closing the door behind her. “Terribly sorry, but it seems one of the mangier dogs has wandered its way into your rooms.”

 

For the first time the woman looks directly at Theon, smiling at him as she runs her fingers absently over the blade at her side. “Ramsay doesn’t like his pet wondering about where he doesn’t belong,” She says, and Sansa can feel Theon shake in her arms. “But I think I’ll deal with him later. You and I, we are due a little chat, are we not?”

 

Still smiling, Myranda reaches behind her and only then does Sansa notice the bow and quiver on the other woman’s back. When she spots it, Sansa nearly bites through her lip in frustration, and she can feel Theon’s nails digging into her skin for the same reason.

 

There’s no hope now. Sansa might have been able to attack Myranda if she simply had the knife, but with a bow and arrow the dog keeper won’t even need to get close to tear Sansa apart. And unlike Ramsay, she has nothing to use against her. Sansa cannot manipulate her desires or her vulnerabilities, not when Myranda is donning her jealousy and hatred like a second skin rather than something to be hidden.

 

Fitting it be a woman who destroys you. Tragic though, that this pitiful common girl gets that satisfaction instead of me. Perhaps you would have been better with the devil you know, little dove.

 

“Come Reek, move away from Lady Bolton . She and are going to have a bit of fun before your master returns—and I’m sure once he sees my work he’ll want to give you your turn himself.”

 

Somehow Theon’s shaking worsens as he slowly pulls away, watching her with terrified eyes. He looks childlike, unsure—it hurts her so. Blood from her torn lip trickles down her chin and onto his hand, and she watches it stain the dirty skin a sickly, muddy red.

 

He doesn’t blink.

 

“Now dog.” Myranda hisses, and Theon moves more hurriedly away from her, scrambling away from their spot on the floor, and leaving Sansa feeling even more exposed. He moves towards the corner of the room, cowering there and watching them both with a expression she would liken towards an animal about to be slaughtered. Sansa sends him a sad, reassuring smile and hopes he knows she doesn’t blame him. She’s so, so angry that this is how it ends. That this bitch will be how Ramsay gets the chance to break her, when she survived Cersei Lannister. She’s furious at herself, at Baelish and the Gods themselves.

 

But she isn’t angry at him anymore. She hopes he knows that.

 

“Such a pretty little thing aren’t you.” Myranda snaps, pulling her first arrow from the quiver.

 

At the words, Sansa tears her eyes away from Theon and fixes them on this woman, whose fair countenance is contorted in envy. She braces her now empty hands behind her, pushing herself to her knees and glaring back at her, no longer bothering with pretenses. She doesn’t know what will happen now, if she will die tonight, or if she’ll end up like Theon. But regardless of what happens, she will not fall meekly.

 

She’s already wasted too much time with that.

 

“I suppose I am, when compared to you. Tell me, does Ramsay like you because you look like his beloved dogs, or because he can have you as he would a bitch? Why else would a lord ever touch a wench like you?”

 

Even as the words leave her bloodied lips Sansa cannot believe herself. She doesn’t think she has ever voiced something so vulgar, doesn’t even know where such a thing came from. Myranda’s eyes widen as well, and while her grip doesn’t waver, Sansa takes her joy in the red flush spreading across the insane woman’s cheeks and the whiteness of her knuckles as she notches the arrow.

 

If nothing else she has the satisfaction of knowing she touched some sort of nerve. Not something hidden enough to break her composure, but enough Sansa knows her words will linger with Myranda, echo in her thoughts whenever she celebrates with Ramsay.

 

A small victory, and one she’ll likely suffer for, but a victory nevertheless.

 

“It won’t be me he fucks like a bitch tonight, my lady. But I truly doubt that’s what you’ll be thinking about then. I have plenty in mind to distract you from it.”

 

Myranda aims the arrow at Sansa’s leg, smiling wickedly.

 

Then she crumbles to the ground.

 

Sansa doesn’t move for what seems like an eternity, instead watching the blood pool around Myranda’s head in some sort of morbid halo.  Her knees ache from her position, and blood is still running down her chin.

 

“Sansa. We have to go Sansa.”

 

Suddenly the spell is broken and Sansa looks up to see Theon standing over Myranda’s body, a candlestick still gripped in his shaky hand. His countenance is wild, his tongue flicking out nervously over his teeth. “Sansa?” He whispers this time, not looking at her—barely looking at anything at all truthfully.

 

“Theon.” She finally forces out, trying to shake off the shock.

 

Theon. Theon killed Myranda.

 

They have a chance.

 

“We have to go. We have to go now.” She says, pushing herself up, her own legs unsteady underneath her. Theon doesn't seem to hear her,  despite the fact that just a moment ago he was the one urging her back to her senses. She steps over the body, determinedly not looking at Myranda’s face, and grips his shoulder. “Theon?”

 

How typical. You get an opportunity to escape and instead you’re here gawking over a man instead of acting intelligent for once.

 

“Theon. Theon we have to go.” Sansa growls, ignoring Cersei. “Now.”

 

This time something clicks in Theon’s tattered mind, and his eyes dart up to hers, something like clarity sparkling there again for a moment.

 

“Let’s go.” He says, grabbing her wrist, and then they are moving. He’s weaving them through hallways, pulling her past the guards and—no one even looks. No one considers that Ramsay’s pet and newest plaything could possibly be defying him.

 

Would his pet be defying him, if you had never arrived? If Ramsay catches you it will be you he blames for Theon. You should leave the traitor here to his punishment.

 

Sansa almost wretches at the mere thought, and digs her nails into Theon’s wrist, as if to reassure herself she has him. He looks back, ever so briefly, and then pulls her along faster until they get to the edge of the wall.

 

They jump.

 

They run.

 

They fear.

 

Sansa’s thoughts exist as nothing but a streamline of instructions, her own primal instincts screaming at her to survive .

 

Move.

 

Listen.

 

Don’t let them get you.

 

Don’t let them get Theon.

 

Don’t lose.

 

Not Cersei’s voice.

 

She sees Theon talking to the guards—she sees Brienne take them out. Then both of them are quickly being hustled away and she finally allows Brienne to pledge her loyalty.

 

Only then do her thoughts slow down, and she can fully process what just occurred.

 

They escaped. They escaped, because Theon murdered Myranda for her. He risked everything for her—again. And Sansa is free. She’s going to make it to the Wall. To Jon.

 

She will have the chance to take her home back.

 

“My Lady? Are you alright? What did he do to you?” Brienne asks, her concern etched deep into her tired features. Sansa looks up at her and suddenly understands why her mother might have taken a liking to this woman. She’s strong, but she's undoubtedly kind.

 

“He didn’t do much to me at all. He was...distracted.” Sansa whispers the last part, her eyes darting to where Theon cowers beside Podrick. Brienne’s gaze follows hers, and her expression transforms to that of grim understanding and confusion as her head falls slightly.

 

“I see…” Brienne watches Podrick thank Theon for stepping in, Theon simply staring down at his hands  Then she looks back to Sansa, her eyes brimming with sadness (and pity, though Sansa hates to recognize it) “I do not know what you have suffered my lady. Nor he. But I think you should perhaps speak to him while you have a chance. He... doesn’t look well.”

 

At those words Sansa’s nails dig into her palms, her wet clothes jostling against her skin as she lurches to attention. “What do you mean?” She snaps, watching Theon more intensely, searching him for signs of injury.

 

Brienne grimaces as she looks on as well, the pair watching as Podrick still vainly attempts to draw Theon’s attention. “Lady Sansa I have seen terrible things, and heard worse, still I’ve never considered someone as damaged as him. He’s weak and sick—and if his body doesn't get him, his mind will.”

 

Sansa watches Theon sudder, his now thin frame racked with shivers from the icy wind, his skin pale and clammy. His expression is vacant, and she can suddenly see vividly what Brienne means.

 

Theon’s never going to recover.

 

Even if she can save him physically, she’ll never be able to piece back what Ramsay destroyed. She doesn’t even know much about Theon’s true self before Ramsay, she never took the time to learn. The only one who did was...was Robb.

 

And what would Robb do? After Theon’s betrayal? Would he cast Theon aside? Would he send him back home? Would he… would he kill him quickly? Would that be cruel or kind?

 

Brienne places a hand gently on Sansa’s shoulder, and Sansa absently wonders if she looks as stricken as she feels.

 

“It would perhaps be merciful to take his head,” she says sadly, mind seemingly drifting, and Sansa almost asks what she’s thinking of. “But it would be a coward's choice after everything I think, if he you saved you as you say. And knowing you to be Lady Catelyn’s daughter I strongly doubt you are a coward my Lady.”

 

Sansa smiles at that, despite the pain that aches in her chest at the mention of her mother. “You’re correct Lady Brienne. I am no coward...and I won’t abandon him now.”

 

“Just Brienne. I’m no Lady.”

 

Sansa’s smile grows at that, and she knows immediately that Arya would like this woman if they had a chance to get to know each other.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Brienne looks taken aback a moment at Sansa’s easy acceptance, but recovers quickly. “Perhaps you should go to your friend. It is equally possible Podrick will annoy him to death before you decide what to do.”

 

Sansa chuckles a bit, a warm feeling in her stomach combating the icy chill of the air.

 

“I’ll speak to him, then we should be on our way.”

Brienne nods in agreement and moves to drag Podrick away as Sansa steps in to speak to Theon.

 

“Theon?” She says softly, attempting to draw his gaze. But Theon doesn’t so much as flinch, his eyes riveted on his hands. Reflexively she looks as well, and quickly wishes she hadn’t. Missing fingers, flaying scars, burns, layers and layers of dirt and grime. And then most recently—blood. Hers and Myranda’s, and maybe even Theon’s own.

 

Sansa brushes her fingers across her torn lip, almost having forgotten about it.

 

“Theon?” She says a bit more forcefully, slightly worried about his intensity. Still, Theon doesn’t respond, seemingly unaware.

 

“Theon!” She snaps, gently grabbing his chin and turning his face towards hers, only to almost instantly be sick.

 

Theon’s eyes are glassy, and he looks at her as if he can’t even see her. As if she’s not there at all.

 

“Brienne, Podrick,” she calls, the panic returning quickly. “Something is wrong with Theon!”

 

Don’t let him go. Sansa you are his only chance right now. He will disappear if you do not force him to stay. Trust your instincts.

 

Wait. Wait. Sansa knows that voice, the one from before, the one that wasn’t Cersei.

 

Go to the Wall. You have much to do.  I love you.

 

Sansa must have finally snapped as well, because she swears, that must be...but it can’t be..

 

“Bran?”

Chapter 4: Brothers and Oaths

Summary:

Sansa is almost to the Wall, but she and Theon need to talk first.

Notes:

Yikes I'm going to apologize now for how rushed this chapter was considering how its been a bit since I updated. The structure I want would have been harder if I tried to split it up, and I really didn't want two chapters of traveling considering how little time I have to write these days. Still I hope you enjoy, and that you'll stick with me. This chapter is fairly calm as the next will be brimming with drama, so prepare yourselves. And Robb will see Theon next chapter!

Chapter Text

Sansa never wanted to see the Wall.

 

That was Jon’s dream.To disappear with their uncle, live a life of adventure and freedom from the tight constraints of the world they live in. Though they all knew why he truly idolized such a grim and lackluster existence, why he counted down the days to what most men view a  life sentence.

 

It was because on the Wall, names mean nothing. All that matters is the strength in your arm and your heart—something she thinks now should be the norm, not merely a fantasy of bastards and bards. In Winterfell, it wouldn’t have mattered if Jon was (and she thinks she can admit now that he’s probably close to) one of the best men in Westeros, he’d forever be defined by the name Snow.

 

Her softer side hopes that he indeed found respite there, that Jon has been spared the woe and anguish that has become synonymous with the Stark name the past couple years—mayhaps the bastard blood he always thought his curse was enough to save him from the fate of his family. But  that little dream fades as her thoughts and eyes flicker towards the other boy who never bared her name, the one who certainly did not escape the misery that Sansa thinks now dwells in their very blood.

Theon Greyjoy has had suffering carved into his bones, branded into his soul. Without Stark name or blood, the pain followed him still.

 

Hope is for children and fools, little dove, have you yet to learn? You are no longer a child, so I suppose you are simply a fool. Pity.

 

Sansa scowls and dismisses the biting words, attempting not to let her mind consume itself with thoughts of what could have befallen Jon when she is so close . So close to finding him, so close she can see the ominous figure of Castle Black in the near distance. Instead she forces herself to refocus on the task she’s been desperately avoiding for too long now: confronting Theon.

 

Sansa has noticed him attempt to sneak away several times the past couple of days. He hasn’t succeeded due to Brienne’s or her own interference, one or both of them casually calling him over whenever they see him drifting too far. Yet, neither has asked about his intentions, instead fainting ignorance. Brienne, she knows, does so because she feels she doesn’t have the right to intervene in such a deeply personal matter of a man she barely knows (whose struggle she cannot begin to comprehend).

 

Sansa however, has no such excuse save for pure cowardice.

 

Frankly, she’s been avoiding this conversation because she’s terrified of how Theon will react. He’s like a spooked horse as of late, flinching at the slightest noise, apologizing profusely  for small or even imagined missteps. Conversing with him is like attempting to walk across the thin sheet of ice on a newly frozen lake, not trusting any step you make and just hoping the ground won’t fall out beneath you.

 

And Sansa fears what could happen if she pushes too far. That these...episodes of Theon’s will claim him permanently.

 

The first one, right after they escaped, nearly left Sansa insensible. Theon was just… gone. His heart beat still, but he was utterly unresponsive, his awareness stolen by some malfunctioning corner of his mind. For hours he was like that, a living statue, and Sansa was sure she had lost him despite everything.

 

But then finally, he awoke from whatever stupor he had sunk into, confused and shaken. He was surprised to be free, even moreso to be alive and free. He likely never imagined that it would happen again, when he fell into Ramsay’s clutches.

 

He nodded and gave her a weak smile when she assured him he hadn’t died, but Sansa couldn’t stop feeling as if there was a tinge of disappointment to it.

 

Since that day, scenes like that have been occurring more frequently. Over the past few weeks Theon has slipped into that state numerous times, sometimes remaining there for hours, others only a few minutes. They’ve yet to discover a way to rouse him, and while he seems eerily unconcerned about it, Sansa has been fretting constantly that the next time he falls into one of these scenes he won’t wake up again.

 

Honestly, Sansa just doesn’t know how to begin a conversation that could result in her losing him, not after everything. But  they’ll reach the Castle by nightfall if they hurry, and she has a feeling Theon’s reservations will come to a head much more dramatically if she doesn’t speak with him this morning. If life has taught her nothing else, is that unpleasantry cannot be avoided and fear will not save her.

 

“Theon? May I have a word?” She manages to choke out, her voice not nearly as steady as she would like. Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear, watching quietly as Theon looks up from where he’s resting, his expression apprehensive and confused. Sansa glances towards Brienne across the camp, who gives her a reassuring nod as Theon moves towards her.

 

His posture is so different than it use to be, he moves slowly, hesitantly, his back hunched. A far cry from the strut he use to have, the one she knows Robb secretly envied. Robb could walk with purpose, but he could never master Theon’s indifferent manner. She’s never seen someone else as capable of appearing careless and unaffected as the Ironborn Price, now she suspects she’ll never she it again. The man who wore that counternace no longer exists—and neither does the world that created him.

 

“Yes my Lady?” Theon questions softly. His voice rarely rises above a whisper these days, everything he does done softly, or quietly, or weakly.Sansa smiles at him, ignoring the little pain in her heart that thought causes her, gesturing for him to sit next to her. He nods and sits, wrapping his cloak around him. His hands are trembling as they move, his eyes remaining resolutely fixed on a pile of snow a few feet away.

 

On impulse Sansa reaches out, laying a hand softly on his shoulder. His head jerks towards her, and she tilts her own in response, trying to look reassuring.

 

“It’s just Sansa Theon, I’ve told you. We are beyond titles at this point I think.”

 

She keeps her tone light, and her words earn her the slightest hint of a smile, something to be coveted from him these days (when once a grin from Theon Greyjoy was the easiest thing in the world to see). It gives her enough confidence to continue, hoping that she can muddle through this somehow.

 

“Theon,” She begins slowly, the words heavy on her tongue. Theon’s eyes fixate on his lap, a moderate improvement and Sansa pushes herself forward.

 

“We need to discuss what’s going on. I’ve noticed you try to slip away when you think no one is watching you, and while I’m not angry, I would like to know why.”

 

Theon is quiet for a long moment. His hands shake even more wildly and he grips his thighs in an attempt to steady them, his nails digging into what little flesh he seems to have there at this point. Sansa bites her tongue to keep from scolding him, as she wants to give him time to respond, not turn this into some sort of lecture.

 

“My L-Sansa,” Theon begins, stuttering at first. “I apologize, I’m so sorry I simply didn’t want to upset you in any way, but—” His tone heightens a bit hysterically, and Sansa reaches over, gripping his cold hand tightly in her own.

 

“Breathe Theon, I promise am not angry. I just want to talk. Tell me why you want to leave, it’s alright. I will listen and no one will hurt you.” Theon nods softly, his breathing calming a bit and he pauses a moment to regroup.

 

“Sansa, I don’t think it is wise for me to continue on to Castle Black with you. Jon will rightly be furious with me and I know that you said you don’t wish me dead. But I also will not fight Jon on it—I don’t want you to have to go through that. You’ve been through enough.”

 

Sansa freezes, having thought of this this herself. Jon will be bloodthirsty, that is true enough, but even he would not defy the oath and murder Theon, especially if she insisted the old ward be left to himself. Or once he lays eyes on him, whichever happens first. She doesn’t know if anyone’s rage could completely withstand seeing the damage that has befallen Theon the past couple years.

 

Hers couldn’t.

 

“Theon if you take the Black Jon cannot do anything to you, you will be forgiven. You know that.” Suddenly, Theon jerks her hand from hers, his breath quickening dangerously. His expression twists into something nasty and hateful, but he doesn’t direct it towards her. Sansa sits back, stunned and cautious as he begins to speak (almost as if she isn’t even there).

 

“Forgiveness? I don’t want to be forgiven. I murdered two children, caused the deaths of many others, betrayed everyone. I have no right to take the Black. I won’t.”

 

Sansa blinks, her mouth moving but words failing to come. She hadn’t considered that. Not once did it cross her mind that Theon wouldn’t take the Black. Closing her eyes, she takes a few deep breaths, not allowing her anger to rise to meet his. This could only end badly then.

 

“ Then I will protect you, but I cannot let you leave Theon, at least not until you are well. I would never forgive myself otherwise. Where would you go? And furthermore, how would you get there, as weak as you are? Ramsay is searching for us, the Northern soldiers will spare no mercy and even if you did make it out of the North, what is out there for you?” She reasons, carefully watching him as she speaks.

 

Theon listens intently, his anger fading from his stance, not even rising again when she calls him weak (which surprises her, though mayhaps it shouldn’t).

 

“I suppose I’ll have to go home.” He says slowly, letting his long hair fall in front of his eyes, presumably an attempt to mask his true feelings regarding that suggestion. Still, it doesn’t prevent Sansa from hearing the feebleness of the answer. Theon doesn’t really believe it himself—he is  saying the only thing he thinks he can say that she would believe.

 

She licks her dry lips and nods once, not able to contain her frustration this time.

 

“The last time you returned to Pyke your life fell apart. You’ve told me what it was like, do you really want to return to that? To your father? Or is your plan to die out in the snow, after everything—” Her voice rises a bit and Sansa pauses, glancing at Theon and seeing him wince.

 

She blanches. That is his plan. He’s trying so hard to leave simply to die out there, alone. Out of her sight (or at best, return to a place that has brought him nothing but misery). Gods be damned, how is she supposed to handle this? She doesn’t know Theon well enough to understand what is going on in his  mind. Even if she did, how would she understand what Ramsay did? How would she understand this guilt Theon seems to be carrying?

 

The Wall, Sansa. Trust me. Get there and there’s a chance for him and a need for you.

 

Sansa stops, her eyes flying wide and her breathing ceasing. Theon sits up in concern, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

 

Bran. Gods, she hadn’t imagined him. She hasn’t heard him since that night, she was beginning to think it was only panic…or some ghost come to haunt the corners of her mind, like the ever bitter voice of Cersei hissing in her head day and night.

 

Bran? How? Where are you? How do I get him there? Are you alright?

 

She sits there for several more moments, ignoring Theon’s increasing franticness, but there’s no response from Bran. Sansa curses to herself, resisting the urge to cry from desperation.

 

She’s so lost. She just wants her family back and not to lose anyone else.

 

“Sansa?” Theon asks hesitantly, touching her shoulder just slightly. There’s a hint of guilt in his tone, probably for his part in her distress and though it may be underhanded, she decides to use it.

 

She lurches towards him, burying her head in his shoulder and letting the tears come, twisting both her hands in his cloak. “Theon, please. I promise I will keep you safe but please do not leave me. Please, come with me to the Wall. I cannot do this alone, I need you. Please.” She feels Theon freeze under the onslaught, taken aback and frightened, but eventually he relents, his arms encircling Sansa’s shaking frame.

 

“Sansa I—I’m sorry, I will come, I’m sorry. Please Sansa, I swear it, don’t cry. I’m so sorry.”

 

Perhaps you are learning the ways of the game after all, little dove. Well done.

 

Sansa ignores Cersei's taunting, burrowing herself further into the warmth of Theon’s grip. She doesn’t like this, but she needs to get him to the Wall. She just needs to get through today, get to Jon and they’ll have a chance.

 

Please be right Bran.

 

Please.

 

“Th-Thank you Theon. Thank you.” She says sincerely, pulling him closer for a moment and just basking in the warmth, in the assurance. Sansa hates herself for manipulating him, but she’s willing to if it means keeping him alive. If it means giving him a second chance he will not grant himself.

 

“If you will not take the Black, stay here the night while Brienne and I go on. Podrick shall keep you company while I speak with Jon, so that we can avoid any misunderstanding. I will send for you in the morning.”

 

Theon pulls away at her words, nodding, but it’s difficult not to see the doubt there. If anything however, that only strengthens her resolve and she gently grips his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye.

 

“It will be alright Theon. I promise you will not cause me grief, not if you stay.”

 

Theon nods slowly and Sansa sighs in relief, looking towards Brienne and shedding the girl, once again becoming the Lady. “Brienne, ready yourself. We leave now to meet my brother, Podrick and Theon can follow tommorow.”

 

Brienne shoots a slightly worried glance towards Podrick, but schools herself quickly, gathering her things. Professional, as always. Sansa rises and begins to move towards her, but stops a moment, the cynical, untrusting corner of her mind nagging at her.

 

“I want your word Theon. I want your word that you will at least attempt to stay at Castle Black, I shall not keep you there after that, but I want your word you will give me an honest attempt.” Her spine is perfectly straight, her words icy and distance and for just a moment Sansa feels like her mother. Strong, regal, confident in her demands. It makes her feel closer to Catelyn than their physical similarities ever have.

 

“You want the word of a turncloak?” Theon says after a brief silence, and Sansa is both relieved and surprised to hear a bit of bitterness there.

 

“I ask for the word of Theon Greyjoy.” She replies cooly, still not turning towards him, afraid her instiance will falter if she breaks the moment.

 

This is a difficult request. For her and for Theon, as the last time he gave he word to a Stark it was Robb. Their relationship has improved, but Robb is a sensitive subject, buried in grief and blame and guilt. She doesn’t know if either of them can handle looking each other in the eyes with his ghost between them, not yet.

 

Theon’s says nothing for a long while. Sansa fears a moment she pushed him too far, that if she turns around she’ll face absent eyes once more. Just as she is about to turn though, he speaks, his voice stronger and clearer than its been since Winterfell.

 

“Than it is yours, my Lady. I give you my word I shall join you at Castle Black tomorrow and I shall attempt to remain there.” Sansa’s shoulders fall slightly in relief, a small smile pulling at her cheeks. She wants to express her gratitude, wants to hug him, but she restrains herself. Theon’s memories do not treat him kindly and she imagines all he can think of right now is Robb.

 

Theon will not appreciate her thanks.

 

Instead she waves Brienne over, a burst of fondness creeping over her when she sees the Knight bidding Podrick farewell. Podrick himself doesn’t look too ecstatic to seperate, but both respect Sansa’s reasoning. After they exchange a few more words Brienne strides to Sansa’s side, a place Sansa has begun to enjoy having her.

 

“Than I shall see you tomorrow Theon. Brienne, let us take our leave.”

 

 

The ride to Castle Black seems to take mere minutes, when in reality she’s aware it’s been hours since they left their tiny campsite. As they approach she notices several men watching them curiously, gazes of both recognition and confusion fixated on her. Whispers run rampant and Sansa expects word of her approach will reach Jon well before she does.

 

The place seems darker than she had imagined it, despite the name, the cold seeming somehow even more punishing. She sits tall, careful not to show weakness, but her heart races as she scans the passing faces, the shadows, searching desperately for a flash of dark curls and soulful eyes.

 

Men part easily for them, guiding them further into the castle, into what looks to be a training yard. They don’t speak to her directly, instead conversing lightly with Brienne, but she doesn’t even notice because halfway across the yard, she sees him.

 

Jon.

 

Finally.

 

Despite all her notions of decorum, before she truly realizes what she’s doing she’s running towards him,  and he sprints to meet her, his eyes alight in a way she’s never seen them. The two of them clash so hard they almost fall into the snow as they embrace, neither quite believing they have the other in their arms.  

 

“Sansa, Sansa we thought you dead. I am so happy to see you.” Jon mutters to her and she holds him tighter, thankful for the words (she knows Jon was never fond of expressing himself verbally). She can feel her tears running down her cheeks, the touch of them turning icy as soon as the chill hits her face.

 

“I’m so glad to see you too Jon. God I thought I was the last for awhile, thought I’d get here and you’d be dead too.” She whispers so only he can hear, though she suspects everyone else has taken a respectful distance. Sansa doesn’t expect however Jon to suddenly pull back at the words,  his eyes wide as he gasps.

 

“Sansa come with me, now, there’s something you must see.” The words are almost desperate, and he says them with such urgency she doesn’t even think to question it when he grabs her hand, dragging her behind him.

 

Sansa doesn’t really pay attention to where he’s taking her (even if she should, the paranoid part of her mind insists) choosing to blindly trust her brother, to have faith in him, if she can’t have faith in anyone else yet.

 

“Jon what is it? Where are we going?”

 

She question him as he pulls her along, but he stays silent (she shouldn’t be surprised at that really) as he guides her to a small door, strangely far from the rest of the Castle. Could it be his room? She supposes they do need to talk in private although she doesn’t know why Jon would show such vagueness for that.

 

All questions vanish from her mind however as Jon pushes open the door to reveal a scruffy, shocked looking man staring up at her from the edge of the bed. His hair is longer, his face wearier than she saw him last, his eyes ages older but there’s no mistaking it.

 

Robb.

 

Robb’s alive.  





Chapter 5: Tales of Woe

Summary:

Robb, Jon and Sansa reconnect and Sansa has to reveal some difficult truth.

Notes:

What is dead may never die, but rise again harder and stronger--and here I am, back for more pain.

Chapter Text

 

“You died.”

 

Damn the gods, for all her etiquette lessons as a child, for the past years where every word she spoke was a risk, that is the only thing that she can force past her lips upon seeing Robb.

 

His bright blue eyes bore into hers and Sansa holds her breath, waiting for him to respond to her ill-chosen words of greeting or to simply vanish, a ghost once more. Though this Robb isn’t the Robb of her memories or fantasies of rescue—he’s a man, battle worn and weary, eyes too reminiscent of her father’s for comfort. She cannot imagine what he may have seen, how he’s come to be here before her now.

 

The silence remains tense for a moment, the weight of time and war resting heavily on all of them.

 

“You grew,” Robb whispers almost inaudibly, his expression bittersweet. Sansa can’t help but laugh at that, no matter how bizarre it feels as tears begin to rush down her cheeks. She doesn’t even think before she’s throwing herself into Robb’s arms, knocking them both backwards onto the bed. He returns the embrace instantly, stroking Sansa’s hair as he always did when she was a little girl.

 

Instinct still, after all this time.

 

Her hair quickly grows damp from his tears and his hands tremble against her, composure crumbling instantly. “Seven hells I’m so happy to see you Sansa. We thought you lost, like Ayra. I thought I’d never see you again. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you when I had the chance. Mother told me too, but I didn’t listen to her. I didn’t listen to her about anything that mattered and now she’s gone as well, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I left you,” Sansa winces at his babbling,  Robb’s agony and the thought of Arya like salt on a raw wound.

 

None of them did exactly what they should have and all of them listened to the wrong people. Sansa glances towards Jon and sees him hovering in the corner, guilt and concern reflected in his eyes. She knows less than nothing about his time since the war, but regret has written itself across his every move, found a permanent home in his eyes. It’s obvious Jon’s made his own mistakes, as she can only assume they’ve all done by this point.

 

Even her father, the noble and wise Ned Stark, whose honor cost him his life. She’s just glad Jon hasn’t taken after their father in that way as well.

 

Sansa’s heart burns at the thought, and she turns her attention back to Robb. Robb, whom was always destined to follow her father’s footsteps, and almost followed them to the grave.

 

Without pulling away from his embrace, Sansa tugs hard on his shirt and tries to make her tone stern.

 

“Don’t Robb. Don’t languish in those thoughts, this wasn’t something you did alone. If father had never taken us to King’s Landing this war would have never happened, if I hadn’t been so adamant on marrying Joffrey perhaps he wouldn’t have gone. We all made mistakes, every single one of us, but there’s nothing we can do for it now. And I thought I’d never see you again, so just—”

 

She breaks off and buries her face into her chest, attempting to smother further tears with the real, vibrant sound of his heart beat.

 

“We’re here now,” she whispers after a moment. “We’re here, and by the gods, we shouldn’t be. So hush, and be here with me. With us ,” she corrects and reaches for Jon. He hesitates, his dark eyes churning with uncertainty but he obliges, moving towards the bed. As soon as he’s within reach Sansa pulls him down besides them, grabbing a fistful of his coat to keep him there. Robb’s chest rumbles with laughter instantly as he witnesses Jon’s graceless collapse, and then utterly baffled countenance as he takes in the new position.

 

Sansa smiles fondly at Jon’s familiar awkwardness and the simple joy of Robb’s laughter. She squeezes Robbs hand, and he smiles knowingly at her as he tosses an arm around Jon’s shoulders and huffs as dark hair tickles his face. Mortified Jon quickly pulls back, only to be held tightly in place by both siblings.

 

“With all that’s changed, it’s quite refreshing to see you as stiff as always Jon,” Robb teases and Jon scoffs in response, smacking Robb lightly upside the head as he relents and begins to settle. Robb gasps in protest but it loses its effect behind the wave of overgrown curls that Jon’s hit dislodged. He looks ridiculous, more like a little boy in need of a haircut then a man grown. Even less like a king.

 

Although Sansa never saw Robb as King, Theon mentioned it once, briefly in his sleep. The King in the North, The Young Wolf. And “now and always,” but that she didn’t understand and couldn’t bring herself to ask. She imagines the affair was intense, if the gravity of his words mean anything.

 

“See Robb, here I was finding comfort in the fact the years haven’t seen fit to provide you with a sense of dignity,” Jon japes softly, striking Sansa from her musing.

 

Robb guffaws, the surprise evident but contentment just as obvious.

 

Their banter warms her, and in this small moment Sansa feels at home for the first time since she stepped foot from Winterfell.

 

You should be appalled. Huddling with your brothers like child? Pathetic.

 

At least I don’t fuck my brother— Sansa hisses internally in return. Don’t presume to lecture me on indecent behavior Cersei.

 

By some miracle, Cersei doesn’t retort and silence settles upon the Starks. Jon reaches over Robb’s shoulder to pull one of the furs over them and then they lay like that awhile, basking in one another’s presence as the small candle on the night table keeps the darkness away.

 

Though there’s much to discuss, none of them can bring themselves to start asking questions or reliving their individual horror stories just yet. For the first time in so many years, the Starks are granted a respite, a brief chance to mourn their losses and rest before the war continues on.

 

But the moment eventually passes, as it must.

 

As much as Sansa wishes to simply enjoy this, to cry into her brother’s arms and let them fix things for her, that is not her reality any longer. The time where Robb could fix the world for her has passed and wistful thoughts of it will provide her nothing but wasted time. Soon Podrick will bring Theon, so she must explain the situation to Jon and Robb—Gods Robb .

 

Sansa was expecting explaining this all to Jon to be challenging, but Robb? How does she even begin to tell him about the man he once called brother? How will he even react? Surely he will be relieved to hear Theon’s treachery wasn’t as severe as they all thought, but it was treachery nevertheless. Could he be pleased to hear what has befallen Theon?

 

No. Turncloak or no, Robb’s fondness for Theon was never a secret. Sansa can’t imagine her brother taking any pleasure in what has become of his old friend, no matter the crimes he committed. Seven hells, Jon didn’t even like Theon and she didn’t expect his wrath to withstand  facing the creature of fear and despair Ramsay has turned Theon into.

 

There’s so little time and so much to explain, but she doesn’t have a choice now. She didn’t count on Robb’s presence and that will make things all the more complex. But perhaps here lies the chance Bran was trying to tell her about, the last shred of hope for Theon at the Wall.

 

After all, the entirety of Westeros knows that the only one capable of truly reaching Theon Greyjoy is Robb Stark.

 

With that thought Sansa sighs, pulling herself from the warmth and safety of her brother’s arms and standing, facing the bed. Jon and Robb both sit up after her, watching with concern as she stares intently at the furs, working up the nerve to speak.

 

“There’s something I need to tell you both and it won’t be easy to hear. I’m aware we all have much to discuss, but I must say this now as we have little time to address it.”

 

Sansa glances up and Robb nods encouragingly, prompting her to continue. That relaxes her a bit and she straightens her back, attempting to summon just a fraction of the presence and strength her mother once commanded.

 

“Then both of you, be still until I’ve said my piece,” She continues, her voice clear and strong, “My time in King’s Landing will come later, but for now I come bearing news from Winterfell. After he smuggled me from the Lannister’s grasp, Petyr Baelish promised me to R-Ramsay Snow,” She tries to force the words past her lips, carefully avoiding both her brothers’ eyes. “Now Bolton. He thought I could charm him into submission and I was a fool who believed him. I didn’t understand what he was . I didn’t understand what darkness was lurking in the walls of Winterfell. I ignored the warnings when I shouldn’t have.”

 

Sansa  lifts her gaze to meet Robb’s worried one and her heart hurts for him. She softens her tone as she speaks straight to him, “I ignored Theon’s warnings.”

 

Robb’s expression immediately morphs into one of such intense grief, hurt and rage, it stuns her for a moment.

 

“The Turncloak? That wretch still lives?” Jon spits, and Samsa cannot help but turn angry eyes upon him.

 

“To his own dismay, yes in a sense. Things aren’t what you think they are.” She replies in what she hopes comes off as a relatively calm tone.

“What exactly ‘isn’t what we think’ Sansa? He murdered Bran and Rickon, he betrayed us all, his head should be on a spike. Hells if I could I’d gladly take it myself,” Jon spits and Sansa’s patience snaps.

 

“You know nothing , Jon Snow. Look at you boasting with the righteousness and naivety of a greenboy, by now you should have learned things aren’t that simple.”

 

But as quickly as it sparked, Sansa’s anger diminishes as she watches the blood drain from his countenance, his eyes adopting the haunted look so familiar to her now. She almost stops, curious and concerned as to what open wound she’s brushed against, but she hasn’t the time.

 

They never have the time.

 

“Hush now. And listen,” she says considerably softer, giving Jon’s shoulder an apologetic squeeze. “Theon didn’t murder Bran and Rickon. They escaped from Winterfell and Theon faked their deaths. Theon didn’t follow suit, he chose to stay. He was as foolish as I was and in the end he was captured by Ramsay Snow. However I was lucky, he was there to aid me before it was too late. There was no one for Theon and he wasn’t spared an ounce of Ramsay's madness or cruelty.

At Robb’s morbidly curious look, Sansa swallows and elaborates, fisting the fabric of her dress.

 

“When I met him again he was sleeping with the dogs and he didn’t even respond to his own name. Seven hells, he barely knew it, barely knew me . Still, he risked punishment to warn me of Ramsay’s evil and I ignored him, landing myself in just as much danger. I married that beast . And he, he tried to—he was going to,” the words leave her, and despite her efforts, she begins to choke on her her tears.

 

Robb’s arms suddenly tighten around her again and she leans into them, reminding herself where she is.

 

“I’ll kill him.” Robb promises her softly, but full of emotion and she knows he means Ramsay.

 

“Good,” she says gravely, but forces herself to continue. “But he. He didn’t, because Theon stopped him.”

 

Robb’s arms suddenly stiffen, and Sansa wonders what exactly he heard in her tone. A glance at Jon tells her his anger has suddenly been stunted by apprehension as well. “How? He attacked Ramsay?” Jon asks and Sansa freezes.

 

It would (in complete honesty) be kinder for her to lie. At least at the moment. She could spare them from knowing, spare Theon the pain of having them know. But lies always reveal themselves and the last thing she wants is for this situation to grow more complicated, to get caught in more secrets and lies.

 

Besides, now that she knows Robb’s alive, she thinks there is a chance he will help her with Theon (the reluctant concern in his eyes gives her hope) and for that to work he’ll have to know exactly what happened to him. Exactly what he sacrificed for Sansa’s sake.

 

So she braces herself in Robb’s arms, pushes him off a little so he has one hand resting comfortingly on her arm, but keeps a bit of distance. She cannot keep eye contact with either of them, but she’s able to keep her voice steady as she responds.

 

“He couldn’t,” She starts sadly, remembering how disappointed she was when she realized there was no way for him to overpower Ramsay. “He was starved, mutilated, half out of his mind, Ramsay would have needed no more than a blow to stop him and then it would have been useless anyway. He…he distracted Ramsay. Drew his attention away from me. He bought me time.”

 

She can feel her voice harden as she forces the words between her teeth and Robb’s hand slowly falls from her arm. She doesn’t brave looking at him quite yet, but risks a glance at Jon to see horror, pity and what’s likely a myriad of conflicting thoughts of guilt and twisted satisfaction flickering through his dark eyes.  She can understand that, she’s felt almost the same since that night.

 

“What exactly do you mean, distracted him.” Robb says, not as much a question as a demand. Now Sansa looks at him, unsurprised to see his hands shaking slightly—though whether in rage or in shock she isn’t sure. He already knows the answer, but he’s going to make her say it. Won’t let her leave the words hanging in the air, damn him. It might be too important to leave unsaid, but it’s also too horrible to be repeated.

 

“You know what I mean, Robb. Ramsay—he took Theon, like he tried to me. Until then, Theon still resisted. It was the only thing Theon still resisted. Not beatings, not the flaying, but that. It was a part of himself he still had, but that night. That night Ramsay ordered him to watch what he was about to do to me and instead Theon begged to take my place. He acted as if he wanted it, hoping to surprise Ramsay enough to take the attention away from me and it worked. Our roles were reversed and instead I watched it all, watched what he bore for me, hated all of us every moment of it,” Sansa swallows slowly, trying to keep herself in check.

 

“And after. After Ramsay was done he left me and took Theon with him. I never thought I’d see him again, but when Ramsay’s stable girl got jealous and attacked me, Theon killed her to protect me and we ran. Some soldiers caught up with us in the woods and Theon gave himself up to them in order to give me a chance to run. But thankfully Brienne arrived in time to save us both.”

 

Silence settles in the room for a long time, the weight of Sansa’s words falling heavily upon them.

 

“Where is he?” Robb says finally, his voice soft and hesitant. Sansa turns to him as he sits back on the mussed furrs, his fists clenched and his back straight, exuding tension.

 

Sansa ponders her answer for a moment, “Podrick will bring him soon. I left him behind so I would have time to explain the situation to Jon, but I couldn’t leave him alone.”

 

Robb nods briskly and then rises back to his feet, a his brows furrowing in that determined way of his, “I want to talk to him when he gets here.”

 

Sansa snaps unintentionally, the thought filling her with fear.

 

“No, Robb. You can’t. He’s—“ Gods, Sansa doesn’t even know what to say. What is Theon now? Broken? Sick? “He’s unstable. There’s something wrong with him, he’s been having these-these episodes . I think seeing you right now could induce one, he thinks you dead.”

 

“Episodes? What do you mean?” Jon asks before Robb can respond, his eyes still angry but thoughtful as well.

 

Sansa shrugs helpless, gesturing to the the empty air. “ I don’t know what’s happening exactly. He’ll be talking to me one moment, then the next it’s like he’s completely unaware. He won’t speak, he won’t move, it’s like he’s in a trance. Once I even saw him lurch too far forward and burn his hand in the fire because he slipped into one and didn’t know where he was. Podrick had to grab him to prevent him from completely falling in.”

 

Both Jon and Robb look share a glance and then Jon speaks, his eyes cautious but hopeful, “Bran and Rickon… how do you know they lived Sansa?”

 

He looks like he's telling a child the fairies and merfolk never existed and Sansa can’t help but smile ruefully.

 

“Jon I know how it sounds and I know the alternative of their wandering lost around Westeros isn’t preferred, but I promise you they left Winterfell alive,” Jon and Robb both seem to lose thirty pounds off their frame from her assurance, and she empathizes with that relief.

 

“So our brothers live, you live, I live, Greyjoy lives. I suppose Arya must be wandering around put there then, she always was the toughest of our lot,” Robb eventually says, and Jon positively beams at the words.

 

“Yes, that she is,” he whispers and Sansa grins back at them, but she tapers it, knowing her next words will not be well received.

 

“I have much to discuss on the search for our siblings, but as time runs short I need to tell you, I will not accept Theon being executed,” She starts, fully expecting it when Jon interrupts.

 

“Sansa you know no one would touch him when he takes the black.”

 

Sansa sighs deeply, smoothing out her dress and attempting to keep herself stoic. “Theon will not take the black.”

 

This time Robb beats Jon to a reaction, jumping to his feet, “What do you mean, he refuses? Does he think himself above punishment now, because he didn’t murder our brothers and instead betrayed us all? Burned our home? And he believes he can walk around without repercussions?” Robb’s anger builds with every word and Sansa has to force him back down to get him to cease his aimless questions.

 

“He believes himself above nothing, he refuses because he will not accept forgiveness, does not believe it an option, and Robb the repercussions have exceeded what he could have possibly deserved. Trust me, the Wall would be a mercy he will not accept,”

 

Sansa fully expects the confusion the words ellicts and can see the thousands of questions dancing across both of her brothers tongues, but before they can voice any of them Brienne bursts into the room, her eyes blown wide and full of concern.

 

“Lady Sansa, I’m sorry but you must come. Podrick is here, something has happened to Theon. I’ve never seen him like this my Lady—” Sansa doesn’t hear the rest of the words because her heart begins racing, doubts pulsing in her mind. Did Theon lie? Has he tried something idiotic despite his promise? Has Ramsay found them? Robb and Jon both move to grab her, to question her and Brienne, but she’s gone before their hands touch.

 

Sansa runs.

 

And once again, Sansa prays.

Chapter 6: A Wolf Cry

Summary:

Theon’s unraveling and Sansa’s at a loss.

Notes:

I Live! I apologize for the long breaks between chapters, but I havent given up on this story yet!

Chapter Text

The air beats a brutal rhythm against Sansa’s skin, lifted ice cutting away every ounce of warmth she had felt just moments ago. She can hear Robb and Jon calling after her but she doesn’t hesitate, pushing herself harshly against the wind. She tastes the bitterness of the night on her tongue as she moves, feeling its’ angry claws grasping at her hair, her clothes—her memories.

 

    “Sansa? Sansa please just this once don’t tell mother? You know Jon won’t come with us if she’s there and father never tells the stories the same way,” Small hands tug insistently on her dress as they walk, Arya’s eyes blown wide and pleading. Her dirty hair falls in impossible directions all around her face, giving her the appearance of some mischievous beastly spirit of legend, meant to wander around the woods and torment travelers on their journeys. The thought gives Sansa a reluctant smile and she looks down at her sister with a rare burst of utter fondness. Her little sister, the wild defender of Winterfell. Sansa sighs for show, trying to appear bored with the whole affair. She pushes Arya away softly, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress as if in thought.

 

“I suppose Arya. Just this once I won’t tell mother, but do not fall into the habit of asking for secrets,” Before the words even fully leave Sansa’s lips Arya has begun bounding ahead of her, utterly ignoring her after the affirmation reached her ears.

 

“Faster Sansa, they’ll leave without us. If Greyjoy gets to go and I don’t I will never forgive you.” Sansa actually cannot resist laughing at that, indulging her little sister by picking up her steps, following her out of the corridor and outside toward the path to the woods.

 

“Better hurry little one, Snow has already begun to brood and his face looks sour enough already,” Sansa hears someone (Theon) yelling at Arya, followed by a small chorus of laughs and what sounds suspiciously like someone falling. Sure enough the first thing Sansa sees as they round the bend is an all-too-innocent Robb withholding a laugh and Theon sputtering on the ground, his mess of curls caked with snow. Jon has actually cracked a smile and makes a point to step over Theon as he starts into the trees.

 

“Better get the ice off before you get frostbite Greyjoy, we wouldn’t want you to damage anything, it’d make your whoring yourself through the North quite a trial,” Jon quips as he leaves, earning a wicked scowl from Theon and a mildly disapproving glare from their father. Sansa scrunches her nose in disgust—it's unseemly to talk about those matters in public, but she supposes those rules don’t apply as strictly to Jon, bastards don’t have to act as lords do.

 

Arya beams at Jon’s back and laughs, then charges their father at full speed with a high-pitched battlecry.

 

Ned easily catches her and swings her up and onto his shoulders, giving Sansa a small, sweet smile as he motions her forward. “Ah, I’m glad to see you are joining us darling, we need someone with a bit of sense,” he declares, running a soft hand through her hair as she stops at his side.  

 

“You mean someone dull,” Bran mutters from behind her father’s leg. Before Sansa can reply Robb glares down at Bran and lurches forward, tossing the younger boy over his shoulder like a sack. Bran yells indignantly, squirming and beating small fists on Robb’s back. Robb ignores his struggling and gives Sansa a wink. “Be kinder to your sister Bran,” He scolds, jogging after Jon.

 

Rickon suddenly appears out of thin air, valiantly attempting to aid Bran. Alas as soon as he jumps for Robb’s legs, Theon intercepts him and sweeps him under his arm. Rickon yells as Theon holds him at his side. “I appreciate you trying to defend your brother, but Robb and I have more practice than you two. Next time jump before he walks away, you both need a little strategy.”

 

“He has a point Rickon. I must say that for all their antics they were always surprisingly well coordinated, yet I’m not sure how they managed that considering they ignored all our lessons--their efforts ended up giving your mother grey hair,” Ned calls, laughing at his sons as Bran and Rickon call at each other from the older boys’ holds. He watches the whole scene with a fond look, but as the wind picks up his eyes turn thoughtful, considering. Sansa blinks at the sudden shift, biting her lip. She doesn’t want to pry, but she’s always been more forthright with her father than anyone else. He always seemed to treat her with as much respect as their mother, while as loving as her siblings were, they all regarded her as a silly little girl.

 

“What is it father?” She asks after only a little hesitation. She forces herself to tilt her chin up, to make her voice sound strong and sure. Her father starts a little at the question, but quickly his surprise turns to fondness. With a little struggle he removes Arya’s clinging form from his back and with a small grumble she chases after the rest, likely to go attatch herself to Jon for the rest of the trip. Ned watches her go with a role of his eyes and then leans down to kiss Sansa on the top of her head, kneeling down to her height.

 

“Observant girl. Tell me Sansa, can you taste the bitterness on the air?”

 

Sansa pauses a moment and then nods, surprised at the flavor on her tongue. Ned squeezes her shoulder. “When the air tastes like that, something has incurred the wrath of the Old Gods. It warns us to keep together, to protect each other. My father thought it was a gift of some kind, a boon for our loyalty to the North.”

 

Sansa furrows her brow, debating rather to voice her doubt or to simply nod along. Arya and Bran were always more invested in the stories of the Old Gods than she was. They never felt as real to her as the Seven, more like fairytales than gospel. She doubts her father would appreciate this wording though, so she tries to chose her response carefully.

 

“Father...I worship the Seven with mother, why would the Old Gods give me any gifts?

Ned smiles knowingly and chuckles, giving her hand a squeeze.

 

“I love and respect your mother Sansa, but while you may look like the Tully, you are a Stark. And the Starks will always belong to the Old Gods, Sansa. They are apart of you, rather you know it or not,”

 

“Lady Sansa?”

 

Strong hands grip her shoulders, concerned blue eyes bleeding into focus with startling speed. “Brienne?” She stutters, and Brienne’s grip lightens slightly. Sansa has a moment of shock the other woman has taken the initiative to touch her at all—not that Sansa really pays any mind to those rules any longer. Still, she knows that Brienne regards them highly, so the fact she’s disregarded them and invited herself into Sansa’s space adds extra gravity to the situation.

 

“Lady Sansa, I apologize but you must stop. You look terrified and if Theon sees you like this, it will only make whatever has happened worse. We need you as yourself my Lady,” Brienne’s voice drops into an uncharacteristic softness. Sansa blinks slowly back at her, attempting to reorient herself, to calm her frantic heartbeat and silence the drumming in her ears. Brienne’s right—she’s of no use hysterical and impulsive.

 

“Take me to him,” she commands after a moment, her voice steady. The relief in Brienne’s eyes appears practically tangible as she backs away. Sansa wonders sometimes, what Brienne sees when she looks at her. If she sees her mother looking back, if she sees failure or success, guilt or loyality.

 

Sansa wonders what she would see, should she look in a mirror.

 

“Podrick?” Brienne calls, her hands falling from Sansa’s shoulders. She moves away, towards the gate and Sansa moves with her, registering for the first time the footsteps lingering just behind hers. She casts a glance over her shoulder to see Jon and Robb, although Robb has brought his cloak up to hide his face. Their concern wafts toward her, Jon’s visible brown eyes wary and confused. Sansa considers trying to say something, but Podrick’s called response strips the thought from her mind.

 

“Here,” His voice sounds weak and she looks for the source to see Brienne headed towards a slight indent in the stones near the gate. Their horses pace back and forth there and Brienne quickly sidesteps them and leads Sansa to a small windbreak, where she’s met with an unpleasant sight.

 

Theon leans against hard stone, huddled into himself,  his hair slicked back with sweat. His hands and feet are bound, restricted limbs straining against the rope and forcing it deeper into exposed flesh. Brutal red lines mark its presence, blood bubbling up to color the rope a deep black. Blood also stains his clothes, the furs and shirts torn in several places in an indistinguishable pattern. Glassy eyes once more peer frantically at the world around them, absent of awareness and completely oblivious to Podrick kneeling over him, muttering unheard assurances but Theon doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Blood has soaked into his clothes as well, but no injuries see can see, nothing to signify an attack. Nothing showing signs of chase, no one watching for pursuers.

 

Red devours her vision when she realizes Podrick had to have tied Theon, that he once again made him a prisoner after Sansa had sworn him his freedom and she doesn’t even realize she’s moving toward the pair, her lips curled into a snarl as her approach draws Podrick’s attention. He turns to face her and the color rapidly drains from his features.

 

“How dare you,” she hisses as Podrick rises to meet her. “How dare you tie him up like some kind of dog.”  

 

Part of her rejects the notion the moment she utters the words, assuring her raw and stripped emotions that somewhere in this mess lies a reasonable explanation, but with her brothers so close after so long, Theon alive and terrified at her feet, the need to protect and survive overwhelms all else.

 

Now you sound rapid rather than just foolish.

 

Although Cersei’s words drip with disgust Sansa flicks them from her thoughts with ease. Podrick, hands raised in surrender and eyes tired and horrified, rules her focus.

 

“My Lady no, of course not, I would never...I had to bind him to protect him from himself, I brought him here as quickly as I could—”

 

Before Podrick can explain further, Theon lurches toward her desperately (nearly toppling himself into the snow if not for Podrick grabbing his shoulder) obviously trying to reach her despite his binds.“Sansa?” He whimpers and she doesn’t hesitate to drop to his side, running a hand through matted hair and trying to coax his attention back to her.

 

“Theon, I’m here,” She assures him, unprepared when the confirmation causes him to reer back in fear.

 

“No! Reek, not Theon. You have to know your name, you have to know your name. He’s listening, he knows our names Sansa. He’ll hurt you, we have to know the names,” She watches helpless as he bites brutally into his lip, thrashing in his bonds.

 

“Theon no, he cannot hear us now,” She tries to comfort, but the words seem not to reach him in whatever hell his mind has thrust him into. She pushes her fingers back through his hair but they do no ground him as she hoped. The scent of fresh blood floods the air as his already torn skin grinds into the ropes and drips down his chin from the fresh bite in his lip. Wild eyes cower at things only he can see and Sansa feels at a loss, rage coiling behind her ribs at the feeling of helplessness.

 

“What… Sansa, tell me that isn’t Theon,” a soft and horrified voice sputters and Sansa jolts, her eyes wide as Theon freezes in terrified recognition.

 

“No, no, no. No stop, not that again, please master no. Please not him again, please I’m sorry I know my name, please ,” Theon sobs burying his head in his knees. Sansa throws her arms around him, shooting an alarmed glance back at her brothers. Jon thankfully seems to grasp the problem quickly, pushing a resisting Robb away quickly. She can’t hear what he says but after a few moments struggle Robb leaves and Sansa cannot help but sigh in relief. She knows the scene likely upsets Robb just as much as it does her, but she cannot afford for Theon to get a glimpse of him in this state, just hearing his voice was bad enough.

 

“All of you, find somewhere else to be and someone have a maester sent to my room,” Jon yells, stronger and more commanding than she’s ever heard it. Theon seemingly hears it too, because shock and confusion suddenly sweep across his features, interrupting his spiraling babbles.

 

“Jon?” He says, dazed and Sansa gasps in realization. If Theon somehow thinks Ramsay’s doing this, of course Jon would confuse him. She was there with him, she knows Ramsay used Robb against him, but why would he use Jon? Jon probably wasn’t even mentioned during his time there—his presence might convince Theon that this is all real.

 

“Jon,” She calls. “Jon come here, talk to him.”

 

Silence answers her and she tilts her head to see Jon looking back at her in bewilderment. “Me?” He asks slowly, as if he thinks he misheard her. “What could I possibly do? He knows you a lot better than he does me.”

 

Sansa nods, frustrated. “Yes and but all of us were there Jon, you weren’t. You have no connection to Ramsay,” at the name she can feel Theon’s trembling worsen under her hands and she fixes Jon with a unyielding look until he finally drops into an awkward crouch next to them. A million emotions flit across his countenance, unease and bafflement prominent. Still, with one last questioning glance at Sansa he listens, clearing his throat and trying to draw Theon’s attention.

 

“Greyjoy, can you hear me?”

 

The effect of it is almost instantaneous, Theon’s eyes darting toward Jon’s face.

 

“Jon?” He questions, watching the other man with suspicion. “Jon Snow… he’s at the Wall. He can’t be here,” Theon says, but he sounds unsure of the statement. Lucidity battling with fear behind his eyes and Sansa can see him struggle to focus, to listen.

 

“I am at the Wall Greyjoy, we both are. You brought Sansa here, remember?” Jon says, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He keeps himself perfectly still, something Sansa witnessed him do many times when their direwolves were just easily startled pups. Jon always had a way with them all, even if they all favored their own masters.

 

Her name seems to renew a little of Theon’s urgency and he lurches toward Jon, who grips him tightly by the shoulders and gently keeps him in place. “Sansa,” Theon breathes fearfully. “He has her too.”

 

Jon’s eyes soften a little at that, an expression she’s never seen on him before and he shakes his head solemnly. “No Theon,” His sudden switch to Theon’s first name doesn’t escape her, and she cannot help but raise an eyebrow in question. She can’t recall Jon ever calling him Theon before.“She’s safe. She’s here at the Wall, you both made it to the Wall. You got her out, you escaped,”

 

Theon stills again, looking up at Jon with thinly veiled hope. “Sansa’s safe? He didn’t get her?”

 

Jon’s expression turns dark for only a moment before he stilfes it, keeping his voice steady and face blank. “No Theon, he didn’t. She’s alright, but we both need you to listen now, alright? We need to get you inside. I’m going to take these off and I need you to focus and stay still,”

 

Theon manages a small nod and Jon pulls a knife from his boot, slowly moving it toward the ropes on Theon’s hands, careful to watch every moment of the other man in case the hysteria resurfaces.Theon watches him warily as Jon slices through the binds on his wrists, then his ankles, but says nothing. When Jon puts the knife away Sansa thinks she sees a flicker of relief, but she cannot be sure if it’s because the knife has disappeared from sight or because the ropes no longer dig painfully into his wrists.

 

“Let’s go inside now,” Jon says and after a moment Theon nods once in assent. Jon rises to and Podrick and Brienne move into his place, carefully lifting Theon to his feet. Theon remains quiet, but his eyes find hers for a brief moment and she watches him relax into their hold once he registers her presence. The empty, vacant look she’s come to know and hate starts seeping into his exhausted features quickly—Sansa flinches.

 

“That’s what you meant?” Jon says, suddenly beside  her. Sansa startles a bit at his quiet presence, then shakes her head.

 

“Not what you just saw,” She corrects bitterly, “Watch.”

 

Before Podrick and Brienne have even taken him five steps Theon’s expression goes totally slack, his limbs lax and useless. The pair quickly adjust their grip on him with a brief shared look, both of them use to carrying Theon’s lifeless body when one of his episodes occur. She shouldn’t be surprised that one has taken hold of him now, following such an intense outpour of fear and suspicion, but she feels shocked disappointment sweep over her regardless.

 

Terrible as it might be, she’d rather him lashing out in terror then mocking a corpse, completely unreachable to her.

 

She takes a breath to calm herself and then glances at Jon, who still watches Theon skeptically. “How do you know this isn’t a ploy of his?” He seems reluctant to voice the thought, though she can imagine why after what he just witnessed.

 

“No man can act that well,” She says softly, wishing it were the case, because at least then she’d have a recourse. “The first time it happened we were still running from Ramsay, it could have landed us both at his mercy. Theon wouldn’t risk that, we both would have rather died that moment than ever give him another chance to take us. And after...it’s real Jon.”

 

Jon places a soft hand on her arm and she leans into the touch briefly, his dark eyes following her with concern. “He’s losing his mind and I don’t know what to do,” Sansa admits, tears welling in her eyes as Jon leads her away from the gate, Brienne and Podrick following after them.

 

Jon says nothing for a moment. Words were never his fortay and she imagines he’s struggling with them now, unfamiliar with comforting her, lost as to what he’s dealing with, unsure of the right course of action. Finally he wraps his arm tightly around her shoulders and gifts her a small, unsure smile. “ We will figure it out.”




Chapter 7: Those Who Haunt the Dead

Summary:

Robb reflects on his time since the Red Wedding and has a conversion with someone unexpected.

Chapter Text

Robb Stark will never forget what it felt like to die.

 

 He will never forget the enveloping icy grip that seized him when the arrow pierced his heart. That aching, odd impression of drowning in air. It was an exquisite blend of pain, self-loathing and guilt burning him until he finally succumbed to oblivion. The last image to linger behind his eyes that of his mother’s distraught face as they slit her throat—but then the Gods dragged him back. Like a morbid puppet, he was tugged along by his strings right back into the game that killed him. 

 

And he’s suffered for this precious second chance of his. 

 

When he came back, he came back screaming. Every wound dealt to him before death he felt tenfold upon awakening: the burn of his flesh trying to knit itself into something functional once more. So his new life began in a haze of agony, the compassionless gaze of the Red Woman reminding him that he lost everything —and now he had to live with that. Once he regained some semblance of coherency, he recalled her as Stannis’ witch (the dealer of Renly’s death according to the Lady Brienne). But she was gone before the revelation came to him. Her magic and her motives melted back into nothingness, leaving him an assorted mix of broken pieces that didn’t all fit together. 

 

He doesn’t know why she revived him, nor how she retrieved his body from Frey land. However he quickly turned his attention to the task in front of him—to find Jon. The only family he had left alive. Or so he thought. The trip to the Wall felt like dreaming: white backgrounds and vague shapes, hiding his face in hopes of staying hidden. He had bartered and stolen to get himself across Westeros, finally arriving to find Jon already mourning his loss. 

 

They noticed the change in the other almost immediately upon Robb’s arrival. Their reunion felt hollow somehow, as if they were meeting for the first time but both pretending as if they remembered the other. Pain and loss follow them both like second shadows, dogging their every move. Apparently, whatever entity intent on prolonging the suffering of the Starks hadn’t spared Jon— though Robb supposes cosmic beings care little for names or bloodlines. At heart, Jon was always a Stark and that seemed to be enough.

 

They didn't need to speak at all for Robb to see that his brother had found no peace at the Wall. Rumors of the wildling girl that stole his brother’s heart echoed endlessly off the ancient bricks, a nameless and faceless woman that tempted the new Lord Commander from his oaths and his duty. The little he heard sparked endless questions in Robb: Who was this woman? How did she win Jon over? How did he come to lose her?

 

A few of the braver souls dare to suggest that Jon killed the wildling girl himself. Robb doesn’t have to know anything about it to know that would never happen—Jon’s loyal to a fault, he would never kill someone he loved. He can see the way the other man carries himself now, the loss that brings a weight like no other to one’s soul.  Jon had loved that woman, whomever she was. He misses her. Robb has a feeling he may never know more about her than that. 

 

No one longs for the living quite like they long for the dead. 

 

Many ghosts reside between them now, some belonging to them both, others bringing a private brand of grief. The bitter memories of Catelyn, of Robb’s wife, of his child (“We can name him Eddard”) stay only memories. Instead they talk about Arya. About Sansa and the boys, about Ned and Winterfell. They wonder in the dead of night if they’ll ever set sight on it again, and wish they’d never left in the first place. A tenuous balance they’d struck, discussing much but nothing at all—but Robb was feeling alive again. The simple reality of being close to family (something he thought might never happen again) had him resenting his new existence slightly less. His loathing for Melisandre and her ‘miracles’ had even begun to diminish—until the night Jon was murdered. 

 

Given that only a handful of people even know of Robb’s survival, it wasn’t until long afterwards someone had shown up to his room, asked if he wanted to see Jon—if he wanted to see the body. Told him to hurry, that there was some odd woman dressed in red who had went in to pay her respects. The words had meant nothing to him at first. Most of the day Robb stayed sequestered in his room, unwilling to risk a Lannister spy catching sight of the Young Wolf, alive and well. Any advantage they have would be lost should it get out—but Jon promised he wouldn’t do anything dangerous without telling him. He was supposed to just be handling some issues regarding the wildlings. He was supposed to be safe. But Robb’s shock didn’t last long once the words sank in. He pushed the man aside with little thought, taking off into the night as fast as he could without a horse. 

 

He still wasn’t fast enough. 

 

Robb arrived just in time to see the aftermath, to lay eyes on Jon’s ghastly healed stab wounds ( a few hours, he’d left Jon to his affairs for a few hours and he was murdered, why can’t he stop failing them, why does he keep losing them, why—) and to recognize the mad, tortured gleam now anchored in his eyes. 

 

The Jon he knew was dead, murdered and betrayed. The creature in front of him, while still his brother, would never be the man he knew. Like Robb, he’d come back a fragmented shadow of himself, doomed to walk through death and onto more strife. He’d failed Jon too, in the end.

 

And so Robb mourned once more.

 

That night, he actually attempted to kill the witch. He would have wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed until the light finally faded from her eyes, until he ensured she couldn’t ever inflict her curses on another soul—and he would have done so without remorse. If it were up to him, he’d have let her blood mingle with remnants of his brother’s in some holy retribution for them both—but Jon saved her. Of course , Jon saved her. 

 

As if Robb needed more evidence that Jon should have been born the Lord. He would have been a fantastic heir, so honorable and brave. A right awful politician almost surely, but a worthy leader and a great man. Even though he lost pieces of himself in death, Jon didn’t lose that core of himself. Robb, on the other hand, has no idea who ( what) he is now. The Robb Stark the North went to war for, the good-natured, idealistic and dutiful son his mother raised, that person no longer exists. That boy rots somewhere on Frey land next to his family and his crown (and Robb cannot bring himself to mourn him). 

 

Perhaps that boy was always meant to die, nothing more than a martyr bred from wolf blood and summer foolishness. How naive was he not to notice the ease with which everyone allowed him to suffer for their own sake? How foolish was he, to believe that the people who he loved would do right by him—that their love for him meant wanting the best for him? Such a tragic story, that of the Young Wolf. 

 

Robb nearly bites through his lip at that thought. Hatred and aimlessness crawl along his ribs and wrap themselves around the punctured, decayed, bleeding pound of flesh that use to be his heart. He presses his bare hand into the snow around him until his skin begins to lose its color, a gleaming, raw red creeping into the tips of his fingers. 

 

He hardly feels anything. Perhaps after experiencing death itself, the ultimate and final sensation, the body loses the ability to feel in the same manner as before. Ever since his resurrection he hasn’t had the luxury of feeling a scrape, a cut or a burn. Once, before he found Jon, Robb had broken his finger out of pure desperation and felt nothing more than an odd, absent ache until it healed. He suspects Jon feels similar effects, from the little slips he’s witnessed. Hands too close to a fire, a few missteps with a knife. Little things he only notices because they happen to him constantly. 

 

Another thing they don’t talk about. 

 

He’s grown to miss the pains of everyday life. A simple thing, one he could have never imagined thinking of fondly before. But he misses the feeling of humanity that it brought—but then he saw Theon Greyjoy, alive against all odds and he regrets ever wishing for the pain to return. The sight of the man he once called brother, not only alive and present when so many others are not, but daring to be...something Robb doesn’t recognize. For whomever that was screaming in the snow, panicking at the sound of Robb’s voice wasn’t Theon.

 

Just thinking about that shaking, pathetic creature with dull eyes makes him want to puke.

 

“Don’t think I’ve ever gotten that reaction before,” A too-familiar voice laughs from above him and Robb freezes in place. His heart hammers like war drums in his ears and he wonders if he’s gone utterly mad after all—for he cannot have heard what he just did. 

 

“Mad? Well, perhaps. But I’ve always thought you were, just a bit,” Theon leans down to look Robb in the eyes, smirking and young and whole.  

 

“How-What are you?” Robb sputters, a torrent of mixed emotion threatening to have him pass out here in the snow. Blue-grey eyes glimmer with mischief and fondness and Robb wants to punch him right in that smug smile. 

 

Those are two different questions. The first one I can’t really answer for you, but you know who I am Robb. 

 

No, I just saw you. The real Theon is… I don’t even know what he is,” Robb’s confidence fades as he’s assaulted by the memory of terrified trembling and scars decorating skin pulled too tight over the bone. 

 

The Not-Theon’s smile falls at Robb’s words, and he drops drown to sit cross legged in front of him. He looks nearly identical to the last time Robb saw him, aside from a few adjustments to his clothes. It’s eerie, as if any minute now Theon will tell him this has all been some terrible dream, that he needs to wake up before Catelyn comes to scold his laziness. He wishes that were the case.

 

“I thought only the dead haunted the living,” He replies numbly and watches as Theon raises an incredulous eyebrow. 

 

“Who says I’m not dead? Better yet, who says you aren’t? You crossed the veil little lordling, you don’t walk with other men anymore,” Theon’s smile crumbles at the words and he turns his head up to look directly in Robb’s eyes, looking as lost as he had when he was a child first arriving at Winterfell, “I’m sorry it came to that for you Robb. You shouldn’t have had to face that alone. I should have been there, I should have died with you,”

 

“Why didn’t you, then?” Robb hisses, unable to face the sincerity from even this version of Theon, his rage bubbling up despite him knowing the person in front of him is merely a fiment (of his imagination? Of something more?).

 

Theon blinks at the question, as if he’s confused for a moment, before he sighs. “There were a lot of reasons, so I thought. Misplaced loyalty to my blood, buried resentment, injured pride.  I thought I knew the rules and then found myself floundering when the game began. I once told you that you’d be foolish not to be afraid— but I was the one who still wasn’t scared enough,”

 

Theon’s eyes go dark suddenly and he looks at Robb with a cruel, cold grin that he can’t ever remember seeing on the man himself. 

 

“I wasn’t paying attention Robb. I still thought this had a happy ending.”

 

Robb’s blood chills a bit at the words, something in them sinister and foreboding in a way that makes his hand itch for his sword. 

 

“I don’t think either of us were as afraid as we should have been. Why are you here now? Why not my mother? My father? Why would my mind chose to haunt me with a living face?” He asks, despite the fact he knows the answer already. And the conjured Theon seems to know that, for he smiles, his eyes softening again. 

 

Theon’s eyes soften again. “Why do you think Robb? ,” His gaze meets Robb’s and there’s something off about it, something different than he remembers. “Ask yourself: why would you summon my image? Assuming an image is all I am,”

 

It’s phrased as a question but it doesn’t feel like one. He summoned Theon because he’s upset, he’s possibly losing his mind—and it's comforting somehow, his presence. 

 

His subconscious called for someone he loved. 

 

“Loved?” Theon asks as he stands, drawing shapes in the snow with the edge of his boot, “Are we past tense Robb? I wouldn’t blame you for no longer loving me but,”

 

I hate you,” Robb interrupts vehemently and Theon doesn’t flinch. 

 

“You should. But are you being honest with either of us when you say it?”

 

Robb near hisses and he would strike Theon if he thought his hands would connect (although the possible of that terrifies him). “Don’t you dare speak to me of honesty, Turncloak. You betrayed and attacked me, why would I feel anything but disgust for you?” 

 

Theon seems unfazed by his harshness, though he cocks his head to the side as if to show he’s listening. Robb hadn’t seen him do it since he was a child, earnest and eager to please. Now it’s a tainted gesture, near mocking. 

 

That wasn’t as answer, My Lord.”

 

“Robb?” 

 

Theon looks toward the noise before Robb does (if that’s even possible) and there’s only the briefest hesitation before he recognizes the sound as Jon, calling out to him. Then he remembers—Theon and Sansa, Jon sending him off. And whatever he is seeing, it cannot be real. He’s either finally lost whatever precious little of his sanity he’d managed to preserve, or the gods have decided to start playing crueler games than he’d even conceived of. 

 

“I suppose that’s my cue to leave, I can see our time to talk is over for now, little lordling. Run and find the bastard Robb, the Starks must stay together now. The lone wolf dies—”

 

“But the pack remains,” he finishes, watching as the dark figure of Jon stalks through the snow toward him. 

 

Mayhaps its time Robb truly rejoined his pack. 

 

 

Chapter 8: Unpleasant Truths

Summary:

Robb and John discuss recent developments.

Notes:

I will finish this fic one day I swear! Bear with me and my updates every six months.

Chapter Text

Robb always thought winter would suit Jon.

 

As he emerges from the billowing snow, dark eyes gleaming, hair blowing softly behind him, the snowflakes caressing his form like a lover, Robb knows it to be true. 

 

He looks worried, he looks tired

 

Every time Robb sees the other man, he looks to have aged a decade—not that he can be blamed. Robb himself feels as if he’s aged a century in the past hour. They’re all relics of a time past now, living artifacts of a summer past. Somehow a bunch of children have become the focal points of war, losing their minds along with their innocence. 

 

Robb rises from where he sits, half buried in the snow and meets his brother.

 

His eyes drift to where the fake Theon had been only moments before. The snow looks...distrurbed somehow. Any of the patterns Theon had drawn would have been long gone regardless, but they indent in the drifts looks like someone was actually there. He almost wants to call out, wrest the image of Theon back from the winds that have swept him away, to demand answers from a version of the man capable of answering them.

 

But that’s insanity. There was no one there to begin with.

 

Right?

 

“Robb, finally. I was starting to worry,” Jon says as he comes within a few steps of Robb and lays a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out here in this.”

 

He skin is tinged red from the bite of the wind and Robb assumes it must have taken a while to resolve the scene with Theon. 

 

Theon, who trembled at the sound of his voice.

 

Robb chuckles darkly at that.“The cold bothers me about as much as it seems to bother you, now.” Jon’s eyes flash with hurt and grief at the words, and Robb wants to feel guilty. He tries to even, but the heavy sense of shame refuses to come. Anger and despair and confusion have seeped so deeply into his mind he doesn’t think he can feel anything else at the moment. Questions dominate his every thought, regrets and worries and they spare no consideration for his brother now. 

 

Gods bless him, Jon lets the comment go. He’s likely aware of Robb’s precarious state of mind and instead of confronting his cruelty, he presses forward.

 

It’s aggravating how good of a man he is.

 

“We got Greyjoy into my quarters. Or...gods, whoever that was.”  his voice wavers slightly. He rubs his face with one hand and that Robb can empathize with. He couldn’t recognize Theon in that thing either. 

 

Whatever had happened to the former ward (former hostage, a voice in his head hisses) changed something foundational in him, something defining. He’d heard rumors once of a god that stole faces—he has to wonder now if foreign gods have set their sights on Westeros. A frantic thought, but one that has more merit than he’d like to consider. He knows now that the Old Gods are not the only ones and whatever has befallen Theon…he cannot conceive how such things could be done by human hands alone. 

 

“He was scared of my voice,” he hears himself saying without his consent. “He was terrified of me Jon. I’m sick at the thought of anyone fearing me that much. Much less—” 

 

“Much less your best friend.” Jon finishes softly and Robb hisses.

 

“He’s nothing to me now.” Jon gives him an odd look and shakes his head. 

 

“Alright. But you’re right, he was terrified of you earlier. He was damn near out of his mind, but he knew it was you and the thought sent him into hysterics. I cannot imagine any version of Greyjoy being that scared of you, regardless of what you might do to retaliate his betrayal. Theon knows you aren’t a monster. Even with him thinking you dead, I cannot believe he would think you’d do something horrific enough to warrant that kind of fear. So, that leaves me curious on what exactly scared him so badly.” His expression turns dark and Robb wonders how bad it got after he left, what Jon saw that he didn’t. 

 

“I’ve never seen anyone that scared, even men who have faced the whites. It was surreal. I never thought I’d be a calming presence to Greyjoy of all people,” Jon rambles, massaging his temple with his hand. Robb can see it shaking. He almost comments on it, when Jon’s words sink in. 

 

“Wait a moment, what are you talking about?” He asks, stunned. Robb cannot imagine a situation in which Jon would be able to calm Theon down. 

 

Jon suddenly looks uneasy, averting his eyes from Robb’s and hand falling to his side, still shaking. “After you left and Theon heard me shouting and it snapped him out of his panic. Sansa asked me to sit and talk to him and he listened to me, actually listened and did as I asked. He was confused, but it calmed him down until he slipped into one of those episodes that Sansa mentioned.”

 

Robb blinks, more confused than before and a small part of him jealous that it had been Jon to comfort Theon.

 

Not that he should care. He doesn’t.

 

“An episode?”

 

“It was like he was a breathing corpse Robb. Sansa understated how disturbing it is to see him that way. And as much as I’d like to believe it, I don’t think it’s an act. Something is wrong with him. I don’t know if he can even be helped.” Jon whispers the last of it, a color to his words Robb can’t quite place.

 

Is that regret?

 

Robb feels something jagged and rough scraping against his lungs.

 

Is that fear?

 

“Why you?” Robb whispers and Jon looks up, reluctance 

in his gaze. 

 

“Sansa said it was because I have nothing to do with the Dreadfort or Ramsay.”

 

Robb mulls over that a moment, feeling off. If that were the case, then why would his voice upset Theon so severely? He wasn’t at the Dreadfort. 

 

“Neither was I.” He says slowly, watching Jon’s reaction. The other man freezes, his eyes going wide as he tears them away. He takes a step away from Robb, remaining silent. 

 

“What do you know Jon?” Robb hisses and grabs Jon roughly by the arm. Jon stumbles a bit, taken off guard at the aggression and then finally meets his eyes again. He measures his words carefully as he speaks, each word seemingly torn from him. 

 

“ I don’t know anything. I can only infer from what Sansa mentioned.”

 

Robb glares at him, digging his nails into Jon’s arm and letting his frustration seep into his voice.  “What do you infer?”

 

Jon sighs and tears his arm from Robb’s grasp. “Somehow, I think Bolton used the idea of you to torture Theon.”

 

Robb blanches at the words and stumbles back, barely catching his balance. 

 

He never wanted Theon tortured. Even at his angriest, at his most hurt he wanted his head. But he wouldn’t have made the man suffer, he would have tried to take it in the fewest number of strokes possible. He probably would have even done it privately if he could have. 

 

The idea of Theon somehow being tortured in his name...but if Theon thought he was dead, then how exactly would he think Robb a threat?

 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” He snaps and Jon raises his hands in surrender. 

 

“I don’t know Robb. We’ll have to talk to Sansa about it. But it’s the only thing that does make sense, unless Theon knows a side of you I don’t. And if that’s the case, I don’t want to be acquainted with him.” The words are biting—and deserved, if Robb’s being honest. 

 

“Of course that’s not it.” He snaps, and Jon raises an eyebrow at him. Robb paces a bit, silent. 

 

“Come on.” Jon says, grabbing his arm suddenly and yanking him back toward the living area. At least he thinks that’s the right direction, Robb cannot really remember right now.  

 

“Where are we going? Robb interrupts, and Jon simply gives him a look. “I don’t trust Greyjoy, I don’t like him. Gods Robb I hated him. But I need to know what happened here, and regardless of your feelings toward him I know you do too. We need answers. And we can’t punish him anymore than he’s already been punished.” His face goes white at that thought— he looks nauseous. 

 

The words stop Robb cold, jerking them both to a halt. When he speaks, his voice is so soft he’s surprised that he can be heard at all over the wind. “What he did for Sansa. I’m grateful, gods I’m grateful. But I can’t understand why he did. Imagining him going through that…” 

 

“I can’t either.” Jon whispers.“ I’d rather him than Sansa. Maybe that’s wrong, but I don’t care. Still, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, wouldn’t wish whatever happened to him on my worst enemy—and at times I admit I thought of him as such.”

 

“What am I supposed to do when I see him? He betrayed me and by all rights I should have his head, but I don’t even have the authority to demand it anymore, nor do I honestly want to. I’m furious with him, but I don’t want him dead. I don’t particularly want him imprisoned, but I cannot simply do nothing. Not after he burned Winterfell, not after he betrayed me,” Robb says and Jon pauses, reflecting. 

 

“I understand. I cannot easily wish ill on him after this, no matter how much I might want to. But you still have time. Sansa sent for you because he’s...unaware right now. She says he’ll likely be this way for a while, so we have a bit to discuss before he comes to. Then, honestly Robb, I don’t know. We will have to take this one step at a time. I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time, no clue how to even begin to approach some of what we’re facing. Theon isn’t even our only issue. Now we have to figure out how we are going to retake Winterfell from the Boltons in addition to the whites and the Lannisters. But we have no choice but to deal with them, so that’s what we’ll do.”

 

A bit of the storm raging inside Robb calms and he steels himself.

 

“Let’s go.” 

Chapter 9: Tender Nightmares

Summary:

Robb and Jon make a choice.

Notes:

It might take me years but ill finish this fic i swear

Chapter Text

 

Nightmares were uncommon for Sansa as a girl.

She was a sheltered little thing, surrounded by strong and capable men who she knew would protect her until their dying breath (she thought it romantic once, when she was fawning over some of the young and dashing soldiers around Winterfell.) There were few darknesses that could follow her into unconsciousness.

The ones that struggled their way through however, those that managed to pull her into their wicked grasp, could only be fought off by the most valiant and brave knight of all.

 

Ned Stark always came to his beloved daughter’s rescue, without fail or hesitation. He would rush to Sansa’s room at the briefest word from a servant that her sleep had been tormented. He’d be at her side at a moment's notice, stroking her hair and whispering assurances that he would face any evil to protect her. He was a steady, unmovable force that Sansa could fall against at any time. She had nothing to fear with her father’s stern presence at her side, banishing all ghosts brave enough to breach the walls of her chambers. 

 

Once he would sing for her. Lullabies from the Ward of the North—rough and off key. He would sing her the Song of Seven despite his desire for her to worship the Old Gods. He knew she loved it, knew it would calm her so he would sing it in blasphemy without a second thought.

 

She can still see him, can hear his soft clipped words. If she just closes her eyes…

 

“Sansa my girl, nothing can touch you here. Within these walls you are our little wolf cub…” He pauses and tickles her sides suddenly, surprising her and she squeals. He laughs heartily at the sound as he moves her up into place. “And we will never let you come to harm.” Ned smiles down and her and tucks the blanket back in around her. He starts to sing lowly, his palm gently pressing her eyes closed. 

 

The Father's  face is stern and strong,

he sits and judges right from wrong.

He weighs our lives, the short and long,

and loves the little children.”

 

“Like I love you,” He adds in with a chuckle and Sansa giggles, trying to open her eyes but Ned hushes her. “Keep your eyes closed darling, don’t fear the darkness.”

 

“The Mother gives the gift of life,

and watches over every wife.

Her gentle smile ends all strife,

and she loves her little children,”

 

“Just like your mother,” He whispers as he strokes her hair, so reminiscent of Catelyn’s. “She loves you so.”

 

“The Warrior  stands before the foe,

protecting us where e'er we go.

With sword and shield and spear and bow,

he guards the little children.”

 

“Your brother will be a fierce warrior one day, he will protect you too.”

 

“The Crone  is very wise and old,

and sees our fates as they unfold.

She lifts her lamp of shining gold

to lead the little children,”

 

Like old miss Smillmore?” Sansa whispers and Ned laughs, shaking his head at her. 

“Don’t let Briettea hear you call her that my dear, but I suppose so. She shows you much after all.”

 

The Smith , he labors day and night,

to put the world of men to right.

With hammer, plow, and fire bright,

he builds for little children.

 

“Like Sir Daoldot?” She yawns, sinking further into the furs, part of her mind already lost to sleep.

 

The Maiden  dances through the sky,

she lives in every lover's sigh.

Her smiles teach the birds to fly,

and gives dreams to little children.

 

“Sweet dreams my dear,” She hears as everything goes dark, “You’ll be a beautiful maiden one day, and your children will adore you.”

 

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

 

The softest kiss on her forehead and everything fades away....

 

But now the head of her protector rots mounted on the walls of King’s Landing and all of Sansa’s nightmares have been made flesh—and she’s not the only one who they’ve ruined.

 

What she would give to have her father here now. 

 

“Pathetic little girl. Shall I sing you a lullaby too?” Cersei hisses disdainfully but Sansa ignores the words. 

 

She drags a soft, warmed wet rag over Theon’s face as he lies prone on Jon’s bed, unresponsive. His eyes bear bags so deep they look bruised, his skins pulled so tightly over his features one who did not know him would mistake him for a man twice his age. He looks so fragile—a man made of glass, once shattered already. 

 

“What has become of us?” She whispers lightly to him and unsurprisingly, he doesn’t stir. The door opens slowly and Sansa sees two shadows suddenly appear across the bed, both taller than they should be in the fading light of the day. They hover there in the door, unsure and she hears them share a few words with Brienne before closing the door behind them. When they still hesitate to move closer, she speaks first.

 

“He can’t hear you now.”

 

There’s a soft sound at that and a moment later she has a presence at her back, staring down at Theon with an aura of uncertainty and pain radiating from him.

 

“He doesn’t look like Theon.” Robb finally says, his voice soft despite her words. She nods and sighs, her hand stalling in its trail across Theon’s face. He won’t be able to bathe until he’s back to normal, but he’s managed to get the blood all over himself. She moves the rag down to the torn skin at his wrists and begins dabbing at it lightly, trying to keep her face stoic when she sees the extent of the damage.

 

He was struggling so hard, he was fighting to help her when he won’t lift a finger for himself anymore. 

 

“How do you know he cannot hear us?” Robb asks and the suspicion in his voice exhausts her. 

 

By the gods, is Sansa tired.

 

“I know he can’t Robb. I told you, this has been happening since we escaped from Winterfell. He just...falls away. He goes somewhere I can’t follow.” Her words are quiet, but they fall heavy. Fresh blood pours out of his wounds after the rag passes over them, dripping down onto the fur beneath him.

 

“I’m still angry with him,” Robb admits and she’s glad for it. She doesn’t want them lying to themselves, or to each other. She continues to wipe away at raw, irritated skin on Theon’s wrists and his breathing stutters for a moment. 

 

“But is this what you want?” She asks and she sounds so much older than she should.

 

“No.” He says and she watches his hand reach tentatively toward Theon’s face. He brushes the hollow of his cheek and recoils. “Gods, he’s cold.”

 

“I know. Jon?” She asks and she watches as the other startles, likely feeling as if he is intruding in the moment. He was never close with Theon, but she can imagine he’s conflicted now too. Jon stares at her she takes pity on him. “Will you bring me some more furs?” 

 

“Of course,” He agrees and goes to the truck at the end of the bed, pulling out a few extra furs and laying them carefully over Theon’s form, not blocking where she’s cleaning him. 

 

“I don’t know what to do here Sansa,” Jon confesses as well and an angry part of her wants to snap, to ask them when exactly they think she learned all the answers, when she became any less lost than they are.  But she doesn’t.

 

“I have to help him,” She nearly begs them both, “I hated him too. A part of me still wants to. But he’s one of us. He’s Theon. So many of us are gone now, we can’t just let it happen. I need to save him, we need to save him. We cannot be this far gone from who we used to be. We cannot let ourselves completely lose everything we were taught.”

 

A hand brushes through her hair and a more tentative one lands on her shoulder. 

 

“Alright Sansa,” Robb says, “I will help.” 

 

Jon’s sigh is weighted and for a moment she thinks he might refuse her. 

 

“I’m with you.”

 

The relief is intoxicating. She nods and feels weight lift off her shoulders—a little less than the weight of the world, now. 

 

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do,” She admits, her conversation with Brienne haunting her. “But I have to try. He saved me, I have to try and save him.” 

 

There’s silence for a moment, then Robb sits down on the edge of the bed next to Theon, his eyes fixated on the other man.“You should go. Rest. I will speak with him when he...comes back to himself.” Robb says, and Sansa’s heart races. 

 

“Robb he doesn’t know you’re alive, seeing you…”

 

“If I’m to help him, he’ll have to see me eventually. We need to talk. I can’t make any promises, but I will watch over him and I’ll speak with him.” Something in Robb’s eyes tells her this isn’t just something he’s doing for her. He looks...pained almost, watching Theon. There’s the ghost of something warm and tender there, worn down by time and distance and treachery. But it’s there.

 

“Okay,” She whispers. “Okay.” She leans forward to kiss Theon’s forehead and she swears he can feel her father’s hand stroking her cheek. She rises and Robb gives her a weak but encouraging smile. 

 

“Go. It will be alright.”

 

“Come on,”

 

“You’ve done well Sansa, rest now. Things will be alright.” Bran whispers in her mind and Jon reaches a hand out toward her. 

 

She takes it.

Chapter 10: Things We Did, Things We Said

Summary:

Robb and Theon have a talk. Then they have another one.

Notes:

Here we are, the reunion, FINALLY I KNOW.

Chapter Text

This isn’t the first time Robb has watched Theon sleep.

 

There were many nights as children, sneaking in under the cover of darkness to continue their games for the day. They’d fall asleep on the floor or the middle of the bed together, if they didn’t talk well into the morning. Then later, during the war, Robb would sneak into Theon’s tent after every battle to watch the other man's chest move, to see him there, whole and alive.

 

That wasn’t his only indulgence.

 

There were countless little moments he was dependent on Theon. With a simple nod and a hand on his shoulder Theon gave Robb the confidence to be the king he needed to be. When he took the lead of the march Theon would be at his side, smiling and japing and ready to follow him anywhere.

 

Now and always. 

 

Theon was the most constant thing in his life. 

 

Everything else fell apart. Robb grew up to find his parents’ marriage wasn’t as seamless as he thought—in it was a bleeding, gaping wound that would never heal. He came to know his brother as his bastard brother and that he would never have the chance to marry for love. Even his precious younger siblings would all be taken from him at some point, scattered for marriages and political agendas. Those that stayed he would never be able to really protect.

 

What happened to Bran taught him that. 

 

Theon though, Robb knew Theon. The hardheaded boy he’d had to win over as a child. He had to fight for his trust and for his friendship. Despite his parents’ warnings to stay away from him, he hadn’t been able to. Something about Theon had fascinated him, the angry little boy from the sea. 

 

“I was stubborn,” Theon-not-Theon says from the corner of the room, finger tracing the Kraken sigal on his vest. “ But once you found your way to my side I couldn’t imagine you being anywhere else. I couldn’t stand the thought of straying.”

 

“But you did.” Robb says coldly to the figment of Theon while keeping his eyes on the real one, tucked under the furs next to him, still motionless and oblivious. 

 

“That I did. I didn’t know it would come to that though. By the time I did I had no choice.” Theon comments, not looking up at Robb as he speaks. “ I had no idea what my father would do. I wrote you a letter. I burnt it.”

 

What is the point of telling me stories? I know they can’t be real, you’re from my mind. You know nothing more than I do about Theon.” Robb bites out, trying not to let his mind wonder back to that forsaken place where all he can think is why . He reaches a tentative hand toward the sleeping figure, keeping his fingertips just barely above the skin, almost as if he’s stroking the other man’s shadow. 

 

“Don’t be so limited Robb, I can be a lot of things. I’m part of you, yes. But I’m more than that. I always was. You didn’t really see that, did you?” Theon questions, stepping forward and dropping to the bed beside himself.

 

“What the seven hells does that mean?” Robb demands, his voice rising and his hand fisting in the furs. 

 

Theon looks at himself and doesn’t respond for a long minute. “ You only saw me as far as I was yours, Robb. That’s what you don’t understand. The boy you grew up with, he was always by your side, but I was more than that boy. You forgot who I am. I forgot who I am,” He pauses,  “I still don’t know who I am.”  

  

“That’s lunacy, Theon. Of course I know who you are. Are you really going to try and tell me how misunderstood you are? Like that justifies betraying me? My family? Justifies you burning and stealing my home, claiming to have murdered my brothers? Hells as far as I know, you did murder my brothers.” 

 

We both know I didn’t. Even if Sansa hadn’t told you, you know better. I’m not explaining what I’ve done. That’s for him to do. I’m trying to help you understand, because you need to.”

 

“I need to? You know nothing about what I need, Turncloak,” Robb hisses, glaring at the figment so vehemently he misses the furs moving.

 

“I know everything about you, Robb. I took so much time to know you. It was practically an obsession.  You need to remember that I wasn’t a Stark, no matter how badly I wanted to be. I wasn’t a Greyjoy either. Now I’m not even a  person.” The image flickers, changes. He looks more like the Theon laying out in front of him than the Theon from his past and by the Gods, it terrifies Robb.

 

“That’s not true.” His voice suddenly drops, his tone almost pleading. It surprises him, as does Theon-not-Theon’s reaction. He looks up and meets Robb eyes, some kind of anger there that blows him away.

 

What right does he have to be angry?

 

“You need to start listening. We have to start listening to each other.” 

 

“How dare you tell me what to do. What right do you have to—”

 

“Robb?” 

 

It’s a soft question, too soft for the Theon in front of him. 

 

At least the Theon that was in front of him. Robb blinks and the figment is gone, leaving him with the real Theon, who stares up at him with wide, confused eyes. 

 

“Robb.” Theon says, trying to rise. He gasps and falls back into the furs, pulling his hands to his chest protectively.

 

“It’s been a few days since I saw you.”  Theon says and Robb raises an eyebrow. 

 

“You’ve seen me? In the past few days?” Robb says flatley, unsure what to say. What is Theon talking about? 

 

“Before...before Sansa left for the Wall. We talked the night before. Or is this one of the times you act like it’s the first time?” Theon asks, his gaze never meeting Robb’s. He fixes his eyes instead on the far wall (oddly enough where his double was standing a few minutes before). 

 

“I think it will be a time I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Robb says carefully. Theon must think he’s some kind of hallucination. Coincidental, considering how Robb’s visions started the moment the real Theon arrived at the Wall. This could be a chance to see inside the other man’s mind, to get some of the answers he desires, to find the truth about this sickness. Robb almost hopes Theon admits the whole thing is an act, that he’s playing them all.

 

At least then he could feel like he was actually talking to Theon. 

 

             “These…spells of yours, what’s going on? Is this real?” Robb prompts and the other man’s features turn confused and weary. It’s almost endearing. 

 

              “The times I...go away.” the words are almost fearful— as if he’s trying to feel it. “I don’t know. It’s like dying, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and I wake up somewhere else. And it’s getting worse.” 

 

              “Worse?” Robb questions, dread creeping through his veins like disease, eating away at his anger. 

 

               Theon’s expression goes blank. He doesn’t look worried or fearful or angry just...resigned. It’s an expression he’s never seen on Theon before and Robb hates it immediately. He doesn’t get to do that. “The first time it happened, it was like drowning. I fought it but it overwhelmed me, then there was nothing. Now...it’s like slipping into a warm bath. It’s easy.” 

 

               “You aren’t telling Sansa?” Robb asks and a new, different anger rises, this time not necessarily directed at Theon but more at how unlike Theon he seems. Sansa will not give up on helping him, despite everything he’s done. Now he and Jon have agreed to help as well, but the man himself can’t be bothered to try? He chooses now to give up, after everything that’s happened? What in the seven hells happened to the man he’s known his entire life? Who is this person in front of him with his soft words and his empty eyes? 

 

“Is this one of the times you want to kill me?” Theon asks abruptly, but the tone is all wrong. The words are measured and gentle, almost as if he’s granting permission. Robb snaps. 

“Would I not be entitled to your death after all you’ve done, Turncloak?” He tries to meet Theon’s eyes but the other man determinedly avoids it. 

 

“Of course you would, Robb. You’re entitled to so much more than that from me.” Everything in Robb goes cold at the words. Theon sinks into himself more if possible, looking at least ten years older than he had a moment ago. “If you were still alive I’d beg you to do it. If that’s the least I could give you, I would. I more than deserve it.” 

 

Robb doesn’t know what to say to that. He thinks about the words and part of him is horrified. Theon sounds…he sounds almost longing at the prospect of Robb killing him. He can’t even follow that thought, the idea of Theon’s death is unsettling—just as much as it once was, somehow. And the thought of Theon wanting to die…

 

“Why did you do it Theon? There’s all these justifications I have for why I’m so angry, I’ve tried to explain it in a thousand different ways. I’ve argued every angle and I can never quite understand it. You were right, I need to know. For my own sanity, I need to know.”

 

“I wanted to be my father’s son. He wanted me to hate you. And I knew I could never be your brother, not really. So I tried. I did everything I could think of to prove I was loyal to them and they didn’t care. But I had already tried for so long and it never worked with your family, I was hoping I could prove myself to my own. I wanted to tell you—I missed you. I wrote you a letter, but I burnt it. I thought after the war I’d give you back Winterfell and I’d go home and you would understand.” 

 

Theon meets his eyes.

 

  “I wanted to be more than your father’s ward. You knew that. And that could never happen. The best I could ever hope for was that I’d be your equal. I thought I could settle for what I was supposed to want, to take up the Greyjoy name and be your ally, your friend. Then they made me choose and I didn’t want to lose you Robb, but I didn’t really have you. I didn’t have anyone, how could I walk away from the people who were supposed to be mine? I was stupid to take Winterfell, stupid to distract you like that. I should have been there, I should have died with you.” 

 

I should have died with you.” 

 

“I wrote you a letter. I burnt it.” 

 

The words echo and Robb starts, replaying his conversation with the ghost Theon in his head—how did he know that Theon would regret not dying with him? How did he know about the supposed letter? If that shadow comes from his mind then how can it know things Robb doesn’t? 

 

             Theon collapses into a coughing fit, interrupting his thoughts, and Robb in a panic hands him his flagon of water. The man doesn’t take it at first, so Robb shoves the flagon into his hands—they both freeze.

 

             Theon's eyes are glued to where they’re connected, his breathing coming faster and rougher every second. “You’re real,” he sputters. “Robb, that’s really you?

Chapter 11: Confession

Summary:

Theon and Robb talk about things they should have talked about a long time ago.

Chapter Text

The Gods seem to take joy in tormenting Robb Stark.

 

He’s continuously surprised how imaginative they can get with their torture. Just when he thinks he’s reached the end they dream up some new horror for him to endure. He doesn’t know what great sin it was that brought their wrath down upon him, but he lives in regret regardless. Their displeasure has taken so much from him, so much from all of them. 

 

So many are gone.

 

His father.

 

His mother.

 

His siblings, probably.

 

Jory.

 

Ser Rodrick.

 

Theon?

 

“You’re alive.” 

Theon’s staring at him with something akin to worship. It’s raw and unfiltered—he’s honestly this happy to see Robb, after everything between them. That would have caught Robb off guard, but he pays no attention now for the words Theon had last spoken linger in the air. Sweet poison declarations, deafening him to all else as they burn in his mind, already leaving scars. 

 

“I wanted to be more to you than your father’s ward. You knew that”

 

“What do you mean, you wanted to be more than my father’s ward?” 

 

Theon’s face goes ashen. “You know what I meant.”

 

Robb grips his hand, squeezes it and regrets it a little when he sees Theon wince. “I want you to tell me. Now.”

 

Theon stares up at him. “I loved you Robb. I love you. I always did.

 

No.

 

Robb waited . For years, he waited for those three words. He was patient, because there was Theon’s status, there was the promise to the Frey’s, there was their families. There were all these hurdles between him and Theon, keeping them too doubt ridden to confess. He knew how hard it would be for Theon to say it, so he just let it hang between them unspoken. Robb had waited on Theon—brave, reckless, terrified Theon—to take the last step between them into something more. He thought if he ever tried to broach before Theon was ready, that he’d lose him. 

 

Gods, how he had wanted to. How many times had he dreamed of pulling Theon in close, of banishing one of those faux smiles with a soft kiss. Of holding Theon in his arms and stroking his hair until he fell asleep, unguarded and trusting and so perfect. How he had longed for the man in front of him, for his touch, for his love.  Now, to hear the sentiment like this, from this stranger who looks like his would-be lover but speaks the wrong words and cowers at the wrong things. 

 

The gods are resorting to new levels of cruelty.  

 

“I loved you Robb, you know that.”

 

“I loved you Theon,” Robb reponds and Theon just blinks. He doesn’t seem to hear him and at that Robb just feels rage and absolute fucking sorrow . He’s filled with the need to scream at Theon, to plead with him, to make him understand exactly what he’s done to Robb, what he’s doing to Robb. 

 

“I loved you Theon. By the gods, all of them, I fucking loved you. You were all I could think about, you were what I dreamed about. Every time we went to battle together half my heart fought at your side, praying for your safety. Every time I saw a dead northern man I couldn’t even grieve because I was so damn relieved it wasn’t your body lying there. Knowing you were there kept me sane, kept me together. I was able to be King in the North because you were there, looking up at me with all these expectations and I couldn’t bear to disappoint you. I wanted to be the man you believed I could be. You were my foundation and you crumbled beneath me. ” 

 

His voice gets higher and desperation practically radiates from him. “ I loved you too, so why did you leave me?” 

 

Suddenly Theon looks like himself again. His eyes refocus, his posture straightens a bit and something in the room just shifts. Theon stares directly into Robb’s eyes, weary and sad and still somehow filled with love, after everything.

 

“Because I couldn’t have you Robb.” The words are soft, almost a reassurance. Theon’s lips quirk slightly, a sad smile. “I could see it all. Dream it all. A future at your side, a life with you and your family. But I could never touch it. And you know that. You knew that. That’s why you sent me away.” 

 

The words burn, they burn and Robb wants to scream, wants to hit the man staring at him in pure adoration and he wants to kiss him and he wants to shake him and he can’t do anything. “That’s not true. You could have stayed with me, we would have figured something out. If you had told me, we could have been together.”  He lies. 

 

Theon cocks his head a bit, disbelief obvious on his features.“No. You would have never wanted to be unfaithful to your new wife. And I would have asked it of you Robb. I would have asked you to betray her and lay with me instead because if I ever got to have that with you, if I ever got to actually be with you, I never could have given it up. You would have wanted to do that for me, give me what you can because that’s who you are. And eventually you would have grown to hate me for it.”

 

“No. No we could have handled it Theon, we could have come to an arrangement with her. We could have done something. I wouldn’t have abandoned you.” Robb insists, his hand squeezing Theon’s knee and Theon looks directly at where his hand makes contact, freezing up. It takes a moment for him to recover and his reply to Robb is slower, measured. 

 

“Exactly. You wouldn’t have abandoned me and eventually, it’d cost you your happiness. And I wouldn’t be happy if you weren’t.” Theon sounds apologetic. Like he wishes he could make his words less true, but can’t. 

 

“We could have had a chance. We could have gotten some time, even if it was short.” Robb says, scrambling now. He had felt so sure before, that Theon had left them, left everything they could be.

 

He can’t accept that there was never a future to begin with.

 

But maybe a part of him already had. A part of him knew everything Theon is saying would have come to pass and thought that if he sent Theon away, then they wouldn’t ever cross a line they couldn’t come back from. Maybe that’s why he let him go, even though everything in his being had screamed at him not to. 

 

Theon sighs. “That worked out so well for Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell. Is that what you wanted for us?” 

 

That almost sounded like the Theon he remembers.  

 

“Look at how well not being together worked out for us,” a stray tear trails down his cheek. “You should have come back.” 

 

Theon, surprisingly, just nods.

 

“I should have died with you.”  

 

Robb keeps hearing those words, but somehow misses all the meanings they possess.

 

“I regret it.”

 

“I didn’t want you to die.”

 

“I didn’t want to leave you.”

 

“I missed you.”

 

“I should have never left you.”

 

“ I should have never left you,” Theon says, looking Robb directly in the eye. Robb jolts, but he stops, listening as Theon explains himself. “Despite everything I just said being true. Despite everything that has happened or would have happened, I should have been there. If destiny demanded that you or I die in this war, or that I was to live by your side always wanting, I should have just played my part. Nothing could be worse than what happened instead.”

 

Robb’s lips barely open, possibly to question what exactly Ramsay did to him but Theon isn’t finished. 

 

“Nothing could be worse than hearing that you died. Nothing could be worse than living knowing I might have been able to save you if I just had done what I was supposed to. If I hadn’t pushed for a happy ending, then none of this might have happened.” 

 

“I wasn’t paying attention Robb. I still thought this had a happy ending.”

 

The other Theon’s words haunt him and he wonders if coming back from the dead has left him truly mad, or with some kind of curse.

 

“ I never should have let you go.” Robb admits, the words torn from him. The thought has been reiterating itself in his mind since the moment that raven arrived from Winterfell. Right along with thoughts of having to take Theon’s head, of his brothers being in danger, of his sisters being in the hands of the Lannisters. The guilt, the regret. 

 

That morning Theon left, when he asked Robb if he were sure. 

 

He shouldn’t have let Theon leave his side. He should have realized Theon could exist somewhere else.

 

Robb’s hand moves up, caressing the curve of Theon’s jaw. The other man quivers under his touch and Robb sighs, pulling his hand away. It feels too intimate, too close. Something they shouldn’t have—something lost.

 

 They fall quiet for a few minutes, nothing filling the room save for the soft rapid sound of their breathing. “Tell me you’re going to kill me.” Theon finally says, his fingers digging into his legs. It draws Robb’s eyes to his hands and he gasps when he sees carnage there. Stumps where fingers should be, flayed skin, some of which is still healing. Dirt and blood smudge the skin that is healed and gods know what else. It makes Robb’s stomach turn and he wonders how Sansa, once so fragile, had been keeping Theon together since their escape. 

 

He’s only been around the man a few minutes and he’s never felt anything sap his strength so quickly.

 

“No, I won’t.” He replies honestly. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but it's not that.

 

“What then?” Theon says and there something that sounds like frustration in his tone. Something familiar. But there’s nothing on Theon’s countenance, just the same eerie calm he’s kept since he woke up from his stupor. 

 

“I honestly don’t know.” Robb confesses and it’s a long moment before Theon responds. 

 

“ I don’t see anything beyond this Robb. Every moment, it’s agony. I never feel safe, I never feel like Theon Greyjoy. I’m not that man anymore. I have no future regardless, sparing me will preserve nothing, no matter what Sansa thinks. This would be the best for everyone, her included.” 

 

“Stop begging me to kill you or I swear to the Gods—”

 

“What in the seven hells is going on?” A voice interrupts and Robb realizes he’s towering above Theon now, his shoulders shaking in a shadow of rage. Immediately he backs up and he looks to meet Jon’s curious gaze. The other man is disturbed, it’s obvious, but he hasn’t decided what about yet. Whatever he heard coming in can’t have reflected well on the situation.  

 

“Jon. Can we talk alone for a moment?” Robb asks and he hates how unsteady his voice sounds .

 

“Of course,” Jon says, not addressing Theon yet. He keeps his focus on Robb, who swiftly makes his way out of the room and outside.  

 

“What’s going on?” Jon says as soon as the door closes and Robb pulls the other man for an embrace. He startles Jon, (he can tell by how stiff the other man goes) but once he’s over the surprise he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Robb, to hold him steady as he falls apart. He stands there and without question he just holds Robb in one piece. Robb can’t muster the words he needs right now, even if a simple phrase from him is what it took to put his life back together, to stop the war on its heels. He has nothing left to give. 

 

“I can’t kill him Jon. We can’t. I know what honor demands but I don’t have it in me to be that man anymore.” The words feel vile on his tongue, like declaring failure. Like he’s admitting he can never be the King they all wanted from him. The King his father would have been. What would Ned say?

 

What would Jon?

 

“I don’t either.” Jon says back and there’s simple resignation in his tone, not a trace of regret or anger or resentment. He simply agrees, keeping his arms tight around Robb. He lets it go, this betrayal of their family, this chance to actually defeat one of their enemies.

 

But maybe he knows nothing could make it feel like a victory. 

 

“I understand.” Jon continues and Robb gets swept up in his relief. He knew Sansa would approve of his choice but he wasn’t sure if Jon would still want the other man punished.

 

“You need your rest too. Greyjoy can sleep with me tonight, he’ll be safe and if this is somehow an act he won’t pull anything with me there.”

 

Robb finds himself nodding, the suggestion of sleep nearly enough to make him fall to the ground then and there. “Thank you.” He says softly and Jon nods, squeezing his shoulder.

 

Robb pulls away and starts toward his quarters but pauses, looking back at Jon. “You know things are going to get worse.” 

 

Jon pauses at the doorway. “I know.”

 

 

Chapter 12: Dead Summer Boys

Summary:

Jon begins working on a solution for Theon, but it comes with a condition.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow lays pressed against the cold of the rocks, gently stroking red hair. 

 

“Are you going to keep brooding like a little girl or are you going to tell me what ails you?” Ygritte asks, relaxed for once. She watches him with curious, taunting eyes, waiting for him to give her exactly what she wants—he always inevitably did. Her runs his thumb along the line of her jaw.

“I’ve got my brother and sister back, but we still have enemies at all sides. We have the dead closing in on us from beyond the Wall, the Lannisters in the South, The Boltons and the Freys here in the North.. I know my siblings will want to fight for our home but we are surrounded.”

 

Ygritte smirks and rolls on top of him, fingers tracing shapes onto his chest. “You don’t want to fight Jon Snow?”

“I don’t want to lead men into a battle that I cannot win. I don’t want to have any more blood on my hands.” 

 

“Why doesn’t the lordling lead the men? After all, he’s the King in the North, you’re just the Lord of the crows. Can’t they let you sit around and look pretty while he plays King? Do you really want to be trapped like that?” She lays her head on his arm and trails her hand in the water next to them, ripples racing across the surface of the pool. Jon kisses the top of her head, dropping his hand in to tangle with hers. 

 

“We can tell no one of his survival yet. If anyone hears word of him the Wall will be overrun by mercenaries trying to collect his head. So I must lead for now. Robb will have to play his war games carefully, lest the Lannisters recognize his strategies, but I know he cannot resist reclaiming Winterfell. I can’t deny his reasoning: we need a stronghold and the Wall isn’t secure. So I’ll do what I have to, to defend my home. 

 

“Your words are very noble Snow, but I don’t believe them.” Ygritte grips his chin and forces him to look at her. “Tell me what doubts you carry in that pretty little head of yours.” 

 

Jon strokes her arm, thinks over the words. So many burdens he carries now, their weight has hobbled him. “Robb and Sansa will want to fight, they’ll want to face them all. I can try to help them, but to what end? When the whites reach the Wall what will any of this mean? We don’t have enough men as it is, wasting them seems...ill-advised.”

 

“This isn’t a war you plan to survive.” 

 

“My judgement can’t be trusted,” Jon says as Ygritte leans down and kisses the scars over his heart. “It’s gotten me killed once, who says history won’t repeat itself?” 

 

He reaches up to touch her face, to feel her warmth, but his fingers meet ice. His eyes snap to hers and her entire presence has shifted, has grown taunt and furious. Ygritte gazes down at him with damning judgement, her skin growing pale and her lips losing color. The quiet disappears and battle rages around them, the screams of his men and his family and everyone he ever failed to protect ringing out around him.

 

Ygritte digs her nails into his flesh, drawing blood. “History will repeat itself. If they make you their King they’ll all fall to the Lannisters or the wights. It doesn’t matter what you do, you bring ruin with you.” Jon struggles under her, trying to break free, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s going on around him, but she pins him down further and darkness begins to surround him. “You ruined me.”

 

“I loved you,” Jon tries to reach for her, but he’s frozen and above him, she starts to rot. Her skin turns a sickly grey, her eyes fade and start to flutter close, her breathing stutters. She’s growing lifeless right in front and he’s powerless to stop it, again. “I love you, I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he begs. 

 

“You betrayed me.” She spits, barely holding herself up. 

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I never wanted anything to happen to you.” He pours all his sincerity into the words, trying to convey his regret, his pain.  

 

“My lord?”

 

“Aye. But you broke your word to me. And now I’m gone—” 

 

Gods, she really is gone. All her fire and wit and fearlessness just wiped from this world forever, this pathetic shade of her all that’s left. Because of him, she’s a memory. Jon thought he could mourn her, could move on eventually, but then he died himself. In death he didn’t find her, didn’t find his father or his brothers—only darkness. So now he knows and it haunts him, because once he could at least pretend that she’d find happiness elsewhere. He could pretend that somewhere, somehow, she’d get a chance. But he can’t deny the truth. Her spirit doesn’t wander in the wilderness or carry on for eternity in some other realm. 

 

There’s just nothing. And he sent her there.

 

“Snow?”

 

Ygritte collapses completely on top of him,“—it’s your fault,” she gasps before falling still. Jon desperately tries to rouse her, tries not to think about how wrong she looks, still like that. He screams for her, shakes her, but she doesn’t move. 

 

Then her eyes open again, a bright and menacing blue. 

 

“Jon!”

 

Jon shoots up, the furs falling with a thump in the floor next to his bed. A few candles on the other side of the room cast enough light he can see somewhat. He’s soaked in sweat, his hair slick and sticking to his skin. He’s breathing hard, nearly gasping and it takes a considerable amount of focus to slow it to a more reasonable pace. When he finally calms himself, he looks around and sees panicked eyes watching him from the other side of the bed. 

 

“Greyjoy?” He asks, confusion heavy in his tone. Then he remembers.

 

Sansa. The turncloack. Ramsay Bolton.

Theon Greyjoy’s in his room at the Wall. Because Jon promised Sansa and Robb that he would try to help him. The very same boy who tormented him for years, who spoke to him as less than a man, who flaunted his confidence and name with every opportunity. 

 

Greyjoy’s all bones now, most of his muscles emaciated and weakened. He looks like one of the starved things Jon would see on his rare travels. All the strength the Ironborn carefully cultivated over the years obviously deteriorated in his time with the Boltons—but it isn’t just physical resilience the other man seems to have lost. Jon knows the look in his eyes: the look of a man who has lived longer than he should have. Jon, Robb, Theon, all were summer boys meant to die young, to die valiant and foolhardy. They’re living corpses, all of them, somehow still fighting a war that’s destroyed everything they knew. 

 

“Thank you. For waking me.” He says and Greyjoy looks up cautiously. They hadn’t talked the night before, Theon had fallen asleep while Jon and Robb were talking outside. Jon figured it would be easier if he simply went to sleep and dealt with their confrontation in the morning. Not that it wasn’t terribly awkward to crawl into bed with his former rival, but he wasn’t going to sleep on the floor. Not with what’s coming, he needs to be rested, he needs to be on his guard. He needs to not be distracted with all this, but there aren’t many options now. In fact, he wishes his past self hadn’t put off the interaction because now he has to do it fresh out of sleep.

 

“You were talking my lord. Dreaming. You said it was your fault,” Greyjoy speaks slowly, his words selected with care. “I assumed whatever you meant, it wouldn’t be something you’d want to relive.” 

 

Jon fights his immediate feelings of defensiveness when Greyjoy utters the words. A part of him instinctively smarts at the idea of Greyjoy knowing any weakness of his, any fault. He has history coloring his perceptions, reminding him how dangerous it is to have dirty little secrets or painful regrets anywhere around the ward.

 

Except this isn’t the same man anymore, not entirely. Jon can deduce that much from the flaying scars and the broken eyes and the ribs visible through Theon’s shirt. Whatever has happened to him in the time he’s been missing, it’s not something he’ll just come back from. Jon’s never seen the product of long term torture—his father was never the type. So he’s not going to try and deal with the Greyjoy that he has in front of him the same way he’d dealt with the one in the past. He imagines it will do him no good. 

 

He decides he’s not going to confront the former ward about what happened in Winterfell. Obviously the man explained his actions to Sansa and Robb, so if his excuses didn’t bear any merit he’s sure one of them would have acted. Jon doesn’t really need to know the reasons. Whatever went on in the Ironborn’s head, the consequences were the same. Greyjoy’s explanations will do nothing for him and what is one turncloack in the middle of a war. He will waste no precious time on interrogations. 

 

He’d rather get to the point. 

 

“Sansa wants you here. Is she going to regret that?”

 

Theon’s face falls and he rings his abused hands together, helplessness radiating from him. “The last thing I want is to cause her pain. I think my being around her will do that.”

 

Jon considers this. He doesn’t really believe having Greyjoy here could be good for Sansa, but that’s her choice. Her desire to preserve the familiar, to repair something that’s been destroyed—how can he not feel that?. Even he feels the draw to Theon, as someone who was part of his world before it all fell apart. It’s not unlikely that Robb will want the Ironborn around as well. Greyjoy’s still the closest friend Robb ever had. Now he’s Sansa’s savior and someone she’s trying to save. 

 

Like it or not, Theon’s important to the people Jon loves. 

 

Still, if the ward decides to leave, Jon won’t stop him. He’s obviously suffering for what he’s done andJon cannot see himself or Robb having the will to throw him in some hole after this. Not after what he did for Sansa. Not after seeing the fear in his eyes, out there in the snow. 

 

 “I could probably arrange someone to smuggle you to the islands. If that’s what you want.” Jon offers, trying to keep his voice neutral. He feels odd sitting next to the man and stands to pace the room.

 

Theon looks surprised, but wary. “Is that what you want me to do?” 

 

Jon ponders this. If Greyjoy doesn’t leave, then his promise to Sansa means he and Robb have to find a way to keep Theon alive and relatively protected, but that doesn’t mean he trusts him. “Sansa wants to help you and I will do as she asks—but I want you and I to have an understanding. You don't get secrets anymore, or lies. From this moment on you will tell me the truth always, regardless of what I ask, because if you don’t and I find out, I will take your head myself. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you make me. ”

 

Greyjoy doesn’t say a word as Jon speaks, seeming unbothered. “I know it means little my lord, but I’ll give you my word. And forgive me, but I will ask that you choose your questions carefully. Some things are better left unsaid.” 

 

Jon acknowledges this with a silent nod, awash in his own memories. 

 

Ygritte forcing out her last words, that rueful last wish.

 

The eyes of a dead boy, hanging from the gallows. 

 

The cool touch of a blade tearing through Jon’s heart.

 

Greyjoy has a point. 

 

  “Would would happen, if I sent you to the islands?”

Greyjoy’s eyes  turn conflicted and Jon thinks for a moment the man might lie anyway “I’m not sure entirely. My father knew the Boltons had me and he did nothing. He’ll probably have me thrown in the sea as an offering to the Drowned God. My sister Yara...she came for me once even though father didn’t want her to, but all I did was cost her. She’ll be angry.” 

 

Jon doesn’t remember hearing much about Theon’s sister as children, only the occasional mention that he had one and even that grew rarer the longer the ward was in Winterfell. He wouldn’t expect them to be close, not after being separated for so long. Perhaps she will want to hear word on him, despite Theon’s assertion that he disappointed her. She did attempt to rescue him after all. Jon could try and send her a raven, let her know her brother survived. It’s possibly a useless venture, but some goodwill could be helpful some day. He’ll talk to Robb and Sansa about it. 

 

“Not a good option then. So where do you plan to go Turncloak?” 

 

“ I would still go. I owe my sister an apology. If I survive that—” Greyjoy looks toward the ground. “My Lord, what does it matter where I go? I’ll disappear.” 

 

Jon drops into the chair at the far side of the room. “Aye. And what am I supposed to tell Sansa?”

 

Theon sits up straighter, tension building in his frame. “She’ll be fine.”

 

Jon laughs darkly. “You’re a fool. She has been alone for years. A little girl, alone with Joffery Barathion and Cersei Lannister. Her parents were dead, her brothers were dead, her sister was missing, presumed dead. She has seen too much for a girl so young. Even if we can find the boys, even if we find Arya, even with Robb and I—you think what she needs right now is to lose another person?”” 

 

“ My lord, you have to be realistic. Sansa wants to rehabilitate me. We both know that’s not an option in war. You and Robb will have your hands full with the Lannisters, with protecting Sansa and finding the other kids. I will only be a distraction, whatever capacity you keep me in. You know a dead man walking when you see one. Don’t let them put their energy into something that can’t be done.” 

 

“Why can’t it be done? What exactly happened to you?” Jon asks him for a genuine answer and Theon looks baffled.

 

“If you ask me again I will answer you but I’m begging you not to ask me right now. I need a little more time. Please. As to why: what more do you need than it shouldn’t? I’m a cripple, my lord, inside and out. Say you can find a maester to do something for my body. There’s no coming back from what he turned me into. My mind isn’t my own anymore” 

 

“Maybe not. But you are going to try, because Sansa asks it of you.  And stop calling me your lord.”

 

Greyjoy’s doubt feels nearly tangible, but he appears reluctant to say anything more. Jon lets the silence settle over them and stands to find some clothes for Theon. His clothes won’t fit the other man perfectly, but it will work until they can find him something better. He tosses them to the bed just as there's a brief knock on his door. 

 

“Stay quiet,” Jon says and once again, there’s no response. Theon obeying him disturbs him enough that he moves just that bit quicker to the door, eager not to deal with this alone anymore. He opens it and Brienne waits patiently on the other side, in full gear. Podrick hovers behind her, curious and concerned. She greets Jon respectfully, at attention. He likes that this woman protects his sister—he doubts she’s the kind to betray or abandon. He can trust that she’ll watch out for her. 

 

“My lord, they’re starting strategy meetings. Lady Sansa requests your presence. My squire will take Theon and keep him company while you are all occupied.”

 

Podrick bows his head to Jon and then peaks around him to spot the former ward. He waves and Jon turns to see Greyjoy’s face go fond. “Theon! I’m glad you’re okay. I’m so sorry about everything that happened yesterday.”

 

Theon’s shock is palpable. He pauses, unsure what to say. “It wasn’t your fault. I apologize for any trouble I caused you.”

 

Gods can this really be Theon Greyjoy? Jon watches the exchange in disbelief. He can count the number of times he’s heard the man apologize to anyone on one hand. Neither Brienne nor Podrick seem to think it odd though, for the knight remains impassive and Podrick grins brightly and relieved.

 

“We’ll give you both a moment to dress.” Brienne says, leading Podrick away from the door. Jon closes it and starts to prepare, trying very hard to ignore Theon doing the same—but he still catches a glimpse of the other man’s back, covered in scars. Whip marks, cuts, burns, his skin an ode to Ramsay Snow.

 

Jon’s struck by the urge to say something, anything, but he resists. This isn’t the time to get into more conversation with Greyjoy, they have a war to plan and if any of them are to survive then they have to prioritize. He finishes pulling on his clothes and when he’s done the other man has already finished, sitting hesitantly at the end of the bed, Jon’s clothes practically engulfing him. 

 

He looks uneasy and Jon leaves him alone, going to the doorway to wave Brienne and Podrick back. The squire looks to him for permission to enter and Jon moves aside, letting him pass. He immediately goes to Greyjoy’s side, talking to him in a soft voice while the other man listens. Jon watches them for only a minute then turns back toward Brienne, who gestures for them to leave.

 

“I’ll  walk with you my Lord.” 

 

He closes the door behind them.