Chapter Text
Grey Wind whined as they walked into the lichyard, nosing at Robb’s chest and trying to tug him back.
“Not now, Grey Wind,” Robb muttered, shaking him off.
Grey Wind sat in front of him, blocking off the path. He put his head on the baby in Robb’s arms, licking his tiny face.
“Grey Wind, really—“
A baby squalled.
Robb stopped cold. He looked around for another baby, but it was only him and his nephew in the lichyard. The babe shifted in his arms as he cried louder.
“Gods be good,” he whispered, adjusting his grip. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, I’ve got you. You must be cold out here, let’s get you inside.” Robb’s breastplate wouldn’t be helping, nor would the snow. “I’ll take you to your mama, how does that sound? I bet you’re hungry.” No, that was a bad idea, Sansa needed to rest, not deal with a crying baby. She deserved to know, though, it would be cruel to let her continue to think that she had killed her child.
Get out of the snow first. He locked away the boy and let the king take over. He couldn’t stop and weep, not yet. He wasn’t done yet. He had to take care of the baby, had to get him inside and get him fed; he had to find Rickon (gods, Rickon!) and he had to get the maester for Sansa and make sure she was fed, and then once he had done all of that—
Then he could weep. Not before.
He went to Sansa’s room as soon as he replaced his breastplate with a sling, the baby happily sucking at a linen rag. He hadn’t been hungry, just cold and upset. He’d need a wet nurse eventually, but not yet, it seemed.
“Sansa?” he called as he nudged the door open.
Sansa was asleep. She was curled tightly on her side, occasionally twitching a little or mumbling a soft ‘no, please…’
Robb brushed her hair out of her face and kissed her temple lightly. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “Nobody will hurt you. I swear it.”
She whimpered in her sleep and Robb’s heart ached. He closed the door behind him, careful not to disturb her. She’d been a heavy sleeper, once, but he doubted that had survived what she had endured.
Grey Wind led him down the halls. At least one of us knows where we should be going. His nephew was warm against his chest, looking around at Winterfell with wide eyes.
Robb, somehow, doubted that either Sansa or the baby had been allowed out of that tower room while Ramsay ruled Winterfell.
He heard Shaggydog before he saw him, howling mournfully. Rickon. Ramsay had claimed he had Rickon, but Robb wasn’t sure how much he could trust the bastard’s word.
And the less he thought about Theon, the better. If Ramsay had Rickon, then Theon hadn’t killed him. If Theon hadn’t killed him, then…
Robb opened the door to the dungeons and walked through the dark hallways. His father had taken him down here several times as a boy; it had never seemed so dark, nor so drear. Robb lit torches as he passed. The windows had been blocked off, he realized: some with snowdrifts, suggesting simple neglect rather than active malice, and some with boards and stone. If not for the faint light of the torch, Robb wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his face.
More things to do. Robb sighed. He needed to make some sort of list before long, lest something slip his mind and go neglected.
A distressing number of bones lay in the cells. They’d have to gather them and bury them; whatever they had done to end up in Ramsay’s dungeons, it probably hadn’t been worth the death they received.
Shaggydog was down here, trying to break down a heavy ironwood door and howling mournfully. Someone on the other side was pounding on the door as well.
“Back, Shaggy,” he ordered. The massive wolf stepped back, allowing Robb to unlock the door.
A fur-clad body slammed into Shaggy immediately, face buried in his ruff.
“Rickon?”
The boy looked up. That was definitely Rickon; he had the same red curls and freckled cheeks that Robb saw in his own reflection. His littlest brother had grown tall and slender, like their mother. He’d probably be taller than Robb in a few years.
Robb had missed so much of his life, had missed seeing him grow and change. His brother was a stranger to him now.
“Robb?” he asked, hesitantly.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’ve missed you.”
“Robb!” Rickon cried, running to him and hugging him tightly. Robb pressed his little brother into his chest, tears falling into his curls. He was here and alive and safe; Robb could barely believe it. Rickon didn’t even look hurt.
“Thank the gods you’re safe. Where’s Bran? Is he here?”
Rickon shook his head. “He went North when we ran away. Please, you need to help Theon, he’s—he’s hurt. I don’t know how bad, but I haven’t heard anything from him for…I think a day? It’s hard to tell.”
“Theon’s here?”
Rickon nodded. “He’s in the cell next to mine. Please, Robb, he protected me and Sansa and the baby, you can’t just let him die, please—“
“I won’t,” Robb said, cutting off Rickon’s babbling. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him yet, but I’m not going to kill him or let him die.”
Rickon nodded. “How is she?” he asked, quietly.
“Sansa? She’s hurt, but I think she’ll recover.”
He opened the door of Theon’s cell. For a moment, he thought he’d opened the wrong door. There was a man in there, curled against the wall and trembling, but it couldn’t be Theon.
Rickon shoved past him with a sound of pain, running to his side and turning him over.
It couldn’t be Theon. It couldn’t. But Robb knew that face.
If Sansa had been thin, then Theon was a living skeleton. Robb could count his ribs, and several of them looked wrong, moving unnaturally with each labored breath. Large scars covered skin that Robb knew should be inked. His hair was white, his eyes and cheeks sunken. A deep scar ran across his mouth down to his chin, cleaving his jaw in two. His hands were missing fingers. His limbs were limp, draped across Rickon’s lap like a rag doll.
Bruises covered more of his body than not. There was a large, angry gash on his side that was clearly infected, red and swollen and still half-open, and it steadily oozed something that was not blood: it looked more like cream, thick and off-white.
“Theon?” Rickon said, shaking him gently. “Theon, please, wake up.”
Robb’s paralysis broke, and he walked into the cell, crouching beside Theon. “Do you know what happened to him?”
Rickon shook his head. “Just that Ramsay was angry with him.”
“He can’t stay here,” Robb declared. “I’ll carry him to the maester if you hold the baby.” Robb handed the sling over, draping it over Rickon’s shoulder. “Make sure to support his head.”
“Got it.” Rickon stuck a finger into the sling, letting the baby grab onto it. “Wow, he’s strong.”
Theon was light as a feather, and Robb could feel the fever burning through him. His head lolled against Robb’s arm. Dirt and small bits of gravel clung to his skin. His back had clearly been whipped, and the lashes were weeping the same off-white pus as the gash. Robb felt terrible just holding him, but he didn’t have a better way to carry him.
It was very hard to remember that Theon had betrayed him when he was trembling with fever in his arms. Had Theon betrayed him? If killing Bran and Rickon was a lie, could the rest have been lies as well? The thought made sense—perhaps Theon had heard of some treachery from the Boltons while on Pyke—perhaps his father had intended to ally with them—and he had gone to Winterfell to defend it and been blamed for what happened, when all along it was Ramsay: Ramsay who put Winterfell to torch, Ramsay who put Bran and Rickon to flight.
Had he blamed Theon, knowing that none would doubt his story? No one in Robb’s camp but Robb himself had trusted Theon, and even Robb had believed the report that he had killed Bran and Rickon. He should have known it was a lie from the start. He should have known that Theon could never kill a child.
He’d abandoned Theon to his enemies, let him be tortured and beaten for crimes he hadn’t committed, and all the while he’d been innocent. Had he known that Robb had sent the Boltons? Had he hoped that Robb would come and save him? Had he prayed for Stark banners on the horizon? Had he lost hope that he would be rescued, as the years passed?
Had Robb killed his best friend?
Grey Wind whined when Robb emerged, nosing at Theon’s body and howling mournfully.
One green eye cracked open.
“Oh,” he mumbled, barely loud enough to be audible. “M d’d.”
“Not yet,” Robb said. “Rest, go back to sleep. It’ll be alright.”
He mumbled something, weakly clutching at Robb’s chest. His eyes had slipped closed again.
“Shh, it’s alright, don’t worry.” Whatever Theon was trying to say could wait until the maester had seen to him, until Robb had made sure that he and Rickon were alright.
“Robb?” Rickon asked, one hand in Robb’s tunic. “Theon’s going to be alright, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” Robb said. “I hope so, but I’m not sure. The maester will figure it out and tell us.”
“Um. Theon said some things about Sansa, about how she was protecting him from Ramsay. Are you sure she’s alright?”
He sighed. “She’s…she’s cut up a bit, and I’m going to have the maester check her over after he’s done with Theon. As for everything else…the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know how to even begin helping her. But I’m going to do my best.”
Rickon nodded, chewing the thought over. “What if she doesn’t like me?”
Robb could have laughed at the shift. “She will. Of course she will, Rickon, you’re her little brother, she’ll be so glad to see you.”
“I don’t really remember her. Theon told me some stories, but he’s not always the most…accurate.”
Robb laughed. That sounded like the Theon he knew, full of tall tales and exaggerations. “I wouldn’t take most of his stories seriously. Especially the ones about himself.”
Rickon nodded sagely. “I figured that out already.”
“Smart kid.” If his hands weren’t full of Theon, he’d ruffle his hair.
“Thanks for coming for us. Theon thought you wouldn’t, but I knew you were coming. You wouldn’t abandon us.”
Robb tried to hide his wince. He would have come eventually, but if Ramsay hadn’t taunted him with his siblings, it wouldn’t have been in time to save them.
Luckily, he was spared from having to admit that by reaching the maester’s rooms.
He shifted Theon in his arms. “Could you get the door?”
“Oh!” Rickon said. “Right.” He opened the door and let them into the small antechamber that, thankfully, had a small cot in it so that Robb could lay Theon down. Theon was too light by far, but Robb’s shoulders were still glad of the relief.
Theon stirred a little, his eyes cracking open.
“Sansa?” he mumbled. His voice was clearer than it had been.
“It’s me, Theon, it’s Robb. I reclaimed Winterfell. You’re safe now. I’m going to get the maester to look at your injuries, just stay put.”
“No!” Theon’s eyes widened and he struggled to sit upright. “No, you don’t have to do that for me, I’m fine, it’s nothing, please, you don’t need to sacrifice—it’s not worth it—“ His voice was a hoarse rasp.
“Theon, Theon, please, breathe for me, it’s fine, you won’t be hurt. Ramsay is dead, Ramsay is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore, he can’t hurt anyone anymore.” He pushed Theon back down. “Rickon, get the maester, tell him that I have a patient for him? Leave the baby with me. Theon, look at me, look at me.” He dropped his voice into the more commanding tone he’d learned to use when giving orders. Theon’s fever-glazed eyes met his. “Theon, do you know who I am?”
“You’re.” Theon blinked. “You’re not Sansa, are you,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, you don’t need to apologize. You have a fever. Do you know who I am?”
“R…” he trailed off. “I heard Rickon, earlier.”
“You did. He went to get the maester. Theon, I’m Robb, it’s alright, I’m here, you’re safe.”
“You’re not, you’re not.” Theon scrambled back, pulling away from Robb’s hands. “You’re not, it’s a trick, Robb hates me.”
“I don’t hate you, Theon, I don’t. Rickon told me the truth.”
“I killed Bran and Rickon,” Theon said. “I killed Ser Rodrik and the septon and Maester Luwin and I betrayed you and I burned Winterfell and I…” His voice disappeared into a sob. “I hurt Sansa again and again and I betrayed her too. You shouldn’t waste any time on me. Just kill me, please, I know—I know I don’t deserve any mercy from you, I don’t have any right to ask anything of you, but please, just kill me quick.”
“No,” Robb said. “I won’t.” He didn’t mention that he had just seen Rickon and knew that he and Bran were alive.
A tear slid down his cheek. Under the glaze of fever, Theon’s eyes had the same dull flatness as Sansa’s. “Please if—Robb, if you ever loved me, please just kill me.”
“Never.”
“Call it justice or call it mercy, just please kill me.”
“I won’t!” The word came out harsher than he intended, and Theon flinched. “Theon, I just saw Sansa with a blade to her neck, I’m not going to do the same to you!”
Theon’s eyes welled with tears and they slid down his face one by one, leaving streaks in the dirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Robb sat next to himm, pulling him into his arms. He’d imagined this a dozen different ways on the ride to Winterfell—finding Theon a cackling villain, gloating over Bran and Rickon’s bodies; finding Theon steely-eyed and proud, kneeling for Robb’s sword with silent dignity; finding Theon dead; finding Theon innocent and framed, in his desperate dreams. He never pictured finding Theon tortured and begging for a death sentence that Robb couldn’t deliver.
“Shh, Theon, it’s alright, I’m not angry with you.” Robb stroked Theon’s hair back from his forehead, placing a kiss to his burning flesh.
Slowly, his tears dried, and his eyes seemed a bit clearer.
“Is. I heard a baby, is it…”
“It’s Sansa’s. He’s fine, see?” Robb scooped up the baby from the chair where Rickon left the sling.
Theon nodded. “That’s good.” He gave Robb a tiny, tearful smile. “At least there’s that. Can I—I understand if you don’t want me to, but can I hold him?”
“Of course you can.” He handed the baby over to Theon, who held him as gently as spun glass. His fingers brushed through the dark red curls above his eyes.
“He’s gotten so big,” he breathed, his eyes sad. Robb wondered how small he had been when Theon had last seen him.
“Did Sansa name him anything?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Ramsay wanted to call him after himself, but Sansa…she wasn’t well when he was born. She’d probably name him for you, we thought you were dead.”
“I’m not going to name him for myself, that’s just confusing,” Robb said. “And I’m definitely not naming him for Ramsay.”
Theon’s eyes were fixed on the baby, who was trying to swallow his own fist. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“What do you mean? He’s going to grow up here, he’s my heir.”
Theon’s head snapped up, eyes flicking from Robb to the baby. “You’re going to make him your heir?”
“He’s my sister’s son, and I don’t,” don’t think about that, “I don’t have one of my own. He’s a natural choice.”
“He’s.” Theon swallowed heavily, head dropping down to watch the baby squirm. “He’s a Bolton.”
“No, he’s a Stark. Between delegitimizing Ramsay and annulling his marriage…he’ll be a Stark. Sansa’s child, and hers alone.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Theon asked, softly.
“Right now? You’re going to see the maester. As for everything else…I don’t know yet. But I’m not going to execute you, I know that much. I don’t want you dead, and besides, I promised Rickon.”
“If it wasn’t for me, he would’ve been safe in Winterfell.”
“Enough, Theon,” Robb said, gently squeezing his hand. “I’m not killing you. You’re going to see the maester and then you’re going to bathe and eat something and rest.” Theon looked like he was about to protest, so he added, “that’s an order from your king,” and offered Theon a shaky grin.
Theon was frozen. His face was ashen, and his hands were trembling around the baby. His gaze was fixed on the ground in front of him.
“Theon?” Robb laid a hand on his shoulder. Theon flinched, head whipping around to stare at Robb, wide-eyed, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Theon, it’s just me, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Theon’s gaze dropped back down to the baby, who squirmed in his tightening hold.
“Theon? You’re safe, I promise, Ramsay is dead.”
Theon’s arms tightened further. The baby began to squall.
The sound of the baby crying snapped Theon out of his daze. He blinked, his eyes focusing on the baby.
“Shh, shh,” he whispered, arms loosening around him, “shh, hey, I’m here, you’re safe, everything’s alright. There you go.”
“You’re good with him.”
“Raised you lot, didn’t I?” Theon said, and for a moment it was like nothing had changed between them.
Maester Lucas was an old man that Robb had brought with him from the Riverlands; he had bushy white eyebrows and a habit of tugging on his beard when he thought. He didn’t walk so much as bustle, and always reminded Robb a little bit of a badger.
“Ah,” he said, as soon as he saw Theon. “This explains some things. Away you get, now, let me work, thank you.”
Robb took the baby and let himself be shooed away from Theon’s side to let the maester work, watching as he tutted over his wounds and wrapped clean white bandages around him.
“Apparently,” Rickon said, “I’m not good at explaining things. Also, he said I was fine.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He ruffled Rickon’s hair affectionately. “Theon, will you be alright if I leave you for a while? I need to find a wet nurse for the baby, I want to be prepared for when he gets hungry.”
“I’ll be fine.” His battered hand reached out and rested on the baby’s pate for a long, lingering moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her.”
“I know,” Robb said. “You did what you could.”
“I wish it was more.”
“I wish I had come sooner, maybe I could have prevented all of this.”
Theon opened his mouth to say something, and the baby started fussing. Pain crossed his face, lingering in his eyes. “Go take care of him, Robb. I’ll be alright.”