Chapter Text
“Theon!”
“Florian!”
“Oh, hush, Loras! You know he-”
“ Theon ! Where have you gone?”
Pressing a hand against the soft hardness of the mossy white bark, he tried to push himself deeper into the hollow. He had to fight to not bite his tongue, the cry of Leave me alone a ball of iron in his throat, burning the same as the salt in his eyes. The wax of the seal slipped powdered between his fingers, pale as snow.
He’d only seen it once, when Afi had taken him sailing along the Mángata one winter night. North and north and north they’d went, Balon’s Pride cutting the ribbon of white to pieces as it darted in and out of its path. He’d been asleep at the starboard railing when Afi had called out, Theon! Theon, my boy, look !
And so Theon had looked, and had had to throw up a hand at the glittering glare. When his sight had stopped smarting, he could do naught but gape at the shore as it stretched out before him, white and grey and lumpy.
It looks so… so… soft , he’d said, looking up into the hoary fall of Afi’s beard when his grandsire approached.
Afi dipped his head to look at Theon, his dark grey eye staring down at him with fondness and something… heavy.
Aye, lad. Snow does seem that way, at first But I fear-
He’d sighed, then, going down on one knee to look at Theon more levelly.
I fear it is only the beginning, for soon it will become ice, and ice-
“There you are!”
Sucking in a sudden breath, Theon blinked at the faces before him. Willas, leaning heavily on his oak walking stick, reached out a hand. Garlan, not to be outdone, did the same, while Loras pouted under Margaery’s scolding whispers.
“Wh-what are you doing down there ?” Garlan teased, his mouth twitching as he tried not to laugh.
Theon mumbled something.
“What?”
“Go away,” he said again, louder this time. He tried to lift an arm to brush away at the tracks his tears had made on his face, but the sable silk caught on something - another blasted root, perhaps? - and snagged. His hands clenched tighter, the parchment crinkling as it crumpled.
“You sure?”
Drowned God , how he hated that lily-liveried argar bófi -
“ Yes , I’m sure ,” Theon snapped, glaring at Loras over Garland’s caped shoulder.
The boy only shrugged in response, carving his scowl ever deeper into his face. “Alright, then. I suppose we’ll have to meet our Northern visitors all by our-”
“ What? ” Theon’s face slackened, his body involuntarily surging forward at the possibility - then stopping abruptly at the sound of tearing fabric.
“ Theon! ”
He could only grimace sheepishly as Margaery’s shrill needling was turned on him.
“You’re late !”
Theon bent at the waist, taking the Lady Olenna’s leathery-soft right hand in his own and pressing his lips to the garnet rosebud that adorned her signet. “My deepest apologies, milady,” he murmured, holding her gaze as he straightened. “I was… indisposed .”
The look the Queen of Thorns shot him was prickly, if not unkind. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you were. Gods know Right has pulled you out of enough outlets . But now, stand up straight- straighter ! We must all look our best for Lord Stark and his pups.”
Theon did as he was told, back as straight as an iron rod as he watched for wolf banners.
The Lord Eddard Stark had been cool toward him when last they’d met, four years past. He’d offered his condolences- not that it mattered to him ! Not one whit - for his grandsire in a rather stilted manner before being torn away by yet another unhorsing by Mormont. Theon could not get an exact read on the man’s intent, but Willas had assured him that the Quiet Wolf bore him no ill will.
“They’ve got the north in them, Thee,” the Tyrell heir had murmured as they watched the Warden of the North stride away. “Makes the manners all stiff.”
He’d almost been willing to accept that as an explanation, but meeting the red-headed wolfling had all but confirmed it.
“ Theo. ”
The stamp of a boot heel on his right foot drew a short curse out of him, and he shot a half-mock scowl at Margaery, who stared up at him with a mask of perfect innocence as she slipped her left arm into his right. Weeks before, Theon had asked Lady Olenna if it would not have been better for Lord Mace to present his daughter herself - to which the Dowager Lady had given him only a toothless smile and a tilt of her clothbound head.
Swallowing a sigh - much like he had then - Theon faced forward as the first of the retinue trotted under the black iron portcullis. There was the vert-and-brunâtre forest of House Tallhart, and the sable-argent double-bitted axe of the Cerwyns, and the argent-sable sword-and-tree of the Forresters, and among them all the grey wolf, running, running, over a pale field. They came in leathers and mail and steel, spreading over the bailey’s pale stones like spilled ale down a fresh-washed sheet.
The faces were unfamiliar to Theon, though he nodded along at Margaery’s murmurs and soft coos of “Ser Cley” and “Sers Beren and Benfred” and “Ser Rodrik”. He gave a short, polite smile to each, glancing ever so briefly at Garlan and Leonette and smirking at the former’s expression of boredom before returning his gaze at the resounding eleven-note blasts of the heralds’ trumpets.
Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, entered first, his ruddy palfrey trotting across the paved stones with a slow assuredness. Theon held his tongue at the lord’s attire, observing only the flush of his neck beneath his woolen cloak and the discolorations under the arms of his linen tunic where the afternoon sun cut through. He was a hard man, his mouth a thin line and his grey eyes piercing like blades as he looked over the Tyrell welcoming party before trotting toward Philip and dismounting. His gaze met Theon’s and held for a moment before passing, and the Greyjoy felt a phantom pride puff up his chest at how the Stark had been the one to break first.
His pups trotted in after him. Robb craned his neck, tilting forward as if to look closer, only to be hauled back into his saddle by a stout man with wiry white chops. The pair soon noticed Theon after a brief battle of the eyes, with the younger lifting a hand in greeting while the elder glared him down.
Theon nearly took an involuntary step forward, only for Margaery to do the stepping for the both of them.
“He’s so- so-”
At the harumphing tuts to their right, Theon stepped back into line, pulling a strangled half-protest from his arm-mate as she was pulled back into place. “Aye,” he murmured, eyeing the Stark heir as he stared at Margaery in wonder for a few long moments. As soon as he and Theon met eyes, however, Robb dropped his gaze, blushing.
“You’re a lucky woman, Marg.”
All he got for his troubles was a half-throaty hum.
Theon shot the smitten Tyrell girl a small grin, then lifted his gaze-
Only for his breath to catch in his throat and his heart to pound like Smiler’s hooves against the Ocean Road.
“Theo-”
“ Asha.” He nearly choked on the whisper… but somehow, someway, she heard him.
The quill hovered over the parchment, dripping black char.
He didn’t know what to write, what to say . How could he, after everything?
“Need some help?”
“Not unless you know how to bring back the dead,” Theon mumbled.
“Ah. Afraid I don’t,” Willas grunted as he sat down on the couch, his brace creaking and groaning. “I could write to Archmaester Marwyn for you, see if he has any of the insight that I lack.”
Theon turned his head to look at the eldest Tyrell, only to find him rubbing hard at his inner thigh. The Greyjoy’s eyes fixed on the steel-bronze brace, on the gears as they klkk ed grooves together, then rose to Willas’ head. “No need. I was just…”
He looked away, sighed. The ink was starting to trail down the scroll. “It’s all… It’s all wrong .”
Willas said nothing, but the rustle of velvet on velvet was enough.
“I hate them.” It was a whisper, but out among the crackle of the candlelight and the quorking rasps from the rookery, it felt settled. It felt… right. “I hate them.”
The words burned in his head like the sun’s fire, golden and searing. Ihatethemihatethemihatethemihatethemihatethemihatethemihate-
Theon stuttered to a stop as a hand rested on his shoulder. Looking up, he could hardly see Willas’ God-blasted smile through the watery haze over his eyes. His fists clenched, his teeth grit and ground together.
“ I hate them, ” and God , how he despised such weakness.
“I-”
Willas stopped, his brow furrowing for a moment, then dipped his head.
Tearing his gaze away, Theon rubbed the tears away roughly, then dipped his quill in the inkwell once more and began to write.
“Brother.”
Theon flicked the silver moon into the air, watching as it spun end-over-end. “Sister.”
He heard her suck in a breath, but his eye was on the moon. It glinted and shone in the setting sun before he snatched it.
The fountain burbled beside him as he set up another flick. It burbled as the moon came up and down again. It burbled and burbled and burbled.
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
The moon sank into the water with a plp .
“What do you want me to say, Asha?” Theon asked flatly, turning to look at her.
She quirked an eyebrow at him, then scoffed, leaning against the gazebo’s stone pillar. Her expression soured as she said, “Six fucking years . Six years I wrote you, and what, you were too busy getting drunk off the old hag’s tits?”
His jaw clenched. “I said all I needed to then. No need to dredge it back up.”
Asha shook her head. “No, no, it really does -”
“No.”
His sister gawped at him as he rose to his feet, but Theon couldn’t find it in himself to care.
“You- you abandoned me. God- Afi’s blood hadn’t even dried on Uncle’s hands, and you- you just stood by!”
“And who , pray tell, would have led us? The drunk? The liar? Oh- maybe the dullard would’ve been best in your eyes!” Asha had drawn closer and closer as she spoke, her eyes gone black and sparking.
Theon, however, stood his ground. “It should have been me . If I had been- if they had chosen me , then none of this -”
He flung out a hand at the stony garden, colored in bruises and shadows in the dusk. “None of this would have happened.”
His sister’s smile was small, tight, and her eyes shimmered. “Or Uncle would’ve run you through, and I-”
She stopped, lifted a hand as if to touch him, then dropped it. “I would be alone.”
Words bit at Theon’s tongue, green and venomous, but his heart, swelling, crashed up against and over his levied teeth. “ Þat er ne eigi dauðr sem æ ligger -”
The force of Asha’s hug nearly bowled the both of them over into the fountain, but Theon kept his balance.
“ Enn ganga aptr inn megin .” The old words were faint and tremulous, but she hugged him all the tighter for it.
They laughed, then, softly at first, then louder and louder, their sounds of relief echoing off the walls until Josca shooed them off to the welcoming feast.
“Is the lamb not to your liking, milord?”
Ned blinked and looked over at the Lady Olenna. “I’m sorry?”
The Lady’s eyes flashed with quick mirth as she pointed at his plate with her knife. “The lamb. You’ve hardly touched it!”
Sparing a quick glance down at the congealing mess of greens and meat on the rose-stamped porcelain, Ned realized his folly. “Apologies, milady. My mind was… elsewhere.”
“I can see that.”
Ned had to fight down a flush at the knowing heaviness of his host’s words. Cat had warned him of the state of things all those months ago - of the velvet grip the Queen of Thorns held over her court of vert and gold.
Be careful, Ned. The betrothal is a good one, but still…
“How is he?” he murmured, meeting Olenna’s eyes.
The Lady hummed for a moment, then said, “Acceptable. Perhaps better than… but I’m not the one who decides.”
His gaze turned back to the Greyjoy boy, deep in conversation with Ned’s ward- his sister. “I was… surprised to find Father’s journals. Well, no, maybe not surprised, but-”
“You’d never thought of exactly why your late lord father had shipped his children out of the North.”
“No,” Ned admitted through clenched teeth.
Olenna let out a sigh. It sounded like one she had had to employ often, a sigh of the long-suffering. “And now that you know?”
“It would not be… advantageous.” His eyes went to the Greyjoys again, only to be met by the boy’s own. Flint-black and storm-grey held, clashed blades of unspoken thought, and broke apart.
Olenna hummed beside him. “Perhaps.”
Quellon scrubbed at his face with a callused palm. God, but he was so damn tired that the words seemed to swim before his eyes. Squinting, he read the parchment again.
My Lord Greyjoy,
It has come to my attention that the late Lord Reyne had requested Lord Drumm return Red Rain to his house not five moons past. With the fall of House Reyne, such recompense has fallen to my father, Tytos, to fulfill, yet I and many others know that such a request will remain unanswered.
Thus, I write to you with an offer. Should the Reynes’ last wish remain unfulfilled, I am prepared and willing to pay you a sum of eighteen thousand dragons every year for the next thirty years, as a token of our mutual friendship. This offer, of course, comes with terms - namely, that no ironborn raiders shall touch the shores of the Westerlands for as long as our agreement stands, and that a quarter of all ore from the Iron Islands come to the Westerlands before it goes elsewhere.
I look forward to your forthcoming reply.
Tywin Lannister
The parchment crinkled in the slow close of Quellon’s fist. “Damn him,” the Greyjoy muttered. “Damn them . Damn them all to Líkkista .”
The dragon bastard had trapped him, with his honeyed words and his corpse-court, had bound him to the greenlands with a thrice-damned betrothal. Balon had not understood it, at first, had whined and cried like a seal caught in a net.
Quellon’s left hand twitched with a sudden throb, and he could not help but to glance at it. His signet ring shone back at him, the kraken rough-hewn and sharp in golden relief, half-dull though it was with browned blood.
“Damn them.”
Dropping the half-balled scroll, Quellon took up a quill, pulled some blank sheets in front of him, and began to write, murmuring, “To Lord Stark…”
“ You?! ” Theon was half-incredulous at Asha’s tale. “I’d expect it of- of them , but you-”
“Dolls and princesses tend to lose import when the lady you’re ward to would rather you be one instead of just playing at it,” Asha scoffed. “I swear, if it wasn’t for the others, I would’ve-”
Her gaze flicked to Lord Stark, then back to Theon.
“I- understand,” Theon murmured. “Maybe not as much, but- I understand enough.”
His sister huffed, crossing her arms as she leaned back. “At least the Stark girls aren’t an utter bore. I dread to think of what the elder might’ve been like with only Lady Catelyn and her lackeys for guidance.”
“Isn’t that the one you said used to sing all the time?” Theon wrinkled his nose, remembering Margaery’s first pitiful, screeching attempts at “Let Me Drink Your Beauty”.
“Sansa, aye.” Asha chuckled, glancing across the length of the table at Robb Stark, who Theon could see was deep in conversation with Loras. “She got better at it.”
“And now what, she sings like a bird?”
“Quite,” Asha nodded, reaching out a hand to grasp at her silver cup. Taking a sip of Arbor red, she said, “That, and she can hit a target from across the training yard with a bow. My doing, of course - not that her lady mother appreciated it.”
Theon let out a brief chuckle. “I should have figured.” Humming a marcher ballad tune, he watched the Stark heir watch Loras go before stealing a glance with his betrothed. “This- this is a good thing.”
He glanced at Asha to see her watching Robb Stark with the same tight-lipped stare. “Right?”
“Aye,” she murmured before glancing at him. Her eyes narrowed, looked to the raised dais, then away, down to her plate of suckling pig and root vegetables. “Perhaps.”