Chapter Text
The definition of "first love" is a matter of perspective—often regarded as one’s inaugural romantic endeavor, or perhaps the very moment affection first begins to stir.
That initial flutter of the heart might be the purest of emotions, or it could be the most unreliable, wretched of experiences. After all, no one can govern what—or whom—the heart yearns for, and not everyone is afforded the luxury of speaking openly about their first love. Theon, at the very least, would never utter a word; he fully intended to carry this absurd secret to his grave.
From the moment he left the North to attend university in the sun-drenched south of Dorne, he had forced himself to seal those memories away. Even during the haze of freshman orientation, no matter how intoxicated he became, he maintained a stony silence against every attempt to pry, a reticence that only served to sharpen the curiosity of those around him.
Unfortunately, whenever a game of "Truth or Dare" arose, someone invariably posed the question. As one-third of the famed "Winterfell Trinity," he knew many whispered behind his back, concocting elaborate theories about his relationship with Robb—even dragging Jon into the fray. They wove agonizingly tragic narratives, lamenting that a member of the notoriously hedonistic House Greyjoy could be such a hopeless romantic, fleeing his homeland after losing out in a bitter love triangle.
He couldn't help but laugh bitterly at such lunacy. Thanks to these rumors, he found himself unexpectedly unpopular in a land famed for its passion. Even on the rare occasion he secured a date, he was met with veiled inquiries about Robb. Girls would often weep quietly beside him as they listened to his stories, mourning the "Bad End" of their favorite "ship," leaving him speechless and unable to defend himself—forever branded with titles like "Robb’s ill-fated childhood friend" or the "loser second lead."
He could already envision the reactions from Robb and the others. He could only pray that Dorne’s scandals were prolific enough, and the North’s information sufficiently sheltered, to prevent these tedious, melodramatic rumors from drifting back home.
Though he no longer cared for his reputation in the North, he still wished to preserve whatever remained of his image in that person’s heart—even if that image was already a shattered ruin.
Theon felt himself a walking contradiction. On one hand, he hoped time would effectively wash away the shadows and the harm they had dealt one another; on the other, he could not entirely sever that twisted childhood love, still yearning to be etched into the other’s mind as his best, original self.
Even if he refused to disclose the past, the mere memory of those people and places would fill his mind in an instant. Yet he knew he could no longer linger. A crushing sense of guilt made his scalp tingle; the surging terror brought goosebumps to his arms, and cold sweat trickled down his face.
To yearn yet feel guilty; to be attached yet feel terrified. This agony had become an invisible burden. Despite fleeing to the far end of the continent, he remained unable to escape the other’s shadow. He had no one to blame but himself—for his own past recklessness, and for the other’s suffocating obsession.
What is first love?
To him, it was a venomous web—once you stepped inside, there was no escape.