Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

That year, he was ten, and the boy was six.

All ill-fated entanglements require a dramatic beginning. Though in hindsight it seemed mere coincidence, one had to wonder: why did the town fair have to happen that day? Why did Robb only manage to snag two tickets? And why, of all things, did Theon have to lose the coin toss?

Theon could only watch, crestfallen, as Robb and Jon went off with the adults, arms draped over each other's shoulders, leaving him behind to mind the house.

It was a lazy afternoon, the kind where the sun felt warm and heavy against the skin. Lying on the sofa, consumed by boredom, he eventually drifted off.

In his dreams, something soft and furry kept brushing against his face and neck, an incessant itching that no amount of shifting could escape.

Again? Theon groaned inwardly.

Living with the Starks meant getting used to such nuisances. The six huskies possessed seemingly inexhaustible energy; no longer content with ravaging the backyard garden, they had recently taken to slipping indoors to ambush anyone in their path. If you were lucky, they just wanted a sniff; if not, Theon had once woken up to Grey Wind pinning him by the throat, forty pounds of muscle nearly sending him to meet the Drowned God early.

Dammit.

Plagued by the irritation, a half-conscious Theon lashed out with his hand. Instead of the coarse fur of a husky, he struck something warm and solid. In his slumbering state, he hadn't held back. The blow sent the intruder flying, followed by the dull thud of someone hitting the floor.

Theon bolted awake. He saw a small child sitting on the ground, clutching his face, looking up at him with eyes brimming with tears.

Oh no, I’ve done it now.

Theon sprang from the sofa, reaching out to pull the child up, but the boy recoiled, shrinking into the corner of the couch. He pulled his knees to his chest and lowered his head, a picture of utter misery.

A sharp pang of guilt pricked Theon’s conscience. He knelt before the boy, intent on inspecting the injury.

Just then, the child looked up. His silver-gray eyes glared back with a ferocity that made Theon’s heart sink. It wasn't that the tearful gaze was particularly lethal, but those unique eyes immediately reminded him of the Boltons who had recently visited. Last time, when only the eldest Bolton son was present, Theon had made a few harmless jests during the boy's musical performance, only to be punished with a month's loss of allowance.

If Catelyn Stark found out he had not only made a guest’s child cry but had actually struck him, a stint in the "black cell" would be the least of his worries.

Panicked by the potential consequences, Theon cupped the boy’s face in his hands to examine the damage. Startled by the sudden contact, the boy unexpectedly grew compliant, allowing the inspection.

To Theon’s relief, the injury wasn't dire—it seemed the blow had merely forced the boy’s teeth against his lower lip. Aside from a reddened cheek and a slight smear of blood at the corner of his mouth, it could likely be concealed with an ice pack and some ointment.

Theon exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Only then did he take a proper look at the boy: a mop of black curls and wide, staring eyes that gazed back at him blankly. They stared at each other for a few beats before the boy seemed to snap back into a state of indignation.

"Let me go!" the boy struggled against his grip. Terrified that he might scream or run to tell the adults, Theon gathered him into a desperate embrace.

"No, no! I’m sorry! I’ll help you with the medicine, just please don’t tell anyone! I’ll do anything you want!"

The boy went rigid in his arms for a second, then looked up with a suspicious glint. "And how exactly do you plan to compensate me?"

"Huh?"

"I was struck for no reason," the boy stated. "What are you going to do to make it up to me?"

What the hell? Theon thought. It was bad enough missing the fair, but now disaster had struck while he was literally sleeping. You're the one who came over to harass me while I was minding my own business. Yet, he swallowed his grievances; appeasing the boy was the only way to ensure his silence.

"I’ll let you hit me back. Just please, don't tell a soul."

"I don't want to. You're so big; my punch wouldn't even hurt you."

That was true. The boy felt tiny in his arms, like a scrawny little black cat, looking somewhat malnourished.

"Then what do you want? Do you want to kick me? Or bite me? If one hit isn't enough, you can take a few more."

"Bite you?"

"Yeah, yeah. You can bite me if you like." To show his sincerity, Theon pushed up his sleeve and extended his pale forearm to the boy’s lips.

The boy studied it in silence for a long moment before grasping the arm and sinking his teeth into the flesh.

Still better than Grey Wind, Theon mused.

"Ow... it hurts..." he whimpered, feigning distress to satisfy the boy.

"I’m not even biting that hard..." the boy muttered, though he seemed enthralled. He held onto Theon’s hand, leaving a succession of bite marks along the arm and palm, glancing up occasionally to gauge the reaction. Theon resigned himself to the role, putting on a show of tearful misery.

Fortunately, the boy’s milk teeth were small and his grip weak. It didn't truly hurt—except when he nipped at the fingertips, sending a sharp, needle-like sting through him. The old saying was right: the pain of the fingers reaches the heart. Still, it was tolerable.

"Satisfied? Are we even?"

"Mmm..." the boy mumbled, his teeth still clamped around a finger.

"Then it’s a deal. Not a word to the adults."

"Can I keep coming to find you?" the boy asked, continuing to leave little tooth marks on his finger—small, round imprints that looked like tiny flowers in full bloom.

"Why? We're even now, aren't we?"

The boy’s face darkened instantly. He pointed to the bruise on his face and spoke with a feigned malice, "You hit me until I bled, and now you want me to lie to the adults after trying to brush me off with a few bites?"

He wasn't frightening at all; he was like a kitten.

"Fine, fine. Come whenever you like," Theon relented, just wanting to usher him away.

A smile finally curled onto the boy’s blood-stained lips. He hugged Theon’s hand, rubbing his cheek against it. The smile possessed an inexplicable, haunting charm. Theon’s heart skipped a beat. He felt as though he had just entered into a dark, unspeakable pact—one that would stir a ripple in his mundane life, destined never to settle.

Chapter Text

10、6

The mornings in the southern summers were already stifling. Theon helped unload the crates; the café where he worked sat nestled within the university district. Known for its quality and fair prices, the establishment remained bustling even during the quiet summer break. Business was good, but the weekly deliveries, coupled with a chronic shortage of hands, were grueling—though he was too self-conscious to complain.

"Theon, that’s the last of them!" a woman beside him chirped, setting down a crate. Her petite frame seemed at odds with the sheer volume of cargo she moved.

Theon masked his surprise at her uncanny strength and followed her back inside. Behind the counter, the manager was prepping; without a word, he handed them two iced lattes before returning silently to his equipment.

"You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know how I’d manage these deliveries without you!" She leaned against the bar, seizing a brief lull before the morning rush. "By the way, are you staying south again this year?"

"No, I think I’ll go back. But just for the day."

"But isn't the North ages away?"

"Five or six hours by plane," Theon said, stirring his ice with a straw. The cubes clattered erratically against the glass. "If I take the red-eye, I can hit the offices just as they open to sort out my documents, then fly back the same night." In Dorne, even the wind carried the searing weight of a heatwave.

"That sounds exhausting. No time to see family or friends?"

"It’s fine. I’m meeting a friend at the airport. If there’s time, we’ll grab lunch; if not, so be it." Theon tilted his head back and drained the coffee. A stray ice cube slipped into his collar, sending a sharp, jolting shiver across his skin.

"Rushing in and out like that... you aren't hiding from someone, are you?" The manager teased as she headed toward the kitchen, glancing at the clock.

"Of course not..." Theon’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before returning, though it was now tinged with a guilty edge.

The city night was choked by light pollution; no brilliant stars adorned the sky, only a full moon hanging high—a pale, sorrowful orb casting silver threads over him. Theon sat at his table, hitting 'send' on a newly finished report.

After his shift, he had visited the university to speak with his prospective advisor. He had never harbored a love for academics; pursuing a Master’s degree was merely a tactical move to secure his residency in this city.

It was a vibrant, beautiful place where no one knew his past or his lineage. Here, he was unburdened—yet utterly unknown. In his solitude, a profound sense of isolation would often find him, the price he paid to exorcise that "secret" he so desperately wanted to discard.

Theon stood and opened the freezer. He took an ice cube, warming its jagged edges in his palm until they smoothed, then pressed it against his skin. The freezing surface forced his pores to contract violently, bringing a numbing sting akin to needle pricks. He closed his eyes, enthralled, letting the ice wander across his chest—a confluence of pain and pleasure—until it melted into a pool of water in his hand.

The boy’s innocent face rose in his mind. Back then, there had been no ambiguity in their actions; it had felt like a mundane game, no different from video games or board games. It was me, Theon thought. I was the one with the filthy mind. He had used the boy as a vessel for his burgeoning adolescent desires, sinking repeatedly into that grotesque euphoria until he had corrupted the child into a madman just like himself.

As he reached for a second cube, the chime of a new email startled him. The ice tray slipped from his hand, and a cube struck his foot, jolting him back to reality. He stared at the shattered ice on the floor and his frost-reddened palms. Shame and remorse surged through him, and he sank to his knees in agony.

It wasn't until after the boy had left that Theon learned his name from the adults: Ramsay Bolton. He was a natural son, born of a mistress and raised elsewhere, only recently brought into the fold. Curiously, Domeric—who had spent his life believing he was an only child—was thrilled, treating his new half-brother with unexpected kindness. Ramsay had been swiftly absorbed into the Bolton household.

Talk about a stroke of luck, Theon thought, casting a mocking glance at Jon Snow. In terms of status, the Boltons were vital partners to the Starks—far more significant than a ward living on charity.

After a few days of anxious waiting, Theon realized the boy had kept his word. He returned to his carefree life, tossing the "promise" to the back of his mind. Thus, his shock was absolute when he returned from class one day to find a "little furball" in his room.

"How did you get in here?" The boy sat brazenly on his bed, as if he owned the place.

"Through the door?" Ramsay tilted his head, feigning a sweet innocence.

Is the Stark household a hotel? Or just my room? Theon bristled at the lack of respect.

"You said I could come find you." Ramsay tapped his left cheek, a silent reminder of the blow and the debt. "So, here I am."

Theon scratched his head in frustration. I only said that to get rid of you! My precious free time! He couldn't sneak off to the arcade with a kid in tow. "Look, I have to go out today. Maybe next time?"

Ramsay’s gaze turned predatory, a sudden malice radiating from him even as his eyes welled with tears. "You lied. You said I could come, and now you're kicking me out. I’m going to tell the adults you hit me..."

You little brat!

Suppressing the urge to throw him out, Theon pulled a console from the shelf. "Do you play video games?"

Ramsay beamed instantly, rattling off a list of popular titles. Theon picked one and popped the disc in, resigning himself to the role of an unwilling babysitter.

Just think of him as another younger brother, Theon told himself, looking at the mop of black curls beside him. Though Ramsay already had an exemplary older brother, and surely no one would want a brother like Theon. He wasn't good with children; the younger Starks kept their distance, treating him with a cold, polite reserve mandated by their mother. He understood why—the Greyjoy reputation preceded him—but being treated like a latent criminal in his own home stung nonetheless.

Lost in these bitter thoughts, Theon’s play grew erratic. He lost several rounds to clumsy, basic mistakes. Sensing his partner’s distraction, Ramsay glared at him, but Theon remained lost in the screen, his eyes vacant. Ramsay called his name, then shoved him. When Theon still didn't respond, Ramsay sank his teeth into the meat of Theon’s forearm—in the exact same spot as their first meeting.

"What are you doing!"

"You aren't paying attention! You promised to play with me." Ramsay gripped Theon’s arm, preventing his retreat. "This is your punishment." He bit down several more times, eventually seizing Theon’s hand and sinking his teeth in with savage force.

"Ow! That hurts!" Theon cried out. The boy’s strength was startling; the "harmless" milk teeth, fueled by rage, pierced the flesh. When Ramsay let go, two small indentations filled slowly with blood, forming two vivid, crimson beads.

They both froze, staring at the wounds. The pain radiated from the punctures, creeping toward Theon's heart. Ramsay was the first to move. He watched a drop of blood slide down Theon’s finger and into his own palm. Driven by something primal, Ramsay leaned in and pressed his lips to the wound.

His hot tongue traced the path of the blood, following it back to the source. He swirled his tongue around the punctures, blocking the flow, lapping at the warmth.

Theon’s entire finger was drawn into that heated sanctuary. The warmth pressed in from all sides. A strange, electrifying mix of tingling and ache made Theon shudder. The sensation sent a jolt through his scalp; he wanted to pull away, yet found himself leaning into the contact.

It feels... good. Theon’s eyes fluttered shut, his body turning supple. Ramsay looked up, his famous Bolton-gray eyes fixed on Theon’s flushing face—on his parted lips and his watery blue eyes. A heavy, intoxicating atmosphere settled between them.

When Ramsay finally withdrew, a soft pop echoed in the quiet room, a silver thread of saliva connecting them. He licked his lips casually, but did not let go of Theon’s hand.

"There. Doesn't hurt anymore, does it?"

Theon looked at his finger, coated in the boy's spit. He should have been disgusted. He should have run to wash it off. But the unfamiliar sensation was still swirling in his clouded mind. Too young to understand the burgeoning desires of puberty, he only knew he wanted more. He couldn't tell if he was dazed or simply losing his mind.

"Unless... do you want to keep going?" Ramsay nuzzled Theon’s palm like a kitten.

Whether he was still in a trance or simply possessed, Theon stared at the boy’s moving lips. The high, clear voice held a sweetness that lured him toward a bottomless abyss. So, when Ramsay bit down once more, Theon did not push him away.

Chapter Text

12、8

So, he was far from solitary.

Quiver slung across his back, Theon stood at the park’s edge, observing a cluster of children frolicking around a sentinel tree. There, leaning against the gnarled trunk, was Ramsay. He was engaged in idle conversation with a fair-haired boy, his pallid gray eyes occasionally sweeping over the surroundings with a chilling detachment. Even from this distance, the hierarchy was unmistakable; Ramsay was the undisputed axis upon which this little social sphere revolved.

This supremacy was hardly a marvel. Beyond the mere weight of his name, Ramsay’s sheer material wealth made him a sun for these orbiting satellites. Theon recalled the myriad times he had been jarred by the boy's casual displays of opulence. Unlike the waning House Greyjoy, the Starks were a stoic lot, never prone to indulgence; their festive offerings were invariably the same immutable book vouchers. Thus, the shock that surged through Theon remained vivid—the day Ramsay had, with an air of utter indifference, gifted him the latest gaming console for his birthday.

The blond boy uttered something that drew a clipped, sharp laugh from Ramsay. At that moment, a dark-haired girl stepped forward, possessively hooking her arm through his. Ramsay turned toward her, and as he tilted his head, his gaze collided directly with Theon’s across the clearing.

"Theon!"

Gods, he’s seen me. I knew this path was a mistake.

"Why are you here? No practice today?" Ramsay shrugged off the girl with effortless dismissal and sprinted toward him.

"No, the coach had an emergency. We finished early." Before the words were fully out, Ramsay had seized his hand, locking their fingers in a tight, interlaced grip. Theon felt a familiar, creeping unease.

"Perfect. Can I come to your place today?"

"I suppose… but aren't you with your friends?"

"They are of no consequence. I would much rather be with you."

Despite the dismissal, Ramsay led him back toward the tree, parading him before the group like a prized acquisition. "This is Theon, the one I told you about. We play together constantly."

The children spared him only a few listless glances before returning to their own devices. The atmosphere was stifling and surreal. As Theon scratched his head in awkwardness, Ramsay flashed a saccharine smile, his thumb tracing a gentle, rhythmic path across the back of Theon’s hand. Theon felt a jolt like a lightning strike. He looked down to see a face of pure innocence, yet the grip on his hand only tightened.

Only Myranda, the dark-haired girl, glared at him with unconcealed resentment. After a tense silence, she hissed, "He doesn't look like anything special..."

"Myranda," Ramsay snapped, "guard your tongue."

Without a backward glance, Ramsay abandoned his circle, dragging Theon toward the Stark estate. Before he vanished, Theon looked back one last time. The children had frozen, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of disdain and cold calculation. Those stares sent a nameless tremor through his heart.

The instant the bedroom door clicked shut, Ramsay pinned him to the bed and seized his hand, biting down with primal intensity.

"Ah!" No matter the frequency, Theon could never grow accustomed to the sting. These were no playful nips; at times, it felt as though the boy intended to sever the fingers entirely. He felt a fleeting wave of relief that Ramsay had not yet lost his milk teeth—their pressure left deep, mottled indentations but was not yet enough to breach the skin.

"I’ve just returned… at least let me wash my hands. It’s unhygienic."

"No! I want to taste you." Ramsay ignored the plea, his teeth working relentlessly over Theon’s fingertips, knuckles, and the callouses earned from the bowstring.

Theon stared up at Ramsay, who was perched atop him like a small predator. He could not fathom the fixation that drove the boy to treat his hand as a teething toy with such ritualistic fervor. Though the first encounter had filled him with alarm and a sense of profound wrongness, habit was a seductive poison. Now, he was simply too weary to resist.

After all, if being gnawed upon like a bone was the price for pacifying this relentless creature, he was willing to serve as a living whetstone.

Theon did not withdraw. Instead, he let his fingers brush against the small, sharp teeth, circling the boy’s tongue. Sensing the invitation, Ramsay’s eyes narrowed like a satiated cat, and he began to suckle forcefully on the fingertip. A wave of numbing electricity rippled through Theon.

The pain was bearable, and so was this clandestine pleasure. He loathed neither; in truth, he might even enjoy them. What he detested was the intrusive shadow of guilt. These acts behind closed doors—though technically not "untoward"—always left him breathless with a phantom panic. He felt balanced on the razor-edged border of a forbidden zone; one more push, and he would plummet into the abyss.

He had pressed Ramsay more than once to ensure he didn't boast of this to others, though he couldn't name the source of his own heart-fluttering shame. It wasn't as if they were committing a crime; to an outsider, it was merely the roughhousing of children.

What, then, did he fear? What lay beneath that forbidden zone? What specter hid behind that damp, rotting closet door?

The tingling at his fingertips forced Theon back to the present. He panted softly, his eyes tracing the youthful features of the boy. Ramsay’s vivid red lips were startlingly beautiful against the snowy pallor of his skin. His gray pupils were slightly dilated, giving him the look of a gorged kitten.

Despite a life surrounded by massive hounds, Theon remained a steadfast cat person at heart. This sight reminded him of the stray cats at the docks of his homeland—always preening, always demanding.

He reached out with his free hand to stroke the crown of Ramsay’s head. Finally satisfied, Ramsay released his hand and slumped against him, basking in the affection. His small hands looped around Theon’s neck, his head resting on Theon’s chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart. The heat radiating from the boy felt like a fine, airtight web.

The serenity was fleeting; Ramsay was surprisingly heavy. As the pressure on his chest turned to a dull ache, Theon nudged his shoulder. "Can you get off me? You’re heavy."

"No," came the muffled voice. The boy’s embrace only tightened. Looking at the little octopus clinging to him, Theon suppressed the urge to yank him off by the collar.

He remembered that Ramsay loathed being treated like a child. Once, out of kindness, Theon had lifted him up to reach a high shelf, only for Ramsay to explode in a towering rage. Yet, at times like this, the boy had no qualms about weaponizing his youth, throwing tantrums until Theon agreed to stay the night at his house as penance. The last time that happened, a frazzled Lady Stark had simply packed Theon’s bags and shipped him off to the Boltons herself.

Thinking of sleepovers, Theon remembered a duty. "By the way, don't come over for the next two days. I won't be here."

"Why? Where are you going?" Ramsay looked up, his voice thick with resentment.

"Camping. It’s a school orientation event." He heard Ramsay muttering under his breath—more complaints, no doubt. Finally, the boy spat out, "Is Robb Stark going?"

"Yes. All freshmen attend unless there's an emergency."

"That’s not fair! You’ve never gone camping with me!"

The fury in Ramsay’s eyes left Theon baffled. That's the grievance? "If you want to experience camping, we can pitch a tent in your garden when I get back. It’ll be the same thing."

"It is NOT the same! Camping belongs in the mountains or the forest. There must be an atmosphere." The suggestion was rejected with absolute disdain.

"And how would we get there? I can't exactly take you into the wilderness alone."

"Don't worry about that. We can go to my family’s estate in the countryside. There’s a vast forest there, and my father’s hunting club. We can go target shooting."

Theon’s interest piqued. The image of drawing his bow amidst towering trees, with sunlight filtering through the canopy, was intoxicating. He was a passionate archer, confident in his natural talent. This was a siren song.

Then he remembered the Bolton estate was the infamous Dreadfort. The mere mention of the place, with its whispered, terrifying legends, made him hesitate. Sensing the reluctance, Ramsay upped the ante. "There’s a lake, too. We can go rowing. We can pitch a tent or stay in the manor itself, if you prefer. Will you come?"

Ramsay sat up, his hands pressing into Theon’s chest. Theon looked into those gray eyes—wide with a vulnerability he couldn't quite mask, and a haunting desperation. He let out a long, defeated sigh. "Fine. I’ll go."

The next day, Theon boarded the school bus with his gear, feeling a rare surge of liberation. It had been an age since he and Robb had shared the horizon without a shadow looming between them. Ever since Ramsay had latched onto him, his time had been devoured.

This trip was a precious reprieve. He and Robb worked in a seamless rhythm—pitching the tent, coaxing a fire from the earth, and roasting marshmallows. They were as synchronized as they had ever been, as if the years of distance had never existed.

That night, they sat before the campfire under a canopy of diamond stars. Robb eventually spoke, his tone carefully casual. "So... is the Bolton boy still hounding you?"

"Incessantly. I even have to go to the Dreadfort with him when we get back." Theon groaned, already regretting the promise.

"Theon... I’ve heard things about his family. Things that aren't good."

"Aren't the Bolton rumors common knowledge?"

"No, this is different. Worse. It’s about their business—depravities far more profound than we knew." Robb recounted what he’d overheard in his father’s study. It was the kind of darkness that would make even a son of the Iron Islands recoil.

"I see. That... that sounds about right." To Robb’s surprise, Theon wasn't shocked. It felt like a missing piece of a jagged puzzle.

Few Great Houses ascended without treading upon the broken. Even the "honorable" Starks had once bathed in blood before donning the mantle of righteousness. But Theon kept this to himself; Robb, whose honor was etched into his marrow, would never understand. This was the chasm between them—the exhaustive weight of Robb’s purity.

"My family shouldn't even be associating with them," Robb muttered.

Theon looked at his friend and felt a sudden, hollow pity. He thought of Domeric—the elegant foil to the Bolton name—and realized why Ramsay had been reclaimed. Ramsay was the insurance policy of a dark dynasty: the elder son to lead in the light, the younger to handle the filth in the shadows.

He felt a sharp kinship with the boy. Whether cast out for the sake of the blood or brought back to serve its darker needs, the calculation was the same. It was all business, devoid of warmth. And the architects of such fates were always the fathers they so desperately sought to please.

Chapter Text

12、8

Despite his profound reluctance, Theon found himself ensconced in the Boltons' SUV after class on Friday. The vehicle wound its way up a serpentine mountain pass. Ramsay attempted to bridge the silence with incessant chatter, but a day of lectures and archery practice had left Theon utterly spent; he drifted in and out of a heavy stupor, hearing nothing. Ramsay, piqued by his indifference, pinched him sharply enough to leave mottled bruises, yet Theon lacked even the will to protest, abandoning himself to the boy’s whims.

It was only after they breached a long, echoing tunnel that Ramsay slapped his face with stinging force. Theon jolted awake, a reprimand dying on his lips as he beheld the sight before him: an ancient fortress, cradled by a sea of timber, stood defiant upon the mountain peak. The autumn dusk had bled into the canopy, staining the leaves in a breathtaking palette of burnt orange and crimson. The crisp, crystalline air of the highlands flooded the cabin, sharpening Theon’s senses instantly. The landscape was so sublime it lent even the mercurial Ramsay a flicker of charm.

"It is beautiful here," Theon breathed.

"Of course it is," Ramsay declared with a proprietary pride. "It is all mine." Theon looked at the boy’s triumphant visage, tempted to remind him that what belonged to House Bolton was not yet his personal spoils, but he demurred. Why shatter such a magnificent illusion?

The castle was a sanctuary of isolation. While the vista was poetic, the geography was a fortress; the tunnel acted as a portcullis, barring the world’s prying eyes. The only artery to the city was a labyrinthine road that coiled upward until the SUV finally swept into the Bolton driveway. As the driver brought the car to a graceful halt in the garage, a dizzy, motion-sick Theon scrambled out.

The subterranean garage was a vault of chrome and steel, housing a collection of high-performance vehicles that defied reason. The sight acted as a sudden tonic for Theon’s nausea; he stared, mesmerized, at machines whose names he couldn't even invoke. There were dozens, each polished to a mirror sheen. Recalling Robb’s warnings from the week prior, Theon gained a visceral new understanding of the boundless wealth forged in the Boltons' shadow-trades.

"Theon! What are you doing? Come!"

Ramsay stood at the threshold, his voice jagged with impatience. As Theon approached, the boy seized his hand with a natural, unquestioned authority. They traversed spiral staircases and corridors cloaked in gloom. Theon rubbed his weary eyes; the adrenaline from the garage was waning, and exhaustion reclaimed him like a rising tide.

"It is late. We shall quarter in the manor tonight; tomorrow, I shall take you to select a cabin."

Theon offered no dissent. But when Ramsay led him to a specific door on the second floor, he could not suppress a mental roll of the eyes. "This fortress has a thousand rooms," he sighed. "Can I not have one of my own?"

"No," Ramsay replied, his tone final as he shoved Theon into the suite.

The quarters were less a bedroom and more a palatial apartment. A reception room furnished with exquisite rosewood overlooked a floor-to-ceiling vista of the endless forest. To the right lay the sleeping chambers and a bathroom that rivaled a dressing room in scale. Theon had no heart for a tour; he collapsed onto the sofa. Later, he was roused for dinner, which he consumed with mechanical apathy. Driven by a final, stubborn shred of hygiene, he endured a brief shower before surrendering to the depths of Ramsay’s four-poster bed.

He awoke to a world of absolute silence. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the moonlight filtering through the expansive glass, casting a ghostly pallor over the room. Ramsay was entwined around him like a child with a tethered bear, his limbs heavy and his body heat seeping through their sleepwear. It was this stifling warmth that had broken Theon’s slumber.

Theon tried to shift away, but the movement only caused Ramsay to tighten his hold. The boy’s eyes remained shut, though he murmured a low, fretful complaint. Theon suspected he was merely feigning sleep, yet no amount of struggling could break the iron-clad embrace. Resigned, he lay back and stared at the face so close to his own.

In an act of petty vengeance, he pinched Ramsay’s soft, boyish cheek. No reaction. He tapped the bridge of the boy’s nose, then trailed a finger over the thick, dark fan of his eyelashes—they felt like down against his skin. His finger traced the high curve of the nose and came to rest on the lips, sketching their contour.

In sleep, Ramsay possessed a rare, angelic docility. The habitual malice had vanished, leaving behind a visage of such tranquil beauty that a sudden, jarring desire to kiss him flared in Theon’s chest. Terrified by the irrational thought, Theon recoiled, turning his back and closing his eyes tight, praying for the unholy impulse to vanish with the night.

Though both were ancestral seats, the Dreadfort shared little with Winterfell. It was a relic of the Middle Ages, its stone bones largely untouched by the march of modernity. Thick masonry, ornate arches, and vaulted ceilings defined its form, while corridors were cluttered with ancient, brooding artworks. Even in daylight, the dim lamps and heavy tapestries lent the air a charnel-house chill.

After breakfast, Theon was conscripted into a tour. Ramsay lectured him on the family’s bloody lineage, pointing out shadowed oils and grim artifacts. Since Roose and Domeric preferred the city, the Dreadfort was a ghost-house, maintained by a skeletal staff and used primarily for the hunt.

Theon noted the eerie emptiness. The servants they encountered vanished into the shadows with spectral speed; those they did cross looked as though they had seen a phantom, averting their eyes in haste. It fostered a chilling illusion: that in this vast, echoing pile, only he and Ramsay existed.

They crossed a stone walkway to a modern stable set amidst emerald lawns. There, they found the first staff member who didn't flee. Ramsay took the reins of his latest birthday gift: a magnificent bay mare. Theon could only stare, once more humbled by the Boltons' staggering reach.

"The range is in the eastern wood. We shall ride there together," Ramsay proposed. He was dressed for the occasion in a waistcoat and breeches, his boots polished to a high shine.

"No," Theon countered, frowning. "I have never sat a horse, and two to a saddle seems a recipe for disaster."

"We have a tandem saddle," Ramsay said, snapping his fingers. The groom immediately produced a specialized leather rig and secured it.

"But—" Theon gestured to a white horse nearby. He had no wish to be squeezed against the boy.

"You ride with me, or you walk," Ramsay declared. He donned his helmet and mounted with a practiced, haughty grace, peering down at Theon from his perch. "Will you trudge through the dirt?" His eyes were alight with a cruel, mocking gleam.

You little devil. Theon gritted his teeth, accepted the helmet, and scrambled clumsily into the saddle with the groom’s aid.

Ramsay gave a derisive snort, snapped the reins, and signaled the horse forward.

It was, as feared, a calamitous idea. Initially, the mare’s rhythmic sway was almost lulling, allowing Theon to appreciate the woodland scenery. But as Ramsay urged the beast into a trot, the world shattered. Straddling the widest part of the horse’s ribs, Theon’s legs were forced into an agonizing splay. He began to slip in the saddle, his only anchor being Ramsay’s waist. When the horse turned, he was forced to cling to the boy with a desperate, crushing grip to avoid being flung into the brush.

"Dammit, slow down!" he cried, his voice bordering on a shriek. Sensing his terror, Ramsay only spurred the horse faster, his laughter lost to the wind.

By the time they reached the range, Theon didn't dismount so much as tumble to the earth. He knelt in the dirt, his muscles spasming, his legs too weak to bear his weight. Ramsay stood over him, crowing with delight at his wretched state before finally deigning to help him up.

"Are you finished? Come, then."

Fury boiled in Theon’s blood. As Ramsay reached for him, Theon leaned his entire weight onto the boy, relishing the way Ramsay staggered back. Seeing the boy struggle to maintain his balance gave Theon a sharp, vengeful satisfaction.

Ramsay shoved him away, his face contorted. "Stop playing!"

"Who started the play?" Theon snarled back.

They locked eyes in a silent, venomous war. Theon saw the familiar malice in Ramsay’s gaze and knew he should de-escalate, yet the accumulated exhaustion of the week snapped his restraint. His dormant, rebellious spirit finally reared its head.

"You are nothing but an ill-bred dog," Ramsay spat.

"Who are you calling ill-bred? Who is the dog?" Theon’s blood turned to fire; his throat burned with a suppressed roar.

Ramsay seemed even more incensed. "Is it not true? I help you up, and you lack the civility to say thank you?"

"If you had let me ride alone, or listened when I told you to slow down, I wouldn't need your help!"

Theon was livid. He had spent the last two weeks as a puppet to this brat's whims, sacrificing his rest and his autonomy. He had been a model of compliance, and for one moment of resistance, he was insulted. The realization that he had squandered his weekend in this godforsaken wilderness just to be berated was too much to bear.

In his silence, he realized with a jolt how much of his agency he had surrendered. He was always the one to yield, always the one navigating the minefield of Ramsay’s temper. He turned on his heel and marched toward the manor.

"Where are you going?" Ramsay’s voice was a mixture of shock and command. He grabbed Theon’s arm, but couldn't halt his stride.

"To get my bags. I’m leaving." Theon wrenched his arm free.

"You will stay," Ramsay blocked his path, his voice low with threat. "No driver will take you."

"I don't need your drivers. I’ll call Robb. He is always happy to help me—unlike some people." Theon looked down at the boy, the mention of Robb acting like a physical blow that silenced him. Then, Theon reached under Ramsay’s arms and hoisted him into the air like a recalcitrant kitten, moving him bodily out of the path.

"Don't block my way."

"You..."

Theon watched with a dark joy as a flush of humiliated rage climbed from Ramsay’s neck to his brow. The boy’s eyes were wide, his jaw locked, but no words came. In this moment, Theon revealed in the four-year gap between them; for all his malice, Ramsay was still a child, and if Theon truly willed it, he possessed the strength to defy him.

Sensing he had finally pushed back, Ramsay didn't block the path again. Instead, he trailed behind Theon with a face full of wounded pride and simmering heat. Each time he tried to grab Theon’s sleeve, Theon evaded him with a cool, practiced ease.

After a mile, Theon stole a glance back. Seeing the boy’s desperate, frustrated expression, his own anger began to dissipate. The mercurial emotions of youth are swift; the fire had burnt out, leaving only a lingering regret for such a childish spat.

"You’d die before you’d apologize, wouldn't you?" At a fork in the road, Theon stopped and sighed, facing Ramsay’s sullen visage.

He had underestimated the sheer scale of the estate. The manor was nowhere in sight, and his legs were screaming from the ride. Worse, he realized he hadn't memorized the route; the forest had become a labyrinth. Without a guide, he was lost. He decided to extend the olive branch.

"I have nothing to apologize for," Ramsay muttered, seizing the opportunity to latch onto Theon’s arm, clinging to him like a burr.

"Fine. It is all my fault," Theon said with a weary smile, letting the boy’s stubbornness win. Ramsay was like a toxic vine, relentlessly claiming territory, and Theon was too used to yielding. It was a wretched habit, one formed on the first day they met, and now, it was a debt he could never fully settle.

The range was a well-appointed clearing designed for the hunting club. Targets shaped like woodland prey were scattered amongst the brush to simulate the chase. The staff were nowhere to be seen, yet the bows and bolts were laid out with surgical precision. Theon’s spirits lifted as he gripped a recurve bow; the familiar weight and the satisfying thrum of a bolt finding its mark purged the last of his resentment.

Ramsay was an unnervingly gifted shot, his bolts striking home with a consistency that spoke of long hours of tutelage. He bragged that he usually used a rifle and had already joined the adults in the true hunt. He invited Theon to join him for a real kill next time.

Theon demurred. He had no stomach for a Bolton hunt; the grizzly tapestries in the hallway were a testament to how this family treated their quarry. He sought to change the subject. "You promised to show me the cabins. Shall we go before the sun fails?"

Ramsay gave him a strange, unreadable look. "Very well. Let us return."

They walked back, lead reins in hand, as Theon refused to mount again. The cabins were a revelation—decorated in a warm, rustic style that lacked the oppressive dread of the castle. Theon chose the one nearest the lake. He loved the water; even the chlorinated scent of the town pool was a comfort, and this vast, shimmering expanse was far superior.

"Explore as you wish. I will have the staff bring the food and gear," Ramsay said, picking up the internal phone. He clearly intended to stay. Theon was numb to it; the boy’s presence was now a fact of nature, as unavoidable as the weather.

Theon wandered down to the lakeshore. There, partially hidden by the thicket, stood a dilapidated shack that looked entirely out of place.

"What is that?"

"The kennel," Ramsay said, appearing at his shoulder. A strange light flickered in his eyes—a flicker of something that looked like grief, or perhaps guilt.

"But the kennels are by the stables," Theon noted, recalling the modern, sterile building they had passed earlier.

Driven by a reckless curiosity, Theon approached. The shack was smothered in dead vines, its door secured by a rusted chain without a lock. Every instinct screamed for him to turn back, yet he couldn't stop.

"This one is... different," Ramsay whispered. His voice broke for a fleeting second, a sound so fragile Theon thought he’d imagined it. "Do you wish to enter?" Ramsay took the handle, his expression a mask of cold vacancy.

"I do."

Ramsay’s jaw tightened. He unlooped the chain, the metal clattering like bone against the ground. As the door swung open, the air of the tomb spilled out—musty, ancient, and tinged with a faint, lingering musk.

Inside, the only light came from a jagged hole in the roof. Ramsay produced a torch from a nearby crate, the yellow beam carving his face into stark halves of light and shadow. "They took the generator years ago."

The light revealed no instruments of torture, only a massive steel cage, a tattered dog bed, and a collection of forgotten toys. A weathered leather collar lay directly beneath the hole in the roof. On the cage hung a wooden nameplate with four crudely carved letters: R-E-E-K.

"Reek?"

"My first hound," Ramsay said softly, stroking the nameplate. "Father said I could bring him here, but he couldn't survive the other hunters. He was too old, too slow. I moved him here to protect him. I built this place myself."

"What happened to him?" Theon asked, though the answer was written in the decay around them.

"The snows of two years ago. The roof gave way," Ramsay said, illuminating the hole. "I don't know if the impact killed him or the frost. I found him frozen solid. The servants took the body. This is all that remains."

Ramsay turned to him, his voice flat, as if discussing the harvest. It was a terrifying, unnatural calm. A chill climbed Theon’s spine. "I am sorry, Ramsay."

"Why?" Ramsay’s brow furrowed.

"For what you lost."

"It was a dog. Dogs die." His voice was hollow, yet his knuckles were white as he clenched his fists. Theon realized he had stumbled upon a wound the boy had never allowed to heal.

"But it hurt you," Theon said gently, chipping away at the ice.

"Nonsense! I feel nothing. He was a mangy, useless cur. I am glad to be rid of the smell." Ramsay’s voice rose, cracking with the effort of his denial. His eyes were a turbulent sea of agony and rage.

Theon saw the child behind the monster—a boy who had been taught that love was a weakness to be purged. He reached out to touch Ramsay’s hair, but the boy struck his hand away.

"There is no one here but us," Theon whispered. "You don't have to pretend."

"I am not pretending! It is wonderful to be free of him!" The more Ramsay spat insults at the dead dog, the more the volcanic pressure in his eyes built. The air in the shack grew heavy, vibrating with the threat of a collapse. Ramsay glared at him with a predatory, desperate intensity that made Theon shiver—not with fear, but with a profound, aching pity.

Theon thought of his mother, Alanys. Before her mind had fractured, she would hold him when he wept, her embrace a sanctuary that required no words. Instinctively, he stepped forward and pulled Ramsay into a crushing hug. Ramsay stiffened, thrashing against him, but Theon held fast, pinning the boy’s shoulders until the resistance died.

"It’s alright," Theon murmured, channeling his mother’s warmth. "You don't have to be sad. You’re just sorry you didn't say goodbye."

"I have no regrets," Ramsay whispered into Theon’s chest. After a long silence, his hands crept around Theon’s waist, pulling him closer.

For a timeless minute, they stayed there, breathing each other’s air. The walls between them had thinned to nothing. Ramsay looked up, his gray eyes swirling with blue at the edges, reflecting Theon with a terrifying, absolute focus.

"I have no regrets," Ramsay repeated, his voice now a steady, dark vow. "Because I have found something better."

The heat between them was visceral. Theon felt his heart hammering against his ribs; a feverish, ambiguous longing began to bloom in the silence. Ramsay’s lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. "This time, I shall be a better master."

Ramsay walked to the floor and retrieved the old leather collar. Before Theon could protest, he looped it around Theon’s wrist, buckling it tight. "We shall never be parted again."

That night, in the warmth of the lakeside cabin, Theon watched the boy sleep. Ramsay was draped across him, his skin a radiant weight. The collar sat on the nightstand, its leather and metal feeling like a premonition.

A collar is a dead thing; it cannot hold a man. But Ramsay could.

Theon touched the boy’s cheek—the warmth, the softness, the terrifying reality of him. Ramsay would never let go. He would never allow Theon to drift into the dark alone.

He knew he had opened a Pandora’s box, yet he could no longer remember why he had feared the contents. He was at the edge of the precipice, and the fall seemed inevitable. Following the lead of his treacherous heart, Theon leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Ramsay’s brow, then pulled the boy into his arms, finally finding peace in the heat of the hunter.

Chapter Text

14、10
 

Theon let himself sink to the deepest floor of the pool, allowing the chlorinated water to swallow his nose and mouth. He remained there, suspended in the depths until every shred of air was purged from his lungs. This near-drowning was his only sanctuary; it was a flirtation with the border of life and death, the only difference being that here, and only here, he possessed the power to decide when the end would come.

Beneath the surface, he existed on pure instinct. Thought was unnecessary. The silent bed of the pool was the final redoubt of his autonomy.

In the muffled stillness, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the filtration motor, he could momentarily forget his precarious standing within House Stark. As his father, Balon, continued to withhold reparations and living expenses—and refused to align with the Starks' logistical mandates—the looks he received from the Stark kin grew darker, more shadowed with resentment.

Theon felt a jagged sense of indignation. Their bitterness implied he possessed some grand significance, as if he could sway his father’s iron will from a thousand miles away. They treated him as if he weren't a mere hostage, barred by decree from ever setting foot on his home islands, surviving on a dwindling pittance and the begrudging charity of his captors.

He had no one to whom he could complain; the Stark children remained blissfully ignorant of the political gears grinding him down.

Under the glacial, scrutinizing gaze of Ned Stark, Theon had been forced to call Asha from the Lord’s own office. Trembling as he stated his purpose, he had endured the cold negotiations until Asha promised to settle the arrears. She had requested a visit, and eventually, a meeting was sanctioned at a café in White Harbor—provided Theon was escorted by handlers and fitted with a GPS tracker.

The humiliation was a physical weight. He spent his days trying to forget he was a piece of collateral, only for Ned Stark’s clinical suspicion to strip away his last shred of dignity.

He was a chip on a table.

No one cared for his will; he was merely a commodity to be bartered.

The meeting with his sister had been heavy with unspoken grief. Asha arrived leading Alannys by the hand. His mother’s condition seemed improved, though she remained dazed under the fog of her medication. Yet, she had managed a few words, and her hand had remained clasped over Theon’s throughout the meeting, a warmth so poignant it threatened to draw tears.

Since the failed rebellion, the Iron Islands were a shattered mirror. Balon, having sold his sons and his soul to stay out of a dungeon, had descended into an alcoholic stupor. His eccentric uncles had vanished into the mist. Asha alone carried the burden of the family business and the care of their broken mother.

Despite her exhaustion, Asha’s eyes retained their predatory spark. She had always been defiant, the most capable of Balon’s brood. With Rodrik and Maron rotting in cells—sentences so long they were functionally dead—she was the undisputed heir.

They danced around the topic of their brothers. A mention of the court records was a reminder that life in a cage was no life at all.

After the hollow pleasantries regarding his health and studies, Asha confessed the grim reality: their traditional shipping routes were failing. Under the pressure of new trade lanes, they held only forty percent of their former market. Their only hope lay in a tenuous new contract with House Targaryen.

She spoke of management woes he barely understood, eventually arriving at the crux: they still could not afford to pay the full ransom to bring him home.

Theon already knew. After the war, House Greyjoy had been systematically dismantled, its wealth devoured by victors. They were a ruin with a title.

And Balon Greyjoy had made his stance clear in a recent collection call: he had told the Starks they might as well "dispose" of Theon, for he would not pay a king’s ransom for his "most useless" son.

Every time that memory resurfaced, it cut like a serrated blade. He wondered when he would finally become the man who could accept his father’s contempt without bleeding.

At their parting, Asha pressed a modest envelope of cash into his hand and pulled him into a fierce embrace, vowing to find a way to bring him back. His mother stroked his hair with a ghostly tenderness, pressing a piece of candy—a flavor he had outgrown years ago—into his palm.

Theon looked at the arms wrapped around him like golden shackles. He didn't doubt they loved him, or that they were the only two souls who would cross a sea to see him. But he wondered how much of that love was forged in the crucibles of guilt and regret.

In the Islands, he had been the invisible third son. He had spent more time with wet-nurses than with his kin. Asha had been the darling of the fleet, and Alannys had been lost in the storm of her husband’s violence.

They had never been confidants then, and they couldn't be now. Even if speaking the truth about his life in the North might ease their guilt, he remained silent. He clung to their guilt-stricken affection because it was the only currency of love he had left.

What they didn't know was that when the Stark car had first taken him away, he had felt a secret surge of relief. He had thought leaving home was a beginning.

His friendship with Robb had briefly fueled that delusion, but he had been wrong. An object is an object. A hostage is a hostage. Wherever he went, he was merely a tool used to threaten others.

Ultimately, Theon swallowed his unspoken words. He nodded dutifully in his sister’s arms and watched them leave.

Waiting for the Stark escort, he walked aimlessly along the shoreline. The salt-spray air of the North felt different—heavy and cold. The sound of the waves brought no comfort, only a crushing sense of psychological exhaustion.

He loathed his life. He loathed the impotence of being a pawn, and he loathed his own cowardice—his inability to speak the truth, to face their shock, or to endure their questions.

He wanted to stop being a weakness for others to exploit. He wanted to flee this land of eternal winter, to let his past be washed away like vows written in the sand, and to live as others did: oblivious, disconnected, and free of the Northern houses forever.

"I cannot comprehend this obsession of yours," Ramsay said, lounging peevishly on a deck chair by the pool.

Theon startled, realizing he was in the Boltons' indoor pool. He had ignored Ramsay for nearly half an hour, and the boy’s resentment had reached a boiling point.

"The water is calming. Are you sure you won't join me?" Theon climbed out, sitting on the adjacent lounger and reaching for a towel to dry his shivering skin.

Ramsay’s gaze flickered over Theon’s body, darting away the moment their eyes met. He pursed his lips with uncharacteristic awkwardness. "No. I have no interest."

"Go play by yourself, then."

Theon studied the boy’s pale skin. It occurred to him that he had never seen Ramsay swim. Despite it being his own pool, and despite his insistent invitations for Theon to come to the Dreadfort for a dip, Ramsay never entered the water. He wore the gear—the athletic jacket and trunks—but he only ever watched. Usually, if ignored, Ramsay would be tugging at Theon’s arm, but when Theon was in the pool, the boy kept a strange, brooding distance.

A realization dawned on Theon.

"You... you can't swim, can you?"

Ramsay’s sharp, indignant glare was all the confirmation Theon needed.

Theon couldn't suppress a triumphant smirk. Finally, a chance for retribution.

Since witnessing Ramsay’s archery, they had practiced often. But the novelty had worn thin for Ramsay; he grew bored with stationary targets, boasting instead of the "true excitement" of the Bolton hunts. To him, Theon’s training was mere child’s play.

Eventually, Ramsay had wheedled him into a Bolton autumn hunt. Theon knew the boy was a gifted shot, but the reality was a different beast. Ramsay had moved like a whirlwind, taking down a wild boar before the rest of the party had even settled.

They had followed the blood trail to find the beast thrashing in its own gore. Ramsay had dismounted without a flicker of hesitation, swiftly opening the creature's throat.

Then, under Roose’s cold, approving eye, the boy had begun to flay the carcass. Theon had stood paralyzed, suppressing a scream. Ramsay’s technique was unrefined but terrifyingly precise; each stroke of the knife was deliberate, rhythmic—an artistic performance of butchery.

Perhaps for House Bolton, with the Flayed Man on their banners, it truly was art. Roose’s quiet praise and Ramsay’s expectant, blood-splattered grin suggested this was a skill of which to be proud.

But the sight had turned Theon’s stomach. He had retreated to Ramsay’s room, refusing to join the rest of the festivities.

He had once prided himself on being the son of a grim sea-culture, laughing at Robb’s "softness." But the reality of flaying was a visceral horror that no B-movie could match. The iron scent of blood and the desperate look in the boar’s eyes haunted him. He found he could no longer look at meat without gagging; he only wanted to return to the sanitized safety of civilization.

Ramsay, sensing the weakness, had toyed with him. He ensured the dinners sent to the room were pork-heavy and "gifted" Theon the boar’s hide. The boy’s innocent, mocking smile confirmed his malice.

Theon lived in a state of constant, low-grade apprehension. Whether it was talking to Robb for too long or responding to a text a minute late, Ramsay always found a reason to punish him, treating Theon like a disobedient child.

In the past, Ramsay’s threats had been verbal. He was a spoiled child, a sharp but unsharpened blade, a kitten whose claws drew a little blood but never reached the bone.

Theon had grown arrogant, believing he understood the boy, believing he held the leash.

But the hunt had shattered that delusion. Ramsay had shown him the beast beneath the porcelain skin. The boy was shedding the protection of childhood, revealing a predatory nature that was quickly spiraling out of control. Theon loathed the loss of dominance; it triggered a deep, primal insecurity.

This was worse than being a pawn for Ned Stark. With the Starks, he was a tool, but his life was safe. With Ramsay, he felt like prey being lured into a trap, preening in his "victory" while the hunter’s rifle was already trained on his heart.

He had tried to distance himself. No amount of luxury or that strange, dark magnetism was worth his life. If not for the lingering depression of his meeting with Asha, he wouldn't have agreed to stay the night at the Dreadfort.

But now, discovering Ramsay’s fear of the water, the thrill of the upper hand returned. The danger was forgotten; the sense of control he had been stripped of by the world was suddenly back in his hands.

"Do you want to learn? I’ll teach you."

"I do not," Ramsay snapped, turning away.

"Come on. I’ll show you." Theon tossed aside his towel and stood by the edge, relentlessly badgering the boy. Without his knives or his hounds, Ramsay’s physical advantage was moot. Theon easily pulled him from the lounger.

"If I learn from you, what do I get?" Ramsay finally stopped resisting, allowing himself to be led to the edge. He watched Theon slide into the water, his eyes calculating.

"What do you want?"

"A reward. I want you to promise me one thing," Ramsay said, tilting his head with a staged, cherubic innocence.

"Fine." Theon was too eager to see the boy humbled; he agreed without thought.

Ramsay didn't hesitate further. He descended the steps slowly until the water reached his neck.

His face was a mask of coldness, but his hands gripped Theon’s arms with bruising strength. He climbed up Theon’s body until he was clinging to his neck, his entire weight suspended.

Theon used the water's buoyancy to hoist the boy up, laughing softly at the rare display of vulnerability and the surrender of control.

"Relax. You’ll float."

Theon realized he had no idea how to actually teach swimming. To an Ironborn, it was an instinct, like breathing.

"Start by holding your breath. Take a deep lungful and exhale slowly underwater."

Theon submerged them both. Below the surface, he saw Ramsay’s eyes squeezed shut. The boy panicked within seconds, his brow furrowing as his air ran out. Theon brought them up immediately. Ramsay coughed and spluttered, clinging to Theon while shivering like a wet cat. It was a pathetic, marvelous sight.

"How was that?"

"Horrible," Ramsay hissed.

Before the boy could erupt in anger, Theon playfully pinched his nose, his finger trailing down to Ramsay’s lips. He pressed his thumb against the boy’s lower lip. "Breathe through your nose, then exhale slowly through your mouth."

"One breath at a time. Don't rush." As Theon spoke, he tapped Ramsay’s lip to emphasize the rhythm. He intended it as a lesson, but the look in Ramsay’s wide, dilated eyes changed the air. The boy’s hot breath fanned over Theon’s fingers. The memory of Ramsay’s teeth on his knuckles—sucking, biting—flashed through his mind like a jolt of electricity.

Theon’s throat went dry. He pulled his hand back, his face flushing. "Do you understand?"

Ramsay nodded slowly.

"Again, then. I’ve got you."

They submerged again. This time, Ramsay was calmer. His progress was startling. By the sixth time they went under, he had mastered the rhythm.

When they surfaced again, Theon felt a rush of pride. The success acted as an exorcism for his week of misery; he smiled, a genuine, radiant grin.

Ramsay stared at the smile, a faint curve touching his own lips. He rested his head on Theon’s shoulder, his hot breath grazing Theon’s neck. They drifted in the water like two swans entwined, their heartbeats echoing through their pressed chests.

Time slowed. There was only the ripple of the water and the hum of the pool.

Ramsay’s hand slid from Theon’s neck down his spine. The touch sent a wave of heat through Theon’s limbs, a primal, hidden desire that surged into a fever.

Sensing the change in his own body, Theon panicked. He tried to push Ramsay away, but the boy’s hands locked around his neck, pinning him in place.

"Can I have my reward now?"

"What?"

"I want this."

Ramsay pulled Theon’s head down and pressed his lips against his. It was a brief, light contact, yet it left Ramsay’s cheeks flushed with crimson.

"That... that was my first kiss," Theon blurted out, stunned.

Ramsay grinned, his eyes darkening with a swirling, predatory hunger. He licked his lips and whispered, "Mine, too."

Theon’s breath hitched. Ramsay took his hand, interlacing their fingers. In the cold water, their bodies were each other’s only heat.

Something inside Theon collapsed. The barricades he had built against his own desires, the shame he only faced in his dreams—it was all breached by a single blow. The tide of longing poured out, threatening to drown him.

He reached down, hoisting Ramsay up by his hips so they were eye-to-eye. Ramsay’s gaze was a naked map of want. His fingers tangled in Theon’s hair. Theon let out a strangled moan, severed his last tie to logic, and kissed the boy back.

He was out of control. He had no experience, so he mimicked Ramsay, licking the boy’s lips. He expected to taste the things Ramsay always smelled of—candy, cream, cinnamon. Instead, there was only the clinical tang of the pool. The disappointment forced a low sigh from his throat.

Ramsay pulled back, a smirk dancing on his lips. "I believe you now. You’re terrible at this. I’ve 'taught' you so many times—how have you not learned?"

He surged forward again, biting down on Theon’s lower lip. When Theon gasped in pain, Ramsay’s tongue invaded his mouth, sliding over his teeth until it found Theon’s tongue. It tangled and pulled, coaxing Theon’s tongue into his own mouth, suckling it with a ferocity that made Theon’s knees buckle.

Theon surrendered the lead. He felt as though he were standing in the heart of a blaze. The heat in his lower body was a roar. He didn't care if it consumed him; he only cared for the boy’s mouth.

When Ramsay finally pulled away, a thin silver thread of saliva connected them. Theon flushed scarlet, finally realizing the double meaning in Ramsay’s earlier words. While Theon had been agonizing over his secret thoughts, Ramsay had seen through him all along.

Ramsay leaned his forehead against Theon’s. His gray-blue eyes were filled with a raw, expectant heat.

Theon remained silent. Under the boy’s questioning gaze, he led them out of the pool. But as he wrapped himself in a soft towel, his mind was a storm of complexity and chaos he could no longer ignore.

Chapter Text

14，10

Since arriving in the North, far from the reach of the ocean, Theon frequently drifted into dreams of his homeland, the Iron Islands. They were fleeting, surreal, and nonsensical visions where his kin flickered in and out, playing various roles. Most of these dreams dissolved the moment he woke.

Except for the tower.

That tower, perched at the very edge of the sea cliff, appeared in his dreams again and again, never fading.

It was a place too close to the sky and too far from the sea. In the top-floor bedroom, one could always hear the howling winds and the crashing waves stirred by the storm. It was the eternal banquet hall where the Drowned God and the Storm God danced their endless, violent dance.

Theon remembered the picture books he once read—illustrations of those feasts where only two gods attended, describing how the Drowned God’s power would retreat under the fierce assault of the Storm God. Though the Drowned God was always the loser in those stories, he never truly died. He would rise again, bringing an even more violent counter-strike.

What is dead may never truly die.

Just like the incessant roar of the waves caught in the howling wind, it was the core of Ironborn culture.

Theon would lie on his felt rug, hidden inside the tower that belonged only to him, reading those stories over and over. Reading had been his greatest passion then—and his mother’s, too. When Alannys first carried him into the library on Harlaw, Theon had felt a sense of awe at the sight of the endless books, a feeling that never changed despite Rodrik’s disdainful jeers.

The Ironborn glorified strength; they believed in learning through the body and gaining experience through reaving. For Theon, who preferred to learn from books, this was merely another proof of weakness.

He couldn't remember how many times his beloved books had been torn or burned while Balon shook his head in disappointment, Alannys wept, Rodrik and Maron snickered, and Asha remained silent. Standing before a pile of wasted paper, Theon never understood why preferring reading over raiding made him a monstrous outlier in his own family.

So he retreated to that tower. Dilapidated and deserted, it was his secret base—the only place where he could escape his brothers' bullying and read in peace, listening to the natural duet of the gods.

Corroded by the sea salt, the room held little furniture besides his rug and books; he couldn't exactly smuggle heavy furniture in without being noticed. There was only one sturdy wooden chair, which he used as a desk while he sat on the floor. When he wanted a quiet nap, he would climb into the walk-in closet. Closing the door cut out seventy percent of the storm's noise. Staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers he had pasted on the ceiling himself, he felt a strange sense of peace.

He thought it was the only place on Pyke that truly belonged to him.

Until the blood-red Silence docked at the harbor.

The dream’s perspective twisted violently. His sanctuary was contaminated. Memories of different senses merged: the damp, moldy smell of old wood, the stench of seawater, the thundering waves hitting the exterior walls, suppressed gasps, the cold pain of knees forced against the floor, and the rhythmic creak of that wooden chair.

In the darkness, he could only pray to every god he knew for it to end quickly.

But the prayers went unanswered. Bitter seawater kept flooding his lungs, air was forced out, and every breath was agony. Theon whimpered. Even in the dream, even on dry land, that sensation of drowning and suffocation was terrifyingly real.

A single blue eye, shimmering with malice, appeared behind him. Fear seized him. He screamed, cried, and begged for help, but no one came.

Blue lips curled into a smirk. Powerful hands held him firmly in a mocking embrace. His cries were cut short as a voice whispered intimately: "Little Theon."

Theon always woke up at the end of that sentence. The dream shattered, but the agonizing sensation of being strangled was real. The fear lingered, and a wave of nausea sent him lunging out of bed and into the bathroom, where he collapsed over the toilet and retched violently.

He emptied his stomach until there was nothing left but bitter bile and the familiar burn in his throat. Leaning his forehead against the cold porcelain, he gasped for air. Cold sweat dripped from his hair; physiological tears tracked down his face. The marks of the past clung to him like filth that couldn't be washed away—thick, nauseating, and inescapable. He felt as if he were still trapped in that seaside tower.

Fighting to steady his breath, he crawled to the sink and splashed cold water over his face, trying to wash away the tears and the sickness. His body wouldn't stop shaking. Sobbing quietly, he stared at the running water, feeling utterly powerless.

"What happened to you?" Ramsay’s voice cut through the silence. Theon looked up, startled, meeting Ramsay’s eyes in the mirror.

How long had he been standing there? Theon hadn't heard the door. He couldn't even remember if he had closed it.

This was the first time he had suffered an episode in front of someone. His mind went blank. Ramsay’s unshielded, scrutinizing gaze felt like a physical sting against his skin. He couldn't find the words. He couldn't remember what excuses he had used the time Robb had overheard him.

And Ramsay was far more difficult to handle than Robb. Before Theon could speak, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist.

"I knew my Theon was fragile. Don't be afraid. I'm here; I'll protect you." Ramsay’s voice sounded sincere and steady. Having said his piece, he simply leaned against Theon’s back, asking no questions, seeking no explanations.

Theon froze. He was deeply confused, then slowly, he began to calm down. He looked at the arms holding him, searching for a hidden motive or a cruel joke, but found nothing. No scolding, no interrogation, no mockery.

This unexpected gesture sent ripples through his heart. In his most isolated and vulnerable moment, Ramsay had provided the silent comfort he had always craved from his mother, his sister, or Robb—a need that had never truly been met until now.

The wrong person, providing the right gesture and the right words.

Those few words triggered a powerful reaction. A faint throb in his chest made his breathing deepen. He found this silence infinitely more comforting than Robb’s concerned prying. It was a testament to how fragile his mental state was; a "normal" Theon would never have thought so.

He was caught in an internal storm. He knew it was wrong, yet the embrace provided a sense of security he was desperate for. Ramsay had melted the final line of defense. Theon felt as though he could refuse the boy nothing in that moment.

After a while, Theon’s breathing leveled out. Ramsay turned him around to face him. He looked up at Theon’s miserable face—bloodshot eyes and tears clinging to his lashes like morning dew.

Ramsay stroked Theon’s cheek with his thumb, a gentle movement like someone calming a startled animal. He stared with an intense, burning focus, yet remained silent as he grabbed a towel to dry Theon’s face.

"Come," Ramsay whispered. He took Theon’s hand and led him back to the bedroom, back to the massive bed.

Theon followed in silence and climbed into the warmth of the covers. The heating blanket made the mattress toasty, and the soft duvet felt like a slice of heaven. He looked at Ramsay as the boy climbed in beside him.

Ramsay lay on his side, watching Theon with a look of pity. He deigned to slide his hand into Theon’s palm, saying with a touch of petulance, "You can hold my hand."

"Mm... thank you," Theon rasped, interlacing their fingers.

Meeting those gray-blue eyes, Theon saw his own reflection—pale, haggard, and utterly broken. But Ramsay seemed to grow visibly cheerful. He even let out a soft laugh, his eyes scanning Theon with a terrifying frequency, as if trying to memorize every detail of his misery.

What a strange child, Theon thought. He could never understand Ramsay’s mind. The last time he had seen Ramsay this excited was during the hunt, another memory he wished to bury.

Ramsay shifted closer, his feigned tenderness replaced by a raw, burning hunger. Their bodies pressed together, their breaths mingling. The heat reminded Theon of the kiss in the pool—a sweet, primal warning. Before Ramsay could press closer, Theon used their joined hands to push him back.

Ramsay looked shocked. He frowned, his lips curling into a pout. "Why did you push me?"

"I just threw up. There’s a smell," Theon whispered, scooting back.

"Oh. I don't care." Ramsay pressed forward again. Theon kept retreating until he hit the very edge of the bed.

"Well, I care, okay?" Theon dodged Ramsay’s lips, so the boy’s kiss landed on his cheek instead.

Ramsay glared at him. He gripped Theon’s hand and dragged him back to the center of the bed, pinning him down—a move he had mastered.

"You were kissing me plenty in the pool today. Why the change of heart in bed?" Ramsay’s eyes were dark, shimmering with the anger of being defied.

"I didn't..." Theon buried his face in the pillow, trying to hide from the embarrassment.

"You aren't trying to be irresponsible, are you?" Ramsay’s voice turned dangerous. His grip tightened, his fingers leaving red marks on the back of Theon’s hand.

"I'm not. Don't talk nonsense," Theon said cautiously. Experience told him it was always better to go along with Ramsay.

The earlier warmth had been a mirage. Ramsay’s mask never lasted long; the moment he was denied, his true nature surfaced. Theon cursed himself for having felt moved just a moment ago.

"Good," Ramsay said, satisfied. He grabbed a handful of Theon’s hair to keep him from turning away, scanning his face for lies. Finally, he leaned down and kissed Theon’s forehead. "You must understand, darling. You are already mine."

Theon bit his cheek, muttering a protest. "Technically, until my family pays the debt, I belong to the Starks."

Ramsay glared at him, annoyed by the reminder. "How much?"

"What?"

"How much money does your family owe?"

Theon didn't actually know the figure, so he made up a number. Even for a spoiled heir like Ramsay, the amount was staggering.

"That much?"

"Yes. Until then, I am a Stark possession."

Theon took advantage of Ramsay’s momentary shock to push him off and settle into the bed. Dealing with Ramsay was exhausting, but at least it left no room for the ghosts of his dreams. Sleepiness finally began to win.

"I don't have that much right now... but when I'm older... no, give me some time. I'll find a way to get it. Then you'll be mine," Ramsay muttered beside him.

"Mm-hmm," Theon mumbled, patting the mattress to get the boy to lie down. He was too tired to think of anything but sleep.

Ramsay gave him a strange look but, surprisingly, didn't argue. He slid under the covers and interlaced their fingers again. Theon instinctively pulled the boy into his arms, using him as a heat source.

Ramsay’s eyes lit up. He let go of Theon’s hand to wrap his arms around his waist, tucking his head against Theon’s chest.

Finally, silence.

Just as Theon was about to drift off, Ramsay whispered, "Do you want to go back?"

"No."

"Eh?"

Theon’s answer was absolute. He realized Ramsay meant the Iron Islands—his true home. But the answer was the same. He hated being a hostage, but he didn't want to go back to the place that only held painful memories.

"I don't want to be in either place. I want to go somewhere warmer," Theon murmured sleepily.

Ramsay studied his face. "Then do you want to go to King's Landing?"

"King's Landing?"

"My family has property there. Domeric is going there for school soon. My father told me I should go too. If you hate it here and don't want to go home, come with me to the capital."

It was a new thought. Theon had never considered a third option. He didn't know much about the city, but maybe he’d look it up tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to sleep.

Ramsay’s hand began to wander, pinching the skin at Theon’s waist. Theon realized they were sharing a pillow now, their breaths mingling intimately. Despite the danger, the warmth was too addictive to give up. He pulled Ramsay closer.

"Will you?" Ramsay whispered, patting Theon’s cheek.

"Sure," Theon agreed, just to get him to be quiet.

"It’s a promise, then. We go to King's Landing together." Ramsay’s voice was a seductive purr. He leaned in and kissed Theon before he could protest. It was a short kiss, but Ramsay pulled back and made a face. "It does have a taste..."

"I told you. Can you sleep now?"

"I have an idea," Ramsay whispered, his lips brushing Theon’s ear. He laughed as he felt Theon shiver.

"Ah!"

A sharp sting jolted Theon awake. Ramsay had bitten his ear hard. Then, with the taste of blood on his lips, he kissed Theon again. "Now the taste is covered."

Pain radiated from his ear. Theon touched the wound and glared at Ramsay, who showed no remorse. When Ramsay realized Theon was keeping his mouth shut, he began to lick Theon’s lips, his ice-blue eyes deep and unfathomable.

Theon didn't understand Ramsay’s obsession with his mouth, treating it like a precious sweet. On any other day, he might have been flattered, but right now, the constant interruptions to his sleep were making him angry.

Since resistance was futile, he took control. Theon grabbed Ramsay’s cheeks and bit back before the boy could react, seizing the initiative.

He mimicked Ramsay’s movements, invading the boy’s mouth and sucking on his tongue. It was a kiss that tasted of iron and blood, and the realization that it was his own blood only fueled his frustration.

It turned out he was a natural. Once he threw away his shame, he used his tongue with startling proficiency. He explored Ramsay’s mouth, licking his teeth and pushing deeper until his tongue grazed the back of Ramsay’s throat. Ramsay’s body trembled, and as Theon continued to stimulate his throat, a low moan escaped the boy.

Blood and saliva smeared together, dripping onto the clean pillowcase. Neither of them cared. They were lost in the kiss.

It feels good, Theon thought dizzily. It was like sinking into the water and letting the current take him.

Finally, Ramsay had to grab the back of Theon’s neck to break away. His face was flushed, his eyes glazed, and his lips were swollen. To Theon, he looked more "lovable" than ever.

Theon reached out to wipe the saliva from the corner of Ramsay’s mouth and brushed the hair from his eyes. He kissed the boy’s eyelids. He was spent. Every ounce of energy had been drained from him. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Ramsay’s shoulder.

He felt a hand playing with his hair. Theon didn't move, allowing himself to sink into a dreamless sleep.

Thank god, this time, Ramsay didn't wake him.

Chapter Text

16, 12

Theon sat on a lounge chair at the edge of the pool, his body and hair still damp. He hadn't bothered with a towel, letting the air dry him naturally. With one hand, he idly stirred the ice cubes in his cold drink; with the other, he adjusted his sunglasses and squinted up at the dazzling sunlight.

Though summer in the North was something of a joke, the year occasionally produced a few miraculous days—perfect sunshine, comfortable temperatures, ideal for sunbathing. People would drop whatever they were doing and rush to the beaches or pools to savor these rare, glorious moments.

In previous summers, Theon would accompany the entire Stark family to their nearest beach villa. Days were spent frolicking on the shore, evenings enjoying relaxed barbecues under the sea breeze. It was Theon's favorite family activity with the Starks.

But this year, even that rare leisure had been taken from him. Ever since Lord Eddard Stark had returned from King's Landing, Robb had begun accompanying him after classes to learn the management of family affairs. The atmosphere within the Stark household had grown increasingly strange. Sansa had casually mentioned walking in on their parents arguing—something unheard of, given their famously harmonious relationship.

No one knew what was happening. Everyone tread carefully. Regarding the summer retreat, Lord Stark had once suggested at dinner that a subordinate could take the rest of the family, leaving Robb behind to work. Lady Catelyn Stark had shot the proposal down with icy finality, and the matter was dropped.

The oppressive tension lingered, and no one dared bring up the vacation again. Without Robb there, Theon found his own interest in the trip waning. He didn't dislike the other Stark children; in fact, compared to his own family, their playful banter and noisy camaraderie felt far more like a real home.

But the thought of navigating it without Robb as a buffer—just him and Jon staring daggers at each other all day, and a Jon currently mired in the throes of adolescent angst at that—seemed guaranteed to end in another argument. The mere idea gave him a headache.

So, on this rare sun-drenched day, his only remaining option was the Bolton residence. The small pool at this townhouse was more decorative than functional, its facilities paling in comparison to the indoor pool at the Dreadfort. But it had the advantage of solitude—no one to deal with, aside from Ramsay, of course.

Since Domenia had begun studying abroad in King's Landing the previous year, Roose frequently used business as an excuse to stay there for extended periods. His time in the North had dwindled to almost nothing. Theon knew he was unlikely to encounter the elusive Roose while wandering the house. Often, Ramsay was the only master left in the villa.

Ramsay had simply granted Theon resident access. Theon could let himself in whenever he pleased. He could come over anytime. Conversely, whenever Ramsay wanted him to come over, Theon was expected to comply.

Hearing Ramsay's instructions, Theon had sighed inwardly. Over the past six months, relations between the North's two wealthiest and most prominent families had grown subtly strained. Though not openly hostile, their social interactions had noticeably cooled, reduced to obligatory work gatherings and the grand annual family party—nothing more than polite formalities.

As a result, Ramsay had lost his privilege of brazenly sneaking into the Stark house and coming and going from Theon's room as he pleased. Theon was finally spared the sight of Ramsay rummaging through his belongings after school.

Ramsay deeply resented this. He had used it as a pretext to pin Theon down and act out once again, seemingly oblivious to how much he had shot up in height over the past half-year, how the baby fat had begun to melt from his face, revealing the features of a youth. When he sprawled over Theon and threw his tantrums now, there was an undeniable, ambiguous intimacy to it.

Faced with Ramsay's unreasonable fits, Theon could only hold him tight and murmur reassurances into his ear, promising over and over that he would come by to stay often, soothing that suspicious, restless temperament.

With the house mostly empty save for Ramsay and a few caretakers, Theon was still willing to go. His previous reluctance had largely stemmed from not knowing how to deal with Roose. Domithea was manageable, but he instinctively avoided that cold-eyed middle-aged man, fearing those eyes that always seemed to be appraising the value of goods.

In comparison, Ramsay, whose eyes always churned with excessive, volatile emotion, was far easier to handle. Though with age, Ramsay had learned to cloak his true feelings behind a veneer of practiced intimacy and polite formality.

Still, after years of close contact, while Theon wouldn't claim to be an expert at reading Ramsay's moods, he could always glean a wealth of clues from those eyes glaring at him. They were cold as ice, yet contained within them was a stubborn, fixated emotion—not the stillness of a stagnant pond.

Ramsay was like a bottomless pit that no amount of filling could ever satisfy. Always greedy, always craving, always needing more, and more, and more. Theon wondered if it stemmed from his ignoble origins—if he needed so much to fill that void, to compensate for the boy who once had nothing.

But Theon would never show him pity. Ramsay's pride ran as deep as his greed; he would never tolerate any trait that made him appear weak. He preferred to rage like a tyrant when thwarted, using violence to mask everything else.

As a frequent victim of Ramsay's irrational outbursts, Theon had learned a thing or two. Years of experience had taught him to yield when Ramsay lost control—first pretend to submit, then placate him with insincere sweet talk, and finally seal it with a sticky, fervent kiss.

The kissing tactic, in particular, was astonishingly effective on Ramsay. Whenever Theon initiated a kiss, Ramsay would freeze for a heartbeat. The ranting and the violence would pause, like a wild beast hitting a pause button. And then, as long as Theon made a suitable concession, Ramsay would mostly become compliant.

Just as he had once indulged Ramsay's habit of biting his fingers, kissing was merely another tool to pacify him.

He was no longer a child. He knew perfectly well that their intimacy had crossed a line. Theon wasn't sure how to define it. Ramsay was always declaring that Theon was his, staking his claim, yet he never followed it up with a noun to solidify what they were.

Since there was no suffix, Theon had no desire to complete this particular fill-in-the-blank. He was content to continue feigning ignorance.

He removed his sunglasses and rose from the lounge chair, considering whether to dive back in for a few more laps. Just then, Ramsay stalked in, his face dark. Before Theon could react, a heavy slap landed on his backside. The force of it jolted Theon, making him stumble forward, nearly pitching him headfirst into the pool.

"Whoa—what are you doing?"

"I saw you. Yesterday at school, walking with a woman." Ramsay gave Theon's ass a vicious squeeze, hard enough to bruise. Theon yelped in pain.

Ramsay's grip was always fierce; whenever he seized Theon, it felt like being clamped in solid iron manacles, leaving marks of varying shades upon his skin. As Ramsay grew older, it only got worse. Theon wondered if, when time eventually erased the differences in their ages and builds, he would be able to stop Ramsay at all.

"Who was she?" Ramsay glared at him resentfully.

Theon racked his brain for a moment before the likely suspect surfaced. "Woman? You mean Jeyne? She's Sansa's friend. We just happened to pick the same elective, so we walked to find the classroom together."

"She's just a classmate. We've only spoken a bit more lately. Before that, we weren't even friends." Theon continued to defend himself.

"Is that so?" Ramsay's eyes remained full of suspicion, as if weighing the credibility of his words.

"Yes, you jealous little bitch." Annoyed now himself, Theon shoved Ramsay back onto the lounge chair and climbed on top of him.

Ramsay's expression shifted, his interest clearly piqued as he looked up. Theon straddled him directly, knees planted on either side of Ramsay's hips. He cupped Ramsay's face and began pressing a series of small, fleeting kisses upon it.

"Don't be angry."

"You're the bitch, always using this on me." Ramsay grumbled between kisses. Despite his words, he offered no resistance, instead parting his lips to welcome Theon's encroaching tongue.

"It works, doesn't it?" Theon lingered against Ramsay's lips and teeth, his mouth worshiping greedily. Another reason he liked kissing Ramsay: it was the moment he felt most in control.

They lost themselves in each other's breath. When Theon's tongue grazed a canine, he shivered involuntarily. Ramsay's new permanent teeth were sharper and stronger; the bite mark on his shoulder still throbbed dully.

That had been punishment for failing to show up on time.

Theon reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Ramsay's ear. When Ramsay opened his eyes and looked up at him, Theon looked back. His heart hammered violently. A familiar heat began to pool in his lower abdomen. He shifted his hips involuntarily, subtly adjusting his seated position.

The kissing went on for some time. Flushed, Ramsay was the first to pull away from beneath Theon. He grabbed the nearby cold drink and took a large gulp, then turned his head, his gaze casually raking over Theon's body.

Theon wore only his swim trunks, his skin still beaded with moisture. Pressed against Ramsay as he had been, he'd left damp patches on the other boy's clothes. The front of Ramsay's pale grey shirt was now soaked through, the pale outline of the muscle beneath faintly visible. Embarrassed, Theon hunched over, trying to conceal his own physical reaction.

"With such nice weather, you're dressed like that—planning not to get in the water?" He deliberately changed the subject, trying to gloss things over. He reached out to tug at the now-disheveled hem of Ramsay's shirt, but his hand was slapped away.

"Hands to yourself." Ramsay's gaze was distant, as if he were contemplating something.

"Fine."

Now he puts on airs. So unpredictable. Though he cursed Ramsay's affectation inwardly, the situation was what it was, and Theon didn't want to waste energy deciphering Ramsay's mood.

He rose abruptly and, feigning nonchalance, stepped into the pool. The cold water did an excellent job of soothing the heat coursing through him. Ignoring the relentless stare boring into his back, he swam two laps.

Only when that lingering ache of desire had subsided did he dare climb back out. Ramsay sat on the lounge chair, leisurely enjoying the snacks and drinks the servants had prepared for Theon. Even though Theon had taught him to swim, Ramsay had no passion for it. He preferred to sit on the sidelines and observe with a sharp, watchful gaze, as if Theon were an ornamental fish he kept in a tank.

Theon settled onto the adjacent lounge chair and grabbed the towel draped over the back to dry himself off. Just then, a small ice cube was flicked at him without warning. It slid down his spine, making Theon jolt and shiver. He shot a glare at the culprit behind him.

"Helping you cool down." Ramsay snickered. He plucked a second ice cube from his glass and pressed it directly against Theon's skin. The freezing ice met warm flesh, adhering briefly before quickly separating. Before Theon could even register the numbness, the ice had melted from his body heat, leaving only a faint red mark and a trail of water.

"Stop it."

Theon twisted away, trying to evade him, but Ramsay grabbed his arm. He picked up a third ice cube and relentlessly traced it across Theon's back. This one was larger and stayed intact longer against his skin. The cold made Theon's muscles spasm with a stinging ache, forcing a low moan of discomfort from his lips.

"Stop? Why should I stop? Ice cools things down faster than pool water, doesn't it?" Ramsay asked, feigning confusion.

Theon was momentarily speechless. His lips trembled, but no words came out. Ramsay had definitely noticed. He had seen Theon's predicament; those thin swim trunks offered no concealment whatsoever. In their earlier position, he couldn't possibly have missed it.

Ramsay leaned in, his lips brushing Theon's shoulder. The old bite wound was now just a faint dental imprint. He worried it with his teeth, as if intending to leave a fresh, bloody mark once more.

Alarm bells blared in Theon's mind. Ramsay shifted to sit behind him, wrapping his arms around Theon from behind. His hand slid down Theon's chest, venturing lower to his abdomen, tracing circles and pressing down. The desire that had been briefly suppressed surged back like a tide. It was overwhelming. Theon felt his erection grow hotter with every point of contact.

"I learned about this in school. It's called an erection." Ramsay rested his chin on Theon's shoulder, his tone teasing. He squinted like a sated kitten, his smile innocently cherubic. There wasn't a trace of malice in his still boyish, childish voice.

"Let me help you." He made the earnest promise. With a swift, precise movement, he hooked the edge of Theon's swim trunks and tugged them down. Then he picked up another ice cube and, before Theon could react, pressed it directly against his penis.

"Ah!" Theon arched his back, his entire body nearly springing off the lounge chair. Only Ramsay's arm around him kept him from tumbling off.

"St—" His protest came out garbled. Ramsay chuckled softly. In response, he traced the contour of Theon's erection with the ice cube, deliberately teasing the tip. His other hand kneaded the base, rubbing the sensitive, tender flesh beneath.

Theon clenched his jaw, refusing to let any wanton gasps escape. Pleasure crashed over him like a tsunami. By all logic, Ramsay's technique was clumsy; it shouldn't have elicited such a strong reaction.

But Ramsay was too inventive. The extreme contrast between searing body heat and the bone-deep chill of the ice, the duality of a soft palm and hard, angular cold—hot and cold, soft and firm, pleasure and pain—all intertwined, confounding his senses.

Under this dual assault, even the sting gradually morphed into a strange, exquisite pleasure.

Theon's mind hazed over. He tried to grab those wandering hands to stop them, but Ramsay merely kneaded him harder, rendering his resistance futile. He could only clutch weakly at Ramsay's sleeve, unable even to push him away.

Theon trembled. Ramsay's hand found his perineum, massaging that sensitive spot with vigorous pressure. The intense pleasure made Theon's body clench in response. He sagged backward, his back pressed against Ramsay's chest, collapsing limply into the younger boy's embrace. His head, along with his damp hair, came to rest on Ramsay's shoulder.

Ramsay's eyes were dark, watching Theon's reactions with rapt fascination from such close proximity. He had a perfect view of Theon's tear-bright eyes, his flushed cheeks, his expressions of bliss.

"Please, stop." Theon begged, his voice catching and trembling.

He was burning up, his reason nearly shattered. Lying there stark naked in Ramsay's arms, the last shred of his sanity reminded him: if anyone walked in right now, they would see exactly what they were up to. That was what Theon feared most.

"Shh. Don't talk." Ramsay said, giving Theon another sharp jolt with the ice cube. A moan escaped Theon's lips before he could stop it. The corner of Ramsay's mouth curved upward. He toyed with Theon like a new plaything, delighted to find himself just as enthralled as his captive. He redoubled his efforts, using every method Theon had never experienced—and didn't want—to handle him.

Theon began to feel short of breath, dizzy, on the verge of passing out. He could no longer suppress the hungry, erotic gasps escaping his throat.

Ramsay seemed to sense the shift. His onslaught slowed, granting Theon a moment's reprieve to gulp down air.

A series of rough bites landed on the back of Theon's neck. One, two, three—leaving wet, sticky imprints on his skin.

The ice cube in Ramsay's hand had long since melted, mingling with Theon's own precum to form a small puddle beneath him. Theon's face burned with shame.

Ramsay was now wholly absorbed in biting the back of his neck. The ministrations to Theon's lower body had ceased. When Ramsay's hand—the source of both torment and sweetness—finally stopped moving, Theon didn't feel relief. Instead, he felt suspended in mid-air, the sudden emptiness more unbearable than the stimulation.

"Nn…" Theon whimpered. He was burning with unfulfilled desire, the fire in his belly an agony.

He writhed, his hand unconsciously drifting down to tend to himself, to resolve the issue on his own. But Ramsay saw through him. His hand was intercepted. Ramsay intertwined their fingers and guided Theon's hand back to that heated, throbbing place, making him participate in his own undoing.

Theon couldn't help but frown. He knew the feeling of touching himself well, but with someone else's rhythm imposed upon it, everything changed. Ramsay guided their joined hands up and down, stroking every sensitive spot, granting him unparalleled pleasure. He felt lightheaded, transcendent.

But just as Theon's body tensed on the precipice of release, Ramsay deliberately squeezed the head of his erection hard, clamping down tightly and preventing his climax.

Pain radiated through Theon's body. He began to sob quietly. All pleasure was gone, replaced by pain, then by pressure and a burning frustration. This was another of Ramsay's favorite games of control—a matter of power. And Theon had no means, no ability, to fight back.

"Please." He begged mindlessly. All dignity and reserve had fled. Only one single thought consumed his mind.

Ramsay ignored him. He kissed Theon's whimpering lips greedily, sinking his teeth into the lower lip and biting down hard. A hot, metallic trickle of blood welled up.

With the blood came the tears spilling from Theon's eyes, streaming down his cheeks. Seeing Theon weep, Ramsay still didn't let go. He continued to suck the blood from Theon's lip. Theon looked at him through a veil of tears. Their eyes met. Theon didn't know what Ramsay saw reflected in his own gaze—his vision was too blurred to see clearly.

But whatever it was, it must have satisfied him. Ramsay paused only briefly, then grinned triumphantly. Without warning, the constricting grip was released. What followed was a frantic, urgent rhythm that slammed into Theon's senses without mercy. The pent-up tension inside him ignited, consumed in an instant blaze. A wave of heat crashed through him, surging into every limb.

Theon finally found release. He arched taut against the younger body behind him, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat as he climaxed. His vision exploded into white light and a shower of stars.

Ramsay reached around, pulling Theon's head back by the neck to seal his mouth over his, swallowing every satisfied moan of Theon's release. His eyes were wide, drinking in the sight of Theon's face contorted in orgasm.

Afterward, Ramsay finally relinquished his hold. Deprived of support, Theon collapsed completely onto the lounge chair, utterly drained by the intensity of what had just transpired, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Hot semen had spilled over both their hands. Ramsay grabbed a towel to wipe the mess from his own fingers, then considerately pulled Theon's swim trunks back up for him, declaring the matter temporarily concluded. He hummed tunelessly, clearly pleased with his handiwork.

Theon lay there, dazed and motionless, staring up at the sky. A powerful wave of self-loathing washed over him. Ashamed beyond measure, he buried his face in his hands, as if that could conceal his shame and the crushing guilt that followed.

Every time Theon began to let his guard down, Ramsay pushed further. Step by step, he advanced. Inch by inch, he lowered the bar. Bit by bit, he eroded Theon's boundaries.

In front of Ramsay, every line he drew was trampled.

And what filled him with even greater despair was that he hadn't resisted. Not truly. Even though Ramsay had grown, Theon still had twenty centimeters and forty pounds on him. If he'd seriously fought back, he couldn't not have broken free. He had simply yielded, passively surrendered, just like every time before.

Ramsay sat beside him in high spirits, his gaze lingering on Theon. When his eyes fell upon Theon's bare neck, he suddenly asked, "Why aren't you wearing the collar I gave you?"

He meant this year's new gift. Theon hadn't liked the ragged, broken collar Ramsay had first forced on him. He had accepted it, only to hide it away on a high shelf, hoping it would be forgotten.

But this year, Ramsay had given him a new one—exquisitely crafted, clearly a custom designer piece. For the sake of the brand and its obvious cost, Theon had gritted his teeth and accepted it after much protest. Now that thing had come back around like a boomerang.

"It's too conspicuous. People would see it if I wore it out. It'd be hard to explain." Theon chose his words carefully, watching for any shift in Ramsay's expression.

"I want to see you wearing it. That way, others will know you're mine." Ramsay leaned over him, his fingers trailing across Theon's throat, rubbing against his Adam's apple. It made Theon's skin crawl.

"Wear it next time. Wear it when you come to see me."

Ramsay's voice had reverted to its usual wheedling sweetness, a smile still on his face. But his eyes were those of a predator regarding already-caught prey, as if silently promising that refusal would lead to consequences far more regrettable than what they had just done. Theon swallowed the retort on his tongue and nodded silently.

Chapter Text

16、12

The school’s back garden was, as expected, a treacherous place.

So thought Theon as he lay pinned against the grass behind a dense thicket of shrubs, his face pressed into the earth, tasting the sharp, green fragrance of crushed blades and soil. Ramsay had ambushed him out of nowhere, dragging him into the shadows and throwing his entire weight onto Theon’s spine to stifle his struggle. With a bruising grip, Ramsay hooked a hand under Theon's jaw, forcing his head up.

"You—" Theon began, but the protest was severed by a pair of searing lips. A tongue slid into his mouth, heavy and domineering, crushing his own attempt at resistance. Theon found no room to swallow, forced to gulp back his own breath to keep the heat from spilling over. The desperate suction of the act only served to deepen a kiss that was already far too intrusive.

Ramsay savored him like a piece of stolen confection. By the time Theon finally tore his mouth away, his lips were swollen and raw, his eyes glazed with a reluctant moisture. His hair was a ruin of knots and dirt, and his breath hitched in ragged, uneven cycles. Sensing a renewed surge of defiance, Ramsay didn't let go; instead, he flipped Theon onto his back, looming over him to claim another kiss.

"Can you stop losing your mind for one second?" Theon hissed, turning his face away to avoid the boy’s scorching breath. He shoved at Ramsay’s chest, but the younger boy was an immovable weight. "What is it this time? I haven't been late, I haven't missed a meeting, and I haven't been seen with anyone else."

"No reason," Ramsay murmured, his voice a low vibration. "I just wanted to."

Soft, warm pressure bloomed against Theon’s neck and collarbone. His rejection was treated as nothing more than a flirtatious whim.

"I wanted to see you, and you just happened to appear," Ramsay whispered. "What a charming coincidence."

Theon fought back a surge of white-hot fury. Ramsay was a terrible liar; there was no "coincidence" that would bring a lower-school student to the senior dormitory grounds. The school had been Theon's last bastion of solitude, a sanctuary now invaded. How did he even get in here? Does being the Board Director’s son mean he can go anywhere he pleases?

He opened his mouth to shout a command for Ramsay to get off, but a sudden burst of giggles cut through the air. Both boys froze, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before turning toward the hedge beside them. A high-pitched, feminine squeal followed—a sound that made the nature of the intrusion unmistakable.

Theon had heard rumors of couples who couldn't afford a hotel sneaking into the gardens for a tryst, but he never expected to be a silent witness to it. Had he been with Robb or Jon, he would have shamelessly dragged them closer to eavesdrop, trading whispers and mocking jests. But he was with Ramsay. There was no scenario more wretched than this.

The heated atmosphere turned glacial in an instant. Sensing the shift, Theon seized the opportunity to shove Ramsay off. The thought of being watched—even accidentally—made his skin crawl; he would rather die than continue this entanglement here.

He sat up, glaring at Ramsay. The air between them was thick with a strange, stifling tension. They couldn't leave yet; the amorous couple was blocking the only path out of the thicket. To leave, they would have to brush past the shrubs and expose themselves. Theon refused to be seen emerging from the dark with Ramsay Bolton. Thanks to the reputation of the Ironborn, he already carried enough peculiar rumors to last a lifetime.

An awkward silence descended, punctuated only by the wet, rhythmic sounds and lewd whispers drifting from the other side of the greenery. Ramsay tilted his head, listening intently for a moment before turning his gaze back to Theon.

His eyes were dark, unshielded in their hunger. Theon shifted away uncomfortably, but Ramsay closed the gap, leaning in to murmur against the shell of Theon's ear. "I think you make much better sounds than she does."

Theon sat frozen, his brain struggling to process the crude implication. Then, the realization hit. A torrential blush flooded his face, his skin turning so hot it felt scorched. The shame radiated from his chest to the very marrow of his bones.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"I’m not lying. It’s a fact," Ramsay said, tilting his head with mock innocence. "Why don't we do what we did before? You can compete with her in real-time."

"I am not discussing this with you," Theon snapped, fanning his face and trying to shrink further into the shadows.

"A pity. That day is still burned into my memory," Ramsay said, his fingers reaching out to trail over Theon's cheek. He traced the line of Theon's brow, the bridge of his nose, and finally began to circle his lips. The touch was a haunting echo of that surreal afternoon by the pool.

Theon had spent every day since then avoiding Ramsay—dodging his calls, flinching away from his inappropriate touches. His dignity and his sense of self-control had been shattered that day. He didn't hate the pleasure; he hated the helplessness. He hated feeling like a toy to be toyed with.

"Especially your moans," Ramsay whispered. "They won't stop ringing in my head."

Theon met Ramsay’s gaze with a sense of weary desperation. Despite the boy's outward fervor, his expression remained an enigma. This close, one would think it possible to see the undercurrents beneath the surface, but there was always a barrier—an invisible wall that Theon could never scale.

It wasn't fair. Ramsay spent his life dismantling Theon's boundaries while meticulously building his own, burying his emotions beneath a veneer of arrogance and malice. As Ramsay grew older, this mastery of deception only sharpened. Theon realized that if he had met this version of Ramsay first, he would never have stood a chance of seeing the boy behind the monster.

"I’ve seen porn my friends shared," Ramsay continued, his voice conversational yet increasingly vulgar. "You sound better than any of them. Maybe you have a talent for it? You could have a career in the industry." He pretended to ponder the thought. "Ironborn men are quite popular in those films, I hear. Something about being... naturally gifted."

Ramsay cast a disparaging look toward Theon’s lap, nodding theatrically. "You certainly fit the stereotype."

A surge of pure, unadulterated rage hit the roof of Theon's skull. He felt his blood pressure spike, his self-control redlining. "I bet you could make much better sounds," he spat back, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

"How would you know? I’ve never made a sound for you," Ramsay countered. "After all, I wasn't the one lying naked in someone else’s house."

You bastard! You were the one who stripped me!

Theon snapped. He slapped away Ramsay’s wandering hand and, catching him off guard, shoved the boy hard onto the grass.

"What do you think you're doing to me?" Ramsay didn't look afraid. There was a playful glint in his eyes as he reached up to straighten Theon’s collar, his tone suggesting a dangerous, shifting game.

It was a trap. Theon was certain of it.

But Ramsay Bolton was a man—a boy—who exuded danger from every pore, and he had since the day they met. For a few heartbeats, Theon calculated. Then, his fury and an impulsive need for vengeance overrode the last of his reason.

Theon pinned Ramsay’s shoulders to the earth. He straddled the boy, using his superior size and weight to exert total control. He wanted to feel that power—the ability to dictate someone else's pleasure and pain. To reclaim the pride he had lost by the pool, he had to take back the initiative.

"Are you going to violate me?" Ramsay asked, rolling his eyes when Theon hesitated. He gave a theatrical, pathetic little shiver, feigning victimhood.

To hell with it.

Theon grabbed Ramsay’s face, silencing that mocking mouth with his own. He shoved his tongue deep, invading Ramsay’s throat and stealing his air until he heard a genuine, pained whimper break from the boy’s lips. Only then did he pull back.

He wound his fingers into Ramsay’s thick, dark hair, yanking it tight. He looked down at Ramsay—flushed, gasping for air, eyes shining with moisture—and for one intoxicating moment, he felt like the one holding the scepter.

"Listen to that," Theon murmured, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "You don't sound half bad."

The sensation was incredible. Theon moved his hand down to encircle Ramsay’s throat, feeling the powerful, rhythmic thrum of his pulse. A life force of limitless intensity was vibrating beneath his palm, and for once, it was his to command.

The thought made his head spin.

When Ramsay didn't fight back, Theon slid a leg between Ramsay’s own, using his knee to pry them wide. He positioned himself in the center, grinding his knee upward against Ramsay’s groin.

He saw Ramsay’s expression shift—a flicker of genuine panic beneath the mask. Ramsay tried to steady his voice. "Is that all? I thought you were going to rape me."

"God, shut up," Theon groaned. He leaned down and bit Ramsay’s lip, sucking on his tongue until another low moan vibrated in the boy’s throat. He increased the pressure of his knee, watching as Ramsay’s pupils dilated with a dark, blooming lust.

Through the fabric, he felt the heat and the burgeoning hardness. He continued to grind, looking down at Ramsay’s face as it dissolved into a mask of pure desire. Ramsay was letting him do this—letting himself be handled. Theon felt as though he had finally tamed a wild beast, and the sense of triumph was overwhelming.

Ramsay’s hands traveled to Theon’s waist, clutching at his clothes. He seemed to be hovering between a plea for Theon to stop and an unspoken urge for him to continue.

"You're making me so wet," Ramsay finally managed to gasp.

Theon’s face burned. A matching heat flared in his own belly, his own jeans tightening as his body responded. The desire scorched away the last of his sanity. Theon slid down, their thighs locking together like pieces of a puzzle. Their groins pressed together through their clothes, each feeling the frantic pulse of the other’s need.

Ramsay let out a keening moan of longing. Emboldened, Theon began to grind his hips with a lewd, rhythmic intensity, stimulating Ramsay while simultaneously soothing his own ache.

The pleasure hit like a tidal wave. Ramsay’s lips curled into a cryptic smile as he gripped Theon’s waist, arching his back with every thrust to close the gap between them. Theon panted, his skin on fire, sweat dripping down his spine. He hooked a hand under one of Ramsay’s thighs, pulling it up over his hip to lock them even closer. He was met with the sound of Ramsay’s breath hitching into a heavy, broken rasp.

"Finally," Theon grinned, "you’re quiet." He leaned down and bit into Ramsay’s neck, sucking a mark into the pale skin.

His own jeans were soaked, and he could feel the dampness from Ramsay through the fabric. Theon increased the pace, watching as the lust in Ramsay’s eyes grew darker, heavier, until finally, with one sharp, forceful thrust from Theon, Ramsay’s eyes squeezed shut. A muffled grunt escaped him as a dark stain began to blossom through his trousers.

Success.

Theon hovered above him, savoring the sight of Ramsay’s climax—the furrowed brow, the crimson flush, the soft, feminine sounds escaping his throat. It was all because of him. A massive surge of satisfaction and triumph filled Theon’s chest.

He didn't stop. He continued the frantic motion of his hips, driving himself against Ramsay with a desperate strength. He was almost there.

Ramsay opened his eyes. They were wet, filled with a lust that was real, raw, and completely unmasked.

Gasping for air, Theon brought his fingers to Ramsay’s lips. "Bite me," he rasped.

A flicker of confusion crossed Ramsay’s eyes, but he obeyed. He sank his teeth into Theon’s finger—just as he had the first time they met, just as he did in every moment they crossed the line.

Theon reached his peak in that familiar pain. He groaned, collapsing forward and burying his face in the crook of Ramsay’s neck.

"Now I belong to you, too," Ramsay said, his voice sweet and syrupy. His fingers played idly with Theon’s hair. Theon shivered. At those words, a strange, inexplicable warmth enveloped his chest—not of lust, but of something far simpler and more terrifyingly pure.

Theon shifted slightly, meeting Ramsay’s eyes. The other couple had long since vanished. The back garden was hauntingly quiet, filled only with the sound of their shared breathing.

In that moment, it felt as though the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them. Nothing else mattered.

The distance between them closed. He brushed his lips against Ramsay’s—not a kiss of hunger or demand, but a soft touch to confirm the other's presence. It lasted a long time, a simple joining of lips where Theon could feel their hearts beating in tandem through their pressed bodies.

One, two, three... the rhythms crossed and then merged.

When he finally pulled back, Ramsay covered his eyes with his hand. The flush on his face made Theon’s heart race, and the eyes peering through his fingers were swimming with moisture. "You're so cruel," Ramsay whimpered.

Me? Cruel?

Theon was stunned. The romantic haze vanished instantly. He hadn't done anything truly wrong—certainly nothing compared to what Ramsay had put him through.

"That was my first time," Ramsay complained, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "You have to take responsibility."

"And what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Take responsibility, obviously," Ramsay said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "Be my boyfriend."

"I... suppose that’s fine," Theon stammered after a moment's thought. The request was, for once, almost reasonable. At least he wasn't being asked to be a dog or a pet. It was a condition he could actually accept.

After all, the nature of their relationship had been anything but clear for a long time.

"Then I look forward to your care, boyfriend." A pair of hands found Theon’s waist again, pulling him back down against Ramsay’s chest. Theon looked at the boy’s innocent, smiling face and found himself smiling back.

Chapter Text

17，13

On the first weekend of winter, Theon met with Asha again. Once more, their mother had not come—her deteriorating health could no longer support long journeys.

This wasn't the first time he'd heard such news this year. With winter's arrival, the illness that had temporarily stabilized had taken a sharp turn for the worse. She had been transferred to a hospital on Harlaw with more advanced equipment.

Balon remained lost in his cups, indifferent to his ailing wife.

Asha shouldered everything alone. She looked even more exhausted. The only good news was that her new venture was thriving, yielding considerable profits. She had paid off her overdue debts, which in turn made Theon's life with the Starks considerably easier.

"Buy yourself something nice." Asha clapped him on the back as she left, pressing an envelope into his hand—thicker than usual.

On his way to the station, he spotted a shop window displaying several shirts in remarkably beautiful colors. Theon stepped inside only to realize the prices were far from modest. The modern, minimalist decor had lulled him into a false sense of accessibility; this appeared to be a high-end designer boutique.

In the end, Theon only picked up the cheapest one, gently smoothing the creases in the fabric. It had been a long time since he'd owned anything nice—aside from the gifts Ramsay gave him.

And speaking of Ramsay, it suddenly hit him that next month was Ramsay's name day.

Regarding this boyfriend he'd somehow ended up with, Theon had received a number of expensive gifts from Ramsay every year. From the latest game console, to the designer-brand collar, to the archery bow he'd been given not long ago—Ramsay always gave him things far beyond Theon's means to reciprocate. And each time, the only thing Theon could offer in return was his time.

But this time was different. Now he had money. And Ramsay was his boyfriend now; their status had changed. He felt he ought to show some gesture. After browsing the shop, Theon found a long-sleeved T-shirt that seemed perfectly suited for Ramsay, and since the price was somewhat reasonable, he decided to buy it without hesitation.

He took both garments to the counter to pay when his gaze inadvertently fell upon a row of exquisite gemstone cufflinks displayed in a case beneath the register. One pair in particular caught his eye. The design was a simple circle, with a gemstone set in the center carved with wave-like patterns. Its most distinctive feature was its color—a hue somewhere between blue and green, shifting with the light and the angle, much like his own eyes.

Theon thought of the countless times Ramsay had lain in his arms, staring entranced into his eyes.

Theon set the clothes down and gestured for the clerk to retrieve the cufflinks.

"Is it a gift?" the clerk asked with a smile, handing them over with gloved hands.

"Yes, for a… friend." Theon paused involuntarily as he said the word.

He examined the cufflinks closely. The gemstones cast a soft halo under the light, truly giving him the uncanny sensation of looking into a mirror. He stole a glance at the price tag. It wasn't as exorbitant as he'd feared, but it still far exceeded his budget.

"These cufflinks are all handcrafted by artisans, each one unique," the clerk continued, looking up at Theon before glancing back down at the cufflinks. "They match your eyes so perfectly—it must be fate." The clerk laughed, perhaps a bit theatrically.

Theon could almost picture the expression on Ramsay's face when he received them. Those grey-blue eyes would first flicker with surprise, then undisguised pleasure. He'd probably say something nonchalant like "Not bad," but then he'd wear them constantly. He'd wear them every time they met.

Resigned, Theon handed the cufflinks to the clerk and said softly, "Please wrap them up."

He had forfeited the two shirts and a month's worth of living expenses.

"Theon?"

As he walked past an intersection after leaving the shop, a female voice called his name. Theon turned to see an unfamiliar girl, around thirteen or fourteen, dressed in a leather jacket and miniskirt, her face painted with exaggerated makeup ill-suited to her age. She was smiling at him with a knowing look.

Theon searched his memory; he didn't know this person.

"You don't recognize me. I'm Myranda. We've met at the park and at Ramsay's house."

Myranda approached him, her gaze falling on the shopping bag in his hand. "Buying a gift?"

"Yeah." Theon disliked the appraising look in her eyes and instinctively hid the bag behind his back. The gesture was so deliberate it made him feel ridiculous.

"For who?" Myranda's voice was soft, but her gaze was sharp as a knife.

Theon ignored her, intending to simply brush past.

But Myranda circled him deliberately. Spotting the logo on the bag, she scoffed, "Ramsay would never use something this cheap."

"You—!" Theon glared at her, baffled by her hostility. He had no dealings with Ramsay's circle of friends; at most, he'd bumped into them by chance at the Bolton house, exchanging nothing more than passing glances.

Ramsay never let him spend time with his friends, always shooing them away quickly because he wanted Theon's undivided attention all to himself.

"I've known Ramsay a long time. Longer than you. I've always been around him. I know everything about him—his likes, his dislikes, his habits, his past…" Myranda's tone grew especially tender when mentioning Ramsay, like a girl in love speaking of her sweetheart. "And I've never needed anything from him. Unlike you."

Her glare was intense, and Theon, cowed by her piercing stare, couldn't help but shrink back.

"Are all Ironborn as shameless as you? Willing to do anything for money, even going after a child just to climb the social ladder?" Myranda lowered her voice, ensuring only Theon could hear.

"What are you talking about?" Theon's heart pounded with alarm at her accusatory words. He gripped the bag tightly, jaw clenched.

"Let's talk in here." Myranda shot him a look and gestured toward a shadowy alley beside them.

His emotions in turmoil, Theon followed Myranda into the deserted alley. She leaned against the wall, pulled out her phone, opened a video, and turned the screen toward him.

The quality was poor, clearly a surreptitious recording, but the two figures in it were unmistakable—Theon was straddling Ramsay, and they were kissing. Judging by the background, it was beside the pool at the Bolton estate.

"Not the clearest shot." Myranda withdrew the phone, swiping left. "But clear enough to tell who it is. And I have a clearer version if you'd like to see it."

It felt as if all the blood in his body had drained to his feet in an instant. It was all he could do to stop his fingertips from trembling. Theon couldn't utter a word.

Myranda thrust the phone at him again. This video was clearer—he and Ramsay were roughhousing in front of the kennels at the Bolton manor, ending with Ramsay lunging at him for a kiss.

"When was this taken?" Theon's voice was hoarse. The thought of just how much she knew filled him with dread.

"A few years ago, maybe. Don't get the wrong idea. I wasn't spying on purpose. I just found the scene so… amusing, I couldn't help but record it." Myranda shrugged.

She pocketed her phone, toying with it in her hand. "Do you know how old Ramsay was back then? Ten? Eleven? And you? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

Theon's stomach churned. The taste of being judged so directly was unbearable, but he had no defense. He could only stand there, pale and frozen.

Could he claim he didn't know Ramsay's age? Of course he knew. He knew Ramsay's birthday, his name day, his preferences, every subtle shift in his expression better than anyone.

Could he claim he hadn't gone after a child? But Ramsay had been a child then. Even now, he was only thirteen. And Theon himself? Seventeen, nearly an adult.

"I'm not great at math, but that age gap seems… a bit off, doesn't it?" Myranda's eyes were razor-sharp.

"We're…" Theon wanted to explain, wanted to say they were in a normal relationship, but the words wouldn't come.

Theon's blood ran cold. He realized it then—realized that this relationship was not normal. No matter how it was dressed up in emotion, in the eyes of the world, it was impermissible.

"What are you? Don't tell me you're going to say you're truly in love, that you're dating." Myranda inspected her manicured nails nonchalantly before glancing up at him. "Isn't that even worse?"

Theon's heart skipped a beat. He thought of the box he'd always deliberately kept locked away in a corner of his mind—Pandora's box. After all the feelings and desires had flown out, what remained at the very bottom was…

The reality he'd been so carefully avoiding.

"Do you know what the most interesting part is?" Myranda's voice pulled him back. "Ramsay thinks he's the one in control. He thinks he chose you, that he made you unable to leave him, that he molded you into his."

She stepped closer, her eyes glinting with malice and scorn. "But what he doesn't realize is that he's the real prey. You're the older one. You're the one who should have known better. What does a kid know? You made him this way. You pedophile!"

"I'm not—"

"No?" Myranda cut him off. "Would a normal person have those kinds of feelings for a ten-year-old child? Would you kiss him? Would you let him kiss you? Would you let him sit on top of you and then—"

"Enough!" Theon's shout echoed loudly in the empty alley.

Myranda smiled with satisfaction and stepped back. "I haven't decided what to do with this video yet. Maybe send it to the school. Maybe to the Starks. Maybe just post it online for everyone to enjoy." She tilted her head. "What do you think of the title 'The Hostage Heir's Sick Perversions'? Catchy enough?"

Theon felt like he couldn't breathe. He couldn't listen to another word. He turned and fled, ignoring Myranda's shouting behind him.

Only after glancing back several times to confirm she wasn't following did he dare stop in a secluded alley to catch his breath. He crouched down in agony, and as he struggled to steady his ragged breathing, tears of frustration and misery slipped down his cheeks.

What right did that girl have to judge him?

She was nothing to Ramsay! What gave her the right to accuse him?

They were in a normal relationship! Ramsay had been the one to initiate it! And he was a minor too! He'd done nothing wrong!

Afraid of running into Myranda again if he headed to the station, Theon hailed a cab straight back to the Stark residence. Once inside, he ignored everyone, went straight to his room, and burrowed under the covers, shivering.

He ignored the phone that wouldn't stop ringing. He ignored Robb's concerned knocking on the door. He ignored the shopping bag tossed into the corner.

Myranda's words echoed relentlessly in his ears. He thought about the age gap between him and Ramsay, about the abnormal nature of their relationship, about the feelings and desires he harbored for Ramsay.

Theon would rather admit he was greedy and vain, willing to date a troublesome, dangerous person for expensive gifts, than admit he was a pedophile.

He couldn't be one. He wouldn't be.

---

The next day, Theon went to the school library. He didn't dare use the Stark family's internet or computers, afraid of leaving any trace.

He sat in front of a computer and typed in search terms:

"Definition of pedophilia"
"Legal liability for sexual relations between minors and adolescents"

The text on the screen stung his eyes like needles. He forced himself to stay calm and scrolled through the results, one by one.

"Minors between the ages of 14 and 18 who engage in sexual acts with a child under 14 may face criminal charges, regardless of consent..."

"If the age gap exceeds 3 years and one party is under 14, the older party may face criminal prosecution..."

"Cases of adolescents experiencing sexual attraction to younger children, while rare, do exist and may be linked to their own personal history..."

Personal history.

Theon's fingers froze on the mouse. He thought of the dreams—the tower, the blood-red ship Silence, the maliciously glinting blue eye.

He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the images.

No, it wasn't the same. He had been willing. Ramsay was willing. They were in a normal relationship. And besides, they hadn't gone all the way.

Wait, they had touched each other. Did that count as a sexual act?

No, Ramsay had initiated the first kiss. And he'd been the one to initiate the touching afterward. No, that wasn't right either. He—

What was he?

Theon scrolled further. A thread on a psychology forum caught his eye: "I have feelings for a child. Am I a pervert?"

The replies below read:

"If you have to ask, the answer is probably yes."

"Seek professional help. This isn't something you can control, but you can control your actions."

"Leave the child. That's the only thing you can do."

Leave the child.

Theon closed the browser window and found his hands were trembling.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Images surfaced in the darkness—six-year-old Ramsay biting his finger with a triumphant grin; ten-year-old Ramsay lying on his chest like a contented kitten; twelve-year-old Ramsay wrapping his arms around his waist, demanding Theon be his boyfriend.

Those images were beautiful. As beautiful as poison.

"Theon?"

A voice interrupted his thoughts. He opened his eyes to see Kyra standing by the table, a stack of books in her arms.

"What are you doing here?"

"Borrowing books," Kyra said, then noticed his complexion. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Theon looked back at the screen and promptly deleted his entire browsing history.

Kyra hesitated, then sat down across from him. "Liar. You're white as a ghost."

Theon ignored her. He logged out of the anonymous guest account and logged back in with his student ID, double-checking that the record was cleared, ensuring no one could see what he had viewed.

Kyra watched him in silence for a moment, then said, "I know it's none of my business, but… do you want to talk?"

Theon stared at her blankly. He remembered their only previous interaction was being in the same history elective, and that she was always blushing when she spoke to him or Robb. Beyond that, they'd never had a private conversation.

So what was this about?

"Alright then, I'll just sit with you." Ignoring his coldness, Kyra settled in.

And she just sat there, flipping through her book, occasionally glancing up at him.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the library windows. Theon stared at the beam of light, his thoughts churning relentlessly.

He thought of Ramsay, of the bite marks, the kisses, the intimate touches, the nights, the declarations of "you're mine." He thought of Myranda's threat, the search results, the forum filled with alarming headlines, the replies.

"Leave the child." Was leaving truly the only option?

"Theon, are you crying?" Kyra's voice came again.

Theon reached up to touch his face and found his fingertips wet. He hadn't realized he was crying.

Kyra silently offered him a tissue, not pressing further, just waiting.

Theon took it, wiped his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Actually, I've been wanting a chance to talk to you alone." Kyra hesitated, then moved to sit beside him.

"Hmm?"

"You know, from the very beginning, I've—" Kyra paused, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I've been really interested in you. I think you're a fascinating person."

Theon blinked, stunned. He'd always assumed she was just another girl with a crush on Robb. After all, Robb was the prince charming of the entire school, and girls often approached Theon to get closer to his foster brother.

Next to such a dazzling sun, Theon had always felt invisible.

No one saw him. Except Ramsay.

That was what he'd always believed.

"I know there are all sorts of ugly rumors going around, but I don't care. I think you're a good person who just hasn't met the right person to understand you," Kyra continued, her words tumbling out faster as if afraid she'd lose her nerve if she stopped.

That wasn't true. He had met someone who understood and cherished him.

He just had to give that person up.

Kyra lifted her head and met Theon's eyes. "I know this is sudden, but I've heard you've been single, and I haven't seen you close with anyone. I was wondering… maybe you could give me a chance?"

Theon furrowed his brow, watching the girl before him take a deep breath, as if summoning every ounce of courage she had, and say earnestly: "Theon, I like you. Will you go out with me?"

The library was quiet, save for the rustle of pages and the low hum of the heater.

Theon looked at Kyra. Her gaze was sincere, free of calculation, threats, or that suffocating possessiveness.

She was normal.

Unlike Ramsay, she was normal. And if he were with her, he would become normal too.

No more hiding, no more excuses, no more threats, no more pangs of conscience. He could walk openly in the sunlight.

But…

"I…" Theon opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.

Kyra smiled, a bit awkwardly. "You don't have to answer now. I just wanted you to know… someone is willing to wait for you."

She stood up, gathering her books. "Think about it, okay? Whatever you decide, I'll respect it."

She turned and walked away, her steps swift, like a bird released from its cage.

Theon sat there, watching her figure disappear between the bookshelves. The only thought in his mind wasn't the flustered thrill of a confession. It was…

She was normal. She could offer him a normal relationship.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the sky outside had darkened. The library was closing. An attendant came by and quietly reminded him it was time to leave.

Theon stepped out of the library. The night air carried the unique chill of the North, and the sky was a gloomy grey; it looked like snow was coming again.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a screen full of missed calls and messages from Ramsay:

"Why aren't you answering?"
"Are you sick?"
"Coming over tomorrow? I have something for you."

Theon stared at the messages, his fingertip hovering over the screen. Then he turned off the phone without opening them, without replying.

---

The next day, he went to the café where Kyra had asked to meet him.

When Kyra saw him, her eyes lit up with genuine, heartfelt delight.

"You came. I thought—"

"I've thought it over." Theon cut her off.

Kyra held her breath, her eyes shining as she looked at him.

Theon looked at her—at her sincere, hopeful gaze. He told himself this was right, this was normal, this was what he was supposed to want.

"Alright. We can give it a try."

Kyra's smile bloomed like sunshine. She took his hand as they slid into the booth.

Theon smiled and listened to her talk, while his phone continued to buzz incessantly in his pocket. He didn't answer it. He didn't even look at it.

That night, Theon sent a single message to Ramsay:

"Let's break up. Don't see me again."

Sent. Blocked. Number deleted. All in one swift motion.

Afterward, he placed his phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and went to bed.

Theon closed his eyes. He knew he had done the right thing. Leaving Ramsay was the only thing he could do, the thing he was obligated to do as the older party.

But…

Why did his heart ache so bitterly?

Why couldn't he stop the tears from falling?

Chapter Text

17，13

Theon retrieved a large cardboard box from the storage room, intending to pack away all the gifts he had received.

He gathered each item from his room, watching as the space grew emptier with every object of Ramsay's he removed. Without realizing it, Ramsay's things had filled this small space that was his alone.

The game console—the latest model back then—had been handed to him carelessly by Ramsay on his birthday that year, as if it were not an expensive piece of electronics but a casually offered piece of candy.

Theon remembered his own flustered reaction. It was the first time he had ever received such a costly gift, not a hand-me-down someone else had discarded. Seeing Theon's overwhelmed, grateful face, Ramsay had smirked and laughed at him.

Looking back now, Ramsay had been the true beneficiary. With the console, Theon spent even longer alone with him in his room. Perhaps that had been his intention from the start. Theon smiled faintly and placed the console at the bottom of the box.

Next was the professional archery set, a gift from Ramsay after he had placed third in a regional competition. It was a collaboration with a marksman he admired, something he had only ever seen in magazines, too afraid to even look up the price. When Ramsay gave it to him, he had said, "My boyfriend's so talented; I have to show my appreciation."

Then he had looked at Theon with that expectant, gratitude-seeking gaze. Theon had obliged him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Recalling how Ramsay had grumbled awkwardly yet failed to hide his delight, Theon smiled again. He wrapped the archery equipment carefully and set it aside.

Theon continued placing items into the box. A scarf that Ramsay had insisted on wrapping around his neck one winter when Theon complained of the cold, claiming it was "just lying around the house." Theon later found the same scarf online; it cost three months of his living expenses. Yet Ramsay had thrust it upon him so casually.

Then a picture book—a tale of the Drowned God and the Storm God. He had read it as a child in Uncle Rodrik's library. It had long been out of print due to poor sales, but Theon adored the illustrations. He had mentioned it to Ramsay only once, yet Ramsay had remembered and somehow managed to find him a copy.

All he knew was that on the night he received that book, he and Ramsay had curled up together, and Theon had recounted the stories of his childhood over and over. The way Ramsay had looked at him then—so utterly focused.

No one except Ramsay had ever remembered him like this, valued him like this. No one had ever treasured his casual words or fleeting preferences as if they were something precious.

Not even Theon himself had ever treated himself this way.

The cover of the picture book was slightly damp. Theon wiped it dry and placed it carefully inside.

Finally, Theon pulled out from his drawer the things he had tried so hard to forget.

Collars. Two of them.

One was aged, its leather cracked and metal tarnished. Ramsay had picked it up from the kennels of the Dreadfort years ago and solemnly fastened it around Theon's wrist. Theon held it now, his thumb brushing over the worn leather.

He remembered that day: the dilapidated shed, the smell of decay, the deliberately blank expression on Ramsay's face that couldn't quite hide his emotions, the dog named Reek, the roof collapsing under the snow, the ending that came too fast for a proper goodbye, and the kiss he had impulsively pressed to Ramsay's forehead that night.

The other collar was new, exquisitely crafted, designer-made, custom-ordered by Ramsay just for him. To avoid prying eyes, Theon would only put it on once he stepped inside the Bolton house. Ramsay was always delighted to see it; he would tug at the collar to pull Theon down and kiss his lips.

Theon would kiss him back. Though he found the master-and-pet game a bit odd, he didn't dislike it. He didn't dislike being bound. He didn't dislike being cherished.

Theon placed both collars into the box, then added the rest—the gifts too numerous to recall individually, jumbled together like a pile of silent evidence.

Too many. Why were there so many? Why had he allowed Ramsay to fill his life with these things?

It must be the dust making his eyes water; that was why the tears wouldn't stop falling.

Before sealing the box, the last thing he placed on top was the pair of cufflinks—the gift he had meant to give Ramsay. What had he been thinking when he bought them? He had wanted to leave his own mark on Ramsay, proof that he belonged to Theon too. Just as Ramsay loved seeing him wear the collar, Theon wanted to brand Ramsay, a reminder that he, too, was owned.

A knock came at the door.

"Theon?" It was Robb's voice.

"You okay? I heard—" Robb pushed the door open and froze at the sight of the cluttered floor. "Cleaning your room?"

"Something like that." Theon wiped his eyes dry and crouched down to push the large box out of the room. "There are some things I need to return."

Robb crouched beside him, helping to shove the box forward. "It's heavy. Who are you returning it to?"

Theon looked at Robb, silent for a moment, then said softly, "Ramsay."

"What?"

"I'm giving everything back to Ramsay. I've decided to cut ties with him."

Robb's expression was one of pure bewilderment. He had always wanted Theon to distance himself from Ramsay. He had wondered what threats or bribes Ramsay had used to make Theon yield, to the point where Theon couldn't sever this toxic bond even when he no longer needed to maintain friendly relations with the Boltons.

"I'll have someone deliver the box for you." Robb pondered for only a second, asking no further questions. His voice was calm but carried an unyielding firmness.

Theon looked up into those concerned blue eyes. Robb's expression hadn't changed much, as if he had long anticipated this day.

"Alright. Thank you."

Theon was grateful for Robb's tact. He watched as Robb summoned a servant to haul the box away, then sat back down on his bed, facing his now barren room.

Robb came over and sat beside him, patting his shoulder. "Whatever made you decide this, I support you. If you need me to stand between you and him, just say the word."

"Thanks." Theon thanked him again. Silence settled over the room, but it wasn't awkward. Robb simply sat beside him, offering his quiet company, his measured concern and support.

That was the warmest thing about Robb.

Theon couldn't help but wonder: if Ramsay hadn't interfered from the start, could he have been closer to Robb?

---

In the days that followed, Theon had almost no time alone.

During the day, he attended classes, studied, and ate lunch with Robb. After school, he followed Robb to the library, to club activities, to anywhere the two of them could be together. Evenings, they returned to the Stark household together. Robb would go off to study matters of the family, while Theon would shut himself in his room. After his studies, Robb would come by to sit with him for a while, or drag him to the living room to watch TV with the family. Then dinner with everyone, then bed.

He began exchanging messages with Kyra. After classes, before Robb came to fetch him, he would sit with her in a café, listening to her talk about the things girls her age liked. From her words and actions, Theon could see her affection for him, but whenever she looked at him expectantly, he found himself unable to take the next step.

On holidays, he moved about with Robb and Jon—to fairs, sports fields, shopping centers, all the places a teenager his age was supposed to be.

No one questioned his unusual behavior. Lady Catelyn occasionally regarded him with a complicated look but said nothing more.

The Stark children seemed to sense something as well, yet by unspoken agreement they kept silent. Even Arya, normally the most talkative, only shot him a few extra glances at dinner and held her tongue.

Only once, in the mall's food court with Robb and Jon, did Jon speak to him while Robb was off ordering food. "You're hiding from Ramsay Bolton?"

Theon didn't deny it.

Jon looked at him, and in those eyes—so similar to Robb's yet subtly different—something flickered that Theon couldn't quite read.

"Say the word if you need help. I don't like you, but you're practically half family." Then he went back to eating as if nothing had happened, leaving Theon to digest his words with complicated feelings.

Family.

He and Jon had never been friends. Their relationship was more like two strangers forced to coexist, maintaining a superficial peace only because of Robb. Yet Jon's words now felt more sincere than much of the concern he'd received from others.

That was the strange thing about the Starks. They might not like you, but if you needed help, they would show up.

Unlike the Greyjoys.

Unlike the Boltons.

---

Ramsay didn't appear again. He didn't try to contact Theon.

At first, Theon thought his plan had worked. After all, he had blocked Ramsay's number and was inseparable from Robb. Ramsay had no chance to get near him.

But as the days passed, he began to feel something was off.

This wasn't like Ramsay.

That boy was never one to accept rejection quietly. Every time Theon had gotten angry and tried to distance himself in the past, Ramsay had always found a way to pull him back—tantrums, threats, ambushes, sweet words, even outright kidnapping him to his own house, as if the fights and refusals had never happened.

But this time, nothing.

The silence was unnerving.

Theon told himself this was a good thing. Ramsay had finally grown up, finally learned to respect someone else's choices. It proved he had done the right thing. It proved Ramsay didn't care about him as much as he'd thought.

The moment that last thought surfaced, Theon was surprised to find a wave of bitterness and loss wash over him.

He immediately crushed those feelings down.

This is right. This is right. This is right.

He repeated the mantra until he almost believed it.

---

The Stark year-end party was a grand tradition in the North. Every family of note would attend, and the Boltons would naturally be no exception.

Theon knew Ramsay would come. From the moment he saw Ned Stark send out the invitations, he began preparing.

His plan was meticulous: stay in his room until most guests had arrived, then make an appearance, stick to Robb's side at all times, avoid the Boltons as much as possible, and if he absolutely had to encounter Ramsay, remain calm, exchange a polite greeting, and excuse himself.

The plan was executed perfectly all day. He hadn't encountered a single Bolton. Theon began to suspect the Boltons might be absent altogether this year; after all, the animosity between the two houses was nearly out in the open.

The party was already half over. Robb had been dragged off by Ned to socialize with other heirs, and Jon had disappeared somewhere again. Theon decided to retreat to his room. He had just reached his door and was reaching for his key when the door swung open from the inside.

Ramsay stood in his doorway, dressed in a formal black suit, his hair impeccably neat. At thirteen, Ramsay had grown taller, the boyish softness of his face largely replaced by a maturity beyond his years.

Only his eyes were unchanged. Grey-blue, unfathomable, holding that peculiar mix of childlike innocence and obsession. They were fixed squarely on Theon.

"Long time no see," Ramsay said with a smile.

Theon stood frozen at the threshold, key still in hand. He flinched involuntarily at Ramsay's words. He should turn and run. He should shout for help. He should do anything a normal person would do when confronted by an ex-boyfriend.

But he just stood there, pinned in place.

"How did you get in?"

"Do you really think the Starks' security can keep me out? You've lived here long enough; you should know better than I do." Ramsay chuckled, his tone devoid of mockery. He stepped aside to make room for Theon to enter, but Theon stood rooted like a trapped animal, staring at him with a complicated expression.

Ramsay reached out, seized Theon's arm, and yanked him hard into the all-too-familiar room. Only when Theon heard the door click shut did he snap back to his senses, and a deep, primal fear began to coil in his gut.

"You blocked my number, changed your phone, altered your schedule, glued yourself to Robb Stark's side. Did you really think you could shake me off that easily?" Ramsay advanced on him, each word an accusation, his gaze growing sharper. He shot Theon a fierce glare.

Theon broke out in goosebumps. He backed away step by step until his back hit the door. His clever plan to hide and avoid Ramsay had clearly failed; Ramsay had been waiting in his room all along.

"I sent a message."

"A message." Ramsay repeated the word, tasting it like something foul. "Two sentences to dismiss me. 'Let's break up. Don't see me again.' Sent it, blocked me immediately, and then hid from me. That's all you had to say to me?"

"I said everything I needed to in that message."

Ramsay stared at him for a long moment. Then he reached out and gently touched Theon's cheek. Just like always, he pressed his body close, licking and kissing Theon's lips softly, sucking, demanding a deeper kiss. It was so tender, so unlike their past encounters, that Theon was momentarily stunned.

When Theon didn't return the kiss, Ramsay pulled back a step. He usually disliked standing face-to-face with Theon due to their height difference, but now he deliberately lowered his head and looked up at Theon with an innocent expression.

His hand slid from Theon's cheek to his nape, gently gripping the back of his neck—the gesture Ramsay loved most when kissing him. A posture of control, possession, and absolute refusal.

"Theon, do you remember what we are to each other?" Ramsay's voice dropped to a low, seductive murmur.

"We're…"

"You're my boyfriend." Ramsay's grip tightened slightly. "Do you remember? What makes you think you can unilaterally sever what we have?"

Theon averted his eyes guiltily, avoiding Ramsay's suggestive gaze.

"I'm seventeen. You're only thirteen."

"So?"

"We shouldn't be doing this at all. This relationship is wrong. If I cared about you properly, we should… we shouldn't see each other anymore." Theon hung his head, his voice hoarse, almost as if he were crying. But there were no tears, just a stubborn stare fixed on the floor.

"You care about the age?" Ramsay looked at him, confused.

"I care about—" Theon stopped. He didn't know how to explain. Age wasn't the core issue, but it was the symbol of it. It symbolized that their relationship had been misaligned from the very start. Unequal. Wrong.

"It's Myranda, isn't it?" Ramsay cut off his thoughts, his voice instantly turning icy. "She came to see you."

Theon didn't know how Ramsay knew. Seeing Theon's silence confirmed it. Ramsay's expression darkened, his eyes turning cold and sharp.

"She threatened you?"

Theon didn't answer. He merely glanced at Ramsay. Ramsay was silent for a beat, then smiled—a smile that sent a chill down Theon's spine.

"So you decided to leave me because Myranda said some pointless, threatening things to you?"

"It wasn't because of her."

"Then why?"

"Because I started to wonder if I was a pervert!" Theon's voice cracked as he choked out the words. Once spoken, it felt as though the suffocating weight on his chest had suddenly lifted.

Silence filled the room. Ramsay stared at him. A whirlwind of emotions flickered through those grey-blue eyes, too fast for Theon to catch.

Ramsay tilted his head. "You think you're a pervert?"

His hand left Theon's nape. He removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. There, pinned to his shirt, gleaming conspicuously, were the cufflinks Theon had given him.

"Then let me tell you—you're not. I can prove it to you."

In that instant, Theon sensed danger instinctively. He turned to unlock the door, but before he could move, Ramsay, his face utterly blank, slapped him hard. The sudden blow sent Theon staggering to the floor. By the time he realized what was happening, another body was covering his.

Ramsay straddled him, just like so many times before. "If you're a pervert, then you won't react to me once I'm grown. But look—"

He unbuckled Theon's belt, unzipped his trousers, and slipped his hand inside Theon's underwear, gripping his penis.

"Wait! Stop!" Theon's whole body jerked. He struggled fiercely to push Ramsay off, but Ramsay pinned him down firmly. Against Theon's resistance, Ramsay barely swayed; he had no intention of retreating.

"You still have plenty of feelings for me." Ramsay's tone took on an erotic lilt. He knew Theon's weaknesses better than anyone. His touch was precise, his pressure just right as he kneaded Theon's most sensitive spots.

"Stop it!" Theon's voice trembled, but no matter how he pushed, Ramsay wouldn't budge.

"Do you remember the first time we kissed?" Ramsay paused, as if recalling a treasured memory, and smiled sweetly.

Theon remembered. He remembered every detail of that day. Ramsay lifting those glistening grey eyes, staring at Theon's reddening face, their skin pressed together, an intimate atmosphere flowing between them, that strange, tingling sensation making his scalp prickle.

"I kissed you first." Ramsay answered for him. "Ever since we first met, I was the one who bit you, licked you, kissed you. I was the one who came to you again and again. You just never pushed me away." Ramsay's lips curved slightly, something unreadable in his eyes.

"I misled you." Theon panted, looking at the boy above him.

"Misled me into what? I initiated. I was willing. And besides, you've never been the one in control." Ramsay's voice was low, his gaze darkening. His hand crept down toward Theon's entrance, fingers circling the rim.

Theon stared at Ramsay in shock, realizing his intent. Desperately, he grabbed Ramsay's shirtfront, trying to throw him off, but Ramsay didn't move an inch.

"No, no! Stop it!" Theon shook his head violently, his eyes filled with resistance and terror that seemed almost tangible.

Ramsay frowned. He seized Theon's struggling hand and bit down savagely on the base of his middle finger.

"Ahh!" Theon screamed, staring in horror at the bloody ring of teeth marks. Ramsay had always liked nibbling his fingers, but it was more of a suggestive tease. He had never bitten this deeply. A searing pain radiated from the wound.

"An engagement ring, from me." Ramsay smiled without a trace of guilt, a smile that made Theon's blood run cold.

Tears welled in Theon's eyes from the pain. While he was distracted by his injured finger, Ramsay seized the opportunity to strip off his lower garments.

"Since you think you've corrupted me, then take responsibility. Marry me!" Ramsay's words were staggering. He leaned down again, their faces so close their noses almost touched.

Theon sucked in a sharp breath. The next second, Ramsay's mouth sealed over his. As Ramsay's tongue plunged inside, his fingers also forced their way into Theon's body.

A tearing, agonizing pain lanced through Theon's lower half. Tears streamed from his eyes like a waterfall, his hips convulsing involuntarily. Even as he writhed in agony, the boy on top of him continued his invasion.

"See? I'm the one raping you." Ramsay murmured against his lips, his eyes glazed. He didn't push deeper, just teased at the entrance.

"Stop! It hurts! It hurts so much!" Theon had abandoned all shame, his face streaked with tears as he begged.

An unimaginable tidal wave of pain crashed over him. Theon's body trembled uncontrollably. He curled up, twisting his hips desperately to escape, but his efforts were futile. The instrument of his torment pursued him relentlessly.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Theon looked up at the figure above him. That face, not yet free of childishness, overlapped with someone else in his memory. He shook as if having a panic attack.

"You're mine, Theon. Everything about you belongs to me." Ramsay seemed oblivious to his terror. He spoke his thoughts aloud, his finger tracing slow circles inside Theon.

Theon's breath hitched—not from emotion, not from pain. He blinked hard, trying to see clearly the stubborn face before him. This was the monster he had personally nurtured, the embodiment of his own sin.

Ramsay stared back at him. His lips brushed Theon's forehead, then his eyes, then his cheeks. Soft. Gentle. A stark contrast to the brutal treatment below.

"I hadn't planned on touching you so soon. It's your fault, really. Letting me see you with that girl, Kyra."

At the mention of someone else, Ramsay's voice darkened, turning cold and sharp, like a venomous snake lurking in the shadows. Theon's blood froze.

"How do you know about Kyra?"

"I know everything. You think blocking me was enough? You think hiding behind the Starks would keep me from you? You're so naive, Theon." As Ramsay spoke, his fingers abruptly stopped. Just as Theon sighed in relief, thinking he might withdraw, Ramsay shoved them deeper inside.

Theon arched his back in agony. This was punishment—punishment for breaking up with him, punishment for saying yes to Kyra.

"You met Kyra at the café. You agreed to date her. You've had three outings—two at the café, one dinner. She gave you a scarf; you didn't accept it. You haven't given her anything. Because you're still hesitating." Ramsay smiled as he recounted every detail of Theon's interactions with Kyra. Though he smiled, it was chilling; the smile never reached his eyes.

Theon's heart raced until he could barely breathe. "You had someone follow me?"

Ramsay just kept smiling. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Theon already knew.

He thought of those days when he believed he had hidden so well, believed Ramsay had given up on him. He had been bewildered by his own sense of loss and melancholy, completely unaware that he was being tailed, watched, like a rat trapped in a maze, thinking it had found the exit only to realize it was still running in circles.

"You're insane!" Theon spat at him accusingly.

"Maybe. But it's your fault. You made me this way. And you like insane, don't you?" Ramsay bit down on Theon's earlobe, slowly grinding it between his teeth, while his fingers continued their forceful intrusion.

"Stop it!" Theon squeezed his eyes shut, panting, but he didn't deny it.

Yes. He didn't know what was wrong with him either. After the initial shock, the first emotions that surfaced were joy and relief. He was broken, had been steeped in this twisted, obsessive love for too long. The poison had seeped into his very bones. There was no escaping it now.

"You like me. You like seeing me go crazy for you." Ramsay's words struck him like venom.

"Enough."

"You like being forced, because you want it too. You just don't dare to take it." Ramsay's words coiled around him like vines.

"Enough."

"You're not really rejecting me. Because all you'd have to do is shout, and someone would come in. But you haven't. You want this too—"

"I said enough!" Theon stopped pushing him away. He grabbed Ramsay's collar and sealed his mouth with a kiss, just like he always did. He didn't want to hear any more. He didn't want to face it.

Ramsay was right. Damn him, he was right about everything.

Theon was lying. Pretending. While claiming he was leaving for Ramsay's own good, he had been secretly devastated that Ramsay hadn't come after him.

He hadn't wanted to return the gifts—not because they were expensive, but because seeing them made him feel loved. Finding Ramsay waiting in his room had sparked a hidden joy. Knowing Ramsay had been watching him made him feel wanted.

He wasn't normal. He really wasn't normal.

And he had made Ramsay abnormal too. One passed it to the next, on and on, a vicious cycle. The immoral poison continued to flow, to spread, dragging more souls into the abyss.

Ramsay immediately kissed him back fervently. The familiar taste, the familiar warmth, the familiar tangle of lips and tongues. He nibbled Theon's lip and whispered, "It doesn't matter. As long as we're happy, why care about meaningless people and things?"

Theon wrapped his arms around him, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. He could no longer think. Myranda's threats, the legal statutes, the advice from strangers online—he didn't care about any of it. The wall he had built was made of paper. Ramsay had pushed, and it had collapsed.

"Once I turn eighteen, we'll get married. Then no one will dare gossip about us." Ramsay spoke earnestly, as if he had finally solved a troublesome problem, and smiled with satisfaction.

He parted Theon's thighs. Because Theon was no longer resisting, the intrusion was gentler. His fingers moved slowly but steadily, exploring deeper. Theon could feel him searching, testing.

After the initial tearing pain subsided, his body began to adjust. The foreign sensation of being touched inside sent involuntary tremors through him as Ramsay's movements softened.

Then, in a single moment, Ramsay's fingers found a certain spot.

"Ah!" Theon's body jerked violently, a startled moan escaping his throat.

Ramsay stopped and looked up at Theon's stunned face with a grin.

"So that's where you were hiding. You hid it well." Ramsay's voice brimmed with triumph. His fingers began pressing that spot rhythmically, each touch making Theon's vision go white.

It was a sensation he had never experienced—a terrifying pleasure forcibly awakened from deep within his body.

"Wait… don't…" Theon twisted his hips, trying to evade the waves of pleasure crashing over him. His voice was hoarse and broken.

It was too intense, drowning his senses completely. And Ramsay, like a child who had just discovered a fascinating new toy, kept stimulating him relentlessly, giving him no room to breathe.

"Don't? Your body says otherwise." Ramsay bent down and licked the tears seeping from the corners of Theon's eyes.

He quickened his pace. His other hand began stroking Theon's penis, which quickly hardened and trembled under his touch.

Theon clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the sounds threatening to burst forth. But he failed. As the pleasure crested to its peak and he finally shattered, a long, keening moan broke from his throat.

He collapsed limply beneath Ramsay, gasping for air, helpless tears streaming down his face.

Ramsay withdrew his hand, held up his slick-coated fingers, examined them for a moment, and then placed them in his mouth, licking them clean one by one.

He looked exactly like a succubus luring someone to their fall. Watching him, Theon was suddenly reminded of a legendary creature he had glimpsed in a book.

"Sweet," Ramsay pronounced. Then he looked down at Theon. "Don't I get a reward?"

Theon nodded. He unbuckled Ramsay's belt, unzipped his trousers, and reached inside to stroke Ramsay's erection. It was already painfully hard. He kneaded it with practiced skill, hearing Ramsay's breath hitch beside his ear.

No one knew each other's bodies better than they did. Ramsay didn't last long, soon spilling over Theon's hand.

Afterward, Ramsay slumped down and wrapped his arms around Theon, looking like a contented kitten after a full meal. They lay tangled together, half-naked, neither willing to move or separate.

"You know, I came here today planning to rape you. Brutally." Ramsay smiled at him, but his words were chilling.

A cold shiver ran down Theon's spine. Ramsay ignored his reaction and continued, "But I changed my mind. This sort of thing is more convenient at my place anyway."

"And our first time deserves a bit more ceremony." Ramsay's fingers trailed over Theon's thigh, lingering on the spots he liked.

"Ramsay…" Theon hesitated.

"Shh." Ramsay cut him off. "You don't need to think about anything. You don't need to do anything. Leave it all to me."

He held Theon tighter. They clung to each other like two symbiotic vines.

"I like you." A honeyed voice sounded in Theon's ear. Theon stared blankly at the face before him—neither a child's nor an adult's. He could do nothing but hold Ramsay tighter.

Ramsay kept murmuring in his ear, but Theon wasn't really listening. He was too exhausted to think. He only vaguely caught the names Myranda and Kyra before unconsciousness claimed him.

---

The next day, when Robb came to find him, Theon was staring blankly out at the garden. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there. Minutes. Maybe hours. Until Robb's voice broke through.

"Theon, I looked everywhere for you after I finished my rounds yesterday. Where did you go?"

Robb walked closer. Theon slipped the collar he had been fingering into his pocket and looked up, forcing a weak smile. "I was tired. Went back to my room to rest."

Robb sat down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. That hand was warm. Unlike Ramsay's, which always made him want to flee yet somehow unable to let go.

"That's good. I couldn't find you anywhere; I was worried you'd run off somewhere. Can't believe I forgot to check your room." Robb scratched his head sheepishly and added, "But the Boltons didn't show up yesterday, so it should be fine, right?"

Theon didn't answer. What could he say? What was he supposed to say? Should he tell Robb that Ramsay had somehow bypassed security and broken into his room? That while Robb was searching for him, Theon had been in bed with Ramsay?

He had betrayed Robb's trust and help. He was tangled up with Ramsay again. When he woke that morning, he was alone under the covers. Ramsay was long gone. The collar he had returned was now heavy around his neck once more, a symbol that its giver would never let go.

Theon realized that all his resolve and plans had crumbled utterly against Ramsay's persistence. Or rather, he couldn't escape the web Ramsay had so carefully woven. As long as he remained with the Starks, as long as he stayed in the North, Ramsay would find a way to drag him back.

But he couldn't confide in Robb. Robb didn't know the true nature of their relationship. And Theon wouldn't tell him—he couldn't bear to see the contempt in his friend's eyes.

They sat in silence, watching the gardeners tidy up the garden, which was still a bit disheveled from the party. Then Theon's phone, lying beside him, vibrated.

Reluctantly, he picked it up, expecting another message from Ramsay. But the screen showed an unfamiliar number.

He answered. Asha's voice came through, thick with tears. "Theon… Mom… she's fading fast. The hospital says… if you want to see her one last time, you need to come now."

The phone slipped from Theon's hand.

He didn't hear the rest of what Asha said.

Only one thought echoed in his mind:

Mom.

The mom who would hold him when he cried.

The mom who, even after her mind broke, would instinctively wrap her arms around him.

The mom who, the last time he saw her, had pulled from her pocket a candy he'd long stopped liking and pressed it into his hand.

She was dying.

Theon didn't know how he got back to his room, or who packed his bags. When he came back to himself, he was standing in the foyer, and Catelyn Stark was looking at him.

"Robb told me everything. A flight has been arranged. The driver will take you to the airport. If you need anything, tell him." Lady Stark's voice was unusually gentle.

"Thank you."

Theon thanked her, because he didn't know what else to say.

As he stepped out of the Stark house, fine snow had begun to drift from the sky.

Theon got into the car, watching the snow fall outside, watching Winterfell recede in the distance. His mind was blank.

Then his phone buzzed.

A message from Ramsay. He had already added himself back, pinned to the top.

"I'll be waiting for you to come back."

Theon stared at those words. He neither deleted nor replied. He simply turned off his phone and closed his eyes.

As the plane ascended through the clouds, he remembered the dream. The tower. The blood-red Silence. The blue eye glinting with malice.

And the voice, dripping with ill intent.

"Little Theon."

He opened his eyes abruptly and looked out at the white clouds beyond the window. They stretched out like a calm, placid sea. So calm it made him want to cry.

Chapter Text

Theon sat in a chair at the hospital on Harlaw, gazing out the window at the grey-blue sky and the endless expanse of white clouds.

The Iron Islands had not changed. The same grey-blue waters beat against the black rocks, and the sky wore the same grey-blue hue.

This land was forever this color—grey, blue, cold and hard, like the very soul of the Ironborn.

The sea wind still howled, the briny, salt-tinged air assaulting his senses, the exact same scent from his dreams.

Behind him, Alannys lay in the hospital bed, tubes threading into her body, the monitor emitting a steady, rhythmic beeping, like some form of countdown.

Yesterday, straight off the plane, he had followed Asha to the hospital. The harsh fluorescent lights had stung his eyes. Theon trailed behind Asha down the long corridor, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant, mingled with something he didn't want to identify—the scent of impending death.

Inside the ward, Alannys had already sunk into a deep coma. Her face was so gaunt it was barely recognizable, cheekbones jutting, eye sockets sunken. Those once gentle eyes were tightly shut.

Theon walked to the bedside and knelt, taking his mother's hand. It was nothing but bone, the skin so thin it was translucent, revealing the blue veins beneath.

But she was still breathing. Her heart was still beating. The doctors had simply determined she would not wake again.

Theon had always thought death was instantaneous. It wasn't. Alannys was slowly walking toward death. Her life was ebbing away with each breath that seemed ready to vanish yet refused to cease, her heartbeat faltering yet stubbornly pulsing on.

Alannys had taken a sudden turn in the middle of the night. She had left no final words, clinging to life by sheer, stubborn will alone.

She could neither live nor die. Uncle Rodrik said she was waiting for someone. Only when she saw the person she longed for most would she consent to let go.

But Theon had returned. It wasn't him.

Rodrik and Maron had made a video call after obtaining permission from the prison. It wasn't them either.

All the relatives and friends had rushed back. None of them were the one.

That left only one possibility. Balon. Their father. The man who, since his wife fell ill, had not visited her once, lost instead in his cups and his own failures.

She was waiting for the man who had abandoned her.

Asha, furious, had wanted to storm off and drag him here by force, but the others stopped her. In the end, red-eyed, she went with Uncle Rodrik to prepare for the funeral arrangements, leaving Theon alone at the hospital to keep vigil as his mother slowly faded toward death.

Theon gazed out into the distance. It was still that sea—both familiar and foreign. The sea of the Ironborn. The sea of the Drowned God. The place where his ancestors had dwelled for generations.

The sea around the Iron Islands was forever grey-blue, forever churning, forever unchanging. This land never changed, just as its people never fled, just as wounds never truly healed.

Visibility was high today. He could make out the silhouette of Pyke. If the clouds thinned a little more, if the sky cleared, perhaps he could even see the tower by the sea.

The place where his nightmares began.

Theon closed his eyes, trying to banish the images from his mind. But they clung like a persistent bone-deep parasite—the harder he tried to shake them off, the tighter they coiled.

Clouds drifted past the window, like a river carrying time away.

As time passed, his memories of the islands grew blurred, but Theon still remembered those days.

That weight. That suffocating sense of drowning, as if he were being pulled under.

In his memory, the wind that day had been peculiarly ominous, shrieking like someone in agony. Beneath the grey, overcast sky, the waves churned. Seabirds wheeled among the masts of the ships. The biting wind made the canvas sails of the boats moored along the coast snap and crack. Damp mist clung to the heavy air. A storm was brewing.

Theon saw the harbor surrounded by numerous cargo ships. Uncles whose names he couldn't recall were all converging on Pyke. The household grew bustling and crowded. Theon didn't understand their conversations, but their furtive manner and the strange fervor on their faces frightened him.

His two older brothers had been infected by this atmosphere too, their faces wearing a terrifying savagery. As the usual target of their cruelty, Theon wanted only to get away, to hide safely in his secret sanctuary.

Clutching his book, Theon scrambled up the stairs two at a time, pulling his blanket tight against the tower's chill and damp.

He paused on the stairwell and looked up. In mere moments, the sun was completely devoured by black storm clouds. The stairwell, robbed of light, plunged into sudden darkness. He missed his footing on the last step and stumbled forward with a pained cry. Instinctively, he threw out his hands to break his fall, twisting his wrist in the process.

Theon sat where he landed, clutching his sprained ankle as tears streamed down his face. A small mercy—it seemed he hadn't broken any bones. He sat crying and rubbing it for a while until the pain gradually subsided. Then, limping, he made his way into the room.

Rising moonlight filtered through the tattered curtains, casting a silvery glow across the chamber. Outside, the wind and the crash of the waves remained loud.

Exhausted, Theon threw himself into the walk-in wardrobe and burrowed under the blanket he kept there. The wind outside shrieked with increasing ferocity. He pulled the wardrobe door shut, leaving only a narrow crack for air.

His ankle was red, swollen, and inflamed. By tomorrow, it would surely be black and blue with bruises. He would be scolded for it. Theon sobbed quietly, aching and weary, and slipped almost instantly into a heavy sleep.

Theon was woken by the sound of voices, hushed yet intense. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. The voices were somehow familiar. Peering through the gap in the wardrobe door, he saw that one of the men was Uncle Euron, who had just arrived that day, seated in the room's only intact chair. The other man had his back to Theon, wearing a blue-green shirt. Theon recognized him—it was Uncle Aeron.

Uncle Euron sat as casually as if enthroned, his single cunning blue eye fixed intently on the man before him. His voice held a chilling tenderness. "Brother, come here and let me look at you. Did you miss me? Did you lie awake at night when you heard I was returning?"

"You're disgusting." Aeron spat contemptuously.

Euron's lips curled into a sardonic smirk, steeped in bloodlust.

Aeron glared hatefully into Euron's eye, refusing to show fear. After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice strained: "I'm a man now. You can't force your filthy, perverted acts on me like you used to. I'm not afraid of you anymore!"

Theon had never heard Uncle Aeron's voice so shrill. In his memory, Aeron's tone had always been light and easygoing. He had been an amiable man, full of humor, especially kind to Theon and Asha. But these words sounded fierce yet brittle, utterly unconvincing.

In the dim light, Euron's shadow fell over him like a vast net.

"I knew you'd say that. But you're trembling, brother." Euron's voice dripped with mockery.

"If I were to treat you the way I used to, do you think your god would come and save you?"

Euron fell silent. His blue eye gleamed with cold menace. The air grew suffocating, charged with danger. The howl of the wind outside filled the silent, empty room. Theon could no longer hear the crash of the waves.

Aeron let out a piercing scream that tore through the quiet night. Theon didn't see Euron move, but suddenly Euron had tackled Aeron to the floor. Aeron struggled uselessly; he was gaunt and withered, his body lacking the strength to resist. Euron was clearly stronger and quicker, effortlessly blocking every countermove.

Euron pinned Aeron's thin wrists above his head with one hand. Aeron continued to spew venomous curses.

"Ugh!" A muffled cry of pain escaped Aeron as Euron's hand closed around his throat, thumb pressing hard against his larynx. Aeron bucked violently, his face flushing red from lack of air, his legs kicking out of control. But all his struggling was suppressed.

Euron's chuckle was like the grating shriek of the wind. He released his grip only to seize Aeron by the hair, forcing him to look up, simply to savor the sight of Aeron coughing, tears and snot streaming down his face.

Euron seemed pleased. He traced a finger gently over Aeron's flushed cheek and leaned in to lick the tears from his face, the gesture almost tender.

Aeron stared back in horror, his lips trembling as if to speak, but Euron sealed his mouth with a kiss. Euron's tongue worked insistently, teasing Aeron's lips and tongue. Aeron whimpered in helpless misery, his muffled pleas broken and incoherent.

Theon didn't dare breathe. He couldn't bear to watch any longer. He shrank back into the wardrobe, desperately trying to make himself smaller, to vanish.

He was bewildered by what was happening mere feet away. He had caught fragments of such things in the crude jokes of some sailors, hints whispered between the words. From those scraps, he could piece together that this was utterly wrong between brothers. It overturned everything he knew. These acts were more vile and twisted than any violence his own brothers had inflicted on him. This wasn't just roughhousing. This was…

He didn't dare think further. It was beyond his comprehension. He wanted to flee, to leave, to cry out and stop it, but he could do nothing. He dared do nothing.

He sobbed silently. From outside came the sound of tearing fabric, then the friction of flesh mingled with slick, wet noises. Aeron's heart-rending scream cut through Theon like a bolt of icy lightning. Uncle Aeron's cries of pain and pleas were constantly interrupted by malicious, rhythmic thrusts. The sound of bodies slamming against the floor pounded heavily in Theon's heart. The metallic stench of blood filled his nostrils. Terror abruptly drowned every inch of his skin.

Theon felt dizzy, nauseous. A vile atrocity that even the howling wind couldn't mask was unfolding before his eyes, and he was powerless. He could only cover his own mouth and nose, cowering in the corner, trembling in feeble helplessness.

He didn't know how long it lasted. A sigh of satisfaction escaped Euron, and the room fell silent once more.

"I've missed this." Euron hummed with pleasure. He received no reply.

Only the pervasive moan of the wind outside the tower remained. Theon heard the rustle of clothing, then soft, deliberate footsteps began to echo through the room, each one striking against his heart.

An ominous, elongated shadow fell across the wardrobe door. Theon's heart hammered in his chest, terror boiling in his veins.

He huddled deeper into the wardrobe, listening as the soft footsteps drew closer, watching the intruder's shadow grow larger and larger until it swallowed the sliver of light from the crack entirely.

When Euron's gentle whisper sounded just outside the wardrobe door, Theon felt a primal dread crawl over his skin. "Much as I'd love to continue our little reunion, it seems we've had a little mouse stumble in on us today."

The wardrobe door was wrenched open with a creak. Theon didn't dare move. Frozen like prey under a serpent's gaze, he trembled violently.

Euron's dark eyes fixed on him, his lips curving slightly. "What a delightful surprise. Little Theon."

"I found you." Euron grabbed Theon by the collar and hauled him out of the wardrobe like a caught rabbit. He pulled away the blanket and settled Theon into his arms with an unsettling familiarity, like a gentle elder.

Theon sat rigid in Euron's embrace. A cold finger traced lightly over his face. Forced to meet his uncle's gaze, Theon saw a strange, sinister light flicker in that single blue eye.

"He reminds me of Urri when he was young. It makes one nostalgic. Don't you agree, brother?"

Theon shifted his gaze. He saw Uncle Aeron sprawled on the floor like a discarded rag doll, his clothes in disarray. His previously numb eyes surged with horror and anguish at the mention of Urri's name.

"Speaking of which, I was the one who personally taught all of you how to pray. When you were around his age." Euron pressed intimately close, his breath warm against Theon's earlobe. The arms holding Theon tightened subtly.

Moonlight fell serenely upon the tower. Outside, the anguished sea wind never ceased. But within the room, there was no other sound. It was as if he were sitting in the eye of a storm.

Uncle Euron tenderly brushed the disheveled hair from Theon's forehead and asked in a voice that was almost a whisper, soft and gentle, "Tell me, little Theon. Have you learned how to pray?"

Theon shook like a leaf. He couldn't answer. He had no thought of resistance. He went limp in his uncle's arms. His desperate gaze met Uncle Aeron's on the floor. The look in Uncle Aeron's eyes was one of utter despair.

Theon still couldn't grasp the full situation. He just sat there, frozen, listening, trying desperately not to ponder the implications of Uncle Euron's words. He had stumbled upon a forbidden secret that belonged only to his uncles, a truth so brutal he couldn't bear to face it.

And now, he too was teetering on the edge of that filthy abyss.

All Theon could hear was Uncle Euron's breathing growing heavier in his ear. A warm, large hand settled on his injured ankle, gently stroking the swollen redness. It moved slowly upward along the bone, stopping at his thigh, massaging the tense muscle.

Uncle Euron carried him to the room's only chair and settled Theon on his lap, holding him captive. Theon felt his waistband being loosened. Uncle Euron's slender fingers slipped into the sensitive space between his legs, stroking, toying.

Theon froze in terror. A wave of hot nausea spread from his stomach through his entire body. He tried to clamp his legs shut to stop the touch, but it was useless. With only slight pressure, Euron subdued him, rendering his struggles futile.

Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. Theon babbled pleas, incoherent and desperate. Faint whimpers squeezed from his throat as he bit down hard on his lower lip until the taste of blood filled his mouth.

Euron's touch was practiced yet almost casual. His gaze remained fixed beyond Theon, locked provocatively on Uncle Aeron, who was struggling to rise from the floor, as if Theon were merely a doll for display.

"I've always wondered, on those nights I spent with Urri, were you relieved… or were you secretly disappointed I didn't choose you?" Euron's voice was low, devoid of any humor. He continued his little game, his hand moving faster, its touch growing rougher.

Theon watched as Uncle Aeron slowly got to his feet, his face twisted with pain. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant. In Uncle Aeron's gaze, there was a grim resolve.

Staggering, Aeron approached. He placed a hand on Euron's shoulder and bent down, his hot breath fanning against Euron's ear. "Let him go. Let me please you instead, brother."

"I'll show you just how much I've longed for it." Aeron's voice was laced with despair.

The two stared at each other wordlessly. The silence stretched on, interminable.

"Kneel."

Resigned, Aeron knelt. He pressed his forehead against Euron's thigh, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving with each gasp. When he looked up at Euron's face, Theon heard Euron's mocking laugh. Euron released his grip on Theon with one hand and slid it to Aeron's collar, lazily toying with the buttons of his shirt, then gently stroking the bruises on Aeron's neck.

Euron's smiling eye glittered. Following the guidance of Euron's fingers, Aeron buried his face in Euron's crotch. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. His tongue emerged and began to lick up and down over the fabric of Euron's trousers. Euron let out a loud, obscene moan of pleasure.

Theon's stomach churned violently. His heart pounded as if trying to burst from his chest. His thoughts were a chaotic mess; he couldn't even process what he was seeing. But deep inside, a strange, profound misery took hold. Especially knowing that Uncle Aeron was being forced to submit for his sake—the guilt was overwhelming.

The harsh sound of ragged breathing beside him was a stark reminder that an atrocity born of his presence was unfolding. He wished he could be farther away, so far that he could no longer hear Uncle Aeron's muffled sobs.

The grip holding him captive loosened at some point without him noticing. Theon scrambled to escape Euron's embrace, desperate to flee for the door, to leave the tower without looking back, to escape this hell he had accidentally stumbled into. From tomorrow onward, he would stay far away from this tower. It was no longer his safe, secret sanctuary.

But Euron didn't let him go. His hand clamped down like an iron manacle. "Don't leave. Can you pray, little Theon?"

Euron asked the same question again. Theon looked at him through tear-filled eyes, then glanced at Uncle Aeron kneeling on the floor. Aeron gave him a small, subtle nod.

"I… I can. I've learned."

"Show me." Euron shoved him to the floor and looked down at him with disdain. He placed a hand on the back of Aeron's head, forcing him to take him deeper.

Theon struggled to his knees on the cold stone floor. He assumed the posture his mother had taught him, interlacing his fingers, and began to pray.

The vile sounds resumed behind him. Theon squeezed his eyes shut, hating that the wind he usually found so bothersome couldn't howl louder, shriek higher, enough to drown out the depravity occurring at his back.

But the gods gave no answer. The agony did not cease.

Theon didn't know how much time passed. His tears flowed ceaselessly. He threw himself wholly into prayer, mouthing the words his mother had taught him, his heart begging for the nightmare before him to end quickly.

"You can stop now. He's gone." A warm hand gently touched the top of Theon's head, making him flinch violently. Instinctively, he slapped it away.

He opened his eyes. The room held only the two of them now. Euron had left. Uncle Aeron stood before him, offering a bitter, weary smile. "Can you stand up?"

Theon nodded. He tried to rise, but his legs were numb from kneeling so long on the hard floor. Combined with his injured ankle, he stumbled and pitched forward into Aeron's arms. Aeron smelled of blood and a strange, sour odor. Theon didn't understand then what that scent signified.

Aeron steadied him, helping him stand upright, though he himself looked ready to collapse. Still, he asked gently, "Can you make it back on your own?"

"Yes."

Theon stumbled toward the door, hobbling out of the tower. He didn't look back. He was still in a daze, his mind a blank void. He couldn't comprehend it. The sounds from that room continued to echo in his ears.

Numbly, Theon returned to his own bedroom. He stripped off his clothes, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over his head. His body was cold and stiff. He stared into the pitch-black room, a tightness seizing his chest. A belated wave of terror and dread washed over him.

He realized there was a monster in his own family.

A monster wearing human skin.

Chapter Text

Theon started when the door was pushed open. He was certain he had locked it. He looked up and saw Euron standing casually in the doorway.

His uncle possessed the hallmark Greyjoy features—black hair, black eyes—save for his right eye, which was blue. Unlike anyone else's.

His gaze was always strange. Balon's eyes held anger and impatience; Asha's, confidence and pride; Rodrik and Maron's, stupid malice.

Euron's eyes held nothing. They were hollow, like an unfathomable trench in the sea, like the sky before a storm.

"Little Theon, what are you doing hiding in here all alone?" Euron stepped inside. Theon's instinct was to flee, but he sat at the far end of the room, and Euron blocked the only exit.

"Reading." His voice was small. He clutched the picture book to his chest, as if it could shield him.

Euron walked over and crouched before him, stroking his hair. That hand was cold—cold as though it didn't belong to anything living.

"You like reading? What a good child." Euron smiled. The smile looked exceedingly gentle.

He stood there, studying Theon. He didn't touch him again, but Theon could feel that vile, viscous gaze slithering over his skin. It chilled him to the bone. He felt as though he were sitting on pins and needles.

In the end, Euron only watched him quietly for a while and then left without doing anything. Theon didn't relax until the door closed. He had no idea what Euron's purpose had been.

That night, Theon woke with a start in the dead of sleep.

It wasn't a sound that woke him. The room was quiet. But he was awake, his heart pounding, as if something were telling him he shouldn't be asleep.

Then he saw it. A figure stood by the window.

Moonlight filtered through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the silhouette. Euron stood there, silently watching him.

Theon wanted to scream, but the sound caught in his throat. He wanted to run, but his body wouldn't move.

He could only lie in bed, eyes open, watching as the figure slowly, slowly drew nearer.

Euron stopped beside his bed and looked down at him.

"Sleep, little Theon. I only came to look at you." His voice was soft, as if hushing a child to sleep.

Then he touched Theon's face. The hand was cold. Theon squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to breathe.

He didn't know how much time passed—minutes, maybe hours. When he opened his eyes again, no one stood by the bed.

Theon lay there. The sun was rising over the sea. He stared at the molded ceiling trim; the patterns seemed to dance. The monster had latched onto him. He didn't know what to do.

After that day, Euron began to intrude upon his room with increasing frequency. Not every day—sometimes every other day, sometimes every two or three days—but he always came.

Sometimes he stood by the window, gazing outside.

Sometimes he sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke Theon's hair, his cheek, his neck.

Sometimes he did nothing at all, simply watching Theon with that single blue eye.

Theon learned not to make a sound. He learned to close his eyes, pretend to be asleep, pretend he knew nothing. He learned to curl up on the bed after Euron left, biting the blanket and crying silently. He learned to force himself to smile during the day, to act as though nothing had happened.

Theon could no longer sleep peacefully. He changed the door lock. He jammed a chair under the door handle. He hid a small knife beneath his pillow. He prayed to all the gods that Euron wouldn't come at night.

But Euron always came.

One night, when Euron arrived, Theon fought through his terror and kept his eyes open.

He lay in bed, staring wide-eyed as Euron walked in, sat on the edge of his bed, and reached out a hand toward him.

"Not pretending to sleep anymore?" There was a faint trace of amusement in Euron's voice.

Theon said nothing. He glared at Euron with the fiercest look he could muster. Euron's hand paused on his cheek, stroking gently.

"Do you know, little Theon? You remind me of Urri."

A flicker of nostalgia crossed Euron's eye, as if recalling something pleasant. "He used to glare at me like that too. Sometimes I would respond. Sometimes I wouldn't."

Theon didn't know who Urri was, but he remembered the name. Euron had mentioned it that night in the tower.

"What happened to Urri?" he asked softly, his voice barely audible.

Euron didn't answer. He smiled. That meaningful smile made Theon's blood freeze in an instant.

The hand slid from his cheek to his neck, pressing lightly against Theon's throat. Theon didn't dare move. He could feel his own pulse hammering against Euron's palm through his skin.

The hand tightened, just a little—only a fraction—but enough for Theon to understand that Euron could throttle him at any moment. As easily as crushing an ant.

"Little Theon, do you know what the most interesting part is? The way you and Urri look at people. Clearly a little rabbit, yet putting on the airs of a wolf. Clearly scared to death, yet stubbornly refusing to cry."

His thumb stroked the side of Theon's neck, the gesture steeped in eerie tenderness. "I like this look best of all."

A strange, foreboding atmosphere hung over all of Pyke. Theon sensed that something momentous was unfolding in the household. Ships gathered at the docks and were dispatched. Sometimes they returned whole; sometimes one or two were missing. Suspicious figures appeared in their drawing-room. His two older brothers were frequently nowhere to be found. But Theon knew nothing.

All he knew was that after that day, he began having the same dream, over and over. He was drowning in the sea, unable to surface, and that blue eye watched him from the darkness. It would never disappear.

All he knew was that after that day, he learned to hide. He hid in the corners of rooms, behind crowds of people, inside the world of books. If he could, he would have hidden inside his own shadow.

But he couldn't hide from Euron.

Every night, Euron would appear. He would sit on Theon's bed and hold him in his arms like a doll. That hand would wander inside his clothes, and as it wandered, Euron would speak those words—words Theon didn't fully understand but feared on instinct.

Theon didn't move. He pretended to be a senseless doll. But after Euron left, as he curled up in bed, he realized he was trembling. Not from cold. Because he realized he was starting to get used to it.

Used to being touched. Used to those words. Used to closing his eyes in the dark, pretending to sleep. Used to reciting his mother's prayers in his mind while that hand moved over his body, reciting until he forgot where he was.

He had become someone who could get used to something like this.

That realization was more terrifying than anything else.

Theon found he couldn't bear it anymore. Euron was now entering his room every single day, staying longer and longer. He hadn't been able to sleep soundly for many nights. Theon made a decision.

He would go to the tower.

He knew he shouldn't go there. It wasn't safe.

But on all of Pyke, that place alone belonged to him. Only there could he pretend he was safe.

Everywhere else, people treated him as a nuisance. It was the only place he knew to feel safe. Even though something terrible had happened there, Uncle Aeron had saved him there. And Euron would never imagine he would dare set foot in that place again.

It should be safe there. Shouldn't it?

Theon slipped out of the house just as the sun was rising. He walked along the coastline, slowly, glancing back over his shoulder again and again, afraid someone might be following.

By the time he reached the tower, the sun was already high. The tower looked the same as ever—dilapidated, solitary, perched on the cliff above the sea.

Theon pushed open the broken wooden door and stepped inside.

It was dark within. Only the sound of the wind and the crash of the waves intertwined. He walked to the wardrobe, climbed inside, and used the iron chain he had stolen from the storeroom to secure the handles from the inside. Only then did he relax and curl up in the corner.

It was dark and cramped, but it gave him a sense of peace.

He fell into the first true sleep he'd had in a long time.

He didn't know how long he slept.

When he woke, the chain was gone. The wardrobe door stood open.

Euron stood outside, looking down at him.

The setting sun streamed through the window, dyeing the room a golden red. Euron was backlit; Theon couldn't make out his expression. Only that blue eye gleamed with a pensive light.

"I've always felt the gods were particularly partial to me. That's why, after taking Urri away, they gave you to me."

Theon instinctively shrank back, but he could only retreat deeper into the wardrobe. He wanted to run, but his body wouldn't obey. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his throat.

Euron reached out, seized his arm, and dragged him out of the wardrobe, pulling him into his arms.

"Don't be afraid, little Theon."

Euron's voice was soft and gentle, like a serpent slithering past. "I'll be very good to you. Just as good as I was to Urri."

Urri. That name again.

Now Theon knew who that name belonged to. He had gone and looked through the Greyjoy family records.

It was an uncle he had never met. Urrigon Greyjoy. Balon and Euron's younger brother. He had supposedly died before Theon was born, but no one knew how. Within the Greyjoy family, that name was forbidden.

"Urri was my favorite brother. He looked most like our mother. And his temperament was the most interesting. Not as troublesome as Aeron." Euron continued speaking, his gaze turning distant.

"Do you know, little Theon?"

Euron leaned close, his breath fanning over Theon's face. "This was Urri and Aeron's room when they were children. It was here that I taught them how to pray. You look so much like him. Those eyes. That expression of being frightened but forcing yourself to hold firm. And—"

His hand gripped Theon's chin. "—this look of wanting to run but not daring to."

"Let me teach you how to pray." Euron's voice turned soft and dangerous.

"Kneel properly." Euron forced Theon to the floor, pressing him down onto his knees. Theon's knees struck the cold stone floor, the pain making him gasp.

"Interlace your fingers. Close your eyes. And then—" His hand pressed down on the back of Theon's head, forcing him to bow. "Pray to the Drowned God. Just like Urri did."

Theon's body began to tremble.

He remembered those nights. Those touches. Those words.

He remembered his mother's embrace, long, long ago, before she had lost her mind.

He remembered Uncle Aeron, who had saved him in this very tower.

But Uncle Aeron wasn't here. No one was coming to save him.

"Speak." Euron bent down, his lips close to Theon's ear.

"Drowned God… please bless me…" Theon's teeth began to chatter—not from a desire to pray, but from fear.

"Continue." Euron's hand began to unbutton his clothes.

"Don't stop."

"Please bless my family…" A pair of arms encircled him from behind. Tears streamed down Theon's face, but he could only keep reciting.

"Please bless… bless…" He couldn't remember what came next. The hands began to slide lower.

"Continue."

Euron's voice turned cold. "I said, don't stop."

Theon continued to recite, reciting the prayers he had long memorized, words he didn't believe in at all. He had no idea what he was saying. His mind was blank. All he could feel were those hands roaming over his body.

"Stop!" A fierce voice rang out from the doorway. The wooden door crashed open.

Euron halted and turned his head.

Aeron stood there. He looked different from that night in the tower. He was thinner, paler. His eyes blazed with fury, and something else—something Theon couldn't read.

But he was there. Standing in the doorway.

"Euron. Let him go." Aeron's voice was ice.

"Little brother, you've come at the perfect time. This time, you can kneel over there, and we can relive old times…" Euron's hand paused. He pointed to the corner, his tone still casual, as if nothing were happening.

"Shut up!" Aeron's voice cut him off like a blade.

Theon saw Uncle Aeron charge forward. As Euron raised an arm to block, Aeron threw himself at him. He wrapped his arms tightly around Euron and hurled him sideways. The two grappled, crashing into the broken chair, rolling across the floor.

"Run! Run!" The gaunt Aeron was pinned to the floor, but he held onto Euron with all his strength and shouted at Theon.

Theon stared at them, frozen. His clothes were disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed, his legs still trembling.

"Run! Down the stairs! Don't look back!"

Theon gazed at him blankly—at those eyes, so similar to Euron's yet utterly different. But Aeron's eyes were not empty. They were full. Full of pain, guilt, and fury.

"Run!" Aeron roared.

Theon scrambled to his feet. He ran for the door on all fours, heedless of anything else, and bolted for the stairway.

Behind him, he heard Euron's voice. "Aeron, do you know what you're doing?"

"I know." Aeron's growl. Then the sound of heavy objects falling, the sounds of a struggle, a cry of pain.

Theon didn't look back. He ran with all his might. The stairs were steep; he practically tumbled down them.

Finally, he burst out of the tower and onto the wooden bridge connecting it to the mainland. The bridge groaned and creaked. He sprinted toward the main house.

He ran so fast he didn't notice the loose plank beneath his feet. Theon slipped. His whole body pitched backward, off balance.

He saw the sky. It was a grey-blue sky. A few early stars glittered overhead.

He plunged into the sea. In the moment of falling, he thought he heard someone shouting—a sharp, desperate sound.

Seawater rushed in from all sides. Water flooded into his nose, his mouth, his ears. He opened his mouth to scream, but only more water rushed in.

Salty. Briny. Like the taste of tears.

The water was freezing. So cold his lungs felt like they were being torn apart. So cold his limbs went numb. So cold he couldn't tell if he was swimming up or sinking down.

Theon struggled desperately, trying to swim upward.

He opened his eyes underwater but could see nothing. Only darkness. Only that boundless, crushing darkness pressing against his chest.

The water pressure squeezed his eardrums, squeezed his eyeballs, squeezed every bone in his body. His lungs burned. His consciousness blurred.

Something grabbed his ankle, pulling him down. He sank, and sank, and sank.

Theon looked down. In the darkness, a black monster had coiled around his leg, dragging him toward the deepest part of the sea. The monster's blue eyes glittered in the blackness.

At last, the darkness swallowed him whole.

Theon didn't know how long he was in the water. He only knew that someone pulled him out. A pair of hands gripped him fiercely and dragged him ashore. He heard someone shouting his name, the voice far away, as if filtered through a layer of fog.

Then he knew nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, the ceiling above him was white. He lay in a white bed. The air smelled of the sharp antiseptic unique to hospitals.

Someone was beside him. Theon turned his head and saw Asha and his mother sitting by the bed. His mother's eyes were red and swollen; she wept when she saw him awake.

Asha sat in the chair beside the bed, her face pale with exhaustion, dark circles beneath her eyes. Seeing him awake, her whole body sagged with relief.

"You're awake." Her voice was hoarse.

Theon opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt like it had been sandpapered raw. No sound came out.

Asha picked up a cup of water from the bedside and carefully fed him small sips of warm water.

"You had a fever. You were unconscious for three days."

Three days.

Theon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was a blank. Those events were like chaotic shards; he knew what had happened, but he couldn't piece them all together.

"What happened?" Asha picked up a towel and wiped the corner of his mouth.

Theon looked back at her. Asha's eyes held worry, confusion, and also suspicion.

"How did you fall into the sea? Do you know that if a fisherman hadn't happened to pass by in his boat, you might be dead!" Asha said, her voice thick with concern. Beside her, their mother began to cry silently again at the word "dead."

Theon didn't know what he should say. Euron. Aeron. Urri. Those nights. Those past events. He wasn't the only victim. He couldn't speak of it. He shouldn't.

And even if he did, what would it change? According to Ironborn tradition, the Ironborn never sympathized with victims. They believed victims were harmed because they were too weak. Euron wouldn't be punished. He would go on free as ever.

Only Theon would be looked upon with contempt. And he would drag others down with him.

Theon didn't know what the right thing to do was. He knew only one thing: he couldn't think about it anymore. Those memories were too heavy. He couldn't bear them.

So he looked at Asha with the blankest expression he could muster. "I… I don't remember."

Asha frowned. Her voice sharpened. "You don't remember?"

"I only remember… I was walking by the sea, and then… then I fell. I don't remember anything else." Theon haltingly wove his lie. Asha stared at him, her sharp eyes searching his face.

Theon didn't look away. He tried his hardest to appear like a bewildered child, just awakened from a coma, who knew nothing.

"Are you sure?"

Theon nodded emphatically. Asha was silent for a moment. Then she touched his forehead. "You still have a fever. Rest some more."

She didn't press further. But as she led their mother out of the room, Theon saw the look in her eyes. It wasn't a look of belief. It was a look that said, I know you're lying, but I don't know what to do about it.

A short while later, someone else entered.

Theon opened his eyes and saw Uncle Aeron. His heart clenched painfully.

Aeron looked haggard, his face ashen, dark circles ringing his eyes. He wore a rumpled shirt and carried a strange odor about him, like a vagrant who hadn't slept or bathed in days.

"Awake?" Aeron walked over and sat in the chair beside the bed.

"Asha said you don't remember?"

Theon nodded. The way Aeron looked at him was complicated. Those eyes were filled with things Theon couldn't decipher—pain, guilt, and a sliver of relief.

"You know, Theon? Some things… it's better to forget them."

Theon's heart skipped a beat. He looked at Aeron. Neither of them spoke. The sea breeze drifted in through the window, carrying the briny scent. Seabirds called in the distance.

They lived by the same sea. They shared a similar experience. But they were different. They saw different things.

What Aeron saw was Urri—the irretrievable past. What Theon saw was the moment of his own fall—those images he wanted to forget but couldn't.

Aeron was the first to look away. He patted Theon's shoulder and stood to leave.

Theon lay in bed.

Uncle Aeron hadn't blamed him.

Everyone was asking him what happened.

He couldn't tell anyone.

He could only keep lying. Keep pretending to have forgotten.

But the body remembers. The fear, the disgust, the sensation of that icy touch—it was all still carved into his bones.

Later, Euron left the Iron Islands.

Theon didn't know why he left or where he went. He didn't want to know. All he knew was that he was finally safe.

Then Balon sent him to the North, as a hostage, a surety for the Starks.

The day he left the Iron Islands, only Asha came to the docks to see him off.

Just before he boarded the ship, Asha hugged him and said, "Take good care of yourself over there. Remember, no matter what happens, you are a Greyjoy."

Theon didn't tell her that the identity he most wanted to escape was precisely that—being a Greyjoy.

Because as long as he was a Greyjoy, it meant he could never truly escape Euron's shadow.

"If you have any problems, you can call me."

Theon hugged her back tightly. But he knew he wouldn't call.

Some things, even if you speak them, are useless.

As the ship pulled away from the harbor, Theon stood on the deck and watched the Iron Islands grow farther and farther, smaller and smaller, until they vanished beneath the horizon.

After arriving in the North, he began a new life. He had a new room. He enrolled in a new school.

He learned to smile. He learned to make friends. He learned to endure. He learned to pretend everything was fine.

He thought he could start over. No one here knew his past. No one would look at him with those eyes. He could pretend he was just an ordinary boy—friends with Robb, growing up alongside the Stark children.

But sometimes, he would dream of that tower.

The dreams were both vivid and blurry. The images often bled together, but the sounds were always piercingly clear.

He would vomit. He would cry. He would tremble uncontrollably. He would remember those nights. He would think of those sounds, those touches, those words.

He would recall the moment he plunged into the sea, the feeling of seawater flooding his lungs.

Then he would close his eyes and force himself not to think. He would wash his face clean and pretend nothing had happened. He would pretend to have forgotten—just as he had always done.

Then he met Ramsay.

The funeral was held three days later.

Alannys had breathed her last in the early hours of the morning. Having spent all her remaining strength, she still hadn't waited for the man who had hurt her and abandoned her.

The Iron Islands' tradition was burial at sea. The body was placed upon a pyre built in a small boat, which was set alight and pushed out toward the open water. Flames burned across the sea's surface. Thick smoke rose toward the grey, overcast sky. At last, the boat sank beneath the waves, returning to the embrace of the Drowned God.

Waves crashed against the rocks, the sound distant, as if from another life. Theon stood on the shore, watching the little boat drift farther and farther away. The firelight illuminated the sea, and it illuminated his pale face.

Asha stood beside him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. Her grip was tight, as though she feared he might collapse.

But Theon didn't fall. He only watched the boat, watched the flames consume his mother's body inch by inch, watched the smoke slowly merge into the ashen sky.

He didn't cry. Not even when the last spark sank into the sea and the water grew calm again.

After the funeral, the relatives departed one by one. Some patted his shoulder and offered a few perfunctory words of comfort. Others merely gave him a cold glance and turned away.

Theon didn't blame them.

In the Iron Islands, he was Balon's useless youngest son—the soft, worthless boy who only knew how to read and couldn't reave. No one expected him to become anything. No one cared what he had lost.

He preferred that they all leave.

Only Asha remained with him on the shore. Together, they gazed out at the sea that had swallowed everything.

"You've changed a lot," Asha said suddenly.

Theon turned to look at her. "Changed how?"

"Your eyes. When you were little, there was a light in your eyes. There's none now."

Theon didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

That light had gone out a long, long time ago.

"Stay at my place tonight. The main house… you probably don't want to go back there."

The main house on Pyke. Balon still lived there. Since his failed rebellion, he had drowned himself in drink day after day, shutting himself in his room and refusing to see anyone. Theon didn't want to see him. He didn't need to see him.

They had long since run out of things to say to each other.

Late that night, Theon lay in the guest room of Asha's house. Outside the window, the sea wind howled. The faint sound of waves crashing against rocks drifted in.

There was a knock at the door.

"Theon? Still awake?" Asha's voice.

"Yeah."

Asha pushed the door open and stepped inside, holding a cup of hot tea.

"You're not sleeping well?" She handed him the tea and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"I used to have nightmares too, when I was little. Every time I dreamed about Dad hitting Mom, I'd wake up terrified."

"Eventually, I learned something. I learned to tell myself: That's all in the past. I'm not that little kid anymore."

Theon looked down at the tea in his hands. The steam curled upward, blurring his vision. "What if it doesn't pass?"

Asha was quiet for a moment. "Then let it become a part of you. But don't let it define you."

Theon didn't answer. He took a sip of the tea. It was scalding hot, numbing his tongue.

But that small pain was nothing compared to the ache inside him.

"Oh, right. I have some good news to tell you."

"What is it?"

Asha took a deep breath. "The debt to House Stark, and the reparations. They've all been paid off. Completely."

"What?" Theon stared, stunned.

"I've been working myself to the bone these past few years. And the contract with the Targaryens finally got on track. This month, I wired the final payment to the Starks."

Asha declared, a triumphant look on her face. "You're free, Theon! You're not a hostage anymore. From now on, you can go wherever you want. Do whatever you want."

Theon looked at her, astonished. For a moment, he couldn't speak.

He was free?

He wasn't a hostage?

The word was so foreign. It felt like it came from another world. Since childhood, Balon had treated him as a useless burden. Then he had been collateral for the Starks. For over a decade, he had never truly belonged to himself.

And now, Asha was telling him he was free.

"You can stay in the Iron Islands. We don't have money, but we still have a roof. If you don't want to live on Pyke, you can stay here with me."

"If you want to keep going to university, you could go back to the North. Or go somewhere else." Asha paused, then offered another option.

"Somewhere else?"

"Yeah. Have you thought about Dorne? They have a lot of good universities there. I have contacts, connections. If you want to go, I can help you apply."

Dorne. A warm place.

Theon remembered, a long time ago, he had once said to Ramsay in a drowsy haze, "I don't want to stay in either place. I want to go somewhere warmer."

That was the first time he had spoken his true feelings aloud.

Back then, Ramsay had told him, "It's a promise. In the future, we'll go to King's Landing together."

King's Landing. Dorne. Places he had once longed for.

Now, he could actually go.

For the first time in his life, he had options. He could start over in a place where no Stark, no Bolton, no one at all knew who he was. He could pretend nothing had ever happened.

"Think about where you want to go." Asha's voice pulled him from his thoughts. Her gaze was gentle and earnest. "You can go to the place you truly want to live."

Theon fell silent. He didn't know where he truly wanted to go. He had never had the right to choose. No one had ever asked him.

Now, suddenly presented with a choice, he didn't know how to decide.

"You don't have to decide now. Take your time. Let me know when you've figured it out." Asha patted his shoulder and stood, walking toward the door.

"Oh, and about the North—if you need to go back to pack your things, or say goodbye to anyone, then go. But if you don't want to go back, I can find someone to handle it for you." With that, she closed the door behind her.

Theon sat alone on the bed, staring out the window at the grey-blue sky.

The North. Winterfell. House Stark. Robb. Jon. Those people who were, at best, barely "family."

And Ramsay.

Theon's hand drifted unconsciously to his pocket. Inside was the collar. He didn't know why he was still carrying it.

Perhaps because it was the only proof that those years had really happened.

Those years. Those kisses. Those bites. Those declarations of "You're mine." Those moments that filled him with both terror and an inexplicable inability to let go.

Theon took out the collar. The metal clasp was cool against his palm. He remembered Ramsay's message: "I'll be waiting for you to come back."

There were no stars in the sky tonight. Only thick layers of cloud. He remembered being small, his mother holding him as they sat by the window, looking up at the same sky, looking down at the same sea.

"The Drowned God will protect us. As long as we believe."

Theon had never believed in the Drowned God.

But at this moment, he wanted to believe. He wanted to believe his mother had gone to a better place. He wanted to believe the nightmares would eventually pass.

He gripped the collar tightly in his hand. The metal clasp bit into his palm, leaving a red indentation.

This was his last chance. He could leave. He could sever this twisted bond with his own hands. He could prove he wouldn't become the kind of person he feared most.

The waves continued to crash against the rocks. The sea wind continued to howl. Pyke stood silently in the darkness.

Chapter Text

The afternoon before the typhoon was stiflingly hot, so muggy it was hard to breathe. Under the blazing sun, the streets were nearly empty; everyone had ducked indoors, into places with cold drinks and air conditioning.

Theon was so busy his feet barely touched the ground. This time of day was usually the slowest, but today it seemed everyone had made a pact to savor the last bit of sunshine before the typhoon hit. The tiny café was crammed with customers.

The takeout orders were absurdly numerous. He had already refilled the coffee beans twice that day. Though he was technically in charge of supplies and logistics, just helping run coffee to the tables had him trapped by one table of customers after another. He was only able to break free when the part-time front-of-house worker finally arrived.

He had barely dashed back to the coffee bar to catch his breath when the order machine began spewing out tickets that threatened to bury the narrow counter. The male manager's already emotionless eyes grew even more dead inside, yet his hands never stopped repeating the motions of brewing coffee.

Customers waiting for their takeout crowded around the bar—some staring at their phones, others chatting and laughing with companions. Theon hurried over to help, turning himself into a senseless coffee-making robot.

Fragments of the customers' conversations drifted into his ears. The two girls standing nearest to him appeared to be middle school students, chattering away about school gossip.

"So why isn't the physics teacher renewing her contract next year? I really liked her way of explaining things. So much better than those old fossils."

"Don't you know? I heard she's been overly close with several younger students, always taking them out privately. Then one of the students found out her current boyfriend graduated from our school."

"That's not really a big deal, is it?"

"No, no—the key is, the guy accidentally let it slip while they were talking. He said he and the teacher have been dating for eight years. If you do the math on his age, that means they've been together since he was in fifth grade!"

"Oh my god, that's disgusting! I never would've guessed the teacher was a pedophile!"

"Right? You can't judge a book by its cover."

"Has no one called the police? That's a crime, isn't it?"

Right. So disgusting.

"Theon."

So disgusting, having desire for a child. Utterly repulsive.

"Theon Greyjoy!"

A sharp smack landed on Theon's right shoulder. He looked up to see the female manager had emerged from the kitchen, an ordering tablet still in hand.

Seeing she finally had his attention, she said, a hint of displeasure in her voice, "The weather bureau just announced the typhoon will start intensifying at six. I've already shut down the ordering system. Once you've finished the tickets you have on hand, take the others and get ready to close up."

A wave of groans rose from the customers around the bar. The manager ignored them entirely, walking over to the door and flipping the "OPEN" sign around, shooing away anyone still trying to enter.

"Do we have to start preparing this early?" Since coming to Dorne, Theon had experienced the southern summer typhoons. At first, he too had braced for the worst, only to find it was all bark and no bite. He still couldn't quite understand the Dornish tendency to treat every storm as an impending catastrophe.

"Sweetheart, this is the first major typhoon of the year. Look at it—" She pointed outside at the cloudless sky, blue and so bright it was dazzling. "I guarantee you, this one's going to be a beast."

Theon stood before the supermarket shelves, looking at the meager remaining stock of bottled water. He hesitated for three seconds and only took two bottles.

That was the Dorne typhoon season for you. Several storms every year, each hyped by the media as an apocalyptic event, only to amount to a heavy downpour and a day of strong wind before passing.

The locals braced themselves every time. Out-of-town students initially followed suit, rushing to the supermarket in a frenzy of panic buying before each storm.

But Theon had been in Dorne for five years. He was long past being that kind of freshman. Besides, he had the groceries the manager had given him. In the end, he carried two bottles of water, a few packs of instant noodles, and a loaf of bread as he slowly made his way to the checkout counter.

The cashier scanned his items while glancing at the typhoon path on her phone, making idle small talk. Theon gave perfunctory responses, his mind already elsewhere.

Typhoon weather always reminded him of the North. Of the long winters. Of the blizzards. Of the stone walls of Winterfell, standing silent and steadfast in the wind and snow. Of huddling with the Stark children around the hearth for warmth. Of nights spent with Ramsay in the cabin in the woods.

Some time ago, he'd gone back to the North. Seeing how the streets and buildings had changed, everything transformed, he'd realized five years had passed. In the end, he hadn't met with anyone. He'd gone to the government office, picked up his documents and certificates, and left—as though someone were chasing him.

But truthfully, no one cared. Robb sent messages now and then, sharing inconsequential bits of news, but less and less frequently. Jon only surfaced in group holiday texts. The other Starks had long since fallen completely silent.

Ramsay had seemed to vanish entirely. The messages that said, "I'll be waiting for you to come back" — they had stopped the moment Theon changed his Dorne number. He didn't know if Ramsay had tried to find him. He didn't know what Ramsay had become.

Sometimes he thought, This is for the best. Ramsay will grow up, meet other people, forget that twisted past. And I'll start over in Dorne, pretending none of it ever happened.

He had successfully buried that warped love. He had broken the cycle of sin. This was the best possible outcome for both of them.

Theon walked out of the supermarket with his shopping bag. The sky had already darkened to an ominous grey, and a light, pattering rain began to fall. He opened his umbrella and hurried toward his apartment.

His apartment sat on the edge of the university district, an old three-story building. The landlord lived on the top floor and rented out the lower levels to students and office workers. Theon's unit was at the end of the second-floor hallway, with a small balcony that offered a sliver of a view of the distant sea between the neighboring buildings.

Because of that, the moment he first saw the room five years ago, he had decided. Dorne's sea was nothing like the sea around the Iron Islands. This sea was warm, bright, a green-tinged blue.

Theon walked on. The usually bustling streets were now almost devoid of pedestrians. Typhoon weather sent everyone home early from work. But aside from the light rain, there wasn't even a breeze. Instead, an eerie stillness hung in the air, as if he'd stumbled into an abandoned ghost town.

Theon stopped in front of his apartment building's main door, umbrella in one hand, the other rummaging through his bag for his keys.

He heard footsteps. They came from the other end of the street, approaching slowly. Theon didn't look up. He stepped aside, leaving enough space for someone to pass, and continued searching for his keys.

But the footsteps stopped right beside him.

"Excuse me—"

Theon glanced up inadvertently. A dark-haired young man stood next to him, without an umbrella, phone in hand, smiling at him with a bashful expression. "Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to the nearest hotel?"

The young man spoke, his voice low and pleasant, polite with a perfectly measured note of confusion. "I think I'm a bit lost."

Theon's heart stopped for a single beat. He didn't react immediately, because the person before him was so drastically different from the one in his memory.

He was now slightly taller than Theon, dressed in a well-tailored dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms with elegant, sculpted muscle. Black casual trousers. Clean dark sneakers. A black backpack. His black, curly hair was neatly combed, framing a sharply defined face.

The baby fat that had rounded his face five years ago was gone now, completely stripped away. His skin was pale. He had the sharp, angular jawline of a Northerner, a high-bridged nose, and lips that were curving upward now into a polite smile.

And those eyes—the eyes that had once terrified him, consumed him, trapped him—were paler now, like a frozen winter lake. They regarded him gently.

No brooding darkness. No paranoia. None of that spine-chilling possessiveness. Only a polite, distant, perfectly measured stranger's gaze.

Theon froze. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Ramsay looked at him, puzzled, blinking slowly. Then a look of surprise dawned on his face.

"Theon?"

He said his name. His voice was different too. Gone was the childish sweetness. It was cool now, mature, carrying a strange, well-bred accent.

Nothing like the voice Theon had heard in his dreams, in the cracks of his memories, on countless nights. The voice that had once said, "You're mine," and "We'll never be apart," and "I like you." That had been a child's voice.

"You—" Theon finally found his voice, then realized he didn't know what to say.

Ramsay smiled, a pleasantly surprised smile. He stepped forward, into the shelter of Theon's umbrella, though he kept a polite, safe distance. "It really is you. I thought I was mistaken. You've changed so much."

You're the one who's changed so much. You're a completely different person, Theon thought.

Five years. Neither too long nor too short. Enough time to change many things. Enough time to turn a paranoid thirteen-year-old boy into a polite, well-mannered eighteen-year-old young man. Enough time for those crazed obsessions to settle into faded memories. Enough time for everything to be over.

"Why are you here?" Theon managed a complete sentence this time.

"I'm here to start university in Dorne." Ramsay smiled, his tone as casual as if they were just ordinary acquaintances who'd happened to run into each other. "I got into the business school here. I was so excited I came early to check out the area, and then—"

He pulled an awkward, rueful face. "I got to the front gate and realized the dorms aren't open yet."

His expression was too natural, so natural it was impossible to doubt.

"So I've been trying to find somewhere to stay for a few days until they open. Are there any hotels nearby? I walked down a few streets and didn't see any."

Theon looked at him, finding it incredible. He was so normal.

The Ramsay who would go crazy if he didn't respond to a message. The Ramsay who had someone follow him, who knew who he was dating, when he went to the library. The Ramsay who had fastened a collar around his wrist.

He now stood before him like an ordinary, polite young man who had just gotten into university.

"Theon?"

Ramsay tilted his head slightly, a note of concern in his voice. "Are you alright?"

Theon snapped back to himself.

"I'm fine. Hotels, you said—" He stopped. The typhoon was coming. At a time like this, the nearby hotels would either be fully booked or closed to ride out the storm. There wouldn't be a single room available. And public transit had stopped running. The bridge was closed. Ramsay couldn't leave even if he wanted to.

Theon thought for a moment, looking at Ramsay's courteous face, those mild eyes, that well-measured smile.

Five years had passed. People grew up. People changed.

Maybe Ramsay had finally learned normal human emotions. Maybe he finally understood that those childhood obsessions were just the willfulness of a child. Maybe he had let go.

"The typhoon's coming. The hotels around here are probably all full. If you don't mind—"

Theon pointed at the door behind him. "You could stay at my place for a few days."

Ramsay blinked, and a hint of hesitation crept into his voice. "Are you sure? Wouldn't it be too much trouble?"

Too polite. So polite he barely resembled the person Theon had known.

"It's fine. I live alone. There's a spare room." As he spoke, Theon turned back and continued searching for his keys, finally finding them buried deep in the bag.

He opened the main door, folded his umbrella, and led Ramsay into the apartment building. The hallway was quiet. They climbed the stairs to the second floor together, drawing closer to his door.

"Here." Theon led the way. Ramsay followed obediently, not looking around, not saying anything extra.

As Theon slid the key into his apartment door, a thought struck him. The collar. It was sitting on his desk in the study right now.

He swore inwardly. Had his brain short-circuited? Why had he made such an offer? The Boltons had money. Ramsay could always find somewhere to stay. There was no way he'd end up on the street.

Theon rapidly thought through his options, though his face remained calm. He opened the door. "Come in."

Ramsay followed him inside and softly closed the door behind him.

Theon led him into the living room and gestured toward the sofa. "Have a seat. I'll go get the guest room ready."

Ramsay sat down stiffly and asked politely, "Do you need any help?"

"No."

Theon strode quickly to the room on the right side of the hallway. He pushed the door open. The collar lay silently on the desk. He took a deep breath, shoved the collar into his pocket, and hurried back to his own room. He opened the wardrobe and stuffed the collar into the very bottom of a laundry basket, burying it under several layers of clothing.

Only then, as if nothing had happened, did he return to the living room. Ramsay was still seated obediently on the sofa, having not moved an inch.

Seeing Theon return, he offered a polite smile. "I really am putting you through a lot of trouble. Thank you."

Who the hell are you? The question filled Theon's mind. For a fleeting second, he almost thought the Ramsay sitting before him was his gentle, refined brother, Domenica.

Could a person really change so much?

"Excuse me." Ramsay interrupted his thoughts, his tone still mild. "Could I ask where the bathroom is? I'd like to wash my face."

Theon pointed down the hall. "This way. First door on the left."

"Thank you." Ramsay stood and walked toward the bathroom.

Theon watched his retreating back, a churning mix of emotions rising within him. Yet he couldn't name why.

That evening, it was still calm outside. Aside from the intermittent drizzle and the unusually oppressive heat, there wasn't a single sign a typhoon was about to make landfall. Theon and Ramsay sat together in the living room, eating sandwiches made from the ingredients the manager had given him.

"You're not eating?" Ramsay asked, puzzled. Theon hadn't touched his sandwich. He had just been sipping hot tea in small, steady sips.

"I already ate." He hadn't. He just had no appetite.

Ramsay nodded and continued eating, head bowed over his sandwich. The light over the dining table glowed a warm amber, casting soft shadows across his face.

Theon stole glances at him. Ramsay's table manners were very refined. Small, neat bites. He chewed without making a sound, occasionally dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Each movement was natural and elegant.

Completely different.

The Ramsay of before had eaten carelessly, with no regard for table etiquette, always doing whatever was most convenient, carrying a certain savage energy.

"By the way, you said you got into the business school?" Theon spoke, trying to find a topic.

"Mm." Ramsay looked up at him. His eyes were polite and distant. "It wasn't my first choice, actually. I originally wanted to study psychology, but my grades weren't high enough."

Theon was taken aback. "Why psychology?"

Ramsay shrugged, speaking casually. "Some things happened when I was young. I thought psychology might help me understand myself. Later I figured, rather than studying myself, I might as well study other people. But the business school isn't bad either."

He spoke so lightly, as if telling someone else's story. Some things. He said it so dismissively, as if those things were trivial, easily left behind.

Theon hesitated, then asked anyway. "Have you been well, these past years?"

Ramsay gave him a courteous smile. "Pretty well. Made a few friends. Got into university. And you?"

"I've been alright too."

"That's good."

The conversation stalled. A coldness settled over the room, the air pressure seeming to drop. Outside, a light rain began to fall again. The sound of it filled the silence.

Theon looked at Ramsay and found his gaze fixed distantly on something outside the window.

"What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking—" Ramsay turned back, his smile as mild as ever. "If I hadn't been so stubborn back then, maybe we could have talked like this a lot sooner."

Theon's breath caught for a moment, as though an invisible hand had gently plucked that one string inside his heart.

"You know, when I was little, I wasn't very good with people. Too difficult. Too willful. Too clingy. I caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people." Ramsay continued, his voice laced with a hint of apology.

The look he gave Theon was utterly sincere.

"So if there's anything I did back then that made you uncomfortable, I want to apologize."

Theon was stunned. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Ramsay Bolton was apologizing? Apologizing to him? The one who never admitted fault, who always believed he was right, who would lose his mind over a single word—he was sitting here now, apologizing in such a sincere tone.

"It's… it's fine. It's all in the past," Theon answered, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yeah." Ramsay nodded. "It's all in the past." Then he lowered his head and continued eating his sandwich.

Theon watched him, a complex tide of emotion surging in his chest. There was confusion. There was the relief of a weight lifted. But most of all, a dense, crawling ache, like being gnawed by countless insects.

Just then, Ramsay's phone chimed with an incoming message. He set down his sandwich, looked at the screen, and broke into a sweet, adoring smile. Theon had seen that smile before, so many times. He had once believed it was his alone.

"Your girlfriend?" Theon heard himself ask. His voice held a quiver.

"Yes." Ramsay kept his head down, his fingers tapping swiftly across the screen. That sweet, doting smile never left his face.

"She's asking how things are going. Since I came out here early on my own." A hint of sheepishness crossed Ramsay's features.

"Is that so?"

Ramsay's smile grew gentler. "I wanted to come ahead and scope things out. Forgot to check the weather. Can't believe I ran right into a typhoon."

"Is that so."

"Mm. We've been together for over a year. She's very gentle. Very thoughtful. I'm thinking about whether we should just move in together, because when I'm with her—"

He paused, as if searching for the right word. "It's peaceful."

Peaceful. Theon turned the word over in his mind.

What Ramsay wanted now was peace. Not that suffocating possessiveness. Not that terrifying obsession. Just safety.

A normal life. An ordinary existence. A healthy calm.

"That's great. Congratulations." Theon's reply was stiff. He felt himself starting to sway.

"Thank you." Ramsay's smile was radiant, just like any ordinary boy talking about the girl he cherished.

"Actually, the reason I came to Dorne is because of her, too. She got into the art school here. I wanted to be closer to her."

So that was it. It was because of that girl.

Theon lowered his eyes and stared at the sandwich on the table.

He should be happy. Ramsay was finally normal. He had finally learned how to love someone. He could finally live a normal life. The toxic cycle had been broken. This was the ending he had always wanted.

"Theon?" Ramsay's voice sounded as though it came from far away. "Are you okay?"

Theon looked up and forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"Then you should get some rest. I'll do the dishes."

"No, it's fine."

"Let me do something. You are putting me up, after all." Ramsay cut him off, his tone genuine and earnest.

Theon stared at him, studying that sincere face, those gentle eyes—this person who was both familiar and a stranger. Finally, he nodded.

"Alright. Thanks."

Theon stood and walked toward his room. The moment the door closed behind him, he leaned back against it. He pressed his hand over his mouth, stifling his sobs. Tears streamed down uncontrollably. His heart felt like it was being torn apart.

He wasn't supposed to hurt. He wasn't supposed to feel this ache. This was the best outcome.

But right now, his heart had been run through with a knife, stabbed into its deepest place, shredding every beautiful, painful memory of love.

Late that night, the typhoon finally made landfall.

The wind and rain screamed so loudly outside that almost no other sound could be heard. The windows rattled and boomed. Occasionally, something slammed against the outer wall with a heavy, muffled thud. Things toppled over, crashing in the gale.

Theon tossed and turned beneath his covers, utterly unable to sleep. He rubbed at his reddened, swollen eyes. His mind churned relentlessly with tonight's conversation—and with their past.

He remembered, a long time ago, Ramsay straddling him, biting his fingers. "You're mine."

He remembered that kiss in the pool, the unbearable light in Ramsay's eyes. "We'll never be apart again."

He remembered their intertwined bodies. Ramsay's marriage proposal. The "engagement ring" that had since faded. "I like you."

He had thought all of that was over. He had thought he had cleansed the poison from his system. But the poison was still there. The moment he saw Ramsay, it spread through his entire body.

He was the one still clinging to the past, stubbornly refusing to let go. Ramsay had already walked out of that toxic mire. He was the only one still lost in it.

Soft footsteps sounded outside the door, but beneath the howl of the wind, Theon didn't notice. He was still drowning in his grief, still mourning his dead first love.

The footsteps stopped at his door. Then the door handle turned, slowly.

Theon hadn't locked it. Since coming to Dorne, he had learned not to. Because in five years, no one had ever pushed open his door in the dead of night.

The door opened. Light from the hallway spilled in, casting a long, narrow shadow across the floor. Ramsay stood in the doorway, backlit, his expression unreadable.

"Ramsay?"

Theon sat up in shock. "What's wrong?"

Ramsay didn't speak. He walked in and gently closed the door behind him. The room plunged back into darkness, save for a faint sliver of light seeping in from the streetlamp outside the window.

Ramsay walked to the bed and stopped before Theon.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Ramsay didn't answer. He just stood there in silence, looking down at Theon from above. In the darkness, those grey-blue eyes glittered, like two moons fixed squarely upon him.

The look began to unsettle Theon. Those eyes were utterly devoid of life. There was nothing inside them.

"Ramsay?" Theon said again.

"Do you know?" Ramsay finally spoke. His voice was icy, nothing like the voice from the living room. "Five years is a very long time."

Theon's heart began to race.

"Five years. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days. I thought about you every single one."

"You—"

"Thought about what you were doing. Thought about where you were. Thought about whether you ever thought about me. Thought about how you could leave so easily." Ramsay cut him off, his tone eerily calm. He was merely stating a fact.

Theon's throat constricted. His heart pounded so fast it felt about to burst from his chest.

He suddenly remembered something a Dornish local had once told him. The biggest difference between a Dorne typhoon and a Northern blizzard? The center of a typhoon is the calmest part. And a typhoon that brings no wind and no rain before landfall is the most powerful of all.

"I—"

"You didn't leave me a single word. You just vanished." Ramsay smiled. It was a shallow smile. The room was dark, but Theon saw it anyway. It was nothing like the mild smile from dinner. This was the other one—the smile he had memorized for five years. Twisted. Obsessive. Blood-chilling.

Ramsay continued, his voice still cold. "Do you know how I spent those two thousand days?"

"Ramsay—"

"No, you don't." Ramsay's hand came to rest on Theon's cheek. "You don't know anything. Because you never thought about it. You only thought about yourself. Only thought about running. Only thought about how to shake me off."

Theon didn't speak. Ramsay's hand stroked his face gently. That hand was cold too, like a serpent gliding over his skin.

"The first year, I waited for you to come back every day. I thought you were just angry, that you'd come back in a few days. A week. A month. Three months. You didn't come back. I started looking for you. Every way I could. But you'd changed your number. Shut down all your social media. No one knew where you'd gone. Stark said he didn't know. Said you hadn't told anyone."

His hand slid from Theon's cheek to the nape of his neck and gently closed around it. Theon's heart pounded faster.

"The second year, I finally accepted the fact that you weren't coming back. And I started to wonder, Why?"

His grip tightened a fraction.

"Did I do something wrong? Did I not do enough? Or were you just lying to me from the start? Just humoring me?"

"No—"

"Shut up." Ramsay cut him off. His tone was still flat, his eyes unchanged, like a doll's. "I'm not finished."

Theon shut his mouth obediently.

"The third year, I reached a conclusion. You didn't leave because I did something wrong. You left because you're a coward. You were afraid of what people would think. Afraid of those pointless rules. Afraid of threats from people like Myranda. So you chose to run. Chose to abandon me. Chose to pretend none of it ever happened."

His hand lifted from Theon's neck and slid into his hair, gently combing through it.

"The fourth year, I started planning for this day. I found out you'd gone to Dorne. I found out what university. I found out your address. I started preparing to get into a school here. I learned how to look normal. I learned how to make you let your guard down." Ramsay's voice was soft, soft as a secret whispered into a lover's ear.

Then he laughed, and that laugh echoed in the room, echoed in Theon's ears, and froze Theon's body solid.

"Do you know why I'm here today? It's not because the dorms aren't open. I don't need to stay in the dorms."

Tears slid down Theon's face. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt them trace his cheeks and soak into the collar of his pajamas.

"The fifth year, I started pondering another question. When you left, did you ever think about me? Did you ever think about what a thirteen-year-old child, abandoned by you like that, would turn into?"

A trace of emotion finally entered Ramsay's voice.

"Did you ever think about how he got through these five years? Did you ever think about how, every night when he couldn't sleep, he was thinking about the same person? Did you ever think about how he learned all of this, everything, just for this one day?"

"Ramsay—"

"Did you ever think about what this kind of longing turns a person into?"

Ramsay's hand seized Theon's jaw. That hand was strong now, so much stronger than five years ago.

"Five years." Ramsay spoke. Those grey-blue eyes blazed in the darkness. "I learned a lot of things. I learned how to fake being normal. I learned how to make people like me. I learned how to wait."

He leaned close to Theon, as if to give him a kiss. "But there's one thing I never did learn."

"Forgiveness."

That word was a sharp knife in the darkness, driving straight into the most vulnerable place in Theon's heart.

The moment that word fell, a warning shrieked through Theon's mind. He wanted to struggle, wanted to scramble up, but it was too late to run.

Ramsay's hand moved from his jaw to his neck and shoved him back hard. Theon's head slammed against the headboard. Stars exploded in his vision. He tried to get up, to fight back with everything he had, but Ramsay was taller, stronger, more powerful. He subdued every one of Theon's struggles. The advantage in age and size that had existed five years ago had now completely reversed.

"Did you think I would let you go?"

Ramsay's hand closed around Theon's throat, slowly tightening. There was a hint of amusement, of scorn, in his voice. "Did you think five years could erase everything?"

Theon stared into those eyes. Grey-blue. Ice-like. There was no gentleness in them. No calm. Only the obsession he had memorized five years ago, the one that made it impossible to breathe. And something else—something he had never seen in Ramsay's eyes before. A cold, dark, bloodthirsty pleasure. The pleasure of vengeance.

"Don't—" The word squeezed out of the very depths of his throat, then choked off.

Ramsay looked at him and smiled sweetly. The smile was beautiful. And terrifying.

"Goodnight, Theon," he whispered. And then Theon felt a heavy blow to the back of his head, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

He didn't know how long it had been—minutes, maybe, or hours—when Theon's consciousness slowly floated up from the deep dark.

His head throbbed with pain. The blow to the back of his skull had been heavy, vicious, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.

He was lying on his side. His skin was cold. His pajamas were long gone.

He tried to move and found his wrists bound behind his back. His ankles were tied too. The ropes bit deep, a burning pain radiating from his skin.

He tried to speak. His mouth was stuffed with something.

He opened his eyes and saw only blackness. A strip of cloth was bound tightly around his head, wound several times over his eyes, the pressure making his eye sockets ache.

The room was quiet. The storm seemed to have stopped.

Or maybe he just couldn't hear it anymore. The only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

And another sound. Very soft. Very slow. Like footsteps, circling around him.

Theon's blood ran cold. He didn't dare move a single muscle.

But the footsteps stopped. He felt someone climb onto him. One hand pressed down on him to hold him in place. The other hand gently stroked his face.

The touch was tender—utterly unlike the way he had been threatened just moments ago.

"You're awake?" The voice was very light, very soft, like a lover's murmur. "I've been waiting for you to wake up for so long."

Theon's body began to tremble.

"Do you know?" Ramsay's tone was thrilled, like a child who had finally found their favorite toy. "The moment I knocked you out—I was so excited. I waited five years. I finally made it to this moment."

Theon wanted to speak, but the cloth gagging his mouth allowed only a muffled, incoherent sound.

"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." He paused. "Not too badly, at least."

Chapter Text

The hand roamed across his body. Starting at his collarbone, it wandered slowly, meticulously over his skin, as though selecting the right canvas.

At last it settled on a spot. Fingertips traced across his skin with an almost ceremonial gravity, sketching out some kind of character. Then the warmth of those fingertips vanished, replaced by the touch of metal—cold, sharp, pressing against his flesh.

A knife.

Theon's body began to tremble.

"Don't move." Ramsay's voice came from above, carrying a note of reassurance. "It'd be a real headache if I mess this up."

The first cut landed on his left chest, just above the heart.

Theon felt his skin split open. Not a bite. Not a pinch. An actual cut. The pain was sharp and vivid, like a flash of lightning tearing through his consciousness. He wanted to scream, but the sound caught in his throat; all that escaped was a strangled whimper through his nose.

"Shh. It'll be over soon."

All Theon could feel was the pain—slow, deep, as though someone were drawing on his skin with a red-hot iron wire. As the tip moved, the pain spread. Old embers hadn't yet died before new ones ignited.

But he couldn't fight back. The restraints on his wrists and ankles held him motionless.

His sight had been taken from him. Darkness filled his eyes. Complete darkness.

Only the pain was real.

The knife tip continued to move. Stroke by stroke. Slow and precise. Theon could feel blood beginning to seep from the wounds, trickling down his chest—warm, viscous—flowing over his stomach, dripping onto the sheets.

He didn't know what Ramsay was writing. He didn't dare imagine.

Stroke. Stroke. Another stroke. Each one brought a fresh wave of pain like the pressure of deep-sea water crushing down on him. Theon's breathing grew more and more ragged, his chest heaving violently. But he didn't dare struggle. He was afraid Ramsay really would "mess this up."

"Do you know what this is?" Ramsay's voice pulled him back.

Theon didn't respond.

"It's my name. I'm going to carve my name into you." Ramsay's fingers traced over the wounds, as gentle as if touching something precious.

Then he began writing again.

The pain started to numb—not disappearing, but the brain refusing to accept any more signals. His consciousness began to drift, like that day he plunged into the sea, water rushing in from all sides. Boundless darkness.

"What are you thinking about?" Ramsay asked, his tone curious. But he wasn't truly seeking an answer.

Because Theon couldn't answer.

"I'm thinking about what you were thinking back then. When you left—was there ever a single second you thought about taking me with you?" Ramsay went on, answering himself.

The knife tip paused. Theon's lips were trembling.

"No. You never thought about it." Ramsay answered for him.

The knife tip resumed its course. More and more blood flowed. The sheets grew soaked.

Stroke. Stroke. Another stroke.

Theon felt like he was underwater, and then on fire. Only that wound burned. The blade was cold, cold as ice, carving words into his chest that would never fade.

"One more character."

The knife tip pressed down, sinking deep into his skin. Theon's whole body convulsed. A wave of agony crashed over him.

"Mm—" His scream was muffled by the gag. Even his only outlet was sealed shut.

The knife tip withdrew and pressed against another patch of skin. Ramsay's saccharine voice drifted down. "Don't worry. I'll be the only one who sees it."

Another cut fell.

Theon could only bite down on the cloth in his mouth. Tears seeped out from under the blindfold and traced down his face.

The knife tip bore down again. Theon's heart skipped a beat.

"I made you mine before, but you ran. So this time I'm going to do it a different way." Ramsay spoke as he wrote, his tone as casual as if they were discussing what to have for dinner, rather than carving into Theon like branding livestock.

The final stroke fell.

"Done." Ramsay's voice brimmed with barely concealed satisfaction.

The cold of the blade disappeared. Theon heard the clink of metal hitting the floor. Ramsay's fingers, slick with blood, gently smeared around the wounds, like the final touches on a painting.

His fingers were warm. Theon gasped for breath. The searing pain in his chest nearly made him pass out.

But at least the torture was over.

"You look so beautiful right now."

"This word—only I will see it. Only I will know where it is. From now on, no matter where you go, no matter how far you run, whenever you see it, you'll think of me."

Ramsay leaned down, his lips pressed to Theon's ear. "You're mine. This time, I'm going to make sure you never forget."

Then he climbed off Theon. The warm presence withdrew. Theon heard footsteps fading away.

Then the sound of the door opening. The sound of the door closing.

Theon was left alone in the darkness. He heard the howl of the wind outside again, the torrential drumming of the rain.

The blood still flowed. The pain still throbbed. He wept soundlessly, his whole body trembling uncontrollably, just like all those years ago when he hid in the wardrobe of that tower.

He didn't know how long he cried. The wind began to weaken. The pain blurred. His consciousness blurred. He felt himself falling, falling, through the seawater, through the darkness, through the memories he thought he'd already forgotten.

The poison inside him had never been purged after all. It had lain dormant, mutated, deepened. And just when he believed he was healed, it had erupted, spread, in a more lethal form. And now he was drowning in it again.

Theon was woken by sunlight stabbing into his eyes.

He squinted. The curtains had been pulled halfway open. Dorne's sunshine streamed through the glass, spreading a patch of warm gold across the floor. The wind and rain had passed. The sky was a transparent blue, as if yesterday's typhoon had never existed.

Birdsong came from outside. In the distance, the sound of a street-cleaning truck spraying water. The city was slowly resuming its rhythm in the typhoon's wake.

Everything was so normal.

He tried to move on instinct and found his wrists were free. His ankles, too. Nothing in his mouth. Nothing covering his eyes.

Theon froze for a few seconds. Then the awareness returned. And the pain returned with it.

A deep, searing pain burned on his left chest, reminding him that none of this had been a dream. He looked down at his chest. The wound had been carefully treated—ointment applied, gauze taped over it. Professional, like a medic had done it.

Theon stared at the gauze. His heartbeat pounded in his eardrums. He remembered the strokes, the blood, the knife, Ramsay's voice. Ramsay carving characters into his skin with a blade, the way one would mark livestock.

He sat up abruptly and inadvertently pulled at the wound, sucking in a sharp gasp of pain.

He looked around. The room was quiet. No one else was there.

The blood-soaked sheets from last night were gone. The bedding had been changed—clean, white, carrying a faint scent of laundry detergent. The window was open a crack. A breeze drifted in, swaying the curtains gently.

On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and a painkiller. Beside them, a note. It was folded into a neat square, the edges aligned with absolute precision.

Theon propped himself up and, with cold fingers, picked up the note. The handwriting was meticulously neat.

"Wound has been treated. If there's any discomfort, painkillers are beside you."

No salutation. No signature. Not a single superfluous word.

Theon stared at the note, his fingers trembling slightly. He didn't recognize this handwriting—this neat, restrained script, every stroke perfectly measured, looking more printed than handwritten.

It was nothing like the sprawling, crooked handwriting Ramsay used to have. This was new. Deliberately practiced. The kind of handwriting from which no emotion could be read.

Theon set the note down and sat on the bed for several minutes. Then he forced himself to his feet. The wound, pulled by the movement, began to bleed again. A faint red bloom spread across the gauze. He opened the wardrobe and found a clean shirt and trousers.

Only after he was dressed did he brace himself against the wall and walk out of the room, step by step.

The living room had been tidied too. The cushions on the sofa had been fluffed and arranged in perfect order. The magazines on the coffee table were stacked, corners aligned. The floor had been mopped; the tiles reflected the sunlight, gleamingly clean.

Everything was orderly. Everything was just so. Everything was utterly unfamiliar. This didn't look like the apartment Theon had lived in for five years. It looked like a showroom. A hotel room. A place where no one really lived.

On the dining table sat a bowl of oatmeal porridge and a glass of orange juice. The cutlery was arranged neatly on the placemat, positioned at angles so precise they might have been measured with a protractor.

The sound of running water came from the kitchen. Theon turned his head. Ramsay stood at the sink, washing a pot.

He was wearing a dark grey shirt, sleeves rolled up, black trousers, a pair of indoor slippers. His black curly hair was immaculately neat, revealing the clean lines of his nape and ears.

He heard Theon's footsteps and turned, greeting him politely. "Good morning."

His voice was steady. Courteous. The corner of his mouth even lifted slightly in that standard, utterly impersonal smile—the kind a well-bred young man gives a stranger who happens to share the same roof.

Theon stood there, staring at that unfamiliar face, at those grey-blue eyes. There was no darkness in them. No paranoia. No possessiveness. None of the bloodthirsty blackness from last night. None of the deliberate gentleness from dinner yesterday.

They were empty. Nothing there at all. Like a wiped-clean mirror. It reflected light. But there was no one behind it.

"The porridge was made half an hour ago. The temperature should be just right now."

"Please, help yourself."

With that, he turned back and continued washing the pot. Water splashed. His movements were unhurried. He rinsed the pot clean, picked up another bowl and started washing that too. Finally, he dried them with a dishcloth and put them back on the rack.

Theon didn't move. He stood by the dining table, watching that tall, unfamiliar back.

Ramsay's shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. The shirt fit like it was tailored. Every movement seemed rehearsed—composed, precise, without a trace of wasted effort.

Ramsay finished at last. He dried his hands, hung the cloth on its hook, and turned to see Theon still standing.

"The porridge will get cold," he remarked flatly, then brushed past Theon and sat down across the table.

Ramsay picked up the jug, poured himself a glass of water, took a sip, and set the glass back down on the table. It made not a single sound.

Theon slowly sat. He picked up his spoon and took a mouthful of porridge. It was still warm, dissolving on the tongue. The oatmeal had almost no discernible texture. The flavor was very bland, barely seasoned.

He didn't know how long this porridge had simmered. He didn't know what time Ramsay had gotten up. He didn't know what expression had been on that face as Ramsay stood in the kitchen, dropping the oats one by one into the pot, watching them slowly dissolve in the milk.

"You're not eating?" Theon asked, his voice hoarse, stealing a glance at him between bites.

"I already ate." Ramsay sat there with perfect posture, hands folded on the table, gaze fixed beyond the window. He wasn't looking at Theon. He wasn't looking at anything in particular.

The sunlight outside fell on him, casting soft shadows over his face. His profile was striking—clean lines, a straight nose bridge, lashes that threw a small shadow beneath his eyes.

Theon lowered his head and kept eating. He couldn't taste anything. He just mechanically shoveled food into his mouth, swallowed, and shoved in the next bite.

The porridge was too hot. It stung his eyes until they ached. His tongue went numb. But he didn't stop.

Ramsay never once looked at him. Theon finished the last bite and set his spoon down. The clink of porcelain against porcelain rang out loudly in the quiet living room.

Ramsay stood and began clearing the table. His movements were as unhurried as if he'd done this a thousand times before.

"Let me—" Theon tried to help, but Ramsay simply took the dishes out of his hands.

"No need."

His voice was still calm, but it carried a pressure that brooked no refusal. He took the dishes to the kitchen, turned on the tap, and began to wash.

Theon sat there, watching that back. He was in turmoil. Confused. In his room just now, he had steeled himself mentally. He had thought about what he would do if Ramsay was still in his apartment. He had thought about how he would escape if Ramsay was still raging.

He had imagined Ramsay might go crazy again. Might inflict violence on him once more. And he would fight back. He would scream his grievances: What did you do to me last night? What did you carve into me? What gives you the right?

But now he couldn't say a single word. Ramsay was treating him with the same calm as if nothing had happened. Not an affected coldness, but the unruffled composure of someone to whom nothing particularly important had occurred.

As if he hadn't spoken those hateful words last night. As if the wounds on Theon's body didn't exist at all.

Ramsay finished washing the dishes, dried his hands, and rolled down his sleeves. He turned and met Theon's gaze. His expression didn't change.

"The porridge wasn't to your liking?"

"No—"

"Then it can be adjusted next time." Ramsay walked past Theon back into the living room, picked up the remote from the coffee table, and turned on the TV.

Post-typhoon news was being broadcast. He lowered the volume, settled onto the sofa, and began watching with an air of relaxed ease.

Theon stood by the dining table, watching Ramsay seated on the sofa, one hand on his knee, an elbow propped on the armrest, his gaze on the screen.

His posture was as relaxed as if he were in his own home. He looked so normal. So much like an ordinary, polite young man who had run into an old acquaintance. If only the gauze weren't still burning on Theon's chest. If only those words weren't still carved into his skin.

Theon slowly walked over and sat down at the other end of the sofa. There were two cushions' worth of distance between them. Ramsay didn't glance his way, nor did he shift over.

On the TV, a reporter was covering the typhoon's passage, saying it was the strongest in a decade. Reports of damage in various areas. Some places still flooded. Some places still without power. Government-organized recovery efforts were gradually underway.

Theon stared at the screen but absorbed nothing. His chest was burning. Those words seemed alive, writhing under his skin, reminding him of what had happened last night.

It took everything he had to finally muster the courage to speak. "The thing on my chest…"

"The wound needs time to heal." Ramsay cut him off, his tone still detached, as if answering a medical inquiry. "Change the dressing twice a day. Keep the gauze dry. It can be removed in about a week." His gaze remained fixed on the TV.

"That's not what I'm asking."

"Don't get the wound wet. Please use waterproof film when showering. If there's any inflammation or pus, please see a doctor."

"Ramsay!"

"Is there anything else you need?"

He finally turned his head. Those grey-blue eyes settled on Theon. Calm. Courteous. Transparent. No warmth. No emotion. None of last night's madness. None of yesterday's feigned tenderness. Just an ordinary young man sharing a flat with a stranger.

Theon's lips trembled. He wanted to interrogate him. He wanted to grab that shirt collar and tear this counterfeit composure to shreds. Tear that politeness to shreds. Tear that damn mask of pretending nothing had happened to shreds.

But he didn't. He just sat there, staring back into those empty eyes.

And then, suddenly, he understood.

This was revenge.

Not the kind of messy, straightforward revenge from before. Not the blood-drenched revenge of last night, carved into his skin with a blade. This was the revenge of utter coldness. The revenge of saying, You are nothing to me.

It was revenge through maintaining a perfectly measured distance. Through being taken care of meticulously—but only in the way an object that requires maintenance is cared for.

Ramsay wouldn't touch him anymore. Wouldn't scold him. Wouldn't hit him. Wouldn't acknowledge in any way that there had ever been anything between them.

Because acknowledgment would mean caring. And caring was the very thing Theon had thrown away when he left all those years ago. Ramsay wanted him to know—what it felt like to be treated as unimportant. To be someone who could be discarded at any moment.

"If there's nothing else, I need to go to the university this afternoon to complete my enrollment." Ramsay stood and walked toward the door, picking up his jacket from the entryway.

"I'll be back this evening." He put on his jacket and glanced back at Theon. A glance utterly devoid of emotion. "If you'd prefer I didn't come back, I'll find somewhere else to stay."

The words were phrased like a question, but his expression was not. There was no expectation in that face. No probing. No hint of please ask me to stay.

Only icy, immaculate, utterly unimpeachable politeness.

Theon sat on the sofa, looking at the figure standing in the doorway. Sunlight fell on him, lining his silhouette with a golden edge.

His jacket was dark blue, well-tailored, making his shoulders look broader and his waist narrower. His hair caught a faint brownish tint in the sun, soft against his forehead.

He looked so good. So much like someone Theon could fall in love with—if he weren't like this now.

"Wait…" Theon spoke urgently, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. "When will you be back?"

Ramsay looked at him. The glance was brief, so brief it was almost imperceptible. Theon thought something flickered in those grey-blue eyes, something that quickly smoothed back into hollow emptiness. But he couldn't catch it in time, because Ramsay had already lowered his gaze.

"Around six." He bent down to put on his shoes and opened the door. "Do you need me to bring anything back?"

"No."

Ramsay nodded. He took the spare key Theon kept in the entryway and gently pulled the door shut behind him.

With the click of the lock, the room fell instantly silent. Theon sat alone on the sofa. The TV was still playing. The news anchor was saying something, but he couldn't understand a word.

Outside, the sun still shone. The curtains swayed in the breeze. Everything was quiet. Everything was normal. Only the words on his chest still burned.

He looked down, examining the gauze on his chest. Ramsay had treated it.

He didn't know with what expression Ramsay had untied those ropes and restraints. Had wiped away the blood. Had applied ointment to the wounds he himself had carved.

All he knew was that those words were still there. Written into his skin. Dissolved into his blood and bones. Carved into a time from which he could never escape.

Theon slowly lay down, curling up on the sofa. The cushions still smelled of laundry detergent. Clean. Without any warmth.

He closed his eyes. Those words on his chest burned again. Last night, his sight had been taken from him. He hadn't seen what was in those grey-blue eyes when Ramsay carved into him. What expression Ramsay wore while doing it.

Was it hatred?

Was it love?

Or, like this morning, nothing at all?

Tears slipped from the corners of Theon's eyes, running into his hair, disappearing into the cushion.

He didn't make a sound. He just lay there, curled into a ball. His chest hurt. Every breath was an agony. But he couldn't dispel the spreading emptiness inside him. The uncertainty.

Listening to the sounds from the TV he couldn't comprehend, Theon wanted to do nothing. He could only wait. Wait for that door to open again. Wait for Ramsay to come back. Wait for Ramsay's reaction. Perhaps wait for all of this to end. Perhaps wait for an answer.

Ramsay returned exactly at six o'clock. The sound of the lock turning was shockingly clear in the quiet apartment. Theon was still curled on the sofa. The TV had been switched to some channel; people on the screen were performing a lively scene, but he had no idea what he was watching.

Ramsay walked in pulling a suitcase, like a roommate coming home on time. He changed his shoes, placed the key in the bowl by the door, every movement unhurried.

Theon bolted upright. His hair was a mess, his eyes still a little red. He saw Ramsay also carrying a paper bag printed with the name of a chain restaurant.

"If you don't mind, I picked up some takeout." Ramsay glanced at Theon and set the bag down on the dining table.

He asked no questions, ignoring the fact that Theon was still huddled on the sofa like a discarded animal.

He simply unpacked the takeout containers from the bag. One at the place where Theon had sat this morning. One across from it. He set out the cutlery. He even poured two glasses of water and placed them at opposite ends of the table.

Then he sat down naturally and began to eat. Theon watched him use those clean hands to open the cutlery packet, spear a piece of vegetable, and put it in his mouth. He chewed without making a sound. His posture was upright, his back very straight. His eyes rested on the takeout in front of him.

Theon slowly walked over and sat down at the table. The takeout was simple—spaghetti with tomato sauce, a side salad. Arranged as neatly as a display.

He picked up his fork and began to eat. The food had no taste. They sat like that, across the table from each other, eating this meal in silence.

No one spoke. No one looked at the other. The only sounds in the room were cutlery scraping against takeout containers and the noise of the TV.

When the meal was finished, Ramsay stood and began to clean up. He stacked the containers, threw them in the trash, and wiped the table down with a cloth.

Theon sat there and watched him do all of it.

He felt like an object. An object that needed to be properly maintained. He would be fed. He would be tidied up. He would be placed in an appropriate spot. But he wouldn't be touched. He wouldn't be seen. He wouldn't be treated like a person.

Because an object doesn't need emotions. An object doesn't need to respond. An object doesn't wake up in the morning to find words carved into its body, and then cry like a child.

Ramsay finished tidying up. He walked to the sofa and picked up the remote, switching off the TV.

"Have you changed the dressing?"

Theon shook his head. Ramsay didn't speak. He walked into the guest room and came back out holding a first-aid kit. He set it on the coffee table and took out ointment, gauze, cotton swabs, and medical tape.

"Sit here." He pointed at the sofa.

Theon walked over and sat. Ramsay crouched down in front of him. He didn't meet Theon's eyes. His gaze fell on Theon's collar, and then his hands reached out and began unbuttoning Theon's shirt.

The movements were light, careful not to touch any excess skin. He undid two buttons, pulled the collar aside slightly, and exposed the gauze.

Then he began removing the dressing. His fingers were steady, carefully peeling the tape away, lifting off the old gauze. The wound met the air. Theon inhaled sharply with pain.

Ramsay didn't speak. He didn't look up at him. He picked up a cotton swab, dipped it in ointment, and began applying the medication.

When the swab touched the wound, Theon's body flinched. Ramsay's hand paused for a single second, then continued.

His movements grew even lighter, so light they were barely perceptible. But throughout, his hands never touched Theon directly. Only the cotton swab and the gauze. That layer of mediation allowed him to move with restraint and precision—like a medic treating a wound. Like a taxidermist restoring a specimen.

Like a person unwilling to touch another person, but forced to handle him nonetheless.

Theon looked down, observing those hands. Ramsay's fingers were long, knuckles well-defined, nails neatly trimmed. Those hands had once held his. Had once roamed over his body. Had also bound him. Slapped his face. Carved words into his skin.

Now those hands were changing his dressing. Very steady. Completely without superfluous movement. Completely without touching him.

Ramsay pressed the last piece of tape into place. He withdrew his hands and stood up. He threw the used swabs and old gauze into the trash bag. He put the ointment back in the first-aid kit and closed the lid.

"Done." Then he picked up the kit and walked back to the guest room.

Theon sat on the sofa. His collar was still open. The gauze on his chest was stark white under the light.

Ramsay didn't come back out. After the door closed, that room was so silent it seemed empty.

Theon slowly buttoned his shirt. His fingers were trembling. It took him several tries to align the buttons.

He sat there, listening to his own breath, listening to the occasional car passing outside. He remembered, many years ago, in the indoor pool at the Dreadfort, the first time Ramsay kissed him.

Back then, there had been a light in Ramsay's eyes—that unbearable, burning, almost manic light.

Back then, Ramsay had clung to him every minute of every day, as though he had some strange addiction to touching him, to the feel of him.

Now, there was nothing in those eyes.

Now, those hands wouldn't even touch him.

Theon didn't know which was more terrifying.

All he knew was that he would rather be bitten. Be hit. Be carved into. Anything but this—being treated as though he didn't matter at all. As though he had never existed.

Theon walked back to his room. He closed the door and lay down on the bed, wrapping himself in the blankets.

The blankets were warm. The bed was soft. The pillow smelled of laundry detergent. Everything was clean. Neat. Just right. But utterly unfamiliar. This was no longer the apartment he had lived in for five years. It was like a hotel. Like a prison. Like a place he could never escape.

But he wasn't restrained. He wasn't locked up. He wasn't being subjected to violence. Yet he wouldn't run anymore.

He had no strength left. He was tired. Because he was finally willing to admit it: from the very beginning, he had never truly wanted to leave.

His chest ached. Those words burned again. Now he wasn't even livestock. He was just an object.

Those words were carved into his skin. Carved into the life he had spent five years trying to rebuild. Carved into the days he thought he had healed. The normal days. The stable, peaceful days.

It turned out the web woven of poison hadn't trapped him at all. He had been willing all along to remain caught inside it.

When he woke the next morning, there was a glass of water and a painkiller on the nightstand. Beside them, a note. Neatly folded.

Theon picked it up. "Breakfast is on the table. If there's anything you need, please let me know."

No salutation. No signature. Not a single word wasted.

Theon sat on the bed and stared at it for a long time. Finally, he closed his eyes and set the note back on the nightstand.

He knew today would be the same as yesterday. And tomorrow would be the same too. And the day after. Until Ramsay decided it was enough. Until those words scabbed over, shed their crust, and became scars. Until Theon stopped asking why. Until Theon accepted that he was just an object.

And an object doesn't need to be loved. An object only needs to be placed in its proper position. And then, taken out and used when its owner requires it.

Theon picked up the glass and the pill. He swallowed the painkiller with the water. The medicine was bitter, but he didn't frown. He would start getting used to it.

Chapter Text

When Theon woke, he found red cord wound around his body. Not coarse hemp rope, but finely braided nylon cord—the kind used for certain crafts. It was about a finger thick, very soft, but bound tight.

A single length started at the nape of his neck and was tied into a knot at the center of his collarbone, then split into two strands that wrapped around to his back, crossed there, and circled back to the front, binding his chest and abdomen. The binding was intricate, like some kind of ceremonial rope work.

Theon didn't know when he had fallen asleep. He didn't know when Ramsay had come in. All he remembered was that yesterday had repeated the same routine as the day before: he and Ramsay had eaten breakfast together; Ramsay had gone out to run errands; he had sat on the sofa staring into space; Ramsay had come back in the evening with takeout and eaten with him; then Ramsay had changed his dressing. All day, the two of them had exchanged no real words. Finally, Theon had gone back to his room, lain in bed staring at the ceiling, and then lost consciousness.

Now he lay in bed, covered with a blanket. On the nightstand stood the usual glass of warm water and a painkiller. Beside them, a note, neatly folded.

Theon slowly sat up. The red cord tightened slightly with the movement, pressing shallow marks into his skin.

He picked up the note and read:

"The weather is clear today. Suitable for going out. There's a new shirt in the wardrobe."

He looked down at his body. The knots were beautifully tied—symmetrical, snug, like ribbon on a gift box. He tried to undo the binding, but the knots didn't budge.

He tried again, digging his nails into the crevices of the knots, pulling hard. The red cord chafed red marks into his skin, but the knots showed no sign of loosening.

In the end, Theon gave up. He picked up the glass of water, swallowed the painkiller, then got out of bed and walked to the wardrobe.

Inside hung a new white shirt that didn't belong to him. Most of his shirts were dark—black, navy, dark green. The kind you could hide yourself in. But this one was white, completely plain, the fabric thin and light, almost translucent in the sunlight.

Theon held it in his hands. The fabric slipped through his fingers, smooth as water. He put it on and buttoned it all the way to the top. The red cord was faintly visible beneath the white shirt, the winding lines like blood vessels, like tree roots, like something growing out of his own body.

He walked out of the room. Ramsay stood in the kitchen, ladling porridge into bowls. He wore a dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the graceful lines of his forearms. His black curly hair was immaculately neat. His profile in the morning light was clean as a painting.

Hearing the footsteps, he looked up. His gaze swept over Theon—his face, his collar, his wrists, the red cord faintly visible beneath the shirt.

He didn't linger anywhere in particular. Just took everything in at a glance, like confirming an item was properly in place.

"The porridge is ready." Ramsay set two bowls of oatmeal on the dining table, then poured two glasses of water, the placement impeccably precise as always.

Theon walked over and sat down. He touched the red cord beneath his shirt, not daring to look up at the one responsible. "I can't get this off."

"Mm." Ramsay sat across from him and picked up his own glass of water.

"You won't be able to untie it." Ramsay began eating his breakfast calmly. He offered no explanation. Didn't say why he'd tied it. Didn't say how long it would stay. He merely stated a fact, and Theon could only accept it.

Theon glanced at the impassive face across from him and decided to give up struggling. He started eating his porridge too. Today's was a little thicker than yesterday's. The oats were cooked to a soft pulp, dissolving on the tongue, but just as flavorless as before.

After finishing breakfast, Ramsay stood up and took the bowls to the kitchen. Once he'd washed them and dried his hands, he walked back to the living room and picked up his keys from the coffee table.

"I'm heading out." His tone was like a roommate updating another on his schedule. He walked to the entryway, put on his clean dark sneakers, then turned and glanced at Theon.

"You have a class at ten. If you leave now, the timing should be just about right."

Theon froze, bewildered. "What?"

"Classes start today. You have a required course at ten."

Theon had no idea how Ramsay knew his class schedule and times. He had never once told him anything about his university. But Ramsay said it so naturally, like stating a fact they both already knew.

That could only mean one thing.

"You—"

"You'll be late. Remember to lock the door." Ramsay cut him off, opened the door, and walked out. The door clicked shut, soft and controlled.

Theon sat alone at the dining table, staring at the closed door. He looked down at his body. The red cord wound around him. Sunlight streamed through the window, and the white shirt's fabric was so thin that the lines of the cord showed clearly through it.

Like scars. Like a brand. Like some poisonous vine coiled around his body. Like proof that he was owned.

Theon stood up. He went back to his room, packed his backpack, and walked out. The sun outside was blinding. The sky after the typhoon was a transparent blue. The streets had been washed clean by the rain, gleaming and bright. Water droplets still clung to the leaves. The air smelled of soil and grass.

Theon walked along the street, the red cord faintly visible beneath his white shirt. Occasionally, a passerby would glance his way—an absent, fleeting look, landing on his body, then quickly sliding away.

Theon's cheeks burned. He pretended nothing was wrong, shoved his hands in his pockets, and quickened his pace.

In class, the professor stood at the lectern, explaining the research paper requirements and points to note. Around him, classmates diligently took notes. Theon sat in the very back row, staring absently at himself. The red cord twisted beneath his white shirt, its pattern like some ancient script.

He didn't know why Ramsay was doing this. What it meant. Was it a punishment? A declaration? A mark of ownership? Or just some game Ramsay had decided to play on a whim?

His mood swung wildly with his thoughts. He realized this unremovable cord would stay bound around him—when he was in class, when he ate, when he showered, when he slept.

Every time he looked at his own body.

Every time Ramsay looked at him. When this last thought surfaced, his ears burned, and his heart, against all reason, felt a faint, traitorous trace of relief.

After class, Theon walked out of the lecture hall. He didn't speak to anyone. Outside, the sun was still piercingly bright. He hoisted his backpack and walked on, head down.

His phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and found a message from Ramsay—who had, at some unknown point, added himself back to Theon's contacts.

"I'll take care of dinner. Back at six."

No salutation. No extra words. Just a time and a plan.

Theon stared at the line of text in a daze, then put his phone away and kept walking.

At six in the evening, when the sound of the lock turning came, Theon, sitting on the sofa, looked up. The TV chattered away, the only sound in the room, but he hadn't been watching. He had his notebook out, trying to organize the material from today's class, but he'd made no progress. The moment he sat still, his mind drifted elsewhere.

Ramsay walked in carrying a shopping bag from the supermarket. He changed his shoes, put his keys in the bowl, and went into the kitchen, putting the groceries into the fridge one by one. Throughout the entire process, he never once looked at Theon.

Only after putting everything away did he come back out and stand beside the sofa, looking down at Theon with cool detachment. "Take off your clothes."

Theon lowered his head and obediently removed the white shirt. Ramsay leaned down. His hands moved over Theon's body. Those hands were warm. His fingertips pressed lightly against the red cord. His movements were practiced, as if he'd done this many times. His eyes followed his fingers, checking if the knots had loosened, checking if the skin had chafed, like inspecting the condition of an object.

Theon watched those hands on his body—the long fingers, the neatly trimmed nails, the pale skin. Those hands had carved words into him. Had slapped his face. Had choked bruises onto his neck. Now they were checking the cord against his skin, touching nothing beyond what was necessary.

"The cord hasn't loosened," Ramsay said. Then that brief warmth left him, and he went back into the kitchen to start preparing dinner.

Theon sat on the sofa, staring thoughtfully at that retreating back. He wanted so badly to ask. Ask why Ramsay was binding him, how much longer it would go on, what any of this meant.

But he didn't open his mouth. He already knew Ramsay wouldn't answer. And even if he did, it would only be in that calm, polite, utterly detached tone, with an answer that left him even more confused.

Ramsay brought dinner to the table. Tonight's dishes: creamy salmon pasta, a salad, and a bowl of thick soup. He portioned it into two servings, arranged with immaculate neatness, like restaurant display plates.

Theon turned off the TV, walked over, and sat down. Without waiting for Ramsay's cue, he picked up his fork and started eating. Ramsay sat across from him and began eating too.

The apartment was quiet. Only the sound of cutlery against dishes.

But mid-meal, Ramsay suddenly spoke. "How was your class today?"

Theon froze, fork hovering in mid-air. It was the first time in days Ramsay had asked him a question that wasn't about "needs" or "arrangements."

"It was… alright." He didn't know how to answer.

"Mm," Ramsay responded, and bowed his head to continue eating.

The silence returned, but this time the atmosphere felt subtly different. Something seemed to quiver faintly in the quiet air.

Theon lowered his head and went back to his meal. He didn't know what it was. Maybe it was just his imagination. Maybe Ramsay had just asked casually. But he found his heart leaping inside. He thought about what he would say if Ramsay asked again.

He would tell him the professor's lecture was boring. That the air conditioning in the lecture halls was always cranked too high. That the classmate in front of him today had knocked over a water bottle, and the fruit tea inside had spilled all over the floor, filling the entire classroom with the cloying sweetness of apple tea.

He would tell him these boring, trivial things that made up everyday life—the way one ordinary person talks to another, the way they used to talk, about meaningless, ordinary topics.

But Ramsay didn't ask again. They finished the meal in mutual silence.

After dinner, Ramsay stood and started clearing up. Theon rose to help, but Ramsay shook his head and gently pushed him aside.

"No need."

Just one word. A clean, efficient refusal.

Theon stood there, frozen, watching Ramsay take the dishes into the kitchen and turn on the tap to wash them. That momentary shift in atmosphere had vanished like an illusion.

He walked back to the sofa and sat down, facing the TV. The dark screen reflected his own fallen face. He looked down at his body. The red cord appeared a deeper hue under the lamplight, the winding pattern like blood seeping out through his skin.

Ramsay came out after finishing the dishes. He stood beside the sofa and looked down at Theon.

"Take it off. Turn around."

Theon obediently removed his white shirt and turned his back to Ramsay. Ramsay's fingers landed on his back, on the knot poised above his spine. His fingers moved nimbly, loosening it. The red cord unwound, coil by coil. As it fell away from Theon's body, it left behind shallow, winding impressions on his skin—like some indelible tattoo.

Ramsay coiled the loosened red cord neatly, picked it up, and turned toward the guest room.

"Will you tie it again tomorrow?" Theon's hoarse voice echoed in the hollow room, so soft it was almost a murmur to himself.

Ramsay stopped walking. He didn't turn around.

"That depends on you."

Then he walked into the guest room and pulled the door shut, soft and controlled.

Theon sat on the sofa. He tried to put his shirt back on, but his fingers were trembling so badly he couldn't manage a single button. In the end, he simply walked into the bathroom. In the mirror above the sink, he saw the bright red welts spreading across his body. He traced the rope marks. They weren't deep. Given some time, they would slowly fade.

But he knew that tomorrow, those cords would appear again. Those marks, even untied, wouldn't disappear. They would stay on his skin, turn to scars like those words, become part of his body—until Ramsay decided it was enough. Until those marks became real.

The next morning when Theon woke, the red cord was indeed wound around him again.

This time, it was tied differently. Tighter. Besides his chest and abdomen, it now bound around his forearms, partly restricting the movement of his arms, and ended in a beautiful knot right at his chest. The knot was positioned exactly beside the now-scabbed characters.

Theon lay in bed, studying his chest. Red cord, rope marks, scars—all intertwined like some abstract totem.

He sat up. On the nightstand, as always, sat a glass of warm water and a painkiller. Beside them, a note:

"It might rain today. Remember to bring an umbrella."

Theon swallowed the painkiller and walked to the wardrobe. Another clean white shirt now hung inside. It had been pressed, with subtle vertical stripes in the weave. The fabric was soft but still very thin.

He put on the white shirt and buttoned it up. The red cord was faintly visible beneath it, the winding pattern like blood vessels.

When he walked out of the room, Ramsay was standing on the balcony, talking on the phone. His voice was very gentle, so soft it scattered on the wind. Theon only caught a few words: "Mm… okay… talk later."

Then he hung up, turned, and saw Theon.

"Good morning," Ramsay said as he walked back inside.

"Breakfast is on the table."

As he brushed past Theon, Theon caught a whiff of an unfamiliar fragrance. Not the fresh, clean scent Ramsay usually wore, but a heavier scent, with notes of pinewood.

Theon didn't ask. He walked to the table, sat down, and started eating breakfast. Today's porridge was even thicker than yesterday's. He swallowed the food tastelessly.

Ramsay went into the guest room and came out having changed. He now wore an exquisite black shirt and dark trousers. His hair had been restyled. He looked sharper, more put-together than usual.

He walked to the entryway and put on a pair of clean leather shoes.

"I'm heading out. No need to wait for me for dinner."

The door clicked shut, soft and controlled.

Theon sat at the dining table, staring at the closed door, his spoon frozen mid-air. Porridge dripped from the edge, leaving a little white puddle on the table.

A sharp pain twisted in Theon's chest. He didn't know where Ramsay was going. Didn't know who he was meeting. Why he'd changed his cologne. Why he was wearing that clearly expensive shirt. Why he wouldn't be back to eat dinner with him.

But he no longer had the right to ask. They were nothing to each other. All he knew was that Ramsay wasn't here. And he had been left behind, bound in red cord, dressed in a white shirt, like an object properly stored away.

Theon set down his spoon and walked back to his room. He opened the wardrobe and rummaged through the laundry basket at the very bottom. He pulled out clothes one by one and tossed them onto the bed.

Finally, he found it. The collar.

The leather was old now, the edges a little worn. The metal buckle had been carefully wiped clean and was still bright, reflecting a cold light in the sun.

He'd never known why he kept it. Five years. He'd thrown away so many things. But this collar, he'd kept. Brought it with him from the North back to the Iron Islands. Brought it from the Iron Islands to Dorne. Hidden in drawers, at the bottom of the wardrobe, under clothes, among the memories he didn't want to see but couldn't bear to throw away.

Theon sat on the floor, cradling the collar in his arms. The scent of the leather had faded, but he could still smell it. That scent belonged to the past. To the Dreadfort. To the poolside. To those nights he thought he'd already forgotten.

He buried his face in the collar. The cold leather pressed against his cheek, like a kind of touch he hadn't felt in a very long time.

He remembered the first time Ramsay had fastened a collar around his wrist, the way Ramsay's eyes had glowed with that promise: "We'll never be apart."

He remembered Ramsay giving him this new collar, demanding he wear it every time he came to see him. The stubborn way Ramsay had said, "I want everyone to know you're mine."

He remembered that day, shoving the collar in a panic to the bottom of the wardrobe, still believing back then that Ramsay cared. He'd been afraid of exposing his own lingering attachment. He'd thought if he just hid it away, he could pretend nothing had ever happened.

Theon curled up on the floor, hugging the collar tight. Tears seeped from his closed eyes, falling to the floor, dripping onto the leather, leaving a small patch of darker color on its surface.

He had no right to cry. He'd brought this on himself. He was the one who'd chosen to leave. But the tears wouldn't stop. He cried for a past he couldn't return to. He cried for a future that would never come. He didn't know if he was crying because Ramsay had changed, or because he himself never had.

All he knew was the pain. A pain that spread from his chest to his limbs, a dull, heavy ache pressing down on his heart like a thousand-pound weight, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move.

Theon cried himself to sleep on the floor, still clutching the collar. When he woke, it was dark. No lights were on in the room, only the faint glow of the streetlamp outside seeping through the window.

He sat up from the floor, the collar still cradled in his arms. His cheeks were streaked with dried tears. His eyes were so swollen he could barely open them.

He heard the sound of the lock turning, then footsteps. The living room light came on. Light slipped through the crack under the door, casting a long rectangle of brightness on the floor.

More footsteps. They stopped at his door. A polite knock, and then the door swung open.

Ramsay stood in the doorway. His black shirt was a little rumpled. He smelled of fragrance and alcohol. His hair was slightly disheveled. A faint flush colored his cheeks. He looked like a university student just back from a party—some gathering with drinks and laughter.

He saw Theon sitting dazedly on the floor. Theon, unresponsive still, his eyes red and swollen, tear tracks on his face, the collar cradled in his arms.

Those grey-blue eyes landed on the collar.

One second. Two. Three.

Nothing moved in those eyes. No surprise. No anger. No pity. No mockery. Only a hollow, detached gaze.

Then he looked away.

"I bought dinner. Come out and eat," Ramsay said, his tone flat, as if he'd seen nothing at all. Then he turned and walked back to the living room.

Theon sat on the floor, listening to the footsteps recede. From the living room came the rustle of plastic bags, the clink of dishes, the scrape of a chair being pulled out. Then quiet.

He looked down at the collar in his arms. His tears still marked the leather, leaving darker stains than the surrounding surface.

He set the collar on the bed and slowly walked into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. The water was bitingly cold, but his heart was colder.

He looked up and examined himself in the mirror. Eyes red and swollen. Face pale. Lips dry and cracked. The white shirt crumpled and creased. The red cord peeked out from the collar, the winding pattern like some kind of scar.

He looked exactly like what he was—an object that had been used, broken, discarded, forgotten.

Theon turned off the tap and walked out of the bathroom. He didn't go to the living room to eat. He went back to his room, lay down on the bed, and held the collar to his chest.

The room was very quiet. He could hear faint sounds from the living room. Theon closed his eyes and pressed the collar against his chest, the cold, hard metal against his body—proof of something he refused to let go.

Ramsay had seen it. But he'd had no reaction. No flicker of emotion in his eyes. What was Ramsay thinking? Did he find him pathetic? Did he find him laughable? Or, like every day so far, did he feel nothing at all?

Theon held the collar tighter. The leather grew warm in his grip. The metal buckle bit into his palm, pressing a blood-red indentation into the skin.

What had he been hoping for? Maybe he had been waiting for Ramsay to walk in. To ask why he was crying. Why he was holding this collar. Whether he still cared.

Maybe he had been waiting for Ramsay to take the collar from his hands and fasten it around his neck. To demand what right he had to cry.

Maybe he had been waiting for Ramsay to sit down, to hold him, like that time long ago, and whisper, "It's okay."

But nothing came from beyond the door. Only the occasional clink of dishes. Only Ramsay eating dinner alone. Cleaning up alone. Walking back to the guest room alone. And then, after the door closed, only silence.

Theon lay awake in the darkness for a long time. The collar was in his arms. He was still here. Ramsay was in the next room. They were separated by a hallway, by two doors, by the distance he had thought he'd crossed over these five years but had never truly crossed at all.

He didn't know how he fell asleep. He only knew that when he did, his hand was still clutching the collar, tight.

The next morning, when Theon opened his eyes, the collar was still in his hand, the red cord still around his body, the winding pattern stark against his skin after a full day and night.

He heard sounds from the kitchen.

Theon sat up. He set the collar on the nightstand and went into the bathroom to shower. The hot water soaked his body; he washed carefully. But the wet red cord turned a deeper color, pulling tighter. He turned off the tap and dried his body and the cord with a towel. Finally, he put on the crumpled white shirt and smoothed it down, then stepped out of the bathroom.

Ramsay was in the kitchen frying eggs. He wore lounge clothes. His hair was uncombed, falling messily across his forehead. He looked a little younger than usual.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up, and his gaze fell on Theon, then slid away as if nothing were amiss.

"Good morning." Ramsay slid the fried eggs onto a plate. "Breakfast is almost ready."

Theon walked to the table and sat down. Ramsay brought the breakfast over: fried eggs, toast, milk, and a small dish of jam.

Theon picked up a piece of toast and spread it with jam. He took a bite. The toast was perfectly done, golden and crisp, but he tasted nothing.

Ramsay sat across from him and began eating his own portion. His table manners were as refined as ever. He chewed without a sound, occasionally sipping his milk.

Midway through the meal, he spoke. "Oh, about that collar."

Theon's hand froze. He waited, tense, for Ramsay's verdict.

"Throw it away."

Just two simple words. No explanation. No reason. No room for negotiation. As if he were discarding a piece of clutter he no longer needed. As if he were merely taking out the trash.

Theon stared at him. Ramsay didn't look at him. His eyes rested on the milk glass in his hand, his expression indifferent as he continued to enjoy his breakfast.

"Why?"

Theon heard his own voice—hoarse, quivering, as if fighting desperately to suppress something. Suppress his sobs. Suppress the things about to burst forth.

Ramsay set his glass down. His gaze skimmed past Theon like skimming past thin air. Those grey-blue eyes were as still as stagnant water.

"No need for it anymore."

Theon opened his mouth but found he didn't know what to say.

Ramsay finished his portion, stood up, and began clearing the table. Theon sat there, watching the figure moving in and out of the kitchen.

Sunlight streamed through the window, spreading a warm golden patch across Theon's shoulders. But he was cold. Bitterly, bone-deep cold.

No need for it anymore.

Theon turned the words over in his mind. He doesn't need the collar anymore. Doesn't need that proof. Doesn't need the fact that Theon was once his.

Because there was already something new. A new cologne. A new shirt. A new date. A new girlfriend. A new life. A new life that no longer had any need for Theon.

Ramsay emerged from his room, changed into a new outfit—a dark blue polo shirt, khaki trousers, his hair combed immaculately neat.

He picked up his keys from the entryway. "I'm heading out."

He opened the door as he spoke. Before closing it, he glanced back at Theon. For just an instant, a flicker of something strange passed through those eyes. Then it was gone, smoothed back into hollow emptiness.

Theon heard the footsteps recede into silence. He sat at the dining table, the toast still in his hand. The bread had gone cold. The jam had congealed on top, covered by a thin film.

He couldn't eat it. He didn't touch the cold breakfast again. He just sat there, listening to the ticking of the clock. Listening to the sound of tears pattering onto the tabletop. Listening to the sound of his own sobbing.

Then he walked back to his room. The collar was still on the nightstand. The tears on the leather had dried, leaving faint water stains. The metal buckle reflected a cold light in the sun. Theon picked up the collar. The leather grew hot in his palm.

He began to understand something. Ramsay wasn't punishing him. Punishment at least implied caring. Ramsay simply didn't consider him important at all. This feeling was more suffocating than being hit. This realization was crueler than any violence.

Branding with pain. Confirming with blood. Binding with scars. The means of violence were only a form. The root of the injury was still that you mattered. The pain of being persecuted could be the necessary prelude to receiving love. But being ignored proved you were nothing.

Ramsay had no need for it anymore. No need for an old collar. No need for an old memory.

No need for him.

He threw the collar into the trash bin in his room. Then picked it back out. Threw it away again. Picked it back out. Over and over. In the end, he stood there, hand frozen mid-air, not knowing whether to hold on or let go.

If he lost even this, what did he have left?

At last, he turned and walked into the bathroom. He placed the collar on the sink and turned on the tap to wash it. Water seeped into the leather and dripped from the metal buckle, pooling in a small puddle on the white porcelain.

He watched it grow soaked. Watched the leather darken. Finally, he reached out and turned off the tap.

The collar lay on the sink, drenched, like a soaked, abandoned animal.

Theon picked up a towel and carefully patted it dry—gentle, meticulous, like polishing something precious. Then he cradled it in his arms and carried it back to the nightstand in his room.

He couldn't throw it away.

He couldn't do it.

Because it was the only thing he had left. Proof that those years had been real. Proof that he had once been cared about. Been needed. Been treated as a person.

Even if that person no longer needed him now.

Even if he was now only an object.

Theon stared at the collar. He opened the buckle. He wrapped the collar around his own neck. Metal met metal with a soft click. The sound of the buckle fastening rang out with startling clarity in the empty hallway.

He put the collar around his own neck. Like a dog leashing itself.

His tears finally fell. Not from self-pity. Not from fear. But because he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew that from this moment on, he could no longer pretend this wasn't his choice. He was willing to accept all of it. Even knowing it was wrong, knowing it was poison, he was ready to swallow it whole.

"I've put it on." His voice was very soft, echoing in the empty room.

He reached up and touched the edge of the collar. His fingertips gently traced the smooth surface of the leather, the cold metal buckle.

The movement was slow and deliberate, as if confirming something.

His phone buzzed, breaking his trance. He pulled it out. A message from Ramsay. He opened it.

"Will be back late tonight. No need to wait for me for dinner."

Theon stared at the line of text. He remembered Ramsay changing his cologne before heading out yesterday, wearing that expensive shirt. Remembered him coming home with a flush on his face, clearly just back from a date. Remembered him opening the door, seeing Theon's wretched state, and turning away utterly unmoved, without so much as a second glance.

He set the phone down on the nightstand. Then he collapsed, curling himself into a ball. Two sentences. Two sentences were enough to tell him that all his struggling had been futile. That severed red thread—no matter what he did, no matter what he thought—could never be mended.

The hollow in his heart was growing larger, more rotted, more agonizing. It felt as if something had been forcibly ripped out of his body.

The red cord bit into his skin. He didn't feel it. The words on his chest burned. He didn't feel them either.

He had been completely hollowed out. His heart was shredded. All that was left was a thin shell of skin—bound in red cord, wrapped in a white shirt, placed inside this apartment.

Theon lay on the floor for he didn't know how long, staring blankly at the grain of the floorboards.

His phone buzzed again. This time, he didn't move.

It buzzed once more. Still, he didn't move.

Then it rang. The ringtone was piercingly loud in the quiet room. Theon dragged himself up with difficulty and looked at the caller ID. Asha. He hesitated, then picked up.

"Hello?"

"Theon!" Asha's voice came through the receiver, carrying her usual blunt cheerfulness. "How have you been? Are you eating properly?"

Theon opened his mouth but found he couldn't make a sound.

"Theon? You there?" Asha's tone grew puzzled.

"I'm here." Theon inhaled deeply and finally forced out a word. His voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like his own.

"Your voice sounds weird. Are you sick?"

"No… just woke up."

"That's good." Asha sounded relieved. "Oh, right—is the living allowance enough? I sent an extra payment this month. If it's not enough, tell me. Don't skimp, you hear me?"

Listening to Asha's familiar, bossy tone, Theon's eyes suddenly burned hot.

"Enough."

"Really? Don't lie to me. You've never been able to take care of yourself since you were little. You blow all your money when you have it, and starve when you don't—"

"Asha." Theon cut her off.

"Yeah?"

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something. Wanting to say he wasn't okay at all. That he was about to break. That he didn't know what to do anymore. But in the end, all he said, softly, was: "Nothing. Just wanted to say your name."

Asha was silent for a few seconds.

"Did something happen to you?"

"No. Really, nothing."

"Theon Greyjoy, you tell me the truth—"

A violent fit of coughing came through the phone—the kind that sounded like it was tearing up the lungs. Theon froze.

"Who's that?"

Asha sighed. "Balon."

Theon said nothing.

"He's sick." Asha's voice sounded weary. "Doctor says it's from the drinking, all these years. His whole body's breaking down. Liver problems. Kidneys aren't good either."

Theon gripped the phone. He thought of Balon—drunk, punching and kicking their mother.

"You know," Asha continued, "ever since he got sick, he's actually gone quiet. Just sits by the window, staring at the sea. Sometimes sits there all day." A note of bitterness crept into her voice.

Theon still said nothing. He thought of Balon—commanding his Ironborn, plotting and strategizing.

"I keep wondering what he's looking at. Is it the fleet he lost? The men he got killed? Or is he looking at himself?"

Theon closed his eyes. He thought of Balon—treating him like worthless trash, yet capable of discarding even his two proudest sons when it mattered most.

"Sometimes I wish he'd just die soon." Asha's voice was very soft, like she was confessing an unforgivable secret. "Then everyone could be free. You wouldn't have to hate him anymore. And I wouldn't have to see him every day and remember all that stuff."

Theon didn't know what to say. His memories of Balon were all painful. But now, even that pain had long since faded to nothing.

"Forget it. Let's not talk about that." Asha's voice bounced back to its usual briskness. "What about you? Anything going on lately? How's school? The job still going okay?"

"It's… alright."

"Good. Take care of yourself. If anything happens, call me, you hear?"

"Mm."

"Alright, I'm hanging up. Remember to eat."

"Asha." Theon stopped her again.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Asha's bright laugh came through the phone. "Silly. I'm your big sister. What are you thanking me for?"

The call ended.

Theon set his phone down and stared up at the ceiling.

Balon was sick. The man who had abandoned his mother. Who had treated him as a burden. Who had treated everyone as objects, as things to be discarded at any time—he was sick.

He should feel happy. Feel liberated. Feel that justice had been served. But all he felt was numbness—as if he had just heard the obituary of a stranger.

It was two in the morning when the lock finally turned. Theon was still sitting on the sofa. He didn't know why he was still sitting there. He should have gone back to his room and slept. Should have pretended not to know anything, not to ask anything.

But he hadn't moved. He was waiting. Had been waiting all this time.

Ramsay walked in. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone. His hair was a little messy. He carried a strange fragrance—not his own, but something sweeter, floral, the kind a girl would wear.

He changed his shoes at the entryway and looked up, only then realizing Theon was sitting on the sofa.

In that instant, Theon saw his expression. It wasn't the usual cold indifference. It was a profound, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind of fatigue that comes after acting for too long, when you can finally take the makeup off.

But it lasted only a second. The next moment, Ramsay's expression dissolved like smoke. What replaced it was detachment and distance. He didn't spare Theon a single glance. He walked to his room and slammed the door shut.

Theon's tears surged up. They streamed down his face. He couldn't say why. Why he still felt such grief. Why, every time he saw Ramsay, hope would be reignited by sheer instinct, only to be uprooted and snuffed out again and again.

He couldn't tell if this was love or habit, guilt or fear. All he knew was that he couldn't bear Ramsay being tender with someone else. All he knew was that he had sat here waiting until two in the morning not because he was trapped. All he knew was that this inescapable, marrow-deep, desperate attachment still had him mired and sinking.

Theon sat at the dining table, eating his breakfast. Ramsay had already left. He had been abandoned in the apartment again, all alone. His phone rang. This time, it was the café's number.

Theon picked up. The female manager's voice came through, rapid, with a trace of panic. "Theon! Are you okay? Last week's typhoon—is your place alright? Any flooding? Power outage?"

"No… I'm fine."

"Really? You sound terrible."

"Just a little tired."

"Alright, good. Listen, the café is back open today. Are you free this afternoon? We're swamped and desperate for hands."

Theon opened his mouth. He looked down at his wrists. The red cord was still wound around him, hidden beneath his white shirt. The wounds on his body hadn't healed. Those words still burned. Ramsay had gone off somewhere again—to who knew where, with who knew whom, and who knew when he'd be back.

He should refuse. Should say he couldn't. Should keep waiting. Say he wasn't able to. Say he couldn't go out today.

But he heard his own voice answer: "Okay. I'll come in this afternoon."

"Great! See you soon!"

Theon set his phone down and slowly stood. He walked to the bathroom and saw his haggard reflection. Eyes red and swollen. Face pale. Lips cracked. The red cord peeked out from beneath the white collar, the vivid lines like some fate he couldn't escape.

He turned on the tap, washed his face with cold water, then went back to his room and put on a dark jacket—one that would cover the red cord.

He walked to the door, then stopped. He looked back at the collar, lying quietly on the nightstand.

Theon stared at it. Then he turned and left.

The hallway was quiet. The stairwell was quiet. The street was quiet. Water droplets on the leaves sparkled in the sunlight.

Theon walked quickly, hands shoved in his pockets. The red cord bit into his body. He felt it. Those words burned. He felt them. His chest ached. He felt it.

But he kept walking. He was going out. He was going to work. He was going to pretend nothing had happened. He didn't know why he was doing it, but he had to.

He just felt that if he stayed in that apartment any longer, he would disappear. Would become part of the walls. Part of the furniture. Part of all those things Ramsay had tidied into perfect, lifeless order.

He needed to go outside. To feel the scorching sun. To breathe fresh air. To see other people. To prove that he was still human.

When Theon pushed open the café door, the little bell above it chimed. The manager poked her head out of the kitchen and yelled with relief, "Theon! You're here! Perfect—we're drowning out front. Quick, come help—"

Theon answered and walked behind the counter, putting on his apron and nametag. He buttoned his collar all the way up, covering the red cord beneath.

The male manager glanced at him. "You okay? You look terrible."

"I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well."

The manager didn't press. He simply pushed a hot cup of coffee toward him. "Drink this first."

Theon picked up the cup. The coffee was scalding. It numbed his tongue. But he sipped it slowly, bit by bit, as if to prove he still had a sense of taste.

The coffee was bitter. But it had more flavor than the porridge and everything else he'd eaten in that apartment.

The afternoon crowd was heavy. The little café was packed. Theon carried his tray, weaving through the tables and chairs, delivering coffee and desserts to the customers.

His body ached. Every movement made the red cord chafe his skin. The words hurt. But he didn't stop. He needed to work. Needed to move. Needed to keep himself so busy there was no time to think.

The moment he stood still, he would think. Think about where Ramsay was. Who he was with. Whether he would come back. Whether, when he came back, he would spare him a single extra glance.

"Theon!"

The manager's voice snapped him back. "Coffee for table three!"

"Got it."

He picked up the coffee and walked to table three. A couple sat there. The girl was leaning against the guy's shoulder, watching a video on her phone. The guy had one arm around her and held a coffee cup in the other hand, watching the same screen. Every so often, at something amusing, they would look at each other in perfect sync and laugh together.

Theon set the coffee down.

"Enjoy."

He turned and walked away. The red cord tightened a little more. He didn't feel it. He only felt that word on his chest burning again. Burning until he couldn't breathe.

Chapter Text

The café break room was tiny—just a folding table, four chairs, and employee lockers against the wall, with the shift schedule and notices pinned up beside them.

Theon sat in the corner, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, half-listening as two part-timers chatted about celebrity gossip.

"They got back together again." The short-haired girl showed her phone screen to the girl across from her. "They were spotted yesterday, holding hands coming out of a restaurant."

"That's what, the fifth or sixth time? I've lost count. Don't they get tired of it?" The long-haired girl chewed on her straw, utterly unsurprised.

"But look at this photo—they still look so good together!"

"What good does that do? Every time they get back together, it doesn't last three months. I've been following them for four years. Went from being moved by it to totally numb. Now whenever I see the words 'back together,' I just want to roll my eyes."

The female manager walked in with her own mug just in time to catch the last line. "Who's back together?"

"That couple. They made up again." The short-haired girl held out her phone, but the manager only glanced at it without taking it.

"Oh, them."

She set her mug on the table and pulled up a chair. "It'll end sooner or later."

"Why? They seem really serious this time." The short-haired girl's eyes went wide.

"They always look serious."

The manager opened the lid of her mug and blew on the steam. "The problem isn't how serious they are. It's that they keep getting back together without ever fixing what was wrong. Breaking up and getting back together that many times—aren't they exhausted? That's how it was with my ex-husband and me. Eventually I realized we were fighting over the exact same thing every single time. The problem never got solved."

The break room went quiet for a few seconds.

The short-haired girl looked at the screen. "That does seem to be the case."

The long-haired girl chimed in, "And both of them are so stubborn—neither one will ever give an inch."

The manager took a sip of coffee and sighed. "Relationships can't withstand that kind of erosion. Once or twice is manageable. By the third or fourth time, you start to wear out. And when you can't even be bothered to fight anymore—that's when it's truly over."

Theon sat in the corner. His coffee was stone cold. He didn't drink any more of it.

He listened to them talk about that celebrity couple's breakups and reconciliations, and suddenly thought of himself and Ramsay. All those fights. The cold wars. The making up. The cycles that kept repeating. The painful entanglements.

He would run. Ramsay would chase. He would surrender. They would reconcile. And then next time, it all started again. He'd fled from the North to Dorne, and Ramsay had chased him from the North to Dorne. They'd reunited on the night of the typhoon. Then the carving. Then the red cord binding him. Then Ramsay saying he didn't need the collar anymore, telling him to throw it away. But he hadn't been able to do it, and they'd been stuck in that stalemate ever since.

He'd never once thought about what they were actually fighting about. Or rather, they'd never truly fought at all. It had always gone the same way: a conflict would arise, Ramsay would go berserk, he would surrender, and it would be over.

Then next time—the same thing, the same process, the same result. He'd never once considered that there could be a different choice.

Even now, he still didn't know what they were to each other. Because they hadn't broken up, so this wasn't "getting back together." And since they'd never truly been "together" in the first place, it couldn't be "over" either.

Ramsay lived in his apartment. Made him breakfast every morning. Then they'd each go out. Sometimes Ramsay would come back in the evenings and eat dinner with him, then close the guest-room door behind him. They lived separate lives. It was as if Theon had gained a very polite roommate.

But the things between them weren't things roommates did. Roommates didn't push open his door in the dead of night and carve words into his skin. Didn't wind red cord around his body every morning. Didn't come back every evening to undo the bindings.

They were more like… a couple who resented each other but couldn't divorce because of property and children, forced to sleep in separate rooms. Theon suddenly pictured this slightly twisted scenario—one that fit their circumstances a little too well—and he almost laughed. But as he laughed, his chest began to ache again. Because he knew they were nothing to each other. And that hurt far worse than hatred.

"Theon?"

The manager's voice pulled him back. "You okay? You look terrible."

"I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well." Theon stood up and poured the rest of his cold coffee down the sink.

He wasn't lying. He really hadn't been sleeping well. Every night he lay in that bed, straining to hear any sound from the next room, waiting for that door to open, waiting to be hurt. But the door never opened again. Ramsay never came in during the night.

The words on his chest were no longer an angry red. They were beginning to fade, becoming a part of his body. Only the red cord remained, still binding him—but that was a daytime ritual. At night, Ramsay would untie it, then go back to his own room, close the door, and not emerge again.

Theon didn't know what any of it meant. All he knew was that Ramsay wasn't hurting him anymore. He didn't touch him, didn't look at him, didn't come near him. He treated him the way one treats a household object—something to be briefly used, once per day according to routine, and left untouched the rest of the time.

When Theon got home that evening, he found Ramsay sitting on the sofa. He'd been coming home late the past few days; tonight he'd come back early, for once. He was wearing lounge clothes, his hair uncombed, a book in his hand—something psychology-related.

The TV volume was turned low, playing some travel channel. The host was enthusiastically presenting a hotel nestled somewhere in the mountains.

"You're back?" Ramsay looked up and gave him a quick glance, then his eyes returned to the book.

"Mm." Theon changed his shoes and went to his room to drop off his backpack.

He walked into the kitchen and saw a note taped to the fridge, in Ramsay's handwriting: Dinner's in the rice cooker.

He opened the rice cooker. Inside was creamy risotto. He served himself a bowl and took it to the dining table. Ramsay remained on the sofa, still reading.

Theon took a bite. Seafood risotto—shrimp, squid, mussels—simmered to soft tenderness, the rice plump with broth.

He didn't know when Ramsay had learned to cook. Back in the North, Ramsay had never needed to set foot in a kitchen. The Bolton household had chefs and servants. He couldn't even ask for a glass of water without someone bringing it.

But now he could make porridge, fry eggs, and cook risotto. Who had taught him all this? Theon's heart sank. Could it have been that girlfriend he'd mentioned before?

The night the typhoon made landfall, Ramsay had said that over these five years, he'd learned many things. Learned to feign normalcy. Learned to make people like him. Learned to take care of someone. And now he was using those skills—learned from someone else—to care for Theon like an object being meticulously maintained.

Theon finished his meal and, out of habit, washed his bowl. When he stepped out of the kitchen, Ramsay was still reading.

"Theon." Ramsay suddenly spoke, stopping him.

Theon halted. It was the first time this week Ramsay had called him by name. He couldn't control the hope that surged up. He turned and looked at Ramsay, but Ramsay didn't raise his head; his eyes were still on the page.

"Next weekend—do you have days off?"

"Yeah."

"Then come with me somewhere."

Theon's heart began to pound. He asked, hesitant, "Where?"

"The outskirts." Ramsay turned another page, his tone flat, his gaze still glued to the book. "I heard the maple leaves there are starting to turn red. I booked a cabin. One night."

Theon stood there, watching Ramsay's profile. The lamplight fell on him, casting a small shadow beneath his lashes. His expression was cold, his tone perfectly even, as if they were just two ordinary roommates who'd agreed to a weekend outing together.

"Alright." Theon heard himself answer. His reason warned him there might be quicksand ahead, but his heart had already waded in, drowning first.

Ramsay said nothing more and went back to his book.

Theon walked quickly to his room, shut the door, and leaned back against it. His heart was racing faster and faster. He didn't know why it was pounding so hard. He shouldn't let his imagination run away from him. They were just going to the outskirts for one night. Ramsay probably just wanted to see the autumn leaves—he'd only just arrived in Dorne, so of course he'd be interested in Dorne's fall scenery.

It didn't mean anything. Ramsay just needed someone to go with, and Theon happened to be there.

But he couldn't stop himself. He thought of the nights they'd spent in the Boltons' cabins, Ramsay lying on top of him, sprawled across his chest to listen to his heartbeat, smiling like a contented little animal.

He remembered being dragged along on the Boltons' hunting trips, the two of them arguing in the cabin over whether to roast the rabbit they'd caught earlier or make it into a stew.

He remembered the messy, intimate things they'd done in those cabins after they'd officially started dating.

He shouldn't be thinking about any of it. The more he thought, the more his heart ached. But he couldn't help it.

"Oh, and one more thing." Ramsay's voice came from outside the door, muffled through the wood. "Bring the collar."

Then the footsteps receded.

Theon stood where he was, listening to the guest-room door close. He pressed a hand to his chest. His heart was racing too fast, fast enough to hurt. The collar. That collar custom-made for him. That collar Ramsay had told him to throw away. Ramsay was telling him to bring it. He knew Theon hadn't thrown it out. All these days, Theon had kept it in the drawer. Every day, he had to take it out and put it on once, just to feel steady.

Ramsay must have known. He'd seen Theon hiding it away. That was why he'd said "bring."

Theon was trembling. Not from fear or cold. From joy. It had been so long since he'd last been needed.

The day they left, the weather was perfect. Autumn in Dorne wasn't bleak like the North. The sun was still warm, the breeze carried a touch of coolness, and the air smelled of grass and earth.

He got into Ramsay's SUV. The car was dark grey, sleek and understated, with a clean interior in matching tones. It smelled of new leather. There wasn't a single decoration in sight.

Theon sat in the passenger seat, his backpack at his feet. Inside were a change of clothes and the collar. He hadn't put it around his neck, because Ramsay had said "bring it," not "wear it."

He didn't know what the difference was, but he did as he was told.

They drove for about an hour, leaving the city behind and climbing into the mountains. The trees on either side of the road were beginning to change color—green, yellow, orange, red—layering over one another like a watercolor painting bleeding into itself.

Theon gazed out at the scenery. It had been so long since he'd left the city. Long enough that he'd almost forgotten leaves could change color. That the sky could be this blue. That this was what wind sounded like, blowing through the treetops.

Ramsay drove steadily. No cutting people off, no speeding up to beat a light. He slowed early on the curves. His hands rested on the steering wheel, his posture relaxed but focused, glancing into the rearview mirror now and then.

Soft jazz was playing in the car—piano and saxophone weaving together. Not the kind of music Ramsay ever listened to at home.

Theon kept stealing glances at him. Sunlight poured through the windshield, casting a warm glow across Ramsay's profile. Today he wore a black shirt with a subtle pattern, the collar revealing a sliver of collarbone, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The muscle lines of his forearms were striking.

His expression was relaxed. Different from how he looked in the apartment—where he was always polite and courteous, seemingly devoid of feeling, just like his father. Now he simply looked like an ordinary young man, driving out for a weekend trip.

Theon thought, If only we were ordinary people. If only I hadn't met Ramsay at ten, when he was six. If only we hadn't grown up in that kind of relationship. If only I hadn't run and Ramsay hadn't chased. If only we'd met somewhere ordinary, on some ordinary day—would I have fallen for this person?

Theon didn't know. All he knew was that his heart was itching now, and every time Ramsay glanced his way—possibly just checking the rearview mirror on Theon's side—his cheeks flushed red.

The cabin sat deep in the forest, a dark brown wooden building with a roof covered in fallen leaves. A gravel path led to the front door. Beside it stood a set of outdoor dining furniture and a few maple trees, their leaves blazing red as flames.

Ramsay parked in front of the cabin, got out, and pulled a duffel bag from the trunk. Theon climbed out too. The temperature was a good ten degrees colder than in the city. He hunched his shoulders against the chill. Ramsay glanced at him, took a jacket from the duffel bag, and handed it to him.

"Put this on."

Theon took it. The jacket was dark grey. When he put it on, he found it was a size larger than what he normally wore—the sleeves were too long, the hem falling past his hips. The jacket smelled like Ramsay. Pinewood and sandalwood. The same notes as the cologne Ramsay had worn that day.

Ramsay said nothing else. He picked up the duffel bag and walked toward the cabin.

The cabin was larger on the inside than it looked. There was a spacious living-dining area, an open kitchen, one bedroom, and one bathroom. All the furniture was solid wood. Rugs covered the floor. Firewood was already stacked beside a traditional wood-burning fireplace, ready to light. Beyond the enormous picture windows, the forest stretched out endlessly, the maple leaves shimmering in the sunlight like a burning sea.

Ramsay set the duffel bag on the sofa and started checking the room. He opened the windows to air it out. Touched the sheets to confirm their cleanliness. Went into the bathroom to test the hot water. Fired up the gas stove. Checked that the fridge was running properly.

Theon stood in the doorway, watching Ramsay move through the living room and bedroom, scanning everything to make sure it was ready. He remembered, a long time ago, when Ramsay used to take him to spend the night in the Bolton cabins at the Dreadfort—Ramsay had done the exact same thing. He would personally check every single item. Confirm the bedding. Confirm the heating. Confirm the windows would shut tight.

Back then, Ramsay had been so small he'd had to stand on tiptoe just to reach the window frame. But he'd still insisted on inspecting everything himself. No help from the servants.

Now he was grown. He no longer needed to stand on tiptoe. But the habit hadn't changed. He still made sure every detail was properly in order.

"Cold?" Ramsay was moving around the living room. He asked the question offhandedly.

"I'm okay."

"I'll start the fireplace in a bit."

He closed the windows a little more. "I ordered local ingredients for dinner. They'll be delivered later."

Theon nodded, though Ramsay wasn't looking at him.

Then the space fell quiet. Theon could hear the rustle of leaves as the wind moved through the treetops. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, painting latticed shadows across the floor. Theon stood by the door. Ramsay stood by the window. The entire living room stretched between them.

"Did you bring the collar?" Ramsay asked softly.

Under that familiar yet strange gaze, Theon's heart pounded faster. "Yeah."

"Take it out."

Theon pulled the collar from his backpack and held it in his hands. The leather grew warm in his grip.

Ramsay walked toward him and stopped right in front of him. Theon looked at him. That courteous face betrayed not a single crack. Only in those grey-blue eyes—unlike their usual hollowness—there flickered something Theon couldn't quite read. Something complex. Suppressed.

"Give it to me."

Ramsay held out his hand. Theon placed the collar in it. Ramsay took it, his gaze darkening. His fingers traced lightly over the surface of the leather, as if touching something precious.

Then he turned and pulled a silver chain from the duffel bag. It was sturdy—the kind used to leash large dogs. At one end was a clip. Ramsay fastened the chain to the collar. The clash of metal rang out with startling clarity in the quiet cabin.

Theon stared at the chain. Looked at the collar. Looked at Ramsay's hands. And looking at all of this, he understood.

This wasn't an ordinary outing. It wasn't a date. It wasn't any of the things he'd let himself foolishly imagine. This was a taming. In this vast, deserted place, Ramsay meant to use this collar and this chain to turn him into a dog.

Ramsay looked at him. There was no longer a trace of emotion in his eyes. He gave the command, cold and even: "Kneel."

Theon stood there. His hands hung at his sides. The chain in Ramsay's hand swayed in the sunlight. The cabin had suddenly turned very cold. The temperature plummeted so fast Theon couldn't bear it.

"Kneel."

Ramsay said it again. This time Theon obeyed. Face drained of color, he sank to his knees. The movement was too rushed. His knees slammed against the floor, but he didn't even feel the pain.

He knelt before Ramsay and looked up into those hollow eyes. He heard his own voice, broken. "You brought me here just for this?"

Ramsay didn't answer. He wrapped the collar around Theon's neck and fastened the buckle. Leather pressed against skin. The heavy chain hung down from the collar, settling against Theon's chest. Bitingly cold.

"Stand up."

Ramsay pulled on one end of the chain. Theon was yanked to his feet. The chain clinked with the motion, metal chiming bright and clear. Ramsay drew the chain tighter, forcing Theon closer to him. They were very close now—close enough for Theon to smell the pine and sandalwood on him, the same scent as the jacket.

Ramsay stared at him. In those eyes burned something scorching, a suppressed desire. But he didn't touch Theon. He only pulled the chain taut, like someone walking a dog.

"Let's go for a walk." He turned toward the door. The chain pulled straight. Theon was forced to follow.

He walked behind Ramsay, half a pace back. One end of the chain was in Ramsay's hand, controlled by Ramsay. They walked down the gravel path and into the woods. Maple leaves blazed overhead. Sunlight filtered through the gaps between leaves, dappling the ground with mottled shadows.

Ramsay walked slowly, his posture relaxed, his shoulders loose, the chain in his grip. He maintained a precise distance, like an owner taking his pet for a stroll. And Theon was that pet. He followed behind Ramsay. With every step, the chain swayed gently. The sound of metal clinking rang out sharply in the quiet woods.

The cabin was in a secluded forest scenic area. Theon saw no one else on the trail. But he still felt terrified. Humiliated. Being led like a dog. Forced to walk half a pace behind his owner.

He should be angry. He should rip the collar off, fling the chain in Ramsay's face, turn around, and leave. Take Ramsay's car and drive away from here. Never come back.

But he didn't. He kept following behind Ramsay, like a tamed dog.

Because he was already used to it. From the age of ten, he'd been getting used to being led around by Ramsay. Not because Ramsay was stronger. Not because he couldn't escape. But because he had never, not truly, wanted to run.

And now, it was just a cold chain and collar instead of Ramsay's hand. He would get used to this, too.

Just then, a rustling sound came from the underbrush. Theon whipped his head toward it in alarm, only to see a small squirrel passing through. Theon let out a shaky breath of relief. He stared at Ramsay, walking ahead unruffled, utterly indifferent to what had just happened. And all at once, the pent-up frustration and misery inside him surged up.

Ramsay didn't care. He didn't care if anyone saw them. He'd never cared what other people thought. And now Theon himself had become one of those "other people." So Ramsay could walk him in public without a second thought. Treat him like a dog.

"Ramsay." Theon stopped. No matter how hard the chain pulled from the front, he refused to take another step forward.

Ramsay halted too and turned back to look at him. Sunlight fell between the leaves, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across his cold face.

"You brought me to a place like this. You bound me. You're leading me on a leash. What the hell do you want from me?" Fury and shame flooded his cheeks at the same time. Theon's voice trembled uncontrollably—from anger, from humiliation, from having his hopes shredded and thrown to the ground by Ramsay yet again.

Ramsay didn't answer. He looked at Theon. In those grey-blue eyes, something seemed to be thrashing beneath the ice. Ramsay was straining with everything he had to keep it from showing.

"You want me to be your dog? You want me to kneel in front of you, let you lead me around, tie me up, carve words into me, treat me however you want—treat me like an object, like a dog, like that Reek—" The more Theon spoke, the more furious he became. His voice grew louder and louder.

"Shut up." Ramsay tried to stop him.

"No!" Theon screamed it, his voice tearing from his throat. Tears fell.

"You said you hated me! That you wanted revenge! You tied me up, then pushed me away! You carved words into me, then said you didn't need them anymore! You lead me around like a dog, but you won't even look back at me! What do you want!"

Theon hurled out the questions, incoherent. Ramsay didn't respond. He just stood there, the chain hanging slack from his hand. The red leaves blazed behind him, burning away the mask on his face too. He was no longer cold and composed. His eyes were filled with chaotic, tangled emotions.

But Theon didn't notice. He lost all control and lunged at Ramsay, tackling him to the grass. "You still want my body? I can give you that."

He straddled Ramsay and began tearing off his own clothes.

"Stop!"

"This is all I have left. I have nothing else! If you don't even want my body, I've got nothing!" Theon wailed, grief-stricken. He'd already stripped off his upper clothes. He started unbuttoning his trousers. Tears fell one by one onto Ramsay's face.

"You hate me for leaving. But you never asked me why I left."

"Because I was terrified!" He sobbed like a child, the words coming out in hiccupping gasps. "I was… so scared of becoming that kind of person. Scared that I'd really… done those things to a child. Scared… of other people finding out. Scared they'd say… I was a pervert. Scared of them… looking at me with those eyes."

"So… I ran. Ran to Dorne. Pretended none of it had ever happened. Pretended I didn't care about you. Pretended… I could live a normal life like a normal person."

"But I can't." His hand on his zipper was trembling. "Every night I dream about you. Dream about… you kissing me by the pool. You holding my hand in the forest. You waiting for me at the Starks' party. And then… I wake up. And I'm in Dorne, and you're not there."

"I told… myself this was the right thing. This was for your own good. You'd live a normal life. Normal… have a girlfriend. Become a normal adult."

He struggled to open his eyes wide enough to see Ramsay clearly, but the tears kept falling, blurring his vision. Ramsay lay beneath him. He couldn't make out his expression.

"But you're not normal. I'm not normal. We've never been normal."

He pressed closer to Ramsay. Their faces were now level, the tips of their noses almost touching. And he saw it. He finally saw how that false calm on Ramsay's face shattered like glass, then collapsed entirely, revealing what lay beneath.

Pain. The kind of pain that had been suppressed for five years, never once spoken aloud, burning hot enough to sear right through him.

The same pain as his own.

"You want me to come back? I can come back." Theon was like a lost man who'd finally found his direction. His body was still shaking, but he kept leaning closer. "But you have to tell me. What do you want me to be? Your dog? Your object? Your boyfriend? Or your…"

"Mine."

Ramsay wrapped his arms around him in one fierce movement. His voice was raw. "I want you to be mine. Not my dog. Not my object. Just mine. You've always belonged to me. From the very first day. You've belonged to me."

Theon felt the warmth of Ramsay's body, the tremor running through him. Those grey-blue eyes—he recognized what was inside them now. Possession. Obsession. That thing that hadn't changed since Ramsay was six years old. The thing that frightened him and yet made it impossible to leave.

"Then what about you? Are you mine?" Theon asked softly. Maybe it was the earlier outburst. Maybe it was Ramsay's rare moment of unguarded honesty. Maybe it was the way this place, this moment, overlapped with those forests in his memory—giving him courage. He asked the question he'd wanted to ask for so long.

Ramsay froze, as if he'd never once considered this question.

Theon went on, his eyes full of sorrow. "You never asked me. Never asked whether I wanted you. You just always dragged me along and kept me tied to your side, like you thought I'd run the second you let go. But you never asked me…"

He couldn't finish. Because Ramsay kissed him.

It wasn't like those kisses from before—the ones full of desire, meant to plunder, to possess, to force him into submission. This kiss was careful. Tentative. Like Ramsay was trying to confirm something.

Just lips pressed gently to lips. No deepening. No biting. As if words were simply too difficult, and only a kiss could carry what needed to be said.

Theon closed his eyes. Tears seeped from beneath his closed lids, tracing down his cheeks, reaching the seam where their lips met. The tears were salty, bitter. He tasted them. Ramsay tasted them too.

Theon reached up and grabbed Ramsay's shirt, pulling him closer, and began to kiss him back. He kissed hard, as if trying to fill in all five years of emptiness. And to pour into that kiss all the words never spoken, all the feelings suppressed, all the pain they'd suffered believing they were doing what was best for each other.

Ramsay's arms wrapped around his waist, tightening, pulling Theon's entire body into his embrace. The chain swayed between them, the metal chiming like some ancient, ritual bell.

They kissed for a long time. Long enough that drifting maple leaves settled all over them. Long enough that the sun sank below the mountain peaks. Long enough that Theon didn't know when his tears had stopped.

It was Ramsay who let go first. He pressed his forehead to Theon's. Their breaths mingled. In both their eyes was an emotion too dense to dissolve.

"Do you want me?"

Theon was panting, but his voice held unwavering resolve. "I want you. I want you."

Ramsay gave a bitter smile. "Will you still run?"

Theon didn't answer. He unfastened the collar from his neck. The leather loosened from his skin, leaving only faint marks. He took Ramsay's hand and placed the collar in his palm.

"You don't need to tie me up anymore."

Ramsay stared at the collar in his hand and was silent for a long time.

"Alright."

Theon watched Ramsay stand up and put the collar in his pocket. A space opened up in his chest. But he didn't regret it. He didn't want to be a dog anymore. Didn't want to be an object. Didn't want to be led around on a leash.

He wanted to be Ramsay's person. Not because he was tied up. Not because he couldn't escape. But because Ramsay was his choice.

"Come on. Let's go back and make dinner." As he spoke, Ramsay draped the jacket back over Theon's shoulders and pulled him to his feet. He took Theon's hand, fingers interlaced.

Theon looked down at their joined hands. Ramsay's hand was very warm. Warmer than the collar and the chain. Warmer than the red cord and the bindings. Warmer than anything Theon had touched in these past five years.

Hand in hand, they walked back to the cabin. Neither spoke along the way. Maple leaves drifted down in the wind, landing on their shoulders, on their clasped hands, on this road they'd traveled so long and so far—the road on which they'd finally decided to stop running.

That evening, Ramsay cooked dinner in the kitchen. The ingredients had been delivered while they were out. The fireplace had been lit. He wore the cabin's provided apron—light blue with a checkered pattern, and utterly incongruous on him.

Ramsay cooked with complete focus, handling each ingredient in turn—chopping what needed chopping, washing what needed washing. He heated the pan, poured the oil, added the food. His movements were fluid, like he'd done this many times before.

Theon sprawled on the sofa in the living room, watching that busy figure. The fire crackled in the hearth. The warmth spread upward from his feet.

His heart was warm too. He remembered when they'd left this morning—how he'd still been guessing at Ramsay's intentions for bringing him here. How his mood had swung wildly with every possibility. He didn't have to guess anymore. He no longer had to teeter on that dangerous tightrope. No longer had to be the one who could only passively accept, everything arranged for him, cared for like an object.

Because he'd finally said it all. The words he'd suppressed for five years, for ten years—from the Iron Islands to the North to Dorne—the words he'd never once spoken aloud.

And Ramsay had accepted all of it. Accepted Theon's fear. His cowardice. The way he'd been helpless against his own circumstances. Even though Theon wasn't the idealized version Ramsay might have imagined, Ramsay still wanted him.

Theon had once feared he would become like Euron—using strength to coerce, using "love" as an excuse, turning people into objects, making himself a poison that infected others, leaving them with painful wounds that would never heal. So he'd run. Run to Dorne. Pretended nothing had ever happened. But Ramsay had chased after him. Had taken his hand. Was willing to sink into this abyss with him, simply so they could hold each other close and share the warmth.

"Dinner's ready." Ramsay brought the food to the table.

Theon walked over and sat down. The meal was simple—steak, roasted vegetables, soup, and pasta. The plating was different from back at the apartment. Not arranged like a display piece. No protractor-measured angles. Just an ordinary meal, set out casually.

Theon picked up his fork and took a bite. It tasted better than the meals at the apartment. He didn't know if it was because the ingredients were fresher, or because he was hungrier now, or something else.

Ramsay sat across from him. They ate in silence, the only sounds the clink of cutlery against plates and the crackle of the fire.

But this silence was different from the oppressive one. Before, the atmosphere between them had been cold—two people sitting across from each other, separated by an entire ocean of emptiness. This silence now was a warm companionship. The quiet ease of two people who both knew the other was there, and that was enough.

But there was still one thing Theon knew he had to address first.

He finished his food and set down his knife and fork. Then he spoke abruptly. "Ramsay."

"Mm?"

"What about your girlfriend?"

Ramsay's fork froze for a fraction of a second. "I don't have a girlfriend."

Theon stared at him, stunned. Ramsay, seated across from him, continued eating with perfect composure. Under Theon's gaze, he didn't even lift his head. His tone was flat, as if stating something of no importance whatsoever.

"I never did."

"Then the perfume on you that day—"

"That was to make you notice. I knew you'd smell it. Knew you'd wonder whose scent it was. I needed to know if you still cared."

The answer was so unexpected that Theon couldn't process it for a moment. He thought for a beat, then took the chance to ask about all the other things that had been eating at him. "Who were you talking to on the phone that day? On the balcony?"

"That was Domenika. I was telling him I'd arrived in Dorne. Telling him not to worry."

"Those days when you left early and came back late—who were you with?"

"I went to a bar by myself and had a few drinks."

Ramsay finally looked up. He said it with complete candor. "Because I needed to hold back. Needed to keep myself from knocking on your door. From touching you. From doing all the things that would expose what I was feeling—the things I wanted to do but knew would only push you further away."

Theon's throat tightened. He touched his arm; the shallow marks from the bindings were still there. Even untied, the traces wouldn't disappear right away.

"Why did you tie me with the red cord every day?"

Ramsay set down his own fork and knife. He stood, walked over to Theon, and reached out a single finger to trace the lines of Theon's body beneath his clothes. "I needed a ritual. Something to convince myself you were still mine. Tie it every morning. Untie it every night. That was the only way I could tell myself you were still here. That you hadn't left yet. If I didn't do it, I'd have lost my mind first."

Theon didn't ask anything more. He studied Ramsay's face, finally no longer so unnaturally composed. The willful child from before had grown up. Now he could see clearly what was in those eyes. It was obsession—and it was also fear. The terror of losing something. The terror of being abandoned. The terror of waking up once more to find himself utterly alone.

The same fear as his own.

"What about the carving?" Theon asked, his voice hoarse.

Ramsay's fingers slid to his chest. Beneath them, Theon's heart beat fast. The wound had healed long ago, but the scar remained, and now it gave off a faint heat.

Ramsay was silent for a long time—so long Theon thought he wouldn't answer. Then he spoke.

"That was punishment. I wanted to punish you for leaving. Because if you hadn't run, I never would have discovered what I could become. That I could pick up a knife and carve words into another person's body. Listen to him cry. And then feel…"

Ramsay didn't finish. He gripped Theon's shoulders, his knuckles going white. Something dark and sharp flashed through his eyes—a person with a bloodstained, savage face. Theon had already met that person.

Theon looked up at him. There was no resentment in his eyes. Only curiosity. "How did you feel?"

"I felt happy. Because you finally couldn't run anymore. I carved my name into you. Now wherever you go, you carry me with you. You can never erase me again." Ramsay said it softly. In those grey-blue eyes, the ice had all melted.

Theon wrapped his arms around Ramsay's waist and pressed his face into his chest. Ramsay's eyes were rimmed red. He didn't cry—Ramsay Bolton never cried. But Theon felt his tears fall upon his own heart.

"Ramsay, I won't run anymore."

Ramsay's voice was like a child still nursing a grudge. "You said you'd come back last time. You didn't."

Theon's heart clenched. He'd never promised he would come back—but he'd never refused, either. He'd simply disappeared without a word. And Ramsay had waited for him for five years.

Five long years. Five years of separation. His silent flight had stabbed Ramsay in the back. People who've been betrayed lose their trust in others, because to trust again is to risk being deceived. To be captured is to risk being toyed with, discarded, forced to relive the nightmare of shame and pain. And entangling oneself with someone untrustworthy only deepens that agony.

He knew better than anyone the agony of being abandoned. And yet he'd made Ramsay taste that same agony. Theon's tears fell. He choked out the words: "I'm sorry. I didn't say I'd come back then, and I didn't say I wouldn't. I just disappeared. Like you didn't matter. Like those years didn't matter. Like you'd never existed in my heart at all."

"But you did exist. You've always been there. Every night in Dorne. Every place I went. Every sea I looked at."

Ramsay's fingers brushed the tears from his face. Theon drew a deep breath and went on. "There was never a single moment I forgot you. I was just afraid. Afraid I wasn't good enough for you. Afraid that one day you'd realize I wasn't the person you thought I was. That I was just…"

"You're mine." Ramsay cut him off. His voice was resolute, leaving no room for doubt. "No matter what you turn into. You've always been mine."

Theon gazed into those eyes. He pulled Ramsay down to him, and they clung to each other like two drowning people—just like a long time ago. Like in the kennels at the Dreadfort. Like beside the pool. Like on all those nights before they knew this love would become what it had become.

Theon buried his face in the curve of Ramsay's neck and said, his voice muffled, "I'm not your object. I don't want to be your pet. Don't want to be your canvas for carving."

"Alright."

"I want to be your boyfriend. The one who'll argue with you. Get angry. Run off. But come back."

Ramsay held him tighter.

"Alright."

"You can't tie me up anymore. Can't carve words into me. Can't ignore me. And you can't say 'no need for it anymore.' Because I need you. I've always needed you. I just didn't dare say it before."

Theon's voice grew quieter and quieter. This time Ramsay didn't respond with words. He just held him closer, buried his face in Theon's hair. His shoulders trembled.

They stayed like that beside the dining table, holding each other. Ignoring the dinner that had gone cold. The fire blazed in the hearth. The wind blew outside the windows. In this cabin in the maple forest, there was only the two of them.

A long time passed—maybe minutes, maybe hours. Finally Ramsay spoke.

"Theon."

"You're mine. And I'm yours."

Theon's heart stopped for a beat, then began to pound, so fast it hurt. Ramsay had never said that before. Not in the past. Maybe because he'd thought he didn't need to. Maybe because he'd thought "you're mine" was enough. Possession had been one-way. And back then, Theon had never dared to hope he could possess Ramsay in return.

But now Ramsay had said it. Possession was two-way now. Maybe it was just a way to claim him legitimately. Or maybe Ramsay had finally understood that some things have to be said aloud. Because if you never say them, the other person will never know.

Theon lifted his face from the hollow of Ramsay's shoulder and looked at him through tear-blurred eyes. Then Theon kissed him first—a kiss of joy, a kiss of overwhelming emotion, a kiss of relief shared between two lost souls who'd finally found each other in the dark.

The firelight flickered across their faces. When their lips finally parted, they gasped for breath like two drowning people breaking the surface, gulping down air.

They still had many problems left to solve. The scars were still there. The words were still there. The wasted time, the eroded trust—none of that would disappear. But they wouldn't run anymore. They would hold onto each other and face all the hurt and all the hardship together.

This time, not because they were bound. Not because they couldn't escape. But because they chose to stay.

Late at night, the fire in the hearth had died down to a flicker, only dark red embers still glowing. They sat on the sofa, sharing a single blanket. Theon leaned against Ramsay's shoulder. Ramsay had one arm around him; his other hand idly played with Theon's hair.

"Theon."

"Mm?"

"Those words. Do you want to get rid of them?"

Theon paused, then looked down at his chest. Through his shirt, he could feel the scabbed wounds, the words Ramsay had carved stroke by stroke into his skin.

He'd once thought they would be there forever. Like the marks Euron had left on him. Never fading.

"No need."

Theon's voice was soft. He touched the words on his chest gently, then looked at Ramsay with meaning. "Let them stay. They're a part of me now."

Ramsay's arm tightened around him. They fell quiet again. Outside the window came the rustle of wind through the leaves, and somewhere in the distance, the call of some animal. Theon closed his eyes, shutting out these sounds. He just wanted to quiet his mind and listen to Ramsay's heartbeat.

"Ramsay."

"Yeah?"

"You're in charge of cooking from now on."

"Then you'll be in charge of doing the dishes?" Ramsay gave a light laugh. It was quiet, but Theon still heard it.

"Fine. You're in charge of cleaning the house."

"You handle laundry and taking out the trash."

They divided up the household chores, like a couple who'd just moved in together. No—they were a couple. They'd just gotten lost. Wasted five years.

They stared at each other. Firelight danced in Ramsay's grey-blue eyes. Something in Theon's expression had clearly stirred him. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Theon's forehead.

Then his eyes. His nose. His cheek. Finally back to his lips. Theon let those kisses spread across his skin and held Ramsay tight. They were like two people who'd finally found shelter in the middle of a raging storm, unable to believe the gale had actually ceased—that they were still alive, still holding each other.

But the storm had truly stopped. They truly were still alive. Still holding each other.

This time, neither one would ever let go.

Chapter Text

The way Ramsay kissed him had changed. It wasn't the kind from before—all plunder, possession, demanding his submission. Nor was it the careful, tentative kiss from outside the cabin. This kiss lay somewhere in between—the kind he finally dared to loosen into, now that he knew Theon wasn't going to run, but still feared he might break him.

Theon didn't remember who started it. They'd only been holding each other on the sofa, and holding had turned into kissing, and kissing had turned into something more. Still tangled in each other, they moved from the living room into the bedroom. Theon was pressed onto the bed, soft pillows and cushions at his back. The embers in the living room fireplace still glowed. In the dark bedroom, only the faint firelight and the moonlight falling through the window remained.

Ramsay's hands were braced on either side of Theon's head. He wasn't pressing his weight down, but his whole frame hung over him, like a cage that had no intention of letting him leave.

"You're crushing me." Theon pushed at him, putting it on a little.

Ramsay didn't move. He pressed close to Theon's ear, his voice low, edged with a note of tentative uncertainty. "You didn't say no."

Theon looked at him. Something quivered in those grey-blue eyes—desire so full it was about to spill over. But Theon felt no fear. He had been waiting for this day too. The legal barriers that had once stood between them were gone now. They were both grown, both adults. There was no reason left to deny this union.

Theon hooked his arms around Ramsay's neck and pulled him down. "Mm. I didn't say no."

Ramsay's body tensed for a second. Then he dropped his head and buried his face in the curve of Theon's neck. He let his full weight sink down—a little heavy—but Theon didn't push him away. They pressed close. Theon could feel Ramsay's heart hammering, just as fast as his own.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting?" Ramsay's hoarse voice came muffled from the hollow of his shoulder, as though it had been pressed down by something heavy for a very long time.

"Five years?"

"Longer than that." Ramsay shook his head, his hair brushing Theon's neck. "Since you were fourteen. Since the day you kissed me in the pool. I've been waiting for this day ever since."

Stunned, Theon cast his mind back. It was in the pool at the Dreadfort. They had shared their first kiss. At the time he'd thought it was just a sudden impulse—playing around and accidentally going too far. He'd never imagined that Ramsay had been waiting from that very day.

"You were only ten back then. Weren't you a little too precocious?" Theon laughed and poked Ramsay's cheek—that face, now long since stripped of all baby fat.

"I know." Ramsay caught his hand and brought it to his lips, nibbling gently. "That's why I never did anything. I thought I'd at least wait until you were sixteen. Until you couldn't use age as a reason to run anymore."

The familiar gesture made Theon's throat go dry. He watched Ramsay suck lightly on his fingertip. There was barely any pressure, yet he felt dizzy. When Ramsay released him, he made a wet, deliberate sound.

His eyes had gone very dark. "But you ran. You made me wait all this time."

He turned his head and kissed Theon, tongue pressing deep inside. This time there was no restraint. This kiss carried eight years of pent-up desire—the kind of kiss that had been waiting since he was ten, and was finally claimed at eighteen.

He kissed hard, possessive, as though trying to fill every single blank, leaving almost no room to breathe. Theon gasped against his mouth, clutching at Ramsay's shirt, his whole body prickling with numbness.

Ramsay's hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, sliding up from his stomach, and stopped only when it reached the scars on his chest. His fingers circled there. "Does it still hurt?" Ramsay's voice was wrecked.

Theon shook his head. The scars had long since stopped hurting. When Ramsay's fingers rested on them, stroking with the gentleness reserved for something fragile, something easily broken, Theon even felt a strange, tingling itch spreading from his chest.

"Back then, I…" Ramsay didn't finish. He turned his face away awkwardly, as if he couldn't bear to face Theon. But when Theon turned his face back, what he saw in those eyes wasn't regret—it was stubbornness and possessiveness.

That was Ramsay. He wouldn't regret it. He wouldn't regret hurting Theon. It was one of his ways of expressing love. He needed Theon to fear him and still love him. He needed Theon to be wounded beyond recognition and still hold him. That was Ramsay. His terrifying, sadistic nature.

Theon had once found this side of Ramsay horrifying. But now, he found it twisted and somehow endearing. He really was just as poisoned, it seemed.

"You were scared back then. Scared I'd run again. Scared you'd wake up and find me gone again. You just kept me the only way you knew how."

Theon spoke softly. Ramsay said nothing. He only stared at him, searching Theon's face for any trace of resistance or disgust. Then his kisses fell upon those words—on Theon's chest, right over his heart.

"This is my name. You'll belong to me forever." He said it with absolute certainty. His kisses traced the strokes of the characters, the heat spreading outward through the thin fabric of Theon's shirt.

Theon stroked his hair. "Yes."

Then Theon kissed him first, tongue pressing in with deft insistence, lips and teeth meeting. He would always love kissing Ramsay—using the most fervent motions to convey feelings that couldn't be explained in a few words. Feelings that said, I'll stay by your side forever.

Ramsay's hands began to move over his body. Slow. Heavy. As if confirming that he was really here. Confirming that he really wasn't going to run. Confirming that this wasn't just another dream he'd wake up from and find gone.

He undressed Theon. With every button undone, his fingers trembled. Theon lay there, not rushing him, just watching quietly. The faint firelight flickered across Ramsay's face. His head was lowered, lashes casting a small shadow beneath his eyes. His expression was intent, as if performing a task of great importance.

Theon suddenly spoke. "Do you remember? When you were thirteen, you said the first time should have a sense of ritual."

Ramsay's hands paused. Theon's voice took on a teasing note. "I thought you'd have candles, rose petals, champagne—something like that."

Ramsay looked up. His expression was complicated—the discomfort of having been found out, and a touch of being moved that Theon had remembered.

"I did prepare all that."

"Where?"

"In the car. A whole bag. Candles, rose petals, champagne. A new set of sheets." He paused, looking faintly embarrassed. "I forgot to bring it in."

Theon burst out laughing. Ramsay watched him laugh, his expression slowly softening from awkwardness, until he was laughing too.

"What are you laughing at? I spent a long time preparing."

Theon wrapped his arms around him, still laughing, but for some reason his eyes felt hot. "I thought you just said it offhandedly."

"I didn't say it offhandedly." Ramsay's eyes were earnest. "I never say things like that offhandedly."

Theon gazed into those grey-blue eyes. Madness and innocence were perfectly fused there, layered together and carved deep into his heart, leaving him powerless to resist any longer.

"So how do we manage the ritual now?"

Ramsay looked at him for a long moment. Then he lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to Theon's forehead. "You're here. That's enough."

The kissing went on. Before Theon knew it, Ramsay's hands had stripped him bare. The drifting firelight fell on his face—and it wasn't just shyness coloring his cheeks now.

Theon tried to cover his body, but Ramsay wouldn't let him. Flustered, he gave Ramsay a push. "You take yours off too."

Ramsay's eyes rested on him, dark and heavy. Then, deliberately, slowly, he shed his own clothes. Seeing a body so different from the one in his memories—young, strong, in its prime—Theon felt his heart pounding, hard, but with a measure of relief mixed in.

Theon closed his eyes and surrendered his body entirely to Ramsay. He could feel Ramsay's fingers, calloused lightly at the tips, lighting fires everywhere they touched. He could feel his lips, moving down from his collarbone, lingering at every sensitive place. He could feel Ramsay's breath—scorching, ragged, as if holding something back.

"Theon." Ramsay said his name. His palm pressed against the inside of Theon's thigh, slowly moving downward.

"Mm?"

"Look at me."

Theon opened his eyes. Ramsay was braced above him, his grey-blue eyes almost black in the dim light, churning with far too many things.

"You're mine," he said. Not a question. Not testing. Just stating a fact.

Theon answered with certainty. "I'm yours."

Ramsay leaned down and kissed him. One finger slid inside him at the same time—a slow, steady push. After allowing a moment for him to relax, a second finger joined. This time it stung a little. Theon bit the back of his own hand, trying not to make a sound, but Ramsay pulled his hand away and pinned it beside the pillow.

"I want to hear you."

"You—"

"Tell me if it doesn't feel good."

"It doesn't not feel good!"

"Then let me hear you."

Theon glared at him hard, but Ramsay didn't budge. His fingers explored inside him—curling, pressing, searching for the place that would make Theon lose control.

Effort paid off. He found it.

"Ah!" A jolt of unfamiliar pleasure made Theon's body arch off the bed. A startled moan escaped his throat.

Ramsay's smile held a note of triumph. "Found it."

"Shut up!"

"No."

Ramsay's fingers pressed and circled that spot as he watched Theon clench his jaw, his eyes reddening. "I'll say what I want. You look incredible right now. Incredibly erotic."

Theon tried to muster some retort, but Ramsay's fingers twisted again, and every word collapsed into a low gasp.

"Just shut up." Theon finally managed to force out.

Ramsay's fingers began to press and thrust without mercy. Theon could only make broken, stuttering gasps. The pleasure was too intense. He couldn't quite take it.

He'd been about to tell Ramsay to slow down, but when Ramsay abruptly withdrew his fingers, Theon was met with a rush of emptiness. Before he could say anything, his body was filled with something far more substantial.

When Ramsay entered him fully, Theon grimaced at the pain. It was an unfamiliar pain—the kind that came from being forcibly stretched open, the kind that needed time to adjust to.

His whole body went rigid. Ramsay went rigid too. He stopped, hands braced on either side of Theon, his arms trembling. He pressed his forehead to Theon's, his breathing heavy and ragged, his face slick with sweat. "Does it hurt a lot?" His voice was sandpaper-rough, carrying a thread of tension.

"Okay." Theon's breathing was unsteady too. He gulped down air, grateful that Ramsay wasn't moving recklessly. He was giving him enough time to adjust, to accept the foreign presence inside him.

After a long moment, when Theon felt the pain had become bearable, he pulled Ramsay down and held him. "You can keep going now."

But Ramsay, given permission, didn't move right away. His breathing was heavy, stuttering, as though he were holding something back. "Are you sure?"

Theon held him tighter. He could feel Ramsay trembling all over. Not from cold. From excitement. Because he'd held back too long—eight years of holding back, since he was ten. Held back until he thought this day would never come. And now, at last, the excitement of finally having the thing he'd yearned for all this time.

"I'm sure." Theon's hand stroked up his back, rubbing gently in reassurance.

Ramsay buried his face in the curve of Theon's neck, his breath scorching against the skin. Then he began to move. The motion was tender, as if he were afraid of breaking him, as if handling some rare, precious treasure.

Theon held back his sounds. Not from pain—pain he could endure. He'd endured far worse than this. But because he didn't know what sounds he was supposed to make at this moment.

He'd never made sounds in this kind of situation before. All those times with Ramsay in the past, he had been the passive one, the controlled one, the one whose fate was decided for him. His voice had never belonged to him.

But now it was different. Now he had a choice.

He wrapped his arms around Ramsay's back. His body had already adjusted to the intrusion, but Ramsay was still moving so lightly, so slowly. So slow it felt like too much. "What are you doing? You don't have to be that careful," Theon asked, puzzled.

"I'm trying to find…" Ramsay raised his head, embarrassed. His grey-blue eyes were wet and glistening. Only then did Theon realize that Ramsay seemed to be probing with a purpose, searching for the spot that had made Theon react earlier, but failing to locate it.

Theon let out a small laugh and reached up to wipe the sweat from Ramsay's forehead. "Do whatever you like. I trust you."

Ramsay stared at him for a few seconds, then kissed him, and his movements began to quicken. This time he wasn't so careful. What met Theon were deeper, harder thrusts, carrying too-long-suppressed longing and possession.

Ramsay pressed him into the bed, knees raised, Theon's legs tangled around his waist. But Theon didn't fight it. He just gripped Ramsay's shoulders, his nails unconsciously digging into the skin with every deep thrust.

After several attempts, Ramsay finally found it. He brushed against that aching, tingling spot. Theon drew a sharp breath and let himself drown in the sensations Ramsay was giving him, his breathing growing more and more ragged with Ramsay's clumsy movements.

"Theon." Ramsay said his name, voice hoarse, like some primal, instinctive cry. Like a man who'd wandered the desert for far too long, finally finding water. "Say my name."

Theon looked at him. Firelight danced in Ramsay's eyes. There was longing. There was fear. And there was eight years of suppressed desire, about to burst.

"Ramsay," Theon obeyed.

Ramsay kissed him fiercely, as if wanting to swallow him whole, along with that name, and hide them in the deepest place inside him.

He picked up the pace, each stroke deep and heavy. Theon's sounds were swallowed by the kiss; only muffled, stifled moans escaped from deep in his throat. He clutched at Ramsay's back, his nails inadvertently scratching the skin. Ramsay didn't cry out in pain. He just held him tighter.

Ramsay released his mouth. Theon bit his lip, but low, broken sounds still leaked from his throat—sounds even he found unfamiliar.

Ramsay's eyes were frighteningly dark. "That sounds so good."

"Shut up!"

"No." Ramsay's hand closed around his erection, stroking him with practiced skill, his thumb grazing lightly over the tip. "You sound so good. I've loved listening to it since I was little."

"Since you were little—ah!"

Theon didn't finish. Ramsay's hand and his thrusts synchronized, each motion grinding precisely across the places that drove Theon mad. The unfamiliar pleasure surged up like a tide—wave after wave, drowning him.

"Ah… Ramsay!" Theon's voice had completely changed, unbelievably sweet and thick.

"Wait for me." Ramsay's voice had changed too—lower, rougher, like a string drawn to its breaking point. He quickened his pace, his hand pressing harder, pushing Theon to the brink.

Then Theon came first. His whole body arched. Everything went white before his eyes. He saw nothing. Heard nothing.

Ramsay followed seconds later, biting down on Theon's shoulder, muffling every sound between his teeth. As he released, his body tensed to the point of trembling, then slowly relaxed.

He stayed inside Theon for a long time, collapsing on top of him, pressing him deep into the mattress. They lay stacked together, neither moving.

A long while later, Ramsay finally withdrew. He rolled to the side, one arm wrapping around Theon. Theon listened to his ragged breathing gradually evening out. Neither spoke. In the room, only the sound of their breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.

"Your technique wasn't great," Theon said after a moment, his voice still hoarse, assessing Ramsay's performance.

Ramsay's hand stopped on his shoulder. Every trace of lingering bliss vanished from his face. "What?"

"I said your technique wasn't much to speak of." Theon looked up at him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing smile. "Your theoretical knowledge is extensive, but your practical experience is zero."

Ramsay's expression was deeply embarrassed—that particular awkwardness of having been called out and not wanting to admit it. "I do not."

"You spent ages just trying to find the spot." Theon's grin was getting harder and harder to suppress.

Ramsay grasped for a defense. "It was my first time…"

"I know." Theon buried his face in Ramsay's chest. "But didn't you spend a long time preparing? I thought you'd be quite skilled."

Ramsay said nothing. His arms tightened, pulling Theon entirely into his embrace, chin resting on the top of his head. "You're laughing at me," he said, his voice sullen.

Theon didn't deny it. He was laughing—not mockingly, but the kind of laugh that comes from discovering another side of someone. So Ramsay got nervous too. Couldn't find the spot. Left the candles and rose petals in the car. So he wasn't that monster who was forever composed, forever in control. He was also someone doing this for the first time.

"So where exactly did you pick up all that random knowledge?" Theon's voice couldn't hide its amusement.

Ramsay was silent for a beat. "The internet. And some books."

"What books?"

"Don't ask."

Theon laughed even harder. He lifted his face from Ramsay's chest. Ramsay looked deeply self-conscious, his ears still red, but the corner of his mouth was tugging slightly upward.

"Done laughing yet?" Ramsay asked, feigning wounded indignation.

"Not yet," Theon said, still laughing. And promptly found himself flipped over and pinned beneath Ramsay.

"Then I'll give you something to really laugh about." Ramsay's hands went to his waist and began tickling. His aim was precise—all the places Theon was most sensitive and ticklish.

Theon writhed, trying to dodge, but Ramsay had him pinned and wasn't letting him move. He burst out laughing—the kind that surged up from deep in his body, beyond his control.

"Stop… stop it…" He pushed at Ramsay between laughs, but couldn't budge him. Ramsay had grown stronger than him, more powerful. That faint advantage in physical strength had long since evaporated. But he wasn't afraid now. Because Ramsay wasn't trying to control him. They were just playing.

"Beg for mercy." Ramsay's hands didn't stop.

"No!"

"Beg and I'll let you go."

Theon laughed until tears came. "Fine, fine… I beg for mercy…"

Ramsay stopped. He studied Theon's face intently. Theon lay on the bed, hair a mess, face flushed, tears of laughter still at the corners of his eyes. He looked back at Ramsay, lips still curved, still catching his breath.

Ramsay's expression slowly softened, his eyes very tender. "You haven't laughed like this in a long time."

Theon stilled, caught off guard. Had it been that long since he'd laughed like this? For five years in Dorne, he'd believed he was doing well—attending classes normally, working normally, socializing normally. Living like a normal person. But he truly couldn't recall the last time he'd laughed this way.

"Laugh more from now on." Ramsay leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Theon's hand moved to Ramsay's back, where the red marks from his nails still lingered. "Does your back hurt?"

Ramsay smiled, a suggestive smile. "A little. But it's fine."

They tangled together again on the bed. The fire in the hearth was nearly out. Every now and then, a log would crack before burning away. In the quiet, beyond the wind outside, the strange call of some distant bird could be heard.

"Ramsay, those candles and rose petals—you can bring them in later. We'll do it again. Make up for the ritual," Theon murmured in his ear, his voice carrying a note of seduction.

Ramsay looked back at him, catching the suggestive look in Theon's eyes. His lips curved, his eyes creasing. "Alright."

Then he lowered his head and buried his face in Theon's hair. They held each other like that, tight, until the sky beyond the window began to pale.

The early morning sunlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, tracing gold lines across the wooden floor. The fire in the hearth had gone out. The air held the lingering scent of burnt wood, mixed with pine and grass.

When Theon woke, he found himself curled in Ramsay's arms. Ramsay's arm was wrapped around his waist, his breathing even, his chest rising and falling gently. He looked much younger in sleep—brow unfurrowed, lips slightly parted, black curls scattered messily across the pillow.

Theon didn't move. He just lay there, listening to the birdsong outside, the sound of wind through the treetops. That unmentionable place on his body still ached a little, bringing back last night's events—every shy, embarrassing detail still vivid in his mind.

Ramsay's technique hadn't actually been that good, which genuinely surprised Theon. After all, they'd been physically intimate since they were very young, and most of the time Ramsay had been the one in control. But last night, when it came to actually doing it, Ramsay had been all over the place.

The whole process had been like some experiment he'd learned from instructional videos—something he'd rehearsed over and over in his head, but which fell into chaos in actual practice.

At least he'd been serious about it. So serious it made Theon want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Now it was daylight. They were in this cabin. Ramsay was still asleep. Theon lay in his arms and pressed his face to Ramsay's chest, listening to that steady, solid heartbeat.

He didn't know when he fell asleep again. He only knew that when he woke, Ramsay was already awake, gazing at him intently.

"Morning." Ramsay's voice was hoarse, for reasons that needed no explanation.

"Morning."

They looked at each other, only a hand's breadth apart. Ramsay brushed the tousled hair from Theon's forehead, his fingertips lingering on his cheek, then leaned in and kissed him.

It was a lazy, drowsy good-morning kiss—the kind where lips just pressed to lips and didn't want to move. Theon closed his eyes and felt Ramsay's lashes sweep against his eyelids. A little ticklish.

"Are you sore?" Ramsay's lips were still against his.

Theon knew what he was asking. "A little."

"Liar." Ramsay pulled back slightly and looked him up and down. "Last night you were clearly…"

"Shut up." Theon clamped a hand over his mouth.

Ramsay's face broke into a pleased grin—the kind Theon hadn't seen in a long time. That wicked, childlike smile he used to wear whenever a scheme had worked.

"I'll get better with practice," he said, holding Theon's hand, his expression earnest, as if making a solemn promise.

Theon gave a rueful laugh. "Master cooking first, then we'll talk."

"My cooking is already good."

"The soup last night was too salty."

"That's because…"

"And you used way too much oil when you pan-fried the steak."

Ramsay shut his mouth. A dangerous glint flickered through his eyes, and in one move he flipped Theon over and pinned him beneath him, staring down at him. "You're so demanding."

Theon looked up at him. The morning light cast bright, shifting shadows across Ramsay's face. His hair was a mess. His eyes were still a little red from lack of sleep. His lips were slightly swollen from all the kissing last night.

He didn't look like the Bolton family's youngest son who had the North at his fingertips. He didn't look like the stranger in Dorne who had cloaked himself in cold indifference. He was just an ordinary person, just woken up, haggling with his boyfriend.

"That's right. I'm very demanding. Regretting it yet?"

Ramsay didn't answer. He lowered his head and pressed his face into the curve of Theon's neck. Theon felt his lips against his skin, nibbling gently, trailing down to his collarbone. Soft suction, blooming vivid little flowers across his body, as if marking and confirming something.

"Not regretting it." His voice was low and deep.

Theon wrapped his arms around him. Those shallow kisses reignited the desire that had only just died down. They lay in bed, rubbing against each other like two clingy cats, neither wanting to break this tender, lingering moment.

In the end, they did get up, because the checkout reminder call came. They separated—Ramsay went to make breakfast, Theon to take a shower.

As the hot water poured over him, Theon looked down at his body. His collarbone and inner thighs were covered in the marks Ramsay had left. The words on his chest had turned a pale pink under the hot water. He touched them gently. They no longer hurt. But the marks would be there forever—proof that he belonged to someone.

When he came out of the shower, Ramsay had already made breakfast: coffee, toast, jam, and a plate of cut fruit. The presentation was careless—the toast placed crookedly, the jam spread unevenly.

Theon sat down and took a bite of toast. Ramsay sat across from him, drinking his coffee, glancing up at him every so often.

"Ramsay, when did you learn to cook?"

Ramsay was quiet for a moment. "After you left the North."

Theon didn't press for why. He knew the reason. Because Ramsay had to learn to take care of himself. He'd waited five years, not knowing how much longer he'd have to wait, so he'd had to look after himself first—while waiting for that one person to come back.

Theon kept eating his toast. The jam was very sweet. So sweet his eyes began to sting.

They finished breakfast and packed up, ready to leave. Ramsay went to settle the checkout. Theon stood at the cabin door, waiting. The early autumn morning sun was lovely. Maple leaves still drifted through the air. The air carried the particular sweet, fresh scent of the forest. He drew a deep breath and felt the things that had been pressed down in his chest for so long grow just a little lighter.

Ramsay pulled the car up beside him and rolled down the window. "Let's go."

Theon got into the passenger seat. The car drove down the gravel path. Theon looked back at the cabin one last time. It stood quietly among the trees, its roof still heaped with a thick layer of fallen leaves.

He turned back. Ramsay drove as steadily as ever, hands on the wheel, posture relaxed. Mellow jazz played in the car.

Theon leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He didn't sleep. He just listened to the music, to the sound of the tires crushing fallen leaves, to Ramsay's breathing.

This scene was very much like the final shot of a film, Theon thought. But he knew deeply that they weren't characters in a fairy tale. They wouldn't simply live happily ever after from this point on.

There were still many problems to solve after they returned. The scars and the distance between them wouldn't vanish overnight. They were still inside the web. But at least now—he was here, and Ramsay was beside him. They could spend a lifetime untangling that web, weaving a new one. Or they could simply stay inside it. After all, they'd woven this web together too. Every thread was theirs.

After returning from the mountains, their daily lives didn't change drastically. Ramsay was already living in Theon's apartment—just in the guest room. Now, they opened that door.

The day Ramsay moved rooms, Theon stood at the doorway of the guest room, watching Ramsay pack up his belongings piece by piece. Clothes. Books. A laptop. A bag of toiletries. Not many things, but every item was refined. Theon remembered how, every time Ramsay had appeared before him since their reunion, he'd always been impeccably dressed and groomed. The thought suddenly struck him as funny.

Ramsay hung his clothes on the other side of the wardrobe. They were all dark-colored—black, charcoal, navy—hung neatly with even spacing. Theon saw his own clothes, equally dark, in the same wardrobe. He suddenly felt how similar they were. Two people who were used to hiding themselves.

"What are you looking at?" Ramsay turned and asked.

"Nothing." Theon leaned against the doorframe. "Need any help?"

"No. Almost done."

Theon didn't leave. He just stood there, watching Ramsay hang the last few pieces, slide the empty suitcase under the bed, put his books on the shelf. His movements were still unhurried, but no longer with that deliberate, measured precision. A book left slightly askew went uncorrected. A charging cable was given a quick, messy loop and stuffed into a drawer.

This is the real him, Theon thought. Not the one who had arranged things to the angle, folded notes into perfect squares. Just an ordinary, slightly messy young man who left his things lying around.

"Theon." Ramsay suddenly called him.

"Mm?"

"Come here a moment."

Theon walked over. Ramsay stood at the desk, holding a kraft paper envelope. It was old, the edges a little worn, with stamps and a postmark on it. In one corner was the emblem of King's Landing University.

"What is this?" Ramsay asked.

Theon's breath caught. That thing had been shoved deep into the back of the drawer. He'd thought it would never be found. But Ramsay had unearthed it while sorting through the guest room—maybe while finding space for his books, maybe while pulling out the drawer to look for a pen.

"Give it back." Theon reached to snatch it.

Ramsay didn't hand it over. He turned the envelope over and pulled out its contents—a small stack of A4-sized paper. The paper had yellowed with age, worn along the fold lines.

Theon stood there, watching Ramsay flip through the stack.

He knew what it was.

It was the admissions notice from King's Landing University. The top sheet bore his name, the department he'd applied to, and the words: We regret to inform you that after review, your application has not been accepted.

Ramsay examined that sheet of paper, his fingers gripping the edge. They were trembling faintly.

The atmosphere in the room was heavy. Theon was about to say something to break the silence when he heard Ramsay state, calmly, "You applied to a university in King's Landing."

"But you didn't get in," Ramsay continued, his voice flat, betraying no emotion.

Hearing the other state the fact of his failed attempt so bluntly, Theon didn't know what to say, either.

"So that's why you came to Dorne."

"Yes."

Ramsay set the paper down. His expression was very complicated. In those grey-blue eyes, something seemed to fracture layer by layer—something buried in the deepest place, something even more fragile.

"You tried to go to King's Landing."

Theon looked at the notice. He remembered five years ago, sitting in the guest room on Harlaw, holding that collar, thinking about where his future should lead.

He'd been absolutely certain he didn't want to stay in the Iron Islands. Asha had given him the option of Dorne, and other places. He could also choose to go back to the North. He could move out. He wouldn't have to live under the Starks' roof anymore. But… that wouldn't really change anything.

In the end, when Asha handed him the application materials, he'd applied to both King's Landing and Dorne universities. King's Landing was where he wanted to go. Dorne was a backup Asha had added for him.

He'd thought he could go to King's Landing. It was far enough from the North to start fresh. And at the same time, he'd secretly left himself a sliver of foolish hope—quietly preserving a possibility that Ramsay might come find him one day, that they might fulfill that old promise.

But in the end, he hadn't gotten in. So he'd come here. Not because he chose Dorne. Simply because he didn't get into King's Landing. He'd desperately reassured himself that this was right, that this was fate's design.

"I tried. But I didn't get in." Theon's voice was very soft.

Ramsay didn't answer. He walked over and pulled Theon into a fierce embrace, so tight Theon thought he might be crushed. He buried his face in Theon's shoulder. Theon couldn't see his expression, could only hold his back.

"I'm sorry," Theon whispered.

"Don't apologize."

They stood in this half-unpacked guest room, amid the stacks of books not yet shelved, beside that yellowed rejection notice.

A moment later, Ramsay released him. His eyes were still a little red, but his expression had returned to normal. He fixed Theon with an appraising stare that made him uneasy.

"Is there more?"

"What?"

"What else are you hiding?"

Theon's gaze flickered. Ramsay watched him like prey under surveillance. Guiltily, Theon scanned the room, then sighed softly and, resigned, went to the master bedroom. From beneath the bed, he pulled out a shoebox. The lid had gathered a thin layer of dust. He brought it back to the guest room and, with the abandon of surrender, thrust it at Ramsay.

Ramsay opened the lid without hesitation. Inside was a stack of postcards—dozens of them. Each one depicted a scene of Dorne: beaches, sunsets, streetscapes, local landmarks.

Ramsay picked one up and flipped it over. There was writing on the back, but no stamps. No addressee. No sender.

The first one read: The sea here is nothing like the North. It's blue-green. So beautiful. You'd definitely like it.

He picked up the next: I learned to brew coffee today. It was awful.

He picked up another: A cat came into the shop yesterday. Its eyes reminded me of you.

He picked up yet another: Dorne has a carnival going on right now. Really lively. I wish you were here too.

Ramsay read through them one by one, very slowly. Theon stood beside him, feeling as if he were sitting on a bed of nails. It felt like being stripped bare—not physically, but of the secrets he'd hidden for five years, never telling a single soul.

All of these were written in his first, second, third year in Dorne. On every night he'd barely been able to hold on. Words he'd wanted to send to Ramsay but never did.

Ramsay finally finished the last one. He placed them all back in the box, then looked straight at Theon, who was shifting restlessly on his feet.

"Why didn't you send them?"

Theon didn't know how to answer. Whenever he saw a particularly beautiful postcard, he couldn't resist buying it. But every time he finished writing, he would start to hesitate. He didn't know what Ramsay would think upon receiving it. Whether Ramsay still wanted to hear from him at all. What if he sent it, and the only response was silence—or a single line saying it was no longer needed?

In the end, the postcards had piled up higher and higher. All he could do was seal them in a shoebox, close the lid, and shove it under the bed.

"Because I was scared."

Theon didn't elaborate. He averted his gaze. Ramsay closed the shoebox and set it on the desk. Then he took Theon's hand, pulled him into his arms, and pressed his lips to his. A warm, eager tongue pushed into Theon's mouth. Their breaths spread and mingled between the tangle of lips and teeth, as if trying to confirm something.

"Mm…" Theon closed his eyes and let this sudden kiss wash over him. He clung to Ramsay's shoulders and kissed back fervently. The Dornish sunlight streamed through the window, casting their intertwined shadows on the floor—like a modern sculpture.

He remembered a night many years ago, sitting at the desk in this very room, writing the very first postcard. What he'd written then was: It's warm here, but I miss the snow in the North.

He'd finished writing and looked at the postcard for a long, long time. In the end, he hadn't had the courage to send it. He'd told himself it was all for Ramsay's own good. He should disappear from Ramsay's life completely. That was the best ending for both of them.

But now he knew. That wasn't the best ending. The best ending wasn't him hiding alone in Dorne, writing postcards that would never be sent. Nor was it Ramsay waiting alone in the North for someone who might never come back.

The best ending was them both being here. In this messy apartment. Being honest with each other. No more running. No more hiding. No more pretending they didn't need each other.

Theon finally managed to break free from the kiss, his breathing unsteady. "I'll never write postcards again."

"Why?" Ramsay bit his lip lightly, not quite satisfied.

"Because you're right here. If I have something to say, I can just tell you directly."

"Alright."

From the study, you could see the Dornish sea. Just a sliver, but enough to make out that clear, blue-green hue, alongside the white-washed Dornish sky—a clean canvas, just like on the postcards.

He no longer needed to hide things. The things he'd thought would never be seen, never be answered, never be needed—they were all here now. Now he could take out those unsent postcards, those unspoken words, from beneath the bed. Spread them open under the sunlight. Place them, with his own hands, into the hands of the one he'd wanted to receive them.

A long while later, Ramsay let go of him.

"Let me show you something." He pulled Theon to the master bedroom and took a shoebox out of the nightstand drawer. Theon recognized that box. It was the one Ramsay had personally taken from his suitcase when he was moving his things earlier.

Ramsay opened the shoebox. Inside was a collar. Not the custom-made one for Theon. The other one. The one Ramsay had fastened around his wrist in the kennels. The one he'd once returned.

"You didn't throw it away?" Theon's eyes stung. He remembered Ramsay saying "no need for it anymore," pretending to discard that collar as worthless. But at the same time, he himself had kept this other collar—placed in a shoebox, locked inside his suitcase.

Ramsay's hand rested on the box. "I lied," he said, his voice airy and light.

Theon looked at the collar. The leather was old. Only the metal clasp still caught the light, and it was clear from a glance that it had been carefully maintained all this time. He remembered Ramsay forcing it on him back then. He'd felt violated—because it was control, possession, proof that he was being treated as an object.

But now he knew. This was the only way Ramsay knew to say, I need you.

He took the old collar out and placed it on the nightstand, beside his custom-made one. "Let's keep them both."

Ramsay looked at him. Theon didn't explain. He continued rifling through the shoebox. Inside was a small case.

He took it out and opened it. Inside were a pair of cufflinks. The ones he'd given Ramsay when he was seventeen. The gemstones shifted between blue and green with the light and the angle, just like his eyes.

Theon couldn't process it for a moment. "How do you have these?"

"I found them in that box of gifts you returned to me."

Theon remembered. He remembered buying these cufflinks but being unable to give them in person. When Robb had helped him move the box out, he'd slipped them in among the returned gifts.

"When I opened the box, they were right at the top." Ramsay's eyes were deep, like a bottomless black hole. "I thought, back then—why would you give me these? Maybe you didn't truly want to leave me. And then you turned and left. You really didn't want me anymore."

Theon wanted to say, That's not it. He'd deliberately left them in the box. Because he didn't want to be forgotten. Even if they had to part, he selfishly wanted to leave some trace behind.

"Then why did you keep them?" Theon asked.

Ramsay picked up the cufflinks and turned them in the sunlight. The light passed through the gemstones, casting a small patch of blue-green light on the wall. "Because you chose these. You chose the color that most resembles your eyes." The shifting light reflected in Ramsay's grey-blue eyes. For an instant, it seemed as though they, too, took on the color that belonged to Theon.

Theon stood there, recalling his scheming in that shop that day. His own small, selfish intent. He hadn't known then what would happen after.

He hadn't guessed wrong. Ramsay had kept them all along. From the day he'd found them in that box, he'd carried them with him.

"Don't go stuffing things into random boxes anymore," Ramsay said, closing the case and placing it back in the shoebox. "Especially things meant for me."

Theon's eyes curved. He answered, obedient, "Alright ."

It took them the whole afternoon to finally finish tidying the rooms.

In the study, Ramsay's books and Theon's books sat on the same shelves. History, economics, literature, psychology—interleaved, just as they were still learning how to coexist.

In the master bedroom, their pillows lay side by side. Their clothes hung together. Everyday items were scattered here and there, bearing the traces of both their lives.

And the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen—they could add to them, bit by bit, together building this home that belonged to them.

The setting sun streamed through the window, spreading a warm golden glow across them both. Theon stood beside Ramsay, watching him start dinner, handling the ingredients.

Ramsay moved around the kitchen, glanced at Theon, who had been hovering beside him the whole time, and gave in, pulling him into his arms. Theon wrapped his arms around Ramsay's waist, pressing close, utterly content.

"Ramsay."

"Mm?" Ramsay was about to chop the ingredients for tonight's meal, arranging them on a plate ready for the pan.

"You're not allowed to lie to me anymore."

Ramsay's knife hand stopped.

"No more pretending you don't care. No more pretending you don't need anyone."

Ramsay didn't speak.

"You don't need those rituals either." Theon nuzzled against his back. "You don't have to tie me up. I'll always be right here."

Ramsay gently stroked Theon's hands, which were resting on his waist. "You'd better keep your word."

Theon smiled. "Of course."

Outside the window, somewhere, came the sound of cars, people talking. The city was running its daily course. Everything was ordinary. It was a normal day.

But for them, this day was not ordinary. After this day, they could finally shed their disguises. Because they'd said everything that needed to be said, everything that shouldn't have been said, everything that had been suppressed for five years, ten years, everything that should have been said from the very beginning.

That night, Theon lay in bed in the master bedroom. Ramsay came in after his shower and turned off the light. The room's only source of light vanished. Ramsay climbed onto the bed and lay down beside him.

The double bed in the master bedroom was big enough, but they still crowded together. They began to get intimate very naturally. Ramsay had said he was going to improve his skills; he wouldn't miss a single chance to practice.

On this very bed—where Theon had once been carved into, had once wept and bled—they tangled fiercely together. Bodies intimately joined. Hearts tightly bound.

Afterward, they shared the same pillow, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the haze. Ramsay was like a sated cat, one arm wrapped around Theon's waist, the other hand absently stroking his thigh.

Theon gazed into those dazed eyes and murmured, "You once told me you wanted me to be your boyfriend. What about now? Is it still the same?"

Ramsay gazed back, his look pure and focused. "It's different now."

Theon's heart beat with uncertainty.

"Now, you're my family." Ramsay's arm tightened, pulling Theon entirely into his embrace.

Theon buried his face in Ramsay's chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was steady, like waves lapping at the shore.

Family. Not an object. Not a dog. Not a boyfriend.

Family. The kind of thing that couldn't be discarded. Couldn't be returned. Couldn't be shoved into the bottom of a wardrobe. A bond that, even through fights, through hurting each other, could never be severed.

Theon closed his eyes. His hand found Ramsay's. He wound their fingers together, one by one, until their hands were interlaced.

"Alright."

Chapter Text

The bell above the door gave a crisp chime as the coffee shop door was pushed open.

"Welcome—" The female manager looked up from the counter, spotted Theon first, then the person behind him. Her eyes went wide, the words she was about to say caught in her throat.

She was too astonished. In four years, Theon had never brought anyone here. He always clocked in and out precisely on time, never brought friends to the shop, never stayed to chat with anyone after work — like a ghost who came only to work, not to live.

Now he stood there, and trailing behind him was a young man with black hair, dressed in a dark blue shirt with cuffs fastened neatly. He stood half a step behind Theon, his gaze following him closely — a declaration, telling everyone: this person is mine.

"Theon?"

The manager set down the cup she had been drying, her round eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. "And this is?"

Theon's hands were in his pockets. He glanced at Ramsay, whose expression was very calm, as though waiting for an ordinary introduction. But Theon noticed that he stood straighter, chest out, shoulders pulled slightly back, like someone bracing for something.

Ramsay was just about to speak when Theon beat him to it. "My boyfriend."

He said it very lightly, but very clearly.

Ramsay froze for a moment. He looked at Theon, but Theon wasn't looking at him. He had begun studying the menu on the counter, his expression perfectly composed, as though he had just stated something entirely unremarkable. But his reddening ears gave him away.

Ramsay looked at that blushing ear, the corner of his mouth curving upward. He said nothing, but his whole body relaxed, his eyes softening. That string which had been stretched taut since their reunion, threatening to snap at any moment, had finally, truly loosened.

The manager looked at Theon, then at Ramsay, and then smiled.

"A boyfriend, huh." She drew out the last syllable, her face breaking into an I see exactly what's going on kind of grin. Then she turned and walked into the back kitchen. "Wait here a moment."

Theon sat down at a two-seater by the window. Ramsay took the seat beside him, flipping through the menu on the table, his expression still that indifferent mask — but the corner of his mouth remained curved, never once falling.

"What are you smiling at?" Theon nudged him.

"Nothing." The corner of Ramsay's mouth quirked up a little higher.

"You've been smiling since we walked in."

"Have not."

Theon didn't press further. He looked down at the menu. He didn't quite know how to explain what he was feeling right now. He had had a boyfriend before (the one sitting right beside him), had had a girlfriend (only one, though), had dated people — but he had never, ever introduced a partner to anyone.

In the North, his relationship with Ramsay had been a secret, something that couldn't be known, something shameful to be kept in the dark. Now, here in Dorne, he could say it aloud — in an ordinary coffee shop, to his coworker, say the words "this is my boyfriend," as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Ramsay's hand reached across the table and clasped his. Theon looked at him. Ramsay wasn't looking back; he was studying the menu on the wall with an expression of great concentration, as though carefully deciding what to order. But his hand held on very tight.

The manager emerged from the back kitchen carrying a small plate with a piece of cake on it — not the kind of delicate, polished confection they sold in the shop, but something she had made specially. Two layers of sponge cake sandwiched a layer of cream studded with fruit. On top, drawn in chocolate sauce, were two little stick figures holding hands, and in pink frosting she had piped a word.

"A couple's set, on the house."

She placed the plate on the table. "Special treat from the manager."

Theon looked down at the word.

"Couple" — the edges of the last letter were a little smudged, the frosting slightly collapsed, like something a schoolchild had scrawled crookedly.

"I spent ages piping that," the manager said sheepishly. "The first try was a failure. This is the second. Still not very pretty, but better than the first."

Theon looked at the cake. This time, Ramsay spoke first.

"Thank you." His voice was steady, but his grip on Theon's hand tightened a little more.

The manager pulled up a chair and sat down, propping her chin on her hand as she studied them. "So how long have you two been together?"

Theon and Ramsay spoke at the same time.

"Six years."

"Two weeks."

They turned to each other in bafflement. Theon had said "two weeks"; Ramsay had said "six years."

The manager beamed at them. "I see. One of those complicated relationships."

Theon didn't deny it. Neither did Ramsay.

They sat there, sunlight streaming through the window. Even that odd-looking cake seemed to grow more beautiful under the light. Theon picked up his fork, cut off a piece, and put it in his mouth. The sponge was soft and airy, the cream not too sweet, studded with fresh fruit. The sweet-tart flavour melted across his tongue.

"Is it good?" the manager asked.

"It's good," Theon answered honestly.

"Of course it is. I made it, after all." The manager stood and dusted off her trousers. "You two take your time. I'm off to work."

She disappeared into the back kitchen, leaving the two of them sitting by the window.

Ramsay cut a piece of cake and put it in his mouth too, chewing with particular earnestness, as though savouring something very important.

"What are you looking at?" Ramsay asked, not meeting Theon's unwavering gaze.

"At you." Theon's bluntness brought a flush to Ramsay's cheeks.

Theon laughed. He rarely used to laugh — rarely in his five years in Dorne, at least — but today he had been laughing all along. Not the forced, social, effortful kind of laugh, but the kind that wells up from the chest, uncontrollable and real.

Ramsay looked up at him, his eyes very soft.

"You should laugh more from now on." He spoke the same words he had said back at the cabin.

"You've already said that."

"I know. But I'm saying it again."

Theon bent his head and continued eating the cake, but the smile at the corner of his mouth simply wouldn't fade.

Ramsay ordered a caramel latte, Theon a regular latte. They sat by the window, sunlight pouring through the glass, spreading a wash of gold across the little shop.

The manager didn't come over to disturb them again. Occasionally she would glance their way as she passed, then walk off smiling. The part-timers huddled behind the counter whispering; Theon caught phrases like "Theon's boyfriend is so handsome" and "they look so good together."

Ramsay clearly heard them too. He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth visibly curled as he sipped his coffee.

Theon felt a little shy. He pulled out his phone and pretended to study it intently, though in fact he was just scrolling aimlessly through social media. When he came across strange or amusing videos, he would share them with Ramsay, and they would comment and laugh together — just like that couple from before.

Then a platform-recommended livestream notification popped up. He was about to dismiss it, but his finger froze when he saw the thumbnail.

The person on the screen looked vaguely familiar. He tapped in to look. It was a young woman with long black hair, wearing heavy makeup and a low-cut top, striking deliberately alluring poses for the camera. Comments scrolled ceaselessly beside the frame, gifts flying across the screen. She laughed and thanked her viewers, her voice cloyingly sweet.

Theon frowned and turned the screen toward Ramsay.

"This person…?"

Ramsay glanced at it just once. "Oh. That's Myranda."

Theon stared. "How did she become…?"

"An influencer." Ramsay's tone was perfectly flat, about the same as if he were reminding Theon to put on a coat before going out. "She's quite popular now. Hundreds of thousands of followers. Her livestream viewer count consistently ranks near the top. The platform is pushing her."

On the screen, Myranda was making a heart shape with her hands at the camera. Comments scrolled madly past: "wifey so cute," "I'm in love," "marry me."

Theon remembered, many years ago, that girl in the park clinging to Ramsay's arm and glaring at him; that girl who had intercepted him on the street, dressed beyond her years. She was still the same now — only the makeup was heavier, the clothes skimpier, the audience bigger.

She was smiling at the camera, but it wasn't a happy smile. It was a calculated smile, the kind worn by someone who knew exactly what expression would make the viewers open their wallets.

"Why would she…?"

Ramsay didn't answer. He turned Theon's phone over and set it face-down on the table.

"Eat the cake."

Ramsay's expression hadn't changed; he was still wearing that indifferent mask. He cut a piece of cake with his fork and put it in his mouth, chewing with the same steady motion as before. But Theon had known him too long — long enough to perceive what was hidden beneath that unchanging face.

"It was you."

Ramsay didn't deny it.

"You pushed her into this."

"She threatened you back then. Made you feel like a deviant. Drove you to flee to Dorne." Ramsay's tone was still very flat, as though speaking of someone of no consequence at all, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the fork. "I couldn't let her have too comfortable a life."

Theon didn't speak. He remembered Myranda's threats in that alleyway, himself crouched in the dark lane crying, sitting in the library trembling at the words on the screen.

Did he hate Myranda? He didn't know. After all, what she had said was all true. But if you asked him whether, during all those years in Dorne, he had ever bitterly regretted, tossed and turned over, the decision he had resolutely made under her threat — the answer was yes. There had been a time when he wished so desperately that he had never run into Myranda on that street, that he had turned and walked away the moment she called out to him.

"When did you start doing this?" Unease coiled like ivy from his heart to his fingertips. Theon's fingertips were ice-cold. He touched Ramsay's arm, and it felt a little better.

Ramsay slanted a glance at him, took his hand, and gently rubbed his palm. "The third year after you left. I kept wondering why you had gone. And then I remembered her."

"When I found her, she wasn't doing well. I heard she had wanted to go to university, but her grades weren't good enough, and her family couldn't afford to send her. She was drifting between odd jobs, trying to save money to continue her studies. When she saw me, she tried to act chummy, asked if I had come to hang out."

He let out a scoff, and that smile was chilling.

"I asked her, do you remember what you said to Theon? Her face completely changed. She said she'd forgotten, that it was so long ago, that she was only joking at the time. I told her: starting today, you will pay me back a sum of money every month. She asked on what grounds. I told her: on the grounds that I can make everything you have disappear."

Theon sat there, listening to these words, his heart racing. Ramsay could feel his rapid pulse too. He tightened his grip on Theon's hand — not painfully, just a reminder.

"Of course she had no money to pay. I told her there was a platform where she could earn money, so long as she was good-looking, could talk, and knew how to make men spend. She learned fast."

Ramsay's tone held no inflection, as if he were reading a grocery list, but his eyes grew colder and colder. "She needed traffic — I gave her traffic. She needed someone to pave the way — I paved it. She climbed higher and higher, convinced she was so clever, convinced all that success was what she deserved. She never knew that those things could be taken back at any moment."

Ramsay looked toward the window. Sunlight cast faint shadows across his profile, but beneath that warm surface, something dark surged like an undercurrent.

"When I left the North, I told her she didn't need to repay the money anymore. I even gave back everything she had already paid, told her to consider it an investment. She asked what kind of investment. I told her to keep doing her influencer work — livestreams, sponsorships, the more famous the better."

"Why?"

Ramsay looked at him. Those grey-blue eyes were still cold and sinister even in the sunlight, like the roar of breakers crashing at the foot of a cliff — brutal and merciless.

"Because the more famous she gets, the more people know her, the more people will remember every word she's ever said, every thing she's ever done. And when one day she slips up and says the wrong thing, does the wrong thing — or simply gets too famous and blocks someone else's path — I won't even have to lift a finger. Someone else will make her disappear."

"And when that day comes, she'll learn. Some words cannot be spoken lightly. Some people cannot be crossed."

Finally, Ramsay gave a contemptuous little smile. That proclamation, steeped in blood, drained every last trace of colour from Theon's face, and even his breath halted for a moment.

The conversation came to an abrupt stop. The coffee shop was very quiet — only the hum of the espresso machine and the low murmur of distant customers. Half the cake still remained. The word "Couple" had melted a little, the frosting slowly slumping.

Theon sat in his chair in contemplation for a while. Then he picked up his fork, cut a piece of cake, and held it up to Ramsay's mouth.

Ramsay's gaze shifted between the cake and Theon's face. Then he opened his mouth and bit down.

"Sweet?" Theon asked gently.

Ramsay nodded. Theon cut another piece and ate it himself, savouring the sweet-tart flavour melting on his tongue.

He thought: I did hate Myranda once. Hated her for threatening me. Hated her for making me afraid. Hated her for making me feel like a deviant. Hated her for driving me to flee to Dorne. Hated her for costing me the most important person in my life.

But now he found he couldn't summon that hatred anymore. Not because he had forgiven her, but because someone had spent three years pulling that thorn out of his heart — and, in his own way, had exacted repayment on his behalf, with interest.

Using the most covert means to carry out the most ruthless revenge.

He should have known long ago what kind of person Ramsay was. No matter how polished and genteel he appeared on the outside, he was still that sadist who had learned to skin animals at the age of ten, who had carved words into his flesh. His hatred — and his methods — were this absolute.

Hadn't he known that all along?

And he had also long known that he himself would never forsake half of the sweetness just because of the other half's wickedness. He would swallow it all down and savour every last taste.

And so, after letting it all settle, he found he could even taste a hint of being moved within Ramsay's methods — methods that should have been nothing but terrifying.

"Ramsay."

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

Ramsay looked at him for a long time. Then he reached out and wiped a bit of cream from the corner of Theon's mouth.

"No need for thanks." He licked the cream from his finger. "She owed you."

The sunlight shifted from east to west, the table's shadow stretching from short to long. They finished the cake. They lingered in the coffee shop until the afternoon. The manager came out once more to refill their coffee. She glanced at the empty plate, smiled in satisfaction, and went back to work.

When they left, Ramsay went to settle the bill. Theon stood waiting at the door. The autumn sun was warm on his skin. People came and went along the street. No one paid them any attention.

Ramsay walked out, a receipt in his hand.

"How much was it?" Theon leaned in to ask.

"Nothing."

"The manager said it was her treat. Also said next time just bring a cake, nothing too expensive."

Theon smiled.

They walked into the crowd hand in hand, like any two ordinary young people on a date, just two weeks into a relationship.

They strolled along the streets, looking around. No car, just a slow walk. Autumn in Dorne was so pleasant — the breeze cool, the sunlight warm, the sky slowly shifting from blue to tangerine, like a canvas stained with watercolour washes.

Theon had never noticed before how many interesting things lined this road he took to work every day: a balcony overflowing with flowers, a shop cat grooming itself at a storefront, an aromatherapy boutique on the corner selling custom-blended perfumes, a stationery shop crammed with schoolgirls.

Ramsay held his hand, their fingers interlaced with perfect naturalness — as though this was how it was always meant to be.

Theon looked down at their clasped hands. He remembered how they used to walk like this through the streets of the North, back then. Ramsay had been small, his hand only half the size of Theon's. He always held on tight when they held hands, would even clutch at his arm, as if afraid Theon might vanish at any moment. Now his hand was as large as Theon's, but the way he held it had grown much gentler.

"What are you thinking about?" Ramsay looked at him quizzically.

"About how you used to love holding my hand."

"I still do."

Theon let out a soft laugh. Ramsay pretended to study a street vendor's stall with great focus, but kept stealing glances at him.

Theon squeezed his hand a little tighter.

They went on to a nearby shopping centre. He accompanied Ramsay to the menswear floor to pick up clothes he had previously ordered. Ramsay went with him to the bookshop to buy a newly released novel. Afterwards, they picked out some household items together.

In the early evening they found an ordinary restaurant and had dinner, ordering ordinary dishes, sitting by the window, watching the streetlamps flicker on one by one outside.

Ramsay still ate with unhurried deliberation, occasionally glancing over at Theon, refilling his water. The gestures came naturally, as though he had done them many times before.

Theon watched him, thinking of all those years he had eaten alone — in the school cafeteria, at the coffee shop, at the table in his apartment — wolfing down food quickly and tastelessly, eating just to stay alive.

Now someone sat across from him, ordering for him, pouring his water, asking if the food was good. He found that he was beginning to remember the taste of food again.

"Is it good?" Ramsay asked.

Theon savoured the food with relish. "Good. Better than what I cook myself."

"You can't cook at all."

"I can make sandwiches."

Ramsay looked at him, a little exasperated. "That doesn't count as cooking."

"It does."

"It doesn't."

"You couldn't cook before either. Back then you had people to pour even a glass of water for you." Theon began deflecting.

Ramsay didn't deny it. "I learned later."

"Who taught you?"

"The internet. And some books."

Theon smiled with ulterior meaning. "The internet and books again. How much of that strange knowledge have you actually learned from them?"

Ramsay didn't answer. He bent his head and ate his food with unusual earnestness. Theon didn't press either, just went on eating his own meal with a chuckle.

It was past nine by the time they got home. Theon had been planning to put away all the things they'd bought when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller display — it was Asha.

"I'll take this," he said, handing everything over to Ramsay, and walked into the bedroom.

"Hello?"

"Theon." Asha's voice sounded very different from usual. It was tight and suppressed, as though she was holding something in.

"What's happened?"

Asha was silent for a long time. Theon could hear wind on the other end, and the sound of waves, and something very faint — like the crackle of burning wood.

"Balon is dead."

Theon went rigid. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, not knowing what to say for a moment.

"This afternoon," Asha continued, her voice hollow. "The doctors said organ failure. He hung on for so long — finally couldn't hold out anymore."

Theon said nothing. He thought of that man — the man who had treated him as a burden, who had treated everyone as objects, as things that could be discarded at any time.

He was dead. But Theon felt nothing. Just emptiness. A hollow in his chest, a sense of having been scooped out.

"Theon? Are you still there?"

"I'm here. What then?"

Asha fell silent again.

"Euron is back."

Theon's heart stopped for a beat. His breath caught.

"He came back fast," Asha said, her voice growing more and more hoarse. "Too fast for someone who rushed back on short notice. It's as if he already knew Balon would die today, as if he was just waiting for this day. The moment he returned he took over everything — the fleet, the contracts, those connections, all of it. I didn't have time to do anything!"

Theon's throat tightened.

"He replaced all my people, sailed away all my ships. He said these are Greyjoy possessions — they shouldn't fall into a woman's hands." Asha's voice was full of fury she could no longer suppress. "And he took Uncle Aeron with him!"

Theon's blood froze in an instant.

"Uncle Aeron?"

"I don't know where he's taken Uncle Aeron, or what he's going to do." Asha cut him off, her voice trembling. "When Uncle Aeron was taken away, his face was white as a ghost. But he didn't resist. Didn't say a single word. Just went with Euron. As though… as though he's used to it."

Theon's hands were shaking. He thought of that tower, of Euron's hollow blue eye, of Ur, of Aeron kneeling on the ground, of Aeron shoving him away, of the words Aeron had spoken to him in the hospital.

He had thought those things were all in the past. He had thought that by pretending amnesia, by leaving the Iron Islands, going to the North, going to Dorne, he could pretend none of it had ever happened.

But Euron was still there. Aeron was still there. Those things he thought he had forgotten had never disappeared at all. They had only been waiting.

"Theon." Asha's voice pulled him back. "I'm with Daenerys Targaryen right now. Do you still remember her? The Targaryen who signed that cooperation deal with our family before. She says she can help me, but she needs time."

Theon didn't speak.

"I'm going to Essos."

Asha's voice had changed. It was no longer tired, hoarse, barely containing rage. It was a different voice — resolute, determined, a voice that had made up its mind to act and would see it through.

"I'm going to take it all back. The fleet, the contracts, everything Euron snatched from my hands — I'm taking it all back."

Theon's hands were shaking.

"Don't come back. This is my own business. Live your life. Don't get involved in this…"

"I…" Theon started, but he knew what he ought to say — and he suddenly realized there was nothing he could do.

Asha was silent for a long time. Finally, she let out a soft sigh.

At last, she said gently, "You take good care of yourself. You have to be well."

"You too."

The call ended. Theon sat on the edge of the bed, phone clutched in his hand. The room was dark, only a sliver of streetlight filtering through the curtains.

He didn't know how long he sat there. He heard the door push open. Ramsay walked in, crouched down in front of him, and looked up at his face.

"Theon."

Theon looked into those eyes, grey-blue, like a frozen lake in winter — but something flowed beneath the ice.

"My father is dead," Theon said.

Ramsay didn't speak. He simply laid his hand over Theon's.

"Euron is back." Theon's voice was trembling. "He took everything from Asha, everything. And he took Uncle Aeron. I don't know where he's taken him…"

He couldn't go on. Ramsay rose and gathered him into his arms. Theon buried his face in his chest, his body trembling uncontrollably.

He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come.

He felt as though he was still at the bottom of the sea, the water rushing in from all sides, nothing but darkness — boundless, endless darkness swallowing him whole. He wanted to struggle, to swim upward, but his limbs had no strength. He could only sink, down and down.

"Theon."

Ramsay's voice came from above, as though someone had thrown down an anchor for him. "I'm here."

Theon clutched at his clothes, grasping that lifeline that could pull him up from the seabed.

"I will be here." Ramsay's hand moved to his back, patting soothingly.

Theon didn't speak. He held Ramsay tighter, like a drowning man clinging to the last piece of driftwood. He knew this wasn't right. He shouldn't turn another person into his driftwood, shouldn't press his whole weight onto someone else — that way, they would both sink together.

But he couldn't control it. He was too tired. He had held on alone for far, far too long.

"We'll figure this out together. You're not alone."

Theon closed his eyes. He thought of Asha's tired, strained voice, the voice of someone who had held on alone for too long. He thought of what she had said to him, and he wanted to say the same words back to her — wanted to tell her you're not alone, wanted to ask her are you alright over there?

But he couldn't bring himself to say them, because he knew Asha wouldn't tell the truth. She would say it's fine, say I can handle it, say don't worry — exactly what he himself had been doing for the past five years.

"Ramsay."

"I…"

Ramsay's hand stilled on his back.

"I'm scared. Euron…" Theon couldn't stop his voice from trembling. He felt so cold.

Ramsay simply held him, chin resting on the top of his head.

Theon stammered, not knowing how to begin. "He did to me…"

Theon wanted to say it, to tell what had happened, but the words wouldn't come. It was his deepest wound, his most foul, unbearable secret.

But Ramsay didn't need him to say it. In the darkness, those grey-blue eyes gleamed bright, like a beacon guiding a sailor forward.

"It's alright." Ramsay cut him off. "Whatever happened — I will be here."

Theon gazed into those earnest, steady eyes. Then he reached up, cupped Ramsay's face in his hands, and kissed him. The kiss landed on his lips but didn't go deep — it was only to confirm the other's presence, a kiss meant to say I trust you.

Ramsay gathered him fully into his arms. Theon stopped shivering. His body warmth was restored, bit by bit.

He had been pulled up from the seabed. The two of them lay together in a small boat. Ahead, what was coming at them — storm or abyss, they didn't know. But they could face it together.

Theon leaned against Ramsay's chest. He didn't know what the Iron Islands had become now. He didn't know what Euron would do. He didn't know where Aeron had been taken. He only knew that no matter what happened, someone would be by his side.

This time, he would not be alone.