Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1102873.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage, Major_Character_Death, Rape/
      Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Theon_Greyjoy/Robb_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy/Jon_Snow, Ramsay_Bolton/Theon
      Greyjoy, Ramsay_Bolton/Reek, Jon_Snow/Robb_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Drug_Use, Imprisonment, Mutilation,
      Amputation, Castration, Car_Accidents, Trauma, Stockholm_Syndrome,
      Miscarriage, Cutting, Self-Harm, Incest, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism,
      Alternate_universe_-_Mafia, Rape, Non-con/dub-con, Torture, Blood_and
      Gore, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, General_graphic_violence, Statutory
      Rape
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-26 Completed: 2015-08-07 Chapters: 29/29 Words: 148177
****** Sons and Deadmen ******
by DoubleBit
Summary
     Theon finds himself working as a driver for the family that took him
     hostage. Complications arise when he learns a secret that tests his
     loyalty.
     A/N: I've cleaned up my tags a little, doing my best to hit all the
     major ones, but please let me know if there's something big I've
     missed. I personally do not have triggers, so they can sometimes be
     difficult for me to spot. If you're squicked by graphic, sexualized
     Thramsay, you probably won't enjoy the middle third of this fic
     (Chapters 9 thru 17, with references to abuse continuing through the
     end.) Take care everyone!
Notes
     This fic might be kind of beastly, but I hope it's entertaining!
***** Chapter One *****
“How many men have you seen them kill?”
Robb must’ve asked him that question once a week since they were younger, his
blue eyes wide and eager, Theon’s narrow and evasive as they slid sideways.
“Oh hell, I don’t even keep count anymore.”
It was a lie, of course; his brain supplied the number unbidden, as though it
were a rhyme or a song or a boy’s name that he couldn’t get out of his head.
12.
That kind of casual bravado used to be enough for Robb. “Wow,” he’d marvel,
flopping back onto the bed. “I wonder if they’ll ever let me come with. Do you
think they will?”
“Maybe,” said Theon, though he knew Ned Stark would never allow it.
Now that they were older, Robb insisted on details – the grislier the better –
and Theon saw how his friend’s eyes dilated slightly, his cheeks flushed as
Theon told him about the way a man’s face deformed around a bullet, the way
little bits of skull and brains scattered everywhere, the way the hair caught
fire sometimes. And Theon thought about the way he’d implored his own father to
take him on these same terrible errands, back when he still lived by the sea,
back when he was only small and curious. It filled him with shame to think that
he’d ever wanted to see the things he’d seen.
The way he described it though, it was nothing. He’d lie on his bed with his
hands behind his head and Robb cross-legged at the foot of the mattress, and
through the buzz of a glass of whiskey, Theon enjoyed the feeling that someone
was listening, that someone was interested in what he had to say, even if it
was pretty fucking awful.
“Don’t you get bored of hearing about this shit?” Theon asked once, leaned over
the balcony off Robb’s bedroom and puffing away at his third cigarette in the
past twenty minutes.
“Not really,” said Robb, oblivious to the implications of the question.
Instead, he came outside still in his bathrobe and spit over the rail onto the
brick patio three stories below. “I’m bored out of my fucking mind being kept
in here under 24-hour surveillance like a goddamn prisoner.”
Theon glanced at the camera poised above them.
What would you know about being a prisoner? he wanted to ask. Instead he just
nodded and smiled.
“It’s not so bad. I mean yeah, you can’t jerk off without setting off some kind
of security system, but at least you can give Jory a show while you’re doing
it.”
Robb tried not to grin. “Gross.”
“Sometimes I say his name when I come.”
Robb laughed and shook his head. “You do not.”
“I do. You watch, next time him and me are in the same room, and see if he ever
makes eye contact with me.”
“You’re fucking ridiculous.”
Theon quirked an eyebrow and in one swift motion yanked Robb’s bathrobe open
and off, leaving him naked and damp on the balcony, pounding furiously on the
sliding glass door.
“Open the fucking door you asshole!”
Theon tossed the robe onto the floor and stood with his arms folded, watching
the blood rise in Robb’s chest, trying to ignore the blood rising in himself.
“Now who’s ridiculous?”
He heard Sansa’s door slide open and heard her shriek. “Oh my God, Robb! What
are you doing? I have company!”
“You’re going to pay for this, Greyjoy!” But Robb was doubled-over laughing,
one hand pressed against the glass, the other covering his crotch and Theon
couldn’t help but notice that his bush was the same warm auburn as his hair.
“Please open the door!”
Theon remembered the afternoon his brothers locked him out of the house. One of
countless times, but he remembered this one because the din of the hailstones
on the roof had drowned out the sound of his voice, pleading, “Come on guys,
let me in! I promise to stay in my room! Please open the door!”
When Theon lifted the latch, Robb tackled him onto the floor, pinning Theon’s
arms above his head, still laughing despite the chill. He was strong for
sixteen – broad-shouldered and tall – but still no match for the three years
Theon had on him. But Theon had learned when he first came to live with the
Starks that he was not even to play at hurting Robb.
“Theon, tell me what happened.” Ned Stark knelt down to look Theon in the eye,
and Theon looked at his toes, feeling the crush of Ned’s huge hand on his arm.
“We were playing ninjas,” he offered quietly.
“Did you mean to hit Robb in the face?” Ned’s voice was gentle, always gentle,
but something fierce lurked there.
“No,” lied Theon, recalling the thrill he’d felt at the sight of Robb sprawled
out in the grass with a line of blood trickling from his nose. “He just – he
jumped when I wasn’t expecting. I didn’t mean to.”
“Theon, look at me.” Theon brought his eyes to meet Ned’s and cursed himself
for feeling afraid, for wanting to cry and beg forgiveness. “You have to be
careful when you play with Robb; he’s not as big as you are.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to.”
Ned moved his hand from Theon’s arm and laid it lightly on the crook of his
neck. It was all Theon could do to keep himself from leaning into the touch.
“I know you didn’t mean to. I know Robb is like a little brother to you. And
you know that someday Robb will be in charge, the way I am now?”
Theon sniffled and nodded. “Yeah. He always says so.”
“Well, he’s right. Someday Robb will be the one taking care of you, the same
way it’s my job to take care of you now.”
Theon couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating, or more natural.
“Robb will be taking care of everything, and that’s why it’s so important that
you make sure nothing happens to him, okay? Even if he makes you mad sometimes.
Do you understand me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s my boy.”
But he wasn’t Ned Stark’s boy, so Theon let Robb pin him to the carpet and
tried to put up a convincing struggle.
“You let me win,” complained Robb.
Theon smirked and strained half-heartedly against Robb’s grip on his wrists.
“I’d never.”
And he felt Robb’s breath on his face, Robb’s naked weight pressing down on him
and for just a second he thought about breaking his promise and raking his
nails down Robb’s chest just hard enough to break the skin…
“Theon, are you in there?” Poole knocked on the door.
“Yeah.” Theon kept his eyes locked on Robb’s, ground his hips upward. Robb bit
his lip and snarled.
“We’re going for a drive. I’ll see you in the garage in ten minutes.”
Theon freed himself easily and began to sit up when Robb grabbed him by the jaw
and brought their faces so close that he could’ve licked Theon’s lips.
“When I’m running the show, you won’t let me win.” Robb sucked his teeth. He
trailed his index finger down Theon’s stomach and hooked in the waistband of
his jeans, giving a light tug. “And you won’t act like you don’t want me.”
Theon laughed as he bucked Robb onto the floor and stood, tossing Robb’s
bathrobe onto his face. “Better start hitting the gym then.”
*
“Garage” was a modest name for the 10,000 square feet that housed Ned Stark’s
entire fleet, everything from the little red Carmengia intended for Sansa’s
sixteenth birthday to the barely-functional hardtop destined to end up at the
bottom of a lake as soon as the need arose. The ceiling was equipped with
moveable showroom lighting, but usually the warehouse was dark, save for the
corner shop where Gendry could always be found, even at the strangest of hours.
He was there when Theon arrived, a pair of sneakers and frayed black jeans
sticking out from beneath a blue ’99 Civic, a metallic clang followed by a
storm of cursing. Theon crouched down beside him, steadying himself with the
side mirror and peering under the car.
“Hey.”
Gendry’s head shot up and smacked into whatever he was working on. He screwed
his eyes shut and grimaced.
“Jesusfuck! Will you fucking stop doing that to me?”
He slung his wrench at Theon, missing deliberately.
“Sorry.”
Gendry slid his creeper out from the car and shook his head at Theon.
“I was in my universe, man. I was in my zone.” He sat up and wiped his hands
with a shop rag, rocking the creeper with his heels. Gendry always spoke to him
with a sort of spacey familiarity that Theon found irksome – because Gendry
acted like they were equals when they clearly weren’t – but also endearing
because he was the only person in Ned Stark’s employ who didn’t seem to be
constantly expecting Theon to fuck up.
Theon wasn’t sure how old he was; Gendry’s face was always covered with grease
and flecks of oil, and his body was thick with muscle, but he slouched like a
boy still and never dared to look at the girls when they came down to watch him
work.
“Transmission?”
Gendry nodded and rubbed his aching forehead. “Yeah.” He glanced over his
shoulder at the car and sighed. “I fucking hate working on these beaters, you
know? Like, I could pour my blood into this thing, get it purring, but it’s
still a fucking Civic.” He smiled at Theon. “When are you gonna let me get
elbows-deep in that sweet little Zagato?”
Theon beamed and opened his mouth to answer when Gendry’s smile faded and he
stood up and wiped his hands again.
“Mr. Poole. Mr. Flint.”
When Theon turned, Poole’s light eyes were already on him, as they always
seemed to be. He did his best to look unaffected as he hung his thumbs through
his belt-loops and lifted his chin in acknowledgement.
“Gendry.” Poole took his gaze from Theon at last. “We’re going for a drive.”
“Yes sir,” said Gendry, almost tripping over his own feet as he moved past them
into the warehouse, flicking on the lights. “What, uh… What kind of drive?”
And Theon told himself that he would be good Goddamned before he said “yes sir,
no sir” to Vayon Poole or anyone else – besides Ned Stark, of course.
“Doctor’s appointment,” answered Poole, which was short for snatching a man –
probably from his own home – and delivering him to a certain location on the
East side of town where he would most likely spend his last day on earth just
wishing it was over. It made no difference to Theon; he was only the driver.
Gendry scanned the warehouse, muttering to himself. “White. White white white.
You want something white.” His eyes lit up as they landed on a nondescript
white sedan with a 5% tint on the back windows. “I think this one.”
Poole nodded and opened the passenger side door. Flint climbed into the
backseat.
“Keys are in the cup-holder,” said Gendry. He hesitated as he always did before
telling Theon, “Drive safe, man.”
Theon nodded and absently brought a hand up to feel for the 9mm he kept
holstered under his T-shirt.
*
Theon never expected Ned Stark to be generous. He thought all fathers were like
his own, unyielding and cold as the wind coming in over the water; he hadn’t
expected a bedroom just down the hall from Robb’s, with a flat screen TV and a
view of the heart-tree in the courtyard. He hadn’t expected to hold the
littlest Stark children when they came home from the hospital, or for Robb to
introduce him sometimes as “my brother, Theon.”
“I promise to hate them,” he told his father when Ned Stark came to Pyke
personally to collect him, the penalty for Balon Greyjoy’s doomed attempt to
raise arms against the most powerful family in the North.
Balon said nothing and turned away.
Theon fell asleep on the long car ride to Winterfell, and woke briefly in Ned
Stark’s arms as he was lifted gently out of the car and carried into the
mansion. He remembered opening his eyes for a moment and seeing the snow
falling thick and soft on the oak trees.
“If you’re not careful, the boy will grow up thinking he’s a Stark,” he’d
overheard Cassel saying.
“So what if he does?” replied Ned.
But Theon was a Greyjoy, and if Ned Stark wanted to let him forget it, nobody
else would.
“What does it mean,” Robb asked him, “that you’re a Greyjoy?”
“I come from the Iron Islands,” he said. “My family is the most powerful family
on the coast. My father controls all the shipping that comes in from Asia and
South America.”
“So one day you’ll control all that? I’ll control the North and you’ll control
the coast?”
“Yeah. When I go home, that’ll be mine. I’ll have a dozen ports, and over a
hundred ships.” Theon recalled the sight of the freighters coming in on a
steely morning as he stood on the bluff with his sister. He wondered if she
still watched them.
“Can I come visit you at Pyke?”
Theon grinned. “You better come visit. Someday you’ll need me, Stark.”
He got his first tattoo on his sixteenth birthday, sweating a little as he
handed his fake ID over to the artist before sitting down and splaying his
fingers over the arm of the chair.
“Oh my God, let me see it!” Robb had grabbed at Theon’s hands to read the word
“Ironborn” in gothic script across his knuckles. “That is so fucking cool.” He
ran his thumb across the still-raised ink. “Does it hurt?”
Robb was always asking if things hurt.
They’d been playing Red Dead Redemption when Ned knocked on Robb’s door. “Robb?
I need to borrow Theon for a little while.”
“Can’t we just finish this level? He’s kind of on a roll right now.”
But Theon knew the answer was no, so he handed Robb the controller and stepped
into the hallway.
“Sir,” he said, hiding his hands behind his back and trying to act like his
heart wasn’t beating 60mph, wondering if he was in trouble, if maybe today was
the day his father decided it didn’t matter so much what happened to his only
remaining son and cast aside his allegiance to the Stark Family once and for
all. He knew Ned well enough to know that in that event, he’d at least get a
merciful death – a bullet through the brain, clean and quick. What bothered him
was wondering what would happen with his body; would it be sent back to his
father intact, or just the head?
But Ned smiled warmly and put a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “Walk with me.”
They took the elevator down to the garage, Theon still concealing his hands and
suddenly embarrassed by his own fear.
“Where did you get the fake ID?” Ned asked without looking at him.
“Sir?”
“You had to have one to get that tattoo. Let me see your hands.”
Theon held his hands out and Ned turned to peer at them impassively.
“Well, where did you get the ID?”
“From Jaqen.”
The elevator stopped and Ned stepped out, Theon hurrying to catch up.
“Are you mad?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t sound like he cared.
Ned shook his head. “I’m not mad,” he admitted. “Mostly, I’m annoyed that now
Robb will be begging me to get one.”
Theon looked around; he’d never been down to the garage before, and there was
something surreal about it – cars as far as the eye could see.
“You remember where you came from,” continued Ned, making a beeline through the
warehouse. “That’s important.”
I don’t actually remember it that well, Theon thought.
He looked down at his knuckles and wiggled them, so distracted that he almost
slammed into Ned Stark’s back. Ned had stopped in front of a little bullet of a
car, sleek and muscular and not cherry-red, but the deep luscious color of real
cherries.
When Ned put a hand on Theon’s shoulder, Theon wondered if his own hands could
ever possibly be that massive. He glanced again at his own fingers – so slender
– and at the bones of his wrists.
“And when the time comes for you to return home, I want you to remember your
time here.”
Theon did his best not to assume, not to hope, but he couldn’t stop a wide,
childish smile that revealed his braces. It was all he could do to keep both
feet on the ground.
“Are you – are you serious?”
Robb is going to be so fucking jealous.
Ned smiled in turn. “Yes. That’s why I want you to drive for me.”
Theon wanted to touch the car – to kiss it, even – but he was afraid of leaving
a mark.
“Drive? For you? In this?”
Ned laid a hand on the hood. “No, not in this. This is a gift. It’s for you to
enjoy. You’ll be driving most of these.” He gestured at the warehouse.
Theon did a quick spin and then resumed staring at the Zagato coupe.
“Where will I drive?” he asked, lovestruck and only half-listening.
“Wherever I need. You’ll be with Poole most of the time.”
Theon couldn’t even be bothered with the fact that he knew Poole hated him. “Oh
my God, this is so freaking cool.”
Ned laughed and held out a set of keys, which Theon took and jingled
disbelievingly.
“Does that mean you’ll drive for me?”
“Hell yes.”
“You start tonight.” Ned turned Theon to face him. “You’re growing up so fast,”
he said with the slightest trace of tenderness. “I know you’ll do well at
this.”
And that – that felt so good.
*
Five hours later, Theon clutched the steering wheel of an old Toyota while in
the beam of his headlights, Poole and Flint knocked a man’s teeth out. His
hands were bound and Flint clubbed him in the back of the knees, bringing him
to the ground with a scream. Poole preferred brass knuckles and Theon could
still hear the sickening sound they made against the man’s jaw, however loud he
turned the radio. When they’d first pulled him from the car, he’d been crying,
babbling and cursing; after a few minutes, the crying stopped and his face was
hardly a face. By the time Poole put a bullet straight between the man’s eyes,
Theon was almost relieved. The man fell backwards into the grass as though
blown over by a sudden gust of wind, and Poole shot him once more before he and
Flint hurried back to the car.
“Let’s go.”
Theon thought about asking the man’s name, but in the end he was grateful not
to know. After a few minutes of silence, Theon regained himself enough to ask,
“Why, um – why did we kill him?”
“We?” Poole mocked. “We– ” he indicated Flint and himself – “killed him because
he was warned twice to pay the debt he owed to Stark Construction.”
“There is no third warning,” added Flint.
“Was he warned that there was no third warning?” joked Theon half-heartedly.
“Just drive, Greyjoy.”
When they arrived at the garage, Poole and Flint went to clean up and as soon
as they were out of site, Theon dropped to his hands and knees and vomited on
the floor. The retching turned to dry heaves and once those subsided, Theon
pulled himself to his feet and searched for some shop rags to wipe up the mess,
wondering numbly if it was too late to say no, or if it had ever truly been a
question.
But when he slid his Zagato out the gates at the end of the Starks’ parkway and
a few miles later merged onto the highway, he felt his blood thicken and slow,
his vision clear, his stomach settle. With his window down and the cool night
air blowing up his sleeve and through his hair, the lights of the downtown
district rising around him, Theon Greyjoy was fine. In fact, Theon Greyjoy had
it made.
*
And tonight it was nothing that gory, at least as far as Theon was concerned.
Tonight in the white four-door, Theon drove to the East end and stopped just
outside a sprawling compound of storage units and waited as Poole and Flint
pulled another nameless man from the trunk and dragged him towards one of the
sliding doors. He heard the word “please,” and turned the radio up again.
Flint knocked five times on the door and it creaked and scraped as it opened.
The light that fell across the lot was painfully bright, and Theon brought a
hand up to his eyes. After a moment, he could make out the shape of a large
chair in the middle of the unit, flanked by a table and a smaller chair. Poole
held the man down while Flint tied him to the large chair and a silhouette
appeared at the edge of the light.
He was a young man; Theon could tell by the way he stood, by the sharp angle of
his elbow as he brought one hand up to drag off a cigarette, and it took him a
moment to realize that the shadow was not watching the commotion inside the
unit, but rather staring straight at him. And even though Theon could see
nothing of the boy’s face, he felt a chill run through his bones, and something
else under the chill.
Somehow his body knew the name: Ramsay Bolton.
Ramsay Bolton whose father owned this storage complex. Ramsay Bolton whose name
was not to be mentioned in the presence of any of the Stark children, and who
must under no circumstances know their names. Poole said he was a monster, and
not the monster that a man sometimes becomes but a born monster who enjoyed
pain the way most men enjoy a beautiful woman.
As Poole and Flint left, the shadow turned to speak to them and when he saw
Flint glance at the car and back at Ramsay, he felt something sinking in his
guts. Ramsay pulled the door shut and the now the storage yard was dark again,
and quiet.
Theon was trying to think of a way to ask about it casually, when Flint – with
a malicious delight creeping into his tone – offered, “He asked about you.”
“Who?” Theon asked disinterestedly.
“Ramsay. He asked who you were. Must think you’re pretty.”
“Everyone thinks I’m pretty.” Theon smirked. “Even you.”
To his surprise, Poole frowned at Flint and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have
told him anything. That kid is the sickest little fuck I’ve ever met in my
life.”
*
Theon planned on going out after his drive, but when he parked the car in the
warehouse, his legs suddenly felt like they were made of lead. He ambled over
to the shop, where Gendry’s feet were still poking out from beneath that same
blue Civic.
“Hey Gendry – you wanna go get a beer somewhere?”
The only answer was a faint snore.
Theon smiled and looked at his watch. It was almost 2am.
After he showered, Theon tiptoed down the hall to Robb’s room and knocked
lightly before opening the door.
“Robb?”
But Robb was fast asleep, one pillow under his head, one in his arms and one
between his knees.
Theon lay in bed, waiting to feel sleepy. His body ached but his brain was
still fluttering around as it often did after a drive. When he slipped his hand
beneath the waistband of his shorts, he thought of Robb, who had walked in on
Theon pleasuring himself three weeks ago and lingered in the doorway for a
moment before apologizing and returning to his own room. Theon thought about
how desperate Robb had been acting lately, how easy it would be to walk down
the hall again, open the door and crawl on top of him. He thought about the
tears that would form at the corners of Robb’s eyes, the way Robb would ask him
to “Please, go slower” and “Please, not so much.” And as usual, he thought of
Ned Stark walking in right as his eldest son and heir moaned out Theon’s name.
Theon shook when he came and didn’t bother to clean himself.
***** Chapter Two *****
Chapter Summary
     Theon enjoys torturing Robb, receives a death-threat and discovers
     someone new.
Chapter Notes
     So I'm about to go on a tropical vacation and really anxious about
     losing my groove during the 3 weeks I'm gone. But here's Chapter 2!
He lost his virginity to one of the men renovating the patio during the summer
after junior high. Theon was fourteen and though he never asked, he’d say that
Jake was about twenty. Jake had broad, tan shoulders and shaggy brown hair and
a lip ring and Theon had never wanted anything so bad. In hindsight, it was
kind of embarrassing, the way he’d found any excuse to be outside – sitting
fitfully in the hot-tub until his hands were grossly pruned, or lying on a lawn
chair and ending up with the worst sunburn of his life. It was the sunburn that
got Jake’s attention.
Theon was rubbing aloe vera lotion over his chest and neck when he heard a
voice ask,
“Hey, you want me to get between your shoulders?”
His mouth went so dry that he almost didn’t answer.
“Um, sure. Thanks.”
Jake’s hands were rough and sent tingles up his spine.
“This sunburn is brutal.”
They did it in the back of Jake’s work van, surrounded by clanking masonry
tools and old drop cloths. Theon tore the sleeve of Jake’s sweaty t-shirt and
Jake laughed, raised an eyebrow and pushed him away for a second.
“I – I really shouldn’t do this. Your dad’ll kill me if he finds out.”
“He’s not my dad.” Though he suspected that Ned would kill him, all the same.
It was over fast, but Theon was too ecstatic to notice. He’d never known a
feeling as good as that feeling of wanting something with every atom in your
body, only to feel that same wanting radiated back to you from someone else.
Being wanted felt like stealing, felt like getting away with something.
He mentioned it to Robb years later, when he was eighteen and Robb was fifteen.
It was fall and they had just climbed out of the hot-tub. Theon looked down at
his toes pressed against the brick that Jake lay, and he smiled to himself as
he toweled off his hair.
“What?” Robb was smiling too, not knowing why.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me. You got the biggest shit-eating grin right now.”
Theon hesitated. “I never told you about – about the first time I ever, you
know, fucked somebody?”
Robb shook his head. “No. You didn’t.”
“Remember the summer your dad had the patio re-done?”
“Yeah. I kept asking you to come play God of War and you just wanted to lie
around in the yard and get the world’s worst sunburn.”
“Yeah, well. There was this one guy working on the patio – Jake. You probably
don’t remember.”
The realization crept over Robb’s face and his mouth fell open. “Wait, what?”
Theon shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking about is all.”
“Wait. You – you – with a guy?” Robb scowled.
“Yeah. It was my first time. With a guy… or anybody. Stop looking at me like
that.”
“What did you – I mean, what did you do?”
Theon smirked and draped his towel over his shoulders. “Well, first he sucked
my dick and then –”
Robb cupped his hands over his ears and grimaced. “Okay okay! Nevermind.
Blech.”
“Don’t be such a pussy.”
A couple weeks passed before Robb raised the subject again. They were alone in
the kitchen, waiting for a pizza to come out of the oven when Theon caught Robb
giving him that look that indicated Robb had something on his mind but wanted
to be asked first.
“What’s up?”
“What, um – what did it feel like?”
“What did what feel like?”
Robb bit his lip and scratched at his neck, unable to look Theon in the eyes.
“Being with a dude. Like, was it – good? Did it hurt?”
Theon gave a crooked, lecherous grin. “Do you actually want to know?”
Robb nodded.
Theon took four steps and backed Robb up against the cupboards. Robb clutched
the edge of the counter-top and Theon planted his own hands just beside Robb’s,
their bodies so close that he could feel Robb’s rapid, shallow breathing. He
brought his lips to ghost over Robb’s mouth and inhaled the tiny gasp that Robb
made when he said, “It was so. fucking. good.”
Robb’s eyes had drifted closed, and when they opened, Theon was sliding the
pizza out of the oven as if nothing had happened. Robb tugged uncomfortably at
his jeans.
“Dick,” he muttered.
“You’re not ready for it,” teased Theon, and Robb blushed furiously.
So it shouldn’t have surprised him that Robb had been acting like a total
madman since then. A very vocal part of him wanted to fuck Robb’s poor,
hormone-addled brains out. But then Robb would do something to remind Theon
that they were nearly brothers; he’d ask for help with homework, or elbow Theon
in the ribs when they sat too close on the sofa – and the whole idea was enough
to make Theon queasy.
It would be weird, he told himself. And illegal.
Cat settled the issue when she confronted Theon the next day in the garage.
“Theon.”
It startled him – Cat hardly ever acknowledged his existence if she could avoid
it. Somehow, he didn’t take it personally and supposed that even if she didn’t
like him, Ned wouldn’t have brought him to live at Winterfell without her
approval. So that was something.
“Mrs. Stark.” Again, that curious dread surfaced and his mind raced through a
list of all the things he might’ve done wrong recently. At least three things
came to mind, but the worst was…
Uh oh.
Her mouth was set in a thin line that reminded Theon of the face Robb made when
something was bothering him.
“Theon Greyjoy, if you ever touch any of my children like that again, I will
have you killed.” There was no cruelty in her voice, just certainty. “Do you
understand?”
I didn’t touch him, Theon wanted to snipe. He wanted me to do more than just
touch him. Instead he nodded and said,
“Yes, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
That was how Theon learned to mind the cameras. And despite the fact that a
year had passed, Theon saw the threat renewed every time he caught Cat’s eye.
He never mentioned it to Robb.
*
Of course, Cat’s warning had the unintended effect of elevating Theon’s
provocations from mere amusement into an art. The fact that nothing could ever
be allowed to happen between them meant that Theon could relax a little and
enjoy making Robb Stark’s balls ache.
Jory might have eyes in almost every room in House Stark, but a few places were
just out of sight; in the armory, it was the firing lane closest to the camera.
Theon went there to be alone, and Robb found him unloading his pistol into the
center mass of a paper target, still trying to shake the memory of Ramsay
Bolton’s shadow inquiring after his name.
Theon had been a dead-eye since Robb could remember, and Robb waited at a
respectful distance until the clip was empty and Theon slid his earmuffs down
before saying,
“I thought you said you were gonna teach me.”
Theon turned and smiled tiredly. Robb realized he was wearing the same clothes
he’d had on the day before, and he wondered sometimes if Theon wasn’t lying
when he said he wouldn’t trade his job for anything.
“I thought Cassel was teaching you.” Theon began reloading.
“He is,” said Robb, picking up the gun and flicking the safety on and off. “But
I’m never going to be as good as you are.” He glanced at the target where a
tight cluster of holes encircled the heart marked with a black X.
It’s not like you’ll be the one doing the red work, thought Theon. And anyway,
you don’t need great aim to shoot a man tied to a chair.
“I had a head-start,” he said. “It’s the only thing my brothers taught me. And
anyway, you’re like, way better at sports than I am.” He motioned to Robb for
the pistol, snapped in the clip and passed it back to him, then walked down the
range to change out the target.
Robb rolled his eyes. “That’ll come in real handy when I’m running the Family –
I’ll just settle all our scores with a game of soccer.”
“It would be more fun that way.” Theon pulled the muffs off and lifted them
over Robb’s head, then stuck his fingers in his ears and nodded down the lane.
“Go for it.”
Robb held his breath, tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth as he squeezed
the trigger. The target fluttered slightly, intact.
“Fuck!” Robb spat. “Fucking stupid bullshit!” His cheeks turned red like they
always did when he was frustrated, and Theon tried not to laugh.
Theon bit his lip. “I have an idea. Be right back.”
He returned moments later holding a black recurve bow in one hand and a quiver
of aluminum arrows in the other. Robb gaped.
“Is this a fucking joke?”
Theon smiled. “No joke. I just want you to try something. Watch me.”
He took his stance, breathing deliberately as he nocked the arrow and in the
course of a single smooth exhale he drew, aimed and released it straight into
the head of the target. Robb couldn’t disguise his astonishment.
“You – how come I never knew you’re an archer?”
Theon felt more pleased than he let on. “It’s just a hobby.” He held the bow
out to Robb. “Give it a try.”
Robb grasped the bow with clumsy fingers and examined it, tugging at the string
incredulously. “And this is going to help me shoot a gun how?”
“It’s not about the gun,” said Theon, stepping closer. “It’s about your eyes.”
He held a finger a few inches from Robb’s nose. “First, look at it with both
eyes. Then just the left.”
Robb pursed his lips and squinted. “It moves.”
“Right. How about the other eye?”
“Not as much.”
“So your right eye is the dominant one, which means you’re gonna hold the bow
with your left hand and draw with the right.”
Robb looked at the bow doubtfully.
“Just try it.”
Robb raised the bow to mimic Theon’s stance and Theon grinned as he placed
himself just behind Robb, chest pressed against Robb’s back and he could feel
Robb’s breathing quicken, felt him shift his weight back onto his heels.
“A little wider stance,” said Theon, bringing his right leg up between Robb’s
thighs to nudge them apart.
Robb swallowed, fingers trembling on the arrow as Theon lay one hand on his hip
and ran the other down his arm to wrap his knuckles over Robb’s, steadying his
grip on the bow. Theon closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Robb’s
hair, something harsh and sweet.
“Theon –”
“Keep your elbow up.”
Robb raised his draw arm slightly, and Theon felt the muscles in Robb’s
shoulders beginning to shake with tension. He allowed his right hand to slip
down to the front of Robb’s jeans and chuckled when Robb gulped and whispered,
“Oh God…”
“And keep both eyes open.” He nipped at Robb’s ear. “If you can.”
“Theon, please…”
“Now aim and release.” Theon ground down with the heel of his palm and Robb
loosed the arrow, piercing the target down and right of where he’d been aiming.
“Goddamnit!” The bow clattered across the floor and Robb whirled around to face
Theon. “What the fuck are you trying to do to me?”
Theon didn’t bother trying to contain his amusement. “I’m trying to help you
with your marksmanship,” he said with a feigned innocence that made Robb grind
his teeth audibly.
“Like hell you are!” He grabbed Theon by the front of his shirt, yanking him
off balance.
“I am!” insisted Theon, jerking his head toward the target. “Now you know that
you need to aim high and to the left.”
Robb huffed and glanced down the lane before turning back to Theon, his face
softened slightly and there was an ache in his voice when he said again,
“Theon, please just –” His blue eyes lingered on Theon’s mouth for a moment.
“Please just once.”
“Okay.”
“What?”
Theon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay! You want me to that bad, I
will!” He leaned in towards Robb, and Robb closed his eyes, opened his mouth
slightly, still gripping Theon’s shirt.
“If –” Theon intercepted Robb’s lips with his fingertips and Robb’s eyes shot
open.
“If?”
Theon trailed his fingers over Robb’s bottom lip, down his chin and the muscles
of his throat; he pressed his own erection against Robb’s thigh. “I will fuck
you until you beg me to stop if you can put an arrow through the heart of that
target.”
For a second, he actually thought Robb might have a seizure.
“Fuck you!”
He watched Robb storm out of the armory and then knelt to pick up the bow,
knowing that he’d gone too far but still unable to stop grinning.
“Please, just once.”
He retrieved the arrow and was gathering the quiver back together when he heard
footsteps approaching. He assumed it was Robb, come back to throw a few more
expletives, but when the door opened, it was Arya, standing with that slight
sway she always had and uselessly pushing a few strands of tangled hair out of
her eyes. Theon held the quiver in front of his crotch.
“Oh. Hey, Theon. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t,” he said wryly, knowing that – while not forbidden from
the armory per se – Arya was not allowed to touch any of the guns in the house.
She turned to leave when her gaze caught the bow slung over Theon’s shoulder.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a recurve bow.’
She rolled her big brown eyes. “Duh. I know what it is. I meant, why do you
have it?”
Theon let it slide down his arm and held it for a moment, feeling the soft
leather of the hold.
“My sister got it for me. Before I came to live here.”
“Are you any good at it?”
Theon shrugged. “I think I am.” Then quieter, “My father would probably beg to
differ.”
“No offense, but your dad sounds like an asshole.”
Theon laughed so abruptly that it sounded like a bark. “Yeah, I guess he
probably does.”
“Can I try it?” she asked, sliding one of the arrows out of the quiver and
running her fingernail over the fletching.
Theon balanced the bow on end beside her. “This thing is almost as tall as you
are.” He sighed. “I guess you can try it.”
She gave him one of her goofy smiles, and Theon was glad that there was at
least one person in this family whose motives were pretty straightforward.
“Chin up,” he instructed. “And keep your back straight.”
“The string is really hard to pull.”
“Maybe you should go play with dolls then,” he deadpanned.
Arya shot him a withering glare. There was a loud snap as the arrow penetrated
the target about six inches below the black X. She dropped the bow and cradled
her left hand to her chest, face screwed up in pain.
“Ow! That hurt!”
“Yeah, most people wear a wrist-guard for that. It won’t hurt for long. Check
it out –” he pointed at the target, “You got pretty close. Good for your very
first shot.”
Arya beamed, still rubbing at her wrist. “Can I try again?”
“Theon!” Ned Stark’s voice startled Theon and he dropped the quiver onto the
floor, arrows scattering over Arya’s feet.
“Shit,” he muttered, bending to scoop them up as fast as he could.
Ned put his hands on Arya’s shoulders, face grim.
“Theon, you know that Arya’s not allowed to –”
“It’s okay, Dad. Theon was just teaching me to shoot a bow and arrow.”
Ned raised an eyebrow at Theon, his eyes sweeping from the quiver in his arm to
the target and back to Theon.
“Pretty good for a first-timer, sir,” he said, loathing the sound of his own
voice, hating Ned Stark for sending him out to watch men beaten and shot and
then treating him like some fucking child.
“Arya, go get your brothers ready for dinner.”
“Can’t Sansa do it?”
The look he gave her was a scold, but it was also full of warmth. Arya rolled
her eyes and stalked out of the armory.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Theon stammered. “I didn’t think I was breaking any rules.”
Ned leveled a cool gaze at Theon, as though he could ascertain the truth of the
boy’s intentions if he just stared at him long enough. Theon tried not to
fidget.
“I need you to go on a drive.”
Theon’s heart sank. “What kind?”
Ned looked over his shoulder at the door, then up at the security camera, and
if Theon didn’t know better, he’d swear that Ned Stark was acting a little
paranoid.
“It can’t see us right here,” he almost volunteered.
“It’s – it’s just an errand really.”
“Is Poole coming?”
Ned frowned. “No. Nobody is going with you. And I know that I can trust you
when I say that this errand is not to be discussed with anyone. Not even Robb.”
“But Robb is my –”
“Do you tell Robb everything about your work?”
“No, sir.”
It’s a test, he thought, mind scrambling to think of what kind of terrible
thing Ned might be asking him to do. Ned saw the gears turning in Theon’s eyes
and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“There’s a car in the garage. Gendry knows the one. I want you to deliver it to
this address.” He handed Theon a scrap of paper with a street number and name
written in Ned’s diligent penmanship.
*
“Do you know where it’s going?” asked Gendry, leaning against the fender of the
black 1967 Camaro. “I’ve been working on it for months and I hate that I don’t
even know where it’s going.”
Theon shook his head. “Nah, just some random address. Must be a favor he owes
somebody.”
Gendry whistled and bent to plant a kiss on the hood of the car, then
immediately wiped at the spot with his shop rag. “Well, this is goodbye then.”
He looked at Theon a little ruefully. “I guess I should be glad it’s not being
blown up or driven into a gorge, huh?”
“You wanna go out for a drink when I’m done?”
“Yeah sure. If I’m awake. I’ve been passing out like, stupid early.”
“Do you think maybe it’s the fumes?”
Gendry smiled. “Oh God, I hadn’t even thought of that. I don’t notice them
anymore.”
*
When Theon rolled up alongside the curb, he was convinced he’d misread the
address; he scrutinized Ned’s handwriting, but it only confirmed that this was
the right place – a tudor house with an imposing hedge, a treehouse built into
a towering cottonwood and windows glowing warmly. A painted sign at the end of
the driveway read “St. Brigid’s Group Home for Boys.”
What in the hell?
He wondered if this was a front for some Stark Family operation, but that
didn’t explain why Ned had sworn him to secrecy.
The front door was answered by a man with white hair and a stooped back whose
head trembled as he looked Theon up and down before clearing his throat and
asking, “How may I help you?”
“Um, hi.” Theon’s voice cracked embarrassingly. “I – I was told to deliver this
car to this address and I just wanted to make sure I have the right place.”
The old man peered over Theon’s shoulder at the Camaro, then back at Theon.
Theon ran his fingers through his hair and tried not to look into the house,
tried to ignore the sound of boys’ laughter coming down the hallway towards
him.
“Yes, this is the place,” replied the man. “Thank you.”
Theon handed him the keys and walked halfway across the street when he heard
the front door open again, and when he turned around, Theon felt his heart
stick in his throat.
Oh my God.
Although he was no older than seventeen, the boy had Ned Stark’s strong
shoulders and jaw; there was none of Cat’s narrowness to him. His hair was
curly like Robb’s, but it was black and hung down to his shoulders in a thick
mess. His eyes were wide and serious and all his own, his full lips drawn into
a sort of perpetual frown that deepened at the sight of the car. He shuffled
once around it before returning to the house without giving it a second glance,
leaving Theon stunned in the middle of the street.
A series of impulses ran through Theon – he wanted to run back to the house and
bang on the door, demand to see the boy with the sad eyes, to know his name,
his age, why he didn’t like the Camaro. Beneath that, another, baser impulse.
He waved the thought away and lit a cigarette. At the nearest bus stop, he
leaned against the wall and texted Gendry with sweaty fingers.
“Drive done. Taking the bus to Midtown. Meet me at Ground Zero?”
His phone chimed as the bus rolled up.
“Yeah. U lookin 2 hook up?”
“Always. Y? U DtF? ;)” Theon smirked as he hit “send.”
“U aint got the $.”
*
Theon and Gendry agreed on Ground Zero for different reasons; for Gendry, the
club offered an opportunity to get wasted cheaply and in a dark corner, and for
Theon, it offered plenty of guys willing to make out in a dark corner. It was a
nice enough place that it felt like “going out,” but seedy enough that throwing
up in a urinal wasn’t a major faux pas.
The IDs they handed the bouncer were fakes, of course, but perfectly made.
Gendry headed straight for the bar while Theon scoped out the scene for a
moment before joining him. Gendry ordered two shots of whiskey and downed both
of them immediately. He shuddered and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Theon laughed and ordered a rum-and-coke.
Gendry balked. “You’re not even gonna try to keep up with me?”
“If I try to keep up with you, I won’t be able to keep it up for anybody else.”
He winked and Gendry shook his head as he gestured to the bartender for another
drink.
“You are the only asshole I know who legit winks at people.”
“And you want to fuck me, don’t you?”
Gendry almost fell off his stool laughing. The bartender raised an eyebrow as
she set another shot in front of him, which he took without pausing to breathe.
He turned back to Theon, trying not crack up.
“Hey, speaking of cars –”
“Don’t you?” pressed Theon, eyes wide with mock neediness..
Gendry cleared his throat. “Speaking of cars, where did you end up taking that
Camaro?”
To Ned Stark’s bastard son, Theon almost said.
“Just some random house,” he answered.
“Some lucky bastard,” echoed Gendry, too busy watching the dance floor to
notice the wicked grin that crept over Theon’s face.
Three drinks later, the air in the club seemed warm and almost tangibly thick
with sweat. Gendry was slumped against the men’s room wall, trying to stabilize
himself enough to piss, and Theon was leaned in close to a man with bright
green eyes. He could smell his cologne, and the music was loud enough to drown
out all but the most persistent of thoughts.
“Who did you come here with?” Theon shouted.
The man fished a cherry out of his drink.
“My boyfriend,” he shouted back, putting a hand to his cheek as though he were
whispering. He glanced at a group of guys sitting together in a corner booth.
“He really hates places like this,” he said, a flicker of annoyance in his
tone. “I always say we don’t have to go if he doesn’t want to.”
“Does he make you happy?” asked Theon, moving close enough that their shoulders
were touching.
“Oh, and you’re gonna make me happy?” He looked deliberately unimpressed.
He laughed and put a hand on the man’s thigh. “No, but I won’t make you
unhappy. And I’ll fuck you like he thinks he fucks you.”
Theon was delighted when the man blushed and shook his head heavily from side
to side. “Does that actually work for you?”
“I dunno – does it?”
Green-eyes looked at him, looked away and started laughing. “What did you say
your name was?”
***** Chapter Three *****
Chapter Summary
     Theon arranges a car accident, and one of Ned's associates takes an
     interest in his future.
Chapter Notes
     Wow. I am back from an awesome trip to Belize - and I have a little
     notebook full of plot ideas!
The next morning, cars poured into the Stark driveway – long and black and low-
slung things that bored Theon almost as much as the men they carried. He was
curious why Ned had called them – all the important Northern families pledged
to House Stark. Their presence made Theon uneasy, not least because none of
these people bothered to make a secret of their dislike for him. On the rare
occasion that Ned beckoned him into a meeting between the Houses, the room fell
silent and their eyes practically smothered him.
“Never trust a Greyjoy.” He could almost hear it in the way they cleared their
old throats and shifted in their old chairs and refused to speak of anything
important until he was gone.
Theon found Gendry staring blankly at the engine block of a Beemer, obviously
battling a wave of nausea.
“How you doing?”
Gendry looked up at him dolefully. “There is nothing left inside me.”
“What’s going on? Why’s everybody here this morning?”
Gendry scowled. “Fucked if I know. I don’t ask questions. I wish they’d leave
though.”
“Why?” Theon moved beside Gendry to knock on the engine thoughtlessly. “None of
them even know your name.”
Gendry shrugged and said in a low voice, “These people are all fucking bat-
shit, and they’re all fucking strapped. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why do you think I’m always strapped?”
“Because you’re fucking bat-shit like the rest of them.”
Theon was flattered.
*
Theon hesitated outside Robb’s door for a moment, wondering what he was doing
there. Robb was a boy in his bedroom, while the rest of the house was full of
powerful men – men that Theon would sit with one day. And still, all he wanted
was to retreat into Robb’s room.
He knocked on the door.
“Robb?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
There was a pause before Robb answered:
“Yeah.”
The windows were open and the lights were off. Robb lay sprawled across the bed
with the sheets tangled around him and his gaze somewhere far away. Theon
shifted awkwardly.
“Sit down,” said Robb, still not looking at him.
“Are you okay?” Theon shuffled closer to the bed and looked down at Robb. It
was almost eleven, but Robb was still in his boxers. One of his socks had come
off during the night. Robb sighed and closed his eyes, and when he reopened
them, they focused on Theon.
“Yeah. I’m just – it’s always so weird when dad goes into business mode. He
wants me to go sit with them this afternoon.”
Theon permitted himself to slouch down onto the edge of the bed. “That’s cool.
I wish I could go, but everyone in there fucking hates me.”
“They do not,” said Robb dismissively. “They hate your dad, maybe, and your
uncles. But nobody hates you. They don’t even know you.”
Theon found the depth of Robb’s obliviousness as endearing as it was
exasperating.
“Hey Robb…” Theon bit his lip. “I’m – I’m sorry for being such a dick
yesterday. In the armory. That wasn’t fair.”
Robb groaned. “Oh God, don’t apologize. That just makes it worse. Like I’m some
fucking virgin –”
“You are a virgin.”
Robb glared at him. “You know what I mean.”
“You know I would, right?”
Robb’s fingers tightened on the sheets and he turned his face toward the
window.
“Why won’t you then?”
Theon faltered. Suddenly aware of their proximity on the bed, he folded his
hands between his knees.
Nothing good will come from this.
“I can’t. Your mom – Your mom told me I could never… She said she’d kill me.”
Robb lifted himself onto his elbows. “What?”
Theon nodded and smiled strangely. “Yeah. Straight up. ‘Theon, I’ll kill you.’”
“She said she’d kill you if you fucked me?” Robb’s tone was skeptical.
“Actually, if I touch you like, you know… If I ever like, bad-touch you.” Theon
smirked before adding, “Oh, or your brothers or sisters. All of you. Off
limits. Forever.”
Robb sat up and crossed his legs, leaning forward to rest one cheek on his
knuckles and let his fingertips run over the chain that connected Theon’s
wallet to his belt-loop.
“She won’t find out.”
“I can’t.” It sounded so weak.
“When I’m in charge –”
Theon rolled his eyes and moved to get up, but Robb’s fingers curled around the
chain and yanked him back down.
“No, listen – when I’m in charge, you can fuck whoever you want. And you can
sit next to me at all the meetings, and if anyone says shit about it, I’ll
break their fucking thumbs.”
Robb gave one of those winsome, perfect smiles that made Theon smile too, in
spite of himself.
“You promise? You will personally break their thumbs?”
“Cross my fucking heart.”
*
No matter how many cigarettes he smoked, the knot in Theon’s stomach only got
tighter. He’d been sitting in his Zagato for almost two hours, parked three
houses down from St. Brigid’s Group Home for Boys and trying to look
inconspicuous, trying not to look like –
Like a total fucking creeper.
Redbull cans and candy wrappers littered the passenger seat, and the ashtray
overflowed with cigarette butts. Theon had his right foot propped up on the
dashboard, a pair of aviators pushed up into his thick, dark hair. He didn’t
know what he hoped for, exactly; he knew he wanted to see the bastard boy
again, wanted to speak to him, to see if his frown was as unbending as it
looked. But to what end, he had no idea.
Not that it matters, he thought impatiently. He saw no sign that the boy had
even touched the car, and that struck Theon as unforgivably spoiled – turning
down a gift from Ned Stark. A gift that was truly a gift, and not a sideways
demand for submission.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, the Camaro was
halfway down the block. Theon shot up in his seat, fumbling with the ignition
before peeling off after it.
This isn’t a damn car chase, he scolded himself as he downshifted. But his
pulse continued to race as he followed at a few cars’ distance.
A couple miles later, the boy pulled into a grocery store parking lot. Theon
parked a few spaces away and watched in his rearview mirror as the boy walked
into the store, frowning at a small piece of paper and brushing a lock of hair
behind his ear.
Theon waited. The car idled quietly and he let his hand rest lightly on the
stick, trying to think of what to say.
“Hey, I’m Theon,” was as far as he got when he saw the boy exiting the store
with a grocery bag on one arm and a pumpkin in the other.
Or you could just leave him be.
Theon backed out of his parking spot and swung his Zagato around so that it was
pointed at the fender of the Camaro; the boy’s brake lights came on and his car
slid slowly backwards, and Theon held his breath as he tapped on the
accelerator.
The sound of metal-on-metal raised the hair on the back of Theon’s neck, and he
buzzed with adrenaline as he stepped out of the car to survey the damage to his
coupe. The right headlight was shattered, and when the boy got out of his car,
he put a hand to his head and moaned.
“Oh shit. You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Theon tried not to stare too hard; he was so… pretty, however hard Theon’s
brain tried to find any other word.
“Hey, it’s just a headlight,” he said. “Are you okay?”
He moved around the car until they were only an arm’s length apart.
The boy’s dark eyes looked ready to cry, and Theon didn’t know how that made
him feel.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” The boy blushed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The boy kicked angrily at the hubcap of the Camaro. “This is just so fucking
stupid.”
Theon thought about touching him, maybe laying a hand on his shoulder, but
decided against it.
“It’s not that big a deal. Shit happens.”
The boy glared at him and Theon didn’t know someone could be so livid and still
look so breakable.
You need to loosen up, pretty thing.
“No, this is just fucking – just fucking dumb,” the boy insisted. “I just – I
just got this stupid car. And the first fucking time I take it somewhere, I run
into – into the most expensive car I’ve ever fucking seen. I didn’t even want
this fucking car.” He kicked the hubcap again and winced as he jammed his toes.
“Goddamnit!”
Theon smiled crookedly.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
The boy looked at him, bewildered. “Jon.”
“I’m Theon.”
The anger in Jon’s face abated slightly, as though he were actually seeing
Theon for the first time. “I’m sorry. I thought I checked behind me. Will it –
do you think it’ll be expensive to fix that?”
Theon shrugged. “I have a friend who’s good with cars.” He bit his lip and
reached into his pocket for a pen. “But hey, like – just in case I actually
have to take it in somewhere – can I have your phone number? You’ve got
insurance, right?”
“Yeah. It came with the car, I think.” He took the pen from Theon. “Do you have
something to write on?”
Theon offered over his hand. “Just write it there for now.” Jon’s fingers were
almost deathly cold, and his tongue flicked out of his mouth as he scrawled a
number across the back of Theon’s hand. When he was done, he held on for a
second longer, reading Theon’s knuckles.
“It’s um – it’s a house phone,” said Jon, a little embarrassed. “So if you call
you have to ask for Jon Snow. There’s two Jons. At the house. And um, don’t
call after 9pm. If you call.”
Theon nodded. “Did you – have you – um, how old are you? Like, how long have
you been driving?”
“A few months. I just turned sixteen this week.”
Oh fuck me.
*
“Dude, what the fuck happened?”
Gendry dropped a pair of pliers when he saw the wrecked headlight.
“Just a little love-tap,” said Theon. “You can fix it, right?”
“I’m going to have to custom order the parts. From Italy,” said Gendry matter-
of-factly. He folded his arms and glanced at Theon before repeating, "What the
fuck happened? You've never had an accident."
“Yeah,” replied Theon with a wink. “Accident…”
Gendry’s jaw dropped. “Are you – are you fucking serious? You crashed an
$80,000 car on purpose?”
Theon flashed the number on the back of his hand. “Worth it.”
*
Jory found him in the kitchen, pawing through the fridge. He cleared his
throat, and Theon spun around with a half-eaten cheese stick in his mouth. Jory
looked away.
“Oh, hey Jory.”
“Greyjoy.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Stark wants to see you in his office. Now.”
*
There’s no way he could know, Theon told himself as he opened the door to Ned
Stark’s study. You should just stay the fuck away from him.
“Theon, you remember Mr. Bolton.”
Theon blinked and tried to hide his relief. “Yes sir.”
Roose Bolton’s eyes cast a chill up Theon’s spine. He wasn’t an imposing man,
and yet there was something dreadful in his absolute composure, in the soft,
ruthlessness of his voice. Though they’d only interacted once before, Theon
felt it was all Roose needed to memorize him somehow.
The Stark children told stories about all the men of the lesser houses; mostly
they were silly, mean-spirited stories that ended with laughter and a sharp
glance from Cat or Ned. The stories about Roose Bolton were spoken in hushed
tones and always included blood – and not blood splattered across a wall after
a gunfight, but blood the way it tastes.
“He drinks it,” Bran insisted. “He drinks the blood of his enemies.”
“I heard he bathes in it,” said Arya with a perverse grin. “He has it heated in
a huge tub until it’s hot and thick as soup, and then he gets in and uses it to
wash himself.”
“That’s stupid. How many people would you have to kill to get that much blood?”
“Will you two please shut up?” interjected Sansa.
Theon and Robb learned the truth of it from Ned: that Roose Bolton didn’t drink
blood – or bathe in it – but that he regularly practiced leeching. “It’s still
creepy, I guess,” said Robb disappointedly. The first time he met Bolton, Theon
had been pressing Ned about it, to Ned’s clear discomfort.
“But why though?” he’d asked, not noticing that Roose had entered the room
behind him. “There’s better ways to get sucked on.”
Ned looked past Theon and muttered, “God help me.”
“It cleans the blood,” said Roose, a bizarre little grin pulling at the corner
of his mouth. “And clears the mind. You’d find that it diminishes many of the
urges that cloud your thinking.”
Theon expected to a lecture from Ned, but not the one he got.
“Roose Bolton is a dangerous man,” he said. “Probably the most dangerous man
working for me.”
“I can take care of myself,” replied Theon flippantly.
Ned smiled. “I know you can. But this isn’t just about you; it’s about the
Family. You’re – you’re nearly a part of the Family.”
Theon fought back a surge of elation.
“When I see you, I see a man who’s almost a son to me. Robb sees you as a
brother. And Roose Bolton sees you as an opportunity to get closer to the
Family.”
“Oh.” And there it was again. Nearly family, but not.
“You haven’t met his son, Ramsay, have you?” asked Ned solemnly.
Theon shook his head. “No. I’ve – we’ve made a few drops at the storage
complex. But I’ve never actually seen him.”
“Good.”
“Why, is he like his dad?”
Ned thought for a moment before answering. “Yes. And no. Roose only uses
cruelty when it suits his purposes, but for Ramsay, cruelty is a purpose. He
enjoys it. And even though Roose doesn’t enjoy it himself, he uses that part of
his son to his advantage. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
"Roose will only show an interest in people he finds useful, and it's best not
to interest him."
Theon hadn’t thought about Roose Bolton much since that conversation, but now –
with the man’s icy eyes passing him up and down – he felt a strange mixture of
unease and excitement.
“Theon, Mr. Bolton’s man had to leave early. Please give him a ride home.”
Theon nodded curtly at Ned Stark, then at Roose.
“It would be my pleasure.”
Ned glared at him, and Theon realized the nature of his words too late. As
Roose stepped into the hallway, Theon moved to follow when Ned put a hand on
his shoulder.
“Theon –”
“I’m sorry, sir. I just meant that of course I will. Give him a ride. I mean,
I’ll drive him home.”
“Thank you, Theon. Just try to be a little less –”
“Slutty?”
Ned rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fresh. Try to be a little less fresh with him
than you were last time you met.”
*
Theon hated the silence of drives like this, broken only by Roose Bolton’s
quiet breathing and the sound of his boots shifting against the floor of the
car. He thought about Jon Snow, with the dark eyes and dark mood and hands cold
enough to give you goosebumps. He looked at his hand on the steering wheel,
wondering how long he’d have to wait to call.
He’s barely sixteen. He doesn’t care when you call.
“How long has it been since you left Pyke?”
Roose’s soft voice startled him. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a
pair of grey eyes staring back at him expectantly.
“Um, about eleven years.”
“And when do you plan to return?”
Theon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Nobody asked him about Pyke besides
Robb.
“I don’t know. When my father dies. Sooner. I’m not sure.”
“That’ll be strange for you, won’t it? Going back to a home you hardly remember
when you’ve practically been raised a Stark.”
“I’m not a Stark,” said Theon sharply, watching in the mirror as that faint
smile crept across Roose Bolton’s lips.
“Of course not. Do you think you’ll cut ties with the Family once you return
home?”
And that hurt somehow, and the depth of it surprised Theon. “No,” he replied.
“I’m not going to make my father’s mistakes.”
“He did it for you, you know.”
Theon felt his driving grow sloppier as he grew more irritated.
“How would you know why my father does anything?” he snapped, braking abruptly
for a stop light.
“All fathers do, we do for our sons,” said Roose, unfazed by Theon’s outburst.
His other sons maybe. But not for me.
Theon said nothing but waited for the light to turn.
When the car ground to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates, Roose put his
hand on the back of Theon’s seat. His fingers brushed against Theon’s shoulder.
“It wasn’t my intention to offend you, Master Greyjoy. I’m just curious what
the future holds for you.”
“No offense taken,” said Theon coldly.
He watched Roose’s slim silhouette cross the yard and enter the house with a
quick backward glance at the car.
What the fuck was that about?
Theon touched his phone to check the time. 8.36pm.
His fingers shook as he tapped the numbers into the screen, and he damned
himself for acting like such a little girl about the whole thing. The phone
rang three times before an elderly voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi, um – I’m calling for Jon Snow, please.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
“Theon.”
“Just a moment.”
He heard the phone set down and then picked up again.
“Hello?”
“Jon? Jon Snow?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Theon. The guy from the, um, car accident.”
“Oh God. What?”
“Well, I, uh – my friend says he can fix the headlight.”
He heard the relief in Jon’s voice. “Oh. Good. That’s awesome.”
“That’s actually not why I’m calling though.”
“Oh God. What?”
Theon played nervously with the automatic door locks.
“Do you like sushi?”
“No.”
“Okay. Um, how about Chinese?”
“I don’t really go out to eat.”
Theon pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, regretting this
conversation more intensely by the second.
“How about coffee? Would you wanna go get coffee with me?”
A heavy silence followed and Theon was ready to hang up when Jon asked,
“How old are you?”
“I’ll tell you how old I am over coffee.”
A brief hesitation.
“How about Thursday?”
***** Chapter Four *****
Chapter Summary
     Disturbing rumors from the Far North, an unexpected call from the
     South and one guy watching another guy drink coffee.
Chapter Notes
     For everybody that's reading this, thank you for trusting me with
     such a long-form narrative. Whenever I write, I tend to think of the
     ending early on and then struggle to maintain a consistent arc to the
     get that point. It's hard for me not to rush to the part where
     everything goes horribly wrong. So thanks for reading and commenting!
The first time Theon smoked weed was the first time he noticed the single
freckle at the corner of Robb’s right eye, and it was the first time Robb
noticed that braces had done nothing for the gap between Theon’s front teeth.
Surprisingly, it had been Robb who locked his bedroom door before pulling a
dugout and a one-hitter from somewhere in his desk, and it was Theon who
wavered.
“What if your dad finds out?”
“What if he does?” said Robb, blowing a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. “He
makes money off way worse shit than pot.”
“But he’s your dad.”
Robb’s laugh turned to a cough. “If he finds out, I’ll tell him it was my
idea.” He flicked his lighter and held the flame out for Theon. “I wish you’d
just fucking trust me sometimes.”
Theon only tried cocaine once, in the bathroom of a club; he was sixteen and
the man cutting the lines for him must’ve been almost thirty. Five hours later,
when the comedown proved too awful, he knocked on Ned’s bedroom door,
desperate. He heard the click of a pistol and a voice,
“Who is it?”
“It’s Theon. I’m – oh God, I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark, but I – I need help.
Please.”
When the door opened, Ned was in his robe and Theon felt so small. He wrung his
hands and gazed down at his feet.
“What’s wrong?” Ned tilted Theon’s chin up with his thumb and saw that Theon’s
irises were a thread of blue around his blown-out pupils. “Theon, what did you
take?”
“Coke,” he answered, trying not to squirm. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at
me. At least not til tomorrow. I just – tried it and now I feel terrible. Like,
I feel like I can’t breathe and I won’t ever be able to breathe again. Oh God,
what if I just stay like this forever? Please don’t send me home like this.”
Ned pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Is everything okay, Ned?” came Cat’s thin, worried voice.
“Fine. Go back to bed, hon. I’ll be up in a little while.” Then to Theon,
“Let’s go down to the kitchen and get you something.”
Theon assumed he meant a snack, but Ned pulled a mug and hot cocoa mix from the
cupboard, a can of Reddi-whip from the fridge and a bottle of Irish whiskey
from the liquor cabinet.
“Where did you get it?” he asked, placing the steaming cup in front of Theon
and pulling up another chair beside him.
Theon took the drink with trembling hands and stared down at the shape of the
whipped cream melting into the cocoa. “From a guy at the club.”
“Someone you know?”
“No.” He poked his tongue into the liquid; it was still too hot. “I didn’t know
him. I didn’t mean to. He just asked if I wanted to and I said yes. I said yes.
It’s easy to say yes.”
“Theon, look at me.” Ned laid a hand gently on Theon’s wrist and Theon stared
at it with wide eyes before looking up at Ned’s face. “I don’t know who this
guy was to you, but you have to stay away from this stuff. I know – I know it’s
easy to say yes, and I know it feels good for a while, but eventually, it owns
you.”
Theon looked confounded and sipped cautiously at the cocoa. He shuddered at its
strength. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you want me to stay up with you?”
“Yes sir.”
As a boy, he had a recurring dream – and it wasn’t so much a dream as it was a
feeling – that he was drowning; he woke up gasping and twisted in the sheets.
The first time it happened, Theon stood outside his father’s bedroom for what
felt like an hour before finally falling asleep on the floor in the hallway.
*
He came to feel a certain pity for the users – the bewilderment in their eyes
when Poole and Flint paid a visit, the total conviction that this was all a
mistake, was a dream, was a joke. That there must be some way out.
Theon was startled when Ned asked in all seriousness if he’d heard anything
about White Walkers.
“It’s an urban legend,” he answered without thinking. “It’s just what parents
tell their kids to keep them from trying drugs. Or hanging out with people who
do drugs.”
Ned leaned forward, both his fists planted on his desk, and Theon fidgeted,
sneaking a peek at his watch. He was meeting Jon Snow for coffee in two hours
and he hadn’t even figured out what to wear yet.
“Why? Did Bran ask about them or something? He loves that kind of crap.”
“No.” Ned set his jaw before deciding to continue. “I’ve been hearing some
disturbing rumors from the far North.”
“Like what?”
“Just this morning, I hear a report about a man killing a complete stranger and
eating his flesh, starting with the face.”
“You think it’s true?”
Ned sighed and turned to look out the window. Arya and Bran were in the
courtyard.
“I’d like not to. I started hearing these stories a few months ago. At first I
thought they were just junky dreams, or lies told to the police. But they keep
coming, and not just from addicts now, but from law enforcement, from some of
the contacts I have up there – including my brother. Last month, he shot a
woman twelve times, and she kept coming at him until the last bullet.” Ned
turned to look at Theon. “He says it gives him nightmares.”
Theon didn’t know what to say to that.
He was five when he found his brothers hiding out at the docks one afternoon,
skipping swim team to smoke cigarettes and watch the freighters come in. He’d
turned to leave, hoping they hadn’t noticed him, but Rick grabbed him by the
backpack and dragged him to the edge of the water. Theon’s heels hung off the
edge of the concrete, and he tried not to cough as Rick blew a stream of smoke
into his face. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”
Theon looked at Maron, who folded his arms across his chest, frowning. He
wondered when he would be big enough to fight back, or if it would always be
like this. Rick was stronger, and he was usually content to hit Theon a few
times in the stomach; Maron preferred to threaten him with much worse.
“I – I just came down to watch the boats.”
“Did you know we were here?”
Theon shook his head vigorously. “No. I didn’t. Honest.”
Rick glanced over his shoulder at Maron and Maron smiled. Of the four Greyjoy
children, it was Maron whose dry smile most resembled Theon’s.
“Maybe we should give him to the White Walkers.”
Rick feigned horror. “Jesus, Ron. You think we should?”
“What’s – what’s the White Walkers?” Theon asked, clutching at his own hands.
Rick and Maron shared another look and Maron knelt to Theon’s level, held his
little brother tightly by the shoulders.
“The White Walkers eat little shits like you. They look like people, but
they’re so fucked up that they don’t feel pain. You could kick and scream, and
it won’t matter. They’re not afraid of anything.” He pinched Theon’s round
cheek. “All they want is to eat fat little kids. And they never sleep, because
their hearts beat too fast. They’ve got hands like ice and they won’t even kill
you before they start chewing on you, ripping pieces off to feed to their
dogs.”
Theon quaked, unable to look away from his brother’s eyes. “Please just let me
go home.”
Rick whistled and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know if we can do that. You
might tell Dad that you saw us here, smoking. You’re such a dipshit, always
trying to get us in trouble like that. It might just be easier to give you to
the White Walkers.”
“I hear they love places like the docks,” added Maron, looking around. “Lots of
good, dark hiding places.”
“I won’t tell Dad. I swear.”
It wasn’t until he was ten that Theon realized his brothers were lying to him.
When Robb asked if he wanted to play White Walker Tag, Theon had blanched.
“Do you – do you have White Walkers here?”
Robb screwed up his face. “What?”
“Do they live nearby?”
“They’re um, they’re not real. They’re just imaginary.” He seemed both pleased
and confused by the fact that he knew something Theon didn’t.
Theon almost hugged Robb for rescuing him.
And now Ned Stark was telling him that there might be such a thing after all.
“That’s crazy,” he said finally. “I don’t believe it.”
Ned returned to his desk. “I hope you’re right.”
As he left the room, Theon wondered what kind of profit a man might turn on a
drug that could turn men into monsters.
*
He tried on six different shirts and two pairs of pants before settling on the
white baseball tee with the black sleeves and a pair of dark blue jeans with a
tear across the thigh. Looking in the mirror, he realized that his hair was
getting long and kind of wild; he ran a comb through it a few times before
giving up.
He’d been guiltily avoiding Robb all day, and he was almost into the elevator
when he heard Robb’s voice just behind him.
“Theon!”
He turned, bracing himself as Robb’s eyes slid over him.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. Just running a few errands.”
Robb bit his lip. “The shirt’s a little tight, isn’t it?”
Theon rolled his eyes. “What are you, my dad?”
“I can see your gun.”
Theon lifted his arm. Wouldn’t want to make Jon shit his pants. He shrugged and
headed back toward his room. “Guess I better wear a jacket,” he muttered as he
stepped around Robb.
“You look, um – good, though.”
Theon paused at his door. “Wanna watch a movie when I get back?” He didn’t know
why he offered, but when Robb’s face brightened into that picture-perfect
smile, he was glad he did.
“Yeah. What movie?”
“You pick.”
*
The café was small enough that everyone turned to look when the door opened,
and Theon stopped there in the doorway to unzip his hoodie and push his
sunglasses up into his hair. Jon Snow’s mouth split into a shy, disbelieving
grin, like he hadn’t expected Theon to show. He sat beside the window with his
elbows on the table, stirring at his drink, and when Theon pulled out the chair
across from him, his eyes hung up on Theon’s body. Looking down, Theon realized
that the tattoos on his chest and ribs showed through the thin fabric of his
shirt.
“I – I thought you weren’t going to come.”
Theon looked at his watch. “I’m like, three minutes late.”
Jon laughed nervously before his lips settled into that strange little frown.
“Yeah, I just, um –” He tugged at a rubber band around his wrist. “Nobody’s
ever asked me for coffee or anything.”
There’s lots more I’d like to ask you for.
“Why not?” asked Theon bluntly, savoring the way Jon’s cheeks flared. “Is
everyone you know blind or something?”
“I – uh, I –” Jon stammered, looking into his mug.
“It wasn’t a literal question.”
Jon’s face relaxed slightly and he resumed snapping the rubber band. “You said
you’d tell me how old you are.” He looked up at Theon expectantly, a fleck of
whipped cream clinging to the corner of his mouth. Theon’s mind sorted through
the possible lies he might tell, but when he thought about all the lies he was
going to have to tell – about his life and where he got his money – he felt too
exhausted for anything but the truth.
“Nineteen,” he said, watching Jon’s face carefully as a tiny, self-satisfied
smile appeared there and then was gone.
“Isn’t that like, illegal?”
“If you want me to leave, I will.”
“No,” replied Jon quickly. “No, I – I don’t mean I want you to leave. I just –
I guess I’m just making sure you want to stay.”
“Yeah. I mean, at the moment, we’re just two guys having coffee.” Jon raised an
eyebrow. “Okay, one guy watching another guy have coffee.”
“Aren’t you going to order something?”
“I don’t really drink it,” said Theon with a shrug.
“Then why’d you invite me here?”
“Because you said you didn’t like sushi.”
Jon bit that impossibly full bottom lip and glanced down. “I’d feel more
comfortable if you ordered something.”
Oh my fucking God. Theon rolled his eyes as he rose and walked to the counter,
staring at the overwhelming drink menu for a full three minutes before ordering
a chai latte.
“There,” he said, spilling some of his drink as he placed it carelessly on the
table. “Now we’re just two guys having coffee, yeah?”
Jon smiled almost apologetically. “Yeah.”
Theon wiped at the mess with the cuff of his hoodie. “So, what’s up with the
whole ‘No calls after nine, ask for Jon Snow’ thing?”
“I um, live in a group home.” Jon’s voice was quiet, embarrassed. “It’s a –
it’s sort of like a foster home except there’s a bunch of us and we –”
“I know what a group home is.”
Jon looked relieved. “So yeah, there’s lots of rules about like, when you can
use the phone and how late you can stay out and shit.”
“Is there a rule about meeting nineteen-year-old strangers whose cars you ran
into for coffee?”
“Not yet,” Jon deadpanned, and Theon felt his heart jump.
“So how long have you lived there?”
Jon paused for a moment, and Theon tried not to think about how sort of sick it
was to ask a bunch of questions that he already knew the answers to, especially
questions about Jon’s family. He wondered what would happen if he told Jon
everything.
You have three brothers and two sisters. Your father is Ned Fucking Stark and
he lives in a huge fucking mansion.
“I’ve been in the system my whole life,” said Jon. “I’ve been at St. Brigid’s –
that’s the group home – I’ve been there for like, four years.”
“Is that – I mean, do you like it there?”
Jon shrugged and downed the dregs of his coffee. “It’s okay. I don’t hate it.
Mr. Aemon makes sure we go to school and stay out of trouble. I like him.”
“Do you know anything about your like, birthparents or whatever?”
Jon smiled bitterly and shook his head, and Theon was struck again by how he
could look pretty and so angry. “Not really. I don’t know who they are. My dad
is alive somewhere. I don’t know a damn thing about my mom.”
Theon swallowed and imagined what Ned Stark’s face would look like if he came
into this café and found Theon there with his foot resting against Jon’s,
asking,
“How do you know your dad’s alive?”
“Mr. Aemon says so. And he always sends me Christmas and birthday presents.”
Jon looked out the window at the Camaro. “That’s where I got that stupid car.”
“He must – um, he must still care about you, then. That’s a fucking mint car.”
Jon looked at Theon, and there was something unbearably familiar in those dark
eyes.
“I’d rather have a family than a car.”
Theon looked away, ashamed of himself. He toyed with changing the subject, but
something urged him on.
“My dad gave me away, too.”
Jon scowled. “Yeah, right.”
The disbelief in his voice hurt Theon more than he expected.
“My brothers died when I was nine. My dad – he couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t
keep me. He sent me away.”
He had never said it like that before – never aloud to anyone, not just the
truth like that. Not even to Robb.
“You’re from the Iron Islands, huh?”
Theon glanced at his knuckles, splayed his fingers out on the tabletop. “Yeah.
That’s where my dad is.”
“You miss it?”
“Yeah,” he lied.
“Where did you grow up? I mean after that.”
“Here, in the North. With a foster family.”
Jon leaned back in his chair, his toes knocking against Theon’s. “That must be
nice. I mean, not to be a dick. Just – it must be nice not to walk out of a
house with a big sign in the front yard telling the whole world that you’re –
that nobody wanted you.”
I want you.
“Yeah. I guess I never thought about it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jon, snapping the rubber band on his wrist hard enough to
leave a mark. “This probably isn’t what you had in mind when you asked me out.”
Theon smiled crookedly. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re fucking
beautiful?”
Jon’s face went red and the rubber band broke. “You’re fucking with me.”
“No. I’m not. Like, it’s stupid how good you look. And you’re even wearing this
like, really ugly polo shirt.”
Jon laughed, and Theon felt lightheaded; making Jon Snow laugh was like…
Like huffing paint, he thought absurdly.
In the several seconds it took for Jon to compose himself, Theon felt two
parallel desires running through his veins: he wanted to hear Jon moaning his
name, but he also wanted to fall asleep with his head on Jon’s chest.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re fucking ridiculous?” asked Jon, a remnant
of that smile still hanging in the corner of his mouth.
“Not for a few days.”
Jon looked at his watch and grimaced. “Shit, I’ve gotta get going. I have to be
back at the house for dinner.” He eyed Theon’s mug as he reached under the
table for his messenger bag. “You didn’t even drink your latte.”
Theon shrugged. “You didn’t say I had to drink it.”
As he followed Jon out of the café, Theon’s mouth went dry and his knees felt
unsteady. He opened his mouth to stammer out some kind of goodbye when Jon
said,
“Do you maybe want to go to a movie on Saturday?” He looked at Theon hopefully,
blowing a few strands of hair out of his face.
“Yeah. Sure.”
And then let’s run away together on Sunday.
“I don’t know what’s like, playing but –”
“Does it really matter?” Theon put his sunglasses on and reached into his
pocket for his cigarettes before thinking better of it.
“I guess not.”
“You got a pen or something? Let me give you my number.”
Jon rifled through his bag and handed Theon a red sharpie and a pad of Post-it
notes. Theon scribbled his number down and stuck the paper to Jon’s chest.
“So yeah – just call me whenever and I’ll come pick you up.” He followed Jon’s
gaze to his Zagato. “Is that – are you allowed?”
“You’ll have to come in and meet Mr. Aemon,” said Jon. “So like, you know,
maybe just look nice or whatever.” His eyes ran Theon up and down. “You look
good right now. I mean like, acceptable… maybe an undershirt.”
Theon ran a hand over his chest. “Not a big fan of tattoos?”
Jon swallowed. “No, I like them fine.”
Theon smirked. “I meant Mr. Aemon.”
“Oh. Yeah. Not so much. Um, and try not to swear when you meet him. And maybe,
um – maybe try not to smell like an ashtray?”
Theon scoffed and tried not to seem offended. “How should I smell?”
“I dunno. Just like, deodorant or something.”
“You’re kind of high-maintenance aren’t you?” asked Theon, amused when Jon
seemed rattled by the remark. “‘Don’t look like a skank.’ ‘Don’t smell like an
ashtray.’”
“No, but you –”
Theon laughed. “I got it, okay? I’ll pick you up Saturday in a three-piece
suit, smelling like Jesus Christ and roses. It’ll be a totally G-Rated
evening.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jon insisted.
“PG? We can kiss, but no tongue.”
Jon glowered at him.
Or I’ll just fuck you blind, if that’s what you want.
“Jon,” he laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder, felt the tension there. “I’m kidding.
Call me. I want you to call me. I’ll wear an undershirt and I won’t smell like
cigarettes and I’ll make Mr. Aemon think that I’m an upstanding young man with
no intention of corrupting your character, yeah?”
Jon bit his lip to stop another smile. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll call you.”
As Jon drove away, Theon looked down at his phone and noticed it was at half-
battery. He sped home to charge it.
*
“He’s been down here three times looking for you.”
Gendry was reclined on the hood of an old Dodge with his ankles crossed and the
funny pages draped over his lap.
Theon’s stomach tightened. “Who has?”
“The oldest one, with the curly hair.”
“Robb,” said Theon, annoyed. “Why do you act like you don’t know his name?”
Gendry looked up, frowned, and went back to the comics. “Because he can’t be
fucked to know my name.”
“He should know your name. I talk about you to him.”
Gendry sighed. “You know, if they can’t get a hold of you, they’ll make me
drive. And I really don’t want to get in that deep.”
Theon checked his phone. “Says who?”
“Says Poole.” Finished with the paper, Gendry chucked it onto the floor and
slid off the hood of the Dodge.
“That won’t happen,” said Theon. “I mean, if he needed me so bad, he would’ve
texted. Did he say what he wanted?”
“Nah.” Gendry shook his head, a knowing smile on his lips. “You know that kid
is like, completely in love with you, right?”
“He is not.”
“Whatever you say.” Then, almost as an after-thought: “Ned Stark is leaving the
North – for a while, I guess. He’s going to the capitol to work out some deal
with Rob Baratheon.”
Theon’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what?”
Gendry shrugged, as though it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “I
guess Baratheon needs him to sort some things out.”
“What kind of things? For how long?” Theon felt as though everything had tilted
on its side.
“Mob things, I guess,” replied Gendry. “But they never tell me much. I bet
that’s why Robb was asking for you; he’s about to be, y’know, the Boss or
whatever.” And he couldn’t hide a note of sympathy when he added, “I mean, he
seemed kind of freaked out.”
*
Cat was in Robb’s room when Theon opened the door; she sat on the edge of
Robb’s bed, and though there was something weary in the way her shoulders
stooped, Theon didn’t miss the sharpness in her eyes when Robb rose from his
desk chair and pulled him into a tight hug.
“Theon! Jesus Christ, where have you been?”
Theon held his hands out helplessly, never looking away from Cat as though she
might go so far as to blow his brains out right there in Robb’s arms.
“Just out.” He pulled away and realized that Robb had been crying; the whites
of his eyes were pink and his hair was matted to his temples. He glanced at Cat
again, then back at Robb. “Do you wanna talk?”
Robb sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hands. “Yeah.” He turned to
his mother. “Mom, could I – could I just hang out with Theon for a little
while?”
Cat nodded. “Your father leaves at seven tomorrow morning. I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Mrs. Stark?” ventured Theon as she brushed past.
“Theon?” The light from the hallway made Catelyn Stark look strikingly old, as
though every line on her face had deepened and settled there forever.
“Um, would it be – should I also be there, when he leaves?”
Her voice softened, but not her eyes. “It would please him.”
She closed the door, and Robb slumped back into his chair, resting his elbows
on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
“Fuck,” he sighed. He looked up at Theon through his fingers. “I’m not ready
for this.”
Theon cocked his head. “I still have like, no idea what’s going on. How long is
he staying in the capitol?”
Robb puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “We don’t know. It was his friend, Jon
Arryn – you know, he was like family to Dad. He practically raised him and Rob,
and he was working for Rob, but he, um, I guess he died a few days ago.”
“So he’s going South for the funeral?”
“No. It’s – Dad said that Rob thinks he was murdered – like, poisoned or
something. He said it was an inside job, and he has to go because he’s the only
person Rob can trust to get to the bottom of it. So he’s gone for as long as
that takes.”
Theon nodded. He knew what Robb wasn’t saying – that the capitol was a
dangerous place; Ned Stark might run the North, but in the capitol he was just
another criminal; the capitol was politics, in a way that the North wasn’t.
Theon sat on the floor with his back leaned against the bedframe. He nudged
Robb’s foot with his own.
“You’ll be fine. You’ve still got your mom, right? She knows how things run,
and she’ll take care of you.” He looked down at his sneakers. “And you’ve got
me.”
Robb smiled. “I thought… I thought maybe you’d ask me to go home.”
It had crossed Theon’s mind, of course.
“Do you think you’ve got what it takes to put a bullet between my eyes if my
dad ever turns against the Family?” He asked it with blithe tone, but they both
knew it was a serious question.
“No,” answered Robb. “But I want you here with me.” He hesitated before asking,
“Is that kind of fucked up? That I’m glad you’re here, even though –”
Theon let his head slam back against the bedframe. “I wish I could just be here
because I want to be here.”
“Theon –”
“I just can’t do this forever.”
“Just for a little while then.
***** Chapter Five *****
Chapter Summary
     Ned departs for the South and things are different, but not the way
     Theon had hoped.
It was in the first few minutes of Saturday morning that Theon woke with a jolt
to the clamor of Flint’s fist banging on his bedroom door. He felt along the
nightstand for his phone and squinted at the screen.
“Greyjoy! Get the fuck up!”
Theon threw his arm over his eyes and groaned. “What? What the fuck do you
possibly want right now?”
“We’ve got an errand. Get dressed.”
He looked at his phone again. “Seriously? Why can’t this wait until eight? It’s
fucked up to kill someone before eight a.m.”
“You think I want to be awake right now? Get your shit together and be in the
garage in ten.”
The light blinded him momentarily, and as he rifled through the pile of clothes
at the bottom of his closet, his eyes started to burn with tears. He didn’t
know why; it wasn’t as though he’d expected Ned Stark’s departure would mean
the end of his duty to the Family. He pulled on a coat and paused to blink away
that stinging feeling. His phone buzzed in his pocket; it was a text from Robb:
“Could Flint BE any more of a dick?”
Theon grinned.
*
The man had just purchased a ticket for the midnight express train to Dorne
when he was recognized by one of Ned Stark’s associates. At first, he assumed
there was a complication with his luggage, but when the station chief asked him
about the sum of money still owed to a mutual acquaintance, the man understood
that he would not be boarding this or any other train. The station chief
ordered him detained, but with no legal reason to hold him there, it was
imperative that Flint and Poole – and Theon – resolve the situation quickly.
Poole said nothing else and sipped his coffee in silence. Flint’s voice came
from the seat behind Theon:
“I hope you don’t think that just because Robb Stark is running the House, that
makes anything different for you.”
Theon glared into the rearview mirror.
“Are you jealous, Flint?” He wrenched around in his seat, keeping one hand on
the wheel. “Does it make you nervous knowing that he’s my best friend and he
tells me everything?”
“Watch the road,” interjected Poole.
Theon sneered at Flint before turning back around. “It must really burn you up
that someday I’m going to be running the fucking Iron Islands, and you’re going
to die one of Robb Stark’s goons.”
Flint grabbed the back of the driver’s seat and Theon felt Flint’s breath on
his neck. “I also hope that whenever your traitor father does decide to turn on
the Family, I get to personally end you.”
Theon laughed and tapped the brakes just hard enough the send Flint’s face into
the driver’s seat headrest. “The only person with the authority to do that
wants my cock up his ass almost as much as you want me dead.”
Probably shouldn’t’ve said that.
Poole rubbed at his temples. “Will you two just shut the fuck up? We’re almost
there; we’re about to have another person in the car, and this shit is fucking
unprofessional.”
Theon snickered.
At the station, Theon stopped smoothly outside one of the utility entrances; he
popped the trunk and kept the engine running in neutral, and after Flint and
Poole had disappeared inside, he lit up a cigarette. The platform was silent
and empty, save for a single security guard who passed in and out of the light
as he walked along the tracks. Theon wondered how close the man had been to
escaping; he imagined one foot inside the train and the strong arm of a
conductor pulling him back, saying “You need to come with me, sir.” He wondered
what kind of compensation Ned Stark’s associate would receive for his loyalty.
The door opened, and the light issuing from it was so bright that Theon
couldn’t manage a good look at the figure that Poole and Flint dragged between
them. He felt the car shift as they threw him in the trunk and slammed it shut.
“Where are we going?” Theon asked.
“We’re going to the house,” replied Poole. “Take the bridge.”
Although he was gagged, the man’s muffled screams filled the car for the first
several miles. Theon toyed with the volume of the radio, but it was still only
1.30 in the morning and there was almost nothing on.
The bridge was off a quiet, single-lane road to the east of the city, spanning
a narrow gorge along some tributary to the Mander. Theon realized he’d stopped
here once before, to take a piss; that was in the middle of the day, and he
remembered that the walls of the gorge were a charred black. But in the
moonlight, they looked almost silver. He cut the headlights as the car rolled
to a standstill alongside the rail, and he wanted to get out, to look down at
the river…
Flint and Poole lifted the man out of the trunk and onto the rail. His hands
and feet were bound with cord and Flint had to steady him into a seated
position there. Theon couldn’t make out much of the man’s face, but when Poole
removed the cloth gag, he was startled to hear a voice belonging to someone not
much older than himself.
“No, no, listen! I’ve got the money, okay? I just need three more days!” The
boy – and he was only a boy – looked frantically from Poole to Flint, and then
over his shoulder at the hundred-foot drop to the bottom of the gorge. He voice
cracked desperately. “Please, guys. Two more. Tell Stark I can have the money
in two days.”
He began to cry quietly as Poole and Flint raised their pistols, and Theon
brought his fingers to his ears. It didn’t stop the ringing sound, and when he
stepped out of the car to look over the rail, there was no sign of the boy. His
stomach lurched and when he heaved, there was nothing. He spat off the bridge,
closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the river crashing over the
boulders at the bottom.
“Greyjoy, let’s go.”
“How much money did he owe?” Theon asked, once they were back in the warm glow
of the city.
“Twenty thousand,” said Poole.
Theon wanted to ask how someone that young could possibly get in that deep, but
he didn’t want to hear whatever the answer was.
*
“Dude, get up!”
Theon didn’t remember falling asleep in the car, but when Robb started banging
on the windshield, he pulled on the lever and brought his seat upright.
“What time is it?” he asked with a yawn.
“It’s almost seven. You said you’d be there to say goodbye to Dad.”
“Shit.”
They found Arya standing on her tip-toes beside Gendry, holding a glass of
orange juice in one hand and a filthy rag in the other, while Gendry brooded
over the engine block of a Jeep. Neither of them noticed Theon and Robb
standing in the door of the shop.
“Did you fix it?” she asked.
Gendry held out his hand, and she passed him the orange juice.
“I think so. We won’t know until I drive it up a hill.”
“Can I come with you?”
“I think that’s a terrible idea,” said Robb, not noticing the nasty stare
Gendry gave him before looking to Theon as if to say, “See? What an asshole.”
Theon rolled his eyes. “We better get going.”
“Aw shit, Ary – you’ve got grease all over your face. Do you have something to
wipe this off?” He looked expectantly at Gendry, and Gendry handed him a can of
Go-Jo wipes. Robb knelt and rubbed at Arya’s cheek while she grimaced. “What
are you doing down here?”
“She was helping me out,” offered Gendry. “Handing me tools.” He raised his
glass and took a sip. “Bringing me OJ.”
“That’s sweet of you, sis,” said Robb. “But you shouldn’t bother people while
they’re working.”
Arya folded her arms. “What else am I supposed to do around this place?”
“You could learn needle-point,” said Theon. “Or paint your nails.”
Arya stomped her foot. “Fuck you!”
“Arya!” But Robb couldn’t keep a straight face, and Theon and Gendry burst out
laughing.
“Did you see them kill someone?” asked Arya as Robb shepherded her into the
elevator. “What was it like?”
Theon moaned. “Not you, too.”
“Robb, can I be a hitman when I’m older?”
Robb smiled and ruffled her hair in that way he knew she hated. “No, you cannot
be a hitwoman, ever.”
“How come?”
Theon felt anger creeping up his throat. “Because killing is dirty work, and
Starks don’t do dirty work,” he said sharply and without looking at her.
The elevator opened and Arya hurried out. Robb stopped the door open for Theon
with his foot and asked, “What the hell was that about?”
“I – I need to talk to you.”
Robb laid a hand on Theon’s shoulder, and Theon thought about Flint steadying
the boy on the rail. Robb smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes.
“After Dad leaves, yeah? First thing.”
*
The worst thing about the belt wasn’t the pain – though it did hurt bad enough
to make Theon squirm in his desk at school. It wasn’t even the humiliation of
having his bare ass bent over Ned Stark’s knee; it was the moment he realized
that it had never been used on any of the Stark children.
And the spankings themselves were nothing compared to his father’s. Ned always
waited for his anger to subside before calling Theon into his office, and he
told Theon beforehand exactly how many blows he’d be receiving and why, and
after it was over he’d kneel and rest his hands on Theon’s shoulders and ask,
“Why did this happen?”
And Theon would tell him whatever he wanted to hear.
At Pyke, it was nothing so formal, and Balon spared none of his children. Even
Asha took a licking from time to time, though not as often as Rick and Maron,
and anytime either of his brothers got beat, it was sure to trickle down to
Theon. So it hadn’t bothered him at first, when Ned laid him across his knee.
His eyes welled up at the sting of the leather, and after it was over he felt
more relieved than anything.
It had only happened three times – once shortly after his arrival for teaching
Robb to swear, once when he was eleven for smoking cigarettes, and once when he
was thirteen for deliberately pissing all over a diorama Robb had made for
English class.
After the second time, Robb had come to his room, knocking softly before
opening the door.
“Theon?”
“What?”
Theon lay on his stomach across his bed and wiped at his eyes when Robb entered
the room and sat down on the floor in front of him.
“Dad was pretty mad at you, huh?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to sit right for a day.”
Theon didn’t miss the confused squint that crossed Robb’s eyes.
“How come?”
He looked away, buried his face in the crook of his elbow. “Nevermind.”
*
The Family and the entire household lined up along the drive to bid Ned Stark
goodbye. A few men waited by the train of town-cars to accompany him to the
capitol, and Theon was dismayed to notice Jory among them, smoking a cigarette
and studiously avoiding his gaze, as usual.
Bran and Rick were teary-eyed as they bid their father goodbye. Sansa spent the
duration of an embrace begging her father to send home a dress from the
capitol. Arya jumped up and hugged him around the neck.
“Can I come visit you?” she asked.
Ned smiled. “I hope I’ll be home before you miss me,” he said, cradling her
cheek in his hand.
When Ned came to Robb, Theon toyed with the chain hanging from his belt loop.
He felt like an intruder, but Ned hardly paid him a glance as he pulled Robb
against his chest and held him firmly by the shoulders. Robb opened his mouth
to say something, but Ned cut him off:
“I know you’ll do well.”
Ned looked Theon up and down. “You’ve grown so much this past year,” he
observed, brushing a few strands of black out of Theon’s eyes. “And you look
every bit a Greyjoy.”
Theon looked at his feet, not sure what he meant by that. But it was rude to
look away for too long, and when he glanced up again, Ned was smiling at him.
And it was a warm, full smile – not the dry, curled things that passed for
smiles on the Iron Islands.
Ned cocked his head at Robb. “Do as he says, Theon, and keep him out of
trouble.”
Theon blushed. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Robb snorted and Theon glared at him.
Cat had remained stoic all morning, but as soon as Ned touched her, tears began
to roll down her cheeks and all the Stark children and Theon turned away.
*
Closing Robb’s bedroom door behind him, Theon barely had a chance to shuck his
jacket onto the floor before Robb pinned him against the wall and kissed him
desperately.
“Whoa.” Theon pushed him away, gasping. “What the fuck, dude?”
Robb’s fists were tight in Theon’s t-shirt, but his smile was shy, still
unsure.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” He bit his lip, eyes flicking hungrily to Theon’s
mouth. “Now we can – now you can have me.”
He leaned forward to suck at the spot just below Theon’s left ear, and Theon
fought to keep his eyes open. It felt good. It was sloppy and wet and full of
teeth, but it felt good enough to make Theon forget his whole shitty morning.
He let out a sharp breath when Robb rutted up against his hip, the friction of
it making him half-hard.
“Robb, please –” He felt Robb smirk against his skin. “I need to talk to you.”
Robb released his grip on Theon’s shirt and brought his hands down to grapple
with Theon’s belt.
“You are talking,” he said gruffly. “I’m trying to make you stop, but words are
definitely coming out of your mouth.”
He bit down on Theon’s earlobe and Theon hummed, trying hard to remind himself
that he didn’t want this. He put his hands on Robb’s chest, as lightly as he
could manage.
“I don’t want to drive anymore,” he said.
Robb stiffened. He took a step back and Theon could see how flushed his face
was, how his fingers trembled when he ran them through his curls.
“What?”
Theon looked down helplessly at his own body, feeling a sudden chill at the
absence of Robb’s.
“Find something else for me to do. Anything else. I’ll stay here as long as I
have to. I just don’t want to drive anymore.”
Robb frowned, and Theon knew that he was angry. But underneath that, Robb was
hurt and Theon couldn’t imagine why.
“I can’t do that,” said Robb softly, almost apologetically. “I would but – you
know how it would look to them. To my mom, to heads of the other Houses. It
would look weak. It would look like I was letting my – our friendship – get in
the way. Like you were playing me.”
“But I’m not playing you!” Theon swung his fists back into the wall, cursing
himself for thinking this might’ve gone some other way. “I’m just asking you
for something. I’ve never asked you for anything!”
Robb’s silence infuriated him. He wanted to break a window, or throw something,
or punch Robb in the mouth.
“Did you ever ask my dad to stop driving?” Robb asked finally.
“No.” And Theon knew it was hopeless.
“Why not?”
“Because he would’ve said no.”
“So why. are you asking. me?”
Theon rolled his eyes to stop them from watering, but he couldn’t control the
way his voice quavered. “Because I thought we were friends.”
“Goddamnit, Theon. We are friends! But you have to know that doesn’t mean I can
just change all the rules for you!” He reached out for Theon’s shoulder, but
Theon shifted away.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
Robb looked as though he’d been slapped. He tried again and Theon batted his
arm away violently.
“I’m fucking serious. Do not. fucking. touch. me. I swear to God, Robb, if you
were anyone else –” Theon felt his vision beginning to tunnel. “You’re always
going on about how things are going to be different, but they’re not.
Everything is still exactly the same, except instead of your dad, now it’s you
who’s going to tell me what my life is.” He gave Robb a light shove. “I’ll tell
you what my life is – it’s fucking bullshit, and sometimes I’d rather fucking
kill myself than wait around for one of you to do it.”
“Theon, don’t be an asshole. Don’t say shit like that.”
And for half a second, Theon wanted to cave. He wanted to pull Robb into him
and go on kissing and just forget the whole thing.
He would hold you. You wouldn’t even have to ask.
But instead he just stood there, shaking.
“Go to hell, Stark.”
He didn’t look behind him as he slammed the door and tore down the hall. In his
own room, he flopped down onto his bed and waited for his head to stop
pounding. He listened, hoping for Robb’s footsteps outside his door so he could
either tell him to fuck off or let him in – he wasn’t sure. But he heard
nothing.
The sky outside was overcast, and Theon had no sense of how long he lay there,
listening and wishing that Ned Stark hadn’t left. He was almost asleep when his
phone rang.
He’d been so overwhelmed – with the boy on the bridge, with Ned’s departure,
with Robb – that he’d forgotten all about Jon and he felt a sudden relief as he
remembered that there was something in his life that Robb Stark didn’t have any
say in.
“We still on for this evening? World War Z is showing at 4.”
*
“You look like shit.”
Jon’s hair was still damp when he answered the door wearing ripped black skinny
jeans and an old Ministry t-shirt. Theon frowned.
“This is literally the nicest shirt I own. And I bought new pants on the way
here.”
Jon grinned and shook his head. “Your clothes look um, great. I just meant that
you look like you’ve had a shitty day.”
“Yeah, I guess I have.” It flattered him, knowing that Jon was reading his face
so carefully. “If you let me cop a feel out of pity, I won’t be offended.”
“Jon, is this your friend?”
Theon cleared his throat when Mr. Aemon appeared in the doorway. Mr. Aemon
squinted at Theon, and if he remembered him as the boy who dropped off Jon’s
Camaro, he didn’t say so.
“Theon.” He offered his hand, but instead of shaking it, examined the tattoos
across his knuckles.
“Which of the islands are you from?”
He replied that he was from Blacktyde, that his last name was Grey and he had
moved to the mainland to study marine biology at the University. As they walked
to the car, Jon gaped at him and stopped just short of the curb.
“You want me to open the door for you or something?”
“Was any of that stuff true?” Jon asked with a trace of scorn in his voice.
“Um, no.”
Jon stared at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me your real
name. And where you’re from. And why you lied. And how you can afford this
car.”
Theon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His phone vibrated.
“Text from Robb.”
He bit his lip and opened it:
“I’m sorry.”
Jon waited for an answer, arms folded across his chest and his eyebrow raised.
“Fuck.” Theon groaned. “My real name is Greyjoy. I’m from Pyke, not Blacktyde.
I lied to Mr. Aemon because I figured that if he wouldn’t like me smoking, he
definitely wouldn’t like the fact that my dad controls the entire West Coast
drug trade. I can afford this car because it’s how my extremely rich foster
family compensates for not actually loving me one fucking ounce.”
Jon seemed to consider this for a moment before opening the door and getting in
the car. Theon was embarrassed to realize that he was ankle-deep in RedBull
cans.
“You wanna pick some music?” he asked, handing Jon his iPod.
Jon’s eyes were a mixture of awe and apprehension. “Is your dad really like, a
kingpin or whatever?”
Theon nodded and put the car into gear.
“And you’re not – you’re not a part of that? At all?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
*
By the time they arrived at the theater, his phone had gone off three more
times, each with a message from Robb:
“Where are you right now?”
“Are you with someone?”
“Please answer me.”
“Jesus, someone’s popular,” said Jon, leaned over the concessions counter to
point at the specific pretzel that he wanted.
“No. It’s all the same person.” Theon handed his debit card to the cashier,
over Jon’s objections.
“You know, Mr. Aemon gave me some money for snacks. You didn’t have to –”
“I wanted to,” said Theon. Then quieter, “I don’t like owing people things.”
Jon shrugged. “Whatever. If you wanna spoil me, I guess I can’t stop you.” He
smiled around the straw of his soda, and Theon felt that aching in his chest
again.
Going to the movies still made Theon think of Asha, even though he only really
had one memory of going to the multiplex on Pyke, and even though he couldn’t
count how many movies he and Robb had been to since then.
As soon as they had their tickets torn, Rick and Maron ducked into the theater
showing Men In Black II. Asha was a few steps behind them when she turned and
looked at Theon, standing in the center of the corridor and clutching his stub
for Scooby Doo.
“Asha!” Rick had hissed. “Come on!”
Theon remembered the way she hesitated, holding the door to the theater for a
moment before rolling her eyes and letting it swing shut.
“You can go,” Theon said. “I wouldn’t wanna see Scooby Doo if I was you.”
“What movie do you wanna see?”
Theon glanced at the promo poster for xXx, then at Asha. She must’ve been
almost thirteen – skinny and serious, with her hair cropped short under a
baseball cap.
“Um, I wanna see Triple X,” he said. “But I’m not big enough.”
Asha grabbed him by the hand – hers were always so cold – and pulled him into
the darkness of the theater. He couldn’t remember much about the movie, but he
remembered that she’d smuggled two cans of Dr. Pepper and a king size bag of
M&Ms in her Jncos.
*
His phone went off again about ten minutes into the film, and when he pressed
“Read,” he felt Jon lean into him and whisper, “Could you please just turn that
off?”
The movie was trash, but Theon spent most of its two-hour length sneaking
irritated glances at Jon. As soon as the previews ended, he started up with the
goddamn rubber bands, and Theon thought he was going to lose his shit.
Exasperated, he reached out a hand to cover Jon’s wrist, and he felt Jon tense
for a moment before twisting his hand loose just enough to twine his fingers
with Theon’s.
After that, Theon didn’t much mind what was happening in the film. He turned to
look at Jon, and Jon kept his eyes straight ahead while a little smile stole
across his lips. Jon’s hand was still chilly, but it didn’t stop Theon’s palm
from sweating and he fought the urge to wipe it across his thigh, afraid that
if he broke contact Jon might pull his hand out of reach.
*
“So what did you think?”
Theon shrugged as he started the car. The sun had set and the parking lot had
faded to a cold blue. “It was whatever.”
“Yeah, it was pretty bad.” Jon laughed, almost embarrassed.
“So why did you pick it?”
The lights started to fly by in a stream as Theon accelerated onto the freeway
and Jon put a hand on the dashboard.
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know what kind of movies you liked and I
figured that a zombie movie was the least um, like a date.” Theon raised an
eyebrow. “I mean, just in case it wasn’t a date.”
Theon upshifted and then moved his hand from the stick to give a light squeeze
on Jon’s thigh. “You’re kind of difficult, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re just very – you still don’t really trust me.”
“No, not really.” Jon stared down at Theon’s hand. “But I’m in your car with
your hand on my leg so I must really want to trust you.”
It was dark by the time the Zagato rolled up to St. Brigid’s Home for Boys, and
they’d spent the past several minutes in silence as Theon tried to piece
together a goodnight.
“Well, I’m guessing you –”
“I still don’t have to be home for another five minutes,” said Jon, looking at
his watch.
Theon’s heart accelerated. He unbuckled his seatbelt and set the parking brake,
and when he leaned over to kiss Jon he was aware that everything was about to
get terribly complicated. And somehow knowing that made it even sweeter when
Jon surged forward, his teeth colliding with Theon’s, his hands shaking as he
tried to disengage his own buckle.
Theon held Jon’s jaw between his thumb and forefinger, pulled back just enough
to breathe “Relax,” before pushing Jon gently against the seat, reaching down
to undo the seatbelt for him. Jon swallowed, audibly.
Theon closed his eyes. He focused on the heat of Jon’s mouth, the taste of
candy and salt and the almost modest little whine he gave, the coolness of
Jon’s hands slipping up under his jacket and along his sides –
“Don’t.”
Too late, Theon tried to push Jon’s hands away, but Jon’s dark eyes were
already wide with alarm and curiosity as he hooked his fingers over the strap
of Theon’s holster and gave a tug.
“What the fuck…”
Theon sighed and fell back into the driver’s seat. He clutched at his gun
through the fabric of his shirt, and for the first time wished it wasn’t there.
Assuming he’d blown his chance, he waited for the sound of Jon’s door opening.
Instead, he felt cool fingers gripping the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Are you ever gonna tell me the truth about anything?”
“Truth is that I like you enough to say almost anything.”
Without warning, Jon climbed over the center console and into his lap, hardly
missing a beat as he reached down to recline the driver’s seat as far as it
would go. He cast a nervous glance at the house before his lips were on Theon’s
neck, one hand braced against the door while the other slipped up under Theon’s
shirt, over his ribs, until it settled again on the pistol. Theon tried not to
move – the pressure of Jon’s ass against his crotch was unbearable in light of
Jon’s imminent curfew, and while Jon might be loudly sucking a mark onto
Theon’s throat, he was a good boy, after all, and he would never make Mr. Aemon
worry and Theon couldn’t understand how that somehow made the whole thing even
more arousing.
“I want you to take me shooting,” said Jon. He placed a maddeningly chaste kiss
at the corner of Theon’s mouth. “Next time we go out.”
“This is really not fucking fair,” choked Theon, his fingers digging into Jon’s
thighs.
Jon smirked and again checked his watch. “I have to go,” he said earnestly.
Don’t go, Theon wanted to say. Please.
“Will you teach me to shoot?”
Theon nodded helplessly. “Yeah. Okay.”
Just keep touching me.
Jon grinned and kissed him one last time before he exited the car through the
driver’s side door. Theon righted his seat and watched Jon stall outside the
house to straighten his shirt and take a deep breath, unable to resist a final
glance at Theon before he went inside.
*
The Stark mansion was strangely quiet when Theon arrived home; even Gendry’s
shop was silent and dark.
He passed Robb’s bedroom on the way to the shower, the blue light of the TV
flickering from beneath the door. He thought about knocking, but his blood was
still running high from kissing Jon, and he didn’t want Robb thinking that
everything was back to normal, whatever normal even meant between them.
Once he’d taken off his shirt, Theon stood in front of the mirror, looking at
his holster and prodding at the purple mark Jon had left on his throat. The
water was almost too hot when he stepped into the shower, and he groaned as the
heat seeped all the way to the bone. He emptied the last of the conditioner
into his palm and wrapped his fingers around his cock, leaning back against the
cool tile and imagining an alternate evening in which Jon didn’t care if he was
a few minutes late and wasn’t above letting Theon fuck him right there in the
car in front of the group home. He imagined that soft, serious mouth around
him, that wild, black hair between his thighs.
Theon brought his left hand up to drag his nails across his chest. His head
fell back against the wall, his eyes just drifting closed when the shower
curtain was suddenly torn open and there stood Robb Stark, regarding Theon with
something bordering on wonder. He was naked, his face and chest already flushed
with the heat of the steam filling the room.
“Don’t stop,” he said, eyes trailing down to Theon’s erection and then back up
to his face.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Theon resisted the impulse to cover his crotch with
his hands. He turned off the water and folded his arms, watching in disbelief
as Robb ignored him and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed
behind him. “Seriously, I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but
get out.”
Robb reached around Theon and turned the water back on; it was nearly scalding,
but Theon forced himself to endure it, unmoving.
“You didn’t text me back,” said Robb, genuinely hurt. He pursed his lips and
drew his fingertips over Theon’s tattoo – the pirate ship that covered the left
half of his chest. “I was worried.” His touch moved up along Theon’s neck and
lingered on the bruise there. Robb’s gaze darkened. “Who is it?” he asked.
Theon grabbed Robb’s wrist and held it. “Nobody.”
“Was it the guy who works on the cars?”
Theon snorted. “Gendry? No. It was nobody you know.”
Just your brother.
He was used to Robb being horny and desperate, but something about Robb being
jealous made Theon uneasy. His brain told him to leave, just get out of the
shower and lock himself in his room. He didn’t want this, whatever it was. But
when the space between them disappeared, Robb’s chest was hard and slick
against him, and Robb’s free hand was between his legs, the touch oddly
tentative despite its brashness.
“You know I’d – I’d do anything you wanted, right?” Robb’s eyes were searching
him, and Theon understood that what he meant was, “Why not me?”
“Yeah, anything except let me stop driving. Anything except let me go home.”
Theon gasped when Robb sank his teeth into the flesh of his shoulder and he
dropped his hold on Robb’s wrist. “You just keep on fucking texting me like a
little fucking girl.” He reached out to steady himself. “Can’t take a fucking
hint.”
Robb pulled back to fix him with a glare, and Theon immediately regretted his
words. The hurt in Robb’s eyes turned to something hard and heavy.
“I want you to fuck me, Greyjoy, or I’ll say that you did.”
He leaned in once more to lay a line of kisses along the muscles of Theon’s
neck.
“What?” Theon felt dizzy.
Robb nipped at Theon’s ear. “Fuck me, or I’ll tell my mom that you fucked me.”
“Robb –”
“Hhhmmm?” Robb hummed against Theon’s throat, held him against the wall of the
shower.
“It doesn’t have to be me. You could have anyone else. Anyone you wanted.”
Robb had to stretch to press his forehead to Theon’s, and for a moment the
world was eclipsed by a pair of bright blue irises, wire-thin around gaping
black pupils. Robb frowned, as though it offended him that Theon thought he’d
offer himself up to just anyone.
“I only want you.”
The kiss was gentle at first, and Theon was ashamed of the tiny sound he made.
Robb grinned and gave a sharp tug on Theon’s hair, pushed his tongue into
Theon’s mouth. Theon felt as though he was suffocating – from the heat of the
water, from the crush of Robb’s lips, from the back-and-forth of his brain,
reminding him of Jon, reminding him of what this really was, and yet – when
Robb sank to his knees to take Theon into his mouth – praying that it didn’t
stop.
And it wasn't even that great - Robb was clearly out of his depth here - but
when Theon looked down and saw those eager eyes looking back at him, there was
no denying that he wanted this, had always wanted this and might as well make
the most of Robb's eagerness. Theon pulled back on Robb’s curls, brought the
boy roughly to his feet and ripped the shower curtain open. He didn’t bother
turning off the water as he hauled Robb out of the shower and kissed him
breathless before spinning him around and pinning him up against the sink,
wrapping an arm around Robb’s chest to hold him by the throat, moaning softly
when his cock pressed against the cleft of Robb’s ass.
Robb gazed at his reflection in the mirror; his eyelashes fluttered as Theon
bit down on the back of his neck.
“Fuck.”
Theon gripped Robb’s left shoulder and bent him forward so forcefully that Robb
had to fight for a hold on the marble counter-top to keep his face from
smashing into the faucet. Theon spit into his palm, slicked it over the head of
his cock as Robb twisted to look at him.
“Wait, aren’t you going to –”
It took all Robb’s strength not to scream – Theon could tell by the way his
knuckles went white and by the way he held his breath for nearly a minute. And
God, all that tension felt fucking incredible. Theon slid his right hand over
Robb’s hip, held him in place as he withdrew almost completely before burying
himself again, drawing a choked sob from Robb’s throat.
“Theon, please –”
He tangled his fingers in Robb’s hair and yanked back on it violently, pulling
Robb’s face up to the mirror and locking eyes with his reflection. He leaned
forward until his lips brushed Robb’s ear.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked through clenched teeth, punctuating the
question with another deep thrust.
Robb bit his lip and nodded, despite the tears cascading down his cheeks.
It lasted less than a minute. Theon came without a sound, his mouth open and
eyes shut tight as he spilled into Robb and then stayed there, frozen for a
moment as Robb finally broke down, shoulders trembling as he cried and clutched
at the edges of the sink to keep himself upright. Theon hesitated before
pulling out, wondering if it would be wrong to kiss Robb now, or to say
something. Instead, he quickly wrapped a towel around his waist and left. He
stopped outside the door and listened until he heard Robb step back into the
shower and close the curtain, even though the water must’ve long since gone
cold.
*
The morning after he arrived in Winterfell, Theon came down for breakfast to
find a boy with auburn hair and big blue eyes gorging himself on a stack of
pancakes and willfully ignoring his sister as she squealed at him from her
high-chair.
Theon eyed the pancakes, suddenly ravenous but unsure of whether he was allowed
to eat. The boy with blue eyes looked up at him and licked the syrup off his
lips before asking, “Who are you? Are you the Iron Boy?”
Theon nodded, resolved to be cold and distant, like a true Islander. Like his
father. “Yes. My name is Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke and
–”
“I’m Robb,” said Robb, offering up a sticky hand.
Theon stared doubtfully at Robb’s little hand, then at the pile of pancakes.
His stomach gurgled.
“You must be hungry!” Robb hopped off his chair to find a plate and fork for
Theon. “Have some of these pancakes. Our cook makes them the best.”
He prepared to act as though the pancakes he ate at Pyke were superior, to
pretend as though he was barely managing to swallow this… this greenlander
filth, but when he bit down into the warm, fluffy cake, he closed his eyes and
hummed at its sweetness. When he opened them again, Robb had a big, sunny grin
on his face, and Theon was powerless.
***** Chapter Six *****
Chapter Summary
     Theon feels lonely, Roose knows why and Jon knows lots of things.
Chapter Notes
     Vinylacetat requested a mix for this fic, but truth be told it's
     still coming along and is surprisingly poppy. So instead, here's my
     go-to Reek's_Mix.
     I hope y'all trust me when I saw that this fic does have a very
     definite destination.
A part of him hoped it was a dream, but when Robb didn’t come down for
breakfast and then took his lunch in the study, Theon knew that he had –
His mind recoiled from putting too fine a label on whatever it was he had done.
What he wanted you to do, he insisted weakly, shutting his eyes to blot out the
image of Robb’s hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the sink.
As the day wore on, he tried to plan what he ought to say to Robb, and his
thoughts bounced wildly from guilty apologies to defensive rationalizations to
flip dismissals and he found himself muttering them aloud. Occasionally, he
thought about Jon and the cloud of guilt grew to encompass Robb and his
brother; it made Theon feel ill, for reasons he struggled to avoid. He’d done
nothing to Jon, but he knew that Jon would be hurt if ever found out that Theon
had –
What, cheated?
He was unused to the implications of the word.
In the afternoon, Theon glimpsed Robb walking toward the elevator with a
definite, pained hitch his gait. He thought about hurrying to catch up but
stopped mid-stride when a quiet voice asked,
“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
Theon spun with a start, and he couldn’t be sure if Roose Bolton actually
looked entertained, or if it was only a projection of his own tasteless
amusement.
“To do with what?” he asked, as though he hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
Roose raised an eyebrow. “I just met with him for an hour, and his discomfort
was apparent. I don’t think he sat still for more than a minute.”
Theon looked at his feet.
“Have you met my bastard?” asked Roose. He began to walk down the hall,
summoning Theon with a glance to follow.
“Ramsay?” Theon almost said, before replying more wisely: “No, I haven’t.”
Roose pressed the downward arrow and fixed Theon with a stare that was at once
critical and terribly indifferent.
“He would enjoy you. You’d do well to avoid him.”
“I heard he’s –” Theon hesitated. “I heard he’s like, very good at his job.”
The elevator chimed as it arrived, and Roose held the door open with long,
steely fingers.
“That’s very tactful of you, Master Greyjoy.”
Theon stepped into the elevator, looking at Roose and then at his own burnished
reflection in the steel of the wall. “Why do you call me that? Nobody else
calls me that.”
“Do you dislike it?”
“No,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think so.” Roose directed the elevator to the Ground Floor, and
waited until it began its descent to continue. “I told Ned Stark once that you
were welcome at the Dreadfort, seeing as he already had three children to look
after and I had only my son. I was disappointed when he declined, but in
hindsight, it was clearly for the best – Ramsay would’ve grown too attached to
let you return home.”
Theon did his best to appear unfazed by this information, though he wondered
why Ned had never thought it worth mentioning, and why Bolton had decided to
bring it up at all.
“The Stark boy is obviously fond of you.” Roose observed Theon’s face closely.
“I mentioned your name and he blushed, even as he tried to conceal his pain.”
Theon tried to quash the heat rising in his face. It offended him to hear his
friend talked about so indelicately. And underneath that, it turned him on to
imagine Roose Bolton toying with Robb, causing him to shift uncomfortably in
his father’s chair and go red remembering the way he’d gasped when Theon spent
inside him…
“I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled. “I would never hurt Robb.”
The elevator lurched to a stop, but Theon’s stomach seemed to keep dropping.
Roose exited into the foyer with that eerie, barely-there smile on his lips.
“Of course not,” he said.
The doors glided closed between them, and Theon was left standing alone in the
elevator, not quite understanding how he got there.
*
He didn’t see Robb again for a week, and although he nearly convinced himself
he didn’t care – for he often went a week or two without seeing Ned – he was
overpowered by how quiet his world was without Robb’s voice, how dim the days
felt without a single laugh or smile from his friend.
Slowing his pace outside Robb’s office, Theon heard Cat’s voice, laden with
worry:
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy,” replied Robb, plainly tired. Theon heard the sound of papers
shuffling, a chair sliding against the floor.
“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” she said. “Even Theon.”
“I have not been avoiding him.” Robb must’ve sensed the anxiety in his tone,
because he sighed heavily before adding, “Or you. Or anyone. I’m just really
stressed out right now, okay?”
“Did you meet with Roose Bolton this week?”
“Mom, please don’t act like I can’t –”
Theon hurried away.
*
The car in the shop was old, a plain sedan that Theon didn’t remember driving.
Gendry sat in the back seat with a beer in one hand and his feet up on the
headrest.
“Now look for the ignition wire – it’s probably brown.”
Theon was dismayed to find Arya crouched down in the driver’s seat, so focused
on the wires in the steering column that she didn’t bother looking up at him.
He’d been hoping to talk with Gendry, though knowing that he couldn’t tell the
truth, he had no idea what exactly he’d hoped to say.
“Hey,” said Gendry. He slid out of the car and cracked his neck. “You want a
beer?”
Theon’s shoulders fell slightly. “Yeah, sure.”
“Go for it.” Gendry nodded toward a small, red cooler on his workbench and
turned his attention back to Arya.
The can was barely cold but Theon opened it anyway.
“So, you’re letting Arya mess with my life and livelihood, huh?”
“This car is mine.” Gendry shrugged. “It’s just a junker that I fuck around on
sometimes.”
“Gendry’s teaching me how to hotwire!” Arya exclaimed.
Theon rolled his eyes. “Robb’s gonna love that,” he said, sipping at his beer.
“Whatever,” replied Gendry, softly enough that Arya wouldn’t hear. “It’s not
like he’ll notice it, probably. Besides, she’s cool.”
“I thought you thought they were all batshit.”
Gendry grinned impishly and whispered, “They are all batshit. But she brings me
orange juice.”
Theon smiled and shook his head. “I was hoping to catch you alone. I’ve been
wanting to tell you about all the shit that’s been happening to me lately.”
Gendry leaned closer.
“And I wanted to tell you about this dude that I’m, um –”
“What do I do now?” called Arya.
“Did you find the ignition wire?” Gendry crushed his empty can against the
workbench and tossed it into an overflowing trash barrel.
“Yeah.”
“Did you strip it?”
Arya’s head popped out of the car. “Yes, I stripped it,” she said impatiently.
“Then touch it together with the red ones.” He turned back to Theon and opened
his mouth to speak, but she interrupted again:
“Could you like, watch for two seconds?” she demanded. “You know, in case I
fucking electrocute myself?”
“Where did you pick up this language?”
Arya rolled her eyes and sneered at Theon. “Well, if my mom asks, I’ll just say
I picked it up from you.”
“Okay, we’re watching. Jesus Christ.”
Gendry ambled back to the car and leaned against the frame. Arya clasped the
two wires, her face set into a focused frown as she delicately tapped them
together and the car spluttered to life. The ignition sounded almost anemic,
but she smiled broadly and high-fived Gendry before fixing Theon with a haughty
glare.
“Bravo,” said Theon flatly.
Gendry ducked into the car and killed the engine. Turning back to Theon, he
asked, “So, what was it you wanted to tell me about this guy?”
He and Arya both looked at Theon expectantly, brown and blue eyes waiting for
something funny and nasty to come out of his mouth.
“Um, well, I just – it’s nothing in particular. I mean, he’s –” Theon rubbed at
the back of his neck.
Adorable. Awesome. Fucking gorgeous.
“Nevermind.”
Gendry looked startled. “What, aren’t you going to describe in extremely
graphic detail how this guy like, blew you and got cum in his hair, or can only
get off by wearing a dog collar and barking or some shit like that?”
Theon feigned a chuckle and shook his head. “Nah. It’s not that interesting,
really. I don’t know why I even brought it up.”
“Lame,” scoffed Arya.
“Most lame,” agreed Gendry.
“Fine.” Arya stood and wiped her hands on her thighs. “I didn’t want to hear
you talk about boys anyway.” Gendry hid his smile behind a new beer can, and
she continued with a sly tone. “Hey Theon – now that my dad’s not around, will
you teach me to shoot a gun?”
“Is that all we are to you?” asked Gendry, placing a hand over his heart in a
maudlin gesture.
“Please?”
Theon sighed; it wasn’t as though he had anything else to pass the time, and
even though Robb wasn’t speaking to him, he was pretty sure Robb wouldn’t
really care… And besides, it wouldn’t hurt to practice teaching someone the
basics again.
“I’ll let you fuck around with the bow-and-arrow,” he conceded. “If you can
land ten shots with that, I’ll teach you how to hold a pistol, yeah?”
Arya ran off toward the armory and Theon clapped Gendry on the shoulder,
leaning in to say, “Be careful getting close to them.”
*
The first time Theon forgot that he was a hostage, he was ten years old. It had
been raining all day, and the sky outside was black and heavy; he and Robb were
building a blanket fort in the TV room when the power went out. Robb shrieked
and pulled Theon into him hard enough to collapse the entire thing, and Theon
was furious, but Robb laughed and held onto him, so tightly that he could feel
Robb’s heart racing.
*
Jon insisted on driving.
“I mean, I’ve got this fancy car, and this, um –” He motioned at Theon.
“Hottie? Sex god? Totally bangable older gentleman?”
Jon scowled. “– This totally disgusting lech.” The corners of his mouth turned
up slightly. “So I guess I should show them off, right?”
“Yeah, but like, can’t I drive? That way you can enjoy the ride.”
“But then it looks like it’s your car and I’m your –”
Theon quirked an eyebrow and watched Jon flounder for a moment. “You’re my
what?”
After five more minutes of arguing, Theon capitulated and sank sulkily into the
passenger’s seat of the Camaro. After a few miles, during which Jon asked him
three times to please stop fidgeting with the door-locks, Theon grudgingly
admitted to himself that Jon was a competent – if exasperatingly conservative –
driver. The boy wore black, as usual. He had on a shitty pair of Ray-Bans, and
when he rolled down the window, his hair whipped around into a wild, tangled
mess.
“What?” he asked, smiling.
“What?” echoed Theon, glancing away.
“You were staring at me.”
“Sorry.”
Theon gazed out the window. Slowly, the high, irregular spines of the city
skyline diminished into the neat little rows of suburbia.
I had sex with someone, a little voice wanted to blurt. I didn’t mean to.
But I wanted to.
“Do you?”
Theon turned back to Jon, dazed.
“Do I what?”
“Do you remember very much about Pyke?” repeated Jon. He placed his hand on the
black leather of the bench seat, and Theon noticed he’d painted his nails a
dark, iridescent purple.
“Not really,” said Theon quietly, weaving his fingers loosely with Jon’s as he
was sure it was what Jon intended. “I mean, I could tell you what it looks like
– sort of – but I don’t have a ton of actual memories of it. There’s like, bits
and pieces, but I couldn’t tell you what road leads to my house. Or the name of
the school I went to. But I remember that I used to know all that. I remember
remembering, if that makes sense.”
Jon nodded. “Do you think you’re gonna go back there ever?”
“Yeah. Someday.”
“You know, the other guys at home like to talk about their families. Or what
they’re gonna do when they turn eighteen, where they’re gonna go. But I have no
idea.” He paused before adding, “I’m fucking terrified.”
Theon was struck by the bluntness of the words, and he squeezed Jon’s hand.
“Those guys are just fronting. I bet they’re lying awake at night, scared
shitless.”
Jon sighed. “I know. It’s just – it’s kind of a fishbowl sometimes.”
“What do you wanna do when you leave?”
“I dunno.” Jon bit his lip. “I mean, I know it’s like, crazy and I’m not
actually asking or anything, but maybe – you know, if nothing works out – maybe
I could come stay with you?”
Theon felt a little lightheaded at the thought.
*
The shooting range was busy when Jon slid into a parking space near the back of
the lot, and Theon had sprinted up to the kiosk to reserve one of a couple
remaining lanes. It was an outdoor range and the weather was unusually warm;
Theon paused to feel the sun against his cheeks and to inhale the smell of the
pines that lined the backstop behind the targets.
“So living in a boys’ home…”
Jon looked up from the clip he was loading and raised an eyebrow. “What about
it?”
“I mean, you like boys, yeah?”
“Yeah, I guess. So?”
Theon shrugged and struggled to keep a straight face. “So like, if I was you
I’d pretty much be boning like, everyone there.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not me then.”
Theon laughed, then leaned forward and asked in a low, licentious voice,
“Seriously though, you’ve never like, messed around with any of the other
guys?”
Jon handed the clip to Theon, his face settling into a frown as he watched
Theon slide it into the pistol and double-check the safety. Theon pretended not
to notice and waited patiently for an answer as Jon gave a single, hard snap on
the rubber band around his wrist.
“Once. Just, um, just kissing though.” Seeing Theon open his mouth to ask for
details, Jon added, “That’s all I’m going to say about it. It didn’t – it
didn’t mean anything.”
And Theon could tell that it was still a sore memory, and that Jon had to be
told that it didn’t mean anything. He moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with
Jon and held the pistol between them. It was a Glock – nothing showy – and
Theon paused for a second to enjoy the familiar feel of it. It had been a
birthday gift to himself, one that Ned had hesitantly approved.
“So – obviously – never point it at yourself or anyone. Even when you don’t
think it’s loaded.” He ignored the disdainful look on Jon’s face and continued.
“This is the safety switch. On. Off. When you’re ready to fire, you’re going to
pull back on the slide, and that will chamber the first round. It’s a light
gun, but the kick isn’t awful. It helps to stand with your left foot forward,
and don’t lock your elbows. Your left hand should be like this.” He pointed the
pistol downrange and wrapped his left-hand fingers loosely around his right,
then lay the pistol down on the bench. “Any questions?”
Jon pulled his earmuffs on, pausing to disentangle them from his hair. “Yeah,
aren’t you going to like, use this as an opportunity to stand uncomfortably
close and put your arms around me?”
Theon was horrified by the feeling of a full-on blush suffusing his cheeks.
“Um, only if you want.”
Jon smirked as he turned and walked onto the range, and Theon wondered how such
a complete goddamned virgin could lay him bare like that.
The targets he’d picked up at the store were life-sized zombie illustrations,
and Theon’s mouth dropped open as Jon emptied the clip straight into the head,
the shots clustered so tightly that the entire face tore away.
“Jesus Christ.”
Jon smiled almost sheepishly as he ejected the clip into his hand. He blew a
few strands of hair out of his face. “That was pretty good, huh?”
“That was, um – how did you –” Theon stammered. “You asked me to teach you to
shoot…?”
“Yeah. And you did.”
Theon was verging on angry. He’d assumed Jon would need, well, instruction and
now he felt acutely embarrassed and convinced that Jon was mocking him.
“What the fuck game are you playing with me right now?”
Jon frowned and narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Theon pointed rigidly at the target. “I mean where the fuck did you learn to do
that, and why the fuck did you ask me to bring you out here, acting like you’d
never fired a gun before in your life when you’ve clearly –”
“I have never fired a gun in my life,” interrupted Jon. “Just, you know, BB
guns and airsoft guns and one time I got to go paintballing on my birthday.”
Theon wavered. “They let you have a BB gun at the group home?”
He’d been so nonplussed that he didn’t notice Jon had already reloaded the
clip, and now held the Glock out to him and said softly, “It was a privilege I
earned. That’s all. I never shot a real gun though. I thought it would be fun.”
Without a word, Theon slid his earmuffs back up and walked out onto the range
to unload into the center mass of the target. The confirmation of his own
slightly superior accuracy calmed him, and when he returned to the shelter, he
smiled, to Jon’s obvious relief.
“I’m sorry,” they said in unison, and both began laughing.
“You’re really good,” Theon admitted, feeling on top again when he saw the way
Jon flushed and looked at his toes. “I just – I really wasn’t expecting it and
I just felt kind of dumb.”
“Why?” Jon looked at Theon, then at the target. “You’re really good, too.”
Theon rubbed at the back of his neck. “I just wanted to impress you, I guess.”
Jon cocked his head, amused. “I’m sure you’ll think of some other way to
impress me,” he said, pushing his hair behind his ear.
Before he had time to think, Theon had grabbed Jon by the front of his shirt
and pulled him into a hard kiss. Jon let out a small gasp and then closed his
eyes; the pistol hung in his grip, forgotten as Theon bit and sucked at his
bottom lip, one hand wrapped around the back of Jon’s neck, the other pressed
against his chest. Jon’s mouth was so soft, and it made Theon ache.
He pushed Jon’s back up against one of the concrete columns of the shelter, and
when Theon pulled away to catch his breath, Jon’s cheeks were a deep red.
“Can we go soon?” Jon tugged at Theon’s t-shirt, staring glassy-eyed at the
Jolly Roger that peeked out on the skin beneath the collar.
Theon grasped Jon’s jaw in his left hand and tilted it up to expose the length
of Jon’s pale throat, grinning at the way Jon’s eyelashes fluttered before
leaning in to lick a slow stripe from his Adam’s apple to his ear. He felt
Jon’s hips jerk forward, felt himself going hard from the pressure –
“You faggots need to start shooting or get off the goddamned lane.”
Theon wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and turned his head to fix the
speaker with the kind of indolent smirk reserved especially for anyone who
flung that particular word at him.
There were two of them – a man and a boy a little older than Jon – standing on
the walkway behind the shelter, waiting for the lane to open up. The boy looked
at Theon and then glanced away quickly. The man who’d spoken – clearly the
boy’s father – had his arms folded across his broad chest and made no effort to
disguise the repulsion on his square, sun-reddened face.
Situations like this one amused Theon, who couldn’t even recall the first time
he’d been called a fag, undoubtedly by Rick or Ron. By the time he was old
enough to realize what it actually meant, he’d also realized that it was
actually true.
He had half a mind to just carry on kissing Jon and leave them there gaping,
and he’d opened his mouth to say something about the fact that he’d paid for
the lane for the next twenty minutes and if he wanted to spend that time with
his tongue down Jon’s throat then they were welcome to stay and watch, but
before he could begin, Jon had pulled away from him and gracefully brought the
pistol up to point it surely at the man who had uttered the slur.
Theon felt dizzy all of a sudden.
“The fuck did you just say?” asked Jon, so calmly that it almost sounded like
an honest question.
The boy instinctively grabbed the sleeve of his father’s shirt.
“Dad –”
It was like a spell, the way the man’s entire demeanor changed. He put an arm
out to push his son behind him and held the other hand out towards Jon. About
eight feet separated the man’s heart from the barrel of the gun, and Theon
tried frantically to remember if it was loaded. He didn’t think so, but he
wouldn’t have bet his life on it.
“What are you, fucking crazy?” he breathed.
“Jesus, son, I’m – I didn’t mean anything by it.” The man’s voice was gentle,
straining to remain even.
“Well then why did you say it?”
Everything came to an abrupt stop, and Theon felt something strange happening
as he looked at the Glock – so steady in Jon’s hands – and the man whose eyes
were dazed by the absurdity of the escalation: in his mind’s eye, he saw the
faces of the thirteen men whose executions he’d been party to, saw his own face
as he watched and then looked away.
“Jon –” he managed weakly.
“I just wanted to bring my son out to the range today. I – I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have said it.”
“You had no right to say it.”
“Jon, put the gun down.” Theon’s head was pounding. “Jesus Christ, Jon,
please.”
Jon remained still as a statue, until Theon’s words found their mark. He
finally lowered the pistol and passed it unblinkingly to Theon, who nearly
fainted with relief to find that it wasn’t loaded. He holstered it immediately
and began grabbing up the remaining ammunition from the bench, fingers shaking
and sending a few rounds rolling into the dirt. Theon didn’t care. He only
wanted to leave.
Jon’s eyes stayed fixed on the man and his son, and still no one moved besides
Theon. He took Jon’s hand in his and squeezed.
“Come on,” he pleaded softly. “Jon, let’s get out of here? You want to go –
let’s go.”
Jon blinked rapidly as though emerging from a trance and looked apologetically
at Theon.
“Yeah, okay.”
Theon’s hand was clammy with sweat as he pulled Jon past the man and the boy,
walking as fast as he could towards the parking lot. He didn’t need to look
over his shoulder to know that they were staring after him.
*
They didn’t speak in the car and somehow ended up at a Sonic, where Theon
ordered an Oreo Blast.
“Do you want something?” he asked.
“Um, yeah. Just a root-beer float.” He reached again for Theon’s hand, but when
Theon pulled away he resorted to snapping at his rubber band. “Theon, I’m
sorry.”
Theon rubbed at the leather of his wallet. “Is that the first time anyone’s
called you a fag?”
“Theon, look at me.” When he did, Jon smiled at him hopefully. “Do you think
it’s the first time?”
“You pointed a fucking gun at the guy.” He fought to stave off the tears that
began to form. His hands shook as he pulled his debit card from his wallet.
“You could’ve gone to fucking jail for that. You scared the fucking shit out of
me.”
Jon looked ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I just – it still pisses me off.
I wouldn’t have – you know that, right?”
Theon didn’t answer.
The car-hop arrived at Theon’s window and passed him the two cups. He ate a
spoonful of ice cream, and the sweetness of it relaxed him. He glanced over at
Jon, who was having some trouble trying to suck soft-serve through a straw, and
Theon smiled in spite of the tightness that still gripped his stomach. This
wasn’t one of Ned Stark’s men – this was only Jon Snow, who actually liked him,
who seemed to care about him, who had no interest in hurting him.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure that guy is gonna drop dead of a
heart-attack when he finds out his kid is queer.”
Jon looked startled. “You know him?”
“No.” Theon shrugged and licked the back of his spoon. “I could just tell by
the way he looked at me.” Then, feeling more confident by the second, he added,
“If I met that kid at a party, he’d have my dick in his mouth inside thirty
minutes.”
“Is that what you thought the first time you saw me?” asked Jon, his eyes
flitting downward as soon as they met Theon’s.
Unsure which answer would offend Jon the least, Theon hesitated. “No,” he said
after a beat. “I just wanted to know you is all.”
“So you didn’t want me to suck your dick?”
Jon didn’t bother trying to hide his delight when Theon groaned and threw up
his hands.
“Jesus Christ, what do you want me to say here?”
“I dunno. I guess I want to know why me, when you could have anyone?”
Theon bit his lip, bothered by the way his thoughts kept circling back to Jon’s
father.
“I’ve never had anyone all to myself before… That and like, you looked like you
could probably use a good, hard fuck.” He grinned and reached out to run his
thumb over the curve of Jon’s mouth. “Thought maybe I could loosen this frown
up a little bit.”
Jon tried not smile, but Theon saw the opportunity to push his thumb between
Jon’s lips and along the edge of his teeth. “You’re such an asshole,” said Jon.
When the car-hop returned and Theon opened his wallet to replace his card, Jon
snatched the whole thing away from him, slipping Theon’s ID out of its
transparent cell.
“This says you're twenty-one. Is this - this is a fake!” Jon seemed
unexpectedly excited by this, and he flipped the card over and back again,
squinting at it and tilting it in the sunlight. “This is a really good fake.”
Theon made a grab for it. “Yeah, and it wasn’t cheap. Give it back.” Jon
ignored him and bit the corner of the plastic. “Seriously, what the fuck are
you even doing? Can I please have my ID now?”
“This is a nice picture of you,” said Jon, holding the ID up at eye-level to
compare the smirk in the photo to the smirk on Theon’s face before handing it
over. “How much was it?”
“More than your group home allowance for a whole year,” muttered Theon, shoving
it back into his wallet.
“Could you – could you get me one?” Jon looked at him hopefully.
Theon sighed. “You know that’s a felony, right? What do you need a fake for
anyway? I’ll just buy you whatever.”
“Would you buy me a fake ID? From the same place you got yours?”
“What for?”
Jon resumed stirring at his float. “Have you heard of The Dungeon?”
“Yeah, it’s a nightclub.”
“It is the only industrial music venue in the entire state,” said Jon
fervently. “And I’ve always wanted to go, but it’s 18+. Please? You could take
me. It would be so much fun, I promise.”
Theon rolled his eyes, but of course he had already given in. And how could he
not with those big dark eyes staring at him, and that perfect mouth imploring
him, and was Jon fucking batting his eyelashes?
Whipped. You are so totally whipped. And you haven’t even seen him with his
shirt off.
*
Theon always wondered what kind of sex talk Robb got from his father; he
suspected it was vastly different – though no less uncomfortable – than the one
he received from Ned when he was thirteen.
Ned had called him into the office and spent about five minutes silently
arranging a stack of envelopes and clearing his throat before finally folding
his hands across the top of his desk and saying, “Theon, I think it’s about
time we had a discussion.”
Theon groaned; being shot in the face and sent back to Pyke on ice seemed
preferable to this.
Ned took a deep breath and continued. “Would I be… hrrmm, would I be mistaken
in believing that you um – that your primary interest – that is, sexually
speaking – is in… other boys?”
“Excuse my language, but um – are you asking if I want to fuck guys, sir?”
The expression that crossed Ned’s face flowed seamlessly from anger into relief
into amusement. Theon felt a different relief, and a gratitude that this
conversation was happening here in the North with Ned Stark and not on the Iron
Islands with his own father, who – if he ever suspected such a thing about any
of his sons – would’ve seen a beating as the only appropriate remedy.
“Would I be wrong to ask that?”
“No,” replied Theon carefully. His hair was long, past his shoulders back then,
and he was glad to hide behind it.
Ned proceeded to ask a catalogue of questions – each more horrifying than the
last – about whether Theon had ever “experimented” – What am I, a scientist? –
with other boys. Had he ever masturbated? Duh. Did he have a crush on anyone at
school? Did he know about HIV? Did he know how to use a condom? Had anyone ever
asked him to have sex, give a blow job, etc. etc.? He would’ve found Ned’s
unprecedented discomfiture hilarious if he wasn’t equally put off by having to
endure such a line of questioning.
When it was over, Ned asked if he had any questions and Theon thought for a
moment before forcing himself to blurt, “Um, yeah: why is my dick weird?”
Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. “What? How is it weird?”
Theon turned a deep red. “I mean, it looks different than, um, everyone
else’s.”
(“It’s big,” one boy had marveled during gym class change-out.
“It’s funny looking,” said another.)
“Oh. That. Here in the North, most boys are um, circumcised when they’re
babies. It’s – it’s the surgical removal of the foreskin, which you still have.
There’s nothing wrong with your – there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Oh. Okay.”
It was so awful, and naturally Theon had to recount every word of it to Robb,
leaving out the part about being interested in boys, of course. Even now – six
years later – the fact that he’d ever discussed his cock with Ned Stark made
Theon cringe. But he supposed in a way he was lucky, and wondered if anyone had
ever talked to Jon Snow about these things, and specifically about how much the
whole thing was going to hurt.
*
“Would you, um, would you want to come up and see my room?”
St. Brigid’s was quiet; Theon heard the sound of a television coming from the
living-room, but saw no sign of Mr. Aemon or any of the other boys as Jon
grabbed his hand and led him upstairs and down a narrow, carpeted hallway.
The room was small and blue, and Jon wavered when Theon closed the door behind
him.
“I’m not really supposed to have the door closed when I have company.”
“Do you have a lot of guys up to your room, Jon Snow?” Theon took a step
towards Jon, put his hands on Jon’s hips to push him back until his calves
bumped into the bed.
“Um, no.” Jon’s knees buckled as Theon pressed him down onto the mattress,
straddling his lap.
“Then if someone knocks you can just say you forgot.” He slid his hands up
under Jon’s t-shirt, letting his thumbs brush over Jon’s nipples. Jon hissed.
Theon leaned in to kiss the crook of Jon’s neck. “I can’t wait to see you
naked.”
Jon swallowed. “We can’t.”
Theon smirked and moved his lips up to bite the cartilage of Jon’s ear. “I
know.”
Jon ran his hands up Theon’s thighs, hesitating for a second before lifting the
edge of his shirt to reveal the kraken that rose from the hem of Theon’s boxer-
briefs, its tentacles wrapping around his ribs to reach for the pirate ship on
his breast. He let his fingers trace over the ink and Theon shivered.
“Sorry. I don’t know why my hands are always so cold.”
They stayed like that for a moment – Theon watching Jon’s eyes as they traveled
over his stomach and chest and finally met Theon’s gaze again. And there it was
– that unbeatable feeling of being the most wanted thing in the world. Theon
kissed him again, weaving his fingers through the hair on the back Jon’s head
to pull him all the way down until he lay on the bed, his legs dangling off the
edge. Theon held himself up on his elbows. He could feel Jon’s hard-on against
his thigh and when he rolled his hips, Jon moaned into his mouth.
Theon was surprised when Jon’s trembling fingers started undoing his belt. He
caught Jon’s wrist and pinned it to the bed.
“No.”
“Don’t you want me to? I want to.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
“No. ‘Cause then you wouldn’t get to see me anymore.” He shifted his weight to
the thigh that rested between Jon’s legs and grinned when Jon’s eyes rolled up.
“If we did it now, we’d have to rush,” he added, his breath hot against Jon’s
ear. “And when I fuck you for the first time, I want to do it slow.” He gave
another languid roll of his hips and Jon arched up into him desperately.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Well, first I’m going to suck your cock.” Theon pulled Jon’s hand up to his
lips, taking the length of the index finger into his mouth and sucking it,
tasting the salt, and something sweet. He let Jon’s finger trail wetly down his
chin. “I’m going to let you fuck my mouth, because I love the taste of you that
much.”
Jon squirmed beneath him.
“You’ll think you might come like that, with your cock down my throat, but when
I can tell you’re close, I’ll stop. I’ll put my fingers in your soft fucking
mouth and then I’ll put them inside you.” He relished the mix of desire and
apprehension that crossed Jon’s face and let his lips ghost over Jon’s as he
continued. “And you’ll like it, more than you thought you would, and soon
you’ll be begging me to just fuck you already. And I’ll want to.”
He allowed himself to grind down against Jon, setting up a rhythm as he rocked
against Jon’s hips and Theon paused to enjoy the friction of it. “But I want
this to last, so when I put my cock in you, it’ll be just one inch and a time
until you feel so full your eyes will cross. And it’ll be so hard for me, not
to just take you.” Jon’s eyes drifted closed and Theon smiled. “You want me to
take you, don’t you?”
Jon nodded.
“I’ll be close – so close it hurts. And you’ll start to whine and push against
me and probably tell me to just get on with it. But I’ll pull out, long and
slow until just the head of my cock is left in you. And you’ll whimper and
swear and beg for it, won’t you?”
Jon hummed and slipped his hand up the back of Theon’s shirt to rake his nails
down Theon’s spine before pressing against the small of Theon’s back in a bid
to maximize the pressure of Theon’s thrusts.
“And when I push inside you again, I’ll probably moan your name. Jon.” Unable
to quite stop himself, Theon lifted his hips enough to unbutton Jon’s jeans and
open the front of his pants up just enough to feel the shape of Jon’s erection
through the fabric of his shorts. “I’ll have my hand on your cock and you’ll be
fucking into my grip and just the sight might make me lose control.”
Jon’s eyes were still closed; his breathing had become rapid and shallow and
Theon could tell from the way the corners of his mouth twitched that Jon was
close. He continued working his palm against Jon’s prick, using his other hand
to give a hard tug on Jon’s hair.
“But I want you to come first, because when you come, you get so tight that
feel like I can’t breathe. So I’ll just fuck you like that, as slow as I can
stand and I’ll say, ‘That’s it, come for me, Jon. Fuck. You feel so fucking
good.’”
Jon bit down on a moan when he came, his back arching hard enough to lift Theon
clear off the bed. His cheeks had turned red and now the flush clung to them as
he caught his breath. The front of his boxers was soaked with cum and he lifted
his head to look down at himself before letting his head drop back again, an
uncontrollable smile on his lips. Theon felt his heart pounding.
“That was fucking awesome,” said Jon, after a moment.
“Man, if you thought that was awesome, I'm gonna blow your fucking mind.”
Theon smirked and Jon didn’t even try not to laugh.
“You should let me,” he said, reaching again for Theon’s belt, but Theon shook
his head.
“I should go.”
His shoulders burned when he took his weight off them, and when he stood up,
the blood rushed from his head. Jon stood too, his hair frizzy with sweat, and
he started to button his pants but decided against it.
Theon looked around, taking in the room for the first time. The afternoon had
rapidly passed into evening, and everything seemed gray. It was a sparse little
place, a bed and a dresser and a desk with a laptop and a lamp. A Joy Division
poster hung on the wall above the bed, another for Pretty Hate Machine on the
door. A mirror beside the dresser was so covered with dust as to be unusable.
Theon frowned slightly, but Jon was still too adrenalized to notice. He grasped
Theon by the shirt, pulled him into a long, slow kiss.
“Tell me when I’ll see you again.”
“What night do you wanna go to the damn club?”
Jon grinned and kissed him again.
*
Theon was relieved not to run into anyone on his way out of the house, and once
he got in the car he realized that his erection was not going away anytime
soon. He ended up parked in an empty lot a few blocks from Jon’s house,
finishing himself off to the image of Jon biting his lip as he came. He’d never
been so grateful for the dark tint on his windows.
*
He was in the elevator when he received a text from Robb.
“Can I see you in my office please?”
Shit. He felt his heart sink. He’d managed to forget about the Robb Situation
for a few hours, and the high he’d been feeling came to an abrupt end as he
wracked his brain for what to say to the boy who was his best friend and his
boss and his… whatever.
When Theon entered, Robb was sitting at his – his father’s – desk, looking
sleep-deprived and Theon was startled to see what looked like an actual five-
o’clock shadow on his cheek. The surface of the desk was a disaster of file
folders and paperclips, but Robb still managed a shy smile.
“Hey,” said Theon.
“Hey.”
“Did you want to talk to me about –”
“Today has been a hell of a day,” interrupted Robb, standing to stretch his
legs. “And I have an errand for you.” He hurried to add, “Nothing like,
business-y. Just – I need you to go and pick up a couple things for me.”
Theon sighed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a copy of the new Assassin’s Creed waiting for me at BestBuy,
and I just ordered a pizza - half Hawaiian, half barbeque chicken with a two-
liter of Dr. Pepper. I hope you’re free tonight.”
Theon couldn’t help but smile, and even though he knew that things weren’t back
to normal, he knew that this was Robb trying to make him happy.
“Yeah, I guess I could take care of that for you.”
***** Chapter Seven *****
Chapter Summary
     Things fall into place for Robb.
Dinner with the Starks was so different from eating with his own family. The
dining room at Pyke was a sort of cavernous space, and the table was too big
and gave rise to the feeling that there were people missing. Theon’s mother had
taken her meals in her bedroom since he was four, so her chair remained empty
at Balon’s left side. Asha sat beside the empty chair, and Theon to her left.
Rick and Maron sat across the table, usually joking with each other and
discussing family business to the degree their father deemed appropriate.
A part of him resented sitting on the women’s side of the table, farthest from
his father’s attentions. Rick was to be head of the Family someday, and if he
knew his brothers, he knew that Rick’s love of violence and Ron’s genius with
lies would make the Greyjoys a house not to be reckoned with lightly. He had no
idea what was expected from him, but it seemed to be little if anything. As
much as he envied his brothers, he hated them more and was always grateful, in
the end, to sit quietly beside his sister.
When he arrived in Winterfell, he resolved to carry on this way, but Ned had
made it impossible and seemed determined to draw Theon out with his persistent
questions. The Starks’ dining room was large, but it was filled with a warm
light that made Theon feel like he was in a movie. Ned always sat at the head
of the table, and Cat by his side, but there were no assigned seats among the
children and Theon didn’t much care where he sat as long as it was next to
Robb. Robb would kick at Theon under the table and Theon would do his best to
make Robb laugh and snort water up his nose.
When he got older, Theon wondered if his father would even recognize him,
always with a smile on his face and a quick remark on his tongue. Sometimes –
when he was buzzed or stoned – he would look in the mirror and catch a glimpse
of that quiet little boy and he would frown at his reflection and spend the
rest of the day trying to shake the feeling that that was the real Theon
Greyjoy. And as much as he hated the belt, or the way Ned and Cat would look at
him sometimes like they wished he would go away, there was something about it
that felt awfully right.
It only ever happened once, sometime around Theon’s second Christmas away from
Pyke. He knew it must’ve been Christmastime, because the centerpiece was a
wreath filled with candles, and Robb was wearing this dumbass reindeer sweater
that Theon loved to tease him about.
“May I please have some more ravioli?”
Ned picked up the entire serving dish with one hand and passed it to Theon, who
responded without thinking, “Thanks, Dad.”
The ensuing silence seemed to last an hour, though Theon knew it was probably
only a couple of seconds. Cat laid her fork down and glanced quickly at her
husband, while Sansa paused mid-chew to gape at him. Robb smiled, damn him.
Only Arya paid no mind.
Ned had cleared his throat. “You’re welcome, Theon.”
Theon looked at his plate, full again with pasta, and found he’d lost his
appetite.
*
He was standing on the balcony outside his bedroom smoking when he heard his
name called up.
“Theon! Hey!”
Looking over the rail, he saw Robb emerge from the back door wearing an old
yellow jersey and holding a soccer ball under his arm. Robb held a hand to
shade his eyes and squinted up at Theon’s window.
“Hey, are you doing anything right now?”
Theon took a ponderous drag, searching for something clever to say and coming
up empty. “Not really.”
“You wanna come practice some shots?”
“You mean do I wanna come have you kick a soccer ball at my nuts for an hour?”
Robb grinned. “Yeah, basically.”
“Sure.”
When he joined Robb outside, he was taken aback to see the dark circles beneath
his friend’s eyes, and it hadn’t been his imagination that Robb was actually
starting to grow an impression of a beard.
“Are you sure you’re allowed to come out and play?” asked Theon, semi-
seriously. “I’ve hardly even seen you this week.”
Robb lobbed the ball to him. “Yeah, it was Mom’s idea actually. She made me
stop working and go outside.”
“What do you even do in there all day?”
Robb shook his head tiredly. “Well, let’s just say that if I were you, I
wouldn’t be in any big rush to go back to Pyke. It’s pretty fucking boring,
mostly – trying to understand where all the money comes and goes. Just reading
over loads of accounts and invoices and looking at things on GoogleEarth.”
“Anything you want help with?” asked Theon hopefully.
“Not really. Not yet anyway. I want you at the next meeting.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t – you wouldn’t believe the amount of product your dad
moves.”
They walked out to the open space between the pool and the row of massive oaks
that lined the access road on the West side of the property. The net had been
taken off the goal frame last winter and never been replaced. Taking his place
between the posts, Theon wondered why Robb thought this would be any fun for
either of them; Theon was never any good at soccer, and he was especially
terrible at playing goalie.
It had been so long since they played outside together that Theon had forgotten
the way Robb’s hair looked different in the sunlight. And when he watched Robb
wind up for a kick, he remembered how stupidly long and muscled Robb’s legs
were.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“Oh, God, are you okay?” Robb tried not laugh. “I, um, I’m sorry! I just
thought you’d, you know, move or something.”
Theon rubbed at his cheekbone as he watched the ball roll slowly away. “Well, I
blocked it, didn’t I?”
Robb trotted over to scoop the ball off the ground. “Let me look at it.”
Theon turned his face away. “It’s fine. I’m not made of glass.”
Robb reached out as though to grab Theon’s chin and turn his head, but he
thought better of it and jogged back out to his starting position.
Theon could remember the exact moment he’d first thought to himself that Robb
Stark was going to grow up to be well, 100% fuckable. He was sixteen and Robb
was edging on fourteen, and they’d been in the pool on one of the hottest days
of the summer. Robb was practicing his diving, and Theon remembered watching
him for a solid hour as he stood poised on the edge of the board, his back
perfectly straight as he bounced on the balls of his feet. He had tried so hard
to put it out of his mind – not because he was ashamed, but because it was
Robb.
He managed to block a few of Robb’s shots, but the majority sailed easily past
him to roll off into the trees. Theon didn’t mind – he was happy enough to see
Robb enjoying himself, and for a few minutes he even forgot that less than two
weeks ago he had –
You’re just as bad as your own brothers.
Worse.
No. That’s not true.
He wasn’t paying attention when a wide, powerful wind-up set the ball bouncing
off the broad trunks of the oaks and sent Theon trailing back and forth out of
Robb’s view, and when he returned to the field, Robb was talking to his mother.
They were out of earshot, but Theon felt his stomach drop as Robb’s arms went
limp and Cat pulled him into her. He hung there in the goal, waiting for Robb
to call out to him, but Robb didn’t so much as look at him. He watched Robb’s
knees buckle, saw the way Cat struggled under her son’s weight as he pulled at
her arms. And he knew somehow, but still he waited for someone to call to him,
to tell him what was going on.
Instead, they turned and walked back into the house – Robb’s gait more of a
stagger than anything – and left Theon standing in the field. He knelt down and
ran his fingers through the grass – only beginning to green – and listened to
the sound of a songbird somewhere behind him. Suddenly, the sun felt hot on his
shoulders and he realized that his breathing had sped up. He felt like he was
gliding as he moved toward the back door, like he was somehow lighter than air.
When he stepped inside, he didn’t know where to go. He wanted to find Robb, but
when he looked around, he suddenly felt as out of place as he had the first
time he’d set foot in Ned Stark’s mansion.
*
Maron was found in a shipping container at the docks, his throat slit and his
body frozen solid. Rick was found a mile away near the beach – hog-tied in
knee-deep water with a weight and a short length of chain around his neck.
Theon tried to cry. Not in front of anyone, of course, but in the privacy of
his room he’d pounded at his forehead with the heel of his palm, hoping to
shake some tears loose. He could hear Asha’s sobs through the wall between
their bedrooms. But he didn’t feel anything at all.
There were three empty chairs at the table that night, and Theon trembled under
Balon’s gaze, newly turned to his youngest son – the one he’d never concerned
himself with, now the heir to his empire.
“I’m sending you to Winterfell,” said Balon, as though he were talking to no
one in particular.
Asha’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” Balon replied sharply. “Ned Stark and his men will be here to
collect you tomorrow evening.”
Asha bit her lip before venturing, “Dad, I don’t see why he has to go.”
Theon never did see his father shed a tear – for him, or his brothers – but he
remembered Balon clutching at the edge of the table as though it took all his
strength to hold himself upright.
“It’s the arrangement,” he said. “Theon will go to live with the Starks, and in
exchange for my only remaining son, Ned Stark will allow the Greyjoy name to
continue.” A cynical grin twisted over Balon’s lips. “For as long as we serve
the North.” Turning to Theon, he added, “Or else he’ll kill you – just like he
killed your brothers. Do you understand that?”
Theon nodded wordlessly, though the truth was that he barely understood any of
it. He didn’t know why his brothers were dead, or why Ned Stark would want a
boy who was obviously of no value to anyone, and he especially didn’t
understand the meaning of that “or else.” If Balon seemed upset by the bargain
he’d struck, it was only his pride that ached.
Asha helped him to pack his little suitcase. She never said much to him, but
somehow it was a different kind of silence from their father’s. He supposed
Pyke would be a markedly quieter place from here on.
“Why does he want me?” Theon asked, throwing his favorite stuffed animal – a
starfish – onto the pile of clothes he was taking.
“He wants to make you forget,” said Asha, picking up Starry and frowning. “He
wants to make you love them, so that when you take over our Family, you won’t
dream of turning against them.” She tossed the starfish into a box of things to
be thrown out.
“Hey!” Theon snatched the toy to his chest. “I’m taking Starry with me!”
“They’ll laugh at you,” she said. “They’ll think you’re a baby. You don’t want
that, do you?”
Theon hesitated, looking from the black button eyes of the starfish to his
sister’s dark eyes. “No,” he said finally, replacing Starry into the box
destined for the landfill.
“I promise I won’t love them,” he said, hoping to please her. Instead, her
frown only deepened. She shook her head.
“Do you know how it feels to love someone?”
“I – I don’t know.”
“Then how can you promise you won’t?”
*
Ned Stark died almost on the heels of his friend Robert Baratheon, and while
both deaths were unexpected, Ned’s was at least painless. An alleged hunting
accident allowed the head of the Baratheon Family to linger for a couple days
before he passed, so drugged out that – by the end – he was as good as mad. Ned
Stark caught a bullet between the eyes, and though no-one knew precisely who
pulled the trigger, everyone knew who’d given the order. And while it was a
foolish decision to murder the patriarch of the most powerful Family in the
North, the choice to make his death a quick one seemed well-considered.
Theon eventually collected this information from Poole, and somehow it was the
mention of Jory’s death that made Theon definitively sad. Jory Cassel must’ve
been almost twenty when he accompanied Ned Stark to retrieve Theon from Pyke,
and Theon remembered how blue Jory’s eyes were. He’d harbored an intense – and,
in retrospect, embarrassingly obvious – crush on the Cassel boy for at least
his first two years in Winterfell.
Already there was talk of unleashing all-out war on the Lannister Family, and
Theon knew that whatever happened next, nothing would ever make sense of Ned’s
assassination. Poole’s voice seemed muted, like all the air had left the room.
When he left, the silence rang in Theon’s ears.
He took the elevator down to the garage, where Gendry was blessedly working
away beneath a Jeep, impervious to the miasma of anger and confusion that
seemed to be filling the rest of the house. He couldn’t hear Theon over the
sound of the radio, and Theon had to kick Gendry lightly in the shin before he
rolled his creeper out from beneath the undercarriage.
“How’s it going?” he asked, standing and reaching for the volume knob on the
boom-box.
Theon shrugged. “Well, you know.”
Gendry placed a strong hand on Theon’s shoulder; the gesture was completely
awkward, but Theon appreciated it anyway.
“Must be kind of weird for you, huh?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Do you, um, do you wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Thank God,” Gendry sighed. “I’ve been hiding out down here ever since I
heard.”
“That’s actually kind of why I came. Would it be cool if I just like, hung out?
I won’t bother you or anything. I just want to be somewhere that I can’t hear
them running up and down the halls. Sansa’s been crying for hours.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He pulled up a stool at the back of the shop and fished an old newspaper out of
the trash. Gendry re-adjusted his music again and slid back under the Jeep, and
Theon envied him for always being so busy.
Close to an hour had passed when Theon looked up to see Arya standing with a
hand on the threshold of the shop door, that perpetual sway threatening to
overtake her. Her hair was messier than usual, and she stared at him with eyes
that looked cracked somehow. She hadn’t thought to find him here, clearly.
Theon rose from his seat and turned the music down long enough to say, “Gendry,
you’ve got a visitor.”
Gendry slid out from the car once more, and barely had a chance to sit up
before Arya threw her arms around him and began sobbing into his grease-stained
t-shirt. He hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, casting
a bewildered glance at Theon. As he exited the shop, he turned back to see
Gendry still holding her tightly, rocking the creeper back and forth with his
heels.
You know where you ought to be right now?
He was walking down the hall towards Robb’s room when his phone rang. He saw
Jon’s name on the screen and almost ignored the call before stopping to lean
against the wall and hit “Phone.”
“Hey, Jon.”
“Theon! What are you doing tonight?”
It hit Theon like a brick. His dad. Oh shit. Oh my God. His fucking dad.
And he lost it. He slumped down the wall until he was sitting on the carpet,
his knees pulled up to his chest. Theon covered his face with his left hand,
gritting his teeth as he wept silently. He felt like screaming, but when he
opened his mouth, no sound came out. He slammed his head back into the wall,
more forcefully than he meant to. The front of the phone was slick with tears,
and he pressed it almost painfully against his ear.
“Theon? Hello?”
Fuck.
“Theon, are you there?”
He bit down hard on his thumb and took a deep, raspy breath.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Are you – what’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
Theon rolled his eyes up to look at the sconce above him, used the heel of his
palm to wipe his cheeks dry. He faked a cough to clear his throat.
“Um. Yeah. Well, no. It’s, um, I’m just – It’s my foster family. There was an
accident and I, um –”
You are scum. You are absolute fucking shit.
“Oh my God. Theon, I’m so sorry. Do you want me to come over? Tell me where you
live and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
And that just about broke his fucking heart. And even though he wanted nothing
more, he closed his eyes and shook his head, tugging at a fistful of hair.
“No,” he managed. “No, I think I just need to be alone.”
You are alone. You’ll always be alone.
“Okay. I understand.” Jon sounded a little deflated, almost timid when he said,
“Please promise you’ll call me when you feel like it?”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“Dude, don’t be an asshole. Promise you’ll call me.”
Theon smiled faintly. “I’ll call you. But I can’t promise I won’t be an
asshole.”
He heard Jon’s understated laugh. “Of course not.”
“Hey Jon?”
“Yeah?”
Theon ground his teeth until he managed to choke down all the truths that
threatened to come spilling out.
“I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“Okay. Goodbye, Theon.”
“Bye.” After hanging up, he let his head fall back again. “Fuck.”
Theon rose, wiping his nose on the back of his hand and stepped into the
bathroom to splash cold water across his face. His reflection gazed blearily
back at him and he realized that he still needed a haircut.
His heart raced as he stopped firmly outside Robb’s bedroom. He had just raised
his knuckles to wrap on the door when Robb opened it for him.
“I heard you on the phone,” he said, still gripping the doorknob.
Looking over Robb’s shoulder, Theon could see that his room was in disarray –
the desk had been turned over and one of the lamps was lying broken on the
floor. Seeing what Theon must be observing, Robb hung his head slightly.
“I know it’s a wreck, but do you wanna come in?”
“Sure.”
Theon closed the door behind him, stepping over a minefield of books and DVDs
to sit on the edge of Robb’s bed. The sun still shone brightly, casting a long,
cheery rectangle of light onto the blue bedspread. Robb remained standing. He
was still wearing his jersey and shorts, looking lost, as though he wasn’t sure
whose room this was or why he’d come. Theon could see where the tears had
caused his curls to stick to his temples, and he noticed the bloody scrapes on
the knuckles of Robb’s right hand. Glancing around the room, he spotted the
hole in the wall just beside the television.
Robb spun around once, like he meant to find something, and then looked back at
Theon with a sort of stunned expression. His eyelids were puffy and raw, and
the tip of his nose was chapped.
“You’ve been crying,” he said finally.
Theon blinked up at him. “Yeah. A little.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” he asked, angrier than he felt. “Am I not allowed?”
Robb’s voice quivered. “I – It’s just that I’ve never seen you cry before.” He
turned away before Theon could see the tears that had overflowed onto his
cheeks, and Theon felt instantly ashamed of himself. He reached for Robb’s hand
and gave a gentle tug.
“Hey, I’m sorry.”
Robb continued to look around the room helplessly, and Theon gave another,
firmer pull on his friend’s hand.
“Hey, come sit with me.”
Obediently, Robb shuffled over to the bed and collapsed beside Theon, burying
his face in Theon’s hair and sniffling. Theon put an arm around Robb’s
shoulders to hold him upright and used his other hand to tuck a few locks of
hair behind Robb’s ear. Robb was doing his best to stifle his sobs, but Theon
could hear the wetness in his breathing, and he could feel the heat of tears
and drool soaking through his shirt. He wanted to say something, but he
couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t stupid, so he remained quiet.
They stayed like that for some time, even after Robb had stopped crying, until
Theon began to lose the sensation in his hands.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta move my arms.”
Robb looked at him with what seemed to Theon like the most complete longing,
his eyes still brimming with tears, lips swollen. A single teardrop managed to
spill over and down Robb’s cheek, and without thinking, Theon brought his thumb
up to sweep it away just as it reached the corner of Robb’s mouth. The smile
Robb gave was so faint that it might’ve been nothing, but to Theon it was
bright as ever.
He wasn’t sure who began the kiss, but for once it didn’t matter. He still held
Robb’s face with his hand, fingers applying just enough pressure to bring Robb
into him, and he could taste salt and a hint of blood. It was a soft kiss,
almost agony, and Theon was resolved to keep it that way until he felt Robb’s
teeth against his lips. He opened his eyes to find that Robb’s were closed.
Robb’s hands were hot when they crept up under Theon’s shirt, running lightly
over his ribs before grabbing the fabric and pulling it upward and inside out
over Theon’s head. In the amount of time it took Theon’s conscience to finally
give up the ghost, Robb had divested himself of the jersey and kicked his
athletic shorts into a pile on the floor.
Theon took a moment to appreciate how much Robb had filled out over the past
year – hell, the past few months – and he wondered how long it would be before
Robb was taller and stronger than him. His chest was broader now and beginning
to show a thin layer of fuzz to balance out that thick, auburn treasure trail.
Theon grinned as he ran a finger through it to snap at the elastic of Robb’s
boxers.
Robb blushed. “What?”
“You’re gonna be way hairier than I am.” He took Robb’s chin between his thumb
and forefinger and leaned in to kiss him again, and kept leaning until Robb’s
head hit the pillow.
“Please tell me we’re gonna fuck,” breathed Robb, nipping at Theon’s bottom
lip.
Theon pulled away, sat back on his heels to fix Robb with a sardonic expression
that belied his seriousness when he asked, “Do you want to?”
He could feel Robb’s erection when the boy twisted beneath him. Robb’s eyes
traced over Theon’s chest and down the center line of his stomach, coming to a
stop at his obvious arousal. Robb bit his lip apprehensively.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just – can we not – can we go slower this time?”
Theon undid his buckle and drew the belt from around his waist an inch at a
time – a shit-eating grin on his face – until Robb growled and whipped the
whole length of it out of his grasp and flung it against the opposite wall.
“You’re such an asshole.”
Theon smirked as he pulled his pants off and then lowered himself again to skim
his mouth over Robb’s collar bone, along the middle of his chest and stomach,
pausing to pull Robb’s shorts down just far enough to expose his length.
Robb gasped when Theon took him.
“Oh fuck.”
Theon felt Robb’s fingers thread through his hair, then tighten into a fist. A
few seconds later, Robb yanked Theon’s head up, hard.
“You might want to stop.”
“I can keep going if you want.”
Robb swallowed and shook his head. “No. I want you to – you know…”
“Hand me a pillow.”
Robb chucked one of the pillows into Theon’s face and laughed. Theon smiled as
he pulled Robb’s underwear completely off and watched the goosebumps rise on
his friend’s thighs.
“Lift your ass up for a second.” He slid the pillow beneath Robb’s hips and
lifted Robb’s legs up over his own shoulders. Reaching his right arm around
Robb’s thigh, he continued to stroke Robb’s spit-slick cock and with his mouth
licked his way up between Robb’s legs.
“Whoa, what – are you serious?” Robb wriggled away from him.
Theon levelled his eyes at Robb’s and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m serious. I’m
going to eat you out now, so stop fucking squirming.”
Robb never was very good at keeping still, and this was no exception. But he
seemed to be enjoying himself plenty, judging by the little moans and gasps and
the way he bent his arms back over his head to grip at the top of the
headboard. When Theon spread a generous amount of lube over all four of the
fingers on his right hand, Robb froze up for a moment until Theon reassured him
that he’d start with just one.
Robb’s eyebrows drew together in a grimace.
“This will go a lot better if you breathe.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s about to get a hand
shoved –”
“Robb –” Theon held Robb’s right hand in his left, and kissed his bloodied
knuckles. “Look at me.”
Robb slowly tore his gaze away from the other hand poised between his legs and
focused on Theon’s face instead. His breath hitched for a few seconds as the
first finger slid in, but he relaxed with an exhale, a small smile playing at
his mouth.
“Okay. Not awful.”
Within five minutes, Robb had taken all four of Theon’s fingers and Theon was
beginning to feel a little dizzy. He hadn’t touched himself at all, and his
prick was starting to ache. Robb had taken a hold of his own cock, but Theon
swatted his hand away and once again wrapped his lips around it, this time
moving his head in rhythm with his fingers and sending Robb’s back into an arch
so sharp that Theon thought for a second that he might choke.
“On your stomach.”
Robb did as he was told – for once – and Theon ran a hand down the track of
Robb’s spine, loving the twin dimples at the base of it and the angles that
Robb’s shoulders made as he pulled at his own hair and said,
“Jesus Christ, please just get on with it.”
Theon smirked, but his mouth fell open as he pushed into Robb, dropping forward
to hold himself up on his elbows and kiss the edge of Robb’s ear. Robb let out
a low groan and closed his eyes tightly.
“Okay?”
Robb bit his lip and nodded. “Mmm-hmm.”
Theon waited a moment before moving again, relaxing his hips before rolling
them forward and this time there was no mistaking the wanton little whimper
that Robb gave. Theon bit down gently at Robb’s shoulder, and when he looked at
the light mark he’d left, he realized that Robb’s entire upper back was covered
in pinprick-sized freckles.
“Tell me how long you’ve wanted this,” he said, nuzzling into the hair on the
back of Robb’s neck.
“Since I can remember.”
Theon pulled out again, a little farther this time, and when Robb pushed back
against him he couldn’t quite contain a desperate sort of snarl. He dug his
nails into Robb’s thigha and was gratified when Robb let out a sharp hiss in
response.
“I – I’m going to actually fuck you now. Like, hard.”
Again, Robb nodded.
And fuck if this wasn’t the way things were meant to be between them. Theon’s
shoulders and elbows burned and his eyes stung with sweat, but it was nothing
compared to the taste of Robb’s skin or the sight of Robb’s fingers clutching
at the blankets or the sound of the curses coming out of Robb’s damned perfect
mouth, barely more than a whisper:
“Fuck – oh Jesus – Theon – oh fuck.”
“Where do you want me to come?”
Robb mumbled something into the pillow; Theon tugged on his hair.
“Where do you want me to come?” he repeated urgently.
“Finish,” said Robb, only half coherent. “Just – finish. Inside me. I want you
to.”
Robb craned his neck, trying to get a good view over his shoulder, if only he
could figure out how to bring his eyes into focus. Theon’s hold on Robb’s
shoulder was borderline-painful, and his last few thrusts struck deep enough
that Robb’s breath caught in his throat. Theon clenched his jaw when he came,
absolutely determined not to make any regrettable sounds or say anything that
Robb might take too much to heart. When he collapsed forward, Robb could feel
the feverish beating of Theon’s heart against his back and the warm wetness
already beginning to trickle down his thighs as Theon rocked forward once more,
then again, and then was still. His breathing was hot and loud against Robb’s
cheek.
“You’re kind of crushing me,” said Robb, when he could no longer bear Theon’s
weight on his lungs.
Theon sat back, a lopsided grin hanging on his face as he pushed a handful of
sweaty, tangled hair out of his eyes. Robb rolled onto his back and regarded
Theon with an almost demure expression that contrasted starkly with the blood-
dark hardness of his cock.
That’s a new one.
He’d planned to finish Robb with his mouth, but it quickly became obvious that
no amount of threatening could stop the crescendo of obscenities issuing ever-
louder from Robb’s lips and surely becoming audible through the wall. In the
end, he drew Robb’s climax out with his right hand and swallowed the sound of
it – and the smaller sounds that followed – until he was kissing Robb as softly
as they’d started, tasting the last of those faint little tremors and wiping
his own knuckles off on the bedspread.
“You should stay,” Robb said eventually.
“What, like, stay the night? I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Theon passed his fingers through the damp snarl of Robb’s hair.
“I don’t think the fact that your – the fact that you’re the man of the house
now changes anything between your mom and me.” Seeing Robb pout, he added, “I
could help you clean your room though.”
*
As though the humiliation of calling him “Dad,” didn’t sting quite enough, Ned
summoned Theon to his office after dinner while the rest of the children ate
their desserts.
The office always seemed so overwhelming to Theon – all the furniture slightly
too large and far apart – and he never dared to touch anything there, so it was
difficult not to fidget.
“Theon, please sit down,” said Ned, gesturing at the massive armchair that sat
opposite his desk.
Theon obeyed. His feet barely touched the ground from the height of the seat.
He felt a lump forming in his throat and wondered if his error was an offense
worthy of the belt.
Ned bowed his head for a moment before looking Theon in the eyes and beginning,
“Theon, do you understand why you’re here – in Winterfell?”
Theon nodded. “Yes sir.”
“And why is that?”
In his mind’s eye, he saw his father’s face – always so cold with no trace of
anything that might’ve been mistaken for affection.
“Because my father turned against the Family,” he said. “Because I’m his only
son now, and if he ever tries to cross you again, you’ll kill me and destroy
us.”
Ned nodded solemnly and rotated the signet ring on his right ring finger. “And
do you understand that if that ever happens, it’s me who has to do it? Not
Poole or Flint or any of my associates, but me?”
Theon blinked. He hadn’t known.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because that’s the arrangement,” Ned replied, and when Theon thought about it
now, it made him shake with fury.
You cocksucking bastard. You could’ve made other arrangements. You could’ve had
it any way you wanted. You could’ve made me yours.
“So you can understand why it’s important that you – and I – must never forget
that. You mustn’t allow yourself to think of me as your father, just as I can’t
bear to think of you as my son.”
“Yes sir. I understand.” Theon stood up to leave. “What about Robb?”
He saw something harden in Ned’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
Theon looked down at his toes and then remembered that Cat had told him he had
to look people in the eye when they asked him a question, so he fixed his gaze
on Ned’s face and said, “He calls me his brother sometimes. Should I make him –
should I ask him to stop?”
Ned smiled, but it was the strange, sad smile that confused Theon when he was
little.
Why would anyone smile when they’re sad? he wondered.
“Only if you want him to stop.”
“May I be excused?”
Ned nodded, and as soon as Theon left the office, he glanced down and realized
that his hands were clenched into fists and that his cheeks were burning.
***** Chapter Eight *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb takes action, Roose takes advantage and Theon takes Jon on a
     date.
“We should stop.” Robb’s voice was a whisper against Theon’s lips, but it
seemed obscenely loud in the sanctity of House Stark’s massive conference room.
Again, he pressed his open mouth against Theon’s and repeated – mostly to
himself – “We really have to stop.”
Theon smirked and brushed a wrinkle out of Robb’s charcoal-gray dress shirt.
His own dark-blue button-up had come completely untucked, thanks to Robb’s
almost frantic groping, and as he sat on the edge of the long, mahogany table
with his heels hooked around the back of Robb’s knees, he couldn’t imagine
anything more gratifying than the pitiful little sounds he was eliciting from
the most powerful man in the North. Theon pulled Robb in for one last kiss and
tried not to linger on the fact that the man who’d raised them both was dead
less than a week.
Robb took a couple steps back, watching as Theon stood and composed himself.
“You never did tell me who gave you that hickey,” he said, a wolfish little
grin curling up the corner of his mouth.
“What hickey?”
“That first time – in the shower – you had a big fucking hickey on your neck.
You said it was no-one I’d know.”
Theon smoothed the fabric of his shirt over his chest and combed his fingers
through his hair. “How do I look?”
“Fine,” replied Robb, clearly distressed by Theon’s lack of an answer, but not
wanting to expose his desperation any further. “You look fine.”
“You should probably turn the cameras back on.”
Robb sighed and paced around his desk, leaning his elbows against it as he
brought up the closed-circuit controls on his PC. Theon opened the doors of the
conference room and took a deep breath as he double-checked the alignment of
his shirt buttons. He knew that Theon Greyjoy was probably the last person on
anyone’s mind this evening, but he was still nervous about his debut. He
briefly wished Ned were there, but then he remembered that in that case there
would be no need for this meeting.
And he didn’t like Robb asking about Jon, however unwittingly or obliquely.
You should probably stop seeing him.
It was excruciatingly rational.
Stop seeing Jon. Before you break his heart, or get him in trouble.
Well, maybe just see him one more time, he would reason. Let him down in
person. He deserves that.
Yeah, just look into those gorgeous dark eyes and watch him snap his goddamn
rubber bands and say, “Sorry, but don’t ever call me again… No, of course I
like you, and of course I want you, and of course I’d probably sell my soul to
have you all to myself – it’s just that I have to devote the rest of my life to
pretending I’m not fucking my best friend.”
Watch that frown on those perfect fucking lips of his and see how far you get
with that.
He was too absorbed in thought to notice when Cat entered the room; she side-
eyed him for a moment before giving Robb a quick hug and taking her seat at the
table. When Theon looked up again, she was talking in subdued tones with Rick
Cassel. Robb looked like a slimmer silhouette of his father, standing rigidly
beside the chair at the head of the table, exchanging solemn greetings and
handshakes with the men as they arrived. It was as though he’d slipped into
another skin – a man’s skin – so different from the boy who’d been whimpering
into Theon’s mouth a quarter of an hour earlier. For a second, he wondered what
it would be like to be kissed by this Robb Stark.
Theon felt a piercing gaze upon him, and when shifted his eyes to meet it, he
saw that Roose Bolton had taken the seat directly across from him and was
fixing him with that thing nobody would call a smile.
Robb stood behind his father’s seat, his jaw set firmly until he said, “A
moment of silence for my – for the dead.” The seat and arms of the chair were
upholstered in black leather, and a deep, detailed engraving of a snarling
wolf’s head surveyed the council with obsidian eyes. The men – and Cat – bowed
their heads. Theon looked down dutifully, and the old words filled his head:
“What is dead may never die.” But this wasn’t the place for that.
He glanced up to find Roose Bolton still staring at him.
”It’s best not to interest him.”
“Gentlemen.” Robb nodded a slight apology to his mother before taking his place
at the head of the table. Theon resisted looking at him for too long. “Today’s
discussion is not a question of retribution; there is no question that justice
– for my father and our associates – will be brutal and swift. I’ve called you
here today to decide the scope and form of our revenge.”
Besides Robb and Theon, none of the men present was younger than forty, but
despite this their faces looked uniformly fierce as they nodded in grim
approval. Theon felt suddenly in awe of Robb, who spoke with a hardness that
sounded both dangerous and completely controlled.
“And I don’t need to remind you that – while I sincerely seek your counsel
tonight – the final decision will be mine. Your loyalty and cooperation are
assumed.” Taking his seat, Robb cast a quick glance at his mother and
continued, “Our associates in the Capitol inform is that Joffrey Baratheon gave
the order for my father’s execution, though I think we can all agree that he
wouldn’t have acted without the approval of his family. The reason –” and here
Robb hesitated and Theon could see him struggling for composure. “The reason
for my father’s death is unclear. What is clear is that it cannot go unavenged.
I wish my first real task as head of the Northern Families was any one but
this. Tonight I ask you how to best protect our interests and punish those who
would destroy us.”
With that, Robb bowed his head slightly and ceded the floor. Theon looked up
the table; there were twelve Families represented here, not including the
Greyjoys, of course. He was unsure if he was meant to be present in that
capacity – he suspected that he was only here as Theon.
“I think a precise retaliation is our best course,” said Rick Cassel. “However
much we may want blood, it’s best not to make too large a mess, lest things
spiral out of control. Send a small number of men to take out the Baratheon boy
and his mother.”
The idea was roundly supported, save by Mr. Karstark, who tugged at his beard
and insisted that the consequence of anything less than a total annihilation of
the entire Lannister Family would result in a bloody, prolonged war. An
argument erupted. Robb wove his fingers together and rested his chin on his
knuckles, listening. In that pose, he looked almost childlike.
“Whether or not Tywin Lannister had any involvement in Ned’s execution – and I
wouldn’t doubt it for a second – putting a mark out on any individual members
of his family will result in a kind of tit-for-tat that will leave all our
Families crippled. Any truce we might reach would be broken as soon as a
Northman sneezes too loudly. Whatever Joffrey’s reasons were, Tywin is in this
for the long game.” He looked pointedly at Robb. “The only way to prevent him
from winning is to make sure that our next move is the final one.”
Locke’s voice was reedy and unmistakable: “Still, we need to be careful not to
be shortsighted here. Destroying the Lannisters has to involve the
participation of all the Families, and there may be other houses who would use
such a drastic action as an excuse to turn against the North.” Theon didn’t
fail to notice the way Locke’s eyes turned towards him.
The debate continued for some time, and Theon grew bored with it. A quick
glance at Robb revealed that he was less bored than frustrated. He was the head
of House Stark now – couldn’t he just do as he damn well pleased? The
conversation became circuitous, with Karstark and Cassel the main foci of the
opposing sides, when – after saying nothing for over an hour – Roose Bolton
interjected.
“Or –” Bolton’s voice was its usual softness, and yet the table fell instantly
silent as though a gong had been struck and all eyes turned towards him. He
looked only at Robb in a manner that implied that they were the only two people
of consequence in the entire room. Theon noticed the way his long, thin fingers
traced over a knot in the wood of the table. “Or you could make your revenge so
terrible and complete – and so perfectly unexpected – that no houses – great or
small, North or South – would dare to threaten your Family again.”
“What exactly are you proposing, Bolton?”
“I would be glad to discuss the details of my proposal privately with Mr.
Stark.”
The almost teasing tone of it enflamed Mr. Umber’s temper. “The decision is
Robb’s,” he conceded, “But any actions involving the collective fate as of the
Northern Houses should involve us all.”
Roose turned and eyed Umber with the same expression one might direct at a
child throwing a tantrum. “I’m asking for a private audience with Mr. Stark,
which is my right to ask and his right to refuse.”
“Theon?”
Theon nearly jumped at the sound of his name. Robb was looking at him
expectantly, and he thought he saw just the faintest hint of affection there.
Cat – as well as almost everyone else at the council – looked openly horrified
as though they’d only now noticed his presence. Roose gazed at him intently,
one eyebrow arched, his eyes inscrutable and unblinking.
What was the thing a Greyjoy ought to say? What was the thing Robb Stark most
wanted to hear? Theon considered carefully before replying, “I think you should
kill them all.” He looked down the length of the table with a defiant smirk
creeping across his mouth. “And I think you should hear what Mr. Bolton has to
say – in private. This is your council, and it’s your decision.”
Roose seemed amused and pleased, and Theon couldn’t tell whether it was because
his words had persuaded Robb to hear Bolton our, or because of something else.
Robb glanced again at his mother and she assented with a subtle slide of her
eyes.
“Alright,” he said heavily. “I’ll hear Mr. Bolton’s ideas this evening and
we’ll reconvene for discussion in the morning. Those of you who wish to stay
are welcome to our guest rooms.”
Umber muttered something under his breath.
“Something to add, Jon?” Robb had risen and leaned forward, palms against the
table. Umber opened his mouth but thought better of it.
“In the morning then,” said Robb coldly.
The men began to file out of the room, once again offering their hands to Robb
– even Mr. Umber initiated a perfunctory handshake. Roose Bolton lingered
there, and Theon wasn’t sure if he was supposed to leave. Cat remained seated.
“Would you like to meet now, Mr. Bolton?” asked Robb. “Or would you prefer to
take a short break?”
“I’d do well with a break. But – and I hope you understand – when I asked to
meet with you privately, I meant that we would be… alone.” He looked
emphatically at Cat, then at Theon as if he were barely an afterthought. Theon
was surprised to feel slightly betrayed, and even more surprised to see his
feelings mirrored in Cat’s face when Robb said, “Fine. Let’s meet in my office
in fifteen minutes.”
Satisfied, Roose gave a slight bow and moved smoothly around the table and out
the double doors. Cat watched him go and when he was out of sight laid a hand
on her son’s shoulder.
“Robb –”
“I can handle it, Mom.” Then he placed his hand over hers and added more
gently, “Please trust me.”
She nodded, and Theon and Robb watched her disappear down the hallway. Robb
sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.
“You know I can handle it, right?”
Theon swallowed. He had faith in Robb – he had always had faith in Robb…
“Yeah, I know.” He bit his lip and ran a finger along the upholstery on the
back of Ned’s – Robb’s chair. “But, you know, be careful. With Roose.” Then
with a smile, “Watch out for leeches.”
Robb grinned. He allowed his hand to brush lightly against Theon’s.
“Come to my room tonight?”
Theon’s eyes darted to the small black sphere that contained the camera in this
part of the room. He wondered who was watching him, now that Jory was gone.
“Maybe. I have to make a couple phone calls, and you’ve got a lot to take care
of.”
*
Jon, I think we need to – I think maybe we should –
Aw fuck.
And he had every intention of breaking it off. What, did he seriously think
that he could just keep Jon in the dark indefinitely? Jon seemed happy enough
to buy into Theon’s bullshit now, but eventually he would ask for the whole
truth. And the whole truth seemed to be that Theon belonged in the company of
cut-throats and criminals and merciless men. He belonged with Robb.
Then where does Jon belong?
Theon took a deep breath and held it as he dialed the number for the group home
and waited through five agonizing ring tones before Mr. Aemon answered and
quickly passed the phone off to Jon.
“Jon –”
“Theon? Oh my God, I was starting to think you weren’t gonna call me.”
But he could hear the relief in Jon’s voice, almost quivering, and he could
tell that Jon was smiling, probably turning to face the wall so no one around
could see it.
“I’m sorry. I’ve just, um, had a lot on my mind lately.”
Theon swore he could hear the sound of rubber bands snapping and was just about
the plow ahead with, “I need to talk to you about something,” when Jon
interrupted:
“I miss you.”
He felt like he’d just been hit with a wave of cold water. Jon had been
thinking of him. Jon had been missing him, probably jerking himself off and
wishing for him. Jon had been waiting and hoping for him. As though Jon were
reading his thoughts, he added – in a much quieter voice, “I want you. Like,
bad. When can I see you?”
*
It was after ten p.m. when Theon killed his headlights and rolled to a slow
stop in the alley behind St. Brigid’s, as per Jon’s hushed and excited
instructions, and he felt a little silly when he realized his own heart was
racing too. The house was dark, save for the light in Jon’s bedroom that went
out as soon as Theon arrived; in the moonlight, Theon saw Jon exiting his
window legs-first onto the roof and shuffling carefully down its incline until
he reached the rain gutter and paused.
Seriously?
It was a good eight feet from the roof to the ground, and Theon held his breath
as he watched Jon pace along the edge for several seconds before jumping. He
tucked into a forward roll as he hit the grass, springing up onto his feet
again and dusting himself off. Jon glanced back at the house once more and
hurried to the car.
Theon turned off the dome light just as Jon opened the door.
“Hey,” Jon whispered, still breathless and giddy from his jump.
“Hey.” Theon put the Zagato in gear and crept slowly out of the alleyway,
barely touching the accelerator. Jon left his door ajar until they were far
enough away for him to slam it closed.
Stopping at the mouth of the alley, Theon looked left for traffic, and when he
looked right, Jon grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard enough that
Theon’s foot slid off the brake and the car jolted forward a few feet.
Jon’s lips formed into a smile against Theon’s, a breath of laughter before he
bit down hard on Theon’s bottom lip. His hands left Theon’s shirt to snake up
around his neck and into his hair.
“You sneak out of the group home a lot?” asked Theon before pressing forward
for another kiss and reminding himself to keep his hands on the wheel.
“No,” said Jon. “But I have a lot of practice jumping off the roof.”
Theon couldn’t tell how serious Jon was, but he didn’t really care. He put the
coup in neutral and pulled on the parking brake a little more forcefully than
he meant to, fighting against the seatbelt to get closer, to get his tongue
further into Jon’s mouth, to get his hands in Jon’s hair, still damp from a
shower. The idea that he’d even considered not doing this seemed absurd.
“Are you like, set on going to The Dungeon?” he asked.
“Pretty much.” Jon pulled away, pushed his hair out of his eyes and frowned.
“Why? Do you not wanna go?”
“I mean, we could just go park somewhere and make out. Or like, whatever.”
Jon bit his lip and Theon didn’t have to look down to know that he was reaching
for his rubber bands. He reached out a hand to intercept Jon’s.
“Or whatever you want to do.”
“I’d like – I want to go to the club.”
Theon squeezed Jon’s hand and then let go, releasing the parking brake and
putting the car into gear. Jon still seemed jittery, and Theon wondered if
maybe Jon wasn’t a little afraid, now that it came right down to it.
“I – I really want to,” said Jon softly. “You know. With you. It’s just that –
I kind of like this. Like, just knowing that you want to too, and knowing that
we will, you know?”
“You’re fucking killing me,” said Theon. “Let’s go get an ID for you, yeah?”
Jon grinned. “Yeah. Besides, we still have like, the whole entire night.”
*
As they merged onto the freeway, Theon noticed Jon leaned forward in his seat,
the sun visor pulled down and the little mirror on it flipped open. Its tiny,
yellow lights illuminated Jon’s eyes as he outlined them in black eyeliner. His
mouth hung comically agape as he used his ring-fingers to blend around the
edges.
“Are you seriously wearing make-up?”
“You’re wearing a hot pink shirt,” retorted Jon without looking at him. “To an
industrial club.”
“Will I embarrass you?” Theon snarked.
“Nah, just yourself.” Jon snapped the mirror closed, shut the visor and smiled
at Theon. “I don’t give a shit what you wear. And I’m pretty sure you’re just
deliberately being obnoxious.”
Theon took his eyes off the road for as long as he dared. Jon wore those same
ripped black jeans with a pair of black Vans and a tight-fitting, faux-vintage
Evil Dead t-shirt. The purple polish was chipping away from his fingernails,
and the number of rubber bands around his left wrist had at least doubled. His
eyes seemed to smolder as he gazed back at Theon, leaning in to rest a hand on
Theon’s thigh.
“You like it, don’t you?” asked Jon smugly.
“Seems dangerous to put a pointed pencil near your eye while I’m driving sixty
miles per hour.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”
The silence that followed was painfully awkward – more so for Theon – Jon broke
it as quickly as he could.
“I trust you to not get in a wreck.”
*
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone about this?”
Theon pressed a hand to Jon’s chest, stopping him a few yards short of the door
to an old Air-Stream trailer that sat – seemingly abandoned – in the middle of
a large, overgrown lot bordering one of the canals that ran through the
outskirts of the city proper.
Jon glanced dubiously at the trailer, then back at Theon and frowned. “This is
fucking sketchy.”
“Jaqen’s a weird guy,” admitted Theon. “But he’s also like, easily weirded out,
so just act like everything’s normal. And promise me you won’t tell.”
Jon considered, then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I promise.”
Theon grabbed Jon’s hand, threaded their fingers together and led him up to the
trailer. He gave a single, solid knock on the door.
It opened a fraction, and a crack of almost blinding light fell across Theon’s
face. He put his hand up, and squinting through his fingers saw a wide, green
eye peering at him, then at Jon.
“Jaqen, it’s me. Um, Theon Greyjoy.”
“A man is surprised to see you again so soon,” Jaqen replied in his unnamable
accent. “And who is this?”
Theon tugged on Jon’s hand and pulled him a couple steps closer. “This is Jon.
He needs an ID.”
The door swung open completely, revealing an interior that was unbearably
bright, though not a trace of light showed through any of the windows. They
stepped inside, and the door closed behind them, leaving the Air-Stream beside
the canal a picture of darkness once more.
The windows were covered inside with light-proof fabric, stapled around the
edges. Jon looked around in wonder at the sides of the trailer, covered in
photos and documents. The whole place smelled of plastic and mild chemicals,
and the lights themselves were UV lights, designed to simulate the sun. In one
corner sat a small workstation, a little desk buried in paper. Beside it was a
table with a laptop attached to a scanner, copier and printer. A small photo
station took up the front end of the trailer – a Canon point-and-shoot mounted
on a tripod that faced a drab blue backdrop. Looking into what used to be a
bathroom, Jon saw an enlarger and ribbons of film negatives strung from the
ceiling.
The most bizarre part of the operation was Jaqen himself – everything about him
was indistinguishable. He looked to be anywhere from twenty to forty, depending
on his posture, and his features were nothing extraordinary, yet they were
somehow exotic and combined with his skin tone to suggest some Persian, or
maybe Japanese, or maybe American-Indian or mestizo. Even his eyes were
different colors – the right one an emerald-green, the left one a deep brown.
He wore the same old beige sweater Theon had last seen him in, and he wondered
if Jaqen didn’t live as well as work here.
“News has reached a man – news of Ned Stark’s death.” He looked at Theon, who
tried vainly to intimate with his eyes that he didn’t wish to speak about the
Starks just now. “A man is sorry to hear.”
Jon frowned. “Ned Stark? Is that your, um, your guardian?”
“No,” said Theon, not looking at him. “Someone else.”
Jaqen had picked up a manila envelope from his desk, but seeing the way Theon
stiffened at the mention of Ned’s name and quickly understanding the secret
between them, he cleared his throat and replaced the envelope in a stack other
papers.
“So.” Jaqen moved through the cramped space to stand in front of Jon. “A boy
needs an identity. What’s your name, boy?”
“Jon. Jon Snow.”
Jaqen gestured to the blue backdrop at the front of the trailer. “Stand over
there, Jon Snow.”
Theon folded his arms and watched as Jaqen slouched to look at the camera
screen, then up at Jon. Jaqen stepped around the tripod and before Jon could
stop him, he was using his fingers to brush Jon’s hair out of his face. Jon
blinked and shook his head, but Jaqen persisted.
“A boy has a pretty face,” said Jaqen, glancing at Theon as he returned to
stand behind the camera.
Jon blushed and Theon smirked.
“Now hold still, Jon Snow, and try not to smile.” Jaqen snapped three photos,
then removed the memory card from the camera and brushed past Theon to sit at
his workstation. He unfolded a pair of delicate reading glasses and began to
type.
“What is your favorite number, Jon Snow?”
“Um, three, I guess.”
“And tell me your favorite fruit.”
Jon arched an eyebrow at Theon. “Peaches.”
“And your birthday.”
“March fifth, 1998.”
Jaqen entered a few swift keystrokes and the printer began to whirr.
“It will take several minutes to print and dry,” he said, spinning in his chair
to face Theon, his hands folded across his stomach.
“You mind if I have a smoke outside?” asked Theon.
“A man will join you.”
Jaqen opened the door for Theon, but when Jon began to follow them out, he
barred the way and said “Two men must speak privately.” Seeing the nervous
flicker in Jon’s eyes, he smiled slightly and added, “A boy has no reason to
worry.”
Outside, Theon handed Jaqen a cigarette and his lighter. The two of them walked
around the back of the trailer and stood at the edge of the canal. The water
was black and silent.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Theon.
Jaqen shrugged. “A man does things differently from day to day.” He took a drag
and blew a chain of smoke rings up towards the crisp, clear sky. “A boy doesn’t
know who he is,” he said.
“Nope,” said Theon, feeling somewhat defensive and also frightened by how
easily Jaqen had surmised the truth. “And I’m not planning on telling him.”
When Jaqen handed Jon his new ID, any doubts the boy had been harboring were
replaced by a broad grin as he tilted the piece of plastic to catch the light.
The holographic snowflake pattern underlying the text shimmered and Jon
whistled,
“Wow, this is great! Thank you!”
“Let me see it,” said Theon. And damn if Jon didn’t look good even in a shitty
driver’s license photo. He held the ID up beside Jon’s face.
“So, who are you?”
“Jon Snow.”
“That’s a really nice name. Where are you from?”
“Oh, I live here in Wintertown at #3 Peach St.”
“Wow, we’re practically neighbors! I’d love to come over and suck your dick
sometime, but you look a little young – what’s your birthday?”
Jon turned red and muttered, “March fifth, 1996.”
Following Jon out of the trailer, Theon winked at Jaqen. “Thanks again.”
Jaqen nodded and said nothing, but nearly slammed the door on Theon’s heels.
The grass covering the lot was thick and coarse, and in the moonlight looked
almost white. The stalks were tall enough that Jon brushed them with his
fingertips as he walked.
“You weren’t kidding.” He glanced over his shoulder at the little trailer. “A
man is fucking weird.”
Theon hit the automatic lock button on his keychain and up ahead the lights of
the Zagato flared twice. “Yeah, but he’s the best.”
Theon reached for the driver’s-side door handle, but before he could open it,
Jon had spun him around and pinned his back against the cool glass of the
window.
“Thank you. For doing this for me.”
Jon licked his lips as he leaned in to kiss Theon – slowly at first, then with
more urgency as Theon slipped a hand up the front of Jon’s shirt. He could feel
the heat in Jon’s chest, and he could feel Jon’s hard-on against his own, and
when Jon moved his mouth to lick and bite his way down Theon’s throat, Theon
felt ashamed at the little sound he made.
“You’re a fucking tease.”
Jon grinned and reached down to undo Theon’s belt, then his fly, and Theon
gasped at the warmth of Jon’s hand – “Oh God, fucking finally” – on his cock,
the thumb passing over the tip before tightening into a fist around him.
Theon closed his eyes and pushed his pants down around his thighs to give Jon a
better angle. He swallowed when he heard the sound of Jon dropping to his knees
in the grass and trembled when he felt Jon’s breath against him. When he opened
them again, Jon was looking up at him with those big, black-lined eyes, his
lips just ghosting over the head of Theon’s prick as he asked, “Do you want me
to?”
Theon swallowed again and nodded.
As many times as he’d imagined it, he couldn’t believe the softness of Jon’s
mouth, or the depraved, wet sounds it was making. He let his head drop back and
looked up at the stars, which seemed unusually bright in this dark little
corner of the city. The cool air on his skin clashed pleasantly with the heat
rising inside him. He felt Jon re-situate himself, heard the sound of Jon’s
zipper. Theon knotted his fingers in Jon’s hair and with his other hand
clutched at the rearview mirror to steady himself.
“Please don’t stop,” he breathed.
Theon groaned when Jon pulled away with an obscene popping sound, a thread of
saliva hanging from his bottom lip. Jon flashed a wicked smile, then hooked
Theon around the waist and pulled him down into the grass. Theon’s elbows
landed hard in the dirt, and before he could catch his breath, Jon was
wrestling to get on top of him. Their legs were a tangle of knees and pants and
underwear, and when they finally came to rest, Theon was a little bewildered at
how he’d ended up with his back on the ground and Jon’s thighs on either side
of his ribs.
Robb would’ve taken the opportunity to gloat about this victory, but Jon only
stared at Theon with an intensity that bordered on avarice, pushing his shirt
halfway up to get a better view. His fingertips traced along the tentacles that
covered Theon’s right side, then stilled for a moment. Theon could see the
indecision in Jon’s eyes evaporate suddenly, and Jon reached back to pull his
own shirt off over his head.
Jon’s muscles contracted at the touch of the air; his erection jutted up darkly
against the pale skin of his stomach, and Theon felt like he was in a dream.
“Jon –”
“I changed my mind,” said Jon, pushing his hair out of his face. “I don’t think
I can wait anymore.”
“Oh thank fucking Christ.”
Jon made quick work of kicking off his shoes and pants, then pulling Theon’s
jean’s roughly down to his knees. Theon sat up on his elbows to watch as Jon
bent down to lick a stripe along the underside of his cock, Jon smiling to
himself when Theon’s hips jerked vainly upwards. Jon reached for his pants and
fumbled through the pockets until he found what he was looking for.
Theon raised an eyebrow. “You want me to wear a rubber? I’m a little offended.”
“Wear it or don’t fuck me,” said Jon gruffly, tearing at the corner of the foil
with his teeth.
“You’re going to want me to get you ready first.”
“I’m pretty fucking ready.”
“No, I mean like, you’ll be too tight. It’ll hurt.”
Jon rolled the condom down the length of Theon’s prick and then tore open a
packet of Astroglide; he poured its contents into his palm, slicked his loosely
over the condom and then reached between his own legs. Grabbing Theon’s cock
and situating himself just above it, Jon smirked at the way Theon gasped as he
lowered himself to take just the tip of it.
“You – you’ve done this before?”
“I’ve been practicing,” said Jon, taking Theon a little deeper. “On myself.”
Theon inhaled sharply. His fingernails dug into Jon’s thighs and his head
snapped back as Jon twisted his hips slightly. He found himself actually
grateful for the condom – it might prevent an embarrassingly short performance.
“Since when?” he choked.
Jon rocked back until Theon’s cock was completely inside him. “Since the first
time we made out in your car.”
“And everyone thinks I’m a whore.”
“Are you?”
Theon closed his eyes and held his breath for a few seconds before replying,
“Sort of. Probably. Yeah.”
Jon dropped forward onto his elbows, threading his fingers through Theon’s
hair, sucking and kissing beneath his jaw, still shifting his hips slowly
forward and then pushing them back. Theon had his eyes screwed shut, his teeth
cutting into his bottom lip as he arched up to meet Jon’s tempo. Jon smiled and
nuzzled Theon just beneath the ear.
“Tell me how this feels,” he murmured.
“So. fucking. perfect. How is it for you?”
“It’s alright,” said Jon with a husky little laugh.
Theon gave a hard thrust, enough to make Jon’s eyes cross and his breath catch
in his throat.
“Don’t tease me right now,” he growled, gliding his hands up along Jon’s sides
and then raking his nails down again. He felt Jon’s knuckles grazing over his
stomach, felt a drop of pre-cum against his skin. Theon reached his thumb down
to wipe it up and then smeared it across Jon’s lips before kissing him
hungrily. Jon moaned into Theon’s mouth.
“I think I might come soon.”
Theon took Jon’s cock in one hand and with the other grabbed the back of Jon’s
neck, driving himself up and into Jon has hard as he dared. Jon’s breath was
coming fast and shallow, his hands fisted in Theon’s hair, their foreheads
pressed together.
“Come for me, then.” He tilted his head back, but Jon was too far gone even to
kiss him. Theon sucked at Jon’s bottom lip, and he felt Jon’s whole body go
taut – once, and then again and he felt the hot spurt of Jon’s seed on his
stomach.
Jon collapsed against Theon’s chest and Theon gripped Jon’s hips, pushing them
down as he fucked Jon desperately.
“Oh fuck.”
Jon gasped when Theon came, and in the morning when he went to piss, he
discovered five small, faint bruises on either side of his hips.
After Theon’s blood began to settle, he became aware that the air was chilly
and the grass was itchy and Jon’s cum was drying sticky between them. Jon
rested his chin on Theon’s sternum, using his fingers to comb the tangles from
Theon’s hair, an irrepressible little smile on his lips.
Theon brought a hand up to tuck a few of those manic black curls behind Jon’s
ear.
“You still want to go out?”
Jon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Kind of, yeah.”
“You’ll have to re-do your make-up.”
Jon laughed. “I knew you liked it.”
*
The blaring of the bass system reverberated for blocks down the streets of the
warehouse district, fast and heavy like the sound of a runaway freight train.
Theon wondered what he was in for. He’d parked his car on the top floor of the
parking garage adjacent to the club, and stepping into the elevator with Jon,
he realized something.
“You were planning on that, weren’t you?” he said with a grin. “‘Take me to the
club Theon.’ With a condom and a packet of lube in your pocket. You complete
slut.”
“I was a virgin up until 45 minutes ago.”
“Virgins can still be sluts.”
Jon shrugged. “Maybe I was hoping.”
Theon lifted Jon’s chin and laid a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
“Was it what you wanted?”
Jon nodded almost shyly. “Yeah.”
Theon shook his head and smiled. “You’re such a fucking trip sometimes.”
The line outside The Dungeon was a dozen yards long, and Jon fidgeted with his
ID.
“This is so awesome,” he said, practically shouting to be heard.
“Listen,” said Theon, putting an arm around Jon’s shoulders and bringing their
faces closer together. “Put it in your wallet. The trick to this is that when
they ask for your ID, you act like, really fucking put out. Like, ‘Don’t you
know who I am?’ Like, you’re almost offended that they’re asking, you know? If
you just shove the ID in the guy’s face, he’s gonna think that’s weird.”
By the time they came to the front of the line, Jon was so busy trying to sneak
a glimpse into the club that he didn’t notice the shape of a wolf’s head on his
ID, glowing bright beneath the bouncer’s blacklight.
Goddamnit, Jaqen.
“Hands.”
Jon waited obediently while the bouncer drew a pair of thick, black X’s in
Sharpie on the backs of his hands. The same sigil appeared on Theon’s ID, and
he handed Theon a wristband and eyed both boys cagily as he said, “To the
left.”
Following the stanchions to the left of the entryway took them through a short,
darkened corridor, and when they stepped out the other side, Theon realized
they had just bypassed security. At the main entrance, a pair of young men held
their hands behind their heads as they were frisked, and a girl swore as she
opened her purse for examination.
Jon looked questioningly at Theon, who only shrugged.
“VIP, I guess.”
The place was packed, and Theon felt the heat hit him like a wave – he smelled
sweat and alcohol and a noxious blend of colognes, perfumes and marijuana. The
building itself was an old warehouse, cavernous with a high ceiling and metal
rafters. The area near the entry – the coat-check, a set of restrooms and a
modest bar – was covered with blood-red carpet, but the rest of the floor was
concrete – sticky with beer and covered in graffiti. There were no windows in
the black walls – only long rectangles of a cold, cobalt lighting covered with
elaborate wrought-iron bars. A stage loomed at the back end of the warehouse,
surrounded by a massive sound system, and above it a set of steel tracks from
which colored lights flashed and pivoted, painting the crowd in blue, purple
and white light.
“It’s a good thing you’re the hottest person here,” shouted Theon as they made
their way further into the club.
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Because it’s the only way I’m ever gonna be able to find you again in a whole
building full of people with long black hair and black t-shirts.”
Jon laughed. “Yeah, I hate to say it, but I’m kind of glad you wore that stupid
shirt.”
Glancing up, Theon realized there was a mezzanine level with an expansive bar
overlooking the main floor.
“I think I might go get a drink,” he said, pointing up the stairs.
Jon frowned.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“You’re my ride home.”
“I can have one drink.”
Jon bit his lip and snapped at his rubber bands. “I said I would trust you to
not get in a wreck, so I guess I’ll just have to do that.”
I really wish you wouldn’t.
“Do you want me to bring you something?”
Jon displayed the backs of his hands and Theon rolled his eyes.
“Oh please. That doesn’t mean much, but I’ll take it as a no.”
“I think one first is plenty for tonight.”
Theon pulled Jon in for a kiss, hummed when Jon bit down on his tongue.
“Go dance,” he said, cocking his head towards the floor. “I promise I’ll be
down in a couple minutes.”
And he did feel a little guilty when he ordered up two shots of tequila, but it
wasn’t like Jon would notice the difference. He wiped his mouth on his knuckles
and looked over the rail at the dance floor, but damned if he could spot Jon
from up here. The crowd was so thick, and the thought that he might actually
lose the boy hastened his steps down the metal grating that lead to the floor.
He began winding his way through the crush of bodies, stopping to glare at a
girl who sloshed half her beer on him. The music was absolutely deafening – to
Theon it sounded like a cross between a spaceship and a jackhammer – and his
guts were starting to tighten with panic when a cool hand grabbed him by the
wrist.
“Took you long enough!” Jon was already dripping with sweat, a huge, slap-happy
grin on his face.
“I was worried I wouldn’t find you.”
Jon recoiled slightly and scowled. “Jesus Christ, what did you drink?”
“Tequila.” Theon grabbed Jon by the hips and yanked him off balance so that he
stumbled forward into Theon’s chest. “Sometime when you’re not being such a
bitch, I’ll buy you a chocolate cake shot.”
“What’s in a chocolate cake shot?”
Theon shrugged. “Hell if I know, but you chase it with lemon and it tastes
exactly like chocolate cake.”
“Sounds like kind of a girly drink.” He reached for Theon’s hand, weaving their
fingers together and gave a tug. “Come on, let’s get closer to the stage.”
Theon wasn’t exactly sure if what they were doing counted as dancing, but the
throng was so dense and so unyielding that he felt he couldn’t really be blamed
for having a hard-on. And Jon didn’t seem to care at all – in fact Jon was
having a great time, so oblivious to everything but the sound of the music and
the feeling of Theon’s body pressed against him that Theon didn’t even mind any
of the blatant ogling directed their way.
The fans mounted into the ceiling high above them did nothing to lessen the
suffocating, cumulative heat of kinetic energy and sweat and breath and
surreptitiously-lit joints, and eventually Jon shouted, “Do you mind if I take
off my shirt?”
Which Theon thought was possibly the dumbest question ever.
Jon tucked his shirt down the back of his pants, raked his soaking wet hair out
of his face and threw his arms around Theon’s neck, laughing. Theon held onto
Jon by the crests of his hips, though Jon’s skin was slick to the point of
being slippery. He could feel Jon’s heartbeat, pounding away against his own,
and he could feel Jon’s breath, sticky against his neck. It was dizzying – the
contrast between this noisy, cramped club and the quietude of the field beside
Jaqen’s trailer. But Jon – Jon was the overwhelming consistency between them,
and with Jon’s arms around him and his face buried in Jon’s hair, Theon began
to feel his vertigo give way to a sort of euphoria – an almost calm, unfamiliar
sensation that things were right.
It occurred to him that for most people his age, tonight would be an epic night
– sneaking your underage boyfriend out past his curfew, then having sex in a
field and using fake ID’s to get into a nightclub – but to Theon it was the
first time he could recall actually feeling sort of normal. The thought made
him sad for a moment, but then that passed and he found himself smiling.
He felt Jon’s hand in his hair, Jon’s lips against his ear saying, “Do you want
to go find someplace a little quieter?” And then Jon’s teeth on his neck, Jon’s
hard prick against his thigh.
Theon put a hand on Jon’s chest and pushed him away to get a better view. Jon’s
eyes were dark with want.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked.
When he thought about it later – and he did think about it often – he couldn’t
say what precisely caught his eye that drew his gaze just over Jon’s right
shoulder – some flare of the light, maybe – but when his eyes landed on Vayon
Poole, everything seemed to stop. The music turned abruptly to silence and the
crowd to empty air. Theon blinked, but there was Poole, not ten feet away, and
that meant Flint as well, somewhere at a right angle to Poole, which meant one
of two possible locations. Assuming that Jon was the intended target. Jon was
still standing there, smiling right up until the second that Theon shoved him
hard to the ground.
He saw the glint of Poole’s pistol as he reached up under his shirt for his
own. The first bullet clipped Theon in the left ear and he felt the warmth of
blood, but no pain. Theon was only vaguely aware of the sudden surge of people,
falling over themselves to get away. He took aim and his first shot hit Poole
in the jugular, an eruption of blood that caused the man to instinctively grab
at his neck with both hands. A second shot entered below Poole’s left eye and
blew the back of his head open. Pool staggered forward for almost two full
steps before collapsing to the concrete.
In his peripheral vision, Theon registered Flint and dropped to his knees,
allowing Flint’s first three rounds to pass harmlessly over his head and bury
themselves in one of the PA’s, sending up a horrifying electronic squeal that
only compounded the chaos. Theon emptied his clip into Flint’s chest and
watched Flint topple backwards.
All of this took less than ten seconds, and then the whole scene roared to
life. The air smelled like gunpowder, filled with the screams of the dancers as
they stampeded towards the front exit, security trying in vain to create order
where there was only ear-shattering pandemonium. Theon looked down at Jon, who
was gazing up at him with abject wonder and fear, his face ghostly with shock.
Searching, Theon spotted the emergency exit behind the stage and held a hand
down to Jon.
“We have to go.”
Jon stared numbly at Theon’s hand, then back up at Theon’s face, squinting as
though he didn’t understand what Theon was saying.
“Now, Jon. We have to get out of here.”
Jon clutched at Theon’s hand, but when Theon tried to pull him to his feet, his
knees gave out.
“Jon, get up.”
Jon willed himself to stand, a look of determination fixed on his face as Theon
took him by the hand and pulled him along, moving as quickly as he could around
the stage and out the rear exit.
In the harsh lights of the parking garage elevator, Jon looked almost morbidly
pale, and when Theon looked down, he saw the blood from his ear dripping
steadily onto the linoleum. He brought a finger up to delicately examine the
wound, feeling the ragged edge where the top of his cartilage had been.
Suddenly realizing just how close Theon had come to having his brains blown
out, Jon slumped against the wall of the elevator, his arms folded across his
stomach as he started to double over, his breath rasping and shallow.
“Jon, look at me.”
Jon obeyed, but his pupils were glassy and dilated.
“Do you hear me right now?” Theon reached out tentatively for Jon’s cheek,
brushed his thumb over a small scratch there. Jon swallowed drily and nodded.
“Good. I need you to keep it together for just a little bit longer, okay? We
need to get in my car and get the fuck out of here. We’ll get away from here
and then we can both lose our shit, okay? Do you think you can keep it together
long enough to get into my car? Can you do that for me?”
Jon nodded again, a little more resolutely. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”
Theon had to slam the brakes at the parking garage exit as a familiar town-car
tore down the street. He didn’t need to look to know who was driving, and
peeled out of the garage as the sound of sirens grew closer in the distance.
*
“Do you think you’ll ever kill anybody?”
I hope not, Theon thought, though to Robb he’d only shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”
He thought about seeing his brothers’ bodies, about wishing in that deep,
terrible part of himself that he had been the one to do it. He wondered what it
felt like.
***** Chapter Nine *****
Chapter Summary
     Theon tries to make sense of what happened, does the right thing and
     then of course does the wrong thing as well.
Chapter Notes
     I've been updating this thing about every week, but I'm afraid that
     updates may be further in between for the next lil bit. April thru
     May is a crazy season at work and so I'm afraid I'll be partially
     redirecting that time and creative energy. But never fear! I am still
     going strong! Thanks to everybody who's commented/left kudos so far!
Theon had no recollection of how old he was when he learned how to lie to
people. Asha was a liar and Rick was a liar and Maron loved lying, and so it
only made sense that Theon was a liar too. And though the price of being caught
trying to deceive his father was a thrashing, Theon intuited that the
punishment had more to do with salving Balon’s pride than instilling ethics in
his children.
Naturally, it began as a survival mechanism – an honest little boy stood no
chance with brothers like his, and a willingness to bend the truth about things
he’d seen or heard or done meant less suffering at their hands. Sometimes Asha
told him mean little lies, but just as often they were kind ones. It wasn’t
until he left home that Theon realized she was the best at it. Rick only lied
to save his own skin, and while Maron was a savant of duplicity, he had a tell
– a little smirk not unlike the one Theon often saw in the mirror. But Asha was
stone-cold and straight-faced; she could tell you it was sunny out, and she
would make you believe it, even if you were already soaking with rain.
The Starks were confounding with their notions of honesty. Ned Stark expected
the truth at all times, despite the fact that he often withheld it himself and
despite the fact that his entire empire was built on deception of one kind or
another. And yet Theon never saw Ned as two-faced – either too clever or too
simple to be bothered by the way his conduct as a father and husband contrasted
with his willingness to commit extortion and perjury.
It wasn’t long after his arrival in Winterfell that Theon realized Robb would
believe literally every word that came out of his mouth, and for a few weeks he
amused himself by lying to Robb constantly. They were harmless little things,
but eventually he started to feel guilty about it. Even when he was caught out
– Robb repeating some fib to Ned or Cat – he knew Robb never suspected Theon of
deceiving him; it must’ve been a mistake, or maybe they just did things
differently on the Iron Islands. Robb trusted him, and so he gave up lying and
learned to be very deft at sidestepping the truth rather than crashing
painfully against it.
Jon was the exception. In a way, Theon had been more truthful with Jon than
with anyone, but he’d also lied to Jon more than anyone, and he’d started lying
to himself, and now they were both paying the price.
As they fled the warehouse district in the Zagato, Theon was shamefully
grateful that Jon was so focused on staving off a full-on panic attack that he
hadn’t asked any questions yet. Theon’s mind began to work, and as he
formulated a plausible explanation that didn’t include the name Stark, it
dawned on him that he could never see Jon again. Not even for a moment, not
even from a distance.
You’re such a worthless asshole.
When he pulled into the parking lot of a suburban WalMart, Theon wavered about
whether to bring Jon inside – looking like he might faint any minute – or leave
him in the car and risk him running off or worse.
“Why the fuck are we at WalMart?”
“I need a few things,” replied Theon, taking him by the hand and pulling him
down the aisles.
In the men’s section, Theon eyeballed Jon before grabbing a white Volcom
hoodie, a plain black t-shirt, a pair of Wranglers, some off-brand sneakers and
a Corona baseball cap. In sporting goods, he picked up two boxes of ammunition,
a pair of hunting knives and a backpack.
At the checkout counter he asked for a pack of Camels and ignored the way the
cashier stared at the blood that covered the left side of his face and neck. As
she rang up the clothes, Jon tossed a packet of one-hundred rubber bands onto
the conveyer.
“I’m going to need these,” he said, and even though his lips were still about
two shades too pale, they turned up into the slightest of smiles.
Theon stopped at the ATM on the way out the door, taking Jon’s hand again as
they exited through the sliding doors.
“Stay close to me,” he instructed, glancing around the parking lot.
So Robb had found out about Jon. But had he learned the truth while going over
his father’s accounts, or by having Theon shadowed? Were Poole and Flint sent
to kill Ned Stark’s bastard son, or to put an end to Theon’s affair? The Family
must’ve had an associate at The Dungeon – Theon could see no other possibility
– but was this person put on the look-out for Jon Snow or Theon Greyjoy?
When Jon finally asked him, it was softly: “When are going to tell me what’s
going on?”
“When we get where we’re going,” replied Theon, putting his car in gear.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to see Jaqen.”
*
The coup jostled painfully as Theon drove it over the curb and straight through
the empty lot towards the Air-Stream. Hearing the squealing of the brakes,
Jaqen came to the door holding a shotgun at his shoulder.
“Jaqen!” Theon exited the car slowly, hands raised, while Jon waved through the
passenger-side window.
Jaqen lowered the weapon, still obviously unsettled, and waited for an
explanation. Theon wondered if he ever actually slept.
“Jon needs new ID.”
“A boy lost his ID so soon?” A note of irritation colored Jaqen’s usually-
placid tone.
Theon shook his head. “No, I mean a new ID. He needs a social and a passport.
He needs – he needs to disappear.” Taking a few steps closer, he added in an
urgent whisper, “They’re trying to kill him.”
Jaqen understood immediately and asked for no further information.
Theon beckoned Jon inside the trailer, and when they went inside, Jaqen caught
sight of Theon’s ear. He reached for it, pushing Theon’s hair – brittle with
blood – out of the way.
“A man can take care of this,” he offered.
Theon swatted Jaqen’s fingers away and tilted his head towards Jon. “Take care
of him first.”
Jon looked lost in the middle of the tiny Air-Stream, plucking his rubber bands
despondently. His skin was beginning to regain its color, but his eyes retained
their stunned expression.
“Theon, please tell me what’s happening.” He sounded almost frightened.
Theon sighed and looked away, mustering the energy for this one final
deception.
“That was – that was supposed to be a hit. Those two guys – they were trying to
kill me.”
Jon’s mouth dropped open. “A hit? You mean, like fucking gangster shit?” His
breathing sped up. “You mean that was – that wasn’t just some random – those
guys were after you?”
Jaqen raised an eyebrow but continued setting up his equipment in silence.
“Yeah. They were after me.” Theon spotted a metal folding chair against one
wall and opened it up in the middle of the trailer. “Take your shirt and pants
off.”
“Who were they? Who sent them? Who would – who would want you dead?” He looked
at Theon distrustfully. “You – you told me you didn’t have anything to do with
all that shit. With your dad. You said you didn’t have anything to do with
him.”
“I’m my father’s only son,” said Theon. “There are plenty of people who’d still
want to see me – out of the picture, you know?”
Jon folded his arms. “Like who?”
“Like my uncles, for instance.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about any of that?”
He’d expected Jon to be angry, but instead the boy just seemed hurt, looking at
him the way a wounded animal might to demand an explanation for why it had just
been hit by a car.
Theon felt his throat constricting. “You think – you think I wanted to waste
time talking about that ugly bullshit? I don’t even think about that shit when
I’m with you.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and blinked back the
sting in his eyes. “Just take off your shirt and pants.”
Jon did as he was told, pausing for a moment with his shirt still wrapped
around his forearms, looking completely awkward and beautiful, and when he blew
a few strands of hair out of his eyes, Theon felt like his heart might fly out
of his chest. Jon stood in front of him, pants and shirt and shoes in a pile on
the floor, his hands crossed modestly in front of his boxers. Theon motioned
for him to sit in the metal chair.
“So what are we doing here? You fucking wasted those guys.”
Theon cringed. It sounded like something Robb would say. He crouched in front
of Jon, ran a finger up the inside of Jon’s thigh over a cluster of small,
raised scars he hadn’t seen before. He wanted to kiss them. “They’ll try
again,” he said. “And now they’ll know that you were with me.” He noticed the
eyeliner still clinging to the corners of Jon’s eyes. “Somebody at the club had
to tell them I was there. They’ll find witnesses, or security footage. And
they’ll start looking for you, hoping that maybe you can lead them to me.
They’ll hurt you if they have to. So we have to do what we can to hide you.”
“It would be best to bleach his hair,” said Jaqen. He rolled up his sleeves and
came over to examine Jon thoughtfully.
“We don’t have time for that,” said Theon.
Jaqen reached down almost gingerly, sliding one of Jon’s rubber bands off and
using it to pull his own hair back into a lanky ponytail.
“Just get the clippers.”
“What?” Jon shot straight up in the chair, craning his neck to watch Jaqen
rifle through a box until he produced an electric razor with a half-inch guard.
“No. No no no no no fucking way You are not fucking touching my hair!” He
wriggled out from under Jaqen’s hands, clutching the edge of the chair and
shaking his head violently.
Theon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Jon, you have to, okay? Hey.” He
brought a hand up to cradle Jon’s cheek and combed his fingers through a thick
snarl of curls. “Hey, it’ll grow back, yeah? I know it’s not fair. You know I
love your hair. But please just let him cut it.”
Jon continued pouting but stopped resisting. The drone of the clippers
resonated in the Air-Stream and Theon watched the clumps of long, black hair
fall to the floor. Seeing that Jon’s eyes were closed, he grabbed a few locks
and tucked them into his pocket. He glanced up to find Jaqen blinking back at
him.
“How does it look?” asked Jon, still clenching his eyes shut.
“Well, right now it looks like a mullet.” Theon ran his thumb over Jon’s temple
where the hair was already buzzed. “Still sexy though.”
Jon laughed and Theon smiled to himself.
“What next?” Jon asked with a sigh, as Jaqen brushed the trimmings off the back
of his neck and shoulders.
Theon chucked the grocery bag full of clothes at him. “Put these on.”
Jon frowned at the Wranglers. “Only because I like you.”
Theon wished himself dead.
The jeans hung low on Jon’s hips, just a size too large. Before Jon could slip
the black t-shirt over his head, Theon stopped him. He pressed his palm in the
center of Jon’s chest, then slid it up Jon’s neck and into his hair.
Jon closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “That feels so good,” he
admitted.
“Yeah,” said Theon softly. He kissed Jon once on the lips, then again, and then
without meaning to, he was kissing Jon with his tongue, with his hands on
either side of Jon’s face, and Jon swallowed the little hum that escaped
Theon’s mouth.
“I’ve gotta get dressed,” he said hoarsely.
Contact lenses were Jaqen’s final touch – an eerie blue that reminded Theon of
Robb. He watched as Jaqen situated Jon in front of the camera once more. Jon
fidgeted. Somehow he looked even younger without all that hair to hide behind.
Theon slumped heavily down into the metal chair while Jaqen slipped his reading
glasses on and began working away at his computer.
Jon walked over to straddle Theon’s legs. “Let me see it.” Theon winced as Jon
pushed aside a lock of hair to get a better look at the shredded ear, those
not-quite-right eyes flickering with concern. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when you touch it,” hissed Theon. “Does it look bad?”
“It looks pretty gnarly.” Jon cradled Theon’s jaw in his hand and bent to place
a kiss on the bloodied skin of his cheek.
Jaqen entered a few final commands and then turned to peer at Theon over the
rim of his glasses.
“A boy will never hear quite the same,” he said.
He had a light touch, as always. Jaqen wore latex gloves, pursing his thin lips
as he wiped away the gore with a damp cloth, then irrigated the wound with
iodine. Theon grimaced.
“Is there – ah! Fuck! – is there anything you can do to make it look normal?
Like a prosthetic or something?”
Jaqen shook his head. “Not while it’s an open wound. After it heals, maybe, but
for now it needs to breathe.”
*
Jon sat in the car. The passport was warm in his hands as he flipped through
its pages, squinting at the fake visas with a deep frown.
Theon stood on the threshold of the Air-Stream and turned back to Jaqen.
“Nothing hidden on that, is there?” asked Theon.
Jaqen shook his head. “No.” Seeing the next question on Theon’s lips, he added,
“A man knows how to keep secrets.”
*
Theon had lost all sense of time. The roads were empty, the stoplights blinking
red and yellow, and the night seemed to go on forever.
“What’s your name this time?” he asked.
“Black,” replied Jon, not bothering to consult the passport that was tucked
into his pocket. Theon upshifted, and Jon covered Theon’s hand with his own.
“You scared?” asked Theon.
“No,” said Jon. He ran his nails through his freshly-shorn hair. “Are you?”
“Kind of.”
And you should be.
The parking lot outside the Greyhound Bus Station was nearly vacant, and Theon
chose a spot well away from the entrance. He took a deep breath and closed his
eyes and when he opened them, Jon was smiling at him like this was all some
kind of great adventure.
“Where are we going now?” Jon asked.
Theon opened his wallet and pulled out a thick roll of hundreds. “Here’s two
grand. It’s all I’ve got on me right now.”
Jon took the money and frowned, confused.
“I don’t get it.” He looked out the windshield, then back at Theon. “They’re
looking for both of us. You’re going with me.”
Theon’s heart sank.
“I can’t.”
“Wait, what? What do you mean you can’t? You mean you won’t?” Jon’s voice
cracked, and Theon could see the tears welling up in his strange new eyes.
“No, I mean we can’t – you’re not safe with me.”
“I am though!” Jon slammed his open hand against the dashboard. “I am safe with
you! What – what do you want me to do? Where the fuck am I supposed to go? I
don’t – I don’t have any family. I don’t know anyone.”
“Anywhere. Go in and buy a bus ticket to anywhere you want.” He reached up
under his shirt for his 9mm, weighed it in his palm before offering it to Jon.
“Take this. Take the ammo and the knives and the money and get as fucking far
away from Wintertown as you can. Don’t let anyone know your name and don’t ever
mention mine.
You’re so fucking smart, Jon.” He reached out of run his thumb along the curve
of Jon’s lips. “You’re smart and tough and sexy, and you will fucking figure it
out.”
Jon looked at the pistol, then at Theon, then buried his face in his hands. He
didn’t make a sound, but Theon could tell by the way his shoulders heaved that
he was crying. He wanted to touch Jon, but he knew that he needed to stop. When
Jon looked up again, his face was red and wet with tears. “How can you fucking
do this to me? How can you just show up out of fucking nowhere and make me –
make me –” Jon faltered. “Make me fucking happy and then just fucking leave me
like this?”
“I’m not leaving you. I care about you. I’m trying to take care of you.”
“Then fucking come with me, you asshole. Come with me and take care of me.”
Theon’s mouth went dry.
You could, you know.
“I can’t,” he repeated.
Jon hung his head, hands clenched into fists. A deep sigh trembled through him.
Theon still held the pistol out awkwardly, and he wondered if Jon was angry
enough to use it on him. That might be lovely – in its own way – he supposed.
“You have to go,” he said. “You have to trust me.”
Jon sniffled and rubbed his face. “I fucking did trust you.” He took the gun
from Theon’s hand, turned it over thoughtfully. “Do you have another one?”
“I have like, four other ones.”
Jon checked the clip, then shoved the pistol into the backpack along with the
bullets, the knives and his old clothes.
“I know you lie to me. Like, all the fucking time. I wish you didn’t. I
could’ve found a way to help you, you know?”
Theon bristled. “I don’t need help.”
“So you’re just gonna keep on lying to me?” Jon scowled. He unbuckled his
seatbelt and threw the door open. “Fucking fine then. I hope whoever you’re
staying here for is fucking worth it.” He bit down hard on his lip to still its
quivering, but he couldn’t stop the tears rolling down his face. “Jesus Christ.
I wish you’d just fucking paid more attention to where you were driving. Then
none of this would’ve happened.” He passed the sleeve of his hoodie over his
cheek. “Fuck you. Seriously – just – fuck you.”
He slammed the door, and Theon watched him through the windshield, growing
smaller as he crossed the parking lot, fading in and out of the patches of
streetlight until he passed through the sliding glass doors to the station.
Theon killed the engine and opened his own door. He needed air. And a smoke. He
ignored the way his fingers shook when he lit the cigarette, and he leaned
against the side of the coup, scuffing his shoes against the asphalt. The stars
looked the same as they had earlier, but colder.
He started at the sound of footsteps racing towards him, and when he looked up,
there was Jon, flinging his backpack to the concrete to grab at the front of
Theon’s shirt. Jon pressed Theon back against the car, kissing him fiercely,
biting and sucking at Theon’s mouth until Theon couldn’t breathe.
“Find me,” said Jon darkly. “Promise me you’ll find me again.”
He pressed his lips to Theon’s – almost gently – and this was both the best and
the worst kiss of his life.
“I will. I promise.” And he meant it, at least in that moment.
“You better.”
Jon left him there with swollen lips and a half-hard cock, and when Jon hurried
back into the station, Theon felt as though the world had dropped away and left
him stranded in space. He knew that his promise was another lie, but that
didn’t stop him from spending the entire drive home fantasizing about what it
might feel like to see Jon again when neither of them was expecting it.
*
The upper-story windows at Winterfell were black when Theon arrived, and the
silence there felt heavy and restless. Surely news of Poole and Flint’s deaths
had arrived before Theon, but he resolved to let Robb broach the subject; he
saw no reason to implicate himself just now.
But he knew even before he set foot inside the mansion whose bedroom he was
headed for. His feet took him there on instinct, as though he were
sleepwalking, and when he knocked on the door, Robb’s voice slurred with
exhaustion:
“Theon?”
“Robb, open the door.”
What the fuck are you doing?
And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew he should go to his own room and go to bed.
But he needed this, needed to put Jon out of his mind, something – someone – to
dull the memory of everything that had happened in the past few hours so it
might not rush back, so crushingly vivid when the morning came.
Robb’s eyes were barely open when he came to the door, but his yawn resolved
itself in a smile.
“It’s almost five a.m.,” he said. “I gave up thinking you’d come.”
Theon pushed Robb back into the darkness of the bedroom, maneuvering him to the
bed and shoving him roughly to the mattress. He tore Robb’s boxers down over
his knees and threw them onto the floor. Robb laughed.
“Are you drunk?”
Theon pulled Robb’s ass to the edge of the bed and spread Robb’s legs to
position himself between them. He dragged his nails along the inside of Robb’s
thigh and watched the way Robb’s head dropped back and exposed the long arch of
his throat.
“No.” Theon leaned down suck a mark beneath Robb’s jaw. “I just want you. Tell
me I can. Tell me you want to.”
Robb swallowed loudly. “Mmm-hmm.” His hips thrust up, his erection jutting into
Theon’s stomach.
Theon smirked. He wet two of his fingers with his tongue and moved them down to
press gently against Robb’s entrance. Robb whined and squirmed at the touch.
“You’ve been jerking off tonight, haven’t you?”
Robb nodded and whined again, pitifully.
Theon began to work his fingers inside Robb. “What did you think about?”
“This,” replied Robb, running a hand over his stomach to take his own cock in
his hand. “You.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.”
Theon tried not to notice the ways that they were the same – the thick, curly
hair, the full lips, the broad shoulders and soft skin. But the more he thought
about it, the harder he got. He slipped another finger into Robb’s ass and
grinned at the way Robb reached for him.
“Your shirt,” Robb ordered breathlessly. “Off.”
Theon complied but didn’t go further than loosening his belt and shoving his
pants down just enough to free his prick. He lifted Robb’s legs forcefully over
his own shoulders.
“Were you thinking about me?” asked Robb, raising his head to watch with lust-
filled eyes as Theon guided his prick into place between Robb’s thighs. He let
out a controlled breath as Theon entered him, not as smoothly as he’d have
liked.
“Obviously.”
Robb groaned and brought one hand up to tug at his own hair. “What did you –
oh, fuck – what did you think about?” He bit his lip as Theon began to move,
slowly at first but quickly accelerating until Robb’s airy curses were coming
at short, steady intervals:
“Fuck – oh shit – oh Jesus.”
Theon felt momentarily distressed by how much he loved Robb’s sheer need, which
was nothing like Jon at all; Jon was sexually calculating and Robb was
practically in heat and it was his desperation to lose control that suited
Theon’s need to regain it just now.
“I thought about fucking you on the conference table,” said Theon in a low
voice. And it wasn’t a total lie – he had thought about it, what seemed like
years ago. “While everyone else watches and begs me to take a turn with you.”
Robb laughed and threw his hands over his head, pushed his ass up to meet
Theon’s pace. “Would you let them?”
“Of course not,” said Theon, more sharply than he meant to.
“Because I’m yours?”
Theon leaned forward to kiss him, not minding the way their teeth crashed
together when he sank himself as deep as he could, his hips smacking harshly
against Robb’s ass. “Because you are so. fucking. tight. and I want you to stay
that way for me.”
Robb came first, his spine arcing off the bed as his climax spilled over his
stomach and chest in a thick burst, his eyes and mouth open as though in shock.
The force of it unbalanced Theon, and he fell forward, catching himself with
his elbows on either side of Robb’s neck. He slipped his tongue into Robb’s
parted lips and moaned when Robb bit down, hard.
He didn’t bother to ask for permission, and Theon came with a series of deep,
relentless thrusts that left Robb gasping for air, fingernails digging into
Theon’s back hard enough to draw blood.
“Stay,” he said when Theon stood to clean himself with the corner of a sheet.
“Just for a minute.”
Theon sighed, but he knelt to wipe up the mess between Robb’s thighs, planting
a kiss on Robb’s knee before saying, “Okay. Just for a minute.”
They lay facing one another, though in the dark it was hard to see more than
the glint of Robb’s eyes. But he could feel Robb’s breath rushing over his
cheek, and when he put a finger to Robb’s lips, he felt a smile there. In the
silence, Theon became aware of a ringing in his ears.
“I can’t believe I have to be awake for a meeting in like, three and a half
hours,” groaned Robb.
“How did it go with Roose?”
More silence.
“Robb?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Robb’s voice had an edge to it that told Theon
it was best not to push, so he said nothing and waited and after a moment,
Robb’s voice added quietly, “I wish my dad was here.”
Theon fumbled for Robb’s hand and brought it up against his own chest. “I
know.”
And though he didn’t mean to, he fell asleep like that, waking only briefly to
feel Robb’s fingers running through his hair.
*
The sun was already high in the window when Theon woke, still in Robb’s bed,
though he didn’t remember taking off his pants and shoes. He closed his eyes
again and stretched, reaching for Robb but finding not even a trace of his
warmth left in the blankets. Disappointed, he rolled back onto his side and had
nearly drifted off again when his phone buzzed with a text.
Theon yawned.
“Text from Robb.” Looking at the corner of the screen, he saw the time.
“Shit!”
It was almost noon.
“Come to my office when you wake up. No hurry.”
His shoes and pants were in a pile at the foot of the bed, but Theon had to
search for his shirt, and when he found it he realized the back was covered in
grass stains and a fair amount of blood had soaked through the right shoulder.
Instantly, the memory of the previous night exploded into full detail and
Theon’s stomach lurched at the realization that he would never know if Jon got
safely away.
You should’ve gone with him.
Why didn’t you?
Then he remembered the meeting and felt ashamed that he’d probably slept
through the whole thing, and furious that Robb had just let him.
He checked the hall before sneaking into his own room, clutching his filthy t-
shirt to his chest. After he had changed, Theon stopped in the bathroom to look
at his ear – scabbed and raw – before brushing his hair carefully over it.
The door to Robb’s office opened while Theon was still some distance away, and
when Roose Bolton emerged, Theon braced himself for some kind of insinuating
comment. But Roose only looked at him knowingly before striding wordlessly
past.
“Robb!”
Robb looked up from his desk, then quickly down again. Theon stood in front of
him, leaned against the wood.
“You let me sleep through the meeting! Why didn’t you come wake me up?”
“You were wiped,” said Robb, still not glancing up from the note he was
writing. “I figured I shouldn’t wake you.”
“And no one asked where I was? Way to let me look like a total fuck-up in front
of everybody.”
“I have an errand for you,” said Robb, as though he hadn’t even heard.
Anger flared in Theon’s chest as he wondered why Robb was acting so aloof. It
wasn’t fair that Robb got to act like such a love-struck little slut at night,
and in the day expect Theon to “yes sir” and “no sir” just like everyone else.
Theon was surprised by how much it stung.
He stared dumbly at the note Robb handed him.
“I need you and Cassel to go pick something up for me.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re back to this again,” said Theon with an icy, feigned
cheerfulness that made Robb’s jaw clench. Looking at the paper, Theon saw that
the address was a familiar one; he crumpled it up and tossed it back onto
Robb’s desk. “I know where that is, thanks. Unlike some people, I’ve been doing
this Family’s work for quite a while now.”
He stalked out the door and took a few paces down the hall when he heard Robb’s
voice, a touch softer:
“Hey, Theon?”
“Stark?” he returned coldly, not looking over his shoulder.
“Nothing. Just fucking go.”
*
Theon fully expected Rick Cassel to make some patronizing comment about how
he’d missed the morning meeting, but thankfully the old man seemed to have more
on his mind and their ride was pleasantly quiet. Cassel had been a large part
of Theon’s life as a boy adjusting to a new home, and now he seemed like just
another stranger.
“What is he having us pick up here?” asked Theon as the car rolled through the
open gate of the storage complex. He’d never seen the place in the daytime, and
he was startled to see that the sliding metal doors on all of the units were
painted a merry shade of pink. “I’ve only ever come here for –”
The reality of the situation his him just a millisecond before Cassel’s fist.
The old man’s knuckles felt like steel, but it was the second impact – his head
slamming against the window glass – that knocked Theon out, a burst of pain and
then nothing.
*
When Theon jolted awake, his head was pounding and his vision remained black.
He was terrified that he’d been blinded, but when his breathing calmed, he felt
the tickle of cloth against his face. He tried to move, to push away the thing
covering his eyes, but both his hands had been immobilized somewhere above his
head. An almost electric pain shot down the length of his arm and Theon cried
out.
“Oh, you’re up!”
The voice – unfamiliar and almost sweet – belonged to a young man. Theon heard
footsteps, and when the voice came again it was much closer – too close – and
he could feel the breath of it against his neck. It smelled like cigarettes and
candy.
“And I had just thought of the most amusing way to wake you.”
***** Chapter Ten *****
Chapter Summary
     Theon Greyjoy wakes up.
Chapter Notes
     Welp, here it goes folks. My apologies for the shortness of the
     Ramsay chapters - not only do they work better with my crazy life
     right now, but it's also just really hard for me to sustain writing
     about torture. And with poor Theon losing himself, the memories and
     flashbacks that might give him a break are getting fewer and further
     between.
     Thanks - as always - for the reads/kudos/comments!
If his body housed some other spirit, Ramsay Bolton might have been handsome.
He wasn’t an imposing person – definitively shorter than Theon, and thin enough
that the line of his collarbone showed through the fabric of the cheap white t-
shirts he preferred for his work. The earring in his left ear looked almost
elegant hanging against the corner of his jaw. Messy black hair framed his
face, and when it wasn’t twisted into a grin, his mouth came to rest in a
graceful bow shape. It was the eyes that lent Ramsay his inhuman aspect – cold
and gray like his father’s, but sublime in that looking into them erased all
knowledge or desire of anything else.
On that first day though, Theon met them. It was foolish, he thought later, to
force himself to stare into Ramsay’s eyes despite the terror rising in his
flesh.
You should’ve known better, he chided himself.
“Good morning, Theon.” Ramsay’s tone was caustic, but the sharp smile on his
face expressed genuine pleasure. Glancing to the side, he asked, “Or is it
night? What time is it, Skinner?”
“It’s five p.m.,” answered a voice, and Theon became aware that there was
another man in the room, standing just beyond his periphery.
The space was small, maybe ten feet by twenty, and the fluorescent lighting
cast a ghastly, flickering pall over what was already a grotesque scene. Theon
was bound up on a massive wooden saltire which straddled a large, grimy drain
in the concrete of the floor. He faced the inside of the sliding door, as well
as the hinged door beside it, but not even a trace of light was visible from
outside. The smell of bleach failed to conceal the stench of gore and
excrement. In one corner was a recliner – leather and inappropriately luxurious
– situated to view the saltire, and to Theon’s right a small, stainless-steel
table littered with tools and instruments, many of them still wet with blood.
Theon blinked, disbelieving.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
And Ramsay completed the scene, lightly balancing a pair of pliers on his left
index finger and saying to Theon, “It’s hard to tell in here. I expect we’ll
both lose track of time. For different reasons, obviously.” He cocked his head
towards Skinner, “He’s here to make sure I don’t kill you. You know, get a
little too into it and open an artery or whatever.” Ramsay shrugged. “Father’s
orders.”
Theon said nothing, but gave another tug on his wrist, and again a bolt of pain
shot down into his shoulder. He moaned, and the sincerity of Ramsay’s smile
unnerved him.
“I was starting to worry we’d never meet.” Ramsay took a step back to fold his
arms and examine Theon more fully. “My dad’s always going on about you to me.
He’s very interested in you, for some reason.”
“That’s funny, ‘cause he’s never said fuck-all about you.” It was a lie, but
Theon was pleased to see that it struck true.
Ramsay’s face darkened and a second later Theon’s head was reeling, snapped
painfully back with the force of impact and he felt blood filling his mouth.
His head lurched forward again, and he spat onto the floor. As Theon’s vision
cleared, he saw blood running down Ramsay’s knuckles, his hand still gripping
the pliers.
“You. will. not. speak to me like that again.”
Theon wanted desperately to cradle his jaw, but his hands remained fixed
uselessly above his head. He couldn’t believe that someone so wiry could hit so
hard.
 Running his tongue around his mouth, he found he’d lost one tooth and another
was painfully broken.
If Ramsay’s hand hurt, he gave no indication. He tilted his head, chin resting
thoughtfully on the bloodied heel of his palm while his eyes traversed Theon’s
body. “Where to start?” he asked, almost to himself.
Theon strained to see his shackles, but succeeded only in refilling his mouth
with blood. He began coughing, and Ramsay reached for the table of instruments.
“Let’s get a better look at you.” Ramsay wiped the red from his hands onto his
shirt, then danced his fingers over the clutter until they alighted on what
looked like a dull pair of scissors. “Skinner.” He held them out delicately to
the other man.
Skinner’s eyes were normal, almost dull compared to Ramsay’s, and Theon found
them a relief. He went rigid, though, as the scissors neared his throat.
“Relax.” Ramsay sounded amused. “They’re just trauma shears.”
Theon shuddered at the cool metal edge that ran haltingly down his chest, first
lengthwise and then across, and he felt his skin crawl as his shirt fell away.
When he peeked through his eyelashes, Ramsay was reaching towards him.
“These are fun.” Ramsay’s fingertips hovered just above the tattoo on Theon’s
chest, as though he wanted to touch the skin but thought better of it. “Are you
proud of them?” Then to Skinner he added, “Find out if he’s compensating for
something, will you?”
Theon slipped into full-blown panic, thrashing violently against his bonds as
Skinner crouched to cut up along each of his pant legs, stopping only to remove
his belt, which Ramsay took and rolled up carefully. The air of the storage
unit was damp and chilly against Theon’s bare thighs, and a moment later he was
completely naked.
Skinner busied himself pawing clumsily through the pockets of Theon’s shredded
jeans, and Ramsay’s gaze flitted down between Theon’s legs.
“Must be something else then,” he said with a smile.
Theon began to tremble. His eyes roved around the room, looking for anything
that might aid in an escape, but with no way to free himself, it was hopeless.
He tried to shake the word away.
Skinner grunted. He’d pulled something out of Theon’s pockets and passed it to
Ramsay.
Oh no.
Ramsay ran the lock of Jon’s hair between his fingers, then brought it to his
nose and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
“He smells sweet,” observed Ramsay. He took three steps forward and suddenly
Theon could feel the heat from Ramsay’s breath. Ramsay held the hair between
his thumb and forefinger, ran it lightly over Theon’s cheek, down his throat,
watching as Theon swallowed the bit of blood that had welled up in his mouth.
Theon’s mind flashed to the memory of Jon’s forehead pressed against his own.
“What is Jon Snow to you, exactly?” Ramsay’s voice was low, almost soft.
It took all of Theon’s strength to compose himself, to look Ramsay in the eye
and say, “Who the fuck is Jon Snow?”
Ramsay rolled his eyes, snapped his fingers and Skinner handed him a glossy
printout of a photo. Ramsay held it so close that Theon could barely make sense
of the image. It was a still taken from the surveillance camera above the back
exit of the Dungeon. There he was, and there was Jon, looking back over his
shoulder as Theon pulled him along by the hand.
Theon screwed his eyes shut and turned away.
What were you thinking?
Ramsay looked at the picture, then gave Theon a wicked grin.
“He’s what, sixteen? Can’t blame you though.” Again, he traced the lock of
Jon’s hair along the edge of Theon’s jaw, and Theon tried to ignore how
pleasant it felt, almost a tickle. “He’s pretty, if that’s what you’re into.
And I suppose you like being first, don’t you? I like being last, myself.”
Ramsay’s voice dropped into a coarse whisper. “I bet he didn’t know what hit
him – had no idea why you chose him.” He leaned in, even closer. Theon tried to
wrench his head away, but Ramsay only grabbed him by the hair. “It must’ve felt
good – fucking that beautiful boy, knowing who he was. Knowing whose son he
was.”
Theon cringed. He struggled against the memory of Jon’s lips on his cock, Jon’s
hands on his chest.
Yes. It did.
“If I ever get my hands on Ned Stark’s bastard, I’ll fuck him inside out.”
“Jealous?” returned Theon with a smirk.
Skinner cleared his through as though reminding Ramsay of his presence. Ramsay
released his grip on Theon’s hair and took a step back. “I make him
uncomfortable sometimes,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then with an amused look,
he added “Which is funny, since he spends all day watching me pull body parts
off people.”
Theon’s eyes searched frantically for something to look at besides Ramsay, but
his gaze was drawn back as though by gravity. He said nothing, but waited, the
tension sending up an ache in every fiber of his body. More than anything – if
he couldn’t escape – he wanted to faint.
Ramsay’s mind returned to his pliers, and he weighed them in his hand. Theon
felt his guts twist; he had no way to anticipate the intensity of the pain –
only the certainty that it would be the worst he’d ever felt. He could hardly
resist – being bound so tightly – when Ramsay finally worked the tip of the
pliers under the edge of his fingernail. He closed his eyes.
“Little things like this are going to feel so fucking good to you by the time
I’m done.”
Later, in the dark, Theon would feel ashamed of how hard he screamed. He
writhed in his restraints, gagging at the sound the nail made as it tore loose
from his finger. He kept screaming until his vision began to cloud, and as his
cries grew weaker he realized that Ramsay was laughing. It was a high, strange
sound made Theon furious, and he didn’t care how ridiculous it must’ve sounded
to say, “When I get out of this, I swear to God I will fucking kill you. And if
Robb ever finds out –”
Ramsay erupted into a fresh bout of laughter, and this time Skinner joined him.
Theon thought he was going to burn up.
“You really do have a thing for the Starks, don’t you?” teased Ramsay. “How is
it working – trying to fuck your way into the pack?” He held up Theon’s bloody
fingernail, examining it. “I’m still not a hundred percent sure whether Robb
sent you to me because he sees Jon Snow as a threat to the Family or just
because he’s feeling jilted.”
“Robb wouldn’t send me to you,” shot Theon, wanting – really needing – to
believe it. “He would deal with me himself.”
It must’ve been Cat. It must’ve been Cassel. Robb would never do this to me.
If Ramsay’s face softened almost imperceptibly, Theon was sure it was only to
mock him.
“But here you are, and I think we both know that the Starks don’t do their own
dirty work.”
Theon felt like he couldn’t breathe.
“I know you don’t really like the truth, but Robb Stark sent you to me so I can
extract the whereabouts of a pretty little bastard named Jon Snow. And I think
you’ll tell me, but I don’t really care if you do. In fact, it’s more fun if
you try not to.” Again, that terrible smile, and Ramsay moved closer to squint
curiously at Theon. “You do know that, don’t you? Somewhere in there, you know
that he sent you here?”
Theon’s head dropped forward, his chin against his chest. “Yes.”
Jesus Christ. But he couldn’t have known. He didn’t understand what he was
doing.
Ramsay took Theon’s jaw in his hand, almost gently. “You betrayed him, and you
betrayed the Family, just like your worthless father. This – this is what you
deserve.”
“Fuck. you.” Theon spit a weak spray of blood into Ramsay’s face; he expected
another blow, but Ramsay only blinked and smiled at him, tightening his grip on
Theon’s jaw until his fingers pressed excruciatingly against Theon’s broken
tooth. Ramsay held him like that for a moment, peering into him. Theon thought
of all the men he’d delivered to this same fate and he wondered what they saw
when they looked into Ramsay Bolton’s eyes.
“Here’s how this works,” said Ramsay, once more close enough to bite. “There
are two ways for you to make me happy. Screaming while I carve off pieces of
you is one way; telling me what I want to hear, doing what I tell you to do –
that’s the other. It makes no difference to me.” His gaze rolled down Theon’s
body and when it returned to his face, Theon saw the first flicker of something
he might recognize, though it gave him no relief.
Ramsay pulled away and Theon thought his heart might burst, fast and hard as it
pounded in his chest.
Wouldn’t that be lucky.
“Send this to Robb Stark.” Ramsay held Theon’s fingernail out to Skinner. “Find
a nice little box for it and write a note thanking him for the gift.” He nodded
at Theon, and if he noticed Skinner rolling his eyes, he didn’t seem to care.
Ramsay lingered until Skinner was gone, but he made no other move to hurt
Theon. He only eyed his captive as he wiped his face and hands on the front of
his t-shirt, then pulled on a leather jacket and gloves.
“You don’t mind if I keep this, do you?” he asked, twirling the lock of Jon’s
hair between his thumb and forefinger before tucking it into his pocket. “It’s
a nice little trophy.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
Ramsay raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.” He opened the door. Theon could see the
night beyond it as Ramsay hung there for a moment before looking over his
shoulder. “I wish I had more time for you, but there are other… things that
need my attention. And you know what they say about absence.”
How long do I have to stay here? Theon wanted to ask. How long will you be
gone?
But pride forbade him to ask, so he remained resolutely silent, trying not to
whimper when Ramsay turned off the lights and slipped out the door. In the
darkness he listened to the sound of several locks, followed by the ignition of
a motorcycle. It roared loudly enough to rattle the sliding door of the unit
and then dissipated, leaving Theon in pain and silence.
*
Even as a child, Theon never feared the dark. And now he tried to remember the
security of curling up underneath a pile a blankets, or the way the stars
glittered over the beach at Pyke, the night sky inseparable from the blackness
of the sea. He tried to remember the roar if it, constant and comforting. But
this darkness was different – no sounds, no sights, not even a texture besides
the rope that cut into his wrists, the wood that splintered and rubbed into his
back, creaked when he shifted his weight.
And there was the pain, of course. Gingerly, he probed the gaps in his mouth,
feeling with his tongue along the sharp edge of the broken bottom tooth. His
finger – it was the ring-finger of his left hand – still throbbed, and at the
slightest contact from the adjacent digits the feeling became unbearable. Tears
welled in his eyes, but even alone and in the dark, he blinked them away.
He’ll know if you’ve been crying, he thought absurdly.
Searching for a distraction, Theon counted the number of times he’d been tied
up – three, if he remembered correctly and not including present circumstances.
Rick tied him up and left him in a closet for several hours once, which was
more embarrassing than frightening. At one point, Asha opened the door, but she
only reached past him for her jacket and then closed it again, knowing better
than to interfere with whatever punishment Theon was receiving. Finally, Balon
found him there.
By that time, his vision had adjusted to the dark and the light from the
hallway hurt his eyes. But he would know that severe silhouette anywhere. Theon
felt ashamed, of course, and waited for his father to reprimand him, but for
once Balon knelt down to him, turning him this way and that until the ropes
fell away. Wordlessly, he coiled them in his leathery hands and left Theon
standing there dumbly. It never happened again.
He wondered if anyone at Pyke would even miss him at this point, and for a
moment he entertained a fantasy in which Balon came North in search of him. But
Balon was about as likely to come to the Mainland as Ramsay was to tell Theon
that this had all been some kind misunderstanding.
How long had it been since Ramsay left anyway? Ten minutes? An hour? Already
time was becoming imperceptible.
He was eleven when he let Robb tie him up with a few of his mother’s scarves
during a game of cops and robbers in which he had been sentenced to death-by-
firing-squad. (Robb always chose himself as the heroic detective and nominated
Theon to play the criminal mastermind, a casting which was in retrospect fairly
ironic.)
“Make it tighter,” Theon demanded. Robb sighed and Theon reflected that on
Pyke, no boy of eight could be so ignorant of how to tie a few simple knots.
“My mom is gonna be mad if we rip her scarfs,” fretted Robb.
“Make it tighter or this is just stupid.”
Robb had blind-folded him as well, too loosely to stop him from peeking out the
bottom of the cloth.
The memory only made Theon angry again, and he resolved not to think about Robb
anymore, which lasted for all of – well, he had no idea – but he couldn’t not
think of Robb.
How could you do this to me, you fucking asshole?
Now all the memories that might’ve soothed his present condition were colored
by this latest turn of events and he found himself trying to pin down the
moment that Robb made the decision to send him here. Had Robb known what was
about to happen even when he let Theon into his bedroom that night? It was an
insufferable thought, that Robb would use him –
Oh, like the way you used him?
– That Robb would have been planning to turn him over to Ramsay Bolton even as
he asked breathlessly, “Stay.”
The last time he’d been tied up – well, sort of – was less than a year ago.
He’d gone home with a guy he met at Ground Zero, and though he couldn’t
remember the name – if he’d ever known it – he remembered blonde hair and green
eyes and calloused hands, and he remembered holding up a pair of fuzzy
handcuffs, quirking an eyebrow and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Despite Theon’s comprehensive sexual experience, the idea was novel to him – of
course he’d heard that some people were into getting tied up and gagged and
made to crawl on all fours, but the bedroom was supposed to be the one arena in
which Theon never had to beg. When all was said and done though, it felt good –
maybe better than he was comfortable admitting afterwards when he hurriedly
pulled on his pants, fingers still shaking from the sheer exhilaration.
“You can stay the night if you want,” the man said hopefully.
Theon shook his head. “No, I’m okay.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No. I just – um, I have to get going.”
He’d gone straight back to the club, and within thirty minutes he was sweating
and cursing, rutting up against some new stranger in a bathroom stall.
*
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke the room was still pitch
black and Theon was seized with the overwhelming need to relieve himself.
I can hold it.
What, until Ramsay comes back and gives you a potty break?
He moaned as he pissed, grateful that only a small amount of it trickled down
his leg. The rest he could hear, splattering on the concrete and dripping down
the drain beneath him. The smell was pungent, and the fact that he had just
pissed himself was humiliating – though not as bad on either count as it
would’ve been if he were still wearing his clothes. He wondered if this was
Ramsay’s intention, or merely an oversight. It dawned on him that he would
eventually need to shit, but he pushed the thought away.
What if he doesn’t come back?
And as much as the prospect of those cold eyes boring into him again made Theon
sick to his stomach, the thought that Ramsay might never return was far worse.
He realized that his only chance for escape was convincing Ramsay to undo his
ties and he dared to feel a glimmer of hope, despite the despair in his guts.
*
At some point he heard the rumble of a car engine idling outside the unit. He
heard voices, though he couldn’t be sure whose, and the racket of metal doors
slamming open and closed.
You should scream.
No. Don’t.
What if it’s him?
By the time he decided it might be best to cry out, the sound of the car had
faded into nothing.
Thinking of Robb only made Theon’s whole body shake with anger, and thinking of
Jon hurt like pouring alcohol into an open wound. He felt so foolish – for
trusting Robb Stark, for lying to Jon Snow – that in the end the only person
left for him to think about was Ramsay Bolton. He recalled the heat of Ramsay’s
breath, the sharpness of his smile, the uncanny sweetness of his voice, and he
made a game of counting out the seconds until his return. He often made it into
the thousands before slipping into a stupor, losing count and starting over
again.
He will come back, Theon thought. He has to come back.
***** Chapter Eleven *****
Chapter Notes
     I put together the mix of what I've been listening to for the first
     part of this fic which is very poppy and can be found here. I'll have
     to find some new tunes now that our hero's life has taken a turn for
     the worst.
Theon’s lips burned. How long could a person go without water?
Three days, his mind supplied, though he had no clue where the number came
from.
It must be longer. It’s been at least five days.
Maybe three days is how long it takes to go crazy.
He’d lost all faith in his ability to gauge time, to tell up from down or sleep
from awake – here in the dark the only certainty was his thirst. Even pain and
fear faded against the all-consuming desire for water. Occasionally his knees
gave out, the entire weight of his body wrenching against the ties on his
wrists. His cries reverberated against the concrete walls.
It began to rain, and Theon had never heard a sound more heart-rending than
that of raindrops drumming on the steel roof of his prison, the roll of thunder
close enough to rattle the doors. The smell of the storm seeped in, fresh and
wet and he felt tears in the corners of his eyes.
Not long after the downpour abated, Theon again heard the clamor of engines
outside; this time the door did open, allowing the scent of the rain to flood
the unit. Although the sky beyond the door was darkly overcast, the light stung
and he whined pitifully.
Ramsay’s hair clung damply to his forehead and he wiped at it with the cuff of
his leather jacket as Skinner followed him silently through the threshold,
turning on the lights and closing the door. They looked strange together, Theon
thought – Ramsay looked so slight and boyish beside Skinner’s hulking frame and
craggy face that if he didn’t know better, he’d assume Skinner was the
dangerous one.
But Ramsay removed his jacket to reveal another white t-shirt, already drenched
in half-dried blood. He took several steps toward Theon, then stopped abruptly.
“You shit yourself,” he said with a scowl. Then to Skinner, “Hose this mess
down.”
Skinner disappeared, somewhere behind Theon.
“You’re fucking disgusting.”
Theon glared at him but said nothing, then yelped as he felt the freezing spray
of water against the back of his neck, forceful enough to knock his head
forward; he watched helplessly as rivulets of clear, drinkable water cascaded
down his body, sweeping his filth and blood into the drain beneath. He twisted
his neck, hoping to swallow some of what streamed over his shoulders, but
succeeded only in wetting his tongue. The flow ceased as suddenly as it had
started, and Theon let out a single, dry sob.
Ramsay rolled his eyes and reached around into the back pocket of his jeans.
Theon expected a weapon, but was startled when it was only a steel flask, the
initials “R.B.” engraved across the front. Ramsay unscrewed the cap and held it
out to Theon, who eyed it warily.
It can’t be water.
Maybe it’s just empty.
He wouldn’t give you water.
But he was so thirsty…
“Come on, little pet. I know you want this.” Ramsay’s voice was nearly a coo,
coaxing Theon to drink and he touched the cool edge of the flask to Theon’s
cracked lips. As soon as Theon parted them, Ramsay tilted the flask upwards,
and the liquid that filled Theon’s mouth was rich and thick and –
Theon spat, and Ramsay side-stepped the viscous spray of blood. He pulled the
flask away, irritated, and waited until Theon had finished gagging before he
pressed it again to Theon’s face. Theon shook his head, pursed his lips
tightly.
“It’s this or nothing,” warned Ramsay.
Theon closed his eyes, trying not to think as he allowed the blood – whose
blood? – into his mouth, unable to stop the tears streaming down his cheeks.
He’s going to turn you into a monster, he thought wildly.
Ramsay poured more gently this time, licking the corners of his mouth as he
watched Theon swallow. “Water comes out of a tap,” he said as he screwed the
flash shut and replaced it in his pocket. “But I went to a lot of trouble to
get this treat for you. What do you say to me when I’m kind?”
Theon looked at him blankly. Ramsay brought a hand up to lay against Theon’s
cheek, his thumb smearing a stray drop of red across Theon’s lips.
“Ramsay –”
“Yes, Skinner?” replied Ramsay, not looking away from Theon.
“You remember why we’re here?”
“Yes, and if you feel the need to remind me again, I’ll cut out your tongue and
shove it up your ass.” He continued to trace his thumb over Theon’s mouth, gaze
flickering up to Theon’s eyes and then down again. Theon froze. “You look like
a proper whore now.” He slipped the tip of his thumb between Theon’s lips,
running it over the broken tooth here. “Soon you’ll learn to say thank you like
a proper whore.”
He wants to fuck you.
The insight horrified him, but it also sparked a sort of hope – it was
something he knew how to use to his advantage.
But Ramsay had moved on – he snapped his fingers and Skinner produced a gray
envelope. Ramsay turned it over in his hands before holding it out for Theon’s
view. It was addressed to Ramsay and in the upper-left corner bore the familiar
sigil of a wolf.
“I thought I’d wait to open this in front of you.” Ramsay tore one edge open
with his middle finger. “Maybe he’s already found the bastard. Or maybe he’s
just decided that life’s cold and empty without your cock filling his ass and
he wants you back right away.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t that be lucky?”
As he unfolded the single sheet of paper inside, something small and brown fell
out onto the floor; Theon realized it was his fingernail. Ramsay’s eyes skimmed
the contents of the letter, expressionless.
“What does it say?” Theon ventured meekly.
Ramsay cleared his throat. “‘Mr. Bolton –’” and here he looked very pleased.
“‘Mr. Bolton – I charged you with retrieving information concerning the
whereabouts of the bastard Jon Snow, not with sending me grisly trophies. Let
me remind you – pre-emptively, I’m sure – that I trust you to extract this
information without maiming, crippling or otherwise permanently damaging Theon.
Failure to abide by these guidelines –’ blah blah blah ‘Thank you for your
continued service to our Family.’ Blah blah. ‘Sincerely, Robb Stark – Head of
House Stark and Warden of the Northern Families.’”
“Can I see it?”
Ramsay obliged him, and Theon’s heart sank when he saw that familiar, rigid
script. He hung his head.
“Not going to get very far with a weak stomach and a tender heart.” Ramsay put
his fingers lightly beneath Theon’s chin and lifted it until they were eye to
eye. “But you and I – we know how this world works, don’t we, pet?” He tucked a
few strands of hair behind Theon’s ruptured ear.
Theon nodded. These affectionate gestures disturbed him – they seemed to
precede violent ones, as though Ramsay couldn’t quite make up his mind about
how best to treat his prisoner. He said he wanted to know Jon’s location, but
there was something else as well. He wanted to fuck Theon, clearly – and he
clearly would, whether Theon wanted it or not – but he also wanted something
from Theon, and he was searching for it now in Theon’s eyes.
If I can figure out what that is, I might get out of this.
You’re never getting out of this.
“I told you – I don’t know where Jon is.”
“Have you ever taken a polygraph test?” asked Ramsay, picking idly through the
pile of implements on the little table.
“No,” answered Theon.
“I bet you could pass one.” Ramsay glanced up at him. “The Greyjoys are all
liars, and if you know how, you can fool a polygraph.” His fingers found their
prize – a small knife in a worn leather sheath. Ramsay withdrew it – fine and
curved at the end, it looked almost as delicate as a feather, out of place
amongst the other pieces of crude, clumsy hardware. “I have my own lie
detector,” said Ramsay. “I find it to be much more accurate.” He ran the flat
of the blade against Theon’s throat and bit his lip, feeling Theon’s pulse rise
in response. His eyes met Theon’s with a certain earnest look. “I want you to
remember this,” he said. Then with a smile he added, “I mean, you will remember
this. But I want you to remember that I will always find out when you lie to
me.”
Theon was no stranger to different types of knives, but he had never seen one
like this; it looked almost antique and Ramsay held it precisely. He tried to
track the glint of it with his gaze, but Ramsay had stepped to his right side.
Theon strained his neck to see, and felt Ramsay’s thumb rubbing over the
tattoos on his knuckles.
“My dad took me to the Iron Islands once,” recalled Ramsay. “I was excited
about it, until I looked out the wind of the airplane and saw that they were
just a pile of shit-stained rocks in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
Theon gasped as the edge of the blade sliced a ring around the base of his
little finger. The cut was clean but deep, and he could feel the warmth of
blood dribbling down the side of his hand. His eyes filled with tears and he
wondered how his body found the water to supply them.
“I bet you hated it there. And I bet your dad wasn’t too fond of you either –
probably disappointed when he even noticed you at all.”
The second cut circled around the first knuckle, and Theon cried out.
“Please…”
“Does he know you’re a faggot? Is that why you haven’t heard from him in –
what, ten years?”
A final incision connected the first two, running lengthwise down the side of
the finger. Ramsay wiped the knife clean on his shirt and returned it to its
sheath on the table. Theon squirmed, hoping – for a fleeting second – that it
might be over for now.
“So let’s try this again.” Ramsay jammed a fingernail beneath Theon’s skin and
pulled – slowly and evenly as though he was peeling a fruit.
Theon screamed, so loud that Skinner flinched visibly. Every muscle in him
twisted and writhed, his body shaking hard enough to wobble the saltire. His
mind abandoned him – his past and future immolated in an instant. Theon’s
entire self was distilled into this new, boundless agony and the voice that
begged, “Cut it off! Jesus, please just cut it off!” – that voice belonged to
someone he couldn’t recognize.
Ramsay examined his prize – a little scrap of skin inked with an “I” that fit
neatly in the cup of his hand. He set it delicately on top of the stainless-
steel table. Theon perceived it, but he was still too anguished to register the
horror of this little fragment of himself. His vision ebbed in and out of
focus.
Ramsay motioned to Skinner for a small, black pouch which unrolled on top of
his mess of tools. He considered the neat row of syringes and vials, impervious
to Theon’s continued – and increasingly hoarse – shrieking. He loaded one of
the needles, delicately flicked the end of it as he partially depressed the
plunger, his tongue tucked into one corner of a sharp grin.
“Theon –”
Theon heard him. He saw the syringe and wondered what was in it. But he could
only scream.
“Theon!” Ramsay grabbed him angrily by the hair. “Scream one more fucking time
and I’ll flay the whole fucking hand!”
The threat seemed to reach him, and though Theon could not silence himself
completely, he managed to confine himself to a series of distressed groans and
whines.
“See this?”
His eyes followed the shimmer of the needle as Ramsay flourished it in front of
him. He forced himself to nod.
“It’s morphine,” said Ramsay. “I could take this pain away from you. I could
make this feel like a dream. That would feel good, wouldn’t it?”
Theon nodded again, more urgently. In the back of his mind, he knew that the
syringe might contain anything, but anything was better than this.
“Yes.” He struggled to speak. “Yes. Please.”
Ramsay studied Theon’s face carefully, nodding along with him. “Yes, I can see
that you want to make me happy.”
“Please…”
“So tell me: where is Jon Snow?”
Theon shook his head, sobbing. His nose was running, his eyes so flooded with
tears that the whole room was a blur. He wished he had an answer, and he hated
himself for wishing it. He thought to lie, but instantly recoiled at the idea.
“I will always find out when you lie to me.”
Even if he believed you, he’ll find out fast enough. And then he’ll be angry.
And he’ll hurt you even worse.
Theon tried not to imagine what “worse” might mean.
“I don’t know,” he wailed. “I promise I don’t know.” He stared at the needle,
gaze darting between its point and Ramsay’s eyes. “Please. Please believe me.”
Ramsay frowned and loosened his grip on Theon’s hair. “I do believe you, little
thing. But I’m afraid that’s not what Robb Stark wants to hear.”
He fully depressed the plunger on the syringe, sending the medicine through the
air in an arc. Theon let out a despairing little moan, blinking as the liquid
splashed against his forehead. The pain in his hand seemed to roar back to
life.
Ramsay left him that way. He folded the square of Theon’s skin up in a cloth
handkerchief and tucked it carefully into the pocket of his leather jacket. Did
he intend to send it to Robb? To keep it for himself? Theon craned his neck to
get a look at his hand, but all he could see was blood. He erupted again into a
scream that quickly diminished into a pathetic croaking sound, his throat more
parched then it was when Ramsay and Skinner arrived.
“Please,” he rasped. “Please don’t leave me here like this. Please do something
to make it stop.”
But the door had already slammed shut.
*
It was only a matter of time until his classmates at Pyke Island Academy
noticed Theon Greyjoy’s mother – or rather, noticed her absence from all school
events and functions. Even when he was cast as Urron Redhand in the annual
second-grade history play, the chair reserved for Alannys Greyjoy remained
empty.
He hadn’t wanted to be in the play at all, and spent the weeks leading up to
the production in a state of constant anxiety, staying up well past his bedtime
to study his lines by the light of the tiny lamp on his nightstand. On evenings
that she couldn’t sleep, Asha would tiptoe into his room to help him – she read
his cues and helped him with his pronunciation, reflecting bitterly about her
own casting as a nameless serving girl three years earlier.
“I don’t even want to do this!” Theon moaned, throwing his playbook onto the
floor of her bedroom.
“Then why did you try out for it?”
“Mrs. Wyk made me try out. She said, ‘Everybody has to try out for the history
play.’ I told her I didn’t want to, but she said it would be good for me.” He
scowled. “She’s always doing stuff like this to me.”
Asha frowned. “Stuff like what?”
Theon flopped down on the foot of the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Like,
she’s always calling on me when I don’t have my hand raised, or making me go up
to the board to show a problem or picking me to read out loud when she knows I
hate it.”
“Maybe if you just volunteered once in a while, she’d lay off you.”
“Let’s keep reading,” he said, reaching for his book.
When the school sent out invitations to the play, Theon had dutifully handed
them to his father. He couldn’t predict how Balon would react to learning that
his son was actually in the performance – the old man loved history but hated
theater – so Theon didn’t mention his role.
“Do you think Mom will want to come?” he asked.
He was astonished to see his father look almost forlorn for a moment before
replying in his usual stony way, “No, I don’t think she’ll have any interest in
this.”
Theon saw his mother only rarely – occasionally she passed through one of the
corridors or sat at the large bay window that overlooked the escarpment leading
down to the shore. She had long, silvery hair and faraway eyes – sometimes she
didn’t even notice him there in the room with her. Other times she would smile
at him faintly and pull him into her as though she were searching, trying to
recover something from him.
Her portrait hung in the family room – a black-and-white photo of a young woman
on the beach, balanced on one bare foot atop a rock spire, her arms
outstretched and her hair flowing in the northeasterly wind that always blew on
the Islands. She was smiling, and Theon wondered if his father had taken the
picture. He couldn’t imagine anyone smiling at his father like that, just as he
couldn’t imagine his mother leaving the house.
But he had lied to his teacher, insisting that his mom was definitely attending
and so a chair was held for her.
Despite his nerves, Theon remembered all his lines, too committed to not
humiliating himself to register the vacant seat in the second row. And when he
came out for a final bow, he was overwhelmed by how unexpectedly good it felt
to be the center of attention – because none of the parents there would’ve
guessed that the little black-haired boy barking out Urron Redhand’s lines was
actually very shy, that he stumbled over his words sometimes, that he tended to
blush whenever asked a question. He didn’t have to be that way, after all.
And it felt especially wonderful afterwards when one of his classmates said,
“You were really good, Theon!”
“How come your mom didn’t come to see you?” asked another.
And instantly it was all washed away again, and Theon felt the burn of blood
creeping into his cheeks. “I – she, um – my mom –”
“His mom’s a shut-in,” interjected another little boy, not entirely unaware of
his own cruelty. “I heard she hasn’t left the house since you were born.”
“That’s not true,” said Theon, though he was sure it was.
“It is so. My sister went to school with your brother, and she told me your mom
is crazy.” He twirled his index finger in a spiral around his ear. “She told me
your mom went crazy when she had you.”
The other little boy looked at Theon with wide eyes. “Does that mean you’ll go
crazy too?”
Theon was crying when Rick finally came to pick him up. Rick drove a black
Stingray convertible, and Theon wiped his eyes as it slid up alongside the
curb, hoping that his brother wouldn’t notice the tears.
“Why are you crying?” Rick asked indifferently, lighting up a cigarette and
lifting his sunglasses into his hair.
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re crying like, ninety-percent of the time. So tell me what’s wrong – did
you fuck up your lines or something?”
“No,” said Theon defensively. “I remembered all my lines.”
“Then what’s the fucking problem?”
“Mom – Mom didn’t come.”
Rick rolled his eyes and took a deep drag. “No shit. Mom never comes to my
swim-meets, but you don’t see me getting all butt-hurt about it.”
“Some of the other kids were m-making fun of me for it. They said Mom is crazy
that that I’m probably crazy too.”
Theon saw Rick’s jaw tighten, his eyes narrowing and searching the schoolyard
behind Theon.
“Are they still here?” he asked.
Theon wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked over his shoulder. “N-no. I think
they went home already.”
Rick reached over and opened the door of the Stingray, not waiting for Theon to
buckle his seatbelt before peeling out down the street. He said nothing on the
drive home, and Theon looked out at the ocean, wondering if he was in for a
beating when they arrived, but instead Rick took him by the hand and led him
straight to the back-yard and crouched down in front of him, thoughtlessly
blowing a puff of smoke into Theon’s face and saying, “Show me how you make a
fist.”
Theon did as he was told.
“That’s not bad,” said Rick. He took Theon’s arm, made a few gentle
adjustments. “When you hit somebody, make sure your wrist is straight like
this. Otherwise you’ll hurt yourself more than you’ll hurt them. If you want to
really hurt somebody, you can hold something in your fist, like a roll of
quarters. Or maybe dimes for you.”
“What the fuck are you guys doing?”
Maron came out of the house, tapping a pack of cigarettes on the heel of his
palm.
“I’m teaching Theon how to fight.”
Maron snorted. “I can’t imagine a bigger fucking waste of time.”
Rick glared at him. “You want everyone to think our little brother’s a pussy?”
Theon waited for what he knew was coming:
“He is a pussy.”
But instead Ron only lit his smoke and asked, “Well, are you gonna fix his
stance or what?”
They stayed outside until well after dusk, Rick and Maron showing Theon how to
stand, how to turn, how to land a hook and an uppercut, how to protect his face
and how to pin someone so they couldn’t get up.
“Dinner!” came the call from the house.
“One last thing,” said Rick, taking Theon by the shoulders and kneeling down in
front of him. “I want you to hit me. As hard as you can, okay?”
Theon looked at his fist, bewildered. Was this some kind of trick? If he hit
Rick, would Rick and Ron beat him up and say he started it? He looked back to
his brothers’ faces.
“Go ahead,” said Maron. “Just hit him.”
The impact made a cracking sound, and when Rick brought his fingers to his
nose, they came away bloody. He smiled.
“Hurts, huh?”
Theon nodded, cradling his right hand tenderly. He couldn’t believe he’d made
his brother bleed.
Ron clapped Theon on the shoulder. “Not bad.”
“Guys, dinner is getting cold and I’m fucking starving!” Asha was leaned out
the back door, one hand on her hip.
“Don’t get your fucking panties in a twist!” yelled Rick. “We’ll be in in just
a second!” He turned to the side and blew the blood out his nostrils one at a
time, then looked at Theon appraisingly.
“Listen,” he said. “If anyone ever makes fun of you again – if anyone ever
talks shit about your family – you beat the fucking shit out of them, okay?”
Maron nodded, suddenly comprehending the situation.
“I – I can’t fight at school. I’ll get in trouble. Mrs. Wyk will –”
Rick shook him slightly. “You’re a fucking Greyjoy. You can do whatever the
fuck you want. Mrs. Wyk knows that. And if any other little shitheads ever
disrespect you again, you let them have it. If they say you’re crazy, you show
them fucking crazy. And if they’re too big for you, or if it’s a grown-up, you
tell us, okay?”
Theon nodded. “Can I tell Asha?”
Rick and Maron exchanged a knowing smile. “Only if you want ‘em fucking dead.”
Theon was never naïve enough to mistake his brothers’ protection for love – he
was their blood, but he remained the lowest of the Greyjoys. He only ever got
in one fight at school, when Tristifer caught him kissing Raif in the library.
Tristifer called Theon a faggot and threatened to tell his father, and Theon
sent Tristifer to the hospital on a stretcher. He remembered his vision
tunneling into blackness as he straddled the other boy’s ribcage, his fists
smashing the boy’s head down to the linoleum whenever he tried to get up. And
after that, he remembered standing in a puddle of blood, Raif looking at him in
shock, unable to answer the teacher asking him, “Raif, can you tell me what
happened?”
Tristifer returned to school two weeks later in a neck-brace, and Theon waited
for an expulsion that never came. Mrs. Wyk stopped calling on him so much, and
after a while, he felt almost normal. But it always lingered, like his mother
in the bay window – “Does that mean you’ll go crazy too?”
*
Ramsay came alone after that. The pain in Theon’s hand was so ceaseless that he
sometimes forgot about it for minutes on end, allowing his mind to wander
instead to some imagined sound or to the very real thirst consuming his throat.
But the pain escalated again, and by the time Ramsay returned, it had begun to
radiate down the length of his arm. His skin – what was left of it – felt hot
as thought held to close to a flame.
“This looks infected,” said Ramsay bluntly, not minding the way Theon winced
when he tilted the flayed finger back to inspect it. Ramsay looked exhausted –
dark purple rings hung beneath his pale eyes and his shoulders stooped wearily.
“Not sleeping well?” Theon ventured drily.
Ramsay blinked at him. “Better than you are,” he replied. “Sweet of you to ask
though.”
Theon groaned as Ramsay wrenched his finger forward suddenly. Ramsay sighed.
“This’ll have to come off.”
The prospect of being rid of it filled Theon with unspeakable joy.
Ramsay set about binding Theon’s right hand up, immobilizing it against the
wood of the saltire so that only the mangled pinkie-finger remained free. The
knife he used was different, not so fine as the flaying knife, but Theon found
he couldn’t bear the sight of it. Ramsay untied the bandana from around his
neck – pastel pink with red paisley – and rolled it up tightly.
“Bite down on this.” He held the cloth to Theon’s face. “You’ll bite your
fucking tongue off with that nasty tooth of yours.”
Theon opened his mouth and tried not to panic. The bandana tasted like sweat,
cigarette smoke and candy – he tried to focus on that rather than the way the
pressure enflamed the pain in his tooth or the way Ramsay kept hesitating, as
if he was unsure how best to make the cut. When he finally did it, Theon was
glad for the cloth – it stifled his scream and soaked up some of the tears that
ran down his face. It was an awful feeling – the way the knife popped into the
knuckle to sever it – but the burn of the finger fell away, quickly replaced by
the duller, more tolerable ache of its absence. He closed his eyes. Ramsay took
the rag from Theon’s lips, and Theon flinched when Ramsay touched it to his
cheeks, wiping away the tear-tracks there before tying it back around his own
neck. He quickly set about bandaging the bloody stump, first with gauze and
then with tape.
“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He felt Ramsay’s finger trace the line of his lips, but when he opened his eyes
he saw it was his own finger, still warm and pink and soft. He wanted to retch,
but couldn’t find the strength. Ramsay grinned, amused by his little joke; he
tossed the finger lightly into the air, caught it in his palm again and tucked
it into his pocket. Theon watched it disappear from view.
“Don’t worry – I’m not going to keep it,” said Ramsay. “But I can’t just leave
these things lying around, you know?” He wiped his own fingers against his
thighs, then used them to comb Theon’s hair out of his eyes. The touch was so
light, and it sent a tingle over Theon’s scalp and down his spine. He must’ve
let his eyes drift closed again, because when they opened, Ramsay was smiling
at him. He cursed himself for accepting that tiny moment of pleasure.
It’s not like I have a choice how he touches me.
“Does it feel better?”
Theon nodded and looked away, ashamed. “Yes.”
Ramsay continued to stroke Theon’s hair, and Theon’s eyelashes fluttered. “What
do you say when I’m kind to you?”
“Th-thank you?” stammered Theon, surprised by how readily the words came, how
right they felt.
Ramsay’s smile widened, almost too wide, Theon thought. Like the Cheshire Cat.
“You can be good if you try hard enough,” he purred.
And then he gave Theon water! No tricks, out of a bottle – and Theon had
trouble recalling a happier moment. He drank the whole twelve-ounce container,
not minding that within a couple hours he’d be pissing himself again.
“Thank you!” he said, water spilling down his chin and dripping onto his chest.
“Jesus Christ, thank you!”
Ramsay licked his lips as he swiped up the trickle of water, his thumb skimming
over the curve of Theon’s mouth. He watched Theon’s throat tighten and twitch
as he swallowed, and Theon watched the faintest flush creep into Ramsay
Bolton’s snow-white cheeks.
“I should go,” Ramsay whispered, strangely unsure, so softly it was only a
breath.
“Don’t go,” Theon wanted to say.
***** Chapter Twelve *****
Chapter Summary
     Theon makes his move and Ramsay does Ramsay.
Chapter Notes
     Another short Ramsay chapter - I swear this is part plot and not just
     wanton Theon torture.
Ramsay flayed another finger before Theon saw his opportunity. For all his body
ached, it felt like a month since he woke up strapped to the saltire; but for
all he knew it had only been a week. The last time he’d asked Ramsay to tell
him the day, Ramsay hit him in the mouth, chipping another of his teeth and
telling Theon that time was no longer his concern.
His captor was impossible to predict – Ramsay hit Theon for talking back, he
hit Theon for begging and he hit Theon for his silence. But then sometimes he
would offer Theon a few drops of water, call him “pet” and “sweetheart,” or
even use his fingers to gently sweep Theon’s hair out of his eyes. Theon
loathed these familiarities, but a growing part of him seemed to strive for
those kinder moments, making a game out of how many times in a visit he could
make Ramsay happy enough to give him something other than pain. In truth, Theon
began to find it increasingly difficult to think of anything but Ramsay – the
cadence of his voice, the touch of his fingertips, the smoky-sweet smell of his
breath that lingered even after he left.
It was the middle finger on his left hand – skinned from the base to the tip
this time – and it rubbed excruciatingly against the others. Ramsay had moved
him – for the moment – off the saltire and onto a hook that hung from a track
on the ceiling. His wrists were bound together, feet just touching the damp
concrete of the floor. They were alone, and when Ramsay had begun to untie him,
Theon’s heart leaped back to life – this was his chance. But the second he came
off the cross, his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor, gasping.
So much for running, he’d thought as Ramsay cinched his wrists again. You can’t
even fucking crawl.
Aside from that, Ramsay was unbelievably strong, easily moving Theon’s limp
body into position and hoisting him up as if staging some sort of grotesque
puppet show.
Usually, Ramsay seemed lighthearted during his visits – he enjoyed taking his
time, talking to Theon in that fond voice of his, asking questions that had no
right answers. He pretended no further interest in the whereabouts of Jon Snow,
and instead asked Theon questions about himself – about Pyke and Winterfell. On
this occasion however, he’d stormed in abruptly, his jaw set and shoulders
tight, as though something had prompted him to return earlier than he intended.
Something had got his blood up, and Theon wracked his brain to find what he had
done to stir Ramsay’s ire.
Nothing. I didn’t fucking do anything.
You did. You must have. He hurts you when you do something wrong.
Once he’d secured Theon on the hook, Ramsay let out a long breath. He stood
behind Theon, out of sight, and Theon twitched as he waited.
The first blow didn’t surprise him, but his body jumped and the links of the
chain he hung from wrenched against each other. He felt a red-hot stripe across
his shoulders, painful but almost sweet compared to the incessant burn of his
skinned finger. And this was a familiar feeling – the supple leather of a man’s
belt across his skin – how sick was it that the sensation made him long to be
back at Winterfell?
The second strike hurt more – Theon hissed as it bit at the back of his knee.
He waited for Ramsay to say something, but the silence was a relief. It was so
much easier to simply take the beating rather than to endure Ramsay’s
questions, his eyes, his gleeful humiliations.
It was a short-lived respite.
“Ned Stark beat you, didn’t he?” Ramsay’s voice was raspy, almost winded.
Theon nodded, head dropping down between his bound-up arms. “Yes.”
“What did he use on you? His belt?” Ramsay’s next blow landed square across
Theon’s ass, and Theon cringed.
“Theon, tell me why you’re receiving this punishment?”
He closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the next impact, and gasped
when instead he felt Ramsay’s fingers sliding up between his thighs, Ramsay’s
breath against his shoulder blade.
“Or did he put his hands on you?”
Ramsay’s hand was rough, and Theon tensed as it continued upward to squeeze his
ass before coming to rest on the small of his back. But it felt good – it felt
warm. Theon tried to concentrate on that one spot of warmth.
“I bet he didn’t hit his own children. Saved that for you?”
Theon gulped as Ramsay’s hand traced the crest of his hip. “Y-yes,” he managed.
He still couldn’t see Ramsay at all, but he swore he could feel Ramsay’s lips
just above his skin, the heat of Ramsay’s breath so close to his spine, teasing
him. “I bet that made you feel special,” he said. “Did it make you hard?”
And there it was, Ramsay’s hand snaking around to give a cursory tug at Theon’s
half-hard prick. Theon whined and then damned himself.
He’s a fucking monster.
And you’re a fucking whore.
“I asked you a question.”
Theon nodded again, his voice almost nothing when he answered, “Once. The last
time – I liked it the last time.”
He recalled how he’d hurried to his room, confused and ashamed of himself; how
he’d taken his cock in his hand and tried not to think about why.
“You wanted him to fuck you.”
“No!” Theon shook his head so vehemently that the whole length of chain
quivered. “No. I – I don’t want to think about him.”
His feet had just enough purchase on the concrete that he could push back on
his toes. He felt the fabric of Ramsay’s shirt against his back, Ramsay’s
heartbeat racing. He willed himself not to think – it was his body, he told
himself. It was an instinct. It was not a choice. He heard Ramsay’s breath
hitch.
“What are you doing?” It was the first genuine question Ramsay ever asked him,
and when Theon rocked himself back again on his toes, he could feel Ramsay’s
prick against his ass.
“Untie me. Please. I need to touch you.”
Ramsay grabbed Theon by the hip and spun him forcefully enough to twist the
chain and bring the two of them face to face. Theon winced at the way his
shoulders wrenched in their sockets. Ramsay had fixed him with a voracious
expression, one that made Theon shrink back as much as he was able.
“Why do I care what you need?”
“Y-you said there were two ways to make you happy. I bet I can think of a
third.”
Ramsay’s eyes grew wide while that light blush rose on his cheeks and he
absently worried at the collar of his t-shirt. “Can you?” he asked.
Theon nodded and licked his cracked lips. “You know I can. I promise I won’t
run away.”
“You can’t run away,” Ramsay corrected with a smirk. But there was something
uncertain in him, and Theon could see him weighing risk against want.
“Please. Just untie me for a few minutes?”
Ramsay extended an arm, his fingers tracing over the ink on Theon’s ribcage.
When his eyes met Theon’s again, they were glazed as though in a trance. He
looked at Theon’s body again, trailed his touch down to where the kraken tattoo
began in the soft hollow of Theon’s hip.
“My dad –”
A shiver rippled over Theon. “He won’t know. We’re safe here.”
Ramsay let out a heavy sigh, pressed his splayed fingers over Theon’s ribs and
wound them upwards over his chest and throat until he gripped the underside of
Theon’s jaw. His right hand came to rest on Theon’s waist. “What the fuck is
wrong with you?” He held Theon firmly, tilting his head back to squint at him
while that nasty smile curled up one corner of his mouth. “Everyone says I’m a
twisted fuck, but you’re the one hanging from a hook with body parts missing,
and you can still get it up? You’re fucking disgusting.” His thumb teased at
Theon’s bottom lip as he leaned in to say, “So tell me how you think someone so
completely fucking repulsive can make me happy – Tell me what you’d let me do
to you.”
“I’d let you – I’d let you f-fuck me,” Theon stammered, though the idea filled
him with dread and revulsion. He swallowed that down, focusing instead on the
way Ramsay’s breathing sped up, the way his hands were beginning to sweat.
“Nobody ever has. I’ll probably cry.” He felt Ramsay’s thumb slip into his
mouth, and he bit down as hard as he could bear. “I’ll probably hate myself for
liking it. I’ll scream for it. I’ll beg you to stop.”
Ramsay’s mouth dropped open, his eyes drifting closed as Theon sucked on his
thumb as wetly as he could manage with his parched lips. Ramsay swallowed
loudly, his grip on Theon’s waist tightening.
Theon felt a sudden pang of hope. He might not be able to run, but he might be
able to knock Ramsay out, or use one of the implements on the table to
incapacitate him long enough to get away. His legs only had to carry him as far
as Ramsay’s motorcycle. He could go west and catch a ferry to Pyke. He could
find his family. And then he could find Jon Snow.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot.
“Please. Please show me how I deserve to be treated.”
Ramsay’s eyes shot open, and Theon’s heart dropped when he saw that they were
once again hard and crystal-clear. He released his hold on Theon’s waist and
began to constrict his grip on Theon’s throat until Theon’s breathing became a
desperate wheeze. He felt like he was falling and would never stop falling.
“You’re a pathetic little whore.” Ramsay’s voice seethed through clenched
teeth. “You think you can fuck your way out of anything. Anytime you start to
remember how unwanted you are, you can just pull out your cock and pretend that
you’re the one in control – pretend that you’re anything that could make
anybody happy.”
Theon was ashamed of the tears that had started to spill down his cheeks. “Then
what do you want with me? Why can’t you just let me go, or – why are you
keeping me here if I’m so fucking worthless?”
He could barely make out Ramsay’s face, but he still recognized that smile, so
terribly white. “Because I want you – not this person that you try to be or
wish you were or think you’re destined to be, but the real you – the boy who
knows that he will never belong at Pyke or Winterfell, or off having adventures
with Jon Snow. That boy belongs to me. And this –” he clutched Theon’s cock,
“is not an important part of him. I’m sure you’ll bring me just as much
pleasure without it.”
Oh my god.
The swell of blood in Theon’s ears, the sound of the air filling and leaving
his lungs seemed to drown out the rest of the world. He began to shake, hard
enough that he thought he might be having a seizure.
You can’t, he wanted to say, though he knew better. You can’t.
He can. He can do whatever he wants.
He expected the flash of a knife, but Ramsay only stood there, head cocked to
one side, considering.
“You really think this is the worst thing I could possibly do to you.”
Theon nodded, and Ramsay smirked.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Let’s make this a game.”
It was a loathsome word. Theon continued to quake as Ramsay lowered his hook
just enough that the soles of both Theon’s feet came to rest squarely on the
slick, cool concrete. He reached up for Theon’s restraints, the white cotton of
his shirt so strangely soft as his chest pressed against Theon’s. Theon inhaled
the smell of fabric softener and started sobbing again. Ramsay worked at the
knots, and this time Theon didn’t dare to hope. Moments earlier, he’d thought
about escaping his prison – now he only wanted to keep himself intact. He felt
the cord loosen and fall away from his left wrist, and he cried out when his
arm dropped to his side. His shoulder burned, and a stabbing pain filled his
left side as the blood returned to his arm and his hand.
He looked down and for the first time fully saw his flayed finger – the dried
red and pink, the pale yellow of his tendons. He felt sick. How could so much
pain come from someplace so small? If not for the letters – “B-R-N” – across
the backs of the knuckles, he would’ve sworn that the appendage wasn’t his. But
he willed them to move, and they did. He glanced up at Ramsay, waiting.
“Don’t you want to know the rules?”
“Y-yes please.”
Ramsay took Theon’s hand palm-up in his own, careful to avoid touching the
skinless finger. “Here’s the game: if you can make yourself come, you can keep
your precious prick.” He spit into Theon’s palm. “If you give up, I’ll take it
from you. Understand?”
Theon nodded despairingly. He watched as Ramsay situated himself comfortably in
the leather recliner that sat in the corner, extending the foot-rest and
splaying one leg over the arm of the chair. He began to tinker with his watch.
“I think ten minutes is generous.”
Theon looked down again at his cock – completely soft now – and he shuddered to
think what he looked like from Ramsay’s vantage.
Don’t think about him.
Gingerly, he took himself into his hand, careful to hold his flayed finger away
from his shaft. It was no real use – the slightest friction sent shockwaves of
pain up the length of Theon’s arm and into his guts. He closed his eyes. He
thought about Jon, thought about the way Jon had pushed him up against the car
and gone down on him, like there was nothing he wanted more than Theon’s prick
down his throat. But he couldn’t focus. The ache in his hand, the shame of
being naked on a hook, the threat of losing his cock overwhelmed that lovely
little memory as though it was only a dream. He opened his eyes to find Ramsay
watching intensely, one hand up underneath his shirt, the other rubbing at his
own erection through the black denim of his pants.
Theon gave another tug at himself before dropping his head. He was crying
again, but this time without a sound. His tears and saliva ran off his chin and
onto his chest. He brought his hand up to wipe at his eyes, but the salt stung
his finger bitterly.
“You have eight minutes left,” said Ramsay, irritated.
“I can’t do it.” Theon settled for covering his face with his palm. “I just
can’t.”
Ramsay sighed and rolled his eyes, lifting his hips to pull a phone from his
back pocket. “What a disappointing performance,” he said as he brought it to
his ear and waited.
“Who are you calling?” Theon asked, but Ramsay only brought a finger to his
lips.
“Don’t be rude, pet.” Then into the phone: “Hey, it’s Ramsay… yeah, fine fine.
Listen, I’m about to perform a bit of an operation and I need your help…
Because I don’t want this one dead… His dick… Yes, you heard me. You can do
that without killing someone, correct?” Ramsay’s face went red. “I don’t think
that part of it is any of your business… No, it’s not my father’s business
either… Yes, of course I’ll fucking pay you. Just get here. You’ll see my bike
outside.” He scowled as he hung up and returned the recliner to its upright
position. “Fucking charlatan.” He shoved the phone back into his jeans and
wordlessly unfolded his pouch of syringes and vials, running his fingers over
each one, searching until he found what he was looking for.
Please, Theon wanted to say, but his mouth was too dry. Was this how it felt to
pray? Please don’t do this to me. Please don’t let this be real. Let it be a
trick. Let it be a dream. Please let me wake up now.
He watched mutely as Ramsay loaded the syringe, and when Ramsay approached him
took one weak swipe at it. Ramsay pulled easily away, smiling at him almost
fondly. His gray eyes crossed slightly as he flicked at the needle.
“Once again, I’m being kinder than you deserve. I really don’t have to
anesthetize you for this.” He raised an eyebrow expectantly.
“Th-thank you.” Theon was certain that the spasm he felt was his soul leaving
his body.
Ramsay tore open an alcohol swab, rubbed it on the inside of Theon’s right
elbow. He bit his lip as his slid the needle into place there, just the
slightest little pinch and then a feeling of pressure as the fluid filled
Theon’s veins.
“Although I don’t think I’d enjoy it as much, I can’t promise I won’t rape you
while you’re out.”
Theon began to fade. He felt Ramsay’s hand cupping his cheek, Ramsay’s breath
on his face, and then Ramsay’s lips on his, warm and sweet. And as his vision
went black, he permitted himself to surrender.
“Sweet dreams, Reek.”
***** Chapter Thirteen *****
Chapter Summary
     Ramsay takes what he wants and Theon gets a break.
“Robb, get up.”
Robb remained still, blue eyes and a mess of red curls peeking at Theon over
the bedspread. “I can’t.”
“It’s Sunday.” Theon leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “You said you
wanted to get up early and play Call of Duty.”
Robb shook his head. “Just leave me alone. I’ll be out in a little while.”
“I’ve been up waiting for you for like, an hour already.” He moved to sit on
the edge of Robb’s bed, and when the weight of his body stretched the covers a
bit tighter, Theon could see the outline of Robb’s morning wood, poking up
ridiculously through the Ninja Turtles pattern of his blanket.
“Don’t laugh!” Robb snapped, but Theon couldn’t help it.
“I mean, have you just been lying here staring at it this whole time?” He
prodded at the bulge with his index finger and Robb turned a deep red and
smacked his hand away.
*
Theon’s head snapped up. He didn’t know if he’d been asleep and dreaming or if
perhaps that was a memory of a real morning, but he’d been startled to
awareness by the sound of a man’s scream. At first he assumed it was his own,
but as the room came into focus, he realized that there was someone new in the
unit. Theon had been returned to his place – he was beginning to think of it as
his place – on the saltire, and a few feet in front of him sat a man, bound in
a wooden chair with his hands behind his back.
It was difficult to guess the man’s age, or whether he had ever been handsome
or plain – his face was disfigured by bruises and cuts, and blood stained his
cheeks, matted his beard and clothes as it gushed from the side of his head
where Ramsay had just removed an ear. The air stank like piss, and Theon was
glad that for once it wasn’t his.
Ramsay stood behind the man, one hand on his broad shoulders, the other holding
the ear thoughtfully. Though the man’s eyes had swollen nearly shut, they
stayed riveted to the spot between Theon’s legs. Theon looked down at the thick
wad of bandaging there, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt shame,
but his body couldn’t muster more than a dry coughing sound.
Ramsay glanced up at him with a smile, still holding the ear in the palm of his
hand.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said brightly. “How are you feeling?”
Theon glared at him and said nothing.
“He’s upset with me,” explained Ramsay, clapping the man firmly on the shoulder
and then adding pointedly, “I’m sure it won’t last forever. You’ll get over it,
won’t you?”
“Who –” Theon’s voice was only a rasp. “Who is he?”
Ramsay straightened. “Oh, how rude of me. This is –” he pinched the bridge of
his nose, leaving two red smudges there. “You know, I’ve completely forgotten
who the fuck you are.”
“John,” replied the man through cracked teeth.
“Go on, pet – introduce yourself,” urged Ramsay.
Theon clenched his jaw defiantly, and Ramsay’s tone was several shades when he
held up the man’s ear and repeated, “Tell him your name, or I’ll make you eat
it.”
Theon. My name is Theon.
But the words stuck bitterly on the back of his teeth. Was that really the name
of this broken, dismembered person? He looked to Ramsay for a hint.
“Have you forgotten your name, love?”
Theon shook his head, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He’d long since
given up trying to stifle them.
“Reek,” he replied, though his chest burned at the lie. “My name is Reek.”
The smile that appeared on Ramsay’s face was genuine – affectionate – as he
leaned down to whisper into the man’s remaining ear, “Isn’t he perfect?”
The man nodded weakly.
“I mean, I know you’re not some – some faggot, but you’d fuck him, wouldn’t
you? If you had to? If I told you it was the only way you’d get out of this
alive – you could probably get it up for him, right? That would be a good
game.”
Theon began to shake.
No. No no no no no. Please.
Getting fucked by Ramsay Bolton was one thing – it was something he’d steeled
himself for. It was the price he was willing to pay for the opportunity to
escape. He could play the whore for Ramsay, but not for – not for anyone else.
Not for Ramsay’s amusement.
Perceiving the wild fear in his captive’s eyes, Ramsay’s grin only widened.
“What’s wrong, pet? You don’t seem to like that idea very much.” He glanced
from the man’s ruined face and back to Theon’s. “I mean, yeah, John looks a
little rough right now, but I didn’t think you were picky.”
Theon shook his head, so vehemently that his neck ached, and he pleaded
shrilly, “No. Please don’t make me. Please don’t let him touch me.” Locking
eyes with Ramsay, he saw a subtle shift in that terrible gaze, saw the
slightest tinge of color in Ramsay’s cheeks when he said, “I’m yours. I belong
to you. He has no right.”
Ramsay’s lips had parted slightly, and he swallowed when he closed them,
clearing his throat before shrugging and saying, “Sorry to get your hopes up,
John. It seems he’s feeling coy today.”
Theon dared to breathe a sigh of relief, even as Ramsay disappeared from view
for a moment. The man’s head began to droop and sway as he washed in and out of
consciousness, blood still flowing from the side of his head, all the way down
his side by now. Theon wanted to pity him, but as he searched within himself,
he found no trace of feeling, as though they were only strangers passing on the
sidewalk.
The smell of gasoline preceded the appearance of the chainsaw. It was a large
model, the massive power-head flecked with gore while the chain was clean and
sharp enough to catch the light in each of its teeth. Ramsay wore a pair of
wrap-around glasses and corded earplugs, and he’d stripped down to his t-shirt
and boxers, a pair of black athletic socks separating his feet from the grime
of the unit floor.
The man trembled and the feet of the chair ground loudly against the concrete.
“I know this looks bad,” said Ramsay, lifting the saw. He cocked his head
toward Theon and added, “But you should thank him. He’s made me eager to get
this done faster than usual, which means it will actually be less painful than
what I originally had in mind.”
The roar of the thing was ear-splitting, and it reverberated painfully off the
concrete and the metal. Theon clenched his eyes closed, simultaneously afraid
that he might go deaf and thankful that the sound of the engine mostly drowned
out the screams of the man in the chair. He felt pinpricks of warmth as the saw
spat out blood and bits and tissue over his chest and legs.
He opened his eyes again when the engine cut out, and there was Ramsay, pulling
his t-shirt over his head and using it to scrub at his face and neck, as though
he cared about being clean, as though the rest of his body wasn’t completely
covered in shredded viscera and bone. The walls were criss-crossed with blood
spray, and the thing in the chair was hardly recognizable as a human being.
Theon looked at the floor.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought someone else into our space,”
observed Ramsay, turning his attentions to Theon, wiping at his prisoner’s face
with that same saturated t-shirt. Theon closed his eyes, tried to shake Ramsay
away. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and I wanted you to –
hold still, goddamnit! – I wanted you to see me work.” He wetted the pad of his
thumb with saliva and rubbed it across Theon’s cheekbone, then lifted Theon’s
chin, which Theon knew meant he was expected to open his eyes. “I wanted you to
see that I do treat you well, despite the fact that you’re a liar and a whore
and a coward.” He pushed Theon’s head a bit further back, eyes running down the
taut lines of Theon’s neck. He bit his lip, hesitated before leaning in close
enough to flick his tongue into the corner of Theon’s mouth. “And don’t think
for a second that I don’t know what you’re trying to do to me – like you don’t
know exactly what you’re doing when you say things like that to me.”
“It’s true though,” said Theon. He felt the warmth of Ramsay’s skin, the
hardness of Ramsay’s prick through the thin flannel of his shorts, pressing
dangerously close to that empty space between Theon’s own legs. “I’m yours.”
Even Ramsay’s kisses hurt. His teeth ground against Theon’s broken ones, and he
inhaled the whimper Theon gave as little shards of pain prickled along his jaw.
His tongue filled Theon’s mouth, not seeming to mind those jagged edges, nor
the way Theon struggled to breathe. Theon tasted blood, though he couldn’t be
sure whose. Ramsay’s hands were rough, one squeezing beneath Theon’s jaw, the
other clutching at his waist.
I wish I wanted this.
Ramsay’s lips trailed down to bite along the edge of Theon’s jaw, and Theon
gasped. When Ramsay pulled away, he was breathing hard, a light flush suffusing
the smooth skin of his chest.
“Ask me to,” he ordered, voice low as his fingernails dug into Theon’s side.
“Ask me nicely.”
Theon was glad that Ramsay was close enough to block his view of the dead man
in the chair. He paused before proceeding carefully: “Please fuck me like I
deserve.”
Ramsay smiled wickedly and passed his fingers along the column of Theon’s
throat. “Such a good dog.”
Theon’s body tilted as Ramsay loosened the restraints on his wrists, first the
right and then the left, and once he was free, Theon pitched forward, landing
hard enough to bruise his knees, hands slipping for purchase in the puddle of
blood that had backed up around the drain. He looked up at the table covered in
tools, only a few feet away, but god, he was so weak that it seemed like a
mile.
He could sense Ramsay standing over him, watching as he struggled forward on
his hands and knees, allowing him to get nearly within arm’s reach of that
table before bending down to grab him around the ankles and pull him back, back
through the blood, knees and elbows raking over the grating of the drain until
he was lying on the floor on the other side of the unit, out of breath and
shaking too hard to move.
Worthless.
“What was your plan, exactly?” asked Ramsay, amused as he held Theon by the
ankles, spreading them apart to kneel between his captive’s legs. “Do you
really think you have the stomach – let alone the strength – for that? Flint
told me you always threw up at executions.” He pulled Theon’s hips up and back
against his own while Theon tried to push himself up off the floor, only to end
by crashing down again, face-first into the cold cement.
“Please. Please wait.”
“I’ve been waiting since the first time I saw you. I’ve been waiting as long as
I can fucking stand.” Ramsay pushed the elastic of his boxers down around his
thighs, just low enough to release his cock, thick and dark red. Theon felt the
heat of it pressed against his ass, the iron grip of Ramsay’s fingers on his
sides.
So this is what it will be like.
He lost his breath when Ramsay entered him, all of a sudden, all at once. It
felt like being split in half, at first, like a knife twisting up into his
guts. He wondered if this was how Robb hurt that night that Theon took him
against the bathroom sink.
Good. I fucking hope this is what it felt like.
I hope you fucking bled.
The pace was slower than he expected – measured, restrained. “Jesus fucking
Christ.” Ramsay leaned forward, his chest pressed against Theon’s back to
whisper into his ear, “Do you have any idea how good this is?”
“No.”
Ramsay twined his right arm around Theon’s ribs, nipped at Theon’s wounded ear.
“Does this hurt you, pet?”
“Y-yes.”
“How bad is it?”
“It hurts,” choked Theon. “It feels like I’m dying.”
Ramsay groaned and bit down on Theon’s shoulder. After a couple of minutes,
Theon was finally able to brace himself on his elbows. He stared at his hands –
monstrous, covered in blood – and he counted his fingers in disbelief.
Eight.
Ramsay thrust slowly and deeply into him, and Theon felt something even more
terrible than pain – a strange, ghostly ache between his thighs.
You like this, then?
You like being treated like a bitch?
You really are disgusting.
“Can you –”
Ramsay leaned forward again, the sweat from his temple slick against Theon’s
cheek. “You want me to stop?” he asked eagerly.
“Can you – faster – please?”
Theon could feel Ramsay’s lips form into a smirk on the nape of his neck.
“You’re a needy little slut, aren’t you?”
Theon moaned, pressed his forehead against the floor. “Yes. Please – just –
faster.”
I want this to be over.
Ramsay withdrew almost completely before pushing himself in to the hilt. Theon
gasped as Ramsay’s cock hit that – whatever that was that made him at once wish
he still had his own prick and grateful he didn’t.
“Be patient,” Ramsay chided. “There’ll be plenty more chances for me to fuck
you like that. And I will. But right now, I don’t want to tear your stitches.”
He snaked a hand around to rub gently at the bandage, and Theon’s stomach
jumped at the touch.
In the end, Theon was reduced to a rhythmic series of whines and gasps, mangled
hands fisted in his hair while Ramsay spent inside him with a growl.
They lay there for a few minutes, Theon’s belly shivering against the cool
floor, Ramsay’s chest hot against his back. Ramsay groaned when he pulled out,
and Theon felt a warm, wet mess – cum tinted pink with blood – seeping down his
thighs.
Ramsay rose and found his t-shirt, using it to clean himself before tossing it
onto Theon, but the cloth was so soaked with fluids that Theon pushed it away
and resigned himself to being perpetually covered in filth. He curled up on his
side, facing away from the body in the chair, folding his hands awkwardly
together and waiting for Ramsay to drag him back to the saltire.
Did you really think you’d get away?
But Ramsay only dressed himself – pulling on his leather jacket over his bare
torso – before squatting down beside Theon to comb his fingers through that
tangle of shaggy black hair. Theon closed his eyes; he let the pleasant tickle
of Ramsay’s caress wash over him.
“You’ve been very good today,” said Ramsay softly. “Would you like to sleep on
the floor?”
Theon nodded. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”
He felt so drowsy, all of his limbs too heavy to even imagine moving. And
Ramsay continued to stroke his hair, almost delicately. How could such awful
hands feel so gentle?
“Skinner and Damon will be here to dispose of this mess in the morning.”
Theon nodded again. “Okay.” He yawned, eyes fluttering closed. It felt so good
to lie down, after all that time hung up on the cross – his body felt so right.
Ramsay bent to kiss him on the mouth, and Theon hummed lightly. He could hardly
recall feeling so little pain.
When he opened his eyes again, the lights were out and Ramsay was gone.
*
“Dad, when will Theon have to go home?”
Theon had fallen asleep during the movie, curled against the arm of the sofa
with his stocking feet just brushing Robb’s legs. He woke up at the sound of
Robb’s voice, but kept his eyes closed, breath held, waiting for an answer.
*
It was a draft that roused him – the cool caress of the night air against his
back that drew him up to his knees. He swayed, bracing himself against the
floor with his left hand while he rubbed at his eyes with the right.
It can’t be.
You’re seeing things.
You finally fucking lost it.
But when Theon blinked, there it was – thin as a golden thread along the bottom
of the sliding door. The light was almost nothing, yet it cleaved the darkness
in two. The man in the chair was gone, and the stench of bleach was the only
sign that he had ever been real. Theon began to drag himself along the floor
and he felt the sting of the chemical against his raw skin. His joints ached,
and he couldn’t say how long it took him to crawl the short distance to the
door, but as he grew nearer, he heard the sound of an engine idling outside and
his heart began to swell, tearing at his chest like someone buried alive.
He stopped when he reached the light, lying down again to catch his breath,
lips pressed against the crack beneath the door to drink in the air – the air
he used to breathe without thinking, without really tasting its sweetness.
Theon peered outside, eyes watering at the brightness of what was only a
streetlight at the edge of the parking lot. When his vision came into focus, he
saw a row of cars, all dark and unoccupied, and beyond them a ten-foot chain-
link fence topped with razor wire. He searched, listened for the presence of
other people – but he heard only the idling engine, only the caw of a raven,
only the gentle rush of traffic on the freeway.
Coming to his knees once more, Theon worked his fingers beneath the rubber that
lined the bottom of the door, trying to ignore the way it scraped against the
stumps that used to be his fingers. He bit back on a groan as he pulled up, his
whole body straining, shaking as he lifted the door. He watched the glow of the
light rise over his knees, over the bandage between his thighs, up onto his
stomach, then collapsed again to the floor, sucking at the air in short,
shallow gasps.
The opening was a little more than a foot – plenty of space for him to squeeze
past – and after he’d rested there for a few minutes, he began to pull himself
through it, elbows scraping over the asphalt until the darkness and the smell
of bleach dropped away and he was on his hands and knees in the parking lot. He
lifted his head, looked left and right but saw no one. The streetlight
flickered. Theon turned his attention to the row of cars, listening again and
looking for the one that trembled just slightly.
It was a black coupe, and Theon felt so overjoyed that he struggled not to cry.
Fucking keep it together.
He opened the car door from a kneeling position, clutching the parking brake
and steering wheel to pull himself into the driver’s seat. Someone had been
smoking in the car, and an air-freshener in the shape of a pin-up girl hung
from the rearview mirror. Theon adjusted it, thought to himself that he’d do
almost anything for a cigarette, and then caught a glimpse of his reflection.
Jesus fuck.
His eyes were sunken, red-rimmed, and when he parted his lips to probe at his
teeth, he had to look away. Glancing down, he ran his hands over his ribs and
realized he could feel each one of them. He swallowed the panic rising in his
throat, the voice that said:
You’re disgusting. You’ll never be able to fix this. You’re a freak.
His fingers fumbled for seatbelt, drawing at across his lap. A cynical smirk
crept over Theon’s face. He removed the parking brake and put the car into
drive, feeling his stomach leap as the wheels rolled forward. He tapped the gas
lightly and his smirk turned into the faintest smile.
Like riding a fucking bicycle.
The only exit was an electric gat, and Theon swallowed as he approached,
praying that his fingers could remember the combination. He’d passed through so
many times, and he knew it – somewhere in there, he knew the numbers. His
fingers hovered above the keypad, twitching for a few moments before pressing
“5926.”
He grinned when the gate jerked, then glided smoothly open.
“Thank fucking god.”
Theon switched on the headlights as he passed through the gate, and though he
was only driving about 30 mph, he felt like he was flying. He rolled down the
window, felt the air whipping his hair around his face and neck, and stuck his
arm out the window for a few seconds before remembering how grotesque his hand
looked. He glanced at his fingers.
It’s not so bad, I guess.
He imagined Jon taking his hand, kissing the places his fingers used to be, and
for the first time, Theon permitted himself to think about the future. His
biggest dilemma at the moment was the fact that he was naked and had no money.
He squinted at the fuel gauge and was relieved to see that his tank was nearly
full.
He wanted to find Jon – he would find Jon – but as the storage unit faded away
behind him, Theon felt a fire rising inside him, and without thinking too much,
he merged onto the freeway towards Wintertown. He knew it was stupid – he
should be heading west, to the coast. He should be trying to beg or steal a
ferry ticket to Pyke. After all, there was nothing to stop Robb from sending
him right back where he’d come from, but Theon wanted Robb to see him. He
wanted to Robb fucking look at what he’d done.
Theon thought about the letter Robb had sent, instructing Ramsay not to
permanently harm him, and he scowled. How fucking naïve was that? Didn’t anyone
tell the little prick what Ramsay Bolton did for his father? Did he honestly
think that once Theon had given up Jon’s location, he’d just come strolling
back to Winterfell and start sucking Robb’s dick like nothing had happened?
What the fuck was going on in Robb’s head?
“Oh Robb, please forgive me. I should never have even dreamed of spending my
life in any way other than fucking you and doing whatever the fuck you tell me
to. I see that now.”
And then he’d kiss you and take you to his bedroom.
Theon hated how the idea made him feel.
And then he’d find out.
He’d find out you can’t – find out you’re not –
Theon’s knuckles went white as his hands wrung at the steering wheel.
“Fuck him,” he whispered to himself. “Fuck. him. And fuck you for thinking it
was ever – for thinking it was more than fucking business. Fuck you for falling
for their bullshit.”
He was so consumed by it – thinking of what he might say to Robb Stark,
imagining his fucked-up hands around Robb’s pretty fucking throat – that he
didn’t notice the snarl of the motorcycle behind him until it was so close that
the glare of its headlight in his rearview mirrors blinded him.
No. Please no.
The brightness of the light obscured the face of the rider, but Theon knew he
was following him. The motorcycle began to swerve as it tailgated him, weaving
sharply from side to side. Theon slammed the brakes, but the bike veered deftly
to the side, hanging tightly to the concrete barrier that lined the edge of the
freeway. The vehicles around him began honking. Theon’s heart was in his
throat, and his hands had started to sweat. He took a breath and checked over
his shoulder, looking for the space to leave the right-hand lane and finding
himself boxed in by an eighteen-wheeler.
“Fuck.”
He hit the gas, but was in turn brake-checked by the sedan in front of him. He
laid on the horn, but the driver in front only stuck an arm out the window to
flip Theon the bird.
“Fucking son of a bitch.”
He looked in the mirror, still unable to see much of anything besides the
headlight. Sometimes it would drop back for a few moments, only to come surging
forward again, always avoiding the coupe as Theon slammed the brakes again and
again.
He’s fucking playing with you.
Neither the car in front of him nor the semi-truck seemed to have any intention
of changing lanes or speeding up. Too late, he realized that his lane turned
into an Exit Only, and the car fishtailed as he cranked the steering wheel to
the right to avoid crashing head-on into the oncoming divider.
Tremors of adrenaline eddied over him, and Theon had to slam the brakes to stop
from careening into the cross-traffic at the end of the ramp. The bike rolled
to a casual stop behind him, and Theon froze, trying to decide whether to turn
right or left onto this two-lane avenue.
He settled on right and floored the gas pedal, tires shrieking as he tried to
get his bearings. This was an unfamiliar neighborhood. For a moment, he hoped
that he might get pulled over for speeding. He’d probably be taken into custody
– driving without a license, driving over the speed limit, driving a stolen
vehicle, driving without any damn clothes on – but then he supposed that could
go either way, depending on who happened to own that particular police officer.
He saw Ramsay’s motorcycle catching up him – still several cars back – snaking
in and out of traffic, riding right on the double-yellow lines while the
drivers around him slammed their brakes, horns blaring, tires swerving onto the
shoulder. All the lights were starting to make Theon dizzy.
Seeing a break in the oncoming traffic, Theon bit his lip and took an abrupt
left onto a residential street. He was still looking in his rearview mirror
when the coupe rammed through a construction barrier and into the bulldozer
behind it.
Theon’s scream was swallowed by the sound of rending metal and breaking glass.
The airbag deployed and his whole body slammed forward into it, while something
cracked in the middle of his chest and a shooting pain ran up the length of his
right leg. He vision unraveled to black around the edges, until he saw nothing,
though his eyes were open. He tasted blood.
I’ve got to get out. I have to get out of here. Before he finds me.
Theon felt blindly for the seatbelt and managed to unbuckle it. He began to
lose consciousness, the pain in his chest taking what was left of his breath
away. His fingers clutched weakly for the car door, but it opened from the
outside.
***** Chapter Fourteen *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you again for reading and commenting and kudos-ing! It
     definitely helps keep me motivated!
He woke briefly to the warmth of the afternoon sun, streaming in through an
open window in an otherwise dreary room.
Reek. The name. His name. It cut a thin line on the lips, like a knife slicing
through skin. He had heard it in his dreams. “Where are you right now, Reek? I
wish you’d wake up and come back to me.”
Ramsay was asleep, sitting in a chair beside the bed with his stocking feet
propped up on the edge of the mattress, arms folded across his chest, his head
drooped against his shoulder.
Reek began to panic, but when he tried to move, he found that he couldn’t feel
his body at all. He felt as though he was floating, but moored to the bed, or
to the boy sleeping beside the bed – like a balloon tied to Ramsay’s wrist.
Ramsay looked almost peaceful while he slept, soft – even – in his clean white
t-shirt, black hair still wet from a shower, eyelashes fluttering while a smile
twitched at the corner of his lips.
What does he dream about? Reek wondered.
He felt his own eyelids growing heavy again. The room was so warm, the air so
quiet and his body felt so light. Reek supposed that there were worse things.
He supposed it was good to have someone to watch over you while you slept, to
make sure you didn’t float away.
*
When he awoke in earnest, he was in the midst of pissing himself – a shameful
heat that spread beneath him and stung at the place where –
Reek shook his head and groaned, his mouth too dry for words. All of the
lightness had left his limbs, and now he was bound up in pain.
Ramsay had been playing a game on his phone, and when he heard Reek’s noises,
he nearly dropped it onto the floor, eyes wide and ecstatic as he stood to lean
out the door and shout down the hall, “Qyburn! He’s awake!”
Ramsay returned to pass his fingers through Reek’s greasy hair – tangling it
even worse than before – as if he didn’t know quite what to do with his hands.
“Good morning, little thing.”
Reek tried to raise his arms, to motion to his throat and ask for water, but
Ramsay subdued him, pressing Reek’s hands to his sides with a gentle touch and
a sharp smile. “Careful, Reek. You’re broken.”
Reek whimpered.
“And you’re thirsty. I’ll get you some water.”
As soon as Ramsay left the room, another man entered. He was tall, despite the
slight stoop to his shoulders, and was finely dressed in a snow-white suit. His
hair was likewise white, but the wrinkles around his eyes did not diminish
their slyness. He bent down, the back of his boney hand pressing against Reek’s
forehead while Reek tried vainly to escape the touch.
Another trick, he thought. Another game.
“Hold still. I’m not going to hurt you.”
But Reek continued to whine in protest, going rigid under the inevitable
contact. The old man’s hands felt cool and strange against his skin.
“He doesn’t like anyone but me touching him.” Ramsay stood in the doorway,
cradling a small plastic cup in one hand.
“I’m a doctor,” explained Qyburn as though speaking to a child, tilting Reek’s
head back to shine a small light into his wild blue eyes, one at a time. Reek
blinked and looked to his master for verification.
Ramsay grinned. “That’s technically true,” he said. “You’re probably the
luckiest person he’s had his hands on in quite a while.”
Qyburn smiled thinly. He took the cup from Ramsay and held it to Reek’s lips,
lifting it just enough that the water touched the rim. Reek opened his lips –
so painfully chapped – but Qyburn permitted only a few drops before he moved
the cup away again.
“He’s thirsty,” said Ramsay darkly.
“He hasn’t had anything in his stomach for weeks,” replied Qyburn, reaching
over Reek to examine the crook of his elbow where the tape securing his IV
needle was beginning to peel. He smoothed the rolled edges. “If we let him have
more than a sip, he’ll start vomiting.”
“Is it true?” croaked Reek, glancing from Ramsay to Qyburn and back again.
“Is what true, sweetheart?”
If the endearment unnerved Qyburn, he didn’t show it. Reek gazed up at the old
man.
“Is it true I’m lucky?”
Qyburn held the cup for him, using the other hand to support the back of Reek’s
head while he drank – again only the smallest of sips. “This isn’t what Roose
Bolton pays me for,” he replied simply.
“It is what I pay you for,” said Ramsay, chafed at the mention of his father’s
name.
Again, Qyburn paid no mind. He stepped aside, the gold buttons on his white
jacket winking in the sunlight. “I’ll be back to check on him shortly.” He
turned in the doorway and added, “It will be weeks before he can walk again,
and longer until he’s fully recovered. I highly suggest that you avoid doing
anything that might compromise that process.” Then with a knowing smile, “No
more little operations.”
Ramsay nodded. “For now.”
Reek looked down at himself. Distantly, he wanted not to cry, but the thing –
it used to have a name, that thing – that used to swallow his tears back down
was gone and now they came as uncontrolled as a storm.
Whose body was this – chest covered in wires, tubes coming out of its arm, out
of its nose? The mattress beneath him was still wet with piss, his paper
hospital gown matted to his crotch. His right leg was entirely immobilized in a
cast, as was his left wrist – the name “Ramsay Bolton” signed on each with a
black Sharpie in an enthusiastic script. But the worst pain sat in Reek’s
chest, radiating out into his sides and his shoulders. Even crying caused the
ache to build inside him until he could hardly breathe. The beeping of the
heart-monitor accelerated.
“You broke your sternum,” explained Ramsay, sitting on the bed beside Reek and
ignoring the way he winced as his body shifted. “And your wrist. And your
fibula and your tibia. That was quite a wreck you managed to get yourself
into.” He ran a hand along Reek’s left leg, up under the gown and Reek shivered
and clenched his teeth. Ramsay’s fingers rubbed at the juncture of Reek’s
thigh, and the sensation of it made him squirm. “The good news is that Qyburn
removed your stitches. Would you like to see?”
“No.” Reek shook his head. “No thank you.”
But Ramsay only laced his left hand with Reek’s right, lightly pushing up the
hem of the gown and guiding Reek’s fingertips to that place between his legs.
Reek closed his eyes and turned his head away, but still he could feel it. He’d
been shaved, and the skin around the scar was rough with new hair growth. The
scar itself was smooth, aside from the small hole kept open so that Reek could
piss. He would have to piss sitting down, he realized as Ramsay brought Reek’s
hand down to cup at the softness of his testicles. Reek tried to dismiss the
memory of a boy who loved to touch himself, to be touched like this, but
Ramsay’s fingers continued to press just there.
“Please stop,” he whispered.
Ramsay smiled affectionately at the way Reek’s fingers clutched the sheets.
“It’ll be a while before you can – before you can do much of anything, really.
Or before I can do much of anything to you.”
“What – what are you going to do to me?”
“All kinds of things.”
Reek swallowed. “I meant – I ran away. What are you going to do to me?”
Ramsay’s smile faded into a thoughtful expression. “I’m glad you recognize the
need for a punishment,” he said, toying with his earring. “But you – your
wretched little body has been through a lot.”
Reek held his breath.
“You made me worry, Reek.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I think another finger is a fair compromise. I’ll even let you choose. What do
you think of that?”
Reek looked at his hands – bewildered, overwhelmed to be given such agency –
and when Ramsay moved his fingers down to press at the spot just behind Reek’s
balls, Reek wondered what he’d done right, his hips arching against Ramsay’s
touch. It was awful. He wanted it to stop, but there was no stopping anything
Ramsay did. And Reek liked it. He liked Ramsay’s attention. He liked being
touched this way. It was more than he deserved.
“Yes. That’s very kind of you. Please keep going.”
But Ramsay’s hand stilled, gripping painfully at Reek’s thigh.
“Dad.”
No. Reek wanted to close his eyes, but instead he only looked straight ahead.
Ramsay remained seated beside him, obviously resisting the impulse to rise.
“What does he remember?”
Roose Bolton came to stand at the foot of Reek’s bed, arms folded as he eyed
Reek with that indecipherable expression, surveying Reek’s various injuries
before settling his gaze on Reek’s face. Reek felt Ramsay’s fingernails digging
into the flesh of his leg.
“Reek, tell my father what you remember.”
Reek glanced at Roose, then at Ramsay and finally back down. He tugged at the
damp hem of the hospital gown.
“I – I ran away. I shouldn’t have, but I ran away and I crashed into –” He
looked to Ramsay again, eyes wide. “You – you saved me.”
“What else do you remember?”
Ramsay nodded at Reek to continue, and Reek gave a slight shiver.
“I was in the dark. I was – I was bad. I made you – I made you angry. I’m
sorry.”
Ramsay smiled at him again, and this time Reek couldn’t help but smile back –
Ramsay had forgiven him. It was good to be forgiven. But Roose cringed when
Reek smiled, and Reek remembered that his teeth were all broken. He brought his
fingers to his lips, ashamed.
“And what about before that?” pressed Roose.
“Nothing.” Reek shook his head fervidly. “Nothing else. Nothing.” He continued
his shaking as Roose turned to his son with a thin frown.
“You could’ve killed him.”
“But I didn’t,” said Ramsay. “You told me not to, and I didn’t.”
“He could’ve killed himself.”
Reek couldn’t imagine why Roose – or anybody – might care so much what happened
to him. Ramsay reached to cradle Reek’s jaw in his hand, rubbing his thumb
across a newly-formed scar just at the corner of Reek’s left eye. “Reek knows
better than to kill himself without my permission – don’t you, pet?”
Reek nodded, hoping desperately that Roose could see how true this was. “Yes,”
he said, closing his eyes as though reciting. “Reek belongs to Ramsay.”
“Where do you intend to keep him?”
Ramsay shrugged. “He can sleep with the dogs.”
“And not in your bed?”
There was no accusation in Roose’s tone, but Ramsay’s shoulders tensed and Reek
saw the blush creep up the back of his master’s neck.
“He’ll sleep where I tell him to sleep. And since when do you care about –”
Reek startled to hear Ramsay falter. “Since when do you care what I do?”
“I don’t,” replied Roose, and Reek found himself flinching at the words. “But
you’re an idiot if you think I haven’t heard the things the servants whisper
about you. If Domeric were alive –” and here Ramsay’s jaw clenched, “ – I
wouldn’t spare a thought to you or the things you enjoy. But since you are
currently my only son, I’ll not have you making a spectacle of the family name
that I have so generously bestowed on you. Whatever you do, you’ll do it
discreetly. I’ll not have him waking half the house.” Ramsay opened his mouth
to speak, but Roose continued: “Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
Roose cocked his head and considered Reek once more, and Reek began to feel
lightheaded.
“Go and fetch Qyburn,” ordered Roose, not looking at his son.
“I’m not leaving him alone with you,” said Ramsay with the faintest tremor in
his voice.
“If you want to keep him under my roof, you’ll do as I say. Now go and find
Qyburn.”
“Fine.” Ramsay complied icily, standing with his fists clenched at his sides.
He paused to smooth out Reek’s hospital gown. “Be good, Reek,” he said, and
though the words were kind, there was a sharp edge to them.
Reek nodded. “Yes. I’ll be good.”
 
The floor in the room creaked as Roose stepped towards the bed. Reek waited –
he held his breath and looked down at his feet, while Roose listened for the
sound of Ramsay’s footsteps diminishing down the hallway. Satisfied that his
son was gone, Roose reached out to put his fingers beneath Reek’s chin, tilting
it back until their eyes met. Roose’s fingers were chilly, his gaze impassive.
“Theon, look at me.”
Reek closed his eyes.
No no no. That’s not me. I don’t know him. I don’t know you. We’ve never met.
“Theon!”
Roose tightened his grasp on Reek’s jaw, but still Reek kept his eyes clenched
shut. It was a trick. It was a trick and he was not going to fall for it.
“Theon, if you don’t open your eyes, I’ll tell him that you begged me to take
you back to Winterfell.”
Reek’s eyes shot open, pupils narrowing to pinpricks. The corner of Roose’s
mouth turned up just slightly.
“That’s a good boy.” Roose relaxed his grip, but his hand stayed firmly beneath
Reek’s chin. “I have a message for Theon. I know you’ll pass it along to him.”
Reek went rigid as Roose bent to whisper – his lips dry against Reek’s ear:
“Robb Stark sends his regards.”
Robb?
And without wishing it at all, Reek suddenly saw a boy with long legs and
straight, perfect teeth and freckles on his back and hair that smelled sweet
after a shower. There were hands on the boy’s skin, strong and graceful. Reek
blinked and looked at his own hands – one protruding from a cast – and they
looked like dead things. This boy would never let himself be touched by such
hands. Nobody would like these hands touching them. How could Ramsay even bear
it?
“I don’t know who –” he began, but Roose had already left the room.
*
When he was ten years old, Theon Greyjoy had a fever. He lay in bed, sweating
and wishing – one of the only times he wished – that he was back at Pyke, where
he could at least hear the ocean from his bedroom window.
Robb knocked on the door. “Hey Theon?”
“Robb? Are you gonna come in?”
A pause. “I – I’m not allowed. Mom says I might get sick too.”
Theon let his head drop back onto the pillow. “Then what do you want?”
“Nothing. I just – I was just making sure you’re okay.”
Once his fever reached 104 degrees, Ned Stark took him to the emergency room.
He was delirious, burning up, but he remembered Ned holding him in the backseat
of the Altima, telling Poole to “Drive faster, goddamnit.”
*
He didn’t see Roose Bolton again during the three weeks that passed before he
was able to leave his little room. Qyburn was a more frequent visitor who
showed thorough attention to Reek’s physical injuries while paying no special
thought to his equally broken mind. He always wore his white suit with the
polished gold buttons, and sometimes he made small talk, even though Reek was
careful to never speak without Ramsay’s permission.
Ramsay came to see him most of all – sometimes he was still covered in gore
from his work, and other times he looked almost like a normal boy with his
jeans and t-shirts still wrinkled from the dryer. He would bring Reek his
meals, and even feed him, though Reek was almost perfectly capable with his
right hand, missing pinkie-finger aside. One evening, Ramsay even ordered
Chinese and fed him with chopsticks, which he held in that delicate, precise
way that made Reek recall a knife.
And of course there were also nights that he would hurt Reek – cut him or burn
him, or move the broken parts of him too roughly. In the morning, Qyburn would
tend to his wounds and change his paper gown. After a while, the pirate ship on
Reek’s left breast was so criss-crossed with raised pink lines that it was no
longer recognizable. Reek pulled at the collar of the gown to rub at it – he
didn’t know why he had a tattoo of a pirate ship, but it seemed so stupid with
all the scars running through it.
“He’ll need a bath,” said Qyburn on the afternoon that he cut off Reek’s casts.
“Not too hot. But a proper bath.”
Ramsay sat in the wheelchair Qyburn had brought in, rocking himself forward and
back with the balls of his feet, the floorboards groaning beneath him. “Would
you like that, Reek?” he asked.
Reek considered carefully. Of course he wanted a bath. He’d been lying in his
own piss for weeks. The itching beneath the casts had become constant in recent
days, and the rashes and bedsores were unbearable. Qyburn had been giving him
regular sponge baths, but they were cursory and rough. Still, Reek knew he
wasn’t entitled to a bath, and Ramsay always hated when he acted entitled to
things. So he nodded, trying not to appear too eager, and said, “Only if you’d
like for me to have one.”
Ramsay had to lift him out of bed, and Reek whined at the pain that ricocheted
through his chest.
“Careful, love,” admonished Ramsay, as though Reek could help being so broken.
He lowered Reek into the chair and knelt to position Reek’s damaged leg on the
foot-rest.
The journey from his small recovery room to the bed and bathroom down the hall
marked Reek’s first foray into the Dreadfort, and he found it frightening. The
house at Pyke was dreary and cavernous, and Winterfell was overwhelming in its
grandiosity, but Roose Bolton’s mansion felt at once vast and confining – its
hallways long and narrow, the windows dirty despite the many servants that
bustled past as Ramsay wheeled Reek down the corridor.
What do they whisper about him? Reek wondered. Whatever it was, it mustn’t be
the truth, or they wouldn’t dare to whisper it.
Ramsay opened the door to a massive bedroom, furnished with dark woods and
heavy red drapery that all but blocked out the sunlight. The bed was made, a
pair of reading glasses on the nightstand beside it. At a desk beneath the
window, a notebook lay open. The air was cold and stale.
“Is this your room?” ventured Reek.
“No,” replied Ramsay.
He opened another door and turned on the lights to a magnificent master
bathroom. The floor and countertops were a polished granite, swirls of black
and flecks of pink. Ramsay pulled aside a blood-red curtain to reveal a huge,
round tub of the same material. A black faucet arched forth from the wall, and
beside it two crystal knobs that Ramsay began to adjust. Reek watched as he
tested the temperature with his fingertips, dialing back the hot water slightly
before reaching down to close the drain.
I wonder if he’ll drown me.
That wouldn’t be such a terrible way for this to end. Ramsay would hold him
under, and there would be no blood. And maybe he would still die an Islander,
in his own, pathetic way.
But Reek is no Islander.
When the tub was three-fourths full, Ramsay turned off the tap. He pulled his
hoodie off over his head and submerged his arm in the bathwater, all the way
past the elbow. Satisfied, he rose and walked behind the wheelchair, laying his
hands on Reek’s shoulders and pressing forward gently.
“Let me untie your laces,” he said.
Reek leaned forward, granting Ramsay access to the flimsy strings that held his
paper gown in place. Ramsay pulled the gown away, crumpled it up and threw it
in the waste-bin beside the sink. The mirror above the sink was huge,
stretching across one entire wall of the bathroom, but thankfully it was
mounted too high for Reek to get a glimpse of himself.
Beneath the hoodie, Ramsay wore an old black beater, and when he wrapped his
bare arm around Reek’s waist to help him up from the chair, Reek couldn’t help
but notice the softness of Ramsay’s skin. His knees wobbled dangerously as he
took the three steps to the tub, but Ramsay reassured him.
“I’ve got you.”
I know.
The water was perfect, just hot enough to reach his bones, and Reek had to
stifle a sigh. It stung at his scars a bit – and between his legs – but the
itch was gone from his wounded limbs. He drew his good leg up to his chest and
looked at Ramsay, awaiting further instructions.
The steam from the bath drove the color up in Ramsay’s cheeks, and he smiled at
Reek, combed his fingers through his pet’s hair and remarked, “Your hair’s
turning white.”
“White?” Reek twirled a lock of hair before his eyes. It was black. He flinched
as Ramsay plucked a few strands from his head to show him.
“At the roots. It’s coming in white, like an old man’s hair.”
Reek rested his chin on his knee, distraught. Ramsay picked up a sponge from
one corner of the tub, wetted it and brought it down the track of Reek’s spine.
“It’s rare, but it happens,” he said, wringing the filthy water out.
“Does it stay that way?” Reek moped.
“It might.” Ramsay chuckled and ran the sponge along the jut of Reek’s collar
bone. “You’re still such a vain thing, aren’t you?”
What if he decides he doesn’t want you anymore?
Reek stayed silent. Once Ramsay was finished with his back, Reek allowed
himself to recline against the side of the tub. Ramsay rubbed the sponge across
his chest, lifted his arms out of the water one at a time, taking care to scrub
at Reek’s fingernails.
“Does this feel good, Reek?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Answer me in words, pet.”
“I’m sorry. It feels very nice. Thank you.”
“You know not to get used to it.”
Reek’s eyes had drifted closed, and now they opened again. Ramsay was staring
at him expectantly.
“Yes. I know.”
“Good.” Ramsay resumed his ministrations, drawing the sponge along the inside
of Reek’s thigh.
Reek allowed his gaze to travel the length of Ramsay’s arms, his shoulders, the
tendons of his neck –all the lines so delicate and precise. It seemed wicked of
the universe to hide a monster in such perfect skin. Dimly, something inside
him stirred.
“What are you staring at?”
Reek cast his eyes down quickly – he was not allowed to want things. “Nothing.
I didn’t mean to stare.”
Ramsay washed every inch of Reek’s body, even taking a rough stone to the
bottoms of his feet. He used a cup to wet Reek’s hair, lathering in a harsh-
smelling shampoo, raking his fingernails over Reek’s scalp in a way that made
Reek’s toes curl. Theon had never been treated like this. When Reek looked down
again, the bathwater was cloudy.
“I have something to give you,” said Ramsay, reaching behind him for a small
gray box. Then with a grin he added, “Really, it’s more of a present for me.”
He opened the box for Reek to see, and the implements inside twisted Reek’s
stomach, though they were visibly less terrible than the things on the steel
table. They sparkled finely – a pair of looped forceps, a long needle, a silver
barb with one flat and one rounded end.
“Th-thank you?” said Reek, unable to hide his confusion.
“Qyburn said you’d be up for it.” Ramsay unfolded a pair of blue latex gloves;
they snapped crisply when he put them on. “Go on, sweetheart – let me see your
tongue.”
It hurt less than the other things, except for right afterwards when Ramsay
kissed him and the little metal ball clanked painfully against his busted
teeth. Ramsay smiled and used his ring finger to wipe Reek’s blood from the
corner of his own mouth, while a few stray drops dribbled from Reek’s chin and
into the filthy bathwater.
“I like it,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Yeth,” replied Reek. “Very much.”
When the water turned chilly, Ramsay helped him out of the bath and wrapped him
in a plush red towel. Reek closed his eyes and hummed as Ramsay dried his hair,
allowed himself to lean back against Ramsay’s chest. It felt heavenly and
strange to be so clean, to feel the soft rub of the towel and the warmth of
Ramsay’s touch without a layer of dirt and blood between them. Reek let his
head drop back against Ramsay’s shoulder.
He takes care of you.
But Ramsay grabbed Reek’s shattered wrist and squeezed – hard enough to make
Reek cry out.
“Keep teasing me, Reek, and I’ll break you into more pieces than Qyburn will
know what to do with.”
Reek’s stomach twisted at his misstep – so stupid, so disappointing – but
Ramsay continued to towel him off and Reek felt hopeful that he would do better
next time.
***** Chapter Fifteen *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek begins to settle into a routine while changes darken the horizon
     for Ramsay.
Chapter Notes
     SPOILERS: As usual, apologies for the fairly short chapter. Er, it
     feels short to me anyway. For those of you yearning for Jon's re-
     appearance, I hope I'm not ruining anything by telling you that it's
     looking like about Chapter 20 or so that we might catch up with that
     boy again. I hope you'll keep reading in the meantime, though! <3
     y'all!
The servants – maids and cooks and groundskeepers – soon learned not to stare
at Reek, and Roose Bolton made sure that his associates never caught a glimpse
of the thing that used to be Balon Greyjoy’s son. And Reek was grateful that
only one set of eyes bore witness to his scars, his cracked teeth, his missing
parts and his freakish white hair – now down to his neck in a greasy, matted
mess.
Autumn passed, and then winter, and in the spring Roose hired a landscaping
crew to install an expansive flower garden on the west side of the house. Reek
was forbidden from going outside while the crew was on the grounds, but Ramsay
allowed him to watch the construction from his bedroom balcony on the third
floor.
Who’d have guessed Roose liked flowers?
Reek leaned against the high railing and looked down over the byzantine walkway
that wound through the new garden, and he tried to gauge where his body might
land if he were to jump. Many of the plants were only beginning to bloom –
little pinpricks of color against a deep green field, the fresh mulch a rich,
raw brown. The whole thing smelled lovely. Reek tried not to notice the men who
worked in the garden, pushing wheelbarrows of dirt and hauling the timber and
stone and bags of concrete over their broad, bare shoulders. Occasionally, one
of them might stop his work to cast a glance up towards the figure on the
balcony, and Reek would shrink back from the railing and wish himself
invisible.
They look so young.
They’re probably the same age as you.
He startled when two arms closed around him, one at his waist, the other across
his chest.
“Did I scare you, pet?”
Reek swallowed and nodded. He knew that Ramsay liked it when he was frightened.
“Yes, you scared me.”
Ramsay held Reek tightly, pressing him forward against the rail until it dug
coldly into his belly. He swept Reek’s hair off the back of his neck and bit
down there just hard enough to make Reek gasp and clench at the railing with
his six remaining fingers.
“See someone you like down there?” asked Ramsay, bringing one hand up under
Reek’s filthy t-shirt to rub at the scars on his chest. He rested his chin on
Reek’s shoulder and gazed down at the men working in the yard.
“No. I just – I just –” Reek’s tongue stud clicked against his teeth.
“You’re a shitty liar.” Ramsay’s tone was affectionate – teasing – and he
nipped at Reek’s earlobe. “You used to love boys looking at you.”
Reek said nothing and Ramsay released his hold. He leaned on the rail beside
his pet, tapping a pack of cigarettes on the heel of his palm before lighting
one up and exhaling with a sigh. Reek hated the smell – it reminded him of
something. Ramsay took another long drag and said, “My dad’s getting married.”
He nodded towards the garden. “That’s why he’s having the whole yard remodeled
– trying to make the Dreadfort look like something besides, you know, what it
fucking is.”
“Who, um, who is she?” Reek asked.
Ramsay snorted. “Some no-name Frey bitch. Fucked if I care.”
Beneath the spiteful tone, Reek sensed something else – some kind of deep
unease that he longed to sooth. Tentatively, he moved behind Ramsay to reach
for his shoulders, slouched and tight beneath the fabric of his shirt. Ramsay
carried all his worries just between his shoulder blades, and Reek knew the way
his master moved when something was on his mind. Cursing his clumsy hands, he
massaged Ramsay’s back, working at the muscles until Ramsay let out a low hum.
Reek smiled.
“Have I ever told you about my mom, Reek?”
Reek thought of a woman with long white hair, sitting in a bay window. He found
it hard to believe that Ramsay ever had a mother. “No,” he replied. “You never
have.”
He waited for Ramsay to continue, but Ramsay said nothing else for a while,
finishing his cigarette and carelessly flicking it off the balcony.
“Reek?”
“Yes sir?” Reek’s hands stilled on his master’s shoulders.
“Go down to the kitchen and fetch them something cold to drink.” Ramsay nodded
at the men working below and Reek’s heart sank into his stomach. “See if you
like how they look at you now.”
*
Reek saw less and less of Qyburn as his injuries healed, and though he couldn’t
say why, he was relieved. Qyburn had tended to him well enough, but he had also
seen how Ramsay mutilated Reek, and every time he spied the old man – often at
strange hours and in strange parts of the house – Reek felt a deep unease
coupled with a shame that Ramsay referred to as “ridiculous.”
On the day that Reek was finally able to limp around without crutches, Ramsay
had given him a get-well present.
“Turn around and I’ll put it on you.”
Reek obeyed and lifted his hair so that Ramsay could fasten the thing snugly
around his wiry neck.
The collar was pink leather with a silver buckle and small, tear-shaped garnets
that sparkled audaciously against Reek’s grimy skin. Ramsay had forced Reek to
stand facing a mirror for several agonizing minutes as he admired his own
generosity.
“It suits him,” said Qyburn.
“What do you think, Reek?”
“Yes.” Reek ran a finger over the gemstones. “Thank you very much.”
Wearing it was terribly unpleasant for a while – the leather rubbed certain
spots and left them raw and bleeding, and sometimes Ramsay would tug on it hard
enough to make Reek’s vision go black.
But the leather softened and Reek grew accustomed to the feel of it, and soon
the collar became a comfort – something to hold on to when he woke in a
trembling fit on the cold floor of the kennels. In a panic, his hands would
shoot to his throat, feeling for the collar; upon finding it, a wave of relief
passed over him and his breathing would slow as he remembered his name and to
whom he belonged.
Reek. Reek. It rhymes with –
He was thankful for it again that afternoon as he carried a tray of ice-cold
lemonade out into the yard, struggling to walk steadily, his heart pounding as
the liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rims of the glasses with each step
he took.
“Thank you,” said the men, looking away in embarrassment.
Except for the boy who took the last glass and brought it to his lips,
regarding Reek with dark brown eyes before cocking his head at the Dreadfort
and asking, “Do you live here?”
The boy had a sunburn and dirty-blond hair tied up in a blue bandana. Reek
wanted to look up at the balcony, but he didn’t dare, so he only touched his
collar and said, “My name is Reek and I belong to Ramsay.” Then he turned and
walked back into the house, his hands shaking and his heart pounding in his
ears.
*
Walda Frey looked out of place anywhere in the Dreadfort, but she looked
especially odd sharing a room with Reek. She was vibrant – eager blue eyes
taking in the drabness around her as though it were some kind of castle, and
her dress was a cheerful pink that flattered her round figure as Roose helped
her out of his town car. She was young – almost scandalously young, though Reek
supposed that marrying younger women was low on the list of Roose Bolton’s
questionable deeds.
She had only come for a visit, and Roose instructed Ramsay to “wear something
clean and give your creature a bath.”
“Yes sir,” Ramsay had replied hotly.
“Walda – this is my bastard son, Ramsay.”
Standing behind Ramsay, Reek couldn’t quite see his master’s face, but he
caught the way Ramsay’s back stiffened, the way his fingers fluttered into a
fist for a fraction of a second before Ramsay instead offered a polite
handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, probably giving his best
attempt at a normal smile.
Walda blushed brightly and looked down at her feet, and Reek realized that she
didn’t know – was it possible she’d never heard that Ramsay Bolton was a
monster? Inverse to the Boltons, the Frey Family was large in number and small
in stature, and it seemed that no one had bothered to alert the girl to the
unsettling reputations of her fiancé and soon-to-be son-in-law.
“And who are you?” she asked.
Reek had been gawking at her – he’d never seen such thick, blonde hair – and
now he shrank away, embarrassed, while Ramsay took a small but deliberate step
between them.
“This is Reek. He’s my –”
Roose, standing just behind Walda, raised an eyebrow and Reek saw his master’s
cheeks go red.
“He’s my servant.” He cast a warning glance over his shoulder at Reek. “He’s a
disgusting animal, and it’s best not to speak to him. You never know what he
might try to do to you if I’m not around.”
“Oh.” Walda leaned in closed to Roose and he put his arm around her shoulder,
which was the most unnatural gesture Reek could imagine.
Reek looked down at the floor. Reek was bad, of course, and stupid, but had he
ever really been such a beast?
“And you’ll whimper and swear and beg for it, won’t you?”
Sometimes a week would pass – a week where he was good, where he remembered his
name – and then that boy would show up, vivid as though all those good weeks
were nothing. That boy with wide, dark eyes and a barely-there smile would ask
him –
“Do you want me to?”
Reek shook his head. He watched Roose and Walda as they headed for the
elevator.
“Can I see the garden?” she asked excitedly.
“Not till it’s finished,” replied Roose.
Reek watched the smile drop from his master’s face as they disappeared from
view.
“Come on, pet. I’ve got work to do.”
*
Reek loved the motorcycle. It was a brand new Harley – a 1200 Custom, Ramsay
told him proudly – with a gunmetal finish and leather seats, modified
handlebars and an aftermarket exhaust system so loud that Reek could feel it
rattling his ribcage. It was frightening sometimes, the way Ramsay drove –
dodging in and out of traffic at 90mph, the bike listing from one side to the
other – but whenever Reek felt afraid he would just hold Ramsay tighter, feel
the race of Ramsay’s heartbeat and surrender to it. It felt like flying.
Ramsay never wore a helmet, but he bought one for Reek – red with a black
stripe down the middle – and sometimes he even let Reek ride with the visor up
so he could feel the breeze in his face. At stoplights, Ramsay would often let
go of the handlebars to rest one hand on Reek’s knee. The bike made it too easy
to pretend that things weren’t as they were – Reek pretended Ramsay was another
boy, a boy that had come to rescue him.
It would hurt him if he knew what you were thinking. It would make him angry.
He doesn’t have to take you out at all. Why are you always so fucking
ungrateful?
As usual, Ramsay stopped at a gas station on the way to the storage complex and
picked up a pack of cigarettes and a bag of Skittles, neither of which did he
ever offer to share.
It was late afternoon when they arrived, and the sunlight was harsh against the
asphalt and chain-link fence surrounding the storage complex. Reek still didn’t
know which unit had been his – he had never looked back to see, and from the
outside they all looked the same. He imagined himself inside each one – all of
them at once – though he knew now that the majority of the units housed the
more mundane aspects of Roose Bolton’s enterprises.
Ramsay put the kick down and vaulted a leg over the bike so that he was sitting
on it facing backwards. He popped a few Skittles into his mouth and chewed them
wetly before flipping up Reek’s visor and then placing a hand firmly on each
side of his helmet. Reek knew this meant Ramsay wanted to see his eyes. He
tried not to blink or look away.
“If I leave you out here, will you be good?”
Reek nodded. “Yes sir.”
A couple months ago, Reek had made the mistake of wandering out of sight and
Ramsay beat him unconscious.
“You gave me a fucking heart attack!”
After that, Ramsay made Reek accompany him inside while he did his bloody work
– partially to keep an eye on him, but also to remind him.
Now though, it seemed that his master was willing to give him another chance to
be good. Ramsay was so patient.
“I don’t need to tether you to something, do I?”
“No sir.”
Ramsay grinned as he pulled the helmet off Reek’s head and planted a chaste
kiss on Reek’s mouth. “If you wait out here for me like a good dog, I’ll take
you for a ride somewhere.”
Reek nodded again and gave one of his closed-lipped smiles. “Thank you. I’d
like that.”
He doesn’t want to go home.
The screams were not entirely muffled within the storage unit, and Reek tried
humming a song so that he might not hear them. He wondered if anyone had heard
his own screams, and if so, what did they sound like? He tapped his tongue stud
against the roof of his mouth and wondered – for what must’ve been the
millionth time – what it was about him that compelled Ramsay to show him such
mercy.
Reek hesitated before allowing himself to slide up into the driver’s seat.
It’s only a little game of pretend.
He placed his hands lightly on the handlebars, but the height of them wrenched
painfully on his shoulders. Reek sighed. The cuts and the burns and the blows
all hurt, but it was the unending ache – that residual pain from the car crash,
from hanging on the saltire for all those endless hours – that made Reek whine
and moan and think about dying. He thought about putting the kickstand up and
seeing if he could manage the bike on his own, but he knew better. His right
leg still buckled sometimes under the weight of his body.
Reek gave up on humming. The screaming continued for some time, occasionally
punctuated by Ramsay’s strange, high laugh.
Please just kill the poor fucker already.
The sun was low in the sky when Ramsay finally emerged, pulling on his leather
jacket over a t-shirt flecked with blood.
“The less blood, the more pain.”
“Who – who was that?” asked Reek, scooting back on the bike and putting on his
helmet.
“Someone who informed on my dad.”
“Is he dead?”
Ramsay snorted. “He wishes he was.” He leaned in to give Reek a peck on the
nose. “You’ve seen that sort of thing before, Reek. Don’t act so squeamish.”
“I’m sorry.”
*
The evening air was cool against Reek’s face, and it made Ramsay’s body seem
all the warmer as Reek pulled himself close to his master’s back. Ramsay drove
out of the city and into the suburbs, all the way to a park that bordered the
Weeping Water.
The lights lining the sidewalk began to flicker with cold light, and the greens
of the grass and the trees began to shift to a deep blue as the sun dropped
below the horizon. A murmur of crickets rose up and Reek began to feel nervous.
He’d never been so far away from the Dreadfort.
Ramsay drove the bike up over the curb and through the grass until they came to
the edge of the river. It was a secluded spot, and Ramsay lit up a cigarette
before dismounting to sit beside Reek on the bank.
They sat there for what seemed like quite a while, Reek hugging his knees to
his chest while Ramsay finished one cigarette and lit another. The water moved
silently. It was deep. Reek knew this because another boy who knew things about
water told him so. He wondered if Ramsay would jump in after him.
Of course he would.
“Did you know I had a half-brother?” asked Ramsay finally.
“No,” said Reek, though he’d gathered as much. He hesitated before asking,
“What was his name?”
And was he anything like you?
“Dom. I was fourteen when he died. He was twenty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
my dad that upset.” Ramsay smirked cynically and took a long drag. “I mean, I
think he actually fucking felt something for a few minutes there.”
Reek blinked at his master. He remembered the time that Balon whipped Theon so
hard that his screams woke his mother and she came downstairs to ask him to
stop. Roose’s steady indifference seemed preferable to Balon’s fierce temper,
but Reek knew better than to say so.
“You know why he’s getting married, right?” Ramsay blew a stream of smoke into
Reek’s face. “Why he’s marrying her and not – not someone his own fucking age?”
Reek shook his head wordlessly.
“He’s going to replace me.”
Reek’s heart stung at that. Carefully, he reached for the nape of Ramsay’s neck
and threaded the three remaining fingers through that fine, black hair.
“He can’t replace you.”
“He thinks he can.” Ramsay tilted his head back.
“Well then he’s fucking stupid.”
Reek clapped his hand over his mouth, horrified. He hadn’t meant it to come
out.
But Ramsay only looked at him and laughed. “Go on, Reek.”
Reek sidled closer to Ramsay, still passing his fingers lightly through his
master’s hair. “I just mean – he’ll never find anybody else that can do the
things you do for him. You’re – you’re a good son to him, and if he can’t
appreciate that then he – then he’s fucking blind.”
He hadn’t intended to kiss Ramsay – he never did – but Reek had leaned over and
pressed his lips behind Ramsay’s ear, steadying himself with his left hand on
Ramsay’s thigh. He heard Ramsay’s breath catch in his throat, felt the blood
rise in his skin.
“What are you doing?” Ramsay’s voice was breathless, confused.
“It hurts me when you hurt.”
Ramsay looked startled. “You’re pathetic,” he said as he pressed his lips
against Reek’s.
Reek pushed against Ramsay’s chest, just gently enough for Ramsay to think it
was his idea to lie back, pulling Reek down on top of him with one hand fisted
in that snarled white hair, the other tugging at the front of Reek’s ratty t-
shirt. Reek came down onto his elbows, his thin arms creating a perfect frame
for Ramsay’s face.
Kissing was hard for Reek – it reminded him that about a third of his teeth
were broken or chipped or missing, and he had to take care not to cut his
master’s tongue open. So he relaxed as best he could while Ramsay nipped and
sucked at his lower lip, releasing his hold on Reek’s shirt to slide his hand
up beneath it and run his nails through the maze of scars there. Reek shivered.
“Do you like that, pet?”
Do you really care if I like it?
Reek only leaned down to kiss Ramsay again, thumb playing with the earring in
Ramsay’s left ear.
“Did you pierce it yourself?” asked Reek, sitting back onto his knees, feeling
the hardness of Ramsay’s prick beneath him.
“What?” Ramsay blinked at him. “No.”
“Who did?”
“An old friend.”
Reek was surprised – and ashamed – to feel a twinge of envy rise up inside his
chest.
Who? He wanted desperately to know, but he didn’t want to hear Ramsay say any
name other than his.
But the feeling must’ve been clear on his face, because Ramsay raised an
eyebrow and ran his palm up the inside of Reek’s thigh. “No one for you to
worry about, jealous thing,” he said with a squeeze. “But now that you’ve
brought him up, you’ll have to work to make me forget about him again.”
Reek swallowed. Theon had been skilled at this, but pleasing Ramsay had never
called for skill as much as it called for a high pain tolerance. And Reek could
tolerate more pain than Theon could imagine. Reek tried to remember – obliquely
– what he ought to do.
His hands shook as he unzipped Ramsay’s leather jacket. He opened it and his
fingers skimmed Ramsay’s shirt, the blood on it nearly dry already. He felt
Ramsay’s hips grinding up against him, and that alien sensation building where
his own manhood used to be. He looked at Ramsay questioningly.
“Can I – tell me what to do.”
“Make me happy.” Ramsay grabbed him again and yanked him forward, tugging on
Reek’s collar and lifting himself up to suck a welt in the middle of Reek’s
chest. Reek held himself up with one shaking arm, and with the other pulled
Ramsay’s shirt up, exposing his taut stomach. He watched the goosebumps ripple
over Ramsay’s skin, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest and then
leaned down to ghost his wetted lips over Ramsay’s nipple. Carefully, he began
to suck, smiling to himself when Ramsay swallowed loudly. He turned his eyes up
to look at his master’s face and saw Ramsay’s gray eyes gazing back at him,
half-lidded.
“Is this good?” asked Reek, reaching back to slip his left hand beneath the hem
of Ramsay’s boxers, closing three fingers around the warm hardness of Ramsay’s
cock.
“Don’t ask me stupid questions,” growled Ramsay, putting a hand on the back of
Reek’s neck to force his pet’s lips down again. Reek tasted blood when one of
his broken teeth pierced the skin of Ramsay’s breast, and when Ramsay hissed,
Reek froze, waiting for the blow. But Ramsay only rasped, “Lick it up.”
Reek obeyed. The flavor was familiar and Reek’s lips left a garish red trail
over Ramsay’s stomach and the crests of his hips. Reek enjoyed the way his
master’s hands tore at the grass, the way his back arched and the flush from
his face spread down into his chest.
Reek hated buttons – even with two hands they were difficult, and that was part
of the reason that Reek wore sweatpants most of the time. In jeans, he was
liable to piss himself before he could undo the fly – it amused Ramsay, of
course, but after three laundry maids quit in the span of a week, Roose put a
stop to it.
He hoped Ramsay would get impatient and undo his own pants, but Ramsay only
watched him, smiling and rolling his hips up against Reek’s struggling hands
until they finally succeeded in freeing his erection to jut up darkly against
his belly.
Reek looked around. The last traces of the sun had disappeared and all the
colors began to fade and blend. He listened for voices or footfalls, but heard
only the flow of the river, the sound of his master’s breathing. Ramsay eyed
him expectantly.
Something was off – it was unprecedented that Ramsay should wait for his pet to
make the first move, and Reek was mortified, staring at dumbly at his master.
Usually, Ramsay wasted no time in satisfying himself, and though it hurt
sometimes – and sometimes it hurt for days – it was simple enough.
“What are you waiting for?” Ramsay asked finally.
Reek took a deep, stuttering breath. This had been easy, once – for a boy with
all his teeth and fingers. He lowered himself again to his elbows and laid a
cluster of kisses on the hollow of Ramsay’s hip, hoping to buy himself some
time, but within seconds he felt Ramsay’s hand on his head, pushing him none-
too-gently down.
“Reek, goddamnit –” And there was something desperate in Ramsay’s voice, the
nearest thing to a “please” that Reek could ever hope for.
Ramsay’s initial gasp turned to a full-throated groan as Reek set to work with
his tongue stud, teasing at the underside of Ramsay’s prick. Day to day, Reek
disliked the little metal barb – he sometimes bit down on it by accident – but
it was worth the pain to see the way his master’s head snapped back, to hear
the breathless “Fuck –” that caught at the back of his throat.
It felt wonderful – the cool softness of the grass beneath Reek’s forearms, the
tight grip of Ramsay’s fingers in his hair, the sweet ache between his legs as
he rutted up against his master’s thigh.
He knew that Ramsay was close by the way he held his breath, and he knew to
swallow every drop of it, the way Ramsay had trained him to.
“Spit it out again and I’ll break what’s left of your teeth.”
“Was that – did I –”
Reek lay down beside Ramsay, angling to press his lips against his master’s,
but Ramsay turned away.
“You’re dumber than I thought if you think I’m kissing that nasty whore mouth
of yours.”
“I – I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He settled for laying his head on Ramsay’s
chest. He felt Ramsay’s hand move up under his shirt to rub at the small of his
back. The sky was almost completely dark now, and a few stars began to shine.
“You know I love you, Reek?”
Reek’s heart leapt into his throat. Theon had always imagined what it would be
like to hear those words… well, except for the name, of course, but what did
that matter now?
“Do you love me back?”
“Yes. More than anything.”
They lay there silently for several minutes, before Ramsay said, “You know that
you can’t tell anybody?”
“Nobody would believe me.”
Reek didn’t need to see Ramsay’s face to know that he was smiling.
“No, they wouldn’t,” said Ramsay, planting a kiss on the top of Reek’s head.
***** Chapter Sixteen *****
Chapter Summary
     Roose takes a wife, Ramsay takes a toe.
Chapter Notes
     It may not seem like it, but this is the chapter where things start
     rolling. Thanks as always for all your wonderful comments. I stumbled
     across this vid by INCBlackbird, and it's been a huge inspiration!
     (Warning for gore, torture and violence though.)
Roose Bolton’s wedding to Walda Frey was small but extravagant, and though Reek
was locked in Ramsay’s bedroom for the duration of the ceremony, he was still
allowed to watch from the balcony overlooking the garden. Even from this
distance, Walda stood out like a butterfly among moths. Reek could see Ramsay
as well, standing behind his father with his arms folded across his chest,
shifting heavily on his feet and no doubt failing to conceal the scowl that had
been ingrained on his face for the past week or so.
Reek had shaved his master that morning, tried to help him bathe and dress,
though Reek was no good at anything and it was a wonder Ramsay gave him so many
chances. He’d been waiting – as was his duty – when Ramsay stepped out of the
shower, and wrapped him in a fresh towel. When he was dry, Ramsay tied it
around his waist and walked into the bedroom; Reek followed, trying not to
notice the stray drops of water that clung to his master’s pale skin.
“I hope this doesn’t take two fucking hours.” Ramsay examined the suit Reek had
laid out on the bed. “You’re lucky you don’t have to be there.”
“Yes sir.” Reek hated being locked up sometimes, but not as much as he hated
the thought of everyone looking at him. That Reek should go unseen was perhaps
the only thing that Ramsay and his father could agree on.
Reek swallowed as Ramsay dropped the towel to the floor and began to dress
himself, pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs and then stepping into his black
dress pants. He buttoned them himself, then lifted his arms and cleared his
throat expectantly, glancing at the belt draped across the bed.
Reek looked at the belt, then at Ramsay’s face. He picked it up carefully and
rubbed his thumb across the leather, rolled up tightly around its silver buckle
– it was Ramsay’s favorite belt, the one he sometimes used on Reek, and the
thought of his master wearing it – in front of everyone – made Reek feel at
once humiliated and deeply pleased. He reached his arms around Ramsay,
threading the belt through the loops, fingers fumbling with the buckle while he
inhaled the smell of Ramsay’s hair. He leaned forward to rest his chin on
Ramsay’s shoulder, and when he was finished with the belt he let his hands
linger there, the heel of his palm rubbing gently against Ramsay’s crotch.
“Not now, love.”
But Reek continued, pressing down impudently and feeling the growing shape of
Ramsay’s hard-on through the thin fabric of his pants. “Please,” he mouthed
against the back of Ramsay’s neck.
“Goddamnit, I said stop.”
“So punish me for disobeying you.”
Ramsay grabbed Reek’s injured wrist, twisting so hard that Reek crumbled to his
knees, mouth open and eyes screwed shut, his other hand pawing at Ramsay’s
grip.
This is what you asked for.
“Did you really think you could talk back to me like that?” Ramsay sounded more
amused than angry.
Reek shook his head. “No sir, I didn’t mean to –”
“You’re a liar.”
Ramsay released his hold, and Reek cradled his wrist. He was hardly surprised
by the blow that came next – the back of Ramsay’s hand across his face – or the
strong shove that sent him toppling back onto the carpet. Ramsay followed him
down, dropped onto his knees, and pulled forcefully at Reek’s sweatpants. He
paused for half a second to admire his creature – Reek’s stunned blue eyes, his
cracked, trembling lips, his hand reaching down to cover the place where his
prick used to be, almost shy, almost teasing.
Of course it hurt, and of course he should’ve known better than to provoke his
master, but it was the kind of pain reserved for Reek and Reek alone, and it
made him delirious. Ramsay came within a minute, moaning as he pulled out and
spent himself on the scar between Reek’s legs, using his hand to smear the mess
around while Reek panted and whined and begged.
“Jesus, you’re like a bitch in heat.”
Reek bit his lip and nodded, tears welling in the corners of his eyes and
running down his temples. “I wish I could come for you.”
Ramsay frowned. He wiped his fingers clean in Reek’s hair, then rose and
dressed himself again, hands shaking as he buttoned his shirt. It was a deep
blue, and Reek had picked it because he knew how handsome his master looked in
dark colors.
“You should let me –” began Reek, but Ramsay only laughed.
“You’re a disaster,” he said affectionately and – Reek noticed – just a touch
sadly. “This shirt has like, twenty buttons and I don’t have all day.”
Reek sat up, hugging his knees to his chest. He hesitated before asking, “What
– what happens to me if you ever get married?”
“What do you mean, ‘happens’ to you?” Ramsay didn’t bother looking up from his
cufflinks, and Reek felt his face going red.
“I mean, you – I – we – we’re, um – you know –”
What? Lovers? You’re so ridiculous.
“Spit it out, sweetheart.”
“Your wife probably wouldn’t like the things we do.”
Ramsay scoffed as he pulled on his jacket with a snap of his shoulders. “Like I
give a shit what anybody likes,” he said, kneeling beside Reek and giving a
sharp tug on his pet’s hair. “You’re mine and nothing changes that.”
Reek looked into his master’s eyes – so icy and somehow full of heat. “I know,”
he said.
*
When Bob Baratheon announced that he was bringing his family for a visit to
Winterfell, Cat Stark sent all of the children – and Theon – to be measured by
a tailor. Rickon threw a tantrum and Bran and Arya squirmed; Sansa held her
breath as the yellow measuring tape slipped around her waist and Robb slouched
dramatically and rolled his eyes.
Theon was eighteen at the time, and though he feigned boredom with the whole
affair, he was secretly thrilled to have his very own suit, just like all the
Stark children. Cat had said nothing about colors, and while the tailor made
charcoal gray suits for Robb, Bran and Rickon, Theon insisted on black for
himself. Afterwards, he went out and purchased a black dress shirt, a gold
neck-tie and a pair of Forzieri wingtips.
Of course, he hadn’t been allowed at the main table and spent most of day
seething about it, especially when he learned that Robb would be seated beside
his father.
But when he entered the dining room, everyone turned to look at him – two dozen
sets of wide eyes and everything went quiet. Theon combed his fingers through
his hair.
“Well, that’s a Greyjoy if I ever saw one!” Bob’s thunderous voice broke the
silence.
Theon smiled – though he knew it wasn’t a compliment – and offered a handshake.
“Theon,” he said.
Ned gazed up at him – clearly uncomfortable – while Sansa was too busy gaping
to notice her mother’s frown or her sister kicking her beneath the table. Theon
tried to act cool as he took his seat, and within a few seconds, the chatter in
the room picked up where it had left off.
He glanced over at Robb and caught the boy looking straight back at him with a
goofy, dazzled sort of expression, as though they hadn’t seen each other every
single day for the last nine years. Theon pretended not to notice, and each
time he scanned the tables, he let his eyes skim right over Robb, as though it
was lost on him that Robb Stark was staring, so blatantly enthralled with his
father’s ward that he tried cutting his steak with a spoon.
That night he’d taken one of Baratheon’s men up to his room – tall and dark-
haired and drunk, like himself – and when they stumbled into the elevator
together, Theon pretended not to notice that Robb was there also, even as he
deliberately turned to give the boy a good view while the other man’s hands
slipped inside his jacket and under his shirt. Theon’s head dropped back
against the wall of the elevator, the man sucking at the bottom of his jaw,
slurring, “You swear you’re eighteen?”
“I am.” Theon shot his friend a wicked grin. “Huh, Robb?”
“Yeah,” croaked Robb, cheeks burning red. “He is.”
When the doors finally opened, Theon turned to Robb and pressed a finger
against his quavering lips, brushed the other hand over the bulge in Robb’s
pants and whispered, “Better not tell your dad.”
*
The kennels were freezing in the winter. Reek had curled up beside the dogs
during those months, rising only to relieve himself in the corner, or to come
when Ramsay called for him. There had been one night so bitter that Reek
couldn’t sleep over the sound of his poor teeth chattering together – he heard
the door to the kennels open and braced himself.
Whatever he has planned for you tonight can’t be worse than this cold.
But instead of hands yanking him roughly to his feet, he felt the weight of a
heavy fur blanket descending over him. Reek sat up to thank his master, but it
was the wrong man – the wrong pair of gray eyes gazing back at him. He felt a
hand on his cheek, and who’d have guessed Roose Bolton’s touch could ever feel
so warm?
Now that summer was near, the kennels were almost pleasantly cool, and Reek had
just begun to drift off when the door swung loudly open, slamming against the
wall with the force of its own weight.
“R-reek?”
Reek cringed. He always pitied whatever kitchen boy Ramsay sent down to fetch
him.
“Yeah?”
“He – he wants you.”
Reek struggled to his feet, turning just in time to catch the boy’s eyes before
they darted to the floor. “Where is he?”
“In his bedroom.”
As Reek shuffled behind the boy, he slowly became aware of a train of steady
noise, growing louder as they walked down the corridor to Ramsay’s room. The
boy cleared his throat, as though that could possibly drown out the sound of
Roose and Walda’s (apparently phenomenal) lovemaking.
He’s bound to be in a shitty mood, Reek thought wearily.
When the door opened, the room was nearly dark. A small, bedside lamp lit the
curve of Ramsay’s back as he sat at the edge of the bed with his elbows on his
knees, face in his hands, fingers clutching his hair. He’d been trying to sleep
– he was in his boxers, and the bed was a mess, impressions of the sheets still
red against his shoulder.
“Go,” Reek mouthed to the boy, who stood dumbfounded for several seconds.
“They’ve been going at it for at least a fucking hour,” groaned Ramsay as soon
as they were alone. He parted his fingers to peer at Reek between them. “Jesus
fucking Christ, can you hear it all the way down in the kennels?”
Reek smiled.
“Come here, Reek. I need you.”
From then on, Reek slept in Ramsay’s bed more often than not. He enjoyed
feeling needed, and –given how often Roose bedded his wife – Ramsay needed him
desperately. The fucking hurt, and some nights Reek actually screamed and
twisted and tried to crawl away – escaping from the bed only to be taken on the
floor, leaving angry-looking carpet burns on his elbows and knees and the small
of his back. But afterwards, Ramsay would kiss those places and pull Reek into
him, warm enough that Reek would cast the blankets aside.
*
“Well what if I never kiss a girl?”
Theon arched an eyebrow at Robb over his copy of Catcher in the Rye. “Well then
I guess you’ll just have to start kissing boys,” he taunted.
“Don’t be sick.” Robb let his head drop forward into the pages of his history
textbook. “I just – what if nobody ever wants to? What if I like, never get any
taller and my dick stays the same size as it is now? What if I grow up and I’m
fucking ugly? Oh god, what if I have like, chronic halitosis?”
“Halitosis isn’t even a thing.”
“But what if no-one wants to?” Robb repeated.
Theon sighed and laid his book open across his thigh. “I really fucking doubt
that’ll happen.”
It occurred to Theon – for just a flash – that he ought to kiss his friend.
That would shut him up for a few fucking seconds.
He remembered his first kiss –
“Why do you wanna kiss me?”
Raif only grinned at him. “Because I just do?”
They had been eight, and Raif’s breath tasted like Juicy Fruit gum. Theon was
twelve when he and another boy skipped gym class to hide in the locker room and
ended up jerking each other off, and he was thirteen when one of the senior
boys offered to buy him cigarettes in exchange for a blow job.
Theon was fifteen now, but Robb was only twelve, and it felt wrong to think of
it. He picked up his book again, but found his eyes scanning the same lines
over and over again. Peering up at Robb, he noticed the way the boy’s tongue
poked out the corner of his mouth when he read. It was hard to imagine that
anyone might not want to.
*
Reek managed to avoid being alone with Walda for weeks, until one afternoon
when he rounded a corner in the garden and found her there, sitting on a wooden
bench with her legs crossed beneath the mint-green cotton of her skirt. She’d
been in the midst of a crossword, chewing the eraser of her pencil, but when
she noticed him, she politely set down her paper and tucked the pencil behind
her ear.
“Hi, Reek.” She spoke softly as though not to frighten him. “How are you?”
Reek wrung his hands and looked around.
“You don’t speak to anyone without my permission.”
But Ramsay was out working for the day, and Roose was in a meeting, and she
smiled at him so sweetly. Had anyone ever asked him – asked Theon – that
question with such a genuine interest, without some kind of follow-up agenda?
“Where have you been?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Have you seen Robb?”
“I’m okay, I guess.” He gave his tight-lipped smile.
“You guess?” she replied, returning his awkward grin with a cute wrinkle of her
nose.
“I haven’t um, really thought about it in a while.” Again he cast his eyes
around the garden.
What if one of the groundskeepers sees you?
“Aren’t the flowers beautiful? I can’t imagine what this place looked like
without them.”
“It was drab,” admitted Reek. “There was an old fountain that had filled in
with weeds and leaves and a big crack down the middle.”
“Sounds gothic.”
He examined her again, trying to find a clue about what kind of game she might
be playing with him.
“A little,” he said, worrying at his collar. He saw her eyes fall on it, saw
her smile falter.
“Roose told me you used to be handsome,” she said, seriously. She squinted at
him, searching for some hint of the man Reek might’ve been.
Reek felt a flush creeping into his cheeks. He swallowed and looked down at his
feet. “He said that?”
She nodded. “I asked him if you’d always looked so, um, so –”
“Disgusting?”
“Oh no. No no. I asked if you’d always looked like this. And he told me you
used to have thick black hair and a quick smile and that you had boys falling
all over you.” She cocked her head. “Is that true?”
Reek shifted uneasily. All the flowers were so brightly in bloom, and the sky
was so blue.
“No. I mean, none of that mattered. That was before Ramsay found me.”
Walda pursed her lips and frowned slightly. “He really cares about you, doesn’t
he?” she asked cautiously.
“More than anything,” said Reek, quickly covering his mouth with his hand.
You promised not to tell.
“I mean, he – he does take care of me.”
“Do you want to come sit down?” she asked, scooting to one side of the bench.
“No, no th-thank you.” Reek remained standing, swaying from ankle to ankle. He
knew he should leave - she probably wishes you’d leave – but he wanted to stay.
“Are you happy here?” he blurted.
Walda considered for a moment, smoothing at the fabric of her skirt before
saying, “Yeah, I think so. I mean, it was weird to just move here one day. But
Roose has been so – He’s made me feel like a princess. I know that sounds dumb,
but if you’d ever seen my family… There’s twelve of us.” She smiled again. “It
feels like heaven to have this garden, to have whole rooms all to myself.”
Reek didn’t know what to say to that.
A princess.
Should he even try to put into words how Ramsay made him feel?
Dog. Whore. Freak.
Sweetheart. Little thing. Love.
Walda tilted her round face, pretty blue eyes blinking at him. “Do you like it
here?”
Theon looked around at the flowers, the girl sitting on the bench; he listened
to the birds, the breeze, the sound of the river.
“It’s nice here.”
“If you could go anywhere else, where would you go?”
I’d go find Jon Snow, supplied Theon.
“Nowhere else. I’m happy going wherever Ramsay takes me,” replied Reek. With a
bashful half-smile, he added, “Sometimes he takes me riding on his motorcycle.”
But Walda’s gaze had moved past him, the lightness gone from her countenance.
“You should go,” she said in a hush. “Don’t look, just hurry.”
Reek froze, took a deep breath and held it there in his guts.
“Go,” Walda repeated, picking up her crossword and pencil again.
Reek shook his head. “He’ll be angrier if I run.”
Ramsay hated disobedience, but Reek was so stupid that sometimes it was
inevitable. Deception was more grievous, and Ramsay had taught Reek that it was
better to beg for his forgiveness than it was to lie or make excuses.
“Reek!”
Walda flinched, and a second later, Ramsay’s hands were on him, snarled in his
hair, dragging him back towards the house.
*
He lost consciousness before Ramsay could finish, and when he woke up, it was
dark outside and one of his toes was missing. A bandage ran through the gap,
then up around his ankle, sticky with blood as he limped into the bathroom to
piss.
The door to the balcony was open and the moon shone big and bright. Reek
stepped out and leaned against the rail; he felt something warm and wet
dripping down his thighs, swiped at it to see if it was blood, but it wasn’t.
He looked down at the garden. It was an inviting jump – high enough to do the
trick, but not so high that he’d have time to regret it.
But when he glanced back at the bed, Ramsay was looking straight at him –
straight into him. He extended an arm towards Reek, beckoning with a sleepy
smile:
“Come back to bed, love.”
***** Chapter Seventeen *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek helps Ramsay do something unforgivable, and everything changes.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry it's taken so long to update! Thank you to anyone still
     reading, waiting patiently. I'm still chugging away at this fic - RL
     is just super busy and distracting at the moment. I hope you enjoy!
“Absolutely not.”
Though he looked anywhere between eighty and a hundred years old, Qyburn was
taller than Ramsay when he drew himself up to his full height, arms folded
across his chest and his eyes glinted down at the young man seething in front
of him. Reek tried to act invisible, glancing nervously up and down the hall
outside of Qyburn’s office and wishing he could slip away before his master did
something terrible to the old man.
But Ramsay wanted something, so he wrestled his voice into a level tone and
said:
“Look, it’s not like I’m gonna make a mess. You know that I know my way around
in there. I just need a few things and I’m trying not to waste your time.”
“Since when?” Qyburn rolled his eyes. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll get
it for you.”
“But I don’t –”
“Either that or walk away with nothing.”
Ramsay sighed, defeated. In the past, he’d often pilfered small amounts of
drugs from Qyburn’s office while the doctor was out, and Reek had assumed that
– out of fear or deference – Qyburn simply looked the other way. But things had
been changing over the past several weeks, and doors that used to open freely
had been fitted with sturdy new locks.
“Fine.” Ramsay turned to look at Reek. “He hasn’t been sleeping, and I thought
maybe you had something for it.”
Qyburn smiled as though he believed the lie. “I may have something. How much
does he weigh these days?”
Reek looked at his toes.
“About one-forty, last time I checked,” said Ramsay.
Qyburn turned and entered his office, locking the door behind him. Reek prodded
at his ribcage, ran his fingers along the pronounced bow of his collar bone.
Looking at Ramsay, he observed the telltale signs of his master’s frustration –
the blush on the back of his neck, the stiffness in his shoulders. He reached
for Ramsay’s hand, but Ramsay only shook off the touch and snarled, “Can you
fucking quit it for five fucking seconds?”
Ramsay had been very on edge lately, so Reek obeyed – took a step back and
folded his hands together like two mismatched puzzle pieces.
I wish you’d let me take care of you.
Qyburn re-emerged a few moments later, handing Ramsay a tiny Ziploc with one
boney hand as he swiftly locked the door again with the other.
Ramsay held the bag between his thumb and middle finger, grinding at the white
powder inside.
“Mix it with a glass of something,” said Qyburn, casting a glance at Reek.
“Water or juice or milk – no alcohol, unless you want him throwing up all over
you. The effects will come on quickly and last through the night.” He tucked
the key to the office inside his jacket pocket. “Now if you’ll excuse me, your
mother hasn’t been feeling well.”
With that, the doctor turned and strode away down the hall, not waiting to see
his words hit their mark, and Ramsay was left standing there, clenching his jaw
and cursing under his breath.
“Fucking worthless old fuck.”
In the bedroom, Ramsay tossed the little bag onto the nightstand beside the
glass of water he kept there and then dropped heavily onto the mattress.
“Fuck,” he groaned into the comforter.
Reek sighed. He wished that he knew what had put Ramsay in such a mood, but he
knew better than to pry. Instead, he moved clumsily onto the bed and knelt
straddling his master’s hips – Ramsay’s ass between his thighs – as he leaned
forward to slide his hands underneath Ramsay’s shirt, kneading at the small of
his back. Not a day went by that Reek wasn’t grateful to still have both of his
thumbs, and he wondered if Ramsay hadn’t decided to leave them just so Reek
could touch him the way he liked to be touched.
Fleetingly, he imagined pressing Ramsay’s face into the bed until he stopped
breathing.
“Jesus, your hands feel so good.”
Reek swallowed. He could hear his heart beating, almost drowning out his voice
when said, “We could just leave, you know?”
“And do what?” Ramsay twisted to look at him. “Get like, normal people jobs?”
He laughed.
“I don’t know.” Reek rolled off his master’s hips to sit cross-legged on the
mattress. “We could just leave and find somewhere else,” he said seriously. “We
could do whatever you want. Away from here. Away from him.”
“There is no away from him. You should know that.” Ramsay turned onto his side
to look critically at his pet, turning the idea over in his head for a beat
before shrugging it off. “You’re an idiot,” he said, taking Reek’s right hand
and pressing a wet kiss to the place where his pinkie- and ring-fingers used to
be. “Sweet and tempting, but such a stupid little thing sometimes.”
Reek blushed. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be.”
“Things never mean to be the way they are,” replied Ramsay, reaching up to run
a thumb over Reek’s crackled bottom lip.
Kiss me?
But Ramsay only nodded toward the glass on the nightstand and added, “Better
take your medicine, pet.”
But it’s the middle of the day and I’ve been sleeping fine.
It was useless to say so; after all, Ramsay had gone to a lot of trouble to get
this sleeping powder, and there were worse things than being unconscious.
Sometimes Ramsay liked him that way, and on several occasions slipped this same
powder into Reek’s food or drink – never minding the dosage – then helped his
pet stumble up the stairs and onto the bed, undressing him and kissing him
until everything went black.
*
Reek woke to a darkened room, the window cracked open to the night air. Ramsay
was gone, but the sheet sheets were still warm on his side of the bed, and
though Reek let out a small whine of disappointment, he knew that his master
would never leave him alone for more than a few minutes. He grabbed Ramsay’s
pillow and pulled it into his chest, inhaling the smell of it before drifting
back to sleep.
*
In the morning, Ramsay was breathing loudly beside him, and another little bag
had appeared on the nightstand. Reek reached for it, curious, but Ramsay
intercepted him, twisting his arm and pulling him into a sleepy, open-mouthed
kiss.
“Not for you, pet,” he mumbled, one hand holding the crook of Reek’s waist,
bringing their bodies together. Ramsay was always so warm, almost hot as though
he was running a fever. Reek felt suffocated – Ramsay’s tongue filled his
mouth, and Reek moaned to feel his master’s naked erection stabbing into the
hollow of his hip.
“What’s it for then?” Reek asked breathlessly.
There was a glimmer in Ramsay’s eyes as they opened, a slow smile creeping up
the corner of his mouth. “I’ll tell you later.” He snagged a fistful of Reek’s
hair and began biting and sucking at Reek’s lips until they were swollen and
cracked.
Reek felt his pulse pounding between his legs.
“Blow me.” Ramsay’s voice was a hoarse whisper. He began to yank on Reek’s
hair, urging him down, but Reek shook his head. “Reek –”
“I want you on top,” Reek blurted, not quite sure what had possessed him to
think he was allowed to want anything at all. Before he could come to his
senses, he added, “I want you to fuck my mouth the same way you fuck my ass.”
Reek held his breath and waited to be slapped for his impertinence, but Ramsay
only blinked at him, mouth open slightly, gray eyes cloudy with lust. “Christ,
Reek. You can’t – you know you can’t fucking say things like that to me and –”
“But it’s what you want.”
And here, Ramsay did slap him hard across the cheek. He shoved Reek down to the
pillow and pinned him there by the throat until he had positioned himself above
Reek with his knees on either side of Reek’s ribcage. One hand gripped the top
of the headboard, the other held Reek just below the jaw – and though Reek
already knew the meaning of that particular touch, Ramsay added aloud, “Fucking
look at me, you fucking tease.”
Reek gazed up from between his master’s legs and pushed a few strands of snow-
white hair from his eyes. A rose-red mark had already started to show on his
left cheek. He bit his lip as he ran his hands up Ramsay’s thighs, circling
around to grab his ass and push his hips forward, then tugging down on his
shorts so that his prick sprang free – already hard, close enough that Reek had
only to breathe to make his master shudder.
“Say it again.”
“Say what?” Reek asked innocently, allowing his lips to just brush the leaking
tip of Ramsay’s cock.
Ramsay inhaled sharply. “Say what you want.”
“I want to choke on your cum.”
“Oh god…”
Ramsay pushed into him, quickly enough that Reek didn’t have time to mind his
teeth, though the sensation hardly seemed to bother Ramsay. He only groaned,
breathing through pursed lips through a few measured thrusts, eyes closed in
concentration. Reek might’ve smiled if he could, seeing Ramsay fighting not to
come so quickly. He flicked his tongue, drew his piercing along the underside
of Ramsay’s shaft, and Ramsay’s eyes shot open, jaw clenched, and Reek knew
what he meant was “Please stop.”
Reek wanted to be touched. He wanted Ramsay’s hands between his legs, wanted
Ramsay to spit on that scar and then rub his prick against it. At the very
least, he wanted to touch himself, to reach down and play with his balls, but
Ramsay hadn’t given him permission, and was now recovered enough to begin
fucking his pet’s mouth, hard enough to force the thought from Reek’s mind.
Reek’s hands groped for a hold on Ramsay’s hips, tears overflowing the corners
of his eyes.
He tried to ignore the voice that said, He fucks like a boy. Too fast. Selfish.
Shame you can’t teach him how.
He couldn’t make you come even if you –
Ramsay pulled out just in time to spend on Reek’s face and hair, eyes rolling
back, mouth open just enough to whisper, “Reek –”
Reek wiped the cum off his bruised cheek and spread it carelessly on the
sheets, while Ramsay collapsed beside him, chest still heaving.
“You’re trash,” he said when he finally opened his eyes, blushing even as a
satisfied grin spread across his face. He brought a thumb up to worry at Reek’s
swollen lips. “And your filthy cunt mouth – I should beat the shit out of you
for speaking to me like that.”
Reek wavered before asking, “Why don’t you?”
But Ramsay’s smile only cut wider as he turned on his side to tuck a lock of
cum-soaked hair behind Reek’s torn up ear.
“I guess I’m just too good to you,” he said, and Reek jumped when Ramsay’s hand
shot down to press against his crotch. “That, and I need you to do something
for me tonight.”
Reek gulped. “What?”
Ramsay’s fingers continued to rub at that spot, sometimes a light tickle,
sometimes firm pressure that made Reek’s eyes cross, made his hips jerk.
“It’s something important to me, and it’ll make me very happy if you succeed.
Can you do that for me?”
“Of course. Please…” Reek let his legs fall open.
But Ramsay withdrew his hand and reached over Reek’s waist to pluck the little
bag of medicine from the nightstand. He dropped the bag on Reek’s stomach.
“We’re going to play a joke on Walda.”
*
Ned was away on business when Theon enlisted Robb to help him play a joke on
Catelyn Stark.
“There’s something wrong with Robb!” he had yelled, careening into the living-
room, hands covered in red.
Cat’s face went ashen and she nearly flew to the yard where they’d been
playing, dropped to her knees beside her motionless son as though she’d been
struck down by lightning.
“Don’t move,” Theon had instructed, “No matter, what, just lie totally still,”
but he should’ve known that the pussy little bitch would drop the act as soon
as he heard his mother crying his name. He opened his big blue eyes – already
brimming with tears. “Mom, I’m okay! It’s just pretend blood! Please don’t cry
– I’m okay, I promise!”
She slapped Theon three times across the face, and though it stung, Theon
didn’t cry.
“I’m sorry,” Robb said later. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
*
By the time he entered the kitchen, Reek’s nerves had reached such a pitch that
he felt lightheaded, like he might throw up any second. He could move through
most places in the Dreadfort without garnering more than a passing, sideways
glance from one of the servants, but he had been barred from the kitchen,
shooed away by the imperious head chef and instructed never to enter that room
again under any circumstances.
“You’re completely unsanitary,” she had said plainly.
He had only a small window of time – between dinner and dessert – and when the
staff went to clear the table, Reek slunk into the kitchen, clutching the tiny
plastic bag so tightly that his palm began to sweat. The kitchen was spacious
and – like most things in the Dreadfort – almost as large as the one at
Winterfell, and the stainless steel counters and sinks shone with a harsh
light. He had to move quickly, but he’d only taken a few steps when his gaze
fell upon the cutlery, hanging from a magnetic strip that spanned one entire
wall. The knives were all clean, all different shapes and sizes, and none of
them resembled that knife, but they transfixed him nonetheless, and he stood
there gaping at them as though they were teeth in the mouth of a beast about to
swallow him whole.
The clatter of a dish being dropped in the dining room jarred him to his
senses, and Reek sprang into action. There were only two dessert trays – Roose
wasn’t fond of sweets and usually took a cup of tea instead. On one tray was a
bowl of rocky-road ice-cream, topped with nuts and six cherries, overflowing
its brim with fudge syrup – Ramsay’s, of course – and on the other a plate with
a picture-perfect slice of strawberry pie a la mode – Walda’s favorite treat.
(Theon had loved cookies, Reek remembered. He loved the way the smell filled
the entire second floor, and the way the melted chocolate got all over Robb’s
mouth.)
Reek opened the pouch and hesitated. His stomach felt upset, and his conscience
– which was usually so mute – urged him to reconsider.
She’s kind to you. She looks at you without flinching.
Just wash it down the sink and say it must not have worked.
But Ramsay would know the truth, and Ramsay would punish him. Last time he’d
spoken to Walda he lost a toe, and he knew that Ramsay had something far worse
in store if he refused to obey his master’s instructions. He recalled what
Ramsay had told him:
“Don’t worry, pet, it won’t hurt her. Just something to make her a little sick,
so we can have a break from the goddamn fucking sounds for a night or two.”
He’s a liar. He’s a liar and a killer.
But he’s my master. And he trusted me. And I promised.
Reek flicked the contents of the bag onto the ice-cream and into the pie
filling that had started to spill out the sides of the crust. He watched the
powder disappear as it settled, then tucked the empty Ziploc into his pocket
and fled from the kitchen.
*
The screaming started a couple hours later, and then the storm of footsteps up
and down the hall that lasted all through the night. Reek’s stomach heaved and
he ran to the bathroom, threw his aching knees against the tile and vomited
what little there was inside him, dry-retching until his throat burned. He
stayed like that, weeping silently and hoping not to wake his master, while in
the next room, Walda’s screams turned to a hoarse sobbing.
I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know, thought Reek.
You knew, you fucking coward. You deserve everything he’s done to you, replied
Theon.
Please forgive me.
He didn’t hear Ramsay’s barefoot approach – he only felt a warm hand on the
back of his neck, fingers combing through his snarled hair and a gentle voice
that said, “Sssh. It’s okay, love. It’ll all be okay.”
Reek lifted his head to look at his master, but his vision was so blurred with
tears that he could barely see. Ramsay wiped away a thread of saliva hanging
from Reek’s mouth, then a tear that rolled down his cheek. Reek took a shaky
breath and tried to steady himself, but when he spoke the tears sprang forth
again and his whole body crumpled in on itself.
“What have I d-done?”
Ramsay crouched on the floor beside him, the hand on the back of Reek’s neck
pulling them close until their foreheads pressed together, his gray eyes
wresting a hold on Reek’s soul.
“Breathe, love. Remember to breathe for me.”
And Reek obeyed, because obedience was his only remaining virtue.
“What have I done?” he repeated softly.
“You did as I asked, that’s all.”
“You said it wouldn’t hurt her.”
“And it won’t. She’ll feel sick for a few days, and maybe sad for a few days
longer, but she’ll be fine. I promise.”
It hit Reek suddenly, and he began to heave again, cracking his head against
the porcelain of the toilet seat as his stomach rolled, trying to purge itself
though nothing remained to be purged.
“You’re such a weak little thing,” said Ramsay, pressing an affectionate kiss
into Reek’s greasy hair. “Can’t imagine you’d have lasted a fucking week
running your dad’s business.”
Reek remained face-down in the toilet, crying until he was too exhausted to
continue and Ramsay had to carry him back to bed.
*
It was raining on the day they found his brothers’ bodies. Down at the shore,
the ocean lashed the rocks and the gulls took cover while lightning lit up the
ships anchored in the bay. Between the thunderclaps, he could hear his mother’s
wailing, the sound of glass breaking – yet for all the noise, his own heart
felt so hushed.
*
It didn’t rain the last time Ramsay fucked him, but the sky was a doomy gray
and the air smelled like a thunderstorm. Reek kept the balcony door open until
the wind started up, so strong that he felt like it might pull him right out
and over the railing.
Ramsay had been out all afternoon, so Reek set about cleaning the bedroom. He’d
started to think of it as “our room,” though there was nothing in it that
belonged to him, and he took a certain pleasure – (he wouldn’t dare call it
pride) – in making it orderly and neat every day while Ramsay was at work.
He had just finished making the bed, folding the top comforter back a few
inches, when Ramsay returned, throwing his jacket and a duffle-bag busting with
bloodied clothes onto the floor, not bothering to take off his shoes before
vaulting onto the bed and grabbing Reek by the collar.
“I don’t know why you fucking bother,” he said with a wicked little smile.
This was Reek’s favorite sort of feeling – the lightness he felt when he knew
Ramsay had been thinking about him, wanting him, already hard for him – and as
he toppled down onto the bed, he was only dimly irritated that all his work was
undone.
Ramsay stripped off Reek’s dingy old t-shirt, careless of the way Reek’s
shoulders hurt whenever he raised his arms above his head. Reek found it
difficult to breathe under his master’s weight, but he enjoyed the tingling
sensation of Ramsay’s calloused fingertips tracing over his ribs, circling his
nipples until they were pink and hard, giving a sharp tug at the leather around
his neck as he asked,
“Did you miss me today?”
“I always do.”
Ramsay smirked before leaning down to brush his lips over the maze of scars
that covered Reek’s left breast. “Tell me what you miss. Tell me what you think
about when you touch that revolting mess between your thighs.”
Reek gasped as Ramsay bit down on his shoulder. “I – I think about what you’ll
do to me when you get back.” He closed his eyes. Ramsay’s mouth was so wet, and
he hummed as he ran his tongue all along the skin that used to be Theon’s. Reek
swallowed. “I think about whether I’ve been bad – whether you’ll need to punish
me.”
“And do I need to?”
Reek shook his head. “No, I hope not.” He wished it didn’t feel so awfully
good, the way Ramsay’s hands teased at his body, the thirsty sucking sound of
his lips, the small hitch in each breath as he rubbed himself against Reek’s
thigh.
“Tell me how you think I should fuck you, then.”
Reek bit into his own lip. He kept his eyes closed, allowed one hand to wander
across his chest while the other slipped down the front of Ramsay’s black
jeans. “Bend me over the edge of the bed,” he said. “And smack my ass – hard –
until it’s red and sore and I have to bite down to keep from screaming.”
“Fuck.” Ramsay licked his lips and thrust into Reek’s grip. “What else?”
Reek undid his master’s fly, licked a wet stripe along the palm of his hand
before wrapping it around Ramsay’s exposed erection, trying not to visibly
enjoy the way Ramsay started to fuck his fist like a boy getting his first
hand-job. He grabbed Ramsay’s shirt, lifted himself to suck at the spot just
beneath Ramsay’s ear. “Then you fuck me like that, but leave your clothes on.
Like you didn’t want to fuck me at all, but then you just couldn’t help it.
Because I’m a whore and a bitch and a tease, and your cock inside me is all
I’ve ever wanted. It’s all I ever think of. I want to feel your cum all over my
–”
“Stop.” Ramsay clamped a hand over Reek’s mouth, and Reek understood.
*
“Tell me you’re mine.”
Reek took one of Ramsay’s hands in his own and guided it up to the collar
around his neck.
“I’m yours. No one’s but yours.”
*
He woke up alone, but that wasn’t unusual. He pulled on his sweatpants and t-
shirt and shuffled around the downstairs, listless, waiting for the sound of
Ramsay’s motorcycle in the garage. Sometimes Ramsay worked through the night,
and then came home with dark circles under his eyes and an intense need for the
company of his pet.
“You need some breakfast?”
Reek turned to find one of the kitchen girls staring at him, and he tugged at
the front of his shirt.
You look like a lost dog.
And he was acutely hungry, but Ramsay didn’t like when he ate without
permission, so Reek shook his head. “No thank you. I’m not allowed yet.”
The aroma of breakfast being prepared was torturous enough that Reek returned
to the bedroom and wished that Ramsay had any books he could read. He knew that
Roose had an extensive library just down the hall, but he wasn’t allowed into
any of the rooms belonging to Ramsay’s father, and anyway, Ramsay wouldn’t look
too kindly on his pet acting smarter than he was, so Reek just went out onto
the balcony to see if anything interesting was happening in the garden. It
looked a little drab, somehow, and Reek wished he had a cigarette, though
looking at his hands he realized that smoking would only draw attention to
them.
He cleaned the bedroom again – even the windows – dusted and vacuumed and made
the bed, took Ramsay’s dirty clothes down to the laundry room where he paused
to enjoy the smell of warm, soapy water before retreated again to the bedroom.
He flopped down on the bed and reached under the waist-band of his pants,
rubbing tentatively at the space between his legs. The sensation was slow-
building like a thirst. Reek closed his eyes and bit his lip and tried to think
of Ramsay, but he couldn’t shake the growing unease at his master’s absence, so
instead he sat up and went about taking a comprehensive tally of his scars,
though he shied away from counting the things that were missing entirely. He
ran his fingers through his hair. Hadn’t it been black before?
When Ramsay was away for too long, Reek started to get confused. He started to
forget things. Counting his scars helped him remember, but soon he had counted
them all twice and he began to feel anxious again. He remade the bed and then
moved into the bathroom, scrubbing on all fours at the floor of the shower,
around the basin of the sink and the toilet. He rehung the towels and even
faced all the shampoo and soap bottles so their labels were visible.
The sky turned to dusk and then night. Reek finally allowed himself to fall
into bed, where he lay fitfully for several more hours, crying occasionally and
hugging Ramsay’s pillow to his chest.
The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner he’ll be here, he thought.
But when the warmth of the morning light woke him, Reek was still alone and the
room was precisely as he’d left it. He sat up with a jolt, breathing quick and
shallow while a film of cold sweat clung to the back of his neck. Where was he?
Ramsay was never gone for so long.
Maybe it’s a game. Or a punishment.
But what did I do?
His vision began to narrow as he ground at his forehead with the heel of his
palm.
“Oh fuck.”
What am I going to do if he doesn’t come back?
You could find Roose.
No. He wouldn’t like that. Maybe that’s the test.
Reek nearly shrieked when a knock came at the door, the polite rapping followed
by a soft voice. “Reek – open the door.”
No. No no no no no.
Reek pulled the covers over his head.
If you stay quiet and still, he might go away.
He heard the door open a crack.
“Reek, I need you to come with me.”
Reek bit his lip. It was stifling beneath the blankets. Roose must’ve entered
the room soundlessly, because Reek started when he felt the mattress shift
slightly under the man’s slim weight.
“You need to stop acting like a child and get up.”
“I can’t.” Reek’s voice was a muffled whisper. “I can’t. He won’t – he doesn’t
like me with you.”
“You have a visitor.”
“What?” Reek must’ve misheard. “No, that can’t be right. Reek has no friends,”
he explained patiently. “No one to come visit.”
“Well, you may not have friends, but the fact remains that you have a visitor.
And it’s very rude to keep a visitor waiting. You don’t mean to be rude, do you
pet?”
Reek calmed slightly at the endearment. He pulled the covers down to peer at
Roose, trying not to shrink under the steady gray gaze that seemed to pierce
through him.
“Is it Robb?” he asked cautiously, not wishing to seem like he wanted it to be.
Roose smiled. “Come and see.” He offered a hand, thin and firm, to help Reek
up, and Reek cursed himself for leaning against the man as he rose.
Leaving the room, he asked, “Won’t I frighten them? I way I – my hands and
teeth are – I might frighten them.”
Roose smirked. “I doubt it.”
And Reek didn’t mind as much as he should when Roose’s arm wrapped around him,
holding him steady and guiding him down the long hallway to the door of his
private meeting room.
“I’m scared,” Reek admitted.
Roose brought his spidery fingers to perch on the crook of Reek’s neck,
thumbing at the stones on his collar. “Don’t be.”
He opened the door, and a familiar smell hit Reek like a hurricane.
“Oh my god – Theon?”
*
She hadn’t cried when he left, and she hadn’t said goodbye. She had been
wearing a blue dress with gray tights, and her hair was a limp tangle of black.
Her face was stern, like always, so serious, like Father’s. She was the only
one who came to see him off, and he’d watched her fade away into nothing but a
small dot of blue, and he’d never noticed how she smelled like salt air.
***** Chapter Eighteen *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek's world is turned on end.
Chapter Notes
     Well, here goes. Actually had some time to write for once, so I
     really hope y'all like this update. Thank you to everybody who leaves
     comments and kudos, and even y'all just reading and enjoying! *kisses
     your heads*
Theon had wondered from time to time if Asha grew up to be pretty. All the
Greyjoy children had shown promise in the way of looks – Rick had broad,
muscular shoulders and Ron had their uncle Euron’s dark complexion. Asha had
their mother’s high cheekbones and arched eyebrows, but she also had their
father’s perpetual frown drawn across her mouth, and Maron liked to tease her
about it, saying, “If you don’t learn to smile, Theon will probably get more
dick than you.”
The woman standing in Roose Bolton’s office was beautiful and frightening –
brushing her short, black hair out of her eyes to stare at him in shock. It was
like looking into a mirror, only worse, and Reek began to feel faint.
“Jesus Christ.”
She didn’t cry, but he could see she wanted to.
Reek looked away. He wished Ramsay was here – Ramsay never cried to look at
him. He glanced at Roose, hoping for some clue about what was happening, what
was expected, but Roose only watched him – sphinx-like – as though what
transpired within Reek was of far more interest than anything that Theon’s
sister had to say. So Reek continued standing there – swaying a little on his
feet – feeling trapped within a dream.
“Theon?” she repeated, softer this time, and offered her hand out to him. “It’s
Asha.” He flinched at the gesture, and her eyes flickered with pain. “Don’t you
remember me?”
Reek eyed her outstretched fingers – blue nail polish and a row of silver rings
– and he longed to touch them, but Ramsay would be so angry. Ramsay would be
hurt, because hadn’t he cared more for Reek than any Greyjoy ever did?
So instead Reek rubbed at his collar, closed his eyes and shook his head. “No.
No no no. That’s not me. You shouldn’t call me a name that’s not mine.” Seeing
the tear that escaped before she could wipe it away on her sleeve, he tried
again, adding, “It’s not… I’m Reek. Not Theon,” as though that might help her
to understand.
She cast a devastating glare at Roose, her hands clenched into white-knuckled
fists. “You. You expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with – with
what your fucking son did to him?” Her voice shook with rage, so strong that
Reek could feel it in his guts. He wanted to leave before it burned him. “You
could’ve stopped this. You could’ve fucking protected him. Give me a good
fucking reason not to raze this place to the fucking ground.”
Reek pressed his palms against his ears. Stop. You can’t talk to him like that.
You don’t know.
But Roose remained cool as ever. “I assure you that he was already in this
state when my bastard brought him here. I think he’d tell you that his
condition has only improved since he’s been under my roof.”
They both turned towards Reek – Asha’s eyes blazing blue and Roose’s a frozen
gray – and Reek had to look at the floor as he spoke. It felt like a betrayal,
but it was the truth, in a way. “Mr. Bolton has – he’s kept me safe. Makes sure
the doctor sees me when I’m sick.”
“Doctor?” Asha’s gaze travelled down to his hands before he could think to hide
them behind his back. “Is that some kind of fucking joke?”
“Please stop.” Reek bit his lip to stop its quivering. “Please don’t be mad at
me. I never meant to make you mad.” His knees began to wobble and he reached
out to steady himself on the back of a chair.
God, it’s too hot in here.
Asha hesitated before laying her own hand carefully over her brother’s, and the
contact seemed to ground him slightly. Reek twitched but didn’t pull away.
She’s touching you, he thought with disbelief.
He’ll know that she touched you. He’ll cut off your whole hand.
But she’s touching you…
“I’m sorry,” she said, drawing her thumb over the back of his wrist. “I’m not –
I’m not mad at you.” His eyes darted up to meet hers, and for the first time he
saw just a fraction of a smile there, searching and tentative. “I promise.
Theon, I –”
“Please,” he choked. “It’s not my name.”
Why was she making it so hard to be Reek?
“Brother – I’ve come to take you home. Back to Pyke. There’s a car waiting for
us outside. You don’t have to keep – you don’t have to be like this anymore.”
A ringing rose in Reek’s ears. He turned to Roose. “Is this – is it a game?” he
asked. “A test?”
Roose shook his head, looking rather bored. “No, Reek, this isn’t a game. No
more tricks or jokes. Asha has come to take you back to the Iron Islands… if
that’s what you choose.”
Those last words sank like teeth into Reek’s brain. His head began to spin and
he strained to breathe, looking anxiously at the windows – sealed shut like all
the other windows in the Dreadfort. How did he keep breathing? What if he used
up all the oxygen in the room?
Asha must’ve seen his eyes start to roll back, because the next thing he knew
he was slumped into a chair with his sister crouched in front of him, pressing
the back of her hand to his forehead.
“Are you gonna pass out on me?” And to Roose: “When was the last time he ate?”
“It’s Ramsay’s job to see that he’s fed, and as you know, Ramsay hasn’t been
home for well over a day.”
“Well, shit, have someone bring him a fucking glass of milk or something!”
And Roose did rankle ever-so-slightly at being spoken to that way by a child,
but he only sighed and pressed the intercom to order one of the servants to
bring some milk and crackers. Asha squeezed Reek’s hand, and Reek tried not to
wince at the way his intact fingers rubbed against the stumps. The food arrived
within moments, and Asha waited patiently as Reek sipped at the milk and sucked
the saltines until they were wet enough to chew without too much discomfort. He
wasn’t very hungry, truthfully, but seeing him eat seemed to please her. After
he was finished, he wiped his mouth on his wrist and asked,
“Did he send you for me?”
“He’s dead,” she said, and Reek couldn’t hear one single note of feeling in her
voice. “He died last week.”
Reek’s heart skipped a beat, and for a sliver of a moment he felt an
indescribable relief, the feeling of a weight slipping away from him.
He will never know. He will never see you like this.
What the fuck is wrong with you? Your father is dead.
Coward. He always said you were.
“How did he die?”
“He fell,” she said wearily, as though she’d already had too much practice
delivering the message. “He slipped and fell off the main bridge.”
People don’t just fall off bridges, he thought. Not that bridge anyway.
But Reek only nodded solemnly and said, “Oh.”
“I almost didn’t try to find you,” she admitted. “I figured you always hated
Pyke anyway, and maybe you’d be happier just, like, forgetting about…
everything. But Mom – she’s fucking crazy, you know? She kept asking for you,
asking me to see you. So I went to Winterfell, but Robb Stark turned me away at
the fucking door. Little prick wouldn’t even meet with me in his office – made
me wait in the foyer for almost an hour while his fucking bodyguard glowered at
me.”
Reek tried to act as though Robb’s name was nothing to him, but he cleared his
throat drily and worried at the stones of his collar.
“And Robb – he told you I was here?”
She frowned. “Not exactly. He told me – he said he sent you on an errand for
Roose Bolton and you never came back. Said you must’ve run away up North.”
That fucking liar, thought Reek. He’s a worse liar than Ramsay.
“I asked why he hadn’t notified us when it happened. He said he had. He said
he’d spoken with Dad about it.” Asha scowled. “He’s a lying sack of shit –
couldn’t stand to look me in the eyes. Dad wouldn’t have – he would’ve done
something, you know?”
“He never cared what happened to me,” said Reek. He was surprised that finally
saying it aloud didn’t hurt as much as just thinking it sometimes did.
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –”
“Jesus Christ, you don’t need to fucking apologize.”
“I’m –” Reek caught himself and closed his mouth. “You know he didn’t give a
shit about me though.”
Asha said nothing for a moment. She took Reek’s hands in hers and turned them
over with a sad little smile. “Tattoos, little brother? You’ve changed so much,
even before –”
Reek withdrew his fingers. They looked so foolish now – just clumsy empty
spaces and the gibberish letters, “O-N-B-R.”
“He was quite different from the shy boy you remember,” said Roose, startling
both of them. He’d remained so silent that they nearly forgot his presence.
“Mouthy and promiscuous, and generally a bad influence on Ned Stark’s sons.”
How does he know you were shy?
“Like Maron,” she said.
“But without the taste for violence, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, well, it’s an acquired taste.” For the first time, Asha looked down. “I
– I didn’t even recognize you at first. I came here looking for information,
not really expecting anything, and Mr. Bolton asked if I wanted to see you.”
Reek shot a started glance at Roose while Asha continued,
“He took me into the control room – you know, where security monitors the
closed-circuit. I said, ‘That’s not him. Theon’s got black hair,’ and he told
me to look closer. I lost my shit. I told him to let me see you, but he said
his son would never allow it.”
Softly, something clicked into place and fear flooded into Reek’s bloodstream.
His hands began to shake. “You – you have him. You took him, didn’t you? And
that’s why he hasn’t been home?” He looked desperately to Roose for
confirmation, and though Roose made no expression, Reek saw it there somehow:
he was right. He grabbed Asha’s sleeve so suddenly that she jerked away from
him, but he didn’t care. “Oh God, give him back! You have to give him back to
me!” His pleading had risen to a hysterical pitch, and he turned again to
Roose, still gripping at his sister’s shirt. “Please tell her not to!”
“Theon. Theon, please.” There was a slight crack in her voice. “Don’t make it
harder.”
“Then don’t hurt him! Jesus, can’t you please just let him go?”
“Theon.” He began to correct her, but she cut him off. “No, no. Don’t tell me
‘Reek.’” She crouched down in front of him again, laid her cool palm against
his cheek; it was a tender touch, but when he raised his eyes to hers, he could
see that things were set in stone. “Ramsay Bolton is dead. That was his fucking
fate that he chose the second that he decided to hurt you.”
Reek groaned as he tried to rise from his chair, only to pitch forward into his
sister, holding onto her shoulders, face buried her shirt.
“You can’t, you can’t. Please. If you care about me at all, please bring him
back to me.”
He was wailing, his whole body quaking with the force of it, and his grip on
her loosened and slipped until he was curled on the floor at her feet.
He must’ve looked pathetic like this – cheek pressed into the toe of his
sister’s boot, clutching at her ankle like a child throwing a tantrum – but
Reek was pathetic, and begging was the only thing he knew how to do. He felt a
crushing weight on him, pressing the air out of his lungs until he could only
bear the shallowest breathing. The floor seemed to tilt and spin, and his
stomach rolled in response while his speech had slurred into a mindless string
of “please – you can’t – please don’t – I need him.”
Had Ramsay been frightened? Reek imagined his master – tied up, beaten,
tortured. Reek knew how terrifying it was to be treated that way, and he howled
to imagine Ramsay so afraid and alone as he had been. And if he was dead, then
Reek would be –
Free.
Not free. Alone. Forever.
And there would be no more motorcycle rides, nobody to touch his scars, nobody
to call him “love.” Nobody for him to look after.
“You could k-k-kill me too?” he spluttered, still holding tight to Asha’s
ankle. He felt her hand in his hair, but the touch was too gentle.
“Jesus, Theon –”
“Reek!” he sobbed. “I’m Reek! His Reek…”
“Ssshh, little brother.” She combed her fingers through his hair, and he could
tell by the way her shoulders dropped that she was close to giving up.
Go with her.
And do what? You can’t run the Family. You can’t even tie your own shoes.
You’ll only be a burden, an embarrassment. A monster.
“Come home with me,” she said.
“Pyke was n-never my home.”
“You always have a home with me.”
This triggered a fresh round of sobbing, and she added, “You’ll always be my
brother. You know that? Please tell me you know that.”
Reek nodded but said nothing. The tears blended everything together.
“This isn’t how I imagined it.” She raked her fingers through her hair before
standing and turning to Roose. “Tell me if he changes his mind, and I’ll be
here. I’ll take him away and you’ll never hear from us again.”
“Of course,” replied Roose, as though he was being gracious. “Though I doubt
that will happen. He’s known for a long time that he can never be who he was
intended to be.”
“I have to go,” she said, gently extricating her leg from Theon’s grasp. “Tell
me – tell me I can go.”
Reek curled in on himself, holding his sides as he wept silently. “Go,” he
gasped.
She took a few steps towards the door, but his voice stopped her.
“Asha?”
And it sounded like that familiar voice, that small voice outside her door in
the middle of the night after a bad dream or a lightning storm.
“Did you – did you hurt him like he hurt me?”
“No,” she replied, and then added pointedly, “The Greyjoys don’t play games.”
“Will you – if I’m your b-b-brother – will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Send him back to me. Please send him back.”
“I will,” she said, and then she was gone.
*
He remained on the floor until long after she left, crying hysterically, hoping
that he might wake up suddenly, in his master’s bed with his master’s arms
wound around him. But the floor pressed against him, too cold and hard to be a
dream.
Roose watched him soundlessly for what must’ve been the better part of an hour.
Finally, Reek grew quiet – nearly catatonic – and Roose knelt beside him,
placing a thin hand on the sharp angle of Reek’s shoulder.
A puddle of drool had formed beneath Reek’s face, and it smeared across his
face when he spoke. “How could you let this happen?” he asked. “He’s – he’s
your son. You knew – you had to know what she would do – she’s Ironborn. You
knew what she would do. He only wanted to be a good son to you, and you let her
take him from me.”
“Your sister has her revenge.” Roose’s voice was so quiet, so even. “And I have
mine.”
Reek’s eyes widened. He wanted to look at Roose – to understand – but he didn’t
dare, so he continued staring off into space, heart trembling in his chest.
“He took her brother away,” Roose continued. “And he took someone from me as
well.”
“But that was me,” confessed Reek in a whisper. “It was me that did it.”
“I know.” Reek held his breath as Roose’s fingers combed through the tangles in
his hair. “But I also know why. You’re a quick learner, Reek – much quicker
than he ever was.”
“No,” said Reek . “That’s not true. I’m slow. Not very bright at all. He always
says so.”
Roose smiled faintly. “My son is dead.” He took Reek’s jaw lightly between his
thumb and forefinger, a touch that Reek interpreted to mean “look at me.” He
did, and Roose continued to hold him there even after their eyes met. “You’re
alive,” said Roose. “Which means you’re at least as clever as he was crazy. I
did my best to teach him, but Ramsay never learned that everything he had, he
owed to me. And that means you. You belong to me, and you always have. Do you
understand that?”
Reek sniffled. It was wrong – the voice and the touch both too soft – but the
eyes were the right eyes, and that was close enough, wasn’t it?
“Yes sir. I understand. I just – I don’t know what to do without him.”
“Let’s not worry about that today. Are you hungry, Reek? It’s nearly time for
lunch to be served.”
Reek chewed his lip. He was dreadfully hungry, but how could he be at such a
moment?
Selfish. Spoiled. He didn’t give you permission.
As if reading his thoughts, Roose offered, “I’m sure Ramsay wouldn’t want you
starving yourself to death.” He held a hand out to Reek – it looked innocuous
enough.
Reek shivered as he took it.
*
“Can I have something to help me sleep? Please?”
He saw the suspicion in Qyburn’s eyes, so he hurried to add. “Just a little to
help me sleep through the night. You can watch me take it if you want.”
*
Asha kept her word, and the next morning sent a car to deliver Ramsay Bolton’s
body back to the Dreadfort. Reek watched the scene from one of the second-story
windows, crumpling to the carpet at the sight of the body-bag, listening to the
doors opening and closing as Roose’s men brought Ramsay to one of the operating
rooms off Qyburn’s office.
“I have to see him.”
Walda pursed her lips and tried to dissuade him. “It’ll make you feel worse, I
think.”
Distantly, Reek knew that Theon would’ve laughed at that, but he only said,
“He’ll be hurt if I don’t.”
She frowned. “Will you let me come with you?”
Reek blushed. Whatever Roose knew, he hadn’t told her. “Okay,” he said.
Qyburn unlocked the door for them, and a miasma of bleach caused the bile to
rise up in Reek’s throat. He looked at Walda and saw that all the pink had
drained from her cheeks. He realized that she’d likely never seen a dead body
before, and that this was probably her first real taste of the kind of business
that was only a matter of course for her husband. Reek felt a heartless sort of
pity.
It hadn’t occurred to him that Ramsay would be naked, but he was and now he
wished Walda hadn’t come at all. Because she knew – like everyone did – what
kinds of things Ramsay and Reek did, and her seeing Ramsay naked like this was
just as bad as if she’d seen Reek naked. But if the thought crossed her mind,
she didn’t show it – only took Reek’s arm to steady him as he hobbled towards
Ramsay.
He lay on his back on top of a stainless-steel operating table, skin a wintry
white beneath the unrelenting fluorescent lights.
“She lied to me,” whispered Reek.
Asha – unlike Ned Stark – wasn’t above delivering her own justice, and Reek
knew that no one else would’ve bothered to carve the word – the name – “THEON”
into Ramsay’s chest. The letters were large and deep, all composed of straight
lines that led Reek to believe they were made with a hatchet rather than a
knife. Splinters of bone poked out here and there.
“He was mutilated post-mortem,” quipped a voice, and Reek and Walda turned to
see Qyburn lingering just inside the door. “He died of a single gunshot to the
heart, though the entry wound is slightly obscured by the ‘E.’”
Reek swallowed down a sob and Walda shot the old man a look. “Thank you,
Qyburn. May we be alone now please?”
“Of course,” he replied, though he left the door open.
Aside from the defacement on his chest, Ramsay looked eerily clean, overall.
Reek knew that Asha’s men had taken care, and not entirely for his sake. There
was no dirt on Ramsay’s hands or under his fingernails, no cuts or scrapes on
his knees, not even a black eye or a split lip. The only other marks on his
skin were a pair of raw, red bands around his wrists where he’d been bound, and
even those wounds had obviously been cleaned. Reek knew from experience that
Ramsay’s back was probably a mess – blown wide open by the bullet leaving his
body – and he was grateful that his sister had thought of him enough not to
shoot Ramsay in the head.
Reek wished his finger weren’t quite so tremulous, letting them brush over
Ramsay’s lips and then recoiling slightly. They were cold and colorless, so
chaste compared to the hot, wet mouth that loved to bite him bloody. His
fingertips probed between the lips, parted them to see the glint of Ramsay’s
teeth – perfect teeth. He’d only ever known one other person with such perfect
goddamn teeth…
He passed his hand up to the eyes, one thumb on the cheek and forefinger on the
eyebrow, and Walda gasped when he pulled the eyelids open.
“I’m sorry if I’m weird,” said Reek, taking a moment to peer into Ramsay’s
glassy irises. They looked more like Roose’s eyes than ever, he observed.
“Are you just making sure he’s dead?” she asked, half-jokingly.
Reek frowned. “Maybe.” He swept Ramsay’s bangs to one side and wondered how
someone so lovely could’ve chosen him of all people.
“He was handsome, I guess,” said Walda, cocking her head to look at Ramsay’s
face. She laid one of her dainty hands on Reek’s shoulder. “I know you care
about him a whole lot, and I think that’s very sweet of you, but you – you know
that you don’t need him, don’t you? That things will be okay?”
Reek felt vaguely irritated, but he was too exhausted to be angry with her.
He threaded the fingers of his right hand through Ramsay’s left. Ramsay’s hands
felt so wooden, so clumsy and harmless. Reek could feel another fit of tears
coming on.
“I thought I was home,” he said, squeezing his master’s palm. “I thought I
finally found where I was supposed to be. He never – he never expected things
from me the way other people did.”
My brothers expected me to be invisible, my dad expected me to be my brothers,
Ned Stark expected me to be my father, Robb Stark expected me to be his – I
dunno, his fucking boyfriend? – and Jon Snow expected me to –
Stop! Stop, you can’t say those names! Don’t even think them!
Reek cursed Theon for appearing so out of turn, then realized that Walda was
looking at him and waiting for him to continue.
“Ramsay never – he never expects me to be anything besides what I am.” He
looked at her despairingly. “Whatever that is.”
“I know it’s not – not the same, but you still have me and Roose.”
Reek’s eyes darkened. Roose expects things. He just never tells you what.
But she adored her husband, just like Reek adored his master, so it was hardly
fair to say such a nasty thing.
“I don’t want to leave,” he admitted. “I just want to fall asleep and not wake
up again.”
“You shouldn’t say that.” He saw it in her eyes, but she had the grace to say
nothing besides, “I know.”
“Can you – would you mind leaving me alone with him?”
“I don’t know if I should…” Walda bit her lip.
“Please? I promise not to open a vein.” It was something Theon might’ve said
with a smirk.
She left after a few moments of consideration, though he heard her instructing
Qyburn to “make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”
Reek wondered what would’ve happened to Theon if he’d ever been demonstratively
suicidal during his stay with the Starks. He suspected Ned would’ve put him
under 24-hour surveillance, removed him from duty for a while, taken his guns
and knives and locked them away somewhere until Theon was ready to behave. He
might’ve even tried to talk to him in that stilted, awkward way that Ned spoke
when he was trying to muster enough empathy to really get through to Theon.
Theon had ruminated on it once, when he was high out of his mind – how funny it
would be to take away the Starks’ leverage over the Greyjoys and end his
father’s worthless line, all with one bullet. He’d laughed so hard that he fell
off the bed.
Reek regarded Ramsay. How would they dress him? Would they put on make-up to
give him a little color? He recalled waking after his car accident to see
Ramsay nodding off in the chair beside him, his cheeks flushed with the heat of
that little room.
The table was steel, tilted at a slight angle towards the feet, and beneath
Ramsay’s heels was a drain. Reek tried to be soundless as he pulled himself up
onto it, which was useless of course, but Qyburn seemed to be deliberately
ignoring him, carefully out of sight and hearing in some other part of the
study. The metal was chilly against Reek’s knees as he brought them to rest on
either side of Ramsay’s thighs.
He leaned forward to press his ear against his master’s breast and traced his
finger carefully over the wound shaped like a “T.” He lifted Ramsay’s arm and
wrapped it over his waist, still listening to the cold silence of Ramsay’s
chest.
He wondered what Ramsay would do if their bodies were reversed – Reek dead on a
table.
Would you still fuck me? Would you at least kiss me on the lips?
Reek tapped his finger on Ramsay’s sternum in time with his own heartbeat.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you.”
*
“I want you to accompany me to the funeral.”
The words triggered a small-scale panic attack that left Reek gripping the
corner of Roose Bolton’s desk in order to remain upright. The air always seemed
so thick in this damned place, but the prospect of leaving it and going – going
out there without him was so much worse.
“You need to breathe or you’ll faint,” instructed Roose, hardly glancing up
from his desk.
Reek nodded but continued to rasp and wheeze until Roose sighed and laid down
his pen.
“Have you always had these episodes?” he asked. “And by ‘always,’ I mean did
Theon threaten to pass out at the mere mention of leaving the house?”
Reek shook his head and did his best to take a deep breath. “No sir.”
“Then I suggest you channel him and get yourself dressed.”
Reek continued to teeter in place – he wanted more information, but to ask for
it would seem impertinent so he merely cleared his throat.
“Is there something else, Reek?”
“Um, I – pardon me, sir, but won’t there by other, um, people from other
Families there? People who shouldn’t see me?”
“That’s a very good point,” said Roose, placing a hand over Reek’s shaking
fingers. “It’s good to see you thinking critically.” Reek blinked at him. “I
assumed you’d prefer to stay in the car. Something came to my attention
recently, and I think it’s something you’ll be quite interested in.”
Ramsay’s touches hurt, and there was no shame in bending to them, but Reek
wished he wasn’t so cowed by the gentlest contact from this strange, soft-
spoken man.
“That scares me,” he said after a moment.
The corner of Roose’s mouth turned up at that, and Reek’s shame deepened as he
felt overwhelmed with satisfaction. He wondered what it would take to make
Roose really smile.
“I understand that, but you needn’t be frightened.” He patted the back of
Reek’s hand before resuming his work. “Go get dressed. I’ve had your clothes
set out on Ramsay’s bed. I think you’ll find them acceptable.”
*
In the end, Roose had to help him finish clothing himself. When Reek arrived at
Ramsay’s bedroom, there were two servant girls waiting to assist him, but he
blushed with what little blood he had left and sent them away, trying not to
feel stung by their visible relief.
The outfit was head-to-toe black, and somehow tailored to suit his emaciated
six-foot frame. Reek nearly shed a tear of delight when he found that the
fasteners on the dress shirt were snaps rather than buttons and that the pants
closed with a zipper and a hook. He also found a pair of thin, black gloves
that had been altered to account for his missing fingers, and though the
mutilation was still obvious, it looked markedly less grotesque beneath a
covering of fine fabric.
Just that morning Roose had asked Reek if he’d prefer to remove his collar, but
Reek only looked stricken and worried at the thing. Now that he was wearing
proper clothes, the collar looked almost elegant – dark stones peeking just
above his neckline. He’d been allowed to bathe as well, and Walda offered to
brush his hair, which somehow made him look even more like a madman, the way it
stuck out at wild angles instead of clinging limply to his neck.
There was one final item, though, that he didn’t know what to make of, and he
stared at it for some time before carrying it down to Roose’s office for
further instruction.
When he entered, Roose looked almost startled, and instead of returning his
eyes to his work as he usually did, he kept them fixed unrelentingly on Reek.
“I – I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have bothered you again.”
“No. No, I was just finishing my work here.” He rose and moved swiftly around
the desk, and before Reek could react, he felt Roose’s fingers in his hair,
pushing it out of his face while those narrow gray eyes scrutinized him. “I
hadn’t expected you’d look so much like yourself,” he said. “Put about fifty
pounds back on and you’re hardly worse for the wear.”
Reek had no idea what he was supposed to say to that, so he only held out the
piece of fabric he’d brought with him. “I, um, I don’t know what to do with
this.”
Without thinking, Reek had wrung the cloth up into a wad, and Roose took it
from him and unfolded it. It was a light gray square, frayed along the edges,
and Reek guessed it was some kind of scarf.
“This is called a keffiyeh,” explained Roose. “Let me show you.” He stepped
behind Reek, and Reek could smell a sort of sweetness – natural, like cloves
and not like the harsh candy smell of Ramsay’s breath. Roose folded the cloth
across Reek’s forehead, wrapped one side down beneath his jaw and the other
side up across his face, covering his mouth and nose so that when it was tied
off, all Reek could see in a mirror were a few stray bits of hair, and his eyes
staring back at him, gaping and blue.
“What do you think?” asked Roose, taking a step back to look Reek up and down.
“Will you be able to leave the house in this?”
“Yes sir,” said Reek, though in his head he heard Ramsay’s voice.
“Do you think wearing some extra layers makes you something other than a
whore?”
“No, sir.”
“Then take it off. All of it. Right now. I want to see what’s mine.”
And he’d put his hands on you. His mouth. He’d say, “Tell me you’d die without
me.”
*
While Roose Bolton’s wedding had been small and intimate, Ramsay Bolton’s
funeral was a tastelessly well-attended affair. There must’ve been a hundred
people, lines of black woven around the tombstones, and Reek supposed that many
of them had probably never seen Roose Bolton’s notorious bastard son before
today. The casket was a metallic gray, and Ramsay had been dressed in a scarlet
shirt with his arms crossed just below his waist and the stems of a dozen long
white roses tucked beneath his hands. (Reek didn’t see this for himself, but
Walda described it to him with a tear in her eye. “Sounds beautiful,” he
murmured.)
He’d stayed in Roose’s town-car, parked along the boulevard just behind the
hearse, and too far away to hear the service. He watched the sunny scene from
behind dark-tinted windows and wondered how a priest would go about composing a
eulogy for a young man who had died under such blatantly nefarious
circumstances and whose sole interest had been inflicting pain on anyone that
crossed his path.
Reek wondered if his own uncles had crashed his father’s funeral, and thought
how lucky it was that he wasn’t able to attend that miserable function – as the
last surviving son, he’d’ve undoubtedly been expected to say something about
Balon aside from what a cold-hearted, joyless son of a bitch he was. Not that
anybody would be listening – they’d all be gaping at Reek’s hair and his
fingers, and only poor Asha would hear the bitter, resentful things that Reek
had to say about their father.
(His brothers’ funeral had been a traditional Iron Islands send off. His mother
watched from her window, while Balon stood on the shore for some time, watching
the boats that carried their bodies as they were engulfed in flames and finally
sank to the bottom of the bay. He stood there for many hours afterward, until
Theon had been taken in a car to the airstrip and then flown away to the
mainland.)
Reek rightly assumed that Asha would not attend Ramsay’s service, but he was
surprised to spot a black Lincoln with Islander plates. She’d sent a few men in
her place, mainly as a reminder – “I can be there if you’re ready.”
Reek cracked the window as far as he dared. The air was warm, and the scarf
around his face was stifling. He felt a pang of guilt, imagining Asha as she
explained to their mother – probably more than once – that her husband was
dead.
He leaned his forehead against the glass. He noted that Roose neglected to
speak, no final words to say about his son, and he cursed himself for being too
cowardly to stand beside his master in these last few moments. (He had kissed
Ramsay farewell the previous evening, with an unseemly passion that made
everyone but Roose visibly unsettled.)
There was no music as the service ended and the casket descended into the
ground, and Reek watched Roose take his place by the wrought-iron gate, and his
wife beside him, to exchange properly solemn handshakes with the various family
members and associates as they departed. Not a single face showed signs of
grief or shock, though Reek felt his own eyes burning with tears as he thought
to himself that this is what Theon’s funeral would’ve been like. It might’ve
happened in Winterfell or Pyke, might’ve been Ned Stark or Balon Greyjoy
standing by the gate, shaking hands, saying, “Yes, such a pity.”
Reek allowed a few tears to trickle uninterrupted down his cheek, dripping on
to his chest, when he suddenly heard a familiar sound that sent his head
reeling.
That laugh.
Reek tried not notice, tried not to hear, but he’d know that laugh until the
day he died.
Jesus Christ – how long have I been away?
Robb had grown nearly a foot, had a handsome five-day beard that matched the
red of his hair. He smiled as he took Walda’s hand, and Reek’s whole body ached
in response. Reek wished so desperately that Robb Stark was dead – or better
yet might drop dead right in front of him – but it felt wrong to wish that on
someone so lovely, so familiar. And there was a part of him – pathetic – that
wanted to fall at Robb’s feet, that wanted to beg: “Take me back. Please take
me back.”
As his eyes turned to the man beside Robb, though, Reek’s heart stopped, leapt
up and jammed in the back of his throat so hard he thought he might choke.
“Oh my god.”
He was shorter than Robb, broad-shouldered despite an uneasy slouch, and though
he was turned away from view at the moment, Reek didn’t need to see the boy’s
face to know his name.
Jon.
Reek’s mouth fell open, both of his hands pressed against the window to frame
the scene: Robb talking amicably with Roose, while Jon shifted around
anxiously, eyes downcast as he raked his fingers through his hair – still a hot
mess. He bit his lip and shoved his hands in his pockets, pushing his suit-
jacket aside just enough to reveal the pistol on his hip.
Oh no. No no no no no. That was me.
You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be anywhere near these people.
The car was already locked, but the automatic locks clicked twice more as
though to be sure, and when Reek glanced up again, he saw Roose withdrawing his
hand from his pocket.
I have to tell him though! He doesn’t – he doesn’t understand who we – who they
are.
Yeah, you better save him, mocked Theon. He looks so in need of your
protection. You did a great job with that last time.
I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry.
Robb and Jon bid the Boltons goodbye, then walked away toward their car,
shoulders so close that there was nothing visible between them until Robb
whispered something in Jon’s ear that prompted Snow to cast a backwards glance
at Roose.
Oh god. I forgot about those eyes.
*
Reek remained in stunned silence for most of the ride back, pushing the
keffiyeh off his face and watching the trees pass by. Walda made small-talk –
clearly aware that something had altered the mood in the car, and perhaps a
little bothered that nobody intended to fill her in.
“What did you think about the service, Reek?” She twisted in her seat to look
at him.
“It was fine,” replied Reek, still staring out the window.
“Robb was looking well, wasn’t he?” asked Roose
Reek squirmed. He didn’t want to think about Robb, much less discuss him.
Although at first Ramsay had made a point to remind Theon who was responsible
for his imprisonment, he had eventually forced Reek to forget, to understand
that his relationship with Ramsay was as natural as his own heartbeat. But the
sight of Robb – the sight of Robb with Jon – confused Reek terribly with the
suggestion that there was no one way that things ought to happen. Perhaps if
Ned Stark had never cheated on his wife, or if he had raised Jon as his own, or
if Balon had never turned against the Starks, or Rick and Maron were alive, if
Asha were a boy, if Theon were a girl, if Robb never wanted him or if Theon had
only wanted Robb, if Dom hadn’t died, if Roose had shown Ramsay some kindness…
would there be a need for Reek at all? Reek’s head began to hurt.
“Does he know?” asked Reek faintly.
“Does who know what?” Roose returned with amusement.
“Does Jon know that Robb is his brother?”
“It seems Robb’s decided it’s in his best interest to keep his father’s
secrets.”
“Why?” Jon had only ever wanted a family, and it seemed cruel to keep him
there, unaware that he lived in the midst of the thing he wanted most.
Roose shrugged. “Why not? Revealing Jon’s identity would only upset the family
and make the boy realize that he’s entitled to things for which he currently
feels lucky. As it is, Jon feels indebted to Robb, and that suits Robb just
fine.¬¬"
“How did he – how did Robb find Jon? And why –” Reek faltered and wrung his
hands. “And why – didn’t he ever try to f-find me?”
“Would you have liked that?” asked Roose, glancing back at him. “Would you
rather belong to the Stark boy?”
There was a thin edge of mockery in Roose’s voice, and it cut just deep enough
to bring tears to Reek’s eyes. “No,” he said. He felt his cheeks burning. “No
no no. I belong to Ramsay. Until I’m dead, he says. Reek belongs to Ramsay and
Ramsay belongs to Reek…” He curled in on himself as much as the seatbelt would
allow, buried his face in his left hand and yanked almost violently at his
collar with the right.
“You’ve upset him,” chastised Walda under her breath.
Reek began to weep loudly.
He loved you. He loved you and now he’s dead and he’s never coming back.
Robb found what he was looking for and then left you to die. Or worse.
He took Jon. He took Jon and Jon took your place. That was supposed to be your
place.
But he couldn’t know that it was my place. He couldn’t mean to. Jon cared about
me.
Jon never let you sleep in his bed. Jon never held you close when you had
nightmares. Jon never sat beside you while you were sick or hurt. He didn’t
even know you.
Ramsay knew you. He loved you. He’s dead and he’s never coming back.
Reek had descended into an obscene bawling, prompting Walda to knock on the
partition and order the driver to pull over.
“Say something to him,” she whispered as the car rolled to a stop. Reek had
pulled his knees up to his chest and bowed his head against them. Roose sighed,
unbuckling his seatbelt and turning around.
“Get your feet off the leather.”
“Roose…”
“Reek, look at me. Don’t cry. You need to stop crying.”
Reek nodded, helpless against the onslaught of tears. “Sorry,” he moaned. “I’m
sorry. I’m t-t-trying.”
“I know.” Roose offered a hand out to Reek; it was completely bizarre, and Reek
eyed the slender fingers with some skepticism. Still, it seemed rude not to
respond, so he carefully laid his own fingers in Roose’s palm and gave a
squeeze. It helped him to breathe, somehow, and he kept squeezing in time with
his inhalations until he was able to sniffle and say,
“I’m s-sorry I’m such a f-f-freak.”
Roose pressed his hand – still joined with Reek’s – to the side of the boy’s
face. “When you’re stronger, I’ll tell you why he never came back for you.”
Reek gazed back at him, eyes wet and wide. “Will I ever see him again?”
I want him to see me. I want to hear him count every single fucking scar.
Roose smiled slightly. “When I think you’re ready. But I need you to be patient
– can you be good and patient for me?”
Reek nodded and wiped his nose on his scarf. “Yes sir. I can.”
The road drew up alongside the Weeping Water and the silhouette of the
Dreadfort emerged above the pines – its spires even darker somehow in the
sunlight, like trees still standing after a fire has burned through.
*
That night, Qyburn grudgingly dispensed another dose of sleeping medicine, and
as Reek lay in Ramsay’s bed awaiting its effects, he slipped a hand into his
pajamas to rub between his legs. He tried thinking about Ramsay, tried sucking
on the places where his fingers used to be, or whispering the things he knew
Ramsay liked to hear, but it was too awful to yearn for a ghost, and as the
drug began to kick in, he found his thoughts floating elsewhere altogether…
“Show me.”
“I’ll get in trouble.”
“No you won’t.”
Theon had his elbows up on the edge of the pool, pulling his goggles up into
his hair to squint at Robb. “Yes I will. You’ll start crying and tell your mom
and your dad will fucking kill me.”
The truth was that Theon was scared. He’d been bragging when he told Robb about
the Drowned Men – those men most loyal to the Iron Islands who proved their
fealty by allowing themselves to be drowned and then revived. And he’d been
lying when he said that he’d undergone the ritual himself – just like Rick and
Maron had lied to him, he realized with embarrassment several years later. But
now here was Robb, demanding that Theon show him, trusting Theon to hold him
under water until he stopped breathing and then somehow bring him back to life,
like was some kind of priest and not a goddamn hostage.
“You can’t even swim,” said Theon. “You could never be Ironborn.”
He felt a twinge of guilt as Robb blushed and looked down at his toes. He was a
clumsy swimmer, and he always entered the pool by the ladder rather than the
diving board, and Theon hadn’t failed to notice the way Robb avoided the deep
end of the pool like it was the open ocean.
“I – I don’t want to be Ironborn,” said Robb. “I just – I wanted you to see
that I’m not afraid of it.”
“Why do you care what I think?”
Robb smiled. “Um, ‘cause we’re friends?”
Theon felt his heart clench. His father had warned him about this, warned him
that the Starks would try to make him weak. But Theon didn’t feel weak. The way
Robb looked at him – willing to do whatever it took to prove himself – it made
Theon feel powerful.
***** Chapter Nineteen *****
Chapter Summary
     Roose Bolton: life coach
Chapter Notes
     As always, thank you so much for reading and leaving comments &
     kudos! Thanks to bluetilo especially for her thoughts and
     encouragement. October is a busy month for me, what with the Bolton
     Fix Xchange and all, but I promise to keep on writing!
The Dreadfort seemed even bleaker than before, which Reek had not thought
possible. Without his master’s presence to send his heart racing, all the
bright summer colors seemed muted and shallow, and the minutes moved at a
crawl. Reek rarely left Ramsay’s bedroom and sometimes lay in bed for two or
three days at a time. At night – when he slept at all – he was plagued by vivid
nightmares and often woke in a fit, screaming. (Roose had instructed Qyburn
that Reek receive no more sleeping medicine until further notice.) Reek hardly
ate and gave up bathing altogether, though he still maintained a routine of
making the bed and cleaning the room each day, half-believing that if he did it
enough times, Ramsay was bound to come home sooner or later.
As for Robb and Jon – well, it was hard to tell the difference sometimes
between what was asleep and what was awake, and sometimes Reek would find his
hand wandering down, his mind wandering back to what must’ve been a dream –
Roose allowed him to carry on in his malaise for nearly a month before he sent
a girl to fetch Reek to his study.
“He’s asked for you,” she said, and then silently led him down the hall to a
set of antique double-doors that looked as old as the Dreadfort itself. She
held them open for him, and stepping through the threshold, Reek’s bones
tingled with the apprehension of a small boy going into a room that he knows
should remain off limits. He’d expected the girl to follow him inside, but when
the doors fell shut and locked behind him, he turned and realized that she was
gone.
There’s no reason to be afraid, thought Reek, but Theon remained unconvinced.
The only light in the room came from an older wood-burning hearth that had been
converted into a gas fireplace; the flames twisted and danced, sometimes as
tall as a man, and lent their gleam to a fearsome collection of ancient-looking
weapons that hung on the adjacent wall. Reek held his breath, momentarily
paralyzed as his eye caught the shape of a blade that looked like a much older
version of the knife Ramsay had used to – Reek looked away, trying to ignore
what felt like the gaze of the object still upon him.
Above the hearth hung a portrait of a man identical in appearance to Roose
Bolton, though again, the canvas must’ve been much too old for that – a
grandfather, perhaps. There were no windows, though Reek could see several
places where there had been – frames filled with stone and concrete that peeked
out from the edges of the many bookshelves and paintings. Reek squinted at the
spines of the books, most of which bore no visible title or author, all of them
bound in very old leather. He reached for one, about to run his fingernail over
the stitching, when Roose’s voice interrupted:
“Still so curious, aren’t you?”
Reek froze. He hadn’t even noticed the man, sitting in a behemoth armchair
facing the fire.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, and he realized that he was sweating, suddenly
overpowered by the heat from the fireplace, though the back of his neck still
felt chilled somehow.
“Don’t you think you’ve gone on mourning your tormentor long enough?”
Reek took a few careful steps forward. “I don’t know what else to do,” he
replied.
“Come around where I can see you.”
The chair was also leather, though in the darkness its color was indistinct,
and it reclined beside a small table that held a wide, shallow basin and a
clean, folded towel. Reek was startled to see that Roose was naked, a sheen of
sweat lighting the lines of his lean body – hard and sinuous, so unlike the
muscled curves of his son. Reek lowered his eyes immediately. This isn’t right,
he thought abstractly. He blinked away a bead of sweat.
“Do you – um, would you like me to – should I –”
“I’m not Ramsay,” said Roose, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I
don’t intend to use you like he did.” He squinted at Reek. “Does that
disappoint you?”
He never used me. He needed me.
“No sir.”
Roose smirked. “I think it does, on some level.” He sat up stiffly to consider
the boy before him, then leaned back and inhaled sharply. “I called for you
because I’d like you to administer my leechings from now on. The girls are so
squeamish and I think you could be doing more useful things than cleaning a
dead man’s room over and over again – don’t you agree?”
Reek nodded, though the idea revolted him, and as always, it burned that Roose
spoke so callously about Ramsay’s death, feigning oblivion to Reek’s deeper
feelings on the subject.
Reek took the bowl from the table, nose wrinkling at the briny smell. He was
grateful for the dim light, in which the leeches looked like nothing – a soft
mass of black. He looked anxiously at Roose.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
“They won’t try to bite you – just pluck them out quickly and carefully. Put
them on my skin and they’ll do the rest. Once they’re full, they’ll release
their hold and you can collect and dispose of them. Just do that and refill my
drink when it’s empty.” He indicated a sweet-smelling cup on the table, then
smiled flickeringly. “Not much of a horror-show, I’m afraid. Think you can
manage it?”
Reek nodded again and tried to mask the way his stomach clenched as he reached
his fingers into the bowl, feeling the soft wetness of the creatures as they
squirmed beneath his touch. They were smaller than he expected – more pliable –
and when he finally pinched ahold of one he held it there for a moment, turning
it in the firelight before laying it gently on the pale skin of Roose’s breast.
He remembered how he and Robb had laughed when the first heard the rumor – too
bizarre to be true.
Reek applied the second leech and nearly yelped when Roose grabbed his wrist,
twisting his forearm to get a clearer view of the fresh cuts there. Reek winced
and tried to pull away, but Roose held him there firmly. The power of his grip
frightened Reek.
“You need to stop this,” said Roose, running his thumb over the raised spot
where Reek had burned himself with the tip of a lighter the day before. His
touch was cool as always, a relief in the heat of the room.
“I can’t. I need to – it feels – it makes me feel better.”
It makes me feel like he’s here with me.
Roose nodded in an imitation of sympathy and let his fingers slide up the
length of Reek’s arm, feeling each scab and scar with consideration. “I know it
does. But you might really hurt yourself.”
“So?” Reek slapped a hand over his mouth; he hadn’t intended to back-talk.
But Roose only smiled slightly and released his hold on Reek’s arm. “There he
is. You know, don’t you, that Reek has limited usefulness? All these cuts and
burns, every night that you wake up screaming – that’s Theon trying to find his
way out. And it’s Theon that I want. That I’ve always wanted.”
Reek opened his mouth to object. The name – he didn’t want to hear that goddamn
name anymore, but Roose raised his hand and continued.
“I don’t expect you to give up your name, Reek. I think it will continue to
serve you well. But from now on, I do expected quite a few things from you.”
The flames leapt and Roose sipped at his cup. “I expect you to meet me here in
my study at this same time every week. I expect you to bathe and dress yourself
every morning and to present yourself in the dining room for each and every
meal. I expect you to take walks with Walda, and when you’re well enough,
you’ll join me on my evening run. And if you ever feel the need to hurt
yourself, I want you to come and find me first.” Roose’s eyes drifted shut and
he added, “I know you’ll do well. It’s a shame your father never loved you; you
can be a very good boy when you put your mind to it, can’t you?”
Reek blushed. He placed the final leech on Roose’s thigh, holding his breath as
he dared to let his touch linger there. His hands had been a pleasing thing,
once.
*
Roose agreed to have Qyburn administer a prescription for sleeping pills on the
condition that Reek undergo a monthly physical exam, and while the prospect of
the doctor’s attentions made Reek’s skin crawl, he knew it was his only hope of
sleeping through the night.
Qyburn examined him on the same table where Ramsay’s corpse had lain, and
staring up at the ceiling, Reek felt a pang of empathy for his master. The
steel was so cold against his back, and the lights so bright as to be
uncomfortable. Clearly, Qyburn’s office was not equipped for living patients –
he hadn’t even bothered giving Reek any kind of blanket or gown to cover
himself. Of course, Reek hated being seen like this. Ramsay always said that
his scars were perfect, but in the harsh light of the exam room it was clear
they were coarse and ugly.
“Anterior assessment: Two-inch laceration on scalp. Healed. Torn cartilage on
left helix. Healed. Centimeter laceration at outside corner of left eye.
Healed.”
Reek glanced nervously at the voice recorder lying on the table beside him. He
disliked the idea that there should be such a catalogue – these things were
between him and Ramsay, and it saddened him to hear each mark robbed of its
truth. He’d got the cut on his scalp when Ramsay slammed his face into the sink
after Reek hadn’t drawn the bathwater hot enough. The scar by his eye was from
a piece of glass during the car accident. The ear – that was best not mentioned
at all.
The litany seemed to go on forever. Qyburn moved Reek’s body, pulling and
lifting roughly.
“Right hand minimus severed at proximal phalanx. Healed. Right hand annularis
severed at proximal phalanx. Healed.”
He cut off my fingers! Why can’t you just say he cut off my fucking fingers?
He hadn’t even noticed how tightly he’d been clenching his thighs until Qyburn
reached over to pause the recording and said, “You need to relax your legs so
that I can get a better look.”
“You’ve seen it before,” countered Reek, pressing his knees together until they
hurt. “You know what he did.”
“You can plug your ears if you don’t want to hear me say it.”
And it helped, a little. He couldn’t hear whatever awful name Qyburn had for
that place, but he could still feel the old man’s fingers, poking and prodding
at the scar there, pressing against his balls until Reek couldn’t bear it
anymore and sobbed, “Please stop! That’s not yours! You have to stop now!”
That was the worst of it. After Qyburn was finished with his front, Reek had to
lie face down while the doctor noted every cut and scrape and burn and bite on
his back. He took an X-ray of Reek’s teeth, shined a little light in his eyes
and took his blood pressure with a cuff, listened to his chest with a
stethoscope and tapped on his knees with a rubber mallet and all the other
things that seemed almost quaint. Reek didn’t look away when Qyburn drew a vial
of blood from the crook of his elbow.
“May I get dressed now?” he asked, glancing anxiously at his clothes piled in
the corner.
“Of course.” Qyburn slotted the vial into a plastic tray. “If you’ll wait a
moment I can fill up that prescription that you came for.”
He’d forgotten why he came.
Reek nearly vaulted off the exam table, snatched his clothes to his chest and
then put them on in such a hurry that he almost tripped and fell. He wanted to
take a shower.
Qyburn smiled thinly. “I don’t know what information he expects. He already
knows what parts are missing, and I don’t know what he wants with a tedious
hour-long inventory of each and every deformity. Still, he’s asked me to
prepare a blood report and a prognosis for your… rehabilitation.” He slid his
glasses off his nose, allowing them to dangle off the thin chain around his
neck, while he stared pointedly at Reek and observed, “Mr. Bolton must see
something extremely valuable in you.”
“Yes sir – may I go now please?”
*
He had to stop to catch his breath outside the door to Roose’s office after
what was nearly a sprint out of Qyburn’s office and down the hall. He felt his
blood bounding as he steadied himself to offer a more composed knock.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Bolton – it’s me – Reek. I – I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but you said if
I –”
He didn’t hear a sound from within, but a second later the door opened and
Roose beckoned him inside.
Roose wore black dress-pants and a perfectly-pressed white button-up, with the
cuffs undone and rolled up to his elbows. His office was less dismal than the
study, though it had that same sort of mustiness – the same dark woods and old
furnishings, though the books were newer and more ordinary, the windows closed
to the August air but permitting of the late-morning sun. Roose’s desk was
large, the wood worn in places, and its surface was tidy, occupied only by a
notepad and a small laptop, which Roose closed casually as he offered Reek a
chair.
“No, no thank you.” Reek shook his head and rubbed at his arms, suddenly
feeling foolish. “I shouldn’t have come. I just, um, I just finished my
appointment with Qyburn – like you asked – and I really, um – you said to come
find you if I was thinking about it.” He looked down at his feet – still bare,
odd-numbered toes curling with embarrassment.
“I see.” Roose leaned back against the edge of his desk. “And what exactly were
you thinking about doing?”
Reek shrugged and bit his lip. He tugged at the front of his t-shirt. “I don’t
know. I just – he counted all our marks.” He glanced up at Roose, hoping to be
spared from any more pitiful explanation.
“And you’d like to add another? One that won’t be in Qyburn’s assessment?”
“Yes sir.”
Roose smiled as though he was being indulgent. “Go on up to your room, and as
soon as you’re done I want you to come back down to me.”
Reek blinked at him. “Will you – will you want to see it?”
Roose waved his hand dismissively as he circled back around his desk. “That
won’t be necessarily. I trust you not to make a mess of things.” He sat down
and opened his computer. “Will there be anything else?”
*
“If you could only pick one to keep, which one would you pick?”
It was late morning, and Reek was sprawled out on the mattress, arms folded
above his head, while Ramsay lay beside him, propped up on one elbow,
fingernails tracing the line of his pet’s stomach and waiting expectantly for
an answer.
“This one,” replied Reek, rubbing at the bite mark on his right shoulder. It
was healed now, but a minor infection had left the scar rigid and red.
“That one?” Ramsay leaned over to dance his fingers around the shape of it.
“Why that one?”
Reek blushed, smiled his meek closed-mouth smile. “Because it’s your teeth.
It’s like a fingerprint. Makes me feel –” He stopped himself. He’d been about
to say “sexy,” but Reek had no right to feel sexy. He looked at the rest of his
body, so riddled with wounds, and wondered where the word had even come from.
Ridiculous. “Owned,” he finished instead. “Makes me feel owned.”
Ramsay grinned, eyes glinting as he looked down, then back at Reek. It was hard
to imagine a more lovely boy.
*
Theon never celebrated his birthday, at least not beyond a few drinks and a
smoke, and sometimes he would take Gendry out for an expensive seafood dinner
somewhere. He preferred Gendry’s quiet company to Robb’s on these occasions;
the mechanic was just excited to be getting out of his shop and he never made
it awkward by buying Theon a gift or singing him Happy Birthday or asking him
to make a wish.
“But don’t you want a real birthday?” Robb asked, floored when Theon told him,
“Not really.”
“Are you sure? I could go downstairs and have them make you a cake – any kind
you want!”
Theon shook his head. “I don’t want a fucking cake. Just leave it alone, yeah?”
Birthdays were not particularly important in the Greyjoy household; usually the
kitchen staff made a special dinner, but there were no gifts or games or songs
or guests. Sometimes – if she was feeling well – Alannys would come down to
join the family for an hour or so. It wasn’t that Balon couldn’t have given his
children cars and pets and trips abroad the way that Ned Stark did – the
Greyjoys were an incredibly wealthy family by anyone’s measure – but Theon’s
father saw no point in spoiling them with things they would all soon be able to
buy – or steal – for themselves.
Robb’s seventh birthday party was attended by what seemed like a hundred other
children, and Theon was overwhelmed – the magician, the piñata, the inflatable
castle all seemed too much. (Theon felt grateful that – for whatever reason –
Ned and Cat never tried to celebrate his own birthday with such festivities.)
“Didn’t you get me anything?” Robb had asked, pawing through a mountain of
presents, only to find nothing from his newest friend.
“I don’t get an allowance,” mumbled Theon, shifting his eyes downward.
“You coulda made me something,” countered Robb.
Theon felt ashamed then, though what the hell was he supposed to give a boy who
already had everything?
(And when Robb blew out the candles on his sixteenth birthday and Sansa asked
eagerly, “What did you wish for?” Robb had only blushed and cast a glance at
Theon before saying, “Nothing.”)
*
It surprised Reek when Roose Bolton handed him a small box wrapped in plain red
paper.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a gift, from Walda and myself.”
Reek blinked at the package, rattled it lightly and asked, “Is it my birthday?”
“Yes.” Roose stood beside him, their shoulders touching. “I know your father
was never a generous man, but I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”
Reek traced a finger over the seam of the wrapping. “How old am I?”
“Twenty-one. Are you going to open it?”
Reek tore at the paper gingerly, not quite liking the ripping sound it made, or
the way it came away in strips.
Twenty-one?
That number had seemed important, once.
Reek frowned at his own, distorted reflection in the dark screen of a silver
iPhone 5s. He turned the package over in his hands and asked, “What am I
supposed to do with this?”
Roose arched an eyebrow. “I believe a thank you is the proper response.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Thank you. It’s a very kind gift. But I – I don’t exactly have
anyone to call.”
“Not yet.” Roose smiled as he watched Reek’s mutilated hands wrestle with the
packaging. “Would you let me help you with that?”
Reek handed him the box, embarrassed. “Thank you.”
Roose drew a small knife from his pocket, flicked open its blade and severed
the various seals with a series of quick, almost dainty motions. He handed the
phone back to Reek. “You don’t understand what this means, do you?”
Reek stared at him blankly. He wished Roose didn’t so obviously enjoy making
him feel stupid. “No, I guess not.”
“It means that you’re allowed out of the house, provided you return by dinner
and don’t allow yourself to be recognized. How does that suit you?”
Reek bit his lip. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but just the prospect of
leaving the Dreadfort unattended sent his heart pounding with frightening
force. “Do I have to?” he asked.
“Of course not. But I am going to ask that you join me for an outing this
afternoon.”
Reek knew that Roose was never really just asking, so he slipped the phone into
his pocket and went to Ramsay’s room to get dressed.
*
There was something in the way Roose Bolton looked at him that made Reek uneasy
– some kind of deep, unwarranted fascination that caused Reek to slouch and
thread his fingers together and wish he could disappear. It wasn’t a lustful
look, exactly – too fleeting, too amused – but there was still something hungry
in those placid gray eyes that made Reek suddenly and unpleasantly aware of his
own body, broken and marred as it was.
Roose found Reek’s grimy sweatpants and t-shirt distasteful, and asked Walda to
take him shopping for “anything that would be an improvement.” The experience
was traumatic, but made slightly less so by Walda’s enthusiasm, and her
aptitude for picking clothes out in the right sizes minimized the amount of
time that Reek had to spend looking at himself in the changing room mirror. Of
course, things fit very loosely, and he’d ended up with a cloth belt since none
of the leather ones could cinch tightly enough around his hips. She’d offered
to buy him a watch or a wallet, but Reek’s arms were beginning to shake under
the heap of clothes she’d piled in them, and he insisted he had no use for such
things.
“But it suits you so well,” she said with a frown, turning the watch to catch
the light.
It would’ve, he thought. He recalled a time when he actually enjoyed dressing
himself.
“It’s kind of you to say so,” he said.
As he headed downstairs to meet Roose in the garage, Reek couldn’t help staring
at his feet – so strangely normal looking in a pair of black Chuck Taylors,
despite the slight limp that favored his left foot. He wore the scarf, of
course, and the gloves that concealed the unpleasantness of his hands, but
Roose still fixed him with that unsettling look as he opened the door of a dark
blue sedan and said, “After you, pet.”
The ride was quiet and smooth – nothing like the deafening rush of Ramsay’s
motorcycle – and yet it followed a familiar route.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, eyeing the knife at Roose’s side. He
doubted Roose would torture him, if only because it wasn’t practical.
“Would you like me to?” Roose smirked at him, wrapped his fingers around the
well-worn hilt of the blade. “Ramsay told me that you begged for it, at one
point.”
Reek considered the question seriously before answering, “No.”
“Interesting. Why not?”
Reek blushed and fiddled with the fringe on his scarf. You’ll sound like a
girl.
“Because I’d like to see him again.”
“Robb Stark?”
Reek tilted his head, considering. “Him too, I guess. But I meant Jon Snow.”
“What did the bastard mean to you?”
“I – he –” Reek knew enough to lie. “I mean, have you seen him? Can you tell me
you haven’t thought for just a second about how his mouth would feel on your –”
Reek trailed off. It felt wrong to speak of Jon this way – as though he were a
conquest rather than a cherished secret. For a moment he imagined Jon’s face,
turning away in revulsion as his eyes found the wreck between Reek’s legs.
On your what, freak?
Roose chuckled. “He is striking, but Robb’s growing up to be quite handsome –
fair like his mother. It’s a shame you couldn’t have simply contented yourself
with having the head of the most powerful Northern Family desperate for your
affections. That would’ve been a fearsome alliance, once you’d inherited the
Greyjoy enterprise.”
“It’s not like we’d get married.”
“No, but he’d have done anything for you.”
Reek didn’t know what to say to that.
The car turned down a side-street, confirming Reek’s suspicion that they were
headed toward the storage complex. He wished Roose would let him forget that
place, though he supposed his body would always remember – the smell of bleach
and concrete, the sound of a metal door slamming, the darkness, the tickle of
dry lips across his wounds. “Cry for me, little thing.”
The sedan passed through the automatic gate and rolled to a stop just outside
one of the unit doors.
“Please don’t make me go in there.”
Roose unbuckled his seatbelt, then lay a hand on Reek’s trembling knee.
“Ramsay’s death has placed something of a burden on me,” he said. “And I must
attend to some of his work. I don’t expect you to accompany me just yet, but
know that eventually your assistance will be expected. Now be good and wait for
me here.”
Assistance?
Reek felt as though the air had been sucked straight from his lungs. He opened
the door for a taste of fresh air, but this place smelled too familiar. He
swung his legs out, planted his feet on the crumbling asphalt and braced his
elbows on his knees as he struggled to breathe. He closed his eyes, but that
was too much like being locked in the dark, so he cradled his head in his
hands, palms pressed against his ears as he tried to block out the screaming
that perforated the door of the unit.
A cluster clouds began to accumulate, rolling up one on the other until the sky
was an uneasy gray. The thunder began as a distant growling that grew closer by
leaps and bounds until the storm broke. Reek closed the door and lay curled on
the back seat, listening to the crush of hail falling on the roof of the car.
He remembered waking with a start to the clamor of a thunderclap just above the
Dreadfort, only to find himself firmly in Ramsay’s arms.
“You’re such a pussy.”
But he’d been so grateful when Ramsay only pulled him closer.
*
Running was Robb’s thing. He had always been faster than Theon – at least on
land – with those long, lean legs and whatever touch of madness was required to
make running for no reason seem like fun.
“Come for a run with me?” Robb would ask, at least once a month, and Theon
would blow a cloud of smoke into Robb’s face with a roguish grin.
Running was all heat and sweat and pounding against the earth, and Theon had
never enjoyed it. Swimming was weightlessness and silence.
And however he felt about running didn’t change the fact that the nicest pair
of barefoot running shoes in the world wasn’t going to fix Reek’s limp, and the
sleek, navy-blue track-suit that Roose had bought him wasn’t going to dampen
the perpetual grinding sensation in his knee.
It was evening – just past sundown – and the mosquitos were out. Roose had
taken him to a rubber-top track attached to a local junior high where he felt
confident that Reek would not be seen or noticed by anyone important. The
stadium was empty, save four of Bolton’s men stationed around the perimeter to
ensure their privacy.
Reek gazed out across the field. The bleachers were empty, save for a few old
pop cans that rattled noisily whenever a breeze kicked up, and a tattered
spirit banner drooped from the chainlink fence. The track itself seemed
interminable, looping away out of sight – Reek’s chest tightened just looking
at it.
“I was never any good at this,” he mumbled.
“You don’t have to be good at it,” said Roose, pressing a hand between Reek’s
shoulders. “You just have to try. And I’ll be with you.”
Did he ever speak that way to Ramsay?
Reek swiped his hair out of his face, put one foot in front of the other. The
pain was definite but not unbearable. Again, with a longer stride. He let his
arms bend at the elbow, tried to remember the way they were supposed to move.
Faster. Straightening his back, he felt his chest open up; he couldn’t remember
the last time a breath reached all the way down. Through the discomfort he
began to find a rhythm – his heart roared to life.
He’d made it a few dozen yards when his knee gave out – a jab of electricity
that sent him hurtling forward onto his elbows, yowling for an instant in pain
before a tide of frustrated sobs overtook him.
“Fuck!” he spat, as Roose approached to kneel beside him, shooing Reek’s hands
away from his leg so that he could palpitate the joint. “Fuck this! I can’t do
this!”
“You can,” said Roose evenly. He pulled on Reek’s ankle until the leg was
extended, then massaged either side of the knee with his fingertips. “You’ve
endured far worse pain than a little jog.”
“Well maybe I’m only good at getting fucking tortured and abused!” Reek pounded
a fist into the flesh of his own thigh. “Maybe I’d rather let Ramsay Bolton cut
off every last fucking toe than go another fucking step!” He was furious enough
not to care that his face was red, or to mind the hot tears already streaming
down his face. “I hate fucking running and I always fucking have and I swear to
god that whatever you’re trying to do – buying me new clothes and a phone,
making me eat at the table and pretending like I don’t make you sick – none of
it is going to – it’s not gonna change that I’m –”
He was shaking almost uncontrollably, hugging his uninjured knee up to his
chest. When he rubbed at his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Bolton’s men turning
to stare, and then his vision blurred again. He damned himself, wiped his runny
nose on the back of his hand.
“It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to get better. I don’t know
what you want, but I am never going to be him again. I can’t.” He struck
himself a few times in the head with the heel of his palm. “Fuck. I miss
Ramsay! You and him are exactly alike, you know? You both get off on
humiliating me, but he never tries to make me go fucking jogging!”
Roose grinned ghoulishly. “You know who you sound like?”
Reek moaned and buried his face in his arms. “No! Fuck you! And fuck Theon
Greyjoy. He was a whore.”
Roose didn’t touch him then, made no effort to comfort Reek as he pulled
himself into a tight ball and wept until he was breathing in short, shrieking
gasps.
“Robb Stark thinks you’re dead. That’s why he never came looking for you.”
Reek’s ears began to ring, and he laid a hand on the black-top to steady
himself as he raised his head to fix Roose with a bleary glare. “What?”
“Ramsay might’ve been an impulsive, short-sighted bastard, but he had a good
idea now and then.” Roose sat back onto his haunches and dusted off his knees.
“He’s not unlike Robb in that way.” He smirked. “Perhaps that’s your type.”
“Fuck you.” Reek ground at his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Why – why
does he think I’m dead?”
The sky was dark now, and the whole scene had faded so that Roose was hardly
more than a silhouette against the dim glow of the horizon. They were alone,
Reek realized. Roose could do anything to him here.
He could do anything anywhere, Reek chided himself, though the prospect of his
poor abused corpse being found in such a place – probably discovered by
children – was a degradation he had not previously conceived.
“He took pictures,” explained Roose. “Before he pulled you out of that wreck.
You were so covered in blood that Robb had no reason to doubt it when Ramsay
told him you’d managed to escape and kill yourself in a car accident.”
Roose paused heavily. “He wept, of course. Not in front of me, but it was clear
that he did as soon as I’d left the room.”
Reek chewed his lip.
That doesn’t mean anything. He was always such a pussy. It doesn’t mean
anything.
“He asked me to send your body back to Pyke.”
What a dumbass.
Now Roose laid a hand on Reek’s injured knee, so gently that Reek jumped at the
touch.
“I regretfully told him that your body had been destroyed, and advised him that
if anyone came looking for Theon Greyjoy, the safest thing would be to tell
them that you’d simply run off. It wouldn’t look too well for House Stark to
kill the heir to the Greyjoy Family without the slightest notice.”
Abruptly, the lights above the field flared, drowning the scene in an
impersonal white glow. Reek blinked, shielded his eyes for a moment. Suddenly
he felt as though he were on a stage; he hadn’t realized what a comfort the
darkness was, a relief from the scrutiny of Roose’s relentless gray eyes, which
didn’t seem to be bothered by the harsh glare at all.
“The Starks believe that you’re dead. Your sister has undoubtedly told a
similar lie to your own family. You’re free from whatever it was they expected
of you.” He rose, towering above Reek for a moment before offering down his
slender hand. “So if you can get up and move once around this track – at
whatever pace you can manage – I’ll tell you how Jon Snow came to be in Robb
Stark’s employ. Can you do that for me?”
Reek took the hand, startled by its force as it lifted him onto his feet. He
blinked. Everything looked so unreal in this light.
“Yes sir,” he said. He turned to begin his lap, but Roose still held his hand,
fingers brushing against the place that fingers used to be.
“Speak to me like that again and I will make you wish you were back on that
saltire.”
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek learns some truths.
Chapter Notes
     Hey everybody - sorry about the long lapse between updates! I've been
     so busy working on my fic for the Bolton Fic X Change. I know things
     are moving a little slowly, but I promise that the parts you've been
     waiting for begin next chapter. Thank you so much for reading!
Jon Snow was a whore.
The thought reverberated in Reek’s skull long after he’d retreated up to
Ramsay’s bedroom and collapsed back onto the bed. Ramsay’s smell had all but
faded from the sheets, and Reek buried his face in the pillow, wishing that his
master would return and empty his mind once more. It felt too heavy lately, too
full of things that provoked questions, plans, desires – things that Reek had
no use for.
Jon Snow was a whore.
Jon Snow was a virgin when Theon arranged their little fender-bender in the
grocery store parking lot. He’d been wearing blue jeans and a plain black t-
shirt. His hands were chilly as he wrote his number across the back of Theon’s
hand.
And Jon wasn’t a virgin when he’d grabbed Theon by the shirt in front of the
bus station, kissed him and said, “Promise me you’ll find me again.”
But Theon hadn’t kept that promise – he hadn’t been there to protect Jon, and
so the boy had to find his own way up North. And he was beautiful, wasn’t he?
And young, and alone, and two-thousand dollars could only get a person so far…
Reek bit into his lip to stifle a sob.
It’s not true, he told himself. It might not be true.
Why would he lie to you?
You just don’t want this to be your fault is all.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, throwing his forearm over his eyes. “Fuck – I’m
sorry.”
He despised the little grin that crept across Roose Bolton’s face when he told
Reek that Jon Snow had been discovered working in a brothel just south of The
Wall. The Northern Police Department responded to a call that a client high on
some kind of designer drug – “you know, the kind that’s become an epidemic up
there” – had entered Castle Black and attacked several of the boys working
there. By the time officers arrived on the scene, the man was dead, and one of
the boys sat beside him in a daze, spattered in blood and holding an empty 9mm
pistol in one hand.
“Of course, they took him to the precinct for evidence collection.” Roose
paused here to help Reek untie his running shoes. “You remember who’s the Chief
of Police up there?”
“Robb’s uncle Ben.”
And of course Benjen Stark had seen the images of Jon, stills taken from the
surveillance video at the club that night, along with a bulletin stating that
Jon Snow was wanted for questioning in connection to the murder of Vayon Poole
and Richard Flint. And though he undoubtedly guessed something more was at
hand, Police Chief Stark had never been one to interfere with his family’s
business. He loaded Jon into an armored van and sent him south to whatever fate
his nephew had in mind for the boy.
“Why didn’t Robb kill him?” Reek asked, spellbound.
Roose shrugged. “Robb has never displayed particularly sound judgment in these
matters, though I’m sure he’s done a thorough job of making the boy feel
indebted to the Family for his change in circumstance.” He tilted his head to
one side and asked, “Does it change your feelings for the bastard to learn that
he’s been used?”
“So have I.”
Truthfully, Reek was startled to find there was still a piece of his heart left
to break. The thought of Jon selling himself made Reek’s stomach upend, and it
wasn’t difficult to trace the thread of the story back to himself, back to
Theon. It was Theon who pursued Jon, who knowingly pulled him into a world of
thieves and murders and dealers and pimps and then cut him loose without even
telling him the truth about what all those men wanted.
Because you wanted him. Because you wanted to fuck him. Just like every other
guy who’s paid for it since.
I think I’ve fucking paid for it.
Yeah well, so has he.
Beneath this new wave of self-loathing, Reek was also perversely proud to hear
that Jon had killed the man who attacked him. He remembered that afternoon at
the shooting range – how terrified Theon had been to realize that Jon
absolutely had it in him to kill someone who really deserved it.
Perhaps Robb was smarter than Roose gave him credit for, deciding to keep the
boy by his side.
*
Fall came on abruptly the first weekend in September, and the cold air stirred
up a soreness in Reek’s joints. On the worst days, he had to forego running and
settle for a long, awkward walk around the grounds. Theon had never cared for
autumn – its chill reminded him of the Iron Islands – but Reek didn’t mind it,
despite the ache in his bones. Autumn meant he could comfortably wear a sweater
and a coat, and his gloved hands didn’t draw quite so much attention. In the
closet, he’d found a red woolen scarf that belonged to Ramsay, and he loved the
way it felt, so snug around his neck.
The last of the blossoms had begun to wilt, and a small crew of men was raking
up the leaves from the cluster of elms and red maple trees that grew along the
river. Reek’s breath produced a fleeting puff of vapor and he wished he’d
thought to wear a hat.
“Mind if I join you?”
Walda’s cheeks glowed with a bright flush, and her blonde hair cascaded out
from beneath a knit cap.
Reek shrugged. “If you want.” Then, more softly: “I like your hat.”
Walda smiled, reached up to touch the hem of it. “Thanks. I made it.”
“Really? It looks warm.”
She giggled. “It is. I could make one for you, if you want.”
Reek shook his head and resumed walking at a slower pace. “Nah. I mean, I’d
like that, but it seems like a lot of trouble.”
“No, I will!” Walda fell in stride with him. “I’ve just learned, so there might
be a few mistakes in it. Just – now that it’s getting cold out, I’m trying to
find things to keep me busy. I only know how to make scarves and hats, so far.
What colors do you like?”
Reek paused to consider. Red and pink and gray – those were the colors Ramsay
wore. And before that it was gray and black and gold, but those were the colors
that his family had chosen.
“Blue,” he said. “I like all kinds of blue.”
Blue like Robb’s eyes.
“And black,” he added.
“Blue and black it is then,” she said with a grin. “You probably don’t want a
pom-pom on top, huh?”
Reek smiled his tight-lipped smile. “Wouldn’t want to compromise my dignity.”
“Do you – do you ever get bored here?” she asked.
It was a funny question, he thought. “Now that Ramsay’s gone, it’s not as
exciting as it used to be but… I mean, I imagine a normal person would get
super bored and weirded out here. But I’m not, you know… normal.”
She sighed, thankfully wise enough not to contend that point. “I miss my family
a lot in the fall. A bunch of us have birthdays around this time; it seems like
there’s always a party, or someone getting ready for a party.”
“That reminds me: I never thanked you for the birthday gift. For the phone.
Thank you.”
She rolled her eyes. “That was Roose’s idea. I thought it was kind of a lame
present. I wanted to get your teeth fixed.”
Reek blushed, closed his lips tightly and ran his tongue over his front teeth.
“They don’t bother me,” hurried Walda. “I just thought they probably bother
you.”
“Only when I’m eating,” he said with a shrug.
The path wound out from the garden and towards the river.
“Do you ever see your family anymore?” he asked. “That’s a long trip to the
Twins.”
“Tell me about it. I saw my eldest sister a few months ago, and one of my
cousins when he was passing through town. But I haven’t been back. My dad is…
not usually well enough for company. He’s kind of… bitter, I think.” She bit
her lip before adding, “I saw your sister when she came.”
“Yeah?”
“She looks like you.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you have any other family? Anyone else you could live with?”
“You want me to leave?”
Walda stopped, laid a mitten on Reek’s arm. She looked hurt. “No. I don’t,
actually. But you – I don’t think it’s good for you to stay here forever. I
know Roose has been trying to help you get out more, but I actually think he’s
making it harder for you. To leave, I mean. If you want.”
Reek looked at his toes. “My brothers are dead. My dad – you want to talk about
bitter? – my dad threw himself off a bridge. He never tried to find me. My mom
is nuts. My sister is – Asha has other things to worry about besides me. Oh,
and my uncles are all also completely fucking batshit.” He smiled sadly at her.
“So no, not really.”
Walda floundered. “What about – what about that guy? The one from Ramsay’s
funeral? Roose said you knew him. He told me you grew up together, like you
were practically brothers.”
“Did he tell you that I betrayed Robb’s trust and Robb sent me to Ramsay?”
“No,” she said with a frown. “He didn’t tell me that. What did – how did you
betray his trust, exactly, that you deserved to be – that he sent you to – to
Ramsay?”
Reek twitched. “I kept a secret from him.”
“Must’ve been some secret,” she said.
“It was.”
They stood quietly overlooking the river. In summer, the Weeping Water was
roiling, the water rising all the way up its grassy banks, noisy and powerful.
Now it had retreated to little more than a stream, wide and shallow as it wound
around the smooth white rocks that had been the backbone of its summer swell.
The sunlight shone bleakly off its surface. Walda rocked back onto her heels,
then bounced onto the balls of her feet.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked finally.
“Doesn’t that seem like a shitty idea?”
“Roose knows already,” she said. “I mean, it’s not much of a secret. But I
wanted to wait until it was – safe to tell, considering what happened last
time. I’m pregnant.”
Reek’s heart sped up. He smiled at her, not minding his teeth for once.
“Really? That’s wonderful. I’m –” he faltered as his guilt caught up with him.
“I’m glad you told me.”
Walda laughed, gave a little leap. “I’m so excited!” Again, she laid her hand
on his arm. “I can’t even imagine the brightness a baby will bring to a place
like this. Just think how new everything will be! I can’t wait. I mean, I
suppose I have to, but I really can’t wait.”
“When?”
“January. I do hope you’ll stick around to meet him.”
“Him?”
“Just a guess,” she giggled. “Feels wrong to call it… well, it.”
God, another Bolton boy.
Will it have those same eyes?
You’re being a selfish prick again.
“I suppose I’ll still be around,” he said cautiously. Then, “I’m happy for you,
Walda. I’m sorry I suck at showing it but… I think you’ll be a great mom.”
She threw her arms around him, squeezed harder than he was expecting until he
laughed a wheezy little chuckle. “You’re going to break my bones,” he said.
They lingered by the river for a few more minutes, watching a flock of geese
fly by.
“Wanna go inside and have a cider or something?”
“Sure.”
The path took them along the riverbank before it arced back towards the house.
Reek kept his eyes on the ground as they passed by the grounds crew, listened
to the rustle of dried leaves and plastic bags. When he glanced up, he saw one
of the men staring straight back at him with wide, brown eyes.
Reek began to shake. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sped his pace.
Walda hurried to keep up. “Hey, don’t take it that way.”
“What the f-fuck way am I supposed to take it?” shot Reek, not slowing his
stride. “I look like I belong in a fucking circus, and the most expensive
fucking clothes in the whole fucking world aren’t going to change that. That’s
why I can’t just leave; that’s why I have to stay here forever.”
“He thinks you’re cute.”
Reek scowled. “Don’t treat me like a fucking idiot.”
Walda tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. “Reek, I’m serious! Please slow
down?”
Reek stopped, feeling suddenly ashamed when he noticed Walda breathing hard as
she caught up to him. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
She looked at him plaintively. “Why won’t you believe me? I’ve seen him looking
at you all week. And not the kind of look you’re assuming, but the kind of look
that says he’d like to come and talk to you. I may be a fat girl, but I do get
that look sometimes myself, you know?”
Reek glanced past her to the men doing the raking, saw the same boy quickly
look away and resume his work. He shivered, feeling inexplicably clumsy,
afraid.
“But I – Ramsay’s the only one who – there’s nobody – he wouldn’t look at me
like that if he knew what I actually l-l-looked like.”
Walda looped her hand into the crook of his elbow, gave a gentle tug that they
should continue. “Ramsay adored you,” she said, adding carefully, “in his own
way. Is it so hard to believe that someone else might?”
Reek chewed his lip. Walda was well-intentioned, he decided, but she didn’t
know. She didn’t know the full extent of the damage – that anyone who ever saw
it was bound to recoil, horrified. No matter what his face looked like. No
matter whether his hair grew in black, or he got new teeth or gained back all
the weight he’d lost. It would all be an illusion – he was irreparable.
“What are you?”
“I’m your Reek.”
“And what good is Reek?”
“No good. Good for nothing.”
“But you can be good if you try.” And then he kissed you. You were scared, so
you let him. “Can you be good for me, pet?”
And he kissed you again, and it was gentle the way he held your face with his
hands.
*
“Walda tells me that one of the men working in the yard has his eye on you.”
Reek sighed as he replaced the empty basin on the table beside Roose’s
recliner. He moved to crouch beside the fire, felt its heat traveling up his
back as he watched the leeches begin their task.
“Yeah, she tells me that too.”
Roose’s nakedness had long ago ceased to unsettle Reek, though of course he
still noticed it. Months had passed, and Bolton had yet to suggest anything
unseemly. Once or twice, Reek felt the urge to touch him, to lay a hand between
his legs and see what might happen, but some sense of self-preservation
dissuaded him.
“I never took you for a particularly romantic person,” mused Roose, eyes
drifting shut.
“I wasn’t.”
Reek braced himself, waiting for Roose to pursue the subject with that
deliberate insensitivity of his, but the man said nothing else until the
leeches were fully engorged with his blood.
“We’re going on an errand today,” he said, watching Reek’s face as he scooped
up each animal, feeling its weight in his palm before discarding it back into
the basin. “I’d like you to drive.”
Reek carried the basin to the fireplace, pausing for a minute before dumping
the leeches into the flames.
*
He couldn’t quell the trembling in his hands as he turned the key in the
ignition of a brand new black Suburban that the mechanic had brought up. He
strove not to think about the last time he’d been behind the wheel, but he
recalled the sound of bones breaking, the half-formed wish that he might be
dead.
You were stupid for trying to run, thought Reek, shifting into Drive once Roose
and Qyburn had secured their seatbelts. Ramsay was only trying to care for you.
It was ungrateful and stupid to run.
Theon had enjoyed driving – at least, when he was on his own, aimlessly
cruising the freeways of Wintertown after all the lights had come on. It felt
like control. Now, even the idea of control exhausted him. Crashing was so much
easier.
“Reek, please keep both hands on the wheel.”
“Yes sir.”
Reek remembered the first time Ramsay had taken him out for a ride. He’d been
frightened, of course, and confused when Ramsay handed him a helmet.
“I don’t, um, I shouldn’t take this from you,” said Reek, holding it at arms’
length, not allowing himself to look directly at Ramsay. “I don’t deserve to –”
Ramsay rolled his eyes and thrust the helmet back into Reek’s chest, sending a
jolt of pain through his ribcage. “I don’t need one. I bought it for you. And
now you’re acting pretty fucking ungracious about it.”
Reek swallowed, hands clutching at the front of his shirt. “No! No, no – I
don’t mean to be, um, ungracious. I – I only – I – only want to – to, um –”
He’d begun to whimper, desperately searching for the right words, the thing
Ramsay wanted to hear.
He wants to know that you’re worried about him.
“I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, pet.” Ramsay extended an arm, cradled Reek’s
face in his palm. “But I need you to trust me.” Before Reek could blink,
Ramsay’s hand slipped down to catch him by the throat, thumb pressing just
behind Reek’s jaw and lifting his chin until their eyes met. It was all Reek
could do to keep them open, to remain still, to remember to breathe.
Instinctively, he raised his own hands to grab at Ramsay’s forearm. A thin
whine escaped his cracked lips.
“Ssshhh.” Ramsay regarded him with those icy eyes, mouth open slightly while
his tongue traced the edges of his bottom teeth. “Relax, sweetheart. Relax.”
Reek allowed his hands to fall back to his sides. He swallowed again and took a
deep breath. Ramsay’s grip was light on his neck, and Reek felt his pulse
pounding beneath his master’s fingertips.
“There, like that. Just relax.” Ramsay leaned forward, still steadying the bike
with one hand as he pressed his forehead against Reek’s. His breath was sweet
and warm on his pet’s face. “Do you trust me, Reek?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Then get on the bike.”
When he wrapped his arms around Ramsay’s waist, he was surprised to find that
the monster felt so familiar, so finite – all that awfulness contained in a
ribcage, in a body just like his own. He held Ramsay close - he’s less likely
to hurt you if you stay close – and later on he’d sometimes let his hands stray
down to press at his master’s crotch, to see if he could prompt Ramsay to pull
over and take him by the side of the road.
“You trying to get us both killed?” Ramsay would ask with a grin.
“Maybe,” Reek replied breathlessly.
Which didn’t seem so bad, really. At least then there’d be someone to look
after him in hell.
*
Roose offered up a spindly hand to help him down from the cab, and Reek held it
for a moment longer than necessary, adjusting the scarf around his face before
asking with a stammer, “What’s – are we – who’s – is there someone – is there
someone in there?” His shell-shocked blue eyes flitted from the door of the
unit to Roose’s stern face.
“No, there’s nobody in there right now.”
Still, Reek shook and began to breathe too quickly, clasping Roose’s hand
tightly. “Then why – then please – don’t – why do I – please don’t make me go
in.”
Roose studied Reek’s eyes incisively. “Are you having a regression right now?”
Reek recovered himself enough to let go of Roose’s hand, but continued to knot
his own crippled fingers together. “N-no. No sir, I’m not. Just – please tell
me what’s inside.”
Roose sighed and straightened his shirt collar. “Drugs, pet. This shipmen
arrived early this morning and Qyburn and I need to make sure everything is in
order before it gets picked up for distribution this afternoon.” He took a few
steps towards the door, pausing when Reek hung back.
“This place still scares you that much?”
“It’s the smell. The bleach. I can’t stand it.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to start readjusting yourself.” Roose clapped
Reek firmly on the shoulder, pulling him along through the door. “Our work
takes a strong stomach.”
The light made him flinch, the way it flickered – just like the light in his
own unit. The sound of his own footsteps on the concrete echoed the way
Ramsay’s did, though the tempo was different, uneven.
In the center of the floor was a pallet, stacked shoulder-high with wooden
shipping crates and bound up with plastic straps.
“Is this – did my family ship this?” Reek asked, running a finger along the
edge of one of the boxes.
“I don’t do business with the Ironborn,” remarked Roose, opening a pocket knife
to sever the straps along one side of the pallet. “This came through White
Harbor.”
“What is it?”
“MDPV,” answered Qyburn as he pulled a package free from the heap.
“Colloquially known as ‘bath salts,’ though of course this particular brand has
its own name, I’m sure.”
“Where is it going?”
“Domeric always took an interest in the way things ran,” commented Roose as he
helped the doctor to loosen the straps and pull another box from the stack.
“Did Ramsay ever tell you about his older brother?”
“Not really,” lied Reek.
“Most of it’s headed North to our small-scale distributors.” Roose loaded the
package into Reek’s arms, and Reek teetered under the weight of it. “However,
Qyburn needs to supply his research.”
“I’m close to perfecting it,” chimed the old man.
Reek looked down at the box he held. “You know – you know what they say about
this stuff? What it does to people?”
“You mean that it turns them into cannibals?” Roose closed his knife and
replaced it in his pocket, then fixed Reek with an amused stare. “Of course
I’ve heard those rumors.”
*
“Reek? Are you still awake?”
“Only if you want me to be,” Reek mumbled, not opening his eyes. He lay on his
side, both arms folded up to his chest. He felt Ramsay stir, felt the heat of
his master’s body pressed against his back, Ramsay’s arm hooking around his
waist, lips brushing the ragged edge of his ear.
“Reek, if I ask you something, do you promise to never tell anyone?”
Reek smiled, eyes still closed. “Who would I tell?”
Ramsay shook him lightly. “I’m fucking serious. Promise.”
“Okay, I promise. Ask me something.”
Ramsay’s voice was the faintest whisper, almost childish, but it carried the
heat of adrenaline behind it. “If I told you to help me kill my dad, would you
do it?”
Reek felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He rolled onto his back,
opened his eyes to regard Ramsay seriously. Ramsay was looking at him
expectantly, biting his lip and holding his breath.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” said Reek, pressing his remaining
fingertips to Ramsay’s mouth. Then more softly, drawing his thumb along the bow
of Ramsay’s lower lip he added, “I know – I know you want to sometimes, but you
shouldn’t say so.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“Of course I would.”
***** Chapter Twenty-One *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek gets his hands dirty and collects his reward.
Chapter Notes
     So I'm hoping that as my winter season falls into place, I'll be able
     to update more frequently than once a month! Yay! The end is in
     sight... sort of. There are so many works in progress out there that
     I am breathlessly awaiting updates on myself! <3
The first snow had just fallen when Roose put a knife in Reek’s shaking hands.
The air in the unit was cold enough that Reek could see his breath, and the
breath of the man bound to the chair in front of him that came in weak, uneven
huffs.
The chains would be freezing, he thought. The blade would be freezing.
The man in the chair had been beaten – several times, judging by the spectrum
of bruising on his chest and thighs and most of all his face. One of his
shoulders had dislocated; his right leg was visibly broken and his front teeth
hung at odd angles.
Reek tried to get away at first, turned to flee out the door before Roose
intercepted him, held Reek’s shoulders and shook him until he stopped that
frantic, fearful stuttering that Roose found so grating.
“You will do as I tell you,” he said, holding Reek by the hair on the back of
his head.
“Please –”
“You will do as I tell you, if you ever want to see either of Ned Stark’s
pretty sons again.”
Reek nodded, his eyes welling with tears as he squirmed beneath Roose’s
merciless grip. “Yes sir.” He swallowed hard. “But –”
Roose’s fingers twisted in his hair, wrenching on his scalp hard enough to drop
Reek to his knees.
“But?”
Instinctively, Reek grabbed for Roose’s forearm, fighting to free himself. Like
Ramsay, Roose was remarkably strong for his size – taller than his son, yet
thinner – and that strange, airy manner of his belied an almost effortless
cruelty which – until now – Reek had felt more than he had seen. He ceased
struggling, dropped his hands to his sides and bowed his head.
“A gun. Please.”
Roose’s fine features shifted for a moment as he considered Reek’s request. “A
knife, this time,” he said, offering the hilt of it. “If you do well, I’ll let
you use a gun from now on.”
Kill him. The hysterical thought sparked into Reek’s brain as his fingers
closed around the soft leather handle. Stick it up into his guts and twist it,
or slash the artery in his leg. Ramsay would know how. Ramsay would like that.
But Ramsay was dead, Reek was a coward and Roose was no fool; he perceived the
slide of Reek’s eyes and staid his own grip on the sheath for a beat, saying,
“I trust you’re smart enough to know that killing me won’t solve even one of
your countless problems.” Nodding towards the man in the chair, he added, “And
at best you’ll buy him an extra few minutes of agony.”
Reek paled at having been read so plainly.
“It’s a good thought though,” said Roose, giving Reek’s hair a ruffle.
“Why are you making me do this?” The blood rushed from Reek’s head as he stood
up, and his stomach felt sick. At least Ramsay got some joy out of making Reek
suffer.
“Because I want to see if you can,” replied Roose. “How do you hope to take
your revenge on Robb Stark if you can’t end the life of someone who means
nothing to you?”
Reek hadn’t thought of that. “But Robb hurt me. This guy –”
“Look at him.”
Reek hesitated, and as he turned to face the man in the chair, he was overcome
with a sense of déjà vu. His vision grew hazy around the edges, and he wasn’t
startled when he felt a pair of hands on him, Roose’s voice just next to his
ear, pressing him, “You remember what that was like, don’t you?”
Reek swallowed. The man raised his eyes to squint at Reek before his head
lolled down again, a string of bloody saliva dropping onto his chest.
“Yes.”
“Tell me what it felt like when you realized that no one was coming to help
you.”
“It felt like falling. Without ever stopping,” answered Reek, though he thought
to himself, There are no words to tell you.
Roose’s hand slipped down the length of Reek’s arm, curled gently around Reek’s
fingers, around the hilt of the knife. “You wished you were dead.”
Reek nodded.
“Then consider this your chance to be merciful.”
And perhaps it was a lie, but it was what Reek needed to believe if he was to
see Jon Snow again, and perhaps mercy was in the act rather than the intention.
“Leave?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Please leave me.”
“You have five minutes.” And Roose’s hands were gone, his footsteps sharp as he
exited the unit and closed the door behind him. Reek became suddenly aware of
his own flesh, the nip of the cold air at his ears, the way his hair stood on
end whenever the man shifted and the legs of the chair ground against the
concrete.
Reek considered the knife, turned it in his gloved hands, catching his own
reflection in the steel. This was not a flaying knife; this was a heaver, more
generalized weapon – it was for the kind of unskilled cutting and stabbing in
which Poole and Flint had specialized and it felt like a very subtle mockery
when Roose handed it to him.
“Who are you?” the man asked finally.
“My name’s Reek. I belong to Ramsay. Who are you?”
“James.”
Reek sank to his haunches in front of James, elbows resting on his thighs while
he passed the knife from hand to hand. James had dark hair, olive skin, a
tattoo of a sunflower on one side of his neck with a scroll that said, “Anna.”
“Did he do that?” James asked, a fresh bead of blood rolling out the corner of
his mouth. “Your fingers?”
“No.”
“Who did it then?”
“Just a boy I knew.”
“How come you cover your face?”
Reek shrugged. “Because.”
“Could you – could you take it off? Let me see you?”
Reek shook his head ruefully. He supposed it didn’t really matter if James saw
his face. It didn’t even matter if James knew his old name. His fingers came up
to worry at the fringe of his scarf. “No,” he said. “I’d rather not.” Then
after a pause: “This is bullshit, isn’t it?”
James laughed – a sort of hacking sound – and it jostled Reek to realize that
he’d had a striking smile, once. "Well, get on with it, yeah?"
He did it from behind, because that was how he’d seen Flint do it. It occurred
to him to apologize, but what was the point? He took off his glove, laid a bare
hand on the nape of James’ neck and threaded his fingers up through his hair
and pulled gently.
The sound was the worst part – the wet crunching sound, the chains rattling as
James’ whole body jerked, the gush of blood onto the concrete, steaming in the
cold air.
*
“You did well,” Roose told him afterwards. “You did perfectly.” He didn’t seem
to mind the wetness of Reek’s tears as he drew the boy into him. “Ssssh. It’s
over. It’s done.”
“Promise me – promise me I’ll see him again.” Reek pawed at the back of Roose’s
pea coat, buried his face in the crook of Roose’s shoulder.
“I promise you’ll see Jon again.”
“Tell me when.”
“Before the winter’s out. I promise.” Roose allowed himself to stroke the boy’s
hair, so tangled and coarse.
“If you’re lying, I’ll k-k-kill myself. I swear to g-god.”
“Ssssh, pet. I know. You’re so good, you know that? Ramsay would be so proud of
you.” Reek only whimpered. “I can tell Qyburn to give you an extra sleeping
pill for tonight. Would you like that?”
“Y-yes sir,” Reek sniffled.
“Good boy.” Roose pressed a dry kiss to Reek’s temple.
*
Domen was born at home, though two days passed before Reek was permitted to see
him. He paced the hallways of the Dreadfort, listening to Walda’s screaming and
trying not to think of that other time. It was early in the morning when the
sounds abated and Reek lingered in the corridor, stammering at a servant girl
bustling by, “H-hey, is it – um, did Walda –”
“It’s a boy,” she said, exasperated as she pushed her bangs out of her eyes.
“Is it, um – is it normal?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” she asked, screwing up her face at
him. Then, comprehendingly, “He seems normal. I mean, he’s a baby.”
“Can I hold him?” Reek asked when he was finally allowed in. Walda had been
sleeping in one of the guest-rooms, and now she sat propped up against a stack
of pillow, knitting.
“Of course you can,” she said. “Have you ever held a baby before?”
Reek nodded. He’d held Bran and Rickon when they came home from the hospital.
That was such a long time ago now.
“Don’t you think my – um, my hands might freak him out?”
Walda raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. I don’t think he even knows what hands
are supposed to look like.”
The baby slept in a bassinet beside the bed, wearing nothing but a green cloth
diaper. Reek reached out, then recoiled, looking back imploringly at Walda.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I want you to hold him.”
“Will Roose be okay with it?”
“When he pushes a baby out of his vagina, he can decide who gets to hold it,”
she said, not looking up from her knitting.
“Okay, but if he asks, I’m telling him you said that.”
Domen stirred as Reek’s hands encircled him, eyes opening groggily as Reek
brought him to his chest, head cradled in the crook of his elbow. The baby was
bald, which Reek supposed was to be expected, but his irises were a pale gray,
and they stared at Reek curiously, waiting.
“He’s got the eyes,” said Reek.
“Yeah, who’d have thought that was a dominant gene?”
They were the same color, and yet however much Reek scrutinized them, he
couldn’t seem to find the slightest trace of Ramsay.
What the fuck is wrong with you? He’s a baby. A brand new baby.
“He’s got your nose though.”
Reek gingerly walked the remaining fingers of his right hand up Dom’s belly,
and blushed when the baby took ahold of them with his hands. They were so warm
– almost hot. It was all Reek could do not to smile and bare his teeth.
Was I ever this small?
Did my mom ever hold me like this?
Would I have ever wanted a baby?
Something about the sight of those ten tiny fingers wrapped around his boney,
mismatched ones made Reek’s eyes start to tear up. When he turned his head away
to wipe his cheeks on his sleeve, the garnet hanging from his collar gave a
twinkle and Domen reached for it with a happy chirp.
“He likes you.”
“Only because he doesn’t know me,” said Reek, tucking the stone back beneath
the collar of his shirt.
*
Roose kept his word and gave Reek a gun after that. Not to keep – of course –
and always loaded with a single bullet, but it was faster that way, if no less
bloody. Holding the pistol steady, aiming with any accuracy was impossible with
his mangled hands, so Reek had to brace the tip of the barrel against the
forehead. (He hated seeing their faces, but not as much as he hated the idea of
shooting from the back and blowing the face apart entirely.)
The brains got everywhere, and when he returned to the Dreadfort, Reek would
cut himself before stepping into a scalding shower, scrubbing his hands and
arms until they were raw. He preferred an old straight-razor he’d found in
Ramsay’s dresser drawer and kept beside the sink. The back of his left forearm
and the outside of his right thigh bore a crosshatch of white, raised lines,
which he dutifully showed to Roose.
Roose touched them sometimes, trailing his slender fingers over Reek’s skin,
silent except for a light, “Hmm.”
Reek found himself thinking about Robb during what Roose called his “episodes.”
(That was Roose’s word for Reek’s cutting, as well as for his night terrors and
fainting spells, and the single seizure he’d had.) Reek fantasized a scenario
in which Robb found him with his wrists cut open, fell to his knees and held
him without minding the blood. Robb would kiss him on the mouth and whisper,
“Oh god – I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry, Theon.”
*
“What’s this?”
“Nothing. An accident.” Reek pulled on his sleeve.
“Don’t lie to me,” warned Ramsay. “Did you do that?”
Reek looked at his feet. “Yes.”
“Have I not been paying enough attention to you?”
Reek blushed and chewed on his thumbnail. It was only a small wound, but he
felt so light when Ramsay cleaned it and put a band-aid on, kissed him on the
cheek and told him, “Don’t pick at it, babe, or it’ll leave a scar.”
*
It was soon after Valentine’s Day – just a couple weeks after Domen’s arrival –
that Reek was startled to find Roose Bolton waiting fully-dressed in his study,
reading a book beside the hearth and beckoning him to come in and close the
door.
“Good morning, pet,” he said, eyes lingering on the page for a few seconds
before looking up. He closed the volume and laid it back on the mantle. “How
are you feeling?” His tone was not cheerful by any means, but lighter somehow,
as though Roose were in an approximation of a good mood.
“Fine,” replied Reek uneasily. “Are you, um - it's Sunday, isn’t it?”
“It is, but I’ve decided to forgo my treatment for today.”
“Oh.” Reek stared at the fire, then glanced over his shoulder at the door. He
wanted to leave, but without Roose’s express dismissal, he remained frozen.
“It’s your turn, Reek.” Roose spoke to him as though speaking to a skittish
child – a patient, patronizing inflection to match the wiry smirk on his lips.
“Take off your clothes.”
Reek wished he understood why he complied so simply. Ramsay tortured him in
unimaginable ways, and yet Reek dared to disobey sometimes, dared to talk back
when he thought his master might find it charming or sweet. Roose had never
truly harmed him, but Reek feared him absolutely. Reek and Ramsay had a
relationship; Roose didn’t relate to anyone.
He watched Reek undress, motionless save for the eyes that skimmed over the
snarl of scars on Reek’s chest. Reek shivered despite the heat of the fire. He
covered the worst of himself with his hands, eyes downcast as he awaited
further instruction.
“Sit,” said Roose finally, and Reek shuffled over to the recliner. The leather
of it felt strange against his skin – soft and more pliable than he’d expected.
“Did you ever make Ramsay do this?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably as Roose
lifted Reek’s hands away from his crotch and brought them to rest on the arms
of the chair.
“I never made Ramsay do anything. But he tried it a few times.” Roose reached
for the basin, the firelight behind him rendering his face unreadable. “The
most recent was when he still had you imprisoned in the storage yard. He came
to me one night – I was surprised. Ramsay detested the leeches. But he asked me
for help – he said that he hadn’t been sleeping or eating or thinking clearly.
You had that effect on him.”
Reek felt a pang of affection for his master. “Did it help?” he asked, watching
with fascination as Roose plucked the first leech from the bowl, rolled it
gently between two fingers for a moment before laying it in the hollow of
Reek’s hip.
Roose shook his head. “Ramsay’s body was far too polluted for a simple leeching
to provide much relief.”
“Polluted with what?” Reek’s stomach tensed as Roose dropped a second leech
just below his chest.
“His mother’s blood,” replied Roose. “It agitated him – made him impulsive and
brash.”
That’s not fair, thought Reek. He was yours too.
“I’m both those things,” said Reek. “Or at least I used to be,” he added with a
smirk. “I don’t suppose there’s any cure for Greyjoy blood either.”
“There’s not.” Roose placed the final leech on the inside of Reek’s elbow, set
the basin aside and wiped his hands on the towel.
“So what’s the occasion?”
“I have a meeting with Robb Stark tomorrow. You’re coming with me; I think
you’re ready to return to Winterfell.”
Reek’s heart skipped at the same time that his stomach dropped. But his body
felt so languid – so consumed by the warmth of the room that the cool touch of
Roose’s hand on his thigh was almost a relief.
“Why do you care so much what happens to me?” he asked, eyes half-lidded as he
turned his face away from the brightness of the fire.
“Do you really think that I do?” Roose’s feathery touch continued up, skirting
just near enough to the wound between Reek’s legs that Reek gave a faint gasp,
his fingers clutching hard at the leather.
“Yes.” Reek twisted in the chair, bit his lip and closed his eyes.
*
The snow lay thick in the trees when they arrived, the branches of the stately
evergreens bowed beneath its weight while a blanket of clouds dulled the
morning sunshine into a gray glow. Winterfell looked the same as ever – opulent
without being ostentatious – and yet it was different somehow. He recalled the
fear he’d felt the first time he saw the mansion, its wide front steps flanked
on either side by a massive, marble wolf.
I’m going to die here, he had thought.
Now that fear seemed quaint, and though he knew that nothing within those walls
presented any kind of harm he had not already endured, he still felt a kind of
heaviness settling inside him, an anticipation that made him fidget with the
fingers of his gloves.
Robb. Robb is in there. He’s been there this whole time. What if he recognizes
you? What if he asks you to show your face?
He thinks you’re dead.
But what if you told him you weren’t? What if things could be the way they were
supposed to be?
“Are you nervous?” asked Roose, unbuckling his seatbelt so that he could reach
over to secure Reek’s scarf around his face.
“Yeah, I – what if he recognizes my voice?”
“I suggest that you refrain from speaking more than a few words at a time.”
Roose pulled his gloves on and tucked the edge of his own scarf in beneath the
lapels of his pea coat. “I do actually have business with Mr. Stark today, and
I didn’t bring you here to interfere with that. Stay quiet, pay attention and
remember your name.”
“Yes sir.”
The walk had recently been shoveled, but Reek still found himself wishing Roose
would offer him an arm to hold on to. The cold made his joints throb,
especially the knuckles of his missing digits, and he strove to keep up with
Roose’s brisk pace. The door opened as they approached the bottom of the steps,
and Reek nearly lost his footing when a familiar voice said, “Mr. Bolton – it’s
good to see you again.”
Reek swallowed, steadying himself against one of the wolves before looking up
to meet Jon Snow’s gaze. Jon shivered as he held open one of the formidable
double-doors, barely seeming to notice as Roose brushed past him, dark eyes
fixed on Reek while a light red flush rose on his cheeks.
It’s only the cold, Reek told himself.
“Who are you?” Jon asked, and Reek faltered as a voice inside him shouted,
Theon! My name is Theon!
“Reek,” he managed.
“Well, are you going to come inside or what?” Jon sounded irritated and Reek
wilted.
“Yes, Reek, don’t be rude,” said Roose, wiping his boots on the mat in the
foyer.
“Sorry.” Reek hurried inside, trying not notice how close Jon was – easily
within arm’s reach.
The warmth of the house enveloped Reek the same way it had enveloped Theon
twelve years earlier – new and cozy and so unlike the stale heat of the
furnaces at Pyke or the stifling swelter of the hearth in the Dreadfort’s
study. Roose hung his coat and scarf on one of the silver hooks lining the
wall, then nodded for Reek to do the same.
He’d worn black – nothing else seemed fitting – a western-style shirt with opal
buttons that Walda said made him look “really handsome.” Reek wished Jon wasn’t
staring at him, though – probably noticing his clumsy hands, probably noticing
the missing parts. And Reek wished he could look at Jon without staring back.
“The scarf,” said Jon, finally.
“I – I can’t, um –” Reek stammered.
“What’s that?” asked Roose.
“The scarf. I can’t allow your associate to meet Mr. Stark with his face
covered like that.”
Reek blinked and took a step back, terror rising as he imagined Jon snatching
the scarf away, recoiling at the sight of his shattered, rotten teeth. Reek
brought his hand up to his neck, felt the shape of the collar beneath the
fabric of the scarf.
“Please –”
“Mr. Snow, I appreciate your sense of duty.” Roose moved to stand beside Reek,
to place a reassuring hand on the small of his back. “But Reek is harmless.
He’s – forgive me, Reek – he’s undergone a substantial trauma, and the scarf
helps him cope with that. He tends to panic without it. But he’s very dear to
me, and I hope Mr. Stark might show some compassion and allow me to vouch for
him.”
Jon frowned and reached for his wrist, then seemed to catch himself and settled
for combing his fingers through his curls. “Yeah, fine, I’ll ask him.” Jon
cleared his throat. “Come with me. He’s waiting.”
Turning to exit the foyer into the main hallway, Jon passed through a metal
detector, unruffled by its shrieking as he quickly entered the reset code.
Roose had judiciously left his knives at home, and the only thing that set off
the detector was Reek’s belt buckle.
“Lift up your shirt, please.” Looking utterly bored, Jon picked up a wand and
passed it around Reek’s waist, while Reek held his shirt up just high enough to
reveal the belt and as little of his own skin as possible.
“I think it’s the belt?” he offered.
“Yeah, it’s the belt,” said Jon, hesitating to squint at one of the red, raised
scars that ran up Reek’s right hip. He replaced the wand in a holster on the
wall. “Come on then.”
“That’s new,” Roose leaned in to whisper. “Robb installed it after your
sister’s visit.”
“Like she’d use the door,” muttered Reek, struggling to tuck his shirt back in
as they followed Jon down the corridor.
The house seemed lonelier somehow – less like a family home and more like a
sparsely-occupied hotel. The servants still hurried from room to room, and the
delicious, familiar smell of the Stark kitchen still wafted through the air,
but the scene was oddly silent, where before there had been children’s voices,
the sounds of games played in the stairwells, races down the hallways, the
latest Top 40 blaring from the stereo in Sansa’s bedroom. Sansa would be
seventeen by now – she might be away at college already. The idea was jarring.
Arya was probably a sulky fifteen, and Bran had always been quiet. But Rickon
was still only nine. Reek wondered if Gendry still worked in the garage. It
must be especially lonely down there, he thought.
In the elevator, Jon pressed the button for the third floor, then leaned
against the wall and tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves. Reek spotted the edge
of a tattoo peeking out above the neckline of Jon’s black, cable-knit sweater,
and he wondered how much else had changed. Jon’s shoulders were broader, his
face a bit leaner-looking with the beginnings of a beard, and his eyes seemed
sadder than Reek remembered them, and he felt a sudden ache, because even Jon’s
goddamn frown still looked beautiful.
Reek looked at Roose as if to ask for help, and Roose only smirked at him.
Jon held the door to Robb’s office for Roose, but when Reek tried to follow, he
found himself stopped up against Jon’s hand, pressing firmly into the center of
his chest.
“Not you. Wait here.”
He let the door fall closed, while Reek stood alone in the hallway.
I called this home, he thought.
“Where is home?” Ramsay had asked him.
“Here. With you. I can be myself with you.”
Reek shook his head, confused. He heard Robb’s voice through the door saying,
“Oh Jesus, Jon, just bring him in.”
He’d been expecting to see Catelyn there, but there was no sign of her. Or of
Ned Stark for that matter – Robb had remodeled the office. Gone were the modest
furniture and the shelves of old ledgers and the overflowing file cabinets,
replaced with a gargantuan cherry-wood desk and an entire wall of luminous
closed-circuit monitors. The fireplace had been torn out and replaced with a
silent, state-of-the-art heating system, and the wolf’s-head chair had been
relocated from the conference room. Robb had just taken his seat in it as Jon
ushered Reek in and pointed him to the leather couch opposite Robb’s desk.
Robb Stark studied Reek for a moment, though propriety dictated he move things
along more quickly than perhaps he might’ve liked. “You’ll have to forgive Mr.
Snow,” he said, chewing the inside of his cheek and failing to suppress an
innocent smile. “He takes his job extremely seriously.”
Jon rolled his eyes and turned away for a moment before taking his place beside
the door.
Reek found his mouth had gone dry, so he nodded and uttered a raspy, “Thank
you.”
He half-listened as Robb congratulated Roose on the birth of his son and asked
after Walda’s health.
It didn’t seem real – how could it be that after all of that, he had ended up
back here in this same room with these same men? Jon’s hand on his chest. The
familiar smell of Robb’s shampoo. Robb looked a little older than his nineteen
years – tired around the eyes, and a shock of gray hair had appeared just above
his temple, but he was still predictably handsome, and Reek found himself
wondering how boring old Ned Stark had managed to father such gorgeous sons. He
wondered what Ned had intended with Jon – if perhaps keeping him away from the
family was kinder than it seemed.
“And you, Mr. – um, Reek?”
“Huh?”
“Would you like something to drink?” Robb gestured to a small liquor cabinet.
Reek blushed. “Just Reek,” he said. “No thanks.”
Still, Jon wove his way around the front of the desk to pour himself a glass of
bourbon, then returned to his post where he nursed the drink in one hand and
chewed the fingernails on the other.
Reek turned back to find Robb looking straight back at him, head cocked
slightly, biting that full bottom lip.
“I’m glad you were able to see me in person,” said Roose, deliberately drawing
Robb’s attention to the matter at hand. “I’m excited about our new prospects,
but I still dislike discussing them over the phone.”
“I understand,” replied Robb, hesitating before shifting his gaze away from
Reek. “And I’m… anxious to hear about what you’ve been working on, but you
should know that I’m –” He shot an apprehensive glance at Jon, who pretended
not to notice as he sipped at his drink.
“Yes, I know and I completely appreciate your reservations; since the last time
we spoke, though, my associate Mr. Qyburn has perfected the formula for an
aerosolized version of the drug which can be administered in non-lethal doses.”
“Depends on who’s administering,” interjected Robb. “Its primary usefulness is
as a weapon.”
Roose shrugged. “True – that’s its highest earning potential, though it’s no
more feasible than the street distribution of smaller, recreational doses. The
new formula can be administered – and contained – with much greater accuracy
than previous versions. I can easily arrange a demonstration if you like.”
A profoundly uneasy expression came over Robb, and Reek noticed a redness in
his face. “Mr. Bolton, I appreciate that you’ve chosen to bring your
associate’s work to my attention, particularly when there are other Families
that would undoubtedly be interested in your product. But I –”
“Yes,” interrupted Roose. “There are a few who’ve already expressed interest.
Obviously, I came to you first, but if you decide to pass on this opportunity,
I hope you won’t be startled when I start to look elsewhere for investors.”
Robb opened his mouth to speak, but Roose continued, “You’re understandably
cautious since the events at the capitol, but can you imagine the security that
would come from exclusive ownership over this product? You could manage its
distribution for a profit,” he leaned back against the couch, “Or you could
simply keep in in a secure location. Either way, I’m offering you that
control.”
Reek knew better, but he kept his mouth shut. He wondered what events Roose was
referring to, and realized how completely out of his depth he was. Theon had
often found Family affairs to be boring and sordid, and Reek was discovering
that this whole thing was totally incomprehensible.
Robb folded his hands together, closed his eyes in thought for a moment before
asking, “What do you think, Jon?”
Jon seemed faintly surprised that Robb had asked his opinion. He frowned and
stared down through the bottom of his empty glass. “I don’t know,” he said. “I
wouldn’t want to fuck around with that shit at all, if I was either of you.”
Robb grimaced. “Give me a week,” he said, drumming his fingers on the edge of
his desk. “We’ll – I’ll think it over.” He smiled humorlessly. “You’ve put me
in an uncomfortable position, Roose.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
Bullshit.
Again, Robb’s eyes pivoted back to Reek. “I have another matter I’d like to
discuss with Mr. Bolton – privately. Jon, would you mind escorting our friend
downstairs? It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Jon shrugged, set his tumbler down on Robb’s desk and cracked his neck. “Of
course.” Then to Reek, “Come with me, please.”
Reek’s heart was pounding; he looked to Roose for approval and Roose nodded his
assent.
Robb rose and accompanied Reek to the door, offered a handshake, “I’d love to
know more about you,” he said, dropping his voice to something just above a
whisper. “I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”
Reek wavered for a beat, looking at Robb’s outstretched hand, his tentative,
winsome smile. It was so like the first time – when they were boys and Theon
hadn’t known how dangerous Robb Stark’s affections could be. And even now, as
he clasped Robb’s strong hand with his ruined one, he was alarmed to feel a
familiar weakness stirring within himself.
It would be so easy to forgive him. Just like taking a breath after you’ve been
underwater.
“I – hope so too,” he found himself mumbling. The scarf suddenly felt so
suffocating, and Reek realized that he was blushing.
He followed Jon silently down the hall, searching frantically for something to
say. Jon seemed troubled by something, but it would’ve been inappropriate to
ask what. He continued staring at Reek as the elevator descended to the ground
floor, and when they were in the foyer again blurted, “He’s going to ask you to
come work for him.” Jon folded his arms and waited for a reaction.
“Why?”
“Robb – Mr. Stark has a soft spot for broken things.” Jon clicked his tongue
stud against the back of his front teeth, his gaze dipping down to Reek’s hands
for a moment, curious.
“You don’t look broken.”
“‘Cause you can tell just by looking,” Jon snarled, snapping violently at the
rubber band around his left wrist.
Belatedly, Reek remembered where Jon had been living for the better part of
three years.
You’re a fucking asshole.
“I’m – sorry,” he said. “I just –”
“Just what?” asked Jon, reaching into his pocket for a pack of smokes.
“Just – I don’t even know. I guess I was trying – you look really, um –” Reek’s
eyes darted to the floor, watering. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –”
Jon frowned, and Reek tried not to notice the scent of the single cigarette
that he tucked behind his ear.
“Listen, I didn’t mean –” Jon’s phone chimed, and he sighed and pushed a few
strands of hair out of his face to read the text. "Called it." Shoving the
phone in his back pocket, he fished in the breast pocket of his shirt for
something. “He says to give you this.” He handed Reek a worn business card.
“Says if you want to come work for him, give me a call and I’ll come and get
you. Because I’m his fucking errand-boy, apparently.”
“What, um, what does he want me to do here?”
“Fucked if I know.”
“Do you like working here?”
“Yeah. Mr. Stark is… protective of his interests.” He looked down, gave a smile
that Reek knew was not intended for him. “He’s good to me, if that’s what you
mean.”
*
Unable to fall asleep that night, Reek wrapped himself in his comforter and
stepped out onto the balcony. The stars were clear and sharp, and the cloud
from Reek’s breath reminded him of the smoke from a cigarette, and he wondered
if Jon Snow was still awake.
***** Chapter Twenty-Two *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek returns.
“You’re acting like a teenager.”
Walda wove her arm around his and pressed her cheek to his shoulder.
“What does that even mean?” he asked, pulling his phone out to check the time.
“What time is it?”
“2:34.”
Walda gave Reek’s arm a squeeze. “The last time you checked, it was 2:32. And
you’ve been standing at the window since breakfast, even though he’s not
supposed to get here until 3.”
Reek sighed, and glanced at the small duffel he’d packed the night before. He’d
chosen a few sets of clothes, the red wool scarf, the straight razor and a
photo of Ramsay that Walda had been thoughtful enough to frame for him.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“Fucking terrified,” he said.
“You can always come back. If you change your mind. Or even just for a visit.
You could come see me and Dom.” She squinted up at him. “But you won’t, will
you?”
Reek shook his head. “Probably not. I hope I don’t ever come back here.”
The snow on the ground had lost its luster and turned a soft gray. Reek
returned to staring out at the front gates, fighting the urge to check the time
again. Walda’s body felt so warm pressed against his side, and he wondered how
she could bear Roose’s chilly touch.
“You know what Roose is, right?” he asked. “Like, what he does – where he gets
his money?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m not stupid.”
But how do you – how do you not let that get to you? he wanted to know. How do
you live in his world without – without becoming a part of it?
It was 2:50 when the wrought-iron gates screeched open to admit a sleek black
Equus into the drive. Walda gently pulled away from Reek, handed him the duffel
bag and helped him to secure the scarf around his face.
“I hope someday you’ll give up wearing this,” she said, brushing a lock of
white hair out of Reek’s eyes. “You have such a handsome face.”
What good is a handsome face if your body’s a complete mess?
“You’re too good to me,” he said.
“Am not.” She smiled sadly as she handed Reek his gloves.
Jon was already inside by the time Reek arrived downstairs, wiping his boots in
the entryway while Roose delivered his greetings with his usual non-smile. Reek
stood, frozen – his mind abruptly went blank and the only thing he could think
of was the speed of his heart as it urged him out the door. Walda stepped
around him to offer a warm handshake and say, “Mr. Snow – it’s so lovely to see
you again.”
“Likewise,” replied Jon as his eyes ran Reek up and down, and it was all Reek
could do to restrain himself from feeling for his collar. Jon nodded at the
duffel-bag. “That all the luggage you’ve got?”
Reek nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Jon checked his patently expensive wrist-watch. “If we leave now, we
can get back to Winterfell before the worst of rush hour.”
“Well, give us a minute to say goodbye at least,” said Walda, pulling Reek into
a tight hug that made his ribs ache.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said.
Reek closed his eyes – he imagined that Roose was not there – and rested his
chin atop Walda’s head of thick, soft hair.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Roose’s handshake felt oddly perfunctory, though Reek didn’t know what else he
should expect, or what else he even wanted for that matter. So he let his hand
linger in Roose’s strong grip, looked into those gray eyes for a moment longer
than necessary.
“Thank you for everything, sir,” he said sincerely.
Roose quirked his lips at one corner. “I hope you’ll always remember your time
here. Take care of yourself..”
He stiffened when Reek threw his arms around his shoulders, but relaxed after a
moment, and Reek felt Roose’s slim hand on the back of his neck, pressing
against the buckle of his collar.
“Be a good boy, Reek.”
“Yes sir. I will.”
It was surreal to simply leave like this, to follow Jon out the front door of
the Dreadfort, one foot in front of the other. He imagined Ramsay’s hands on
him, pulling him back up the steps by his hair.
“Don’t you ever fucking leave me.”
Reek looked over his shoulder, but Ramsay wasn’t there – only Walda, waving
happily while Roose wrapped his arm around her waist.
He watched the Dreadfort diminish in the rear window, then disappear from view
entirely – for a moment he pretended that it had never existed at all, but when
he looked down at his hands, he knew that it would always be there – in his
dreams and memories and the aching of his bones.
“You glad to be leaving?” Jon kept his eyes on the road.
“Maybe.”
“I am. That place gives me the fucking wiggins.” Jon reached into his jacket
pocket and pulled out a lighter. He toyed with it for a moment before asking,
“Mind if I smoke?”
“No.”
Jon cracked his window, tucking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and
lighting it deftly with one hand while he steered with the other. Reek cleared
his throat as Jon took a deep drag and exhaled with a sigh. “When did you start
smoking?” he asked, deliberately turning to look out the passenger-side window.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” Jon blew another stream of smoke
towards the window before adding, “Since I was sixteen.” He passed the
cigarette to his left hand and offered up the crumpled pack with his right.
“You want one?”
Reek felt his heart give a little leap when he noticed that Jon’s nails were
painted a dark, forest green.
But smoking wasn’t allowed, so he politely declined. “No thanks,” he said. “I
quit.”
Jon stuffed the cigarettes back into the pocket of his down jacket and began
fussing with the satellite radio settings until he landed on an acceptable
station. He combed his fingers through his hair and reclined his seat slightly.
“That’s good, I guess.”
It wasn’t until they passed out of suburbia and into Wintertown proper that
they arrived at a stoplight, at which Jon turned to study him in earnest. Reek
could see all the questions brewing, shrank back against the seat under the
scrutiny of those eyes, but Jon kept his pretty mouth shut. The light changed
and they sped forward again.
Reek swallowed drily, wishing to god that Jon would say something else to him,
but at the same time grateful for his silence. Several more minutes passed.
“When I said you didn’t look broken, I just meant that you – I was just trying
to say that you –”
Are beautiful.
Reek faltered, resisted the desire to fidget with his gloves.
“Have you seriously been thinking about that for the past two weeks?” Jon
asked. His voice softened slightly, and he risked a prolonged glance at Reek as
he merged into a new lane.
“I mean, not this whole time, but yeah, I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Well don’t worry about it, yeah?”
“Okay.”
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride. Jon smoked another cigarette,
and Reek tried to keep still. He felt like he was floating, his whole body
buzzing at its proximity to Jon – wanting and fearful. He felt the words
filling up his mouth:
“Jon, it’s me – Theon.”
The thought of saying them was dizzying – akin to standing on a high cliff,
knowing that it would be so easy to simply step over the edge, but impossible
to take back.
And what right do you have, exactly, to keep on fucking things up for him like
that?
Or what if he doesn’t remember?
Which was absurd, but of course the idea persisted.
What if he’s forgotten you?
Jon’s phone chimed just as the sedan rolled around the circular driveway in
front of Winterfell and came to a smooth stop in front of the steps.
He checked the screen before answering, “Yeah, I’ve got him. We just pulled
up.” And Reek noted the faint blush, the way Jon turned away slightly to say,
“Jesus, it only took like, ninety minutes, okay? … Yeah, I know that… well,
like I just told you, we’re here now, so you can stop worrying… yeah, I know…
me too… see you soon.” He hung up, then shrugged. “He’s anxious to see you
again is all.”
*
Jon carried Reek’s duffel inside, a gesture that Reek mistook for courtesy
until Jon unceremoniously dumped its contents all over the floor of the foyer,
then crouched down and began inspecting them. He shook out the clothes, tossed
them aside, then picked up a small, paper box and opened it.
“What’s this?” he asked, pulling out one of the packets inside and sniffing at
it.
Reek rang his hands feverishly, and his voice cracked. “That’s my – that’s my
sleeping medicine.”
“It’s not labelled.” Jon flipped the packet over in his palm. “What is it,
exactly?”
“I don’t know. I just – it knocks me out. Helps me fall asleep.”
“Where did you get it?” Jon looked up, toying with the barbell in his tongue.
“Q-qyburn. He makes it for me. He’s Mr. Bolton’s, um –”
“I know what he is.” Reek braced himself as Jon told him, “I can’t let you
bring this in here.”
“But –” Reek bit down to stop his lip from quivering. “But I – I can’t sleep
without it. I have – I have dreams without it.”
Jon’s expression hardened. “If you need a new prescription, you can see Dr.
Luwin about it. But I’m not letting you bring in some random white powder mixed
up by that fucking maniac.”
It was hard to argue with that, though Reek wanted to. Dr. Luwin would know
him, of course. Reek hated himself for not thinking to hide the medicine.
It was going to run out sooner or later.
He watched in resigned helplessness as Jon set the box to one side and then
carried on with his inspection. Jon picked up the framed photo of Ramsay. It
was a strange picture – Ramsay on his motorcycle, glancing over his shoulder
with a look that aimed for exasperated by was in fact obviously affectionate.
(And the thing that made it strange was the fact that Ramsay usually hated
having his picture taken – he turned downright monstrous on the day of the
annual Bolton Family Portrait – but on this occasion he hadn’t seemed to mind
when Reek snatched his phone away and snapped a photo.)
“Give that back, you shithead.”
“Please don’t delete it. It’s a nice picture.”
Ramsay frowned at the screen. “Yeah, I guess.”
Jon ran his thumbnail up the edge of the frame. “Did you take this?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s a nice photo.” Jon set the picture delicately aside, and Reek cringed as
he picked up the straight-razor, turned it over in his hand and flicked the
blade open.
“Be careful. Please.” Reek crouched down beside Jon, reached for the razor
though he didn’t dare snatch it away. “It’s very sharp.”
“I can tell.”
Reek found his throat had gone dry, and he cleared it to add. “It’s – it’s his.
He wanted me to have it.” Reek’s fingers flitted over the handle, still in
Jon’s hand, and Jon tightened his grip. Reek saw something familiar in those
wide, dark eyes. “I’m – I’m supposed to check you for weapons…” he said.
“It’s not a weapon,” Reek pleaded. “It’s just his razor. Sometimes when I was
good he’d help me shave. His hands were so steady – he never cut me. Please let
me keep it.”
Jon hesitated. He sighed and pushed his hair out of his eyes, then closed the
blade. He offered it to Reek, but still held onto it firmly. “I’ll let you keep
this because it seems important to you.”
“Thank you –”
Jon’s voice trembled faintly, but his eyes remained set on Reek’s. “Not because
I trust you. Because I don’t. I think you’re fucking weird as hell and if it
was up to me, you’d still be back at the Dreadfort where weird-as-hell people
belong.”
Reek swallowed. Ramsay had said worse things than this in his sleep, yet Reek
was ashamed to realize that his eyes were watering.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t –”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jon interrupted. “Just – keep the razor. And if you ever
hurt him, I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand?”
Reek nodded and held the razor to his chest. He could feel that the hilt of it
was damp with Jon’s sweat. “Yes, sir.”
“Promise me.”
Reek glanced up, startled, and Jon stared at him expectantly. “I promise,” he
said, though the words tasted familiar and bitter. “I won’t hurt Mr. Stark.
Please believe me?”
Jon helped Reek to gather up his things and stuff them back into the bag, then
offered his hand to bring Reek to his feet. Reek felt light when he took it,
though he still wore his gloves and couldn’t feel the particulars of Jon’s
touch.
His heart pounded as Jon mumbled something about a pat-down, and Reek
obediently spread his arms and feet, to allow for Jon’s awkward, cursory
examination. He nearly panicked as Jon’s hands swiped inarticulately at the
inside of his thighs, fearing that Jon might find what was missing there, but a
second later Jon stepped back and said with a mild blush, “Looks good. Um, let
me show you around.”
And just like that, Jon shifted – the hardness gone from his eyes and his voice
as he slung the strap of Reek’s duffel-bag over his shoulder and passed through
the metal detector, again resetting it when he arrived on the other side. “Are
you coming?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Reek., shuffling through the frame.
Jon began to walk just ahead of him down the hall, raising an eyebrow to say,
“You don’t have to call me sir.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just call me Jon.”
Reek followed, careful to stay just a step or two behind as Jon took him on a
tour of a place that he still knew like it was home all along. He looked down
at his feet and watched them move over the same, pristine white carpeting that
he and Robb had been chided a thousand times for dirtying with their sneakers
after a game of soccer or a race across the yard.
“This is the kitchen. Breakfast is served between seven and nine. Lunch is noon
to one, and dinner is always at six-thirty.” Jon stepped aside to make room for
a girl passing by with an armful of fresh vegetables. “Dinner – dinner is a
family thing. I’m sure Mr. Stark will tell you you’re welcome.” He shrugged. “I
don’t go. If you want something else, or at a different time, just let someone
on staff know and they’ll fix it for you. If it’s really late at night, you can
just help yourself.” Jon rolled his eyes in thought. “Anything else? Any
questions about that?”
“How come you don’t go to dinner?”
Jon looked away, snapped at the rubber band around his wrist. “I just – Mrs.
Stark doesn’t like me – that’s her time with her son, and she doesn’t like me
there. Let’s keep moving.”
Reek listened attentively as Jon explained the elevator and the stairs and the
emergency exits, paying more notice to the way Jon looked this way or that, the
way he bit his lip, the way he snapped at his rubber bands or sometimes seemed
embarrassed for no discernible reason. He noted the way the servants who passed
them gaped, first at Jon and then at Reek.
At least at the Dreadfort, everyone was used to me.
“Don’t mind them,” said Jon, opening the door to the library to show Reek
inside. “They just like to stare.”
Jon flipped on a switch, and an elegant iron chandelier blazed to life.
I don’t remember this.
A double-story window looked out over the tree-tops, and shelves far taller
than any person lined every wall, filled with books of all sizes and ages. A
well-used furniture set lay beneath the chandelier, and though Reek suspected
that the room was seldom used, it seemed clean, the air fresh.
“This is the library. It’s a good place to come if you want to be left alone.
Or you, know, if you like to read.” Jon rubbed at the back of his neck.
“How long have you lived here?”
“A year. Maybe a little less than that.”
“Where did you live before that?”
You know damn well where.
Jon blanched almost imperceptibly. “Further north than this,” he said.
“How did you come to work for the Starks?”
Reek could see the irritation in Jon’s face, then saw something else. “I got
into some legal trouble, and Mr. Stark’s uncle – who’s chief of police up there
– he took an interest in me. He brought me here – thought maybe the Starks
might have some use for me.”
Does he?
Jon faltered. “I don’t really like to talk about it. It’s not really anyone’s
business.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever. Now you know.”
Following Jon down the corridor on the third floor, Reek listened as Jon
explained that there were five Stark children – there was Robb, obviously, who
took over the Family when his father was assassinated by the Lannisters several
years ago. There was Sansa, who was lovely and well-mannered but had shocked
the family last year by running off with Joff Baratheon’s former body-guard.
“I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed to know what she was doing.”
Reek smiled slightly imagining Catelyn’s horror. He wondered what she told the
heads of the other Families. Jon continued; there were two younger boys – Bran
and Rick – whom Robb had sent away to a private boarding school after some
incident at their school in Wintertown. And then there was Arya, of whom Jon
was clearly fond. “She’s crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “She’s like,
fifteen but she’s fucking crazy as hell. I guess after her dad died, she just
kind of stopped following any of Mrs. Stark’s rules. She’s still got a room
here, and you might see her around, but yeah, nobody really knows where she is
most of the time.”
It dawned on Reek how lonely Jon must be in Winterfell. Though he strode
confidently enough through its hallways, that touch of sadness still hung
unmistakably about him as he described a family that he still didn’t know was
his. This Jon was different – colder, his wounds a little deeper – but it
somehow made him feel even more familiar.
Finally, Jon stopped just outside the door to what used to be Sansa’s bedroom.
“This is your room,” he said, turning the knob to open it.
The air was cold – a window left cracked – and it smelled like cleaner. There
was almost no sign of Sansa – her peach-colored walls had been painted over in
eggshell, and the curtains were an innocuous blue. The linens too were plain –
white snowflakes patterned on gray. Something about it depressed Reek terribly.
The bathroom had been scrubbed clean, but he thought he caught the familiar
scent of lavender as Jon slid open the glass shower doors.
“We had the maintenance guys remove all the mirrors – that’s what you wanted
right? Master bathroom, locking door, no cameras, no mirrors?”
Reek nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Jon dropped Reek’s bag onto the bed. “Thank Mr. Stark.”
“Which room is yours?” Reek asked, following Jon back out into the hall.
Jon hesitated for a few seconds before pointing two doors down and answering,
“That one.”
My room.
“But please, like, don’t bother me.” Seeing the dismay in Reek’s face, he
added, “Unless you have to. Like it’s an emergency or something.” Jon glanced
at his watch. “Mr. Stark will meet with you at five-thirty to discuss whatever
arrangement he has with you. Do you think you can find his office again?”
Reek nodded. “Yes.”
Without another word, Jon began to walk away down the hall.
Say something.
Come back.
“Jon?”
Jon stopped, turned to face him while he dug in his pocket for his cigarettes.
“Yeah?”
“Um, thanks. For giving me the grand tour and everything.”
“Mr. Stark wanted to show you around, but he’s busy this afternoon.”
“Well, um, thank you anyway. For taking the time. I’ll try not to bother you
anymore.”
Reek swallowed around the hard lump that had formed in his throat. He expected
Jon to roll his eyes and walk away, but instead he turned red and replied, “I
didn’t mean – I just meant that I like to be alone sometimes. I’m – I’m sure
you won’t bother me.” He shrugged. “Might even be nice to have another fuck-up
around.” The statement was followed by the most fleeting of smiles, but it was
enough to make Reek’s stomach twist.
*
Robb looked exhausted when he opened the door to his office, and Reek hoped
that Robb might send him away, but Robb only gave an apologetic half-smile and
asked if Reek might prefer to meet somewhere less formal.
“Yes, sir.”
He followed Robb to the elevator, hurrying to keep up with his quick stride
until they arrived at a lounge on the second floor. This had been one of Ned’s
rooms – one of the places that Theon and Robb were not allowed unless they’d
been summoned. Reek didn’t know what it looked like back then, but judging by
the daunting plasma screen television and an entire wall lined with games and
movies, he guessed that Robb had done some remodeling. The screen was dark at
the moment, and Robb dialed up a dimmer-switch to bring a warm, mellow light to
the room.
“Sit wherever you like,” he said, taking his own place in a plush reclining
chair.
Reek swayed before sitting on one end of a matching sofa, facing Robb across a
coffee table topped with black marble. “Thank you.”
Robb ran his fingers through his hair, and Reek tried to remember if they had
both always done that, or if it was a habit one had acquired from the other.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on
his knees. “Was everything like you asked?”
Reek nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Good. And Jon showed you around the house?”
“Yes.”
Reek squirmed. While looking at Jon seemed to be so easy that Reek had to
remind himself not to stare, he found it nearly impossible to sustain eye
contact with Robb. He looked at his shoes, at the empty screen, at the sconce
over Robb’s left shoulder – anywhere but those sky-blue eyes that looked so
distressingly the same as they had for as long as Reek could remember.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. It’s important to me that you feel welcome here. And
you are welcome – anywhere you aren’t meant to go will be locked, so feel free
to explore otherwise.”
He’d imagined he’d find his friend somehow different, somehow tangibly wicked,
but this person sitting across from him was just Robb. Robb with circles under
his eyes and that strange little shock of gray in his hair, Robb taller than he
used to be and with a five-o’clock shadow and a deeper voice, but still Robb
with that completely disarming smile.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets to be who he was. Who he’s supposed
to be.
“And feel free to do anything you like here.” Robb cocked his head, squinting.
“I only know what Roose told me about you, and I know him enough to know that
it’s probably only half-true. Whatever he expected of you, you can let that go
now. The scarf – you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”
“But I can?”
Robb frowned and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, you can if you want. Do you
have any questions for me?”
“Why am I here?”
“I don’t know,” Robb admitted, running his fingernails along the inseam of his
jeans. “You just – there’s just something about you.” He smiled, and Reek
lowered his eyes. “You know?”
Reek shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Roose didn’t want to part with you at all. He seemed to think that you needed
further rehabilitation for – for whatever it was, exactly. He wouldn’t tell me,
and I won’t ask you to say anything you don’t want to say.” And here, Robb
looked deeply uncomfortable. “And I’m sure he’s right, but I’m also pretty sure
that the Dreadfort is the worst place in the world for anyone to recover from
anything.”
Reek nodded silently.
“He told me that your injuries prevent you from being especially useful to
him.” Robb’s eyes flitted down to Reek’s hands, and Reek folded them quickly
together. “Please, don’t feel like you have to hide them here. I don’t – I
don’t mind.”
“Everyone stares.”
“And you’re so sure it’s because of your hands?”
What the fuck does that mean?
Reek said nothing.
“I want you to drive for me. Roose told me that you have some experience.”
No. No no no no no!
Back where you started. Like none of it happened. Like this is all you ever
were.
Don’t let him do this!
Reek opened his mouth to object, when Robb added, “You’ll be with Jon, mostly.
He takes care of those things that are most important to me, and it’s stressful
for him, you know? I think it would be good for him to have a little help. A
little company.” Robb smiled affectionately. “He gets lonely – kind of cranky
sometimes. Think you can handle it?”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.” Reek closed his mouth.
“I think I might stay here and watch an episode of something,” said Robb. “Care
to join me?”
Reek glanced dubiously at flat-screen, then at Robb – he grinned at Reek, as
though he genuinely wanted Reek’s company.
“I need to unpack.”
“I’m sorry. I’m forgetting what a long day this has probably been for you.
Dinner is at six-thirty. You’re welcome to join us, though I bet Jon has
already told you that he finds it awkward. Regardless, I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reek rose and was halfway out the door, when Robb asked, “Reek?”
“Yes?”
“Is there, um, something you’d rather be called? Just guessing that Reek’s not
your real name.”
“Please call me Reek.”
So that I don’t forget.
*
He thought he was imagining it, at first. Afraid to close his eyes, Reek tossed
and turned in his bed, wrapping himself in the blankets, only to cast them
aside when he felt suddenly suffocated. He recalled his very first night in
Winterfell – he couldn’t sleep then, either. The house was too quiet, the air
too dry. He’d cursed Asha for talking him out of bringing his favorite stuffed
toy.
The door to Robb’s bedroom had been opened and closed several minutes ago. Reek
had listened and heard nothing else, and had slipped into a kind of stupor when
he was abruptly aware of the muffled but unmistakable sound.
Oh. My. God.
“Jesus – Jon – please –”
Reek held his breath until it burned in his chest, but he couldn’t hear Jon’s
response – only the continued noise of the bedframe, and Robb’s voice – louder
this time:
“Oh God –” and then that sweet laugh. “Do you have to look so serious right
now?”
Reek jumped when the headboard slammed forcefully against the wall in response,
and Robb’s laugh morphed into a strangled “Fuck –”
Reek didn’t want to hear this, and yet he lay there listening in a state of
near-paralysis for close to an hour, burning with an infuriating mixture of
disgust and rage and desire. He closed his eyes, but that only made the whole
scene more vivid in his mind. A cold sweat began to form on the back of his
neck at the same time that the bed began to feel intolerably hot.
Robb knows. He knows.
Jon doesn’t.
Reek felt a crushing sensation descending onto his chest, making breathing
difficult. His eyes welled with tears, fingers grasping for his collar as he
found himself back there – back in the darkness of a storage unit somewhere on
the east side of town, understanding – finally – that Robb was never coming
back for him.
***** Chapter Twenty-Three *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek gets advice for dealing with his panic attacks, but Jon is
     hardly one to give it.
Chapter Notes
     Whee! Another update! You are all so lovely and I hope you like it!
Within a week, Reek’s dreams returned full-force, and he woke with a gasp in a
cold sweat. When he rolled over to look at the alarm clock beside his bed, he
found only forty minutes elapsed since he’d turned out the lights, which was
not enough time to allow Robb and Jon to finish one another off, apparently.
Fuck.
Is it going to be like this forever?
Reek buried his head beneath the pillow to muffle the noise. He turned fitfully
for some time, and when he next looked at the clock, it was nearly one in the
morning and no further sound issued from the wall he shared with Robb. Reek
sighed – in the Dreadfort, he often felt like time had stopped – as though he’d
fallen off the planet completely, and the seasons passed in muted tones, at a
distance. It was a feeling that Roose himself seemed to confirm, with his odd,
ageless face that placed him anywhere from forty to in his sixties, his gait
that was smooth without a swagger, his hands that were thin but strong as iron.
Reek shuddered. At the time, he’d compared living in the Dreadfort to being
buried alive.
Now, back in Winterfell, time moved too quickly – the tick of the seconds too
acute, as the clocks jumped forward all of a sudden when Reek wasn’t looking.
Reek began each day hoping to see Jon, maybe trade an awkward greeting as they
both rode the elevator down to the dining room, and then before he knew it, the
sun had gone down and Jon had retired to Robb’s bedroom for the night.
Reek wondered what Catelyn thought of all this. It was unthinkable that she
couldn’t also hear them, and though he hadn’t actually seen her since his
return, Reek had noticed the maids coming and going from her bedroom with fresh
sheets each day. He’d thought to be over it by now – the feeling of being
unwanted and unwelcome, but something about her seclusion left him cold and
uneasy.
*
It hurt when Ned used the belt, but more than the bite of the leather, it was
the anger that left Theon burning for hours afterward. He hated it – the force
of the strap landing against the bare skin of his ass – but he understood it,
the same way he understood Rick’s fist in his face, or Maron twisting his arm
until he cried, or the sting of his father’s open had against his cheek when he
was five, telling him that he was old enough to start behaving like a man. And
he understood the anger – anger was Asha, calm on top like a fast-flowing
river; it was the sound of doors slamming in their mother’s wake.
So he understood when Catelyn slapped him.
Afterwards, she ushered Robb inside and told Theon to wait in the hall while
she washed the stage blood off her precious son’s face and neck, kneeling
before him with a wet cloth clenched tightly in her fingers, soothing him as he
sobbed pitifully that he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it, that he and Theon
were just playing a game, honest.
“Sssh, sweetie, I know. I know you’re sorry.”
Theon leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, listening.
“You didn’t – you didn’t need to hit Theon like that. He wouldn’t let anything
bad happen to me for real.”
There was a pause, in which Theon felt his heart drop.
“Robb, I know that you didn’t mean to scare me, but Theon is old enough to know
better. Do you – sweetie, do you understand why Theon came to live with us?”
Robb hiccoughed. “Because his father went behind Dad’s back?”
“That’s right. Your father trusted the Greyjoys, and they nearly started a
war.”
“But Theon’s not – Theon’s not like them.”
Peeking around the door, Theon saw Cat cradle Robb’s cheek, wiping at a fleck
of dried blood still clinging there. Her back was turned to him - and Robb’s
eyes found Theon’s for a second before he looked away.
“You’re very kind to Theon,” Cat said. “So much like your father.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Catelyn rose to her feet, and Theon quickly stepped away from the door, leaned
against the wall again as though he hadn’t been listening.
“Send Theon in to clean up.”
Robb blushed – he could hardly look Theon in the eye when he said, “Mom says
you can go in and wash up.”
She brushed past, her long dress creating a gust of air that caused him to
blink, and when she looked at Theon he could see something sharp there – a
desire to hurt him – and he understood that her words had been intended for him
more than for Robb. He felt a strange, new kind of pain, different than that
from a belt or a blow – and worse, because it seemed to radiate from somewhere
deep inside him that no warmth or cold or soothing hand could touch.
*
Reek cracked the door to the shooting range and peered in for a few moments
before stepping inside. The room was still basically the same – the lighting a
bit brighter as it bounced off the polished wood floors, and a second camera
had been added to eliminate that one blind-spot that Theon had taken such
advantage of.
Jon didn’t notice Reek’s entrance – he wore his hair pulled back into a bun,
and a pair of large, red earmuffs to dampen the cacophony of his 9-mm emptying
into the black center of a paper target mounted at the far end of the range.
Reek registered the loudness of the sound, but didn’t flinch as he stood at a
safe distance, and once the clip was finished, Jon caught sight of him and
slipped the earmuffs down around his neck to say, “You lost?” in an annoyed
tone that implied Reek had interrupted something very important.
“Um, no. I was – you know, wandering.” Reek bit his lip. “Hoping maybe I’d run
in to you.”
Jon slid a fresh clip into the gun. “Why – you need something?”
This used to be so easy, Reek thought. Talking to boys had been easy, and
talking to Jon most of all.
He shook his head. “No. Just hoping.” Reek nudged with his toe at one of the
spent casings that skittered around on the floor. “Am I bothering you?”
Jon’s shoulders drooped slightly. “Not unbearably, I guess.” He weighed the
pistol in his hand, the metal of it catching the light like a mirror. “You want
a turn? Bolton said you could handle a gun well enough.” He held the grip
towards Reek.
Reek swallowed, then tried to laugh, but it came out a sort of bitter, caustic
sound. “He said that? He said that I could handle a gun well enough to – what,
to shoot someone at point blank range?”
Jon blushed, looked down at Reek’s gloved hands and then away. “I’m sorry. I
just heard – he said that you did some – you know, some work for him. He said
you could handle a gun well enough. I wasn’t thinking about your – you know…”
Reek slumped back against the wall, pinching and squeezing at his left hand
with the fingers of the right. The gloves seemed itchy, too tight. “It doesn’t
matter.” Looking up at Jon, who stood there looking for some reassurance or
forgiveness, Reek said quietly, “It’s nice of you to offer.” He decided that it
wasn’t giving anything away and added, “I used to be good. As good as you, when
I could hold it right.”
“Show me?” Again, Jon held the pistol out for him, tentatively. “Maybe I could
help you?”
Reek shook his head. “Nah. Not worth your time. Honestly, I was just hoping
you’d let me stay and watch.”
Jon gave a faint, lopsided grin, and plucked another pair of earmuffs off the
wall. He paused before passing them to Reek and said, “Robb’s too nice to ask
about your hands.”
“But you – you’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?”
Jon’s grin blossomed into a full-blown smile. “Definitely. But I won’t – I
mean, I won’t ask you right now.”
He handed Reek the earmuffs, and Reek couldn’t suppress a thin smile of his
own, even as he felt a tug of apprehension. He imagined Jon backing him up
against the wall, forcing his hands up beneath Reek’s shirt, feeling all the
scars there even as Reek squirmed and pushed against his chest and objected,
“Please – don’t. Stop –”
But of course Jon did no such thing, only watched as Reek adjusted his muffs –
careful not to mess up his scarf – and then gave a thumbs-up which Reek
mirrored shakily.
Each round found its mark, and by the time Jon holstered his gun, little
remained of the target. He pressed a button on the wall, and a conveyer whirred
overhead, reeling the paper towards them to be replaced. Reek’s eyes followed
Jon as he walked to the supply locker for fresh targets and ammunition, but
caught on something he hadn’t noticed before, hanging on the wall just beside
the door.
Theon’s presence in Winterfell had never been especially obtrusive, and yet it
was gratingly apparent somehow – the child who could never hope to pass for a
Stark, if only for the mean little sparkle in his eyes. His annual school photo
– hung obligingly among those of the Stark children – stood out like a single
dark cloud on an otherwise sunny day, and even these small traces of him had
been removed. It seemed unlike Robb to simply forget about Theon’s bow.
As he approached, though, Reek was more distressed to discover that it hadn’t
been forgotten at all. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jon busy reloading;
carefully, Reek slipped the glove off his right hand, and ran a trembling
finger along the graceful curve of the wood. Far from neglected, he found that
the wood had been refinished, the string replaced, the leather on the grip
oiled recently enough that it felt soft and supple beneath his touch. To the
side hung his quiver, many of the arrows brightened with a handsome new
fletching, some of their tips replaced – Reek pressed the pad of his finger
against one of them to feel its sharpness.
“That’s Robb’s.”
“Yeah?” Reek hurried to put his glove on as Jon came to stand beside him. Jon
took the bow from its mount, balancing it lightly on the back of one hand.
“Yeah. He keeps saying he’s going to teach me, but…” Jon shrugged, and the bow
wobbled from side to side. “He hasn’t had time.”
What an asshole. Of course he has time.
“Is he any good?” Reek asked. “It seems like a weird thing to be good at.”
“I mean, he usually comes down here to practice it when he wants to be alone.
But I’ve seen him a few times, and yeah, he’s good.” And Reek didn’t miss the
note of admiration when Jon said, “Hits the bull’s-eye most of the time.”
Reek reached for the bow, lifted it off Jon’s hand, hesitating before he asked,
“Did he say where he got it? It looks like – you know, one-of-a-kind.”
Truthfully, he was a little bewildered to even be holding it again.
“It’s from the Iron Islands – made from some kind of tree that grows there. I
just assumed his dad picked it up on a business trip or something.” Jon watched
as Reek strung the bow and plucked at it, listening to its dull twang.
“Speaking of which, you know we have an errand today, right?”
Reek tried to focus on the feel of the string in his fingers. “No. Nobody told
me.”
Jon sighed. “Do you even have a phone?”
“Yeah.” Reek stopped playing with the bow long enough to pull the phone out of
his pocket. It shone like new, protective tape still covering the screen. He
had never used it – not even to call Jon to come collect him from the
Dreadfort. He’d thought to throw it away – Robb would probably be happy to buy
him a new phone – but it seemed wrong to discard such a generous gift, even if
it made him feel more suffocated than grateful. “It’s new,” he explained,
though he doubted Jon cared. “It was a – um – a birthday present from Roose.”
“That’s disappointing.” Jon held his hand out, fingers motioning. “Let me see
it.”
Reek obeyed, and continued turning the bow in his hands, glancing up fleetingly
to watch Jon squint as he tapped at the screen of Reek’s phone. Jon entered a
final keystroke, and a second later a single, long howl emanated from his back
pocket. He grinned as he returned Reek’s phone. “There – now I’ve got your
number and you’ve got mine and we don’t have to wander all over hell trying to
find each other.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me a bunch of rules about when it’s okay for me to
call you?”
Reek had meant it as a tease, but when Jon glared at him and began silently
sweeping up his shell casings, he realized he might’ve hit a nerve.
“I’ve learned to be upfront about my boundaries,” said Jon coldly. “I’m sorry
if that offends you.” Stopping to study Reek’s gloves and scarf, he added, “I
figured you’d understand.”
Reek looked away, and he wrung his hands around the bow, stammering, “I – um –
I”
“Just text me. Don’t call me. I don’t like being on the phone.”
“Um, okay.”
“And put that back. Robb doesn’t like anybody messing with it. As soon as I’ve
cleaned up here, we’ll go.”
Where are we going? Reek wanted to ask, but instead he turned to replace the
bow in its mount – dazed, sweating as he offered breathlessly, “I could teach
you.”
“What?” Jon arched an eyebrow at him, and Reek’s eyes darted down to stare at a
crack in the floor.
“I – I s-said I could teach you.” Reek looked up for as long as he dared. “The
bow. I could teach you if you want.” He cocked his head at the shredded target.
“I bet you’d be good at it.”
Jon’s face softened a bit, though his voice retained its hardness when he
replied, “You can’t use a gun – how are you gonna teach me bow and arrow?”
Reek tried to ignore the way that Jon’s words felt like a slap. He was
beginning to understand that Jon’s abrupt shifts in tone had less to do with
him, and more to do with Jon. Hadn’t Robb called him “cranky”?
“I can show you how to stand – how to breathe.” Ten seconds ago, Reek had
hardly dared to utter the suggestion, and now – seeing the eager little shine
in Jon’s eyes – he wanted nothing more. “I could help you nock and draw. If you
just – promise not to tell anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, just – I don’t want anyone else to know that I – that I know
archery.”
“Why not?”
Reek held out his hands helplessly. “I just – don’t.”
Jon shook his head, dismayed. “I know that I just kind of bit your head off
about respecting my boundaries, so I won’t say anything hypocritical about how
weird I think that is. But I don’t keep secrets from Mr. Stark.”
Of course you don’t.
Reek took a long breath, hoping to hide the depth of his disappointment, and
was about to offer up something conciliatory and indifferent when the door
burst open with such force that the gust it caused nearly loosened Reek’s
scarf.
“Jesus, Jon – I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
No fucking way.
Reek was actually alarmed by the resemblance – the dark hair and eyes, the
softer angles of the face – and honestly if he didn’t know her, he might’ve
mistaken them for brothers. She was taller, but not turning into a crane like
Sansa had at her age, and she wore a baseball cap, a pair of neon-green Van’s,
boy’s pants hung low and a black L7 t-shirt big enough to almost conceal the
small swell of her breasts.
“Ary! What’s up?”
Jon offered an open hand, and she gave it a sharp smack. “Not much – just
coming home for a bit to see Mom. She said if she didn’t see me by the end of
the month, she’d call the cops.”
Arya kept her hair just long enough to be messy, and when she turned to regard
Reek for the first time, he wasn’t especially surprised by the ring in her lip,
or the one in her eyebrow that raised up as she asked, “Who are you?”
“Reek,” he replied with a croak.
She stared at him, mouth open slightly as though she was waiting to hear the
rest of it. Jon must’ve sensed Reek’s discomfort because he took a small step
forward and interjected, “Reek is new – Robb just hired him on last week.” He
looked at his watch. “Which, we were actually just on our way out on an
errand.”
Arya continued staring at Reek, as though he were a puzzle. “I’m Arya,” she
said, holding out a slender hand. “Stark. Robb is my brother.”
Reek nodded, taking a deep breath before taking her hand. Her eyes widened.
“Shit,” she said, looking down at his fingers. “That’s brutal. What happened?”
“Ary –”
Reek looked at Jon. “Crazy ex,” he said, enjoying the way Jon’s mouth fell open
just slightly.
“Damn. I’m not even gonna ask what’s with the scarf.” Arya gave a perverse
little smile. “You seem weird as hell.”
Jon cuffed her on the back of the head, knocking her cap forward into her eyes.
“Don’t be a dick.”
Arya put a hand over her heart in mock offense. “I’m not trying to be a dick.”
To Reek, she said, “Welcome to the Family. If you’re going to be spending much
time with Jon, you should probably start carrying a few tampons around with
you.”
Playfully, Jon smacked her again. “We have to get going. Do you want to use the
range?”
Arya nodded and lifted the hem of her shirt to reveal the .44 tucked into her
belt. “Yeah, I thought maybe I’d get some practice.”
“Where’s Gendry?”
Gendry?
She rolled her eyes. “Probably in the garage, annoying the shit out of whatever
poor bastard works on your cars these days.”
*
He was there in the shop, leaned over the open hood of a black 1967 Camaro with
his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twitching.
“You like what you see?”
Gendry turned to face them with a grin, slightly guilty as though he’d been
caught where he didn’t belong. “I didn’t touch it, I swear.” He looked at his
fingernails. “Gotta keep my hands clean for dinner with Mrs. Stark.”
“Such a proper little rich boy,” Jon deadpanned.
Gendry did look different, wearing a mustard-colored button-up and a pair of
expensive shoes, clean-shaven and well, just plain clean in a way that he never
had been when Theon knew him. He still carried himself with that over-muscled
slouch, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, now that he
wasn’t always holding a wrench or a pliers.
“It’s a sweet car,” said Gendry, ignoring Jon’s jab. “Yours?”
Jon nodded. “Birthday present to myself.” Stepping aside, he motioned for Reek
to move closer. “This is Reek. He’s new.”
“Reek?” Gendry took Reek’s hand into a hearty handshake. “Where did Robb find
you?”
“Boltons,” said Reek drily.
“Oh Christ.” Gendry lowered his eyes sympathetically. “Glad you could rejoin
the living then.”
“Gendry’s head of the Baratheon Family,” explained Jon, leaning over to wipe at
the headlight of his Camaro with the hem of his sleeve. “Believe it or not, he
used to be the mechanic down here.”
“Rags to riches,” said Gendry with a sheepish smile.
“He’s a big, important man when Ary’s not dragging him around.”
Reek felt as though he had entered a parallel universe. The man standing before
him was Gendry, and yet he knew that if he’d told Gendry three years ago that
he was destined to become the most powerful man in the South, they both
would’ve laughed themselves stupid.
And you?
Reek considered whether he would’ve believed three years ago that Robb would
leave him for dead, or that he’d fall in love with the man who tortured him. Or
if he would’ve believed even one year ago that there would in fact be a life
after Ramsay Bolton, and that that life would include the boy Jon Snow. For the
first time in memory, Reek allowed himself to consider – critically, of course
– the possibility that maybe things were not necessarily always going to get
worse. It took his breath away.
“Are you going to be joining us for dinner?” Gendry asked.
Jon scoffed. “Why, is it not going to be awkward enough for you?”
“Fair enough. See you around then?”
“Of course.” Jon danced his fingers along a row of hooks, each holding the keys
to one of the cars in the garage. “Reek and I are actually on our way out, and
we might be a while, but yeah, hopefully I’ll see you before you take off.”
“It was nice meeting you,” said Gendry with an unnerving sincerity that made
Reek draw back slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “You too.”
*
Jon had chosen an inconspicuous Subaru Forester and tossed Reek the keys,
saying only, “Take 50 East.”
Reek drove in silence for about fifteen minutes, trying to keep his eyes on the
road, trying not to look at Jon – at the way his eyelashes fluttered when he
took a deep drag, or the way his fingers worried at the tear forming in the
left knee of his too-tight jeans.
“Aren’t you going to ask me where we’re going?” said Jon after he’d flicked his
cigarette butt out the window.
Reek’s wrists ached, hands sweating as he wrung at the steering wheel. “I
figured you’d tell me.”
He felt Jon staring at him.
“You know, when I first showed up at Winterfell, I had about a million
questions about everything. Like, I’m pretty sure I annoyed the shit out of
everyone – always asking where things were, and why and how I was supposed to
do things.” He scanned Reek appraisingly. “But you don’t ask very many
questions. Like, I can tell you want a cigarette, but you won’t risk asking me
for one. You don’t know where we’re going, and it makes you nervous a little,
but you’re not going to ask me. And I can tell you’re like, a curious person.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah. I can see it in your eyes.”
Jon gestured toward his own eyes – soft but also cutting somehow – and Reek
shuddered at the thought that Jon had been observing him so closely. “I learned
how to not ask questions,” he said.
“Take this next exit.” Jon pointed to the right. “Was that true – what you told
Ary about your fingers?”
“Yeah,” Reek replied, but it felt wrong to speak about Ramsay so glibly, so he
hastened to add, “But he was good to me.”
He waited for Jon to say something callous or misunderstanding, but Jon only
instructed him to follow the signs for Lonely Hill Park and then asked, “Good
to you like how?”
Reek’s heartbeat quickened. “Like I don’t even know how to explain it without
you thinking I’m more fucked up than you already think I am.”
Jon smiled sadly. “I had a – a friend who used to call that a ‘Dragon-and-
Princess Situation’ – you’re afraid of them, and you get burned a lot, but you
get so used to it that after a while everything else just seems boring.” He
shrugged. “I mean, I don’t know what it was for you, obviously.”
It was apt – too apt, actually, and Reek found himself crushed by a sort of
guilt that he was here – alive – and driving around in a car with a gorgeous
boy, wanting something so outrageous, when the only person who had ever loved
him without restraint was dead. He said nothing else, and Jon began snapping at
his rubber bands until the car glided through the entrance to Lonely Hill
Municipal Park, and Jon instructed Reek to turn onto an access road that
disappeared from view behind a thick stand of cottonwood and elm trees.
The road hugged the western bank of the Weeping Water – here just a modest
stream – until it arrived at a gate which Jon got out to unlock. It swung open
with a lurch, and Jon held it open while Reek drove slowly through.
“I suppose it’s too late to ask where we’re going, huh?”
“Not much further.” Jon cracked his window. “Up ahead there’s a maintenance
lot, probably empty except for one other car. That’s where we’re going.”
“I meant – you know – what are we going to do?”
Reek felt nervous suddenly, disliking the trajectory of their journey, which he
had been pretending – up until this point – was a simple ride with Jon.
“There’s three-hundred-thousand dollars in the trunk.” Jon zipped the front of
his jacket and pulled a pair of thin, black gloves out of the pockets. “We’re
delivering that to one of Mr. Bolton’s associates, in exchange for the drugs
that Bolton’s man Qyburn has in development.”
“Roose won’t – um, he won’t be here, will he?” Reek didn’t bother trying to
disguise his trepidation, and Jon noted it clearly before reassuring him:
“No. He’s never around when money trades hands, or when blood’s drawn. We’re
not even picking up the drugs – they’ll be left in another location.” Jon gave
a shy kind of smile. “Don’t worry. I haven’t fucked one of these things up
yet.”
The car coasted around a bend and into the small lot; a dilapidated out-
building sat in one corner, surrounded by piles of piping, T-posts and barbed
wire. The windows had been boarded up, the weathered bricks covered with
graffiti. Behind the building, a black town-car sat idling, and Reek’s stomach
clenched as he noticed Jon pressing a hand thoughtlessly to his side, feeling
for his pistol.
“Back up behind it there, so our fender is basically up against theirs.”
Reek did as he was told, reflecting that it was fairly clever of Jon to park
this way – it boxed the other car in, kept Reek out of sight and gave him a
couple extra seconds to drive away if something went wrong.
“Do you want me to –”
“I want you to wait here,” said Jon.
Reek held his breath, watching in the rearview mirror as a man he’d never seen
before exited the town-car and shook Jon’s hand. He hated to think what other
men saw when they looked at Jon. Then Jon popped the trunk of the Subaru, and
he and the other man were both obscured from view. Reek fiddled with the side-
mirrors, but saw nothing. He drummed his fingers anxiously on the rim of the
steering wheel, chiding himself:
Jon knows what he’s doing. He can take care of himself.
He strained to hear their muted voices, felt the car shift as the weight in the
back was transferred out. He heard a laugh that didn’t belong to Jon. A couple
minutes later, the trunk slammed shut, and Reek watched Jon shake hands with
the man once more.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said once he was back inside the car,
pulling off his gloves and lighting up a smoke, grumbling, “Waste of a fuck-ton
of money.”
“What do you mean?”
Jon leaned his elbow against the door and blew a stream of smoke out the
window. “Mr. Stark is just going to have it incinerated,” he explained with a
hint of tiredness, implying that this was part of an ongoing argument between
the two of them. “He basically just flushed three-hundred grand down the
toilet. And somehow, that’s what helps him sleep at night.”
Reek wanted to resist being pulled into something that sounded like none of his
business, but it seemed rude to leave Jon hanging, so he asked, “Why does he
buy it then?”
“I mean, don’t think for a second that Robb Stark is above making a shitload of
money off of drugs, because he’s not. He’s got six times that much coming in
through the Iron Islands each month, but Bolton’s stuff spooks him, so he’ll
buy it up and then just destroy it.” Jon squinted at Reek. “Did Roose ever
mention what happened in the capital?”
Reek looked away, uncomfortable. “No.”
“Did he tell you what happened to Robb’s dad?”
“He – got killed on Joffrey Baratheon’s orders?”
He could tell by the slightly disdainful look on Jon’s face that this was – at
best – old news. “Yeah, but do you know why?”
Reek faltered. “I – I guess not.”
“Okay, so –” Jon turned to face Reek, folding one leg up onto the seat and
wrapping his arm around the back of the headrest. “So Robb’s father – Ned – was
a close friend of Bob Baratheon. Bob was – or like, everyone thought he was –
Joff’s father. Ned Stark went south to do some work for Bob, and while he was
there, he discovered that Joffrey wasn’t actually a Baratheon at all – he was a
–” Jon paused to sidestep the word “bastard.” “He was the child of one of
Cersei Lannister’s affairs. And so not only did he have no claim to that
Family, but Mr. Stark – Robb’s dad, I mean – also discovered that Gendry – who
their mutual associate Mr. Arryn had sent up North when he was still a boy –
was actually Robert Baratheon’s – um, biological son and the closest thing to
an heir that might reasonably be able to take over the family business. That’s
why Joffrey’s mother had Ned Stark killed, but not before he could send word of
his discovery out to the heads of the other Families.”
Reek imagined how bizarre the news must’ve been for Gendry, how the world could
upend so abruptly. And how sort of unsettling would it be to go from being a
mechanic in a basement garage to being treated almost like royalty, all because
two people you didn’t know a thousand miles away couldn’t stop cheating on each
other?
“Are you listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
Jon continued: “So, Robb had this big meeting to plan his revenge, and Roose
Bolton offered his assistance – he said he’d been working on a weaponized form
of MDPV, and that he had men on the inside of the Baratheon mansion who he
could pay to deploy it within the building. He assured Mr. Stark that the
attack would be precise, and without the potential for collateral damage than
an old-fashioned, guns-blazing approach would have. He said it would be
cleaner. So Mr. Stark gave him the go-ahead.”
It was strange, hearing Jon recite all this as though he’d learned it all from
a book somewhere.
“But you know, nothing’s ever clean; things didn’t go the way Bolton said they
would, and a lot of people got hurt or killed. It was pretty ugly, apparently,
and that’s why Mr. Stark doesn’t want to sell anything that Bolton makes, but
he also doesn’t want it going out of the North, where he can’t control it, so…”
“So why doesn’t he just tell Bolton to stop manufacturing it?”
Jon snorted. “Good fucking question. I mean, he’s asked but… I keep telling him
that he should just take Bolton out, if he trusts him so little. He says it’s
not that easy, and I just have to assume that he knows better than I do.”
They’re both right, Reek reflected.
“Can I ask you something?” said Jon.
“Okay.”
“Is it true that Bolton has his servants put leeches on him to draw his blood?”
Reek stared at him, horrified. “Why would you think that?”
“Mr. Stark told me. I said it sounded like an urban legend.” Jon smiled and
shook his head. “Robb – he can be so paranoid sometimes.”
*
It was late when Reek went down to the kitchen, padding softly along the
darkened corridor, silent except for the insistent gurgling of his stomach. He
put a hand to his belly as though that might quiet it. Reek couldn’t remember
the last time he actually felt like eating, and the return of this need –
however slim – seemed foreboding.
The kitchen staff had retired for the night, and though the main lights were
off, the room glowed with the thin blue strips of LED lighting that lined the
countertops – a cold, almost magical light glaring off the stainless steel
cabinets and faucets. Again, Reek found himself staring at a rack of knives –
more orderly this time, and elegant, glittering things. They reminded him of
Ramsay’s eyes, and Reek’s hands moved to cradle his sides as he imagined that
particular, cool touch.
“You’re a cutter, aren’t you?”
Reek gasped as he spun around, fingers clutching the cotton of his long-sleeve
t-shirt as he thought, You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not allowed in
the kitchen. He’ll punish you for going where you’re not allowed.
But it was Jon, slumped up against the door of the refrigerator with a half-
empty glass of whiskey and ice weighing heavy in one hand. His hair looked
wild, as though he’d gone to bed some time ago, but given up on trying to
sleep, and when he stared up at Reek with bleary, dark eyes, Reek could tell
that he was drunk.
“You’re shitfaced, aren’t you?”
Jon smiled cynically, his cheeks flushed red. “You first,” he said, speech
slurred enough that his tongue stud clicked sharply against his teeth.
You should just leave, Reek told himself, even as he took a few cautious steps
forward, close enough to smell the alcohol on Jon’s breath. He watched the way
Jon’s hand trembled as he brought the glass up for another swig, the way he
pushed his curls out of his eyes, only to have them fall back down again as his
he tried to fix his gaze on Reek. It was hopeless, Reek realized, feeling
slightly weak in the knees. It was hopeless to pretend that he could ever just
leave – that given the choice, he would ever be anything other than Jon Snow’s
slave.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Jon hooked a finger into the hem of Reek’s shirt, and the muscles in Reek’s
stomach gave a twitch.
“I bet if I was to lift this up, I’d find all sorts of cuts and burns under
there.”
“Please don’t.”
Jon let go of the fabric, a stricken expression playing over his face. “I’m
sorry. I didn’t – I didn’t mean to scare you.” He smoothed at the front of
Reek’s shirt with the tips of his fingers. “I’m sorry.”
Reek might’ve laughed, if he wasn’t so taken with the fact that Jon had touched
him.
Only because he’s drunk.
“You don’t scare me,” he said. “But you are in the way of the fridge.”
“Shit. Sorry.” Jon stepped aside, tripping over his own feet. He hung on the
open door, swaying as he watched Reek grab a cheese stick and then paw through
the crisper for an apple. “Is that all you’re gonna have?”
Reek nodded and closed the doors, and Jon fell back into his slump with a huff.
“Don’t you ever take that shit off?” He motioned at Reek’s scarf and gloves.
“How much have you had to drink?”
Jon peered into the bottom of his now-empty glass. “I dunno. Five, maybe? What
time is it?”
Reek glanced at the clock above the oven. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Yeah, probably five or six then.” A thread of spit spilled out the corner of
Jon’s mouth, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand, embarrassed.
“You always drink this much?”
Jon blinked at him. “Not always,” he said. “But not not-always, either.”
“Jon, I think you should try to drink some water and go to bed.”
Jon groaned, setting the glass down too hard on the counter. “You sound just
like Robb.” He giggled. “Wouldn’t it be funny if you were secretly Robb,
underneath that scarf?”
Reek bristled. “Well, I’m not, but maybe you should listen to me anyway and go
the fuck to bed.”
“Will you take me?”
Reek’s heart seemed to sputter for a moment. “You want me to – you want me to
walk you back to your room?”
“That’d be great,” agreed Jon with a limp nod. And as Reek held the kitchen
door open for him, he added, “I get lost sometimes, and end up in the wrong
rooms.”
Jon shrugged and then listed into the wall.
“Jesus Christ, okay.” Reek sighed as he slipped his arm around Jon’s waist,
pulled their hips together and began to walk Jon slowly down the hallway.
“You should eat more,” admonished Jon. He draped his arm across Reek’s
shoulders. “You’re skinnier than you look.”
Up ahead, Reek saw the dim glow of the elevator buttons – they seemed about a
mile away.
Jon was heavy – his toes kept catching on the carpet, and he leaned into Reek,
sending them on an unsteady, diagonal trajectory that meant Reek had to put his
arm out to keep from running into the wall. And he was warm – even through both
layers of clothing, Reek could feel Jon’s body heat against his side, and he
could smell the mix of whiskey and hair conditioner and sweat.
Inside the elevator, Reek released his hold on Jon and allowed him to drop
clumsily against the wall. Reek’s knees ached, and he cursed under his breath
as he hit the button for the third floor. He thought Jon might be dozing off
when his hand shot out and slammed into the “Emergency Stop” button.
“What are you doing?”
Jon fumbled for the railing, pulling himself upright and letting his head fall
back against the brass of the elevator wall. He levelled Reek with a look
somewhere between hungry and heartbroken, and rubbed at the tattoo beneath his
collar. “I want to – can I touch your scars?”
Reek’s breath hitched in his throat. It was a trick. This had to be some awful
joke – this perfect boy, gazing at him with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth
parted.
Ramsay isn’t here to trick you.
Robb then.
Reek’s eyes darted up to the camera lens embedded in the ceiling of the
elevator, and Jon tossed his head dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. Robb –
Mr. Stark and I kiss in here all the time.”
Robb will kill you. For sure this time.
And besides, you think he’d even let you touch him if he knew that you were –
that you couldn’t –
“Reek?” Jon bit down hard on his lower lip, giving a needy “Please?”
“Fine.” Reek looked at his toes. “I’ll let you, if you answer a question
afterwards.”
“Mmkay.”
Reek wiped the sweat off his palm before wrapping it around Jon’s wrist and
guiding it up under his shirt. His whole body tensed at the touch, warm and so
light, as though Jon were worried about leaving a mark. Reek continued to
direct Jon’s hand up, over his chest until it came to rest on the cluster of
scars that covered the place where his pirate ship tattoo had been.
“Jesus Christ.”
Jon’s eyes went wide, his fingertips pulled back for a split second before they
began to trace the maze of scar tissue over Reek’s left breast and shoulder.
Reek shivered, and his whole body felt light. The sensation of Jon’s fingers on
his skin sent a pleasant tingle sparking up the side of his neck and into his
scalp, and before he could think, his eyes had drifted closed.
This is a dream. There’s no way this is real.
If it’s a dream then it’s harmless, and you should probably just enjoy it.
He felt Jon’s hand drop away, trailing over his chest and stomach to catch in
the waist of his jeans, and when he opened his eyes, Jon had nodded off and was
beginning a slow slide down the wall of the elevator.
Reek brought his own hand up to rub at his shoulder as though he needed to
erase the memory of Jon’s touch. He sighed and pressed the button for the third
floor, then stooped to grab Jon beneath the armpits and endeavored to pull him
to his feet again.
“Jon, get up. We’re almost there.”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Come on. You said you’d answer my question.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jon stumbled out of the elevator, collapsing against Reek. “What
was the question again?”
“Where were you before you came here?”
Jon straightened up momentarily, managing a few steps on his own, and when he
pushed his hair out of his eyes, Reek could see that they bore a wounded
expression. “I’m surprised Robb didn’t tell you,” Jon replied caustically. “He
never lets me forget.” Despite the redness already on his cheeks, Jon managed
somehow to turn an even deeper shade. “I worked in a brothel. You know, like a
whorehouse?”
“I know what a brothel is.”
“Oh do you?” Jon rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s where I was, before I came
here. Men paid money to fuck me. Sixty bucks for a blowjob. Satisfied?”
Reek nodded, feeling unexpectedly terrible for asking, even as he noticed Jon’s
tongue stud glinting in the dim light of the hallway. “Yes. Look, we’re here.”
Jon gave the door an extremely long once-over. “This is Robb’s room,” he
stated.
“Yeah, well, it seems like maybe you shouldn’t sleep alone tonight.”
Jon looked at his toes. “I thought – I thought you’d try to take me to your
room.”
Now it was Reek’s turn to blush. “No. I wouldn’t – I mean, you wouldn’t enjoy
it.” He gave a loud knock on Robb’s door before Jon could say anything else
that might remind him of how completely futile it was to hope for something
more than a drunken moment in an elevator.
Robb opened the door in a pair of plaid pajama pants, his shoulders dropping
dejectedly as he laid eyes on Jon.
“Jesus, Jon, can we maybe not do this every other night?”
“Maybe,” replied Jon in a coy tone as he pitched forward into Robb’s arms.
Robb staggered back, holding Jon nearly upright, and Reek had taken a couple of
steps down the hall, hoping to sneak away when Robb asked, “How much has he
had?”
“He thinks five or six,” said Reek. “I think he needs to puke.”
Robb sighed as Jon’s weight sagged against him. “Right. Hey, thank you. For
bringing him to me.”
“Yeah, sure.”
*
It was just after three a.m. that Reek woke in the midst of a scream. His right
hand felt like it was on fire, but when he looked down at it, he saw that those
fingers that ached had already been removed. His breaths came shallow and too
fast, and his vision began to purple around the edges as he gasped, straining
against the invisible weight that pressed him down into the mattress.
He thought he imagined the knock at the door, but it came again, followed by a
soft, familiar voice.
“Reek? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he managed.
“You don’t sound okay. Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Would you – would you want to come downstairs and maybe have some tea or
something?”
Reek’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. It was a text from Jon:
“U should let him in – hes good at this stuff.”
“Reek?”
“Go away. Please.”
His phone sounded again.
“Breathe. Just breathe. Imagine your breath has to fill your whole body, all
the way down to the toes. Like you’re a balloon. Then hold the breath and count
to 5 and let it out slowly. Let out every molecule of air.”
“Reek, please tell me you’re alright, and I’ll leave and go back to bed, okay?”
Reek took a long, deep breath as Jon had instructed.
“I’m okay. I promise.”
“You know, if you ever need help, just knock on my door.”
“Okay.”
He saw Robb’s shadow linger at his door for a few moments longer, during which
time his phone buzzed twice more:
“You’re doing good. It passes.
I like your scars.”
***** Chapter Twenty-Four *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek gets an eyeful and does something he hadn't wanted to do.
Chapter Notes
     So I guess this is kind of a fluffy chapter? Or as close as it gets?
     Anyway, thank you as always for all your encouraging words. I've been
     having trouble focusing lately, and it helps to know that some of you
     are actually checking to see if I've updated. ;) Happy 2015 everyone!
Reek couldn’t quite recall the first time he’d been drunk. He remembered the
prelude – Ron arguing persuasively with Rick that it would be a bit of harmless
fun, passing Theon a pint glass of Coca-Cola with something else mixed in. And
he remembered the aftermath – Balon shouting at the three of them while Theon’s
head pounded like a slow drum. When he saw Maron later that afternoon, Theon
cringed at the hitch in his brother’s stride, and when their eyes met, it was
Maron who looked away first.
He was sixteen when he and Gendry snuck a twelve-pack from the Starks’ Fourth-
of-July barbeque and downed it all in the garage. Theon’s limbs felt so light
and warm, and he laughed until his face ached. Everything was funny, everything
was easy, and Theon felt like he suddenly understood his brothers and he wished
that they were still alive to share a drink with him.
*
Reek tried not to notice Jon’s hangovers, frequent as they were. On one
occasion, he walked into the office to find Robb sitting at his desk, watching
the Jon sleep over the closed-circuit camera installed in the library.
“Um – sir?” Reek cleared his throat.
Robb sighed and turned to face him. “I’m sending the two of you out today. I
was hoping to take care of this earlier in the morning, but…” Again his eyes
gravitated to the flat-screen mounted on the wall behind Reek. Jon lay sprawled
out on a chaise lounge, still wearing his boots and a leather jacket.
“Want me to wake him, sir?”
Robb dragged his fingers through his hair, looking almost dejected. “No, let’s
let him be for a little longer.”
It was just before noon when Jon nearly crashed into Reek, exiting the bathroom
and clutching a towel around his waist, looking wet and miserable as he
muttered an apology.
Reek swallowed, unable to wrestle his eyes away from the tattoo peeping over
the edge of the towel: a pair of white roses – one on each hip – with the name
“Snow” arcing low between them in a thick black font. A cluster of raised scars
interrupted the smooth flat of Jon’s stomach, and Reek recognized them
immediately as cigarette burns. A fading hickey on Jon’s right breast reminded
Reek that he ought not be looking at all, but just above that was the tattoo
that Reek often saw Jon rubbing at – a cheerfully-colored cardinal with a
scroll in its beak that read –
Reek squinted at it. “What’s ‘Satin’?”
“None of your fucking business.” Jon hurried to cover it with his right hand,
catching the towel with the left as it slipped further down his hips.
Reek was too preoccupied with Jon’s body to mind his tone, and when his gaze
finally returned to Jon’s face, he saw a becoming mix of pride and
vulnerability there; Jon blushed, but made no move to turn away. “Do you have
any?” he asked more softly. “Tattoos, I mean.”
Reek considered for a moment before telling him, “I used to. It’s mostly just
scars now though.”
“What were they of?”
“None of your fucking business,” returned Reek with a hidden smile.
Jon continued to rub at the cardinal on his neck for a moment before making the
decision to let Reek have another look. “That’s fair, I guess.” He bit into his
lower lip to stop a grin.
Reek felt sick. An awful lightness began to overtake him, a sensation of
pressure building in that wasteland between his legs as he envisioned himself
shoving Jon back into the bathroom, pulling the towel away and then dropping to
his knees to take Jon into his mouth.
“There’s still plenty of hot water,” Jon said, which Reek thought was cute
considering that they were living in Winterfell, not some shitty apartment up
North with a busted water heater.
“Th-thanks,” he stammered. “But I – I just use the shower in my room.” He
honestly hadn’t been intending to take a shower at all, but it suddenly seemed
like an overwhelmingly good idea. He shuffled past Jon, mumbling a shy, “Sorry
for staring.”
“I don’t mind.”
Reek looked over his shoulder, but Jon was already halfway down the hall,
giving his damp curls a shake as he knocked on Robb’s bedroom door.
*
The water stung when it hit the freshest cut, a little smile of a thing on
Reek’s left arm that he’d been picking at that morning. He rubbed at it, then
wandered his hand around his ribs to feel for the rounded scars where Ramsay
had extinguished his cigarettes on a semi-regular basis to form a constellation
of ugly marks that dotted Reek’s left flank and shoulder-blade. He recalled the
pain – worse than a simple cut, but sweet as a kiss compared to the flaying; it
was a special kind of torture – degrading, yet also possessive – and he
wondered who had left those same marks on Jon’s otherwise-perfect skin.
Reek passed his fingers over his own stomach – bracing himself before letting
them slip lower. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what it looked
like and focused instead on the sensation of the touch. It could feel good
sometimes – he knew it could because he remembered the way it felt when Ramsay
would force his fingers between Reek’s wet lips, then press them just there,
and Reek’s mouth would drop open.
“Oh.”
Does that feel good, love?”
“Mmhmm.”
Reek’s remaining fingers trembled more than Ramsay’s ever did, barely ghosting
over the rigid spot where his prick had been. Still, he shivered and let his
head drop back; the tile pressed coldly against his shoulders.
Jon’s fingers wouldn’t shake so much, he told himself, making a second, more
confident pass with the palm of his hand. The pressure felt pleasant, and it
triggered a deeper kind of tension that drew Reek’s hips forward with a jerk.
“F-fuck.”
He imagined Jon’s hips – two white roses pinning him against the wall – and
Jon’s hard, red prick sliding up to rub at that place between Reek’s thighs. He
imagined soft lips whispering hotly against the torn cartilage of his ear, but
the voice they carried belonged to Ramsay:
“I’m surprised it doesn’t make you sick to touch yourself there.”
Reek let his hand drop away, even as the ache inside him continued to twist and
build. In the stream of the shower, he didn’t have to acknowledge the tears of
frustration clinging to his cheeks.
You think that just because he was – just because he’s been with lots of guys,
he won’t say no to you?
I wish Ramsay was here.
Oh really? Would that make everything better?
No, but – I just wish he was here.
*
The boy in the garage looked at his wrist – a cheap sports-watch with a crack
through the middle and grease caked in the sides – then at Reek.
“When did he say he’d meet you here?”
Reek shrugged. “He didn’t say a time. He’ll be ready when he’s ready.” He
crossed his ankles and leaned against the driver’s-side door of a boxy, mid-
eighties coupe.
The boy bustled around, trying to be accommodating though Reek was clearly in
his way. He didn’t resemble Gendry in the slightest – blond and thin and
scrappy-looking – and he had rearranged the shop to suit himself. Only the old
CD player retained its place on the workbench, the same stack of scratched-to-
death discs teetering beside it.
“Hey, did you ever know Gendry?”
The boy glanced up from the pages of a manual, taking a flathead screwdriver
from between his oversized teeth to answer, “The guy who used to work here
before me? Yeah, I’ve met him. He comes down here sometimes to see what I’m
working on.” He wiped the screwdriver on his jeans. “He seems cool. Way less
insane than just about everybody else I’ve met here. No offense.”
Reek snorted. “None taken.”
“Did you – you know why Mr. Stark hired you to drive Mr. Snow around?” The boy
tossed the manual onto the workbench and popped the trunk on the coupe.
“I just assumed it was out of the goodness of his heart.”
The boy gave him an incredulous look. “Right. He didn’t tell you that in
January, Snow drove home so drunk that he rolled a car into a ditch and then
passed out? Like, the car was upside-down and he was so hammered that he just
passed out, still buckled in to the driver’s seat.”
Reek opened his mouth to say something on Jon’s behalf, when a voice from the
door of the shop interrupted:
“The doctor said it was actually lucky that I was so drunk. She said that when
the body tenses up, it like, absorbs impact differently and sometimes actually
makes the injury worse.” Jon lowered his eyes, and Reek could tell that
underneath the bravado, he was more than a little ashamed. “You ready?”
Reek nodded at the mechanic. “Yeah – I guess we’re taking that old El Camino.”
“Don’t suppose he told you where I’d been that day?” Jon asked sourly as he
slid into the front seat beside Reek.
“No.” Reek put the car into gear and eased off the brake to let it glide out of
the garage and into the afternoon sun. Jon flipped the visor down, and like
clockwork cracked his window and lit a smoke. Jon snapped at his rubber bands,
more forcefully than usual, and there was a definite, almost violently anxious
air about him that made Reek lean away in his seat. “Well, aren’t you going to
tell me?” he asked, when it became obvious that Jon was waiting to be pushed.
“It was my first hit,” he answered, looking out the window so that Reek could
only see the pale reflection of his face.
“Who – who was it?” Reek felt a lump in his throat, and when he reached for it,
his fingers found the shape of the collar underneath his scarf.
Jon shrugged and flicked the ash from his cigarette out the window. “Some guy –
some dealer who had the bright idea to demand a larger cut than he was entitled
to. Threatened to go to the police with the names of some of Mr. Stark’s
associates if his terms weren’t met. I – I shot him in the back of the head.”
Jon said it casually, but Reek could hear the shock, still fresh beneath a
veneer of practiced indifference. It was a single off-note – one that Reek
would know anywhere. He tried to remember what Theon might’ve needed to hear,
once upon a time, when he was done throwing up and washing his clothes three
times in a row because he could swear they still smelled like gunpowder and
burned hair. But all that came out was:
“The brains get everywhere, don’t they?”
Jon let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah, they do.” After a beat, he added,
“I – I killed a man up North. But that was different – he was – he was trying
to hurt me. I still felt sick. I still threw up and everything, and I still
have dreams about the – about the way it got all over me. But I don’t – I don’t
feel like a monster about it, you know? The way I do now.”
“You’re not a monster,” Reek assured him, thinking, I know a monster. He gave
Jon a little smile, then remembered that Jon couldn’t see anything besides his
eyes. “Or if you are, you’re like, the least monstrous monster I know.”
Jon shook his head. “You’re an asshole,” he said. His foot tapped out a fast
rhythm against the door, and he gave another tug at his rubberbands, hard
enough to make himself wince.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“You’re driving me to this address,” said Jon, reaching into his pocket for a
sticky-note and then pressing it onto the center of the steering wheel.
“Then what?”
“Then you’re sitting in the car and waiting.”
Reek’s hands began to sweat inside their gloves. “Waiting for what?”
“Just waiting, goddamnit.”
“Jon –”
“Can we just please not talk anymore right now?”
Reek shut his mouth and gripped the steering wheel until his hands hurt.
*
It was a two-story brick house, old but not historical, and located in a
neighborhood that implied its owner’s relatively recent ascent of the financial
ladder. The late model Mini Coop in the driveway and the season-old saplings in
the yard seemed to Reek to confirm this assessment.
The knot in his stomach had been growing since Jon put an end to their
conversation, and now that the house was in sight and Reek saw the way Jon
watched it as they drove slowly past – skin turning a shade whiter, as though
there were some terror inside – he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere other
than this.
“Pull around into the alley.”
Reek felt as though he was gliding, as though he was watching himself at a
distance and the hands on the wheel – so smooth and controlled – belonged to
someone else. The alley was narrow, the back-yards on either side lined mostly
by tall, wooden fences, and he parked beside one of them, understanding that
they could likely not be seen from within the brick house.
“You know to keep it running?” asked Jon, and he wiped the sweat off his palms
onto his jeans before reaching for his pistol. He had brought along a silencer,
a black cylinder longer than the barrel itself, and he bit his lip as he
assembled it with an eerie focus.
Reek’s body felt sluggish, his movements muddled with uncertainty, as his brain
fired so rapidly that he hardly registered the thought before saying, “You
should let me do it.”
Jon looked at him with a stunned expression, like he hadn’t quite heard
correctly. “What?”
“Give me the gun and I’ll do it.” Reek extended an unsteady hand, half of him
hoping that Jon would say no.
Jon stared at the pistol, then back at Reek. He narrowed his eyes. “Why… why do
you want to do it?”
“I don’t.” He could see he’d only confused the boy more, and when he saw Jon’s
fingers tighten around the grip, he reached for the barrel, taking a firm hold
on it, and saying, “If you don’t want to do this, then just give me the gun.”
He fixed his eyes on Jon’s, wishing he had some other way to reassure him that
there was no trick here, no favor to be owed. After a moment he felt Jon’s grip
loosen, and Reek drew the gun carefully away and tucked it inside his jacket.
“Now tell me who I’m looking for.”
“A man named Summers,” Jon replied. He cleared his throat and pulled a pack of
cigarettes from his pocket. He flipped open the lid and withdrew a portion of a
photograph showing a man with glasses and short, dark hair. “He’s recently
divorced. Lives alone, except for the second and fourth weekend of each month,
when he has the kids. There’s a – there’s a dog. A beagle, I think.”
“I’m not going to shoot his dog.”
Jon seemed relieved. “I know. I didn’t mean you had to. I just meant – there’s
a dog.”
“You better get in the driver’s seat.”
Jon nodded.
“Did Mr. Stark – did he tell you the story with this one?”
“He said we’re just collecting on a debt.”
“Whose debt?”
“He didn’t say.”
The snow had mostly melted off, matting the grass with patches of dirty ice
that crunched and cracked beneath the soles of Reek’s shoes as he made his way
swiftly through the back-yard and around the side of the house. He figured a
knock on the back door might seem suspicious or go unheard, so he waded through
the bank of fallen leaves that the wind had blown up between the house and the
fence, then crossed around the front of the house and up a set of steps to the
front door.
He paused before ringing the doorbell, holding onto the hope that he might wake
up at any second to find himself in a bed, somewhere miles away from here.
You’ve done this. You’ve done it before. You know how to do it.
Reek pressed the button. He swayed and listened to the faint chime that
answered from inside, listened to the footsteps and then the turning of the
doorknob…
It felt like he’d been dropped into a movie, like he was only an actor pushing
forward into the house, and though it was his feet pulling him along, and his
hands holding the gun and his voice saying, “On your knees!” it wasn’t him at
the heart of it – not really.
The beagle was an old dog, slow and with such a pitifully hoarse bark that Reek
merely gave him a firm shove with the side of his foot. The man – Summers –
looked about as shocked as Reek felt, like he also wasn’t quite convinced that
his life had truly taken such a drastic turn. He didn’t seem to grasp that Reek
was anything more than a common burglar, and he waved his hands in front of the
barrel of the gun, imploring Reek to “Take whatever you want! Take anything!”
Reek supposed it was better that way; one minute Mr. Summers was alive – albeit
frightened – and the next he was not, with none of the prolonged interlude in
which to feel pain or regret, or to realize that this was irrevocably the end.
Even the shot itself was unreal, muffled by the silencer, and Reek took a step
back as the man’s body fell forward with a heavy, awful thunk. The beagle
whined but hung back, and for one mad second Reek thought about taking it,
maybe giving it to Jon, but before the idea could take root, he found that he
was already out the back door of the house, feet carrying him mindlessly across
the patio, down the wooden steps and along a newly-poured sidewalk towards the
alley.
“Did you do it?” Jon asked breathlessly as he put the car in gear, and Reek
knew that this was the next-hardest part – driving away from something like
that as though you were not in a hurry to go home and take a shower.
“Yeah,” he said. “Here’s your gun back.”
“Is the safety on?”
“Yeah.”
“Then give it to me when we get home.” Jon gripped the wheel fiercely, pulling
himself forward so that his chest nearly touched the steering column. He snuck
a quick glance at Reek. “How did you not get blood on you?”
“I don’t know. Luck?”
Several minutes later, Jon pulled off-route and brought the car to a jerking
stop alongside the curb of a small, empty city park. “I can’t drive,” he said,
shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I just – I feel kind of sick. Would you mind
switching me?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Jon looked a couple shades paler when he slid into the passenger seat, raked
his fingers through his hair and stared dumbly out the window, saying, “Please
don’t tell Mr. Stark.”
“I thought you didn’t keep secrets from him?” Reek thought about trying to
return the gun again – it weighed strangely in the inside pocket of his coat –
but decided to say nothing.
Jon blinked at him and stammered. “I – I don’t, but I’m – I don’t want him to
think that I – or that you –”
“I won’t tell him,” Reek said.
And if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that Jon moved closer to him,
painted fingernails inching along the worn leather of the bench seat. Jon
smiled at him gratefully.
“I don’t – I don’t get you,” he said, biting his lip.
“I mean, I’m pretty much a total fucking disaster. There’s not a lot to get.”
Jon laughed, and yes, he was definitely leaning in a little, and tapping his
tongue stud against the back of his front teeth. “Yeah, no, I think I get that
part. But there’s some part of you that’s like, not fucked up, and that’s the
part I…” Jon took a deep breath and looked out the window again, his eyes
tracking a flock of crows as it landed in the bare branches of a tall elm in
the park. “Is it fucked up that I want to kiss you? Like, even though you – we
just fucking killed someone? I know it’s fucked up.”
“What?”
Jon turned away. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up, I guess.”
“Mr. Stark would – he wouldn’t like you kissing me.”
Jon looked at him again and raised an eyebrow, as though Robb was a quaint
consideration. “Are you afraid of him?”
Reek nodded, but Jon only smiled.
“He won’t find out.”
He will. He will. You know he will.
Reek brought his hands up to clutch at his seatbelt. “That’s two things you’re
not going to tell him?”
“You’re more like just one big secret anyway.”
Jon’s hand was close enough to touch him not – not on his knee, but Jon’s
fingers worried at the seam of Reek’s jeans, his face close enough that Reek
could feel the heat of his breath through the scarf. He heard a click and
realized that Jon had unfastened his seatbelt.
He’s only doing it because he’s scared. Because he feels like he owes you
something.
I don’t care. I don’t care why he’s doing it.
“So can I?” Jon asked.
“Do you actually want to?” Reek returned, disbelieving.
“Only if you tell me you want me to.”
Reek swallowed, hard. “I want you to, but…” Jon wilted at that, until Reek
added, “Promise to close your eyes and keep them closed?”
Jon let his eyes drift shut, long black lashes fluttering as he bit down on the
tip of his tongue and then repeated, “Promise.”
Reek’s stomach clenched as he loosened his scarf just enough to expose his lips
and chin, and he was embarrassed to remember that he hadn’t shaved in almost a
week.
It might as well have been Reek’s first kiss for how nervous he was, but it was
also so different – the last time they’d kissed, Jon had left his lips swollen
and wet, but this was something so light that at first it hardly felt like
anything at all. Jon’s lips just brushed his, parted and dry as though they
were merely sharing a breath. Yet there was something electric about the
delicate touch of Jon’s mouth compared with his forceful grip on the front of
Reek’s jacket.
Finally, all the loathsome voices in Reek’s brain went quiet, and there was
only the sound of Jon’s breathing, an airy little gasp that made Reek ache.
– Until Jon pulled away with a hiss. “Fuck! Jesus Christ!”
Reek turned away, fumbling to secure his scarf again, and when he turned back
again, he saw Jon’s eyes wide with pain and surprise, fingers covering his
mouth while a dark bead of blood dropped onto the leather seat between them.
“Oh God.” Reek reached for Jon’s wrist, pulled his hand gently away to reveal
his stunning, red-smeared mouth, another rivulet forming and then dropping over
the swell of Jon’s bottom lip. “Oh God – I’m sorry! I forgot about – Jesus, I’m
sorry.”
Jon probed one of his fingers inside his mouth, wincing and then wiping it onto
his pants. He stared at Reek, opening his mouth and rubbing it on the back of
his hand.
“Your teeth,” he managed before opening the door to spit out onto the asphalt.
He continued to spit for some time, and when he was done pulled himself back
into the car, flipped down the visor mirror and used the hem of his sleeve to
clean the last traces of blood from around his pretty, swollen lips.
“I’m sorry,” repeated Reek, wishing he could will himself out of existence. “I
didn’t mean to – I shouldn’t have –” He started the car again. “Let me take you
home.”
“What – what happened to them?”
“They got broken.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but how?”
“Someone broke them.”
Jon hesitated before asking, “Was it Ramsay?”
Reek didn’t like hearing Jon say that name. He said nothing, but tilted his
head in such a way as to say yes.
“You must’ve really loved him to let him break all your teeth.” Jon looked at
him wistfully.
“Not as much as he loved the taste of his own blood.”
Jon gave a sheepish smile, and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his jacket.
He slid one out of the case and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger,
considering before he reached over it slip it into the pocket of Reek’s coat.
“For later,” he said.
***** Chapter Twenty-Five *****
Chapter Summary
     Reek receives two surprises and makes a deal.
Chapter Notes
     Wow - this update has been a very long time in coming. I hope those
     of you who've been reading don't think I've forgotten you, or this
     fic. On the contrary, I am very close (in relative terms) to
     finishing it, and emotionally exhausted from all the upcoming angst.
     Thank you as always for reading, and hopefully it was worth your
     wait!
“We’re going on an errand today.”
Reek hesitated before setting aside the book he’d been reading. He’d long been
accustomed to spending time alone, but only recently begun to find it at all
enjoyable – and now it fell away again, his nerves jumping as he saw the text
from Jon. Grabbing feverishly at the phone, Reek felt foolish for thinking of
anything else.
“What errand?” he replied.
He looked at the cover of the book – old and blue, the writing on the thin
spine nearly faded away: “Rikki Tikki Tavi and Other Stories.”
“It’s a surprise.”
Ramsay loved surprises – everything was always a surprise or a game or a
present.
“Just tell me where we’re going.”
“Just meet me out the front doors in 15.
Nowhere bad.
I promise.”
Reek sighed and rose to dress himself, leaving the book open face-down on his
bed. He chose a pair of dark blue jeans, just loose-fitting enough to be
fashionable, and a slate-gray sweater that Walda had picked out for him because
she liked the way it brought out his eyes. He paused to chide himself.
Dressing up for him? You’re acting like a little boy.
Don’t you think it’s kind of misleading to think you can just bury all that
under some nice clothes?
Reek pulled on his altered gloves and down jacket, chose a scarf to cover his
face and then wrapped Ramsay’s red woolen scarf around his neck. He glanced at
himself in a mirror before he left, sweeping a shock of white hair out of his
eyes, and then locking the bedroom door behind him.
He stopped on the top step outside the front doors of Winterfell, holding a
hand up to block the midday sun that shone brighter than it had in weeks,
reflecting off the snow and making Reek’s eyes sting. He heard the sound of
melting – water dripping from the eaves, clumps of snow dropping off the
branches of the pines.
“Pretty nice out, huh?”
Jon leaned against the door of his Camaro, wearing a black commando-style
sweater with what Reek thought must’ve been the tightest jeans ever fabricated.
Jon smiled up at him, grinding out the butt of his cigarette beneath the sole
of one of his colossal Doc Martens, and Reek realized that he was smiling back
like an idiot underneath his scarf.
“You – um – you look great,” he said, buckling his seatbelt as Jon started the
car. He noticed that Jon’s hair was still damp from a shower, his fingernails
shimmering with a fresh coat of royal-blue polish, and he found himself
wondering what the occasion was.
“Thanks.” Jon leaned over him to flip down the passenger’s side visor, and Reek
caught the scent of Robb’s citrus shampoo. Reclining his seat a few degrees,
Jon reached out to thumb the fray of Ramsay’s red scarf. “This is nice,” he
said.
It’s not mine.
Jon cruised a slow lap around the circular driveway, lighting another cigarette
and cranking up the volume on an after-market stereo system before heading out
towards Wintertown.
Noticing the way Reek eyed his cigarette, Jon said, “You know, just ask and I
can put it out.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Yes you do. I can tell you have an opinion about it.”
Reek laughed – he’d only been watching Jon’s lips. “What’s my opinion?”
Jon shrugged and took a drag. “You think I smoke too much. You probably think I
drink too much, too.”
“Well, I am very judgmental. What else do I think of you?”
“You like my hair.” Jon grinned, blew a stream of smoke out the left corner of
his mouth. “But everyone likes my hair, so I guess that’s pretty obvious.”
The car turned south onto an overpass, and the sun came roaring in through the
windshield. Jon rifled through the console for a pair of taped-together Ray-
bans, unfolding them with his right hand and his teeth and then pushing them up
onto the bridge of his nose. Reek wished he had his old aviators – he had to
look away from the sunlight glinting off the black finish of the hood.
“I think you’re not as hard as you think you are,” he blurted.
“What?”
“You like to act all jaded and shit, but I think you’re actually just kind of
sweet.”
Jon snorted and frowned. “How old are you, exactly?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Shit – I thought you were like, thirty.”
“Are you trying to insult me right now?”
Jon began dialing through the radio station, not-so-carelessly blowing a cloud
of smoke in Reek’s direction. “You want to talk about an act?” he asked,
extending his fingers to give the smallest pluck at the hem of Reek’s scarf.
“Why don’t you lose that shit and then talk to me about my act?”
Reek recoiled, twisting in his seatbelt and pushing his back painfully against
the door. “I need this!” he countered.
“Oh, like hell you do. I’d bet money you’re not even that fucked-up-looking
under there. Felt normal enough when I kissed you, aside from whatever the fuck
is going on inside your mouth.”
Reek blinked at him, stunned. “F-fuck you,” he stammered, and he was surprised
that after everything that had happened, words could still wound him so easily.
“You – you – you have no fucking idea about me, or what it’s like under here,
or what I think of you or – or anything. So why can’t you just take a fucking
compliment – why can’t you just let me say that I like you without turning it
into some bullshit about how I don’t know you when I’m clearly fucking trying
to know you?” Reek collapsed back against the seat. “Why can’t we just go for a
normal fucking car ride?”
Jon cleared his throat and looked away, rolled down his window to fling his
half-spent cigarette out of the car. He turned up the radio, mumbling, “You can
change the station if you want.”
Reek let it linger on some college frequency and watched the way the buildings
shimmered as they passed by. The car rolled to a timid stop in front of one of
a series of suites in a sprawling complex of medical businesses, and Reek
squinted up at the icicle-draped lettering above the door.
“What’s a D.M.D.?”
“Doctor of Medical Dentistry.” Jon rubbed at the back of his neck. “I thought
maybe – maybe I could get you some new teeth – if you wanted.” Reek stared at
him. “I mean, these guys are good. Robb brought me here once when I – when one
of my canines got knocked out, and I was kind of nervous, but they sedate you
for most of it. Might take a couple visits to get you all fitted, but –”
“They’ll see my face.”
Jon looked discouraged. “Well, yeah, I guess. But he’s a dentist – he’ll
probably only really look at your mouth. I bet he’s seen way worse teeth than
yours.”
“You won’t ask to see them when they’re done?”
“I mean yeah. I want to see a lot more than just your teeth. But only when you
want me to.”
“You do shit like this, and then I’m an asshole for pointing out that you’re
sweet?”
Jon blushed, eyes drifting out the window. He ran a finger around the rim of
the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I just – it’s really hard to hear stuff like
that when I’m, you know, trying to pretend I haven’t been thinking about
kissing you this entire ride.”
Reek took a deep breath and looked down at his gloves. He imagined what it
would feel like to take them off, to lose the scarf and grab a handful of those
thick, black curls. He could tell by the look on Jon’s face that he’d allow it.
“You’re – you should probably tell them a name besides Reek.”
Reek swallowed and glanced apprehensively at the door to the clinic. “Like
what?”
Jon shrugged. “You could pick whatever you want.”
“You pick for me.”
“Christ, I don’t know.” He looked Reek over. “Theon, maybe. You could tell them
you’re a Snow, like me.”
Reek’s eyes widened. “Why Theon?” he rasped.
Jon shrugged again. “I knew this guy named Theon. You remind me of him a
little.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just – sometimes when you’re not being a total basket-case you
remind me of him. Come on – you shouldn’t be late for your appointment.”
*
Not even the cool, prodding fingers of the doctor pushing his tongue to one
side as he peered into Reek’s ruined mouth muttering “Oh my” could entirely
diminish the high that Reek felt at hearing that name coming out of those lips.
Reek was relieved that the dentist made no remarks about his fingers or his
hair or the collar around his neck. He asked few questions, and none about how
Reek’s teeth arrived at their current condition. He seemed mainly concerned
with which ones caused Reek pain, and which – if any – were salvageable.
“I think we can save a couple of these.” The doctor leaned back in his chair
and pulled his glasses off, letting them drop down on the cord around his neck.
“Do you have an older photograph of yourself that we might use for reference?”
Reek shook his head. “No,” he said, though he knew that Robb must’ve kept some
of their childhood photos stashed away somewhere.
“Do you understand that I’ll have to remove most of your remaining teeth in
order to fit you with synthetic ones?”
“You can put me out for that though, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
It was the drugs that managed to smother his panic attack. Though he wasn’t
restrained in any way, Reek’s arms and legs felt leaden, as though bound to the
chair. The doctor maneuvered a blinding light into position above his face, and
Reek swore it was Ramsay’s soft, teasing voice instructing him to count
backwards from one hundred. He felt hands on his arm, and the strange bulging
of his veins as they filled with anesthetic.
The last time this happened, you woke up missing…
You woke up different.
Reek’s flagging mind suddenly seized on the fear that maybe this had all been
one long dream – that when he came to again, he might find himself still tied
up on that saltire. He might wake to find himself staring into those bright,
icy eyes, that ruthless mouth twisted into a smile and teasing him, “Time to
rise and shine, sweetheart.” His vision began to blur around the edges, and he
heard himself mumbling the name “Ramsay” rather than counting back as the
doctor instructed.
“No,” the doctor reassured him, “but your friend Mr. Snow is just outside in
the waiting room.”
Reek felt his eyes falling shut, his whole awful body dropping away.
Jon?
*
“‘Fraid not, love.” The mocking tone of Ramsay’s voice couldn’t hide the
jealousy lurking there, and he shook when he grabbed Reek hard by the jaw. “I
do find it interesting that someone so repulsive could also be so… romantic.”
He shrugged. “Though I guess it does suit how pathetic you are. Best case
scenario is he escaped to the North and forgot all about you. Or he might be
dead somewhere. I hate to imagine what might happen to such a beautiful boy,
traveling all alone like that.”
Reek struggled to breathe, to keep still, to look Ramsay in the face with just
the right degree of submission, lest his master feel disrespected on top of
feeling jilted.
“Do you know what I’d do if he ever did come looking for you?” Seeing the
answer in Reek’s eyes, he gave a wide, wicked smile. “Yes, you do know, don’t
you? Tell me, sweetheart – what would happen to Jon Snow if he ever came to
save you?”
“You’d – you’d rape him.” The words made Reek want to retch, but Ramsay covered
his mouth in a thirsty kiss, as though he couldn’t wait to taste them.
“And I’d make him like it, pet. I’d make him like it the same way you do, and
I’d make you watch while he cried like the pretty little whore you made him.
And then what would I do?”
“You’d kill him,” Reek whispered.
Ramsay licked his lips. “If I was feeling generous, I’d kill him. So if I ever
hear his name out of your mouth again, I swear to god I will do what Robb Stark
can’t and I will find him. Understand me, love?”
*
Two visits later, Reek left the office with a brand new set of teeth, a
prescription for painkillers and a sloppy grin on his face, thankfully still
hidden by the scarf that Jon had diligently insisted the doctor replace at the
end of each appointment.
And maybe he was still in the thrall of the sedatives when Jon helped him to
his room and Reek backed him up against the wall, pulling Jon into him and
whispering, “Close your eyes for me?”
Jon obeyed, cracking a wide smile when Reek pulled the scarf off his own face
and tied it around Jon’s in a tight blindfold. “Is this how you want me?” he
joked.
“No,” huffed Reek, grabbing Jon with both hands by the back of the neck and
crashing their mouths together, biting down hard into the softness of Jon’s
bottom lip.
Jon gasped, and then laughed. “How then?”
“Please just fucking kiss me right now and stop asking me shit.”
Jon tasted like cigarettes, and the little silver stud in his tongue pressed
against the roof of Reek’s mouth, and when Reek bit down again – hard enough to
make Jon moan – he slammed Reek into the wall more forcefully than he’d meant
to. “I knew those teeth were a good investment,” he said, fingers trailing the
length of Reek’s neck, then stopping to investigate the collar. “Unexpected,”
he said, tugging the collar aside to suck at the crook of Reek’s neck.
Reek swallowed as Jon’s right hand slipped up under the front of his shirt,
fingernails dragging over the jut of Reek’s hip and then dipping just below his
belt. Jon’s breath was hot enough to make Reek flush when he added, “God I wish
you’d let me see you.”
Reek’s knees shook, and he wondered how something could feel so familiar and
also so completely unreal as Jon’s lips on his skin, Jon’s thigh between his
legs, creating an agonizing, intoxicating ache there that came out Reek’s mouth
as a thin whine.
“Can I?” Jon asked. “Let me take off your clothes?” His fingers caught on
Reek’s belt buckle, and Reek pulled back on Jon’s hair, sharply enough that Jon
let go and took a step back.
“I think you should leave.”
He didn’t need to see Jon’s eyes to register his confusion. “What? Why?”
“I just think you should.”
Jon frowned when Reek released his hold. “Did I – um – did I do something
wrong?”
Reek sighed. Jon looked so wounded, even with the blindfold – his hands hung
awkwardly at his sides.
Force me, Reek thought. Hold me down and don’t let me stop you.
“No,” he said. “No, I – um – I really like kissing you, and I want to – I want
to. But it’s just – I’m just – scared of what happens when…”
“Have you never –”
“Of course I fucking have.”
Jon bit his lip before asking, “Did it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I touch you?”
Reek took Jon’s hand in his and pressed it to his cheek. He leaned into Jon’s
palm, shivered as Jon used his fingers to comb through Reek’s thick, brittle
hair – his touch still strangely cool.
“I promise not to be like that,” said Jon, planting a gentle kiss at the corner
of Reek’s mouth. “I mean, if you ever want to, just like, say the word and I’m
yours. We’ll do anything you want – nothing else. Yeah?”
“Why – I mean, you’ve got Robb. Robb’s fucking gorgeous. Why me?”
Jon smiled. “Careful with that question.”
Reek locked Jon out in the hall, still wearing the scarf over his eyes, and
when Reek went into the bathroom he found his reflection grinning irrepressibly
back at him, the corner of his mouth curled up to reveal a set of perfect white
teeth.
*
Reek’s fingers trembled as he dialed Roose Bolton’s number, sweaty smears
obscuring the digits on the screen of his phone. He worried at the buckle of
collar, wondering what Jon really thought of it and hoping that Roose might not
answer the call, or better yet that the number had been disconnected
altogether.
“Reek – I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost your phone.”
Reek grimaced – he could practically hear that unnerving little smile. Although
he was alone in his room, he replied in a whisper. “No. I – I’ve been busy is
all.”
“I spoke with Robb several days ago, and not only is he still alive – he
actually seemed fairly cheerful. So forgive me if I say that you can’t have
been particularly busy.” Roose paused to allow the gnawing sense of shame to
reawaken in the pit of Reek’s stomach. “Still, I trust you haven’t entirely
forgotten your purpose. What can I do for you?”
Reek held his breath. He thought about hanging up, or throwing the phone out
the window, or stomping it into pieces.
“Can you take off the tattoos on my knuckles?”
“You know, they have a treatment for that now.”
Reek splayed his remaining fingers against the wall. “Yeah, but I don’t like,
have time for that. I want to be able to take my gloves off, and I can’t do it
with these stupid tattoos.”
A silence followed long and heavy enough that Reek had to check his phone to
see that the call hadn’t been dropped.
“It will hurt. Even if I anesthetize you, the healing process will be painful.
Aesthetically, it won’t be an improvement.”
Reek snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t want to look like a fucking walking disaster,
would I? Listen, I just want them gone. I don’t care if it hurts, and neither
do you.”
“As you wish,” sighed Roose, sounding preoccupied. “I can see you Thursday
evening. Expect to spend the night – we’ll want to make sure you recover
properly. Wounds like these will need some aftercare. If course, you know that
I’ll be requiring something in return…”
“I said I would.” Reek’s voice was a dry growl. “And I will. But these things
are – I can’t just –”
“Yes, I understand: you’re not particularly adept at killing people. Or rather,
you aren’t as enthusiastic about it as you are skilled. But that’s not what I
meant – I meant that I’m going to require something additional to our
arrangement.”
Reek rolled his eyes – he should’ve known better than to expect a favor from
Roose Bolton.
“Yeah,” he said. “What?”
“Bring me something of Robb’s.”
Hang up. Hang up right this second.
“What do you mean ‘something’? Something like what?”
“Bring me anything that belongs to the boy – it hardly matters what. For your
own sake, it should probably be something that he won’t notice missing.”
Reek chewed at his thumbnail. His heart shrieked at him like a siren, but his
thoughts felt muddied – he imagined how Jon’s hair might tangle between his
fingers, how his body might twist and rise in response to a bare touch – the
arc of Jon’s back, the swell of his chest, the flutter of his eyelashes.
“Fine,” he replied.
*
“Have you seen Snow?” Reek cracked open the door to the entertainment room
where Robb sat alone, bathed in the yellow glow of the flat-screen. He wore his
pajama pants and a North College sweatshirt, bare feet propped up on an ottoman
and a bottle of beer between his thighs.
“If you really care about him, you’ll know that he hates being called Snow,”
Robb replied without taking his eyes off the television.
Reek felt a hot dread filling him, and suddenly the scarf covering his mouth
felt suffocating. “I, um – I don’t understand.”
Robb let his head drop back against the couch and then turned to regard Reek;
the light from the screen caught in his eyes, the rest of his expression
obscured. “You know, it might not seem like it, but Jon… he means a lot to me.
And I can tell how he feels about you. He tries to act like it’s nothing, but
you should see his face whenever I tell him he’s going out for a run with you.
It’s pretty fucking obvious.”
He’s going to make you disappear – for good this time.
You’re so stupid. You shouldn’t have come back here. You should’ve just fucking
offed yourself when you had the chance.
But Robb only squinted at him. “You do like him, don’t you?”
Reek swallowed. “I – no – I – he’s your –”
“Jon isn’t mine. He doesn’t belong to me.” Robb took a sip of beer and looked
down at his lap for a moment, sorting through the words before adding, “I
learned a while ago that things get really fucked up if you let yourself think
of somebody like that – like yours. So yeah, Jon does what he does. And I don’t
always like it but… have you ever tried telling him no?” Reek shook his head
mutely, bewildered, and Robb grinned. “If you can tell Jon no and he doesn’t
tell you to fuck yourself, that’s how you know he likes you.”
“You love him?”
Robb raised an eyebrow before returning his gaze to the television. “He’s
asleep. He’s feeling sick and went to bed early for once, but I – I wouldn’t
mind some company, if you’re looking for someone to hang out with.”
Reek wavered in the doorway, eyes flicking from the screen to Robb’s hopeful
smile.
“What’re you watching?”
“From Dusk Til Dawn,” Robb replied. He gestured at a mini-fridge beside the TV.
“There’s more beer and some pop in there, if you want.”
“I’m okay,” said Reek, sitting rigidly at the far end of the sofa. He folded
his hands between his knees and tried to ignore the weight of Robb’s gaze on
him.
“I don’t bite, you know.”
But you do.
“Have you ever seen this movie?”
“Long time ago.”
Reek fixed his eyes on the screen, though he strained not to look at Robb,
especially when he let out a peal of that boyish laughter that Theon had always
found so disarming. The TV was bigger, and everything was so different from how
Reek had imagined, but in the dark, with his feet up on the sofa, cozy in a
blanket and Robb laughing like that, it almost felt like being home. Madly, it
occurred to him to tell Robb everything.
How could Roose expect him to –
It wasn’t until the credits that Reek noticed Robb had fallen asleep beside
him, feet buried in the comforter that Reek had wrapped himself in, lying on
his side so that his face was fully illuminated. The glaring light washed out
the bags under his eyes, and Reek saw with a mix of bitterness and something
else how perfect his friend still looked – straight teeth shining between his
parted lips, long girlish eyelashes and a rough shadow of a beard. Beneath the
cover of the blanket, Reek slipped one of the gloves from his hands, glancing
at Robb’s face once more before drawing his fingers lightly along the arch of
Robb’s foot. Robb twitched, toes curling, eyes opening halfway for a heartbeat
before falling shut again.
Reek nearly jumped when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
“I’m in bed right now – can’t stop thinking about you.”
For once, Reek didn’t reply, but let his bare hand rest on the curve of Robb’s
ankle. He could feel the hair on Robb’s leg, surprisingly thick, the gentle
tapping of Robb’s pulse in the top of his foot.
He draped the blanket over Robb when he left, plucked the empty glass bottle
from between his friend’s thighs, and paused to run the three fingers of his
right hand through Robb’s curls before turning off the television and fumbling
for the door. When he opened it, he gasped, face-to-face with a pair of
accusing blue eyes and a thin, expressionless mouth. He was definitively taller
than Catelyn, and yet she seemed to loom over him as though he were still only
ten. Now there was something harder about her, something that recalled the
feeling of standing in front of all those kitchen knives in the darkness of the
Dreadfort.
“Ma’am,” he croaked.
“Is Robb asleep?” she asked, looking past him and into the blackened room.
Reek nodded, eager to escape but somehow frozen in place. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
She regarded him coldly for a moment, squinting at his hands before saying,
“Robb has a good heart – he’s the kind of man who’ll tend to a wounded bird
rather than breaking its neck. Kindness comes naturally to him – you shouldn’t
take it personally. Goodnight.”
She made no move, only stood there like a statue by the door as Reek stepped
cautiously around her and down the hall, not looking over his shoulder out of
sheer terror at seeing her figure again. It wasn’t until he returned to his
room that Reek realized he was still clutching the bottle so hard that his
fingers ached.
*
The Dreadfort looked bleakest in the late afternoon when the winter sun had
already set behind it, but before any of the lights had come on, its appearance
forlorn and hollow. He had hoped that Walda might greet him at the door, but it
was only Roose who brought him in for a cursory half-embrace.
“You look healthy,” he observed.
“Well, I feel like shit all of a sudden,” replied Reek, looking around and
inhaling the familiar, musty air of the central corridor. “Is Walda here?”
“She’s out with our son for the afternoon. She’ll be delighted to see you.”
Roose’s hand alighted on the back of Reek’s neck as he ushered him into the
house. “As am I. What did you bring me, pet?”
***** Chapter Twenty-Six *****
Chapter Summary
     Recovery.
Chapter Notes
     So I know it's been almost two months since I updated, and I also
     know that there's nothing worse than reading a Work In Progress only
     to find that it will never be finished. Thank you, if you are still
     reading, and know that chapter 27 is finished and chapter 28 is
     begun. I will be finishing this story, but I'll also be moving across
     the country and starting a new job this month, so apologies in
     advance for what might be a kind of long wait.
     Also, if I haven't already I want to thank bluetilo for all her
     wonderful support.
The little room looked precisely the same as it had three years before, as
though no one had entered it since. On the dusty bookshelf by the door, the
spines still tilted at the same slight angle, in the same topical sequence. The
air was colder but smelled the same, and instead of the bright sunbeams that
used to light up the richly-stained flooring, the windows admitted only a
bleak, uniform grayness that made guessing the hour impossible. In one corner
sat the chair.
Ramsay’s chair, Reek thought, though of course the chair belonged to Roose.
He remembered the way Ramsay had looked sleeping there, his arms folded across
his chest, stocking feet resting on the edge of the bed. He imagined that
Ramsay had probably always felt like something of a ghost in his father’s
house, and the thought saddened him.
He looked at his hands – each remaining finger wrapped separately in loose,
bloody gauze, each one flickering with a dim kind of pain. Lifting the edge of
the gauze on his left index finger, he saw a raw, red wound where the letter
“B” had been exactingly removed. He shuddered at the realization that he’d been
unconscious under Roose’s care, envisioned those thin, chilly hands moving his
limp body in whatever way they pleased.
He waited in the room for what felt like an hour, but Roose was not so devoted
as Ramsay, and Reek supposed that the master of the house was too busy with
important matters to check in very frequently on his dead son’s broken toy.
The sky outside began to darken, and Reek’s stomach growled.
“Oh, Reek – you’re up!”
Before he could lift his head from the pillow to look at her, Walda bent down
to press him into the bed with a warm, ungainly hug. He returned the embrace,
careful not to touch her with his hands, face buried in the thick waves of her
hair.
“Oh my god – your teeth look fantastic!”
Reek smiled helplessly. “Thanks. I – uh – I’m still getting used to them.”
“You’re not still wearing that stupid scarf over your face, are you?”
He nodded and began tracing a seam in the blanket with his fingertip. “Yeah, I
am. I – I take it off sometimes though. Baby steps.” He grinned. “How’s Dom?”
Walda’s eyes lit up. “I mean, he’s amazing. Who’d have thought that someone
that shits his pants every few hours could also be just the most wonderful
person in the world?”
“You know, I could do that too if I’d known it would impress you.”
She laughed her high, musical laugh. “I’ve missed you. Now that Dom is
crawling, I spend all day just running around after him. Sometimes I forget
that I’m actually like, a grown-up now. Roose and I baby-proofed one entire
wing of the house last month, and then I spent five minutes trying to open a
cabinet before I remembered that it was latched.”
Reek laughed and admitted, “It’s hard for me to imagine Roose holding a baby.”
He bit his lip, considering before he said, “He asked me for something, you
know – something of Robb’s.”
Walda looked at him seriously. “Asked you for what, exactly?”
“‘Something’ was all he said – anything. So I brought him a dumbass empty beer
bottle. I thought he’d get pissed at me for bringing some of Robb’s trash, but
he didn’t say anything about it – he just took it and called me – said I did a
good job. You don’t – um – know what he has in mind with it, do you?”
“No,” she replied. “I don’t ask questions that I don’t want to know the answer
to.” She took Reek’s hands lightly between hers. “You still care for him a
little, don’t you?”
“Who? Robb?” Reek scoffed but looked away. “Maybe in my weaker moments.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t have done it.” She opened her hands to look at his
bandages. “Why did you ask for this? It looks painful.”
“I wanted the tattoo gone so I could, you know, touch things without my
gloves.”
Walda gave a hopeful smile. “Things like people?”
“Maybe,” Reek said, unable to stop the curve at the corner of his mouth.
“Tell me about him?”
Reek blushed. “Just sweet and curious and super fucking hot.”
“I haven’t seen you smiling like that since Ramsay –” Walda frowned. “He
doesn’t… treat you anything like that, does he?”
“No.” Reek lay back on the pillow. “He just – he’s hard to explain. We keep
secrets from each other. He kisses me, and when I tell him to stop, he just –
like I can see that he hates it and he wants to keep going, but he just stops.
And he’ll kiss me once more, but it’s like, just a soft little kiss. He – I
dunno – he kind of makes me feel like I’m –”
A man.
“– Like I’m still a person.”
“You are a person though,” said Walda. “Ramsay never – you never stopped being
a person.”
“You know that – that the worst of what Ramsay did to me is, like – you can’t
see it, right?” Reek swallowed and willed his eyes not to stray downward.
“Like, bad enough that if I ever – if Jon ever sees it, he’s going to probably
freak out and never touch me again.”
“Or maybe he actually cares about you.” She smiled. “I mean, Ramsay cared about
you, and he was pretty much a human-shaped monster, so I find it hard to
believe that some actual human wouldn’t be able to care about you also.” Reek
opened his mouth to argue, but she interrupted him. “The first time I met you,
I thought you were so handsome. You were staring at me – men don’t stare at me
much – and I remember I turned bright red, like, I didn’t know where to look.”
“Seriously?” Reek squeezed her hand, and his stomach gave another gurgle.
“Seriously,” she said. “Come on – let’s go downstairs and get you something to
eat.”
*
He hoped – perversely – to see Roose before he left. He assumed that Bolton
would have questions or instructions for him, but Walda was alone when she saw
Reek off apologetically, saying that some business had called her husband to
his office, and while some part of Reek felt relief, another part felt
strangely cast aside.
*
The courtyard was dark, but the dim, yellow light from the porch shone enough
light to cast pinprick reflections in the churning water of the hot tub, and
Reek could just make out the curve of Jon’s back – defined muscles slick with
water – and the hands that gripped his waist as his hips rolled in an eager,
sloppy rhythm.
Reek froze. He’d stepped out onto his balcony for some fresh air, and now found
that he was staring down at the two of them, their voices loud but still
muddled by the humming of the hot tub motor. He urged himself to look away –
this moment was not his to watch, and anyway it was wrong. He repeated the word
to himself, as though it might quell the feeling between his legs and release
his bandaged fingers from their tight grip on the railing.
*
“What do you want with me, exactly?”
Jon looked startled and gave a snap on his rubber bands. Reek swallowed. He’d
been driving for a few minutes before working up his courage, and seeing Jon’s
telling little tic made him regret the careless phrasing.
“Want with you? What does that mean? Do I have to want something with you?”
“I mean, I saw you and him in the hot tub the other night and –”
“Not this again,” sighed Jon, smacking his head lightly against the window of
the sedan in a gesture of exasperation. “Listen, I don’t know what it’s going
to take to get you to understand that I just want you, okay? Are you looking
for some like, deep psychological explanation or something? Because I’m sure I
could tell you a bunch of bullshit about being assaulted or never knowing my
father, or whatever you think it would take to justify the fact that I just
really want to see you naked. Would that make it better for you – if the way I
feel about you came from some bad, fucked-up place? Like, can you only get off
you know that I’m using you to work out some unresolved emotional issues?”
Reek blushed, and his stomach jumped as Jon sat forward and tucked a few
strands of white hair that had fallen into Reek’s eyes back beneath the edge of
his scarf.
“Just because I – just because Robb and I are fucking or whatever doesn’t mean
I don’t care about you, but every time I – it seems like whenever I try, you
just… get scared.”
“I am scared,” Reek admitted, barely louder than a whisper. His chest felt
tight as Jon leaned across the cab to press a kiss against Reek’s covered
cheek.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a coward.”
Helpless. Stupid. Pathetic.
Jon frowned. “I think you’re pretty brave,” he said, dropping his head back
against the head-rest. “Do you know where we’re going right now?”
“I just go where you say to go.”
“Because you trust me?”
“Yeah.”
Jon smiled, dark eyes alight with a new idea. “So, if I said to put a blindfold
on me and give me an hour, would you? Even if you’re scared, would you trust
me?” The car jolted as Reek’s foot slipped off the clutch, and Jon’s smile
widened as he laid a hand on Reek’s shaking knee. “I mean, I trust your driving
– don’t you think you could trust me to take my clothes off for you?”
Reek swallowed hard and tried not to dwell on the fantasy of it, or to notice
how his voice cracked when he answered, “Yeah, I – uh – I guess so. Um, where
are we going again?”
“We’re going to make a pick-up from one of the Stark Family’s many respectable
establishments.”
“Do you – how long do you think you’ll keep working for Mr. Stark?” Reek
wondered what his own answer to such a question might be, and Jon shrugged with
that very practiced indifference of his, seeming to imply that he hadn’t given
the matter much thought.
“I dunno. I guess I just assume I’ll end up dead or in jail by the time I’m
thirty.” He shrugged again and picked at the flaking nail polish on his thumb.
“But I mean, that was kind of where I was headed since before I even met Robb,
so…”
“Where were you, before?”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I told you that.”
“I meant like, before that, even.”
“Well, before I was Jon the Whore, I was Jon the Runaway, and before that I was
just Jon the Bastard.”
Reek paused to let Jon’s bitterness pass over him before asking, “It can’t all
have been so shitty though, right? Like, there must’ve been some good parts.”
“Yeah, there’s been good parts.” Jon’s lips betrayed the slightest hint of a
smile. “Right now’s not so bad. God, I’m sorry I’m such an asshole.” He glanced
at Reek’s uncovered hands. “I shouldn’t bitch about this stuff to you.”
Reek folded his fingers together and hid them between his knees. “Don’t be
sorry,” he said. “If it hurts, it hurts.”
He directed Reek into one of the posh, old boulevards that ran through the
heart of the city – brick colonial houses flanked by towering maple and
evergreen trees, the streetlights casting an alluring glow over the sidewalks.
Reek couldn’t help but think that this was the sort of place that made his
father hate the North – wealth masquerading as simplicity.
They stopped in front of a three-story corner house, its every window
illuminated. On the porch stood a cluster of figures, smoking in silence.
Reek cut the engine, then unbuckled his seatbelt and reclined his seat,
prepared to wait for Jon’s return, but Jon rapped on the driver’s side window
and cocked his head towards the house. Reek opened the door.
“You want me to come with?”
“Yeah.” He hesitated. “You think I should lock it?”
Jon rolled his eyes. “It’s a piece of crap. Nobody’s going to steal it. Have
you ever been inside a whorehouse before?”
Reek stopped in his tracks in the middle of the boulevard, gaping at Jon and
wishing he had his own rubber bands to snap. “Wait, what?”
Jon grinned, tossing his hair out of his face. “It’s just like a normal house,
except with whores.” He held out a hand to Reek, and Reek took it without
thinking, too disconcerted to really worry about how his missing fingers might
feel freakish to Jon. It was only after Jon had pulled him up the steps and to
the front door that he realized how cool Jon’s touch still felt, how pleasant
against the scar tissue on his knuckles.
Jon knocked on the door. “You forget your gloves?” he asked, rubbing his thumb
over the back of Reek’s hand.
“No,” Reek answered, barely audible over the sound of a series of deadbolts
unlocking.
The door burst open, releasing a tide of thick, perfumed air and the pleasant
din of men’s laughter and women’s voices.
“Jon Snow – so wonderful to see you!” The woman at the door clasped Jon’s hand,
warm without being effusive, and gave Reek a sharp, appraising look. “And you’d
brought a friend.”
Reek impulsively tried to pull his hand from Jon’s, to hide it behind his back
or in a pocket, but Jon held on firmly. “Always my pleasure, Ms. Ryman. How’s
business?”
“We’re in the midst of our winter boom,” she replied, her brown eyes lingering
on Reek a moment more. “Husbands and wives kept indoors with one another – it
drives them a little crazy, and it drives them straight to our doors. Your
friend doesn’t say much, does he?”
Reek swallowed. What was there to say? One of the girls passing through the
foyer cast Jon a longing gaze.
“He’s a bit overwhelmed,” said Jon, giving Reek’s hand a squeeze.
“You have such lovely eyes,” she said to Reek. “Such an unusual blue.”
“Um, thank you?”
“It speaks!” she exclaimed playfully. “You know, usually Mr. Stark sends some
of his goons to make the collection. They track mud in and hassle the girls,
always expecting something for nothing. We’re so pleased whenever it’s Mr. Snow
instead. I keep trying to recruit him – the money is better, and the work is
more fun, and it seems like an awful crime that such a perfect face should be
lost to the bloodier part of Mr. Stark’s enterprise, but –” She shrugged her
broad shoulders. “He insists that he’d be a bad investment.”
Jon smiled bashfully, eyes sliding sideways to meet Reek’s and affirm the
secret between them. “I would like to buy something from you this evening,” he
said.
Ms. Ryman raised one of her dark, perfectly-shaped eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Just a room, for an hour. You can take it out of the deposit.”
Reek could see the intense fascination in her expression, but Ms. Ryman
possessed enough tact to refrain from asking for further details. Instead she
only waved away the proposition of money. “Jon, please. The room is yours for
as long as you like. Take number seven – it’s the finest of them.”
Reek’s heart pounded as he followed Jon up the wide, hardwood stairs – he
watched Jon’s fingers gliding along the worn curvature of the banister and felt
his mouth go dry in anticipation of how those hands might feel on his thighs.
The room was lovely – all the light fixtures were original, and cast a cozy,
intimate glow – but Reek could hardly be bothered to take his eyes off of Jon.
Jon turned a full circle, taking in the room for a moment, drawing a deep
breath as he shucked his leather jacket onto the floor. When he looked at Reek
again, it was with equal parts nerves and desire, his cheeks reddened faintly
as he snapped at his rubber bands, his eyes a smoldering darkness. Reek’s
breath caught as Jon removed his t-shirt.
“You look nervous,” Jon observed, unbuckling the holster that held his pistol
against his side, then peeling off his thin, cotton undershirt.
“You look fucking unreal,” Reek returned, taking a careful step forward,
closing the space between them to only a couple feet. He could smell Jon’s
cigarettes, and underneath that something sweet that might’ve been cologne.
Jon smiled – a sort of unguarded, boyish smile – and took Reek’s hand, pausing
to pass his thumb over the place that used to be a pinky finger before pressing
Reek’s palm against the bare skin of his chest. It was the left hand, mutilated
beyond all but the most basic use, and Reek stared at its weird, contorted
shape against the perfect curve of Jon’s collar bone. He slid his fingers up to
press lightly at the image of the cardinal there. Reek squinted at it and bit
his lip.
“So are you going to tell me about Satin, or what?”
“Are you just trying to derail me from my mission of getting you naked?”
Reek shook his head. “No. I’m just – curious. I mean, it has to be a name,
right? Otherwise you wouldn’t be so uptight about it.”
“He was a boy. Just a boy I loved.” Jon cleared his throat and turned his head
to allow Reek’s fingers to follow the tips of the bird’s wings up the muscles
of his neck. Reek hated the knot in his stomach, the surge of jealousy he felt,
in spite of the fact that Jon was here, Jon was his.
“Was he your first?”
Jon smirked. “My first what?”
“You know, your first?”
“No.”
“Who was?”
“Are we seriously using this time to talk about other guys?”
Reek swept a lock of hair behind Jon’s ear. “Please just tell me his name.” His
fingers trembled as they traced the bow of Jon’s bottom lip.
“Theon,” Jon said. “And I don’t –”
Reek leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Jon’s, not minding the fabric of the
scarf still between them. He flinched when Jon grabbed the front of his sweater
and took three steps forward, strong enough that Reek’s knees buckled when they
hit the edge of the bed. Jon laid a hand in the middle of Reek’s chest,
pressing him gently back onto the mattress, crawling forward until he had Reek
pinned with a knee on either side of his hips.
Reek braced himself – half afraid and half hopeful that Jon might just tear the
scarf away from his face, might start undressing him in that possessive,
frantic way that Ramsay always did. But Jon only sat back onto his heels to
consider Reek with a thirsty stare.
“What?”
“I need to hear you tell me what you want right now.”
Reek squirmed, his crotch pressed against the firm roundness of Jon’s ass.
“Jesus, Jon – I don’t – I don’t know. I can’t think. I just want your hands on
me.”
Jon grinned and reached around to pull a red bandana out of his back pocket.
“Just tell me when to stop, okay?” He folded the cloth three times and took one
last look at Reek before tying it securely over his eyes, then leaned forward,
hand traveling up to tug gently at Reek’s scarf until it fell away. Jon passed
his fingertips lightly over Reek’s mouth, dipping his thumb inside to trace the
edge of Reek’s teeth.
“Okay,” said Reek, and Jon took the opportunity to press his thumb further
inside, and with his other hand pulled the scarf away completely. His fingers
moved down the length of Reek’s throat until they found the worn leather of his
collar and began searching for the clasp. Reek froze.
“Can I?” Jon asked.
It’s not his to take off.
But who do you belong to now?
Reek nodded, then remembered that Jon couldn’t see. “Yeah,” he choked.
He felt strange for a few seconds after Jon removed the collar, like a part of
him was missing, but then Jon’s mouth was on his neck and Jon’s hair was
tickling his face, and Reek’s brain abruptly shut out the thought of anything
else. He felt Jon’s cool touch running down the length of his arms to lift
Reek’s hands and plant them on the crests of his hips.
“You can touch me too, you know.” He dropped forward onto one elbow, fingers
tangling in Reek’s coarse, white hair as he licked playfully at Reek’s lips,
then claimed them with a hard kiss that made Reek hum.
Reek tensed as Jon’s other hand pushed up beneath his sweater, exploring the
lines of his stomach, stopping when he arrived at the first major scar. (A
butterfly knife – clean, but a long cut that bled and he remembered how Ramsay
had liked the taste of it.)
Reek pushed Jon away just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head.
“Keep going,” he said.
He watched Jon’s fingers make their way over his ribcage, painted nails oddly
innocent as they ventured into the thicket of scars that covered Reek’s left
breast.
“Jesus Christ.” Jon frowned, touch lingering there as though he intended to
make sense of the marks. “He did this to you?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s lucky he’s already dead.”
“It was my f-fault,” Reek stammered. “He never h-hurt me without a reason. If I
was being good – if I was paying attention – I learned how to not be hurt as
much.”
Jon’s fingers circled around the bite mark on Reek’s shoulder, and though Reek
couldn’t see his eyes, he could tell that he’d upset Jon.
“I’m s-sorry. I didn’t meant to –”
“You still love him?”
“Sometimes.”
Jon rubbed at a stray cigarette burn, considering its familiarity. “What did he
make you feel?”
Reek thought for a moment, trailing his fingers over the cluster of burns
dotting Jon’s flat stomach. “Safe,” he answered. “Needed.”
“I can make you feel that, if you want.” Jon leaned down again to lay a dozen
wet kisses over the network of scars, and Reek shivered. He grabbed a fistful
of Jon’s curls, and this time it was Jon who let out a low moan as his hips
ground against Reek’s thigh. Reek could feel Jon’s erection, and as much as it
terrified him, it amazed him to think that Jon could be so hard – rutting
shamelessly against his leg – in spite of everything, whispering into his ear
that he wanted to make Reek feel better than he ever had.
“I want to feel it when you come. I want to hear the sounds you make. I want to
make you forget about him.”
Reek intercepted Jon’s hand as it wandered dangerously between his legs and
pressed a kiss to Jon’s palm. “And what would that make you forget?”
Jon smiled. “You make me forget about everything else.” Sitting back, he swept
a few strands of hair out of his face, then dragged his nails across Reek’s
stomach just hard enough to leave a set of red streaks in their wake. “Like,
everything outside of this room has just sort of fallen away.”
Reek’s spine went rigid when Jon’s hands started working at his belt buckle.
“Please,” he breathed, catching a hold of Jon’s wrist. “Be careful.”
Reek felt the cool air against his stomach as Jon unzipped his fly and opened
the front of his jeans. He closed his eyes and then willed them open to watch
Jon’s face as his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of Reek’s boxer-briefs.
Jon gave a soft gasp.
“Reek…?”
“Yeah?”
“Should I stop?”
“Only if you want to.”
He bit his lip and worked hard not to panic, felt tears forming in the corners
of his eyes as Jon’s touch continued lower.
“When – um, how long ago did this –”
“Three years.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, but – oh god –” Reek’s eyes rolled back as he bucked up against the heel
of Jon’s palm. “But not in the way you think.”
The truth was that it felt good enough to make Reek’s mouth hang open, eyes
closed as Jon rubbed him there, and Reek feared that if it went on any longer
he might start crying. He whined when he pushed Jon’s hands away.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Fuck no. But we only have an hour, and I don’t – um – I don’t even think I
can actually –”
“Oh.”
Reek’s heart sank as he registered the dismay on Jon’s face. “Hey,” he said
gently, thumb rubbing at the white rose on Jon’s right hip. “I showed you mine,
so…”
“I don’t know if I should –”
“You definitely should.”
Jon smiled, cheeks turning a deep red as he fumbled with the four buttons on
his jeans, then shoved them down around his thighs. Reek took a few seconds to
admire the shape of Jon’s prick through the cloth of his underwear before
tugging them down to reveal an erection slightly larger than he remembered it,
arcing up from a thick, black bush to slap against the word “SNOW” just below
Jon’s navel.
“Kind of a strange tattoo,” Reek mused, grazing his knuckles along the
underside of Jon’s cock. “Afraid you might forget your own name?”
“Oh my God, did you know you’re super funny?” Jon retorted, giving Reek’s
nipple a savage twist. “It’s just what everyone called me.”
Reek wrapped his better hand around Jon’s length and gave a few slow strokes.
“You want me to call you Snow?” he teased.
Jon shook his head and bit his lip. “Hm-mm. I like when you call me Jon.”
Reek reached between Jon’s legs to grab his ass and push his hips forward so
that Jon fell onto his hands and knees, and if Reek lifted his head from the
mattress, his lips just brushed the leaking tip of Jon’s cock. “You want me to
suck it, Jon?”
Jon gave a dry cough before answering, “Yes please.”
He sighed when Reek swallowed him, hips jerking forward while Reek braced one
hand on the small of Jon’s back to hold himself up, the other fisted around
Jon’s prick, pumping and twisting in time with his mouth.
“Oh – god –”
Reek moaned to feel Jon’s fingers in his hair, and when he raised his eyes to
Jon’s face, he saw that Jon was bracing himself with his forearms and had his
head bowed against them. He wished he had the courage to tell Jon to remove the
blindfold.
“Are you going to come for me, Jon?”
Jon whimpered affirmatively, and Reek felt the way his whole body quivered as
he fought to maintain his balance. He gave a low him, and was rewarded with a
strangled, “Oh fuck.”
“Do you have any idea how fucking good you taste?” Reek licked a sloppy line
from the base of Jon’s cock to the head, then slipped a wet finger behind Jon’s
balls to press against his entrance.
“Oh God – fuck me – please.”
And Reek hadn’t expected to hear that, or the way Jon rocked back onto his
finger, then thrust forward into his mouth, where he spent thirty seconds
later, shaking through his orgasm while Reek swallowed it. Jon collapsed beside
him on the bed.
“Was that… okay?” he asked after he’d caught his breath. He reached for Reek’s
face, and ran a fingertip down the handsome line of Reek’s profile. “Did it
like, feel okay for you?”
Reek kissed him slowly, loving the way Jon’s mouth opened for his tongue, the
cool touch of Jon’s strong hand on his waist, pulling him closer. Reek felt
something tickle him, and looked down at the three neon rubber bands around
Jon’s wrist.
*
Reek took one last look at the deposit they’d come to collect before closing
the trunk of the car. “Shit.”
“What?” Jon leaned on the roof, arms folded beneath his chin, watching Reek
intently while his cigarette hung in the corner of an inextinguishable smile.
“I left my collar in there.” Reek reached for his throat, somehow feeling more
naked than he had fifteen minutes earlier, with his shirt off and his pants
undone, the taste of Jon’s orgasm still fresh in his mouth.
“I was hoping you’d forget about it.” Jon rolled his eyes. “Fine – I’ll get it.
Back in a second.”
Reek watched him go, and he found himself longing violently to be back in that
bedroom; he wished he hadn’t pushed Jon’s hand away. It felt good to be touched
there, and Reek realized that it still felt good, just remembering.
The sky was dark, and reminded Reek of the way Pyke looked during the new moon
– the blackness of the ocean that stretched out forever. Not long before he’d
left, Asha had taken him out one night to a grassy hillside hidden from the
lights of the port.
“Don’t let go of my hand,” she’d said, which was so unlike her.
“Where are we going?”
“To the drop.”
Theon knew the place – a sheer cliff where the hills fell away to a rocky beach
fifty feet below. He squeezed Asha’s fingers with his own. A fresh breeze was
blowing in from the sea that night, and they sat on the edge of the drop for
almost an hour – feet dangling off into the air, listening to the sound of the
surf crashing against the base of the cliff.
Reek wondered how things might be different if he had returned to the Islands
with his sister. He imagined what life would be like if he had never left – how
different his relationship with Robb might be if they had met as young men,
Theon the heir of the largest shipping empire on the West Coast, Robb the head
of the most powerful family in the North.
And where would that leave Jon?
He couldn’t help but feel that maybe things would’ve been better that way – if
Jon had grown up in Wintertown, maybe gone to school there, or learned a trade,
or decided to travel after he turned eighteen. Almost anything else, really.
Jon was still smiling when he returned, the collar wrapped around the knuckles
of one hand. “You want me to put it back on you, or what?”
Reek opened the driver’s side door. “No. That’s okay. I just, you know – I just
wanted it back.”
Jon handed it over as he buckled his seatbelt. “Looks expensive,” he remarked.
“Probably.” Reek turned the collar over in his hands. The leather was soft and
dirty, but the stone still glistened dangerously.
“Who were you before this?” Jon asked with wide, dark eyes.
“Stupid,” said Reek with a huff of a laugh. “Optimistic. Too busy trying to be
who I was supposed to be.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “And who’s that?”
“Just another rich boy, I guess.” Reek shook his head and twisted the garnet
between his thumb and forefinger. “Selfish. Hung up.” He started the car and
accelerated down the boulevard.
“And Ramsay changed all that, huh?”
Reek shrugged.
“Robb hates him.” Jon leaned back in his seat. “He won’t tell me why, exactly,
besides the fact that Ramsay was a sick fuck. He dragged me to the funeral – he
said we were only going because he was obligated to make an appearance, you
know, but he told me that he was sorry he hadn’t been the one to do it. He said
if he’d done Ramsay, it wouldn’t have been open casket.” Jon laughed uneasily.
“Robb talks big like that but… I don’t know. And then during the service, I
looked over at him and he was fucking crying. That’s the only time I’ve ever
seen him cry.”
Reek glanced in the rearview mirror, squinting in the glare of the headlights
of the car behind them.
“Does it bother you if I ask about him?”
“Ramsay? No.”
Jon snapped his rubber bands and stayed quiet for a beat. “That was a really
really good blowjob,” he said, as though he was only thinking aloud.
Reek smiled, looking again in the mirror. “Thanks.”
“You know, you’re always asking about why I like you but, like…”
“Be quiet for a second,” said Reek, reaching across Jon to check that his
seatbelt was fastened.
“What’s –”
“I think we’re being followed.”
Jon twisted to look out the rear window at the pair of headlights half a block
behind them. “What makes you think they’re following us?”
“The distance,” Reek replied, looking at the speedometer. “Like, right now I’m
going 25.” He pressed on the brake. “But if I slow down, they keep that same
space between us, even though I’m going 10 under.”
“So what do we do?” Jon asked, clearly struggling to suppress the panic in his
voice.
Distantly, Reek felt his own pulse rising, his hands beginning to sweat as his
mind dialed through a series of possibilities.
“You think they’re going to kill us?” Jon’s eyes widened, and he glanced again
at the headlights behind them, winking brightly as the car passed over a rut in
the pavement.
“Can you see what kind of car it is?” Reek asked. “Or how many people are
inside?”
Jon shook his head. “No. I mean, it’s a car – not a truck or a van. But I can’t
tell – the windshield’s tinted.” He looked at Reek. “I bet we can lose them if
we speed up.”
“I don’t think they’re trying to catch us,” said Reek. “I think there’s
something wrong with our car.”
“Shit.”
Reek’s fingers ached as his grip tightened on the wheel, trying to find a way
around the conclusion he’d reached. “Right, here’s what we’re going to do: I’m
going to pull into one of these alleys. They’re probably going to stop just
outside of it and wait. They might kill their lights, or they might realize
that we’re on to them and get out of the car. As soon as we stop, I’m going to
pop the hood and take a look.”
“What do I do?”
“Keep your gun on ‘em.” Reek swallowed and laid a hand on Jon’s thigh. “I wish
I could do it for you, but... I won’t be able to make the shot at that
distance.”
Jon blanched. “But what if they’re not – I don’t know if –”
“Jon, I need you to do this for me.” Reek gave Jon’s leg a squeeze. “In about
thirty seconds, we’re going to know for sure if these guys are trying to kill
us. If they are, I’m going to need you to keep us safe. Can you do that for me,
babe?”
Jon blinked at him. “Yeah. I can… I can do that.” He cleared his throat and
pursed his lips resolutely, then pulled the pistol from beneath his shirt and
took a deep breath as he chambered the first round.
Reek took a sharp left turn and accelerated down an alleyway shadowed by tall
hedges, swerving to avoid an overturned garbage can before bringing the vehicle
to an abrupt halt. He reached down to pull the pedal that disengaged the hood,
then opened the door to look towards the mouth of the alley, where the other
car had screeched to a stop. Reek squinted in the harsh glare of the
headlights. He heard Jon’s door open, saw him turn off the safety on his pistol
before exiting the car. Reek hurried to the front of the car, maimed fingers
feeling through the grill for the lever that allowed him to fully open the
hood. The hood blocked the light from the other car, and in the darkness Reek
could barely see the engine, but he didn’t need to.
In his periphery, he heard the sound of another car door opening, a shout, the
sound of a gunshot and glass shattering. He stared down at the explosive
device, nested arms’ reach within the engine block, a dim display counting down
the seconds.
The next shot made him jump. Peering around the hood, he saw a man lying on the
gravel, lifeless.
Jon was shaking when Reek grabbed him by the arm.
“Come on, let’s go.” He pulled Jon along, away from the sedan, and he could
feel the heaviness in Jon’s feet, the way his knees wobbled with each step.
Jon stopped suddenly, pulling away. “The deposit – we’ve got fifty grand in the
trunk –”
“Unless you know how to defuse a bomb, we’ve got to get out of here now.”
“It’s my job, though,” said Jon, with a vacant tone. “I was supposed to –”
Reek clasped Jon’s wrist as tightly as he could, tugging almost violently until
Jon took a few steps forward. “Never mind the fucking money, Jon! That car is
going to blow in less than three minutes, and we need to get as far away as we
fucking can, okay? In ten minutes, there are going to be a bunch of fucking
cops here, and we need to be gone! Robb can deal with the police, but not if
we’re still here when they arrive.”
“But he’ll be mad about the money –”
“It’s nothing. The money’s nothing. I promise I’ll tell Robb that I made you
leave it. Just – please just get in the car.”
Jon stared at him, dazed, then nodded slowly. Reek held onto his wrist, leading
him towards the car that had been following them. He opened the door for Jon,
then scrambled around to the driver’s side, pausing to examine the face of the
dead man on the ground, but finding it an unfamiliar one.
He didn’t bother buckling his seatbelt before slamming the car into reverse,
then into first and speeding away down the boulevard.
*
Reek didn’t allow himself to look at Jon until they’d arrived at Winterfell. He
listened to the flick of Jon’s Zippo as he lit a cigarette and tried to mask a
stray, tearful sob as a cough.
“I feel like I’m fucking cursed,” he muttered.
Once the car was parked in the garage, Reek turned to him. The tears had dried
on his cheeks, but his eyes were still bloodshot and glassy.
“You’re going to have to learn not to cry so much,” Reek said, instantly
regretting his tone.
“Fuck you.”
“Jon –”
Jon resisted Reek’s touch for a moment before submitting to it, eyelashes
fluttering closed as Reek combed a cluster of curls back behind his ear. “Stay
with me tonight?”
“I can’t,” Reek choked.
“Why not?”
“I need to find out who he was.” Reek passed his thumb over Jon’s parted lips.
“And fucking kill whoever sent him.”
*
Reek found Robb in his office, rubbing at his temple with one hand while he
poured over a list of accounts. The lighting in the room was unusually dim, and
all the surveillance screens had been turned off. A half-empty glass of whiskey
and ice dripped condensation onto the surface of the desk.
He looked up when Reek entered, tired eyes stirring to life, crinkling at the
corners with that beautiful smile of his.
“Reek – you wanna sit down?”
“No.” Reek stood across the desk, leaned his thighs against its edge. His mouth
felt dry.
“How did the collection go?”
“Not great.”
Robb frowned. “What happened?”
“We were followed.”
Robb stood slowly, and Reek searched his face for some hint of knowledge or
deceit, but Robb sounded so sincere when he asked, “By who?”
Before he could think, he’d thrust his hands into Robb’s chest and shoved him
backwards, stumbling over the legs of his chair and crashing into the wall. A
second later, Reek had Robb by the front of his shirt, and he could feel Robb’s
racing heartbeat, Robb’s hands warm as they wrung at Reek’s wrists. Reek
swallowed.
“Don’t act like you don’t fucking know,” he hissed, face burning beneath the
cloth of his scarf. “We were followed by someone who knew where find us – who
knew what we were driving – and you’re going to sit there and fucking smile at
me? You’re as worthless as your fucking father.”
Robb’s grip loosened, his blue eyes wide. “Theon?”
“Stop!” Reek pulled Robb forward, only to smash him back against the wall hard
enough to make his eyes water. “Stop stop stop! I’m not him.” Reek could feel
his whole body fighting to stay upright, his hold on Robb’s shirt tight enough
to send electric pains up the length of his arms.
“Theon please –”
Reek released one hand just long enough to grab Robb just below the jaw and
slam his head back. He could feel Robb gasping for air, and a voice from
somewhere deep inside reminded Reek that this was what he wanted, this was what
he was supposed to do. In his mind’s eye, Reek imagined crushing Robb’s throat,
the way Robb would try to pry himself free, the way he would shake and the way
his face and eyes would turn red with blood.
But when he actually looked at Robb, all he could see was a pair of pleading
eyes, soft lips still breathing his name as though it was a prayer.
“Tell me – tell me that you didn’t. Tell me that you love him and promise me
that you will never let anything happen to him, or I swear to God, Robb, I will
tear your fucking throat out, and I don’t care what happens after that.”
Robb gasped for breath when Reek released his hold, coughing drily a few time
before managing, “You know Jon is everything to me. I would never – I’d never
do anything to hurt him. Please – please take off the scarf. Please let me see
you.”
Reek faltered, recoiling from the thought even as he said, “The same way you’d
never do anything to – to hurt me?”
“Theon – I didn’t –”
Here Reek shoved him again, fury rebounded at even that fraction of a denial.
“Yes you did! You sent me – you sent me away. You had me – all the things he
did to me, he did because you let him. You gave me away and then forgot about
me!”
He trembled, paralyzed suddenly when Robb reached up to begin delicately
unwrapping his scarf, heart hammering in his chest as the fabric fell away onto
the floor. If Robb was shocked by what he saw, his eyes gave no indication. “I
could never forget about you,” he said, tears overflowing his eyes. “I think
about you every day.”
“You – you were supposed to take c-c-care of me,” Reek stuttered. A terrible
pain began to blossom in his chest, as though some invisible weight had been
dropped on him. “After your dad died, you were supposed to –” He stopped as
Robb collapsed into him, slumping to the floor, clutching at Reek’s broken
hands hard enough to hurt.
He watched bewildered as Robb buried his face in Reek’s thigh, silent,
convulsive sobs coursing through his body in waves.
“Robb –” Reek made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but Robb only clung to
him tighter. “Please –”
“Theon – oh God – I’m s-s –”
“Don’t you dare fucking tell me that you’re sorry,” said Reek through clenched
teeth.
Robb looked up at him, tears spilling down his cheeks, lips quivering with each
breath. “Then tell me what to say.”
A part of Reek wanted to hurt Robb – maybe break that glass of whiskey across
his pretty face – but another, deeper part only wanted Robb to stop crying. He
couldn’t quite believe it when he found himself crouching down beside Robb,
wiping his tears away, hushing him, begging him: “Jesus Christ – I don’t want
you to say anything. Just – please don’t cry, Robb.”
Unthinking, he pulled Robb into him to press a dry kiss to his forehead.
“I never meant for this to happen,” Robb said, raising his eyes to meet Reek’s
in supplication. “You – you know that. Please tell me you know that.”
“I know,” said Reek. He held Robb like that for some time, listening to his
ragged breathing, feeling the heat that seemed to radiate off Robb’s curled
body in waves. “Promise you won’t tell Jon,” he said, half-burying his face in
Robb’s hair, inhaling that familiar, sweet smell that was as much home as
anywhere.
“I promise,” Robb sniffled. “I – I think he thinks you’re dead.”
“He told you about me?”
Robb looked at him blearily. “Of course he told me about you. He told me how he
met you in a grocery store parking-lot when he accidentally backed into your
Zagato. He said you were his first, and he wonders what happened to you that
you never came back for him.”
Reek frowned. “I should’ve left him alone. So should you.”
“Yeah, well. We both should’ve done lots of things.” Robb rubbed at his eye
with the heel of his palm. “Dad should’ve taken better care of him.”
“Someone’s trying to kill him,” said Reek somberly. “Someone in this house
wants Jon gone. So you need to do your dad’s fucking job and take care of it.”
Robb’s face settled into a grim expression. “I will.”
“You should – you should probably go to him. He – he needs you tonight.”
Robb sighed and wiped at his cheeks with the sleeves of his button-up. “I will
but – could you stay? Just for a little while, with me?”
*
He woke to the tickle of Robb’s fingers on his forearm. “Theon?”
“Yeah?” He realized he’d nearly fallen asleep like that – sitting on the couch
with Robb’s head rested on his lap, Robb’s red Chuck Taylors propped up on the
sofa cushion and Theon’s arm draped over his waist while one of Ned Stark’s
nameless old soul records crackled warmly through the speakers.
“Can I call you Theon now?”
Theon hesitated. A pair of cold, gray eyes peered at him through his memory.
But Robb’s eyes were warm and blue.
Like a picture of a beautiful place that you’ll never actually visit, he
thought, and said, “Only when we’re alone.”
***** Chapter Twenty-Seven *****
Chapter Notes
     As always, thank you dear reader!
“You don’t have to do this.” Theon cleared his throat and pretended not to
notice how Jon’s hands trembled beneath the flow of the faucet.
“Well I am doing it, okay?” Jon checked that he’d locked the bathroom door,
then slipped a plastic basin into the sink and watched it fill. He braced
himself against the edge of the sink, regarding his reflection in the medicine-
cabinet mirror with a distant expression.
Theon wondered what he saw.
“It’s just a little spatter,” he offered, picking at the flecks of gore that
dotted his knuckles and the backs of his hands. “I can clean it up myself.”
Jon turned the tap off and tested the water with his fingertips. “Why are you
treating me like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m… I don’t know, like I’m some kind of damsel in distress or something.
Like you can save me, just show up and erase everything that came before…
this.”
“Before what?”
Jon rolled his eyes and lifted the basin by its edges. “Sit,” he ordered,
nodding towards the toilet.
Theon obeyed, slouching with his elbows on his knees, watching as Jon knelt in
front of him, slowly so as not to spill any of the water. “Before what?” he
repeated, once Jon had set the basin safely on the tile.
“Before, you know, whatever this is.” Jon shrugged and threaded his five
fingers with Theon’s three. “You can’t fix me any more than I can fix this, and
I don’t like feeling like I owe you.” He dipped a fresh washcloth into the
water, biting his lip as he spread Theon’s fingers apart to clean the spaces
between them.
Theon’s hands tingled as Jon scrubbed them with the cloth – just a little too
hot for comfort, and Theon was aware of an almost forgotten feeling that seemed
to wrap itself about him like a blanket. “You can pay me back in winks, if you
want.”
Jon looked up at him. “Winks?”
“Yeah, you know –” Theon gave a sly flicker of his left eye.
Jon bit his lip. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“Yeah, and I’m trying to make you smile.”
Jon shook his head and pinched the cloth to scrub around Theon’s nails, unable
to hide his grin. When Theon looked down at the basin between his feet, he saw
that the water was dirty with blood.
*
It was uncommon that Ramsay allowed him to bathe, but on the occasions that it
did happen, Ramsay liked to wash Reek himself. His touch could be gentle – when
he willed it – and Reek could not help but moan at the warmth of the water, his
master’s strong hands kneading at his stooped shoulders. Ramsay remained quiet,
aside from the obligatory remark about Reek’s diminishing weight, and cleaned
his every scar, every angle and curve and shameful place with a focused
attention that Reek understood as love.
*
He was in the library when one of the housekeepers knocked timidly before
opening the door.
“Um, excuse me, but – Mr. Stark has asked that you please join him in the
armory.”
Theon arched an eyebrow, looking up from a well-worn copy of A Separate Peace
to notice the way she avoided his gaze by staring up at the elegant chandelier
overhead.
“Did he actually say please?”
“Yes.”
Theon snorted. “What was his working exactly?”
The girl squirmed, eyes downcast as she replied, “Mr. Stark said to ask his
associate Mr. – Mr. Reek to please join him in the armory at his earliest
convenience, and that if he asks, to tell him that it’s not a matter of
business.”
“Then tell Mr. Stark that I’ll be down at my earliest convenience,” Theon
replied with a smirk. “Tell him I apologize, but I don’t walk as fast as I used
to.”
“Yes sir.” She hesitated for a few seconds before she left and closed the door
carefully behind her.
Theon returned to his book, determined to make Robb come and find him himself,
but he found he was too agitated to read, eyes skimming the same page over and
over as he wondered what Robb might want with him. He stood with a heavy sigh,
leaving the book open on the arm of the chaise and heading downstairs.
The shooting range was well-insulated, and reduced the report of two distinct
firearms to a series of inoffensive pops that grew only slightly louder as
Theon approached the door. He waited until the shots ended, followed
immediately by a peal of that infectious laughter that he knew belonged to
Robb.
He’d expected Jon, but when he entered, it was a different pair of wide, dark
eyes that turned to greet him.
“Reek – glad you could join us.” Robb smiled as he laid aside his 9mm. “Ary’s
trying to make a case for why she ought to be on the payroll.”
Arya smirked and blew a few strands of hair out of her face as she holstered
her .44. “So far, I think I’ve made six valid points,” she said, gesturing
toward the target at the end of the lane which bore six tightly-clustered holes
around the head. Reek looked at Robb’s target, where a looser grouping pierced
the vital organs.
“And I keep telling her that she might be better than me, but she’s still too
young for family work.”
Arya smacked her gum, unimpressed. “Gendry was sixteen when he started working
for Dad. Theon too. And Jon was probably my age when he –”
Theon saw Robb’s shoulders go rigid. “Jon didn’t work for me until last year.”
“He worked in a brothel that you own,” she pressed. “Some of the money he made
wound up in your accounts. So in a way, Jon’s probably been working for the
family at least as long as you have.”
“You think you’re pretty goddamn smart, don’t you?” Robb’s steely tone ended
the discussion, and Arya looked away in chagrin. “You know how Jon would feel
if you said that to him? You think he wanted to work there? And Gendry –
Gendry’s Bob Baratheon’s fucking son, and he grew up in our fucking garage. And
Theon –” Robb locked eyes with him. “Dad was stupid to think that was a good
idea. Theon fucking hated it, you know?”
Theon blinked. He wondered if Robb had always known that/
Gently, Robb reached to lay a hand on the back of Arya’s slim neck. She sighed
and rested her fingers on top of his. “You have so much more to offer than
just… that,” he said, nodding towards the target. “In three more years, you can
do what you want, and if this is still what you want to do, I won’t stop you.
Though you might have to contend with Mom, since you’re now the lady of the
family, and she’ll probably want you to go to college and get married, and
definitely not run off with a guy twenty years older than you,” he teased,
pulling her into him. “But until then, it’s my job to keep you safe.”
Theon saw something cruel flare in her eyes, some remark she thought better of
making, and in its place she only muttered, “I’m sorry I said that about Jon.”
“It’s okay.” Robb pressed a kiss to the top of her baseball cap. “You’re not
wrong, exactly.”
Arya scowled. She looked at Theon, and he stared dumbly back, struck by her
likeness to Jon – the pouting lips and dark hair, the serious expression.
“You guys want me to get lost?” she asked.
“Yeah. Reek and I are going somewhere in a few minutes. You can be in charge
while we’re away.”
“What about Jon? Is he going with you?”
“No,” Robb replied. “I sent him on an errand.” Seeing the alarm in Theon’s
gray-blue eyes, he gave Arya a light push towards the door.
“Anybody needs taking care of?” she offered jokingly.
Robb expelled an exasperated sigh. “No, but feel free to answer my emails or
get started drawing up a construction contract for the Frey Brothers.”
“Ew. No thanks. I’ll see you when you get back.”
She’d barely left the room when Theon turned to Robb. “You sent him somewhere
without me?”
“I just sent him to pick up a couple things for me. Legal things. You can
relax.” Robb shrugged. “Jon can take care of himself.”
“But – I thought you hired me to – you know, keep him safe from his…”
Robb cast Theon a cutting look. “Well, Jon will be the first person to tell you
that he hasn’t got a problem and doesn’t need a babysitter,” he said
sardonically. “You should’ve heard him when I first told him I was hiring a
driver: ‘Fuck you, Robb – I don’t need a fucking chaperone!’ Now it’s all ‘Is
Reek coming? Will Reek be there?’”
Theon smirked. “Jealous, Stark?”
Robb’s jaw clenched. “Of course I’m fucking jealous. He talks about you all the
damn time, but tries to seem like he’s not really thinking about you that much,
so it’s just fucking… annoying. Plus, I hate hearing him sat that… name. I
could go my whole life not hearing it again.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, it’s
not like I sent him out alone. He’s got one of Umber’s boys with him.”
Theon scoffed. “You should’ve sent me,” he said, remembering too clearly the
words that Jon Umber’s sons had used when they were out of their father’s
earshot – Hostage. Prisoner. Traitor.
“Ned Stark’s gonna put a fucking bullet between your eyes, Island rat.”
“I swear to God, if something bad happens to him because I’m not there –”
Robb closed his eyes and raised a hand. “Spare me the details, please.” Then
his shoulders drooped, and something the bereft way he looked at Theon made
Theon feel ashamed of his theatrical half-threat. “The issue you brought to my
attention has been resolved. I never did thank you,” said Robb softly. “For
what you did for him.”
He just doesn’t know how to show it, Theon realized. And why would he? Like
Theon, Robb didn’t understand how to manage a relationship that wasn’t built on
debt and secrets, though he craved such a thing. Theon cringed to remember the
way he’d treated Robb when they were younger, the way he’d enjoyed making Robb
cry.
You raped him.
His mind recoiled from the word like a hand that’s touched a hot coal.
“Do you ever – um, do you tell Jon that you – you should tell him you love
him.”
Robb turned red and smiled like a boy caught in a crush. “Nah. You don’t tell
people that when you’re me. It’s probably the most dangerous thing I could say
to him,” he added gravely. Robb stood beside the door, running his finger along
the curve of Theon’s old bow where it hung on the wall. “I thought maybe I’d be
able to say it to you someday, when you were running the Iron Islands and we
were… I didn’t even say it to you, and look what happened.” He stopped and
cleared his throat. “It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not.” Theon resisted the desire to touch Robb. “It’s not stupid, it’s
just… not the way things happened.”
Robb’s eyes glimmered, and Theon noticed that the dark circles beneath them
seemed to have deepened in hue.
“Robb?”
“Yeah?”
“You look like shit.”
Robb grinned, and Theon remembered that it had always been Robb’s reaction to
his hurtful comments.
“Yeah, well… I was thinking maybe I could use a little break from all the man-
in-charge stuff. Thought maybe you’d want to come with me, just to get out of
the house of a couple hours and go somewhere not so… somewhere we can breathe.
If you’re not busy.” Robb looked at his toes, and Theon thought that he still
blushed like a boy.
“Sure,” said Theon. “But only if you drive.”
*
“Would you take off your scarf, maybe?” Robb asked, as soon as they’d passed
out of the Wintertown city limits.
“I will if you tell me where we’re going.”
“I was thinking maybe we could go up to Long Lake and just walk around the
marina a little or something. You used to like that.”
“Yeah, when I was nine.”
Robb frowned. “We could go somewhere else if you want. It was just an idea.”
“I mean, I guess we can go there. It’d be nice to see some water.” Theon untied
the scarf and then wrapped it around his left forearm. He flipped the visor
down and combed his fingers through his hair a few times, sighing at his
reflection in the grubby mirror.
“Do you think it’ll stay that way?” Robb asked.
“Fucked if I know.”
“I like it. I mean, you’ve always been handsome but the hair makes you look…”
Robb trailed off before amending, “You know you’re still you, right?”
Theon glared at him, and tasted a slew of merciless words half-formed on his
tongue. He swallowed, smirked and said, “I know.”
*
The water was calm – not so much as a fish jumping to wimple its still surface
– and there was no smell that Theon could detect, aside from the dim odor of
fuel as they walked past a line of well-kept pleasure boats and out to the end
of the pier.
Ned had brought them here as children, naively thinking that the sight of boats
and the sound of gulls might alleviate the melancholy that he assumed stemmed
from his ward’s homesickness. But that had never been the root of Theon’s
bitterness, and anyway, the small, clean craft here were nothing like the
rusted, hulking freighters of the Islands, and the sky was too clear a blue and
the lake was nothing like the sea.
“Come home with me,” she said.
He and Robb stood silently on the rotting planks of the pier for some time,
Theon watching out of the corner of his eye while Robb rolled a loose joint.
“I’m shit at these,” he said with a smile, pushing a pair of amber-tinted
Oakleys back up onto the bridge of his nose.
“Didn’t know you smoked.”
Robb shrugged and took the first hit. “You can blame Jon for that. Last year I
started getting these… migraines, I guess. Like, I can’t even see straight, and
Jon says smoking a bit of pot from time to time might help.” He offered the
joint to Theon, who took a modest drag and passed it back.
“How’s that working for you?” he coughed.
“Better than the pills the doctor gave me.” Robb blew a trio of smoke rings up
towards the cloudless blue sky.
“He teach you that, too?”
“Yeah well, you never would.” Robb smiled, almost as dazzling as the sun
reflecting off the water, and in the high midday light, his hair looked almost
red. “Remember the first time Dad caught you smoking? I got sick at school, and
he came to pick me up and it was during recess and he saw you by the fence, and
he was so pissed, but I was really fucking sick, so he just drove me home.”
“I never knew how he found out,” Theon reflected.
“And then that night he made you smoke the whole fucking pack and you threw
up.” Robb laughed. “And remember? You’d throw up, and the sound would make me
sick and I’d throw up and then you’d start laughing and then we were both just
laughing and puking, and Sansa just about lost her shit because it was Friday
and she had a friend staying the night.”
Theon grinned. “Yeah, I remember.”
“I stole one of your cigarettes once,” Robb confessed. “One night when you left
your pack in my room. I took one and carried it around with me for a week,
waiting for a time when I knew I wouldn’t get caught. I thought you looked so
fucking cool – that was after you started working for Dad and he gave up trying
to stop you. I’d like, lock my bedroom door at night and put it in my mouth and
look at myself in the mirror and shit.”
“So did you smoke it or what?”
Robb blushed and took another hit. “Nah. I was too afraid that Dad would smell
it on my, so I just flushed it down the toilet finally. I felt so stupid, being
scared of him like that.” He slipped his phone out of his pocket and glanced at
the screen with a sigh.
“What?”
“Jon’s been bugging me non-stop since I sent him out today. He keeps sending me
these pictures of himself looking bored.” Robb held out the phone to show Theon
a photo of Jon sulking in the backseat of a car, eyes rolled back and his
tongue hanging out of his mouth with the caption: “Dying.”
Theon smiled, then said delicately, “You know what you’re doing to him is… you
know it’s fucked up, yeah? You have to tell him that he’s – that he’s a Stark.”
“It’s not hurting anybody,” argued Robb, flicking the roach into the lake. “And
I know it’s… I know it’s wrong, you know? Like I know it, but it’s not like we
grew up together. I mean, he just… he just arrived one day in a car with Uncle
Ben, looking the way he does and I…” Robb shuffled his feet against the
splintering planks of the pier. “I was lonely without you. We both were. And he
was the one who – it was hard to say no, you know?” He laughed humorlessly.
“What’s so great about blood relatives anyway? Don’t tell me yours ever did you
any favors. Remember that poem you used to say? ‘They fuck you up, your mom and
dad?’”
Theon nodded. “‘They may not mean to, but they do.’”
Robb bit his lip, wavering before he said, “It was my mom that sent that hit
out on your car last week.”
“How do you know?” Theon asked, and instead of surprise he felt the breathless
dread of a suspicion becoming a spoken fact.
“I asked her, and she told me.” Robb shoved his hands into his pockets, looking
for something to distract him. “I kind of – it kind of clicked when you said it
was somebody who knew what car you were in and all. She… I mean, she knows. How
could she not? Jon looks so much like Dad’s side of the family, and she hates
him for it. I think she hates him anyway, but it doesn’t help that he just
looks like a Stark. She hates that he looks more like Dad than I do, and that
Dad kept him a secret for so long. I don’t even know if he ever actually told
her. She used to say… she said she and Dad didn’t have secrets – she said you
don’t keep secrets from the ones you love, and then there’s Jon – making a fool
out of her just by being. She doesn’t trust him, and she doesn’t trust me with
him. I told her she’d leave him be if she loved me, but… you know how my mom
is. She loves me enough to hurt just about anyone, including me.”
Theon had known how dangerous Catelyn Stark could be, long before Robb supposed
it. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“What can I do?” Robb looked at him helplessly. “She’s my mom. I’m keeping her
under watch – posted two men at her door, and I’ve been monitoring all her
communications myself. But I can’t – I can’t just send her away.” He shook his
head. “I’m sorry for dumping all this on you. It’s just… it’s been on my mind.”
Theon said nothing, but let his weight shift onto one foot so that his shoulder
pressed just slightly against Robb’s. He thought of how empty the house at Pyke
had felt, with his brothers gone and his mother locked away in her room, father
locked in grief. He hesitated for a moment, then wrapped an arm around his
friend’s slim waist and tried not to notice the warmth of Robb’s body.
*
Theon saw Catelyn in the evenings, moving quietly down the hall or the stairs
to join Robb for what was undoubtedly a tense and largely wordless dinner,
before returning to the bedroom she had shared with her husband. Theon knew
that a younger version of himself would’ve gloated to see the lady of the house
so diminished, but now he felt only a cold sort of pity. He supposed that he
too had demonstrated a capacity for making violent choices and shouldn’t rush
to judgment.
Jon was decidedly less charitable. “As long as she keeps her damn eyes off me,
I don’t really care why,” he said. “I’ve never been so obviously fucking hated
by someone. And I’ve said like, three words to her in my entire life.” He
leaned over the rail of Theon’s balcony, flicking his lighter and watching the
bustle of a flock of crows that had landed in the top branches of the oak
trees.
“Do you ever see your mom?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen her since I was nine,” said Theon.
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I never knew how she felt about me.”
“Can you tell me – if you want – tell me what she was like?” Jon asked. “Do you
look like her?”
“I do, yeah.” Without thinking, he added, “Me and my sister both look quite a
bit like her, except she’s blonde and Dad’s got black hair.”
Jon looked startled. “So your hair is naturally black?”
Fuck.
Finding no way out of his mistake, Theon said only, “Yeah. It turned white
after I was in a car accident.”
Jon opened his pretty mouth but something in the way Theon’s gaze drifted out
towards the edge of the gardens made him think better of it, so he said
nothing.
“Mom’s crazy,” said Theon finally, as though it was a breath he’d been holding
in. “She’s kind and sweet, but she… she never really liked being a mom, I don’t
think, and it just got to her. Sometimes she’d have a good day, and she’d come
downstairs and play a game, or just sit in the room with me. But mostly she
stayed in her bedroom. She liked to take photographs, but because she stayed
inside, they were all just the same photograph – looking out of her window at
the sea.”
Theon felt Jon listing into him, and he felt Jon’s hand, cool as it slipped up
beneath Theon’s t-shirt to rub affectionately at the small of his back. He felt
Jon’s eyes, looking at him with an agonal sort of yearning.
“I worry that I’m – I worry that’s me, too. Crazy, I mean.”
“Some people are crazy,” offered Jon, his arm snaking around Theon’s waist.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t care about them. Hey –” He drew Theon’s hip against his
own. “Will you take me home with you sometime? Show me the ocean? I’ve never
really seen it, except out the window of a bus once.”
Theon smiled. “I don’t think you’d like the beach where I’m from. It’s gray and
cold, and it makes you feel more suicidal than romantic.” He drew a sharp
breath as Jon’s fingers dipped below the elastic of his underwear to rub just
above the scar there.
“Are there crabs and shells and shit like that?”
Theon swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. At low tide.”
“Then I don’t mind if it’s cold.” Jon lifted Theon’s scarf aside to whisper
into Theon’s ear, lips just grazing the torn cartilage as he dragged his
fingers right over the spot where Theon’s prick had been. “When do I get to
kiss you here?”
Theon shuddered, one hand holding fast to the railing while the other gripped
Jon’s forearm, pushing Jon’s hand further between his legs. He bit his lip to
stifle a moan. “Soon,” he breathed. “Soon as I can.”
“You promise?” Jon asked, his voice sweet and hungry. He gave Theon’s balls a
hard squeeze, then drew his fingers up to circle around the slit he used to
piss.
Theon gasped when Jon spun him around and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his
lips, wet enough that Jon’s saliva seeped through the rough cloth of the scarf,
then sank slowly to his knees to lick an obscene stripe from between Theon’s
legs up to the metal of his belt buckle, hands clutching at the backs of
Theon’s thighs.
“Jon, you don’t have to –”
“I love you,” Jon blurted, looking up at him with dark, earnest eyes as he
planted another hard kiss to the front of Theon’s jeans.
“You shouldn’t,” replied Theon. He threaded his fingers through Jon’s thick
hair, heart beating so fast that it frightened him.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Jon rose to his feet and dusted off his knees,
white teeth sunk into the soft swell of his own bottom lip as he slipped a hand
up beneath Theon’s scarf to trace the curve of his open mouth.
*
Two nights later, Theon fell asleep to the roar of an early-summer rain on his
balcony window. The sound was loud enough to all but drown out the urgent
knocking that roused him after only a couple hours, and when Theon woke, his
heartbeat leapt into a punishing pace before he remembered where he was, that
the door was locked, that Ramsay never would’ve bothered knocking anyway.
“Theon, it’s Robb. Open up.”
Even muffled as it was by the door, Theon heard the agitation in Robb’s voice.
“What’s up?” he asked, reaching into the laundry basket for a scarf to cover
his face without thinking to put on a shirt.
“It’s Jon. I need you to –” Robb trailed off as his eyes lit on Theon’s bare
skin. “Jesus Christ.”
Theon folded his arms across his chest and waited for Robb’s gaze to return to
his face. “You need me to what? Where’s Jon?”
Robb sighed and dragged his fingers through his curls. Theon knew from the
redness of his eyes that he and Jon had been arguing. “I don’t know, exactly. I
need you to go find him.”
“Find him?” Theon leaned carelessly against the door jamb, trying to conceal a
rapidly rising alarm. “Is he lost?”
“I checked the closed-circuit, and he left the house a few hours ago and took a
taxi somewhere. Which is fine. I’m not his mom. But then he just started drunk-
texting me.” Robb held out his phone to Theon, who took it and scrolled through
an increasingly belligerent series of texts, rendered incoherent by typos and
auto-correction except for the first one: “I wish I’d never met you.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Theon tried with a shrug.
“He always means it.” Robb slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Anyway,
right now I don’t care how Jon feels about me – I care where he is. I called
him twice. The first time it went to voice mail, the second time it didn’t even
ring. Just nothing. So I turned on the tracker on his phone and it’s at this
bar he goes to called the Smoking Log.”
“So why don’t you go get him?”
Robb scoffed. “He’s pissed at me. Like, really fucking pissed.”
“Any idea why that is?” Theon asked drily.
“No fucking clue.” Noting Theon’s raised eyebrow, he added, “He brought lunch
up to my office this afternoon, which like – he hates coming into my office. He
said I work too much and kissed me, and I haven’t seen him since. Usually when
Jon goes off I at least have some idea what I did wrong, but… I honestly
haven’t the fucking slightest what’s got him so worked up right now, and I’m
kind of worried that he’ll –” Robb swallowed, his supplication plain in his
bright blue eyes. “I’m worried he’ll do something fucking stupid and get hurt.”
Theon again felt Robb’s attention shift to the mass of scars on his shoulder,
and when he thoughtlessly tried to cover them with one hand, Robb looked down
at the floor, ashamed. “The Smoking Log is near Midway,” he said. “But I don’t
think he’s there anymore. His phone hasn’t moved more than a foot for the past
thirty minutes.”
“Give me five minutes to get dressed and grab a car.”
Robb gave a weak, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Theon.”
“I’m not really doing it for you,” Theon returned, squinting critically at
Robb. He retreated into his bedroom and began to close the door when Robb
caught it with his foot and fixed Theon with a hard glare.
“Believe it or not, you actually are fucking doing this for me. Text me when
you find him, and don’t come back until then.” He bit his lip. “Why do you
always have to be such an asshole?” he asked, then turned and walked away
before Theon could reply.
*
He found Jon about a mile north of the Smoking Log, completely drenched from
the rain and staggering along the edge of the street, sometimes ankle-deep in
the dirty streams of the gutters as they rushed to empty themselves into the
grated drains at each intersection.
Theon pulled the Camaro up alongside him, slowing to a crawl as he rolled down
his window. Jon kept his eyes forward, and plucked the drooping cigarette from
between his lips long enough to bark, “Fuck off! I’m not fucking lost, and I
don’t need a fucking ride!” before folding his arms tight across his chest and
lengthening his unsteady strides.
“Jon, it’s me.”
Jon stopped abruptly, wiping a few locks of wet hair across his forehead and
blinking at Theon with bleary, unfocused eyes. “Reek!” He smiled at Theon,
lurched forward and rested his elbows in the open window and Theon could feel
the drops of rain that ran off the leather of Jon’s jacket and dripped down
onto his thigh.
“Jesus Christ, Jon, it’s past midnight. Where do you think you’re walking to?”
Jon frowned and gave a small shrug. “I – I guess I’m not really thinking right
now. I’m trying not to think anymore.” Theon winced at the overpowering smell
of hard liquor on Jon’s breath, and Jon pressed the back of his hand to his
lips in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to make you come get me.”
“Robb sent me. He’s been trying to call you.”
“I bet he has.” Jon scowled. “I threw my phone in the fucking toilet. That
fucking asshole.”
Theon smirked and slipped his hand up to cradle Jon’s cheek, thumb wiping away
a stray raindrop just as it fell there. “You must be freezing,” he said softly.
“Let me take you home?”
“You love me?” Jon asked in an anxious slur, his bottom lip betraying the
faintest tremble.
“How could I not?”
“So say it.”
Theon smiled beneath the thin fabric of his scarf. “I love you, Jon Snow. I’m
yours, Jon Snow.”
He expected Jon to laugh at him, but Jon only considered his declaration with a
sudden sobriety. The cloud of intoxication seemed to lift for a moment, and
when Jon spoke, his eyes were frightening and crystal clear. He spoke in such a
hush that Theon almost didn’t hear.
“I’m going to kill Robb.”
Theon felt his stomach drop out – the words seemed to ring inside his head.
“Don’t say that,” he managed weakly. “You’re drunk, and you shouldn’t say shit
like that.”
Jon’s laugh was cynical until he smacked his forehead hard against the edge of
the window and his laughter turned to a manic giggling and he slumped against
the driver’s side door, cradling his head in his hands.
“Oh Christ.” Theon opened the door gently, and when he wrapped his arms around
Jon to help him into the car, he felt a series of shivers run through Jon’s
body.
“I’m going to fucking kill him.” Jon’s left knee buckled and he reached out to
steady himself against the hood of the Camaro. “Say it again?” He pleaded,
gripping the arm that Theon had wrapped around his waist. “Like you said
before.”
“I love you, Jon Snow. I’m yours, Jon Snow.”
***** Chapter Twenty-Eight *****
Chapter Notes
     As always, thank you so much to everyone who reads, who comments and
     kudos-es. Y'all are my inspiration.
     (And yes, I play a bit loose with teh science here.)
The highway was nearly vacant at that hour, and Theon had just merged to join
six empty lanes as they flowed beneath an underpass when Jon grabbed his leg
and asked him urgently to pull over.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
Before the Camaro had rolled to a complete stop, Jon opened his door and
ejected himself onto the shoulder of the road, swaying with one hand clinging
to a mile-marker and the other braced on his knee as he began to vomit
violently. Theon watched him in the rearview mirror, illuminated at intervals
by the blinking of the hazard lights, and debated whether he ought to help Jon
or just wait for him in the car. Jon settled the question for him by flopping
down to lie on his back on the pavement.
“Come on, Jon – please get up?” Already Theon could feel the rain soaking
through his scarf.
I’ve never seen rain like this up North, he thought.
“Jon, you’ve got to get up.” He scanned the road for oncoming cars. “It’s
dangerous for us to be right here by the road.”
Jon only laughed, his eyes closed against the rain and his arms folded across
his stomach.
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Theon dropped to his haunches and took
Jon’s hand in his own.
Jon rocked his head from side to side, still laughing soundlessly. “Not really.
But I can’t –” He bit his lip, and suddenly his laughter transformed to a
panicked breathing, chest rising and falling sharply like that of a wounded
animal. “Oh God – oh fuck. He’s my –”
The rumble of a truck on the overpass drowned out the final word, but Theon
didn’t need to hear – he could see its shape in Jon’s mouth – brother. Theon
was grateful that Jon wasn’t speaking to him, so much as aloud to himself; if
not for the half dark of the flashing tail-lights and the haze of his
intoxication, Jon might have noticed the lack of genuine surprise on Theon’s
face as Theon held his breath and a stream of possibilities coursed quickly
through his mind. Deeper – beneath that – sat the immovable stone that had been
placed before Theon could remember:
This is your fault. This happened because of you.
It wasn’t my place, he argued weakly. I can’t – I can’t be what Robb is to him.
I can’t offer him anything better. It wasn’t my place to come between him and
Robb – just like it was nobody’s place to come between me and Ramsay.
But that was different, because Theon had always known who and what Ramsay was,
and Ramsay never lied to him.
Theon began to shiver.
“Would you have guessed that?” Jon asked, squeezing Theon’s hand and Theon
dodged the question.
“Where did you – did Robb say he’s your brother?”
“No, but he knew.” Jon touched the front of his jacket, as though looking for
something before his hand forgot its purpose and slid limply again to his side.
“I’m going to Hell.” He looked at Theon with wild eyes. “I’m going to go to
Hell.”
“I’m definitely going with you then,” said Theon, and he felt a breaking
sensation when Jon smiled at him tearfully.
“It wouldn’t really be Hell then though, would it?”
It was Theon’s turn to smile. “No, I guess not.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Jon repeated, his jaw clenching as his hand clutched
Theon’s tight enough to make the bones ache. “I swear to God.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You afraid of him?” Jon’s tone was mocking. “I’m not. He lied to me – he
listened to me tell him about how I never knew my parents, how I had no family.
Just listened and didn’t bat a fucking eyelash and asked me to work for him. He
didn’t even try to stop me when I –” Jon ground the heel of his palm against
his forehead, grimacing. “It’s disgusting. It’s fucking sick, but I – I didn’t
know.”
“Jon, it’s not your fault, okay? I don’t – I don’t know what you heard, or what
you think you know, but – you shouldn’t say things like that.” Theon rubbed his
thumb over the back of Jon’s hand and gave a light tug. “Let me take you home,
and we can talk about this with Robb in the morning.”
“Since when are you the reasonable one?” Jon asked.
“I only seem reasonable because you’re shitfaced.” Theon rose and offered a
hand down to Jon.
Jon stood unsteadily, stumbling forward into Theon, and again Theon’s breath
caught on the heavy odor of liquor and cigarettes. He guided Jon back to the
car, but Jon turned and slumped against the passenger-side door before Theon
could open it for him.
“You like taking care of me, don’t you?” Jon squinted at him, fingers playing
in the fringe of Theon’s scarf.
Theon swallowed. He knew the words before they left Jon’s mouth.
“Let me see you.”show me
Theon took a gentle hold on Jon’s wrist, pushing his hand away. “Not now.”
“I’m not getting in that car with you until I see your face.”
“Jon –”
Tears of frustration began to roll down Jon’s flushed cheeks, and his hand
found its way inside the front of Theon jacket to tangle in the front of his t-
shirt. “Please? I need to know who you are.”
Theon drew a deep breath. He didn’t understand why the prospect frightened him,
but still the icy sensation between his shoulder blades was real enough,
something cold and heavy in his guts. And then there was Jon – dark eyes
shifting in and out of focus, breathing hard while his knuckles pressed into
Theon’s chest.
“You already know me,” Theon said, softly, as if the words had conjured a
ghost. “I mean, you knew me before… We met when you’d just turned sixteen. You
had a Camaro like this one, and I had a cherry-red –”
Jon’s mouth hung open. Before Theon could think, Jon’s hands were on him,
pawing at him, pulling the scarf from around his face until it hung loosely
about his neck, and in the darkness of the underpass Jon could only just see
the curve of Theon’s face – his features harder now than Jon remembered, the
jawline sharper, the cheeks and eyes sunken a bit, but when his fingertips
brushed the mouth, it was the same – shaped like an archer’s bow.
The blow that followed that careful touch sent Theon’s head reeling. He
staggered back, hand over his mouth, tasting blood. He blinked back tears for a
moment, waiting for the next impact, another fist to the face or the stomach,
but instead Jon grabbed him furiously by the fabric of his jacket and smashed
Theon’s lips against his own. And Theon didn’t mind the way their teeth scraped
together with the sloppiness of it, or the taste of Jon’s breath, or the
thought of Jon’s tongue coated in his blood. He felt Jon’s arms around him, one
hand gripping the back of his neck, the other around his waist, holding him
fast.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” Jon said, breaking away to take a few frantic breaths.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“I deserve it.” Theon kissed him again, and hummed at the sensation of Jon’s
hands knotted in his wild white hair.
“Why did you lie to me? I thought you were dead. Why didn’t you come back for
me?” Jon asked these questions between kisses, not bothering to wait for a
reply before covering Theon’s mouth with his own, frenzied, delirious as though
he feared this might be a dream that he’d wake from any second.
“I did,” Theon managed finally, pressing his forehead against Jon’s. “Here you
are, and here I am.”
“Theon?”
“Yeah?”
Jon bit his lip. “Would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
Theon’s heart pounded as though against a wall. He knew that once the words
left Jon’s mouth, there was no putting them back in, and if it was what Jon
wanted, it was what Theon would do. But Jon only looked him with glassy eyes
and an embarrassed grin and said, “Would you take me – take me home?” Theon
nodded, and Jon asked a little more boldly, “Let me spend the night with you?”
*
Winterfell was dark when they returned – eerie and beautiful. The rain seemed
to deepen the shadows and saturated the air with an earthy smell that filled
Theon with an edgy excitement. He imagined for a moment that the house was
empty, abandoned, and he and Jon were lost travelers looking for a place to
stay dry. He imagined the two of them, padding down the silent hallways in
stocking feet, whispering and laughing as they explored each room, then falling
asleep on Theon’s bed without knowing whose it was.
He had texted Robb some time ago: “Found Jon. He’s hammered, and super pissed
off. Let it be til tomorrow.”
Jon slouched against the stone wolf at the bottom of the steps, while Theon
unlocked the front door, fighting the urge to acknowledge the security camera
overhead, knowing that Robb would be in his office watching their arrival.
In the darkened hallway of the second floor, a sleepy voice caught Theon off-
guard.
“Is he okay?”
Arya must’ve noticed the way Jon’s feet dragged along the carpet, the way he
could hardly lift his head to look at her – one hand splayed against the wall,
the other clutching tightly at Theon’s jacket.
“He will be,” replied Theon in a hush.
“Jon?” she asked, as though she didn’t quite believe him.
“Ffffine,” Jon answered, a bit louder than Theon liked. Jon gave Arya a slow,
stupid grin. “Ffffine, little sister. Taken care of.”
She narrowed her eyes at them, perhaps noticing the stain on Theon’s scarf
where blood had dripped from his nose and mouth, or maybe she’d spotted the
small cuts on Jon’s knuckles. Whatever she saw, Arya said nothing, but rolled
her eyes and withdrew into her bedroom.
*
Jon dropped his jacket onto the floor as he rushed into Theon’s bathroom, not
quite managing to close the door completely before he began dry-heaving into
the toilet. Something fell from inside of the jacket – a folded manila envelope
that landed at Theon’s feet, where Theon considered whether to pick it up. The
envelope was just slightly damp, the corners bent, but the return address
remained legible, and he stared down at it, petrified. It contained no name –
no indication of being “official business” – but Theon knew its source from the
tight, thin lettering.
Bolton.
His hands trembled. Through the crack in the door, he could see Jon, on his
knees, still retching. Theon laid the envelope on the bed and moved to stand
just outside the bathroom, forehead pressed against the hard wood of the
threshold. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
Jon emerged a couple minutes later, having splashed cold water on his face, and
his eyes looked a touch clearer than they had. His gaze flitted to the
envelope, then to Theon.
“Did you open it?”
“No. Did you want me to?”
“Go for it,” Jon said with a tone too stony to be indifferent. He flopped down
onto the bed beside Theon, arms spread across the sheets, staring up at the
ceiling.
The pages clung together, and Theon struggled to peel them apart with his
remaining fingers, laying each one carefully aside. A few photographs slid out,
and Theon felt the bile rise in his throat as he examined them; his stomach
lurched as he recalled the sound of breaking glass and rending metal, the pain
in his leg, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush as the airbag deployed. He
remembered how loud it had been, and then just a moment later, how quiet. He
didn’t remember the camera flash, but there must’ve been one – the brightness
of it made his blood look garish, made his skin look ghastly.
“Is that real?” Jon asked, lifting his head off the pillow. “Is that what
happened?”
“I mean, it’s something that happened, yeah.” Theon shook his head and placed
the photograph upside-down on the mattress.
“Was it an accident?”
“Yes and no. It was just meant to be, I guess.”
Jon scowled. “You make it sound like it was fate, instead of Robb’s fault.”
“Robb didn’t mean for that to happen,” Theon replied, sharper than he intended.
“He never wanted that.”
Theon reached for the next piece of paper while Jon stared at him, speechless.
His eyes scanned through a printed copy of an email – time-stamped and CC-ed to
all of the Northern Families, as well as the NPD and a few names Theon didn’t
recognize.
Dear Trusted Friends,
It’s with a heavy heart that I write you this afternoon to inform you of the
deaths of two of our most loyal and valued associates. Vayon Poole and Samwell
Flint were killed early this morning in an exchange of gunfire that took place
at The Dungeon, located in the warehouse district at King and Spruce.
As you can see in the attachments, stills taken from surveillance cameras in
and around the club show two individuals fleeing the scene – the first, I’m
afraid, may be a familiar face to many of you: Theon Greyjoy, my father’s ward
and heir to Greyjoy Shipping Enterprises, traded shots with Poole and Flint.
The footage we’ve obtained suggests that Greyjoy may have sustained a minor
wound during the incident.
The second individual is a minor named Jon Snow, age sixteen and a resident of
St. Brigid’s Group Home for Boys. Poole and Flint were sent to retrieve Snow,
as he is and has long been a person of interest to my Family. The two were last
seen heading North in Greyjoy’s red 2014 Zagato coup. (see attached image)
Here Theon paused to consider the print-out of a photo taken shortly after his
own sixteenth birthday – himself, still boyishly skinny, leaned proudly against
the side of his Zagato, the sunlight gleaming on its red finish. “Can you take
me for a ride?” Robb had asked after snapping the picture.
Theon resumed reading.
Vayon Poole and Samwell Flint served my Family and yours for thirty-two and
twenty-five years, respectively, and I ask that you show similar dedication in
tracking down their killers. I am offering $25,000 for any information that
leads to their capture, as well as $50,000 for the apprehension of Jon Snow,
provided he is alive and unharmed. If captured, Theon Greyjoy should likewise
be returned alive and well to my Family so that our retribution may be decided.
Thank you for your continued fealty and vigilance. Winter is coming.
R. Stark
Attached were the promised surveillance images, as well as a photo of Jon taken
from his Group Home paperwork, and Theon’s senior-year school photo. Below each
ran a description – name, age and physical descriptions of the boys and their
vehicles.
Identifying marks: extensive nautical-themed tattooing on his left shoulder and
right ribcage. Knuckle tattoo bearing the word “Ironborn.” Beauty mark on his
left cheek.
Greyjoy is armed but unlikely to employ his weapon except as a last resort. He
may be headed West towards Seagard to attempt a return to the Iron Islands to
rejoin the Greyjoy Family.
Theon shook his head. The idea of returning to the Islands had never entered
his mind. Checking the time-stamp again, Theon realized that the email must’ve
been sent after he had already returned to Winterfell and been sent with Cassel
on his fateful “errand.” This was Robb, covering his tracks, laying the
foundation for Theon’s “disappearance.” It explained the lack of a reward
attached to his own name.
Theon’s temples began to throb as he rifled through the rest of the papers – a
few pages of Ned Stark’s finances, with certain transactions highlighted in
yellow: a monthly payment to St. Brigid’s Group Home, as well as certain
expensive transactions that occurred on or about March fifth of each year,
including the purchase of a 1967 Camaro from a vintage car dealership that
happened less than a week prior to Jon’s sixteenth birthday.
Finally, Theon found a document printed in miniscule type, bearing a letter-
head from Hornwood Genetic Laboratories which compared two samples of genetic
material belonging to “Subject A – Identified by client as Robb Stark”, and
“Subject B – Identified by client as Jon Snow” to a “DNA sample obtained by law
enforcement during the 2003 arrest of Eddard Stark on charges of racketeering
and extortion (see arrest record enclosed).”
“In a Y-chromosome comparison, our technicians were able to conclude with
99.99% certainty that both samples share a common paternal lineage, and based
on law enforcement data, we can verify that Eddard Stark is the father of both
Subjects.”
“This doesn’t mean anything necessarily,” Theon said, even as his eyes alighted
on a post-it note stuck to the cover of the analysis, where a familiar, rigid
script invited Jon to “Contact me if you need further details or clarification
– R. Bolton.”
“It’s true though.” Jon took the paper from Theon’s hands and held it in front
of his own eyes for a few seconds before giving up and tossing it onto the
floor. “He said I was a – a ‘person of interest’ to the family. His dad – my
dad – making payments every month to St. Brigid’s. I looked him up – Eddard
Stark, found some old news photos, even the mug-shots that go with that arrest
record.” Jon’s mouth quirked up into a poignant half-smile. “I look more like
him than Robb does. No wonder Mrs. Stark can’t stand the sight of me. But it’s
for this –” Jon glanced at the photo from the car wreck before flinging it
distastefully away from him, “that I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Jon –”
“No no no! Stop fucking defending him!” Jon looked at Theon, eyebrows drawn
together and a sneer on his lips. “He – you were the first person who ever –
you were the first person to make me feel safe, or wanted and he took you from
me for… for what? So he could bring me here and give me a job and then – and
then fuck me?” Jon’s fingers knotted into a fist. “Do you have any idea how
fucking sick it makes me? To know that not only was I basically earning money
for him when I was – when I was working up North, but then he also brought me
here so he could look me in the eyes and act like I was fucking nothingto him
but some pet project? Some fucking charity case orphan that he took pity on?
And he listened to me talk about you – wonder where you went and why you never
came back and he just fucking sat there! And you ended up in a car wreck, with
your fingers gone and your – and more scars than I can count. He deserves to
die for that.”
“Killing him won’t undo any of it.” Theon folded his hands together, the stumps
rough against the pads of his fingers.
A thick silence settled between them, and Theon knew the words before they left
Jon’s mouth.
“Theon?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you – did you know? That I was Robb’s brother?” Tears began to glisten in
Jon’s dark, bloodshot eyes.
Theon looked away. “Yeah.”
Jon began to sob, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe, while the tears
tumbled down his cheeks. Theon had never seen anyone look so lovely and sad,
and his desire to touch Jon in that moment was enough to cause him pain.
“Mr. Stark sent me to deliver your Camaro,” he said quietly, not sure if Jon
was even hearing him. “I dropped it in front of the group home and then I… I
saw you and I just – I don’t know. I just wanted you. And I didn’t tell you
because I didn’t want you to end up – to end up here, with people like us –
people like Robb and Ramsay and me.” Jon looked at him and sniffled. “And… and
I just wanted you to myself. I was selfish and I’m sorry. If you had never met
me –”
“Stop,” Jon sighed tremulously and wiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm.
“Why – why didn’t you tell me? When you came back, why didn’t you tell me that
it was you? Or that I was… that Robb was my brother?”
Looking down, Theon noticed that Jon was still wearing his shoes – a pair of
big black boots that Theon began to untie. He waited for Jon to pull away, but
Jon only looked at him expectantly. “Because I didn’t – I didn’t want to take
him from you. Because I can’t give you anything anymore.”
“That’s not true.” Jon lifted his head again to watch Theon’s fingers fumble
with the laces. “Tell me what happened.”
“What do you mean?” Theon grunted as he pulled Jon’s foot free of the boot.
“Tell me what happened to your fingers. Tell me why you called yourself Reek.”
“He flayed them,” Theon murmured. “Peeled the skin off and left them that way
until I begged him to cut them off.” He waited, but Jon said nothing. “And Reek
is – Reek was his name for me.” He couldn’t bear to watch the understanding of
it dawn on Jon’s face, so he only peeled off Jon’s socks and rubbed the sole of
Jon’s foot.
“I’m sorry.”
Theon shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m not.”
“I love you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Will you take a shower with me?”
Theon swallowed, disbelieving.
*
He hesitated, at first. Steam had already begun to cloud the bathroom mirror,
and Jon’s face was flushed with heat; he stood there naked, watching Theon shed
his t-shirt. “Is it fucked up if I say I like them?” Jon asked, reaching out to
run a finger down the longest of Theon’s scars – from the base of his neck,
down his chest and part way around the ribcage.
Theon couldn’t help but compare his broken body with Jon’s whole one – Jon’s
muscled shoulders and long dark hair, Jon’s ten toes spread on the red bath-
mat. He recalled distantly how he had looked at Jon’s age – lean and rakish and
tan in the summer, which always made Robb jealous.
Jon saw the hesitation, hooked his index fingers in Theon’s belt and pulled him
forward. Theon’s hands grabbed Jon’s, and he overcame the urge to push Jon
away. He held his breath as Jon deftly unbuckled him, unaware that he had
closed his eyes until Jon asked,
“Want me to stop?”
Theon blinked. “N-no,” he stammered.
“I used to fantasize that you’d climb in through my window one night,” said
Jon. He steadied his gaze on Theon’s face while his hands worked at the fly of
Theon’s jeans.
“Yeah?” Theon felt the wet heat of the air against his skin as his pants fell
to the floor.
“Yeah. On nights when I couldn’t sleep – which was most nights – I imagined
you’d climb up the fire-escape to the window of my shitty little studio
apartment and get into bed with me. I’d be asleep, but you’d kiss me –” Jon
tugged on the fabric of Theon’s briefs, sliding them down his thighs, pressing
a little kiss to the center of Theon’s chest that soothed his impulse to cover
himself with his hands.
“It’s not like there’s anything to cover up,” Ramsay had teased.
Theon waited for Jon to look at it – who could help but want to look? – but Jon
kept his eyes fixed on Theon’s, watching for the faintest glimmer of distress
as he slid his hand down the arc of Theon’s hip until it came to rest lightly
over the place where his prick had been.
Theon tensed. “Don’t touch me like I’m fucking fragile,” he said.
In the shower, Jon was less gentle. He pushed Theon against the marble, and
hard enough to elicit a gasp. Ramsay would’ve slammed his head back, would’ve
make him see stars. This was nothing like that – Jon sucked at Theon’s neck,
hard enough to leave a mark, but not hard enough to draw blood. And Ramsay had
always preferred looking at Theon’s scar to touching it, and he had never
touched it the way Jon did – curious, eager, asking him breathlessly, “Is this
good? Tell me what feels good.”
By the time Jon cut the tap and began to towel off, Theon’s knees were shaking,
his blood coursing with desire. This seemed like the worst of Ramsay’s tortures
– to leave him alive like this, burning, wanting. He was sure that if Jon tried
to fuck him, there was no way he could refuse, no matter how much his
conscience might try to dissuade him.
He felt almost relieved when he stepped into the bedroom and saw that Jon had
already fallen asleep in his bed, mouth open, wet curls clinging to his cheek.
*
In the darkness, Theon couldn’t move. Though he was aware of pain, the
sensation felt distant – unreal – as though the body suffering didn’t quite
belong to him. More acutely, he heard his own screaming, smelled the damp
concrete and bleach, and a trace of cigarette smoke with something sweet mixed
in.
At first, he recognized his own voice amidst the screams – cursing, lying,
begging – until the words disintegrated into a mindless, animal howling, so
loud that it filled the darkness. The sound began to echo there, amplifying
into a roar that drowned out every thought except one:
There is no-one coming to help you.
*
He jolted awake with a gasp, kicking at the blankets while a pair of strong
arms held him in place. They might’ve been Ramsay’s, but the voice was
different – “Theon, wake up.” He felt Jon’s hand rubbing a circle between his
shoulder-blades. “It’s me. You’re with me.”
Theon twisted to look at him. Outside, a heavy rain continued to beat against
the windows and somewhere to the north, sheet-lightning bloomed across the sky.
Jon propped himself up on an elbow and swept a tangle of sweaty hair out of
Theon’s wide eyes.
“Want to tell me what it’s like in there?” he asked, giving a gentle tap on
Theon’s forehead.
Theon blinked at him, lifted a hand to brush his knuckles over Jon’s cheek.
“Not really,” he said before pulling Jon down into a kiss, opening for Jon’s
tongue, sinking his teeth into that pretty bottom lip while his other hand
grabbed Jon by the wrist to guide his touch lower.
Jon cleared his throat. “Theon –”
“Jon.” Theon ground his hips up against Jon’s palm. “Please just – just fucking
fuck me already. Or whatever – whatever you want. Just don’t stop.”
Jon smiled and planted an infuriating, chaste kiss to the corner of Theon’s
mouth.
“Fucking tease,” Theon was about to complain, but before the words could leave
his lips, Jon gave a hard squeeze on his balls, thumb pressing on the slit
between his legs. Theon’s back arched off the bed, and he gripped onto Jon’s
upper arm, feeling the muscles flexing there as Jon applied more pressure to
his touch.
“Whatever I want?”
Theon felt the heat of Jon’s prick, rubbing stiffly against his ass. “As long
as it involves me and your cock,” he said with a grin, rolling his hips back
and enjoying the way Jon surged forward to meet them.
“I want you on top.”
Theon obeyed, shifting to his hands and knees, lifting a leg to straddle Jon.
In the dark, he felt the rise and fall of Jon’s ribs beneath him, the cool,
anxious touch of Jon’s hands squeezing at his thighs.
“And turn on the light.”
“Can’t we just –” Theon began, but Jon silenced him with a playful smack on the
ass.
“The light, baby.”
Theon sighed as he leaned over Jon, reaching for the lamp on the night-stand
and closing his eyes against the brightness of it. When he opened them again,
he saw Jon gazing up at him, black eyes clearer than they had been, cheeks pink
but no longer flushed red. He watched Jon’s attention wander slowly over him,
fingers reaching up to tease a lock of white hair, then down Theon’s throat and
over the scars on his chest, following the mutilated tentacles of the kraken
along his ribcage, knuckles brushing through the dark hair that began just
below his navel and fanned out thickly between his legs. Theon swallowed as Jon
parted his pubic hair to get a better look.
“You can hardly see it.”
“Just what every guy wants to hear,” Theon returned sharply. “You must’ve made
an amazing hooker.”
“Nobody says ‘hooker’ anymore,” Jon snapped. He glared at Theon, jaw set for a
moment before he faltered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I just meant that the
scar isn’t so obvious.”
“It’s not the scar that I hate.” Theon looked away.
“You ‘member that time that we were fooling around in my room at the group
home?”
Theon nodded. “Yeah.”
“I remember when you pulled me onto the bed, and you started saying –” Jon bit
his lip and blushed faintly. “You started talking about what you were going to
do to me, and I like, couldn’t even wrap my head around it. Like, I couldn’t
even process it – that someone like you wanted me.” Jon walked his fingers up
over the flat of Theon’s stomach. “And I just kept wondering how it happened
that I had this fucking sexy, funny, beautiful guy in my room, on top of me,
kissing me.”
“I was kind of a scumbag,” Theon admitted.
Jon shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m still – you still make me feel that way.” He
pulled Theon’s hand down to touch the curve of his prick.
“I wish I could get hard for you,” Theon blurted. “I wish you could know how
fucking much I want you, how good everything you do to me feels.”
Jon smiled. “As much as I’d appreciate your boner in my face right now, you
know what I like even more is hearing stuff like that come out of your mouth.”
Jon’s hands slid around to grab Theon’s ass, and Theon let out a startled curse
as Jon pushed him forward; Theon caught himself on the headboard, barely able
to brace himself before he felt the wet warmth of Jon’s tongue against his
hole.
“Jesus Christ.” Theon pressed his forehead against the wall and reached down
between his legs to grab a fistful of Jon’s hair.
This was something Theon had never experienced; he’d gone down on many of the
men he’d fucked, but none had ever returned the favor so well. Jon’s mouth
moved deliberately, as though in a long kiss, tongue firm against Theon’s
entrance, licking him like Jon enjoyed the taste just as much as he enjoyed the
sound of Theon’s breathless “Oh fuck – oh god – Jon.”
Jon hummed and laid a firm slap across the flesh of Theon’s ass-cheek. He was
panting when he nudged Theon up for a moment, his lips and chin obscenely wet
with spit. “Take it back yet?”
Theon looked down at him, bewildered. “Take what back?”
“What you said. About me not being amazing.”
Theon managed to compose his expression into a smirk. “What if I don’t take it
back? Will you keep on trying to prove me wrong?”
“I’m not doing anything to you until you take it back.” Jon’s expression was
serious, save for the glint in his eye, the faintest tug at the corner of his
mouth.
“Fine.” Theon smeared a line of saliva over Jon’s cheek. “I take it back.
You’re the fucking best. I’d pay a million dollars just to suck your dick.”
Jon laughed. He pressed his fingers just behind Theon’s balls. “You know, your
erection actually starts all the way back here. I can still feel it.”
Theon whimpered when Jon guided him forward again, more gently this time, and
pushed his tongue upwards until Theon opened for him. Unable to resist the
impulse, Theon rocked back, trying to take Jon deeper, frustrated suddenly by
the desire for something more painful. He felt a cool touch – Jon’s hand
against the small of his back – and when he twisted to look over his shoulder,
Theon saw Jon’s other hand stroking the hard length of his cock, already
leaking with arousal.
Theon lifted himself away from Jon, thighs trembling and soaking wet from Jon’s
efforts. He sat back on his heels, steadied by a hand splayed across Jon’s
chest. He felt Jon’s prick against his ass, and Theon swallowed drily, trying
to remember that there was a time when sex didn’t hurt. He tried to focus on
the beating of Jon’s heart – fast, like his own.
“Are you okay?” Jon cocked his head to one side.
Theon nodded. He felt Jon’s body shift beneath him, Jon’s hands, urging him up
slightly, the tip of Jon’s cock just brushing his entrance. He took Jon’s prick
in his hand, and began to lower himself onto it when Jon laid a light slap on
Theon’s thigh.
“Condom?” he choked.
Theon froze. “I – I don’t have any,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting to need one.”
He expected Jon to push him away, but Jon only considered, eyes roving down
over Theon’s chest and stomach, lingering on his own cock, so painfully close
to Theon’s hole, before returning to Theon’s face, searching there for
something.
“Jon?”
“Tell me to fuck you and I will.”
Theon swallowed. “I don’t know if –”
The rest of the sentence – I don’t know if I’m clean – caught in Theon’s throat
as Jon’s hips gave a jerk. Theon trembled as the head of Jon’s prick pushed
inside him, Jon’s eyes drifting nearly closed as he mumbled something that
sounded like, “Fuck it.” He tightened his grip on Theon’s waist, guiding
Theon’s hips lower an inch at a time until he’d taken Jon’s entire length.
Theon’s muscles burned as he was stretched open, and he held his breath,
waiting, but Jon stayed still beneath him, buried inside him, his hand straying
up the curve of Theon’s ribs to tweak at a nipple. Carefully, Theon shifted his
weight back, and Jon moaned through clenched teeth. “Fuck.”
Theon paused there to drink in the sight – the rapid rise and fall of Jon’s
chest, the twitch of his tendons as he drew his fingernails over Theon’s
stomach. Jon’s mouth hung half-way open, eyes obscured by a tangle of curls.
Theon swept Jon’s hair out of his face, and leaned forward to kiss him; he felt
one of Jon’s hands in his hair, the other gripping his thigh as Jon gave a
single upward thrust. Theon whined against Jon’s mouth, struggling to hold
himself up on his elbows. Jon took Theon by the jaw. “You feel fucking good,”
he whispered, biting Theon’s bottom lip.
Again, Theon froze – Ramsay liked to hold him like that, pressing on his neck.
But it was Jon gazing up at him with a desire in his eyes that was more wonder
than greed. “I want to be good for you,” he answered.
Jon held him close at first, pressed against Theon as he fucked into him
slowly, his breath hot on Theon’s cheek. Tears clung to the corners of Theon’s
eyes, but within moments, the pain of it had turned into something else, and
Theon found himself rocking back on his knees to take Jon deeper.
“Let me see you,” Jon said, urging him up with a gentle hand until Theon was
once again straddling his hips, eyes half crossed every time Jon rammed into
him.
“You’re doing an awful lot of work for someone who wanted to be on the bottom,”
Theon managed.
Jon smiled and folded his arms above his head, and Theon smirked as he ground
his hips down, and he felt Jon’s cock throb inside him in return. He pressed
the fingers on his right hand to Jon’s lips, hypnotized by the sight of that
perfect mouth sucking on him so eagerly.
Theon closed his eyes before he touched himself, fingers slick with saliva,
cringing for a moment at the feel of it – the surgical precision of the narrow
opening there, the flesh around it still sensitive. He heard Jon draw a sharp
breath and go rigid beneath him, and when he opened his eyes, Jon was staring
at him, dumbstruck.
“You’re fucking killing me,” he said finally.
Theon let his hand drop away from his crotch, but Jon caught Theon’s fingers in
his own and returned them to their task.
“Don’t stop.”
“You like this?” Theon asked, the sensation of it not so unpleasant this time.
Jon bit his lip, nodding. His rhythm had grown more erratic, his fingernails
digging into Theon’s skin.
“Why?”
Jon’s laughter came out as a huff. “Maybe, because you’re the hottest thing
I’ve ever fucking seen? Because I want this to feel as good for you as it does
for me?”
Jon’s back arched when Theon bent to kiss his throat, licking and biting his
way up to Jon’s ear to say, “Stop worrying about me. I know you’re close – so
come for me, Jon.” Jon moaned, and Theon smiled, fingers pressing harder
against his scar. “It feels so good when I touch myself with your cock inside
me. I want you to come for me as hard as you fucking can, and I want you to
bite me when you do. Leave a mark on me, so I won’t forget how much you fucking
want me.”
“Theon –” Jon’s objection died on his lips. He grabbed a fistful of Theon’s
hair, his other hand moving down to rub between Theon’s legs, and Theon gasped
as Jon’s prick hammered into him. Jon sank his teeth into Theon’s shoulder as
he came, and he tasted Theon’s blood, heard Theon’s whispered,
“Oh – fuck – please keep going.”
Before the last tremors of his climax could subside, Jon had flipped Theon onto
his back and dragged him to the edge of the mattress. He dropped to his knees
on floor, roughly spreading Theon’s thighs apart to push two fingers inside
him, quickly adding a third when he felt how loose Theon was, his hole slick
with cum.
Theon’s head snapped back when he felt Jon’s mouth on him, tongue laving at his
scar while he fingered Theon’s ass, just deep enough to hit something there
that made Theon’s whole body quiver. Jon hummed against Theon’s skin, and
Theon’s hips jerked at the sensation.
One by one, the voices in Theon’s brain went silent, until the only thing he
knew was the way he felt in that precise moment.
He lifted his head to get a better view, and swallowed hard when Jon returned
his gaze, cheeks flushed, lips glistening with spit and his own seed. Theon
took a hold of Jon’s curls and gave a sharp tug, enjoying the way Jon’s
eyebrows knit together in pain before he offered up a wicked grin and drew the
tip of his tongue along Theon’s slit with an agonizing precision that made
Theon gasp and curse at him:
“Jesus fucking Christ. Do that again.”
Jon obeyed, this time working his fingers deeper into Theon, each time touching
that spot within him, until Theon was quaking, eyes closed, one hand fisted in
Jon’s hair, the other in his own. He tried to muster the word stop, to warn
Jon, but the thought crossed his mind too late, and Theon could only manage a
strangled moan as his orgasm spilled out between his legs.
When he opened his eyes, the ceiling seemed to be spinning, and he found his
fingers still wound tightly through Jon’s hair. He watched in disbelief as Jon
licked him clean, then crawled up on all fours to kiss him on the lips.
“I can’t believe you fucking did that,” said Theon. “And with your mouth.”
Jon grinned and gave a shrug. “You taste fucking amazing.” He let his knuckles
graze through Theon’s pubic hair, and Theon shivered. Looking down, Theon
noticed that Jon was hard again, his cock already dark with blood.
Jon bit his lip when Theon’s right hand wrapped around his erection, legs still
shaking as they spread for him a second time.
*
Jon was still sleeping when Theon woke. Finding his clothes still damp from
last night’s rain, Theon pulled one of Jon’s black t-shirts out of the hamper
and pulled it over his head. He dressed quietly, then stood at the balcony door
for some time, watching the sky begin to pale in the east, where storm clouds
still shrouded the horizon.
He thought about his first night in Winterfell – Ned Stark had shown Theon to
his room, Robb in tow. He remembered Robb asking him, “Do you like it?” which
to Theon seemed like a callous, imperceptive question. What was there to like?
He remembered how lonely he had felt when Ned Stark shut the door behind him,
how large and forlorn the room had seemed – its furnishings tailored to some
imagined young boy, but not to Theon. He had stared out this same window,
watching the crows, their cawing cracking through the hush of the snow.
The room had rightfully belonged to Jon.
He considered the boy, curled up on his side with one bare arm flung over the
edge of the bed, his full lips parted and breathing softly against the pillow.
Theon thought that Jon looked younger somehow in the pre-dawn light, despite
the dark stubble on his jaw. He remembered how Jon had seemed to him three
years ago, outside the café – how sweet and angry.
“I’m going to kill Robb.”
Theon’s guts twisted. Jon had been emotional and drunk, and probably only half-
aware, but the clarity of the words nagged at Theon – the way they left Jon’s
pretty mouth with such precision amidst the slur of epithets, the way Jon’s
eyes had flickered with intention.
He’s not wrong for wanting it, Theon thought. If he allowed himself to think
back far enough, he could remember the first time he wished his own brothers
were dead. He couldn’t recall the events leading up to the incident, but he
remembered lying at the bottom of the stairs, the pain in his body, the tears
stinging his eyes while Maron laughed. It hadn’t been the pain, hadn’t even
been the act of it that made Theon hate his brothers enough to hurt them – it
was Maron’s goddamned laugh.
Before he’d been taken from Pyke, Theon pretended sometimes that he was adopted
– that he wasn’t Balon Greyjoy’s son, that Rick and Ron were only mean to him
because he wasn’t really their blood. Asha was the only wrinkle in that fantasy
– her finer features, set into a serious expression that Theon learned to
mirror without meaning to.
Theon’s brothers were cruel – but they had never abused him the way Robb abused
Jon. Once Theon learned not to trust them, their ability to wound him
diminished significantly, and he found the bruises and split lips easier to
bear than the humiliation of having trusted carelessly. But Jon – who had
always been guarded and suspicious – had opened up to Robb, only to find
himself used and deceived.
And you. He trusted you, and you lied to him. You’re as much to blame for this
as Robb.
He carded his fingers through Jon’s hair, watching Jon’s eyelids twitch at the
tickle of it.
“Come back to bed,” Jon murmured.
Theon swallowed. His palms were sweaty, and his heart pounding inexplicably. Or
maybe he knew why.
“You know I’m in love with you?” he asked hoarsely.
Jon’s eyes drifted part way open, a sleepy half-grin gracing his full lips. “I
knew that before you did.”
Theon opened his mouth to ask for something else, to hear the words one more
time, but Jon had slipped back to sleep. Theon thought to kiss him, but instead
he only ran a light touch along Jon’s brow.
He sat on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes, fingers trembling more than
usual. He grabbed Jon’s still-damp leather jacket from the pile of clothes on
the floor, and shrugged into it, comforted by its weight, then gathered his
phone and wallet off the nightstand. He considered his scarf for a beat, but
left it draped over the corner of Jon’s desk.
The door closed silently behind him, and in the hall one of the maids carried a
rumple of linens away, never turning to see the strange man with white hair and
dazed blue eyes who made his way after her, then stopped outside Mr. Stark’s
bedroom door.
Theon felt dizzy as he tested the knob, half-hoping he’d find the door locked,
heart sinking when it opened easily, as though Robb had been waiting for him.
Robb slept on his back, sprawled on top of his covers in a pair of black sweat-
pants, his phone still cradled loosely in one hand. Theon swayed on the balls
of his feet, watching and willing Robb to wake, but Robb remained still aside
from the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his cheeks flushed with the warmth
of the room.
Theon moved swiftly, climbing onto the bed to straddle Robb, knees bracketing
Robb’s ribcage, and he could feel the heat radiating from Robb’s body, the
lean, elegant lines of his muscles giving a startled jump while his eyelashes
fluttered open.
“Theon?” Robb smiled his winning smile, and the world seemed to grind to a
halt.
Theon’s hand moved almost of its own accord, through the red hair of Robb’s
chest, up onto the arc of Robb’s throat, where he could feel the thrum of
Robb’s heartbeat as it grew faster and harder beneath his touch. He felt Robb’s
right hand on his knee, misunderstanding, the left hand pulling him downward by
the front of Jon’s jacket.
“Robb –” was all he managed before their lips met, and the worst part was the
sweetness of it – a chaste, childish kiss that took Theon’s breath away.
I thought you’d keep me safe.
Theon shook the thought away. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on
Robb’s neck, feeling the buzz of Robb’s alarmed gasp against his mouth.
Robb began to struggle beneath him, hips bucking frantically as he tried to
twist himself free, nearly lifting Theon off the mattress. Theon clenched his
thighs around Robb’s torso and locked his elbows to bear down on Robb’s throat
with both hands. He felt Robb’s knees in his back, Robb’s fists pounding
uselessly at his sides, then fingernails clawing at the leather of the jacket,
searching for a hold on Theon’s neck, tearing at fabric of his t-shirt.
Robb’s convulsions intensified, fear surging through his body, and Theon
imagined their positions reversed, Robb’s fingers closing around his throat
while he writhed beneath. He remembered the terror he’d felt when Ramsay choked
him, and even then, he’d half-known that Ramsay didn’t intend to kill him. His
stomach churned as Robb’s windpipe seemed to cave in, and Robb’s breathing
turned to a grotesque rasp. Robb pried at Theon’s hands, palms wringing
painfully at the skin on Theon’s wrists. His thrashing turned suddenly to a
kind of seizure, his grip clamping down onto Theon’s wrists hard enough to send
a jolting, electric sensation shooting up Theon’s arms.
Theon didn’t open his eyes for what felt like minutes after Robb’s body had
gone still beneath him. His hands throbbed when he released his hold on Robb’s
neck, and his legs cramped. Robb’s head listed to one side, his cheeks still
almost purple, while an ugly welt rose around his throat. The whites of Robb’s
pretty blue eyes were red with blood, and his mouth hung open, its corners wet
with spit. Theon touched Robb’s lips with his fingertips, and swore he could
still feel their softness on his own.
His right knee gave out when he tried to stand, and he caught himself on the
edge of the bed, watery eyes locking with Robb’s vacant gaze.
I’m sorry, Theon thought, but he didn’t dare speak the words, weak as they
were.
He cast a final look at his friend before stepping into the hall, checking this
time to see that he was alone there. He locked the door behind him. His head
burned, but his body felt light, footsteps almost gliding, moving him quickly
and effortlessly towards the elevator, while a shaking hand that didn’t seem to
belong to him pushed the button for the basement level.
The garage was blissfully dark – only a dim blue light emanated from the shop,
and the boy who worked there was nowhere to be seen. Theon plucked a set of
keys off the board – a dark blue, late model Mustang, nothing flashy.
The house was still quiet when he pulled away, the sun just peeking through the
branches of the oak trees. In the pocket of Jon’s coat, Theon found a crumpled
pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He cracked the window of the Mustang, smoke
filling his lungs as he took a right and watched Winterfell disappear abruptly
around the corner.
***** Chapter Twenty-Nine/Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you thank you thank you so much to everyone who has left
     comments and kudos over the past two years (!) You have made me feel
     so privileged and lucky. Please never stop being amazing.
     I've gifted this fic to Neliore and bluetilo, without whose effusive
     encouragement, friendship and support I'd likely not have finished.
     As for me, I'll have something coming out later this month for the
     Bolton Fic Xchange, but I've got no other long-term projects in mind.
     I may post an updated FicMix on 8tracks, if I am ever satisfied with
     the song sequencing. Frankly, I'm excited just sit back and catch up
     on my AO3 reading for a change.
     Much love!
He’d intended to stay Northbound – ditch the car a few towns over and buy a
train ticket to… to wherever. It didn’t matter much, he thought numbly. They’d
be looking for him to the West, probably sending another email with his name
and photo to every port and marina on the coast, thinking he’d be headed to
Pyke. He’d nearly reached the city limits of Wintertown proper when his phone
buzzed with an incoming text.
He didn’t want to look. He wanted to forget about it, not imagine Jon’s horror
when he saw Robb’s lifeless body sprawled across the bed they’d shared. He
remembered how cold Ramsay’s corpse felt, lying on the table in Qyburn’s
office, how soft his face looked. The phone buzzed a second time, and Theon
felt the itch to answer it, if only to read Jon’s recriminations. He held the
phone with one hand, the steering wheel with the other and held his breath.
“Go where I’ll find you.
Please don’t leave me again.”
Theon felt tears burning at the corners of his eyes as he replied, “Don’t be
stupid. Stop texting me.”
The morning light cast a fresh gleam on the still-wet leaves of the trees that
lined the road.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
The sickening guilt Theon felt wasn’t quite heavy enough to suppress a small
smile. “So you tell *me* what to do.”
“Go where Reek would go and wait for me there.
I love you, Theon.”
Theon swallowed. He entered a terse, “Delete these messages,” followed by,
“Please.”
“Tell me you love me back, you asshole.”
“Don’t you know that by now?” He’d intended it to be playful, but Jon’s answer
made him frown.
“I’m fucking freaking out right now. There’s police everywhere.
Mrs. Stark’s just lost her fucking mind, and I can’t find Arya anywhere.
And Robb is fucking dead.
I’m scared.”
“I know. I’m scared too.
I love you, Jon Snow. I’ll wait for you there.”
The phone went silent, though Theon glanced at it frequently, the darkened
screen glinting up at him from the passenger seat as he exited the freeway and
turned eastward. He fiddled with the radio dials, then turned them off again –
the sounds of the world seemed unbearable, the way they carried on as though
this was just another day, as though he hadn’t strangled Robb Stark in his bed,
as though there was no reason for the aching in Theon’s hands.
He stopped at a gas station in between suburbs. He snatched a pair of silver-
chrome aviators off a rack and filled a Styrofoam cup with sludgy black coffee,
then set them down while he hurried to the bathroom to throw up. He paid in
cash and lit one of Jon’s cigarettes on his way out to the car. Again he
checked his phone, half relieved and half afraid when he saw no further
communications.
*
The cemetery was empty, aside from a single groundskeeper hoisting the flag –
the morning still too new and too pleasant to be visiting the dead just yet.
The dew from last night’s rain clung to the fresh-cut grass, sending up a
sunlit sparkle and a sweet smell that stirred some distant memory in Theon’s
brain.
He found the grave easily enough. The Bolton family marker was not ornate or
extravagant, but it was monolithic, black granite rising formidably amongst the
relatively cheerier aspects of stone angels and saints.
The three fingers of Theon’s right hand passed over the most recent engraving –
Ramsay Bolton – b. 1993 d. 2016. There was nothing else; where another family
might’ve added “Beloved son,” only smooth stone. Theon wondered what else it
ought to say. He remembered the Greyjoy family plot – a few rough-cut stones on
a wind-swept hilltop on Pyke where his mother had taken him once as a child,
and his father had taken him again when his brothers’ ashes were laid to rest.
He remembered the texture of the kraken carved into the stone – gnawed by the
salty air, its graceful lines diminished into little more than a suggestion.
But his brothers’ names were cut so fresh – Rodrick Greyjoy, Maron Greyjoy –
and beside them the monument already bore their father’s name, and their
mother’s. Theon had wondered how long before he’d find his own name on that
stone. It seemed a morbid relief to imagine it – Theon Greyjoy, no different
from all the other Greyjoys, no way for his father to mark him as a
disappointment from beyond the grave.
“You know what this means?” Asha had asked him seriously.
Theon shook his head.
“It means that one day you’ll be in charge. Pyke, and all the ships and
everything will be yours.”
Theon looked at her uncertainly. “But I… Dad doesn’t think I’m smart like Ron,
or strong like Rick… He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just an asshole.”
“But I don’t want to die here,” he hadn’t said.
“He’s going to replace me,” Ramsay had said.
And here he was – just a name on a piece of rock, with no words to tell how
fierce he was, how loyal. Nothing to tell you how he looked in the morning when
his hair stuck up at funny angles, or how fearlessly he rode his motorcycle, or
how warm his hands were.
Or that he was a total fucking psycho, Theon concluded with a bitter little
smile.
He hadn’t seen her approach, hadn’t heard her bare footsteps padding softly
through the lush grass – he only stood there, fingers pressed against the cool
stone. She shot him in the stomach, and Theon slumped forward, one hand
clinging to the Bolton family monument, the other pressed to his side. He
touched the front of his shirt, and his fingertips came away red.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she said, and though her hand was deathly steady as
she trained the gun on him, her voice sounded choked and broken. Theon could
see that she’d been crying. “You could’ve just stayed away from us. You didn’t
have to –” Arya faltered, moved to hold her pistol with two hands. “You didn’t
have to.”
Theon looked for a vehicle – How did I not hear her? – but saw the Mustang he'd
arrived in. His eyes flickered from the round barrel of the silencer to her
face, a lovely face. “Did Jon send you?” he asked, feeling the soft earth
beneath his knees.
She squinted at him, head cocked to one side. “Jon send me?” she echoed.
The pain mounted in Theon’s body, like something inside had come alive and
determined to claw its way out. He groaned, and pressed against the wound as
hard as he could bear. The world seemed to list to one side. “He’s your
brother, you know,” he said, and he saw that he’d unnerved her. “Takes after
your dad. Promise me you’ll take care of him.”
“No,” she said, though her eyes looked doubtful. "No more fucking tricks,
Theon."
Theon's grimace twisted into a smirk. "You were on the money with 'asshole,'
but I never thought of myself as tricky," he said. "Jon can prove it, if you
ask him. So promise to look after him. Please."
Theon let out groan as he pitched forward onto his hands and knees, and Arya
moved as though to take hold of him, but then thought better of it. She began
to cry, tears rolling down her round cheeks, lips pursed together tight as she
nodded an affirmation. She moved closer as though to place a second, more
merciful shot somewhere in Theon’s skull, but he shook his head.
“No hurry.”
“It hurts a lot to die that way.”
“No shit,” he managed.
“I – I have to g-go,” she stammered, as though asking for permission.
“Go on then. Get the fuck out of here.”
She left just as quietly, and Theon dropped down to lay on his side. He felt a
surge of anger, and the creep of the blood as it soaked through his shirt, and
then just as quickly, the anger passed. He tried to recall the way Jon had
kissed him beneath the underpass the night before – that felt so wonderful, he
reflected, remembering the way his heart had beat. The sky was blue overhead,
and he could hear the birds singing around him. He felt the dew on his arms,
the warmth of the sun for some time after his eyesight went black.
*
*
*
Asha paused at the bottom of the steps to meet the stony gaze of one of the
wolves that crouched there. They were larger than life – taller than Theon had
been when he’d arrived here, she guessed, tracing the snout with her finger.
She’d learned to live with the guilt – she was only a girl, after all, when Ned
Stark came for her brother, and what could she have done? But the idea of
living entirely without him filled her with a numb dread for which she’d found
no remedy.
She’d been alone since he left – an only child, the focus of all her father’s
attention and ambition, and though she often felt Theon’s absence with a
startling, bitter acuity, she had always reassured herself that he was not
truly gone, that somewhere far away her little brother’s Greyjoy heart was
pumping Greyjoy blood through his Greyjoy veins. (She’d long since abandoned
the fantasy that he might someday return to Pyke to relieve her of the burden
that was his by right.)
The night she learned of his death, she took a long walk beside the cliffs,
listening to the roar of the surf, ceaseless and deep as ever. The stars,
dampened by clouds, looked the same as ever, and she felt ashamed that she had
not known, had not felt that Theon was gone. Did that make her a terrible
sister? she wondered. Did it mean she hadn't loved him enough?
It was a man who’d called to inform her, his voice full of pain in the way that
it endeavored to sound otherwise, and he had not allowed much conversation.
“Who – who is this?” she’d asked, not really caring, but still needing to know.
“Jon Snow,” he said, and then hung up.
She’d already made her plans to travel to Winterfell and personally open Robb
Stark’s throat when she learned of his death. According to the official
communication she’d received – a terse, emotionless email signed by the same
Jon Snow – Robb had died in his bed of an aneurysm, but Asha knew better than
to believe in such a freak coincidence. No official statement had yet been
issued regarding Theon’s death – that duty fell to his family, and Asha wanted
to hold her brother close for as long as possible.
“Let me go with you,” Qarl had said, as close to insisting as anyone dared. “I
can help make the arrangements.”
But she’d come alone, unannounced and unsure of her intentions. She needed to
bring Theon’s body home, of course, but she’d also made no pretense of hiding
the pistol on her hip or the hatchet that had become the trademark of her
bloodier work. Standing on the front steps, she tried to imagine whether seeing
Winterfell reduced to a pile of ash would provide any relief from the
suffocating sense of helplessness she felt.
She hadn’t expected a little girl to answer the door – no older than sixteen,
wearing a .44 on her side and a look both ferocious and heartsick. The girl
seemed equally startled by Asha’s arrival, eyes darting from her face to her
pistol, then lingering on her axe.
“You’re Asha Greyjoy,” she said, one hand alighting on the grip of her gun.
Asha nodded. “I am.” They regarded one another for a long moment. The girl
seemed to sway lightly on the balls of her feet, expectantly, until Asha
cleared her throat and asked, “Is Mrs. Stark available?”
Arya’s brown eyes dropped down to look at the ground. “No,” she replied. “My –
Mrs. Stark has taken a trip to visit her family down South.”
Not a lie, exactly, Asha knew, since it was the sort of lie she was fluent in
telling about her own mother. (That had been the hardest part of all –
listening to her mother wail. Theon had always been nine years old in Alannys’
eyes, and she grieved accordingly. “My baby,” she sobbed. “My boy.”)
Asha swallowed. “I’m sorry to hear about Robb.”
“Are you?” Arya narrowed her eyes.
“Honestly, no. But I know how it is to lose a brother.”
“It hurts,” Arya said, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah.”
Arya nodded at Asha’s weapons. “I can’t let you in with those.”
“Well, I’m not taking them off. The axe really holds the whole outfit
together.”
Arya almost smiled. “I’ll tell my brother you’re here.”
The door opened again a few minutes later to reveal a young man with a somber
face, his cold expression tempered by the sadness in his wide, dark eyes. He
wore his black hair tied back, and on one wrist an expensive watch glittered
amidst a half-dozen rubber-bands.
She looked like her brother – Theon had said so, hadn’t he? – and it was so
obvious now, right down to the little smirk tugging at her lips that Jon
doubted she even knew was there anymore. It explained why he'd been unable to
stop staring at her the first time he'd seen her. He was so new then, and she'd
frightened him a little with her hard-set mouth and the axe she wore that
looked every bit as sharp as it did ancient. Now, he wished he'd found the
courage to speak to her sooner. A tightness seized Jon's chest, but his face
remained impassive.
“Ms. Greyjoy.”
“Asha,” she returned, offering a bone-crushing handshake. “And you must be Jon
Snow.” She looked him over with gray-blue eyes. “Not quite the Stark I was
expecting. Last time I came, you were just the babysitter.”
Jon heard her implication – that recent events had proved fortunate for him –
but he ignored it, arms folded across his chest. “Mrs. Stark took her sons
South after the funeral to spend some time with family. Arya and I look after
Robb’s affairs, so whatever reason you have for visiting, I’m sure we can –”
“My brother’s dead,” she cut in. “I’m sure you can guess why I’m here.”
Jon frowned, his shoulders drooping slightly as he fingered the rubber bands
around his wrist. Asha could tell that he found formality exhausting. “I – I’ve
already had him cremated.” He did his best to sound regretful, but Jon felt
relieved by the truth of it; he would not part with Theon for a third time. He
saw the fury rising in her eyes, color in her high cheeks.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘already had him cremated?’ Who the fuck do you
think you are?”
Jon stiffened. “I think I’m the acting head of the Stark family and I think
you’re the one standing on my fucking doorstep and more importantly, I think I
was Theon’s –” He caught his tongue just in time, “friend, and I’m sure you’ll
forgive me for thinking that nobody on the Iron Islands gave a damn about him.”
Asha hoped he couldn’t see how deep the remark had cut, just as Jon hoped she
hadn’t noticed the faint tremor in his voice. “You should’ve informed me about
the service,” she said guardedly.
“There wasn’t one,” he offered, reflecting that he’d been too drunk to arrange
it. “He hated those sorts of things anyway.” Perceiving the desperate look in
her eyes, he added, “His ashes are in the yard, if you’d like.”
“Your security says I’m not allowed in with these.” Asha gestured to her
weapons.
Jon smiled faintly. “We can walk around the outside.” He stepped out beside
her, allowing the heavy door to fall shut behind him. He wore a handsome black
button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and drew a pair of silver-
chrome aviators from the breast pocket to push them onto the bridge of his
nose.
He almost looked the part, Asha thought, when you couldn’t see his eyes.
“You think I wouldn’t kill you right here?” she asked.
Jon heard Theon’s bravado in her voice, and he shrugged. “I mean, I guess you
could. I don’t think it would make either of us feel any better though.” He
pulled a cigarette case from his back pocket. “You mind if I smoke?”
She shook her head.
The two of them passed beneath a line of old oaks.
“I’d forgotten how much taller the trees grow up here,” she observed aloud,
before asking abruptly, “How did Robb die?”
“I sent out an email.”
She scoffed at him. “We both know that nobody either of our families just dies
of an aneurysm.”
“Yeah, I suppose we both do.”
“Tell me about Theon at least.”
Jon stopped walking, and Asha saw her own reflection in the lens of his
sunglasses as he considered her.
“‘Never trust a Greyjoy,’” he said. “Isn’t that a thing people say?”
“Not if they want to keep all their parts.”
Jon smiled, and Asha noted how pretty it made him. They continued walking.
“Sorry,” said Jon. “I’m new to all this bullshit. But – if I tell you how Theon
died, you have to promise me that you’ll – that you’ll be satisfied with the
answer, and you won't go trying to make it... even, or 'right' or whatever the
fuck you call it.”
“Why would I promise that?”
“Because if you don’t, this just keeps happening. Someone close to me dies, and
someone close to you dies. We might as well just get it over with and blow each
other’s brains out right here, while the person who… who really hurt Theon
keeps on breathing as though he deserves it.”
“Ramsay Bolton is dead,” she said, remembering the way his head had lurched
forward when she’d put a bullet into his chest, the way he’d grinned at her.
“I wasn’t talking about Ramsay.”
Jon came to a halt beside a patch of freshly-turned earth where a carpeting of
green leaves had recently been planted.
Strawberries, she realized. She crouched beside the garden, parting the leaves
to reveal a small flat stone that read only “THEON.”
“What was he to you?” she asked.
"How much do you know about him?"
"I guess I'm asking if you were in love with him."
“Yeah,” Jon answered, so quietly that she almost asked him to repeat it. Jon
dropped to his haunches beside her, their knees just touching, and carded his
fingers through the tangle of stems. He remembered the way Theon’s body had
looked on the autopsy table – the wound that killed him seemed like nothing
amidst the scars and burns and missing parts. And there was the bite mark on
his shoulder, of course, still red and fresh and Jon had touched it when the
examiner turned his back. “I mixed his ashes with the soil,” he told Asha.
“I wanted to bring him back to Pyke,” she replied half-heartedly. “My – our
father would’ve wanted him back at Pyke.”
And if the old man had died sooner, Theon might’ve come home.
“He didn’t belong there,” Jon said, and she knew he was right.
“And he belonged in Winterfell with the Starks?”
“I'm not a Stark,” Jon snapped. He pretended not to notice when Asha hurried to
swipe at a runaway tear, and added more gently, "He belongs with me."
Jon wished for something else to say, but all could think of was Theon’s cold
body, Theon’s things in a labelled plastic bag, Theon’s blood still damp in the
fabric of his old t-shirt. Jon had wept already – smashed up every breakable
thing in his bedroom and then spent two days drunk out of his mind, waiting for
it to stop, waiting for Theon to help him to bed so he could wake up already
and find that it was all only a dream.
It had been Arya who finally called the paramedics, who rode with Jon in the
back of the ambulance while the EMTs shined a light into his eyes, and waited
outside the room while the doctors pumped his stomach. She’d been on the phone,
nearly hysterical, and when Gendry arrived to take them home the next morning,
she’d fallen asleep in the back seat of his Q50.
“You can’t go doing stuff like that anymore,” Gendry said. “You scared the shit
out of her.”
Jon glanced over his shoulder at Arya, her mouth open, head slumped against the
window.
“I know,” he said, ashamed.
“Next time… next time it gets bad like that, just call me, okay? She's got
enough..." Problems, Gendry didn't say, opting instead for, "She's got enough
on her mind."
Jon lifted his sunglasses to look at Asha. “I can have one put in a pot for
you,” he offered.
Asha crumbled, burying her face in her hands and hoping foolishly that they
might somehow cover the fact that she was crying. “This is bullshit,” she said
with a sob. “I loved him too. I should’ve brought him home. And not in a – not
in a fucking pot. Fuck this. Fuck the Starks and fuck the Boltons and fuck
Theon and fuck you and your fucking garden. There's not even any fucking
strawberries in it yet.” She sat back and folded her knees up to her chest.
Something in the timbre of her voice struck a nerve within Jon, and before he
knew it, he’d laid an arm around her shaking shoulders.
“Tell anyone you saw me cry and I’ll fucking kill you,” she said as she leaned
back into his touch.
Jon smiled.
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