Semi-closed
Who: Theon Greyjoy (
reek) & Various
What: Theon got a canon update! It's not pretty. Here's a catchall.
When: May
Where: Olympia...mostly not leaving his home tbh
Warning(s): Typical ASOIAF/GoT warnings & added torture mentions
[ Starters will be in the comments! If you would like one and we haven't talked about it yet, PM me or grab me at
muttonchops, or just wildcard me. Theon will largely not be around Olympia, but he will visit the stasis units closer to the end of the month if you want to catch him then. ]
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What: Theon got a canon update! It's not pretty. Here's a catchall.
When: May
Where: Olympia...mostly not leaving his home tbh
Warning(s): Typical ASOIAF/GoT warnings & added torture mentions
[ Starters will be in the comments! If you would like one and we haven't talked about it yet, PM me or grab me at
MAXIMUS
A key, he thinks with a flood of relief and glee. He could almost laugh. I still have a key, and he doesn’t.
Not that locks are enough to hold back Ramsay, but for now, for a brief moment, the key offers him the comfort and bravery to stumble home as quickly as his pathetic excuse for a body will allow. He counts the doors, he remembers, clumsy fingers fumble with the lock and he all but tumbles through the door.
Perhaps he’s been asleep for hours. Perhaps its been days, months, perhaps years. Either way, he thought he remembered it all, but for a brief moment, his mind flatlines. He takes one look at Maximus and his familiar face and immediately cringes away like a wounded dog, expecting to be wounded further. ]
I'm--sorry.
[ He blinks several times, trying to put the pieces together. What is he apologizing for? Running away from Ramsay, or mistaking Maximus for Ramsay? He's not sure yet. It could be a trick. It could always be a trick. He needs Maximus speak first. ]
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So it's a bit startling when the lock jiggles and Theon walks in. Or. Well, it is Theon. But his appearance is shocking. Maximus is up from the chair he's been sitting in. He can't even hide the sheer look of confusion and surprise on his face. ]
What the hell happened to you?
[ Maybe Ramsay Bolton had something to do with the disappearance after all. ]
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He just looks exhausted. Sick and pale and exhausted in a way that doesn’t happen over the span of three days. Dark hair has turned shock white, he’s gone rail thin, with more fingers missing than before. ]
I…
[ He doesn’t know how to respond. The real answer to that question is far too long, and he’s been tricked far too easily far too many times. ]
I deserved it.
[ A learned response, the easiest one in his arsenal. He knows his name now, but Reek isn’t completely gone. All the defense mechanisms are still there. ]
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[ And since it's clear that Theon has no intentions of saying what befell him to turn him this way, Maximus has to move on to the next point of curiosity. While he does recognize that perhaps Theon needs to rest, that can happen after.
Theon can have all the time in the world to rest. Maximus needs to know now. ]
Where were you? You'd be alarmed at how many people were asking for you.
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[ But that’s wrong, isn’t it? He never went home, and he can never go home again. All they did was give him new memories and somehow force him into this shell of what he once was. All that’s keeping him from believing he’s gone mad once more is the knowledge that the same thing happened to Claire and Sansa.
He shakes his head quickly, showing that he realizes his mistake. ]
Stasis.
[ He would wish to remain there, but not if it means enduring life within those memories. ]
Who was asking for me…?
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CLAIRE
He’s a pale skeleton, looking uncomfortable even seated on the bed. Alison is gone, but Nagga sits beside him, her head on his lap. Everything about him has gone pale. His hair is snow white, his skin has taken on an unhealthy grey pallor, and even his eyes have lost their light. He was beneath the Dreadfort for longer than six months, but it feels as though he’s aged a hundred years. ]
Did you miss me?
[ His voice is quiet, an eerie rasp to match his ghostly appearance. He smirks feebly, but shows no teeth. If he did, she would see that his mouth is a ruin as well. ]
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Her prayers aren't answered and Stannis' words don't prepare her for what she sees when she steps into the room.]
Theon.
[It's almost a question. He doesn't look like the young man she grew to care for, that she's wept over. He looks like a ghost, so pale and fragile, like he might crumble at the slightest touch. Claire, a woman that's seen the horrors of war and worse, can't stop the sob that escapes her throat as the sight settles into her mind.
Ramsay did this. She squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment, shoving down the urge to turn on her heel and storm out for a fight she could never win.
She has to focus on what she can do.]
I did miss you. Very much. [Comes the reply at last, voice shaking as she tries and fails to stop the tears. This poor boy. Slowly, despite the almost overwhelming need to clutch him to her body, she moves to sit on the edge of the bed, looking him over. Looking for something, anything she can help with.]
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[ He repeats it almost defiantly, the name he couldn’t say in Ramsay’s presence without consequences. Ramsay is still here, somewhere, and that thought alone is terrifying, but even his ears can’t reach this far. ]
You know my name. You have to know your name.
[ He breathes the words like a desperate sigh of relief. Flayed skin, broken teeth and dead friends can’t be returned to him, but his name is his. Claire knows him, Maximus knows him, and even the Old Gods knew him.
Unable to help himself, he shies away from Claire, curling into himself. Logically, he knows he can trust her, but he’s been conditioned to fear anyone and everything. Anything could be a trick. He knows this isn’t, but he reacts as though a touch from her could wound him. He was afraid she might cry. Jayne did. Asha nearly did. ]
I’ve heard enough weeping for a lifetime.
[ It seems a jape, scrutinizing and sharp as Theon Greyjoy ever was, but it has its roots in Ramsay, as most things do. No one likes to lay awake at night, listening to the women prisoners weep. ]
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Theon. I do know your name. I know you, and you know me. [And so her heart crumbles to see him pull away from her, like she might strike him.] I have never hurt you, and I never will. I swear it. [Though she imagines words mean little to him, now--God only knows what Ramsay said to him, did to him. Though from what she can see, she can begin to paint a picture. It's not pretty.]
It's all right. Let me see you.
[She doesn't reach out to touch him, but she does hold out her hands to him, palms up.]
Let me see your hands.
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SANSA
He’s finding it difficult to readjust. He twitches and jumps at every noise, and he finds the bed more uncomfortable than not. After sleeping in the kennels, there’s some sort of comfort to resting on the hard floor alongside Nagga, his own dog. The kennels meant he was safe, that Ramsay wasn’t coming for him. This offers him the same semblance of security.
He knows to expect Sansa. Claire has been here, and Claire speaks to the Starks, Claire can grant anyone access to the house, but Sansa's entrance doesn’t stop Theon from startling, beginning to push himself into the corner before he realizes it’s her. Even then, he doesn’t relax. He may never relax again. With a breathless laugh, he blurts out the first thing he can think to say. ]
It wasn’t you.
[ He hardly looks himself. He’s white haired, skeletal and pale, his teeth in splinters, mangled fingers twisting together in his lap. ]
You didn’t marry him. Not in…
[ He trails off, not finishing his sentence. Why should Stannis get that satisfaction? The context speaks for itself, though. In the other Westeros. ]
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but if she expects there to be resistance, cold words telling her to leave, what she finds is far, far worse. instead of lashing out, Theon is pulling away, making himself small like he could pass notice like that. she takes in his appearance: his hair, winter-touched and white, his skin pale as death, the wild fear in his eyes.
(if she thought she'd hated Ramsay before, it's nothing, nothing compared to what she feels, now.) ]
Theon —
[ her voice shakes, but doesn't shatter — she's too good at this, holding back. she kneels down but doesn't come closer to him. this may not be the same Theon she met in Winterfell, but there are echoes, and she remembers. ]
... who was it, then? [ the way he speaks it, you, with an emphasis. not you but someone else.
she wants to scream, cry, she wants to throw her arms around him and never let go. she wants to ask him, what did he do to you, she wants to tell him you'll be better, eventually, it's not impossible.
she does none of it. ]
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Theon, Theon, Theon. The bards couldn’t write a sweeter song.
He’s glad that Sansa doesn’t touch him, doesn’t come any closer. She seems to know. Perhaps the other Theon, whatever he went through, disliked being touched as much as Theon does now. He’s even more relieved when she doesn’t cry. Jeyne had cried on their trek through the snow, and he had feared Asha would cry when she recognized him. He’s grateful for Sansa in general. He isn’t the person who saved her, but she seems to understand.
When the question comes to Ramsay’s marriage, however, he takes a shuddering breath. Sansa should know. Theon recalls her and Jeyne being friends. So much is changed between their Westeroses, though. He can’t help but think what a cruel twist it would be if Sansa doesn’t recall Jeyne at all. Hesitantly, his voice thin, he asks: ]
Was Vayon Poole your father’s steward? Did he have a daughter named Jeyne?
[ Jeyne was already a ghost when she returned to Winterfell. Her father, likely the only person who would have been searching for her, had died in King’s Landing. No one was ever going to rescue Jeyne Poole. The rescue effort was for Arya, so Arya she had to remain. Theon won’t tell that lie to Sansa, though. Sansa would see through that ruse just as well as Theon did. ]
She had brown eyes.
[ Not grey. Not like Arya's. ]
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a moment passes where she wonders whether it was right to ask, whether she should have said something else, whether she should have said nothing at all — but then Theon speaks, thin and brittle and yet.
and yet, Sansa knows his voice, takes the words for what they are: the truth. she'd said it once, truth is either terrible or boring, and it is, it is. more terrible than she thought to be possible. ]
Jeyne.
[ how long has it been since she thought of her friend? her sweet, innocent, soft friend she'd left in Winterfell. what had happened to Jeyne Poole in her Westeros? death, she imagined, one way or the other. and yet death was a sweeter song than the fate of the Jeyne Poole Theon knew. ]
... she was my good friend. I — Lord Stannis said it was Arya, not me. But I told him it couldn't be, Arya would have killed Ramsay and all the Boltons. But Jeyne —
[ her voice breaks, shattered like glass, sharp and fine and painful. ]
... did you — [ Did you save her? she thinks, but can't quite manage the question. ]
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JON
Someone should put it out of its misery, he thinks distantly, pausing to stare into its hollow eyes. It’s only when he raises a hand to brush a few strands of colorless hair from his face that he realizes he’s looking at himself. He knew his hair had turned white, he knew that Ramsay had smashed his teeth with a hammer, and he knew he’d been starved, but he didn’t know he had stopped looking human all together. It’s haunting.
He knows to expect Jon. Claire has told him, Claire has tried to give him warning, but it doesn’t stop him from flinching when Jon enters the room. It doesn’t stop his heart from leaping into double-time and it doesn’t stop him from immediately shying away. These mannerisms are ingrained into him now. ]
Jon.
[ Not Snow. He’ll never call him Snow again. He opens his mouth to speak again, but no words come. What can he possibly say, after nearly a year of calling him a liar? The physical evidence is enough to prove Stannis right. This is not the Theon who met Jon on Dragonstone. He tries again. ]
You can still behead me, if you like.
[ His humor has definitely gotten worse. ]
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He wasn't broken, not completely. Not like this.
Jon doesn't know how to take it all in. The sight is gruesome. He is older beyond his years and torn apart in ways he hadn't imagined. The loss of his teeth, his white hair, he looks as if he's the walking dead.
Even his voice is unnerving. As best as he can, Jon tries to keep his face blank, but there was no masking the horror in his voice.]
You were in stasis? Did they give you more memories?
[This was far worse than Ramsay simply killing him. This was a walking testament of torture.]
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What do you think?, he wants to snap. Isn’t it obvious? But he dares not. Jon isn’t Ramsay, but Theon has learned that any man is capable of cruelty when provoked. Instead of sharp words, he fixes Jon with a stare instead, haunted eyes gazing out from a face that has grown far too thin. He nods.
Please don’t make me repeat them. ]
I was beneath the Dreadfort. For how long, I don't know. Months. Years.
[ It can't have been years, but it feels like it, even now. ]
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This was far worse than anything he'd seen before.]
You didn't escape yet?
[He won't ask about the torture. He knew from Stannis that Arya was supposedly married to Ramsay, though that didn't sound right. Beyond him only knowing of Sansa's marriage, Arya was missing...she couldn't have been caught only to be sold as a bride.]
Did you see my sister?
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RAMSAY
He’s terrified to leave, but he needs to be certain they’re still there. Three people. Just three people. Asha. Robb Jeyne. His visit to Asha is brief. He’s pleased to see her expression looking sharp and grim in stasis, rather than on the verge of tears. He presses his forehead briefly to Robb’s pod, but he can’t bring himself to linger long there either.
It’s Jeyne Poole’s pod that he’s reluctant to leave. Has anyone from home ever come to visit her? Theon certainly never has, not until now. Both of them were ghosts to the rest of the world in Winterfell. No one spoke their true names, save for the Old Gods. No one tried to rescue Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne Poole. It’s a sad reality, but the foolish rescue efforts were for Arya Stark alone.
Jeyne.
[ He murmurs the name out loud, with a defiant smirk. Just because can. Just because she would want to hear it. He shouldn’t linger. He’s seen what he’s wanted to see, but it’s quiet here, and he’s sick and exhausted just thinking of the trek home. It takes so little to exhaust him these days. He stays there for a long time, unwilling to move, even though something in the back of his mind tells him that anyone could find him here. ]
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When the features resolve themselves into a figure that he knows, anger stirs in his gut. This isn't Reek. This isn't the man he'd kept in the Dreadfort and molded into his tool. (That other man comes to mind. Another Ramsay, stood there in Winterfell and offering to flay two boys for Theon Greyjoy.)
He's studying the creature when it speaks, and Ramsay can't help it:] Who the fuck is Jeyne?
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My only thanks for saving Lady Arya will be to be made back into Reek, he thinks, glancing sidelong at Jeyne’s stasis pod. No one had thanked him. He had been forced to carry her through the snow on his own, with no help from Mors Umber or that Braavosi banker.
He’s paralyzed with fear, and he’s almost surprised to hear the sound of his own voice, thin and weak, over the beating of his own heart. ]
No one, my lord.
[ He scolds himself internally for his clothing. Black and gold. If the gods are good, he’ll only lose another finger for that. At least, the Ramsay from home would threaten as much. This Ramsay is different, Theon recalls. He married Sansa, not Arya. It’s Reek who remains the common factor, and Theon has slipped so far from Reek. He's too tired to pretend anymore, but he tries his hardest, just to save his own skin. ]
The steward’s daughter.
[ And your lady wife. ]
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It's hard to think clearly over the anger, but Reek's submissiveness helps. That, at least, hasn't changed. He approaches as though about to round on him, but turns at the last second to look at the girl.] She's not much to look at. [He doesn't recognise her, which means she can't come from the Dreadfort. His gaze lingers on her, as if his attention isn't squarely on the husk of a man beside him.]
But I suppose looks aren't everything, are they Reek?
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It takes some wrangling to find where Theon lives. Inquiries and insistence. But she discovers where he resides, and after visits with a few others she'd desperately wished to see in Olympia, Dany finds herself on Theon's doorstep.
Knocking.
Waiting. ]
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He hesitates, praying that whoever is on his doorstep will just go away. He’s curious, though. He can’t stop himself from creeping to the door, from pressing a hand to it and, and croaking out a soft question to whoever may be standing behind it. ]
What do you want?
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For a moment, she wonders: what did stasis do to him? ]
It's Daenerys. [ Spoken not in a steely tone, but of something inquiring. ] I wished to see you.
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He considers just telling her to go away, but he’s seen how stubborn she is. He would rather face her than have her knock the door off its hinges, leaving him without a lock to protect him. He opens the door, just a crack, just enough for her to see that there’s something wrong. ]
You’ve seen me.
[ He sounds exhausted, and he looks exhausted. ]
Please. Unless you need something, just leave.
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