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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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[ He’s not particularly comfortable in the bed, but he doesn’t try to explain that to her. He knows it will only be more upsetting. He spent the last few months sleeping in the dirt and straw with the dogs. The sudden shift back to a bed is strange, to say the least. It’s too soft, and he only allows Nagga onto it with him because the familiarity of a dog taking up space grants him some semblance of comfort and safety.

He’s likely to end up on the floor later on, and then he’ll explain. He’ll explain everything. The kennels, Abel and his washerwomen, Jeyne Poole, everything. For now, he’s too tired to do anything but obey. He reaches for one blanket, pulls it over his frail body, then hesitantly reaches for second, thicker one. Nagga, ordinarily an energetic show-off, seems to sense that something is wrong with him, and simply curls up beside him, resting her head on his chest and wagging her tail. ]

This is enough.

[ Even if he were more than a ghost of himself, he doesn’t know how to be taken care of. He was always cared for when he was ill, of course, but it’s been a long time since he was truly mothered by anyone. It's a foreign concept to him. ]

Thank you.

[It's been a while since she's done this. Brianna was always an independent child. The moment she realizes she could tuck herself in, read herself to sleep, she refused to let Claire do it. Still, she'd do it when she could when Bree would fall asleep on the sofa or on the rare occasion she crawled into her bed, missing Frank, and refusing to admit as much aloud as she buried her face against Claire's shoulder.

Hardly that now, as Claire fixes the blankets where she can without getting too close. No one's ever looked at her and been so afraid before.]

You're welcome, Theon. [Theon, his name, a thing she's sure to say often now.] I'll be near. I'll wake you when it's time to eat something.

[She almost dares to touch him, to brush some of that white hair away from his forehead, but settles for giving Nagga a gentle pat on the head.

Claire leaves him to his rest and goes about making him a plain meal, easy to eat with mangled teeth and easy for a stomach to digest. She doesn't push him, doesn't do much but sit with him when he's awake, listening to anything he feels like telling her, and speaking softly in return. And she sends Jamie a message: I'm not coming home tonight. Just what every husband wants to hear on his birthday. She promises to make it up to him, and she promises herself that she will.

When it's time for her to turn in she ends up scrolling through the network instead of actually sleeping. Too many concerns and too many questions swim around in her head. So, when the sky begins to lighten, she heads back home. She needs a change of clothes, some supplies, and Theon could do with some clothes that he's not swimming in. He'll need to go outside, eventually, and he did take a certain care when dressing himself before.

It's still early when she returns, and so it's a quiet knock at his door so as not to startle him too terribly.]

Theon? Are you awake?

[ He sleeps, but not deeply. His breathing is shallow and his body is rigid, like he could wake up at the sound of a pin dropping. It’s how he slept the entire time he was in Ramsay’s keeping: on guard, ready to be frightened, ready to be hurt.

He’s awake and upright by the time the first knock sounds. There’s a moment of confusion and terror as he glances wildly around the room, a moment in which he begins to reach into the caverns of his memory to remember the name that was given to him, but then he remembers. Not the Dreadfort, not Winterfell, not even Westeros. He hasn’t physically been there for nearly a year, despite what the marks on his body say. ]

I—yes.

[ His voice still sounds too thin and weak, even too his own ears. Clearing his throat does nothing to help it. He wonders how it can be possible that Ramsay took that from him as well. ]

You can come in.

[Permission granted, Claire steps into the room. Ovid once said Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you. She thought of it after Wentworth, after Paris, after Culloden, and while the words might bring her some fraction of comfort, she can't imagine saying them to Theon. Bloody Roman poets probably didn't have him in mind when setting ink to paper.]

Good morning. [She says instead, just as a way of greeting. Over her arms is folded some clothing which she drapes over the foot of the bed. He can look at them later. Everything is on his schedule beyond meals, for now.]

I got you some clothes that might fit you better until you fill out. If you feel like taking a walk, sometime.

[In her own gloved hands she holds another pair, darker, finer. She looks down at them before she sits near Theon. Close, but at arm's length.]

I thought you might like to have these. I don't know if you want to wear gloves, but it's an option. I could alter them for you to better fit, or we could stuff the fingers. It's your choice.

[Or skip them altogether, but when she was at the house, she found herself stopped at the small collection of Robb Stark's belongings. Not hers to go rifle through, let alone take, but if Sansa or Jon got upset at her removing a pair of gloves she'd welcome them to confront her about it. They had plenty memories of their brother. Of him actually being their brother. What did Theon have?]

Robb's not here to help you. I know he would want to do something. So.

It’s afternoon.

[ He glances through the window with furrowed eyebrows. Time was impossible to tell in the dark. Years and years could have passed and he never would have known, but he has that luxury now. He can see the light over the trees and judge the sun’s place in the sky. In truth, it gives him a certain sort of satisfaction to be able to say what time of day it is.

He gently pushes Nagga off of his chest, pulling himself up to better observe what Claire has brought him. He had one set of clothing in Ramsay’s keeping, rags that were never to be taken off except at his command. It was only when the Boltons relocated to Winterfell that he received anything warmer. And now—

There’s a tug at his heart. A sharp ache. He recognizes the gloves she’s holding out to him. Too small to be Ned’s, not quite Jon’s style, and Theon himself always wore gloves made of silk rather than leather.

They’re just gloves, he tells himself. They’re the same as any Northman wore. It’s stupid to be so sentimental.

But he takes them into his hands anyway, and he can’t help the teary laugh that bubbles up from his throat.

Stupid, he continues to chide himself, but he shakes his head, trying to work up the words to respond. ]

I had so much time to think. To think about what I’d done. Maximus says it was only three days, but it wasn’t. It could have been a hundred years. A hundred years since I betrayed him.

[ His best friend, his only friend. ]

I should have gone back. I should have been there. I should have died too. Alongside him.

Well, you didn't. [The words are firmer in her head, but thick with the emotion that tightens her throat. Maybe if he had died with Robb, he would have never suffered like this, but to think about him dead hurts. He has no idea.] And from what I know about him, I don't believe he'd want that, either. If he knew... if he lived the life you did, from the moment your father handed you over to the moment you stood before him again, he would understand. Even the most honorable of men would struggle.

[But Theon wasn't a man. Robb wasn't a man. They were young, too young. Old enough to know right and wrong, but too young handle the weight on their shoulders.

She takes a deep, shaky breath.]

Do you want to be dead?

[ He’s still a selfish young man, but it isn’t selfishness that fuels those words. It isn’t just a desire to hide from his mistakes, but genuine care and fondness for an old friend. Robb died having been betrayed by more than just Theon. The Freys and Boltons betrayed him as well. Theon’s betrayal was just the first knife in his back. ]

He trusted me. He trusted me when no one else did. He made me a member of his guard. We went to battle together. He...he never said, but I think he sent me home because he knew.

[ He drags a hand across his eyes, gazing dropping back to those stupid gloves that have caused him to go all emotional. ]

He knew I would never be able to go home unless he let me. He trusted me to return, and I didn’t.

[ Why didn’t he? What had been so important? He can hardly remember now. Balon is dead, his uncles don’t care about him. It was all for nothing. He betrayed his best friend for nothing. It will weigh on his heart forever.

He falls silent for a moment, mirroring Claire’s shaky breath and trying not to sob. ]

I would rather die than go back to being the creature he made me into.

[As much as it hurts to hear, she understands. He's a mangled shadow of who he once was. Still Theon, deep down, but so much damage has been done.]

That won't happen. I swear it on my own life. Things are going to be better for you, Theon.

[It's a big promise and not one she might be able to truly keep when it comes to it, but the intent is there. She'd never let him suffer if she could do anything about it.]

Will you come here?

[Words said to him weeks ago. Only just weeks ago when he's suffered enough for a lifetime. She doesn't expect him to, won't force him to come into the comfort offered, but it's there. She did tell him he could tell her no, after all. She meant it.]

[ It was one thing to respect Theon's wishes. She'd stubbornly believed him to still be the man she remembered from home, but there was only so much fighting she was willing to do for someone who clearly wished to be left alone. It was another to leave him be after learning he'd been in stasis. Part of her debated checking in through the network--but it was so impersonal, and time after time again proved that text was far more troublesome than a face to face conversation.

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. ]

[ The sound of a knock at the door startles Theon out of a shallow slumber, and brings about an all too familiar fear and urge to hide. In his head, he goes over the short list of people who have been to see him. Sansa, Jon. Claire and Maximus have keys. Who else is there? He hasn’t exactly made friends in his time here, not even with his own countrymen, and he asked only to speak to the Starks, not wishing to endure Stannis just yet.

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?

[ She resists, just barely, the urge to roll her eyes. That's his voice--but it sounds... broken. Far more than the echoing voice of the man who stepped into her court that day in Meereen; far different than the booming arrogance and barking laughter of the Theon who walked these lands.

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.

[ He may be a broken to pieces, but at least every one of those pieces is Theon. He isn’t Ramsay’s creature, he won’t do whatever is asked of him just to keep his skin. The only trouble is, he doesn’t know how long that can last while he and Ramsay are both alive.

Still, Claire is promising a lot. She’s promising what Abel and his washerwomen promised: safety. This time, Theon knows he can trust her, but he also genuinely cares about her safety as well. He never cared about Abel’s women. He wouldn’t have mourned for them, and if they failed to escape Winterfell on their own…

Their foolishness was their own downfall. We escaped, but it was foolish.

He hesitates at her request, still staring down at Robb’s gloves. He needs a moment longer to think, but the longer he looks at those gloves, the harder it is to hold back tears. Eventually, it’s just easier to creep forward and hide his face by tentatively embracing her.

She won’t hurt him. He tries to remind himself. ]

[He feels so frail that Claire is sure if she applied any pressure she might hear a bone snap. Her breath catches in her chest, and she takes care to move slowly, as to not frighten him. Of all the people in this place, she's not the one to fear. Gently, she pets his hair, white strands beneath her fingers.]

It's all right, Theon.

[To cry, if he must, or to simply allow himself a moment of not being terrified. He's not fine and he's not all right. Right now, though, Ramsay doesn't know he's back. No one but the people in this house do, and if Claire could keep it that way, she would.]

[ That nearly makes him laugh. If she knew what he looked like, she wouldn’t wish to see him at all. He tries not to wallow in self-pity over it, but it’s difficult now that he’s seen himself in a mirror for the first time in a long time. He takes comfort in knowing that he was left with enough fingers to accomplish daily tasks, but he can hardly eat for all the damage done to his teeth, and he looks half a ghost with his white hair and pale skin.

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.

[ He’s frightened and crestfallen all at once, but he’s still that young man who beats himself up when the tears even threaten to spill. This is strange to him, allowing himself to lower his guard, but there’s comfort here.

He thinks of his mother, her face nearly lost to him, and the last time she embraced him, and it all clicks together. What Claire is doing isn’t so dissimilar to Lady Stark refusing to leave Bran’s side after his fall, or trying to protect Robb from making poor decisions. She’s acting as a mother might. She’s been acting as a mother for months.

Another pitiful sob of laughter. How is he only just realizing it now? ]

I’m sorry.

[ He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for. It’s just an ingrained response, and one of the few he can think of babble out between tears. He wipes them away, shaking his head. ]

Thank you. Thank you for bringing these to me. They’re…I don’t want to cut the fingers off. Please. They're fine.

[ They really are just gloves, but all he has of Robb are memories, and some of those memories have been tainted by his own betrayal. It’s nice to have something tactile and real, something that he can’t mess up. ]

[She's never heard him say thank you or please as many times as she has these last two days. He looks like a stranger, with that pale hair that Claire drops her hand from, but he's not. She knows him. He's just had the walls of his fortress destroyed. It'll take time to rebuild. She knows that, too.

Because she's Claire, and some habits are hard to break, she fishes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and presses it into his hand without a word about the tears. They don't bother her. This is much more preferable than him saying he's fine. This is honest.]

You're welcome. I hope they make up for the rest of the clothing, if they're not to your liking.

[Except she pays attention, and unless his tastes have changed (very possible), she thinks she did right by him. And if they happen to be reminiscent of Greyjoy colors, well, certainly it's a coincidence.]

[ Ramsay can be thanked for his newfound politeness. It’s a result of the fear and all the begging that comes along with it, but it takes on a more genuine form here with Claire. He’s grateful to have something of Robb’s, he’s grateful that she thought of him. It’s only himself that he scolds for being so emotional over such a small thing.

His breath hitches in his throat when she offers him her handkerchief. It’s something so small, but meaningful. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t ask, and that’s preferable to speaking about those tears. He dries his eyes, sniffling, and he turns a bleary gaze to the other pieces of clothing for the first time. He hadn’t noticed them at first. ]

You haven’t just stolen from Robb’s wardrobe.

[ It’s an attempt at a jape, but they both know that if he’s swimming in his own clothing, Robb’s would be even worse. His tastes haven’t changed. He’s still drawn to his house colors and to finer fabrics. He can’t help it. ]

Robb dressed too much like his father anyway. Dull, the Northmen. They all dress the same.

[ He’s still drying his eyes, still breathing like he’s going to cry again, but he reaches for a piece of clothing and he seems to approve. ]

Borrowed, thank you very much. [Borrowed as much as she borrowed Brianna's blouse, knowing she'd never see her again. As much as she'd like to see Robb again, for Theon's sake, she's sure his chances are about as much as Bree's when it comes to waking up.] I stopped by the shops on my way back for the rest of this. No thievery involved.

[It cost more coin than she should be spending, given that she hasn't set foot back in the Sanctuary since her kidnapping and rescue, but the cobwebs in her coin purse are worth it. Clothing is so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But it's something to talk about as he regains his composure, and it keeps her from letting the burning behind her eyes win.]

I noticed. Ned and Jon would blend into the bloody furniture.

[Borrowed. He huffs out a laugh, and for a brief moment he feels like his old bitter self again. He isn’t coming back to reclaim anything.

He lapses back into a brief silence, a pale ghost looking inconceivably paler in contrast to the pile of dark clothing. It’s a surprisingly short moment of silence. He’s apparently found a sense of comfort with Claire along with these gifts. ]

I never liked to blend in. They were going to stare anyway, so I gave them something to stare at.

[ Sure, it was vanity, but it was vanity with a purpose. Everyone knew who he was, what he was, and they regarded him as such, so he made them see just who he was. The heir to the Iron Islands, golden krakens on everything he owned, but he took everything he owned for granted. Now, he touches those fine clothes like they’re just as fragile as he is, his eyebrows knitted together. ]

Lord Ramsay didn’t give me much in regards to clothing.

[And they're going to stare now. His teeth, his hair, his posture--in time, these things could be helped, but she doesn't like the thought of people looking at him in horror. Especially those that knew him before. But it can't be helped immediately, and so he'll at least have nice clothing to wear.]

I imagine not.

[Hesitantly, she reaches to touch his hair with a sad smile. God knows what made this happen.]

If this is too much of a bother, I can color it for you.

[ tears do not come easy to her: she can feel them, the tightness in her throat, the need to blink her eyes until the burning sensation stops. no, she tells herself, he deserves more than my pity.

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. ]

You've shown me nothing.

[ The door opens a pitiful crack. It makes her lips thin and her temper flare, and before she realizes just what she does--she's shoving at it, trying to force it open with as much strength as she can muster.

What if he was hurt? What if there was someone there? ]

[ It doesn’t take much force, in truth. Theon tries, but seven fingers leave his grip lacking and he’s weak, too weak to stop her from forcing the door open.

He stumbles backward, away from her, frail chest heaving and his eyes wide, more out of anger than fright for the first time in days.

Have you seen enough now?, he thinks bitterly. Is this what you wanted?

He was such a vain young man once, prideful in his appearance. Now he’s just a wisp of that young man, a ghost in Theon Greyjoy’s clothing. Half a person, pale and skeletal, nearly unrecognizable as he stands before her with his shock white hair, scars and missing fingers. ]

Now you’ve seen.

[ He's alone is the first thing she notices, glancing about his flat with sharp eyes. One step, two, and the door is swinging shut behind her, cutting off the bright sunlight from the streets--and that's when she looks at him. Really looks at him.

Blood roars in her ears, lips thinning, nostrils flaring the longer she looks him over. The shock of white hair, pale like hers, but not anything like hers or Viserys'. So skinny now, as well.

Now I've seen. ]

Who did this to you? [ Quiet. Too quiet. ]

[ He almost smirks. People used to stare at him out of spite, out of anger for his father’s crimes. They used to stare because his Greyjoy blood made him untrustworthy. Now they stare out of…what? Pity? Horror? He doesn’t want their pity, but it’s better than their anger. Pity doesn’t hurt or result in the same wounds as anger.

Her question causes him to lapse into silence. The answer is more difficult than she knows.

It was Skinner who flayed some fingers, Ramsay who flayed others. Damon Dance-for-Me who whipped me, but Ramsay who commanded him to do so. It was Ben Bones who trained the hounds, but Ramsay who set them on me. It Ramsay who broke my teeth, Ramsay who took my name from me. You have to remember your name.

He doesn’t know when his hair went white, or how long he was kept in the dark, or how long he was kept by Ramsay at all. ]

I deserved it. I...asked him to do it. He takes nothing but skin, unless you beg.

[ His vague answer names no names, but implies flaying, and it's true. It was only the skin that was flayed from his fingers, until he begged for the pain to end. ]

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