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
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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[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.
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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.
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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.
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He jumps, just little, and reaches up to touch his own hair. It’s grown longer, and there isn’t a single dark strand or dark curl left. He doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s very clear that it isn’t going to go back to its previous color. ]
Maybe.
[ He frowns, not looking forward to the process. For now, this is fine. He's put up with it for months, and it isn't as though it pains him. ]
Maybe at a later point.
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There's no rush, darling. You're still handsome. You always were. He didn't succeed in taking that.
[He might be startling, and take some adjusting to, but the eyes are still there. One day he'll look less like the walking dead, be more than skin on bone. There are much more important things, though.]
But if there's anything you'd like me to try and fix first, please let me know. Even if it's just... aches and pains. You don't need to suffer them any longer.
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He falls silent, running his tongue over those splinters in his mouth. ]
Teeth can’t be repaired.
[ He’s never heard of a maester repairing teeth. Teeth are neither flesh nor bone, but they are unfortunately the worst of his troubles. It hurts to eat, sometimes to the point where he would rather take his meals completely in wine. Everything else hurts as well, but he’s grown used to it. He doesn’t wait for a response, because he thinks he knows that there is only one: no, they cannot. ]
Everything else has healed.
[ Not particularly well, but it's all healed. He limps when he walks and sometimes bleeds through his boots, but that doesn't seem worth mentioning. There are some fresher wounds hidden beneath his clothing, but they'll scar over in time. It's nothing he isn't used to. ]
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We can do something. Implants, dentures--but only when you're ready.
[She's itching for him to allow her to examine him properly so she can address the damage and take care of what she's sure is there and he's simply not mentioning. But she won't push.
Not yet.
They'll just have to work on him getting used to her touching him. A thing he only just tolerated before his return to stasis.]
Until then, we'll work on getting your strength back.
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He doesn’t know those words: implants, dentures, but they offer him some faint hope. He doesn’t expect miracles, but perhaps he’ll be able to eat properly again. He nods, and he asks no more questions on the matter. ]
You can leave, you know.
[ He doesn’t mind her company, actually. He was so long without the company of anyone beyond dogs and torturers, after all. ]
There must be others who you need to see to.
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[Where she's most needed.]
I'm not boring you, am I?
[She gives him a small smile. Boredom is probably not a worry of his.]
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I feel as though I should be doing something.
[ He’s nothing but skin and bones, but it isn’t as though that stopped him from doing daily work as Reek. He was a servant as well as a prisoner. So long as he could perform tasks, he was put to work. ]
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I can find you a book, or we could play a game, or... I don't know. Anything. Go for a brief walk. Or, continue doing nothing. The only obligation you have is to rest.
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He’s frightened, but he feels cramped in this room. It’s safe, but locks and doors can’t keep out the inevitable for long. Maybe Ramsay is preoccupied. Maybe he has better things to do. A walk can’t hurt. ]
A walk?
[ A limp, in his case. ]
Not far. Just...far enough.
[ Far enough to clear his head. It may even get him talking. ]
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[Probably no riots or kidnappings in the forecast.]
You can try your new clothes.
[She pats the pile of folded fabrics. They were bought thinking he'd want to hole up for some time yet, but this is a good sign, she thinks.]
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I don’t walk quickly.
[ It really is a wonder he and Jeyne made it as far as they did. ]
It may be troublesome for you.
[ He does take a set of clothing into his arms, though. If he changes his mind now, he’ll never leave this room. ]
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[She can walk slower. Claire has infinite patience when it comes to the changes of his body, though it does bring her to something she knows he won't like.]
... if you're going to undress, you might as well let me take a quick look at you now. You can say no. [A reminder.] But I'd like to see how you are, so when the time comes for us to start figuring out what we can fix, it's not too much of a shock for either of us.
[He might say he's fine and that he's healed, but that means little to her. If he walks slowly, has a limp, she's sure there's some way to remedy it.]
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Just don’t touch me.
[ His voice is nearly a whisper. She has a point. It’s easiest to deal with it now, but he can only handle so much at one time. ]
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Over two decades later and it still creeps up on her. Theon won't fare any better.]
I won't touch you. Just do as you normally would. Pretend I'm not here.
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It’s difficult to pretend when you’re sitting right there.
Fragments of the old Theon are still within him somewhere, even if they don’t present themselves quite as frankly as they used to. He silently chooses his clothing and lays it out in preparation. Although he trusts Claire to keep her word, it’s clear that he wants to make this as quick as possible.
Speed does him no good when he strips his shirt off, though. It isn’t subtle. Every rib, every vertebrae is visible. His arms and his torso are covered in a mass of wounds and scars, most from the blade of a knife and others from the coil of a whip. Most have healed, just as he swore, but some remain bright red where the skin has only just begun to knit back together. It’s a glimpse, just a glimpse before he nervously throws the new tunic over his head, but it’s more than enough.
He doesn’t speak at all while he finishes dressing. If he speaks, he’ll call further attention to himself. This isn't Ramsay, this isn't the Dreadfort, no one's touched you he reminds himself once more. The clothes fit his half-starved frame better than his old ones, though, even if they remain a touch too big. He pulls on Robb’s gloves and turns to face Claire with a look in his eye that can only say “and now you’ve seen”. ]
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Do you like them? [She talks about the clothes because she knows it took a lot for him to let her see what he's become. He doesn't need to hear her mental checklist of what she believes she can work on.]
They suit you, I think.
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Admittedly, though…new clothing, clothing that actually fits, can do wonders. He has to admit that Claire did a fine job choosing things suitable to the old Theon’s tastes, and the new Theon’s tastes aren’t too far off. He’s just thinner, he chills more easily, and he would hesitate to pridefully deck himself in krakens like he used to. ]
I do.
[ He brushes that white hair back from his face, and briefly wonders if he could look anything like his old self if he put on some weight and just kept his mouth shut. It’s a vain thought, but he’s always been a vain man. ]
Unfortunately, all I can repay you in is plants.
[ Maximus can take it out of his non-existent paycheck. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been completely forgiven for quitting the Royal Guard. ]
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So, she smiles, even if faintly.]
Lucky for you, I love plants. But I don't need anything in return. Consider it... a welcome back gift.
[He might not ever look as he once did, but Claire believes he can look much better than he does. Even a day's made a difference--some food in him and some clothes have done wonders. And he seems to trust her more and more, looking less like a frightened rabbit in her shadow.]
Shall we, then?
[She rises to her feet. After a moment of consideration, she turns to offer him one of her hands.]
You let me hold onto you and you slowed your pace for me, once. Remember that?
[After her own bout of torture. She never thought the tables would turn like this, or so violently.]
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[ Theon may be broken and wounded, but he’s still stubborn as a mule. He shakes his head, refusing her hand. For once, it has nothing to do with her touching him, but it has everything to do with pride. He limps and he walks slowly, but he made it work for himself for months—and that was with fetters between his ankles. He’s grateful to be free of those. ]
But I’m capable of walking on my own.
[ Even if he does seem just barely capable of holding himself upright. He frowns a little, though, his eyebrows knitting together. ]
It feels as though that was years ago. But it wasn't, was it?
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