nysalogs | Semi-closed

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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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[ It’s muscle memory that leads Theon home. His head is still in a fog of fear and confusion, and his heart pounds painfully fast in his chest with every step. One hand clutches something tightly to his chest, something he’d found still on his person when he woke once more.

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. ]

[ Theon doesn’t remember contacting Claire. Maybe he never did. Maybe Maximus contacted her, or someone saw him stumbling about trying to get home and informed her. Or maybe, and most likely, she’s psychic and just knows he’s returned. Either way, he should know to expect her sooner or later, but he still can’t stop from startling any time someone is allowed through the door.

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. ]

[ He hadn’t left stasis. Or maybe he had. It’s difficult to wrap his mind around. He feels all the pain of a main who’s been whipped, racked, beaten and flayed, and the has the marks to prove it, but only three days have passed for everyone else. It feels like a lifetime has passed for Theon.

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. ]

[She's had the hurried walk over to prepare herself, heart thudding painfully in her chest. Stannis' recollection of the Theon he saw in Westeros bounces around in her head, and she prays it's not so. She's prayed a lot these past three days despite not being particularly religious--prayed Theon stayed asleep, prayed he didn't awaken to some painful new existence that left him worse off than he was.

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.]

Theon.

[ 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. ]

[ the second she hears from Claire, the quick, frantic confirmation that yes, he's here, he's awake, she's on her way — she doesn't care if she runs the risk of seeing Ramsay on the way, doesn't care of any previous quarrel she had with Theon, doesn't even care if he wants to see her or not. she wants to see him, and by the Gods, she will not go away before she has.

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. ]

[It's like someone trying to sound like Theon. He's skin and bone and so small that it does hurt to look at him. She's ashamed for that. Claire doesn't acknowledge the comment about weeping besides trying to compose herself, taking a few shuddering breathes and rubbing at her eyes with gloved fingers. They're red-rimmed from days of crying, but the very least she can do for him is be strong when he clearly cannot.]

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.

[ It’s been a long time since he saw himself in a mirror. It’s been an even longer time since he even cared to look. It’s only when he goes in search of a glass of water that he catches sight, by accident, of a half-starved creature in the mirror on the wall.

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. ]

[ The month is nearly over when he finally leaves the house. His hands only fill seven of the fingers of Robb’s old gloves, his footing is awkward in boots that his feet no longer fill, and even his new clothing hangs on his skeletal frame. That clothing, in the colors of house Greyjoy, is almost all that leaves him recognizable as the man he was before.

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. ]

[ Ramsay’s influence is carved deeper than his scars. He’s started a war in Theon’s head between logic and fear. He remembers; he knows Claire has never hurt him, but that command, gentle as it is, sparks terror into him. Still, with a sharp, fearful glance, he obeys and hesitantly extends quivering hands.

On his left, his ring and forefinger are missing. On his right, just the pinky, the same finger Ramsay had taken before. All have healed, though not necessarily well. It’s clear that what’s been done to him hasn’t been cared for in a particularly careful fashion.

He doesn’t speak, though he has questions of his own. He just watches her with wide, haunted eyes, ready to pull away at any moment. He doesn’t want to be touched. ]

[He doesn't look like he's been cared for at all. Claire swallows, looking over his hands, his skin so pale she thinks she might be able to see through his bones and tendons if held to the light. She knew something was wrong with his hands when she stepped into the room, even before she got a good look, and this confirms it. She'll need to see the rest of him, see what she can do to ease his physical discomfort, but it looks like they have much more to deal with than that.]

That's a good lad.

[Her thumbs brush over his knuckles before she lets go, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable than he already is. She has questions, so many, but she doesn't know where to begin or what the point might be in hearing the answers. Ramsay broke him. Broke him in the worst ways.

She clasps her hands so tightly together on her lap that her knuckles turn white.]

What do you need me to do?

[She knows what she needs to do for him.]

[At first Ramsay doesn't recongise who he's looking at. He's just checked that his father is still here, and stopped at the sight of a wraith-like thing standing among the pods.

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?

[ That all too familiar voice sends a chill down his spine and stab of fear into his heart. He never forgot about Ramsay’s presence here. He’s felt it looming over him like a shadow all month long, dreaded it, hoped he might never have to face him again, but he foolishly left his home in Olympia anyway.

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. ]

[ The Dreadfort had a maester. Theon seldom ever saw him. Ramsay is a butcher, but his work never left Theon in danger of bleeding out. He pulls back from Claire, quietly studying his fingers for a moment. ]

He—he only took skin. He only took skin until you begged him to take something else.

[ It sounds incoherent and strange, but it’s the truth. Ramsay’s talent is in flaying, and he would only lay Theon’s fingers bare. It was a slow and painful punishment, but enough to drive someone mad. He would only cut the finger off if Theon begged him to end the pain.

What does he need, though? Questions like that have been tricks for so long, and he still doesn’t know whether he can trust them. It isn’t as though his fingers or teeth can be returned to him. It isn’t as though he can make amends with the dead. There are likely many things he needs, but he doesn’t want to be seen or touched. ]

Nothing. Please, I don’t need anything. I don't want anything. Just--don't let him take my name again. I would rather someone take my head than my name.

No one's taking your head. No one is taking anything from you, Theon.

[Not that she'd be able to stop Ramsay if he decide to stroll in and take, take, take. She's no fighter, and Theon doesn't seem to be much of one now, either.]

I'm going to take care of you. But I need you to trust me as you once did. [Because she had it, didn't she? He trusted her, once. It wasn't easy to gain. But it was something there between them.] Whatever he did to you, however you are now, everything I said before is still true.

[He's still wanted. He still has a place with her.]

You have your name, Theon. And I have you. It's going to be all right.

[ Theon's absence has gone on enough that Maximus, while finding the situation peculiar, assumes that Theon disappeared because he wanted to. He knows that Theon is haunted by past traumas, he'd witnessed it himself, and that Theon would like nothing more than to leave it behind. As far as Maximus was concerned, it made sense enough that between that and the reappearance of Ramsay, Theon would run.

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. ]

[ For all his anxiety, a smirk, just as ghostlike as the rest of him, tugs at the corner of his mouth at the sound of his name. He doesn’t get tired of hearing it. The Old Gods know his name, Maximus knows his name, Claire knows his name, Sansa knows his name.

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. ]

[ Ramsay would feign concern in an attempt to trick him, or get angry and threaten to take another finger. The accent and the surprise on his face are proof enough that this is Maximus, but Theon doesn’t relax. He’s tightly wound, pressing his back against the door regardless of how safe he may or may not be now.

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. ]

[This is a different Theon than the one Jon had seen at Dragonstone. While he had been haggard, the haunted look in his eyes hadn't been so consuming. There was awareness and a glimmer of...well, not the old Theon, but not a shell of a man either. He had strength to go fight for his sister and restraint to listen to his uncle's taunts.

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.]

I deserved it. He only did what I asked.

[ He tried to fight once, long ago, when he still had all his fingers. That only made Ramsay angry. Now a strong gust of wind could blow Theon over and while he can still grasp a knife with the few fingers he has left, he’s beyond caring. He would rather die than go back to being Reek.

He wants to trust her. He remembers her insisting on helping to heal the first finger Ramsay ever took. He remembers her telling him that she wanted him around, frank and honest words he’d never heard before from anyone. He glances at her again, and though his eyes are fearful and his voice is quiet, there’s a spark of trust that wasn’t there before. ]

He’s still here.

[ He can tell. He can feel Ramsay’s presence like a dark cloud, but he would feel it even if Ramsay were dead. There’s no erasing what’s been done to him. ]

Has he been looking for me?

No. No one deserves this.

[Save for Ramsay. She'd love to take his fucking fingers. Claire presses her lips together, struggling to keep her temper at bay. Theon. She has to be here for Theon.]

He's here, yes. But you're safe where you are. Max and I won't let him harm you again. He knows you returned to stasis.

[So, at least for now, he's safe.]

I don't want you to be afraid. You're not going back to him. Not ever.

The things I said to him…

[ He’s so tired. He hadn’t moved from stasis, but somehow he still feels every mile of that hike through the snow with Jeyne. He feels the pain of old wounds, of phantom limbs, and the chill of the long winter that had finally come, just as the Starks’ house words warned it would.

It isn’t fair. No one even thanked him. No one will even thank him now. His thanks will be to live in fear for the rest of his life or until someone puts him out of his misery. ]

He doesn’t like when you call him certain names. When you say certain things to him. About him.

[ Snow. Never call him Snow. Never call him bastard. Never try to remove a finger on your own. Never smile around him. Never laugh. Never try to run. Never. Never. ]

He’ll hurt you. He'll know. Sooner or later, he'll know.

We'll figure it out and deal with him when we must. For now, all I care about is you, Theon. [She keeps using his name. Whatever happened, he seems to like hearing his own name at the very least. Ramsay does frighten Claire--but he's died before. He can die again. Just like any other beast.]

I'm going to stay with you for a while, all right? I'm not leaving you.

[She can't imagine walking away now. He needs her attention, some stability, and whatever else she can offer.]

[ He’s still curled into himself, clearly terrified, but he’s still making eye contact. When she says his name, something sparks again behind his eyes. It’s good to hear it, his true name. It’s better than any song.

He wants to tell her that she shouldn’t stay, that it’s foolish. He wants to tell her that Ramsay will know, Ramsay will find him, Ramsay will hurt them both, but he knows Claire isn’t going anywhere and he’s too tired to argue. All he can do is nod weakly.]

Maximus. He doesn’t trust easily.

[ With good reason, he thinks. ]

He won't be happy with you being here.

Maximus can kiss my pale white arse. [There's not any malice in the words. It's more of an attempt to see if she can get a smile out of him, though she's not expecting much. Not this soon. Then, to soothe his fears (at least one of them), she continues on more seriously:] I'll explain it to him. You're skin and bones, darling, and your mouth--

[There's something wrong with his teeth. She might not see it clearly, but she can tell when he speaks that something isn't right. No doubt he'll need some help with that.]

I'm sure you haven't had a decent meal in a very long time. [Given how he looks.] And I don't want you making yourself sick by eating too much or too fast or something that might disagree with you. So, I'll take care of meals for a while. You don't need to worry about that.

[She remembers, after the war, the reports of freed prisoners of the Nazis dying after soldiers with nothing but good intentions gave them their chocolate rations. Their starved bodies couldn't handle something like that after years of merely getting by on the bare minimum.]

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Semi-closed

MAXIMUS

CLAIRE

SANSA

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JON

RAMSAY

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