[ Theon has seen Ramsay hurt enough people to know better. This Ramsay, from some mirror Westeros that Theon has never even set foot in, is different in a handful of ways, but he doesn’t suspect that he’s any gentler or more forgiving.

He does fret. If he had enough teeth left, he would be clenching them, but he curls his hands into tight fists instead. Why won’t anyone listen to him when he says Ramsay is dangerous? Why is it always shrugged off? ]

I am Theon, but I’m—I’m not.

[ He looks frustrated. It’s difficult to understand, difficult to explain, but he can try. ]

He changed me. Turned me into someone else. He made me forget my name and made me learn a new one. Most of the time, I would rather die than be that person again, but sometimes—sometimes I want to be him, rather than Theon.

[ It makes him feel sick to admit to, but Theon is a stained name, drenched in blood and laden with sins than he just can’t shake. Sometimes it helps to be free of it, just for a time. ]