Archive of Our Own

The sky is still dark when Theon opens his eyes, same dark as every morning, and feels the cold, hard ground under his back, same as every morning. He takes a deep breath before forcing himself to sit up - every muscle of his body is hurting. He doesn’t even try to brush away soot from his soiled clothes. Clothes he’s not allowed to change until tomorrow, which means that he can’t do anything other than wash his hands and face, lest Ramsay decides that he doesn’t need another finger on his right hand – losing one on the left was already more than enough. And good thing he has to cook, and even Ramsay isn’t so stupid that he’d have his dinner cooked by someone who doesn’t wash their hands.

And good thing he sleeps in the kitchen for that matter, he doesn’t even have to change rooms. How amazing.

He takes another deep breath, shivering in the cold morning air. He folds the worn out blanket that won’t be serviceable for much longer, then proceeds to light up the fire. If the room isn’t warm by the time their lordships come here to have dinner, he’s going to suffer the consequences and he’d rather avoid that.

When he’s satisfied that the fire will be going strong shortly, he grabs a bucket and leaves the kitchen.

Fuck, he hates Northern weather, especially before dawn. He never quite adjusted to it, and now it’s winter, too. Even worse than usual.

He goes to the well in the empty yard, fills up the bucket and drags it back to the kitchen – the only good thing about this situation is that since Roose Bolton fell on hard times and had to fire all his servants, there are only a few rooms still in use, and the kitchen is on the lower floor. That means that he doesn’t have to walk much to do this fucking ungrateful job. He uses the water to fill up a few pitchers and bowls in the kitchen, then goes back to the well and does the same for another two times, until every water pitcher in the room is full. He sighs and then grabs a rag, using the water in the bucket to clean off the table first, the sink and the floor later. He doesn’t bother with the area around the fireplace since he has to sleep next to it and no one cares if it’s clean or not.

By the time he’s done, the sky has turned purple, which means that he has to start working on breakfast – it was his luck that Ramsay Bolton likes to be up early in the morning, wasn’t it?

Then again, nothing’s been his luck since he was twelve.

Because back then, he certainly was no third-tier maid. Back then he was the last son of a noble house on the Iron Islands, and he’d have stayed like that if his father hadn’t decided to secede from the Seven Kingdoms without realizing that they had no means to win a rebellion and that Robert Baratheon was just itching for a war, a few years after becoming king – the man did love fighting, and he hadn’t appreciated not having anything more than minor squabbles on his hands since his coronation.

It had ended with half of the islands put to the torch and the king relishing command to his close friend Ned Stark, sovereign of the Northern realm. But Stark had to run back home because of some emergency that Theon still hasn’t learned the details of, and had left his second in command, Roose Bolton, in charge.

The last thing Theon could have imagined would have been for his father to propose a truce. A truce with decent conditions, but that Roose Bolton would only accept if he was to be included in the bargain – it looked like Lord Bolton’s son had taken a fascination with him.

Well, no, the real last thing he couldn’t have imagined would have been for his father to shrug and say that they could keep him forever for all he cared, as long as it was just him and not his brothers or sister.

Sometimes he still dreams about the scream his mother let out when it went down.

Most nights, for that matter.

And so he had found himself dragged to the Dreadfort, which at the time was brimming with servants and soldiers and so on. He had ended up in the midst of them, with the added privilege of being personally harassed by Ramsay Bolton every other day, and sporting the bruises for it. He hadn’t relished that at all, but as long as some other servant of his who called himself Reek (and the first moment Theon was near him and actually smelled the man, he understood why) with whom Ramsay was really close had been alive, and as long as he could meddle with the rest of the servants, it had been a bad life but not unbearable.

Then Reek died. Around the same time, Ned Stark found out that Ramsay quite liked using outlawed methods such as flaying and torturing, as far as treating prisoners and criminals in Bolton lands went. Since those practices had been banned for years, it had been the beginning of the end. Roose Bolton lost his favor in the northern court, he had to let go of the servants, the soldiers disappeared, Ramsay had to give up his precious hunting dogs and so – so everything else fell on him. On one side it had been his luck (he remembers clearly the time Roose told Ramsay that a mutilated servant was of no use to anyone so he should pay attention). But on the other – on the other, five years of being the only maid in the castle and Ramsay Bolton’s only outlet for… pretty much everything are starting to be way too fucking much.

He’s twenty-two now, he’s been a prisoner here since he was twelve and has taken care of the household since he was seventeen, and – and he’s really fucking tired. Not that he hasn’t thought about ending it more often than not, especially lately. But he always reached the conclusion that the risk of failing and being found out isn't worth trying, not with the means he has. And so he’s been soldiering on until now – though he doesn’t know how long he’s going to last.

He brings up a hand to wipe out a stray tear and fixes tea for Ramsay on the table. Then he proceeds on kneeling over the fireplace and cooking a hopefully acceptable breakfast of bacon and porridge. He can’t waste food, but if he’s lucky he’ll have some leftovers to eat if he keeps the portions as big as he can get away with.

As he flips over the bacon, he stares down at it wishing he had the guts to steal a piece, but he resists – the one time he was caught stealing Ramsay’s food, the nail he lost didn’t grow back for half a year.

He drinks some more water instead. The sky is full pink now, the sun peaking on the horizon. The snow surrounding Winterfell, the royal palace, looks almost golden in this moment. Yes, Winterfell, where the Starks live, though from what he hears Ned Stark is about to go to King’s Landing to become Hand of the king. Which means that his firstborn should inherit. No one has seen Robb Stark in the flesh around these parts. It’s a tradition that heirs to the Stark title aren’t seen in public before they come of age, but everyone says that he’s worthy of his lord father. Theon likes to think that Ned Stark wouldn’t have ever traded him like some piece of cattle if he had been in charge of negotiations, but what does he know.

Meanwhile, he thinks of this song his mother always used to sing to him back on the iron islands. He can’t quite remember how it went, but it was about this king who looked for a wife and picked some poor girl who was a good person, rather than rich ones who only cared for his title. As he does, he feels a pang of nostalgia.

If only songs were real, he thinks, and then –

“Why, this should better be cooked just the right way, Reek.”

Theon takes a deep breath and tries not to even think about objecting to it. Ramsay hasn’t called him by his real name in years and it’s not a good idea to contradict him.

“I tried. M’lord,” he mutters, turning and looking down at his old, broken down shoes.

Ramsay sits down at the table, wearing some old silk clothes that really reek for how old they are. They smell of moth by now, and since bathing often isn’t a luxury for anyone, Ramsay tries to cover the smell with perfume and it just makes things worse. Not that they can afford more right now, can’t they? Theon holds his breath as Ramsay eats, praying that he’s not in the mood for playing games, but it looks like it’s his lucky day – Ramsay smiles and digs into his food. Good. Now he just has to hope there’s some left – Ramsay still hasn’t quite let go of the noble habit of never finishing your food, and that’s the only thing Theon is relying on these days if he wants to eat more than once each day.

And then.

“I see you did learn your lesson,” Ramsay says, still smiling, grease smearing his lips. Right, Theon did learn his lesson. He can still feel the boot-shaped purple bruise on his stomach.

And then he stands up and he puts a hand behind Theon’s neck.

Shit. Shit, no, not today, not today he thinks.

“Maybe I should reward you. Wouldn’t you like it?”

Theon’s about to force himself to answer yes, because saying no would be the worst idea on the planet, but then he’s saved by a firm knock on the door.

“Who would even disturb me now,” Ramsay growls, and shoves Theon against the wall before going to open the door.

Theon breathes in and out, in and out, and then follows – the door leading to the yard is near, anyhow.

It’s an old man, Theon sees – he has to be at least over sixty, he’s wearing a filthy cloak and using a cane to hold himself up, his hands shaking.

“My lord,” he says, “would you please show some charity to a poor old man? I haven’t eaten for –”

Theon winces as Ramsay sneers and kicks the cane from the ground – the old man falls down on the hard floor.

“You’re lucky that my lord father doesn’t want further nuisance or you would be in serious trouble. Get out of my sight and you’d better not be here when I come back down.”

He’s coming back down?

“I will be back shortly, Reek. I expect the table to be cleaned up. Understood?”

“Yes. M’lord,” Theon whispers, and then Ramsay shoves him back against the wall again before storming up the stairs. It might be that he has to relieve himself, which means that he doesn’t have that much time to clean off the table. There’s still a strip of bacon left, some pudding and half a cup of tea.

The old man is still trying to get up, but it's obvious that his legs aren’t strong enough and he can’t use the cane on his own, and damn but he really looks hungry and miserable.

Thing is, Theon’s not exactly big on charitable gestures, as if anyone has spared some for him since the rebellion, but for a moment he thinks that could be me in a few years, and –

Well, damn, maybe he has enough time.

“Hey, wait there,” he says. The man looks up at him, surprised. Theon hurries back to the table, grabs the leftovers along with some stale bread and the cup of tea and brings them over to the man, crouching down in front of him.

“Here – I can’t give you anything else and he won’t ask because he’ll think I ate this. But please just be quick, if he sees us –”

“Thank you,” the man replies, sounding adequately grateful, and shoving the food into his mouth. He makes quick work of that, and he drinks the tea at once. Theon takes back the plate and the cup, puts them in one of the bowls and then hurries back to the man, helping him stand up.

“I’d let you inside to get warm,” he says, sounding apologetic. “But he doesn’t take much, usually. And –”

“My lad, that’s quite all right. Thank you for the food. And you may find yourself better off for it.”

“I doubt that, but it’s all right. I mean, I don’t get to eat breakfast most days anyway.”

The man gives him a soft nod before huddling away and out of the yard. Good. Theon slams the door closed and goes to wash the plate and the cup – he’s done seconds before Ramsay comes back.

Good.

“Did that piece of scum leave?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Good. So, where were we? Oh, yes, I remember, we were –”

And then someone knocks on the door again.

“Royal guard, there’s a message for Lord Bolton!” Someone shouts from the outside.

Ramsay dashes to open the door, and – yes, there’s in fact a guard on the outside.

“Lord Bolton?” He asks.

“He’s still asleep, but I am his rightful heir. You may tell me.”

The guard shrugs. “Well, it would concern you, mostly, so I might as well.”

Then he hands Ramsay a parchment. “As your lordship knows, Lord Stark has departed for King’s Landing. But, as per the law, his son has to marry before taking his place. As he would rather marry within the North and choose a spouse for himself, every heir to every noble family in the North is invited to a ball so he may get acquainted with them. Thus, you and your father are invited to Winterfell this afternoon. Also, the prince himself has decided to visit every family before going to the ball, so he shall introduce himself to you before midday. I assume you will come.”

“Of course I will,” Ramsay replies, his mouth curling up in a feral grin, and Theon can’t help thinking as if you’d have a chance, anyone in the entire kingdom would be better. “We shall wait for him with excitement.”

The guard nods, salutes and leaves.

And then Ramsay takes a look at the kitchen, and then he seems to put two and two together, and –

A moment later, Theon finds himself slammed up against the wall with a hand around his throat.

“Now, I had plans, but this is of course entirely more important, so now you will come upstairs with me and –”

“Ramsay, gods, what is happening?”

Roose Bolton’s voice cuts the speech at once, and he lets Theon go at once.

Not that he’s happy, since the elder Bolton tends to scare him by his mere presence as much as Ramsay does. Even if at least it means he gets to keep his clothes on.

“Father! Sorry to have woken you, but there are indeed excellent news!”

“Well, share them already.”

“Ned Stark has fucked off to King’s Landing and his son is looking for a spouse. And all of the heirs to all the noble families of the North are invited at his ball at Winterfell this afternoon. And he’s going to visit in the morning.”

Roose’s eyes go wide at once, and then –

“Then why are you busy strangling the only servant we have, when you could be upstairs finding the best clothes that you can wear? And when he could be cleaning the main hall? Which is indeed needed, right now.”

Theon wishes he could take some satisfaction from the backhand Ramsay gets on the side of his face, but there’s not much to be happy about.

“Father –”

“You are going upstairs right now, he is going to make the living room presentable and you are going to be on your best behavior. If for some miracle Robb Stark likes you, it could be what saves this family from oblivion and completely falling into ruin, and you will not fuck it up. Are we clear, Ramsay?”

“… Clear, my lord.”

“Then go. And you, too. I expect my morning tea at the usual time. Also, there better be something ready before people visit.”

Theon nods, his shoulders trembling as he goes to grab as many rags as he can before running out of the room and into the main hall, his heart rate going out of control – he feels as if it might burst out of his chest. The least thing he likes is being in the middle of their rows, or in the same room as the both of them. He proceeds on dusting off the table, while trying to figure out if there is anything in the pantry he could use to bake something. Then he thinks, I liked dancing once. He also liked dressing as his station fit him, and he thinks he should enjoy going to a ball. He should enjoy it, but his time of enjoying anything was over before it begun, and so he keeps on cleaning the table as he hums under his breath the melody of that song his mother liked so much.

--

Maester Luwin, where did you even send me?

When Winterfell's old maester had come back to the castle, Robb for sure hadn't imagined he'd be told to go to the Dreadfort.
The plan had been for Luwin to visit every noble household in the North for a week or so to see if there was anyone worthy of the actual title. Then he’d tell Robb to go and visit that place only, to see for himself. Then, Robb would go, disguised as the guard captain, while the real one, his half-brother Jon, would come dressed as the prince. Together, they would see what the person in question would do and how they would behave.

Sound plan.

Except that – the Dreadfort? Robb is sure that Ramsay Bolton is not the kind of person worthy of any title, never mind someone he would marry. Especially considering that his family fell in disgrace when Robb’s father found out that Bolton liked to use hunting dogs to kill prisoners, but – maybe Roose Bolton has another son or daughter that Robb didn’t know of? He shrugs, fixing his uniform and envying Jon for a moment – it’s a lot more comfortable than the formal clothes he’s forced to wear in formal occasions. Then he knocks on the door.

No one answers.

He shrugs again and pushes – the door is open, at least. He finds himself in an hallway shrouded in darkness, just a few candles making sure anyone walking in might not trip. Everything smells stale and it’s obvious that the windows aren’t opened often, or that the air has been changed lately. All the furniture is old; some of it is covered in dusty pieces of cloth, though the floor is spotless clean. There’s dust all over the drapes, but it’s obvious that someone has tried to shake it off.

Yes, Bolton really did fall on hard times, didn’t he? Not that Robb finds himself feeling sorry, but – well, he’s here, he might as well go ahead.

“Royal guard!” He shouts. “Is there anyone? Lord Bolton?”

No answer.

Well, this is weird – the guard said the invite was received and accepted. Robb can't help resenting all over again this stupid tradition requiring that heirs to Winterfell have to be married to inherit. For sure, he hadn’t thought he would have to do it this soon, but with his father off to King’s Landing... he has to. At this point he just hopes that he’ll find someone he can be content with, within reason.

To think once he thought he’d have liked to marry for love, he thinks bitterly.

“Anyone?” He shouts again, opening the next door over, and –

And he slams it in someone’s face. Someone who was bringing over a tray. It's both their luck that Robb has good reflexes, because he manages to catch it before the old wooden thing falls to the ground with the hot cup of tea inside it.

“Oh gods, I’m abysmally sorry,” he says as he hands it back, “I didn’t hurt you, did –”

And then he finds himself face to face with the person who was actually bringing the tray over.

It’s a man, and Robb has indeed hurt him, he can see a purple bruise blossoming on his left shoulder, left bare by a hole in the ratty shirt he’s wearing. Now that he pays attention, he’s wearing old, frail, dirty clothes, all similar to the shirt, and his spotless clean hands are shaking as he holds on to the tray. Robb can’t help noticing that there are callouses everywhere on his fingers and that he’s lacking the ring finger on his left hand. Also, he’s much thinner than someone his age and size should be – and he should be around Robb’s age, he can’t be older than five and twenty.

But in spite of his dirty hair and the terrified look in his face, he looks quite lovely indeed. He has regular, nice traits, and while his thin lips are cracked, the shape is pleasing in the overall picture. His dark eyes are also quite striking, even if the terrified expression doesn’t suit him at all, and Robb can’t help thinking that if he cleaned up and wore something nice, he’d be pretty damn breathtaking.

“My – m’lord, I am sorry, I should have looked.” He sounds ready for a blow to his face.

“No, no, it was my fault. I didn’t even knock before opening that door, it’s just – I’m with the royal guards and I saw no one around, so –”

“Oh. Their – their lordships are getting ready.” And now he sounds dejected. “They will be down shortly. I was just going to bring Lord Bolton his tea and I didn’t hear you.”

“That’s quite all right – may I?”

He takes the tray and puts it back on the kitchen table.

“What –”

“Your hands are shaking,” Robb says with as much gentleness as he can as he brushes his fingertips against the other man’s wrists. “Maybe you should wait a bit.”

“He’ll be angry –”

“I can take the blame for that.”

The man looks like he might want to argue, but then he stares at Robb and all of a sudden something in his eyes goes soft and he breathes out. “All right,” he says. “Thank you, my – m’lord.”

Robb notices the slip, but doesn’t point it out.

“And may I ask who are you?”

The man’s eyes go wide again.

“What? I’m sorry, I don’t – why?”

“Curiosity. If you want to answer, of course.”

“Can’t you imagine for yourself?”

“Sure, but I’d like to know from you.”

The man seems to think about that for a moment, then he shrugs, looking pained. “I can’t – I mean, it’s complicated.”

“How about your name?”

The man snorts, looking down at his still shaking hands. “They call me Reek,” he says, and Robb hadn’t thought he could hear a grimace in someone’s tone. Well, he has now.

What in the seven hells?, Robb thinks. “Something tells me it’s not how your mother called you.”

“Something tells you right,” the man answers. “But I – if they find out –”

“How about I don’t tell anyone else?”

Robb smiles, trying to look as reassuring as possible – whatever’s going on here, he doesn’t like it all.

“Theon,” the man finally says, after what sounds like a fairly long silence, and as if he expects to be struck dead the moment he pronounces it.

“Theon,” Robb says. “It’s nice. Well, nice to meet you. I’m Rob-ert.” Damn, he was about to give himself out.

“Are you the guard captain?” Theon asks.

“Not quite. I’m substituting for the real one, he’s getting married in a week or so. And – well, he’s a Snow, too, so I guess I might have my chances.”

Robb feels kind of bad lying, but the point of this charade was to see what would people see in him if he was not Robb Stark, and –

And Theon smiles a bit, not a full grin but – gods, it looks breathtaking on him. “Good luck then,” he says. “I’m no Snow but I think I understand how it feels. Guard captain sounds like a good prospect.”

“Well, here’s hoping they’re impressed with me after today. And –”

“Reek!” Someone shouts from the upper floor.

Theon visibly winces. “I – I have to bring that tea up. I’ll – I’ll be back.”

He dashes off in a moment, and Robb’s hands feel empty the moment Theon’s wrists aren’t in between his fingers anymore. He stays there and waits for a bit, taking a better look at the kitchen – it’s all very clean, even if the utensils are all old and it's obvious that they were used to the seven hells and back. He can see a more or less human shape in the middle of the soot near the chimney, with a small, dirty blanket folded with care next to it.
He swallows, thinks of his huge, soft bed in Winterfell and he suddenly feels like he wants to throw up.

Theon is back not long later, holding the empty tray and looking completely out of breath.

“Are – I was going to ask a stupid question,” Robb says.

“Like what?”

“You aren’t all right. And – you know it’s forbidden to treat servants like that? I mean –”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not – I mean. I didn’t – come into this willingly. But – that’s all I can say. It wouldn’t… work for me. But – that’s valiant of you. I suppose. M’lord.”

“I haven’t heard of lords named Snow,” Robb says, unable to keep amusement from his tone. He’s pretty sure that if Theon’s a commoner, he must have been very well learned at some point – it’s obvious that he has to put an effort in sounding like a commoner at all. “People just call me Robb.”

“Like the prince? Must be weird. I’m sorry, I –”

“It’s fine. Well, yes, everyone has joked about that at some point. But I guess being a knight is the next best thing.”

“Sure it would be. You have the valiant part down, anyhow.”

“Why, thank you.” Robb also can’t help smiling just a fraction, and then Theon does the same looking as if he’s not thinking about it, and gods but he does have has a nice smile indeed. If only he went all the way with it. “Does that make you the fair maiden?”

Admittedly, Robb had been trying to make him laugh – he gets a snort instead, and one that’s not quite amused.

“Sorry to shatter that fantasy, but unless you’re one, there are no maidens in this room.” And he sounds bitter as he says it, and Robb would really want to ask, but –

First, he hears noise from down the road – Jon must be getting here.

Second, someone calls for damned Reek again, which means that Theon should leave right now.

Except that he just can’t let it go like this – damn, however this whole thing turns out, he’s going to make sure House Bolton dies with Ramsay the moment he steps up to his role.

And Theon seems completely miserable now, when just a moment ago he looked as if he was enjoying having their little conversation.

Well then.

He takes a step closer, vowing to be quick. “I’m going to wait for the prince and let you go now, but allow me to say one thing first.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe there are no maidens in this room, but it doesn’t mean that there can’t be fairness somewhere, does it? And just so you know, I hardly think of myself as fair.”

He sees Theon’s eyes go so very, very wide, and before he can think twice about it he moves forward, presses a soft kiss to Theon’s cheek, tasting ash on his skin, and then turns his back to him and leaves the room before he can think twice about it and blow this mummer’s farce.

He doesn’t see Theon clutching at his cheek with his left hand for a moment before dashing up on the stairs.

But then he wonders, what if if he was the one Luwin wanted me to meet?

--

“I changed my mind. You’re paying the guards three times what they’re getting now after we’re through,” Jon Snow hisses to his brother, who is currently standing at his side, dressed in Jon’s clothes.

“You know I would be amenable to pay them four times more,” Robb replies way too amiably. “Why would you change cards on the table now, though?”

“You didn’t tell me that your formal clothes were this bloody confining,” Jon hisses some more as he waits outside the door of the Dreadfort. He's surrounded by half of his own men who are most probably dying of laughter right now, wearing Robb’s ridiculously tight gray clothes and fur cloak with the Stark sigil, and waiting for Roose Bolton to let them in already.

He thinks about the times he used to more or less envy Robb when they were kids – or better, about the times he wished he also was a legitimate son, not necessarily in Robb’s place – and thinks that he really knew nothing. He’s pretended to be Robb for about a day and he’s so sick of it, he just wants to put on his regular clothes, go back to do what he’s good at – which would be being the i>guard captain – and get back to planning his own wedding, thank you very much.

“Also, I want an entire week off after the marriage.”

“Ygritte cornered me and told me that if I didn’t give the both of you at least two she would make sure I would end up the way men who can’t steal their women where she comes from do. I don’t think that I want to find out if she was serious. Or how said men end up.”

Damn him.

“And you said Luwin told you to come here? Because if I were you, I wouldn’t pick this person just because I’ve been waiting here for five minutes.”

“Don’t sulk that much,” Robb whispers. “And I’m – I’m almost sure that Luwin didn’t mean anyone named Bolton, but – I will tell you later.”

And good thing Jon doesn’t choose that moment to answer since it’s when the door opens.

He finds himself face to face with Lord Bolton’s heir in person, and damn it but Jon wouldn’t marry this man under a death threat. The pink and red Bolton cloak is already tasteless, but the moment he comes closer to introduce himself, Jon wants to gag at the perfume smell coming from everywhere. Something tells him that Ramsay Bolton tried to use it to mask that his own clothes might smell like moth. Regardless of how much he wants to run away at once, he puts on what he hopes is his most courteous face and shakes hands with both father and son before he’s ushered inside. They show him to the only chair in the living room that looks somehow intact, Ramsay sticking to his side in a way that might make him sick very soon - he swallows and sits down, dismissing the rest of the guard save for Robb. Ramsay at that point finally leaves and shouts for someone named Reek to bring something to eat.

“So, my lord,” Roose starts, sending his son a glance that would have frozen in their spot anyone realizing it was directed at them. “I assume you’re paying us this courtesy to explain the details of your missive?”

“Indeed,” Jon replies, praying that he manages to sound the way Luwin told him he should to pass for someone who had been groomed to become a Stark heir. “There is not much to say, though, I am afraid. As my father has relocated to King’s Landing for the foreseeable future, I have to step up and take his place. But there’s an ancient law stating that no Lord of Winterfell can ascend to the title if they do not have a suitable partner. And I have to choose in a matter of days, and wed within the month. I imagined that a ball would be the quickest way to make up my mind, and it would be my pleasure if you two should attend.”

“And who else would be attending?”

“Heirs from most of the noble Houses in the realm – I invited all of them. Of course, if someone from an old Northern family is the one I find more suitable, that would be… better, I suppose. But at this point I just look for someone with whom I can be content for the rest of my days.”

“That is indeed a very reasonable request, my Lord Stark. Oh, here you are, finally.”

Now, Jon Snow didn’t work his way from recruit to guard captain because everyone in Winterfell knew he was Ned Stark’s bastard – he did that like anyone else would have, and won his place because of his skills. Among which, observation. That's how, the moment this so-called Reek walks inside the living room and puts in front of him an old tray with a cup of warm tea and five homemade lemoncakes (it's obvious that they were baked this morning – there's a slight burn in places, but they smell very fresh) he notices a lot of things. First, the poor guy’s hands are trembling, and he’s way too thin for his age. Second, it means there’s a third person living in the Dreadfort that is not on any record he knows of. Third, when Ramsay notices that the lemoncake he took after Jon went for his is a bit burned he sends this Reek person a death glare – right. So he baked the cakes. Fourth, Robb sends Ramsay an identical murderous glare that goes unnoticed by everyone else just because no one is paying attention to Robb.

“Of course, you’re welcome to three of them, my lord,” Roose Bolton says as he nibbles on his cake, and staring at Reek in the same exact way as his son is.

Robb looks equally murderous.

Jon decides that it’s time to be somewhat diplomatic and try to prevent Robb from doing whatever he’s itching to do. This, while also saving the poor guy a beating – they might be a bit burned, but the cakes are good and the man looks like someone about to faint.

“Thank you, but my captain has been walking without rest since this morning. Maybe he should have one as well, don’t you agree?”

“Of course, of course! That’s your choice, my lord,” Ramsay replies with way too much urgency, sounding like he’s not too fond of food coming from his kitchen being offered to commoners. Jon wants to punch him in the face, to be truthful.

“Well then. Robert, what do you think?”

Robb reaches down for one of the two remaining cakes and takes a small bite at first – he hates lemon cakes, usually, but Jon isn’t sorry at all for it. And then his eyes go a bit wide, and he finishes it in a few bites.

“I thought it was very good,” Robb replies, and – well, he’s not lying. He’s also staring at Reek, if that’s the man’s real name. Jon surely hopes not.

“Why, that’s what I thought as well. Maybe we should split the last one?”

“I would be glad to. My lord.”

Jon breaks the cake in half and hands a piece to Robb, before nibbling on his again. Then he asks Ramsay some inane question that has him ranting about how to properly run households when all your servants are out to steal your food and gold, not that he cares; but it does detract attention from Robb and allows him to glance in his direction.

Well, who’d have thought. Robb goes up to the so-called Reek and hands him the other half of the cake. The food ends up in the man’s pocket, but Jon doesn’t miss the look of sheer gratitude on the man’s face. And now that he notices, the man might look quite handsome under all the dirt he’s covered in.

He has a suspicion that Luwin didn’t send them here for Ramsay Bolton at all, but he keeps on playing along, until someone finally blows a small horn from somewhere in the yard. Their carriage has to be outside, which means that he can leave, good thing that.

Except that of course there’s no other carriage in the Bolton yard, which means they will have to ride with him. Oh, joy.

Fine, he’ll find something else to ask Robb for his trouble.

“Why, my lords, it seems like the carriage is ready. Since I am here and it’s large, if you wish to ride with us, I would be more than happy to house you.”

“We would be thankful for that, my lord,” Roose Bolton says with uttermost calm. “Just a moment.”

Then he stares at – Reek. Jon would really like what is behind such an idiotic name.

“And don’t you think that I will forget about that, but it will be for tonight. Kitchen. Now.”

Reek gives him a half-nod before taking a step back, but –

But he had been looking at Robb before, and Jon saw the split second of hesitation that comes between that and a dejected yes, m’lord.

“What,” Ramsay says, “was that? Don’t tell me you’d like to come with us, because now that would be quite hilarious. Wouldn’t it?”

Hells.

For a moment the air becomes so tense Jon thinks one could cut it with a knife.

“It would be indeed hilarious,” Reek agrees, his voice sounding very small. “But maybe I still would. Like to go.”

It happens in a moment – he says it as he’s bracing himself for a blow, and it would have happened if Robb hadn’t stepped in and pretty much caught Ramsay Bolton’s wrist in between his fingers before he could backhand the poor guy against the wall.

“My lord,” Robb says, and he’s smiling his most charming grin, but Jon can hear the venom dripping through his voice, “forgive me, but this is such a joyful day, why ruining it like this?”

“He’s right,” Jon cuts him, trying to sound as much in charge as he can. “Besides, the carriage is waiting. And I suppose there’s nothing harmless in wishing to attend. Who wouldn’t?”

He sends the man an apologetic look – to be truthful, Jon would rather spend the trip sitting next to him, smell and dirt and all, rather than either Bolton, but he can hardly bring him with, can’t he?

The man looks just grateful, though, which makes him feel slightly less horrible.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Roose Bolton says before grabbing Ramsay’s arm. “We will talk later,” he tells Reek in a tone that promise very bad news, and Robb obviously looks distressed as he leads the way out as he should do.

“Of course,” Ramsay agrees soon after. “Excuse me just a moment.”

He walks up to the poor terrified man, putting himself right into his space, and Jon can’t help hearing it when he hisses I don’t know what’s gotten into your head, but if you think that this story has a happy ending for you, you haven’t been paying attention.

And then he moves back next to Jon and he’s all smiles and niceties as he leads the way out.

The last thing Jon sees before the door is shut behind them is Reek’s face crumpling into a miserable expression, and he doesn’t envy Robb his position at all.

--

The moment he hears the door close, Theon doesn’t even try to hold it back anymore anymore – he drops down on the ground, leans against the wall and curls his knees against his chest, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking.

Then he remembers that he has food in his pocket for once, so he takes out the half lemoncake that he had to bake in a rush this morning and just digs into it – his stomach had been cramping for real by now. And yes, it is slightly burned in places, but it tasted pretty decent, all things considered. Then he remembers how the guard captain – Robb – had motioned for him to come over and handed it to him and whispered I think you need that more than I do, and –

He hasn’t cried in years, not since Ramsay had made clear that he was only allowed to change his clothes once every fortnight, but that was too much, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed actually being treated like a person, but having it back for even such a short time was – was such a good feeling. Seven hells, someone using his name had been enough to make him almost cry, but Robb had just – he hadn’t judged his appearance once, he had talked to him and – and if he thinks about that kiss he doesn’t even know what to say. Except that it just makes him cry harder, because while it had made him feel nothing short of elated, it’s not like it’s ever going to happen again. He’s stuck here. He couldn’t walk all the way to Winterfell, and what would someone with a possible future as guard captain in front of them want with him anyway?

But – but that’s not it. Just those few minutes of being with Robb had almost made him smile twice, and he had wanted so much to have a real conversation, and to tease the way he used to tease his sister and mother, and it makes him so much more aware that he’ll never have it again, and he doesn’t even want to wipe his eyes with his own clothes because he’d just get more soot around everywhere, and –

“Well, lad, I think you needed that.”

Theon’s head jerks upwards and –

Is that the man from this morning?

Indeed – the beggar is standing on the kitchen’s door.

“How – how did you get inside?”

“The door was open. Someone forgot to shut it. But forget the door, that’s not what I’m here for.”

“Right. I hope you don’t need more food, because there’s none left. I should go get some –”

“I think you should come with me instead.”

“… Where to?”

“Why, Winterfell.”

For a moment, Theon just stares.

“Please, the last thing I need is for you to jape with me. I’m not in the fucking mood. What would the two of us do at Winterfell except getting kicked out?”

“I don’t think it would necessarily happen, but for sure, they would let me in,” the man says, and then he throws his cloak on the ground –

To reveal a maester’s robe underneath. And the man has a chain, too. A long chain.

“… Who are you?” Theon asks, forcing himself to stand up, his voice completely faltering.

“My name is Luwin,” the man answers, taking a few steps forward, “and I’m Winterfell’s maester, and I am asking you to come to the ball with me. Of course we should see to make you look proper, but from what I see a long bath and a few nice clothes might go a long way.”

“Wait, wait, what, you aren’t saying – why?”

Luwin smiles, not unkindly, and puts a hand on Theon’s arm – damn, he sure feels a lot stronger now than this morning.

“See, the plan was that I would scoot the North for a bit in order to find someone who might be fit for the role. And while you weren’t the only one who offered me food, you were in fact the one person who did that and at the same time gave something up by doing it, never mind risked their neck for it.”

“I didn’t –”

“Lad, you were terrified. You did risk your neck for it. I saw it.”

“And that would make me fit for what?”

“Well, there are plenty of ladies and lords fit for ruling along with Lord Stark,” the man replies. “But nonetheless, I think you deserve a chance to go to the ball, if you so wish, and to maybe find something better for yourself. I mean, from what I see you don’t really care about… the prince, do you?”

“Truthfully? His guard captain would be plenty for me, but –”

“Then I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a chance to know your guard captain better. Of course, the only thing I ask of you is your real name, because I refuse to accept anyone could name their children Reek, but –”

“I’m Theon,” he answers, figuring that it’s a small price to pay. “And my father might have given me a nicer name than that, but that was about the one good thing he ever did for me, I guess.”

“I see. Well then, shall we go?”

“Wait – now?”

“There’s a carriage outside. No time like present, right?”

He knows there's a likely chance this will turn to shit, but either Roose or Ramsay might still want to skin him alive when they come back anyway, so why not trying?

He follows Luwin up until a nondescript gray carriage, wincing as he sees his clothes leaving dirt all over the cushions inside, but no one seems to mind.

It doesn’t take them long to reach Winterfell, and from that point on, he can’t help wondering if he’s even awake at all or if he’s dreaming instead. The carriage stops in the middle of the village surrounding it, which is lively and full of people in a way the area around the Dreadfort never was, and then they sneak in from the back – Luwin brings him through the kitchens and then through a hallway, and then through another and another, and at some point Theon doesn’t even try to remember the way anymore. They walk until Luwin stops in front of a door, opens it and tells him to go downstairs, and Theon does, and finds himself in –

In a room with underground warm pools.

“There are clean towels over there,” Luwin says. “Take a bath and take it as long as you wish. I’d advise you to scrub very thoroughly. When you’re done, knock on the door – a guard will bring you upstairs and we’ll see about the rest.”

Theon swallows and follows the advice – he takes a long time in the pools, trying to scrub out every inch of dirt he can reach. He washes his hair twice and his hands thrice, and he doesn’t step out until he’s sure that there isn’t a speck of dirt on him for once.

When he walks out, he feels like a new man – he dries himself with the soft towels that have been left on the side of the pool, and then sees that there are a few garments under them – breeches, socks, shoes and a white shirt. He puts all of them on and then knocks on the door.

The guard leads him up a few flights of stairs and to a room, telling him he’s supposed to go inside.

He does, and –

“Oh, here you are,” Luwin says. He’s sitting on a chair next to a bed, with –

With two young girls flanking him?

“Well,” says the girl with dark hair and brown eyes, “you were right, maester. He does clean up nicely.”

“Why, Jeyne, I can see that too, but that’s not why you’re here.”

“… What’s going on?”

“Excuse them,” the redheaded girl says, before going over to him and sitting down in a chair in front of a mirror. “I am Sansa, she is Jeyne and the maester asked us to give you a hand cleaning up. And we will delighted to, won’t we?”

“What? I mean –”

“Just sit down here,” Sansa tells him in a tone that doesn’t admit rebuttals as she shows him a seat in front of a mirror. “So, the maester said we shouldn’t cut too much hair, which is fine enough because I think you’d look better if you kept it long. Jeyne, how much should go?”

“I think only the dead ends,” the brown-haired girl says as she hands Sansa a finely sharpened knife. “The longer the better, I’d say. Should I take care of the clothes?”

“Yes. I think dark would be better.”

“I agree, but maybe with some gold or silver? It’s a ball, not a funeral.”

“Indeed.”

Theon doesn’t even try to follow the conversation and just lets them do their thing – Sansa cuts off the dead ends with care, and then Jeyne dumps a number of clothes in his lap and tells him to go change behind the screen someone put up in the corner of the room.

Theon swallows and goes, marveling at the quality of the garments he’s been given – it’s all either silk or velvet, and finely sewn. For a moment he feel completely unworthy of them, but then he resolves to not dwell on it and puts them on. For some miracle they all fit, and when he walks back into the room Sansa looks delighted.

“Jeyne, you have eye.”

“Why, thank you very much. And I think these shoes would go well with the outfit.”

“Oh, indeed. Do put them on!”

Theon puts them on – it’s a pair of soft leather boots that almost reach his knee and they’re so comfortable he wants to cry. Sansa and Jeyne are back on him in a moment, fixing clothes here and there and fluffing up his hair or something, and then they step back and tell him to look at himself in the mirror.

He does, and –

He can hardly recognize himself. Sansa’s haircut has left his hair long, but without the dead ends and fluffed up as it is – now it looks healthy and so soft, he almost wants to run his own fingers through it, but doesn’t because he doesn’t want to mess it up. His skin looks strikingly pale now that there’s no dirt on it, but it does stand out a bit against the fine, soft black silk trousers he’s wearing, and the gold and black shirt he’s also wearing under a likewise finely sewn velvet doublet. He – he almost looks like a proper lord, and the clothes feel so nice against his skin, he almost wants to cry. Also, the soft leather of the boots is such a welcome change from the old, worn-out boots he has to keep on at all times that he might cry for real if he thinks about it some more.

“Wait,” Sansa says, “we need a few other things. Luwin said that we should make it so you aren’t easily recognized, and that hand of yours is plenty recognizable. So – hold out your hands. Jeyne, I’d say the black gloves.”

“Yes. Yes, definitely the black ones. And a cloak. Also maybe a mask?”

“Oh, yes. Quick, there are some at the bottom of that chest.”

Jeyne rushes to it while Sansa pulls on him a pair of soft leather black gloves with golden embroidery – Theon finds it quite ironical that they picked his old house’s colors without knowing that. Jeyne comes back with another similarly embroidered cloak that she puts over his shoulders without asking for help, while Sansa ties it up at the front.

“Yes,” she says, “if you keep your hand on the waist or with the cloak around it, no one will notice the missing finger.”

“I’d say that we keep the mask simple, though. Nothing too flashy.”

“Yes, yes, definitely. Do you remember the one Jon always used to wear? Yes, yes, that one.”

He’s handed the mask and – right. It’s black, no frills whatsoever, but it covers the entire upper half of his face and part of his cheekbones. If he manages to not give himself out, he might actually not get recognized.

“And wait, some jewelry never hurt anyone.” Jeyne comes back in front of him and puts a small golden medallion on him, and two black and gold bracelets on his right wrist – right. They would take the attention from the left.

“Thank you,” he chokes, still staring at himself. He can’t help the traitorous thought – this is how he imagined himself looking like back when he was still on the islands. Too bad it’s not going to last, but he is going to make the best of it.

Sansa and Jeyne say that it was their pleasure and they will go get ready themselves before leaving the room, giggling between themselves.

“So,” Luwin says, putting a hand on his shoulder, “ready to go downstairs and find yourself that captain?”

“Why, I think I am,” Theon answers, and for the first time in years he allows himself to hope just a tiny bit.

--

“I hate you,” Jon groans the moment they’re out of the main hall, which is currently bursting with people, guards and whatnot.

“Why, you’re the main attraction. Don’t you like that?”

“After this I will never wish being a lord on anyone. How do you even deal with all those people?”

“You just don’t like to dance, admit that.”

“Maybe I just don’t like having Ramsay Bolton attached to my bloody hip.”

… and right. That is a fairly valid point.

“I’m – yes, all right, I’m sorry about that, but you should take it up with Luwin, not with me.”

“Sure, try it. It’s not just his disgusting perfume, it’s that he’s bloody creepy, all right? He talked to me about how to best train your hunting dogs so that they might also catch thieves for half an hour, how does he think he’s ever going to convince anyone he’s a good choice?”

“What, for real?”

“Yes, for real. And to be truthful here – if Luwin sent you to the Dreadfort because of that Reek –”

“His name is Theon,” Robb sighs, wondering if he should have said it, but just hearing that sentence had made his blood boil.

“Right, thank you, that proves my point? I mean, you’ve been there for what, half an hour more than I was, and suddenly you know the guy’s name and you about start a more or less minor diplomatic accident that I am not equipped to deal with to defend his honor, never mind that I saw you slipping him food. And Robb, no, don’t say anything, you can like anyone you want, and I will be the last person in this kingdom lecturing you about not choosing any of the very noble girls in the next room, but then why are we even here? Why are they here? Just go back to the Dreadfort.”

Robb sighs, wishing he had anything to reply to that entirely valid point – Jon is right. He doesn’t even want to be here. But –

“Luwin told me that I should go ahead with the ball even when I told him that maybe we should go back. I asked why and he said I’d find out. So – sorry. But if you want some more leave after your wedding –”

“Robb, I have a month’s worth of leave by now, I think I’m all right. And I guess I should be back trying not to stomp over Lady Mormont’s feet if –”

“Oh, there you are, my lord, I was wondering where you had ended up!”

No, all right, Robb is definitely going to make it up to Jon after this, because the last thing he’d want right now would be Ramsay Bolton attached to his hip.

“I, uh, I was just wanting a breath of fresh air. All those people, they can be… a trifle overwhelming,” Jon says, obviously fighting some basic instinct of getting away from Bolton. Robb wonders who ever taught the man proper etiquette or if anyone ever did in the first place, because if he were trying to seduce someone he would not be up in their personal space when he barely even knows them. Sure, he was plenty up in Theon’s before, but – that was different.

“But my lord, of course. The air’s so oppressing in there. And I can only imagine how bothersome it has to be to having to dance with everyone.”

“Well, that’s my duty, but thank you for understanding that.” Robb can’t help shuddering in sympathy, especially because Jon had to dance with Bolton too, before, and he doesn’t even dance his own bride-to-be most times, when he has the chance, for how much he hates it.

“Especially if you might have made up your mind already, am I right?”

Jon grits his teeth as Bolton goes and presses up close against him again. Robb still wants to know who told him that a cloak with his House sigil was a good option to wear at a ball. Who’d think people want to see a flayed man in front of them while they dance?

“I might have an idea, yes,” Jon says slowly, his eyes finding Robb for a moment before turning a fake smile on Ramsay, not that Ramsay notices. “Of course, there are a few people I am considering right now, but I was in mind of making sure that even if they aren’t picked in the end, they might get… a nice consolation prize. So to speak.”

“Oh, as in?”

“There are a few young men working for me who would indeed be great husbands to them. Like, for example, my guard captain over here.”

Jon smiles a little smirk as Robb is forced to come closer, and Robb doesn’t glare at him just because – well. It’s. Kind of fair that Jon would do this, he supposes. So he smiles as amiably as possible and moves closer, though Ramsay does not try to get up close to him.

Thank the gods.

“Well, I can assure my lord that I would make sure my intended would never want for anything.”

Ramsay’s lips curl up in a disgusted smirk as he attaches himself to Jon some more.

“I wouldn’t doubt that, but noble people marrying down to commoners? Myself, I only see one use for commoners, which isn’t marrying them. If my lord understands.”

“I understand perfectly,” Jon says.

“I imagine that my lord wouldn’t want to go back to their roots, so I guess I should apologize for that,” Robb can’t help saying, though, and at that Ramsay sends him another hateful glare. Well, Robb does know that he’s Roose’s bastard son and half the realm knows, but he’s not going to try and do anything about Robb’s remarks right now.

Jon does glare at him though, as in stop putting me in this damned situation, when all of a sudden all the noise inside the main hall dies.

“… What’s that?” Jon asks, grabbing the occasion for what it is and detaching himself from Ramsay before heading for the door – but Luwin comes out of a side-hallway before Jon can go out of sight.

“Maester, has something happened?”

“Oh, there is this young lord who showed up late. It’s true that he had no invitation as he says he’s a hedge knight from the Iron Islands, but your lady sister found him very charming while chatting with him in the garden this morning and invited him. I assume you have no issues with that?”

“Of course not. If Sansa invited him, he’s welcome. But why all that silence?”

“Well, let’s say that he’s… quite striking. I would advise you to come at once.”

“Very well. Captain. Lord Bolton. I suppose we should go.”

Robb smirks as he sees Bolton’s expression go slightly darker – of course, there’s a possible concurrent more. Not that he seems to have understood that he never stood a chance.

But then they head back into the hall and –

And he’s going to murder Luwin for not having just told him.

There’s indeed a man standing up next to the main entrance to the hall. Everyone is looking at him. With good reasons, because he’s striking. The black and gold silks he’s wearing match his pale skin and his dark hair, and the mask hiding the upper part of his face give him a certain mysterious aura, and he’s just – gorgeous. There’s no other word to use in this case. But Robb isn’t an idiot, and he’s almost sure that he knows who’s behind that mask.

But then Jon goes to greet him, with Robb at his side.

“Ser, welcome to Winterfell,” Jon says, his tone perfectly courteous. “I hope the feast will be to your liking.”

“My lord Stark,” the man answers, and gods, the voice, he recognizes it. “I am grateful for your hospitality. I didn’t know of this ball’s purpose, though. I should hope you find a suitable partner before the evening is over.”

“Why, thank you. I assume you wouldn’t count yourself in the suitable partners number, then?”

The man smiles just a tiny bit and Robb is sure by now. There’s no way this isn’t Theon.

“I am afraid I am not looking for such honors, my lord. I will be content with enjoying myself for the evening.”

“As you wish. Well then, I suppose we should have a last dance before food is served.”

The proposal is met with enthusiasm, and of course Jon gets stolen by Ramsay a moment later – poor guy. Robb glances around, notices Ygritte – a wildling spearwife who used to hunt game for his father and Jon’s bride-to-be, right now she has joined the town’s watch but she took care to put on the only fine dress she owns to join the ball – laughing to herself on the side of the room, but staring in Jon’s direction with something that definitely resembles determination. Good. She’ll rescue him in a moment, he supposes.

Which means that he is free to investigate this further.

Except that there’s a line of girls crowding Theon right now, all asking for a dance and looking at him quite rapt, and Robb falters for a moment – whatever Luwin cooked up, maybe he should leave Theon to enjoy the attention. The gods know he deserves that.

But then Theon turns his head and stares at him and – and his lips curl up in a nice, small smile that’s not that self-depreciative smirk Robb had seen on him this very morning.

Well, then. Robb makes his way through the girls and walks up to him, holding a hand out.

“I was wondering, may I have this dance?”

“I would be delighted to,” Theon replies, putting his left hand into Robb’s, and –

Yes. He can feel that the space where the ring finger should be is empty. There’s no doubt of who is this.

He smiles back and threads their fingers together, leading him back into the dance floor.

“Let me tell you,” he whispers, his other hand going on Theon’s waist, “I don’t know what did Luwin orchestrate, but I won’t be the one complaining.”

“Damn, you understood at once, didn’t you?”

“I might have.”

“Well, I should just hope that they don’t,” Theon says, nodding towards the side of the hall where the Boltons are standing, staring at the two of them.

“Considering how confused Ramsay looks, I think they are none the wiser. And wow, you are good at this.”

Theon lets Robb spin him once before pressing up against him all over again.

“I used to like it. A long time ago,” he says quietly.

“Ah, so you weren’t always with them.”

“No,” Theon admits, “but it’s useless to dwell on that. I’d much rather concentrate on the present.”

“Yes? Does that mean I may have another dance later?”

Theon visibly swallows at that, his right hand curling up against Robb’s shoulder, and then he moves just a bit closer.

“You may have all of them, if you wish,” he says, his tone of voice becoming a lot softer, and then he leans back, looking as if he doesn’t know if he overstepped a line, and –

Gods, Robb might be over in his head but he could propose right now, damn it.

“Good, because that was the plan,” he says instead, and –

“Excuse me, ser?”

Of course Ramsay Bolton had to ruin it. Robb stops, but he doesn’t pull his hands away from Theon at all. Theon visibly swallows, but then turns to Ramsay and stares back at him, and Robb can feel his left hand shaking against his own. It doesn’t show on his face, though.

“Yes, my lord?”

“It’s just, I thought you reminded me of someone.”

“I am awfully sorry, I don’t think I ever had the pleasure,” Theon answers, slowing down his words, and maybe it’s the tone but Ramsay doesn’t seem to recognize the voice. Good.

“My lord,” Jon says, appearing from behind them, and sending Robb a glare that says you will owe me so much for this, “food will be served in a moment. Would you be so kind to come with me to the table?” He’s gritting his teeth and not hiding it, but Ramsay beams instead and links their arms together.

“I would be delighted,” Ramsay says before they head for the table.

“He doesn’t mean that for real, does he?” Theon asks, sounding mildly worried.

“No, I think he just wanted to get him away from us.”

“… Wow, did he?”

“What can I say, he’s – he cares about his subjects.”

“Well, I suppose he will make a good lord.”

“And don’t you think that maybe he’s a… suitable partner?” Robb can’t help asking. But then Theon looks at him again, and he can see that his cheeks are going slightly pink under that mask.

“He would be, I suppose,” he answers. “But – I don’t think that he would be my suitable partner.” And then he smiles again, just a tiny bit, again, and – and Robb can’t help beaming back.

“Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind sitting next to me at the table?”

“Not in the slightest. Robb.”

Robb squeezes Theon’s hand a bit tighter and leads him to the table – good. He feels a bit bad about the deception still, because Theon should know, but – he can tell him after dinner, he supposes, and even if he’s angry, Robb is not letting him go back to the Dreadfort. He doesn’t know everything that’s going on here, but he has guessed enough.

--

A full meal and some three dances later, Theon isn’t quite sure that he’s not dreaming everything. For the first time in years he’s not feeling pains of hunger and he had seconds, most people he runs into are looking at him as if he’s somehow worthy to look at, which is a most probably ridiculous notion but which feels nice, after years of Reek at every corner. Not that he particularly cares, but it’s flattering.

And Robb – he has no damned clue of what he did right here, but it’s working like some goddamned song in ways that should be worrying. He always thought that songs were a crock of shit, and he only became even more sure of it after coming to the Dreadfort, because no one could actually fall for someone else in a day like this, but – but he thinks he is. But who wouldn’t – Robb is just… lovely all around. He’s been nothing short of some kind of fairytale knight throughout the evening, never mind that neither of them danced with anyone else, and they spent more time talking than worrying about how they were moving, and it’s been just so good to have that kind of easy banter they had going on in the morning all over again. But even with that, Theon can’t just get over how he treated him like an actual person in the morning even without the dancing and the rest.

He thinks he might ask if he really meant what he said during that suitable partners conversation during the next dance, and of course that’s when some Stark man says that the feast is over and that the prince will let his decision be known shortly, but the guests are allowed to stay as long as they wish if they want to hear said decision. And the guards should all confer with the prince for a moment.

“Well, seems like I have to go,” Robb says, “but – there was something I had to tell you. Promise that you will wait for me to come back?”

“Why, I could do that,” he answers, unable to keep himself from smiling at Robb, and he thinks his heart skips a beat when Robb moves forward and kisses his cheek before going out of the room.

He smiles again, bringing up his hand to his cheek for the second time that day, and then he decides that he should maybe avoid people asking questions, and sneaks out of the hallway. He likes Winterfell, he decides. It’s big, but not intimidating, and everyone’s been awfully nice until now, and from what he sees all the servants look plenty happy with their situation. For a moment he allows himself to think that he could just be one of them, he’s had plenty of experience now, and if Robb does ask what Theon thinks he might, he would be delighted to say yes.

He’s lost in thought when he stops dead in his tracks before turning a corner, and good thing he did, because he can hear both Boltons on the other side of the wall and he does not want to run into either of them.

“ – say there’s no way that’s him?”

“Ramsay, sometimes I wish – what are you even thinking? How would he have come here, flying? Or found those clothes? Don’t get lost in these flights of fancy, son, and just hope that you did your job right.”

“Oh, the prince definitely looked impressed, father.”

I can bet on that, Theon thinks.

“We shall hope, because if he isn’t, well, you will regret making Ned Stark find out about those prisoners, Ramsay. Are we clear? In a few months’ time we might not even have the means to feed three people, so you should hope that you gain back what you lost me. And let’s hope that the prince is quick announcing the damned name, I hate this bloody castle.”

“Too bad that you didn’t just ignore that truce. I imagine that if you had just taken Greyjoy’s possessions we might have been better off than this.”

And that’s when Theon realizes that – that if the truth about who he is comes out –

Suddenly the entire elation he had been feeling disappears. The Iron Islands are still a subjugated real and no one has strayed from the rightful path since the rebellion, and most people would like to put it behind them at this point, and that’s a point, but everyone knows who his father is. If someone finds out who he really is, no northern person would ever have him, or could, if working for the Starks out of everyone.

Damn him, he thinks, first he ruins my life and then he ruins the one good thing I might have going for me.

He leaves, figuring that he should just try to get back to the Dreadfort before anyone finds out that he’s left, but –

But the last day has just been so good, so different, so – so much like a dream come true, he isn’t sure he wants to give that all up yet. He isn’t sure he can give it up – having been treated like less than dirt for ten years had made him adjusted to it, but now that he knows again how it feels to be treated like a human being again he isn’t sure he can give it up without a fight. And after all – Robb is a bastard, right? Who would even question that kind of choice?

He looks down at the bracelets on his right wrist and – and he takes a decision.

He goes back to the main hall, but he doesn’t have to come inside – he sees Robb coming towards him from the other direction.

“Oh, here you are,” he says, sounding relieved, and Theon wants to cry. “I was looking for you, where –”

“Robb, listen, I think I know what you were about to ask, but – but I think that you need time.”

“… wait, what? I need time?”

“Yes. The thing is – I’m not – there are things about me you don’t know that you should, and I can’t let you ask that before you do. Because I would say yes. And it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“I don’t understand –”

“And you don’t have to, for now, but – just listen. I’m going to go back now.”

“What? You aren’t –”

“I am. I doubt the prince is choosing me for a suitable partner so I don’t have to hear the announcement, and if I’m quick enough they’ll never understand that I was here in the first place. I want you to go to whatever library you have here, because I’m sure there’s one. Or ask your maester, it’s the same. About the Greyjoy rebellion a decade ago.”

“I – I will. But why –”

“If your maester has a good memory and if your books are accurate, you will know. And after you know, if you still want to ask that question –”

He reaches down, grabs one of the bracelets and locks it around Robb’s wrist.

“If you still want to ask, just come and you will have your answer. And if you don’t want to ask – well, I can’t recall the last day I actually was happy in my entire life, and today I was, and it was just because of you, so – thank you.”

And then he moves forward, figuring that he should do it before he loses the chance – he presses his lips to Robb’s in a firm but brief kiss, and then he turns his back on him and runs out of the hallway, trying to remember the directions Luwin gave him if he wished to leave at any point, and he tries not to give into the instinct to come back. He can’t, because he would, and while he’s this tempted to do the selfish thing –

He’s here just because he didn’t do the selfish thing this morning. He’ll try to be better than that.

--

Well, Robb wasn’t expecting that.

“This certainly was interesting, wasn’t it?”

“Jon, damn it, how long have you been there?”

“Just for the end of it. Well, he seems to not be a gold digger. Unlike half of the main hall.”

“Oh, damn it, is Luwin around? Because I don’t have time to go look for books now, it’s –”

“You might not have time t’look for books, but be thankful I did that for you.”

Robb turn to his right to find himself face to face with Ygritte, who is still looking way too amused for her own good as she drops a huge history of Westeros book into his arms.

“… Wait, did you hear that?”

“No, but Luwin said you might need it and that it was too heavy for him to carry. I have no clue what’s going on, I know that this has been the most amusing day I’ve had in ages.”

“Traitor,” Jon groans.

“Oh, I will make it up to you later, as long as you get a long bath first, because I don’t want the smell of Bolton near me.”

“You think I want it near myself? Anyway, what did he tell you to look at?”

“The Greyjoy rebellion. Does it say anything to you?”

Jon shrugs. “I only remember that Father had to come home at once because Bran fell out of that window tower.”

“Well, let’s see. Right, Balon Greyjoy secedes, convinces most of the noble houses of the islands to follow him, the rebellion is crushed, Lord Stark leaves Roose Bolton second in command – gods, Father really regretted that, didn’t he – but Lord Greyjoy manages to avoid falling into disgrace with a truce mostly favorable to the North but that allowed him to retain his status, albeit lowered, and to save most of his family, with one exception… right, his lady wife Alannys Harlaw, his sons Rodrik, Maron and his daughter Asha survived but his last son Theon died of malnutrition during the assault of Pyke – wait a moment. His last – oh, hells.”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence –” Jon starts, but no, he can’t be right.

“Sure, and he tells me to read this specifically before taking my decision when I’m plenty sure he knew I was going to ask him to stay?”

Jon says nothing. Ygritte says nothing, either, but then she clears her throat.

“So he didn’t die of malnutrition.”

“Looks like he didn’t. Considering where we met, I have an idea of what went on, and if only Father had known Bolton would have lost his status a lot earlier. But – damn it. Damn it.”

“What’s the problem?” She sounds completely not impressed by Robb’s current situation, but – right. She’s a wildling. She’s probably missing the political implications.

“The problem is – there’s more than one,” Robb sighs. “For one, if he’s at the Dreadfort it has to be because his father sold him off, which is a war crime. And forbidden. Which means that the truce should be invalid and that I should send an army to Pyke. And for two, if it was known that I am marrying someone named Greyjoy, I would link my family with his, when they’re – well. The one family in this entire continent that I should steer clear of, since it would mean I’d marry into a house that my father defeated and that should stay defeated. Damn it.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, and Robb wants to cry. Well, he’s definitely going to go back to the Dreadfort and put an end to it either way, but – but this is a mess, and he’s never resented being the heir this much, because while he doesn’t care about any of that, the politics behind such an act would cause a uprising. He almost wants to cry, especially because it was the first time he had felt like he was talking to someone he really liked, with whom he could have been happy and that he could have made happy in return, but –

“… You southerners’re real pieces of work,” Ygritte says coming next to him and punching him in the side without even a warning.

“Damn, that hurt!”

“I know it did, and I don’t care. Do I have t’remind you I have no lords?”

Robb knows that. There are enough wildings living in the north to know that.

“Anyway, you’re an idiot. And you know nothing.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Well, at least you’re sparing that for someone else,” Jon says dryly.

“Well, you do know something, Snow,” she says, and she sounds downright smug. Robb doesn’t want to know what she’s referring to. “Anyway, you’re crying over fucking nothing. That speech o’ yours before, that’s all good an’ proper, but you’re forgetting one thing, I think.”

“As in?”

“It’s there in that book. No one knows he is still alive.”

“… And?”

“And, if he’d been a commoner who happened t’be working for Bolton, would you have married him anyway?”

“Well, yes, what the hell of a question is that?”

“Good. Then just ask him to give up his family name or whatever it is that you lords do and marry him the fuck already. I mean, considering his father sold him off, I’ve got a mind that he might not give one damn about his birthrights. If as far as ev’ryone is concerned you married a commoner then people will just think that you’ve gone mad, but that’d be it. I don’t see what in the seven hells is so hard about it.”

… Yes. She’s right. He’s an idiot. He can feel the grin spreading on his face as he ponders the idea, and –

He might have hugged her before he’s even thought about that. “I owe you.”

“You also owe him, from what I gather,” she replies, nodding towards Jon and sounding very amused.

“Fine, I owe you both, whatever, you’re a genius.”

“No, you know nothing. That’s not quite the same, but thank you.”

He laughs, not even caring about correcting her – she’s probably right. He’s an idiot.

“Well, Jon?”

“Yes?”

“You’re officially reinstated as guard captain.”

“Thank the gods,” Jon breathes, sounding utterly relieved. “So are you taking back your clothes? Please tell me that you are.”

“Not yet, but if you want to get rid of them be my guest. Now, I will have to tell my mother and discuss the politics with Luwin and so on, so I won’t be ready for some time yet. Meanwhile, if you would make sure that everyone who is not working here or related to me leaves the palace and that especially the Boltons do, that would be marvelous. Make sure they leave for last, though.” If he can, he’s going to give Theon as much reprieve as possible.

“Do I have permission to send them away in person?”

“Jon, you have permission to do anything you want. I owe you, right?”

And then he dashes up the stairs – he’s going to have everything in order so no one can protest his decision when he’s back, and he’s going to try and be as quick as possible about it, and as he runs he touches the bracelet on his wrist.

Soon, he thinks. Soon.

--

Jon makes sure that everyone has left before looking for Roose Bolton – Ramsay is polishing off leftovers in the main room, he’s seen him before, so at least he will have to deal with the smart one out of the two of them. Not that Roose Bolton doesn’t creep him out in any given instance, but he doubts he would be stupid enough to cause a scene.

He smiles to himself and goes to find him – he’s outside the main hall, walking up and down the hallway like a man who can’t wait to just get out of the building.

“My lord,” Jon says with cheerfulness as he moves closer, “I hope you had a pleasant stay.”

“Absolutely, lord Stark,” Bolton lies through gritted teeth.

“That’s good to know. I will make my decision known shortly, but since I saw you before going to confer with my lady mother and my advisors, I figured I would ask you a question. If you don’t mind.”

“But of course, my lord. You should even have to ask.”

“Well, good. Because I was wondering – if I were to marry your son, how should he like to be treated at court? I say so because us Starks have customs that might sound strange to others, but I suppose someone northern would find them less strange than outsiders. If I explain myself.”

“Indeed,” Bolton says, and Jon can see a glint of hope in his eyes, never mind that it’s crazed hope. It lasts a second, though – he’s back to impassive the next moment. “While he would be plenty happy to adjust to whichever customs in the household, I suppose the treatment should benefit his station. As in, regular meals every day, a personal servant or two I suppose, new clothes if he so wishes, and he should have his say over running the household. But I suppose that is why my lord would need a spouse, right? And then I guess he would be happy to train his dogs again. He was so disappointed when he had to let them go.”

I suppose they weren’t, Jon doesn’t say, and then he puts on his most amiable smile before landing the blow.

“That sounds… fit to someone of his station, or at least to your son. But I am sorry to say that if he married me, I couldn’t offer any of that.”

“If he – I beg your pardon?”

“The most I can offer is a fairly large bed in the guard quarters, a steady income that would have to be shared in equal parts, and three meals each day. Also, I have no personal servants and I clean my own quarters and make my own bed, and I suppose that the situation will hardly change when I do in fact marry, as my bride to be is not interested in being my maid. But my lord, why do you look so surprised – oh, I’m awfully sorry, I forgot to say the most important thing.”

“… Which would be?”

“I’m not the prince.”

“… My lord must be japing.”

“Not at all. And I am no lord. Pleasure to meet you, Lord Bolton, my name is Jon Snow and I am the real captain of the guard. At your service. The prince and I had an agreement – I would dress as him to test the waters, so to speak.”

“So – the real prince – who –”

“Oh, I am indeed sorry again, but he hasn’t told me I was allowed to disclose his true identity yet. He will make his choice know soon, though, of that there is no doubt.”

Bolton grits his teeth and for a moment Jon is plenty sure that he might cause a scene after all, but then he just lowers his tone of voice.

“You mean that everyone has been tricked –”

“Oh, I would not use that word. He just made sure he wouldn’t make an ill-informed decision. And with that, I think you are free to leave the premises.”

“I should like to protest, instead. This is no treatment fit of –”

“Well, you should do that with the guard captain. Which would be me. Therefore, I am sorry, Lord Bolton, but you and your son are free to leave same as everyone else has done until now. Do I have to repeat myself?”

Bolton stares at him for a moment, then sends him a murderous glare.

“No, you don’t have to. But I will not forget this.”

“Believe me, I won’t forget this day either. I wish you a safe return.”

Bolton turns his back on him without even answering and Jon can’t help smirking openly. Thathad felt nice.

“Why, so you already took into account that I will not wash your laundry, Jon Snow?”

He turns towards Ygritte, who must have watched the entire scene unfold and who looks plenty amused for herself.

“I never even assumed you might want to,” he answers, slipping his hand into hers. “That said, you can forget that I will wash yours.”

“That seems fair,” she agrees. “Also, I want to come with when your brother goes for his grand rescue – from what I see, I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“I’m pretty sure he can’t deny you anything from this moment on.”

“And good thing that,” she replies before dragging him in for a kiss in the middle of the hallway. “But I’m still not doing anything more than that until you wash twice.”

He rolls his eyes and figures that he can’t blame her. He will wash even more than twice, the moment they’re done with the Boltons, and he sincerely can’t wait for it.

--

Theon’s old clothes feel even more constricting now that he has had a good reminder of how it feels to dress in proper garment again. He arrived at the Dreadfort quickly enough, and he left the clothes back at the palace, so now he’s back into his dirty rags and uncomfortable half-broken shoes. He sighs before kneeling down next to the chimney and smearing his face with ash all over again – he’d rather not, but the last thing he needs is to look as if he took a long bath when the Boltons come back in. When he’s satisfied that he looks the same as he did when they left, he goes about cleaning the kitchen and preparing a light dinner, not just because there was a lot to eat at the palace, but also because the food is becoming scarce and he’s going to have to make do.

Meanwhile, he looks down at this right wrist, where his bracelet is hidden under the rags, and dares hoping that in the end his godsforsaken heritage won’t matter. It’s just such irony, that it was what doomed him first and what might doom him now even if his father isn’t even in the picture anymore.

He has just set the table in the neglected main hall, the food warm on the plates, when he hears the door slam open.

Here we go, he thinks, moving to the side of the table, hiding his hands behind his back and making sure he looks as demure as possible.

“Oh, there he is,” Ramsay shouts as he stalks inside the room and crowds him against the wall all over again.

“… Should I have been somewhere else, m’lord?” Theon asks, and even if he made sure to sound as humbled as possible, that doesn’t spare him a slap to the face. He sucks a breath in as his head hits the wall – shit, shit, that’s going to leave a bruise for sure.

“Shut up, Reek. I just had a hunch, but – no, looking as usual, aren’t we?”

Theon swallows and doesn’t answer.

Ramsay lets him go.

“Father, are you sure we can’t –”

“Ramsay, if you think that Ned Stark would accept our protests – just shut your mouth and eat your dinner, before I do something I might regret.”

Meanwhile he’s staring at Theon, though, with keen and sharp eyes, and Theon just stands in his corner, glancing at the window once in a while – it’s snowing. Not much, but enough to cover the ground in white. He can still see Winterfell’s shape very far on the horizon line.

If only, if only.

“So, you cooked this,” Roose says all of a sudden – Theon bites back a grasp and looks down at the ground.

“Yes, m’lord.”

“And what did you do before?”

“Cleaned the kitchen and the hall, m’lord. As usual.”

“Hm, I suppose you did.”

Theon hopes with fervor that he won’t start to sweat anytime soon, because that’s what is going to happen if Bolton keeps on staring him like that.

He left hours ago. By now, Robb must know, right? He’d like to know what it is that they’re angry about, but surely he’s not going to ask if he has any shred of self-preservation.

Especially since the both of them are stabbing at their meat with their forks as if they want to murder in person the poor animal all over again.

He doesn’t know how long the dinner lasts, but when it’s finally over and they push the plates away, he moves closer to take them back, as usual, Roose’s first and Ramsay’s later. He also grabs all the cutlery that should be washed to put over them, and heads for the kitchen –

Not seeing the foot Ramsay sticks in front of him.

He falls down and he lets the plates go, but not early enough to get out of the way – he still has one in between his hands as he crashes down to the ground, and he can’t help the pained scream he lets out as a shard cuts into the palm of his hand.

He only manages not to smash his face into the mess because he slams his left hand against the ground, but when he finally catches breath, the plates are all broken, his right hand is bleeding all over them and it’s hurting so much he wants to hurl.

“Reek, Reek, how are you still this clumsy?”

Fuck, fuck. He swallows, ignores the pain in his right hand and reaches for the places of pottery littered all over the floor.

“I’m sorry. M’lord.” He manages to grab all of them, not that blood doesn’t get everywhere.

“Being sorry won’t help that, but you’d better clean this up very quickly. And tonight you’re coming up to my room.”

No, he wants to scream, but – he can’t. He grits his teeth, heads for the kitchen, dumps the plates’ shards in the sink, then sticks his hand in the first full bowl of water he sees – thankfully it’s still cold because it was on the side of the kitchen opposite the fireplace, and when it looks like the bleeding has at least halted, he’s quick to take it out of the water and put it in the pile of ash next to the chimney – that should do for the moment.

Then he grabs a rag, hoping that he finds some way to wash blood off the damned floor before it dries, when –

When someone knocks on the door.

He breathes in once, twice, dusts ash off his hand, and then heads out of the kitchen.

“But my Lord, of course you’re welcome,” he hears from the main hall. “No, no, absolutely! Hey, Reek, where in the seven hells – oh, there you are!” Ramsay is pretty much up in his face the moment he walks up to the door. “Go get the good seat and bring it to Lord Stark right now.”

What – oh. Yes, the prince is there, and Robb is too, along with a few other guards and that red haired servant he had seen in Winterfell. It’s a bit weird that so many people came, but maybe it’s not related just to him? Anyway, he doesn’t even dare staring at his Robb for more than a second before running over to where the only good chair is and bringing it to Lord Stark –

To gain another smack in the back of the head from Roose.

“You idiot, not him!”

“Not –”

“My lord,” Robb Stark – or who Theon thinks is Robb Stark – says. “No need for such manners. And – well, sorry for the deceit, but I am the guard captain. Jon Snow, at your service. You might want to give that chair to him.”

And then he nods to his side.

Towards Robb.

The chair straight-out falls from his hands, never mind that he was having a flimsy hold of it in the first place.

He looks at Robb, who’s looking at him with that same lovely smile all over again. And who also looks sheepish, or what passes for sheepish at this point.

“You – you?” He’s aware that it wasn’t that much eloquent, but he’s not sure he can manage more than that.

“Well, there were two things I wanted to tell you back at the palace. You didn’t let me tell either. And – that was one of them?”

“You are – Robb Stark?”

“The one and only,” he answers, still smiling like that.

“What? At the palace?” Ramsay says from behind him, and damn, damn, this wasn’t in the plans –

Then Robb reaches out, grasps at his wrist and moves up the sleeve of his shirt, uncovering the twin bracelet to the one he’s wearing himself.

“Not that I had any doubts,” he says. “And I would still ask you that question, if you’ll let me.”

And Theon – Theon doesn’t even know what he should say, and he wants to say yes so badly he might burst, but that’s when two things happen.

First, the wound on his palm opens again, smearing the cuff of Robb’s uniform in blood – damn, damn, damn – and he’s grabbed from behind at once.

To find himself dragged into the kitchen and to get the side of his head smashed against the wall again – he doesn’t even try not to cry out.

“What did he say about a palace?” Ramsay hisses, and then grabs at his wrist.

He doesn’t even have time to answer before he pulls on it and Theon cries out against the cold wall – shit, shit, at best he has sprained it if not broken something, he can feel that, and –

And then he’s let go at once.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the guard – Jon, he said he was Jon, right? – says from behind Ramsay. When Theon glances, it’s obvious that he has some kind of weapon put behind his back. “Or I’ll do what I have been itching to do for this entire day and stick this in your back, and I doubt that my brother will have me condemned for it.”

“He definitely won’t,” Robb says from somewhere behind the both of them, and then Theon sees him move closer – Jon drags Ramsay backwards and Robb kneels in front of him, taking in the sight of his swollen wrist.

“Ygritte, is there water somewhere in this blasted kitchen?”

“Should be,” she says, and then she comes next to them and puts one of the few remaining water pitchers next to them.

“Thank you.”

And then – then Robb rips off the already bloodied piece of his shirt and dips it in the water.

And proceeds to start cleaning his wound with such care Theon thinks he might cry.

“As I was saying before I was that rudely interrupted,” he says, sounding like calm made flesh but as if he’s daring anyone to contradict him, “I have something to ask you.”

“Please do?” Theon manages, not even sure that he’s not sounding hysterical.

“I held that ball to find myself a suitable partner. And I think I’ve found him. So, Theon, would you come back to Winterfell with me?”

Theon’s breath gets stuck in his throat, and he’s pretty sure that Robb’s lovely face is blurred because he might be crying – he wipes at his face with his left hand before facing Robb again – he’s still cleaning blood out of his hand.

“Yes,” he blurts. “Yes, of course I would, but – I thought – I mean, I’m not – can you even?”

“My lord, I should hope you are japing,” Roose Bolton says, appearing at their side, and Theon doesn’t miss that Robb moves ever so slightly so that he’s in between the two of them.

“I don’t like japing for this kind of matter, my lord.”

“You must know –”

“I know, Lord Bolton. I also know that the only reason he’s here is because both you and his father committed a war crime, and while I might let his father off the hook because it suits my plans, you can bet that I will not do the same with you.”

“And how is my lord justifying marrying the son of the man his own father fought during a rebellion?”

“Well, I didn’t ask Theon Greyjoy to marry me, did I?”

… that’s right. He hasn’t. Theon thinks he understands what’s going on, and –

And if he’s right –

“Lord Stark –”

“Sure, I couldn’t marry someone named Greyjoy,” Robb says, still sounding absolutely calm while wrapping up Theon’s hand in the remains of his shirt. “But no one could object to a war prisoner of not better specified noble origins that you took without permission during the rebellion. Nowhere in the law is written that I can’t marry commoners, if I so wish.”

“But for sure someone from an old house –”

“Like your own bastard son? My lord, considering that he deemed me unfit for his high status this very afternoon just because I was posing as a bastard, too, I don’t think we should have a profitable union.”

“You did what?” Roose hisses towards Ramsay, and Theon can hear Jon chuckling somewhere behind them, but that’s not what he’s paying attention to.

He’s paying attention to the fact that Robb is cleaning ash off his face with the not bloodied part of the piece of cloth in his hands.

“So,” he says, “I realize I’m asking something quite big of you, but –”

He shakes his head. “My father sold me to them, pretty much,” he answers. “Believe me, I don’t care for his surname nearly enough to even consider keeping it, if that’s what you need. It’s just – I thought that – maybe a guard could content themselves with me, but if you are –”

“I wasn’t looking for someone who’d want me because I am a prince, Theon. Are we going then?”

“Please,” he says, a weight lifting off his shoulders. He lets Robb help him up, trying not to think too much about the dirt on his clothes ruining Robb’s nice uniform, and he has just taken a few steps towards the door when –

“I think my lord has missed a detail, though.”

Damned Ramsay, can’t he just stop trying to ruin his life and stepping in, even with a knife pointed to his back.

“For real. Enlighten me,” Robb says, keeping his hold on Theon’s waist strong enough that he won’t crumple on the ground if his legs falter, which might as well happen.

“I thought highborn lords only marry maidens, don’t they?” He asks, his lips curling up in an ugly grin, the same ugly grin he always smiles, and for a moment Theon wishes he had the guts to walk up to him and spit in his face, because of course he’d say that in front of an audience, of course –

“Because you are one?” Robb replies at once.

Theon barely even notices both Jon and Ygritte letting out a bark of laughter without even trying to stop themselves.

What has Robb just –

“Besides, he made that clear during our first meeting,” Robb keeps on. “You’re not telling me anything I didn’t know before. There’s just one thing I have to answer to that.”

“I’m so glad I came with,” Theon hears Ygritte say, and then –

Then Robb puts an arm around his waist and brings him closer and no he isn’t doing it but he is – he kisses him, but not the way he had before. Not nicely, or gallantly, or anything of the kind.

He kisses him hard, hands in his hair, tongue moving against his own, with such passion that no one could have doubted that he means it, and when they finally part, Theon feels so out of breath he doesn’t know how he hasn’t fainted yet.

He glances at the rest of the room. Ramsay looks like he has just swallowed a frog or ten, Roose Bolton looks like he wants to murder everyone in the entire room Ramsay first and foremost, the guards look like they don’t know what to think, and Jon and Ygritte are beyond trying to pretend they aren’t laughing.

He thinks he likes that.

“I think we should leave,” he says, not caring if his voice sounds completely wrecked.

“Yes, I think we should as well. And Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I will leave you the pleasure to arrest them. You earned it.”

“Oh, finally,” Jon says, sounding like he was waiting just for that – not that Theon doesn’t understand the feeling – and then he turns his back on the scene and follows Robb out of the room and of the Dreadfort and into the carriage waiting for them outside – there are a few others, but it looks like they don’t need to wait for them, since Robb tells the driver to just go to Winterfell.

For a moment neither of them says a thing, and then Robb reaches out and takes Theon’s left hand in between both of his own.

“You could have just told me, you know,” he says, not unkindly. “I mean, it would have spared you going through all of that.”

“Nothing I wasn’t adjusted to, but – I just thought – never mind. It was worth it.”

“Oh, is it? Good,” Robb says, his free hand going to his face. “Because you aren’t going to regret that. Now, we should probably talk things out in depth, but for now – I think we should just go back, I can get someone to look at your wrist and we take a couple of weeks to get settled, how about it? I can introduce you to the others, I should tell my father and then we can just take it slow. I mean, I think you earned a few weeks in bed.”

“Probably,” Theon can’t help chuckling back. “And I should have ten baths before I meet anyone related to you.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure. You already met my sister.”

“… Who?”

“Sansa. She said she’ll be very happy to find you suitable clothes for the wedding.”

“Wait. Wait, that was your sister? Oh gods. Oh, gods, now she’ll think –”

“Hey, calm down. She liked you, you know. And she might have told that she was really hoping we’d get married to my other sister, to my mother and to half of the castle, so I don’t think you should be worrying.”

He thinks he’s going to faint, and so he clutches at Robb’s hand tighter.

“I’m sorry, but – this looks too good to be true, you know.”

“Well, I have all the time in the world to convince you of the contrary, don’t I?”

And then he leans down and kisses Theon again, and – yes. Yes, he thinks, he can’t wait for that, indeed.

--

A month later

Theon stares at himself in the mirror – gods, it’s happening. He’s going downstairs and marrying Robb Stark in mere minutes, and for some kind of miracle no one has found out about who he is, and no one has objected to the Stark heir marrying someone who used to be a servant out of everything. And – a month of resting has done him a world of good – he’s not so thin anymore, and his hand has healed quite nicely. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get rid of the scars on his palm, but that’s the least, he figures. Sansa and Jeyne have styled his hair the same way it was at the ball and he’s all dressed in Stark gray – everyone agreed that using Greyjoy colors would not have been a good idea. He has no cloak, of course, but he doesn’t mind. Not with what he’s getting in exchange.

He still doesn’t believe he’s marrying Robb Stark out of everyone – never mind that in the time they had to get to know each other he thinks he fell for the man even harder than before – and he just hopes he doesn’t royally fuck it up. Not that Robb seems to think he would, so he will just hope he lives up to the expectations.

He takes in a deep breath, and then he decides that he’s ready. He’s just going to see if someone else is outside the door and ask how long should he wait –

And then someone knocks on the door.

He opens it to find himself face to face with Jon.

“Good, you’re ready,” he says. “We should be heading down, but before you do – let’s say that Robb has a wedding gift for you.”

“…He has a wedding gift for me?”

“I know, I know, he’s a gift all on his own?”

Theon groans. “Maybe. Says the one who told Ygritte she was a gift while saying his vows, not that she seemed particularly impressed. So what?”

“Nothing, nothing. Also, I was equally impressed with hers, and we had a great time after, thank you. But back to my brother, let’s say that he sent a few ravens and enquired about the situation in your not so fair islands.”

“And so?”

“Seems like your father is very ill, and your brothers are still thriving, and of course they have no idea that you are about to become Lord of Winterfell. But, you see, since he’s still getting married to an Ironborn, he figures it might have been good etiquette to have a few representatives in the crowd. Keeping it low-key, of course.”

“Snow, who did he invite?”

“And why should I ruin the surprise for you? Just remember that you have to be downstairs alone shortly, I’ll send a guard when it’s time. Have a nice bedding,” Jon says, and then he turns his back on Theon and hurries down the stairs.

What –

“Why, little brother, long time no see, or am I wrong?”

He doesn’t know how he doesn’t faint on the spot when he turns to his side and sees that his sister is standing there.

If she hadn’t told him, maybe it’d have taken him a bit to recognize her – she’s so different from the sixteen-year old he remembers. She’s taller, and while before she used to be very thin, now he can see filled-out curves under her leather trousers and vest. Her hair is a bit longer, and she’s strikingly beautiful now, even if she’s not doing anything to show off. He’s also sure she never looked at him in such a kind way, but she is now, and he thinks he wants to cry.

Of course Robb would try to make sure some family of his was attending.

He has grasped at her shoulders before he’s even thought about it, but she grasps back, so – well, he didn’t get that wrong, he supposes.

“But – how –”

“He was smart about it. First he only contacted uncle Rodrik, who was the only one who didn’t agree with going to war back in the day, and after that he sent a raven addressed to me which only inquired about seemingly venial matters. Then he said that he was in fact marrying a war prisoner from the islands and he would have liked someone for representation, and he sprung up some excuse about not wanting to invite Father’s firstborn son, and if he didn’t invite Rodrik then he couldn’t even invite Maron. Which I bought, and so I came here, and then he questioned me for a damned long time before he finally told me the truth and made me swear on everything he could think of that I would never tell a soul. Which I won’t – I would have told Mother, at most, but she died a couple of years ago.”

He knows that – he did some inquires, the moment he could, and he can’t help looking down at the ground, but then Asha punches him in the side without even trying to hold back.

“What –”

“Don’t look that much like someone kicked you in the face on your bloody wedding day. She died cursing Father’s name, which I can’t fault her for, and all the time she was hoping you were… being treated well.”

“… I’m really happy she never knew,” he answers after a long moment.

“I can’t disagree with that either. But she would have wanted for you to be happy and from what I see that’s exactly what you’re getting, so don’t you dare being all doom and gloom right now. Understood?”

“Right. Right, understood. Will do.”

“Good. I’m sorry I can’t walk you, but now that I look at you, the resemblance is pretty obvious and I did promise your prince I wouldn’t give you out.”

“You’re hilarious. Don’t worry, I have an alternative.”

“Then what in the seven hells are you waiting for, get down. I’ll go from the other way and then maybe we can have a longer talk tomorrow.”

She squeezes his shoulder once before turning her back on him and leaving, and he feels completely overwhelmed. He can’t believe Robb went this far when he didn’t have to, and he still doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but –

“You’re wanted downstairs, my lord,” a guard that’s just come up the stairs says, and Theon tells him he will be there in a moment. He breathes in, breathes out, in again, pulls on his leather gloves so his left hand is hidden and then heads downstairs. He tries not to marvel at all the serving staff he runs into sending him encouraging looks and then he’s finally at the bottom of the stairs. He knows he has to go to the heart tree outside of the castle, that’s where every wedding in Winterfell is held, and he’s contemplating using the way out of the kitchens so that he doesn’t have to see most of the people who will attend. Good thing that Robb scheduled it in coincidence with Myrcella Baratheon’s marriage to Trystane Martell in King’s Landing, which meant that most nobles in Westeros who should have been invited are there instead.

But then he sees Luwin standing at the bottom of the staircase.

“You are not going through the back,” he says.

“… Fine, I tried,” he says.”

“You did, but you’re not doing that. Come on, you don’t wish to be late to your own wedding, do you?”

And then he holds out his arm.

“No,” Theon replies, “no, I guess I don’t want that. And – I should thank you all over again.”

“There’s no need for that, lad. And now let’s go, I think Robb isn’t going to rest in peace if he doesn’t go through with this as soon as possible.”

Theon smiles without even trying to stop himself. “I suppose you’re right about that, too.”

“I am always right, I should say.”

Theon can hardly argue with that. And so he follows and doesn’t go through the back, and when he sees Robb standing in front of the tree. He’s wearing the same formal garb Jon had worn back during their little act, all Stark grey – his hair is the only bright spot of color in the picture. If he doesn’t count Sansa and Robb’s mother somewhere on his right side, but right now Theon doesn’t have eyes for anyone else. For real, he doesn’t even notice the guests flanking the way, and as he walks forward, he smiles wide enough that it hurts just a bit.

But to be truthful, he barely notices it.

--

The wedding is a quick affair, to his relief – they say their vows, Theon is sure that Sansa starts crying when he mutters that marrying the person that gave him back his name is everything he could have wished for, the septon looks plenty embarrassed when Robb kisses him not so gallantly all over again and Jon still looks on the verge of laughing throughout the entire thing.

He doesn’t tell anyone that it still feels massively strange to be served food – he has to squash down the instinct to stand up and help serving it, but Robb’s ankle being hooked around his own under the table prevents him from doing it. He’s not sure what to make of his sister and Ygritte spending the entire dinner talking to each other – they do seem to get along a lot, though. Also, he might have worried about the reactions of the other nobles who came here and didn’t go to King’s Landing, since most of them have sons or daughters that could be in his place right now, but after a few of said ladies come up to him and congratulate him and Robb on being disgustingly good together and after Robb’s mom of all people comes up to him and tells him to just stop worrying, he figures he is wasting his time for real.

He also doesn’t dance with Robb until one hour from when the dancing starts – first Ygritte of all people comes up to him telling that since she’s married to the only man in Winterfell who hates dancing she might as well take his chance with someone who can. Then Dacey Mormont does the same, and then his sister does too and he ends up letting her lead because if she doesn’t she stomps all over his feet, not that he minds. By the time Sansa pretty much throws him at Robb, he has danced with pretty much every woman in the room, she and Jeyne included, and Robb looks utterly grateful.

“What’s that face?” He asks. “You don’t look that enthusiastic.”

“Have you tried dancing in these bloody tight breeches? I can’t take this anymore.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“Before I get to dance with you? Forget it.”

So they miss the start because Robb kisses him in the middle of the main hall and it’s not a peck, not that Theon is ever going to stop him, but when they finally get moving it’s as exhilarating as it had been during that first ball.

With the only difference that he can see people staring at them, while back then no one had cared.

“Tight breeches or not, I think they’re all looking at you,” Theon says as Robb spins him around, and good thing that the Stark cloak on his shoulders is tied quite tight around his collar.

“Please,” Robb replies, moving up closer, “I think they’re looking at you. As they should. At least one of us is in his element.”

Theon wouldn’t say he’s sure of that, but – the thought is nice. The thought is indeed very nice.

When Robb doesn’t call the dancing off the moment the song is over, he’s entirely fine with going for another round.

And then someone calls for the bedding, which for the first time in the entire day makes his blood run cold because he doesn’t relish the idea of people taking off his clothes, not when he still has healing bruises in places no one should have bruises.

But Robb says that he’d like to do that job all by himself, if they let him, and people laugh and tell them to get a move on then.

Theon can’t help the breath of relief he lets out as he grabs onto Robb’s hand and follows him outside of the hall and into Robb’s room.

“Well,” Robb says, “I guess the hard part is over.”

“No kidding,” Theon replies. “Seriously, did that just happen?”

“Of course it just happened,” Robb says as he hops on the bed and kicks off his boots. He leans down on it, putting a hand on Theon’s side and moving in closer. “And tomorrow we have to meet the commoners.”

“Good thing I have plenty of experience in that area.” Says all that he manages to pull the joke off, which he wasn’t too sure of, and Robb smiles again before moving even closer again.

“Even better, they’ll like you. And – right, just one thing. Now, I know what protocol says in these cases, but you know, we don’t have to do anything.”

“Wait, why –”

“Your shoulders have been tense since the first mention of the word bedding, you know.”

… Damn, have they really?

“No, it’s just – I thought there would be the bedding. That was what I had issues with. And – Robb, let’s be real here, do you think there is anything I’d like more than following protocol right now?”

“Oh, that’s how it is,” Robb grins, and then moves on top of him, but taking care not to be crowding. “Because then I would love to follow it to the letter.”

Theon slowly grins back, his hands going to Robb’s waist and grasping at his shirt.

“And I say that as long as you take it slow you can follow it as thoroughly as you wish.”

“Good,” Robb rasps, his fingers going up to unlace the cloak still tied around Theon’s shoulders, “because I plan on being very thorough.”

For a moment Theon considers asking him to blow out the candles, but he has a hunch Robb wouldn’t be that impressed, and – well, he had liked him when he was dressed in rags, he doubts things would change now, wouldn’t they? He leans back on the soft cushions and breathes in as Robb leans back and starts unlacing his shirt, and for a moment he hisses when Robb’s fingers brush against an old scar he had on his stomach, but then –

“Hells, sorry, I need to do something,” Robb says before getting off him.

“What –”

“If I keep these on a second longer I’m going to pass out on you and that would not be so dignified, wouldn’t it?”

And then he opens up his breeches and pushes them down so fast that the damn things almost tear, and the smallclothes go with them, and –

Theon shouldn’t laugh, but he can’t help it, not when Robb looks this relieved, and considering that Robb is openly snorting when he moves back on the bed he figures it’s not a bad thing.

“You know, since you’re in charge you could just get rid of traditional clothes.”

“Why, I think I will. But not before we’re done here.”

“I should hope it won’t hinder your performance of your marital duties, my lord.”

“Believe me, I think it really will not,” Robb breathes against his mouth before moving up on top of him again and closing the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup at his face while Theon surges up to meet him.

Sometimes he thinks he could just kiss Robb for the entire night and be perfectly fine with it – his knees would go weak right now if he were standing – but he has also spent a month picturing this moment. He also has waited for it because he wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be ruined by still fading bruises or anything else that might come in the way. And he thinks he’s waited enough.

He moans openly when Robb’s hands move down to his waist and unlace his breeches – he swallows when he feels how hard Robb is against his thigh already, and it makes his head spin a bit, because he must have been hard for a long time, and the fact that it was because of him is still quite not so easy to grasp. He also moans as Robb’s lips leave ghost touches all along his chest, tracing the lines of a few knife scars he has on his stomach, and when his lips brush against the only still relatively tender bruise he still has – the skin is almost healed now, but you can see the shape still – he shivers rather than going still.

Yes, he moans while Robb’s fingers grasp at his hips – he reaches down, his fingers grasping at Robb’s mass of red curls while Robb’s teeth bite softly at his side. It’s making him feel lightheaded that someone would just pay this much attention to preliminaries first, because it’s not like he has any experience with that, but Robb is also so ridiculously gentle as he does it, by the time he has left a love bite at his hip and moved upwards again to kiss him once more he’s hardly tense anymore. He’s rather melting against the mattress at this point.

By the time Robb has fully opened his breeches and pushed them downwards, he just wants him to do something – the moment his cock brushes against Robb’s equally hard one, and they’re both in the same condition from what he feels, he moans so loudly that he’s sure they heard him downstairs, never mind that Robb might not be as loud but he’s letting out small pleasured noises at any given moment, and damn if that’s not making him even more aroused.

Then Robb reaches down and wraps a hand around both of their erections and he arches up against the touch, moving upwards so he can find Robb’s mouth again – Robb kisses him at once, making those little noises still, his free hand grasping at the back of Theon’s head.

“So,” he breathes as he gives a soft, deliberate stroke, “am I performing to your satisfaction?”

“Less talking and more performing, Lord Stark,” Theon groans as he presses up against Robb – he’s about to just spread his legs so Robb gets the message, but Robb moves away a little bit and stares down at him, then nods to himself.

“Right, but I think I’d rather do one thing. Lean forward?”

Theon blinks and does, not getting what Robb wants to do, and then –

Then Robb moves away and behind him, and in a few moments he’s pressed up against Robb’s chest – one of Robb’s arms is around his waist, the other on his thigh, and Robb’s legs are flanking his own. And his still very hard erection is pressing up against Theon’s back. And he can feel it indeed.

“What –”

“I want to fully enjoy the show for the first time.”

And then he covers Theon’s right hand with his, moving it closer to Theon’s erection, and –

“Now, it would indeed please me if you could start the way you usually do and let me join in.”

“Oh – fine with me, but isn’t it a bit –”

“Forgive me, I haven’t been clear. It would indeed please me if we started like this. But that wasn’t what I had imagined.”

“And – and what had you imagined?” Theon breathes out as he starts stroking himself very slowly, moaning again when Robb’s hand joins his, covering it.

“I thought I would give us time to recover and then I would blow you,” he says, with such calm that Theon really envies him, because the moment he heard that, he had felt a surge of desire hard enough to make his head spin.

“Then, given some more time again, it would please me best to have you riding me, if you have no objections. Or I could wait until morning. Does my plan suit you?”

“Very much,” Theon manages to say as he starts moving his hand a bit quicker, marveling that for once he doesn’t have to be as quick and silent as possible while jerking himself off, never mind that Robb is copying all his motions on the side of his cock he’s not completely covering himself.

Gods, he doesn’t know if he’ll be conscious by the time they reach the third round, but there is nothing in Robb’s plan that he doesn’t like.

“Well then, that’s settled.”

And then Robb leans down and kisses the back of his neck and his shoulder, his hand still jerking him off just the right way, and then his arm grabs at Theon’s waist just a bit tighter as Theon feels stubble press up against his cheek.

He moves his own free hand so that it covers the one Robb has on his waist, the left, and –

Robb doesn’t miss a beat and threads their fingers together, and that’s it, that’s it, he just can’t hold back anymore, and maybe he’s saying Robb’s name over and over when he finally reaches the brink and spills against his hand, and he can feel it when Robb moves up against his back, probably looking for friction, and he feels Robb coming against his back, and the moment he does Robb leans down and bites down against his shoulder, still so very softly, and at that point he’s so overwhelmed that he just leans back, his head falling against Robb’s neck, and – maybe he doesn’t blank out, but his surroundings fade and then there’s just Robb’s arm around his waist and the overwhelming feel of pleasure running through every inch of his body.

When he blinks his eyes open a moment or ten later, he’s completely spent, Robb is still latching at his chest and his head is resting in the crook of Robb’s neck – they’re both sweaty, he feels stickiness everywhere and their hands are still linked, and he’s pretty damn sure he doesn’t feel the need to move at any point soon.

“Hey,” Robb says a moment later, his voice sounding hoarse. “Was that satisfactory?”

“Don’t joke,” Theon manages to say as he turns his head as much as he needs to look at Robb in the eyes. “I think it’s obvious, lord Stark.”

“That’s nice to hear. So,” Robb keeps on, moving closer, “should we go on with the plan? I can hardly wait.”

“Fuck, please, go on forever,” Theon blurts, hoping that his vision isn’t going blurred because he might be crying.

“Good,” Robb says. “Told you that you wouldn’t regret a thing,” he adds before winking at him and – and then he lets his left hand go and moves his grip to Theon’s wrist, bringing it upwards until it’s right in front of his lips.

So maybe a few tears do fall when Robb kisses the scar in the empty space where his finger used to be, but before he can ask Theon kisses him full on the mouth.

Yes, he thinks but doesn’t say as Robb laughs into the kiss all over again, you were right.

Who’d have thought, Ramsay was wrong after all. Some stories really do have happy endings.

End.