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“New recruit, Lord Commander.” Stannis’ man had said as he tossed Theon-who-was-Reek at the feet of a black brother.
“... Take him to my chambers.” The face of a brother now a man looked down at him with the kind of roaring hatred Theon never thought could twist those features.
Two sentences and he was sentenced to what he knew would be his doom. The words of Maester Luwin still rang in his head: Join the Night’s Watch. He knew it was his only hope rather than face a man like Stannis and his idea of justice. They would not hear the prattle of a torn-up run-down gray-faced man who said he was Theon Greyjoy and claimed that all they knew was false. That two little boys still lived, somewhere, hidden in the north where Theon could not find them, and that one runaway bride was no heiress at all. These words would not suit a man like Stannis and Jeyne would find more safety as the brutalized wife of Ramsay Snow, Arya Stark of Winterfell, than as a Steward’s daughter. Theon thought he might be better off as Reek in front of Stannis rather than Theon Turncloak.
Some other crow tossed him to the floor in the Lord Commander’s solar with a dark sneer. He spat on him, but Theon had been through worse. The door shut behind the crow and Theon stayed on the floor. He shivered as the warmth of the room started to seep through the months of cold and wet deep in his bones.
Something shifted in his peripheral vision and his eyes darted up with the quickness of a squirrel. His eyes locked across the room with red eyes and a snarling face as a direwolf raised himself up from the floor.
Greywind. Was his first thought before the wolf prowled out of the shadows and Theon shook off the memories of the wolf’s brother. He stumbled back onto his hands as the wolf moved closer. Sitting like he was on the floor, the wolf towered over him at a size that Theon had never seen Greywind reach. Theon was prey and he knew the truth of the pet direwolves. He knew that they could eat a man’s flesh without hesitation.
But he knew this wolf. He knew this pure white pelt and those red eyes.
“Ghost…” He whispered.
One huge paw landed silently next to his foot, dwarfing it with inches of fur and hidden claws that Theon had seen his brother use to rip out men’s throats. He had spent so much time with Ramsay’s bitches that he was nearly a dog himself, but there was a difference between a dog and a direwolf.
Ghost’s snarling maw came up within inches of Theon’s face and he just froze. The wolf would pass his judgment, not Jon, not Stannis, not any court of men. This was a creature judging a creature. Suddenly he could hear the whispers from the Godswood again, the branches of the Weirwood that almost called his name.
The snarl fell off of Ghost’s face. He tilted his head, then shoved his nose against Theon’s face, burrowing into his hair and neck, smelling him as the direwolf climbed nearly into his lap just like the puppies had back when they were all still small and just like Ramsay’s bitches had as well.
Back with the direwolf puppies, Theon would’ve shoved them away laughing, eager to get the dirty snouts out of his face. But he didn’t move to shove Ghost back, just let Ghost sniff at him and circle round as he pleased. He didn’t even move to touch him because Ghost was Jon’s and somehow that felt wrong.
Ghost finished his search then stalked back off across the room and settled back down with barely a sound. He curled up to sleep and lay his head down on his front paws. For a moment, he watched Theon with those terrifying red eyes, then the eyes blinked closed. Theon let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The direwolf stayed, settling down further to sleep more comfortably.
Theon had watched Ramsay’s bitches enough to know how a dog could sleep with one eye open, arms and legs primed and ready to move, but Ghost slept how they all would at night in the kennels, relaxed. He slept like Theon wasn’t a threat.
He didn’t know how long he sat there on the floor watching Ghost sleep with some kind of amazement.
But the moment ended when the door to the chambers slammed open. Theon flinched and jerked around, but Ghost’s head just came up, saw the man standing there and yawned wide before laying back down to doze. Theon stared up at Jon.
“I didn’t—” Theon choked on the words. You have to know your name. You have to know your name.
Jon’s lip was curled up in a look that Theon had gotten far too familiar with, but there was something of shock underneath it all. Like he couldn’t quite believe it was Theon in front of him on his chamber floors. “Fetch my dinner and make sure we’re not disturbed.” Jon ordered the little man behind him. He gave a curious look towards Theon then ducked away. Jon closed the door behind him, stopping and standing facing the door, like he couldn’t bear to turn around.
“Jon.” Theon shuffled on the ground, went to lick his lips but was only reminded of his missing teeth. They were raised together. More akin to brothers than either were to the Starks.
“I should take your head off.” Jon spoke to the door. Theon didn’t respond, he just watched Jon’s back and tried to trace the lines in his shoulders hidden under layers of coats and furs. Jon turned and looked back at him.
Theon met his eyes like he met the eyes of the weirwood. He felt the resounding voice of the godswood coursing through his veins muttering Theon, Theon, … Theon.
You have to remember your name.
“The heads were the miller’s boys,” Theon said with a voice that had been lost to him since before the start of The Autumn He Never Knew, “It was…” Reek’s, “Ramsay’s idea.”
“What?” Jon turned towards him and took a threatening step forward and Theon was Reek again, cowering back on the floor like a kicked bitch.
“They escaped,” Theon said in the voice that the Frey’s had heard when they fetched him from his rat eating hell. He couldn’t look up at Jon in the way that he could never look up at Ramsay’s face, “I couldn’t find them. So we,” No, that was Reek, “He butchered them. The miller’s boys.”
“Bran and Rickon…” Jon advanced again, but now cautiously and Theon looked up again and he was the failure of a long-gone Prince.
“They’re alive,” Theon said and he knew that the gods had spoken to him rightly and he knew that they were not his father’s gods nor the gods of his people, “And Jeyne Poole was wed to Ramsay, not Arya.” He had to know their names.
Jon moved past him then like he was seeing ghosts. He stumbled down into his chair at the big great desk piled with papers and scrolls. Theon sat on the ground and watched and waited. He’d gotten good at that. Watching to see what blows would come next and what secrets he would carry to his grave.
Minutes passed in frozen silence. Jon wouldn’t look at him and Theon couldn’t look anywhere else. Ghost had passed his judgment already. The weirwood as well. Jon was the only one left.
“Jon,” He begged with the voice of the boy asking after his mother on the long dirt road to Winterfell, “Is it true? Is Robb truly dead?”
Jon’s eyes shot over to him in a flash, the surprise evident. The dark eyes darted down to Theon’s throat and Theon never felt so bare as in that moment. Theon curled his broken hands around each other to stop himself from reaching up for a necklace that was lying molten in a brazier on Pyke. The one gift from Robb that Theon had never thrown away. “They killed him.”
Theon closed his eyes.
“Lord Ramsay,” Theon choked on the name, “Said he would send my skin as a parting gift. I didn’t know to believe him. And everyone said, but I—” Theon cut off. He didn’t trust anyone anymore. He certainly didn’t trust anyone who was dead. Even with the wedding and Arya, no, Jeyne, he still didn’t trust that Robb was really dead.
“Why did you take Winterfell?” Jon demanded of him.
Theon opened his eyes and looked back at Jon’s ice cold scarred face.
“Why did you betray him?”
Theon considered the question and he knew that whatever he would say to the weirwood he would say here. “Because my father tore his crown from my neck and called me a whore and promised to disinherit me,” Jon’s eyes flashed back down to Theon’s neck, “I couldn’t be weak.” Weak. It rhymes with Reek. You have to remember your name.
“You betrayed him.” Jon stood, shouting just like a kid when the game they were playing just wasn’t fair.
I should’ve died by his side.
Ghost looked up from his sleep just as the door opened. The lithe man was back, food in his hands. “Lord Snow?” The tension stayed in the room and Theon and the crow waited for it to snap.
Then Jon heaved a sigh and waved the man in, turning away just to get his bearings back again.
“I brought enough for the,” The crow darted his eyes over to Theon again, curiosity and hesitancy evident on his face, “The turncloak, that is. And you, Lord Snow.” Jon’s eyes flickered towards them for only a moment when the crow said Theon’s new name.
“That’s alright.” Jon said gruffly.
“Do you need anything else?” The man hovered by the door, still looking at Theon every chance he got, “A bath?” The man suggested probably just from the state of Theon.
The suggestion made Jon look back at Theon again, more critically. Theon shifted under the attention. “Alright.” Jon answered and the man backed out of the door without another glance.
“You reek.” Jon said when he left in the voice they’d used to tease each other as kids around the yard.
Theon flinched hard. “I have to remember my name.” He muttered. I have to remember my name.
“Your name’s Theon,” Jon said, pulling him back out with the words, “Soon to be Theon of the Night’s Watch.”
Theon watched him.
Jon sat down at his table, “Come, eat.” He gestured to the other seat. Theon stared at it like it was some kind of test, some kind of hill that he knew he could not climb.
Then he pushed himself up on his ungainly feet and stumbled to the chair. He knew Jon was watching him, cataloging his every move probably. That’s what Jon and he had always been good at. Watching.
“It’s warm enough, take your gloves off and eat.” Jon tore into the food in front of him. Hard tack or something like it. Theon’s mouth watered but he knew that he couldn’t eat it.
“I can’t eat it.”
“Hmm?” Jon looked up as he ate.
Theon smiled with his broken teeth. Jon looked. Theon dropped the smile. Then silence.
“I’ll get Satin to bring some broth.”
Jon’s chair scraped against the floor. A word at the door to whoever was there and Jon was back tearing into his food. Theon pulled off his gloves and rubbed some of the warmth into his remaining fingers. “Stannis still thinks Jeyne is Arya.” He said.
Jon didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry, Jon,” Theon suddenly had the urge to say, “About your family. And my part in it.”
Jon paused in his eating. “I know Bran’s alive,” He said, “I saw Summer. And I can,” Jon trailed off for a moment, trying to grasp at something, “I can feel Nymeria and Shaggydog.” Ghost’s eyes flicked open to watch them both.
“Robb—” Theon’s voice failed him. Jon’s eyes watched him, then looked away at the grief he must’ve seen. “I should’ve taken the black sooner.” Like Maester Luwin said to. Like he begged him to. And Theon wanted to.
“Robb shouldn’t have sent you to Pyke.” Jon said.
Theon met his eyes with stony silence. “It’s my home.”
“You were a hostage.”
“My father didn’t care.”
“Your father would not have captured Winterfell.”
“The moment my father rebelled, my life would have been forfeit. Robb would have had to take my head.” Theon knew the stakes of the hostage agreement better than anyone. If he had not been on Pyke when his father decided to rebel, he and Robb would still have ended at odds.
“Then your life should have been forfeit.” Jon said the moment Satin reappeared with broth. He’d clearly been diverted in the pursuit of a bath. Satin put it down on the table and smartly ducked out of the room without another word. “Robb could not have killed you.” Jon said.
“He wouldn’t have had a choice.” Theon knew the northmen now and he knew how long their memories were, “I would have been protected only when with him.” And he would have become Robb’s kept concubine, which would never have suited either of them. “You never marched south.” Theon turned the questions back to Jon. It was like they were testing each other and trying to understand what kind of men they had become in the long months of war at the end of the summer of their youth.
“I marched north, as was my duty.” Jon said like it was the final word in an argument and Theon was finally a wise enough man not to question it.
“What happened to your face?” Theon asked.
“A wildling skinchanger.” Jon looked up from his food again to look at Theon and his three fingered hold on his spoon. “Ramsay Snow?” Jon guessed.
Theon flinched. “You can’t call him that.”
“A bastard always carries a bastard’s name.” Jon said instead.
“Just like a traitor.”
Jon looked at him as if lost in thought. A silent moment stretched on long enough for Theon to turn back to his broth. “They called me turncloak as well.”
Theon looked back up at Jon.
“I killed my captain and rode with the wildlings on his command,” Jon spoke with a far away look on his face, “I spent the nights with a wildling woman and broke all my vows.”
The Theon of the past would have teased Jon for his first night with a woman and he almost did. But everything was more serious now and both of them had lost the gaiety of youth. “And yet you’re Lord Commander.” Theon said just to break the silence. He was uncertain what was expected of him and where he stood.
“And yet.” Jon agreed and pushed away his plate. Theon saw the food that lingered on it.
Eventually, Satin brought the bath. All pretense of the bath being for Jon seemed to be given up and Jon walked over to his desk to busy himself with papers. It left Theon to undress alone. He hadn’t bathed since summer.
Theon looked back at Jon to ensure that he was really turning pages at the desk, before he turned back to his clothes and shrugged the heavy fur coat off his shoulders. The undercoat came next, then the belts and leathers and his tunic. The scribbling of Jon’s quill paused for a moment then. Theon froze, no doubt his shoulder hunched upwards uncomfortably. The scratching started again and Theon leaned down for his boots. Then his socks, outer trousers, then his normal trousers, and then it was only his smallclothes remaining.
After the treatment of Ramsay, he shouldn’t be nervous about stripping. Jeyne had seen everything along with the Walders and all of Ramsay’s men. They loved to laugh at him. Jon had certainly seen everything years ago. They were never shy as boys.
But Jon’s scribbling continued and Theon turned to make sure nothing would be visible even if Jon was watching him. He shucked the smallclothes and stepped into the tub, submerging himself quick enough that nothing could linger.
The warmth was profound against his skin and he just leaned back against the wall of the tub to soak it in. He hadn’t been warm since the sacking of Winterfell with the fires all around him. He sighed to the air around him.
“Use the soap.” Jon ordered without stopping his scratching. It was probably the polite way to tell Theon that he reeked. But at least he didn’t use the word this time.
Theon reached for the soap, but his hand stopped short. Ramsay’s voice echoed in his mind. Your name is Reek. You reek. He would say while laughing and shoving him in the dirt of his kennels. The dogs were just as messy as he was. Reek rhymes with weak.
The soap clattered to the floor.
Theon leaned over the edge of the tub to look at it with almost a blank expression.
Jon’s scratching stopped. When Theon didn’t move, Jon’s chair pushed back and he came forward. Jon’s cloak had been shucked long before so he just pushed up his tunic sleeves and grabbed the soap. “Dunk your head.” He ordered and Theon followed suit only so that he wouldn’t have to think about the soap and Ramsay’s voice anymore.
When he came back up, Jon scrubbed the soap through his hair like he was a wet dog and Theon sat there in the warm water still shivering and clutching himself with the memories flowing through him. His knees were up to his chest.
Jon didn’t ask. He didn’t mention anything. He just scrubbed. Eventually peeling Theon’s arms away from his body to scrub them and dunking his head under to rinse. His hand ran across every inch of Theon’s back and his chest. He hadn’t been touched gently by anyone other than Jeyne Poole in so long that Theon expected the dig of nails and the bite of something into his skin every time Jon’s hand pulled away.
Jon was wrapped around him scrubbing his chest and stomach, nearly spooning him with the tub in between their bodies, when he finally noticed. His head was over Theon’s shoulder, his arm around the other one when the water finally let Jon see what Theon hadn’t told anyone about.
Jon stopped in his scrubbing. Theon held his breath. Jon’s hand pulled back slowly, the water barely moving and he just lightly touched Theon’s knee. He lightly pushed and Theon let his knee fall open at the slight touch. He buried his face in Jon’s arm so he couldn’t see it all for himself. He couldn’t bear to look at himself or at whatever passed over Jon’s face.
“Theon.” Jon breathed so close to his ear but still so quiet.
“Don’t.” Theon warned into the arm even though he was already sobbing. He reached up and held the arm in place so Jon wouldn’t move away. There had been no time back in the Dreadfort or anywhere else to mourn. There had always been the next torment. No time to consider what he had lost and only the presence of mind to try and keep what he still had.
Jon didn’t say anything else. He didn’t move either. He let Theon weep into the crook of his arm until he was done. Theon let go of Jon’s arm when the sorrow finally passed, but didn’t dare to turn to look at Jon. Thankfully, Jon just resumed bathing him, scrubbing his legs and gently, with a touch of care that Theon couldn’t bear, washing clean between Theon’s legs where things were not as whole as they once were.
It was different than the time when Theon had washed Robb after battle. When he’d sent away Robb’s squire and closed the door with a look of understanding with Robb’s guard. It had been fun, running his hands over Robb’s body and they’d shared kisses and touches without a care for anything else. They hardly even had a care for the guard at the door who no doubt knew more than he should.
“Jon—” He started and then stopped because he knew that it should have been Robb touching him in the tub. That it had been Robb.
It should have been Robb opening his legs and comforting him for the torments of Lord Ramsay. By all rights, it had always been Theon and Robb.
But now there was only Jon. The bastard who trailed after Robb and Theon because all the other children were much younger. The third to their odd trio, but the youngest and left out of the lordling lessons. Because even if Theon was a hostage, he was a lord’s son, same as Robb. But not Jon.
Jon, who had looked up to Robb with wonder in his eyes since he was young. Jon, who had fashioned himself into Lord Commander. Jon, who had survived where Robb had not.
“It’s not fair.” Theon finished, nearly weeping again.
Jon pulled away, “You should’ve died with him. He should’ve been the one to kill you.”
Theon just nodded. He knew it too well. “I’m worthless to the Night’s Watch, you know it, Jon.”
Jon wiped his hands on a rag before tossing it back on the chair by the tub for Theon. “Can you write?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t know anymore.
“Then you’re not useless.” Jon went back to his desk like everything at the tub hadn’t happened. He went back to the desk like they both didn’t know that Theon was begging for death.
“You brothers will kill me anyway.” Theon was sure that it wasn’t unheard of. The more unsavory of the Night’s Watch recruits disappearing in the night, tossed out in the snow, tripping off the top of the wall, or simply beaten until no one could recognize their face anymore.
Theon would take it. He would take a hard death over a hard life. He knew that now. “They won’t,” Jon said with a confidence that Jon the boy had never had, “Our maester is absent, I need someone who knows their letters and the realm.”
“I’m no maester.” Theon protested. He was only a broken thing, not even a man anymore. His hands were ruined, who knew if he could even write anymore. He could hardly walk or stand without pain. Eating was the worst of it, his broken teeth smarting against his gums with every bite. He wasn’t even an animal in this state.
“You’re enough, Theon, enough that I need you.” Jon said and Theon snapped to look up at him. The words resounded against the cold stone walls and back through the room again, but Jon still sat at his desk with a quill scratching against parchment.
Theon stood and water cascaded off of his broken body. Jon looked up briefly and didn’t flinch. Theon watched him write again, still frozen half out of the tub. His hand was scarred, some burn ravaging his hand just as some bird had gone for his eyes. He stepped out of the tub and shivered in the cold air as he started to dry himself quickly with a rag and dress.
“Where does my Lord Commander want me?” Theon asked when most of his clothes were back on, the smell that had been washed off with the water lingered on the fabric and even with clean skin, he felt a dirty shroud come over him.
“Here,” Jon answered, still without stopping his writing, “The men will kill you otherwise,” Jon finally looked up and a look of distaste came over his face as he saw Theon dressed in his clothes again, “Find Satin and new clothes. Burn those and then come back here.”
“Jon, I—” Theon started and he didn’t even know what he was going to say, but Jon was still fast to stop him with a hand held out.
“Lord Commander, Theon, to you,” Jon looked pained himself, “Winter is coming and its best we forget the warmth of summer. There’ll be no warmth here at all.”
“I should have—”
Jon’s hand fell on the desk and Theon jumped, “You should have, Theon, we both know that,” He glared with a burning anger that Theon had only ever associated with wolves, “You’ve paid in blood and now you’ll pay in service. Do you understand your duties?”
Theon stared across the room at Jon and the ghost that stood between them seemed to occupy the whole room. He stood and towered above the both of them in judgement. He’d been the best of them. The most righteous, the strongest, the smartest. How could life continue when men like him were cut down?
And yet, life did continue. Winter came just as it would inevitably pass, whether they lived to see it or not. Theon had always known better, hadn’t he? Life was no story. You have to know your name.
“I do,” Theon said and felt the eyes of the ghost that haunted the both of them turn towards him, “Lord Commander.” He bowed like a man would bow in clothes that belonged to a dirty beast. Then he left the Lord Commander’s chambers and knew that even if he swore vows to the Night’s Watch, no vow could break the one that he had sworn to that ghost.
I should have died with you…
Robb…