[ theon doesn't make it home but it makes it to the iron islands, makes it to pyke.
halfway through the journey at sea, he gets violently ill, confined to his cabin with a fever that burns from his hairline to his toes, leaving him gasping, vomiting in a bucket that the captain's daughter carries overboard with a pinched face. he thinks he's going to die one night, trembling and stinking without the energy to turn his nose up at the whispers passing through the crew. theon doesn't have to listen to know what they're saying and he dreams of drowning, the sea swallowing him, rejecting him, and he wakes up thinking this is the wrong way, i am going the wrong way.
his fever breaks the morning before they reach lordsport, waking to a storm and raging seas and he sulks until he can walk on shaky legs, indignant and sore.
when they dock, he is greeted with nothing. it takes him the better part of the morning to wash and dress himself, flexing his hands into fists so his fingers will stop shaking. his knees are weak when they can anchor safely and the harbor town smells like shit and salt, rotting fish. lordsport has been rebuilt but it looks fragile, half there, a busy skeleton of the ashen wasteland he had last seen. it takes speaking to only a few people to feel idiotic, humiliated and red at the neck when he is not recognized, not believed, waved aside like a nuisance instead of their heir.
then there is a girl and a horse and he regains his confidence on the ride to pyke, his chin high, looking down his nose at this woman who finds him more amusing than impressive.
and from there, humiliation so bitter and heavy that it makes his stomach twist, a sweet, revolting sensation that leaves him sick all over again his first night inside the castle. as an envoy, he has failed. as a son, he has done worse, his father's words echoing like the crash of waves against the inside of his skull.
disappointment burns so fiercely in his chest that his insides ache and his throat is rough and dry against the smoke there and his dreams are feverish and cruel again. inside the clammy cold of his barren room he dreams of robb stark, naked and warm against him, murmuring something into his ear, stroking his hair. he's embarrassed in the dream and he's crying, unable to hear him, deaf to his voice and the pathetic squeak of his throat, the rough drag of his own sobbing. he dreams about winterfell, about eddard stark, dreams about drowning, dreams about snow.
the alliance is rejected and the north is to be crushed. he is given a single vessel and that night he paces his room and throws his fists against the wall until his hands are raw and bloody, gritting his teeth until his jaw hurts.
he steals a horse, rides through the night, doesn't look at anyone with a cloak drawn over his face, a needless disguise. no one knows him here and his father does not send men after him until the morning. they find him when he reaches seagard and he shoves a dagger through the belly of the ironborn that slits the throats of the crew of the ship that harbored him, twisting away, escaping by luck.
delirious and woozy from blood loss, he makes it to the riverlands before death can reach him, is told he would not of survived another day, is told he should be dead. he laughs when he's told this, feverish and half unconscious, muttering yes, yes.
he does not know how many days pass but it is only a few, health returning to him reluctantly, more bitter and withdrawn as time passes. he does not speak of the failed alliance, knows it is obvious what the result of his journey must be, knows he can never return to the jagged pile of rock he was born on, knows this must be well known now.
it has threatened to rain all through the evening robb returns and when the door slams open he does not have to look up to know who it is, but he does anyway. his breath does not catch but his mind reels, dizzy and almost confused as if he does not really believe the man in front of him is the boy king who kissed him in front of that ancient portrait, the man he gave up everything for. he looks older than his years and theon feels a phantom pain, some inexplicable sense of dread that he's lost time, lost the days that causes robb to look at him like this now, wiser and still not the right size for his crown.
the silence stretches and he is moving before he remembers standing up, crossing the room without quite reaching him, his mouth curving at one side, a crooked grin not reaching his eyes- his voice is tired, ghosting thinly at smugness like all is well, like maybe he never left at all. ] I said I would see you soon, Stark.
painfully wordy i'm so sorry
halfway through the journey at sea, he gets violently ill, confined to his cabin with a fever that burns from his hairline to his toes, leaving him gasping, vomiting in a bucket that the captain's daughter carries overboard with a pinched face. he thinks he's going to die one night, trembling and stinking without the energy to turn his nose up at the whispers passing through the crew. theon doesn't have to listen to know what they're saying and he dreams of drowning, the sea swallowing him, rejecting him, and he wakes up thinking this is the wrong way, i am going the wrong way.
his fever breaks the morning before they reach lordsport, waking to a storm and raging seas and he sulks until he can walk on shaky legs, indignant and sore.
when they dock, he is greeted with nothing. it takes him the better part of the morning to wash and dress himself, flexing his hands into fists so his fingers will stop shaking. his knees are weak when they can anchor safely and the harbor town smells like shit and salt, rotting fish. lordsport has been rebuilt but it looks fragile, half there, a busy skeleton of the ashen wasteland he had last seen. it takes speaking to only a few people to feel idiotic, humiliated and red at the neck when he is not recognized, not believed, waved aside like a nuisance instead of their heir.
then there is a girl and a horse and he regains his confidence on the ride to pyke, his chin high, looking down his nose at this woman who finds him more amusing than impressive.
and from there, humiliation so bitter and heavy that it makes his stomach twist, a sweet, revolting sensation that leaves him sick all over again his first night inside the castle. as an envoy, he has failed. as a son, he has done worse, his father's words echoing like the crash of waves against the inside of his skull.
disappointment burns so fiercely in his chest that his insides ache and his throat is rough and dry against the smoke there and his dreams are feverish and cruel again. inside the clammy cold of his barren room he dreams of robb stark, naked and warm against him, murmuring something into his ear, stroking his hair. he's embarrassed in the dream and he's crying, unable to hear him, deaf to his voice and the pathetic squeak of his throat, the rough drag of his own sobbing. he dreams about winterfell, about eddard stark, dreams about drowning, dreams about snow.
the alliance is rejected and the north is to be crushed. he is given a single vessel and that night he paces his room and throws his fists against the wall until his hands are raw and bloody, gritting his teeth until his jaw hurts.
he steals a horse, rides through the night, doesn't look at anyone with a cloak drawn over his face, a needless disguise. no one knows him here and his father does not send men after him until the morning. they find him when he reaches seagard and he shoves a dagger through the belly of the ironborn that slits the throats of the crew of the ship that harbored him, twisting away, escaping by luck.
delirious and woozy from blood loss, he makes it to the riverlands before death can reach him, is told he would not of survived another day, is told he should be dead. he laughs when he's told this, feverish and half unconscious, muttering yes, yes.
he does not know how many days pass but it is only a few, health returning to him reluctantly, more bitter and withdrawn as time passes. he does not speak of the failed alliance, knows it is obvious what the result of his journey must be, knows he can never return to the jagged pile of rock he was born on, knows this must be well known now.
it has threatened to rain all through the evening robb returns and when the door slams open he does not have to look up to know who it is, but he does anyway. his breath does not catch but his mind reels, dizzy and almost confused as if he does not really believe the man in front of him is the boy king who kissed him in front of that ancient portrait, the man he gave up everything for. he looks older than his years and theon feels a phantom pain, some inexplicable sense of dread that he's lost time, lost the days that causes robb to look at him like this now, wiser and still not the right size for his crown.
the silence stretches and he is moving before he remembers standing up, crossing the room without quite reaching him, his mouth curving at one side, a crooked grin not reaching his eyes- his voice is tired, ghosting thinly at smugness like all is well, like maybe he never left at all. ] I said I would see you soon, Stark.