Chapter Text
The man was all smiles, more mirth in the way his mouth curved than seemed appropriate for dire times as these. There was something disconcerting about his expression, a reflection of light in his teeth, something barely concealed, something wild. The only thing marking him as his father’s son were his eyes, the same pale eyes Lord Roose possessed, leaving little doubt about his heritage.
They were two very different men, father and son, that much was certain, but Robb could not have said which unsettled him more. Still, he had left his army with Roose Bolton, had left his wife with him. He trusted the man. Lord Bolton was loyal. He could never have come this far without him. He owed him more than just his thanks. He owed him his life, truly.
His son, on the other hand …
Robb suppressed a shudder, squaring his shoulders as a wave of annoyance passed through him. The sun hung low in the sky behind the Dreadfort’s dark towers, and the clatter of pots and knives that rang from the kitchens announced the day’s end. The sooner all was said and done and finished, the sooner their ways would part again. The sooner he would be with Jeyne again. Jeyne. Thoughts of her had kept him warm on the long, hard ride north, and thoughts of her lent a hint of warmth to his smile that was almost genuine when he bowed his head.
Snow bowed deeply in return, brushing the hem of his richly embroidered cloak aside in a gesture that might have looked grand on another man. On him it seemed off, something that did not quite belong there. A mummer’s trick, Robb caught himself thinking as the man straightened again, moving closer, making it appear almost unintentional. Only half a step closer, but Robb became uncomfortably aware of his smell of charred meat and boiled leather. A smell that, on any other man, would never have struck him as strange.
“Your Grace.” His voice was smooth, but with a strange edge to it, a fold of velvet caught on a jagged blade. “Ramsay Snow, if it please you, Lord Roose Bolton’s natural son. I am at your service.”
I doubt that, Robb thought, resisting the urge to step back, to flinch away from the other man. His fingers curled into fists. He could not let himself be seen so weak, not in times of war, and especially not by Lord Roose’s bastard.
Bastard. He had been warned not to use the word around Ramsay Snow, as it was said to have a most unpleasant effect on his mood. Robb’s jaw tightened. I’ll be damned if I let this man intimidate me.
“I have come for Theon Greyjoy,” he said simply, avoiding drawn-out courtesies. He ground his teeth for a moment when his tongue almost stumbled on the name. Theon Greyjoy, he thought. Theon Turncloak, rather. Theon Torch-bearer.
“It has been brought to my attention that you seized him at Winterfell. Surely we agree that he must be returned to justice.”
Snow’s smile faltered for a moment, only the shortest moment, like a candle flame caught in the breeze of a single breath.
“You had better come inside, Your Grace” he said softly, bowing again as he indicated the way. “It would not do to leave my King waiting in the cold.”
*
Snow tried his best to appear charming and well-versed in matters of courtesy, but he did not fool Robb, stumbling on words with too many syllables, gulping his wine in big, greedy mouthfuls, drifting away from the conversation whenever the serving girl caught his eye.
His chambers were richly furnished, but in poor taste, his clothing ill-matched and decadent, his humour so vulgar Robb’s polite laughter nearly caught in his throat.
Ramsay Snow might live in a castle, even keep it in his father’s absence, he might consider himself a lord in all but his name, but in truth he was no better than any butcher’s boy. In truth, Robb would have preferred the company of any butcher’s boy to his. Something about Snow’s desperate attempts to appear noble was disquieting to him, like an ache in his bones, a warning. His smile is not the only thing that’s off.
The food was welcome, as was the drink, and there was plenty of both. Robb, having spent the best part of a fortnight on horseback, ate and drank without hesitation. Ramsay Snow might be a bastard in more than just blood, but he hardly seemed to possess the finesse and cunning of a poisoner.
More than once he caught himself reaching out as if to ruffle Grey Wind’s fur beside his chair, but of course the direwolf had remained behind, allowing him to travel more swiftly and without fear of being recognised. Jeyne had not liked that decision, telling him she’d prefer if she knew her lord husband had his wolf by his side, as her small white hands curled into his doublet and they kissed goodbye, his young bride tiptoeing to make their lips meet. It was a fond memory, warming him deeper than any wine.
The sun had set, and several more of the jugs had come and gone when Ramsay Snow set down his empty cup, wiped his mouth as daintily as his monstrous hands allowed, and leaned closer to his king. So close Robb frowned. So close he could almost taste the other man’s breath.
There was a flicker of a smile, not quite enough to truly see it. Then, Snow put on a serious face.
“Your Grace, forgive my hesitation,” he said softly, very softly, and his hand hovered over Robb’s knee for a moment, as if to give him a reassuring pat. Sickening.
“I did not know how to approach the subject.” He licked his plump lips, wetting them with spittle, and cast down his eyes with an expression of regret.
“You will want to know what befell your brothers.”
*
Theon sat crouched in the far corner of the cell, his head ducked between his shoulders when the key turned inside the lock. He had heard the sound of boots on stone a long time before they halted at his door, his ears so sensitive in the dark, deep silence of the dungeons that he knew every rat by its step.
Two sets of boots. Two men. Two tormentors.
He had thought they must be Ramsay and Skinner, at first, as they were his most frequent visitors, but the sound was not familiar. He knew Ramsay’s eager, heavy step like he knew his own heartbeat that stopped for a moment when he imagined what might be in store for him tonight. But the other man, no, that was not Skinner. Skinner was sluggish, sour, slow, dragging his feet along the floor as he tried to keep up with his master. This was not him. It was someone else, someone with a lighter step, a longer stride, though there was something off about it, something unsure, perhaps drink. Damon, perhaps. Theon hoped it was Damon.
The whip was almost merciful, compared to the knife.
It took several painfully long moments for his eyes to adjust to the light that flooded his cell when the door finally opened, its creak, though anticipated, so loud it almost made him wail with fear.
Two sets of boots. He almost could not bring himself to look up at the faces. Two men. Two …
“Robb?” Theon blinked, rubbing his eyes before he remembered his wounds, the pain numbed by his bewilderment. He trembled, and it was not from the cold.
Could this be true? Or was this another feverish fantasy, another dream come to him to keep his mind from breaking while Ramsay and his men had their way with him?
“Robb?” he said again, louder, ignoring the way his voice chafed in his throat like a file, pushing himself to his hands and knees, squinting at the figure in the door. It was true. It was him.
For a tiny moment filled with sweet ache he allowed himself to wallow in the idea of Robb saving him, Robb striking Ramsay’s ugly head from his shoulders, Robb taking him away from this place, Robb mending his broken body, Robb carrying him home. Only there was no more home. Not for Robb, and least of all for Theon Greyjoy. Theon Turncloak who burned it all.
If anything, the truth was even sweeter when it came to him half a ragged breath later, and a shuddering sob tore through his body when he understood. Robb had come to kill him. Unmake him, unmake this wretched creature he had become. Free him. At last.
Theon crawled from his corner after a moment’s stunned hesitation, hot tears of relief leaving trails on his dirty face. He was not ashamed. He made no attempt to rise, dragging himself across the floor on hands and knees. He only raised his head briefly to look up at Robb, just to assure himself that he was there, truly there, Robb Stark, tall and stern and wearing the light from the corridor as a fiery crown, and he threw himself down at his feet.
Ramsay watched wordlessly, no more than a bat-like shadow in the door, a nightmare lurking in another thought, another mind. Theon forced himself not to look twice. There was a small twinge of fear in the pit of his stomach where he kept his will to live, but he ignored it, curling his maimed hands against the stone floor until the pain drove all doubt from his thoughts.
There was no more need to fear. Ramsay did not matter now. Ramsay was a demon of the past. All that mattered was Robb and the sword he had brought for him. All that mattered was death, and an end to it all. At last.
“I’m sorry,” Theon whimpered through his tears, a pitiful sound, his entire body shuddering and shaking with his sobs as he lay crouched in the dirt, his own filth. He was, now, he was. Truly sorry. Not sorry his quest had failed, or that he had not killed Ramsay when Ramsay had still been Reek, and Reek had still been Theon. Truly sorry. Sorry for all he had done. Sorry for Bran, sorry for Rickon. Sorry for the wildling woman Osha and sorry for the miller’s boys. Sorry he was still alive when they were dead. His heart convulsed as he made himself look up again. “Robb, I –”
White lights burst before his eyes when Robb’s boot connected with his face.
And Ramsay laughed. It was not his usual laugh, loud and raucous and ugly. It was quiet, barely more than a chuckle. Cruel. I should have known, Theon thought, clutching his face as he writhed on the ground. I should have known. It’s just another game. Ramsay, using his smiles and cunning and tricks, had taken Robb, and made him into another playing piece.
Robb did not speak. He did not accuse him. He did not curse him. He did not call him Turncloak, but he kicked him again, burying his foot in the soft cavity beneath his ribs, where his empty stomach rested in its shell of wasted skin.
Theon retched weakly, attempting in spite of himself to curl up and shield his body against the attack.
“Justice prevails, Turncloak,” Ramsay’s voice rang loudly through another burst of pain, the amusement in his tone so bright and blatant surely Robb must have heard it too, must know that this was all a game, that this was not how it was supposed to be. But Robb did not know Ramsay well enough. Robb, unlike Reek, had been spared the look into this abyss.
Robb was on him, then, and he could smell the wine on his breath, and feel it in the way his hands fumbled for a moment before they caught his collar and shook him until red spots danced in the darkness.
And Robb pulled him to his knees, and pushed him over, and threw him back to the ground.
Theon curled his fingers until he was sure the scabs had broken on at least one of the stumps, hoping the pain would carry him away from this place until it was all over. It was no use, Robb’s breathing heavy behind him where he kneeled on the dirty straw. He fumbled with his belt, he tore at his laces, and finally he reached for Theon’s rags, who pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut until he thought his face must collapse inward, a gaping hole in his head.
He was not afraid of the pain. Ramsay had had him before, more than once, more often than he could bear to admit to himself, sneaking into his cell when his blood was boiling and using whatever remedies his body had to offer. It was not the pain he was afraid of.
It was knowing that he would know. Robb would know. The thought was torturous, unbearable even in the face of death. To die a man was all he had dared hope for. To die a man was all he wanted. To die as Theon, not as Reek. Perhaps he won’t see in the dark. Perhaps he won’t notice.
But Robb noticed. He stilled, his fingers brushing past something that was not there, pausing, returning, grasping for something that was missing. The cell seemed to grow even colder. And there was the sound again. Not quite a laugh.
“Of course I had his cock cut off after what he did to the children, Your Grace.”
There was the catch. There was the game. Another picture painted of another him he’d never been. The Iron Prince, the Turncloak, the loyal pet, the servant. And now. The monster. But not this time, no, this time Ramsay wouldn’t win, not when the end was so near at last he could almost grasp it. Not when he could almost feel his weary head fall from his shoulders.
“I didn’t!” he cried, craning his neck to look Robb in the face, meeting his eyes despite the hands on his hipbones, despite the unbuckled belt. Despite Winterfell. “Robb, I never hurt Bran, or Rickon, you know I didn’t, you know they were my brothers just the same, I –”
Something shattered inside his mouth when his face hit the ground, the taste of blood rich and heavy on his tongue a moment after. Something shattered inside his heart.
“Shut your mouth!” Robb bellowed as he threw himself on top of him, raining blows all over his back, his arms, his head, digging his fingers into his throat, pulling and tearing and battering him into the filthy ground until he thought he must break. Robb’s voice quivered with rage and tears, and Theon’s vision was blurred and wet just the same as his limbs danced uncontrollably, writhing away from the pain.
But it was not the pain that made him cry. He had not been beaten quite so hard since the day he had last said no to Ramsay and finally learned his name, had not seen so many stars since he had last been granted a look at the night sky, but he was not crying because of the pain.
Brothers. We were brothers, once.
“Robb –” he began once more, but Robb cut him short, burying a hand in his matted hair and pulling his head back until he could not breathe. When he saw the other man’s face from the corner of his eye, Theon’s blood ran cold, and he knew he’d lost. All his truths were lies. He had been marked a traitor once and for all. After all the faces he had worn and the people he had been, son, brother, lover, hostage, friend, dog, perhaps he had finally found his true name. Turncloak. A turncloak until the end. Whatever I say now, he will never believe me.
Robb’s voice still shook as he spoke, but it was quiet now, barely a whisper.
“By the Old Gods and the new,” he said, and there was something so bitter about his face it almost made him look old, reminding Theon of the dead Starks and their faces of stone, how they’d terrified him when he first came to Winterfell. He’d been no more than a boy then. A hostage. An innocent. Robb drew in a sharp breath when he opened his mouth.
“I’ll rip your filthy tongue out if you don’t keep it behind your teeth, Turncloak.”
Theon closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough breath to speak.
“Kill me, then,” he managed, and his own voice was so cold and unfamiliar in his ears he shivered, his broken fingers scrabbling uselessly against the ground as he hung there in Robb’s grip, bent and breaking at the seams. “Do what you came to do.”
He did not open his eyes again when Robb’s other hand closed around his throat. Of course, there was no greatsword for a turncloak. There was no sentence for a wicked, wretched creature such as him. There was only a hand and a quick squeeze, no more effort than those pups he’d been so eager to kill a lifetime ago, and perhaps a shallow grave without a name. It was just. It was death. It will do.
They sat there for a moment, in silent agreement, waiting for his breath to run out. Robb made a sound that might have been a sob, but Theon chose not to hear it.
His body trembled and shook when his lungs were empty, legs twitching and fingers curling as his mouth opened and closed in vain, but he did not struggle. The pain began to ebb away as every heartbeat felt a little fainter and his sight grew dim, the dark walls melting into the floor until they were a big, black orb around them, a blissful void.
If people knew how good it feels to die, he thought vaguely, and a crooked smile spread on his sunken face at last, winter would find the world silent and empty.
The hand was gloved in smooth leather, but it almost felt warm against his skin.