FIC: take my hand and stay with me (Theon) for murderershair

[soiafxchangemod]

Recipient: murderershair
Title: take my hand and stay with me
Author: elalendi
Rating: Teen/Mature
Characters: Theon Greyjoy, Asha Greyjoy, Rickon Stark, Osha, Stannis Baratheon, Sansa Stark, Theon/Sansa
Word Count: 5420
Summary: Theon on his slow path to redemption and becoming whole again.
Warning: (if applicable) Future fic, AU/canon-divergence, spoilers for ADWD

He had been so ready to die. With death he could forget all the horrendous memories, he could ignore the looks people gave him when they saw him nowadays. Dead, he'd be forever free of the shadow of Reek. But it seemed that nothing ever went the way he wanted.

"Theon, are you listening to me?" his sister was saying. "They found Rickon Stark in Skagos and they're bringing him back. And if Bran Stark is alive-"

"He is," said Theon. "He was in the tree. He knew my name." Theon, Theon.

Asha hesitated for only a brief moment. "If that's so, then more proof to Stannis and the north that you are no kinslayer."

I'm no kinslayer but I am still a turncloak, thought Theon. The north remembers, or they remembered the bad anyway, and taking Winterfell when it had been his home for ten years was bad. Asha knew that just as well but she wasn't going to say it. She stood close to him and kept reaching out as if to touch him, but never did. They'd scrubbed Theon clean and put him in presentable clothes but that couldn't change his skin. I still reek, he thought. Reek is in my skin, in my pores.

"Now I want you to listen carefully, Theon. Look at me."

Reluctantly he turned to look at his sister. He did not like to meet her eyes. Her eyes were sad and soft as they traced his ugly face. He could feel the pity she felt coming off in waves and he hated it.

"Stannis is too shrewd to ever let us go freely," she told him in a low voice, "but I know his kind of man. Justice. Duty. Eye for an eye. If we do him a great service he will do us one." A smile spread across Asha's face, catlike and knowing, a much more familiar sight than her pity eyes. "Enemy of our enemy is our friend. We'll have him believe that."

For now, his sister meant to say. When it suits us. Theon thought of Stannis with his stone-cold stare and square jaw. He would see through Asha's ploy within a second... but he would still agree to whatever Asha proposed. He was a shrewd but practical man. He wanted the Iron Throne and Asha and Theon were his captives. The game pieces were on his side.

It was all just a game, the stag using the krakens, krakens using the stag. Theon realized he didn't give a shit.

"As you please," he said to Asha. He tried to imagine returning home, home home, not Winterfell. Winterfell was never truly his home and he'd only made a fool of himself trying to make it so. They'll put me with Mother, he thought, and she'll weep and weep and clutch my arm and ask me where Maron and Rodrik are. While Euron and Victarion and Asha played their little game of thrones, he'd be tending the ravens, if the ravens didn't mind his stumped fingers. The ravens know my name.

"It pleases me indeed," said Asha, but suddenly her voice was cold. "Although I thought I should ask your permission first. You see, brother, I have a mind to make you the Iron King."

Theon gaped at her. "Are you mad?"

She gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him so that she was only inches from his face. "Why am I mad?" she hissed. "You are the son of Balon Greyjoy, are you not? Have you forgotten?"

"I..." Theon found it hard to look away when his sister was right in his face. "I'm broken. They will see..."

She shoved him back and slapped him. The cold sting made his cheek numb. It felt strangely good, but Theon didn't tell her that.

"Ironborn do not break," she told him. "I don't care what Bolton's bastard did to you - yes, I'll call him bastard because that's exactly what he is- blood of iron and salt still flows in your veins." She stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing. "Forget not, brother. You are the last son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke, Once-King of Salt and Crown... you are his heir and the rightful Iron King. Now say it."

"I am Theon of House-"

"Louder."

Theon gritted his splintered teeth; the pain was nothing compared to the annoyance of seeing his sister standing there, her arms crossed, commanding him to do this and that. "I am your king," he snapped. "I don't need you to tell me anything."

"That's more like the baby brother I know," said Asha with a satisfied smile.

He turned away from her.

Asha leaned over and laughed softly in his ear. "If you are who you say you are, then show them. Show Stannis and the northerners and the Starks. Show our nuncles and the captains and our people. Show the whole fucking world. Teach them the meaning of the iron price."

Theon stared at her, uncomprehending. He was glad that she wasn't looking at him the way someone eyed a whimpering pup anymore, but he wasn't sure if the current glint in her eye bode any better. "How-"

"Stannis dealt with the Freys and the Manderlys. All that's left are Roose Bolton and the Bastard."

Theon was barely able to bite back his reflex. Never call him the Bastard! "Ramsay," he made himself say instead, "he is coming."

"Only in your nightmares, brother." Asha shook her head. "Roose Bolton is too smart for that. He and his precious heir are guarding Winterfell, baiting for Stannis. That's where you come in."

No, thought Theon. I'm not going back there. I'm-

"The Bastard once fucked you over when you held Winterfell," she said, voice smooth as silk. "It's time the tables turned, is it not?"

"No," he whispered.

She slapped him again on the other cheek. I will look like a blushing maiden by the time this is done, he thought. This struck him as hilarious for some reason and he started to laugh, a hollow, pathetic sound even to his own ears.

When Asha spoke next, her voice was full of disgust. "Did the Bastard cut off your balls? No matter. Even if he did, we'll cut off his and stitch them on you if that's what it takes." She pointed at Theon. "Until you man up enough to be king, you listen to me. And I say you will win Stannis his castle and get us where we need to be. What is your name?"

He closed his fists, his stumps offering a dull ache, nothing more. "Theon," he spat. Not Reek. Not Reek ever again.

"You have to know your name," she said, mocking.

---

The siege was a blur of falling limbs and dead bodies in the freezing storm. Once Theon had relished the sight of blood, loved the feel of a sword in his hand, and delighted at pushing forward on his horse; laughed heartily at the enemies and victims that fell before his feet. That had been the Theon of another time. I'm still Theon, he thought. But he was another Theon, one who retched in the snow, one whom the northerners grabbed by the hair and spat, make yourself useful, craven!

I'm not a craven, Theon thought only half-coherently.

A few moments later he met the girls.

He saw them running towards him, barking madly. Someone shot an arrow into one of them - Sour Alyn or Skinner, it was impossible to tell in the blinding snow - but that didn't stop them. They know my smell, Theon realized. Stannis spared him an honorable execution so the gods were just going to grant Theon a dog's death. Still a better death than Reek. He was too weak to laugh.

But when dogs reached him, they didn't sink their teeth into his skin. They leapt up at him but it was only their tongues that extended from their jaws.

That gave Theon the strength to laugh. A real laugh.

After that everything was dream-like, and later when he awakened in his bed with someone tending his wounds he would close his eyes and could only remember in pieces and bits. He almost wondered if it had not just been a dream - climbing into Winterfell, walking up that spiraling staircase, strangely calm, and then the look on Ramsay's face and the stench on his skewered throat ("You're Reek now") - but Asha came and told him all of it had happened, and when Theon could walk again he went to kneel before Stannis who just looked at him and said, "Well done."

The northerners still hated him, Theon knew, and the ghosts of Winterfell who devoured him in his dreams now increased by one more. But he was back in Winterfell and that was a comfort in some ways. He went into the godswood every day and knelt in front of the heart tree and listened for Bran's voice. It never came, only the blowing of dead leaves, but it was nice because you could hear anything you wanted to in the breeze.

He was in the godswood the day Asha found him. She had news, Theon could feel it, and his heart plummeted. He was not ready for the kingsmoot or whatever his sister planned. Leaving Winterfell...

Her news was another kind, however. "Rickon Stark," she said simply, "he's here."

---

Theon had never once believed that Stannis's right-hand-man Davos would actually find Rickon in Skagos, much less bring him home. For all he knew the rumors of Rickon Stark still being alive were spun by someone or the other. It wouldn't be the first time someone produced a fake Stark for their own gain. The truth about Jeyne Poole hadn't been discovered yet, and if the news of Jon Snow's death proved true, it likely never would. But Arya Stark had been nine when she went missing; Rickon had been three. Toddlers were a hell lot easier to fake than pubescent girls. Little boys all looked the same. Theon tried not to think of the miller's sons.

As Asha said, for his own sake, this Rickon Stark better be the real thing.

As it turned out, however, he had underestimated the Onion Knight. Theon had barely taken one step into the hall when he heard a growl. A wolf's growl.

"Who is he? Shaggy doesn't like him."

Shaggy, of course, thought Theon. He dared not move. The direwolf was dripping slobber everywhere from its fangs, his yellow eyes seeming to glow as they pierced Theon, or more precisely Theon's throat. Somehow Theon guessed the direwolf's intentions were different from Ramsay's girls.

Asha looked like ready to answer for Theon, but Theon stopped her. Every pair of eyes were on Theon as he turned to face the little boy seated in Ned Stark's high seat. Theon knelt and said all the words expected of him, but it was the boy he watched.

Not just boy, but Rickon. Theon was almost sure. If not for the direwolf, he wouldn't have been sure at all.

The Rickon Stark that Theon knew was red-haired, blue-eyed, and chubby-faced, with stocky arms and legs, a cheery laugh when he was in a good mood and a powerful cry when he was angry. The boy who sat in front of Theon now had hair cut close to his head, making his small thin face appear even sharper. He bore a faint scar on his left eyebrow, more scratches on his face and neck and probably elsewhere had his clothes not obscured them. The slight roundness to his cheeks was the only indication of baby fat. His eyes were blue as Rickon Stark's had been, but that was where any similarity ended. These eyes were quiet as they observed Theon. But not the calm sort of quiet; they were as intense and wild as his direwolf's glare. Rickon had always been unruly like his sister Arya, but this...

What had he seen?

"So it's you," a woman's voice said, interrupting his reverie. "Smiley lord."

The woman who spoke was standing next to Rickon, a spear clutched in her hand. Theon had not noticed her until now, but recognition clicked fast. Osha, the wilding woman? There was no mistaking her; she didn't look much different from the first time he had seen her in the woods. It felt like ages ago, that day when Theon strung his crossbow and shot an arrow at Bran's kidnappers. Robb was alive then. They'd had a row but later that night Robb had apologized. "Gods, everything lately..." he had choked, and Theon hadn't known what to say, so he just put an arm around Robb as the two of them stared up at the stars. That had been before everything.

"You lived, did you?" the wildling woman went on, eyeing him with beady eyes. "And went through some things, too, from the look o' it. Same could be said for us." She patted Rickon's shoulder. "Go on, my prince. Have a good look at the traitor who fancied himself your title. Prince of Winterfell."

The direwolf growled louder, looking ready to jump for Theon's throat, but it was Rickon Stark whom Theon watched. The way Rickon tightened his lips was more resemblant of Osha than of Stark or Tully. "Traitor," he said, his voice still full of a child's ring but jarringly sharp. "Where is Bran? Did you kill him?"

"Never," said Theon hoarsely. "Bran lives."

"Is he lying?" Rickon asked, glancing up at Osha. The wildling raised him well.

"Why wouldn't he?" shrugged Osha. "He lied before." As if in agreement, Shaggydog snarled.

"My brother tells the truth," Asha said, but her hand strayed to her axe as she eyed the direwolf.

"Enough."

This time it was Stannis who spoke as he held up a hand. "Wildling wench-"

"Osha," corrected the wildling woman. Then in humility that fooled no one, she added, "Your Grace."

A muscle worked in Stannis's jaw, but otherwise he remained impassive. "Osha, put down the spear and calm the wolf. You have my word that Theon..." he glanced at Theon, "...Greyjoy wanted no harm to come to the young Stark lord or his brother, then or now. Whatever he did in the past, he wishes to repent. Trust that he has begun. We would not be sitting here in Lord Rickon's keep if not for Greyjoy's help."

It was not like Stannis to give compliments; as it was, Theon was at a loss for speech. Osha, however, seemed silent for other reasons. She continued to squint at Theon with suspicious eyes, although she did drop her spear, and the direwolf pawed the ground but did not leap.

A flicker of confusion passed over Rickon's face. "And Bran?" he demanded, more reminiscent of his former self. "Where is Bran?"

Stannis looked over at Theon. Theon resisted a sigh. Not for the first time, he recounted everything that had happened with the weirwoods, whispers of his name and then the time at the heart tree right before his would-have-been execution. Theon was weary of telling this because no one ever believed him. He doubted Asha did even if she claimed she believed; that was probably to spare him his feelings.

When he was done, Osha had the typical look of shock mingled with skepticism, but again, it was Rickon whom Theon watched.

The youngest son of Ned Stark grinned, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth. "I knew it. Bran spoke to me, too."

---

It was a strange feeling, to have a Stark so sad to see him go. The last time Theon had experienced anything similar was when Robb Stark had embraced him in goodbye before Theon left for the Iron Islands.

Now he was bound for the same destination, but for a very different reason. And it was not Robb but Robb's little brother who wrapped his spindly arms around Theon. "Everyone leaves," Rickon cried. "Everyone leaves and they don't come back."

How did it come to this? Theon looked to Osha, who just smirked and shook her head, then at Asha, who smirked in matching fashion. Those two are not just alike in name.

"Rickon," he said as patiently as he could, squatting down so he was on the boy's eye level. "I..." He did not want to promise Rickon his return. Promises that couldn't be kept can cut deeper than swords. "We might meet again," he said instead. "If you're good and you want to."

If the gods let us live through this war.

"I do want to," said Rickon. His tears left smudges on his round cheeks. He'd fattened up some under the pampering a prince received, but it would still be a while before he looked like Rickon Stark again. For one thing, his red hair had to grow out. "I want you, me, and Bran together and we could go find Arya and Sansa."

Theon found it difficult to swallow. The fact that Rickon had stopped asking where his mother, father, and Robb went drove daggers in Theon's chest, though Theon didn't know why. The Starks have nothing to do with me, he told himself. But another voice in his head asked him who he was trying to convince. "That'd be... nice," he managed to reply. He realized he meant it.

He hugged the small boy back, awkwardly patting Rickon's back. Theon had embraced Robb, embraced countless women, a long time ago had even embraced his mother, but never before had he held a little child in his arms. Hell, he never even liked children. It was strange to hold someone so fragile; to feel protective; not a bad feeling, Theon decided. War brought strange surprises. Shaggydog not growling at him was proof of that.

Before Theon pulled away, Rickon said something to him he did not understand, in the Old Tongue.

Theon looked up to see Osha smile, a rare one that had warmth.

"He called you 'brother.'"

When the ship left the harbor, Asha joined him in watching land fade away into hazy white. Snow was drifting although by now they were used to much harsher snowfalls. "You've truly become a Stark," she said.

"I am no Stark." To Rickon I'm just a substitute for his big brother. Little boys get confused.

Asha was all-knowing as she walked away. "It was a compliment."

---

Lady Alannys was brought out to the sea. "What is dead may never die." Echoes of it surrounded Theon, distant and grave. "But rises again, harder and stronger."

Mother won't rise, Theon thought dully. Even if her ghost comes back it would be a sad, sickly ghost, gliding through the halls of the towers, calling for her sons.

From beside him, Asha was standing motionless, her face paler than he had ever seen. Her pets the Maid and Botley had both tried to talk to her or touch her but she had just flinched away from them. Her eyes were dry but empty as she watched Mother float away.

She loved Mother, thought Theon. Her grief is real. He pinched himself on the forearm, but still he felt no pain. There was none of that in his chest, either. My mother is dead but I do not feel.

He had felt more pain when news of the Red Wedding reached him. When that had happened he had been Reek, not Theon, but it didn't matter; he'd writhed at the description of the Young Wolf's demise without the need for a flaying. Stabbed in the back, and later Grey Wind's head sewn onto the corpse. He was dead by then, he couldn't have felt it. At least he died without seeing them kill his wolf. But Theon couldn't stop thinking of Robb's easy laughter, his strong arm when he wrestled Theon or punched him playfully, something he would never feel again. I betrayed him. I slayed his brothers. He hated me when he died. Those thoughts had been the worst torment.

What did that mean, that he felt more sorrow for the loss of a foster brother than of his own mother?

It means I am more Stark than Greyjoy. Since he wasn't really a Stark, it meant he was neither.

"Theon," said Asha suddenly, turning around. "Let us go."

His sister's voice was steady, and she stood straight, not a tremor to her shoulders. Ever the queen. She was queen now, Theon had yielded his crown after the kingsmoot; whether or not she stayed queen, though, that was up to her. Their nuncles strategized and schemed somewhere over the seas while on land, Tyrells and Lannisters and Baratheons and Martells and even talks of Targaryens fought. Asha would need an ally to strengthen her force, and she could get one if she wed, now with her previous marriage annulled. But his sister was determined to keep her crown without a husband. Folly or not, Theon did not care to intervene. He had lost his ambitions long ago.

Asha said not a word until Theon escorted her to her room. "Tell them to leave me alone for a while," she said. "No one is to disturb."

She waited for Theon to leave, but he didn't. He didn't know why he didn't... no, he did. When he looked at his sister's face, a taut cold mask, he was strongly reminded of his King in the North back in the other Theon's days.

That had been a mask Robb took off only in the dark of the night. Theon, I'm scared, he would confide, only then.

"Did you not hear me? Your queen commands."

She stiffened in alarm as Theon shortened the distance between them, but before she could reach for her dirk Theon had already put his arms around her.

"What-?" She struggled to push him away.

He didn't let go. "I'm here, sister."

A long silence. Then, muffled, quiet sobs as she stopped fighting him and shook.

Maybe Theon was still a Greyjoy after all.

---

Many years passed before he returned to the north again.

The Long Winter prevailed, but the worst was behind them. Horrors had gone, the dead long since buried beneath the ice and snow, leaving behind desolate lonelinesss. The few trees that hadn't fallen during the war of the monsters were leafless and bare. Only weirwood trees stood, spirits of the Old Gods perhaps protected them, and each one that Theon rode past he imagined Bran was watching. The sun no longer reached here very well, although there was enough light to tell apart day from night... just enough.

The Lady of Winterfell was waiting for him at the gate of the keep, wrapped up in furs, her hair whipped by the wind as it blew, a lantern clutched in her hands. She must be freezing, but her face did not show it. Not for the first time, Theon was struck by the strength in women. The gods did give me a beating for me to see it.

She helped him disembark and lead the horse into the castle. The horse would freeze in the stable, and as it were, there were too few able hands to waste anyone as a stableboy. Not in these times.

It was not until they were inside, protected from the snow, did she speak. "My lord," she said, tipping her head in courtesy. She had always been well-bred in her manners; that had not changed. "It's been a while."

Ten years is a while. "It has, my lady," he agreed.

A silence stretched as the two of them looked at each other, each taking in the other's "souvenirs" of the war. Sansa Stark absorbed the burns on Theon's neck, the limp in his gait, and, of course, his stumps for fingers. To her credit her expression betrayed not even the most subtle grimace. Meanwhile Theon absorbed the scar on Sansa's face - long and pale under the light from her lantern, a slash from eye to lip. Some songs said that Littlefinger had drawn that scar on her in his rage when she refused his hand; other songs said that she had drawn the scar herself in a fit of madness after she lost her babe. And many more songs said other things...

Sansa seemed to read his thoughts. She smiled wryly, reaching a hand to her scar. "Are you so enraptured by my beauty, my lord?" she asked.

Sansa Stark and sarcasm. Who'd have guessed. "No less than you are enraptured by mine," he said without thinking. So he had not lost all of his humor from the old days.

She smiled wider, and it was indeed a lovely sight. Theon saw the young girl with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes again, smiling the same sweet smile when she bit into a lemon cake. "We suit each other well then, handsome Lord and Lady of Winterfell." Her smile faded. The moment of fun was gone. Memories returned.

He had wondered about this ever since he had received the letter from Winterfell. Why did she stay here alone, to be haunted by ghosts? "If you'd like," he suggested, "we could go south." Winter was still in the south, but not like it was in the north - and forever might be in the north, if what the maesters in Oldtown said was true. The Land of Always Winter, they said, had spread beyond the ruins of the Wall.

She shook her head. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Ned Stark had always said that, true, but it was funny to think that Sansa would be the Stark sibling who stubbornly upheld her father's phrase even when there was hardly anything left to rule over or to defend. Sansa, who used to dream of kissing dashing knights and dancing in beautiful gowns before an admiring court. She had always seemed more Tully than Stark in coloring and temperament.

Again, as if reading his mind, Sansa frowned. Her cold fury was somehow more beautiful than her smile. "Do you doubt me because I'm a woman?"

Theon raised an eyebrow. "There are more queens than kings nowadays," he reminded her. He was not the only man by now who realized the strength of women. "But I would have thought it'd be your sister..." Theon paused. He wondered if he was going too far. This was effectually the Queen in the North he was speaking to - if the north still existed. "My lady, pardon my tongue, I didn't-"

Sansa interrupted him. "Arya, aye, she's the very image of my father and proved herself a warrior goddess." At the mention of her sister, her anger vanished to yield a tender smile. "She hasn't forgotten Winterfell, either. All those people she killed in King's Landing were in our name." She sighed. "That is exactly why I won't call her back. She's happy in the Riverlands with Nymeria and the Baratheon boy. Here... there's too much hate and grief."

The last words Sansa spoke bitterly, and abrupty she turned away from Theon. "Get your change of clothes, then meet me in the godswood. Let us wed before the snow falls heavier." It was not a jest.

Very romantic, thought Theon, finding some amusement in this situation. He remembered a time long ago when he had fantasized of wedding Sansa Stark and taking on the Stark name. Now it was about to come true but if the boy he had been then were to see this now... He laughed quietly to himself before going inside the chamber Sansa Stark had shown him.

The godswood was eerie and full of whispers, but Theon did not mind. He had barely a moment to recollect his surroundings before Sansa entered, escorted by a maid. Sansa, his bride.

There was nothing sentimental about this wedding, he knew, if the lack of music, decorations, and wedding guests were any indication. No doubt once-widowed, once-divorced Sansa Stark had her fair share of sentimental weddings. She did not do so much as blink as she came to stand before Theon. Snow ringed her lashes. The white cloak and the snow made her red hair even more vivid. Scar or not, she was still beautiful. If I could say the same for me.

She looked at him, head held high and her lips pressed firmly. She looks like she is riding to battle. That was what this was, wasn't it? A battle to be endured, for her.

"You do not have to wed me," he found himself saying.

Sansa's eyes widened, just the slightest. "Did you change your mind?"

He almost laughed again. As if she was worried that he did not want this. "You have choices. You don't need me."

"Choices," she repeated. "I have considered all of my choices, Greyjoy. I thought I made it clear in my letter."

"I know. I am your last choice." Sandor Clegane was dead, Jon Snow (or Targaryen as he should be called now) rebuilding the Wall, Willas Tyrell wed to a princess of Dorne, Tyrion Lannister disappeared with a crofter's daughter. Remaining bachelor sons of great Houses who survived, their families refused to let them take their wife's name; they had their own bloodlines to continue. Sansa Stark could not wed a peasant boy, could she, if she wanted highborn Stark children to carry the Stark line? So that left her Theon.

A marriage of duty, that was all this was. And Theon had replied to her letter, thinking that was all he needed. Since his time at the Dreadfort he had lost the ability to love a woman, he thought. Even before that he doubted he had ever loved a woman.

Then why was he irritated now, at the prospect of wedding a woman who did not love him?

"I chose you because I thought you understood," said Sansa.

"Understood honor and duty? I have none." You should know better than anyone.

She reached to turn his face to hers, her touch oddly gentle. "Understood about Winterfell, about these whispers..." she gestured to the woods around them, "...about before... the old times." Her blue eyes were sad, like the bottomless sea. "About the hold this place has on me."

Theon could hear it then. Giggles, soft laughter, caresses on the wind. Looking around he saw the young boy Theon skipping stones by the creek, tussling in the grass with Robb. Ghosts of the past, but Theon was not afraid or pained to see. This is why she stays. Hate and grief lingered in this place but so did the innocence of their childhood. Everyone had their ways of clinging to the past, of trying to bring it back. Sansa was just most literal in her way.

"War changed so many things," Sansa said quietly, stroking the bark of a weirwood tree, "and war took away so many things. But it could not take away Winterfell. Winterfell still stands. Broken, but it stands." Her voice was suddenly fierce. "It stood for centuries and centuries, Father's home and home to all the Starks before him, just like it was to me. And it will stand forever after. I will make it so." She turned to him. "You were once a Stark, Theon. You understand."

"I was never a Stark," he said, a whisper.

"You wanted to be," she said, a soft smile lifting her lips. "Or you would not have taken Winterfell. You would not have gotten those burns for Rickon. You would not have agreed to wed me."

She had him.

He took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of something old and fresh at the same time. "I betrayed your family."

"We were all stupid once," she answered. "So was I, don't you remember?"

"I am not the way I was before," he tried. "On my body, the burns... and more..."

She scoffed, most un-ladylike. "That's a relief. I've had enough of beautiful men and it would not do for my husband to be more comely than me." She took his hand. "If you regret, then earn your forgiveness by restoring Winterfell at my side. You fear that I hate you, but I do not. You only sought for a home to return to." Her smile was beautiful in its sadness. "As was I."

Theon squeezed her hand back, and what was there left to say?

Under the heart tree, he became a Stark.

END