ruined and brokenbloodofpykeMarch 18 2012, 19:25:06 UTC
what is this idek but i feel like i should apologize
He pictured it, kept picturing it. Winterfell ruined, his brother’s heads on spikes, the North lost. And he wanted to scream himself raw, wanted Theon’s head on a spike of its own, wanted Theon as ruined and broken as he felt.
He heard, of course, heard that Bolton’s bastard had Theon chained in the dungeons under the Dreadfort, and somewhere in him, he tried to care, tried find it in himself to feel something. But he came up empty, came up jumbled, and so he buried it, deeper and deeper, and tried to lose himself in the war, in his new wife, in being this king who’d lost his kingdom.
It was hard, though, keeping it all buried, and bits kept resurfacing: Theon’s laugh when he tried to use a bow the first time; those stolen moments in the godswood, all ragged breathing and grasping hands; that last night they spent together, unspoken words crashing to the ground and shattering. He saw a man grasping a bow, and his mind flashed back to Theon piercing the wildling that held Bran all those months ago; he heard someone chuckling at a dirty jape, and he remembered the way Theon had laughed whenever he tried to act older than his years.
There might be more to the story, he thought sometimes, in the middle of the night when he woke gasping for air, hands reaching for someone who wasn’t there. But he pictured it all again, imagined Theon riding up to Winterfell in the dead of night, slaughtering his brothers where they stood, and his hands balled into fists, the sheets bunching up around him. He was your brother once, he reminded himself, could be your brother still, even broken and beaten and ruined.
And he thought of Theon, Ramsay’s new plaything, chained up and maimed, thought again of his brothers, of Winterfell, and something in him cried out, refused to be buried.
He pictured it, kept picturing it. Winterfell ruined, his brother’s heads on spikes, the North lost. And he wanted to scream himself raw, wanted Theon’s head on a spike of its own, wanted Theon as ruined and broken as he felt.
He heard, of course, heard that Bolton’s bastard had Theon chained in the dungeons under the Dreadfort, and somewhere in him, he tried to care, tried find it in himself to feel something. But he came up empty, came up jumbled, and so he buried it, deeper and deeper, and tried to lose himself in the war, in his new wife, in being this king who’d lost his kingdom.
It was hard, though, keeping it all buried, and bits kept resurfacing: Theon’s laugh when he tried to use a bow the first time; those stolen moments in the godswood, all ragged breathing and grasping hands; that last night they spent together, unspoken words crashing to the ground and shattering. He saw a man grasping a bow, and his mind flashed back to Theon piercing the wildling that held Bran all those months ago; he heard someone chuckling at a dirty jape, and he remembered the way Theon had laughed whenever he tried to act older than his years.
There might be more to the story, he thought sometimes, in the middle of the night when he woke gasping for air, hands reaching for someone who wasn’t there. But he pictured it all again, imagined Theon riding up to Winterfell in the dead of night, slaughtering his brothers where they stood, and his hands balled into fists, the sheets bunching up around him. He was your brother once, he reminded himself, could be your brother still, even broken and beaten and ruined.
And he thought of Theon, Ramsay’s new plaything, chained up and maimed, thought again of his brothers, of Winterfell, and something in him cried out, refused to be buried.
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actual tears in my eyes fuck u
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oh god this was beautiful and i can't bREAHTE
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