this broken thing we havebloodofpykeMarch 22 2012, 23:05:49 UTC
He was grinning up at him, this Bastard of the Dreadfort, and then he wasn’t, then it was Robb doing the grinning as the blood bubbled up and ran, as his head thudded to the ground.
He stopped grinning when his men dragged something in, dragged someone in, for Robb could see that it was a man, or near enough, and the smell alone almost made him wretch. But he was a king, so he ignored the bile in his throat and looked closer until his hand was on his sword.
“What is it, Your Grace?” one of his men was asking, and the sword was in the air, still dripping blood.
“That’s no man,” he answered, and his voice was all the cold fury of the North. “It’s Greyjoy.”
He paused though, like the boy he used to be, like the boy he was still, and looked at Theon, at the raw skin and missing fingers, and wondered if maybe he hadn’t suffered enough. Then he remembered Bran and Rickon, and something in him hardened, and he was stepping back, grip tightening on his sword. But then Greyjoy was opening his mouth and words were tumbling out through his broken teeth. “Please-please, I’m not, I’m not Greyjoy, I’m Reek, I am.” And Robb’s arms were heavy, too heavy, and the sword clattered to the ground, and he was spitting out orders to have thing washed and clothed and fed.
***
“So, you’re not Theon Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands?” Robb asked later, watching the man closely. “of House Greyjoy, on Pyke?”
“N-no, I’m Reek, Your Grace, I’m Reek.”
“I see,” Robb answered, reaching for his wine. And then, “That will be all for tonight.”
***
The next night, “This game is tiring, and I have a war to win.”
“Please, please, Your Grace, I’m Ramsay’s, I am, I can’t remember anything else, I-”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” he asked, and then he was on his feet and shouting, “You know damn well who you are! You’re Theon of House Greyjoy, you sacked Winterfell, you killed my brothers, and you were my friend!”
He was cowering, Theon or Reek or whoever the fuck he was pretending to be, hands raised against Robb’s words, mumbling, “I’m not him, I’m not, I’m Reek. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember me?” Robb asked, voice dropping, and he could kick himself for the way he sounded, like some sap from one of Sansa’s stories, pining over his lost love. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t make himself stop, and the words were rushing out of him now. “You don’t remember training in the yard? Or sneaking drinks in the godswood? Or anything?”
His head shook, and he looked pitiful, this white, dried-up thing shivering in front of Robb, all hollowed out and half dead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice dragging and choked. “I don’t remember.”
And Robb crouched in front of him, already hating himself, but he was reaching for him, fingers running through the brittle white hair, tongue running over the broken teeth, heartbeat racing. “You don’t remember that?” he asked, and he wanted to just cut Greyjoy’s head and be done with it, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, and he didn’t know which was worse.
“No,” came the answer, and it sounded like he was choking back a sob.
“That will be all for tonight,” Robb said, standing back up and watching as Theon made his way out the door.
Re: this broken thing we havejanie_tangerineMarch 24 2012, 08:52:58 UTC
.. OH MY GOD *dies* this was - this was so GOOD I can't even. (also amnesia = bulletproof kink, so this is hitting all the right buttons.) No seriously I'll be here shedding tears quietly and if you're ever inclined to write more I'd totally read it.
He stopped grinning when his men dragged something in, dragged someone in, for Robb could see that it was a man, or near enough, and the smell alone almost made him wretch. But he was a king, so he ignored the bile in his throat and looked closer until his hand was on his sword.
“What is it, Your Grace?” one of his men was asking, and the sword was in the air, still dripping blood.
“That’s no man,” he answered, and his voice was all the cold fury of the North. “It’s Greyjoy.”
He paused though, like the boy he used to be, like the boy he was still, and looked at Theon, at the raw skin and missing fingers, and wondered if maybe he hadn’t suffered enough. Then he remembered Bran and Rickon, and something in him hardened, and he was stepping back, grip tightening on his sword. But then Greyjoy was opening his mouth and words were tumbling out through his broken teeth. “Please-please, I’m not, I’m not Greyjoy, I’m Reek, I am.” And Robb’s arms were heavy, too heavy, and the sword clattered to the ground, and he was spitting out orders to have thing washed and clothed and fed.
***
“So, you’re not Theon Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands?” Robb asked later, watching the man closely. “of House Greyjoy, on Pyke?”
“N-no, I’m Reek, Your Grace, I’m Reek.”
“I see,” Robb answered, reaching for his wine. And then, “That will be all for tonight.”
***
The next night, “This game is tiring, and I have a war to win.”
“Please, please, Your Grace, I’m Ramsay’s, I am, I can’t remember anything else, I-”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” he asked, and then he was on his feet and shouting, “You know damn well who you are! You’re Theon of House Greyjoy, you sacked Winterfell, you killed my brothers, and you were my friend!”
He was cowering, Theon or Reek or whoever the fuck he was pretending to be, hands raised against Robb’s words, mumbling, “I’m not him, I’m not, I’m Reek. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember me?” Robb asked, voice dropping, and he could kick himself for the way he sounded, like some sap from one of Sansa’s stories, pining over his lost love. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t make himself stop, and the words were rushing out of him now. “You don’t remember training in the yard? Or sneaking drinks in the godswood? Or anything?”
His head shook, and he looked pitiful, this white, dried-up thing shivering in front of Robb, all hollowed out and half dead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice dragging and choked. “I don’t remember.”
And Robb crouched in front of him, already hating himself, but he was reaching for him, fingers running through the brittle white hair, tongue running over the broken teeth, heartbeat racing. “You don’t remember that?” he asked, and he wanted to just cut Greyjoy’s head and be done with it, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, and he didn’t know which was worse.
“No,” came the answer, and it sounded like he was choking back a sob.
“That will be all for tonight,” Robb said, standing back up and watching as Theon made his way out the door.
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There should be MOOOOOREEEEEEEEEE!
*slips off quietly sobbing*
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