janie_tangerine | (no subject)

The Wall is cold, and that had been something Theon expected. He’d have been a complete fucking idiot not to expect it.

He had also expected the people to not be particularly welcoming, and he also had expected Jon Snow to murder him on sight the moment he showed up without even letting him take his bloody vows, regardless of what Ser Rodrik’s raven said – that is, if he sent it in the first place when Theon negotiated his surrender, but the man is honorable to a fault, same as his lord used to be, and Theon hadn’t doubted that as he rode to his inevitable life sentence. Oh, and he had expected to go through some kind of trial – it’s not as if he ever paid attention to the Night’s Watch recruitment practices because he never thought he actually would need nor want to join, but he was somewhat sure that people didn’t just march inside Castle Black and swore their vows.

Turns out that he was wildly wrong on about most of his expectations, because the Wall is, in fact, fucking cold, and given that he never quite got adjusted to Winterfell’s climate he’s not relishing the years he’ll need to spend someplace where it’s worse than that all the time, but that’s about everything that he actually had guessed.

First thing, Jon Snow is not, in fact, even on the premises. Jon Snow, he’s told, has joined a group of rangers headed on an expedition beyond the Wall, and when he’s told why he spares a thought for that poor bastard whose head he kicked just before Robert Baratheon and his bloody court walked into Winterfell.

Because if Theon had ran into the bloody Others himself, he’d have deserted the shit out of the Watch, except that now he’s actually joining voluntarily and isn’t that just goddamned ironic?

Never mind. He made his bed, he’s going to lie in it.

So, Jon Snow is not on the premises, which is a fairly good thing since it means his head stays on his shoulders for sure. At that point, Theon just hopes that however long his training is, it’ll end before Jon comes back, so he won’t have any excuses to rightfully want his head, and patience if he actually never killed Bran and Rickon – it’s not as if Jon’s opinion of him ever was that high in the first place, and it’s not as if Theon hasn’t about fucked Robb over anyway.

Right.

He’s not going to think about Robb, not now, not until he’s sure that at least his life will be spared.

Except that it turns out that there’s no training.

Or better: there should be, but apparently since the Lord Commander, most of the men and just about everyone except the maester and the smith are either beyond the Wall or at Eastwatch, there’s no one to even oversee training. The moment Theon shows up, some of the few recruits that were left bring him to the smith – Donal Noye, he says – who takes an exceedingly good look at him, his eyes not betraying the slightest hint of approval or disapproval or whatever.

“Theon Greyjoy,” he says. “Yes, we did get word of your stint at Winterfell. I imagine that is why you wish to join us?”

Theon figures there’s no bloody point in lying. “I lost. It was either that or waiting for R – for the King in the North to take my head.” If Noye notices his slip, he doesn’t show. “And I’d rather have a chance here than die.”

“Well,” Noye says, “this is the Night’s Watch and it’s not as if we can refuse recruits. Especially if they’re like you.”

“… Wait, what?”

Noye snorts, but it’s not very amused.

It’s more resigned.

“Lord Greyjoy, have you taken a look around? Most people here had to be taught from scratch when it came to using a weapon, the master at arms is currently at Eastwatch training what recruits we’ve got over there, most of the men who can fight are ranging with the Lord Commander and we already had barely enough people to man three castles on twenty. You’re young, you’re trained already, if you had the same teacher as Jon Snow you can use a sword and at least a couple other weapons if you have to –”

“Truth to be told, I’m better with a bow than –”

“Who cares, as long as you can be useful in battle. Anyway, I was saying, you’re young, you can fight, and as things are, the Lord Commander is beyond the Wall, no one is technically in charge – maybe Marsh, but he’s not in charge of the recruits – and we couldn’t be picky before, sure as the seven hells we can’t be picky now. Sure, you can’t take your vows until the Lord Commander’s back, but never mind it. Come with.”

“Where – where to?”

“You should meet at least Marsh and the Maester, there’s a limit to breachin’ fucking protocol. Then we can see to find you some proper garb and whatever else, and then I’ll get someone to show you around.”

“That’s – that’s it?” Theon can’t bloody believe it. It’s entirely too easy, but –

“I told you,” Noye says wearily, “we are that desperate and given where you come from, you should know. Anyhow, we should see Marsh. Follow me.”

Theon does, figuring that it’d be no point to argue, and if it means he doesn’t have to stand through however long of training with commoners who can’t hold a sword, well, fine with him. He didn’t come here to slouch around, after all. If he failed in Winterfell, he won’t fail here, that’s for bloody sure.

Bowen Marsh, the castellan, has apparently worse problems to worry about, namely that it seems that King’s Landing is ignoring all the ravens he sends. He takes a look at Theon, tells Noye to bring him to Maester Aemon already and get one of the recruits to show him around whenever they’re done and goes back to checking his records.

Theon is about to ask whether everyone is always so cheery around here and then thinks twice of it.

The maester, Theon notices at once as he walks inside his room, is old. He hadn’t thought they wouldn’t have anyone younger, and the moment he turns in their direction Theon notices that he’s blind on top of that. What in the Seven Hells they do with a blind maester?

“Donal, you can leave us,” the old man says, his voice sure and steady. “And you can move forward, young man. Or should I say, Lord Greyjoy?”

“… I imagine the men who came with me already informed you, Maester –”

“Aemon,” the maester replies. “And yes, they did.”

“No doubt to say you should turn me away.”

“Mostly about warning me that you would not likely be a good addition to our ranks, given your past deeds. However, the Watch has never turned anyone away and no one will start now, especially since, as you’ve seen, we do not have such a luxury.”

“As in, turning people away?”

“Indeed, young man, indeed. Now, keeping in mind that no one is going to refuse recruits, especially when they’re young, healthy and can fight, let me just ask you a few questions.”

Theon, who would not have bothered to keep his temper from Luwin, keeps his mouth shut because he has a feeling that he shouldn’t fuck up this specific conversation, never mind that this man is older than Luwin and exudes a certain aura to himself that almost makes him feel intimidated.

“Why did you come? Just to save your own life? Don’t worry if it’s the truth, there is no right or wrong way you can answer this question.”

Theon looks straight at him, even if the old man can’t stare back.

“No. Well, I did, because I wanted to live, but – I took Winterfell because I wanted to prove myself. And I can prove myself here, too.”

He says nothing else, but the maester hums in agreement. “Well, you do have a temper. And at least it seems like you actually want to be useful. And whatever reasons you have for it, it’s more than I could have hoped for, I fear. You can go.”

“That’s – that’s it?” Theon asks, and then bites down his tongue. “I mean, uh, Maester –”

The old man laughs. “That’s it. I told you, even if I didn’t like your motivations I wouldn’t have turned you away regardless.”

Theon has a feeling that the old man might have reached different conclusions than his own, and possibly a lot more than Theon would have deduced from such a conversation, but never mind that. If he’s cleared, then he’ll leave and find out what he’s supposed to do. He SALUTARE and then leaves the room, where Noye is waiting for him.

“I guess everything is within the norm,” Noye says. “Well then. Come along, we have no time to lose.”

They go back to Marsh’s room, where Noye asks for a list of available beds – Marsh tells him, Noye seems to think about it and then nods before walking back out of the room; Theon follows him without even trying to ask what is this all about, because he has a feeling these people have no time to waste answering dumb questions nor to hear any objection he might have to anything, and if he starts making enemies – no.

He really doesn’t need to start with the wrong foot, not when –

Not when he basically fucked up everything else, hasn’t he?

He follows Noye for a hell of a long time until they arrive in what looks like the longest hallway Theon’s ever seen, and they stop in front of a door. Noye opens it, pushing against it with his sword because it doesn’t give at once, and then he takes one of the lightened torches from the nearby wall and hands it to him.

Theon uses it to light a small oil lamp in the corner next to him and sees that his new accommodations are fairly small, have one bed and one small table in the corner and a similarly small wardrobe in the corner.

“I’ll have someone bring you clothes in a bit,” Noye tells him. “Welcome to the Night’s Watch, my lord. I doubt you’ll enjoy your stay, but these days no one quite is.”

Theon nods at him as if he leaves and closes the door behind him – it screeches.

He wonders how long has it been since anyone slept here.

He’s not even sure he wants to know.

He sighs, sitting down on the bed – it’s less hard than he had imagined it’d be, good thing that at least – and puts his head in between his hands.

He doesn’t know how in the seven hells he should feel about this entire situation – probably he should be happier than he is because at least he’s going to avoid training and he’s not going to have to face Jon right now, which he honestly is very relieved about. The fucking last thing he needed was Jon Snow right now.

Still –

He hadn’t even imagined that they’d be this bad off. He doesn’t even know how he plans on rising high in this damned place when they barely even have enough men to defend three castles on twenty. He’s going to probably die of frostbite before he even swears his vows, he realizes as he shivers – fuck, it’s cold.

He stands up and uses the torch to bring up a fire in the small fireplace in the corner, hopefully it’s going to make the situation somewhat better. He also would like to know what the hell he’s supposed to do or how long is he supposed to wait, especially because his clothes haven’t been changed since he surrendered and left Winterfell with his escort, and he feels like he’s never needed a bath so much in his entire damned life, but he has a feeling he won’t get one anytime soon.

Shit.

Now he’s stuck here, most likely Robb wants his head and he’d be right – honestly, he’s had time to think about everything he got fucking wrong since he sailed from Seagard while riding to the Wall surrounded by men who weren’t killing him only out of respect for Ser Rodrik and because Ned Stark wouldn’t have wanted them to when he had been granted leave to take the black, and he’d really be surprised if Robb didn’t want it.

On top of that, he definitely is losing his rights to Asha and he doesn’t even want to know what his father will think of him after he learns of where he has ended up, but he has a feeling that he most likely will forget about his existence, if what Asha said about how much no one appreciated his stint was true.

He has a feeling it was.

He’s about to punch the wall in frustration if only because admitting to himself that he got everything completely fucking wrong is too much right now and the last thing he wants to do is think about what he actually did to hold the damned castle –

Someone knocks on the door.

Theon hasn’t ever been happier to hear anyone knocking on his door in his entire life, or so it feels right now. He goes to open it at once, trying to not shiver from the cold too obviously and most likely failing at it, and he finds himself in front of a kid who has to be around Robb and Jon’s age, a bit shorter than Theon is, all dressed in black, with dark hair and large ears and the face of someone who’s thankful to have something to distract him from boredom.

Well, at least that.

“So,” he says, “you’re the new one, yes?” For some reason, he doesn’t sound like he hates Theon’s guts on principle.

“Yes,” Theon replies cautiously. “Did Noye tell you –”

“Jon told me, actually.”

“Wait, what?”

“Theon, right? Good with a bow, kind of an ass, brags about how many women he’s been with too much for his tastes? He did talk about you a few times. Same as everyone else in Winterfell.”

… well, so the kid is Jon’s friend. Great. He’s absolutely going to have a great time, isn’t he?

“I imagine you know why I’m here,” Theon says cautiously.

Pyp shrugs. “We do. The guards who came with you made sure everyone knew. That said, you are aware of where you are, right?”

“I am?”

Pyp shrugs. “Well, then since everyone is allowed a second chance here and if I had to judge anyone who comes here for what they did before, we’d have even less people.”

He pushes a heavy stack of clothes into Theon’s arms without ceremonies – hells, how much does this uniform fucking wear? – and takes a step back.

“Put those on before you die freezing, I’m going to wait here and I’ll show you around.”

Theon is tempted to just move back and close the door, but –

Does he really want to alienate someone who’s been here for a while, is Jon’s friend and isn’t judging him already for all the reasons why he’s here?

Probably not. “Thanks,” he says, shrugging, and then closes the door before he really does freeze thanks to the cold coming in from the hallway – Pyp does have a fairly heavy cloak on him, and there’s one at the bottom of his pile. Good. He moves quickly towards the fire, figuring that he’ll find some other way to wash later, he gets rid of his clothes and quickly puts on the black garb he’s been given, which is way heavier than what he was wearing in the first place, puts his shoes back on and for last he dons the cloak.

Right. He’s definitely warmer now, and the clothes pretty much fit him. He doubts that he’ll ever ask where do they come from, he could bet that they belong to some dead man, but never mind that. They don’t anymore, he supposes, and he’ll try to not follow in the previous owner’s footsteps.

He sighs deeply and then opens the door – Pyp is indeed standing outside, still, and at least it doesn’t look like he’s bored out of his mind.

He takes a good look at Theon before nodding once. “Right, at least I didn’t get the wrong size. Well then, Donal Noye said that you should start going about your duties without training, never mind that there’s no one to do it right now. Then again, if you held a castle for that long you probably don’t need it.”

At least that.

“Anyway, as you probably guessed these are the barracks for the latest recruits. The older you are, the higher your room is, but as you know half of us is beyond the Wall right now, so it’s not exactly lively. Never mind that. You’re in charge of cleaning and changing your bedsheets and so on, if you need clean things you can go ask Marsh. Every night there are rounds, you go up on the Wall and check that no one’s coming and if there is you’re supposed to warn everyone, but they’re set for the next three days or so, you won’t go on one until then. Someone’ll warn you. Now, just follow me out.”

Theon does, and they walk downstairs and out until they’re in the back in the training yard.

“So,” Pyp says, “that’s where training happens. Obviously, it’s not happening for you but if you want to practice or whatever, unless you have different duties no one’s going to stop you. Just be thankful you’re being spared Ser Thorne,” Pyp sighs.

“Ser who?”

“The master at arms, he’s in Eastwatch now. Good thing for everyone, honestly. Anyway, the only other place you should worry about now is the mess hall, come.”

Theon does, and they arrive there fast enough. It’s empty now, rows and rows of wooden benches, and it’s cold, but then again it’s mid-afternoon, he figures that it’s too early to eat.

“There’s where we eat. Thrice per day, if nothing happens, of course. There are shifts to clean up after we’re done, but again, you won’t get fit in for a couple of days at most. Just do your job and you’ll be fine.”

Theon is not going to relish it, but he highly doubts he can afford to scorn those specific duties, especially when he doesn’t want everyone to hate him when he comes from months of being surrounded by people who either did or thought him incapable of accomplishing anything, and he’s had enough time to think about it to know that it indeed happened and there’s nothing he can tell himself to make the situation look that much better.

“Sounds easy enough,” he says, forcing to sound halfway cheerful. “That’s it?”

Pyp gives him a shrug. “For now? Yes. There’s no training to be had unless you want to, everyone is worried sick about how the others are faring beyond the Wall, we’re just hoping that we don’t get attacked by wildlings when half of our forces are the gods know where and we haven’t gotten a raven with good news in months. I think that’s it.”

… Fair point, Theon has to admit.

“All – all right. Uhm, I suppose that you can’t show me where I should take the night rounds, can you?”

“Well, there’s also day rounds, but you might as well have a look,” Pyp says. “I mean, it’s probably better that you do it now than when it’s dark. Come over.”

They reach a small lift; Pyp exchanges a few words with the other crow manning it and then they step inside it.

Not long later, they step out of it and Theon, for a few seconds, can’t think about how and why he’s here, because he’s standing on top of the Wall and he’s seeing the expanse of forest and snow in front of him. The sunlight is making the bricks he’s standing over so white it almost hurts to look at them, but for a moment he can see why Old Nan kept on saying the place was brimming with magic from the Old Gods.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Pyp tells him.

“… Yes,” he admits, not finding any better way to put it.

“Well, the rounds consist in walking along these ramparts with someone else and occasionally going the other way while you keep an eye on what’s on the other side. If you see anything, you blow that horn.”

… It could be worse, he decides.

“Sounds easy enough,” Theon says. “That’s really all?”

“It is. I guess you expected worse?” He sounds amused, out of everything.

Theon shrugs. No point in lying, right? “Plenty,” he admits. He considers adding that he thought Jon would be here and wouldn’t appreciate his presence, but he shuts up about it.

Pyp still stares at him, and then he huffs, shaking his head.

“Do I have to call you my lord, at least until you take your vows?”

Theon might have fancied himself a lot of things up until he realized that it was the black or dying friendless and abandoned. He knows that the moment he takes his vows he won’t be able to fancy himself anything bar a crow.

And again, he doesn’t want to ruin his chances here, too. That conversation with Maester Aemon has given him enough to think about, on top of that.

“No,” he replies. “It’s not as if I’m going to be one much longer.”

Pyp smiles ever so slightly – Theon has a feeling he passed the test.

“Then, Theon, I’m sure you won’t do too bad. That’s a better attitude than our common friend had.”

“What – Snow and I never were friends.”

“Whatever it is that you were, he did think he was better than everyone else, the first few days. Then he came around. If you don’t have to do that, I’m sure you won’t find the company too awful.”

Well, Theon says, at least he did get one thing right at first try. It’s not much of a consolation, but it’s a start.

That night, he sleeps halfway decently for the first time since – since he can’t remember, but he thinks that’s because he was freezing and exhausted and just about ready to pass out. The next day he insists to be sent on a patrol on the ramparts during the day just to show that he’s not here to laze around and he’s paired with some ranger from the Stormlands who barely acknowledges him for the entirety of their time together. He spends a few hours in the yard shooting a target out of frustration with a few people staring at him as if they can’t quite understand how he’s hitting it in the center every damned time, but they don’t ask questions and he doesn’t try to talk to them. For a first day, it could have been worse.

The evening, he sits next to Pyp at dinner because there’s literally no one else around who has a free place nearby and looks even remotely welcoming and at least he knows the man’s name.

“Oh, how did your first day go?” Pyp asks.

“Fine enough,” Theon shrugs. “Could’ve been worse. I imagine most northerners around here want me dead, don’t they?”

“Some of the ones I’m talking to aren’t too happy, but all the others are too worried about when the Lord Commander’s going to be back. Anyway, you’re cleaning tomorrow evening – you’re with me. The day after tomorrow we have night rounds, too.”

Theon doesn’t ask him if he asked Marsh to pair the both of them on purpose – a part of him is scorning the fact that he’s feeling pathetic because a commoner kid who’s friends with Jon is trying to ease his way in, another is feeling thankful that someone is trying to ease his way in at all.

What would my father think of me, mingling with commoners, and then he realizes that his father’s opinion of him couldn’t have become any fucking worse already, and so what does he fucking care? He’s plenty enjoyed the company of female commoners, after all, and the moment he takes his vows he won’t be a lord anymore as far as the realm’s concerned, so –

So what does he fucking care?

“All right,” he says. “Do I have, uh, day rounds as well?”

“Not until a couple days after, I think. By the way, a lot of northerners don’t appreciate your presence here, but a few of the last recruits were kind of impressed.”

“Impressed?”

“Apparently, no one in here can shoot arrows quite like you do, my lord.”

There was nothing deferential in the way Pyp said it.

For a moment, it sounds strange, but never mind that. He’ll have to get used to it.

He sighs. “I suppose that if any of them want a few tips I’ll be in the yard in the morning.”

Pyp nods at him approvingly. “Excellent. They’ll be there. Hells, I’ll be there, probably, given that I don’t have anything pressing to do. Gods, who’d have thought I’d have missed bloody Chett.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Someone I didn’t particularly like and who hates me on account of being friends with someone he hates even more, and Jon, too. But at least when they all were here it wasn’t so bloody boring.”

“… What does Jon have to do with this? If I can ask.” It’s not even that he cares, but – no, all right, he sort of wants to know what kind of man Snow is being here. Is he the same brooding jealous little arse he used to be in Winterfell? He doesn’t voice that question because if Pyp is his friend maybe insulting Jon to his face wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Well,” Pyp says, “I guess there’s no point in not telling you. He was Maester Aemon’s old steward, but then he got demoted because the old man took on Sam instead. Sam’s my friend, but he was Jon’s friend first, and it was Jon’s idea that he’d do it since he can read and likes all his fancy books and he’s kind of terrible at fighting. Chett took it very badly.”

Theon would like to say he hadn’t expected it.

Instead, that sounds just like bloody Jon Snow.

“But this Sam isn’t here now?”

“Nah,” Pyp sighs, “went beyond the Wall, too, ‘cause he’s one of the few people who actually knows shit about dragonglass and the likes. That is, what kills the Others. By the way, that’s why the tower’s burned down.”

“What? The Others?”

“Two of us, yes. Came back to life right there and almost killed the Lord Commander. Jon stopped them, fire kills them, but it also brought the entire thing down.”

So, Snow’s been here for not even a year and he’s championing lost causes, saving Lord Commanders, killing wights and making a name for himself.

Of course he is. Never mind it – why did he even doubt he would? The little brooding bastard was stubborn and he did leave with making a name for himself in mind, of course he wouldn’t stand here doing nothing.

“Just out of curiosity, let’s just say these Others show up now when apparently everyone included the man in charge isn’t here, what are the plans?”

Pyp visibly shudders.

“This,” he says, “is a question I like to not think about, and if you don’t hate yourself you’ll do the same, because like hell we’d be ready for it at full force. But hey, you’ve seen Marsh’s situation. He hasn’t gotten a raven promising they’ll send us any help in months.”

Theon thinks guiltily of the ravens from the Night’s Watch that reached the Northern camp when he still was there.

Ravens that Robb said he couldn’t afford to answer, not when he needed all the men he could use.

Right.

Robb.

Theon shakes his head and rather than asking more questions, he chooses to drink his ale.

The next morning, he feels like a bloody Other, whether they’re coming or not.

He hasn’t slept a wink, because if he didn’t dream of Robb’s disappointed face or that horrid nightmare he had in Winterfell, it was those two children’s dead eyes or Reek’s words, which made so much sense then and sound like utter rubbish now and whose mellifluous tone makes him want to vomit just thinking about it, and wasn’t he surprised to find out that the man actually was fucking Ramsay Snow out of everyone, and if it wasn’t either thing it was his father’s even more disappointed face.

Well, he thinks, not relishing his pounding headache, too bad. He’ll have to get out of bed anyway. He dresses, drags himself downstairs, breaks his fast on his own because he can’t see Pyp anywhere and he’s nowhere near the point of wanting to talk to anyone else, and then – right. He said he’d be in the yard. He goes to Marsh first just too be sure he isn’t on any duty, but the man shrugs him off and tells him to just making himself fucking useful, he needs to write the Dornish, so Theon figures that the yard it is.

There’s a few kids sparring with fairly pitiful results, and when one of them comes up to him saying that Pyp said he was willing to teach them a few pointers he agrees, figuring it can’t be harder than teaching Robb, and doesn’t that hurt, and by the time they’re supposed to head back for lunch all four of them are… well, they didn’t magically learn the art of the trade but they can hold a bow and can aim, though not very well, which is still better than before, anyway. He tells them that he’ll be around here whenever he’s not on duty, whatever the hell that means, and he doesn’t feel entirely useless.

He does feel entirely tired, though, and since he knows he has cleaning rounds but not any other kind of and he’s dead tired he sneaks out of the room and heads for his own, figuring he’ll catch some sleep, if he can.

It’s bad sleep, but it’s better than the almost none he got during the night, and he’s slightly more lively when he goes downstairs for dinner.

“The recruits are enthusiastic about your bow skills,” Pyp informs him, sounding – smug? Why would he care?

“They are?”

“If I were you, I’d start to plan about how to become master at arms. No one wants Ser Alliser around, it might be a good plan.”

Theon would really like to know how bad is this Thorne exactly, then he figures he’ll keep his mouth shut.

After they’re done, he stays behind.

He also, guiltily, pretends to be cleaning until he sees how Pyp actually does it.

Too bad that Pyp is an observant little shit – more than Jon ever was.

“Never done that in your life, did you?”

At least he’s not sounding too judging.

“No,” Theon sighs.

“Well, doesn’t take bein’ literate to go at it. Just scrub hard and wash that rag once in a while. Actually, never mind. Do the tables, I’ll do the floor, just take a look.”

Theon does, after all scrubbing the tables clean isn’t such complicated work, and next time he’ll know at least how he’s supposed to go about the floor. No point in postponing it any further.

The day after his first cold night patrol is the only one where he can actually fucking sleep.

Mostly because after spending six hours outside in the freezing cold patrolling with Pyp he can barely feel his own hands and he’s too tired to do anything except pass out under the covers just after he lights a fire.

For the rest of the week it’s just nightmares over nightmares and people do notice. A few men ask him if he’s feeling remorse for turning his cloak and if only they knew, Theon thinks, if only they knew how much.

At least they can’t call him kinslayer, since by now everyone knows he never killed the Stark children.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that after that week passes, Pyp tells him that the maester would like to see him.

“Have I fucked up already?” Theon asks, without preambles.

“I doubt it,” Pyp says, “someone just mentioned him that you’re not sleeping well.”

“And how would they know?”

“Theon, Jon did say you were kind of an ass, but he never said you were an idiot. I can hear you at night sometimes and I’m at the end of the hallway, do you think everyone else in here doesn’t? Anyway, he says he might have a few ideas to solve your issues.”

“Oh. Fine then. Did he say now?”

“He said, quoting him, it’s not like I have more pressing matters to attend. Just go up ahead, he’ll be there.”

It’s not as if Theon can say no when he’s pretty much been summoned, so – all right then. Talking to Maester Aemon it is.

“Maester Aemon,” Theon says cautiously as he walks inside the room. He honestly hopes this won’t be anywhere like the conversation he had with Luwin before leaving Winterfell, because while it did have good advice – he’s here, after all – he’s nowhere near willing to have it again.

And yet, it’s not as if he can refuse.

“Theon,” the man replies. “Do sit. Actually, you can fetch wine for the both of us before you do.”

Theon does as Aemon tells him the location of both wine and cups, and pours before sitting down. He admittedly puts more in his own, but Aemon doesn’t correct him nor call him out.

If anything, Theon thinks, wine is better than ale when it comes to aid in forgetting your sorrows. Aemon takes a sip from his cup, with all the calm in the world. Theon takes a more substantial drink, and then another, and Aemon still hasn’t said a word.

“I – I imagine people complained about their sleep?” He finally says before the silence starts being too much and he just has to fill it with something, even if it means that he has to speak first.

“Mayhaps they did,” Aemon agrees, “but that’s not why I told Pyp you should visit me. If it was just that, I would not care either way and they could deal with it. A lot of our recruits sleep badly and it’s the least that they should learn to compromise. That said, there are other things I know when it concerns you.”

“Such as?” Theon asks cautiously, drinking a bit more wine, just in case.

“That since you came here, you did your job without complaining, that if you did not know how to go about something you watched and learned, that you have somewhat stepped in for what little you could when it came to Ser Alliser’s duties and that you haven’t come here just assuming you would have someone wait on you.”

Well, Theon thinks, makes sense that Pyp would report to him. Or him and Noye.

“Which,” Aemon keeps on, “is exactly the contrary of what the Stark soldiers told me to expect.”

“… I beg your pardon?” Theon asks, barely avoiding suffocating on his drink.

“They were very detailed when describing your failures, and how you most probably would be useless because you fancied yourself a prince of sorts.”

Theon wants to cringe at the thought.

“May I have more wine?” He asks.

“Help yourself,” Aemon says. “It’s not as if I have many chances to share it with anyone. Anyhow, sounds to me like they were wrong on at least the useless part of their opinion. Now, at this point logic suggests that you actually do want to make up for your mistakes or at least that you aren’t here to waste anyone’s time, which is a commendable attitude. And since, sadly, not everyone is not a time waster and from what I’m sensing you might be an asset to the Watch, it’s in everyone’s best interest that we find out why you sleep badly at night, don’t you think so?”

Theon feels like draining the entire flagon of wine.

“I suppose,” he says, instead, not liking how weak his voice sounds.

“So,” Aemon asks, “let me ask you the simple question first. You do want to be useful. You said you tried to take your friend’s castle to prove yourself. To whom?”

Theon finishes his drink and tries to tell the story as precisely as he can, but early into it he finds it very, very hard to keep to stick to facts that might not make him look completely pathetic.

In fact, he has to give up on giving the entire thing a semblance of dignity very early into it – how can any retelling of his first meeting with his father sound anything but undignified?

“So,” Aemon says, as Theon quietly refills his cup, “you had a plan, which sounds not half bad to me, and he refused it on account of being what someone I once knew would have called an old stubborn bastard under his breath?”

… Well, that was better than Theon had imagined. “Pretty much.” He goes on, tells Aemon about raiding the fisher villages and about how useless he had felt and how he had taken Winterfell not just to show his father that he could, but also because he always wanted to actually be part of the family and feel at home and never did and so maybe he took it also because if he couldn’t have it peacefully, then he’d have it with war. He does mention he had been so angry he might not have thought straight. Aemon hums and tells him to go on.

By the time Theon’s told the entire story it’s a miracle he hasn’t finished the entire damn flagon of wine, and that he’s not drunk from what he’s just drank – Aemon has barely finished his first cup, he was into his third. Aemon keeps on humming in agreement or neutrally.

“I see,” he says when Theon falls silent. “And what it is that you dream of at night?”

“Is – is it necessary to speak of it?” Theon asks, feeling like he could talk about anything but that.

“It is,” Aemon says. “Dreams can be very telling. Is it your father?”

“Not really,” Theon admits.

“Your sister? Maybe those two children –”

“Gods, hells, no. It’s – R – I mean, Lord Stark.”

“You can call him Robb,” Aemon says, sounding almost amused. “And what happens in those dreams? Does he punish you for what you’ve done?”

“I wish,” Theon admits quietly. “It’s – it’s always the same. He doesn’t even talk to me. I – I am in Winterfell’s hall, and there’s some kind of feast going on, with food and drinks and whatever you’d have at a wedding, I suppose. And – everyone is dead. Everyone – meaning the people whose death I caused, so I guess I was maybe lying before. But – Robb, he – he’s sitting on the Stark seat and he’s dead. And – he doesn’t even have his head.”

“… He doesn’t?”

“No. It’s his direwolf’s. And he’s bleeding. From arrows, all over his back.”

Aemon’s hand shakes slightly at that, and Theon doesn’t like that. Until now, the old man’s hands have always been steady. Absolutely steady.

“That… sounds somewhat troubling. More than so, truth to be told.”

“What, that he’s dead in that dream when he’s still alive?”

“No, not that. That might just be your guilt, Theon, and I don’t think that you need me to tell you who is the person you think you failed most. What’s worrying is that it’s an oddly specific dream. Did that direwolf ever threaten you?”

“What? No. No, all the contrary,” Theon thinks regretfully. He would kill me on the spot now.

“And you hadn’t shot any of those arrows, did you?”

“Of course not,” Theon replies at once, almost feeling outraged at the suggestion, even if – even if it’s really hypocritical of him, since he did take Robb’s castle and put his life on the line, but was he thinking?

“See,” Aemon says, “that does not sound like a normal death,” Aemon goes on. “And again, it really seems quite detailed. Tell me, Theon,” he keeps on, “did you ever happen to dream something that really happened later?”

Theon almost wants to laugh. “Maester, do you mean – prophetic dreams? No. Hells, no. I don’t even think gods exist, these days, and if they do they certainly aren’t looking at me in favor.”

“I don’t know about that,” Aemon says, “but I can see why you’d think that. Anyway, I meant exactly that. And again, that sound really, really out of the norm. And if you will accept my advice, you might want to write your friend.”

“Sorry? He wouldn’t even read such a letter. Not after –”

“He might,” Aemon says. “If his death hurts you that badly in dreams, he might. And if someone dreamed about my death in such a specific way, I would want to know. I dare say that doing it might even ease your sleep, Theon. Think about it. And you can finish the wine, if you like. I have more than just that one flagon.”

Theon doesn’t even think twice before doing it.

“Thank you,” he says, and then proceeds to drink the entire thing.

“By the way,” Aemon goes on as he drinks, “if you think you might need quill and paper, you can ask Marsh and tell him I said you could have them, if he protests.”

“… Thank you again,” he says, in a smaller voice than he’d like.

Then he downs the rest of the wine and excuses himself, walking down the stairs, and thinking, what do I do now?

He never knew anything of prophetic dreams. It seems preposterous to even assume he out of anyone he would have any. But the old maester was right, as much as he’d like to deny it – it seems suspicious. It – it’s not ever going to let him sleep at night, and he knows that.

Not unless –

He doesn’t know if it’s the drink or not, or if it’s just the fact that he can’t avoid facing it anymore, but if he only dreams of Robb, then – then he is the one he cares to make amends with, and he knows that he never will manage that, not like this, not when Robb most likely wants him dead and has all reasons to and when he could take his head should he ride up here, because he hasn’t taken his vows now, has he, and –

He kind of wants to throw up.

He stops, leans against the wall and tries to think.

After all, the letter doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. If anything, he’ll know he did warn him, for whatever good it might’ve done, and Robb should probably know his brothers aren’t dead. He should also know who convinced him to go along with that plan, because now that he thinks about it, it’s kind of suspicious that that Reek would go and convince him of doing such a thing when all things considered it was obvious Theon had gone and fucked things up for good from the beginning.

He just – he has a very distinct feeling that Robb would not even want to read such a letter. And he’d deserve it, if he didn’t.

He grasps at the wall.

That might just be your guilt, Theon, and I don’t think that you need me to tell you who is the person you think you failed most.

Shit, he thinks bitterly, is this the month in which I need old maesters to explain me my own damned feelings?

Then again, he did a fairly damn horrid job of understanding them himself, hasn’t he?

He shakes his head, goes down the stairs, heads for Marsh’s room and asks for quill and paper. He’s given quill and paper. He goes back to his small and cold room with a candle and sits down at the desk pushed to the corner and doesn’t even dare taking the quill in hand before having straightened out what he wants to say. Too bad that the wine isn’t making him coherent and he doesn’t have the space for anything long.

Fuck that, he thinks, and decides that he’s just going to stop overthinking this and do it. Possibly without reading again, lest he loses the force of will to actually write it.

He takes in a deep breath, dips the quill’s tip in the ink and writes what he wishes he had in Pyke.

Robb,

I know that you might not even want to read this. If you don’t, I would understand you. But there are things you should know and that I cannot tell you otherwise, so please, if you will, finish this letter.

I will not lose time trying to justify myself for what I did to you. I was wrong to betray you and I regretted it sorely, and that’s why I intend to take the black, and I am fully committed to it. What you should know is that I never killed your brothers. They merely escaped and I couldn’t find them, and so I killed two commoner children to save face. Maybe at this point they will have come back to Winterfell since Ser Rodrik holds it again and you might know already, but if you hadn’t, now you do. Forgive me for that, as well. But also know that the seed was planted in my ear by Roose Bolton’s son who was pretending to be his own servant. I don’t know if you might need that information or if you have already been told, but you should be aware.

The other thing you should know is that even since before I surrendered to Ser Rodrik, I dreamed of your death every other night. It’s always the same dream. You’re at a banquet, in a large hall, and everyone around us is dead, and you’re struck with arrows on your front and your back, and you have Grey Wind’s head sewn in place of yours. I spoke to the maester and he asked me if I ever had prophetic dreams. I am no greenseer and never was, and it might only be my guilt speaking, but if it’s not just that and if I am somehow seeing the future, you should know.

Because I know how it might sound, but I never wanted you dead for a moment, and I don’t want it now, and that’s not how you deserve to die, if you have to.

I hope you win this war. I really do. And I am sorry.

Theon

He lets the ink dry, then carefully seals the message and leaves his room all over again, bringing it to the black brother currently manning the ravens.

“Send it to Riverrun,” he asks, “if you please.”

“For the King in the North, I suppose?” The man replies.

“Yes,” Theon doesn’t disagree.

The man shrugs, says nothing and finds a bird.

Theon watches it fly southbound, and hopes that it doesn’t get killed on the way, that Robb reads it and that Jon Snow doesn’t kill him before he can actually receive an answer, if Jon actually does come back.

Then he remembers that he has first watch in a few hours, at this point.

All his rounds have been during the night, so he has never actually gone on top of the Wall during the day. He reaches the lift when it’s still night – he hasn’t slept, he couldn’t, but he’s still buzzed enough that he thinks he can soldier through his round and then spend a few hours catching up on sleep. It’s not like anyone is watching them and if he’s around for dinner, no one will know.

“Rough night?” Pyp asks him as Theon joins him on the ramparts. Theon is secretly happy that he somehow always ends up doing the rounds with him.

“You could say that,” Theon sighs. “But maybe I did something about it.”

“Good,” he says. “Now you can enjoy one of the few perks of this damned fucking job.”

“As in?”

“Just look.”

Theon turns towards the forest and does, and –

Oh.

The sun is rising over the horizon, and as it hits the ice covering the Wall the white turns into a warm pink hue with yellow shimmering here and there, and for a moment the entire place seems to shine with light from within, and he can only stare ahead until the sun’s light becomes too strong for him to keep on staring at it fully.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Pyp asks, standing up. “This is why most of us don’t hate this particular round. At least it’s not the coldest. So, you ready?”

Theon thinks of his raven and about whether Robb will read it or not, hoping that he has one chance in hell of mending things with Robb either way, and then he looks down at his dark clothes and at the white, blinding snow surrounding him.

No, he’s nowhere near fucking read, but he’ll force himself to be.

“Sure,” he says, “let’s do the damned round then.”

His heart’s been cold since he set his foot on Pyke. He thinks it’s cold, still.

Maybe it’ll be as long as he lives, if he lives long enough to take his vows and do something with them, but it might be less bad than he had imagined it might ever be.

Not long after he sends the letter, they get a raven confirming that Bran and Rickon were indeed found – and they had been hiding in the crypts, out of all places.

The only one I could never let myself set foot in, Theon thinks wearily, and for that day he tries to keep to himself as much as he can, but no one takes notice and no one heeds him any mind.

Good thing they’re worried with more urgent things.

Anyhow, the Lord Commander isn’t here, and he can’t take his vows, and so he just tries to stop thinking about everything

(except in the darkness of his room at night, whenever he doesn’t have to do the rounds)

that’s not doing his job and patience if a few times he has to go clean the latrines. He really would have rather not, but if he keeps his head down and follows through with his good intentions maybe if either Robb or Stannis or whoever arrives here before he can take his vows they’ll have some reason to not have his head, and Snow won’t when he comes back, if he comes back.

He gets no answer, of course.

He also keeps on sleeping horribly at night – no surprise there.

He has that dream still, and at some point after a week in a row of waking up with his forehead covered in bloody cold sweat, he sends Robb another letter, shorter, telling him to please heed that damned dream even if he has no reason to trust him.

And then some of the people he was told had gone beyond the Wall in the same group the Lord Commander and Snow left with come back.

Some of them.

Including a tall, extremely well-built guy who seems to be very close friend with Pyp’s, from the way Pyp runs up to him the moment he walks through Castle Black’s door and hugs him within an inch of his life before noticing that it’s really, really not that many people.

“Grenn,” he asks, “where’s Jon? Where’s Sam? Where’s the Lord Commander?”

Grenn goes immediately rigid.

Theon, standing in the back, can only think, I smell bad news.

“I reckon I should go tell Maester Aemon,” he says, “but long story short, Jon’s with the wildlings.”

He’s what, Theon thinks. Jon Snow, deserting?

It’s just so damned improbable he can’t even picture it.

Grenn shrugs. “Dunno, he killed the Halfhand ‘fore joining them, and we haven’t heard of him since. Anyhow, that’s not the worst. You did get those ravens Sam sent, yes?”

“No idea, Marsh would know,” Pyp shrugs.

“Well, wights attacked our camp at the Fist. ‘Bout fifty of us survived including Sam and the Lord Commander. We all went back to Craster’s, an’ Sam killed a wight on the way –”

“What,” Pyp interrupts.

Theon would like to know why does he look so surprised that this Sam might have killed a wight, if he had the weapons to do so, but he keeps his mouth shut.

Grenn shrugs. “Well, he did. I was there. At the keep, though, there was – there was a mutiny. Chett and some others, they had already been thinkin’ about it or so it turned out.”

“What? Fuck this, you can’t tell me that as bad off as we are –”

“I’m tellin’ you that we came back and we’re alive because we surrendered and said we’d come back and warn everyone of how it went. The Lord Commander got wounded, but he was still alive last I checked. He didn’t have it for long, though, I think. Sam stayed, I think he was sweet on one of Craster’s daughters.”

A fellow black brother with a very, very sour look sighs fairly dramatically from behind Grenn and mutters something about people throwing their life away for women, but Theon heeds him no mind.

“Gods,” Pyp says, pinching his nose. “Right. You all need to talk to Noye and Maester Aemon now. We can discuss the rest later, but – it’s good to see your ugly face again.”

“Same to you,” Grenn huffs, and he walks inside the post along with the other ten or so people that had come with him.

“Fuck,” Pyp says out loud the moment they’re gone.

“How bad is this exactly?” Theon asks, figuring that the answer would be very much, but still – he wants to know.

“Well, we sent off a hundred people or so. It’s less than fifteen of them who came back now, and with our current numbers it’s really, really bad news. On top of that, if Jon really deserted –”

“He can’t have,” Theon interrupts him.

“Sorry?”

“I’ve known Snown since he was five,” Theon snorts. “He’d gut himself before betraying a vow he took.”

“Well, he was about to join Robb Stark when he declared himself king.”

That takes Theon by surprise, sort of.

“Wait, really?”

“He didn’t because we stopped him. Grenn, I, a few other people.”

“But did he leave, eventually?”

“No,” Pyp admits. “But –”

“Listen, Snow was no fun and he had a thing for brooding, and –” And I always considered him beneath me, Theon doesn’t say. “And we didn’t like each other. But the moment anyone even dared hint that he might not be exactly as honorable as his lord father or not more, or not worthy of his name, he would become inconsolable. If he’s with your enemy, there must be a reason.”

“How are you so sure?”

Theon just shrugs. “Since he was five. And – he was close with his brother,” he sighs. “Who was my friend. Believe me, I would know, and I don’t praise Snow without reason, if I can help it.”

“Well, let’s just hope you’re right,” Pyp tells him, and then follows everyone else inside the castle.

Theon is tempted to follow, but no point in it – he’s no one and if he wants to know, he’ll ask later. He goes to the yard instead and tries to teach some archery to what few recruits are sadly attempting to shoot arrows towards the targets, and thinks, now that would be hilarious if Snow really deserted, but – it just doesn’t add up. He can’t have done that. If he had wanted to, he’d have joined them, and what if he had.

He’s halfway sure Robb would have never sent him to Pyke alone, if Jon had been there to support his mother in their dislike of Robb and Theon’s plan.

He doesn’t want to know if it would have been better or worse, and he’s not going to ask himself what Robb would have done had Theon’s father rebelled when he was still in their camp.

No, he’s going to worry about these damned kids hitting a target.

It’s really a better idea all around.

He’s introduced to the new people. He finds out that the infamous Sam Tarly is Snow’s best friend or something and that everyone thought he didn’t have it in him to kill a wight, that Grenn is fairly easygoing to be around and same as Pyp he decides to not give a damn about the reasons why Theon’s here, and the guy who goes as Dolorus Edd is even more of a killjoy than Snow to be around.

The atmosphere keeps on being dire, especially after the news about the Lord Commander that they received – he knows that the maester and Marsh and Noye talk in between them a lot, and a lot of ravens leave Castle Black.

He does notice that none of them comes back.

Then Jon Snow shows up at the gate with an arrow sticking through his leg and about to fall off his damned horse.

Theon sees enough of him, before he’s dragged upstairs so Maester Aemon can see him, to grasp that he’s going to live but he’s hardly in his best shape.

He could ask, he thinks, but –

He’s not sure he wants to, so he does nothing and sticks to his duties. For a day or so, there are no news except that people are talking, of course they are, and someone comes up to him to ask what he thinks, and he sticks to as far as I know, he wouldn’t have deserted.

Then Pyp sits down next to him at dinner.

“He was spying on them.”

“What?”

“He said it was all Qhorin’s plan, to get him to infiltrate the enemy and find out what they were up to. So you were right. And given that apparently they’re planning to attack us very soon, I guess it was a good idea that he did it at all.”

“Look at that,” Theon sighs, “see if that had to prove me right about fucking Jon Snow. How is he?”

He chooses to not concentrate for now on the specific piece of information Pyp reported, as in, that the wildlings are planning an attack, because if he goes there –

He doesn’t even want to think about it. Not for now.

“He’ll live. He also wants to see you. Oh, and there’s a raven for you that arrived from Riverrun a moment ago, but the maester has it. He says he’ll give it to you when you go upstairs.”

Theon is not relishing the prospect of seeing Jon Snow, or talking to him, but never mind that. It’s not like he can avoid it forever, and maybe he can convince him that he does have good intentions, and if he’s anywhere like Robb (not Ned Stark, Theon sighs, figuring that he wouldn’t have let him live), maybe he’ll let him be.

Gods, he really does hope so.

But –

A raven from Riverrun.

A raven from Riverrun.

If it means Robb answered and that he has to talk to Snow first before he’s given that letter, then he can talk to Snow a thousand times over at this point.

He doesn’t even know what to expect as he walks into Maester Aemon’s room – Jon is lying on the bed and the first thing Theon thinks the moment he sees him is, he looks years older. Longer hair, longer beard, he has burn scars on one hand and he’s lost some weight, and the moment he looks up at him it feels massively weird because it’s his father’s eyes but at the same time Ned Stark never really looked at him as if he was surprised, halfway angry and resigned at the same time.

For a moment, they just stare at each other.

Then –

“Let me tell you,” Theon says, “this wasn’t where I fancied I’d ever see you again.”

Jon just stares at him.

Then –

“It’s somehow good to hear that you haven’t changed a bit,” he huffs, sitting up straighter. He sounds tired.

Real tired.

Theon doesn’t even try to deny it. “What did they tell you?”

Jon shrugs. Theon can’t help noticing that he’s all muscle underneath his shirt. It’s like coming here took all softness out of him, what of it that he had anyway.

“That you betrayed Robb out of some ridiculous notion and you ended up realizing it was a damned horrible idea and you surrendered Winterfell to Ser Rodrik and came here to take the black after pretending to kill my brothers.”

“… That’s not incorrect,” he admits.

Jon stares at him. “Theon, fuck’s – I had an arrow in my leg until yesterday, I – never mind, a horde of wildlings is going to attack us in a week at most, and you took Winterfell from Robb. Not that I’m owed an explanation or anything because if you want to take the black it’s hardly my place to stop you, but I’d appreciate one nonetheless. If you’d be so kind.” The last part was pure sarcasm – Theon whistles.

“Did you grow that streak of… not being that bloody serious just lately or was it hidden somewhere all along?”

“You don’t even want to know,” Jon mutters, and he still is looking at him.

At least not with a homicidal look to his face, Theon decides.

It could be plenty damn worse.

“Fine,” Theon says. “Listen, I’ll try to be – you can believe it or not, but Robb and I had a plan. It included giving my father a crown, allying with him and raiding Lannisport so we’d have their money, in change for his ships. So we’d be allies.”

“It’s… not a bad plan,” Jon admits. “Did Robb came up with it?”

“No, I did,” Theon sighs.

“… It’s still not a bad plan. Fine. What happened?”

“My father utterly refused to ally with Robb and decided he was going to go to war against him instead. Ah, and he had been planning it since before I left for Pyke.”

At that, Jon’s face turns into a somewhat sympathetic grimace, even if he says nothing.

“I – I didn’t take it well.” He’s not going to go over the details of this – he knows it’s not exactly fair, but thinking on it, he’s so ashamed of how he dealt with that situation and of how he reacted, he’s not sure he wants anyone else to know. Least of all Jon Snow. “If I went back to Robb, it’d have meant losing my inheritance and my titles. But staying – he didn’t trust me. I thought that if I took Winterfell, he’d – appreciate it.” And that if he didn’t, at least it’d be mine own when it couldn’t before, he doesn’t say. He has a feeling Snow would not appreciate that whatsoever.

“Let me guess, he didn’t?”

“No,” he laughs. “Then – well. Your brothers escaped. I might’ve lost control of the situation. I – there was that servant of Ramsay Bolton’s who had arrived at some point offering advice. He said I should kill two other children and pretend it wasn’t the two of them so I’d save face. I – I went along with it.”

He shudders, thinking of those little corpses dipped in tar, and he wants to throw up. He didn’t let himself do it until now.

For a reason, damn it.

“It – it just – I couldn’t hold it after that, either. It was for nothing, and your brothers were in the crypts. Serves me well.”

“At least you said it without me needing to,” Jon sighs.

“Well – I lost my head, all right? I just – I don’t – I’m not proud of it. I would never do it again, having the chance. Still – I cannot undo it.”

“So you’re here to atone?” Jon asks, still keeping his voice very flat. Theon almost envies him – he always was a good actor when it came to faking being happy, but never at pretending he was unaffected.

“I’m here because it was the only – the only not dishonorable choice.” He considers being sincere about this or lying, not counting all the least pleasurable things he omitted from his narration, then decides that if they have to coexist at least until the wildlings kill them all, he might as well do it now. “And I thought it was the only one that gave me half a chance to… live and accomplishing something.”

Jon laughs a bit at that, but it’s not an amused laugh, or the kind that flowed freely in between him and Robb or him and his little sister. “Theon, I hope you’re aware that anything you accomplish here is only seen as such by your fellow brothers. If you think that rising in the ranks or becoming Lord Commander will get you any respect outside of maybe the North, you’re wrong.”

It kind of stings that Jon could see through him so quickly but then again, hadn’t Theon guessed that he hadn’t in fact, deserted, when they aren’t even supposed to like each other?

“I’m – I’m not expecting it,” he says, “but I don’t want to die, all right? And I don’t see any other option.”

“Fair enough,” Jon sighs. “Never mind that – it’s not the point.” He sounds sad, though. Really sad. Theon itches to ask, but –

It’s not his business.

“Right,” Jon says again, and stares at him again. Shit, Theon can’t help remarking how he just has a quietly devastated look to himself, as if it’s paining him to even talk. “I never liked you that much. I never understood why Robb did. That’s your business. I wish I could say I didn’t understand how you could have not gone back to him, but then again, I was about to do the same thing and my friends stopped me, so while I didn’t, you know, hurt him by doing that, I have no moral high ground here. And I did things while – I was supposedly deserting – that I wish I hadn’t done. Not the same thing as killing innocent children, but that’s your conscience to deal with. If you’re true to your intentions and you want to be here and not slouch around, I’m afraid we actually need people with skills, and sure as hell I can’t kill in revenge for whatever it is you’re done to Robb when he’s not – when technically I renounced him the moment I took my vows.” Theon hears an, and I regret it sorely hidden in that sentence but Jon doesn’t say it and he doesn’t ask any further. “There’s an army coming. I’d be a thrice-damned idiot if I killed one of the best archers in this place.”

“How do you know –”

“Theon, please, do you think I don’t know about everyone’s skills around here? Unless someone else better than you arrived at the same time, you’re better than most people around here. If not all of them. Please don’t ask questions that answer themselves.”

“So –”

“So, what should I say? If we all survive the oncoming wildling attack and the Lord Commander ever comes back and you still want to take those vows, you won’t find me stopping you. Whatever I’d have done to you if I hadn’t taken sworn myself to the Night’s Watch I cannot do now, and if I actually went through with it – no. And Pyp said you actually are being useful, so what do I know.”

For a moment, Theon doesn’t know what to say.

Then he swallows his pride and decides to just say it. “Thanks,” he mutters. “I’ll – I disappointed him greatly. I’ll try not to do the same.”

“It’s not me you don’t have to disappoint,” Jon shrugs, “but good thing you seem to be thinking straight. Ah, and the maester said to give you this,” he adds, and then hands him the damned letter.

He hadn’t expected it to be still sealed, actually, but –

“Wait, you had it?”

“He said there was no point in having you look for him and the likes. And honestly, when Pyp told me I was angry, but then – I figured that if you had written Robb for excusing yourself or whatever and he actually answered, I should at least hear you out. No, I haven’t read it.”

Theon reaches out and snatches it from Jon’s hands, not even trying to hid that his own are shaking wildly as he tears open the seal. He closes his eyes for a moment – he wants to read it and then he doesn’t, because if Robb tells him that he’d like to have his head anyway he would understand but it would hurt and he’s trying to not even take that option into consideration, but he’s going to have to, and if he has to do it in front of Jon Snow, he’ll endure whatever shameful thing his reaction will end up being.

He opens the raven after taking in another breath, thinking that maybe he should have taken a seat, but – that’s not the point, is it?

Theon, it reads.

I don’t know what I had expected from a letter you would send me. I thought I’d ask for an explanation before taking your head, if we ever met again, and you haven’t actually given me that, but at least I appreciate that you didn’t try to excuse yourself. I knew about Bran and Rickon from before I received your first missive, but I appreciated that you’d tell me, because what gutted me most when hearing the news was that I thought you would never harm them. I could believe you might have taken Winterfell for whichever reason, but I couldn’t believe you’d do it. I’m glad I was right.

About the rest, I thought it was a joke when I read the first letter. Then I got the second. And some things happened that are – somehow troubling. I – I am taking what you said into account. I really am. I cannot say more also because I am still looking into the troubling matters, and I don’t even know if I’ll ever trust you enough to do it, but Winterfell stands and my brothers are alive and those people who are dead because of you are on your conscience. If you ever want to give me that explanation, I would actually hear it. And if you’re set on the Night’s Watch… our House always was a friend to it, and I would like to think I am above petty vengeances. If that’s where you want to stay, I won’t be the one asking the Lord Commander to send you back. Tell Jon I miss him and if that’s how you want to atone, I won’t be stopping you.

Robb

He reads it twice, not even believing it – it’s better than he had even dared imagine. A lot better than he dared imagine. He hadn’t thought Robb would even care for his reasons when it came to why he did it, but –

If you ever want to give me that explanation, I would actually hear it.

“Gods,” Jon says, “if anyone ever told me I’d see you cry one day, I’d have found it the most amusing thing in all of Westeros.”

Shit, he thinks, wiping at his eyes immediately.

“Well, he says he misses you,” Theon mutters, not quite wanting to touch the rest of the missive.

Meanwhile, he can only think, I didn’t blow my only chance to make some peace with him, and the thought is so sweet he almost wants to cry again at it.

“I do as well,” Jon sighs, “if you write him back before we all might die, tell him.”

“Wait, if –”

“You wouldn’t be crying in relief if he didn’t want an answer to that letter, Theon.”

Fair point. “It’s just –” He thinks, should I tell him.

Then he figures that maybe Jon would take it as an act of trust or something. “Listen, I’ve – I’ve been dreaming that he dies a fairly horrible death since before I surrendered.”

“What?”

“It’s – more than horrible. I told the maester, he started talking about prophetic dreams – which I sure as the seven hells never had in my damned life – and I wish I could say it was all nonsense, but he had a point and it’s too specific and it has happened too many times. I wrote him twice to warn him about it and I just wanted to be sure he knew.”

Jon stares at him with something new in those damned grey eyes of his. “Theon, are you telling me you’re actively trying to keep him alive even if it might be nothing?”

“Jon, I never – I never wanted to hurt him. I mean, I wasn’t thinking straight, I told you, but – at some point I just thought that he could have the Trident and I’d have Winterfell and – I never wanted him to die, gods.”

“… You do realize that it sounds completely ridiculous, don’t you?”

“I know now, thanks. I didn’t when I was – well. Taking Winterfell, I suppose.”

“Good gods, you have issues,” Jon sighs, “but so does everyone. Well, it’s obvious you didn’t mean to harm him, in whichever queer way it is you meant it. Go write him that answer. The moment I can stand and I warn everyone else that the moment Mance’s army shows up we’re all likely to die, no one is going to have time to write any ravens.”

He’s right, Theon has to admit to himself.

“I – I will then. And – well, let’s just hope we don’t die, shall we?”

“Keep that up,” Jon sighs, “someone might have to.”

Theon nods and runs out of the room, thinking that it went even too well – so he’s not going to go back and goad Snow some, or do anything he might have done before he set foot in Castle Black.

He goes back to his room instead after asking Marsh for more paper and ink.

He hopes Snow is exaggerating – but he doubts it – and so if this is the last thing he ever writes Robb before he dies in this frozen piece of stone, maybe he should make it mean something.

Robb,

You don’t know how glad I am to hear you aren’t dismissing that dream outright. I know you didn’t even owe me to read that letter, but – I am. Truly.

As far as concerns that explanation, very well. I went to my father with our plan and he threw the letter in the fire and informed me that he was already planning to go to war against you and he said that I had to choose. I chose him, and I picked wrong, but – I had spent my entire life imagining my return home, as you know, and I couldn’t accept that it was going otherwise and that he would berate me rather than welcome me. Then, he still didn’t trust me. I thought taking Winterfell would show him that I was truly on his side, and on one side I figured that since I never quite felt like one of yours, if I ever wanted it to be home to me, I might as well take it. I know it sounds horribly petty now, but I guess that it was, and it was, and I wasn’t really thinking straight, and I thought taking Winterfell was the best way to show him that I wasn’t really at your beck and call.

Every other day I think I should have gone back to Riverrun. I cannot change what I did, but I hope that I can make up for it from now on.

Your brother informed us that there’s a wildling army marching towards us. I don’t know how large he is, but he’s not really very positive on the outcome. This is the point where years ago I’d have joked about Jon never being much positive period, but if neither of us answers back, just know that I will regret it for every day of my life. Also, I still have that dream. Not as often as before, but I do.

Please take care.

Theon

He gives Marsh the letter and it’s sent off just before Noye knocks forcefully at the door and says that Snow needs to talk to everyone because he saw alarming things on the other side of the Wall and he has dire news.

He watches that raven fly towards Riverrun and he can only hope it gets there safely. That’s about all he can do for now.

What he notices, as they get their defenses ready, what little they have of it, is that either the Wall has made Jon even more sullen or whatever happened beyond it has turned his mood even more sour than usual.

For a few days, he keeps his mouth shut, also because they’re never paired together for anything – he has a feeling it’s being done on purpose, and he can’t even disagree with it. But then one day they do get paired up to go place powder kegs along the lower staircase, which was Noye’s idea and one of the few decent tactical resources they apparently had, and the only one that might actually kill a sizable number of wildlings should they approach it.

And Jon looks – like he’s about to burst at the seams. He has a slight limp from that arrow wound and his fingers are slightly shaking and at some point Theon huffs and takes his place.

“If you drop that thing we’re blowing up right here,” he says. “Just let me do it.”

“If only,” Jon mutters, and –

What.

“Snow, you’re a lot of things, but last I heard, you didn’t have a death wish. And I don’t know what in the seven hells is killing you here but you’re not going to be of any use to anyone whenever they come.”

“I’ll do my duty,” Jon replies curtly.

“I never said you weren’t going to, but it’s obvious something is eating at you and maybe you should tell your friends.”

“Hells, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“Fine, let’s see if I can amuse myself at your expenses again.”

“Theon –”

“Whatever it is that’s wrong with you, it obviously happened beyond the Wall, because they also noticed and I guess it means you were better off before. So, it had to be when you were with our wildling horde.”

“Theon, if you know what’s good for you –”

“You said before you need archers, shut your mouth. So, I was saying, with the wildlings. Obviously you came here because you wouldn’t not do your duty, but you haven’t done it gladly.”

“How do you know –”

“Jon, you just said you wished we’d blow up and I can understand if you wished I would, but you included yourself in that statement and I didn’t wish to die even at my lowest moment in Winterfell, which is saying a lot. You cannot have done that gladly.”

Jon goes rigid as he looks down at his hands. If he wants them to steady, he’s not doing a great job of convincing himself.

“What if I didn’t?”

Theon shrugs. “Do you think I can stand here and judge your bad life choices? If you had to infiltrate them I guess you had to gain their trust,” he guesses, and at the grimace Jon makes he knows he’s hit this metaphorical target.

He wishes he could feel glad about it.

“Maybe I had to,” Jon confirms.

“Right, but this can’t be just about friends since you have some here, too, and they came first.”

Jon grimaces again.

Theon has a feeling that he can relate, because it’s… well, he doesn’t want to say that Jon looks like he was feeling when he realized what a colossal mistake he had made when he chose to turn his back on Robb, but he thinks it’s more or less the same situation.

Except that Jon can’t have done the equivalent of turning his back on his closest friend or his brother, especially because he has technically been there and done that when he didn’t desert the first time around.

He tries to guess. It’s not Robb, and it’s not one of his friends, and certainly it’s not Ned Stark. It’s probably someone he met in the wildling camp. But knowing Jon and how he never was the one out of the Stark children who went out to meet people or had friends everywhere bar Robb and his siblings, he doubts that he can have made such a close friend in between the enemy. No, it has to be something else.

Who would it hurt to betray that much?, Theon thinks, and then –

Wait a moment.

“Snow,” he says, “are you not telling me that you might have left a brokenhearted maiden in the wildling camp?”

The face Jon makes at that point is so surprised it would make Theon laugh, if there was anything funny about their current situation and the last ten powder kegs they have to hide in the staircase.

“She wasn’t a maiden,” he immediately says, and then his face turns red, oh gods, did he actually guess right? “And I mean, I doubt she’s brokenhearted, more angry than that, but –”

“I was guessing, actually, but what else could send you into such a mood?” Theon says defensively. “And from how you look right now, it seems to me like she wasn’t a mere… not maiden, or whatever.”

“She – she’s a spearwife,” Jon sighs, “and she’s definitely going to murder me the next time I see her, if I ever do, and given that I promised her I wouldn’t leave her maybe she’d be right.”

Gods, Theon thinks, he sounds like he’s about to cry.

He wants to say something to disrupt the tension or whatever, because this is really not the situation he had imagined himself ending up in when he decided to take the black.

Surely giving Jon Snow counsel about a woman was not in his plans. Now or ever.

And instead, look at us.

This should have been Robb’s job, not mine, he thinks bitterly.

“Seems to me like at least you really cared about this spearwife,” he says.

“Sure I did,” Jon whispers. “I – I love her,” he admits, very quietly. “And I don’t know why in the seven hells I’m telling you out of everyone, but I cannot go around admitting I’ve broken my vows with the others, and –”

“You broke your – oh. Ah, so she wasn’t the maiden but you were?”

“Gods, she said the exact same thing, can you bloody stop?”

Theon raises up his hands, palms outright. “Fine, fine, whatever you say. So, you miss her?”

“It’s not that I miss her, it’s that I know I’ve done the right thing and I know I’ve done my duty, but I still wish I hadn’t, and then I think about what you said about your father and why you betrayed Robb and you wish you hadn’t and I can’t even stay bloody angry at you because I’m thinking the same damned thing, except that at least I hope I made the right choice. That’s the bloody problem.”

Theon has a feeling that right now he’s not even talking to him anymore, he’s saying that out loud because he has to and he’s the only one who’ll listen and who he can tell any of this to, and –

When did his life turn into giving Jon Snow counsel about women?

“Well, glad to know that it makes you more sympathetic to my current plight.”

“Don’t push it, Greyjoy,” Jon sighs. “Anyway. I feel horrible for having left her. There, are you satisfied?”

“I just wanted you to admit it so you would stop trying to purposefully blow yourself up, Snow. How is she?”

“What? Why do you care?”

“Gods, you obviously need to talk about it, and you have no better choice than the present company, and who would I even tell? I want people to like me, not hate me, not when this is my last and only chance at my head staying on my shoulders, and talking about your love life isn’t what will endear me to anyone around here.”

Jon seems to consider it for a moment, then he shrugs.

“She’s named Ygritte. She – she has bright auburn hair. They – the wildlings say that people with it are kissed by fire. Figures. They’re supposed to be luckier than most and she ended up with me. Not really that lucky. She had blue eyes and freckles everywhere and – well, I guess she’s not beautiful the way Lady Stark was, but – she’s one of a kind, I don’t even know how else to put it. And she didn’t give a damn about my surname or the fact that I was a maiden or nothing else. Imagine that, bastards don’t exist, north of the Wall.”

“I can guess why you’d loathe leaving then,” Theon muses. Jon shoots him a glare.

“Yes, you could. Anyway. It doesn’t matter now, because she’ll be with the wildling army and I’ll be here because it’s my goddamned duty and I left her behind and she won’t care that I wish I could have not done it.”

There are things Theon could say, but they all sound way too intimate for what the two of them are even to each other and the situation is too tense and delicate to risk ruining the equilibrium.

So he figures he’ll do what he would have done in Winterfell, in another life.

“See, that’s why I always thought the Watch vows were idiotic.”

“Sorry?”

“Father no children. Just take that off and stop fighting wildlings who seems to me are the same kind as us, if you’re compatible, and you would be all happier and less miserable in this cold wasteland, Snow.”

For a moment, nothing happens.

And then he almost drops the keg in his hand when Jon cracks a hint of a smile – he doesn’t laugh, but seeing the situation, it looks like he was about to.

“Fuck you,” he says, but it has no bite. “And just put that one where it’s supposed to be, I’ll do the rest. Don’t worry, my hands are fine.”

“As the Lord Commander requests,” Theon says, moving up on the staircase.

“In everyone’s dreams,” Jon mutters, and when Theon glances at him grabbing one of the remaining powder kegs, his fingers are steady.

Well, that at least.

He could say something else, but it feels too fresh a wound to poke even if he’s not even supposed to care if it’s about Jon, and so he shuts his mouth because if Jon can understand his pain at understanding he should have stayed with Robb, he can understand why Jon would feel conflicted about leaving behind the woman he loves for duty.

Which is, after all, exactly what he did, more or less and what a great duty that was.

He thinks about what Jon said about this woman. Wildling, fiery auburn hair, freckles, blue eyes, not a maiden.

Somehow, he’s nowhere near surprised that would be someone convincing Snow to break his precious vows. Still –

He’ll remember the description. For what, he doesn’t know, but something tells him he shouldn’t forget, and he doesn’t think he will.

When the wildlings do attack, he decides that he was right in telling Robb goodbye in that letter, for what it was worth – he seriously doubts that he’s going to survive this, especially given how many of them are in the first wave coming by. He’s been put in charge of the archery in the roof where Jon isn’t, and given that most people on it were people he taught it goes better than he had imagined, but he doesn’t kid himself that it will last much longer, not when Jon said this was just the beginning of it.

They hold up, for a while, but it’s not enough and they have to retreat, which is about what Noye had planned, or so Theon thinks because otherwise why would have them plant the kegs in the stairs and why would he have taken care to throw oil on the landings just before the wildlings stormed the place? They run to the Wall, leaving Castle Black, thanks to those idiots from Mole’s Town who couldn’t hold their ground, and Theon will think later of the people under his small command who died – not that many, at least; for now he just wants to get to the damned Wall and make sure that at least this wave is stopped.

When Noye tells him to shoot flaming arrows on the stairs, he does, and then they stand and watch as the entire stair collapses on itself and brings the entire block of ice and stone down on the wildling raiders, and if he can see Jon’s face contorting in anguish, it’s not his place to point it out.

“Someone needs to check if any of them are still alive,” Noye says.

“I’m going,” Jon replies immediately, along with a few others.

“I’m going, too,” Theon says a beat later, even if a part of him is telling why would you even do it, what do you want to accomplish, do you want everyone to assume you think yourself so much better?

No, he tells himself, if I want to make a good name for myself here I have to do this.

A few others volunteer to go – they agree on which side of the stair’s ruins they should check, and he leaves, bow in hand. He’s sure that some of the others weren’t on the Wall but stayed beneath so they could have better access to any survivors, so he should tell them to get upstairs, too, since he’s here.

He goes down the stairs, quietly, walking in between dust, broken wood and pieces of marble, and then –

Then he sees one of theirs with a crossbow aiming at someone. He glances to his right.

It’s a woman. With bright, bright auburn hair, a bow in her hands and a nocked arrow, desperately looking around herself. When she turns his way, he can see that she has freckled cheeks in the firelight.

Oh seven hells, that’s Jon’s woman, he thinks, and he can see his fellow man aiming at her, and –

Shit. If he stops him, she’ll see him and most likely kill him. If he does nothing, she’s dead and suddenly, thinking about Jon’s horribly sad and destroyed face, he can only think, Robb is as good as dead to me, but what if she wasn’t as good as dead to him, and neither of them has seen him.

He doesn’t move, grabs his bow, hides behind a piece of rubble, and the moment the other man shoots that arrow, he shoots his own and hits it in the middle of its way, and then he ducks over the moment the man glances his way. The woman – what was her name, right, Ygritte – does notice the help, because she immediately ducks behind another piece of rubble, too.

Well, fuck, now he’s going to have to play it safe. He stays on the ground, rolls over and gets in a crouch until he’s out of the other guy’s line of sight, and then he runs straight where she’s hiding and moves behind her, putting a hand on her mouth and grabbing her around the waist – she tries to get out of the hold, but he’s strong, and he’s tired, and he doesn’t even know why the hell he’s doing this, but there’s a ridiculous, nonsensical part of him saying that if he disappointed Robb he might as well not disappoint his brother, even if he can’t give two fucks about Jon Snow.

Or so he likes to think.

“Stop that,” he hisses, “I fired that arrow.”

At that, she goes still.

“If I let you talk, will you not do anything stupid?”

She nods.

He moves his hand away from her mouth.

“Why,” she spits.

Well, she certainly has fire to her, all right. “Because,” he whispers, “I know Jon, and he might have had something to say about you when he came back, and I’m fairly sure that while you have very good reasons to want him dead, he would rather see you living.”

At that, her mouth falls open. “Jon Snow,” she says. “Why, that –”

“Brooding bastard who told you he had deserted and actually had not? Yes, that one, and he also loves you, or so it seems, and we don’t really have too much fucking time here so how about you let me take you prisoner so we can put you somewhere you won’t risk your head and no one has to die, for now?”

She stares at him. “And who are you, to decide whether I’m prisoner or not?”

“Theon Greyjoy, at your service, and I’m your best chance of not dying yet, so – are you coming or not?”

For another long moment, she stares at him.

Then – then it’s as if all her will to antagonize him saps out of her. She moves back and holds out her wrists. “Fine, Theon Greyjoy, I’m your prisoner. Just know Jon Snow stole me first,” she adds, winking tiredly, like someone who knows she’s lost at least this one battle.

“Believe me,” Theon says, as wearily, tying her hands together with some rope he had with, “the last thing I want to do is questioning with Jon over whoever stole people first.”

He drags her back upstairs.

“This one yielded,” he says, keeping his head high. “I’m bringing her to the cells.”

A few people curse, a few clap, a few scream in delight. Theon dares glancing at Jon for a moment.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so relieved in his entire damned life.

Who’d have thought, he thinks, and drags Ygritte to the cells where he makes sure to find her one that’s empty and not too dirty.

“I think he’ll show up soon,” he says, apologetically. “Unless you don’t want him to.”

“Does he think that?” She replies, staring up straight at him.

“I have a strong feeling he does,” Theon shrugs.

“Then tell him that he knows nothing and that he should get his arse here already.”

She doesn’t thank him for saving her sorry arse, Theon notices, but he has a feeling she’s not the kind for thanking anyone.

Well, he decides as he heads back towards where the others still are, he thinks he likes her well enough. Sure as fuck she’s wasted on Snow, he has a feeling, but if it’s her choice, it’s also not his damned business.

“She wants to see you,” he tells Jon lately, when no one’s listening to them and everyone else is counting the dead and Noye is obviously assessing the situation, because they know it’s not over here.

“She does?” Jon asks, sounding surprised.

“She said that if you thought she wouldn’t, you know nothing. Am I supposed to grasp an hidden meaning or what?”

The last thing he was expecting was for Jon’s face to break in a relieved expression as he hastily reaches up at his eyes to wipe at what seems like tears.

“It’s – it’s – a thing she used to tell me,” he says.

“That you knew nothing?”

“Yes,” Jon confirms. It was – our thing, I guess.”

“I have a feeling she has an absolutely perfect grasp on your shining personality, Snow.”

Jon huffs, obviously torn between laughing and crying and not doing either thing because others would notice.

“For now I’m not going to argue,” he says. “Tell me the truth. She didn’t yield, did she?”

“She did,” Theon says. He’s not really lying.

“Theon. I know her, I think. She wouldn’t yield.”

“Well, fine, I might have made sure she didn’t get hit thanks to one of our crossbows before telling her it would be a lot easier to keep her alive if she had cooperated, but –”

“Why would you do that?” Jon immediately interrupts, and fine, he should have imagined, and Jon has literally no reason to assume he would do such a thing for him, but it still hurts, somewhat, even if he knows that if it does for him and if Jon looks so surprised it’s their fault because they never could get along regardless of how much Robb tried.

“Because,” Theon hisses, “I’m – I’ve done horrible things when I was in Winterfell, and I killed people who didn’t deserve it and almost made Robb lose the war and I might’ve had if I had tried to keep it, much further, and you’re still his brother and he wouldn’t want you to be miserable. And I know I can’t make up for what I did to him through you, but let me delude myself into thinking I can. Now, are you going to see your wildling knight already or you’re going to discuss this whole thing with me much longer when neither of us want to?”

“My – my wildling knight?”

“Snow, seems obvious to me that if anyone wrote a song about the two of you, she would be no bloody princess. So, are you done wasting time or not?”

Jon just looks at him, but then he shakes his head and actually properly smiles at him and his hand with the burn scars grips his shoulder.

“You know what,” he says, “for once, you can have the last word. Yes, I’m going. And – I don’t think I will ever say it again to you, but thank you. If anyone comes to try and take your head before you take your vows, I’ll try to pay you back.”

“Jon, fuck, you don’t have to –”

“You’re trying. And – and you saved her. That’s plenty enough for me. All right?”

“… All right. Just get fucking lost,” he blurts, and Jon nods before saying he’ll go check on the prisoners to Noye and he disappears towards the dungeons.

So far so good, Theon thinks as he watches the ruins of the stairs and the dead men outside.

He doesn’t know if they’ll survive the next wave, he doesn’t know if Robb will ever answer him, he doesn’t know if that dream was prophetic or not, after all. He doesn’t know if anyone will find out he saved an enemy, in theory, he doesn’t know how Jon wants to handle this entire mess nor how he will manage to keep his woman on the side if they ever survive, he knows nothing, except that he can’t regret a thing he’s done up to now.

No, not even if it was for Jon Snow’s bloody sake, and he just hopes he’ll live to tell Robb one day.

For a moment he lets himself imagine it, the two of them meeting again, maybe exchanging whispers in the darkness of his room back in Castle Black, with Robb actually hearing him out and Theon giving him proper apologies, and maybe they’d part – not friends, but not enemies either, and he wouldn’t even protest if Jon joined because at this point maybe they did bury their old problems, and maybe he will sleep decently again. It’s not that he won’t be haunted anymore by what he did to those poor children nor by the people who’d be alive if it wasn’t for him, but maybe he’ll get over the worst of it.

After all, he has his entire life in front of him to atone for it, and if his heart was colder than ever when he left Winterfell to come here, now it’s not, and maybe he had lost his head but he’s started finding it all over again, and now he can only think that he wants to live, same as everyone in this godforsaken place and most probably same as Jon and his wildling not-quite-a-princess.

This is not home, not yet.

But maybe, he thinks, glancing at the expanse of snow outside, towards where the sun is rising (and towards a land that isn’t bringing an army towards them, for now) he thinks that maybe it could be one, and not as horrible as he might have imagined.

If only they live.

But if they do – if they do, he thinks he’ll live and he might even be somewhat content with it.

Maybe taking those vows might even feel good, if he ever gets to it. But today, he wants to hope that he will.

He wants to hope for it, very much.