Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grinding, whirring and sputtering, rumble somewhere from behind. 

Low murmurs, hushed, and hasty conversations knit a thick stitch of low hums that weave through the slow background music. A warm scent of soil wafts up; like dirt baking in the sun. Coffee beans are being freshly ground, the cafe is both earthy and sweet. Drizzling the whole place in aromas of hot drinks and pastries. 

The table is hugging the window, Theon gazes out from the pane every so often to people watch in the late morning. It’s clear and bright by Northern standards, but still a cold day. The wind chill gusts the jackets of those walking in it, hair whipping every which way on their faces as they stroll through the rustic cityscape.

Hornwood maintains it’s buildings of old wood and stone, slabbed and fitted with modern amenities. Lights, screens and little parking bays coexist amongst the well kept infrastructures of the old ways of life that have kept the Northerners thriving in these cold lands for thousands of years. Wooden hitchracks line car parks next to charging stations; horses share the roads as much as cars and bicycles. 

It’s plain to see, The North Country has developed with the Old God’s guidance. Much effort has been taken to grow without unnecessarily disturbing the body of nature. 

Across the old cobblestone street, through worn and well grown street trees, stands a thick cast-iron lamppost. At the base stands his loathsome chaperon. Chain smoking into the bright grey light of the morning.

Theon’s eyebrows skew, thinking that Damon should really just come sit inside. He looks like some lame stalker hanging around as he is, but there isn’t much a Seamaid can do about it. It’s odd, being so visible, usually the men are hard to find in a crowd. Theon would even make a game of it from time to time, when he’s out frolicking alone and catches sight of Ramsay’s boys.

I spay with my little eyes… He would text to his Alpha. Maybe send a picture if he felt cheeky that day. Ramsay would often respond with playful snark. On very good days, he’d initiate a game, little ones that Theon could sometimes win. 

Loose his tail, or find another one of the boys. Theon was surprisingly good at it. Years playing social-identity hide and seek had sharpened his knack for environmental awareness. 

Awareness, Ramsay must have instructed Damon to be obvious. If he’s obvious, that means his accessible. Ah, the dots connect for Theon. Little plans, little redundancies, his Alpha wants contingencies in place. The thought throws his eyes in a whirl. 

Threads of steam whisk up his nose, kiting his gaze back down to a book. 

No sense in over thinking it, his Kraken has made a decision, one Theon appreciates. Should he suffer another episode, he knows what to do. What’s expected.

To be relieved the stress of trying to make the right choice while otherwise mentally occupied, is a gift. He can go about his morning, return to his reading.

The book is filled with graphic illustrations, art lined with rhythmic ink. The weight of each stroke leads the eye in a dance of movement across the page. Vibrant washes of paint pool and cut riverbanks of watercolor. Drawn in detailed etching is Hafrún, matron salt mother to all Seamaidens. She’s drawn stranded on shore, beached. A storm raging behind her, dark and violent above the sea.

Her face is pained, bleeding and wet with tears but the look of her eyes is that of determination and unwavering vigilance. In her hand, gripped tightly, is a black sharp stone dripping with her blood. 

Her tail is cut; flayed down her middle, from sternum to flowing fin. She’s skinned herself of her scaled flesh and wrapped it like a cloak over her two twinning newborn babes. Their exposed skin drying like smoked meat without the protection of the sea. A death stranding, threatening to take them all. 

Where her blood runs, life is brought back. The children reach for her, wailing in relief and fear. Skin plump, protected by the viscous red fluid of their mother. Hafrún turning gaunt, reflecting the same sentiment. 

He turns the page, panels full of his people’s folklore, their history.

Hafrún, dying on the beach. Holding, clutching the skin of her tail swaddling her babes; all bloodied but breathing. Faces full and round, skin healed. 

In the offside background of the beach, people run towards her. Ancestral sea folk of the Iron Islands rushing forward with shocked and pained faces.

The last page is split in multiples panels; a human mother has taken the babes in her arms. One palm on Hafrún shoulder in a promise, to take her babes and care for them. Tears falling from her cheeks onto the babes, and onto the Salt Mother.

The last farewell is painted intimately. Krakens have braided her body in ropes of seaweed, seagrass and their own hair. Forming a new tail in the only way they can to make her whole again. They’ve cleaned her body of sand, of blood and placed her on a sheet of clean white cotton gauze. 

They walk with her body upon it, stretching the cloth taut like a board to return her to the ocean. Krakens, three on each side hoisting her up by the fabric willing her to float. They call out, pray to the Drowned God to receive her. The storm now gone, the waves still. 

A single current forms around the cloth, taking her from their hands. The Drowned God had answered, the sea takes her back gently. 

The babes are left to the Islanders, a gift, a responsibility.

Theon closes the hard back book. The cover is bright in the same watercolor art. A young, soft-eyed Seamaid can be seen on the front; cloaked in the flowing, engulfing scales of the Salt Mother like some gown. Draped over their shoulders, lays a shawl of white cotton.

A long, soft breath leaves his nose, contemplating the silhouette of the art. How it’s form has lasted through legend and time; by the culture of his people, in the materials they use and in the clothing they wear. It’s a notion Eastyde has indulged in, many of their people have found a revitalized joy in reconstructing the quieter attributes of their culture predating the time of war, the days of Red Krakens.

Clacking hits the table, he's lax scooping up the phone. One of those contingencies being put to work; it could only be a small handful of possibilities as to who it could be. The phone is safe again.

Ramsay: Good, eat an amount I would give you. Refrain from more than 1 cup of caffeine for now.

A small hum rolls in his mouth, peaking up his cheeks in a smile. Falling asleep, and waking up to Ramsay had been comforting; despite the raging ring of the tablet flinging him out from his nest so early in the morning. The sight of his Kraken rubbing the sleep from his eyes was enough to lull Theon’s quickened pulse down and soften the heart. 

Their conversation was just as quick. Ramsay asserting his expectations considering Theon’s condition. He was loath to approve of the trip to the Stark’s for the evening. But approve he did, the alternative would have made his Seamaid sour. In the end, it was best he had some company.

“Hmh, he left behind after all.”

Pin pricks sprint up his neck; splits in the middle and ran around the cuffs of his ears. The voice is not the phantom calling of his mother, it’s real. A real, absolute pain in his ass.

“Myranda…” the name falls out his mouth like un-chewed food. This is not the kind of company he had in mind.

Theon’s catches the line of her rusty-brown leather boots at the seem of the table. He never liked how far up the knee those things went. The panel of her dark wool coat is pinched between her thigh and the wood grain, leaning on it. Too close to him.

He adjusts in his seat, leaning back as much as he comfortably can to add more breath between him and the ex. The feeling of her scowl hits him before he meets her eyes. He senses the chard frays of her scorned aura before her hand splays over the table top, inches away from his cup.

“Saltbitch.” Her eyes don’t move with her smirk. 

His brows knit up, skeptical and bothered. “Really, we’re name calling again?”

“Again? I never stopped.” She says and her nostrils flare subtly. A twitch that pulls at her red feathered lips.

Pretty, the word floats quietly. Theon had always thought she was pretty, in a sharp kind of way. He envied that of her once, even admired it. The red shade painting her lips pulled her eyes out and yet never clashed with the auburn heat of her hair. Cinched and tight, she always wore her silhouette out. Her body, both soft and hard, eye-catching. Although, something about her every outfit felt threatening. 

Ruthless, and unapologetically strong in her Omeganess; its what Theon had become jealous of. How she carried a soft face any Alpha would strain to get a second look at, all the while crack a person’s wrist with a single squeeze of her hand. 

“Ramsay won’t be too pleased to hear that.”

The snarl from her nose meets her eyes. “What…  you’d go sniveling to him? I didn’t know the Ironborn were bred so brittle… or is that just you?”

A smirk ruptures through Theon’s lips. An unintended gust of a laugh pushes through his throat and out his nose. Those words would have hurt, had hurt at one time. But Theon has long since grown from the stinging name-calling.

“That’s a stupid fuck'n question - ” His top teeth shine out through his sweet smile. “- of course. My Alpha would hate it if I cried to anyone else. And he hates it if anyone else makes me cry. But you should already know that, he’s made himself quite clear to the staff.”

The heated look in her eyes burns through the rest of her face. Theon recognizes the signs, has felt the same distasteful twist hit his own face many times. The same souring jealousy, that same grimaced smile, the kind one has no other choice but to pull through.

Ramsay had slapped it off his face long ago, disgusted by the mere thought that Theon would waste energy on such a thing. It had gotten far worse after Bear Island; a later night spent bickering over a Seamaid's insecurity, uselessly measuring himself up against passed lovers. But it worried him, how much he wasn’t like Myranda. He didn’t have the same strength or sharpness. She was a knife, just like Ramsay.

Theon’s cheek had hurt horribly, stinging brightly as the other side burned lusciously by cruelly spat affection. 

“If you see me as a knife, then you should know another knife would only dull my blade.” The hand that slapped him runs up to his scalp and pulls his hair by the roots. Ramsay then yanks his legs apart against the wall, shoving his other hand under the mid length slip. “What I want -” two fingers snake under the gusset of his underwear and shove into his cunt. Viciously curling in, pulling up and rubbing. “ - is a soft, velvet sheath to keep me whet...”

The memory fondly tickles Theon, and in this circumstance, keeps him amused. 

“What do you want Myranda? You may not care about Ramsay’s rules but I do - so you won’t be gett’n any inflated clit contests from me today.”

She crosses her arms, rolls her eyes with a nasty bob of her head. “How can you be so boring and annoying at the same time. Lighten up and have some fun -” she leans over and points out to the window. Her hand breaking through steam. “ - your babysitter is.” 

Across the way, Damon’s attention has been caught by some pretty thing leaning into his hand. They must of asked for a smoke. His hand cups against the wind while he lights the cigarette in the Omega’s or soft looking Beta’s fingers, sucking in the smoke.

They lean back, away from Damon as he throws a handsome smile. It looks like they gave him their number, walking away taping at their phone. He leers, mostly eying their ass.

Myranda snorts loudly, pulling away from the table. She’s tapping at her phone, not sparing him a glance. 

“No matter, not like I have to deal with you. Have…” she pockets her phone. Rakes her eyes over him one last time. “ - a day. Hope to see you never.” Her shoulder twitch up with a small laugh, pivots on her heels and walks away. Boots clacking on the cafe floor, resonating too deeply for how she sways out the door.

“Bitch.” 

Theon shakes his head, glad that she left on her own before tensions could really escalate. She wasn’t supposed to bother him, much less talk to him without Ramsay present. Myranda probably thought it funny to poke at him since he was alone, it’s whatever and he dismisses and reaches for his mug.

Ripples wave through the tea before the handle is being gripped. No steam threads up and out but he blows anyway, not paying attention as he takes a drink.

Warm liquid fills his mouth, the bloom of sweet herbal leaves turn bitter on his tongue. Drops down his throat like diluted tar. 

He hacks up a nasty cough and hurries to cover his mouth with a napkin thrown over pastry crumbs. The sound is gross and gurgling. As if the liquid has thickened into a slime, like mucus stubbornly sticking to his tonsils. It lasts a horrible few seconds before he can get the coughing under control. Swallowing down the last disgusting tang lingers in his mouth.

The tea has turned dark, lost it’s rich red-brown color. It moves slower, as if becoming viscous. He pushes it away by the saucer, wipes his mouth with the napkin again before tossing it back onto the table. Unaware of the grey streaks dirtying within the crumbled paper.

Clicking his tongue, the taste is finally gone. Evaporating quicker than it came, but the idea of it stays and stains his taste buds in a familiar way. Two urges collide; he wants to go to the counter and complain, but he also has a sudden deep itch to just go home. The latter wins.

Digging around the deep side-split hem of his oversize sweater, Theon pockets his phone in his high waisted trousers, half his palm swallowed but the ribbing of the sleeve. Rising out of the chair he gathers his book, catches a glimpse outside the window. Damon still in place, leaning on the lamppost. Now scrolling threw his phone, cigarette burnt halfway through. Sorry sod.

Theon shakes his head, and makes his way to the register after all. He purchases another coffee, black and hot along with a savory scone shoved into a white paper bag. 

As he heads out passing the line of waiting customers, a very tall bearded Alpha makes a quick effort to open the door for him. Theon gestures his thanks; light eye contact and a soft smile. A polite and passive exchange that shouldn’t have garnered a leer, but leer the man did. 

Aftertaste of bitterness crashes up through his throat again. His head whips away as the grimace takes his face, playing the movement off as some demure reaction. As innocent the action is, Theon picks up his pace as he leaves, cutting off any crumbs Northern Alphas tend to nibble at when it comes to Omegan shyness.

He walks out through the plaza, briskly crossing the street. The wind leaves a light, crispy chill in his mouth as he takes deep breaths of air. It helps, like wicking away heat of a fever from his cheeks. That aftertaste dissolves away again as the flavor of the cold North replaces it on his tongue. 

Theon is warm, one under layer to keep his adornments quiet is enough with such a thick sweater. A tall, wide turtle neck swallows him up, a little wall of wool and cashmere cream speckled with black surrounds his jaw. No need to add anymore, he’s sure to be fine.

Heavy plums of smoke get broken up by Damon’s waving hand. His thumb and forefinger flick the bud of his cigarette off onto the damp pavement. Theon walks right up to him, arm outstretched with the coffee and paper bag.

“Man, it’s weird to just stand there like a fuck’n creep, all star’in at the cafe window. Just come in and sit down next time. Here - you sad sack of shit.” He thrusts it at him.

Damon looks annoyed, but gladdened by the hot coffee warming his hands. Takes a deep swig from the paper cup to drown out what would be a crude replay.

“Boss said to let ya prance around like yous alone. ‘Sides ya know how he is - don’t really ‘preciate other Alpha’s near ya, even his own men. So fuck off ‘nd go’on about yur day yea?” His eyebrows scrunch together unpleasantly. “Or do ya need somethin… hav’in a fit already?”

Theon waves away the smell of nasty smoked breath that still lingers. “No asshole. You looked like you could use a hot drink. By the Drowned… I’m being nice - ya know being considerate. You’re stuck playing babysitter today.”

“It’s been everyday. Look - not that I don’t ‘preciate it - yea? But keep ya damn niceness to ya fucking self ‘nd to the Boss. Now fuck’n get.” He shoos him away, guzzling another gulp of coffee.

Theon audibly smirks and flips him off, turning on his heels. Not completely bothered with the dismissal, Ramsay’s boys are crass men, but respectful enough. Never overstepping boundaries when it came to their boss’s Seamaid. 

He hasn’t hit the side walk when buzzing rupturing in his pocket; they’re too long and too many. Not a text, someone is calling. A little jitter tickles his hand as he fishes for it. His eyes pop wide open at the caller I.D and sucks in a breath of relief. 

“Yara! Praise the winds ‘nd sea that’s brought you.” 

“Hail the Drowned. Little brother.”

Theon begins to walk against the wind when he turns back to Damon. Nestles the phone to his shoulder for a moment, “Hey asshole, it’s my sister. Ramsay’s is gonna ask so might as well walk me the fuck home.”

Damon scowls, knowing the Seamaid is right. Annoyed, he shoves the cigarette he was just about to smoke back in it’s box. Trailing closely behind, he shoves the scone in his mouth.

Theon doesn’t wait for him, the phone is brought back to his ear as he begins to walk. “I just called the other day - you got my message? I didn’t think you’d get back to me so soon.”

“I’ve been deep in the Sunset Sea. Looking at Drowned awful Islands needing supplies. Aye, I got your message. S’why I’m calling earlier then planned. The fucks goin on ‘nd why’s it I’m last to know…” 

Thick cuts of wind stream through the line. Theon can hear the sway of the ship rocking on the sea. Crinkles of her windbreaker jacket rustling loudly, she must have her hood up. 

“… You didn’t know?” This drops a worrying pit into his stomach.

“No. I’ve been at sea for almost a bloody year. Father extended my contract twice since I’ve been gone. I had no fuck’n idea our people had been invited.” Her voice is loud, overpowering the wind gusting at her face. Frustration flares in her words like the crackling of her coat.

“Why wouldn’t he tell you?” He stops at the crossing, licking his lips as he stares at the unlit walking sign.

Yara hums in thought, a sound that rumbles roughly out her throat. “He’s been… different. Secretive. More pissy than usual… but who’s to say how pissy Lord Greyjoy may be. He’s certainly been consult’n with our brothers far more than I.”

“Does that means Maron -“

“Is act’n Lord of the Islands…aye. Fuck.” Wind-sound shifts, a tight whistling shoots through the background, then it’s cut off by the slam of a door. “What’s gone on then, what did Rodrick say to you?”

The walking sign lights up. Theon sighs out loud, shifting through what to say.

“He… I was stupid sister. I thought - I’d hoped he called to actually talk to me. I actually considered he’d taken to the Drowned Father’s current -”

“That was stupid. I wouldn’t believe it unless I bore witness to his resurfaci’n my fuck’n self - even then I’d be skeptical…” He can hear the click of her tongue. “Don’t be ashamed, you’re sweetsalt s’in the right place. They just don’t deserve it yet - if ever.”

Her words warm him, washing away some of the lingering sense of embarrassment. “They wanted me to meet them in Dorne. He - he’d sent for me…” 

More rustling, scratching hitting his ear, Theon imagines Yara throwing off her jacket. Sitting somewhere inside the ship’s cabin.

“You should’ve called me as soon as you received the summons - d’you really think I’d not handle father for you?“  She says sharply, offense slipping through her every word. 

Theon’s breath catches, a tinge of remorse thickening his air. She’s right, he could have called her. Should have that morning at Winterfell. 

“Aye, I would’ve - but I didn’t know either, Kraken. I only found out by accident. Not even a week ago. Ramsay was keeping that bullshit away from me.”

“It’s isn’t his place to interfere in family business.”

His feet tread over cobblestone, old and uneven pebbles bumping up the heels of his boots. Little stones cut off at the lip of smooth pavement. Stone walls turn into large windows; shop goods warped by the sharp reflections of the outside light. Theon tracks his own reflection for a moment, sweeping over glass and stone. There is so much to tell Yara, and so much to keep from her. They haven’t spoken in months.

“He is family. I declared it Yara. At the rite, before the whole covenant. He’s my Kraken now so yes, it’s his place - even without the declaration - he’s held claim for ages.”

“Fuck ‘nd drown me. Not this shit again.”

“You’ve known this... I’ve told you so - like a year ago. Anyway thats not the point in all of this.”

“It is the bloody point. We came to a fuck’n understanding. Courting the Northern way came with expectations - your Northerner should’ve consulted me.”

“No he -“ Theon stutters through the words. Naturally coming to Ramsay’s defense, inclined to uphold a husband’s right. A right Yara would know if he wore the rings, bore the cuffs; but he doesn’t, his hands lay empty. “… no. You’re right, I’m sorry, sister. I’ll talk to him about it - ”

“Don’t bother. I’ll contact him myself, same as father. Fuck’n ridiculous… a greenlander -”

“Oh c’mon off it.” A light, forced laugh leaves his mouth, looking to ease her irritation, to tender this conversation. “Wouldn't you’ve done the same? Kept it from me… kept me ignorant and on my merry way?”

She snorts loudly. “Obviously. I didn’t say he was stupid, just an ass for bypassing me. For fuck’s sake, I’m still your primary. Or has my first Seamaid outgrown me already?”

“Drowned no, never.” His smile peaks up into his ears. Awkwardly, he stops and shifts his book under an elbow to fish out his access key. He’s home.

The steel and stone doors are crisp, privacy glass mirrors the gently bustling downtown at his back. The condominium is a tall and bold addition to the area, as new as it looks, the complex adheres to the ways of The North. Nature holding a place on every balcony, every windowsill. 

“You’re the one who’s outgrown me.” Theon teases, making his way through the door. Inside, is a warm rustic lobby. A lounge and common area for the residents to occupy. 

Theon turns his head, catching Damon plopping down on one of the sofas. His services are not needed within these walls. 

“How do you mean?” Her tone is speculative, not at all catching onto Theon’s playfulness.

“C’mon, Gyda deserves all the credit as your first Seamaiden. I can only imagine the horrors you put her through all these years. Next time I see her - I’ve got to ask what you did to convince her to marry.”

“Aye, she’s taught me plenty. Never lets me get away with being a shit - as any good rockwife should. But that doesn’t mean she takes your place as my first Seamaid.”

In the elevator, Theon clicks his floor. Yara’s tone settles oddly in his ear. His head tilts by the weight it’s sound. A light hum of a laugh pops out from his lips.

“Aw - ” He stalls, unsure. “That’s not fair - she really knows you better than I…” Longer too, considering their past. The reference isn’t intentional, his little smirking sound isn’t enough to tell Yara that.

“Do you really think that - feel that way?” She says with a soft grit to her teeth. 

The metal doors chime and open. The ding rings in Theon’s head and wakes him to his Kraken sister’s grief.

“No… my Kraken not like that!” Again a coating of remorse finds it’s ways to him. Can’t get away from it as he walks down the hall. “I only meant she should know how important she is - ”

“She’s my rockwife.”  The way she cuts him off is hard, blunt like being hit with a rounded pummel. “Of course she fuck’n knows. As she knows, that as my sibling - you’re my first Seamaid to mind. As is tradition…as is proper. That bastard of your’s best not be saying otherwise - ”

“No, no nothing like that. Of course not, sister.” He cuts her off softly, freely giving way to her force. He’s at the door, between his words he presses his fingers to his lips and casts out a kiss with a wave to the camera. Book awkwardly held behind an elbow. “He knows - has no problem with it. I was just teasing a bit - don’t call him that, please.”

Once inside and the heavy click presses behind him, Theon unloads his book and shoes. Pads over to the couch in the living room to swaddle himself within the plush cushions.

“I’ll call him whatever I damn well please - ”

“Yara.” He whines, begging her to ease away from the annoyance he caused.

A rough hum rumbles from her again, she doesn’t exactly yield. “Fine, fine. As long as you don’t think that stupid shit ever again. Father can drink horse piss for all I fuck’n care - I’m your head Kraken until that Northerner puts iron in your hands. Until then - he best consult me when it comes to family business.”

Theon doesn’t respond with anything. There is nothing to say, both Yara and Ramsay are similar in this sense. As is the nature of any Kraken or Alpha, territorial. Bullheaded. The only reasonable way forward is to let them pass.

“As for father and all this Dorne business…” her breath is heavy between her sentence, “I’ll make some calls. Figure out what the fucks going on. Just stay away from it all - someth’n doesn’t feel right. He’s never been this secretive with me.”

Her uncertainty hits Theon in the nose, causing him to squint and scrunch.

“When did he start - start acting different?”

“If I had to guess. Sometime after my resurfacing.”

“Shit.” Remorse curdles into guilt. “Then Eastyde? He has some gripe with the covenant? Rodrick said they had use of me… what the fuck would that mean? I’m just a follower -”

“Theon.”

His voice picks up, “ - not some council member! I’ve no influence… not like I’d give that to him. What the fuck does he think he’d gain from me? There’s no fuck’n way in the Drowned Father’s halls I’d ever do anything to jeopardize our people - ”

“Seamaiden.” She bellows out, a captain’s voice issuing a command but one that is hardened by a sibling’s warmth. It gets Theon to stop his nervous jabbering. “Don’t concern yourself with father’s nonsense. He’s an old man losing grip at the helm, he’s no harm to you so long as you’re in The North.” 

He pauses, sucks in a long breath. The crown of his head stings, fingers release their hold on his hair. Stress prickling and churning to come out. His hand slides down to the thighs, cupping the bites under his pants. A gentle pressure, awakening the throbbing memory of Ramsay’s teeth. Gliding circles and pulsing heat, all soothe away the building nerves. 

“Aye. You’re right sister. I’m sick of panicking over all this.”

For a moment, there is only silence, Theon could maybe hear the waving bass of the ship rocking with the sea. “Episodes again?” Yara asks carefully.

“Aye. A few bad ones. After getting a call from Rodrick. And yesterday… from father. I - I didn’t speak to him. Just heard him and that was enough to twist my stomach.”

Yara’s growl is immediate. A short crashing sound hitting her lips. “All the more reason to stay out of the way. I’ll deal with him.”

Theon doesn’t argue. Even if he had cause, his first Kraken is impenetrable to dissuade. Her orders are tidal waves no one can conquer. That privilege and skill is held exclusively by her wives. At best, Theon can tender her rage, but challenging her outright would be foolish. 

So he pleads, asking sweetly of his older sister.

“Just… talk to Ramsay, please? And help him or let him help you figure out whats going on. Don’t go look’n for a cock fight.”

Finally, she finds a reason to laugh. “No one’s ever needed to look for my cock.”

“Gross, Yara.” Theon’s laugh is taken over by coughing, caught off guard by the vulgar joke.

“Did you have to go looking for it the first time? For your sake, baby brother. I hope he’s a grower. ”

Laughing and lifted, Theon releases himself from the dull pain and palms his face. Pressing the rounding flesh of his cheek. “Oh Drowned - tender me to the fuck’n surface. I don’t want to hear a word about your cock - and I doubt you want to hear about how my Northerner lays me out; soaked and frothed like seafoam every other day.” 

Her laughing rumbles on “That is both upsetting and relieving to hear, and I never want to hear it again.”

Together they’re a mess of laughter. Snickering at one another as they trade mild insults, Yara is more careful with her jabs while Theon doesn’t pull a single punch. Her words always deft, tailored to give him hell in a way that doesn’t open sores or burn. As if the years he was gone hadn’t left a scar between them, no; she turned what was leftover into a birthmark. A simple thing to poke and prod, a simple and normal thing to make fun of and accept all the same.

Yara lets her little brother sling insults and terrible jokes. Some more egregious than others, some less clever than others. She more than tolerates it, encourages him to talk his shit without real consequence. Only chastising him every so often with a biting remark of her own. 

It’s play as much as it’s a lesson in social dynamics. Practice they would have had if things turned out differently in their childhood. If Balon Greyjoy had been a different type of father, this playful sparing would have been guided by his hands. Today, Yara has taken on the task. No matter that it is years late, it’s important to provide this, not only for her sake but his too.

Making up for lost time, and living as if they’ve lost no time at all has been difficult. It’s been worth every struggle since getting Theon back, it’s been rewarding and healing for them both.

“So. All moved in then?”  There is a paused and the sound of a tasting-sigh. She’s drinking something that Theon hopes isn’t beer. “How’s job hunting? Which prong of the fork have you chosen, books or pharmacy?”

“Hm.” Theon rubs at his brow, had forgotten that the news won’t sit so with his sister. “Well, I’ll be volunteering more regularly at Eastyde, as I’ve been. I won’t be needing to look for work at the moment.”

“How do you mean? Have you some savings left after I covered the last of your tuition? Whatever is left won’t be enough to cover rent for more then a few months.”

“There isn’t rent to pay.” He says so softly, cautious with every word.

“Theon.” 

“Yara.” He mocks her. “We’ve been together for almost two years. I had to fight Ramsay off - tooth and nail to get him to agree and wait until after graduation. That was the only thing I got him to agree to, he bought the penthouse on his own.”

“Let me guess, he owns it on his own too. You’re not on equal footing Theon -"

He snorts at her and he can feel her snarl through the phone. “I own it too. My name’s on the deed.”

“Thats worse!”

“How is that worse!? It’s already paid for. Sister, he just wants me to take the year off to focus on my health and mind the house. I’ve done pretty well detoxing from those shitty drugs, but I’m not anchor’s aweigh just yet. It’s only been three years - ”

“I know how fuck’n long it’s been since returning to your nature.” Her tone slips, remorse and rage coating her tongue. Yara’s pause is thick, a heavy thunk of a cup hits down onto wood. Her voice returns hard but warm. “You shouldn’t be playing wife. This is literally your first relationship - your first courtship, and this Northerner has already chained you too him without proper security. Sweetsalt, you give him too much.”

Theon’s eyes pinch down, shutting tightly. “It isn’t too much my Kraken. Ramsay’s done a lot to accommodate and adapt to our ways. He’s given me so much… and at the same time we’re figuring out how to balance our customs. It maybe my first real relationship, but I’m an adult. I’m twenty-six and, and - ” he swallows thickly, anxious to share and have Yara understand. “ - it’s not entirely playing wife. We’re somewhat engaged, as best and close to it as our cultures can get.”

“What do you mean by that.”

He’s careful with his words. “We’ll be getting married. When he’s legitimized… and that looks to be coming soon.”

“And if something happens, if he doesn’t get it?”

“He will. After the conference -”

“If. He. Doesn't?” 

“Then I’ll meet with the Elders, ask for guidance - prey to our Drowned Father, and see were the tide takes me. I live in The North Yara, I’m committed to him. Ramsay is my Alpha, my heart-held Kraken, I’m under his claim. I’ll follow his decisions… There are legal protections for bondings here. It’s practically the same as marriage.”

Yara tramples over her own previously built caution,“That’s unacceptable Theon. You’re my baby brother, my Seamaid of House Greyjoy, I won’t have you bonding before marriage! You say he’s adapted to our ways - is he stupid after all or has he failed to comprehend the dishonor he’d bring you to do such a fucking thing. He must not fucking care.”

“He does care!”

“Then where are your fuck’n rings? He bought you a bloody house, what the hells is he waiting for. A name can not be worth more than a secured wife, more than fastened family. He’s treating you like a live in slavewhore Theon, nothing but a convenient… fuck.” Her growl grows distant, flung far away from her phone. A slam bumps hard in the background as stomping boots trek around a few steps.

A soft gust passes through Theon’s ear before he hears her voice again. He’s still, shaken by her outburst but not surprised. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't of -"

His eyes are still closed, the pinch of his skin is gone and all that's left is the calm flowing dark behind his eyelids.

“It’s alright.” He says calmly, forgiveness overlaying his voice like an accent. “I know it’s difficult and different form our ways. But the northfolk have their traditions. Ramsay is an Alpha who values tradition, just as you do, sister. Names are very important here, important to him. He’s worked so hard to build this life… he’s a bastard. Entitled to nothing, given nothing. Everything he has - he’s earned. He’s paid his own iron price, that has to mean something.” Theon pauses, swallows down the accumulated saliva and tickling emotions. “The Drowned guided me to him, and the Old God’s led him to me… I’m meant to be his.”

“You really believe that.” She spits out, snide and short.

“Aye. Just as I believed it when our Drowned Father lead me back to you.” 

Through the silence, Theon can sense Yara’s despondence. His bite is gentle, the teeth of his words may be small but they are sharp. It’s uncomfortable to push back like this but necessary. Both her and Ramsay have taught him to stand his ground in ways to bear their volatility. Maybe buy experiencing his steadfastness, she can better trust him.

“I‘ll not pretend to like it, I’ll not pretend to approve of such things. I do so for your safety, sweetsalt. Our family has not done right by you. I’ll not see you perpetuate the harms done to you in your future one. We Krakens are a dangerous breed, many of us, to this day are too weak to suppress our own insatiable instinct for violence. To fight and conquer an enemy or a maid. What is takes for your kind to learn and endure that, is precious. Law, marriage-law keeps my kind accountable when no one else can…We both loved mother, but we both can not repeat her mistakes. We’ve suffered under father, we can not afford to be under that boot again or find ourselves to be the one wearing it. Never forget that.”

Theon’s lips waver, fluttering his answer as the memory of Alanny’s voice sits in the back of his head. His eyes open and the film of her breathless, sleeping face floats in front of him. The same as he saw, waking to her on her deathbed years ago.

“I never could, sister. Never.”

Feathering sunlight streams throughout all of the house. Theon is going through the rooms, throwing open curtains to let the late morning in. There isn’t much to clean or do otherwise. After his talk with Yara, he stayed on the couch and swayed with his thoughts until this aimless wondering eyes caught his mess leftover from last night.

The patch of carpet had little drying flakes of blood and stiff strings of slick. The smell was faint but musky on the floor. Cleaning it up took a while, or so he went along slower than usual as it would pass the time.

Once done and the whole place is brightened, he pads over to the kitchen to return the cleaning products, as he makes it past the threshold he feels a hot jolt. His chains clutching hard, his stomach and heart flip with the crashing force of the bond. For a moment, he’s at a lost of what to do.

It’s painless, but the weight is over encumbering. Theon’s knees buckle under the pressure, the bottle of cleaner falls to the floor as he clutch the dinning table with one hand while the other splays over his belly. The initial urgency wanes as he feels penetrated. Like a shadow of Ramsay’s hands gripping him from the inside; to the best of his ability and mostly working off of instinct, he cradles the force.

It must have been the right thing. Immediately the pressure subsides and softens.

From behind, Theon hears the clacking and chiming of his phone. Picking himself up, he shuffles back to the living room. There is no other option that comes to mind, it’s Ramsay calling. He’s wrong.

“Sansa? What’s gone on -”

“Hey Thee, you busy?” Her voice is as light as the day filling the room.

A subtle queasiness swirls in his gut as the bond begins to settle. 

“No, what’s happened? Is game night canceled or are you unable to stay the night?”

“Oh, nono.” Her little laugh is relieving to hear. Theon doesn’t want to spend the night alone, he’s looking forward to having his friends over after visiting Winterfell. “Somewhat the opposite actually. Would it be alright if I come get you now? The kids want to play some specific game. So I’m going to pick it up from the shop… and Jon said they have plans early in the morning, so we just want to move up the time so we don’t have to cancel. Also Jon made a good point - I should come get you since we’ll be driving back together anyway.”

Theon’s eyes lift a bit, the convenience is a comfort. He is fine to drive, but just barely so. 

“Ah, aye, thats fine.”

“Alright! I’ll be there in about half an hour. See you soon!”

“See you!”

A large bout of succeeding relief swells in Theon’s chest. Thankful to know his plans hadn’t changed all that much, ultimately if needed, he could go stay in the Longhouse or bunk with Jeyne in her cottage for a night or two. It’s only a few days until Ramsay is home, there are ways to coup until then.

Theon: sansa’s pickin me up in a bit. Heading to Winterfell early to hangout with the kids and play some games, then Sansa will drive us back. Jeyne and Alysa might come sleep over too.

He texts, naturally updating his Alpha of his plans. Then another thought sticks, makes him shoot over one more text before pocketing his phone.

Theon: i felt you. everythin ok or was that just for me? 

Short and quick, his husband is working and endlessly dealing with others in a suffocatingly official capacity, he won’t have the time to read every text as they come in. 

So Theon makes use of his time before Sansa arrives. Moves to the window bench alter. Ramsay had custom built it to span the whole glass pane, and to fit all of their offerings. Each end dedicated to their Gods and in the middle a convergence of the two mix.

Bones and dirt. Dried herbs and a small clay round dish, smeared with lines of dried blood. Dark brown flakes caked over in layers. River rocks and leather. Beautifully dressed strips of animal fur, all harvest by Ramsay’s hands.

Sand and salt. Braided ropes of seagrass and seaweed, crusted in salt. Pieces of driftwood, shells and sea stones. A scattering of seaglass shine like rainbow glass. A small inkwell, almost empty of squid ink. A clean glass dish, with matching crystal carafe filled with refreshed seawater.

He kneels before it, thickly hand woven rugs cushioning his knees on the floor. He lights an incense and drags the smoke over the whole span of the alter. He sets it down on a flat stone to string its smoke.

He wets his hands with seawater, in the same line as always, through his middle, he touches his head, face, ears and neck, then his center chest and belly.

Keeping his hands to his middle, he prays. Words for the Drowned God, words for his long passed mother. Words for his Kraken taken so far away.

His voice is soft and pulled from his heart. Asking for guidance, for strength and surety. To forgive him for withholding the truth and pressing too close to lying after he’s promised the Drowned Father he would never do that again. He asks for favorable winds for his Kraken sister.

When he’s fulfilled the yearning of faith in his bones, he turns to the brown crusted clay dish. He addresses the Old Gods. Pleads with them to be with Ramsay, watch him, mind him, provide for him. He takes the short, small flaying knife laying on a strip of pelt and pricks the side of his finger. Just as Ramsay usually does for him. 

He smears blood along the sides of yesterday’s offering, a drying line of dark-red flaking platelets.

He takes the large bone from the alter, lays a long kiss against the clean white surface. Their most prized offering, which sits center front of the alter stretching both sides, connecting them like a bridge.

Scrubbed, washed and dried, from Ramsay’s anniversary hunt. The harvested femur bone of a great bear; the meat had kept them fed for almost a year. The blanket made from it’s pelt has kept him warm ever since. 

It’s worthy of such a prominent place in honor of their Gods. Hard won by days of stalking on foot; hunted and killed with bow and arrow, knife and hand.

Ramsay had walked him right up to the fallen beast. Blood from the arrow’s sight still felt warm as it was thumbed on his cheeks. Theon can still remember the smell of the carcass, steam dancing up through the cold morning air as they began to skin and harvest. His Alpha’s heavy and large hands over his own slight ones. Each finger covered, guided and pressed into the cuts of the hide. Arms elbow deep into the cavity, pulling out the innards over the forest floor.

He loves to give the bone a kiss, to touch the memory with his lips and give thanks all over again.

The incense is smudged out; cutting off the smoke, the bloom of light dies on the stick. The glass of seawater is almost empty, the wine from the small ramekin has almost dried up. He makes a mental note to fill the offerings later tonight when he gets back.

The trickling of water weeps behind vaulted, stuccoed walls. Ramsay can only see the tops of trees and a dusty blue sky through the large arched windows carved near the ceiling. A new conference room had been selected for their rescheduled meeting. The Greyjoys’ had suddenly become adamant about time and place.

Balmy and bright, the space is dressed in the typical Dornish fashion. Porous clay pots with it’s green, fanning-foliage planted in every corner. The table splitting the room is garish to a Northerner’s eye. Glossy, cream stone glitters back spits of light behind the topcoat finish. It’s all horrendously warm, fictitiously homey.

The wall to his back is littered with pillars of windows, streaming in the vista of the cliff-side. Ramsay stands, leaning against two pains of windows; cast in the line of thin shadows between the streaming light. 

His arms are crossed, one finger ticking over his bicep, smothered under the suit. The scent of the moist, warm air fill his flared nostrils, the sensation is a foul film thickening up in his sinuses; worsened by the trace aura wafting from his father.

Roose is sat far from him. An amorphous shade of a person, bleeding in Ramsay’s peripheral. He refuses to to look at the old man, as such Lord Bolton has yet to say a word in turn. They both wait in the silence which has slowly been solidifying between them.

A second dull buzz hits his breast pocket, his ticking finger snaps away and digs for his phone. He intended to check the first notification as he walked into the room, but at that moment, his father’s hand hadn’t left his shoulder.

Theon: sansa’s pickin me up in a bit. Heading to Winterfell early to hangout with the kids and play some games, then Sansa will drive us back. Jeyne and Alysa might come sleep over too.
Theon: i felt you. everythin ok or was that just for me?

Loud knocks hit the door at the opposite wall. The sound lifts his irises from the screen, tightening the furrowing of his brow. The brass nob thunks and cracks as its turned; the silence broken through as Locke strides into the room. A black box the length of his forearm rests in his grasp. 

Ramsay shoves his phone back, he’ll answer momentarily. His Seamaid’s tentativeness is pleasing but not enough to quell the noise from these current circumstances. And as minor as it maybe, Theon leaving their home, going to Winterfell just adds insult to injury. 

Nothing more can be done, familiar company is preferable over an empty house. He says to himself, it’s as reassuring as it is distasteful.

His eyes stop tracking his mentor as he approaches Roose. It’s back to glaring at the slips of sky but the ceiling.

Locke places the box on the table, the black wood sounds light upon the stone-top. Crisp shuffling of parchment flap about and are tapped together as Roose neatly places his documents to one side. He slides the box over to his front, a hard snap echoes and hits all four walls of the room.

“Well done, Locke. This is more than sufficient.” He nods with quiet approval.

“I was no trouble, My Lord. Dorne is well stocked.”

Glass vials clink, antiseptic fumes seep out, reaching Ramsay down the wall. His hands ball into tight fists, his lips spread out tightly in a wide line, running a tangent with the ridges of his teeth. The scratching of a chair against the floor is his queue to lift off from the wall; what is required, is understood. He won’t be recalled by his father like some dog. 

Each step taps at the tile floor obnoxiously, prickling sharply in his ear. The thickening scent of fumes and his father’s aura gnaws his every other sense, a weight he must push through; he has to think and will his hands to release and relax just to unbutton his jacket.

Glints of light shine off the metal needle of the syringe. It’s laid cleanly over a sterile plate, a folded white cloth laying at it’s side. 

As Ramsay makes it closer to Roose, he slides off the jacket, neatly folds it over a chair. His grimace has only grown over his face, an unpleasant familiarity hovering over his skin.

“Kind of you, father. However, I’m more than capable of administering my own dose.” He isn’t quiet making eye contact, his glare exchanges from the shine of the needle to that of his cufflink. Unpinning the small thing and placing it upon the table, sat so gently it doesn’t make a sound.

More silence. Ramsay isn’t given a word of a replay or a slip of Roose’s eyes. Completely disregarded, just as he was as a boy. The recollection jolts his skin to twitch. He isn’t a child, isn’t some untried juvenile; but he won’t take the perceived bait, wont lash out. Instead, he continues undressing his arm. Folding neat, wide layers of his fine shirt over the elbow. A deep, roughed breath rolls through his teeth as he re-centers himself, forcing rage to collect in the fibers of solid mass within his belly. 

It’s always the same spot; the site of his discipline. Where smaller hands palm at him, pleading mutely. Where slighter fingers trace words of unspoken begging. His Seamaiden’s place to make meek requests; for Ramsay to calm, to slow down, not bite so hard, choke him less, ease the blade which has dug too deep. It’s become the landing site for retaining his own ferality.

It’s not as effective, Theon isn’t here to ferry the volatility. But it’s enough for a moment, a moment he won’t bare his teeth and thunder a growl at his father.

Who's now taken notice, observing his son’s restraint, Roose finally speaks. 

“This formulation requires a practiced hand to dispense.” His voice is smooth, gliding darkly through words. “A precise angle, and an even more-so precise delivery.”

The smallest ampoule Ramsay’s ever seen is cracked open. His father snaps the neck of the glass away and into a white cloth held by Locke. With clean and sanitized hands, he picks up the syringe and inserts the needle tip midway through the vile. Slowly, he extracts most of the clear medication.

Locke collects the discarded glass and secures it within an orange plastic bag. Roose stand the needle straight up, flicking the syringe. His thumb presses gently at the plunger. Through the glass barrel, the rubber stopper pushes the liquid by a touch. Roose’s hands are slow and well practiced, a single tear slips from the needle’s tip. 

Satisfied, Roose calls for him. “My son.” His free hand splays out and wide, waiting.

Ramsay finds the tone to be unsuited for his father. Too thin and amiable. Regardless of his own unwillingness, Ramsay steps forward and offers his forearm. 

His father clasps over the widest part of his upper arm, thumbing around the crease of the inner elbow. Pressing in, rolls around the pad of his finger until the right spot is found. 

The injection is painless, not a prick or sting sings from his skin as the needle is pressing in. Cold, deft hands seamlessly pull and press, swiftly getting to a vein. The angle is rather odd, almost completely parallel to his arm. Ramsay understands now, this looked to be impossible to have done alone.

Roose is slow on the syringe plunger, a snails pace working it’s slimy trail. Beneath his skin, a line plumps and wiggles before receding. The barrel still looks to be full, what difference would make? Just shoot him up.

“Must it really take so long.” 

“Yes.” Roose raises a brow, eyes his son. “This suppressant is highly concentrated, it must be introduced slowly and steadily to be well recieved. If dispensed too quickly, we run the risk of triggering a temporary rejection. As a result, an Alpha would crash into a feral state. You’d experience a short lived, but a rather destructive outburst while the suppressant works it’s way through the immune system. Ultimately, incapacitating you.” 

Now the medication is halfway through. Ramsay begins to feel a chill run up his arm.

“There is no fog with this formula. That which is insatiable, will be distant and under control. The rage will still have form, but rendered weightless.” His thumb presses lightly over the needle and pulled out. Pressure is applied to stop any bleeding. Ramsay’s arm begins to pull away, Roose’s grip tightens. Rolling his thumb in cold circles over the vein.

“Why am I just now being given this. Surely you would have preferred me sedated in my youth.” 

Roose circles his thumb once more before releasing his son. His lips pull outwards, a subtle line of a smile. Tracing a look with a pleasant squint, the suppressants had been taken with ease. 

“This is my private formula. I’ve only recently began to circulate it amongst other houses. We’re not the only family to hold such temperaments. Should you chose, we can have you’re Seamaid trained to administer these injections. Walda, took to it fairly well. I believe Theon should have no problem.”

Ramsay is fixing his sleeve and placing back his cufflink when he becomes aware of the calm that's grown between him and everything else. He’s father subtle admittance, the annoyance towards the dismissive answer is quiet. The broiling rage for Caitlyn Stark is hollow and light as it whips and thrashes silently in the distance. And most significantly, the incessant itch of ache and ailment for home, for want of a full bed, has hushed.

Air is loudly sucked in through his nose. A smart remark hangs on his tongue when his father speaks again.

“Two years ago, I had thought to prescribe a strict regime. However, you found other means.” He turns to Locke, the box cleaned and packed up once again. Lord Bolton gives instructions to notify them once their guests arrive. Locke leaves with a curt nod. Once the door closes shut, Roose returns to Ramsay’s eyes. 

“On your own, you’ve made such things unnecessary. What you’ve cultivated is far greater than any pharmaceutical would have given you. Such is why we need not waste time on discussing the Stark’s proposition.”

Plucking the top page from the stack of papers, he sweeps it over for Ramsay’s hands.

The language on the parchment is fancifully proper, poetically classic in age. The first paragraph is flowery nonsense, a self indulgent declaration from the Starks. A tale of strife and victory for the whole of The North. Ramsay skips over sentence after sentence, not wasting time reading the regurgitated, pompous cud of words. 

Lower on the page, in bold tall letters reads the proposal. In bold black ink, RAMSAY BOLTON is written. His eye narrow in. Scrunch hard at the name, his name. Dancing over the paper he catches other segments of details. Names of Omegas, proposed Houses and what a union would offer.

It’s the name he circles back too. His name he’s longed to see, and here it is. One some parchment drafted by Stark hands.

“What is this.” He voice is flat. Cold like his fathers, the rage to fill it has no legs to charge out from his mouth.

Roose returns to his seat, and steeples his hands. “I’ve been lying.” The snap of his son’s head isn’t a surprise, but the amount of emotion is, considering the fresh flood of suppressants.

Both father and son sense a shift in their auras. A single layer being peeled back.

“When you arrived in Dorne, and without your maid, it proved you understand and accept the complexities of House business. This is no place for your games. As such, I initiated your legitimization and last night, I had it finalized. You’ve passed every test, Ramsay. You’ve stayed the course, and remained disciplined even in the face of my own prodding.”

Parchment crinkles and crushes in his fist, his hands seep down to the waist. A swelling of something large fills his chest, but again it’s a quite thing that doesn’t have weight. A vague, pleasant nothingness hurls through his heart and casts his face into an endless shifting of expressions. 

Ramsay feels suddenly dazed and present all at once. Not once however, does he leave his father’s eyes.

Roose laces his fingers, lays them on his lap. “From this day, to your last day, you are Ramsay Bolton. Eldest son and heir to Roose Bolton, Lord Father and Head Alpha of House Bolton.”

Ramsay’s eyes sting as they widen, too much air touching the inner wet skin. Subtle, soft spasms of shock and confusion twitch at his face and senses. A gust of air hits his dropped mouth, in or out; it’s impossible to tell. His mouth shuts, realization forms, and this has the ultimate weight. He descends to the floor and kneels.

“You honor me.” He says after thickly swallowing.

Their eyes are locked, a son looking up upon his father. Sat in a simple, Dornish office chair, but in this moment it might as well be a throne.

“I will uphold your name, and your tradition. I will be worthy of you father, I will be worthy of House Bolton. I swear it.”

His hands unlace, Roose palms over to the chair by his side, inviting his son to sit with him. 

Ramsay lifts as swiftly as he knelt. Rising quickly, he blinks rapidly, attempting to wick away whatever residue is hanging over his face. Taking a seat by his fathers side, he places the parchment on the table. The rough wrinkles captures his attention once again toward his new name.

“Father, how did Lady Stark come to print this as it is?” 

The airy laugh that blows from Roose’s nose is disquieting.

“That is the correct question.” He leans over the table, elbow perched with a finger tracing over his thin lips before tapping over the document. “Originally, I had intended to finalize your legitimization only after the conference. Once we spoke, and it was clear your commitments have been realized, I officiated your legitimization. I considered then, telling you once we arrived home. A wedding gift of sorts, however this - ” he taps again at the paper. “Requires us both, to be fully aware of every current circumstance. Either she knows due to detailed surveillance or idiotic flattery over a whisper. Regardless of the execution, they are making moves with hidden intentions, and we must find what those intentions are. Now, the Starks are speaking with the Greyjoys, other than the obvious - what does Balon want and why would he be negotiating with the Starks when Eastyde is on our shores.”

Ramsay licks his lips. His eyes retracing over the written proposal. “Balon is severely at risk of loosing the Sea Stone chair. House Greyjoy may very well collapse under his foolish and stale pride. He regrets not backing Eastyde. The covenant has grown too popular and too powerful, and it’s House Harlaw who’s regarded as their benefactor. More and more seafolk look to Old Rodrick as their helm Kraken.”

Ramsay leans back in his chair, a thin spear of anger pierces him. Somehow, it’s made the distance through his suppressants to form a soft snarl. 

“He’s desperate to regain control over the Ironborn. So desperate… he’s begun relentlessly pursuing Theon. Should the community see such a high standing, devout Seamaiden return to his side… Balon would stand a chance. Whispers of my maid’s story has been shared from ship to shore. The unwanted, highborn child who’s nature was stifled; casted out to be beached in The North. Who’s reemerged from the estuary as a glittering Seamaid, overcoming the storm of his past. The tale sells itself, Balon would make little work in bending the truth to make it seem as if the Drowned God has blessed the Greyjoy name once again.”

“Why not negotiate. Lend out your maid. Form an agreement with the Greyjoys from the beginning.” 

The high of his legitimization smothers out, he gently thinks of the surprise that would paint his father’s face if stabbed in the stomach. 

“As you said, father ‘other than the obvious’.” Faint violence lace through his words. “Balon is ill suited, he’ll take - not trade. There is no sustainable or profitable future with that man. Harlaw has done the work, follows the Eastyde, and is ready to integrate with The North. He is the better option, followed by Yara, should she truly be ready to challenge her brothers, her father and take the House. 

“Besides, Theon is mine. The fool came sniffing too late, I’d sooner let him swim to Bear Island before letting that wretched sod speak to my Seamaid… I’m sure you understand, father. Or have you suddenly grown warmth for the Freys. Will dear, stepmother be allowed to finally visit her family?”

Roose squints, irritated by his son’s shared perception. “The Starks. What would they have to gain doing business with the Greyjoys.”

Ramsay rolls his eyes, peeved. “As you’ve already guessed, father. Leverage.” 

Lord Bolton nods, “Lady Stark, and her boy do not accept late Lord Neddard’s death as a simple accident, their underling Houses feel the same. They want influence over our coast and the rest of the Houses to apply pressure onto the Southern Kingdom. We can not afford to let that happen. Our resources are much too occupied in Essos. Conflict in Westeros would be a monumental, imbecilic move. The Stark’s self righteousness have no place in international affairs.

“Once you marry - in the modern sense, Balon will have no choice. Our families will have ties; brokering a deal with the Starks will be useless.” His head tilts, an odd solemn look falls onto his face. “We’ll then position ourselves as mediators between Harlaw and the Greyjoys. It will be tedious, and slow moving. No doubt test your patience, but you’ll help me see it done.”

Ramsay looks over to his father, nodding stiffly. He was looking foreword to dissolving Balon’s presences, but business took precedence. An unfortunate result of his new line of work.

Knock knock, Locke slips through the door. 

“My Lord, the Ironborn are just down the hall.”

Roose raises from his seat, adjust the lapels of his suit jacket. Ramsay follows just the same, buttoning and smoothing over the seams of his clothes. Lord Bolton nods over to Locke, acknowledging the shift in the room. The man slithers back from the door.

“No excuses, Ramsay. The suppressants will keep you grounded. I expect you to remain still, composed. No matter what Greyjoy says; be it insult or threat. No doubt they’ll disparage your Seamaid… your position. Do not falter, set root and steadfast. You are a Bolton, behave as such.”

Knock knock, the door knob creaks and twists.

“Of course, father.” Once again, Ramsay finds himself with no other answer. There is no other choice.

The door opens, a rustling wave of clacking shoes can be heard before Balon is the first to push past the threshold. Behind him Rodrick and a few other Ironborn trickle in. The door remains open, Locke holding it with his back, looking out. His eyes following something, someone.

Rodrick Harlaw comes through with his retinue, same as the day before. His family of Krakens and an elder. He scans the room with a hard squint stamped into his eyes. The Old Kraken doesn’t lead his crew to stand by Balon’s side, nor the Bolton’s. He leaves a bay of space to stand between them all.

“Well, this is unexpected.” Ramsay says with a light voice. His brows are raised and a jovial look lifts his face. He can feel his father’s eyes sweep over him for a moment. He’d only been directed not to falter, not that he should fall short of himself.

“Welcome, Lord Greyjoy, and Lord Harlaw. We had not been notified to you’re attendance today.” Roose addresses the room coolly.

Old Rodrick settles in his stance, crossing his arms. “Nor had I. But my House’be hard pressed to pass on an invitation to address urgent matters.” His emphasis leads his eyes directly over to Balon. “Brother-in-law. What manner of issue is so dire you’ve summon my family here; disrupt’n the private business of the northfolk.”

“No matter what sea, what shore, what country. I am your King - ” he steps forward, breaking the breath of space. “ - you’ll answer my call.”

Old Rodrick is unmoving. “The only call due my answer, is by the call of the Drowned Himself.” 

A snarling smile spreads over Balon’s mouth, his arms open with false gravitas. “And what, pray tell - have your withered ears heard from the Drowned God?”

He is given no answer. The Old Kraken holds his ground, placid in the face of Balon’s rapid pacing. At his back, the other Harlaws observe his reaction and take shape, falling into form. Each one modeling the same face as their Lord, unbothered and awfully neutral.

Roose has no interest in these theatrics. “Noble Lords - ”

“You needn’t sustain gentility, Lord Bolton. I - unlike these softening fools, have come to take what is mine and do away with such pointless deliberation and cowardice political scheming. I know you’ve no plans to broker proper business with my House. Your games of skulking pass the Sea Stone chair ends now.” He steps further to his opposing kin. Snarling  lowly. “The Eastyde has strayed too far from home, to far from the true ways of the Ironborn. The North has desiccated your waters, beguiled you with their lands and trees - ”

Old Rodrick has heard enough, “And what of your land and trees? King of the Sea Stone chair - King of barren towers of rock.” He looks over to the whole of the Ironborn around him. “Aye, the Eastyde strays from the Iron Islands. We stray - right into the currant the Drowned Father has set forth. Away from the old ways, away from the corrosion your House has laid for our people - ”

“You’ll hold your tongue as your King address you, Uncle.” Rodrick, the younger, sneers. Stepping forward and placing himself at his father’s shoulder.

The old man lifts his scowl into a crooked smile. His arms un-cross and loosely hang with fists to his sides. The shift in his stance ripples through his family. Each one readying themselves, each one flared in the face with focused eyes.

“We be in Dorne. The only King here, is the one sat up in Sunspear. Have you no respect for the host, of the greenlands that’ve open their ports. This’be our first opportunity for greater prosperity and you’ll sooner burn bridges before they’re ever built.”

A choked laugh cuts through, eyes whip over to Ramsay’s open smirking. He’s looking at them all. Sweeping over the scene in amused circles. Having everyone’s attention, a smile break over his face. Un-pocketing a hand, he waves off apologetically. 

“Please, forgive me. Truly I mean no disrespect, my Lords.” His palm splays over his heart. “Surely there is middle ground to be found - ”

“I’ll not negotiate with a bastard. Lord Bolton, keep your misborn welp leashed.” 

Ramsay’s smile widens, deepening lines carving around his mouth, all teeth showing. Relishing in the calm breath between every fiber of his muscles, he’s able to hold a blistering daydream within his minds eye. The vision is a lively thrum of the color and smell of blood. No doubt he’d make it a slow dance. A waltz of amputations to bring to Theon; a little guessing game would be more than appropriate. What finger is this, what hand is it from?

The end would be a decapitation, of course. His Seamaid would be displeases surely, but oh, what fun. To fuck under the mounted, bleeding, warm head of the pest thats wrought so much trouble to his marital bed. The perfecting ending, thinks Ramsay. A fable worthy of that fated happily ever after.

His father’s voice dissolves his little daydream. “I see you have not been informed. You speak only to Boltons, Lord Greyjoy. My son is legitimized.”

Balon raises his eyebrows, false surprise lifting his face. “Oh, is that so.”

“Your lot must also not know - the lad is declared kin. You address a Kraken, do not stray from our ways, Lord Grejoy.”

Balon pivots, facing Ramsay head on. “I see - ” he sarcastically tilts his head, “ - am I to believe it was my very own child to declare such a thing… Yes, of course.” He spits on the ground.

Low sneering ripples out from the Harlaws. Each member murmuring their offense.

“I reject my Seamiaden’s declaration. I’ll not have my child whore himself to some Northerner. Particularly one so impotent. Incapable of following a simple command, such as producing my child to this very conference.”

Hearing those words, one of a claim of Theon, puts a sickening strain on Ramsay’s ears. It’s manageable and doesn’t tear down the smile grossly taking up his face; yet, it pokes a whole in his very eardrums. What an annoying pain to hear this man.

“Fortunately for me, the whole of Eastyde would disagree with you.” His hand turns out, palm up in offering, “But as I’ve said there is middle ground to be found. Faith in your ability to lead is waning Lord Greyjoy, House Bolton is willing to help you restore that.” 

The Greyjoys laugh, Balon turning to his son, sharing in their vile disbelief. 

“Is this whats wooed you, Harlaw? You forget yourself no doubt, to let Northerners sweeten you to take their gold. You’ve lost your honor - ”

“Do not speak of honor, Balon.” He snaps, letting his own teeth show. “You’ve forgone such things the moment you failed my sister and her babe of sweetsalt. How dare you poison your own child to bear the thought he caused his own mother’s death.” His fist hit his chest. “What is dead, may never die.”

Every Ironborn’s ire is cut through in that instant. Every right hand forms a fist and hits over their chest. One drum over their heart.

“What is dead, may never die.”

As quickly as the unification comes, it recedes. Forming back into place where their anger was left to hang. 

“Enough, I’ll hear no more of this treachery.” Lord Greyjoy bellows. “You overstep, as does Eastyde. No more. House Harlaw will forfeit all Northern contracts to your King. You can not be trusted to further the true interests of the Ironborn.”

He laughs, in the face of his so called King of the Sea Stone chair, Lord Harlaw turns to his kin and shares in his own smile of disbelief. 

“That is not for you to negotiate, Lord Greyjoy.” Roose takes a steps forward. “My House decides who we broker business with.” Hands clasped behind his back, he looks down onto Balon despite them standing on equal ground.

Balon does not acknowledge the warning, and continues to speaks over the room. With a hard pivot, he casts a finger over to Ramsay.

“You. You will supply my child. Return Theon Greyjoy to me immediately, and perhaps I’ll permit a future courtship. Should you make a worthy price for his hand, that is. The contracts to the lands not withstanding - that I’ll take.”

Ramsay’s smile falls, the play withering away. “I’ll allow no such thing… Theon is mine. By both accounts; in ways of the Old Gods and of the Drowned. I assure you, Lord Greyjoy. The Seamaid is under my full claim.”

“No Northern bastard holds any rightful claim to my child.”

“The Seamaid hasn’t been yours for over a decade. The whole of the Islands knows it - you’ll leave my sisterson be…”

The voices of the old Krakens bickering begins to fall like rustling leaves. The calm in Ramsay’s blood is giving him space to rationally find a rather satisfying solution to this mess. Is he the first? No, with thousands of years of history in Westeros, there must have been another Alpha to fight in an Ironborn’s moot.

Two button on his suit jacket are unclasped. Ramsay shrugs it off and hooks it over a chair. Without a word, he loosens his collar and makes to undue his cufflinks. His father looks onto him with clear disapproval. 

“Ramsay. Now is not the time.”

“I understand this may seem immature, father. However under these circumstances, taking up the Ironborn practice of a moot- may be our best chance forward for mediation. And isn’t that the goal?” He offers the pieces to his father. “Will you hold these, please?”

Roose takes them, and swallows down his disdain for such an act. A loud breath rolls out of his chest, this is all becoming too tedious. It’s yet to be a full day as a Bolton; his son seems incapable of reining in his nature, regardless of drugs. Worse still, is his own agreement. He lets his son pass and round over to face the Ironborn.

“I’m more than willing to settle this your Old Way, Lord Grejoy. I respect tradition - traditions are important. We Northerners understand that, live by it.” His cuffs are rolled and pushed up, his remaining steps bring him mere feet away from the other man.

Behind him, the Harlaw Krakens form a line. Old Rodrick himself steps back, permitting the moot to take place. 

Balon looks to his brother-in-law, a snide smile cracks his lips. “You’d love nothing more then to see me be beaten to the knees.”

“You issued the challenge, the lad has only taken you to task as any other Kraken would. You are the father, uphold your claim - should you find him so unworthy.”

Two claps follow after Old Rodrick’s words, Ramsay grins again, an unsettling boyishness graces his face. “To make this more fair, I’d have no problem with a handicap, my Lord. Please, allow your son to join. I don’t mind.” The brightness in his voice is bounces sharply. Lands sharper, harder than the beams of light from the Dornish sun.

Balon looks him over. An ugly dry snarl twisting his face, his son to his side wearing the same look. A slow sway bring his head side to side.

“No. I'll not vindicate your position. I, nor my son will validate your dishonor with the ways of my people.” He takes a breath, one deep and long that's moves his chest like a wave. “This is my final warning boy. Renounce your claim, return my child. And his dignity will remain intact, a future may be negotiated once Eastyde has been brought to heel.”

Each eyebrow lifts, he doesn’t answer the withered Kraken and maintain a sarcastic-youthful smile. There is no point to further entertain the foolishness. Balon embarrasses himself by stalling a moot. Ramsay crosses his arms, and waits for either or both Krakens to step forward and begin the challenge. 

For a still moment no one moves.

Balon stares on, standing in the insulting quiet. He looks to Ramsay, then to Roose, and neither bend under his eye. “Very well. Son…” 

Rodrick turns his back, taking hold of a suitcase held by some lowling Ironborn. Two snaps break through the silence, a tight thud hitting metal and leather. From inside he takes two thick, large pages, covered in vivid colors. 

Balon takes them both in hand, and holds the content to faces Ramsay. The colors are a picture. A crisp and large photograph.

Theon is shown wrapped within Ramsay’s arm, a small smile gracing his face as they look to be walking down an alley. The Seamaid looks bright against the dark glittering night of the rite. 

Within him, Ramsay can feel the distance made by the suppressants begin to shrink. Violence crawling back to him.

Balon walks the image around the room, hand held high for all too see. He pauses before Harlaw.

“My child has grown well into his sweetsalt. No doubt with help of the Eastyde. Look, the rumors fall short - wouldn’t you say? A pearl they call him… no, this radiance can only match that of a mermaid themselves.” He continues his steps, stopping upon the table only feet away from Ramsay. “I’m sure you’d agree?” Forcing their eyes to lock, he tests what little patience there is in those cold eyes.

“I don’t see iron around his middle fingers.” He flaps the picture again to the room. “Does anyone? No iron rings, no iron cuffs. This is the picture of an unmarried, unbound, Seamaid? Is it not?” He throws the photograph onto the table. “It seems… not to be the case.”

The other photograph is held for all to see. A clear closeup of Theon’s neck, the shawl and green of his dress shoved to one side. Chains of blue-silver cascading down the clavicle and over the shoulder is plain to see. Enough is exposed to indicate that this is not some simple necklace, but more.

“This is what the Eastyde has lead my blood too, what the Northerner has bent my child too.” He turns to Harlaw, stomping up to him in a rage. “Defiling our Seamaids with premarital bonding. This bastard has reduced my child to a slavewhore! And you would blindly accept deals with the likes of a foreign Kraken - a Norther Alpha, who would dishonor your sisterson.”

Old Rodrick snatches the photograph. His face twists with aversion but squints hard to face the image. The meaning sinks in, and around him his family twitches with unease. The picture falls and crumples in his hands. He gaze hits passed Balon and strikes Ramsay.

His blood feels like its thrumming somewhere far away, constricting. Ramsay knows the same spear of anger is making it way to the surface, it’s only a matter of time. 

“What is this?” Old Rodrick pushes passed Balon and steps right up into his face, “Northern Kraken, suitor of my sisterson. What. Is. This.”

Ramsay makes no move to back down from the old Kraken. He meets his threatening gaze with equal volatility. They both breathe with rage and exchange a low snarl. There isn’t much time, whatever can be salvaged must be done now. He must chose the path forward. He doesn’t look to his father, he can sense what is required of him. He is a Bolton, and will act as such. He is an Alpha and a Kraken, he will behave as such.

“Those, are my wife’s Northern marriage adornments.” His anger hits his voice like a suppressed javelin. 

Lord Harlaw’s snarl falters. Not expecting such an answer. He looks to the picture on the table and in his hand. A wave of heated confusion rolls through the room.

“You must take us for blind fools. We can see he wears no rings!” The young Rodrick growls out from the side.

The grip in his fists tightens, Ramsay spares no glance to Greyjoy. “I suggest you rein in your kin, Lord Harlaw. Or will you stand at their side and turn your back on the very estuaries you resurfaced in.”

“Mind your mouth lad, and speak clear. This is a grave offense to the seafolk - ”

“The Eastyde accepts the Old Gods, accepts The North. Or had I misheard Elder Einar at the rite? ‘This Heart Tree takes root in an estuary, where sea and land meet… form a transition and exchange of life’… ‘You have welcomed us and become apart of our new way.’ As I said, I respect tradition.” Ramsay bares his teeth, “There is no older - more complete form of marriage than a blood bond. If you wish to challenge that… should ANY Ironborn wish to challenge me with their own blood - step forth. I’ll pay your iron price.”

Lord Harlaw looks upon Ramsay. His eyes harden and weary. The photograph glossy and reflecting off the page, staring back at him. He turns his head, looks to his family. They watch him, mirroring his same, softening hesitance. 

“Elder. Your counsel.” He calls out. She steps forward, breaking between the shoulders of his family.

“You needen’t any counsel. This dog has wasted my child’s sweetsalt. Has brought shame to my House - ”
   
The elder walks passed Balon’s raving. Her song of chiming seashells draws a line of calm behind her. The Harlaws follow her every step, and watch her gentle face. Before she even speaks, the sense reaches them all. They have their answer.

“What was said at the rite holds true, Lord Harlaw.” She looks onto him, a maternal grace laying over him and Ramsay. “You have a question. Ask it. The North will answer.”

His eyes stray, gliding to the floor in thought as he listen intently to her words. A quiet moment passes, he turns her words over a few times more, then looks to Ramsay once more before facing Roose.

“Who is Theon Greyjoy to you, Lord Bolton.”

Ramsay’s lips shut over his teeth. In this moment, he finally turns to his father and seeks an answer. A chill boils over his skin, the suppressants where made to hold back his volatility; nothing was done to keep the dread from creeping over his back.

Roose holds their eyes, lets the cold of his own reach them. “My first Omegan child-in-law. Or rather, as I’ve learned - the first Seamaid to join House Bolton.”

The air that leaves Ramsay’s chest shakes out of his nose. The approval in Lord Harlaw’s eyes breaks the sudden tremors in his chest. A twitch of his shoulders shakes off the rest of the unsettling ghost of fear that was perched there.

Lord Harlaw turns to Ramsay, and sighs with defeat. “I’ll not minimize the salaciousness of what you’ve done… and I mean no insult to the northfolk. Your Seamaid will suffer judgment, there’ll be much adversity - even amongst our covenant. We Ironborn have strict tradition… but the Eastyde holds true. One day, all will accept, and one day all will join and exchange. Such is the way of the estuary.” He tosses the photo onto the table, then leads his hand out toward Ramsay to take. “You name my sisterson wife, and the Lord of your House recognizes the marriage, that is enough for me. There’s no dishonor here. You’ll have no challenge from me or the rest of our kin.” 

Ramsay’s teeth clench, his relief just as pulse-pounding as the revolting fear. The hand before him ties one more end of his years long plan. The ravings of a losing man stops him from taking it.

“Traitors! House Harlaw has been bitched right before our own eyes.” He stomps before his own House, meeting his son’s eyes nodding in sneering agreement. Then to his brother-in-law. “You infringe on the ways of our people, my standing as a father and condone the defilement of my youngest’s honor.”

“As if you were ever concerned over little Theon. Enough with the theatrics - Lord Greyjoy.” Ramsay shoves his hands in his pockets, not reaching for the folded blade. “Your hands have been burnt by the rope, let go. Our families are forging ties, come to the table and negotiate before all you’re left with are scraps.” 

Balon looks to his oldest son and they exchange a rotten smile. 

“Well, father. Seems we should - let go.” Young Rodrick, laughs and throws up his shoulders. The remaining Ironborn from the Greyjoy House follow in his laughter. “Dead weight and all that. I’m sure the scraps’ll be just fine.”

The room looks on in confusion, the tide of the Greyjoy's anger receding with haste, replaced by something ‘other’.

He clasps his son’s shoulder, Lord Balon give him a hardy, approving shake. “Yes. I think you’re right. Very well.” He turns, captures everyone eyes with his teeth. “I’ll admit, misborn son of Roose Bolton. It is time to let go, to unshackle ourselves… I’m a forgiving King.” He looks to Harlaw, holds his gaze and continues. “I’ll give you one month. All Ironborn wasting in Eastyde, in The North - have one month. One month to return to the Iron Islands. After which - for those who do not return, will surrender their citizenship and the name Ironborn will be revoked from their person. Forever exiled. So say I - Balon Greyjoy. King of the Sea Stone Chair. King of the Iron Islands.” 

“You’re insane - you’ll spawn a civil war. No House on the Islands will stand for this …” Lord Harlaw bellows out, his voice like a horn as the rest of his family curse out.

The cold that sat over Ramsay’s back returns, pushing down the warmth of blood from his face.

Parchment is taken in hand. Balon signs it with a smile as the room erupts into chaos.

“This can not pass. No one will back you, Balon. Our people sail on the verge of poverty under your reign and you think casting out the Drowned’s most devout will garner you what? The glory of war? All will see you as an old fool, unfit to rule. This bluff will end you.”

“Oh - it is no bluff. The Houses loyal to the Islands, to the true way of the Drowned will see. They will see how Eastyde, how The North have seduced you all and have poisoned our most precious gift.” A short knife is handed to him by his son. Balon pricks his thumb and stamps the parchment with his own red. “The ink is dry and blood spilled.” 

The door is swung open, a call is made out into the courtyard. A running banner-man holding the sigil of House Greyjoy sprints to the King’s side.

“Take this. Declare is internationally - now.” A bow is the man’s answer and he runs out of the room before anyone can move.

“You forget who you are Harlaw. I have not, I am Ironborn, I pay the iron price and take what is mine. We do not sow.” His voice is low, wretched with his words. “I am Lord Father, head Kraken of House Greyjoy. On this day - I declare that Theon Greyjoy is no more. He has brought shame onto his former family, for the offense of becoming a slavewhore - he is thenceforth disowned and exiled from the Iron Islands.” He looks to Ramsay, spearing right through the shrunken pupils. “There are no ties here… enjoy the wastes of a slavewhore not even worth the bastard’s name of Pyke.”

House Greyjoy turns their back and march out the conference room, following in silence after their King.

House Harlaw erupts once again in a roar, bodies turning and thrashing. Their jackets whipping like flapping fish on land, struggling for air.

House Bolton is still. Roose takes a seat, his face unreadable but there is a twitch on the cusp of itching his face. He’s staring at his son. 

For his feet are stuck, frozen to the tiled floor. As if he’d been bleed at the soles, there is no warmth left in his body. Time is warped in murk and mist, but all the same congesting his senses like cotton woven from steel wool. It’s a pain more disturbing and more foreign then he can ever contextualize. 

He won’t try to. There is no time. Reality cuts him, Ramsay blinks rapidly as sound and time reconverge into one. The very next breath chokes him, and rattles him to move. To run.

He’s digging through his jacket in moments, his father’s calling out to him goes ignored. 

The phone is to his ear, waiting through each ring. Answer me, answer me, answer me.

“Hi Alpha. How’s -”

There is chattering in the background of Theon’s soft voice. Children giggle, feigning loss from their games.

Rage and worry rupture out his mouth. “Leave Winterfell now, get to the Dreadfort.”