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Theon had spent the entire afternoon out on his own, freezing half to death in the godswood, where the air hung so still and sharp it felt as though even his breath might crystallise and fall at his feet. Snow clung to the fur lining of his cloak and melted in cold rivulets down the back of his neck, yet he lingered beneath the tangled canopy of ancient branches as though some answer might reveal itself if he stayed long enough. Since the direwolves had been found, he found himself wandering like this more often than not, adrift, untethered, the quiet space beside him growing wider with every passing day. Robb was forever occupied now, practically living out in the kennels or the yard, whistling and calling to that great grey beast with a devotion Theon had never seen him offer any living creature before. It baffled him, the sudden depth of it, as though a single wolf pup had become the axis upon which Robb’s world spun. Theon tried to be reasonable about it, tried to tell himself it was nothing, but each time, the thought dissolved in him, thin and unconvincing.
A churning knot of jealousy curled low in him, warm and sour. Part of him wanted to dismiss the feeling as childish, but it clung to him all the same. He envied Robb with a sharpness that stung, envied the easy affection between boy and beast, envied the sense of purpose that seemed to settle around Robb’s shoulders like a second cloak. Even the bastard boy had one. That, perhaps, was the deepest cut of all. Theon had not minded when the pups were destined only for the trueborn Stark children, that was the natural order of things, after all, but Jon Snow, with his quiet ways and lowered eyes, had stumbled into claiming one regardless. A pale little thing at first, barely more than bones wrapped in moonlight, and yet it thrived. It grew, stronger, stranger, keener than any of the others.
Ghost, Jon had named it. A fitting name, Theon supposed, even if it grated on him. The creature moved like mist over snow, silent as breath, and its red eyes tracked Theon with an unsettling intelligence that made his skin prickle beneath his clothes. Eyes that saw too much. Eyes that understood more than any animal ever should. And though it never growled, never bared its teeth, Theon felt the weight of its soundless presence each time it drifted near, an accusation without words, a reminder that while everyone around him was finding their place in this strange new shifting world, he remained painfully, infuriatingly alone.
A twig cracked somewhere behind him, a delicate snap that seemed to echo far louder than it should in the hush of the evening woods. Theon turned, slow and uncertain, peering around the rough curve of the heart tree he’d been leaning against. For a heartbeat there was only stillness, snow drifting lazily from the branches above, the faint sigh of wind threading between the trunks, then a soft pulse of colour emerged from the dim. Red eyes, glowing low and steady in the deepening dusk, like coals banked beneath fresh ash.
“Ghost?” Theon called, his voice barely more than a breath, as though afraid to disturb whatever had taken shape before him. The creature did not answer, at least not in any way that sound could convey. Instead, the pale shimmer of its fur coalesced around those burning eyes, a ghost becoming flesh, and the direwolf stepped forward with a grace that made the snow seem to part for him.
“You’re out here alone?” Theon rose far too quickly, the cold-numbed stiffness in his legs wobbling beneath him as a ripple of unease prickled along his spine.
Ghost sat a few paces away, folding onto his haunches with regal poise. He watched Theon, watched him with that piercing, unsettling calm that made Theon feel naked beneath the creature’s gaze, as if every petty thought, every bruise of jealousy, every half-formed insecurity lay bared for the wolf to see.
Theon drew in a slow, steadying breath, lifting his chin, puffing his chest as though the posture alone might shield him. “Jon’s no more a Stark than I am,” he said, trying for a steady tone and only half succeeding. “He’s not special.” Ghost only tilted his great head, ears flicking, the gesture strangely gentle, as though humouring him.
Theon’s lips parted, and he bit down on the lower one hard enough to taste the faint tang of cold air on his tongue. An idea whispered through him, foolish and bold and aching with longing. His hand trembled where it hovered at his side.
“You came out here for me, didn’t you?” he murmured, stepping closer to that quiet, watchful shape. “Since I’m a proper lord. Not like Jon.” He needed it to be true. Needed something, anything, that might make the hollow inside him feel a little less empty. His hand wouldn’t still, shivering with nerves and hope as he reached toward the snow-white fur. “You want to serve me,” he breathed. “Not a bastard.”
Ghost did not bristle, nor growl. His stillness was almost tender, almost inviting, and for one suspended moment Theon let himself believe it would work, that this magnificent creature might lower himself to Theon’s touch, might choose him, might fill the space that had grown so vast and cold within him.
His fingers hovered an inch above the downy fur between Ghost’s ears, close enough to feel the subtle warmth rising from the beast’s body, and then Ghost moved.
A blur of white. A flash of red. The crunch of enormous jaws snapping shut. Pain blossomed bright and hot as Ghost closed his teeth around Theon’s outstretched hand, and the woods swallowed Theon’s startled breath as though it had never existed at all.
Theon cried out, sharp, startled, and raw, his voice tearing from him in a sound far too close to the wolfish howl he’d mocked and envied in equal measure. The pain flared hot and immediate, rushing up his arm in a white-hot bloom that stole his breath. Ghost released him just as swiftly as he had struck, though the direwolf’s lips remained peeled back over gleaming teeth, a low rumble vibrating in his chest like distant thunder. Theon cradled his mangled hand to his chest, fingers curled protectively around the warm slickness of his own blood, and staggered backwards until his heel slipped. The cold embraced him as he fell, the snow cushioning his back in a shock of biting softness.
“Ghost!” Jon’s voice sliced through the frozen air, high with panic. He appeared out of the trees in a blur, boots skidding through the powder as he ran toward them. His eyes darted from Theon to the wolf, widening with horror, and he threw out an arm. “Ghost, away! Away, now!” He repeated the command, urgent and fierce, until Ghost finally tore his gaze from Theon, gave a low, displeased snort, and turned. The direwolf trotted off with slow, deliberate steps, white fur melting into the pale gloom.
The world tilted gently around Theon, pulsing with the rhythm of his pain. The throb in his hand drowned out nearly everything else, leaving Jon’s voice sounding distant and muffled, as though spoken through a wall of snow.
“What did you do?” Jon demanded, dropping to a knee beside him and hauling Theon upright by the arm. “Seven hells, you idiot, what did you do? He’s not some puppy you can manhandle!”
“He… he came to me…” Theon whispered, the words slurring slightly as he swayed. The admission felt small, childish on his tongue.
“You shouldn’t have tried to touch him,” Jon snapped, though the anger in his voice wavered beneath an undercurrent of worry. He inspected the wounded hand with quick, trembling fingers, hissing softly at the sight. “Come on. You need a binding on that before you bleed all over the godswood.”
Jon hooked an arm around Theon’s waist, tugging him forward. Theon stumbled, half-supported, half-dragged, the scent of snow and pine swirling around them as Jon pulled him toward the distant lights of the keep, toward warmth, toward safety, toward anything that wasn’t the echo of a wolf’s teeth still burning against his skin.
Jon sat close beside him, closer than Theon expected, their knees nearly touching as he worked. His fingers moved with surprising gentleness as he wrapped Theon’s hand, the linen whispering softly each time it circled his skin. The bite hadn’t been deep, more a reprimand than an attempt to maim, but the throbbing ache pulsed through Theon’s whole arm, sharp enough to make his breath hitch when Jon tightened a knot. Ghost’s teeth had left their mark all the same: crescents of red, swelling and angry, blooming beneath Jon’s careful touch.
“You’re an idiot,” Jon said at last, the words exhaled on a sigh that held more fatigue than anger.
Theon didn’t bother to rise to the bait. Instead, he watched Jon’s face with a strange, drifting focus, the determined knit of his brow, the way a lock of dark hair kept threatening to fall into his eyes, the deft way his hands moved with the certainty of someone used to tending wounds, even if Theon couldn’t remember anyone ever tending his before. There was a quiet intimacy to it, one Theon didn’t want to acknowledge, even to himself.
“You’re not going to argue?” Jon asked, glancing up, one brow lifted in genuine surprise.
“No,” Theon muttered, voice low, roughened by exhaustion and pain. “I’m an idiot.”
Jon’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along the edge, and he let out an irritated huff. “What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted to be like the rest of you,” Theon mumbled, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. It surprised him how easily the words came, how little strength he had left to guard his pride. For once, he didn’t care how pathetic he sounded, didn’t care what the bastard might think of his longing or his loneliness. Everything felt too raw, too exposed for lies.
Jon stilled at that, his hands pausing over the final knot of the bandage. Theon felt the weight of Jon’s gaze on him then, searching, assessing. “Who cares if you don’t have a wolf?” Jon said quietly. “You’ll have a title, a keep, a wife someday, lands, children. A life waiting for you.” He hesitated, something flickering across his face. “And I’ll still be a bastard.”
Theon blinked at him. “Are you trying to comfort me?”
“No.” Jon tied off the bandage with a sharp tug. “I don’t care enough to comfort you.” His tone was quick, cutting, but it trembled faintly at the edges, as if he wasn’t entirely certain of the truth of his own words.
Theon felt tired, more than tired. A deep, dragging heaviness settled into his bones, making his limbs feel thick and unwieldy, as though he were wading through slow, syrupy shadows that clung to every movement. Even lifting his head felt like a negotiation with a body that no longer wished to obey him. The usual sharp retorts he kept ready for Jon, the careless smirks he wore like armour, none of it was within reach. His mind felt muffled, cushioned in a strange, dull quiet.
“But… I can stay if you’d like,” Jon said softly, as though speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile between them.
Theon nodded, exhausted and unguarded. “I would like that,” he admitted, the words tumbling out low and reluctant, stripped of their usual bite.
“You should sleep,” Jon murmured, studying him with an expression Theon couldn’t quite read. “Were you out in the snow all day?”
Another small nod.
“Go lie down,” Jon said, gently or impatiently, Theon couldn’t be sure. The tone slid somewhere between scolding and concern, a blend that left Theon uncertain how to feel.
He pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, making his way to the bed with slow, unsteady steps. Crawling beneath the blankets felt like surrendering to something inevitable, something he no longer had the strength to resist. He felt absurdly like a chastened child, sent to bed early for misbehaving. From his place on the mattress, he watched Jon at the hearth, watched the way the firelight played across his features as he selected a few pieces of dry firewood. Jon set them gently on the embers, coaxing new flames to life, and the warm glow crept across the room in soft waves. The heat reached Theon’s chilled bones, loosening something tight inside him. His eyes slipped shut, heavy as wet velvet.
He kept them closed when Jon moved to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Theon felt rather than saw the hesitation before Jon’s fingers threaded carefully into his hair, stroking in slow, tentative motions.
“Don’t touch me, Snow,” Theon muttered, though the protest came out hoarse and unconvincing, more breath than defiance.
“Just go to sleep,” Jon said quietly, his fingertips continuing their gentle, rhythmic path along Theon’s scalp. The touch was careful, almost reverent, as though Jon feared breaking him.
The syrupy shadows thickened, wrapping around Theon like a heavy blanket pulled up to his throat. His muscles ached in a distant, muted way, his fingertips tingling numb as the last of his resistance slipped free. He felt himself sinking, weightless, drifting deeper into warmth and darkness. A tightness pinched at his chest, and tears pricked hotly behind his closed eyes, but he didn’t fight them. He let the heaviness take him, let the shadows swallow him whole.