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Theon Greyjoy comes to the Dreadfort as ward in perpetuum, exiled to the North as punishment for his father’s failed rebellion, assurance that such a lapse in Balon Greyjoy’s judgment will not occur again. He is ten.
The Boltons are a queer family, barely a family at all. There are only two, father and son: Lord Roose Bolton, a strange and quiet man with bright eyes that follow Theon like specters through the castle. And there is Domeric, the son; much older than Theon, with his father’s strange eyes, but friendly, in his own way. He and Theon ride horses together, read together. Theon watches him practice sparring, and Domeric shows him how to properly grip a sword. Over the years they grow close.
They are like brothers, almost, but not in the way that counts. Theon has the wrong blood. Bad blood, Roose says, and it leaves Theon with a terrible ache in his chest.
Domeric has a true brother. A half-brother, bastard born, but a brother nonetheless. One day, despite his father’s warnings, Domeric goes off to meet him. Ramsay the bastard. Ramsay Snow.
Domeric dies three nights later. Theon is by his bed, his hands clasped around Domeric’s thin and clammy fingers. Domeric’s eyes are pale slits and his chest heaves, every breath a struggle. He dies in agony.
Theon Greyjoy is sixteen.
There is only him and Roose now, the only two men of noble blood left in the Dreadfort. Sometimes Theon feels as though they’re the only men there at all, the servants are so quiet. He spends most days in his room, reading over dusty histories of the archaic North and of the strange Boltons who once drifted through the Dreadfort. One day Roose calls on him.
It is a great surprise to Theon, but years of living with the Boltons have taught him to school his features, and he does not let his curiosity show. Roose Bolton enters the room with the solemnity of a plague, and when he sits beside Theon on the bed he does not make a sound.
“Tomorrow I hold audience with my people,” he says. “You are to attend.”
Theon nods. “Yes, my lord.”
Roose stares at him for a moment, and then he leaves. When the door clicks shut, Theon lets out a breath he did not realize he had been holding in.
They do not speak of the change, but it is there. Without son, without heir, Roose has made a place for Theon at his side. Theon steps into this new role with ease; he has not worn black and gold in a very long time. Theon reads the histories, attends the meetings, mimics Roose in pitch and poise, and when he is given a nod of approval—more rare and more valuable than any cloth of gold—a feeling of warm satisfaction fills Theon in the pit of his belly. Here is a father that does not find him to be a disappointment.
Sometimes Theon thinks he is better than a son to Roose Bolton. He can give more than any trueborn son could, and he has, he can attest to it by the purpling bruise on the backs of his thighs, the shadowy remnants of fingerprints on his hips. He is son, steward, spouse. He is everything, and he is needed.
Theon is nineteen, and a letter comes. It bears the royal seal, and it is addressed to Roose. Theon is alone in his lord’s bedchamber when he sees it. The parchment is spread open, placed with deliberate carelessness by the fire. Roose burns his letters; to leave it is an invitation, and so Theon reads.
When Roose returns, Theon does not question him about the letter. He does not need to; that he read it is plain in his downcast eyes, the swollen red of his chewed-upon lips. Roose finds him like this, sitting on the vast bed with a look of such clear despair that it brings a smile to his face.
“My poor boy,” Roose murmurs. His tone is gentle, his touch more so, and when he strokes the top of Theon’s head he elicits a soft and almost imperceptible moan.
“He killed your son,” Theon chokes out.
“He did,” Roose answers, and Theon’s lip trembles. “But he is my heir.”
Theon lets out a hollow sort of laugh, a half-cry that makes him shake. Roose watches him with a look closer to curiosity than real sympathy. Theon heaves, choking on his future-that-was-not, the gravity of it enveloping him like a shroud. And on the table, ink flashing in the light of the fire, Ramsay Bolton is carved in red on sallow parchment skin.