The waters were tranquil, but a storm was simmering underneath. Theon Greyjoy felt it in his bones as a bleak sun guided him forward, but instead of fright, he felt calm. The floor of the tiny boat rocked underneath his legs, threatening to give way, but Theon trusted her not to. He was always better with small vessels than with large ships.
The boat went forward silently, Theon with it. Water sloshed behind them in peace. What little tide there was helped push him further and further away from Pyke, for which he was grateful. His arms ached with every swing of the oar but he did not stop, knowing he could not risk getting caught by any of Daenerys’ fleet, yet uncertain if the path forward was the right one.
Despite the urgency, Theon allowed himself to enjoy the sea. There was a chill, the winds were starting to pick up the pace, but he valued the cold in a way he hadn’t before, grateful to feel it against his skin, brush through his hair. Alone, aside from politics and plotting, the world managed to be a thing of beauty.
Theon did not belong at Pyke. He was not a Greyjoy, but he was no Stark either, nor was he Reek. He was Theon; a man tired of war and bloodshed, weary of loss, weary of tragedy.
He wondered if his choice to row to Barrowton, to the path of northmen and Jon Snow was the right one. Sometimes, the thought of facing them again made him shake with fear, but Theon had to overcome them. Part of him wished to be over with war, to feel in the stony walls of Winterfell welcome again, perhaps immerse himself in its libraries. If not Jon, at least Sansa would understand.
Even if they would not, and Theon were sentenced to the sword, he would understand why, although an escape from this world felt like reward for his crimes. Regret was one emotion he could scarce shake away. He looked away from the sea and into the boat, the cold, grey eyes of his deceased passenger. Maybe bringing her body to them would help make amends.
*
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