For a brief moment, when he and his sister stood in front of the Dragon Queen at Meereen, Theon Greyjoy believed he belonged. He thought he could renounce Stark and Greyjoy names and give counsel, except Daenerys Targaryen needed Theon’s ships more than his words. Now that Yara was named Wardeness she attended all Dragon Councils, leaving Theon alone with the people of Pyke.
Theon wanted to be brave, but had he lost the chance to prove himself? What could Theon speak of? Losing Winterfell to the Boltons? Rescuing Sansa Stark from Ramsay? The latter a commendable feat, but his audience cared naught for either family.
The feast around him was not loud enough to him to escape his void. Everywhere Theon saw, there was hate. Everyone knew who he was, though none dared say it for fear of going the way of Harrag. Then a serving girl with startling eyes of grey looked at him piercingly with both and called him a traitorous cunt, before slamming his goblet on his table.
Now that the ice was broken, every other Greyjoy greeted Theon Turncloak. Theon kept drinking his ale, hands shivering, but the insults would not stop. As men and boys alike found joy in japing him, fear turned to rage. “I am the queen’s trusted man,” he wanted to yell at them, but knew the ironborn would call his lie. Instead, he grabbed a serving boy by the hair. “What did you say to me?” he demanded, voice cracking.
“I said,” the boy repeated even louder, the laughter still in his eyes, “I hope the ale gives you the courage your cock cannot!” As ironborn men laughed around him, Theon knew what he had to do.
But try as he might, Theon could not find the dagger around his waist, turning the laughter to hysterics. The boy looked scared, but the rest of the ironborn were howling. Then one man from the back yelled reek, and the rest followed.
How did they know?
Reek did not know if the chants were in his mind or in fact. No, he corrected himself, my name is not Reek. Maybe Theon forgot the blade in his chambers or lost it in the feast, but that did not matter now. All that mattered was the boy in his hands, the one he could control.
“My name is not Reek,” Theon mumbled as his hands closed around the boy’s throat. As he struggled for breath, he heard the sound of laughter dying. When Theon finally let go, the boy fell to the floor, colder than ice. My name is not Reek. Theon stepped over him and made his way to his chambers. None stood in his path.
His room was quieter, but it felt like the walls were closing. Theon tried to shut his eyes but tears escaped them. All he saw was the boy. His face then changed to the farm kids, whom Theon had burned before hanging them on the walls of Winterfell. Rickon… dead in the dirt, slain by Ramsay’s arrow. He wondered how Bran had fallen.
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