Chapter Text
After so much time in the dark, damp dungeons beneath the Dreadfort, even the torchlight hurt Theon’s eyes. He had lost track of time, but he knew that it was too early for Ramsay to be visiting him again. The Bastard of Bolton usually left Theon for at least a few days before he would return to inflict more torture upon him.
When he had heard the footsteps coming down the steps, he’d immediately known that they were not Ramsay’s. Ramsay’s steps were heavier. When he had pretended to be Reek, he had been quiet, often managing to sneak up on Theon unnoticed, but now, he wanted Theon to know that he was coming. He often announced his visits, cheerfully calling down to Theon before he even started his descent. This person was lighter than Ramsay, or at the very least their gait was.
Theon’s first thought at hearing someone else entering the dungeons was that someone had come for him, someone had shown up to free him, someone still cared for Theon Greyjoy — but as quick as that thought had come to him, he squashed it down. The much more likely scenario was that this was another one of the Bastard’s japes, another cruel way to punish Theon. The person who opened up his creaking cell door could not be anyone other than one of the Bastard’s boys, likely Skinner or Grunt — the former enjoyed prolonging Theon's suffering and the latter was always quiet on account of having had his tongue removed. Perhaps Ramsay wanted to torture Theon in a different room today.
He blinked against the light as his eyes slowly made their way up the figure in the doorway. He had learned that neither Ramsay nor any of his men liked being looked directly in the eyes. Ramsay had been trying to ‘teach’ Theon to lower them in deference. Sometimes Theon obeyed, but more often than not, he had shown defiance instead. He had been a hostage for more than half his life. Ned Stark hadn’t been able to beat the rebellion out of him figuratively — though there had been a few times where he had tried to do so literally, too — and Theon would be damned if he let this Bastard of Bolton succeed.
The figure was smaller than any of the Bastard’s Boys; in fact, it was not a man at all. Theon felt his heart raise at the sight of her chest, though for a completely different reason than it ever had in the past.
“Kyra?” Theon asked in surprise when his eyes finally landed upon her face. “What are you—”
Kyra put her fingers to her lips. “Quiet, m’lord,” she whispered. She held up a set of keys and jingled them softly. “We have to be quiet.”
Theon was being rescued. He had never been so grateful for Kyra as he was then. He’d cared for her in his own way, though he’d never been completely certain that she cared much for him other than the opportunity he presented her as the heir of a Great House. He had been foolish. Of course Kyra cared for him. He could clearly see it now, could remember it in the way she had looked at him when she had woken up next to him every morning when he had still been Prince of Winterfell.
He nodded and got up slowly. It hurt to stand, as his foot was still healing. The Bastard had taken one of his toes mere days ago, after Theon had had to beg him to cut it off. The pain of the flaying knife had almost made Theon want to submit to the Bastard’s demands, but he knew that his torture wouldn’t end there. If Ramsay Snow thought that the loss of two toes and a finger would break a son of the Iron Islands, he had another thing coming to him. Theon Greyjoy was not weak. He would not submit so quickly.
As Theon followed Kyra out of his cell and up the stairs, he noticed that she was shivering despite the thick layers of clothing that she was wearing. When she looked back at him a second time, Theon realised that she was shivering out of fear. He understood why. Only a fool would not be scared of the Bastard of the Dreadfort and he knew that Kyra was no fool. She had risked her life in coming to save Theon. He was starting to think of ways to repay her, but he had to remind himself to focus on the task at hand. They were not out of the woods yet.
Kyra put out her torch in a pile of snow as soon as they came out of the dungeons. It was brighter outside than Theon had been expecting; the skies were clear and the moon was full. They would have had no need of the torch, even if they had felt safe to use it.
She reached out for Theon’s hand and he took it. They would need each other if they were to escape successfully and Kyra seemed to know her way around the castle, which Theon was immensely grateful for, because he had not been able to see much when he had been taken to the Dreadfort.
He was also not dressed for the cold. Ramsay had had his armour removed before Theon had come to, after he had set Winterfell ablaze. He had awoken in his underclothes and he had not been given anything else to wear since. Theon was freezing and he knew that he reeked besides. He could not bring himself to care about the latter.
They did not dare speak until they were well clear of the castle, at least half a mile into the woods. However, every attempt that Theon made to ask Kyra how she had managed to steal the keys, she cut short by telling him to be quiet. He had understood her fear all too well in the castle yard, but he was starting to become a little suspicious. They were far enough away now that their voices couldn’t be heard by anyone in the Dreadfort. Why was Kyra so afraid to respond?
The realisation struck Theon like a lightning bolt. He jerked his hand free of Kyra’s grasp, as if he had been scorched by it. “Are we being followed?” When she would not respond, he repeated his question. She would not look at him, so he reached for her hand again, and gave it a light tug. “Kyra, tell me true, are we being followed?”
She turned her head towards him and he could see the tears in her eyes. “He said he would give us some time to get away, before… before…” A tear rolled down her cheek. “He does this for sport. We are not the first he is…” She could not hold back the tears anymore.
“Hunting,” Theon finished breathlessly. “He is hunting us.”
Kyra nodded.
“Kyra, we must split up. There is a smaller chance of him catching both of us if we split up.” He knew the truth in his own words as much as he could see the truth in hers, that she would not leave his side.
“I’m afraid, m’lord. Don’t leave me.”
Theon squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “I do not wish to, truly, but we stand a much better chance apart than we do together.” He tried to muster an encouraging smile, but he did not feel certain that he had found it. He had once been so adept at smiling, but after his experiences with the Bastard of Bolton, he found it more difficult than he ever had before. It certainly did not help that his cheekbone had not fully healed yet, though the cold was starting to numb the pain.
“I can’t do this alone, m’lord… Theon… Please…” Her eyes were pleading in a much different manner than he had ever seen before. He did not enjoy seeing her in such a manner.
He knew, then, that he could not leave her. As much as he knew that this likely doomed them both, he could not leave Kyra to fend for herself.
“All right, but we must make haste,” Theon said finally.
Theon did not know how far they had come — he estimated that it was only around two miles, though it was hard to be sure — before they could hear figures moving among the trees. He hoped that it was not Ramsay himself who had found them, though he knew that it mattered little. Whichever one of the Bastard’s Boys they were, they would deliver them to Ramsay. There was no other way that this could possibly end.
He pulled Kyra towards him and put his arms around her shoulders, holding her tightly. She, in turn, clutched to his waist, her terrified sobs racking through them both. She was wailing, in truth. Theon could not blame her for her fear, so he merely held her more tightly.
“If you deliver me unto my father, he will reward you handsomely,” Theon called towards the two men approaching them on horseback. “He is a king, after all. He will be happy to see his only son and heir returned to him.”
“Is that so? Then why has no one come for you?” the man Theon now recognised as Skinner called back mockingly.
“You ought to remember your place, Reek,” Damon, who was riding up beside Skinner, said menacingly. He was holding his whip in his hand.
“Then take me, but let Kyra go,” Theon said. “She has done nothing to upset Ramsay. It was the Bastard who sent her to me with the keys, was it not?”
“That was a mistake, Reek,” Damon said, then laughed. “You know he does not like to be called that.”
“And you know that we cannot let her go. We are going to have so much fun with her.” Skinner was almost singing the words with how joyful he sounded. Theon saw with sickening clarity that the man was looking forward to inflicting pain upon Kyra, too.
Skinner raised his horn to his mouth and blew it. They could hear the responding horn from the main party in the distance, then, as well as the hounds. It was over. They were truly caught.
But he was Prince Theon of House Greyjoy, last remaining son and heir of Balon the Twice Crowned, he had been taught how to fight by the great warrior Dagmer Cleftjaw himself, he was Ironborn, and he would not go down so easily.
And neither would Kyra, it seemed. She grabbed a stone from the ground and, as Ramsay rode up to them, the gleeful look on his face twisting it into an even uglier picture than normal, she threw it at him. She missed by about a foot, likely on account of the tears streaming down her face, but Theon admired her courage regardless. He knew that there had been a reason that she had first caught his eye.
“My Reek! What a hunt you have given us! Truly, you made it further than I thought you would, given that you are missing some toes,” Ramsay called out. Theon had often observed that Ramsay’s fat lips looked like two worms fucking, but when he smiled as he did then, it looked like even they could not stand to be near each other. “It is time to return home, now, though. You know that I could not let you go, do you not? I have so much planned for you. I cannot let this go unpunished, of course.”
Against his better instinct, despite knowing that this would only lead to more pain in the very near future, Theon reached down to grab a rock, too. Unlike Kyra, even with four fingers remaining to him on his right hand, irregardless of the fact that he could hardly move them from the cold, Theon had perfect aim. He hit Ramsay, who had not been expecting him to move so quickly, square in the face.
“It’s Prince Theon to you, Bastard,” Theon said. He felt a little triumphant, despite it all.
“You should not have done that,” Ramsay said softly. His rage always burned quietly, like his father’s, before it reached its most threatening peak. “I had been planning on this further down the line, but you have left me no choice. You will be a eunuch before this day is over or my name is not Ramsay Bolton.”
Theon wanted to quip back that it wasn’t, that he was Ramsay Snow and he would always be Ramsay Snow, regardless of whether a king would ever be stupid enough to legitimise him, even if he cut off Theon’s cock, but he did not get the chance, for suddenly a horn sounded from behind them and a rain of arrows came down upon the Bastard’s Boys.
They screamed out as they were struck, but luck was on the Bastard of the Dreadfort’s side, as he remained unharmed but for the bruise that was starting to form from Theon’s stone. He shouted commands at his men, who had not come prepared for a fight. They had light weapons on them, only Yellow Dick had had the wits to bring an axe.
“Go! I will find you after this if I am able!” Theon said to Kyra and he gave her a push. “Save yourself, Kyra! Hide!” She hesitated for a moment, then ran off into the woods.
There was nothing for her to do here, but now that it seemed like they were being rescued after all, Theon was itching for a fight. He ran over towards the men that had come to attack the Bastard’s Boys, ignoring his sore feet, sending a quick prayer to the Drowned God that he would not lose any more toes to frostbite. The men weren’t wearing any heraldry, but Theon vaguely recognised their leader. He knew that he had seen the tall man before, but he could not place him other than knowing that he had been one of Robb’s bannermen.
The most curious sight greeted Theon when he had reached the archers that had come to his defence. There was another that he recognised, though this one was much younger than the other men. He was not a man at all, merely a boy. His brown hair was longer than it had been when Theon had last seen him and he seemed to have grown a few inches in height, but Theon would have recognised that cheeky smile anywhere.
His squire held out a longbow and a quiver filled with arrows, which Theon accepted speechlessly. He could not quite believe what he was seeing, but he knew that there was no time to ask about the specifics now. He had something else to do, something he had been longing to do for what felt like a lifetime.
His rescuers were no great archers and they were quickly losing the advantage they had gained by the element of surprise. They had only managed to kill Ben Bones and one of his hounds, but the others, men and hounds alike, were now rushing towards them.
Theon notched an arrow, took aim, and shot Alison through her big belly. He had always hated that particular bitch. He did not have much time before the Bastard’s Boys would be upon them, so he quickly changed direction. He had never made a shot that he was prouder of than the arrow that went through Ramsay Snow’s upper leg.
The Bastard of the Dreadfort fell off his horse and a laugh bubbled up Theon’s throat at the sight. Though he was not dead yet, he knew that he had brought the Bastard down. This would not end in any other way for Ramsay than death or imprisonment. He was a free man again.
Theon smiled a true smile, wide and happy.