#i constantly think that through controlling the mist she could essentially 'lock up' someone in a white room. and they would think its real

[xx0yeet-everything0xx]

"percy's clearly the strongest demigod" "nah it's jason" "lmfao wtf are you on its neither but actually nico."

BUT uhmmm sorry but. y'all are wrong. OBVIOUSLY the strongest demigod is hazel levesque who could probably instantkill the seven immediately but is just too fucking nice honestly.

[floatingpetals]

Call Of The Mountains || Ch. 1

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes (Werewolf AU!)

Warnings: Nothin

Word Count: 1700+

Summary:  (Werewolf-AU!Stucky x f!reader) Life had begun to overwhelm her. Work was insane and her life was a mess. There was a tug in her soul that called her to take this trip, deep into the forest away, where there was the peace and stillness of nature. She didn’t know why, but she knew she needed to listen. It was meant to be a relaxing trip, but one misstep on some moss sent her tumbling into the rapids of the flooded river. She thought she was gone and the earth decided it was time to reclaim her. She didn’t expect was to be pulled from the river nor the creature that saved her. Her entire world is turned upside down and all it took was an accidental step to the left. (18+ Only Story)

A/N: Aight, so this is one I’ve been wanting to write for a while but made myself wait until I got a few stories done. Now that’s done, I can write this! It’s gonna get spicier in later chapters, and I’m exccciittteeeed! I hope you all enjoy this new story and the wonders it’s gonna contain! Let me know what you think! Enjoy! ❤

The gifs are not mine, credit to the owner.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Series Masterlist

This wasn’t a really bright idea.  She knew it. However, that didn’t stop her from packing up her car with a tent, duffle bag filled with essentials and enough food for a week or so in a bear-proof cooler. She needed a break. Things had gotten crazy at work and life was stressing her out to where she was nearing her breaking point. If she didn’t take this vacation, she’d lose her ever-loving mind.

Fortunately, her boss understood and gave her the time off she wanted. The very next day, Y/N packed her car up, let her friends know she was going to be gone without cell reception for a week or so and drove off towards the mountains and forest. There was a campsite she and her family had been to a few times before; they were more outdoorsy than her, but something was calling to her. A little voice inside of her was craving to be surrounded by nature and away from society, tugging her towards the distant mountains. She needed to unplug and unwind. And so far, the little voice hadn’t steered her wrong.

The drive was long, but it helped her being to decompress and leave the stress behind her. The closer she drove, the thicker and taller the trees began to grow. Eventually, she reached the exit her mother wrote on a sticky note. Very quickly Y/N felt a peace wash over her as she took the quiet country road towards her destination.

She checked her location on her phone and noted her service was at one bar and kept dropping, not that she minded. She was about half an hour from the turn into the reserve and still had a few hours left of daylight. Good, she’d be able to pitch the tent and get a quick dinner started before the sun began to set. Maybe she could go for a quick dip in the river nearby. It had a lovely waterfall that flowed from a spring somewhere along the mountain. It was the perfect place for her to unwind.

Half an hour later, a smile spread across Y/N’s face when she spotted the sign and entrance. The ranger at the booth at the reserve's entrance was happy to help point her in the right direction, chatting with her for a moment and explaining how things worked. She was one of the few campers there, and while she might run into one or two if she went out hiking, the campsite she requested was far enough away she didn’t have to worry about seeing people all the time. Just what she wanted. He did, however, warn her that due to a large amount of rain they were getting, the rapids in the river were quite high and fast in the area and to make sure she kept an eye on where she stepped on the soft ground beside it.

Following the directions the ranger gave, Y/N drove further into the reserve and was unable to keep herself from admiring the green around her. Living in the city meant she got very little to none of this. True there were trees here and there, but nothing like this. Parking her car in the marked spot beside the site, Y/N stepped out and took in a deep breath of the clean crisp air. No loud sirens or shouting filled in air, or the smog and dingy stale air from the city. All she heard was the sound of the trees swaying in the breeze and the happy chirps of the many birds in the canopies. The weather was supposed to be sunny and relatively cool, with a slight chance of clouds later in the week. The perfect weather for camping in the perfect setting. Yep, she thought, this was what I needed.

The unpacking took her a little longer than she thought. The tent was new, one of the dome ones big enough to fit six people. Her father bought it on sale, something about it being almost 70% off and he just had to get it. The tent was comically large for Y/N, both in height and width, but she wasn’t going to complain. She didn’t want to go out and spend an inordinate about of money for one camping trip. There’s no telling when the next time she’d get a chance to do this again. Her father was also the one that gifted her with the cooler, which he reminded her to keep in the car locked up tight at night as well as a few lanterns, a swiss army knife, plenty of matches and lighters, a few jugs of water, a camping GPS tracker, and the fishing poles Y/N doubted she’d use. But considering she had no idea what she was going to do while here, Y/N didn’t argue. Her mom wasn’t so sure about this, going out alone into the woods, but Y/N just needed to do it. That tug kept growing inside of her and the only way to make it stop was to answer the call.

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly. After the slight struggle figuring the tent out, Y/N made a quick dinner with her packed food and started getting her things ready for sleep later that night. But first, Y/N wanted to go find the waterfall with the scenic pond that turned fed the river. Going off what the ranger said, Y/N assumed the waterfall would be much larger than the last time she’d been. She had plans to go back in the morning but didn’t want to wander around trying to find it.

So lacing up her hiking boots, she snagged a flashlight in case it got darker sooner than anticipated and followed the little marked trail that led her through the woods. The trail was familiar. She hadn’t been here in a few years, and normally her parents would camp further down the river, but once she found the main trail that followed closely alongside the riverbank, Y/N knew where she was. She paused at the sight of the much higher waters, the usually calm waters roaring with life. The ranger wasn’t joking about the current. It looked like it could drag a person under and downstream before anyone had a chance to blink.

Keeping a close to the trail along the forest, away from the soft edge, Y/N walked against the stream of the river and towards where the waterfall should be. Usually, when she was alone with her thoughts, Y/N would find herself full of anxiety, constantly thinking over everything and anything that could go wrong in her busy life. She hated how her mind fought with itself, constant warring with her about this and that. Trivial meaningless things she’d have little to no control over. Yet right now, with her breathing calm and her footsteps unusually light, there wasn’t a single anxious thought insight. The forest seemed to soothe her as if a spell was cast when she stepped foot on the land.

As she began to turn a corner, Y/N heard the waterfall first. It was roaring, echoing off the mountain beside it and the rocks and trees surrounding it. She felt a little flutter of excitement as she turned the corner and gasped. What was usually gentle and slight, the waterfall was twice its size. It caused a cooling mist to form at the bottom, shrouding the little clearing. Where the water pooled was twice in size as well. She spotted the top of a rock she would usually settle on beside it nearly submerged five feet from where the water line began. Fortunately, there were still plenty of places to sit and read around the area, the waterfall loud but not overly so. It was just enough to keep her thoughts at bay in case they crept back in sometime later in the week.

As she stood there staring in awe about how quickly nature can turn from mellow and serene into an impressively dangerous beast, a strange feeling took over. At first, she couldn’t quite place it. It sort of felt like someone was watching her. Frowning, Y/N turned from the waterfall, eyeing the surrounding forest across the water.

The sun had begun to set, leaving shadows to grow under the trees. With the added combination of the mist, Y/N couldn’t make out the other side very well. But the feeling was still there, growing heavier as whatever it was watched on. It wasn’t angry or even annoyed. No, it didn’t make the hairs on the back of her neck raise. Instead, it was almost curious, watching and waiting to see what she’d do next. It made Y/N want to see who it might be, so she chanced a step towards the water. Her eyes followed the waterline, looking and searching.

A shadow moved out of the corner of her eye. It made her jump, her attention snapping towards the spot. She couldn’t have been certain, but she swore she saw a large shape through the trees. Squinting, Y/N tried to make out what it was. But a bird cried loudly behind her, startlingly loud. It caused her to jerk and jump away from the edge of the water, surprised at how close she had gotten without realizing it. She glared at the smug-looking bird that sat on a low branch staring everywhere but at her and turned back to the shoreline on the opposite side. However, the feeling and whatever ever was there was gone.

Letting out a sigh, Y/N deiced that was enough excitement for the night. She shot once more look over her shoulder before heading back towards the way she came. Shaking the strange feeling off, Y/N decided not to dwell on it. It was the first day, there was no point in worrying about something she may or may not have seen. It was just a trick of the light, she tried to reason. Either that it was another hiker who happened across the same spot as her. Yeah, she thought, that was it.

The forest was a mysterious thing. It had its secrets, both good and bad. More often than not, the visitors that would come through never saw the magic that it was made of. There were a lucky few that would see the enchanting wonders it held, whether they stumbled across it or the magic was brought to them. Then, there were the unlucky ones who could see how unforgiving mother earth could be. The trails could lead her down many different paths. It was up to her to determine which direction she would end up taking and what the Earth had decided.

NSFW Tag: (Open- MUST BE 18+, NO EXCEPTIONS)

@cherrynat  / @221bshrlocked / @theapologies / @lusts-of-the-flesh / @rowencarter3 / @littlehellflame / @buckyb4rnacle / @diinofayce / @sincerelymlg / @punkrockhippiefromthefourties / @slytherinlifeislove / @moderapoppins / @nirinael-the-rising-demon / @girlwhoisfearless / @whatisanniedoin / @xxashy999xx / @cinema212 / @sergeantjbuckybarnes / @lokigodofsasss / @myforeveryoungblog /  @serpentbaby / @palaiasaurus64 / @electra-hxart / @libbymouse / @disaster-rose /

Call Of The Mountains Tag List : (CLOSED)

[harlothane]

Theon in ADWD Re-Read - The Truth Found in the Godswood.

(This covers the Prince of Winterfell chapter. Warnings for rape/implied sexual assault, the Boltons in general). Previous meta can be found under this tag.

Theater creates its own language, able to divulge truths words serve to hide. This is the thesis of Antonin Artaud famous book, le Théâtre et son Double, and the Prince of Winterfell chapter illustrates it better than most examples you could think of. This chapter is a favourite of mine, a favourite of many readers.

My love for literature means that I want to understand how it all works. Reading it over and over again, it becomes clear : the key is theatre. You’ll see, that theme structures the chapter.

The chapter covers the Masquerade Wedding between Ramsay and Jeyne Poole, the feast, and the wedding night. It is a pivotal event in the story - the Boltons solidify their power over the North - as well as an essential step in Theon’s “redemption” arc. Note that I am not fond of the Redemption Arc idea because I find it too morally and religiously charged, but I lack a better term to define Theon’s journey from this book onwards. I could call it Acceptance Arc: he clearly recognizes, regrets his crimes; all of this starts here, in the Godswood of Winterfell.

And redemption demands sincerity of heart. Theon was shallow. His status as a hostage shaped him so profoundly - I believe it’s often downplayed. He was a hostage, and in a sense, he will always be one. I always come back to that truth. The first time we glimpse the real Theon, that scared, bitter, sad young man, is during his last Clash chapter. He compares his life as a hostage as a constant state of fear and pain like that of the man about to be hanged (”it chafed, it chafed me raw”)…

The shy boy he was adapted to constant fear, never truly mended his amputated self-esteem (how can you grow as a person in these circumstances? When, at 10, you are confronted to the harsh truth of being a pawn in a greater political game?). He clung to the appearances - he was a Prince, and handsome at that! - pushing away the terrified boy and his mutilated sense of self. Theon was shallow. And it caused him to constantly choose the wrong paths, the easy ones he needed to boost his pride. It is on a stage, during a masquerade, that Theon finds himself.

Theatre reveals, painfully. It is not a pleasant experience, yet it’s inevitable, inexorable. Theon’s Dance chapters until then have been filled with lies. We have demonstrated that the Reek persona is a mask Theon adopted to protect himself; it is a defense mechanism, never an identity he manages to embrace. Theon, the truth, threatens to burst out at any moment. And we have seen how scared Theon became of his own personality - his smiles, his defiance, his name - surfacing again.

Paradoxically, a play, a performance is needed to summon the truth. Theatre, like the plague, writes Antonin Artaud, is a castastrophe as much as a revelation:

If the essential theater is like the plague, it is not because it is contagious, but because like the plague it is the revelation, the bringing forth, the exteriorization of a depth of latent cruelty by means of which all the perverse possibilities of the mind, whether of an individual or a people, are localized. Like the plague the theater is the time of evil, the triumph of dark powers that are nourished by a power even more profound until extinction. In the theater as in the plague there is a kind of strange sun, a light of abnormal intensity by which it seems that the difficult and even the impossible suddenly become our normal element.

The plague, the play, is the heart of this chapter. It starts with a conversation between two players, forced to hide behind masks that don’t fit them. Jeyne’s eyes shine through : “the bride raised her eyes. Brown eyes, shining in the candlelight”.

Theon struggles to control his thoughts, in spite of his efforts: “talk like that will get you killed, or worse. That lesson he had learned as Reek”.

Their dialogue is touching and intimate like a secret talk two scared actors share before the play, hidden behind the curtains. It is also one of the rare moments they escape Ramsay’s gaze. They are still under the influence of their gaoler and hesitate to act as Theon and Jeyne respectively.

(Interestingly, Jeyne is first defined by the coldness of her body: “a corpse buried in the snow” - snow here may refer to Ramsay’s true last name, meaning she is unable to escape him, her grim fate. It fits with Theon’s way of thinking: he dares not calling Ramsay by his bastard name, yet, his mind will find a way to remember the truth. Coldness also serves as a contrast to the warmth of the Godswood, the “strange sun” that will rise in this chapter).

Theon and Jeyne are still buried in the show. They dare show affection and kindness to one another, though. The masks shatter, a little : “tears spilled from her eyes at last,” Theon notices, as if he were relieved, in a sense, that Jeyne is still there somewhere, afraid but still existing.

The lies persist, Jeyne and Theon are already in costume after all, and almost on stage :

“(…) Does Lord Ramsay think I am pretty?” “Yes,” he lied. “He’s told me so.” “He knows who I am, though. Who I really am. I see it when he looks at me. He looks so angry, even when he smiles, but it’s not my fault. They say he likes to hurt people.” “My lady should not listen to such … lies.” “They say that he hurt you. Your hands, and …” His mouth was dry. “I … I deserved it. I made him angry. You must not make him angry. Lord Ramsay is a … a sweet man, and kindly. Please him, and he will be good to you. Be a good wife.” “Help me.” She clutched at him. “Please. I used to watch you in the yard, playing with your swords. You were so handsome.” She squeezed his arm. “If we ran away, I could be your wife, or your … your whore … whatever you wanted. You could be my man.” Theon wrenched his armaway fromher. “I’m no … I’m no one’s man.” A man would help her. “Just … just be Arya, be his wife. Please him, or … just please him, and stop this talk about being someone else.” Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, it rhymes with pain. (…) “It is time. Wipe those tears from your eyes.” Brown eyes. They should be grey. Someone will see. Someone will remember. “Good. Now smile.” The girl tried. Her lips, trembling, twitched up and froze, and he could see her teeth. Pretty white teeth, he thought, but if she angers him, they will not be pretty long.

(The “pretty white teeth” expression is a clear parallel to Ramsay’s line concerning Theon. It binds Jeyne and Theon’s experiences, meaning they are similar).

I couldn’t resist reminding you of the entirety of the dialogue: it’s so profoundly emotional. Also, it sets up the whole theme of this chapter. Theon and Jeyne have to enter the stage now, unwilling, as if sentenced to death. At this point, they’re both on the verge of abandoning their identities forever. The scene ends with this detail, sinister, yet not deprived of hope: “when he pushed the door open, three of the four candles fluttered out”.

One candle is still burning.

There is no denying it. The “dark powers” Antonin Artaud evokes are winning. The Wedding plays out. There is no preventing it, and, akin to the horrific plague, the play is a revelation. It is the first step in Theon’s journey towards the acceptance of his true nature, his faults and his regrets.

As readers, we know Theon’s kept his wits. He is an actor, he plays his part, and he is starting to realise it will lead him nowhere :

 “they are using me to cloak their deception, putting mine own face on their lie. That was why Roose Bolton had clothed him as a lord again, to play his part in this mummer’s farce. Once that was done, once their false Arya had been wedded and bedded, Bolton would have no more use for Theon Turncloak.”

Note that he speaks of Theon Turncloak as if it were yet another character, not the true Theon yet. Indeed, Turncloak is as much a caricature as Reek. And Theon, as a person and a character, needs to embrace the complexity of his personality in order to be redeemed. (Again, think of the term with an open mind - I have no better word than Redemption, although I’m bothered by its religious connotations).

Theon seems to be obsessed with lies. They grew unbearable.

“Serve us in this, and when Stannis is defeated we will discuss how best to restore you to your father’s seat,” his lordship had said in that soft voice of his, a voice made for lies and whispers. Theon never believed a word of it. He would dance this dance for them because he had no choice, but afterward … He will give me back to Ramsay (…)

But Theon is still buried in the snow, his mind refusing hope - all the suffering it brings. Death by Stannis’ sword is “the best he could hope for”. The Wedding is a terrifying, humiliating experience for Jeyne and Theon. It is their Plague. The horrible event that reveals the beasts hiding beneath the masks. No other scene demonstrates this better than Theon’s description of the guests:

The way the mists threw back the shifting light made their features seem bestial, half-human, twisted. Lord Stout became a mastiff, old Lord Locke a vulture, Whoresbane Umber a gargoyle, Big Walder Frey a fox, Little Walder a red bull, lacking only a ring for his nose. Roose Bolton’s own face was a pale grey mask, with two chips of dirty ice where his eyes should be. Above their heads the trees were full of ravens, their feathers fluffed as they hunched on bare brown branches, staring down at the pageantry below. Maester Luwin’s birds. Luwin was dead, and his maester’s tower had been put to the torch, yet the ravens lingered. This is their home. Theon wondered what that would be like, to have a home.

Then the mists parted, like the curtain opening at a mummer show to reveal some new tableau. The heart tree appeared in front of them, its bony limbs spread wide. Fallen leaves lay about the wide white trunk in drifts of red and brown. The ravens were the thickest here, muttering to one another in the murderers’ secret tongue.

Difficult not to be reminded of Artaud’s take on theatre: a “strange sun” (”it was warmer in the godswood, strange to say “ ; “inside the godswood, the ground remained unfrozen, and steam rose off the hot pools, as warm as baby’s breath”), a “revelation”, a moment where the impossible slides within our reach.

This scene refers to theatre explicitely (”like the curtain opening at a mummer show”, “a pale grey mask”).

The Godswood allows Theon to connect with his souvenirs, emotions, regrets. All of this is linked to Winterfell and the family he idealised - the Starks. 

“Theon wore black and gold, his cloak pinned to his shoulder by a crude iron kraken that a smith in Barrowton had hammered together for him. But under the hood, his hair was white and thin, and his flesh had an old man’s greyish undertone. A Stark at last, he thought.”

(To me, the white hair detail is meant to be symbolic before all else - maybe Theon’s dark hair hasn’t gone completely white, but it doesn’t matter. It looks white, cold, frozen. Theon is buried in snow, as we’ve said before).

Of course, the connection is even deeper than he realises as Bran will soon call for him through the Weirwood Tree. In Theon’s storyline, the Godswood symbolises the past that does not pass. The past is the first step to acceptance; Theon doesn’t need to remember as much as he needs to accept who he always refused to be - the shy, scared boy who yearned for home. Then, he can deal with his faults.

I personally read this bit as a metaphor for his journey:

There was a path of sorts, a meandering footpath of cracked stones overgrown with moss, half buried beneath blown dirt and fallen leaves and made treacherous by thick brown roots pushing up from underneath. He led the bride along it. Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, it rhymes with pain. He must not think that, though. Should that name pass his lips, it might cost him a finger or an ear. He walked slowly, watching every step.

The path to acceptance is “treacherous” - Theon might tempted to find excuses or deny some parts of himself he deems weak. It’s also “half buried”, meaning the path is not clear to him yet, he doesn’t know what to do, how to find hope and strength any longer. The key to it seems to be empathy : “he led the bride along it”. Jeyne, an innocent young girl, as scared as he had been as he was snatched away from his home. A girl that doesn’t matter in the great scheme. A pawn, the Prince he was wouldn’t have cared about, once.

Theon remains in a constant state of terror. He is someone who was shaped by fear. Ramsay amped up Theon’s fear to its maximum, forcing him to retreat within the confines of his mind. Inside the warmth of the Godswood, leading Jeyne on this path, Theon is slowly regaining his strength. He walks carefully. The lights around him are still faint, weak:

The mists were so thick that only the nearest trees were visible; beyond them stood tall shadows and faint lights. Candles flickered beside the wandering path and back amongst the trees, pale fireflies floating in a warm grey soup. It felt like some strange underworld, some timeless place between the worlds, where the damned wandered mournfully for a time before finding their way down to whatever hell their sins had earned them. Are we all dead, then? Did Stannis come and kill us in our sleep? Is the battle yet to come, or has it been fought and lost?

(That scene is so beautiful)

Soon, the dark masquerade will play. Theon and Jeyne cling to their masks, quite desperately, to survive. Since Jeyne and Theon touching conversation, Theon hasn’t let himself got off script. With Ramsay here, this is amplified by the nature of the ceremony. He is reciting a text. But isn’t he always reciting a text, with Ramsay around?

Ramsay Bolton stood (…) clad in high boots of soft grey leather and a black velvet doublet slashed with pink silk and glittering with garnet teardrops. A smile danced across his face. “Who comes?” His lips were moist, his neck red above his collar. “Who comes before the god?” Theon answered. “Arya of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” “Me,” said Ramsay. “Ramsay of House Bolton, Lord of the Hornwood, heir to the Dreadfort. I claim her. Who gives her?” “Theon of House Greyjoy, who was her father’s ward.” He turned to the bride. “Lady Arya, will you take this man?”

And then - Jeyne embodies the Truth, with her brown eyes, reminding Theon of his lies, of the scene, the stage.

She raised her eyes to his. Brown eyes, not grey. Are all of them so blind? For a long moment she did not speak, but those eyes were begging.

There is hope for them both : 

“All around them lights glimmered through the mists, a hundred candles pale as shrouded stars.”

But first, they must face the Plague. 

“The weirwood’s carved red eyes stared down at them, its great red mouth open as if to laugh. In the branches overhead a raven quorked.”

After the Wedding, Theon shares another intimate moment. With someone he never took the time to understand, really - himself. At last! And it happens in the Godswood, a place of memories, repressed feelings and emotions. (Do you know The Unforgiven III? This song is Theon’s: been afraid, always afraid // Of the things he’s feeling // He could just be gone // He would just sail on…). The scene is positioned in the centre of the chapter, emphasising its symbolic importance.

Alone on the deserted stage, Theon finally dares to think freely. It’s a monologue, and any theatre lover knows the pivotal role of monologues in a tragedy.

Theon found himself wondering if he should say a prayer. Will the old gods hear me if I do? They were not his gods, had never been his gods. He was ironborn, a son of Pyke, his god was the Drowned God of the islands … but Winterfell was long leagues from the sea. It had been a lifetime since any god had heard him.

(But us, the readers, we do hear him in that moment. He isn’t alone, really. The reader is the closest to a god in the world of ASOIAF, as we are offered the perspective of all characters)

He did not know who he was, or what he was, why he was still alive, why he had ever been born. “Theon,” a voice seemed to whisper. His head snapped up. “Who said that?”

This bit sounds strangely Shakespearian to me. I’m expecting to see a vengeful ghost any second.

All he could see were the trees and the fog that covered them. The voice had been as faint as rustling leaves, as cold as hate. A god’s voice, or a ghost’s.

Well then.

How many died the day that he took Winterfell? How many more the day he lost it? The day that Theon Greyjoy died, to be reborn as Reek. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with shriek. Suddenly he did not want to be here. Once outside the godswood the cold descended on him like a ravening wolf and caught him in its teeth. He lowered his head into the wind and made for the Great Hall, hastening after the long line of candles and torches. Ice crunched beneath his boots, and a sudden gust pushed back his hood, as if a ghost had plucked at him with frozen fingers, hungry to gaze upon his face. Winterfell was full of ghosts for Theon Greyjoy.

The revelation unsettles Theon; deep down, he wants to face himself. The fear is still there, though. He has suffered so much, and for what? To keep a name and a personality that ended up betraying him, leading him to make terrible choices, to become a person no one could ever pity?

There is still an ambiguity here, between the cold and the warmth. It is the “frozen fingers”, the cold, that wants to reveal the truth, to uncloak him. As we’ve seen, the path Theon will follow from this chapter onwards is not a easy one. It’s a perillious journey. He may get lost again. This is a strong parallel with Bran Stark’s own journey. The two Princes of Winterfell will need to advance in the shadows in order to find the truth those around them concealed.

This is not the purpose of this meta to explore this theme further but I do believe the parallels between Theon and Bran are meaningful, strongly tied to the battles to come. It’s another hint that Theon’s storyline is verging towards the magical. After all, Theon was never made for politics. He has been a prize of war, a pawn to his father and Eddard Stark. The two Princes of Winterfell are more suited to the Godswood than the Throne Room. (Which does not mean they will never rule, although I have doubts about Theon ruling again. But Bran’s magic has to be taken into account). I hope they meet again. There are so many connections between them.

This moment of truth is left unfinished. It still has repercussions on Theon’s mind. His defiance surges back - he allows himself to be bitter, and depressed, and emotional. It’s great: this is the first step into regaining strength and dignity.

All the color had been leached from Winterfell until only grey and white remained. The Stark colors. Theon did not know whether he ought to find that ominous or reassuring.

(This is often undermined : Theon’s core conflict is there, plain to see. He can’t put words into his feelings regarding the Starks).

And above all, Theon cannot turn a blind eye to the truth any longer. It’s always creeping through, in the form of Jeyne: 

“Even the sky was grey. Grey and grey and greyer. The whole world grey, everywhere you look, everything grey except the eyes of the bride.”

But this chapter is the first step of a long journey. Theon is not even aware of the great change within him: 

“What had she been thinking, that he would whistle up a winged horse and fly her out of here, like some hero in the stories she and Sansa used to love? He could not even help himself.”

He still corrects himself in his own narrative: “So long as Jeyne took care not to anger him, he should have no cause to harm her. Arya. Her name is Arya.”

His walk to the Hall holds a symbolic meaning as well. Nietzsche writes in the Twilight of Idols : “Only thoughts reached by walking have value,” in opposition to Flaubert. Theon’s quiet walk confirms this, as his steps lead him inexorably to the atrocious wedding night, he finds himself remembering. Memories are the crux of our identities. Theon might not realise it, but what he is doing is already brave, and an act of resistance against Ramsay’s psychological (and physical) tyranny.

It starts with a sensation, because Descartes was wrong and our minds express themselves through our bodies:

“Even inside fur-lined gloves, Theon’s hands had begun to throb with pain. It was often his hands that hurt the worst, especially his missing fingers. Had there truly been a time when women yearned for his touch? I made myself the Prince of Winterfell, he thought, and from that came all of this. He had thought that men would sing of him for a hundred years and tell tales of his daring. But if anyone spoke of him now, it was as Theon Turncloak, and the tales they told were of his treachery.”

Finally, Theon reflects on his past actions and how they’ve come to define him, annihilating any hope for redemption, a better future. This state of mind, the hopelessness, also prevents him from helping an innocent girl. So, in this case, to look back allows Theon to grow as a person, make sense of his own actions. He ceases to idealise his life in Winterfell: 

“this was never my home. I was a hostage here. Lord Stark had not treated him cruelly, but the long steel shadow of his greatsword had always been between them. He was kind to me, but never warm. He knew that one day he might need to put me to death.”

There can be no future for someone who’s stuck in the past, whether idealised or dreaded. Still, Winterfell remains his almost home, a place he could have been happy. A place he wanted to feel accepted in. Simply put, Theon is facing the truth, with all its facets.

Theon kept his eyes downcast as he crossed the yard, weaving between the tents. I learned to fight in this yard, he thought, remembering warm summer days spent sparring with Robb and Jon Snow under the watchful eyes of old Ser Rodrik. That was back when he was whole, when he could grasp a sword hilt as well as any man. But the yard held darker memories as well. This was where he had assembled Stark’s people the night Bran and Rickon fled the castle. Ramsay was Reek then, standing at his side, whispering that he should flay a few of his captives to make them tell him where the boys had gone. There will be no flaying here whilst I am Prince of Winterfell, Theon had responded, little dreaming how short his rule would prove. None of them would help me. I had known them all for half my life, and not one of them would help me. Even so, he had done his best to protect them, but once Ramsay put Reek’s face aside he’d slain all the men, and Theon’s ironborn as well. He set my horse afire. That was the last sight he had seen the day the castle fell: Smiler burning, the flames leaping from his mane as he reared up, kicking, screaming, his eyes white with terror. Here in this very yard.

It’s worth noticing that Theon, for the first time, thinks of Ramsay with no apparent trace of terror. The memories are flooding his mind, many of them include traumatic events. Yet, he carries on, detach himself from the Reek persona and clearly defines it as a mask (”once Ramsay put Reek’s face aside (…)”).

The last part of the chapter opens with a light: “the hall was blessedly warmand bright with torchlight, as crowded as he had ever seen it.”

Again, the truth, now revealed, cannot be unseen:

“(...) along the walls the banners hung: the horseheads of the Ryswells in gold, brown, grey, and black; the roaring giant of House Umber; the stone hand of House Flint of Flint’s Finger (…) Yet their bright colors could not entirely cover the blackened walls behind them, nor the boards that closed the holes where windows once had been. Even the roof was wrong, its raw new timbers light and bright, where the old rafters had been stained almost black by centuries of smoke (…) the largest banners were behind the dais, where the direwolf of Winterfell and the flayed man of the Dreadfort hung back of the bride and groom. The sight of the Stark banner hit Theon harder than he had expected. Wrong, it’s wrong, as wrong as her eyes.”

Theon is fully himself in this moment - sorrowful, full of self-hatred. This is one of the reasons why the term “redemption” bothers me: Theon acknowledge his crimes, but refuses forgiveness. He doesn’t seem to seek it (or to believe it possible, even): “Theon Turncloak,” someone said as he passed. Other men turned away at the sight of him. One spat. And why not? He was the traitor who had taken Winterfell by treachery, slain his foster brothers, delivered his own people to be flayed at Moat Cailin, and given his foster sister to Lord Ramsay’s bed. Roose Bolton might make use of him, but true northmen must despise him.

As we have seen, it’s only the beginning of his journey. For now, he is focused on survival. That’s all. But at least, he is able to think freely. 

“Let them laugh. His pride had perished here in Winterfell; there was no place for such in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. When you have known the kiss of a flaying knife, a laugh loses all its power to hurt you.” He even regains his old, dark humor : “to his right sat no one. They are all afraid the dishonor might rub of on them. If he had dared, he would have laughed.”

The feast is another play where lies reign. Even the pie is a lie (this one was too easy, sorry) : 

“True to his word, Manderly devoured six portions, two from each of the three pies, smacking his lips and slapping his belly and stuffing himself until the front of his tunic was half-brown with gravy stains and his beard was flecked with crumbs of crust.”

The same motif keeps on repeating itself - Jeyne and her eyes, the truth, Theon’s true self, the bravery he can display now that he has lost his misplaced pride, his false hopes.

“When she raised her head and looked at Theon, he could see the fear behind her big brown eyes. No longswords had been allowed within the hall, but every man there wore a dagger, even Theon Greyjoy. How else to cut his meat? Every time he looked at the girl who had been Jeyne Poole, he felt the presence of that steel at his side. I have no way to save her, he thought, but I could kill her easy enough. No one would expect it. I could beg her for the honor of a dance and cut her throat. That would be a kindness, wouldn’t it? (…)”

Interestingly, the truth is visible through Theon’s thoughts. Spoken words are the ones who are treacherous. See Theon’s dialogue with Barbrey Dustin, where he doesn’t dare speak his mind. “Her last word was a lash, but Theon dared not answer back in kind. Any insolence would cost him skin. “If my lady believes Lord Manderly wants to betray us, Lord Bolton is the one to tell.” They’re both standing on the sidelines as Roose receives news of Stannis’ army as if they were two characters on the stage, commenting on the comedy around them.

Ser Hosteen Frey pushed to his feet. “We should ride forth to meet them. Why allow them to combine their strength?” Because Arnolf Karstark awaits only a sign from Lord Bolton before he turns his cloak, thought Theon, as other lords began to shout out counsel.

It cannot last. Ramsay remains a constant threat, imprisoning Theon in a role that suits him less and less. The sole presence of Ramsay’s allies means that Theon returns to his state of terror.

It was not until Theon pushed himself to his feet that he realized how much he’d drunk. When he stumbled from the table, he knocked a flagon from the hands of a serving girl. Wine splashed across his boots and breeches, a dark red tide. A hand grabbed his shoulder, five fingers hard as iron digging deep into his flesh. “You’re wanted, Reek,” said Sour Alyn, his breath foul with the smell from his rotten teeth. Yellow Dick and Damon Dance-for-Me were with him. “Ramsay says you’re to bring his bride to his bed.” A shiver of fear went through him. I played my part, he thought. Why me? He knew better than to object, though.

He has no choice but to help Jeyne hide beneath the mask of Arya, so as to protect herself from the worst of Ramsay’s tortures. As he did before her. As he continues to do, reluctantly. The two are explicitly paralleled in their suffering: 

“she had emptied that goblet more than once. Perhaps she hoped that if she drank enough, the ordeal would pass her by. Theon knew better.”

Their shared pain isolates them from this comedy. They feel, really, like the two last real people in Winterfell, but only with each other, when the masks shatter a bit. It’s in the details. Here, as they follow Ramsay’s men like the two prisoners they remain.

“As they climbed, Damon Dance-for-Me whistled, whilst Skinner boasted that Lord Ramsay had promised him a piece of the bloody sheet as a mark of special favor.” 

We don’t get Damon’s line, because it’s a background noise. They try not to pay attention, to appreciate the presence of the other while they still can. Forget the rest.

The motif of theatre is present until the very end of the chapter. The bedchamber has been “prepared” like a stage, with all the accessories. 

“All the furnishings were new, brought up from Barrowton in the baggage train. The canopy bed had a feather mattress and drapes of blood-red velvet. The stone floor was covered with wolfskins. A fire was burning in the hearth, a candle on the bedside table. On the sideboard was a flagon of wine, two cups, and a half wheel of veined white cheese.”

And Ramsay is waiting, strategically positioned, as an actor would be. 

“There was a chair as well, carved of black oak with a red leather seat. Lord Ramsay was seated in it when they entered.”

Theon soon realises he won’t be able to let go of his Reek costume tonight. He struggles with his usual role, fails to master his thoughts as he was trained to. Again, this act of resistance is betrayed by his mouth, his body as if the body were the last piece of Theon that still belongs to the Boltons.

”Not you, Reek. You stay.” (…) He could feel his missing fingers cramping: two on his left hand, one on his right. And on his hip his dagger rested, sleeping in its leather sheath, but heavy, oh so heavy. It is only my pinky gone on my right hand, Theon reminded himself. I can still grip a knife. “My lord. How may I serve you?”

His mind, though, it never truly surrendered. Theon is no longer blinded by Ramsay’s lies. He sees the harsh, horrible truth: 

“A child. Theon had forgotten how young she was. Sansa’s age. Arya would be even younger. Despite the fire in the hearth, the bedchamber was chilly.”

And the truth found in the Godswood, it’s cold, cold, cold.