colorful headcanons ✧ accepting! ( @eversoblack )
what sorts of things might remind your muse of those close to them? any scents, objects, sounds?
When I saw this, I was reminded of a passage from Theon’s first chapter in ACoK (emphasis mine):
“ The sea meant freedom to the men of the Iron Islands. He had forgotten that until the Myraham had raised sail at Seagard. The sounds brought old feelings back; the creak of wood and rope, the captain’s shouted commands, the snap of the sails as the wind filled them, each as familiar as the beating of his own heart, and as comforting. I must remember this, Theon vowed to himself. I must never go far from the sea again. ”
I feel that, being a person who is prone to either repress old memories or cling to idealized versions of the past, certain sensory inputs can trigger powerful reactions or unbidden recollections, such as the one described above. It stands the reason that the same can apply to the few people he genuinely cares about.
The first person that comes to mind for an example is Robb (and, by extension, the other Starks), but most of the things that remind him of Robb are inextricably linked to Winterfell and his time as a ward - the crackle of leaves rustling in the godswood as moss and loam squelch underfoot, the din of steel on steel in the practice yard, one of the spiral stairwells he and Robb used to play on (as mentioned in ADWD). It’s small wonder, then, that Theon continues to consider Winterfell one of the few places he truly belongs, even when the castle is little more than a hollow stone shell, and all the memories housed within have become bittersweet.
It’s a bit trickier for blood relations, even for Asha - much of his time on the islands is either locked away at the back of his mind or embittered by the trauma of the rebellion and subsequent separation - to the point where he can’t even recognize his own sister, the result of a decade of unwilling estrangement.
But there are a few things, outside the familiar realm of sight, that might bring old feelings surging back; the shoal he and Asha used to swim in as children; the smell of the beeswax candles the old maester used to favor; the familiar tune of one of those oarsman’s songs Aeron used to sing lustily, before the cold grey sea washed his mirth and good humor away; the sound of the tide foaming and breaking against jutting snarls of rock, like the sea stacks in the small natural harbor Dagmer would take the Foamdrinker out on, that Lord Balon’s lastborn might be instructed in the basics of the sailor’s craft, the ghastly grins the old reaver would flash him when he helped raise the sail, or managed to keep pace with the other oars…
And the stream of consciousness would go on, and on, until the reverie eventually gives way to markedly less pleasant memories (usually relating to his lord father), and he brings the reminiscence to an abrupt end, lest he spends the next few hours brooding.