#greyjoy

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“we do not sow.”

theon greyjoy x servant! gn reader

synopsis: your reunion with theon is violent with sorrow.

cw: desc. of wounds/scars, desc. of inhumane treatment/effects, ptsd

other pairings: robb stark x servant! gn reader, robb stark x theon greyjoy

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*author notes

—✰ none!

updated! jun. 15. 2026 - 10:41 p.m.

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Dying in bed had to be one of the most luxurious ways a man could leave the world. The soft silk comfort against your body, a pillow so warm and soft that the grave your corpse rots in could never compare. Dying, like you imagined Theon might if you ever let Ramsay Snow capture him again, had to be even farther from comfort than the grave. For Theon, it would be in a cold cell of the Dreadfort, manacles keeping his malnourished hands together and biting into his wrists with every fruitless pull the man tried in his delirious, fever ridden thoughts.

Or something akin to that.

Snip.

It sounded harsher than the last and another dirtied curl fell to floor, this particular strand was so full of filth it'd turned as black as the leather boots that rested over the same patch of wood and which would never cease to remind you of the first time you met Theon.

How you'd ended up here with him now. It was something you're sure he would question with time. After all, you were presumed dead.

Snip.

Even harsher, and this time you realize, Theon seemed to be breathing more rapidly than when you first began the process. Whether in nervous fret over what could happen, the action itself, or having someone behind him in any circumstance, you were uncertain. What you were certain of was how harsh the skin along his scalp and neck felt under your touch, calloused fingertips gently pushing him forward or turning his head side to side as you did your work. If Theon were a young child, surely you'd find amusement in trying to smooth his unruly hair flat, much to the protest of his attempts to wiggle away. But Theon is not a child and this is certainly not a time for amusement.

He smelt worse than the dirtiest servants quarters you slept in as a kid, a mixture of pungent body odors and the unwashed sheets and pillows that were usually laid about. You wonder how Ramsay never seemed to notice the scent or how no one had suggested they bathe him before that point. You suppose that was part of it though.

Snip.

Louder still, and you swore even you felt the heat that Theon's flushed skin emanated at this point, cheeks appearing to bulge with the amount of effort it took for him not to let out a yelp of fear. You spot his twitching. It's subtle, only for a moment before he recognizes it in himself and is quick to steady his hands against his lap, fingers curling together as if locked in a prayer. You wonder if he even knew he was praying, if he recalled an ounce of what Lady and Lord Stark had taught him all that time ago when he lived behind the walls that were supposed to feel more like home than anywhere else.

Home.

Like you?

Who were you kidding?

Snip.

"Theon, are you well?" You had to ask because despite his best efforts to stay still, he was beginning to quiver all over, faint gulps audible in the otherwise silent room. The wetness of his eyes was visible when you look over his shoulder, locking your gaze on him as you force a smile through the worry you felt tugging inside of you. Gods, you'd almost completely forgotten the effect even the scissors in your hand could have on the man. You set them down harsher than intended, and you watch as the man jumps, suppressing something beneath his next breath as his mouth clamps shut, jaw taught enough to make an artist jealous.

"Theon..." You start softly, softer than any other movements you have made. Softer than the way you'd heard his sister yell at him in the night as if any of it were his fault. Softer than anything he had heard in a while.

"Theon." More solid this time as you move to kneel in front of him, not an order but an allowance. You want to pull him close, grip his wrists and pry his hands apart until he was as physically open as he ought to have been by now, telling you everything with his words instead of his eyes or nervous shaking. Still he squirmed. It was all he could do before you place your hands on his face, thumbs and index fingers curled under his chin as you tug until you were met eye to eye. His frantic search for an escape, for acceptance, for anything —halted by a lock of focus only you could provide.

"It's alright." You tell the man, and you find it is the only thing you could get out before you had to stifle your own woes. The sight of the prince of pyke, always one step ahead in self-proclaimed confidence and suaveness, was now the nervous ghost of the boy you'd encountered countless years ago.

Theon seemed to have the opposite problem to you though, unable to break out of your hold, chest pushing forward in erratic breaths. He was not calm. Or settled with his grief. Or even able to manage the extent of his damage.

"It's alright, Theon. I am not going to hurt you." You insist, firm against the wavering tremor of his body and hands as he still tried to flee. You could feel him giving in however, the tears becoming visible as your thumbs continued to work against the delicate skin of his cheeks, the warmth both comforting and worrying in equal parts to you.

"Theon..." You were caught in a loss, holding the Ironborn in your palms like the child you recall he once was, the broken shell of what he should have become as a man. Something now damaged beyond repair that seemed more real than ever before in this moment. His eyes hold a sorrow to them you cannot comprehend, not even under the moonlight thats shed it's truth. A truth so frightening that Theon, a man with skin much like that of leather, with muscle to match, was seemingly nothing more than a single gust of wind away from crumbling into a pile of bones right here and now.

"Reek." The name escaped his lips, red and lively they might have seemed years earlier but with starvation and a lack of treatment, had become thin and chapped, a bloody sore present right beneath them on the left side.

"That is not your name." You immediately demand, harsher than before as you caught his head again, moving him to tilt upwards, to stare at you with something in his eyes beyond this. "You are not that man anymore. You do not have to be." You move closer, forehead pressing against his to share your breath, as if it may help the way he seems to only live with half gasps. You stare down at the tears streaming off his face, fingers damp with the salty wet spilled and dried from before. "You are Theon. Son of Balon. Son of Pyke. Prince of the Iron Islands. I do not know what he did to you, but by the Old Gods and the New, he will not do it to you ever again."

Theon could not look at you in this moment, head nestled slightly to the left. You thought he might be recalling memories, running his mind over everything you'd ever been through together. The day Lady Stark took you in as a servant, the way you uselessly helped Robb in his training all the days since.

There you were, together and here you are, now, together.

You hoped he was with you anyway.

Something came to mind then, he'd done so much in terms of his own struggles. Had suffered beyond anything you could imagine at the hands of someone who had looked you in the eye, took your hand in his, shared things of humor with you when the situation called and had tried to claim the loyalty of you even after you had fled his service. He'd conquered Winterfell in his own way, but with Ramsay? The damage was plain to see, like the cracked shell of an egg that had seen too much heartbreak. The liquid within? To leave or enter with his own consent was near impossible. Maybe you were thinking too much into it, but as you held him in place, all you could hope is that this would bring him a step closer to reclaiming who he once was.

"Look at me, Theon." Gentle once more as the man was prone to lashing out –or rather flinching back in fear. You rub soft, prodding circles along his cheeks with the pads of your thumbs, trying to give him something akin to a peaceful smile as you saw his teary eyes open once more.

Gods, he looked so wrecked.

"All my hair..." He breathed, pained, hoarse, looking from where it scattered to the floor to your thighs, or was it your left forearm you noticed him stare at?

You weren't sure you'd ever get used to his voice like this. "Don't worry, Theon." You say gently, using his real name as often as you could now. A name was an important thing. This man had enough stolen from him. Least you could offer him was the honor of what he was born with. "It'll return."

You'd never been a barber surgeon. A flea in the streets made servant made occasional sword weaver is never offered such luxuries. And yet, that didn't seem to matter to him. Though the sensation may have been overloading, Theon sat there silently. And you rubbed your hands, albeit gently, against the newly groomed haircut he sported in the back of the room the two of you sat in. Fires lined the walls, and flickering shadows danced through the dimly lit candle splay overhead, keeping things subdued. You do not want to startle him, so you stay like this until he decides he is ready.

"Do you like it?" You ask softly.

A slight nod, accompanied by a curious sound. You wanted to smile but it was dark and he had always found expression difficult, so you settled with letting him lead for now. His hand reaches up, slower than you were aware someone could be, gingerly drawing a palm over his head, stopping to move down the back of his skull.

"It's... soft." He says. Far gone from the dirty, matted monstrosity you had seen him enter your room with. No pain, no flinching, just a plain acknowledgment that was both foreign and relieving to him.

"I did my best." You reply softly, still holding him by the face as his hand clutches onto your forearm, the grip nervous and tightening on occasion. You were careful not to hold him too roughly, Theon was breakable and vulnerable and needed time. "It is bearable then?" You push gently, tilting his chin up once more, not quite able to hide the relief of seeing him smile, even if it was weak and struggling, it was a smile. He would thank you in a few moments after the initial shock faded. When he realizes that he was already beginning to breathe somewhat normally again.

This was another one of those rare moments that reminded you both just how close the two of you had once been in years long past. Back when Winterfell was bustling with activity, fires left unattended through the night and a little mischief along the inner walls and battlements as you enjoyed youth together. Well, that was when you and Robb Stark were not off trying to best eachother in daily squabbles, swords gleaming in the glimmer of moonlight as Lady Catelyn would chase the two of you all about the place... When Theon would pull his own tricks, which were always followed through with childish roars of laughter. Those had always felt like good times and the world had seemed bigger. And now, none of your childhood remained, just Theon and the husk of your once overconfident and arrogant friend.

"Thank you."

You freeze, mind whirling into a gear. Blinking yourself back into the present time, you realize he was tugging at your sleeve, eyes wide. For a moment, it looked as if you had plunged your hand into his chest, clutching at his beating heart.

How cruel of him to say.

To thank.

He'd expressed this same gratitude to you a handful of times now, and each time did as much damage to you as his broken body, lost hair and the various wounds that were inflicted into him.

"Do not thank me." You say it each time in the same breath you found the air to survive in. Though you could tell if it sounded like nothing but a gentle scold to the fragile boy in front of you, the words were anything but in your heart. You found yourself angry, tears forming at the corners of your eyes and heat swelling your chest.

You brush your hand through his hair to hide the quiver in your breath as it hitches, your other set of fingers tugging him close in a momentary display of how it ought to feel now. Theon ought to have family and loved ones around him, supporting him, but you knew he'd thrown it all away for a conquest that had landed him here. And you swore that if he had come to you in any other form, you would have punched him straight in the face for his loss.

"Thank you," Theon uttered weakly, shakily. "For letting me stay here with you. For, for treating me the way you do..."

Stop.

You still in your actions, unable to continue without the risk of sobbing, choking him until he turned purple by gripping his collar too tightly, pressing him too hard against the warmth of your chest. Instead, you simply lean in until your arms tighten around his shoulders, enveloping his entire body into your own. "You do not have thank me. None of this is your fault."

As you took the time to calm your own nerves, all you could do was listen. There was a moment of silence then, when he stopped breathing, when he no longer resisted and relaxed somewhat. It had almost sounded like it was the first time in his life he'd felt... comfort. That perhaps tenderness was the very opposite of pain. As you brushed the longer strands of his hair that you hadnt quite got to yet, unclean of all the grime and filth throughout the days, you wonder how he had not melted against you then.

The man heaved.

This time, you could hear the sobs before he jerked against you, limbs pushing into your shirt and soaking the hem in salty tears. Trembling hands trying their best to cling to you like a child might it's mother. It made you want to heave yourself, sob until you could no longer breathe. You brush your thumb against his cheeks with intent, catching tears and smearing the dirty tracks they make, wanting the image of his face scrubbed from your mind until you saw only the beautiful man you'd left him as.

"It's okay," you urge, lips pressing into the soft flesh of his temple, sliding down his face to follow the path made by tears. "It's okay, you're alright. You're safe. It's okay."

And Theon breathed out, like his lungs were collapsing, deflating until he was resting his full weight on you. He had always been smaller than you but right now he was so unbelievably fragile it was enough to make you want to wrap him in bandages and carry him away in a blanket or something if it meant stopping anyone else from ever seeing him break.

"We are going to get through this." You found the strength within you to vow then, never being as sure of a statement that had felt too weak when it was not accompanied by the deep throaty yells of a noble at your side. "I will never let anyone harm you again." You say. "You have my word, I am here for you. Until the end of time."

He nods into your shoulder then, as if finally hearing the meaning of the words. Burying himself in as close as he could, a firm hand clutching at the small of your back, tugging you towards him. You had more to say, so many words and yet you were unsure of how he'd interpret them. Sometimes telling him he wasn't some filthy pet was easier than doing what was now your own desperate cling onto him.

Maybe it was because he looked like that with his tattered clothes, flimsy and so very breakable. Maybe it was because in those instances you couldn't understand why in the seven hells anyone would be cruel enough to him in the first place. Or maybe, your heart clenches then, Theon looked at you like you held his entire universe in the palm of your hand.

You swallow tightly as he let's his head rest against your shoulder, breaths evening out slowly. He settles eventually, the warmth of your neck radiating to his head.

"Let us clean you well so you can sleep tonight."

You know it must've been a foreign sentence, and the way Theon looked at you, you were sure that assumption was true. You watch as he parted from you again after a long few moments, and found himself shivering when he did so. He nods then, blinking a few times before casting his eyes away, looking at the walls. "Okay."

You hesitate.

Theon trembles in his seat, struggling to sit still at you maneuver his dirty clothing aside, the scissors clasped tight in your fingers as you started to snip away at what remnants of his hair still lingered. You could feel him twitch and squirm underneath your gentle hold, even as you promised him you would not be doing the same as before, which had consisted of a lot more loudness.

"Relax..." You tell him, waiting patiently for him to still in your hold again, but the thing with relaxation is that it takes time. His breath was picking up again when you removed the last layer of his clothing to reveal the various scars, of all different shapes and sizes along his body, back, stomach, as far as the eye could see. Some more red than others, his shoulder displaying more pink scars as compared to the more prominent discolouration of one you didn't recognize before on his ankle. The more you stared the longer it seemed until you let out a hard breath, not realizing you were leaning rather close to the skin.

"Sorry." You murmur his eyes move to meet yours again, finding an unusual trust in you, staring with the depths of his eyes, as deep as the sea. "Can you remove your trousers? I'm off to fetch you new clothes but I shall return shortly."

Theon freezes at the request, nervous again and shifting rapidly into an uncomfortable air. That look of nervous panic returning. "Does, does the bath.." He mumbles, trailing off immediately.

If he weren't such a frightened mess right now, you're sure Theon would've looked so, so stupid with the way he floundered. As was your resistance, the urge to tell him that there was absolutely nothing for him to fear and the least of that is a bath, lest he faint. The gods willing you did not want to keep forcing him on though. And he could not even blame you this time either, the stench coming off him was appalling.

Yet, he shifts, continously hesitant, wincing ever so often as if he'd been grabbed suddenly in some way and his entire back knotted in pain, tension holding him as he started to tense, fists balling into his knees in determination to say something.

"Theon.." You couldn't find the words to speak, as silent and as stuck as Theon. Your eyebrows dip in the middle and furrow together at the top. You had been told you had quite the expressive eyes, and you couldn't say you didn't believe it. What else would explain the small sound he let out as you blinked away your grief? You did not want to believe the rumors had been correct.

Again, he shook and tensed.

He winced, shaking his head as his lips parted in pain. It was too soon. "I can't."

That was all the confirmation you had needed. "It's okay. We will save it for another day. Remain in your small clothes for now, if it better suits you."

The relief he breathes resigsters as a tiny sound in his chest as he stares at you standing near the frame of the door, peering over with an unimaginable tenderness as you offer the familiarity of sight between the two of you. His bare chest is facing towards you, head turned halfway, giving you a sidelong glimpse of his face before hiding himself all over again.

You couldn't hold back the frown this time, finding it to be far worse than you had been able to imagine on your own.

His shoulders were rounded downward, arms tucked in close by his sides, hands turned inwards to cross over his stomach like he had to keep himself from you and your worryingly intense gaze. Trying to keep from shaking at the mere thought of letting anyone lay hands on him or touch him in even the smallest quantity.

You wondered if that was perhaps too oversimplified, how he'd reacted in times past with Ramsay and how helpless he probably felt on a daily occurrence.

"I'll fetch you some dry garments."

And though Theon did not say anything in return, you know for certain he understood your tone as the creaking wooden door latched closed, the momentary relief washing through the man instantaneously. As if a brick had left his shoulders and the flood of pain exited with the crash back into reality.

You were already pulling out different clothing sets then. Ones of which could last him a number of days without seeming any need for unnecessary changing. When you returned he had already situated himself in the warm, soothing waters of the bath, lying against the side of it with a deep seated exhaustion that was sure to hinder him in some way or another the next morning. Pushing your way through the heat of the room, you placed the neatly folded clothing down onto the edge and moved over, resting your arms near his own, both of which were folded and shielding part of his naked face.

He startles slightly, having not quite noticed your presence beside him, so you brush aside strands of hair, humming softly. "Your towel is here, too." You tell him, voice quiet.

He gives a meek little nod, still looking rather like a mangy pup.

You offer him a rub on the shoulder as you begin to move away from him again, feeling the thick bumps of scars brushing under your gentle touch, an ache so deep running through you that it froze your breath solid in your throat. But by then, he'd already squeezed his eyes shut, forehead scrunching for a second as he took his time breathing, mouth still locked from the tense expression. Every one of your senses felt strung tightly, fingers squeezing at the air between you and that still too-tense body in front of you.

You hesitated to delatch from him, but you eventually brought yourself to. "Very well then, I'll be back with... with food in a little bit."

Theon let out a little noise this time, one which you doubt was meant to make the sound it made. And when he felt your hand move away from him once again he lunged out, eyes and mouth agape with a pitiful cry. "Wait!" He sounded angry, desperate as his grasp tightened. "Don't leave me alone again. I-I need a moment."

With the hold he had on your clothes he almost jerked you into the tub. Except, as much weight as he might have once possessed, none remained there now.

You gaped at him for a moment, at a loss for words. Was the day to reveal just how guilty he made you feel here after all. For there was no denying what you had become to him or he to you, especially here and now.

"Do not fret." You say gently, kneeling until both your knees were on the ground and Theon now had the opportunity to look down at you.

His eyes were wide and afraid, shimmering with uncertainty.

"I will stay here as long as you'd like."

He shivers for a moment, though neither of you really knew if it had been at your words or not. His muscles tense before he finally releases his grasp on you, body relaxing the slightest it could.

When your hand reaches for the untouched sponge, his eyes dart over at the momentary loss of touch, to ensure you were still there, and his hand lingersbefore returning to the heat of the water, fingertips drawing whirls within the ripples. You swallow, glancing over to see if he would give any objection, the sponge already full of suds from the soap you'd dumped into the water earlier. And as you look at the scarred skin around his neck and head, the broken veins beneath, you feel an unfamiliar sensation course through your body. A fresh round of guilt, of sorrow.

"Will this be okay?" Your breath wafts against his neck and the water from the sponge drips down your fingers, running to your elbow. The warmth almost stings before your skin adjusts.

He opens his eyes then, not even aware they were closed, and hums. "Yes. Please."

Hearing the approval, you place the sponge on his shoulder, dripping little white bubbles down his skin as you take note of his visible tensing again, legs still crossed at the knees as the water sloshes gently. Only after you start scrubbing did he let himself loosen, breathing so steadily you almost found yourself doing the same in unison. But at that time, you were too focused on him. Giving his face the occasional glance to make sure he was okay.

On instinct, he drew his shoulders back, clenching his teeth in anticipation for your touch on his arms before releasing. His eyes are lowered, half-closed, and it was difficult to tell if he was nodding off.

"Theon, tell me if you find discomfort in this. It's important."

He nods briefly and hums again. "Okay."

You move from his arm back to his shoulder, upwards to the tenderness of his neck where his face turns his head away from you, and you brush the hairs aside to continue, trying your best to give him some relief as you wash behind his ears, in every crevice that he would allow.

You had to change the water three times before you could began at his hair.

By the time you reach the base of his neck, for the second time, he has his eyes nearly shut, hair drenched as your fingers rub soothingly across his scalp with soap, massaging tenderly and applying just the right pressure. You want to see for yourself that you can in fact turn the corners of his lips upwards and leave them there.

"There."

His skin is clean now of any dried grease, blood, sweat, tears. Any proof that he had spent a time too long so untrusted and ironically dependent that his own body felt alien to him. The soap you used had worked away the scent on him and filled the room with a unique aroma so that even your own lips drew upwards as you sat there with him. His hair looked beautiful, almost reminiscent of who he once had been and would be someday again. Your chest tightens with love and adoration so passionate it kept the room tinted ever so faintly.

His head snaps up, finally back to consciousness now, although whether he had been falling asleep in the beginning, he did not quite remember.

You're not sure which were wetter anymore, his eyes or the towel used to dry him off.

He inhales deeply as you step back, now in the shirt you had brought him, his voice coming from deep within him as he spoke his thanks to you.

Sputtering slightly, he was immediately all too eager to tell you everything that was on his mind, which you found no difficulty in attempting to listen to.

"Ah, gods...I, It feels so..."

And as his expression grew distant, he lost himself in thought, likely already soaking in the hot waters again in his mind, as if he couldn't believe he had the privilege of ever doing something like that in the first place.

Your eyes gleam, so glad to see the spark of life in his once more.

When you led him to his bedroom his gaze was faraway as he stared between the ground and the matress before falling into the sheets with a gasp. The realization that this was finally happening and he could finally sleep returned to him suddenly and all at once.

Albeit a bit sooner than you had anticipated, one could not forget to indulge him as was meant before bedtime, though if anything it only seemed to keep him excited longer.

"What would you like me to get for you?"

His eyes snap over to yours, so dark despite their color, begging you to close the space between the two of you on the bed and as he gazes at you sitting on the end.

"Are you hungry?" You prompt again when it became obvious he had no real intentions of answering. It seemed to break whatever trance the man had been under because his tongue left the roof of his mouth as he swallowed and gave another little nod. "I shall fetch you some leftovers then."

Before you could stand, he grabs your wrist, fingers holding with a gentleness he hadn't possessed in years, his grip merely tugging you in place.

As your heart jolts in your chest, so does his. Fearful, hopeful. Both too scared to act.

So you hesitantly put your own hand atop his, drawing forth your other and pushing gently. "I shall retun shortly." Another nod of reassurance follows and if that was enough to silence him for the moment, you did not mind.

In the kitchen you found some fruit had been left on the counter by Yara so you pluck from it's place and begin to heat a simple meal atop the small fireplace, allowing it to simmer as you left to find some other assortment of delicious meats and grains to provide your lord with. Or even a serving of oatmeal if not, so that his meal could be as filling as it possibly could. When you return though, tray in hand as you step lightly up the stairs, you find that Theon has fallen to sleep. In his arms he holds tightly onto a nearby pillow, fingers digging and wrapped into the fabric with the bedding ruffled a little bit.

A pang of fondness rushes through you at the sight of it. It all seemed so absurd, even in the beginning of your days as a servant.

You place the tray atop the dresser, approaching his side once again, finding he had hardly shifted or moved the entire time you'd gone, though you weren't exactly expecting him to. Your fingers must have been icy cold as you reach a hand to brush against him, pushing his hair aside.

Theon awakens at the slight movement, still so nervous, and now with a certain drowsiness coating him. You press your lips together as his face scrunches and the corners of his eyes seem to twitch with an anxious tension.

"Apologies." You pull your hand away at once. "I did not mean to disturb you."

He shakes his head, seemingly wanting to raise his hand before remembering where he is. "No. I don't mind. " He croakes out, voice hoarse and raw with all his unanswered yearnings.

You look at him curiously.

"Are you weary? I have dinner prepared for you."

He smiles, something soft in his expression, breath catching in his throat as his head sunk back into the pillow, not quite comprehending why in the seven hell's his chest had started to burn.

You quickly filled the space.

"Would you like it now?"

He shook his head at you, feeling his face heat and flush slightly as you push his hair to the side again, thumb brushing his skin, still so soft and undeniably kind. The touch alone triggers some previously unknown memory to emerge inside of him.

"Later then." You reaffirm, giving his hair a little pat as the bed creaked beneath your shifting body. The matress takes to the weight of you after having sat empty for so long. It wasn't exactly comfortable and not that large and not made for a pair of two, much less for a queen or king of which had their own personal servants and attendants, but for Theon, you had made do.

He seems to sense it too, tense a bit, though when you glance over at him, his mouth is nearly agape as he stares at you, eyes shimmering. His eyebrows do that strange sort of dip, eyes drawing smaller as his face morphs into something of uneasiness, as he inhales a gentle breath and blows air outwards.

You blink just as gently at him and it took only that for him to reach to you again, fingers trembling on your wrist. He tries to swallow then, lips parting, before closing, a question already at the edge of his lips. Though he'd never ask, for it seemed the world was too cruel, even with his Lord Sister and closest companion so near him and within grasp of his own self.

With a slow motion, you turn your body closer, reaching to clasp his shaking wrist. The blankets are warm and still smelled faintly of fresh rainwater, having been cleanened prior to Theon's arrival. And as the wind continued to howl against the shutters, you thought it was better to take extra blankets. "Theon, what do you need?"

"Will- I just want to-" He trails off abruptly, not knowing the words to use or what to even say at the very beginning.

Though you tried your best to hide it, the sympathy of your expression was never lost from view. And that sight set him off into a silent sob as his eyes watered in disgust and he turned his face into the sheets. He had to be torn away from the dampened material or risk fusing to it altogether, face stained and hidden as you tried to push his hands away from him. His whimpers grow more frequent and you frown, pulling him closer to rest on your chest, or well, the best he could. You could feel his entire body going through tremors as he breathes and nuzzles his face against you.

"Theon, please. Tell me how I can assist you."

It takes a moment, with his fists squeezing hard and nose all wrinkled up before the dam finally bursts entirely open and floods his eyes with tears, mouth open as he gasps for air. He was hiccuping before you could begin to address what it was that had upset him so much and just as you wrapped him in your arms, he seemed to shatter entirely, the turmoil evident. A wail claws its way through his chest, overshadowing any sound that he had made before, until he finally started blubbering a string of unintelligible nonsense through those sobs.

"Shh, shh. I'm here." Your fingers thread through the wet tangles of his scalp, allowing him to take his time to sob and cry and all that in between. "I've got you." You repeat the soft shushing continously, soothingly along his ear, making slow strokes down his spine. The tears had begun to dampen your shirt and as you drew his quivering form tightly to you.

You held him like this until he quieted, at which point his eyes had already grown red and puffy, and you wondered absently if it was even worth trying to get him to eat now. He leaned over you so painfully, his breathing almost as broken as his mind, so afraid as he hiccuped in place of a lively heart beat.

You held him like this until his chest gained a rhythm no longer akin to a child frightened of shadows outside their bed. Whenever you met his gaze, if only for a few precious seconds, the brokenness his eyes held was enough to pull tears from you when he looked away, laying his head to rest.

You held him like this until his body temperature dropped and the quietest of snores came from his scarred face. Even as the stars and moon moved and the sun replaced them once more did you hold him there in your embrace.