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theonsource · 4 days ago

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Hello! I asked earlier about your takes on the ironborn: racially, culturally, and real-world parallels as you did for the northerners in your other post. What are your thoughts on them?

Alright. Time to fly off the handle

The Drowned God and Other Maritime Daddy Issues

A deep dive into the cultural nuance of the Ironborn

Ironborn are way more than Vikings with a reaving kink that the fandom likes to overgeneralize them as. They’re a defiant, sea-soaked culture clinging to the bones of a dying identity—geographically, spiritually, politically, and culturally. They’re not here to kiss the ring or plow the field (but they will plow your daughters’ fields ayooooooooo) They’re here to steal your silver, set fire to your village, and sail off with your livestock and your dignity. While their longships and raiding traditions induce immediate comparisons to the Vikings of our own history, the grgegegrge didn’t ctrl+c, ctrl+v Norse stereotypes and call it a day. My mans contains multitudes (here I go defending a white man again) The Ironborn are a patchwork culture stitched from raiders, islanders, and post-imperial anger, haunted by lost glory and desperate to matter again. Geographically marooned and ideologically medieval, they stand apart from the rest of Westeros not only in how they fight, but in how they remember.

Yes, they raid. Yes, they sail terrifying longships. Yes, they chant “What is dead may never die” (what is dead may never die) while holding drowning parties. But behind the axe-swinging and chronic pneumonia that no one is talking about is a nuanced cultural tapestry that blends ancient Norse badassery with the isolation of real-world island peoples, and the trauma of former empires left licking their wounds and whispering stories of past glory.

I want to talk about the Ironborn as a composite culture rooted in Old World violence, shaped by seclusion, and haunted by the trauma of cultural decline in a post-imperialist society.

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: the Ironborn are Westeros’s stand-in for Norse raiders. They pilot longships sharp enough to slice inland rivers like butter. They prize the axe over the plow, the drowned god over the Faith of the Seven, and a good old-fashioned reaving over… you know, capitalism.

They're not here to negotiate. They’re here to take. (and good on them!!!)

Much like the Norse raiders of Earth (looking at you, Great Heathen Army), the Ironborn built a culture on plunder, not production. Land? Meh. Crops? Pass. Oaths of fealty? DISGUSTANG. These guys earn (yes, EARN!!!) their keeps with steel, salt, and stolen gold. Even their religion reeks of Norse fatalism: the Drowned God doesn’t promise peace, but power through death. Dying at sea isn’t a tragedy; it’s a promotion.

But here's where it gets juicy: this isn’t raiding for fun (I mean like. Duh. It’s silly fun :3) This is a worldview. A rebellion against the "Green lands" and all their soft-handed, oath-swapping, crop-growing nonsense. In Ironborn culture, you're not born noble; you earn your worth by taking it. Violence is virtue.

Let’s begin with the obvious.

Real-world parallel: The Norse / Vikings (8th–11th century Scandinavia)

Longships with shallow drafts? Check. The Ironborn sail upriver like it owes them moneyyyyyy (it does)

A raiding economy based on “plunder first, ask questions never”? Also check.

A decentralized political structure? Yes, with jarls —I mean, saltlords—ruling from sea-worn keeps.

Gods who care more about blood, death, and the sea than your feelings? Double check. The Drowned God feels like a damp, iron-flavored Odin with worse manners.

Even the Ironborn motto “We do not sow” is a banger. It’s not onlyyyy a rejection of farming and cultivating their uninhabitable land; it’s a middle finger to the entire feudal value system. THEY SAID WE WILL NOT BEND!!!!! (I know das right!!!!!) While the rest of Westeros climbs social ladders, swearing oaths and marrying for land, the Ironborn take what they want. it’s divine theology.

That brings up another point I wanna make. that raiding isn’t just economically sound. It’s sacred. It’s cultural. The Ironborn don’t steal—they earn through force. Just as the Norse elevated pillaging to an artform, the Ironborn dress their brutality in holy robes and saltwater rites. Their sea-baptisms? Violent, intimate, and soaked in fatalism because culturally, that’s all they’ve ever known.

Okay, but not everything about the Ironborn screams Norse. In fact, if you really squint (and maybe tilt your head), you'll start to notice something else pulsing beneath the raider aesthetic: the ethos of isolated island peoples.

Let’s hop from the Iron Islands to the Azores or the Canary Islands—small, storm-battered, independent maritime communities with a deep distrust of mainland politics. Like the Ironborn, these societies relied on the sea because the land gave them nothing. Fishing, whaling, sailing—they weren’t hobbies, they were survival.

Sound familiar?

The Azoreans (15th century–present, Portuguese Atlantic islanders)

Remote and rugged, the Azores bred self-reliant people with strong religious traditions and a stubborn refusal to blend in with the mainland.

They fished, they survived, and they were proud to be... not like the rest of Portugal.

They were often seen as quaint, backwards, or provincial by mainland elites.

Ironborn vibes, anyone? Like the Azoreans, the Ironborn are often dismissed by the “green lands” as brutes with boats. But that outsider perception only intensifies their cultural pride. In both cases, we see the brutal independence of a people who’ve had to scrape a living from rock, sea, and storm—and who hold on tight to their traditions because they’re all they’ve got left.

Even the Ironborn’s gruff spiritualism echoes cultures like the Māori or the Polynesian navigators, whose reverence for the sea shaped not only their cosmology but their entire identity. To these people, the ocean wasn’t ONLY a resource—it was kin. A god, a grave, a memory, a mother and a father. The Ironborn feel this too, but theirs is a darker mirror. Their sea is cold, cruel, and filled with the bones of the drowned. It demands respect and sacrifice.

And just like real-world islanders were written off as "savages" by colonizers, the Ironborn are dismissed by the rest of Westeros as pirates and pests. But this condescension misses something veryyyy critical: the resilience and cultural cohesion that isolation can breed. The Ironborn may be violent, but they are not chaotic. They have codes. They have gods. They have a way. The Old Way.

The Ironborn may not have Polynesian-level navigation, but the spiritual connection is there. The sea is their entire world. It’s where they’re born, where they fight, and where they return—whether by rock or watery grave. The Drowned God demands reverence and veneration.

The Ironborn weren’t always this… small. Once, under House Hoare, they ruled from the Iron Islands to the Riverlands, commanding coasts and hearts with equal fervor. But then Aegon came. And with him, fire.

The burning of Harrenhal was the collapse of a civilization and a birth of a new culture. The Ironborn were stripped of their mainland holdings, their empire, their power. They were, politely, told to go back to their rocks and choose a new leader—one that wouldn't be a problem.

This is colonization with a nice coat of Westerosi politeness. This is "you're part of the Seven Kingdoms now, behave."

So, how do they respond?

Well, if you’re Balon Greyjoy, you throw a tantrum dressed up as a war. You scream, "We used to be kings!" from the rooftops of Pyke while your sons fail both upwards and downwards and your daughter carries the family brain cell but insists on not using it half the time.

It’s an identity crisis. A post-imperial culture trying to reassert itself with war paint and rusted swords in a world of strategy and swords by proxy. Balon doesn’t rebel because it’s strategic; he rebels because he can’t stand being forgotten.

It’s nationalism with barnacles. And it's heartbreaking in its own, salt-soaked way.

The Ironborn are reduced to axe-wielding set pieces in the grand scheme of Westerosi opinions. They are a mournful, defiant culture staring down the long death of their way of life. They are proud, traumatized, deeply spiritual, and yes— assholes. That’s allowed. But they are not one-note villains.

Their raids are rituals. Their violence is honor. Their stubbornness is grief.

In them, we see echoes of real-world islanders and once-great peoples left behind by history and colonialist ideals—fighting not to win, but to matter. To be feared again. To be remembered. To prove that what is dead may never die. (what is dead may never die)

Because even drowned and dying gods have followers.

#meta #historical parallels #the ironborn #theon & the ironborn #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

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theonsource · 5 days ago

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Chibi Ramsay and Theon

#art #theon greyjoy #ramsay bolton #theon x ramsay #got

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theonsource · 5 days ago

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We could’ve been the perfect fit

#art #theon greyjoy #ramsay bolton #theon x ramsay #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

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theonsource · 6 days ago

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I managed to finish my Mermay Theon in May. Yay!

Tumblr is blurring this image. I don't know why

#art #theon greyjoy #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #au

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theonsource · 6 days ago

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All The Things We Hide

pairings: theon x sansa & robb stark x roslin frey

Modern AU, warnings: swearing & light violence

not proofread

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Sansa Stark had always been good at pretending. Smiling at the right time. Sitting just straight enough at family dinners. Laughing in the right tone, polite but not too loud. Being a Stark meant something, after all.

So when she fell for Theon Greyjoy, the last person on the planet she was supposed to fall for, pretending became survival.

They’d been together for 10 months, technically nine if you didn’t count the week she ghosted him after they first kissed at Arya’s chaotic birthday party. She wasn’t even sure what it was at first: flirtation, rebellion, a spark that burned too hot to ignore.

But then Theon had shown up at her work with coffee and flowers, and she realized it was neither of those things.

It was real. And that made it dangerous.

Because Robb Stark,her older brother and Theon’s best friend since they were nine, would murder him.

Literally. Sansa had nightmares about it sometimes. Blood on the kitchen tile. Theon trying his hardest to keep up with Robb’s punches and Robb with bloodied knuckles and betrayal in his eyes.

Midnight meetups, weekends in hotels on the edge of the city, long walks through places no one they knew would see them. She’d tiptoe out of the apartment she shared with Arya on Saturday mornings and slip back in with coffee for two, claiming she’d just had a long solo walk. Only Jon noticed sometimes. But Jon was, Job was quiet, observant, and fiercely nonjudgmental. He kept his thoughts to himself.

So they kept it quiet. Ducking out of family events early. Booking hotel rooms under fake names. Theon labeled her contact in his phone as “Spam Risk,” which she found both hilarious and insulting. But secrets always come with cracks. And all it took was one argument to split theirs wide open.

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“I said I was sorry.”

“Yeah,” Sansa snapped, crossing her arms. “You said sorry. That doesn’t mean you get to forget our anniversary dinner. Again.”

Theon exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “I got called into work. I didn’t choose to—”

“You didn’t call. You didn’t text. You left me sitting there like a moron.”

His voice dropped, defensive. “I was going to surprise you afterward.”

Sansa’s laughter was sharp. “Right. Because being stood up is such a romantic surprise.”

The apartment buzzed with tension. Somewhere, a neighbor’s dog barked. Theon looked at her, truly looked at her, still in her red dress, the one she knew he loved, eyes glassy but furious.

“I’m doing my best,” he said quietly.

“And it’s still not enough,” she whispered, more to herself than him.

A silence settled over the room, heavy as stormclouds.

Sansa turned away, shoulders rigid. “I’m going home.”

“Sansa—”

She shook her head, grabbing her coat, She didn’t even make it to the elevator before she started crying. Theon was mortified of Robb finding out, that’s why he’d randomly dodge her, and that’s how she knew, she hated how scared he was and how he’d rather hide in the dark, then be in the light with her.

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The apartment smelled like cedarwood and rain.

Roslin slid off her heels by the door with a long sigh, rolling her ankles like they might fall off. Her coat was already hanging on a hook before Robb had even kicked the door closed behind him, muttering something under his breath.

“That’s the last one,” he said, voice low and sour, like a man promising vengeance. “I swear to God, Ros, I’m not doing another dinner with your grandfather until the next funeral.”

“Classy,” she said mildly, toeing off her shoes.

“I mean it. Black Walder asked me, again, if Jon is still single. And I think your cousin Alyx kept trying to play footsie with me under the table.”

“She does that with the waiter at Olive Garden,” Roslin said, dropping her bag on the kitchen island. “You’re not special.”

“She called me a wolf with strong hips, Roslin.”

Roslin turned to look at him, eyebrows lifted, lips twitching. “That’s not not true.”

Robb groaned.

She watched him with that quiet amusement she always had tucked in her mouth, like she carried little secrets there just to keep herself entertained.

“You know I love you,” Robb said, peeling off his jacket.

“I do.”

“And I love you,” he added pointedly, “not your demonic banquet family.”

“Noted.” Roslin walked toward him slowly, hips swaying a little as she moved. “You survived. My brave soldier.”

“I literally just had to sit through dinner.”

“And nod politely while someone described their taxidermy hobby.”

He closed his eyes. “Lothar showed me pictures, Ros. Actual photographs.”

“You were so good,” she whispered as she rose onto her toes, hands cupping his jaw. She kissed him once soft, tender and then again, just to feel the way his breath caught. “Such a good boy.”

Robb let out a groan, and despite himself, leaned into her touch like a sunflower turning toward warmth. His fingers ghosted across her hips, then clutched her a little tighter.

“Don’t call me that,” he mumbled, voice husky.

“But you like it.”

“I do not.”

“You melt like butter., and your squishy cheeks!”

“I’m still a Stark.”

“You’re a baby Stark,” she teased, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He let out something between a growl and a whimper and leaned down for another kiss; but she slipped out of his arms with a laugh and padded toward the hallway.

“Come on, hotshot,” she called over her shoulder. “Time for a bath. You smell like venison and suppressed rage.”

“Come with me,” Robb called, kicking off his socks and trailing behind her like an enormous puppy. “Please.”

Roslin poked her head back out of the bathroom doorway. “Another time.”

“But—”

“I want to eat snacks in peace.”

She disappeared, leaving him in the hallway blinking.

Twenty minutes later, Robb was sunk deep into warm water and Epsom salt, hair damp, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. It was the first time all day his shoulders had stopped aching.

Then the doorbell rang.

Once.

Then again, urgent.

“Ros?” he called, not moving. “Can you—”

But she was already up, sliding across the living room, her silk pajama pants swishing with each step. She peered through the peephole. Then unlatched the door.

“Sansa?”

Roslin’s voice dropped an octave.

Sansa stood in the doorway, rain still slicking the shoulders of her trench coat, eyes red, mascara shadowed beneath them. Her hands were shaking where she clutched them to her chest.

Roslin didn’t ask.

She just pulled her in.

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The door closed behind her with a soft click, muffled by the storm still sighing outside.

Sansa hadn’t moved from the threshold, her heels dripping faint puddles onto the mat. She looked like she’d held herself together just long enough to reach this door and now she didn’t quite know what to do with the unraveling.

Roslin took one look and reached for the buttons of Sansa’s coat. “Let’s get this off, yeah?”

Sansa nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Roslin slipped the trench from her shoulders, hung it with care on the hook by the door, and guided her gently toward the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of eucalyptus and cinnamon, Robb’s bath salt and the candles Roslin had lit before they left.

The quiet was warm. Anchoring.

“Sit,” Roslin said, already moving to put on the kettle.

Sansa eased into one of the chairs at the island. She sat stiffly, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes stared down at them, like she couldn’t quite believe they belonged to her.

Roslin didn’t rush. She moved through the kitchen with calm, practiced ease, mugs out, honey on the counter, tea bags dunked with care. The kettle began to purr.

When she finally returned with a steaming mug, she placed it gently in front of Sansa and touched her shoulder, just once.

“I don’t need the whole story if you’re not ready,” Roslin said softly. “But I’m here. Whatever it is, you’re safe now.”

The words broke something.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft, ragged exhale, like air leaving lungs that had been clenched too tight for too long.

“I walked away from him,” Sansa whispered, staring into the tea like it might speak back. “I told him I needed more. And he looked at me like I’d told him I didn’t love him.”

Roslin sat down beside her, close but not crowding. “Did you?”

Sansa shook her head. Her hands trembled as they circled the mug.

“No,” she said. “I love him too much. That’s the problem.”

“And what did he do?”

“He froze.” Her voice cracked. “Like he’d rather risk losing me than face Robb. Like we were always just… temporary.”

Roslin leaned in and rested a hand on Sansa’s wrist. “Temporary doesn’t look like the way he stares at you when he thinks no one’s watching.”

Sansa swallowed hard.

“I know it’s real,” she whispered. “But I’m so tired of pretending it’s not. Of sneaking out at night. Of pretending I’m just alone. I’m not. And I don’t want to act like I am anymore.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Roslin said. “He should’ve been beside you tonight. Not hiding in his apartment and letting you carry it all.”

Tears welled again, but Sansa blinked them back.

“I didn’t come here to make you choose,” she said. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”

Roslin squeezed her hand. “You’re my sister too.”

Sansa smiled, weakly, and let her head rest on Roslin’s shoulder.

They stayed that way for a long time. The kettle continued to hiss softly behind them. Somewhere down the hallway, a cabinet closed Robb, probably just finished dressing, unaware of the storm waiting in his living room.

“Do you want to tell him?” Roslin asked eventually. “Or should I?”

Sansa’s answer came after a long pause.

“I’ll do it. He deserves to hear it from me.”

Roslin nodded.

Footsteps padded softly down the hall, barefoot, slow, unhurried. Then:

“What’s going on?” Robb’s voice, low, confused. His hair was damp, curls still glistening from the bath. He’d thrown on a worn hoodie and dark sweatpants, half-dressed for bed, but the second he saw his sister’s face his whole body went still.

He looked at Roslin.

Then at Sansa.

Then the tremor of something dangerous crossed his face.

“Sansa?” he said carefully. “What happened?”

Roslin reached for his hand, grounding him.

Sansa stood, heart pounding like thunder under her ribs.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

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Sansa stood in the center of the living room, arms wrapped around herself like she could keep the world out if she just held tight enough. Roslin stayed beside her, close, calm, still holding Robb’s hand.

He looked between them. Damp hair curling at his temples, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw already tense. His blue eyes, so intense their father’s with his mothers colouring,were fixed on Sansa, silently asking why she looked like she was about to break.

Sansa’s voice was quiet, but steady.

“I’ve been seeing someone. For a while now.”

A pause.

Robb didn’t blink.

Roslin said nothing, her hand tightening around his.

Sansa exhaled.

“It’s Theon.”

The silence was instant. Heavy.

Robb’s body didn’t move, but something in his eyes snapped.

“What?”

Sansa swallowed. “I didn’t want to keep it from you, but I knew—”

“You’ve been seeing Theon?” Robb repeated, louder now, like he needed to hear it again to make it less insane. “As in Theon Greyjoy? My bestfriend Theon?”

“He’s not just your best—“

“He was my best friend,” Robb growled. “He lived with us. He practically is family.”

“Exactly,” Sansa snapped. “You treat him like a stray you can kick but still claim when it’s convenient.”

Robb was breathing heavier now. His hands had curled into fists.

“How long?”

“Months.”

He took a step back like she’d hit him. “Months?”

“I wasn’t trying to betray you,” Sansa said. “I was trying to protect us. You’re not exactly reasonable about the people I date.”

“Because I know men,” Robb spat. “And I know Theon. He’s impulsive, reckless, he’s not, he’s not serious.”

“He loves me,” Sansa snapped, voice cracking. “He just doesn’t know how to be loved back without thinking it’ll all disappear!”

Robb turned and paced, hands in his hair, storm surging behind his eyes.

Roslin stepped toward him, voice low. “Robb—”

“I trusted him.”

“He didn’t betray you,” Sansa said. “We fell in love. We tried to keep it quiet, but tonight, I walked away from him. Because I couldn’t keep pretending.”

Robb froze.

“You broke up?”

“No.” Her voice was hoarse. “But I told him I couldn’t do this in the dark anymore.”

Robb stared at her for a long second. Then something flashed behind his eyes. Purpose. Fury.

“Where is he?”

Roslin’s eyes widened. “Robb—”

“Where. Is. He.”

“Don’t do this—”

But he was already halfway to the door, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the wall, shoes half-on, hoodie damp and clinging to him like he’d never finished drying off.

“Robb, stop—” Roslin rushed after him, grabbing his arm. “You don’t get to go full guard dog because your sister fell in love.”

“She fell in love with him. And he didn’t come clean. He let her carry it.”

“Robb—”

But he was gone. The door slammed behind him with a sound like thunder.

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Theon opened the door with bloodshot eyes and a beer in his hand.

He didn’t have time to speak before Robb’s fist connected with his face.

The bottle clattered to the floor.

“You son of a bitch—” Robb snarled, lunging again, but Theon ducked, backed up, hands raised.

“Robb—”

“You didn’t tell me?! My sister, Theon?!”

Theon blocked another punch, took a graze to the ribs, staggered.

“I didn’t lie to you, I just—I didn’t know how!”

“You had months. You let her carry it alone—”

Then they were grappling, crashing into the wall, knocking over a side table. Theon caught Robb’s next punch on his forearm, but another clipped his cheek. Blood dripped from his nose. Still, he didn’t swing back.

“I love her,” he gasped. “You want to hit me? Fine. But it won’t make that less true.”

Robb shoved him.

“You don’t deserve her.”

“Maybe not,” Theon panted, still bracing, “but I’m not giving her up.”

“YOU DON’T—”

“Robb, STOP!”

Roslin’s voice split the air like lightning.

She and Sansa had just reached the door, Sansa pale and trembling, Roslin breathless from the sprint up the stairs.

Robb turned, chest heaving.

Sansa ran forward and shoved between them, pressing her palms to her brother’s chest. “Stop please he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t use me. I love him, Robb. And he’s trying.”

Robb stared down at his bloody knuckles, clenched jaw, eyes wild.

“He let you break,” Robb said, quieter now. “He didn’t show up.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Sansa said. “I wanted him to. But I didn’t give him the chance.”

Roslin gently touched Robb’s arm again. This time, he didn’t pull away. She led him aside, whispered to him, soft, soothing, grounding. She smoothed his damp curls back from his face and kissed his temple.

“Deep breaths,” she murmured. “Be my brave soldier again.”

Robb’s breathing slowed.

Across the room, Theon stood hunched over, blood trickling from his nose, a purple bloom forming under his eye.

Still standing.

Still waiting.

Sansa turned to him and reached for his hand.

“I want to do this right,” she whispered.

He laced their fingers together.

Behind them, Robb exhaled and leaned back against the wall. He wiped the blood from his lip and gave Theon a single look. Disgust. Sadness. And maybe, just barely, beginning of something more complicated.

“I can’t talk to you,” he said, voice rough. “Not without hitting you again.”

Theon nodded.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

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(The next few days over text messages)

ROBB:

I’m still mad at you.

But I talked to Jon. He said you look like a kicked dog.

THEON:

I feel like one.

ROBB:

You break her heart, and I will put you in the ground.

THEON:

I’m not going anywhere.

ROBB:

Good.

Because she’s happier with you than I’ve ever seen her.

THEON:

…Thank you.

ROBB:

Don’t thank me.

Just don’t screw it up.

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Jon opened the door and gave them both a look that said: no bullshit, or I toss you both over the balcony.

Robb came in first. His knuckles had healed, mostly just a pale scar of bruising beneath the skin. His hair was neatly combed for once, blue flannel open over a black t-shirt. He looked tense, but composed.

Theon followed. Jacket slung over one shoulder. No fresh bruises, but the fading one under his eye was still a ghost of Robb’s rage. His nose had healed, crooked just slightly but it didn’t matter. He still looked like himself. Tired. Worn. Determined.

Jon closed the door. “You’ve got ten minutes. Talk.”

He sank into a chair across the room and opened a book like he hadn’t just issued a ceasefire.

Theon and Robb stood like two feral cats watching each other’s tails.

Then Robb spoke.

“I don’t like you.”

“Fair.”

“But she does. And you… you’re trying. You didn’t run.”

“I wouldn’t,” Theon said quietly.

“I don’t trust you,” Robb added. “Not fully. Not yet.”

Theon nodded. “I get that.”

“But I saw her yesterday. And she smiled like she used to. Not the polite one. The real one.”

That hit harder than any punch.

“I’d do anything to protect her,” Robb said. “Even if it means trusting the guy who kissed her in secret for over six months.”

Theon smiled, but just barely.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “But if it came down to choosing between her and anyone else, even you. I’d choose her again. Every time.”

Robb was quiet for a long breath. Then:

“Good answer.”

Jon grunted from the couch. “That was almost civil. I’m proud.”

Robb shot him a look, then turned back to Theon.

“I meant what I said,” Robb added. “You hurt her again, I won’t stop at one punch next time.”

Theon nodded.

“Deal.”

They didn’t hug. Or shake hands. But there was a shift something looser in the air. The worst was behind them.

And for the first time, Robb didn’t look like he wanted to strangle him.

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The apartment was quiet again. Soft jazz played from the record player in the corner. Roslin sat curled on the couch in one of Robb’s sweatshirts, reading with one leg tucked beneath her.

Robb padded in barefoot, fresh from a shower, curls damp and unruly.

He leaned over the couch and dropped a kiss into her hair.

“All fixed?” she murmured, not looking up from her book.

“Work in progress.”

“I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t reply just climbed onto the couch beside her, dragging her into his lap. She let out a tiny laugh as her book tumbled to the cushions, but she didn’t complain. She never did when he got clingy like this.

He buried his face into the crook of her neck, hands warm under her borrowed sweatshirt.

“I still hate your family the most,” he mumbled.

Roslin snorted. “You’re not subtle.”

“But I love you.”

She smiled, tracing lazy circles along his arm.

“You’re a good boy,” she whispered, brushing a kiss to his jaw.

He groaned and tightened his grip around her waist, hiding his face deeper in her shoulder.

“Stop saying that.”

“Why? It makes you melt.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“You’re my soft boy.”

“Ros—”

“I could write it on your coffee mug.”

“I’ll divorce you.”

“You won’t,” she said sweetly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You love me too much.”

He huffed. But he didn’t deny it.

They sank deeper into the couch, the room lit only by the flicker of candles and the lazy sway of music.

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Theon stood at the kitchen counter with his back to her. His hands shook slightly as he tucked something into his coat pocket, small, velvet, dangerous.

Sansa was humming in the other room, her voice drifting through the air like spring.

He wasn’t ready yet. Not tonight.

But soon.

He looked toward her barefoot, wearing his shirt, sipping tea with a soft smile.

He reached into his pocket again, just to feel the weight of the ring box.

Soon. For once, he wasn’t afraid.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

tags:

@inkandarsenic @ship-ambrosia

#fic #edit #theon greyjoy #sansa stark #theon x sansa #robb stark #roslin frey #robb x roslin #asoiaf #got #au

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theonsource · 7 days ago

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another reason why I love the idea of prophet Theon: multiple times when people are thinking about how annoying Theon's smiles are, they say it's because it makes it look like he knows some secret. just imagine how much more obnoxious he could be if the Gods were actually telling him some juicy goss.

#humor #theon greyjoy #theon & the old gods #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls

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theonsource · 7 days ago

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Don't worry, she'll beat him to shit later, she just has to get rid of the Boltons first

#art #theon greyjoy #wylla manderly #theon x wylla #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #au

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theonsource · 8 days ago

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Theon & Sansa + Book Quotes SOUPVERSARY 2025 | Prompt: Parallels

Dreams of glory/ ruling

That night Sansa dreamt of Joffrey on the throne, with herself seated beside him in a gown of woven gold. She had a crown on her head, and everyone she had ever known came before her, to bend the knee and say their courtesies. (AGOT) It is my comet, Theon told himself, sliding a hand into his fur-lined cloak to touch the oilskin pouch snug in its pocket. Inside was the letter Robb Stark had given him, paper as good as a crown. (ACOK)

Compared to birds

“You have forgotten more than you know. And you are a great fool if you believe your lord father will ever hand these holy islands over to a Stark. Now be silent. The ride is long enough without your magpie chatterings.” (ACOK) “You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” (AGOT)

Ned's sword

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. (ADWD) He left the room with his eyes burning and his daughter's wails echoing in his ears, and found the direwolf pup where they chained her. Ned sat beside her for a while. "Lady," he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur. Shortly, Jory brought him Ice. (AGOT)

Attention to clothes

He chose boots of supple black leather, soft lambswool breeches of silvery-grey, a black velvet doublet with the golden kraken of the Greyjoys embroidered on the breast. Around his throat he fastened a slender gold chain. (ACOK) She had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her... She had fretted over her jewelry for hours an finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain. (AGOT)

"Worm Lips"

His lips were as soft and red as the worms you found after a rain, and his eyes were vain and cruel. (AGOT) His lips look like two worms fucking. (ACOK)

Forced identities

Reek, Reek, my name is Reek. He had not been born with that name. In another life he had been someone else, but here and now, his name was Reek. He remembered. (ADWD) It will mean my head if I am found, she reminded herself as she descended a flight of icy stone steps. I must be Alayne all the time, inside and out. (AFFC)

Inner Strength

He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can’t make me see them. (AGOT) I must not let him drive me mad. He can take my fingers and my toes, he can put out my eyes and slive my ears off, but he cannot take my wits unless I let him. (ADWD)

"Life is not a song"

In songs, the hero always saved the maiden from the monster’s castle, but life was not a song, no more than Jeyne was Arya Stark. (ADWD) ... She remembered what Lord Petyr had said to her, here in this very hall. "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." In life, the monsters win, she told herself, and now it was the Hound's voice she heard, a cold rasp, metal on stone. (AGOT)

Frustration with Jeyne crying

Jeyne Poole had been confined with her, but Jeyne was useless. Her face was puffy from all her crying, and she could not seem to stop sobbing about her father. "I'm certain your father is well," Sansa told her when she had finally gotten the dress buttoned right. "I'll ask the queen to let you see him." She thought that kindness might lift Jeyne's spirits, but the other girl just looked at her with red, swollen eyes and began to cry all the harder. She was such a child. (AGOT) "It is," his sister had said, so softly that he was afraid that she might cry. Theon hated that. He hated women weeping. Jeyne Poole had wept all the way from Winterfell to here, wept until her face was purple as a beetroot and the tears had frozen on her cheeks, and all because he told her that she must be Arya, or else the wolves might send them back. (TWOW)

Kissed by snow

When he raised his head, the snowflakes brushed his cheeks like cold soft kisses. He could hear the sound of music from the hall behind him. A soft song now, and sad. For a moment he felt almost at peace. (ADWD) Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. (ASOS)

Dancing

What would she do when the music began to play? It was a vexing question, to which her heart and head gave different answers. Sansa loved to dance, but Alayne… (AFFC) The Prince of Winterfell had been a graceful dancer, but Reek with his missing toes would be grotesque. (ADWD)

Considering killing their abusers

All it would take was a shove, she told herself. He was standing right there, right there, smirking at her with those fat wormlips. You could do it, she told herself. You could. Do it right now. It wouldn’t even matter if she went over with him. It wouldn’t matter at all. (AGOT) Theon drew the dagger. All I need do is turn and stab him. The knife is in my hand. He knew the game by then. Another trap, he told himself, remembering Kyra with her keys. He wants me to try to kill him. And when I fail, he’ll flay the skin from the hand I used to hold the blade. (ADWD)

Reflecting on Heroes

There are no heroes here, only whores. (ADWD) ... a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes. (AGOT)

Hoping that Stannis will bring them salvation

He’d owned a sword named Lion’s Tooth once, Sansa remembered. Arya had taken it from him and thrown it in a river. I hope Stannis does the same with this one. (ACOK) 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 then, he thought, and Ramsay will take a few more fingers and turn me into Reek once more. Unless the gods were good, and Stannis Baratheon descended on Winterfell and put all of them to the sword, himself included. That was the best he could hope for. (ADWD)

Kindness in dire circumstances

Even so, he knelt beside her, pulled down the furs, touched her cheek. “You know me. I’m Theon, you remember. I know you too. I know your name.” “My name?” She shook her head. “My name … it’s …” He put a finger to her lips. “We can talk about that later. You need to be quiet now. Come with us. With me. We will take you away from here. Away from him.” Her eyes widened. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please.” Theon slipped his hand through hers. The stumps of his lost fingers tingled as he drew the girl to her feet. (ADWD) Alayne took Robert's gloved hand in her own to stop his shaking. "Sweetrobin," she said, "I'm scared. Hold my hand, and help me get across. I know you're not afraid." He looked at her, his pupils small dark pinpricks in eyes as big and white as eggs. "I'm not?" "Not you. You're my winged knight, Ser Sweetrobin." "The Winged Knight could fly," Robert whispered. "Higher than the mountains." She gave his hand a squeeze. (AFFC)

Rescuing Sweetrobin and Jeyne

Alayne knew that she dare not wait for Mya to return. She helped the boy dismount, and hand in hand they walked out onto the bare stone saddle, their cloaks snapping and flapping behind them. All around was empty air and sky, the ground falling away sharply to either side. There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains. And then they were on the other side, and Mya Stone was laughing and lifting Robert for a hug. (AFFC) The crossbow snapped. A bolt passed within a foot of him, shattering the crust of frozen snow that had plugged the closest crenel. Of Abel, Rowan, Squirrel, and the others there was no sign. He and the girl were alone. If they take us alive, they will deliver us to Ramsay. Theon grabbed Jeyne about the waist and jumped. (ADWD)

Flying motif

"We flew. Let Abel make a song of that, we flew." (TWOW) The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. (ASOS)

#gif #parallels #theon greyjoy #sansa stark #theon & sansa #asoiaf #got

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