Theon g 🐙

The first time Theon saw her, he thought it was an illusion. Ramsay had taught him to distrust everything, even his own mind. But she was there, in the dimness of his cell, a trembling candle in her hands, an expression he didn't immediately recognize: pity.

The nights became his only refuge. She would appear in his cell unannounced, her hands full of small acts of kindness: food, bandages, words. They didn’t talk about Ramsay. They didn’t talk about what he was now. They existed only in those stolen hours, in the fleeting brush of her fingers when she handed him something, in the warmth of her breath when he leaned in too close.

The first time she kissed him, Theon felt like a thief. A thief of something he didn't deserve, something Ramsay had taken from him but that, for some reason, she insisted on giving back to him.

As long as she was there, there was still something inside him that did not belong to Ramsay Bolton.