Chapter Text
The day dawns as bright and beautiful as only a summer day in the North can. There are a few clouds, not near enough to bar the sun from flooding the courtyard. It’s going to be a warm day, maybe the warmest they had so far. Jon is sweating in his doublet, too formal, too thick for standing out in the sunlight. Maybe it’s just nerves. The doors to the Great Hall open and Father walks out, followed by two men of the guard. And Theon, walking between them, gaze firmly on the ground. They come to stand in the middle of the yard, right in the sun, and yet Jon can see Theon shivering. The irony is too much, too cruel. How many times had Theon complained about the lack of sun up here? How often had he whined about being cold? And now he is standing in the warmest sunshine, and shivering. But not for the cold.
It’s hard to keep still during the words Father says. Jon is barely listening, hearing the tone rather than the words. Father’s voice is dull, not sounding like Lord Stark’s voice at all. His face is a grim mask, stony and pale. But not as pale as Theon’s. Jon tries not to look at him too much, but he can’t help it; every so often his gaze slips to the side. Theon seems to be somewhere else in his head, eyes huge and vacant. His lips are almost colourless. He’s still shivering. Jon looks away. This is hard enough as it is.
Father stops before the last part, nodding at Jory to take the children inside. Sansa’s eyes are red, she’s pressing a hand against her mouth as she follows Jory quickly, without a word, without a second glance. Arya doesn’t go so easily, and Jon has to force himself not to look after her as she is carried away. Arya would’ve been a great help with what Jon has to do, could’ve backed him up before Father. She doesn’t love Theon, but she knows what justice should look like. Rickon does look back, thumb in his mouth, round blue eyes confused.
“Has Theon been naughty?” he asks, but no one answers.
When they are well out of sight and safely inside, Father takes a deep breath. The last, ritual words are spoken, in the name of the king, a king who isn’t here, who doesn’t know Theon. It’s Harwin who holds out Ice in its sheath for Father to take. It’s strange, seeing someone else but Theon doing it. It’s usually him, carrying it for Father whenever he has to fulfill his duty, a not so subtle reminder of what was always hanging over his head. Not today. Not ever again. Jon shifts nervously. His collar feels too tight around his neck, too hot. The time has come, as he knew it would. He’s thought of nothing else for the past three days, has invented vague, lunatic plans and tossed them immediately. There is only one way.
One of the guards standing beside Theon gives him a pat on the shoulder, a lot gentler than he would with a stranger. His name is Alyn, usually a friendly man with an easy smile. He isn’t smiling now, and Jon wonders what he might be thinking of this. Like more of the other men he’s spent many a night drinking and gambling with Theon, has seen him grow up with the rest of them. And now he has to lead him here, has to practically drag him to Father. Theon’s feet seem frozen to the ground, but finally he stumbles forward. Father looks like he’s going to be sick, but still he doesn’t hesitate. Ice heavy in his hands he turns to face his ward. Jon closes his eyes for the tiniest of moments. His heart is beating fast, the only sound he can hear besides birds singing. The gathered men are eerily silent. Father’s mouth tightens, and Jon knows it’s now or never.
He takes a stumbling step forward, another, until he’s right in front of Theon, between him and Lord Stark. Jon’s hands are shaking, he’s feeling nauseous. This will change his life forever. And Theon’s. He won’t be happy about this, but then it has to be better than death. For a moment Jon wishes Robb were here, could do it in his stead. It would make more sense, Robb being the one. He’s Theon’s friend. Jon isn’t. But Robb is far away, and this is the only way. Jon raises his hands in the gesture Maester Luwin described to him, looking upon Father’s ashen face.
“I invoke Lakh Wal Lach,” he says, his voice breaking at the last word.
He can feel more than hear the gasp travelling through the gathered people, but he does hear Theon’s strangled, choked cry. Jon ignores them all, gaze fixed on Father. He doesn’t say anything, only stares at Jon as if seeing him for the first time. He looks stricken.
“Jon,” he finally says, “are you absolutely sure…”
“I am.” Jon prays his words come out strong and firm. He isn’t sure at all. But… “Robb would do it if he were here. I can’t let you do this. It isn’t right.”
Father flinches at the mention of Robb, suddenly avoiding Jon’s gaze. A surge of disappointment has Jon’s stomach lurch. The haste had been deliberate. Three days, three days since the raven came with the news of the rebellion. Father must have wanted to get it over and done with before Robb comes back from Riverrun, before he could do what Jon is doing now, has to do. Jon doesn’t want to think of what Robb would say to him if he’d let this happen. He nods once more, jaw set.
“As you wish,” Father mumbles, something strange flickering over his face. “Lakh Wal Lach has been invoked. Jon, as of now you alone are responsible for everything Theon does, for his wellbeing… and for his crimes.” Father swallows, but goes on. “Should he decide to run, you will bear the sentence. Should he betray our house it shall be you receiving the punishment of… of death.”
Jon exhales in a rush. “Thank you, my lord,” he says with a slight bow, then turns around – coming face to face with Theon. He looks like he wants to strike Jon, eyes burning, mouth tight. His hands are balled into fists and he’s quivering with tension.
“Why the fuck would you do that,” he hisses, voice shaking with rage. “Why would you – fuck you, bastard!”
Jon can sense the men of the guard bristling. What Theon is doing is dangerous. Jon’s just a bastard, true. But he’s claimed Theon as his bond, his pledge. Theon can’t treat him like this anymore, the condemned has to answer to his guardian. Not that Jon had expected Theon to behave differently, but he’s violating a law of the North if he proves insubordinate in front of others. Swords are being drawn, and Theon’s eyes shift to the sides, his already white face paling further.
“You have to leave right now,” Jon says, low enough only Theon can hear him, accentuating every word. “You can yell at me later. Right now you have to fuck off before you get your head hacked off after all.”
Theon looks very much like he wants to say something. His eyes are wet, face pulled into a grimace. For one moment Jon thinks he’ll spit in his face. But finally he turns, taking off through the courtyard and out of sight. Jon sighs, a small part of the tension he’s carried the last few days leaving him.
“We’ll hold the ceremony once he’s calmed down. Tonight.”
Jon looks up at his father, coming to stand next to him. His face is wearing that same, strange expression Jon had seen a glimpse of before, and now he recognizes it for what it is: relief. Relief that he didn’t have to kill the boy he’s raised with his own children. Relief, maybe, that it hasn’t been his trueborn son and heir burdening himself with a pledge.
“Do you have a token in mind?” Father asks, searching Jon’s face.
Jon shrugs. “I’ll figure something out.” He looks in the direction Theon has vanished. He’ll have to go after him, find him. Tell him that nothing will change for him, not because of Jon. It’s a lie, of course some things will change. And Theon will hate Jon for all of it. Jon sighs. It’s going to get a lot worse.
This is just the beginning