Author's Notes: Written for the asoiafkinkmeme prompt: "fem!Theon. When Ramsay takes her, everyone thinks she's dead. The north hates her, but since she was a hostage of the north and supposedly brutally killed by northerners the Iron Islands elevate her to "legendary tragic dead woman" status in the style of Ashara, etc.

Until she escapes from Ramsay, she has no idea of this."

Warnings for implied/referenced rape, violence and death.

They say she rode home on the waves, or sailed single-handed, having escaped the North with nothing but her wits and beauty. She was dazzling, salt across her brow, wrapped up in fine greenland silks, but she took those silks and drowned them in the ocean. She vowed that day that she only jewels and finery she ever wore would be those she took from her captors' corpses. But she did intend to wear jewels and finery.

Someone throws a copper to her and she flinches in fear. No, why would they want to hurt her, why would they want to throw things at her, she doesn't want to be hurt, please. It's a young woman, barely dressed, must be a whore (did I used to dress like that? I must have, I must have, he couldn't have lied to me, if he's lying he's wrong, if he's wrong he'll–) It must be a trick. Master uses women like that to trick her sometimes. He uses everyone. It's always a trick. She does not reach for the copper – copper, or gold? A long-buried memory scrambles under the surface. Gold, or iron? She cringes. No, no, he'll know. He always knows. She can't take it, it would be disloyal, and she is always loyal, she must be. She buries her head in her knees to try and hide from him.

But he's not here.

She gasps. No, no, she can't think such things. He'll know. But when she looks up the whore is gone and he is still not here. With three shaking fingers – no, no, you can't! – she reaches out and takes the coin from the ground. She stares at the figure scratched into metal, and frowns. Does she recognise him? No, of course not. It is not Master, so how could she?

Even as a girl she had been beautiful. The greenlanders should have taken the older girl, the heir, but when The Honourable Ned Stark, as they called him – a man who lost his head for treason against his best friend, the king he had sworn to – saw her, he took her away, knowing what the Northmen would want of her one day. But his son would not let them. There was no honour in it, but he wanted her for his own. He was obsessed. He disgusted her, but she knew if she let him believe she loved him, he would make a mistake. When he rose up in rebellion, she promised him she would give him her ships, if only he let her go. She would give him the Iron Islands, if only he let her go. She would give him her body, if only he let her go.

Robb Stark. The name hits her like a blow, and she looks to see if Master is here after all. The name comes to her sometimes, every time it hurts more than anything Master has ever done to her, and she cannot remember why. Think about Robb Stark, Master told her once, long ago when she had only just become his (was there ever a time she wasn't his?).

She buries her head in her knees again and finds she's sobbing. Why do you cry so much, you stupid cow? You know I could be much worse to you. "Sorry Master," she whimpers, bracing herself for the inevitable punishment. She screams in pain when a hand lands on her shoulder.

That makes the whole street stare. Oh no, he'll see me, he'll know I've escaped, please– "Keep your voice down!" someone shouts in her ear, but it doesn't sound like him. She whimpers and curls in further. I don't know these men, I swear I don't, please Master, help me, protect me, I'm scared...

There's another man in front of her, who just scoffs. "You're a fucking useless beggar, you know that? You could at least pick the coin up." It's a test. It's always a test. But she picked the coin up. She looks to her side and finds there's another coin, silver now. Silver or copper? Iron or gold?

He had been a fool. All the men in the North had been fools, bewitched by her raven locks and ivory smile, and never the iron and salt beneath. All the men in the castle fell to a beautiful young woman with only fifty men, and she grinned as she took the Starks' velvet cloaks to wrap around herself. The Princess of Winterfell, she told them to call her, and they obeyed without question – for she was the greatest princess the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.

She cries helplessly. "Please." Please don't send me back. Please kill me before he comes. The man looks bruised and battered within an inch of his life – he's hurt him too. The man nods to the other man, and she cringes. What do you want?!

The other man scoffs. "She's a useless old cripple."

"We have to bring something. And she can hardly fight back."

No, no, don't ever fight back, fighting back just makes it worse. She looks down at her hands and sobs. She still has her left ring finger to offer up, it's the one she needs the least. But she offered it once and Master just laughed. Why, that finger is for your husband! I wouldn't do that to you, my dear. And he took the middle finger instead, leaving a gap in the middle of her hand and making it near-impossible to carry anything with it.

"Do really think the Queen will be impressed?"

Queen?

"...Just pick her up."

The man does and throws her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing (you're so skinny, Master had told her one night, almost lovingly, sometimes I just want to squeeze you until you snap). She lays there like she's dead, and hopes by the time they make it to Winterfell she will be.

The journey takes too long. Don't try and keep track of time dear, it doesn't matter. You'll be here forever, that's all you have to worry about. But she knows it takes too long, even to sail to Winterfell, it would only take days, not weeks. You can't sail to Winterfell. No, no, she cannot think such things. If Lord Ramsay says he is sailing to Winterfell then that is exactly what he's doing. But he is not here. She expects to find him, grinning and mocking onboard, but no. He is taunting her. He wants her to think she can escape. She's been fooled before; he probably let her go, since she was becoming disloyal, just so he could capture her again and break her properly this time. I'm sorry, Master.

The Starks had a weapon – their two last boys, left behind to watch over the castle. They were only children, but they were monsters. The elder was a cripple, but he was a witch – he had powers no man or woman could escape. They younger was feral, more like a dog than a boy, ready to tear out the throat of anyone who walked past. But the Princess was not afraid. She had known these boys all their lives. When they promised obedience and swore fealty, she knew better than to trust them.

The men get bored and sick of her within hours. See, no-one is ever coming, no-one wants you, no-one loves you. No-one but me. "We should just throw her overboard and be done with it. One less mouth to feed, and the whole place would stink less."

"Do you want to explain to Queen Asha that we went raiding and came back without even a single thrall?"

"What sort of thrall do you think that mad old bat will make?"

Thrall. The word means something to her, but she's too scared to try and remember what. She knows the name Asha as well, but no, she's not allowed to remember names. You don't need anyone but me, sweetling. You are mine and I am yours, Master had said, even as dozens of women came into the castle, terror in their eyes.

All she can do is hope that the first man will win, that they will throw her into the sea before Ramsay can get his hands on her again. But he doesn't. Of course not, Lord Ramsay would be so angry if they destroyed his property. When the man comes into check on her, she curls into a ball, praying he might think she's dead.

The boys ran, off to start a rebellion. But she was too smart for them. The Northerners did not know how the ironborn can scent across the sea, let alone the land. She found them in a hovel, as befit their status. When the elder tried to curse her, she slit his throat before he could get the words out. When the younger tried to savage her, she cut him in half. Then she showed their bodies to the north, so they would know: in silk and gold, she was a ruler, and she was not to be defied.

"...What is your name, anyway?"

She stares. You have no name, sweetling, Master said. You are nothing. Why would nothing have a name? It must be a trick. Master wants her to remember her name. If she remembers her name, then he can punish her for forgetting – for forgetting that she is nothing. But she knows she is nothing, and she doesn't want to be hurt. The man is getting frustrated. "Come on. Even mad old crones have names. Come on, what do people call you?"

What did Master call me? He called her a lot of things. Sweetling, dear, pet. Bitch, whore, turncloak. She flinches. No. He hasn't called her a turncloak in years, but he always used to. Why did he do that? What did she do?

There's a loud sigh. "Who are you?!"

"I don't know!"

She covered her mouth as the words slipped out. Did I give you permission to speak, dear? She'd had to beg him not to cut out her tongue, only to take a few more teeth. He won't be so merciful this time. But the man just stares at her in confusion, and she knows he still wants an answer. "I don't know," she says again, on the edge of tears. "Don't hurt me, please!"

For a second, she sees something like pity in his eyes. No. When anyone looks like they pity her, it's a trick. There is no pity in the world, not for her, because she is not part of the world, she is nothing, remember pet? She whimpers as he reaches a hand to her.

"...Fine. I'm going to bed," he says. "Try and stay alive overnight, alright?"

He wants me alive. He'll never let me die. He'll never let me go.

The young boys were gone, but their brother remained. He raged at how he had been tricked, for he was too stupid to realise the Iron Princess could never love a Stark. So on the other side of the Seven Kingdoms, he raged and he plotted to take back the castle, and the woman, that he thought were his by right – but he had never once won. He sent his foulest men after her – a family known for flaying the skin from their enemies, and he said she had brought dishonour by betraying the men who imprisoned her. She was fierce, and she was proud, and she was beautiful. But she had only fifty men.

When the ship finally docks, she doesn't understand. It's not Winterfell, and it's not the Dreadfort. There is no snow, and when the wind is still she's almost warm, but the breeze cuts through like a – not a knife, no, she knows Ramsay's knives and knows nothing is so painful.

"Come on," she's pulled along in chains, and the cold sinks into those, almost biting off her wrists. Will he take her hands for this? She sobs in terror all the while, but limps ungainly after them. It will only be worse if she resists. They have to climb over rocks and she knocks and bruises herself so many times. No, I'll get in trouble; I'm not allowed to hurt myself, only he's allowed to hurt me, she thinks, but she has no choice. She never had a choice. The men are still pulling her after them, ignoring her pathetic whimpering. She knows they'll be glad to be rid of her. I'm the only one who'll ever want you, pet.

Finally they make it inside, and she's thrown in front of a fire. The room is bare and drafty but she can't help but lean to the warmth. She remembers how Ramsay laughed the few times he'd let her in front of the fire. Aww, are you cold sweetling? he'd asked, before he threw water on the flame just to watch her shiver.

Everything smells of salt and smoke and it's strange because it's nothing like Ramsay, and yet somehow she recognises it. How can that be? What does she know that isn't him? This room too, it looks familiar, it makes her feel small and ashamed and – and Ramsay didn't make her feel that way.

I won't have my daughter playing Robb Stark's whore!

She starts to pant, panicking, that wasn't Ramsay, it couldn't have been Ramsay but it hurt, and no-one else is allowed to hurt her, she'll be in trouble for letting someone else hurt her, please, I'm sorry Master, I didn't mean to, take as many fingers as you want I'm just scared–

She rocks back and forth, whimpering, and the man – the one who never wanted to take her anyway – gives her a withering look. "Stop that. On your feet." She looks up at him, terrified, and reluctantly pulls herself back up. She can barely stand. Her skin is so pale you can almost see through it. When she looks around, the other man is gone, replaced with a guard by a door who just stares at her. She avoids his eye. The man still with her. "Stop shaking. You want the queen to think you're any more pathetic than you are?"

She looks at him pitifully. What queen?

The men all told her to run, but she refused. She had taken her captors' land like they had taken her, and she would die before she gave it back to them. So they had fought. All fifty men fought to the last against a hoarde of Northerners, but it was too much.

The Starks showed no pity on the girl they had known since she was a child. Her body was torn to so many pieces it was never found. But despite it all she had taken Winterfell, and the Stark boy could never take it or her back.

"I never commanded any raids," she hears a voice through the door, and no, she does not recognise it, she cannot recognise it, for there is no-one, because she is nothing, no-one cares about her, no-one loves her, it can't be–

"I know, but we found this crone – we thought she should be your thrall–"

"Did you capture her in battle?"

"...Not as such, your grace..."

"Then she's not a thrall, is she, just some helpless old woman you kidnapped!"

"She has great powers!"

A scoff. "You mean you need a reason she would be even slightly useful to me, and you think she's scared enough to just go along with it?"

"Just see her, Your Grace."

"Fine."

She looks down. No, she doesn't want to be seen, doesn't want to be looked at, Master will punish her if she lets someone else look at her – the door swings open and her legs give way, she falls to the ground again, please, please, I'm nothing, you can't see nothing, and she just whimpers while the man by her side kicks at her. "It's the queen, you old bitch, get up!" He sounds scared.

"Get up, old woman." This queen's feet are in front of her, but she can't, she can't see her, she doesn't know what'll happen if she sees. "At least look me in the eye."

She sobs, but she can do that. Just. Barely. She wrenches her gaze from her own broken hands and pushes it onto the queen's face. She wants to look away after a second, but something stops her. She looks in this woman's eye and something changes. She knows this woman. No, no, I can't! But she does, and she looks different, older – but not as old as she must look, with her white hair and broken teeth – but she knows, she can't pretend she doesn't know and Ramsay will punish her for this.

But the queen looks back at her, mouth hanging open like she means to make a command, but she doesn't. The words never come. She just stares, until all of a sudden she's fallen to her knees. The men all look alarmed, but when the queen reaches a hand toward her, she doesn't flinch. She should. She should die rather than let anyone other than Ramsay touch her. But Ramsay's not here, she realises, so what can he do?

"Thea?"

The grief of it killed her father. But her sister, who had never been such a beauty, but who had been every bit as fierce and proud – she declared she would not die of grief. She vowed she would avenge her sister, and they would wreak havoc upon the Northerners who captured and butchered her. She became the Ironborn's first queen, and no man thought to speak against it – not when their Princess had proven herself a great ruler, and been cut down. The Ironborn vowed they would reclaim what was theirs, what Princess Thea had taken for her people.

She knows. This is not some queen, this is her sister, and this is her home – this is somewhere she once called home at least. And her sister had loved her, had wanted to protect her, had thought seizing Winterfell was a terrible idea. She was the only one who loved her – Robb, she thinks with a gasp, he had loved her so much, like his own sister, and he trusted her enough to let her go, and she loved him so much, until father threw it in her face and called her a whore, until she would have done anything to prove otherwise. Even betray him. She remembers the look on Bran's face when she told him she was taking the castle, she remembers the bodies hanging from the gates, she remembers it all and it hurts so much and she's not – she's not allowed to hurt herself!

The men just stand around, muttering but it can't be. She's gasping for breath but her sister won't let her look away, and she searches her scrambled mind for anything that makes sense. "Asha?"

Asha throws her arms around her and it doesn't make sense, she shouldn't allow it, but her sister feels warm and soft and real and Thea hasn't felt any of those things in years. "I thought you were dead," comes the voice in her ear. "We all did."

Thea sits there, stunned. They thought she was dead. But if they thought she was dead, she must have been alive once.