Archives

SUMMARY: "Praise for Theon Greyjoy's Archives, which so accurately depicts the journey from a wide-eyed boy who played for dollars on the street corners of the Iron Islands, to the famed musician we all know and love." – Petyr Baelish, the King's Landing Gazette

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Excuse the terribad-ness of this. I started writing it a while ago, but finally finished it around 3AM last night and figured I'd publish it now. It's sorta for Throbb Week on Tumblr, which I'm not sure is still going on.

This is very loosely based off Bob Dylan's Chronicles which I highly, highly recommend. I re-read it a while ago and this idea popped into my head.

There is a sort of theme to this, which you might find some evidence of. I tried to base this off book!Theon's struggles with being too Greyjoy for a Stark and too Stark for a Greyjoy. Basically, a lot of identity issues and where he should fit in. Like, is he defined by himself or is he defined by the people around him.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything.

EXCERPTS FROM ARCHIVES, ON SALE AT A BOOKSTORE NEAR YOU

When I was sixteen, I packed up my things, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and left my childhood home in the pursuit of fame.

I can admit—rather proudly by this point—that I was not prepared for the world outside my relatively sheltered one. At home, I was the best at everything. I had the looks, the voice, and the talent. There wasn't anything that I couldn't do. In King's Landing—the most densely populated city in Westeros—I was just another number. I wasn't really anything special.

I hadn't really planned ahead either. I'd always assumed that the moment I stepped foot off that ship, I'd stumble into a producer who would instantly take a liking to me and insist on making me the next big thing. In reality, the moment I stepped off the boat, I threw up.

You see, there are two ways to go about describing King's Landing. I could be boring and plebeian and say that it is a melting pot of people from all walks of life, possessing all sorts of talents. Or, I could be honest and say that it's a disgusting cesspool of shallow humans with skewed moral compasses, willing to do whatever it takes to get famous.

I had hoped to transcend that. More than anything, I wanted to become famous of my own accord.

On my second day—the first was spent in a hostel, trying to overcome my sudden seasickness—I decided to meet with a producer. As expected, it didn't go at all the way I'd expected. He rejected me before I could even show him my sales pitch. This went on for several days.

Finally, I was able to meet with Varys, an exclusive producer known for his mysteriousness, lack of bias, and ability to spot talent from a mile away.

"You're talented, I won't lie," he'd said to me. "But I'm afraid it isn't quite the talent we're looking for."

I remember his office rather vividly. It was decorated with posters of all the different musicians he'd helped. The biggest one, occupying nearly a third of the wall to my left, depicted a beautiful girl with white-blond hair, surrounded by three incredibly tough looking guys. Even I knew who they were on sight.

They were Mother of Dragons, an up-and-coming rock band that'd previously been so underground, they might has well have been exiled from Westeros. When Varys discovered them, they were performing in subway stations and sketchy bars. Now they were one of the most successful bands in the entire county.

"You should try another producer," Varys had told me. "Perhaps Ned Stark? He might like your sound."

"What about my sound?" I had asked, too cocky to admit defeat when I saw it. "Don't you like it? You did say I was talented."

Varys gave me a look of slight annoyance by this part. "You are," he conceded. "But your sound is too…it's too old. What I'm looking for is fresh talent. Something ground-breaking."

"I'm not ground-breaking?"

"Not now," said Varys. "Try Winterfell. Go to the North. Ned Stark might take a liking to you. He's always been a fan of folk music."

I know what you're thinking. Folk music? Really?

Back on Pyke, nobody cared for the newest beats on the radio. We liked passing on old songs, we liked singing songs that everybody knew. We sang songs about love and family and just the ordinary things that were going on in the world. Half of the people I knew back at home probably didn't know what rap music was. I'd grown up with this.

"Here." Varys handed me a business card. I looked at it. It was of a plain white cardstock, with simple font.

I don't think I'd ever thanked Varys for recommending that I go to Ned Stark. Looking back on it, I probably should have.

When I first arrived in the North, after an excruciatingly expensive train ride, I was taken aback by its size. Everywhere I looked, there was grass or mountains or trees. There was just so much nature. And it was really cold. So cold. Cold as balls. In fact, I nearly froze mine off.

Ned Stark was just as imposing as the North itself. I had waited a long time to meet with him, and watching the dejected faces of the people before me wasn't exactly the best motivator.

"Why do you want to be a musician?" That was the first question he'd asked me.

"Because I love music and I want to be able to share my love of music with everyone." That was the sort of answer that I thought most adults would want to hear.

Ned Stark sighed a little. "Who do you want to become?"

This question confused me. "I don't want to become someone. I already am someone."

Stark just blinked at me owlishly. "Okay."

"I mean," I continued, "I'm not someone famous. And I want to become someone famous. Do you think you can help me?"

That's when Ned Stark put his mug down and finally asked me to play a song for him.

I like to think that before I met Robb Stark, my life was empty and meaningless, but it wasn't. While I certainly didn't expect him to have the amount of impact that he did, I wasn't this empty vessel before Robb Stark. You can't divide my life into pre-Robb and post-Robb phases because it doesn't work that way.

I met Robb a few days after my meeting with Ned. Because I was a sixteen year old boy who'd never quite experienced the sting of responsibility, I didn't exactly prepare myself for the ordeal that would be finding accommodations in the North. Luckily, the Starks, owning most of the huge region, let me stay in their castle of a house. Was it an unwise decision on their part to let a virtual stranger stay in their house?

Honestly, I'd learned to stop questioning the Starks the moment Ned Stark had given me a chance.

Robb was the golden child of the Stark family. As the eldest, he was already heavily involved in the family business—producing musicians. Alongside his father, he'd help co-produce one of the most popular boy-band's in Westeros, the Night's Watch.

I'd never liked children who were so keen to follow in their parent's footsteps, but there was something so earnest about Robb that it was a little difficult to ignore the enthusiasm he inspired in you. The fact that he took after his mother's side of the family in physical attractiveness alone helped too.

"You're the new project dad's taking on. Theon, right? I'm Robb." He held out a hand professionally, looking at me with the kind of gaze you would normally bestow upon small children and elderly people.

"That's me," I said. I took his hand and shook it briefly, trying to ignore the tingle I felt go up my arm.

"Dad says you have an interesting sound," Robb said. "I hope we'll be working together soon. I think we'll get along great."

"Me too."

It's hard to pinpoint exactly when I realized I started to like Robb as more than a friend. Maybe it was the time he'd showed up to my first performance outside of the grimy bars I usually frequented. It might have been when I first slept with him.

I didn't really have that moment of epiphany when I realized I loved Robb.

It's a nice day, I probably would have thought. I wonder if Robb's enjoying the weather. I wonder if he knows I love him.

If Robb knows who loves him?

Oh, that's right.

Like I said, our romance wasn't exactly one for the history books. It was just there.

The hardest part of being famous was the interviews. People were always expecting me to have all the right answers and encapsulate the persona of a role model and bad boy in equal measure.

They liked to ask me questions about my music. "The voice of the generation" was what the media called me. This nickname caught on. Soon, even my fellow peers would refer to me as this.

Thing is, I wasn't anyone's voice except my own. All I did was sing about things that were true. I sang about war and I sang about love. These things weren't profound or meaningful. They just were.

If these youths were so keen on calling me their "voice", I'd be a little worried. Wouldn't that just mean that they had none of their own?

I didn't want to be their "voice". I was just Theon. I was the guy with the guitar who wrote songs about girls with flowers in their hair and boys with shining eyes. I was just a kid who sang about wanting peace.

I think it was at this point in my career where everything started to go downhill. Or uphill. I think it honestly depends on whom you ask.

I think it was around this time when I met Ramsay Bolton.

Ramsay was the antithesis of Robb. Born to Roose Bolton and an unknown mother, he was the illegitimate heir to Bolton's Butchering Plant and Meat Processing.

I met Ramsay one night at some grubby bar outside Winterfell. It was after one of my less successful shows during which I had decided to experiment with electric guitar. Needless to say, my fans were less than pleased with the new sound.

"You're Theon Greyjoy," were Ramsay's first words to me.

"That's me." I hardly turned to look at the man.

"You look like you could use a smoke."

"Are you offering me one or are you just making an observation?" I was in no mood to be made fun of. Though, to be fair, I was probably just projecting my anger.

"Up to you."

Sometimes, I think back and wonder what would happen if I'd never accepted Ramsay's cigarette. Would I have lived a better life? Would I have been able to avoid the addicting pull of the drugs he'd later introduced me to? Would Robb and I have lasted?

I don't really know.

All I know is that in that moment, I really wanted a fucking cigarette.

I can't even count on one hand the number of times I've been rejected in my life. First was by my father, who thought that being a musician was too soft for a Greyjoy. Next were the numerous producers in King's Landing—Varys included—who didn't like my sound. Even Robb rejected me after learning of my infidelity and growing drug habit.

But, I digress.

As my fame grew, so did the time I spend with Ramsay. He wasn't exactly the best company—constantly making idle threats against the people he hated and harbouring an intense dislike toward the Starks—but he was far better than the annoying groupies who seemed to want to follow me everywhere.

It was only a few weeks into our growing relationship that Ramsay began offering me drugs. It started with the cigarettes, but it escalated until we were snorting lines off the mirrored table in my hotel room after successful shows.

I don't remember much about that time in my life. It was the epitome of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll.

What I do remember is the one night I threw a wild party in my hotel room after an incredibly successful concert. There were tons of tons of people—most of whom I barely knew. I think even Daenerys Targaryen may have showed up. Perhaps we did shots together. Like I said, this wasn't these weren't the most memorable moments of my life.

The next morning, paparazzi were surrounding the entrance to the hotel, hoping to get a glimpse of the role model-turned-rebel. They weren't disappointed. As I made the seemingly endless walk from the glass doors to the air conditioned safety of my limo, I was bombarded.

"Theon, look this way, please!"

"Are the rumours surrounding you and Daenerys Targaryen true?"

"Theon, are you no longer dating Robb Stark?"

"Theon, I love what you're wearing! Is that a Baratheon original?"

"Theon, you've come so far since you first signed with Stark. What do you think he'd think of you now?"

This was one question that always stood out to me. Of course, the paparazzo was referring to the recently-deceased Ned Stark.

"You wonder what Ned would think of me?" I slurred slightly, unsure of whether I was still drunk, or just hungover.

The paparazzo—who seemed rather young in comparison to her colleagues—smiled. "Yes, Theon. What would Ned think of your new image?"

"I think Ned dearest would be proud," I growled at her. "I'm the voice of a fucking generation."

She paid no attention to my mounting anger. "So you think the conservative Ned Stark would have truly approved of your new persona? I honestly think Ned Stark preferred the old Theon."

"What do you know about me?"

She bit her lip, shyly. "A lot," she said. "I know that you used to sing because you enjoyed it and wanted others to enjoy it too. I know that you prized your individuality over everything. And I know that you used to sing about the things you wanted to sing."

I'd had enough of her acting like she knew everything there was to know about me. "I'm the voice of a generation," I repeated, grinding my teeth and adjusting my sunglasses. "My music represents what the people want to hear."

The girl blinked, looking slightly taken aback. "Of course," she said, urging the voice recorder closer to me. "What do you think the people want to hear, though?"

"I've enough of this shit." Pushing past the girl, I slid into my limousine. As the car pulled away from the hotel, I watched the crowd push forward trying to get an exclusive glimpse of the enigmatic Theon Greyjoy.

I was a fucking star. And even if my own father wasn't proud of me, I didn't fucking care. I had everything I could ever want.

But, I found myself looking at the smug paparazzo who'd asked me those questions. She was looking at me too, an odd expression on her face. It wasn't the usual envy that I'd usually assigned to people like her, but rather, a mixture of pity and fear.

"Stupid paparazzo," I murmured to myself. "They don't know anything about me."

Interlude again.

Back on Pyke, my dad had this really weird mask that he hung on the fireplace mantle. As a young child, I was deathly afraid of it and my older sister, Asha, would make up all sorts of these stories to scare me even more.

It was a large tile with the face of a sea god on it. Sometimes, the sea god looked angry and sometimes, it looked kind.

When I left Pyke, my dad, in a rare show of kindness, gave me the tile. Although, I think he just wanted to get rid of it.

Now, it hangs above my fireplace mantle.

The first time that Robb came over to my house, it was the first thing he pointed out.

"What is that?" He asked me, looking slightly disgusted.

"It's art," I replied tonelessly.

"It looks kind of weird."

"It does," I agreed.

"Does it look angry to you?" Robb asked, tilting his head to get a different view of the mask.

"Sometimes," I said. "Sometimes, it looks happy instead. And sometimes, you can hear it whispering."

"Really?" Robb's voice was horrified. He was never one for ghost stories.

"I'm just kidding," I said, slinging an arm around him.

He grabbed the hand dangling around his shoulder and squeezed. I winced. "If you scare me again, I'm going to put slugs in your bed."

"Hey," I teased. "It's your bed, too."

Needless to say, whenever Robb came over, I always hid the mask.

At the height of my fame, I overdosed. If it weren't for Jeyne Poole's—whom I'll talk more about later—quick thinking, I would have died. After that incident, I started going to rehab and cut off all contact with Ramsay—at the behest of Jeyne.

Jeyne was amazing. She was so completely different from anyone I'd ever met. I don't think I ever loved her as much as I love Robb, but I genuinely enjoyed her company.

The irony of it all is that Jeyne was a paparazzo. The very same paparazzo who made me question my own identity. After that one encounter, we seemed to bump into each other all the time. She took it as a sign; maybe fate was telling her that I would be her "big scoop". I just thought it meant that she took her job very seriously.

I'd never thought that I could be on civil terms with any paparazzo, but Jeyne shattered any and all of my expectations. Witty, down-to-earth, and honest, she was so unlike the people who normally surrounded me.

I don't think we intended to start a relationship beyond the realms of strictly professional between us, but there's something to be said for sexual tension.

I don't like being cheesy, but Jeyne was honestly my saviour. If it weren't for her, I'd be rotting away in some grave, or still having coked-up sex with Ramsay. Not that I minded having sex with Ramsay, but he wasn't exactly the best influence for me.

(We never spoke again, if you're wondering. I haven't seen him for years and the only contact I've had with any Bolton was through his brother, Domeric.)

I think the best part of the relationship between Jeyne and I was the fact that she never expected me to be anyone other than me. I didn't have to be the "voice of a generation" or "Theon Greyjoy, singer extraordinaire". I missed being the Theon Greyjoy from Pyke who liked to skip stones across the blue-grey water of the ocean near my home. With Jeyne, I could be that and it was the most calm I'd felt in a while.

And if it weren't for Robb, I think we could've stayed like that.

I don't blame Robb for the demise of the romantic relationship between Jeyne and myself. I blame myself for terminating our previous relationship before I was truly over him.

I love Robb. I have no real explanation as to why because he's so uptight and he has such high standards, but I love him.

It was on the evening of my nineteenth birthday that Robb Stark rung the doorbell to my spacious penthouse.

"Hi," I'd said rather breathlessly.

"Hi yourself," he said.

We'd hadn't seen each other in ages. The years had been kind to Robb and he'd finally grown the beard he so desperately wanted when he was sixteen. It looked good on him. He looked mature.

"It's been a while," he said.

"It has," I agreed.

"Can I come in?" He asked, looking hesitant. Once upon a time, when we'd been very much in love, he would have just strode on inside, polite courtesies be damned.

"Of course," I said, gesturing to the interior of my place. "Make yourself right at home."

It was here that a new chapter of my life had begun. And this time, I was determined to get it right.

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