–This is re-written with correct-ish grammar and a different ending.
–I added new chapters to better explain Jeyne's backstory because I never wholly stated how she ended up in Braavos or why it was needed that she change her name as well.
–I aged Theon down a year, making him born in 280 AC rather than 279, sort of. He came to Winterfell at age 9, so that would make him 6 years Jeyne's senior. But the Wiki gives that he's either 7 or 8 years her senior. So.
–I took note of the book A World of Ice and Fire on some of the North's and Iron Islands' culture and traditions.
–For every chapter I removed, I either made a different one longer, added a new one, or added a backstory to a different one.
–It is my (delusional) belief that the experience would have made Jeyne braver and more strong, and Theon kinder; seeing himself as Jeyne's protecter.
– All of this is GRRM's. I just fucked with it.
–And I want Jeyne to be way intelligent, a thinker. INTP. So that happened.
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Chapter 1: Jeyne I: 301 AC
Jeyne sat upright in her bedroll, studying the features of the once-broken man who lay not a foot from her.
Once-broken.
He had been saying that of late. That, accompanied with mantras of "Theon of House Greyjoy," and sometimes simply "Theon." She did not know if it did more harm than good with his already fragile mindset, but she was in no position to say as much.
There was an air of sad and tragic beauty about the man. She both admired and pitied him, yet thought him the bravest man she had ever known.
Jeyne did not romanticize the things he had done, nor did she vilify them. She simply observed.
She saw the youngest son that had been raised in the greenland as a hostage. She saw an older sister, groomed to claim his birth right. She saw a son's attempt to prove his loyalty and ability to his father. A desperate attempt to make good on a threat. She saw a desperate man. She saw a man broken, beaten, tortured and starved into madness. She saw a man who saved her with a lie. A man who risked everything to save her. And she saw a hated man, dubbed turn-cloak and kin-slayer, abhorred by all the North.
Not by me, not me.
"I don't hate you." She expected no response from the sleeping man and got none.
Theon was not a Northman. He'd been there, as a ward, since the age of seven, and had been taught those ways and customs, but the sea was in his eyes. You cannot freeze the sea.
Her own eyes were red and dry, and her lids threatened to remain closed every time she blinked. No. Please no. When she slept, she was back in Winterfell, back with her husband.
"Husband." She spat the word. Because of him, she would wake screaming and crying, oft with Theon's fingers laced between her own, once even running them through her hair. She smiled plaintively at the thought.