- he shares his name (coincidentally) with a Stark ancestor and obssessed over it to the point of convincing himself that he had been named after him in spite of being Ironborn.
- wanted to be a Stark to the point of heartache.
- has a deep emotional connection to Winterfell - real or imagined. Feels its walls rejecting him in Clash. Finds his way around its ruins in Dance.
- becomes, in a sordid twist of fate, the remaining “Stark” in Winterfell in Dance.
- is a dreamer.
- develops strong attachements to objects he loves - his bow, his knife that he always keeps very sharp, his clothes.
- was admired by Robb Stark - perhaps due to an undeniable resilience (and sense of humor). Theon did tell Robb about his home, and Euron specifically.
- fantasized about his homecoming, knowing Winterfell would never fully accept him (he would have chosen Winterfell, if given the chance).
- has Wex Pyke and Jeyne Poole’s affection.
But a sweep of wind can be storm-like swirling in your soul, getting feelings and thoughts upside-down and twisting them to make you confused.
The wind can be chilly like the icy, dead fingers of the Others gripping your heart and spouting dispair into your veins. It blows so powerfully that tears come to your eyes and despite the frost you can feel the bitter warmth the drops leave behind.
And the wind can be smooth and gentle, comforting as if a tender hand would stroke your face. You are filled with energy and the wind brings the charming scent of hope and strenght and trust.
The wind may come and go, but still, the words it brings can be carved into your heart and mind and memory like a strong wind carves the surface of water.
Words are wind. A special sort of wind that you may not forget, that leaks into your head and wouldn’t leave, a wind you treasure or curse depending on the feelings it sweeps with.
a lot is going on a lot more than i could ever handle and i have had chest pain for the last couple of days and my anxiety and depression and apprehension isn’t getting better i’m going to buy a notebook tonight and i am going to start writing because my negative ridiculous thoughts need to go somewhere and it hurts me and other people when i say them out loud so that will be nice i’m going to see my doctor next week and i am ready i don’t know what it is that finally just made me realize what i can lose and what i have and that i deserve this wonderful love and i am ready to accept it
She was scrubbing the blood off the house. It was disgusting work. Hard, exhausting, and seemingly endless. Blood was a putrid smelling thing, and cleaning it, a disconcerting chore. Penelope almost wished for some laundry to do instead, and that was saying something with how the odor of detergent made her gag. There was still a whole other wall to go before it would be presentable.
“What I would give for a scotch on the rocks right now.”
Penelope started, turned. The yard stretched out flat before her on all sides, silent as the grave. She could have sworn she’d heard a voice close by. But perhaps it was just—something else. Though what, she couldn’t imagine. She hated scotch. Dreadful stuff. A glass of cognac was better to her any old day. But then her palate for such things was limited. Gen and Isabella were better judges with that sort of thing.
“Can’t believe after everything this is the crap she pulls.”
“The what?” Words burst from her out loud, and with such a start, Penelope nearly fell off her step ladder. “Who?” she called. But her words fell on the wind and were heard by no one.
“God, I miss her. Stupid brat.”
Penelope climbed off her ladder in a hurry and abandoned the cleaning for another time. She needed something. Not a drink. Not scotch. But something else. And she needed it badly. She settled for an icy class of water and several deep breaths.
So, there was a voice, be it human or otherwise, in her head. A concerned voice, with questionable taste in liquor. No need to panic. Perhaps she was overtired. Perhaps she was finally starting to lose her grip on–but no. She couldn’t be. She wasn’t a naive civilian, she wasn’t Regan. Penelope knew better than to rationalize when something was truly wrong. She had been in Ashkent Creek over a month now. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened to her. And, if this was the end of it, there were worse fates to suffer. It’s going to be alright, she thought firmly. Everything is going to be alright. We’re going to solve this and I’m going to be fine.
She strained her ears, listening for some kind of response or echo bouncing around. Nothing. Perhaps it was some sort of silly little jinx, a moment’s disturbance and then done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
But then she heard the voice again, pained and worried. “Is she going to die, too?”