Heated words make for mistakes

Jon's breath came in ragged bursts, the stable's musty air thickening around him as Theon's grin widened, oblivious to the storm brewing in his companion's eyes. The Ironborn's casual cruelty hung between them like smoke from a dying fire—words tossed out like scraps to a dog, meant to bait and belittle.

Loosen that northern virtue, Theon had said, as if Jon's restraint were a flaw, a chain to be mocked rather than respected.

And the jab about siring bastards, twisting Jon's deepest fear into a jest, as if fathering a child doomed to whispers and shadows were just another notch on a bedpost.

He stared at the saddle strap in his lap, the needle forgotten, his mind churning through memories of Theon's endless boasts. How many times had Greyjoy swaggered back from the winter town, reeking of ale and cheap perfume, regaling the yard with tales of his conquests?

Kyra the miller's daughter, or that freckled serving girl from the Smoking Log—names dropped like trophies, their stories reduced to giggles and gasps in the dark. Theon never spoke of their hopes or hurts, only of what he'd taken, what pleasures he'd claimed without a thought for the weight they carried afterward.

The Squid had always wanted to see women as playthings, disposable as the apple core he'd flung aside moments ago.

A bitter twist gripped Jon's gut, the power surging hotter now, feeding on his rage like flames on dry tinder. He struts like a rooster in the henhouse, Jon thought, fists trembling against the leather, crowing about his prowess without ever knowing the fear of being the one pursued, cornered, used.

The idea flickered then, dark and unbidden, sparked by the septa's venom about lust and weakness—the same slurs that dogged his every step as a bastard—and fanned by Theon's fresh mockery: what if Greyjoy felt that sting himself, reduced to just another body for men's taking, his Ironborn pride shattered by the whispers and judgments he'd so easily flung at others?

Let him become one of those women he bragged about and see how long his boasts lasted.

A woman, stripped of his Ironborn bravado, **** to face the world as prey instead of predator, with men’s hungry stares replacing the respect he craved, and slurs like “wanton” dogging her every move—the same whispers that branded bastards like him as weak and treacherous. The notion coiled tighter, tempting him with visions of Theon stumbling in skirts, voice cracking in bewilderment, tasting the bitter edge of being used and discarded, the thin veil between lust and scorn.

Words hovered on Jon's tongue like a drawn arrow, his lips parting as the power surged, eager to reshape reality in this petty, profound ****. He held back, though, jaw locked tight while the stable's shadows deepened around him, doubt clashing with fury and leaving him balanced on the edge of utterance.

Low and edged with barely contained fury, Jon's voice slipped out before he could rein it in. "Perhaps you would understand the women you fuck better if you were one."

Shoving off the post with a dismissive shake of his head, Theon barked a sharp laugh, his grey eyes gleaming with amusement. "Me, a woman? I'd be the finest piece in the Seven Kingdoms, Snow, and still outdo you at—"

The taunt died mid-breath, his body locking rigid as an unseen ripple coursed through the air, distorting the dim stable light around him like water disturbed by a stone. His lean frame reshaped in an instant—shoulders pulling inward, waist tapering, hips flaring subtly beneath the now-ill-fitting breeches that sagged loose.

Dark hair spilled longer, straight and glossy, tumbling past newly softened shoulders to frame a face that echoed his own sharp cheekbones and arched brows, yet refined with fuller lips pursed in perpetual scepticism, lashes casting shadows over eyes that darkened to a stormy depth, skin smoothing to an unblemished pallor flushed faintly at the cheeks. His rough tunic melted into sleek black fabric laced with golden accents, a hooded cloak settling over one arm, while a quiver bristling with white-fletched arrows slung across her back, secured by a broad leather belt adorned with a radiant sunburst clasp.

Her-Theon’s-gaze dropped downward, hands—slender now, with elegant fingers—pressing tentatively against the unexpected curves of her chest, then lower, tracing the flat expanse where familiarity had vanished, her palms trembling as if scorched by the alien contours. A strangled **** sound escaped her throat, eyes widening in wild terror, the colour draining from her face until it paled like fresh-fallen snow, her breath hitching in short, panicked bursts that echoed off the wooden beams.

Jon's heart slammed against his ribs, a wave of icy dread crashing over him as he watched the horror etch deeper into features that still mirrored Theon's—those same sharp cheekbones now softened, the arched brows furrowed in disbelief—his own hands clenching into fists at his sides, guilt twisting like a knife in his gut for unleashing this unintended chaos.

The stable's hay-scented hush amplified her gasp, voice pitching higher in raw disbelief, cracking with mounting hysteria. "Snow... what have you done? You've turned me into a bloody woman!"