Jon Flees to his chambers

Theona blinked, her brow furrowing for a second before smoothing out. She pushed off the post, adjusting the quiver strap across her shoulder with a casual flick.

"Odd? You haven't said a thing out of place, Jon. The king's coming has us all twisted up. Go on, then—best get ready before Robb drags you out for more sparring."

Jon nodded stiffly, his mouth dry. He turned on his heel and strode out of the stable, keeping his steps measured until he cleared the door.

Then he broke into a run, boots pounding the courtyard stones as servants scattered out of his way. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the ache in his legs, and slammed into his chamber, bolting the door behind him.

He leaned against the wood, chest heaving, and slid down to the floor. Ghost padded over from the corner, nudging his hand with a wet nose, but Jon barely noticed. His mind raced back to the stable—to Theon, cocky and crude one moment, then twisting into something else entirely.

A woman. He'd meant it as a curse, a way to make the squid feel the bite of his own words, but now... Theona.

Not just changed in body, but older, her face lined with years she hadn't lived, memories rewritten like ink over old parchment.

Jon pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to block out the image of her standing there, calm as if nothing had shifted. The power did what he said, aye, but not always how he pictured it.

Perhaps you would understand the women you fuck better if you were one.

He'd spat the words uncharacterizable in anger, and the world had bent Theon into a woman—dresses and arrows and all, like some warrior maid from the songs. Then, trying to fix the mess,

You've always been a woman.

Your name is Theona.

And suddenly she was a woman grown, five years added, her history as Balon's daughter slotted in neat as a key in a lock. The words came true, but the details twisted on their own, filling in gaps he hadn't thought to control.

He stood up, pacing the narrow room, the fire's embers mocking him with their steady glow. What if he'd said something worse? What if the next slip ruined Robb or Arya? Honour demanded he keep this locked away, but the temptation gnawed at him already, whispering of fixes to his bastard curse.

No.

He had to learn its edges, test it small, or it'd swallow him whole. The king's banners would fly soon, and Winterfell would fill with eyes and ears—he couldn't afford another mistake.