farfromthesea

The day promises to be a quiet one, or at least Theon sees it so. He's sprawled out on the couch, half-listening to a show about marine life on the little television, half-asleep. There's a cat on his stomach, and he knows to expect Daryl any minute.

He's not sure that he's been this relaxed and loose-limbed, not that he can recall, without the help of drink or other substance. He'd hardly turn away either of those things, but he's warm and content and quite sure his day can only get better.

Charbon leaps off his belly when she hears the sounds that predict Daryl's arrival, preferring a higher perch when there's a chance of canine company as well. The quick pressure is enough to make him grunt, and he sits up, pushing a hand through what he knows to be a hopeless case of bedhead.

"Hey," he says, when the door opens, still a bit blurry at the edges from dozing. They've long since reached the point where Theon doesn't worry about grinning like an absolute idiot, and so that's what he does.

A proper winter seems to be coming to Darrow at last, and while Theon will miss the long days of warmth, he finds the coming chill and dusting of snow to be gentle. Just enough snow blankets the ground to give the fields and grass a cover, and paints the trees silver. The paths, however, stay clear and dry, and the cold itself only requires light winter wear-- woolen jackets and scarves and gloves.

Theon enjoys it despite the tiny whisper in the back of his head, and then on days like this, when he walks with Sansa through the park, the whisper disappears. There are vendors here and there, and it seems on a day like this that there's often a tiny market to be found too.

Even now, he can hear music being played somewhere, bright and tinkling.

"The further we get into winter here, the more I think the place is determined I enjoy it," Theon admits to Sansa, as they cross over a bridge, pausing at the highest point. "It's different, isn't it?" There's a whoop of delight from below as children skate under the bridge.

[voicemail and texts go here]

Theon.

Bodies of those dead and living litter the ground in the godswood, and with Bran’s eyes iced over and distant, Theon knows himself to be alone. His arrows are long gone, and with them the possibility to halting the advance of the Night King’s guard, the Night King himself. Theon’s kept himself and the shell of Bran alive with his spear, but he can feel the Night King arrive even before the second truest monster he’s ever known shows his undead face.

There could never be a monster like the one that’s already met his end in Winterfell, not for Theon Greyjoy.

If he’s honest, the first Theon Greyjoy died under Winterfell too.

If he’s honest, the Theon he is now will die at Winterfell before very long, and though he can think of plenty of ways he might like to live, he can’t think of a better way to die.

You’re a good man.

He hears Bran’s voice and turns, and whatever Bran is now, he knows to give him confirmation of the only question Theon still struggles to answer. Only the heat in his eyes tells him that he cries to be given this benediction; his face has long lost the ability to feel.

Theon lets himself take one last look at the heart tree, with long and white limbs, the fiery red leaves caught in a winter wind. He thinks of another time when he’d stood in front of it, not even a man, let alone a good one.

Thank you.

Only one choice left now, only one more charge.

If it buys Winterfell, if it buys his family, even a few moments, then his life will be worth more than it ever has been. He could not imagine anything mattering more.

The Night King steps forward, his Walkers behind him, and the fire raging through Winterfell behind them. Theon adjusts his hand on his spear, and before he can think a moment longer, he charges forward, screaming into the long night.

He runs for longer than he thinks he will, and then his spear buckles, breaks under the Night King’s hands. More than the pain, he registers the soft punch of the spear going through his middle. He looks up, at dead, malevolent eyes, and when he drops, it’s into darkness.

He wants to look at the heart tree when he dies, see the red against the white limbs, the sky, but it’s dark. Theon falls a long, long way through the darkness, and the moment he realizes he’s only dying, not dead, he realizes he’s no longer in the godswood.

There’s grass under his cheek.

It’s warm.