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farfromtheseaTheon.
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.
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.
