"I'm a good shot," Theon mumbles, for the medicine seems to be pulling him a little deeper each time he feels it wash over him. "Will you come back and visit again? I don't want to be alone here."

That's nothing he'd usually be able to ask, and he supposes, with a distant calm, that it's part of whatever is seeping into his blood.

"Sansa?"

He can't hide the absolute stupid lovesick look, even if it's also slightly shame-faced. "Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell. I went back to swear myself to her service for the battle. I knew she'd be glad to see me but her smile... and she embraced me..." His head droops against his pillow. "Like a flame against the winter night. If by dying I gave her even a single breath more, it was worth it."

He's drowsy, but at least maybe he'll dream of her now.