[debut]

[farfromthesea]

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.

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[myfavoritedream]

"What the fuck."

It was rare to actually see it happen. To see the moment a person appeared, flickering into existence with the blink of an eye. He landed in a heap, a rag doll of motionless limbs and heavy, clanging armor, and I thought, Christ, he's dead..

Just fucking great, there's a dead guy right there, and I guess I've got to deal with it.

Walking across the grass, I didn't even hesitate. Once, I might've. I knew that, with shameless clarity. I wasn't sure it made me better or worse, now, that I made other people's fucking problems my own. It was less lonely, maybe, but a hell of a lot more trouble.

As I approached him, I heard a low groan. Oh fuck.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," I muttered to myself, my phone already in my hand as I dropped down onto my knees in front of him, reaching out to slide a hand along his clammy neck, feeling or a pulse. But his eyes were wide, unseeing, blood staining his lips, and I felt a slice of fear grip at my insides and twist.

"Hey, man. Okay, you're okay," I said uselessly, fumbling to dial for an ambulance while I eyed the spear jutting from his gut.

[farfromthesea]

Theon wakes up in a warm, sunlit room that smells nothing like Winterfell, or any other place he's been. If before he'd been tugged under dark waters, he's floating atop them now, drifting. A glance down confirms that the spear is gone, and that he's been sewn and bandaged-- but leaves him utterly confounded. The needle in his hand has been secured with sticky paper, and strange heavy and stiff threads abound. Boxes with lights and symbols, strange chirping sounds, and a room that looks nothing like he's ever seen, either.

There are voices outside the doorway, and he fights the urge to close his eyes to get a reprieve from all that is different. He starts to pull at the sticky paper and needle, shifting and then freezing as the chirping gets louder.