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The air in the godswood freezes so quickly that Theon can hardly sense it. His skin is hot with rushing blood, sweat running down his forehead. The sudden chill would feel good, if not for what it means.
Theon turns slowly, hair standing on end. Hundreds of ice blue eyes stare at him. In the middle of the army stands a group of men with blue skin and white hair. White walkers. Bran had been right about his plan after all; the Night King is near.
As if on cue, the creature appears through the throng of soldiers. Theon’s breath catches in his throat. Jon and the dragons are nowhere to be seen, yet here the Night King stands, poised to fall into their trap. Theon’s eyes scan the forest around him, looking for anything that might help him protect Bran, but all he sees are the dead.
This is it, then, he realizes. Despite everything, he almost feels relieved. He gets to die in battle as Theon Greyjoy, not as Reek at the hands of a madman. His name will go down in history as a warrior at the battle of Winterfell. He knows its a better end than he deserves.
“Theon,” Bran calls, cutting through the eerie silence of the godswood. Theon turns, locking eyes with Bran. His chest tightens at the sight of the boy he’d known since his birth, the boy he’d saved on more than one occasion and the boy he’d pretended to murder.
“You’re a good man,” Bran tells him. “Thank you.”
The words sound like trumpets blaring, like waves crashing, like coming home. Peace overwhelms him, lifting a weight that had lived in his chest for many years. Theon feels tears slide down his face.
He’s surrounded by an army of the dead, one against hundreds. The dragons aren’t coming to help him. He’s not match for the Night King. But none of it matters. He’s earned his absolution from the one person he’d wanted it most.
Theon turns back to the Night King, still waiting at the end of the godswood. Theon rises up to his full height and squares his shoulders. Despite feeling tired down to his bones, a new strength surges through his limbs.
“You can’t have him!” Theon shouts. He knows the Night King could run him through like a sword through flesh so he stands his ground, forces the monster to come to him. It may not mean anything in the end, but it will buy him just a few more moments.
The Night King approaches slowly and the air feels thick around them. Time slows and the rest of the world slides away, leaving just the three of them and the heart tree. Theon grips the spear tighter and breathes in slow, deep breaths.
The Night King is at least a foot taller than Theon, if not more. His skin is an unsettling shade of white-blue. A crown of arcing horns circle the King’s head and white ridges run across his skin. He stares at Theon with piercing blue eyes. Theon holds his gaze, refuses to cower in the face of death itself.
Theon moves to strike the Night King with the spear, but the creature swats it away easily. It falls soundlessly into the snow. With nothing left, Theon brings his fists up in front of his face. The Night King smirks at him, sending a chill through his body. Theon had stared into the heart of evil before many times, but he’d never felt anything as cold as this.
In a flash, the Night King grabs Theon on either side of his breastplate and hauls him up. Theon tries to kick, to thrash, but nothing subdues the monster holding him. With little effort, the Night King tosses Theon across the clearing. He crashes against a boulder of the edge of the treeline and lands with a thud. His vision blurs as pain surges through his body. Distantly he feels himself coughing, blood splattering against the white snow. He struggles to get his hands underneath himself, to push up onto his feet. His whole body screams in protest and he collapses, limbs going slack. Darkness closes in as the Night King approaches Bran.
--
Sensation returns to him slowly. He feels a soft bed beneath him and warm furs covering. The air around him feels still and quiet. His entire body feels like one throbbing, aching wound. If not for the comfort of the bed, he’d fear he’d woken up in Ramsay’s kennels.
Theon opens his eyes to the grey stone of Winterfell. He blinks, attempting to shake off the fog of sleep. He realizes he’s in his old room, where he had stayed before his life, his family, everything had turned to ash and ruin. Had it all been a dream? The Night King, Ramsay, the war? He can’t think of another reason why he’d wake quietly in his own bed. Theon brings a hand up and runs it over his chest, feeling the raised, puckered skin of all the scars that make up the map of his punishment. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, something like disappointment filling his chest. His hand drifts lower and he feels bandages wrapped around his torso. Memories come flooding back; shooting the wights in the godswood, staring down the Night King himself, saying what he thought was goodbye to Bran.
Bran.
Theon bolts up in the bed. Immediately he regrets the sudden movement, doubling over and gasping for air as pain courses through him like fire. When it begins to ebb, he pushes up out of the bed and pulls on a tunic that he finds folded in a chair beside his bed. He has to find Bran, has to know he’s alright.
The castle is quiet. As he walks through the halls, Theon sees evidence of the battle all over. Blood smeared on stone, doors broken off their hinges, walls crumbling in. When he’d first arrived in Winterfell all those years ago, the keep had looked so large, so impenetrable. If he’d had any hope his father would come with the Ironborn to rescue him, they were dashed then. Now, though, the stone edifice seems as delicate as flesh.
Theon finds Bran alone in the great hall, watching through the windows as men work outside to clean the debris.
“Bran,” Theon gasps, relief flooding through him when he lays eyes on the boy. His sore body protests as he sweeps through the room and throws his arms around Bran. Months ago his skin would crawl at the idea of being touched, but now his throat tightens with emotion when he feels Bran’s arms come up around his neck.
When he pulls back, there’s a ghost of a smile on Bran’s lips.
“Arya killed the Night King,” he says, so matter-of-factly, as all his words are now. “She would not have been able to do it had you not faced him first.”
Theon nods. An involuntary grin spreads across his face. It feels almost wrong to smile when so many good men and women had given their lives for the whole of mankind, but he can’t help himself. For the first time, he feels good.
“Theon? Oh, gods.”
Theon turns to see Sansa rushing toward him, Jon and Arya trailing behind her. He opens his arms and Sansa falls into them, clutching him tightly. His battered body throbs in protest, but he wouldn’t pull away for anything.
“You’re alright,” Sansa says, her voice thick with emotion. Her words are muffled against against Theon’s shoulder but still, he hears her.
“I’m alright,” he tells her. It falls from his lips like a promise.
The adrenaline bleeds from his limbs and suddenly he feels wobbly on his feet. Sansa helps him to a stone bench, sitting beside him when she’s sure he won’t collapse on the hard floor. Jon, Arya, and Bran join them at the table.
Soft morning light streams in through the tall windows. The distant sounds of men working fills the air. A fire is roaring in the hearth. For a moment, Theon feels seventeen again. He almost expects to see Robb strutting into the hall with that lopsided grin plastered on his face, Rickon on his heels the way little brothers follow big brothers.
“I screamed at a dragon,” Jon says, breaking the silence in the room.
After a beat, Arya begins to laugh. Jon does too, and Sansa starts only a few moments after. Despite himself, Theon can’t help but laugh, either. Even Bran seems amused.
The fight is far from over. The pain of the Long Night is yet to be fully understood. But for now, to be in Winterfell, safe and laughing with his family who were once strangers, it’s enough.