he won’t live through the night, she had been told when she had seen him. a hand clasped over her mouth, tears swimming in her eyes. she could barely see through the haze of it all. could barely breathe through the ache forming in her chest, blooming and blooming. he was barely breathing, although for an entirely different reason. she just wants him to be okay. she needs him to be here; for entirely selfish reasons, she needed him. needed someone to be there for her, that she could rely on. that she could let her guard down. he’d stood face to face with the night king and survived. barely, but he was still there. clinging to life, as he had all these years. sansa wasn’t going to leave his side. refused to. even when he was left in a bed, the maesters telling her that there was nothing more that they could do for the night. there were too many other people that they needed to help. that were less gravely injured. sansa finds herself at his bedside, despite needing to see her people. despite needing to be the lady of winterfell. she cries; it isn’t ladylike. it isn’t graceful. it is sobs that shake her, chest aching and she grips the other’s hand through it all. refuses to leave. can’t leave. won’t leave. “please,” she murmurs against his knuckles, eyes closed. “please, come back to me.” please, wake up theon. i need you. so, she stays. until the sun is in the sky again, until it’s dark the next evening. stays because she can’t let him wake up, because he has to, alone. that’s the least she can do for him.
﹠. don’t die so far from the sea, yara had told him. he wonders, would she mourn him ? there had been an ache, sudden and piercing, in his body and then he had been thrown, strewn in the snow. and while the blood drained, slowly, from within him, so did the color from his face. 𝐀 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐖. but it was alright. theon didn’t fear death : what is dead may never die, and so in death, he found tranquility. ( would he see robb again ? would he be forgiven ? ) he found himself praying, in his last minutes, to the gods that never did belong to him; bran will be alright, please let him be, let them all be. arya and jon and . . . sansa. sansa. thoughts linger on her before pain - induced lethargy crawled up the spine of his mind, the cold making him numb as his vision became black.
. . . but theon greyjoy has always been stubborn. in life and now in death, it seems. it’s bright when he awakes, 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 / 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆, eyes fluttering in leaden manner, and of all the things he had expected to see, sansa he never anticipated. had she been here the whole time ? she had been his last thought and now his first: it always has started and ended with her, hasn’t it ? he attempts to sit up but only aggravates the wound adorning his torso, so with a groan, he lies back down, ❛ i thought - ❜ voice is hoarse, barely there, but his eyes never leave hers. the gods had heard him and they had kept her safe, there was nothing else he could have asked for. ❛ what . . . what happened ? ❜
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