Don't own, don't profit. I don't know what I'm doing. Loosely based off of the show and considering I haven't read the books (yet), a lot of this is probably going to sound ridiculous.
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Her mind is metal grating on stone, a sword dragging from a weak wrist across the old stones of her home, following her every step. She can feel it tapping, slowly sliding across the bones of her ribcage until every breath is ragged, until she very nearly gives in.
And then.
Like your half-brother, Jon Snow. Born the bastard of Winterfell, now the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Something in the center of her chest tightens, boils and then runs over, bubbling down her spine into her fingers. It is hard for her to remember the name of it, but in the middle of the night as she shivers, the word settles. She doesn't dare say it aloud.
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Her mouth moves against the pillow as Ramsay pulls at skin. It's a funny thing, growing up. From the moment she'd realized he was different, she'd never spared him another thought, another feeling. Now, he's the only thing she can think about. He has become the focal point of a scarred map that her fingers roam over minute after minute.
Ramsay's teeth bite into her shoulder. The blood will follow.
Jon, she thinks. Jon. Jon. Jon.
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I'll die, she says to Theon, because she has been dying since she first left Winterfell all those years ago. There is simply not enough left. Except the wolf in her stumbles forward, forcing her into the freezing water. She is a Stark after all. She was born for Winter.
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When they're a night away from Castle Black and her eyes are on the stars, the worry slips up her leg to ache in her knees. She is far from home in a place full of strangers. It is King's Landing all over again. She is that same empty girl with hollow dreams.
It has never occurred to her until now that he might not want to see her. That he will wish she was someone who loved him, like Arya, or Bran or Rickon. He might not care what became of his half-sister. He might even think she deserved it.
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In spite of the doubt that creaks in her joints and the fear tightening her shoulders, the moment the gate opens her eyes search for him. Time has faded his face into something akin to a Weirwood. It waits to pass judgment on her past indifference, though as her feet hit the ground she wants nothing more than to grip at its roots and fill her nails with its bark.
Her head turns in the cold. A feeling she hasn't felt in years winds around her ankles, shoots up to the pit of her stomach. It is hard for her to succumb to it right away. He comes toward her, taller, broader, hardly the boy she ignored and yet still so painfully Stark. He is everything of home and family and this hope that she slit into the marrow of her hip so no one could take it from her, even herself, bursts forth into his arms.
She thinks, breathing into his neck, that she will never love anybody as much as now.
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He dies slowly, alone, in the cold.
For the watch creeps between his teeth and wrenches around his tongue. When he was a boy, dreaming about walking the Wall and becoming a legend so the King would legitimize him, he'd thought he might die in battle. It would be brave, honorable. Maybe they would write a song.
He really did know nothing.
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The choice is easy, lying at the feet of their swinging necks. They may have brought him back from the dead to command but he can no longer breathe in this place. He'd lived by Ned Stark's rules, truly believed in them. He died because of Ned Stark's rules, and there is no coming back to the other side. They can all hang.
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Edd will never understand, he knows. He can see it in the curve of his brow and the line at his mouth. He doesn't know how to explain he's already dead. His first family died long ago and his new one killed him. He couldn't care less about the White Walkers, or men.
And then.
The horn.
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He rests his hands on the rail, old habit of an old commander but she turns her head and he steps back like he's been touched by fire. The palms of his hands burn. His throat aches with cold. For a second he is sure she's a ghost. Sansa Stark would never seek him out at the edge of the North.
Something pushes him, knocking against his chest like the blade of a knife until his feet move down the stairs. It drags him closer to the flame of her tired face to prove its reality.
Longing ripples through him so strongly his legs stop within reach of her.
The fire cracks her face, quivering around her mouth as her arms fly open and he steps forward. She is alive. She is here. He is no longer alone.
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