The spear felt wrong in his hands.
Dragonglass was different to steel. It threw off the balance more than he thought it would.
And the bow was his true weapon. Oh, he was a son of Pyke and a son of Winterfell, he could use any weapon he cared to pick up, but the bow had always been his.
But it was useless now.
Arrows all spent, but spent well. Every one had hit where it was supposed to. The doubly dead corpses surrounding him proved that.
But for all his skill, it was just him and Bran left. The corpses of his ironborn were strewn with the undead across the ground, and he desperately hoped that they would not rise. He didn't have enough torches for all of them.
It was so quiet, here, under the weirwood. His harsh breathing was the only sound that filled the air. He could see the smoke of fire outside the walls, but could not hear the flames crackle. If the undead were still swarming everywhere, he could not hear them advancing. No sign of any living either.
It seemed as though he and Bran were the only ones left alive in the world.
It was not an altogether comforting thought.
And then they were there. Out of the smoke and soft light of the fires, they came silently towards them. His breath shuddered as fear spread through him, his sudden rush of his heart made his head feel light, as he beheld the monsters that stood before him.
The cool blue eyes regarded him impassively. The face that seemed hewn from ice, crown and all, seemed to barely register him at all. He felt he was Reek again, a small, cowering, insignificant thing about to be swatted away like an unfortunate fly.
But he remembered the boy behind him, and the vow he had made, and what he must do, and an unknown warmth flooded him. Yes, he was worthless, probably had been his entire life, had done no good for anyone, but here he stood, with this one purpose. And he would do his duty. As a servant of Winterfell. And he would die doing it.
A feeling much like acceptance swept through him. He clenched his hands around the spear, and tried to force himself to look the Night King in the eye. He was Theon Greyjoy, of Pike and of Winterfell. He would die a man.
"Theon." Bran's voice was startling loud, but Theon would not deny him anything now. He turned to look at the boy he had once tried to murder, who he had driven from his home, who he had betrayed in the worst way.
"You're a good man." Tears threatened to run down his face as he met his lord's eyes, as he heard the words that he had always wanted to hear, the only words that could give him solace now.
"Thank you." Thank you for your service. So it was the end, then. Even the Three Eyed Raven knew he would not survive. He took a fortifying breath and turned back to the Night King.
So may it be then.
He held his spear tight, clenched his jaw…and stood his ground. He lifted his eyes and glared straight ahead, right into the eyes of the Night King and let his anger and hatred rise, to give him the strength to stand.
I will not move. You brought down the Wall, but you will have to take a few more steps if you want to get to Bran.
The Night King raised his hand.
Two of the White Walkers behind him stepped past, their eyes locked on Theon. He felt his gorge raise, but still he stood. Waiting, waiting for the right moment.
They were three steps away when he lunged at the one on the left, catching it by surprise with a lucky gash on its left arm. The dragonglass disintegrated the Walker, but he had not kept his eye on the other. A shout of pain left his mouth as he felt a dagger of ice pierce his side, straight through his armour. The cold was more painful than he could have imagined. But he had known pain. With as much strength as he could muster, he brought the dragonglass round and jabbed at its face. Another lucky blow caught it in the cheek. It fell to pieces like its fellow, shards of ice hitting him in the face, as his right knee gave way.
The cold was leeching through his body and it burned, burned so much he could not stop the tears. He could feel it sapping his strength, his courage, his very breath. But when he looked up again he saw that another Walker was walking towards him. Quick, short breaths to bolster himself, another clenching of fists around his spear and wait, wait, wait. It held a spear of its own, made wholly of ice, and looked ready to throw it. Only as it aimed did he realise it was going to pierce Bran, instead of him. As it left the Walker's hand, he lunged wildly, still on his knees. The dragonglass tip knocked the ice spear to the side, but did not crack it.
He had only time to sigh in relief before he heard the Walker approaching. Another knife of ice cut him, this time through his breastplate, into his very lungs. The pain burned as much as the cold, worse than anything Ramsay had ever inflicted. He had barely the strength to look the Walker in the face before gesturing wildly with his spear. He would not die as Reek.
The Walker's foot came down on the shaft, breaking it mercilessly, the point too far away to reach. They looked into each other's eyes, Theon's breath was coming shorter and shorter and the ice cold spreading through his body was all that he could feel. A glimmer of dragonglass caught his eye to the right.
A dead ironborn's dagger. Just out of reach.
He swooned. He let his eyes drop closed. He let go and fell to the right. He heard the Walker straighten, felt the slight nudge of a boot as it made to step over him. He flung out his hand and caught the dagger, cutting his hand as he did so, and he jabbed it into the Walker's leg with all that remained of his lingering strength. It was enough. Ice shards fell. Another of the bastards gone.
It was so cold, on the ground, in the snow. He could barely feel his heartbeat. His eyes would only open a sliver. He could feel himself fading. He was going. He found he didn't mind. The blackness behind his eyes was starting to feel warm now.
Footsteps. Crunching in the snow. Coming towards him. Him and Bran. Fight! Get up! Was Yara here? He could have sworn he heard her voice.
A boot kicked his left shoulder. He was forced onto his back, surprise causing his eyes to fly open, a startled breath shaking his punctured lungs.
The crown of ice. The sharp piercing eyes. The small, satisfied smirk. And the spear of ice clutched in his hand.
He stared up at the Night King, and did his best to smirk back.
You took down the Wall, but you have to kill me yourself.
The spear came down.
The pain was everything.
Please. Was he talking to the Drowned God? The Seven? The old gods, watching as they were from the weirwood? Did it matter? Protect Bran.
And then all was dark.
A/N: Because Theon deserved better. Because you do not charge the Night King, you stand your fucking ground and you make the Night King come to you. Because this show is 99% fanservice at this point, but it seems to get it all just a tad wrong.
Sorry if you thought I would save him. But at least, in my head, he dies a bit more badass than in the show.