In the end, as always, Theon had failed.

He'd failed Robb, he'd failed to save Yara, and now he'd failed at convincing the queen to help him get her back.

She'd told him how sorry she was for him, and that she'd do everything in her power to try and help. "But not now," she'd gone on, and Theon had felt his heart sink. "I have been informed that your uncle took your sister to Cersei Lannister to prove his loyalty, and we need to convince her to treat with us, fight with us against the Night King. Any open attack or secret action would be detrimental to that goal."

She was right, Theon had known it, but it didn't make anything better. And the queen didn't understand – nobody was as bad as Ramsay, but Euron . . . Theon didn't want to imagine what he might do to Yara. And all he could do was sit and wait and hate himself for being useless once more.

Their men hadn't taken it well.

Yara's men, he should say, because of course they had never been his. They'd never seen him as one of them, let alone their commander. And when all was said and done, they had attempted to leave him at Dragonstone to try and get back Yara without him.

"Be glad we're not taking you with us," he'd been told. "You'd probably piss your pants just seeing Euron. You're no Ironborn, you're weak and a craven. She's better off without you, we all are." The worst thing was that he hadn't found the words to refute them. Not when he had known, in his heart of hearts, that they were right.

Then he'd gone and told the queen, because he couldn't let the men risk any possible treaty with Cersei, not even for Yara – he had understood that much of what he'd heard about the threat from beyond the Wall – and when he had seen their faces as they were taken to the cells, he'd known that he would never command any Ironborn again, no matter what Yara might say about it should she be saved in the end.

Now he's sitting in his room on the bed, looking out at the overcast sky, waiting. For what, he doesn't know. Jon will leave for Eastwatch today, and it can be weeks until he'll return – if he returns at all. Weeks during which Theon will be forced to sit idle, to do nothing of any use to anybody while Euron can torture Yara to his heart's content – he doesn't have much faith in Cersei Lannister to prevent it. Given what he's heard of her, she will probably enjoy it as much as Euron. Enjoy hearing Yara scream, seeing her writhe in pain while she's being beaten or cut or –

"Lord Greyjoy?"

He startles and jerks, and he hates the worried expression of the man standing between the door and his bed – Ser Davos, if he remembers correctly, Jon's knight.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," the man says, and Theon can't prevent himself from cringing at the address.

"I'm not – don't call me that!"

Davos frowns – whether at the words or the tone or both, Theon doesn't know – but doesn't comment on it, which is for the best, because Theon wouldn't know how to explain how wrong it feels, and why.

"What do you want?" At least he manages to sound halfway normal this time.

"Well," Davos steps closer, and Theon realises he is holding a bow and a quiver full of arrows, "I was wondering if you might have any use for these."

"Why? It's not like I'll be able to do anything anytime soon, is it? I won't need weapons for waiting."

Davos sighs, and Theon curses himself; he knows that he's wallowing, and it's not Davos's fault how things have gone for him. But instead of leaving as Theon expected, the man steps closer and, after a questioning look at him as if asking for permission, he sits down on the edge of the bed beside him.

"The bow is from the armoury here at Dragonstone. The arrows are new; they're dragonglass, the only thing to kill White Walkers." He pulls an arrow out of the quiver and holds it out for Theon to look at. Against his will, he's fascinated, and he runs his fingers over the arrowhead, which is black and smooth and as shiny as glass. Still, this doesn't explain anything.

"What am I supposed to be doing with them?"

"Shoot White Walkers," Davos says as if it were the most obvious thing one could imagine. "If you agree to come with us, that is."

"What?" Theon is sure he must have heard wrong. "I can't just up and leave, the queen –"

"The queen allows it," Davos interrupts. "And as you pointed out yourself, it's not as if you can do much by staying here and waiting. Of course, if you'd rather stay until you can do something about your sister, everyone will understand. It's going to be dangerous – there's a good chance none of us will come back."

Which is right, it's a suicide mission from the start, and he shouldn't consider it for even a moment. And yet . . . if they can get back Yara at all, it will be through negotiation, and Theon isn't naïve enough to believe that he'll be the one who will be allowed to do it. The queen will want someone more skilled in politics to take on the task of talking Cersei into handing over one of her enemy's generals. He'll be useless again. If he goes with Jon, though . . .

"Jon won't want me to come. Not after everything I – he won't like it." And Theon can't blame him. He'd expected much worse when he had seen him on the beach than some harsh words and to be ignored afterwards.

"He sent me. It was his idea."

"What? But – why?" It's not making sense.

"We could use a good archer. And besides – isn't that precisely what he wouldn't have wanted? Ramsay Bolton? For you to take things into your own hands, to fight instead of sitting here and doing nothing? Believing you can do nothing, like he told you?"

"How do you –" Theon curses his voice for breaking, but before he can try again, Davos speaks.

"Lady Sansa, she told the king. No details, but enough. And if it were me, well, I can't imagine it, I'll be honest, but I'd like to think I'd want to try it just out of spite. Not that he'll ever know about it now, and good riddance to him, but still –"

"What do you mean, 'good riddance'?"

Davos frowns in surprise. "Are you telling me that nobody told you?"

"Told me what?"

"He's dead. Ramsay Bolton. He died the day Jon Snow took back Winterfell."

"No." Theon is shaking his head, and he vaguely realises that he's backed up against the headboard, away from Ser Davos. "No, no. He can't – that's not –"

"My Lo– Theon." Davos' hand is on Theon's shoulder, and he wants to shake it off, but he can't move, can't think anything beside that it's not possible.

"Ramsay Bolton is dead," Davos repeats. "He was executed for his crimes, and he'll never be able to hurt anyone again."

"He can't be," Theon whispers, because it's just not possible, not like that – at least that's what some shrieking, irrational voice in his mind is telling him: Ramsay Bolton can't just die like that, can't simply be executed like he's a normal man, a vulnerable man who is no more powerful than the rest of them.

"Yes," Davos says quietly, never breaking Theon's gaze, "yes he is," and he repeats it several times over when Theon shakes his head in mute protest. Each time he hears it, it's just a bit easier to believe, until Theon goes limp against the headboard behind him. He doesn't know how long they stay this way, Davos sitting right next to him, his hand warm and solid on Theon's shoulder, his eyes just as warm in the weatherworn, bearded face. In the end, though, Theon nods, and slowly, Davos pulls away.

"I hope Sansa watched," Theon murmurs, rubbing his hand over his eyes; he can't cry now or he'll never stop. "I hope she watched for both of us."

"She did," Davos says, and Theon breathes deeply before he gets up and grabs the bow and quiver from where they lie on the bed. He can't think about what this means now, not if he wants to come with them, if he wants to be coherent at all. Later, maybe, when all of this is over, he can let it sink in for real, but for now, this has to be enough.

"Thank you," he tells Davos, who nods at him in a way that makes it clear to Theon that he doesn't have to ask him to keep this between the two of them. "Let's go."

All things considered, taking down the Night King is not something Theon had expected to do.

He had mostly kept to himself except when they'd had to fight, and the others hadn't bothered to talk to him much. He had expected that. He'd also expected to maybe die in battle, or to fail them all in some way, like he's prone to doing, and to be looked at with hate or disdain. But certainly not for everyone to gape at him as if he'd just performed a miracle. Theon watches, bow still in hand, how, one after one, every wight sinks to the ground, watches how all the White Walkers shatter like glass, like the Night King did when Theon's dragonglass arrow pierced him.

The shot hadn't even been all that difficult, though he'd inwardly scolded himself for being a fool for trying, since it couldn't be that easy. The queen had come to fight them with dragons, after all.

But after one of the dragons had gone down in flames – well. Before, when they had been trapped on the island, the Night King had been too far away by a long shot. Now, though, he wasn't. Theon had hit targets further away and moving faster, and he hadn't allowed himself to think about it long enough to back down again. Instead, he'd stood up on the back of the monster they had all climbed on, the biggest of the three dragons, had drawn, aimed, and loosed.

It hadn't taken three dragons to destroy the army of the dead, after all. All it had taken was dragonglass and one good shot by a skilled archer.

"That's –" Theon starts, then the breath is knocked out of him as a laughing Tormund slaps him on the back so hard that he stumbles and almost falls off the dragon's neck.

"You did it!" Tormund yells, eye wide and amazed. "You really did it!"

"That's it?" Clegane. "That's all it took to bring the fuckers down?"

Others are talking, too, but he barely hears them. His ears are ringing, his vision blurs, and there's a weird weakness spreading through his legs. Any moment now, he'll –

"Theon." It's Jon, grabbing him by the arms, making sure he stays upright, and Theon gladly holds on, his bow slipping from his nerveless fingers. Slowly, he regains control of his senses, and when he feels halfway normal again – or what counts as normal under circumstances like these – he finds everyone staring at him, smiling in pure joy and relief. Even the queen. Even Jon. He has got to think of a day long, long ago at Winterfell, the day when he'd failed to win a smile from Robb after saving Bran, and for a moment, it's all too much and he can't breathe, can't take it. But the moment passes, and he can breathe again, cold, clear air, and there's Jon and everyone else, still smiling.

None of them is Robb, but they're all alive, and one of them is Robb's brother, and that has to be enough. When Jon pulls him into a tight embrace, smothering Theon's face in his frozen furs, Theon doesn't fight it. Instead, he returns the embrace and he hopes – no, he knows that Robb would approve.

Maybe he's not a failure all around. And maybe he can go and save Yara after all. He can't help but think that queen Daenerys will be grateful.