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He could no longer save himself.
When Ramsay Bolton had cut enough pieces away that Theon Greyjoy had to leave, he had taken away his ability to save himself as well. Instead, he had put on Reek, the thinnest of blankets beneath which he could hide, to stop the pain and the bleeding and the hurting, because that had become all that mattered in the world. There was nothing left of Theon Greyjoy to save and being Reek meant that mostly the bleeding stopped and that would do. It was enough.
He could not save himself.
So he saved Sansa Stark instead.
Watched himself tip Myranda off the walkway, watched himself take Sansa’s hand and hold it as they jumped, watched as he willingly went to place himself back into the hands of Ramsay Bolton to lure the soldiers away from Sansa, knowing what would be done to him, watched himself stab the man who would have killed Podrick and somehow ended up… free.
He did not save himself, but Reek slipped off his shoulders then and Theon Greyjoy said his name again, the syllables tasting strange in his mouth, as strange as the word “home” which was where he said he would go, without knowing if there was any place that would claim him.
***
He was Theon Greyjoy again, but only just.
His body was healing, where it could. His scars had started to soften and stretch, he had gained weight, gained muscle, had even managed not to run screaming when Yara cut his hair (only because it was Yara and she had tried to rescue him and it was Yara and she loved him and it was Yara and she was his sister and it was Yara and he let her come towards his face with a blade and it was Yara it was Yara it was Yara and he managed to wait until he was alone in his cabin with the door locked before he let the terrified tears run down his face).
In his mind, he stayed upon the cross and the man that kept cutting away the pieces of him had the face of Theon Greyjoy.
The farmboys. Ser Rodrik. Robb. Robb.
He deserved to be on that cross. Deserved every wound, every disfigurement, every amputation. He had failed and failed and failed again and inside his head Theon Greyjoy flayed away at every piece that Ramsay Bolton had left whole.
When Yara said they would get justice for him, his laugh was hollow and still he hung upon the cross, punishing himself endlessly.
Except.
Except.
Yara said she needed him.
Yara had a plan and boats and men and still she said she needed him and when he looked at her, he knew she was not lying.
He could not save himself, saw nothing worth saving, nothing that shouldn’t be flayed away and disposed of as worthless.
He held Yara’s eyes and she was not lying and she needed him.
He nodded.
And stepped down from the cross.
***
Yara needed him.
He was her protector, he’d said he would protect her, and now Euron held her by the throat and his men were taking blades to the faces of her sailors, tongues and ears, slicing and bleeding and Yara needed him.
He could have saved himself, gathered up his courage, tried to run his uncle through to save Yara, could have died a heroic death that might have redeemed some small fraction of his failures.
He could not save himself.
He did not even look at Yara as he turned and dived from the ship into the burning sea.
***
He could have saved himself. He could have walked away from the parley and accepted that, if Yara was not yet dead, she would be soon and he could have accepted that Euron had been chosen by the Iron Islands as their king and the safest thing Theon could do was walk away from all of it and find some quiet place to try and hide.
Instead he fought Harrag on the shores of the sea, and he won and he claimed the loyalty of Harrag’s men, not for himself but for Yara.
He could not save himself, but he was going to save Yara.
***
“Theon.”
He heard Bran call his name as he looked down at the countless wights that he had killed, the dead that would not die.
He caught his breath, held it in a moment of exhaustion, turned to look at Bran.
“You’re a good man,” said Bran. “Thank you.”
Theon’s breath caught again, a hitch in his throat. Bran. Bran who was the three-eyed raven. Bran who was the memory of the world. Bran who saw all things.
Which meant Bran would know the other thing, the bright and shining secret that Theon held in his heart: that in a dark place beneath the walls of Winterfell where no-one else could see them, Sansa Stark had kissed him. Holding his face between her hands like he was some precious, fragile thing, while his hands (gloves, always gloves, to hide his missing fingers) hovered beside her waist, then gently touched the curve of her, like a benediction. She had asked for no promises he could not make (not to die, to come back, to survive) and he was glad of that. But her kiss was a promise to him that, should he return, he would be loved.
Bran had said he was home.
Yara loved him with all the fierce love of an Ironborn sister for her little brother.
Not because they had seen the best of him, knew only part of the story of his life. Each of them had seen the whole story of him, the worst of him and the best of him, and they loved him nonetheless.
Love. Home. Family.
Theon Greyjoy had all of those things. And he deserved them.
In the time it took to draw in a breath, Theon Greyjoy forgave himself.
Saved himself.
He had failed and he had been punished and he had stood up again and again and even when he couldn’t save himself, he found a way to save the ones he loved.
Sansa. Bran. Yara.
Beloved. Brother. Sister.
He deserved them. And they deserved the chance to survive this night.
One last breath, one last moment, and Theon turned his spear towards the Night King and began to run.