[ Still, Theon backs off, backs away from the pressure as Ramsay leans into the blade. He's never lacked the nerve to kill an enemy before, never shied away from the opportunity to use a knife or a sword, but at close range like this, now? It transports him right back to his last days in Winterfell. He remembers taking an axe to the kennelmaster’s neck because someone needed to take the blame for the murders of his ironborn men, he remembers redressing those innocent boys in the colors of house Stark as their bodies began to stiffen, all in an attempt to save his own skin and pride, and he remembers the savage dreams he had of Robb’s death before he even knew of it. Robb's blood is on his hands, even if he didn't swing the sword. He can’t tell which makes him sicker: his lost nerve, or the memory of the innocent blood on his hands.
Kill him, he tries to urge himself as his hands shake violently. Kill him like you promised you would. But he can’t bring himself to cut Ramsay's throat. It’s the thought of the spilling blood paired with the thought of what might happen if he fails. Ramsay isn’t innocent, but Ramsay can make people believe he is innocent.
Theon doesn’t put the knife down, but he’s clearly not a threat. The knife isn’t even making contact anymore. ]
I should kill you. Here and now. For everything you’ve done. For flaying my men, for—
[ Winterfell, Sansa, Arya, all these things that don’t line up and may not have happened at all. Mad man Theon at his finest. ]
no subject
At which point did we become allies?
[ Still, Theon backs off, backs away from the pressure as Ramsay leans into the blade. He's never lacked the nerve to kill an enemy before, never shied away from the opportunity to use a knife or a sword, but at close range like this, now? It transports him right back to his last days in Winterfell. He remembers taking an axe to the kennelmaster’s neck because someone needed to take the blame for the murders of his ironborn men, he remembers redressing those innocent boys in the colors of house Stark as their bodies began to stiffen, all in an attempt to save his own skin and pride, and he remembers the savage dreams he had of Robb’s death before he even knew of it. Robb's blood is on his hands, even if he didn't swing the sword. He can’t tell which makes him sicker: his lost nerve, or the memory of the innocent blood on his hands.
Kill him, he tries to urge himself as his hands shake violently. Kill him like you promised you would. But he can’t bring himself to cut Ramsay's throat. It’s the thought of the spilling blood paired with the thought of what might happen if he fails. Ramsay isn’t innocent, but Ramsay can make people believe he is innocent.
Theon doesn’t put the knife down, but he’s clearly not a threat. The knife isn’t even making contact anymore. ]
I should kill you. Here and now. For everything you’ve done. For flaying my men, for—
[ Winterfell, Sansa, Arya, all these things that don’t line up and may not have happened at all. Mad man Theon at his finest. ]