114 AC
Winterfell
Back in the quiet of his solar in Winterfell, Theon Stark slowly became aware of his surroundings, the familiar scent of hearth smoke and aged parchment filling his senses. The encounter in the Void felt as real as the chair beneath him, and the implications of Rob's offer settled deep within his ancient bones. Two weeks. That was all he had left in this life. His conscious mind, sharp as ever, immediately began to work, planning for this unexpected, final chapter.
He reached for the bell cord, a faint chime echoing through the heavy door. Moments later, a loyal Stark guard, a burly man named Gareth, appeared.
"Gareth," Theon's voice, though aged, held a newfound authority that cut through the usual evening quiet. "Summon my son. Tell him I require his presence in my solar, immediately."
Gareth, accustomed to his King Regent's often solitary nature, simply nodded, his expression unwavering, and departed with quiet efficiency.
A while later, footsteps approached, and the door opened again. King Artor Stark, Theon's son, entered, his brow slightly furrowed with a mixture of concern and curiosity. Theon rarely summoned anyone, least of all for anything that seemed less than urgent.
"Father?" Artor began, his voice respectful, tinged with concern. "Is everything well?"
Theon looked at his son, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Come, sit, Artor. I have a task for you." He gestured to the chair opposite him by the hearth. "I want you to prepare a feast. To be held in two weeks' time."
Artor's eyebrows shot up. "A feast, Father? Now?"
"Not just any feast," Theon continued, ignoring his son's surprise. "I want you to send ravens. To Lyrra and her family. To Morgan and her family. To Jonnos and his family, if his health permits him to travel. To Harrion and his family. I want everyone who means a damn thing to me to be present at this feast, Artor. I want to see all of them, in one room. It has been a long time."
Artor's confusion deepened. He knew his father valued efficiency and quiet reflection over lavish displays. "Father, is everything truly alright? Why the sudden change of heart about feasts? You've never been so... forthcoming for such a thing."
Theon's gaze softened slightly, a hint of his future self shining through. "When you grow old, Artor, you will understand. For now, go. Make the preparations for this feast. And stop asking so many questions." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, a silent command for Artor to obey.
Artor, sensing an unshakeable resolve in his father's tone, and knowing better than to press a matter when Theon's mind was made up, simply nodded. "As you command, Father. It shall be done." He rose and exited the solar, leaving Theon alone once more, the faint hum of the Void still lingering at the edge of his perception. He had a week. A week to savor the present, and to quietly, subtly, prepare the groundwork for a future he would help build again.
The two weeks passed quickly, a flurry of activity in Winterfell as ravens flew, messages were delivered, and the Great Hall was prepared for a gathering unlike any in living memory. True to Theon's request, nearly every living member of his extended family, those closest to him and those whose lives he had significantly touched, began to arrive. Lyrra, his steadfast sister, came with her children and grandchildren. The Great Hall, usually bustling but rarely filled to this degree with so much personal history, now buzzed with warmth, shared laughter, and the echoes of a lifetime of connections.
On the appointed night, Theon Stark sat in the main chair at the head of the high table in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The familiar faces of his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, cousins, and lifelong friends stretched out before him, illuminated by the steady glow of the light bulbs. King Artor, his eldest son and successor, sat to his right, a quiet strength in his presence. To his left sat Morgan, his beloved daughter, her sharp gaze taking in the bustling hall. Further down, his other son, Harrion, strong and dependable, spoke quietly with his own family. And close by, his twin brother, Jonnos, frail but with an unyielding spirit in his eyes, sat with his family, a silent testament to a lifetime of shared battles and brotherhood. Mordred, his fiery great-granddaughter, was a vibrant presence elsewhere at the tables.
He looked out at them all, a sense of contentment washing over him. The sounds of conversation, the clinking of tankards, the rich aroma of roasted meat and mulled wine – it was all a symphony of the life he had built, the legacy he had forged.
Then, with a gentle clearing of his throat, Theon pushed himself to his feet. The buzz in the hall slowly quieted, all eyes turning towards the aging, yet still imposing, figure of the King Regent.
"My family. My friends. People of the North," Theon's voice, though softer with age, still carried the resonant authority of a king. "Thank you. Thank you for being here tonight. For gracing this hall with your presence, for sharing this meal, and for being there for me in every aspects of my life ."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces, each one holding a memory, a story, a shared experience.
"To my son, Artor," he began, his voice imbued with pride, "who has carried the mantle of King with strength and wisdom. To Morgan, my daughter, whose keen mind and compassionate heart have always been a solace. To Harrion, my loyal son, whose strength and quiet dedication have ever been a comfort. To Lyrra, my dear sister, whose counsel has always been a quiet strength." His gaze then settled on the man beside her. "And to Jonnos, my brother. My brother in blood, in arms, and in spirit. You have stood by me through every battle, every war, every challenge, every decision. Your presence here, as always, means more than words can say."
He continued, naming others, small gestures, shared moments, private jokes that only they would understand. The laughter in the hall was soft now, touched with emotion. He thanked them for their trust, their dedication, their unwavering belief in the vision they had collectively brought to life.
"You have been with me," Theon concluded, his voice swelling with genuine affection, "through thick and thin. Through the fires of rebellion and the quiet years of building. Through triumphs and through challenges. You are my family, my legacy, my heart."
He raised his tankard high, the glint of the firelight reflecting in his ancient eyes. Around the hall, every person raised their own drinks, their eyes fixed on him.
"For Asgard!" Theon proclaimed, his voice ringing with power and deep, abiding love.
A resounding chorus echoed back, filling the Great Hall with a unified roar that vibrated with pride and devotion: "FOR ASGARD!"
The feast continued, joyful and boisterous, but for Theon, it was more than a celebration. It was a farewell. A final, heartfelt embrace of the life he was about to leave, and the people who made it worth living. He savored every moment, every face, every shared laugh, imprinting it all into his soul for the journey that awaited him.
That night, after the great feast where he had bid his unspoken farewells, Theon Stark retired to his chambers. He drifted into sleep as peacefully as a snowflake settling on a quiet branch. He never woke.
The next morning, the news rippled through Winterfell like a cold gust of wind. The King Regent, Theon Stark, had passed away in his sleep. A silence fell over the castle, quickly followed by the mournful tolling of the great bells, their somber melody carrying across the snowy fields to Winterhold. The bells of the College joined the chorus, a mournful dirge for their founder and inspiration.
Ravens were immediately dispatched to every lord of Asgard, carrying the heavy tidings. By the following day, the Great Hall was filled once more, but this time, the atmosphere was one of solemn grief. Every lord and lady of Asgard, accompanied by their families, had traveled to Winterfell to pay their last respects to the man who had reshaped their world. The entire North mourned, a deep, collective sorrow for the architect of their prosperity and freedom.
The burial was a hushed, dignified affair in the ancient Crypts of Winterfell. As Theon's body was laid to rest amongst his ancestors, the chill of the crypt seemed to mingle with the warmth of shared tears.
After the burial, a final feast was prepared, not for revelry, but to celebrate his colossal legacy. The Great Hall, now draped in somber colors, slowly filled again. As the night wore on, the initial silence gave way to the clinking of tankards and the rise of voices, each one sharing a story, a memory, a testament to the man they had lost.
One by one, the lords of Asgard rose, their faces etched with respect and a profound sense of gratitude, to offer their toasts.
"He was the architect of Asgard!" Lord Karstark boomed, his voice thick with emotion. "He built us from the ground up!"
Lady Dustin, her gaze unwavering, added, "He was the one who broke the chains of Asgard which were binding us to the South! He taught us true freedom!"
"He was the one who brought the Iron Throne to heel!" Lord Manderly declared, a fierce pride in his eyes. "He made them respect the North, truly respect us, for the first time in centuries!"
"There will never be another Stark like him in the future," King Artor said, his voice quiet but firm, raising his own goblet. "His vision, his wisdom, his strength... they are unmatched."
Then, as one, the assembled lords and ladies of Asgard rose, their voices uniting in a powerful, resounding shout that filled the Great Hall and echoed into the winter night:
"THEON STARK – THE GREAT WOLF!"
His passing marked the end of an era, but his legacy, woven into the very fabric of Asgard, would endure.