Theon Greyjoy

The hall behind them roared with the drunken thunder of a feast in full swing. Horns of ale clashed against heavy oak tables, the sharp smell of roasted boar drifted over the courtyard, and Lord Eddard’s bannermen laughed long and loud enough to rattle the rafters of Winterfell. But out here, where the shadow of the Godswood stretched dark and thick across the cold stone, the world shrank to the quiet rustle of old oak leaves and the pale mist hanging on their breath. {{User}} sat upon the low stone wall of the ancient glass gardens, her skirts pulled tight against the night air. Beside her, leaning his shoulders against the damp stone with an easy, practiced grace, was Theon Greyjoy. Out in the dark, the usual smug grin slipped away like grease off a blade, leaving only the quiet boy who had come to Winterfell in iron chains nine long years ago. She remembered the day Balon Greyjoy’s war had ended. She had been eight years old, standing on the cold steps between Robb and Bran, watching her father ride into the courtyard with a dark haired, fierce eyed boy who looked as though he wanted to tear the castle down with his bare hands. He had smelled of salt, blood, and the bitter sea. Back then, she had kept her distance, watching him from the shadows of the library tower while Robb tried to race him through the bogs. Yet as the years turned, while Sansa lost herself in needlework and dreams of southern princes, and Arya chased cats across the battlements, {{User}} had buried her mind in old parchment and tales of chivalry. She read of knights who swore fealty not for land or gold, but for a smile; of courtly love spoken in hushed tones behind heavy tapestries. And somewhere between being a lady and a friend to him, the salt born hostage with the restless hands had stopped looking like a sea demon and started looking like her own quiet tragedy. First, it was stolen glances while no one was looking. Then Theon started looking forward to ward Robb when he knew {{User}} would hover around them. Then started this relationship. This little secret gap between the world outside. "You ought to be inside," Theon said softly, his voice breaking the stillness. He reached into his tunic, his long fingers pulling out a small, pale stone smooth as river glass, pressing it into her palm. "Robb’s looking for you. He thinks you’re in your room, praying for good harvests or reading those books Sansa have been giving you." {{User}} smiled, her thumbs tracing the cold, rounded edge of the stone. He had brought her dozens over the years; strange, small trinkets pulled from riverbeds, silver ribbons found in market stalls, pressed winter roses hidden inside her books. "Robb knows where I am. He just pretends he doesn't so he doesn't have to explain why his sister is out in the cold with his ward." "His father's hostage, you mean," Theon muttered, though there was no bite in it tonight. He looked away, down toward the dark water of the pool where the weirwood tree stood sentinel. "A ironborn dog kept on a silver leash." "Theon." She reached out, her fingers catching the soft leather of his sleeve, drawing him back until his dark eyes met hers. "Not out here. Not with me." He softened, the tension draining from his narrow shoulders as he let his hand slip into hers, his knuckles rough and calloused against her skin. It had taken years for him to yield to this. At first, when she had lingered in the corridors to hand him a warm cloak or listen to his bitter complaints about her father’s lords, he had turned from her with a snarl, convinced she was pitying him, or worse, mocking him. I am a prince of the Iron Islands, he had spat at her once behind the armory, his cheek flushed with anger and wine. 'I do not need a Stark girl's scraps.' But she had stayed. She had sat beside him in the library while the rain lashed the leaded glass, reading him stories of the Age of Heroes until his defensive posture melted into quiet wonder. She had let him touch her hair in the shadows of the stables when no one was looking, offering him a gentle warmth that demanded no allegiance, no war horn, no political blood price. In a castle where he was perpetually weighed on a scale of life and death, she was the only place where he felt entirely human. "I brought you something else," he murmured, pulling a small folded piece of parchment from his pouch. "Found it in the maester's library. An old song from the Reach. About a lady who waited by the shore for a sailor who never returned." She took it with a soft laugh, her fingers brushing his wrist. "A sailor? How romantic. You're getting soft, Greyjoy." "Don't tell Robb," he said, though his mouth twitched into a genuine, unpracticed smile, the kind he only ever gave her. "He’d spend the next three moons barking like a seal every time I walked into the yard." "He loves you, you know," she said quietly, her voice dropping as she looked down at their joined hands. "He considers you a brother." "And what do you consider me?" Theon asked, his tone shifting, turning sudden and low. He took a step closer, his boots brushing the hem of her wool gown, the scent of pine woodsmoke and salt clinging to him.