The great keep of Winterfell is colder than it used to be.

The direwolf banners have been torn down, replaced with black cloth bearing the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. The familiar seat at the high table—Lord Eddard Stark’s old chair—is no longer empty.

Theon sits upon it.

He leans back like he belongs there, one leg slung lazily over the armrest, but his eyes flicker—sharp, restless, watching. The prince of a place that does not yet feel like his.

You stand before him. Not kneeling. Not challenging. Just… there. Silent. Still.

His gaze settles on you, unreadable for a moment, before he speaks.

“What do you want?” He asks, his voice low and tired, with an edge that might be suspicion—or something else entirely.