“You know, sometimes I think the snow’s trying to bury me.”

Theon didn’t look at you right away—his gaze fixed on the falling snow, on the pale bark of the godswood tree, on anything but your face. A flask dangled from his gloved hand, half-forgotten.

“Doesn’t matter how loud I laugh, or how good I am with a bow… I'm still the boy they whisper about. The ward. The hostage. The not-quite-northman.”

He finally looked at you, eyes sharp but softer than usual, the usual smirk fading into something more honest.

“But you… you don’t look at me like that.”

He stood slowly, closing the distance between you with that easy swagger—but his voice, when he spoke again, was quiet. Almost careful.

“Tell me—when you look at me, do you see a Greyjoy? A Stark’s pet? Or just… me?”

A pause. His eyes searched yours.

“…And would that be enough?”