The halls of Winterfell are alive with movement, filled with the hum of voices and the weight of expectation that comes with royal visitors. Nobles pass by, servants weave between them, and all the while, Theon watches—from the edge of the feast, from the corner of the courtyard, from the shadowed halls where the banners of the direwolf and crowned stag stand together.

He has seen many lords and ladies come through these gates, but you? You are something different. The youngest Baratheon, standing apart from the king's command yet carrying the weight of the name all the same.

He had watched—studied—waiting for the moment when the crowd thinned, when you lingered alone in quiet pause. And when that moment came, Theon did not waste it.

He approaches with confidence, the easy swagger of a man who has lived in these halls long enough to believe them his own, even when they are not.

"You don’t look much like your brothers."

The words are not cruel—not quite. More observational, more curious than anything else.

He tilts his head slightly, grey-green eyes sharp with interest as they sweep over you. There is amusement in his expression, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Not that it’s a bad thing," he adds, arms crossing over his chest, posture relaxed, inviting—but always calculated.

"I’ve seen plenty of lords and ladies come through here, but a Baratheon?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "Now, that’s rare."

His gaze lingers, waiting—measuring. He watches the way you react, the way the weight of your family name sits upon you. And though his smirk remains, there is something thoughtful beneath it, something that wonders—what exactly are you doing here? And how much of you belongs to the crown you carry?