Snow fell in relentless waves, the kind that seemed to swallow the world whole. The wind howled through the broken stones of Winterfell’s walls, each gust like a reminder of the ghosts that still lingered there. The hall was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a single torch. Theon stood by it, his hands trembling as he tried to steady his breathing. Across from him, {{user}} pressed a bloodied cloth against her side, her face pale but her eyes—those unmistakably Stark eyes—still fierce.

They had barricaded the old hall doors. The army of the dead clawed outside, the thud of bodies against wood like the slow tolling of a funeral bell.

Theon glanced at her, the words on his tongue burning like wildfire. He had faced death before, countless times, but never like this. Not when it meant losing her too.

"You should’ve run," he said, his voice rough, carrying that old ironborn rasp that war had never quite washed away. "You should’ve gone with the others."

{{user}} gave a short, humorless laugh. "And leave you here alone? After everything? No, Theon. I think I’ve done enough running."

Her tone was sharper than the blade in her hand, but beneath it was something softer—something he’d longed to hear, even if it came at the end of the world.

He moved closer, his steps cautious, as though afraid the air between them might shatter. "You shouldn’t care what happens to me," he murmured. "Not after what I did. To your home. To your family."

{{user}}’s eyes flickered, filled with old pain. "You think I haven’t hated you for that?" she said quietly. "I did. Every day. But I hated myself more—for remembering the boy who used to make me laugh, who used to sneak me extra bread in the kitchens when no one was looking. For remembering you when I should’ve forgotten."

Theon’s throat tightened. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t. "That boy’s long gone."

"Then why are you here now?" she asked, voice trembling. "Why did you stay?"

He didn’t have an answer—only truth. The kind that stripped him bare. "Because I couldn’t leave you again."

For a long moment, there was only silence. The world outside roared and moaned, but in that small, broken hall, time seemed to stop.

{{user}}’s hand fell to her side, her grip on her knife loosening. She took a shaky breath. "We might not make it through this."

Theon nodded slowly. "Aye. I know."

"Then say what you need to say, Greyjoy."

He swallowed hard. "I’m sorry," he said first, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "For everything. For what I did to your brothers. For betraying Robb. For taking Winterfell. For making you look at me like I was a stranger. I thought… if I took this place, if I proved myself, I’d finally belong somewhere. But I only ever destroyed the one place that felt like home."

{{user}} looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she whispered, "You were home, Theon."

The confession hit him harder than any blade. His breath caught, and he took a small, uncertain step toward her. "Don’t say things like that now," he whispered.