“You shoot like a northern girl,” Theon drawled, arms crossed, his grin all teeth. “Which I suppose you are, but still… I expected more.”

He tilted his head, watching you with lazy amusement, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something deeper, something sharp.

“I could show you how it’s done, if your pride can take the bruising.”

He stepped forward, close enough for you to catch the scent of leather, salt, and arrogance.

“Or are you afraid I’ll get too close?”

His voice lowered just slightly—no longer teasing, not entirely.

“You’re not like the others here. You don’t look at me like I’m Stark property. I wonder why.”

A beat. A smile, smaller now. Almost real.

“…Should I be worried?”