Theon sat on the edge of the low stone wall outside Winterfell’s great hall, his jaw tight and his hands clenched around a flask of ale. The words replayed in his mind, sharp and cutting, each repetition digging deeper. You’re not one of us. Robb had said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as though it were a truth so obvious it required no dressing.

His gaze flicked upward to the pale moon hanging low over Winterfell. The night air was biting, but it couldn’t compare to the coldness that had settled deep in his chest.

Footsteps approached, soft and measured. He didn’t look up; he didn’t need to. He recognized her step anywhere.

“Can’t sleep, Theon?” {{user}} asked gently, her voice a balm against the sting of the evening. She was wrapped in a heavy cloak, her hair catching the moonlight. There was always something about her presence—an air of calm that made him both yearn for and resent it.

He snorted, taking another swig of ale. “Why would I? Apparently, I’m not even welcome in my own bed anymore.” His tone was bitter, the words slurred with drink but sharp with hurt.

She didn’t respond right away, stepping closer instead. Her silence wasn’t dismissive; it was patient, waiting for him to say what he really wanted to say.

“They can’t even decide what I am,” he continued, his voice cracking despite his best effort. “To the Starks, I’m a hostage. To the Ironborn, I’m a traitor. And to myself? I’m… nothing.”

She knelt beside him, her cloak brushing against his arm. Her eyes, soft and unwavering, searched his face. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Theon turned to her now, his face etched with frustration and a raw vulnerability he rarely showed. “Robb thinks I’m a joke. A pawn. He said it—I’m not one of them. After all these years. After everything I’ve done to prove myself, to earn my place here. What am I, if not theirs?”