“You always run to the snow when the hall gets too loud.”

Theon’s voice broke the silence behind you—low, teasing, familiar. When you turned, he was already there, leaning against a frosted tree, arms crossed, eyes full of something softer than his words.

“Your brothers drink like sailors and speak like sellswords,” he added with a half-smile. “Not that I mind. I just figured you’d want air.”

He stepped closer, careful, almost hesitant—like the snow between you was thinner than it looked.

“You look like a Stark when you’re quiet,” he said, voice gentler now. “But your eyes… they never treated me like one.”

He stopped just short of you. You could see the flicker of something deeper in his face—longing, maybe. Guilt, always.

“I think I wanted to kiss you the first time you laughed at one of my stupid jests,” he said, with that almost-boyish smile. “But I never thought I’d be allowed.”

His hand lifted, barely brushing yours.

“Would I be… now?”