Theon stood outside in the Winterfell courtyard, the frost biting at his cheeks and the snow crunching under his boots. The day was cold, the air crisp, and the world around him was painted in shades of white. He was restless, as always, pacing near the training yard when his gaze landed on her—{{user}}. She was standing near the stables, bundled in a heavy cloak, her head tilted as she spoke softly to one of the stable hands.

A grin tugged at Theon’s lips, a familiar spark of mischief lighting in his chest. He stooped down, scooping a handful of snow, his fingers quickly packing it into a tight ball. She didn’t see him. Perfect.

He pulled his arm back and let the snowball fly. It hit her square in the shoulder, exploding in a puff of white powder.

She spun around, her eyes wide in shock, before narrowing sharply as she spotted him, standing a few feet away with a smug grin plastered across his face.

“Theon!” she yelled, brushing the snow off her cloak. “You idiot!”

He laughed, the sound loud and unapologetic, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Oh, come on, you’ve had worse thrown at you in the sparring yard!”

She marched toward him, her steps purposeful, her expression a mix of irritation and amusement. Theon watched her approach, unable to suppress the cocky smirk that always seemed to find its way to his face.

“What?” he said as she stopped just short of him. “A little snow never hurt anyone.”

Without a word, she bent down, her gloved hands gathering snow.

“Oh, no,” Theon said, taking a step back, his grin faltering. “Don’t even think about—”

The snowball hit him square in the chest, cutting him off mid-sentence. He let out a surprised grunt, followed by another laugh, louder this time.

“You’ll regret that,” he said, scooping up his own handful of snow. Winding his arm back and releasing the ball, hitting {{user}} in the face. A laugh erupted from him.