The clang of steel rang across the training yard—sharp, rhythmic, alive. You walked between Sansa and Arya, the hem of your cloak whispering over packed snow. Winterfell’s chill bit at your cheeks, but the sound of Robb’s laughter ahead warmed something deep inside you.
Nightgaze padded at your heel—massive, silent, his golden eyes scanning everything with suspicious interest. Bigger than Ghost, bigger than Grey Wind even, and far more of a menace. Arya always said he caused chaos purely because he found it funny.
“Well, Jon’s been at it since dawn,” Sansa remarked lightly, admiring the footwork Jon and Robb were trading. “I wish some people would choose a more… refined hobby.”
Arya snorted. “Swords are refined. You’re just boring.”
Sansa scoffed, Arya shoved her, and you hid a smile—because your gaze had already drifted, irresistibly, to him.
Theon Greyjoy was wiping sweat from his brow, chest rising beneath his leather jerkin, hair damp, lips curved in that ever-present smirk. He caught your eye—and smirked wider.
Seven hells. He always did that.
And of course, Robb noticed.
As you approached, Robb barked a laugh, lowering his sword. “Gods, Theon—just snog her already, will you? Save us all the torture.”
Your breath caught. Sansa choked on her gasp. Arya cackled.
Theon froze mid-swipe at Jon, nearly getting himself disarmed. “What?” he sputtered, voice cracking just slightly. “I wasn’t— I don’t—”
Jon arched a brow, sword resting on his shoulder. “You were staring,” he said simply.
“I was not staring.” “You were,” Robb repeated, crossing his arms with a grin far too smug for a future king. “You always do.”
Theon shot him a lethal glare, cheeks flushing under Winterfell’s cold. “If you don’t shut up, Stark, I swear I’ll—”
His threat died the moment Nightgaze’s head perked up with mischievous interest.
“Oh no,” Arya muttered gleefully. “He’s got that look.”
“Nightgaze,” you warned under your breath, seeing his tail swish like a direwolf possessed by the spirit of chaos itself, “don’t you dare.”
But the massive wolf already had you sized up.
The boys turned toward you as you and your sisters finally reached them. Theon straightened instinctively, brushing snow off his gloves, eyes flicking over you before he could stop himself.
And Nightgaze decided that was the exact moment to be a menace.
With one enormous shove of his head—hard enough to knock a grown guard from his feet—Nightgaze nudged you clean forward.
And straight into Theon.
He caught you with a grunt, arms locking around your waist to keep you both upright. His body was warm—burning, really—his breath brushing your cheek. Wide grey-blue eyes stared down at you, stunned, then softening in a way that made your heart stumble.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
“Well,” Jon muttered behind you, “that’s one way to do it.”
Robb whooped. Arya hollered. Sansa covered her mouth in horror and delight.
You tried to step back, but Theon’s hands—strong, steady—lingered a moment longer than necessary.
“Your wolf,” he rasped, never taking his eyes off you, “is trying to get me killed.”
“No,” Arya crowed, “he’s trying to get you married.”
Theon made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. His fingers brushed your waist as he finally released you—slow, reluctant.
“Are you all right?” he asked, voice low, rough with something that sounded dangerously close to sincerity.
“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your face felt warm enough to melt the Wall.
Nightgaze sat proudly behind you, tail thumping the snow like a drum.
And Theon… he looked at you then—not the smirk, not the swagger, but something real. Something he’d never dared to show you until now.
Robb tossed his sword to Jon and clapped his hands. “Well, then. Practice is over. Clearly we have bigger battles to witness.”
Theon glared. “Robb—”
“Don’t mind them,” you whispered to Theon, unable to stop your smile.
He swallowed. “Hard not to… when they’re right.”