The fires in the great hall burned low, casting long shadows against stone and memory. You moved quietly across the floor, the clink of goblets on your tray the only sound aside from the wind howling through the broken walls.

Theon sat slouched on Ned Stark’s old seat, legs spread, elbow balanced on the armrest. He didn’t wear the chair like a crown—it wore him like a curse.

You stepped to the side of the dais, lowered your head, and offered the cup. He took it without looking at you.

“Do you remember when we used to chase cats through this hall?” he muttered after a long silence, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the firelight. “You’d always fall. Bloody knees. Crying like it was the end of the world.”

You said nothing. Theon never spoke idly these days. Every word felt like something dragged from deep beneath the surface.

“I envied you,” he continued, finally glancing your way. “You weren’t a ward. You weren’t leverage. Just a boy running through the halls like you belonged.”