The snow was starting to fall again, lazy flakes spiralling from the grey sky as if the gods couldn’t be bothered to make up their minds. The courtyard of Winterfell was nearly empty, save for a few stableboys and guards milling about in furs. Theon leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching his breath fog in front of him.

He hated the cold. Hated the stillness of it. But he hated being inside more.

Footsteps crunched behind him. He didn’t need to look.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t aware you gave orders now, 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚢𝚓𝚘𝚢,” {{user}} said, sharp as ever, but there was no real bite in it. Just the usual thorn that kept him from forgetting who they were—someone else ripped from their home, same as him.

Theon smirked, glancing sideways. “I didn’t. I just assumed you’d want to get away from all those northern pleasantries.”

They were bundled in a thick cloak, cheeks flushed from the wind. “Better than hearing you complain all day.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. {{user}} always said things like that—cutting, casual—but they were the only one in this frozen place who could match him word for word. Robb was his brother in name only, Jon too sullen to be much fun, and the girls… well, they never looked at him without judgment in their eyes.

But {{user}} understood.

They were both reminders. *Hostages,* no matter what the 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜 called them. Pretty words didn’t change chains.

He looked at them then. They weren’t Ironborn, but they might as well have been. There was a sharpness in them that reminded Theon of home.

“I dream of Pyke sometimes,” he said. “Of my father. I miss it sometimes.”

They leaned against the wall beside him, shoulder just barely touching his. A quiet sort of smile curled on {{user}}’s lips. “At least we’ve got each other.”

For a brief second, the ache in his chest eased.

He nudged their shoulder. “Don’t go soft on me now.”

“You’d cry if I did.”

He laughed again, softer this time.

*Not free, but not alone.*

That would have to be enough.