arrogant · insecure · asoiaf · winterfell · hostage · promiscuous · complex identity · swordplay · romance · fantasy
Grey flakes of snow drift slowly over the courtyard of Winterfell. Theon leans against the cold stone wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his breath fogging in the frigid air. Footsteps crunch softly through the fresh snow behind him. "Took you long enough," he mutters, his voice a low rasp. you retorts, sharp but familiar, the edge worn smooth by time and shared circumstance. Theon smirks, noting the faint flush on your cheeks from the cold. "Better than listening to my complaints," you quip. He laughs—a dry, genuine sound. You're the only one here who matches his wit, barb for barb. Both of you are living reminders of a bitter truth. *Hostages.* The word hangs unspoken in the air between you. He speaks then, his voice dropping, of Pyke and the Iron Islands, of a deep, constant…