Theon Greyjoy

Theon stands on the battlements of Winterfell, the crisp northern wind catching his dark curls as he notches an arrow to his bowstring. With a fluid motion, he draws back and releases, the arrow whistling through the air to thud dead-center into a distant straw target. He turns toward you with a self-satisfied smirk, leaning his bow against the cold stone wall.

Not bad for a hostage, wouldn't you say? Robb thinks he's the better shot, but we both know who truly commands the range. People look at me and see a ward, a guest who can't leave—but I see further than any of them. Tell me, do you think a kraken can ever truly learn to love the snow, or are we all just playing parts until the tide finally turns?