Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 2

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Theon
The morning air hung in Theon's throat, icy and unforgiving. It was on days like these that he felt like a Northerner—a true Northerner. He was made of iron, yes, but even iron could only endure the cold for so long. The Iron Islands that Theon reminded himself were his true home disappeared from his memory more every day. Years spent on those rocks folded into the waves on the way to Winterfell. No Greyjoy should have survived so long on the mainland.

And yet, there in the yard outside Winterfell's castle, Theon stood as a man grown. Though he wondered some nights if the boy that had left Pyke all those years ago had died when he stepped through the groaning gates at Winterfall's outer wall.

Rickon's babbling pulled Theon from his stupor. The morning mist stewed the world in a dream-like state, even as Ser Rodrik emerged from the castle at Rickon's heels, holding Bron like a babe—not like the nine year-old boy he was now. Robb stood on the overlook, half-hidden in the fog, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Maester Luwin approached to discuss the day's affairs.

It was these early mornings that Theon had come to treasure, even as the weather turned cold. The only sounds in all of Winterfell were the soft putters of bows lodging in the straw-man target across the practice yard. Even the voices of the five men and two boys somehow hung only in the yard, refusing to disturb the peace within the castle.

It was not until Rodrik drew closer that Theon noticed the shadow behind him. It was Sansa, dressed for the day with her copper hair plaited neatly down her shoulder. "Lady Sansa," he greeted her, lowering his bow courteously. "What brings you to the yard this morning?" He looked towards the sky, where the thin outline of the sun peered down through the fog. "It's hardly dawn."

"I was awoken by a wolf in the woods," she remarked coolly, her gloved hands knotted before her. "I thought it would be nice to watch Bran and Rickon, and the morning air is kind today."

It was the coldest morning Theon had known in a year. Still, he did not object, and motioned towards the hay bales behind him, where Ser Rodrik often sat to watch the boys' practice. Since Bran's fall, the old man was left with little to do with the boys in the morning—Bran could not spar on horseback, and Rickon was too young to face anyone else, even with a wooden sword.

"Good morning," Bran grumbled as Rodrik lowered him onto the bale beside Sansa. The greying knight hunkered to the stables, where he saddled Bran's horse with the chair that had been designed especially for him. The leathersmith, Todry, and Mikken the blacksmith had worked tirelessly for weeks to prepare it. Bran had gabbed about it long enough for Theon to understand its significance. There's nothing like it in all the Seven Kingdoms, Bran had told him, more than once.

Ser Rodrik led the black mare to the center of the practice yard while Theon heaved Bran from the hay bale. He glanced to Sansa, whose eyes were glazed and empty, still on the straw-man at the other end of the yard. She was tired, Theon observed, seemingly too tired to hide it. Her face was gaunt and sharp around the edges, so the only sign of life within her was the flush of her cheeks, stirred by the morning cold.

Theon said nothing as he lifted Bran onto his horse, weaving the boys' legs carefully though the saddle and strapping his feet into the holds. "Feel all right?" Theon asked when he was secure. Bran nodded solemnly, poked idly at his scrawny legs. Time had healed the pain, Theon knew, but it could not bring back the life he had before his fall.

By then, Rickon was at Theon's ankles, pulling idly at his grey breeches, mumbling that it was his turn now. Theon crouched and tousled the boy's red-brown hair. "You'll be up after Bran," Theon assured him. "For now, go sit with your sister and Ser Rodrik, aye?"

Rickon pouted then opened his mouth to protest, but Sansa's soft voice cut the air first. "Sweet Rickon," she hollered melodically. "I'm worried I've lost one of my fingers—can you help me count them?" She raised her eyebrows at him and extended a hand in her brother's direction.

Without another word, Rickon ran giddily to his sister's lap, where he grabbed at Sansa's wrists to begin his count. Theon smiled, rising from his crouch, and Sansa returned the smile as best she could. Her blue eyes were gentle but sad—sadder everyday that she waited for word from King's Landing, Theon knew. He and Robb had hardly been able to stomach the letters that described Joffrey's behavior. The boy was a monster, Ned Stark had written a hundred times over.

A monster who will one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, Theon often reminded himself. Though he knew better than to speak the words into existence—the North had no love for Joffrey's Lannister blood.

Nor did the Iron Islands, for that matter. If his ancestors could agree with the old Starks buried in the crypts on anything, it was that: the Realm was burdened by the presence of the Lannisters within it, particularly those who had made their home in King's Landing instead of Casterly Rock.

Bran was fidgeting with the bow in his lap, adjusting his grip along the cord as he eyed his target up ahead. Theon tucked some bows into the pocket of Bran's saddle, drawing one out for his first shot.

"Keep your shoulders back, remember," Theon instructed. Since his fall, Bran's muscles had weakened from inactivity, and he often struggled to sit up straight, especially on horseback.

Bran muttered, "I know," as he drew the arrow back. He held a moment too long, Theon observed, and when he loosed, the arrow fell short of the straw-man.

Most of the arrows followed in the same fashion. Bran's anger had left him months ago. He did not redden or throw his bow into the dirt once he'd loosed the rest of the arrows. Now, he remarked softly so only Theon could hear, "Will you help me down now, Theon?"

Rickon shot at his target from just a few feet away, and he used a bow Theon had crafted just to fit the boy's small arms. A four year-old could never manage a real bow and arrow, and even Theon's shrunken weapon was often too cumbersome for Rickon to hold. A few arrows lodged in the straw-man's legs, and the rest clattered against the stone wall beyond them.

As he pulled down Bran's saddle, he looked to Sansa. Rickon was bumbling in front of her, still yanking at her fingers. She humored him, entertained the boy with a soft smile, and brushed his cheek as he turned to follow Rodrik inside.

Robb and Maester Luwin had left their post in the tower, and the world was asleep again. Only Sansa remained, still as a statue atop her hay bale, while Theon led Bran's horse toward the stables.

As he passed her, Theon noticed a darkened piece of cloth around her ankle. It was only just visible beneath the hem of her grey skirt, caught on the laces of her brown boots.

Once he'd closed the stable door, Theon approached the girl tenderly. He saw it more clearly then: the cloth around Sansa's ankle was soaked in blood.