Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 7

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Sansa
"What are you doing here?" Sansa hissed at Theon once he was inside. She slammed the door shut and barred it again. Her voice was sharp, but her expression had softened. She wanted to be sure he knew she wasn't angry with him.

"Are you...all right?" he stammered. He had covered his tunic from the night before with a black doublet, open from the neck to the center of his chest.

Sansa swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, I'm all right."

As she turned away from him, she scrambled to wipe the last of the tears from her cheeks. With a handful of water from the basin, she doused her flushed cheeks and dried it away with the collar of her nightshift. Sansa felt exposed, vulnerable—her white small clothes exposed by the thin fabric of her satin gown.

Blinking, she spun back to face Theon at the door. "Why are you here?" she asked him, not unkindly.

He was nervous—she could tell from the way he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other and bit at his lips. When he raised a hand to gesture towards the door, Sansa saw that it trembled. "I can go," he suggested, but Sansa shook her head. Theon tightened his outstretched hand into a fist and took a cautious step towards her. "I heard you were ill, and I—" He stopped to purse his lips. "I wanted to make sure it wasn't my fault."

Sansa's arms, once crossed over her chest, fell gently to her sides. "Your fault?" she echoed. "What do you mean your fault?"

He looked away from her gaze and shifted his feet on the floor a few times. "I was worried I had made you uncomfortable yesterday," he squeaked, before coughing the uncertainty from his throat. "I wanted to apologize."

Sansa paused. He had no reason to apologize—it had been her that reached out to touch Theon intimately the night before, even if it was only for a moment. If anyone ought to apologize, it was her. That did not mean she wanted to tell Theon the truth of her supposed illness, which was, in reality, a fit of trembling that had haunted her all night. In her dreams, she was beaten bloody, her clothes torn from her body, made to be Joffrey's plaything as she screamed for help that would never come. In some dreams, he would be choking her, and she would wake breathless and in tears; in others, he was fighting to get inside of her while his parents and uncle held her naked against the floor.

It was punishment from the Gods, Sansa had decided: on Theon's suggestion, she had not prayed in the night at the Godswood, and the fear in her bones was all she had to show for it.

She felt Theon's eyes on her as she strolled to the bedside and sat down atop her blankets. Her knees felt better, but they still ached if she stood on them too much.

"Come sit," she sighed, and Theon obeyed dutifully. He propped one leg up underneath him so he could face her more fully, but Sansa's eyes stayed forward on the window. "I slept," she announced flatly. "I slept like you told me to. And I dreamt." She looked at him now. "I dreamt of everything that Joffrey will do to me. Everything I know he will do to me." Sansa shook her head. "I wish I'd gone to pray instead."

For a long time, Theon said nothing, his jaw visibly tight. When he stuttered out the word Sansa, she felt as though she might cry. It was not his fault, of course not. Yet he would carry the guilt. Sansa's knees ached: she could do nothing right.

"I'm sorry, my Lady," he added after another moment. "I should not have insisted." He got up off the edge of the bed slowly, his stare cast down at Sansa's feet.

Exhausted and in pain, she reached up to grab his sleeve and stop him. "Theon," she breathed, "you were right to insist."

It did nothing to reassure him, Sansa could tell, but at least she had said it. He smoothed down the front of his doublet, perhaps measuring her words. As quickly as he had stood, he sat back down again. Sansa kept the fabric of his sleeve pinched between her fingers, hoping he would not ask her to let go.

Instead, Theon seemed not to notice. "If you must," he began, "pray tonight, but you should not stay out too late. The nights are getting colder, Sansa. Winter is coming."

The way the Stark words fell from his lips made Sansa smile. To her surprise, Theon smiled, too. She wanted him to notice the hand that still clutched at his sleeve, though perhaps he was too sheepish to acknowledge it.

"I promise I'll try to sleep again tonight," she assured him, "else I might lose my nose to frostbite."

"Aye," Theon agreed, "you might."

Sansa brushed her free hand over her bed linens. "I only hope this bed does not haunt me so much." She shrugged at Theon, whose gentle smile had not completely faded.

What he was thinking then, Sansa could not say for sure. The upper part of his chest, exposed by his half-undone doublet, heaved with the weight of his breath. Sansa knew the sigh to mean he would leave then, and so finally, she let go of his sleeve. Theon extended his hand to her, and she took it as she rose from the bed.

Sansa had never kissed a man—only little boys when she had not even flowered—but she would not have protested had Theon leaned down to touch her lips then. His eyes flashed down to them, Sansa saw, but then he stepped away. "I told Robb I'd join him and your brothers on a hunt today," he announced, his voice weak. "If I can do anything for you, you know where to find me."

Sansa nodded and managed another smile. She wished it would draw him back to her, away from the big oak door. All she could imagine then was laying down in the bed, Theon's hands soft on her skin as she drifted into a peaceful rest. Just for one night. It was the only thing she wanted then.

Theon left without another word, and Sansa found herself alone again.

Content warning for next chapter:

Chapter 8 begins with a gif that shows fake blood on a hand.