Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 9

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Sansa
Theon arrived late to dinner that night. It was not unlike him, Sansa knew. Most nights he ate with the Stark children, since Robb still took his meals with them. Being Lord of Winterfell had aged Robb, but his brothers and sisters nagged at him relentlessly if he did not at least still sup with them.

When Theon did come, he was wet from the rain. The dining chamber was located just below Theon's room in the castle—he would have no reason to leave the dry safety of the castle walls on his way to dinner.

The lingering pain in her knees dragged Sansa from her thoughts. As Theon drew closer, brushing the rain from his shoulders, the group fell silent. Even Rickon ceased his babbling when his eyes fell upon Theon.

His hair was matted down from the rain, and his expression was dark, but it was the gash on his lower lip that brought their dinner to a halt. Along Theon's jagged cheekbone was another cut, this one thinner, cleaner even. The skin around both wounds was blackened, a testament to the strength of the hand that had struck him.

Has he come from a brawl? Sansa wondered. He did not look drunk. Only when she noticed that Robb had not lifted his head to see for himself did she understand. Her brother must have seen Theon leaving her bedchamber or heard from someone about the reading room.

Sansa had never known Robb to be particularly brash. Jon was more prickly, despite being uniquely reserved by nature. But Robb's love for his blood ran deeper than Sansa could understand—it had to now that he was Lord of Winterfell.

Guilt washed over her, and suddenly Sansa felt sick to her stomach. She tried to meet Theon's gaze, but his eyes darted away from her whenever she got close. Sansa moved Rickon down the bench to make room for an escape; no one dared speak when she rose and went to the door, leaving her food nearly untouched on the table.

The tears came quickly once she was outside the dining chamber, no matter how desperately she tried to stifle them. She slipped into an alcove at the end of the hall to release a sob. It was her childishness and immaturity that had gotten Theon hurt, and for what? A few meaningless, innocent touches?

Such a stupid, stupid girl.

Robb stepped into the candlelight of the alcove, where Sansa had settled onto the stone bench. He sat down beside her, his hands on his knees.

"Sansa," he started.

She did not give him a chance. "I'm fine."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I have to know," he declared. "Did he try to bed you?"

A roar of laughter echoed down the hall from the dining chamber, where Sansa imagined Theon had come up with a story for his injuries, one that would at least convince Bran and Rickon, though maybe not Arya.

"Never," Sansa snapped at her brother. "Theon has never been anything but kind to me."

It was clear he did not believe her. He said, "Please, Sansa, do not lie to me."

The tears that came now were angry. "I told you," she hissed. "I am not lying. Should you choose not to believe it, then I have nothing else to say. Leave me alone."

He did not go. Instead, he rested a gentle hand on top of her own. "Jeyne came to me," he began carefully, "and she saw him leave your room alone."

"And?" Sansa prompted.

"And when has Theon ever ventured to your room alone?"

She did not respond. Her eyes flickered to the candle on the wall, which bathed her in a warm orange glow. She thought of Theon on the windowsill in the reading room, awash with moonlight.

"I was ill in the morning," she declared eventually, gaze still fixated on the light. "Theon brought me water and food from the kitchens, and he told me you would be gone hunting. He did not lay a hand on me, Robb."

This morning, at least, she finished to herself. The reading room was a different matter, though even that could be explained away.

Finally, she turned to look her brother in the eye. "You should not have hurt him," she asserted. "You're Lord of Winterfell—not a little boy in the practice yard who had his sword taken from him."

At that, Sansa rose and left Robb in the alcove with her words. She knew they would sting him, punch at his proud heart. It was not easy to bother Robb, but it would suffice to keep him docile for a while.

Sansa went to her mother's solar, hoping that Lady Catelyn would help comb out her long hair. It was one of the few comforts that she had left; the gentle strokes reminded Sansa of when she was small and had played too rough with her brothers in the yard. She would come running to her mother, hair muddy and tangled, laughing in the summer sun.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

Her mother's door was ajar, only slightly, but the room was empty. Sansa went to the desk anyway, hoping to find a comb in one of the drawers. She pushed aside a stack of papers and sat down in the creaky old chair. The foremost parchment in the the pile was written in her father's hurried hand, and Sansa's eyes caught on her name in the first few sentences. Without really thinking about it, she held the parchment up to the light.

Cat, it started, I write with fear for our sweet girl. Arya hardly escaped this hellish city unbowed. Sansa will not fair with such luck, I am afraid. Robert has asked for her to travel soon, to ensure she stays ahead of the storms.

Sansa blinked, and a tear fell down onto the paper in her hand. She could read no more. Her mother had certainly already read the words, but Sansa did not want them to breathe anymore; she crumpled the parchment in her fist and buried it in the logs and ash in her mother's fireplace.

She forgot why she had wandered there in the first place.