Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 28

Theon
With each passing day, Theon felt a bit stronger. He could lift a cup with his left hand and raise it to his lips. Sansa teased him when a spasm inside his shoulder jerked the cup from his grasp and sent it clattering across the floor.

"It will get easier," she always promised him.

Theon knew that she was right—but it did not make the experience any easier to bear: Balon Greyjoy hated weakness. If he knew his only
living son was lain up for a week with a fever and two stab wounds, he would have finished the job himself and thrown the boy into the sea.

Maester Dedrick left Maester Luwin with an ointment that stung Theon's shoulder so badly he often had to stifle a scream. Somehow, though, it seemed to be healing him. He could walk up and down the stairs of the castle, though it sometimes dizzied him. Sansa walked with him sometimes, though they were cautious not to prompt suspicion and so spent most of their time together at night.

Theon joked on the seventh night that soon enough, he would be able to please her again. "Only if you want me to," he added with a smile.

Sansa hummed in approval, climbing into the bed and onto his lap. She adjusted her nightshift so that he could feel her lower lips through his breeches. He stiffened quickly, and Sansa raised her brows at him. "Only if I want you to?" she remarked.

He tilted his head back against the wall so that his eyes were on the ceiling. With just one good arm, he could not flip her over onto her back, but he wanted to. He wanted to taste her again, to feel himself inside of her, even if it was forbidden.

"What about pleasing you?" she mumbled, fingering the lace that held up his breeches. "Don't you want to be pleased?"

Theon returned his gaze to her. "Having you here pleases me more than anything in the world," he promised, and he meant it.

Still, when Sansa guided his hand to her waist, he realized how long it had been since he felt her skin against him, and he realized how much he needed it.

When Sansa slipped a soft hand beneath his shirt, Theon's pain all but melted away. He smiled at her, grateful and full of life.

It had been so long since a woman touched him—he had managed with nothing but his hands and fragmented memories of Sansa's body. Now that he felt her, it was difficult to keep the pleasure at bay.

Even if they could not be together—completely together—those few sweet moments of intimacy were enough. Sansa's lips sent pulses of warmth through Theon's spine, aching for more.

When he could stave it off no longer, he let himself go. "Gods," was all he could manage when she finished him.

Theon was still reeling when Sansa laced his breeches again. "Was that all right?" she inquired, but her voice indicated she knew already what he would say.

Still , it was difficult for Theon to collect himself for a response. "I wish I could have all of you," he managed breathlessly, though he wished he could say more. He wanted to tell her he wanted more: wanted to love her without fear, hold her close every night, and keep her safe until the day he died.

Sansa planted a kiss on his cheek. "Seems like you might be a bit tired for that now," she observed, apparently unaware of implications. With a sigh, she suggested, "Lay with me."

It was all he looked forward to every day: Sansa wrapped around him, sleeping so soundly against his chest. Even with his injuries, it never seemed to hurt the way it should have. His favorite part of every night was the morning time, when Sansa woke to tell him that she had slept peacefully, unhaunted by the dreams of the ones in the South who wanted her blood.

As she lay against him then, Sansa hummed a noise of content. She nestled her head gently upon his shoulder, smiling still.

At Winterfell, seemingly a lifetime ago, Theon had felt only hauntings of an existence; now lived a true life, ghostless and unafraid. He wanted to hold it close, refuse its loss, but how could he? How could he fight away the winter or beat back the wind?

Sansa, who knew not what haunted him, lifted her chin to kiss his cheek. "Someday I'd like to see the Iron Islands," she told him. "Would you take me there?"

The Islands were a hateful, brutish place; they did not deserve Sansa Stark. Theon wanted the world to be a different place than it was, so he just smiled. "I will," he assured her, and Sansa seemed to accept it.

Theon held her close, breathed the flowery scent of her hair. How he had ever come to love and be loved by the most beautiful woman in Westeros—Eddard Stark's eldest daughter—Theon could not say. He knew only that he was grateful.

He knew also that it could not last.