Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 45

Sansa
The first week of riding was the most difficult. Sansa's body ached every hour of every day, and whenever they stopped to rest for the night, it was only for a few hours.

They ate bits of bread, hard cheese, and salted meat that they had packed for their travels, but Theon refused it. He insisted that Sansa and her sister eat his share to ensure they stayed strong and well-fed. On the third night, Sansa begged him to eat something more, but he only obeyed when she began to cry. What he ate could not have been enough to keep a squirrel alive, though he never showed any signs of weakness.

Arya showed little emotion. If she was tired, she did not let Sansa see it. At dawn, she and Theon would sometimes practice her shooting before they set off again. Sansa liked to watch them, especially when they kidded one another and laughed; it made her believe the world was still good and kind.

They stayed off the Kingsroad, which meant they did not encounter many other travelers. None had looked twice at them, save for one group of what looked like outlaws. When Theon and Arya flashed their Valyrian steel blades, however, the group departed quickly enough. When they were not shooting, Theon and Arya would spar; with Theon's arm still weak, it made for a good match. Still, Sansa sometimes worried they would cut each other, since they had brought no sparring swords and were left to use their real blades.

At night, Theon stayed awake, watching the fire with his hand on the hilt of his sword. On their twelfth night, the first that Theon said they could sleep until dawn, Sansa sat up to insist he sleep. Arya had already fallen into a slumber beneath her blanket, but Sansa felt more awake than usual. She moved closer to where Theon was leaned up against a tree, leaves rustling gently beneath her. He rolled his head to one side and smiled when Sansa placed a soft hand on his thigh.

"You have to rest," she told him. He blinked sleepily and yawned but shook his head anyway. "Theon," Sansa snapped. "We'll never make it to Moat Cailin if you die of exhaustion on the way there. Please, for me." She placed a hand on his cheek, which was shaded with stubble after their near-fortnight of travel.

Theon shook his head again. "I sleep some when I know you're both resting," he assured her. "If anyone comes in the night, I have to be awake."

"Lay with me, please," Sansa insisted. She lifted the cloak she had wrapped around her body. It had been many long nights since she had been close to him, and it made her heart ache.

Perhaps Theon felt the same way. He sighed and removed his belt, setting the sword on the ground beside them. Sansa pulled him beneath the blanket to share her warmth. She trembled when a breeze slipped through the opening she'd created, but when Theon settled beside her, the chill was gone.

Sansa could not have said whether he slept or not: she was too exhausted to stay awake and plead with him. It was his stirring that woke her some time later, when the sun was low in the sky. He was on his feet, sword in hand. Sansa opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but Theon motioned for her to stay quiet. Arya remained sound asleep several feet away, so Sansa crawled to wake her.

And then she heard it: a voice calling into the woods from the direction of the Kingsroad. Arya scrambled to Sansa's side, pulling her sword from her underneath her blanket.

The voice thundered again through the trees, "Who's there?"

Theon looked over at Sansa and Arya, held a finger to his lips, and took a few steps towards the sound. Sansa wanted to reach out and stop him, but she knew better. Arya held her sword out to Sansa.

"Take this," she whispered. "I'm going to get my bow."

Before Sansa could stop her, Arya was creeping towards the horses. She was so distracted that she did not notice the big man that emerged from the brush, a long dagger in each hand. He chuckled, eyeing Theon and the girls carefully.

"And who are you?" the big man asked the group. He had wild eyebrows and a long braided beard. His gut hung beneath a torn and tattered tunic, exposing a mess of matted black hair along his stomach. "You lot look terrible," he exclaimed, laughing.

When the man made a move to step closer to their camp, Theon raised his sword. "That's far enough," he snapped, but the big man just laughed and twirled his daggers. "What do you want?" Theon called to him.

"Anyone who travels in this part of the wood—just off the Kingsroad—they're doing it because they don't want nobody finding them." The man looked over at their horses. "I find they're willing to pay a good sum to keep ol' Humberly quiet about they travels."

Theon did not lower his sword. "We have nothing to offer you," he declared, "so you best find some other party to trouble."

"Those cloaks," the man who called himself Humberly began, "those cloaks are too nice. You have something for me, I know it." When Theon did not respond, Humberly shrugged. "Well," he sighed, "if you will not pay me, Humberly will not lie for you. Everyone will know you travelled this way."

Sansa looked to Arya, who was frozen beside her horse. They were so close to Moat Cailin now—so close to reaching people they could trust, people who would look out for them. To be exposed now would mean marrying Joffrey and losing Theon for good.

"Let me offer you this," Humberly suggested. "I keep mine own mouth shut—if I can have a go at the girl you got there." He pointed a dagger at Sansa. Her fists clenched hard at her sides, she looked to Theon; his eyes never left the big man, who said after a moment, "I might have her anyway."

"You will not," Theon muttered back at him. He edged his sword outwards, holding it tight with both hands. Had Sansa not known any better, she would have believed he had perfect use of both arms.

Humberly lunged at him anyway. Sansa could only cry out the word, "Theon!" before she heard the clang of their blades. Theon swiped at the big man's stomach, grazing one of his daggers on the upswing.

Sansa glanced down at Arya's sword in her hand: she felt useless. What was there for her to do but watch and pray and hope that she could save Theon should he fall.

Humberly kicked Theon's shin, and it stunned him enough that he dropped his sword. He scrambled for it, but Humberly's daggers were already above him. Theon turned, empty-handed, prepared to catch the blades with his forearm. But the daggers never reached him.

Instead, the big man called Humberly fell backwards ungracefully—an arrow in his eye.