Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 50

Theon
The party left the inn several hours after dawn. Meera Reed led the way off the Kingsroad, through smaller villages and towns, where no one bothered to look twice at those passing by. Arya rode her horse alongside Meera's, and they giggled as they went, telling stories and whispering secrets that Theon could not hear.

Sansa's horse was several feet to his left. He wished they had never left their room at the inn, where the world was soft and warm and kind. Theon did not know what world they would find on Pyke, but he hoped it would be good to them.

Waldron Snow rode on his right side, apparently oblivious to the village girls who could not keep their eyes from him. Theon pointed it out. "You certainly get plenty of attention," he remarked with a grin.

"I don't look much like the people in the Neck," Waldron chuckled. "Reddish hair, blue eyes—they aren't accustomed to it. The Lady gets their attention, too." He indicated Sansa with his chin, and she looked away, embarrassed. Theon would have to be blind to miss the way men gawked at her, tall and beautiful upon her horse. It was true that few Northerners shared her features: of her siblings, only Rickon had a flicker of auburn in his hair and icy blue eyes to match. Robb's eyes were lighter but still blue, though he, like the other Stark children, had dark brown hair.

Theon's hand touched his sword. Even with her hood wrapped tight upon her head, Sansa's long braid sometimes slipped from beneath it. She had washed out the black dye, which left her distinctively herself. If anyone saw a woman they believed to be Sansa Stark, all of it would be over.

Perhaps sensing the tension that surrounded her presence, Sansa edged her horse forward to ride beside her sister and Meera.

Waldron said to Theon, "She's lucky to have you looking out for her."

It did not make Theon feel any better, but he did not want the stranger Waldron Snow to see his weakness. "Yes," Theon agreed, "she will always have friends in the North."

"And you?" Waldron asked. "Do you have friends in the North?"

Theon glanced at him, uncertain.

"You're a ward," Waldron continued, "and I know the North is not your true home. Do you care for all the Starks as you do Lord Eddard's daughter?"

"I do," Theon replied. "Ned Stark always looked after me. I was not a son to him, but he is a father to me."

Waldron nodded in understanding and then hesitated. Two girls standing outside of a tavern nearby pointed and smiled at him before he sighed, "I hope your true father is forgiving." Waldron shook his head. "Everyone knows the history. If Balon Greyjoy were a bitter man, I fear he would take Lady Sansa's head as restitution for the sons he lost to Lord Eddard." He looked at Theon, stern and unflinching. "Is Balon Greyjoy a bitter man?"

Theon found no words for him. If Balon Greyjoy were anything like the man Theon had known ten years earlier, then he was more bitter than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Ned Stark had dethroned him, ripped away his pride, and left him rotting on his rocks with no sons. Seeing Theon with Sansa Stark would undoubtedly be considered a great affront to his honor as King of the Iron Islands—a title Theon imagined he still grasped at desperately.

"I will not let any harm come to her," was all Theon could say. His shoulders fell a bit, but Waldron was kind enough to pretend he did not notice.

"It's clear you love her dearly," he declared. "I am certain she is just as strong as her father and her mother. But the North is her true home. She cannot stay with you once you inherit the Iron Islands, you know that." Waldron's voice was quiet but resolute. His manner was by no means malicious, but that did not mean Theon wanted to hear the truth from him.

"Aye," Theon sighed after a moment, "I know."

"Does she?" He indicated Sansa again.

Theon did not know. He had thought about it often, but Sansa likely did not consider it. After all, the trouble would be his and his alone: if he wanted to be with her, he would have to give up his claim. Returning to the Iron Islands as a ruler was once all he wanted. In his first few years at Winterfell, it was all that got him through the days. It seemed so small and meaningless now.

He watched Sansa converse politely with Calla, one of Havhan Reed's daughters, who was a tall, burly woman with an oily mop of black hair. Sansa complimented the necklace she wore—a big rusted chain—which seemed to fluster Calla, as if no one had ever said a kind word to her before.

Theon sighed to himself. Sansa did not have a hateful bone in her body; she loved people so earnestly, sought to help everyone she met. He did not deserve her—he knew that. Ironborn men were notoriously brash, unpleasant, bothered. They were difficult to love, even amongst their own kind. What was there to love about an Ironborn ward who had been stranded at Winterfell for half his life? A part of Theon thought it was all a mistake—a dream maybe—that Sansa loved him. Did she mean it when she said it? Did she feel half of what he felt? Just looking at her made his heart beat faster; sometimes he still stumbled over his words when she was around.

If she knew what he would be giving up to have her, she might not let him do it. She would carry all of the guilt for the rest of her life, no matter how much Theon worked to assure her.

He did not want to consider it now. It would be several days before they even reached the docks at Saltspear. There would be a time for uncertainty, but it could not be now.