Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 80

Theon
It was Aby who drew Sansa's bath. When the midwife asked if she should stay, Sansa gave her leave to go. Even then, when it was only Sansa there with him, Theon tried desperately to hide his ache.

He had failed Sansa—failed his child. It was only as a result of her strength that she and the baby survived long enough to be found, but the Ironborn men had undoubtedly crushed her. A part of Theon didn't want to know the truth of what they'd done to her, but he knew Sansa could not bear the weight of it on her own.

As he had after her night with Joffrey at Winterfell, Theon helped Sansa out of her clothes. Her dress was heavy with old blood as Theon lifted it over her head, as were the small clothes beneath it. Once those too had been removed, Theon had no choice but to face the damage he had allowed his men to inflict in his absence.

There were bruises circling her neck, purple and angry; they trailed down over her collarbones all the way to her ribs. One gash on the side of her head was older, Theon could tell, but the one closer to her forehead still wept dark blood. The worst of Sansa's injuries, though, was the brand upon her chest. It was obscured with hardened blood but had been opened and reopened several times, judging from the uneven strokes of the blade that had carved it. If it were truly meant to be a direwolf, the re-branding had ruined it, mutilated the Stark sigil beyond recognition.

Theon helped Sansa into the tub. The water was hot against his left forefinger, which still bled from its truncated tip, the end of which now lay severed on the floor of Lady Alannys's chamber. It hurt, but when Sansa noticed and asked if he was all right, he assured her that he was.

At first, she flinched beneath Theon's touch against her bare skin, so he stopped every few moments so that she might catch her breath. It took all of his strength not to cry when she trembled and clenched her eyes shut.

Gently, he poured water through her hair to wash away the blood, which seemed to comfort her some. When she told him she was ready, Theon used a rag to scrape away the grime upon Sansa's chest. It hurt her, Theon could tell, but she did not cry until he had finished with the gashes of the direwolf brand.

Her stomach had swelled since he saw her last, and Aby assured him that she still felt the baby moving. There was still hope left.

"The sweet baby will be here within the next moon," she had whispered to Theon with a smile. She knew better than to tell Sansa just yet, when her wounds were so fresh and her fears so raw.

When Sansa was clean, Theon helped her from the tub and into a fresh shift. She managed to lay herself down in bed with a sigh as Theon went to the door to call for Aby. She returned to drain the tub and asked Theon quietly, "Do you think I can send the little maester in? If her wounds become infected, the baby might get sick, too."

Theon nodded his understanding before he glanced at Sansa in the bed, her eyes wide open, frozen upon the ceiling. "Have Cam wait outside," he instructed Aby. "I'll speak with her and then he can come in."

Aby touched his arm in assurance. When she had shut the door behind her, Theon went to the bed to sit beside Sansa. She laid so still, it was a wonder she did not turn to stone.

"I wanted them to kill me," she mumbled after a moment, though she did not look at Theon when she said it. "I begged them to let me and the baby die."

Theon didn't know what to say. He brushed his hand against her cheek, careful of its bruises. "You're safe now," he replied eventually. "All of them are dead."

"I still feel them," Sansa breathed as she let her eyes close. "I still feel everything they did."

Theon clenched his jaw hard but did not break. Instead he reminded her, "You survived and saved our child. Those men cannot hurt you anymore."

Drowsily, Sansa nodded, though Theon knew it was mustered. "I miss Winterfell," she whispered. "I wish we could go back."

It made Theon guilty all over again: he had taken Sansa and Arya away from their home and brought them to Pyke, where they were in more danger and had fewer allies than in the North. Surely there must have been another way to save the girls from Joffrey.

"I'm sorry," Theon breathed. "I should have protected you. Here and at Winterfell."

Sansa shook her head against the pillow. "Theon," she began, "it isn't your fault."

He did not respond. It was his fault, he knew it. Sansa was his wife, and she carried his child, and he left her to suffer at the hands of his father's men.

Sansa opened her eyes as much as the swelling in her face would allow, and she told him, "If it weren't for you, I would be dead." She lifted her hand to touch Theon's cheek, and finally, he broke. His tears fell down over Sansa's fingers, onto the linens beneath them. He stammered again that he was sorry—so, so sorry. Sansa cried, too, but she insisted it was only because she couldn't bear to think of what might have happened if Theon and Asha had not come for her.

Theon bent down to kiss her forehead, and Sansa kept her hand against his cheek. "I love you more than anything in this world," Theon promised. "I'm going to take care of you."

Theon hoped that she would believe it, even if he did not deserve her faith.