Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 1

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Sansa
The exhaustion seeped into Sansa's bones—cold and desperate. Long nights praying at the Godswood had strained her heart and bloodied her knees, though the dresses she wore about Winterfell hid them well enough. The tenderness was hers and hers alone in these late hours. As she barred the bedroom door shut and slipped off her dark cloak, a wolf far away echoed her pain.

The year that had passed since her father left for King's Landing had done nothing to ease her fears about one day being called to join him. A raven could arrive any day, Septa Mordane oft reminded her. You best be a tried and true lady by then, the old woman had cooed as Sansa sewed. No gruff wolf of Winterfell will ever be warmly welcomed as queen.

Childish. She was small and young and foolish when she had begged her father to let her marry Joffrey. Too many days she had scolded herself for her immaturity. She could not have known what horror Joffrey would inflict in King's Landing, torturing Arya and threatening her Lord Father when he'd moved to stop it. Not until Lord Varys had helped book her safe passage to White Harbor had the ravens come less frequently. There was less for Joffrey to hurt in King's Landing and so less to say. The bruises on Arya's arms and chest when she returned were testament enough to what she'd endured in the South. Perhaps Ned Stark had known better than to write any more detailed accounts of Joffrey's torment. It had nearly torn Catelyn Stark to pieces reading the last one.

He stripped her before the Court, Sansa's mother had sobbed as Robb gripped her shoulders. He motioned for Sansa to take Bran and Rickon from the room, so without protest she scooped Bran up from his chair and beckoned for Rickon.

Two days later, Arya had returned, at least fifteen pounds lighter than she'd been at her departure a year earlier. It was Sansa's fault, she'd screamed. It was you he wanted! It should have been you!

Stinging at the memory of her little sister's words, Sansa poured water from her basin over her skinned legs. She sighed at the irony of it: prayer and faith had done nothing but bloody her—the more she sought the Old Gods' help, the more they tore at her knees. The cuts would never heal so long as Joffrey remained alive in King's Landing, Sansa knew that much.

Some nights, the golden-haired boy haunted her dreams. If her father had not been able to protect Arya in King's Landing, how would he protect Sansa? Arya was the strong one, her father had always reminded her. Sansa was too dainty for her own good.

She did not want her brothers to see her fear, which is why she prayed only at night. Her father would have insisted that praying was not weakness, but her father was not here, and Robb was Lord of Winterfell in his stead. Robb never went to pray, nor had Jon before he left for the Wall. If Bran prayed, he did it silently in his room, since he could no longer walk to the Godswood himself.

Sansa knew she should have been the one to leave with her father, to make the long trek to King's Landing and bear the brunt of Joffrey's wrath. Bran's fall had brought their plans to a halt, however: Sansa's horse had panicked beneath her when Bran hit the ground a few feet away, throwing Sansa violently against the stone wall of the tower. Her arm had broken, Maester Luwin concluded, and her ribs were injured as well. She was not fit to ride a horse all the way to King's Landing, nor would she be for a long while.

A year later, she was ready, but Arya's experience in King's Landing had stirred even King Robert, who agreed Sansa would remain in Winterfell until Joffrey had been brought to heel.

It was little comfort to Sansa as she dabbed gingerly at her knees. Even alone in her chamber, she refused to cry. After everything Arya had endured, she did not have any right to cry.

You're the lucky one, Arya had shouted the last time Sansa had tried to make amends. She was right. The year spent in Winterfell had been cold, certainly, and it was true her knees were raw, but it was a small price to pay in return for safety from Joffrey.

Outside Sansa's window, the sun was stirring. Theon would be up soon, helping Rickon and Bran in the yard with their shooting practice. Their shouts were the call for her own waking, when she would be expected to meet Septa Mordane in the castle reading room to sew.

She wished she could stay in her chamber all day, watching the boys in the yard with Theon, laughing and shooting under Robb's watchful eye. Bran could not spar from horseback, but even in his cumbersome equipped saddle, he could wield a bow as well as ever.

After she'd bandaged her knees and slipped off her dress, Sansa passed by her night shift and opted for her new day clothes. Then she pulled the same cloak she'd worn to the Godswood over her shoulders and sighed. Anything was better than sleep, she reminded herself, even the angry chill of dawn.

With a heavy hand against the wolf brooch pinned upon her breast, Sansa unbarred the door and left.