Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 6

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Theon
As he broke his fast, Theon could not pull his mind from the words he had exchanged with Sansa the night before. The way she had touched his chest—so daintily, so innocently—left him restless in the night. Even in the morning, as he instructed Bran on how to repair his shooting form, he remained distracted.

He wondered if he had done too much, lingered too long at her feet, his hands on her legs. She had not protested, no, but did she question his motives? Did she assume he was attempting to bed her?

It was true that Theon Greyjoy had not been tamed by Winterfell. If anything, the cold of the North had enlivened him, stirred his passions and desires by the time he was thirteen. He did not bed a woman until his fourteenth year, and when he did, it was an older girl, a stablehand's bastard daughter who was being groomed as an apprentice by the women at the brothel. He had paid her for her time and felt dirty for it, but she did not complain. He felt less guilt when he paid his women now, but somehow it still stung.

It was why Sansa had not accepted his offer to pray in the night for her. Eventful nights, she had mused. The words hung heavy in his mind until the morning. Robb shook them when he clapped Theon on the shoulder at breakfast and straddled the bench beside him. The slam of Robb's leather boots on the stone floor echoed through the Great Hall. Something inside Theon's stomach shuddered, a piece of him afraid that somehow Robb knew he had been alone with Sansa in the reading room. He half-expected Robb to scold him; if Sansa had been uncomfortable with his touches, she would have told Robb right away.

Instead, Robb said, "The boys asked if I might take them on a hunt today. Will you join us?"

Theon hesitated, his jaw tight. He drummed the tips of his fingers against the wooden table and spooned down a bite of oats. "If you will have me," he replied, chewing.

Robb grinned. "Good lad," he exclaimed. "Meet us at the gates once the sun is high, yes?"

Theon nodded and swallowed the last of his food. As quickly as he had come, Robb was gone again, leaving Theon to the thoughts that still haunted him.

He longed to touch Sansa again, to ease her hurts and care for her tenderly. The eldest Stark daughter had never shown him much regard before then. In their younger years, she had played games with him and her brothers in the yard—until Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane decided she had to be a lady instead. Ladies do not wrestle with boys, they had told her as she'd been taken from them.

Sansa's closest friend, a doe-eyed girl named Jeyne, often bit her lip at Theon and whispered to Sansa whenever he passed by. But Jeyne was not Sansa—the girl that whores in the brothel mocked. When Theon was with more than one, they'd giggle amongst themselves, one declaring that, "Just because she's the most beautiful girl in the North doesn't mean she has the body to please a man," and then the rest would cheer in agreement. They didn't like the Starks—and they liked Theon because he wasn't a Stark. It was their favorite pastime to mock the women of Winterfell, who were beautiful but cold-hearted and would never be as good to men as a real tavern wench. Theon had always agreed heartily as they touched him. What had it mattered, after all? He was not in Winterfell to wed a Stark—he was here to keep his father at bay. A hostage. Nothing more.

Yet the words of the naked women made him wince all of the sudden, as he sat alone in Winterfell's Great Hall. Their touches were so different from Sansa's when she brushed his collarbone. He'd been so flustered, and his reaction must have startled the girl, for she retreated quickly after that. He had wanted to reach out and pull her hand back to his chest, but he knew better. He wanted it so much, but he knew better.

Theon had to apologize, he decided. He should have minded his hands—it was not his place to insist Sansa cleanse her wounds, nor was it necessary for him to touch her as much as he had. He had excused it to himself—I was just moving her legs to clean her knees better—but he knew his own truth. The first time, maybe that was the reality of it. But once he'd felt the way her soft skin prickled with goose flesh under his touch, he wanted to keep coming back.

And that was wrong. Wrong. He repeated the word over and over again to himself as he hurried from the Great Hall. Jeyne was gossiping with a younger girl outside the door, and she greeted Theon when he passed.

"Have you seen Sansa?" he asked her. She exchanged a look with the other girl, confused.

She repeated her name to him, as if to make sure she had not misheard. "Sansa?"

Theon regretted asking. Half the castle would know by nightfall that he had been asking after Sansa. It was too late to take it back, so he just said, "Yes."

Jeyne raised her thin brows. "The Lady Sansa was feeling ill this morning," she replied haughtily. "I imagine she's still in her chamber."

Ill? The word made Theon nervous. Had she grown so uncomfortable in the reading room that she had decided to feign illness to avoid him? Seven hells.

It was those words he muttered all the way to Sansa's chamber door. He peered around the corner to ensure no one was approaching and then rapped quickly.

Sansa's voice came immediately. "I don't want to eat anything," she hollered.

Theon checked the hallway again. No one was around, but he knew better than to call his name so that the whole castle would hear. He leaned close to the door and put one hand against it. "It's me," he replied.

The sound of the bar was loud and jarring. Seconds later, Sansa had yanked him inside by the neck of his shirt.