Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 17

Content Warning: this chapter includes descriptions of violence against women, some of which is sexual in nature.

Sansa
The day the letter arrived, Sansa woke in tears. She knew something was coming for her.

It was Arya who knocked at the door. Sansa called her inside, stepping out of the bed and into the light that filtered through her window. Arya's eyes were low as she passed the parchment to Sansa, who found the seal already broken.

"You read it?" Sansa asked, taking it from her hand.

Arya nodded. "Theon told me not to," she admitted. "But then he read it, too. We both did."

Sansa unraveled the note, noticed her father's signature at the bottom of the page. To her surprise, the greeting was to her.

Sansa, he had written, I fear my letter did not reach Winterfell. Five fortnights have passed without response. Robert had intended to bring you to King's Landing, but I knew I could not protect you here. I could not protect Arya, and I do not want to see you hurt. Robert has agreed that Joffrey will court you at Winterfell. He cannot behave himself at court, and my hope is that the cold will tame him. His uncle, Tyrion Lannister, will travel North, too, along with one member of the King's Guard and several knights from the city. The group will leave tomorrow, so expect them in two fortnights, perhaps less. I will send a raven soon with instructions for your Lady Mother. Robb, Theon, Ser Rodrick, and the boys will ensure that no harm comes to you. Joffrey will remain until the first snow. You will come South with him then. I am thinking of you, sweet girl.

A tear pattered onto the parchment, smearing the black ink of Eddard Stark's name. Arya and Theon could no longer buy her time.

Sansa let the paper fall from her hands and whispered, "How could Father let this happen?" She lowered herself onto the bed and heard herself speak again before she meant to. "Where is Theon?"

"I told him not to come," Arya replied. She sat down beside Sansa and placed a hand on hers. "I didn't think you would want to see him now."

Sansa wiped away her tears. "I should not want to," she corrected her sister, "but I do." Standing then, she instructed Arya to bring the letter to Robb. "Be sure he tells Mother. She will want to prepare for Prince Joffrey's arrival." The boy's name fell with disgust from her lips.

Arya let her go.

It had been so many weeks since the night Sansa had spent with Theon. She had spoken to him but a handful of times since then, and he did not trouble her for it; it seemed as though he understood the consequences of his actions, particularly after Sansa told him he had no purpose to her but for his capacity to serve to the Realm. It had hurt him, Sansa knew—but that was what she wanted. In her own hurt, she wanted him to feel something half as harsh.

Admittedly, she did not want it anymore.

Now, all she wanted was softness and comfort. She did not want to face Robb's anger, nor her mother's disappointment. Jeyne would not understand—she might even envy the opportunity to become a queen.

Sansa pressed her forehead against Theon's door and said his name into the wood. It flew open faster than she could have imagined, which left her no time to think of what she wanted to say. It mattered not: all she could do was sob and fall into him. So he closed the door behind them, and then took her up in his arms without a word. As she cried, he carried her gently to his bed.

All that Sansa managed were the words, "No, no, please no," as Theon eased her onto a pillow. She stifled a scream. Everything hurt—her knees and hands, her stomach and her head. Theon climbed into the bed beside her, pulling her limp body up to his chest.

"Please, no," she tried again, as if Theon had not heard it the first time.

"I know," he whispered into her hair, "I know."

Sansa felt ill. When she caught her breath for a moment, she drew the sweet scent of Theon's chest through her nose. His tunic was soft beneath her cheek, damp from the tears. He did not seem to care; he just kept his arms around her, brushing the back of her head with his thumb. When he rested his lips against her forehead, Sansa cried harder. Everything seemed to be falling from her at once: all of the fear, the anger, and the hurt.

She could not marry Joffrey—would not marry him. In that moment, she would have sooner jumped from the top of the castle at Winterfell than be forced to face the prince.

"He's going to hurt me," Sansa whimpered into Theon's shoulder. Her heart heaved inside her chest. "He'll rape me," she shouted in a broken voice. "He will, I know it."

Theon moved her chin to face him. "He will not," he said to her. She blinked away a tear, and Theon caught it on her cheek with his finger. "As long as I draw breath," he promised, "Joffrey will not have you until you tell him he can."

"I don't want him," Sansa sobbed. "I'll never want him. Please, Theon. Please, no."

He nodded, brushed away another of her tears. "Then he'll never have you." His expression was the saddest Sansa had ever known it to be. She did not want to think that he was afraid, too. Then, as if sensing her worries, Theon assured her, "I will not let him have you, Sansa."

She curled back up into him, willing away the thought of Joffrey on top of her. For hours, she stayed there and cried, cursed the Old Gods that had ignored her prayers, and begged for some relief.