Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 31

Sansa
When the gates opened to let the royal escort through, Sansa managed a long, shaky breath. Two men on horseback entered the yard first, each wielding the banner of Robert Baratheon and his children: a black stag on a golden field. The palanquin came through next, so Sansa lifted her chin and held back her shoulders. She could be a lady: she could be proud and brave the way Starks were supposed to be.

The last time Sansa had seen Joffrey Baratheon, she was almost a year and a half younger; it had been at Winterfell then, too, but nothing else was the same.

It was Joffrey's uncle—the Imp—that appeared from the litter first. He strolled leisurely to meet the Starks where they stood. Bowing his head to Robb and Lady Catelyn, Tyrion Lannister produced a parchment from his cloak.

"A letter of thanks from my dear sister," he announced.

Robb took it, thanked the small man curtly, and stepped back into line with his younger siblings. Tyrion came to Sansa next, so she smiled politely at him. "I am glad you made it safely, my Lord," she said with a curtsy. "I hope the weather was kind to you."

He nodded his appreciation. "Lady Sansa, you have grown even more beautiful since the last time I saw you."

She clenched her teeth hard, smiling again. "Thank you, my Lord."

A big man in clamoring armor emerged from the back of the escort. The helm tucked under his arm was a silver hound, ugly-faced and grinning. Sandor Clegane wore a stony expression upon his half-burned face as he approached the palanquin to await his prince. Sansa remembered him from the royals' last visit to Winterfell, and the sight of him now made her tremble. The Hound, he was called.

Theon was far down the line, closest to Bran and Rickon, but Sansa longed to feel his touch again. She felt safest at his side, even when his wounds were still healing and he was not as strong as he wanted to be. The nights they spent together were the greatest of Sansa's life; the thought of sleeping alone again was heart-wrenching—though it would certainly be better than sharing a bed with Joffrey.

The boy-prince climbed down from his litter, a long, dark cloak slipping out behind him. Sansa could not believe she ever thought him handsome: he was flat-faced and ugly, with matted blonde hair that stuck to his forehead. He was tall and gangly, and when he sauntered to meet the Stark children he rested his bony elbow on his hip.

As he drew closer, Sansa could see the sneer on his mouth. He looked at Arya, seemed to grin, and then approached her sister. "Sweet Sansa," he announced. "You look lovely today." He lifted her hand from her side and kissed it gently.

Sansa remembered dreaming about him, dreaming about being a queen and never coming back to Winterfell. She had wanted everything back then; now she would have been content with next to nothing—a room with a roof, a fire to warm her, and for Theon to be there with her.

Joffrey moved down the line to where Arya stood. Sansa eyed him carefully as he bowed to kiss her hand. "I'm so glad to see you again, my Lady," she purred. Sansa saw Arya grimace and pull her hand back a bit too quickly. Joffrey narrowed his gaze on the girl, almost like he might strike her. Before he could, Theon had stepped forward to interrupt the boy's thoughts.

"My Lord, could I show you to your chambers?" Theon asked. Sansa watched him nudge Arya backwards, putting some space between her and Joffrey.

If the prince noticed, he made no indication. "Yes, that would be all right," he muttered. "And who are you? I seem to have forgotten."

"Theon of House Greyjoy," he replied.

Joffrey was not impressed. "Well, Theon, on second thought, you should be able to help carry my things up to my chamber on your own. I think I ought to take a walk with my betrothed. I seem to have forgotten my way around Winterfell." He went back to Sansa before Theon could respond.

Joffrey extended his arm to her, cloak billowing. She did not want it—did not want him. But she knew there was no use fighting it.

"Of course, my prince," Sansa cooed, as sweetly as she could manage. She slid her arm into his as the rest of the Starks dispersed back to the castle. Theon and Robb stayed back to unload the prince's belongings from the palanquin. The Hound, however, started after Sansa and the prince as they strolled toward the Godswood. It was the only place Sansa could think to take him: no where else would have comforted her then.

All the way there, the Hound's armor clanged noisily behind them. Sansa tried hard not to think about how easy it would be for the big man to split her in two and toss her body outside the gates.

"How were your travels, my Lord?" Sansa tried.

Joffrey shrugged her off. "Long," he remarked. "I'm not terribly fond of the North. You'll be much happier in the South, I'm sure."

Sansa could not bring herself to respond: Winterfell was her home. When she was young, she thought she would be happier in the South—where it was warm and sunny and the nights were warm. But the North made people stubborn, Sansa's mother always said. It hardened every man and woman who ever dared brave it, but the cold was unkind to those who were not willing to accept the North as it was. And to those who left it behind.

When they reached the weeping weirwood tree, its face long and sunken, Sansa recalled the nights she had spent praying to the Old Gods. She had begged them not to send her to King's Landing, and they had listened, though she was not sure what they gave her was any better.

"What's this dreadful thing?" Joffrey grumbled, releasing Sansa's arm to circle the big tree.

"This is where we pray to the Old Gods," Sansa told him. "They say the children of the forest carved the faces into all the weirwood trees."

Joffrey spit into the pool at its base. "I'm glad we do not have Northern gods in King's Landing," he muttered, and returned to Sansa's arm.

The Hound's massive hand rested on the hilt of his sword, helm still tucked beneath his arm. A part of Sansa wished that he would strike her down then and there.