Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 49

Sansa
Before Theon bathed, Sansa helped him out of his clothes. She kissed him gently on the neck when he had completely disrobed, and then moved her hand up into his hair. He must have known what she wanted—and wanted it, too—because he reached up to touch her breast outside her gown. When she moved to kiss his lips, he slipped beneath the fabric.

Soon, Sansa was pulling off the soft white dress, just so her skin could be against his. The more time they had spent together, the less Sansa tried to hide her nakedness: she wanted him to see all of her, to feel all of her, taste all of her.

In the small, neatly-made bed, Sansa was eager for his touch.

By the time they had finished, she was drenched in sweat. "I think you need a bath now, too," Theon observed with a smile. It was the sweetest smile she had ever seen.

Sansa offered a smile in return, her heart pounding hard in her chest. "Then come," she insisted, and led him to the tub. There, Theon stepped carefully into the water before he lowered Sansa onto his lap. She leaned her back against him, comforted by the rise and fall  of his chest as he breathed beneath her—a reminder that he was alive and they were as safe as they would ever be.

By the time they were clean, the warmth had all but gone out from the water and the room. As Theon laced up a pair of breeches from the trunk, he cocked his head towards the bed. "I think we might need fresh linens." The grin that crept over his lips made Sansa grumble.

"And I'm the one who has to fetch them?" she countered, raising her eyebrows at him.

"I'm indecent!" he exclaimed. As he motioned to his bared upper half, Sansa looked down at the soft edges of her own dress, which flowed just an inch above the floor.

Bashfully and with reluctance, Sansa went to ask the ugly old innkeeper for new sheets. As much as she tried, Sansa could not hide her blush when the woman smirked and passed the blankets through the open door.

At the entrance of the inn, Sansa could see Waldron Snow and the man Meera had introduced as her cousin, Brandon. They wore their weapons—one on each hip—and kept an eye at the world outside the door. It was good to know there were people looking out for her and her sister.

The North remembers, Waldron had said.

Theon changed the sheets upon Sansa returned, and then he tended to the fire, which was almost dead in the hearth. Winter was near, that much Sansa knew. Their travels would get no easier.

And so Sansa clambered into the bed, which would be the first she'd had since they left Winterfell. Her need for it was so desperate, she almost fell to sleep before Theon had joined her.

Back at Winterfell, she had shared Theon's bed with Arya, which was comforting, but she so missed Theon's touch when she slept. She knew he had not rested since their journey began several weeks prior, though he must have tried hard not to show it. For his sake, Sansa blinked herself back to life and lifted the blanket to make room for him.

He sighed as he climbed in beside her and then leaned down to kiss her cheek, soft and kind. All Sansa could do was smile at him; she felt the way she imagined princesses in Old Nan's stories must have felt when they fell in love with their princes. She wished only that it did not have to be so complicated.

"Do you think your family will take kindly to me?" she asked once Theon had settled beside her. Sansa rolled onto her side so that she was facing him, and he flipped over to look back at her.

"Take kindly to you?" he echoed sleepily.

Sansa tried again. "I know the Ironborn care little for Northerners." She touched the scar on his collarbone, the one that reminded her so much of that first night in the reading room, and it seemed to stir something in Theon. He propped himself up onto his elbow, and moved a strand of hair away from her face. "To your father and all of the people who care for him, I'm the daughter of a man who murdered two heirs to the throne and stole the only one that remained." Without meaning to, Sansa started to cry.

They were soft tears—the tears of a woman who had seen so much. Yet somehow Sansa understood there was more to be seen, more pain to be suffered. She could not shy away from it, could not run back to Winterfell and make peace with the past.

This was the only way.

Because he could not have understood the fear Sansa felt, Theon just pulled her close to his chest. It was there that she was the safest.

He told her, "You're more than all of that. You're the woman that I love, and everyone who ever meets you loves you, too." He nudged her chin up so that she had no choice but to face him. There, he promised, "It will be all right."

As certain as he made himself sound, Sansa did not believe him—could not believe him—but his fingers on her neck were so soothing that she found she did not have the strength to argue back.

"It will be all right, lovely," he whispered again, though Sansa was so shrouded in sleep that she heard his voice only as one might hear a call from miles away. Absently, she managed a nod—whether it was truly an agreement, she could not say.

As she fell deeper into a slumber, Sansa prayed that the coming journey would be kind to them. It might be the few last days of peace she would ever know.

The North remembered, but Sansa hoped desperately that the Iron Islands would not.