Iron and Blood: a Theon & Sansa Story

Chapter 75

Sansa
When Harrag and his companion had led Sansa all the way to the wood where she'd been married, they threw her to the ground and kicked at her head until she fainted. Sansa couldn't have said how much time passed before she awoke in a damp, dimly lit cell—only that it stunk of salt and grime. It was so cold, and Sansa's cloak was gone, as were her shoes. She still wore her gown and small clothes, but the fabric was wet with groundwater and sweat.

Sansa felt too broken to stand. One of her wrists had been shackled to the wall but the left remained free, so she used it to adjust the hole in her gown to see the wound beneath it. While the cut was long and stinging, it was not nearly as bad as the injuries Sansa had seen sometimes at Winterfell. Still, it wept blood onto her dress and down her ribs, which made Sansa cry.

The pain in her head was nearly suffocating, and the silence only seemed to make it worse. Wherever she was, Sansa could not see beyond the bars of her cell, where the darkness was so thick, she would not have seen anyone had they been there at all. It frightened her so much that she clenched her eyes shut instead of facing it.

"Please," she cried into her hands. "Please help me."

No one spoke up to indicate that they had heard her.

Sansa's back ached more than ever, but with her wrist chained to the wall, she could not lay all the way down. Her only choice was to sit up against the stone and pray for relief.

It never came.

With her free hand, Sansa touched her stomach and waited for movement. It comforted her whenever the baby stirred; she needed to know that her child was all right. Only a few minutes passed before Sansa felt the little kick beneath her fingers, and she smiled. There was still hope.

Far away, Sansa heard a door slam. She scrambled up to her feet, lifting one of the two candles she had been left with. It did little to illuminate the blackness beyond her cell, so when the face appeared between the bars, Sansa screamed. The candle clattered to the floor, grazing Sansa's wrist with its heat on the way down.

As she blinked away some of the darkness, Sansa could make out the features of her visitor.

"Kal?" she whispered. At first, Sansa was filled with gratitude: someone she trusted had come to save her.

But Kal's face pulled back into a grin that discomforted her—one that made her realize she was still the stupid, stupid girl she had been at Winterfell.

Kal of No Name slid a key into the cell door and stepped inside of it. He crouched down, as close to Sansa as he could get without entering her reach. "How are you, sweet girl?" he cooed.

Sansa pressed her back into the wall, hoping the stone might swallow her up and allow her back into the light. She managed, "Why am I here?"

Kal laughed. "You're a dumb little cunt, aren't you?" he mused, removing a blade from his belt. He twirled it in the candlelight of the flame that remained, only looking up at Sansa when she did not reply to him. "Say it!" he screamed, spittle showering Sansa's face. "Say you're a dumb little cunt."

Sansa did not say it. She should have, but she didn't, and Kal wasted no time. He gave Sansa a slit on her ankle, which brought her back to her knees. Blood spilled onto the dirt underfoot, dizzying Sansa with its redness.

"What do you want from me?" Sansa whimpered, clinging to her wound. "Please just let me go. I won't tell anyone, I swear it."

Kal sighed and stepped closer, where he could brush her cheek with his finger and breathe, "You're a pretty little girl."

"Why am I here?" Sansa tried again.

"I'll give you one guess," Kal replied. "One guess, and if you're right, I'll set you free."

Sansa knew he would not. All that comforted her was knowing that Kal and Harrag could have killed her anytime they wanted—she was still alive because they needed her for their purpose.

"Is it because I'm a Stark?" she muttered, blinking up at her captor with cold blue eyes.

"That's a good guess," Kal declared. He walked from one side of the cell to the other, clinking his knuckles against the bars. "You're not all wrong," he added, "but you're not all correct." As he approached Sansa again, he slammed the knife down into the ground between her legs. Sansa gasped, which only seemed to amuse Kal of No Name. "Don't worry," he chuckled. "We won't have any reason to hurt you unless you misbehave."

"If it's not because I'm a Stark," Sansa whispered, "then what is it?"

Kal knelt down in front of her, smiling. "There are people in Westeros who are willing to pay a lot of money for you, sweet girl." He pulled his knife from the ground and pressed the flat edge against Sansa's stomach. "When they found out you were pregnant—" Kal clicked his tongue. "Well, they didn't like that very much. Offered to cut the baby out of you, but the Queen will pretend your little bastard is passed off as her own."

"The Queen?" Sansa stammered. "Asha?"

"You've been here too long," Kal guffawed. "I mean the Queen of Westeros—not this piss-rock in the middle of the damn sea."

Sansa should have known they would come for her eventually; and it was easier to steal away one girl than it was to defeat an army on each island. Still, it would be difficult to smuggle her onto a boat while Asha was almost certainly looking for her.

"You can't expect the Greyjoys to let you walk off the island with me on your back," she sibilated. "How will you ever return me to the Lannisters from here?"

Twirling his dagger, Kal remarked, "The Lannisters will come to us. While they feign preparations for an assault on the Isles and distract Lady Asha's men, a merchant ship will come quietly to the western side of Pyke. When it leaves, you will be on it."

Sansa trembled and let out her tears. She begged Kal to let her go, promised that the Starks would pay him anything they had. It would never match the Lannisters' offer, she knew, but it was all she had.

"Please, Kal," she pleaded. "For the love you bore your own wife and daughter, let me be with my family."

Sansa hoped it would soften him, but instead it made him angry. He slapped her hard and fast across the cheek, but Sansa held herself together. It only bothered him more.

He threw her against the stone wall, and the back of her head bore most of the hit. Kal held Sansa there and leaned down to hiss in her ear, "You're ours now. You belong to us. You are not Sansa Stark of fucking Winterfell—you are whatever the fuck I say you are. And you are mine."

Sansa tried to wriggle out from beneath his grasp, but with her arm chained to the wall and all of Kal's strength against her, she could not get free. He ripped her gown down off her shoulder, and the cold air bit into the revealed patch of skin. Sansa expected him to expose her further, but he stopped above her breast.

It was too late to try another escape: Kal dug his dagger into the skin beneath Sansa's collarbone. Warm blood spurted from the cut and onto Kal's hand, but he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he dragged the blade through her flesh, even as she screamed for it to stop.

"Keep screaming, little girl," Kal growled, his breath hot on her neck. "No one will ever hear you."

After a few minutes, Sansa passed out from the pain, woke some time later in a heap on the floor. By then, Kal was gone, and a crude direwolf carving had been branded upon her chest.