Chapter Text
Theon didn’t expect it to be this easy. True, he’d been in the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of the procession after they left the docks, but when the riot breaks out and he catches sight of Sansa’s red hair in the crowd, he’s on his feet immediately. She’s been dragged off her horse, away from her guard in the chaos, and the smallfolk are grabbing at her hair, her blue dress, greedy hands trying to take.
No matter. They may have the numbers, but Theon’s got a sword, and he knows how to use it. He nearly loses sight of her in the confusion, sees her dragged under a sea of dirty urchins and smelly fishwives. Drowned God, but they are filthy here. Forget Northmen. These were the real savages.
Perhaps that is why her mouth drops open in a soundless oh when Theon shoves them out of the way and takes her by the waist. In his dark blue tunic and the gleaming silver buttons, he must look like a prince. Perhaps that is why she scrambles towards him, tucks herself into his side and clutches at his jerkin. Gods know Sansa never willingly touched Theon before.
When they are free of the mob, Theon wraps his cloak around her and tucks her bright hair beneath the hood. She is shaking still, but Theon—Theon has the biggest grin on his face when they make it to the dock.
Robb had commanded Theon to go to Pyke. Commanded him. As if Theon were not a prince himself now. As if Theon were a subject of the North, as if he were the green boy and Robb the man. The order had rankled him, and when Theon had commandeered the Lannister vessel with a skeleton crew of 9 men off the Myraham, he’d turned south instead of north, east instead of west.
“Imagine the glory!” He’d told his crew, raising the horn of ale he’d taken from the captain’s quarters. “Stealing the rose of the North right out from under the lion bitch’s nose!”
He’s not quite sure when the plan—if it could be called such a thing—solidified. Perhaps between his fourth and fifth drink, perhaps after his euphoria had reached its high. Finally, finally, Theon had his own ship. He wouldn’t return as the ward, the hostage that the honorable Ned Stark stole away a decade before. He’d return to Pyke a hero, the dashing rogue who did what even the King in the North couldn’t accomplish—waltz into the most guarded city in the world and steal a princess from under the Lannisters without them being the wiser.
Imagine the glory. Theon had imagined it. He knew what it would look like. The women he’d meet would beg him to bed them after they heard what a hero he was. They’d fall to their knees for just a chance to be fucked by Theon Greyjoy, prince of the Iron Isles. They’d thank him after, pray to whatever greenlander gods they had to see him again.
And with his head full with dreams of glory and that soft warmth between a woman’s thighs, Theon sailed into the lion’s den.
Sansa was silent for long after they’d sailed away. When Theon returned belowdecks to check on her, she was staring out of the porthole at the distant smudge of the city on the horizon. Turned away from him, she seemed small, doll-like.
“You’re out, then,” Theon says, cheerily, leaning against the door. Sansa starts, and turns to him. Drowned God, but she’d gotten prettier in the two years since Theon’s seen her. When she left Winterfell as a girl of fourteen, she’d been a sight to see, but Theon had always thought of her as a child. She’s devastatingly lovely now, with the candlelight throwing soft shadows across her, the pale line of her throat, the clear blue of her eyes offsetting the golden red of her hair. Theon knew that the pretty child would become a beautiful woman, but still…his mouth goes dry. He masks his staring with a rakish grin.
“Thank you for that,” Sansa says, her voice clear as a bell. “I—I thought I’d die in that place. Thank you for getting me away from there.”
Theon smiles widely. Appreciation. Finally.
She ruins it, though. “Did Robb—did he send you?”
His smile freezes, and he can feel it—the cruel tilt to his mouth. “No,” he says, fighting to sound jovial. “I came myself. I thought I’d rescue you, see. You’re missing all the good stuff, you know. War makes for exciting times! Couldn’t let you stay cooped up in King’s Landing the entire bloody time.”
Sansa looks faint, but Theon wonders if it’s not the dim light and the shadows and the way he’s studying her face. She closes her eyes briefly. “He didn’t send you?”
“No,” Theon repeats, firmly.
With a shuddering breath, Sansa opens her eyes. To Theon’s surprise, they are full of tears. “Theon—” she begins, her voice hitching. She never says his name. That alone is enough to wipe the smile from his face. “Theon, they were so horrible there. It was awful. Joffrey is a monster, and I—I want my mother and Robb and Arya. Won’t you take me to them? Please, Theon, if you use me for something else, I—I don’t think I’d survive it.”
Theon’s never seen Sansa this way, poised but crumbling, still but almost broken, blinking back tears. Use her for something else? Why would she think—
Before he can comprehend what he’s done, he’s taken three long strides across the berth and she’s in his arms. He’s got a nose full of red hair that smells like flowers and can feel every inch of Sansa against him.
“I’ll take you to him,” he promises, hardly recognizing the voice coming from his throat. It’s too soft, mumbled against her hair. This wasn’t the plan, but Theon’s the first to admit he’d hardly planned anything, really. “I’ll take you to Robb, Sansa, and then…you can go home, I promise.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, and he can feel her tears against his collarbone. Gods, she’s gotten tall. “Thank you, Theon.”
When she pulls away, she’s teary and more beautiful than Theon’s ever seen. He doesn’t think he’s laid his eyes on a sight so lovely in years. He’s so caught up in her, dazed that he barely has time to react. When she rises to her toes and presses her lips to Theon’s cheek, he freezes.
When she pulls away, her cheeks look flushed…but no, that must be the poor light. Theon fights the urge to place a hand on the burning spot where her lips touched his skin.
“I prayed for a knight, some hero to take me away,” she confesses, her voice soft in the dark. “I prayed and prayed, every time Joffrey had me beaten or Cersei called me her little dove in that awful way. The gods answer our prayers.” She clutches at his hands. Her fingers are still shaking. “I’m glad it was you.”
Fuck.