Chapter Text
Sansa was in the nursery with Rickon, trying to coax him down for a nap, when Maester Luwin came to fetch her. He wasn’t alone, he was accompanied by two large men. Soldiers, though not ones Sansa recognized. They’re both tall but one obscenely more so. Sansa would guess he’s nearly 7 feet.
“My lady,” Luwin says calmly. “Grab your brother, and come with me please.”
“What’s going on?” Sansa asks, though she scoops up Rickon into her arms without further prompting. “Where’s Bran?”
“He’s with Theon–” Luwin starts, one of the men grunts. “Prince Theon. He’s returned, and is here to…take Winterfell…”
Sansa gasps. At first when she heard him she thought Theon being here meant Robb was home too. That he had succeeded and news of his triumph just hadn’t reached her yet. But alas, no.
Shaggydog perks up beside Rickon’s bed, and Sansa hands her baby brother to Maester Luwin. “I’ll go speak with…Prince Theon.” She says. Surely this is a misunderstanding. He’d never take Winterfell. He’d have no reason to.
“My lady,” Maester Luwin says, lightly grabbing her arm. He leans in close to whisper. “It’s not safe–”
“He’d never hurt me.” Sansa interrupts, and she knows it to be true. Theon’s ruthless in teasing, but he’s not cruel. He’s not Joffrey. She’s just going to talk to him. She looks over at the two men. They must be ironborn. They look gruesome. If she fears anyone here, it’s them. But she must be brave. Like Robb.
Her hands come to her neck, where a direwolf locket is strung, small portraits of her parents painted and protected within. She’d had it made as soon as she returned home, to replace the wretched golden Lannister lion locket that Joffrey had tried to charm her with. He did charm her with it, and then he betrayed her and killed her father. She had this necklace made to remind her she was strong. If what Maester Luwin says is true, she will not fall for Theon’s charms and she will not let him kill anyone she loves. Lady, her beloved direwolf, was good, too good. She didn’t bite! And yet, she was killed anyway. They said Sansa was good, too. Cersei called her a pretty little dove. But she wasn’t a dove, she was a direwolf, and unlike her sweet pup, she would bite if provoked. Only, her bite will be armored with kindness and a pretty smile. He’ll never see it coming.
“Will one of you please escort me to Lord Greyjoy?” She asks, plastering a smile on her lips. The taller one nods, and roughly grabs her arm to lead her away.
“Sansa!” Rickon calls out in protest, but Maester Luwin shushes him, and Sansa can’t stop to comfort him either, with the tall soldier pulling her along.
He pulls her all the way to Bran’s chamber door, even though Sansa is perfectly capable of walking on her own. He doesn’t deserve it, but she thanks the man anyway, and then steps inside, passing Hodor who is lingering by the door, just in time to hear Bran ask, “did you hate the whole time?”
“Bran!” Sansa admonishes. That’s not proper to say at all.
Both Bran and Theon turn to look at her. Bran biting his lip worriedly, and Theon wearing surprise paired with his usual grin.
“Lady Sansa,” Theon greets.
“Lord Greyjoy,” She smiles back, rushing to sit at her brother’s side. Bran grabs her hand, and Sansa gives it a reassuring squeeze. “What are you doing home so soon?”
“I was just explaining it to your brother. Robb sent me to treat with my father, and I did, but instead of aiding the North with my father’s ships, I’ve decided to take it. You cannot overpower me, so I was explaining to Bran that a proper lord would hand it over for the sake of his people.”
“Ser Rodrik–” Sansa starts, wanting to point out that he’ll never get past Ser Rodrik’s defences.
“Was lured away to Torrhen’s Square by my uncle. My men and I have already taken control of the castle. In a moment, the three of us will go outside and Bran will renounce his claim and give Winterfell to me, and you will announce your intent to marry me.”
“She’ll never marry you!” Bran is quick to defend, a certain bite in his voice that Sansa’s never heard before.
“She will if she knows what’s good for her. Marriage is the best way to seal alliances, and heirs are the best way to ensure a claim. She’ll marry me and provide a little kraken by the end of the year. It’s the only way she can protect herself, you, Rickon, and the North.” Theon states. He was talking to Bran, but he looks at Sansa for the last bit, and she can tell he’s serious. For a moment she felt the urge to laugh. Her? Marry Theon? It’s not as if he’s beneath her, he’s a liege lord, or will be one day, and she’s a liege lord’s daughter. But she’s known him all her life, and a marriage between them had never dawned on her.
She eyes Theon suspiciously, and then puts a smile back to her lips. “Hodor!” She calls out, and Hodor rushes into the room. “Take Bran and find Maester Luwin. Theon and I will meet the four of you in the great hall shortly. Bring Summer.”
Hodor looks concerned, but does as she asks, even while Bran protests.
“Don’t do it Sansa! Don’t!” Bran continues to shout as Hodor carries him away.
When they’re alone, Sansa does start to feel afraid. Not of Theon, she still doesn’t believe he would hurt her, but she’s afraid of what she might have to agree to.
“Robb will have your head.” She says flatly. “When he avenges father and comes home, he’ll kill you for betraying us.”
Theon frowns, and then works to compose himself, but Sansa can still see the sadness in his eyes. She might be able to use that to her advantage, along with some courtesy. Courtesy is a lady’s armor, she remembers Septa Mordane once telling her. Septa Mordane is dead now. Along with Jory and her father. Joffrey killed them all. Theon’s not like that.
“I can’t bear your heir,” she continues, hoping to further reason with him. “I haven’t bled yet.”
Theon cringes at the mention of her moonsblood, but then he speaks. “I’ve taken the castle, and if I have to kill to take control of the people within the castle, I will.” His voice trembled on the final word. And Sansa knows then that what she believes is true.
“This was already your home. Why do you need to take it? Just renounce your hold and Bran and I will forget about it—”
“This was never my home! I was a hostage here!” Theon interrupts, his voice bitter, both hurt and angry. “A hostage under the guise of a ward, doomed for death at one wrong turn.”
“My father loved you!”
“Your father made me carry the sword he’d use to slice my head if he needed to.”
“But he didn’t need to! Your father behaved!” She’s not sure what else to say. She’s trying to be kind, but she doesn’t want to agree with him, won’t agree with him. And then it hits her. The one argument she has. The one person they undeniably share. So she says it again. “Robb loves you! You’re like a brother to him. If you take Winterfell…he will kill you.”
Theon frowns deeply. So deeply that Sansa worries the frown will etch into his face. “Your brother is too busy trying to kill the Lannister bastard. By the time he comes for me, I’ll have already sunk my anchor into the North. With you, a Stark, as my wife, the North will not harm me and neither will Robb.”
Sansa bites her lip. That almost sounds logical. She certainly can’t think of anything to debunk it. She takes a deep breath, and nods her head. “I’ll marry you.” She whispers.
Theon smiles. “Good girl.” He praises. “We’ll marry tonight. We’ll do it in the Godswood since we’re not by the sea.”
“A month.” Sansa counters, hoping to buy time. “I need to put preparations in place, and make my dress.”
Theon rolls his eyes. “You can have a day, we can do it tomorrow.”
“A week!” She tries again.
Theon sighs and rubs his forehead, his exasperation evident. “Three days. We’ll have the wedding in three days and that is final.”
Sansa smiles. It’s a small victory, but it shows he’s not completely heartless, and that she does have some power over him. “Thank you, my prince.” She coos, and then stands up. “Let’s go tell the others, and then we can go to the yard to announce to the staff.”
Theon looks at her wearily, and stands up as well. “Why did you agree so easily?” He asks.
Sansa fiddles with her hair, unsure of what to say. So she answers with another question. “Will you promise me something?”
“What?” He asks, and she can tell by his voice he’s grown defensive.
“Joffrey killed my father. He killed Jory, Jeyne’s father, Septa Mordane. Promise me you won’t be so cruel. Promise me you won’t kill anyone.”
He hesitates, and she can tell he wants to protest, but ultimately he nods his head. “I won’t kill anyone. You have my word.” Theon reaches out and grabs a strand of her thick, silky auburn hair. He twirls it around his finger, and as he does his face is contorts with several emotions, and his voice is showy, overly bitter, when he says, “you better have a pretty dress, making me delay the wedding so long.”
She nods her head, and links her arm through his. “Lead the way, my love.” She says, being overly kind to match his expensive harshness. She can tell he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to take Winterfell. He doesn’t want to betray her family, or kill anyone. He’s only doing it because he thinks he should. She can help him. She can be courteous and kind and help him see that he doesn’t need to do this. It just might take some time.
—
Bran does not take the news well, and neither does Maester Luwin. They don’t see what she sees. That compliance is key. That it builds trust and trust will allow them to take control of their home once again. What’s more, though, is that they don’t see Theon like she does. They see him as an ungrateful boy betraying a family that was so good and loyal to him. But his words from earlier are still ringing in her ears. He called himself a hostage. She had never seen him as such, but now that he said it, it did sort of look that way. If she had stayed in King’s Landing, if she had been there when her father was killed, she would have been a hostage too. It would have been much worse. She’s grateful Arya escaped it too, she just wishes she knew where her sister was. Furthermore, Theon is not Joffrey. He’s harsh because he’s needed to be but when he comes down to it he isn’t cruel. He negotiated the wedding date and agreed not to kill anyone. Joffrey broke every promise he ever made her, but she got the feeling Theon would be true to his word. He craves loyalty, he craves love, but in order to receive one must give back in return. He doesn’t understand that yet, but he will. Sansa will help him see it.
Right now, though, right now she needs to help Bran see it. Hodor sets him down in his chair in the great hall. The chair that their father once sat in, and then Robb. Now it’s Bran’s. Or it was. She supposes it’s Theon’s now. Sansa walks over and crouches in front of her brother, taking his hand in hers, ready to explain it to him again.
Theon’s waiting outside the great hall with Maester Luwin, Osha, and Rickon. Once Hodor goes outside, Maester Luwin comes back in, his brow knit with worry.
“You can’t! You can’t marry him!” Bran cries out.
“I agree with the little lord, my lady. If he marries you his claim becomes 10 times stronger.” Luwin interjects.
“If he marries me he won’t hurt anyone.” Sansa argues.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. Theon promised. He promised me.”
“He also promised to serve your brother. And look what he’s done now.”
Sansa bites her lip, he’s got a point. But she can’t think about the negative possibilities, only positive ones. “The wedding’s in three days. In a moment, we’re going to go outside, Bran’s going to call Theon the Prince of Winterfell, and I’m going to announce the marriage. And then, in a few moons, when Robb and Mother come home, Robb will fix this. He’s King in the North. Once he’s back in the North, everything will fall into place.”
“My Lady–” Maester Luwin starts, but Sansa interrupts him, despite it being improper.
“The alternative is we refuse Theon’s commands, and he has to kill us so we’re forced to flee. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, so that is not an option. We do this, and when Robb’s home he will fix it. I know he will. Theon’s his best friend, despite the bad blood between them now he’s still our best chance at getting Theon to back down.”
“Robb will kill him.” Bran says. “Father would have had to, but he can’t, so Robb must.”
Sansa’s teeth are pressing into her lip so deeply, it starts to bleed. She doesn’t want anyone to die, including Theon, but Bran’s right. She supposes some death is necessary, to achieve justice, and peace.“Exactly. We play the part. I pretend to be his loving wife and you pretend to be a cooperative lord. We only have to keep up the charade until Robb’s home, and then everything will be right again.”
Bran pouts, but Sansa gives him a stern look, the best imitation of their mother she can muster, and miraculously, it works, and Bran agrees. She calls for Hodor and then they all head outside.
The second they’re out in the open air, Sansa rushes to Osha and takes Rickon from her, grabbing his hand and pulling him over to stand beside Theon. He looks over at her with a questioning brow, and Sansa nods at him, with a smile. He smiles back, looking pleased.
Bran’s announcement that Theon is the Prince of Winterfell is not taken well, but it’s taken much worse than the announcement of Sansa and Theon’s marriage. Theon gives a speech that he will be a fair and just ruler, so long as everyone cooperates. It’s not received well, but threats from his Ironborn soldiers quiet everyone down. She’s grateful the threats do the job, it means he can keep his word not to kill anyone.
—
Rickon is sulking, upset that everyone has been shouting and arguing all day. He doesn’t understand what Theon’s done, what he plans to do. But he knows he doesn’t like all the fighting. He was crying earlier, but between Sansa and Osha’s efforts they were able to soothe him some.
Maester Luwin is at the gate waiting for Ser Rodrik to return. Everyone else is in the great hall, eating the tensest supper Sansa’s ever known, when Ser Rodrik storms inside. “GREYJOY!” He shouts, anger and annoyance both evident in his voice. Behind him, Maester Luwin and a few Northern soldiers follow, swords at the ready.
Sansa shivers from her seat beside Theon, as all the Ironborn soldiers stand and draw their swords. Theon stands as well, but he keeps his sword sheathed. Sansa looks at him worriedly, and he quickly looks away, walking toward Winterfell’s castellan.
“Put away your blades!” He tells his men, and only half of them listen. “Ser Rodrik and I are going to have a chat, that’s all. Hodor, bring Bran, we’ll go speak in my solar.”
Both Bran and Ser Rodrik make a face when he says that, and Ser Rodrik is still shouting as the four of them walk away, only cooperating after a stern look from Maester Luwin, Summer trails after them, either unaware of uncaring to all of the conflict.
“Return to your meals!” One of the Ironborn commands. Reluctantly, everyone does. Sansa gets up to come sit beside Rickon and Osha, and that’s when she realizes Rickon is missing. Shaggydog too.
“Osha, where's Rickon?” She exclaims.
Osha looks around worriedly, and shakes her head. “I don’t know. He was just here. He must have run off in the commotion.”
Sansa panics. He could be anywhere. What if he left the castle walls? What if an Ironborn soldier got him and Theon wasn’t there to tell him not to harm him? The potential possibilities are overwhelming.
“Let’s go look now. He can’t be far. He’s had what? A minute’s start on hus. He was here before Ser Rodrik arrived.” Osha decides. She grabs Sansa’s hand and pulls her after her, because Sansa was almost too stunned to move.
Sansa’s not sure if they should look outside first or within the castle. She’s not sure if she and Osha should split up or stay together. She’s not sure of anything. Thankfully, Osha takes charge.
“I’ll go get Hodor and Maester Luwin, you start looking. You know where he hides better than I do. Bran should know, too.”
Sansa thinks she nods her head, but she’s not sure. Arya’s missing. Jon’s at the wall. Robb is marching South. She can’t lose another sibling. She won’t.
Rickon’s not in the nursery, nor in Bran’s room, or Robb’s, or hers, or her other siblings. She even checks Theon’s old chambers, wondering if maybe he went there. He didn’t. Feeling frantic, she rushes outside, hoping to find him climbing, like Bran used to. Good gods! What if he falls? Gentle mother, she prays, please don’t let my brother fall. In response, she hears a bark that is unmistakably Shaggydog’s, and rushes towards the sound.
She runs into the Godswood, where Shaggydog is standing at the base of the heart tree. Was the Mother telling her to pray to the Old Gods? She’s confused, scared, and stressed. She’s frantically scanning the Godswood, but she doesn’t see her brother anywhere.
“Sansa?” Rickon’s voice calls out. Small and scared. It’s weird. It sounds like it came from above. She looks up, and there is Rickon, perched high up in the weirwood tree. Too high for her to reach him.
“It’s okay, Rickon!” She calls out. “Stay there. Osha will get you down.”
She doesn’t want to leave him, but so long as he stays, he’ll be safe until she returns with Osha. Of course, her brother has a wild side, and doesn’t always listen.
“Sansa? Have you found him?” A voice calls out. Sansa’s not sure if she should be more worried or relieved. That was Theon’s voice. She swivels her head and sees him rushing towards her.
“I need to get Osha. He’s in the tree.” She says, pointing up.
Theon looks up and laughs. But it’s a cheery laugh, not a mocking one. “How’d you get up there, little wolf?”
“I jumped!” Rickon says, pointing to a nearby tree that’s shorter and looks easier to climb. He jumped from tree to tree. She’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen again.
“I’ll go get Osha.”
“No need. I’ll get him.” Theon says. He takes his sword off his belt and his bow and quiver too, leaning them against the heart tree and inspecting the smaller one. “It’s too weak for me to climb the small one.” Theon says. And so he begins to inspect the heart tree. After a moment, he begins to climb it. It’s an awkward climb, he has to sort of hug it and inch his way up. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he reaches Rickon. Now Sansa’s worried about how they’ll get down, and by the look on Theon’s face, he seems worried about it too.
They’re maybe fifteen or twenty feet up in the sky. Theon could jump and be fine, but Rickon’s bones are too fragile for that. She tries to yell up and talk to them, but either they can’t hear her or are choosing to ignore her. She sees Theon take off his belt, and then lifts Rickon up, placing him on his back, and resecuring the belt around the both of them, before climbing down what little distance he can. It takes Sansa far too long to realize he means to jump now that he’s closer to the ground. “Theon! Don’t!” She cries out. But it’s too late. He jumps, and miraculously, he lands on his feet, stumbling a little, before he catches himself. He undoes his belt yet again, and when Rickon’s feet touch the ground both Sansa and Shaggydog rush over and hug him tight.
“Why’d you run off?” Sansa asks when she finally pulls back.
“Everyone was yelling. I don’t like it when you yell.” Rickon says, kicking his feet into the ground. He looks up, his eyes shiny and sad. “Is Theon really Prince of Winterfell? Is Robb going to kill him?”
He sounds more devastated at the thought of Theon dying and Sansa is quick to reassure him. “Robb’s not going to kill him!” She assures, avoiding Theon’s gaze. “Because Theon and I are going to get married, and that will make him and Robb brothers for true.”
“But Bran says Theon betrayed us. Robb will have to kill him.” There are tears in Rickon’s eyes.
“We won’t let him. We’ll ask Robb for mercy, and he’ll grant some. He’s good like that. Good and just and honorable.”
Rickon sniffles and nods, and Sansa takes his hand. “Let’s go back and finish dinner, aye? Everyone’s worried about you.”
Rickon nods his head and uses his other hand to hold onto Shaggydog’s fur. Theon’s looking at her strangely, having heard the whole exchange, but Sansa doesn’t want to deal with him now. She just lied. Either to Theon or to Rickon, she’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter. She hates lying. She hates that she had to do it.
She reluctantly waits until Theon takes the hint and start walking. She links her arm through his and lets him lead the way.
When they reach the training yard they see Hodor and Ser Rodrik. Ser Rodrik still looks angry, especially when he sees Theon carrying Rickon, for the latter lad claimed he was too tired to walk. Osha soon comes rushing over, carrying Bran with Summer running ahead of them.
“Little Rickon!” She calls out, eager to reach him. “Where were you, my boy?”
“In the heart tree. I jumped up so high!” He cheers sleepily, reaching out for Osha to take him. Awkwardly, Theon and Osha exchange who they’re holding. Bran looks less than pleased for Theon to carry him, so Sansa is grateful he had the courtesy to keep silent about it.
“Let’s get the little wolf to bed, aye.” Osha says softly, brushing back Rickon’s unruly curls from his face. She eyes Theon skeptically. “Can the Prince of Winterfell see to it that some supper gets sent to the nursery?”
Theon looks offended. “Yes.” He bites out. “I’m the one who saved him, you know?”
“I didn’t ask.” Osha responds as she’s walking away. Hodor walks over and takes Bran, following after Osha and the wolves. It leaves just Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin outside with them, and the air is thick and heavy.
“I’d like to start the wedding preparations tomorrow, Maester Luwin. Would you help me with it?” She asks with a forced smile, anything to move things along.
“There will be no wedding, my lady.” Ser Rodrik states.
“Of course there will!” She says, feigning easygoing happiness. She takes hold of Theon’s arm for what’s probably the 30th time today, and smiles, first at Theon, and then at Ser Rodrik, trying her best to look in love. “In three days. I’ll have to make the dress and cloaks, so I’ll rely on you, Maester Luwin, to plan the ceremony and feast.”
“My lady–”
“Will you walk me to my chambers, Ser Rodrik? I’d like to retire.”
Ser Rodrik grits his teeth, and then softens his expression. “Of course, my dear.”
“Wait!” Theon speaks up. “I need a word with Lady Sansa.” They all look at him expectantly. “A private word.”
“We’ll stand 20 feet from you, and you only have two minutes.” Ser Rodrik decides quickly, though Maester Luwin has to pull him away.
“Did you mean what you said?” Theon wastes no time in asking. “About asking Robb for mercy on my behalf?”
Sansa thinks it over. “I don’t know,” She admits, for she doesn’t want to lie again. “Keep your promise and I will. Kill anyone, and I’ll see to it that Robb gives me your head along with Joffrey’s.” She’s proud that she’s able to say it with little emotion. Theon has no idea how to read her, and it’s evident in his face. She smiles victoriously.
“I want you to write a raven to Robb explaining that you and Bran have willingly acquiesced. Let me read it in the morning before you send it.” He counters.
Sansa frowns and nods. She was stupid for thinking she had power in this. Theon holds the power, not her. The men always do. It’s a smart move on his part, but now she’s truly spent. “Goodnight, my love,” She adds for good measure. She leans closer to him and kisses his cheek, knowing it will make Ser Rodrik mad but also assure him she’s serious in her decision, for she truly believes it’s in everyone’s best interest for her to be a good little lamb and do what Theon asks of her. She’ll do whatever he wants her to.
She walks straight to Ser Rodrik and lets him lead her away, thankful that Theon doesn’t try and hold her back. She writes her letter, and then readies for bed slowly, the chaos of the day finally reaching her and consuming all her energy. She braids back her hair but she knows she won’t sleep well tonight. Not alone. Grabbing a lantern, she pads her way down the hall to Rickon’s chambers, where he’s sleeping soundly. Shaggydog perks up at her, and she gives him a loving pet. “Watch him, dearest.” She commands, and Shaggy nuzzles into her, like Lady used to. Oh, how she wishes Lady were here.
Rickon’s sleeping soundly, but she knows Bran will be as restless as she, so she turns for his chambers. She knocks lightly on the door, and then steps inside.
Bran is sitting in his bed, Summer beside him, as he reads in the dim candlelight. “Sansa?” He questions, looking up.
“I thought I’d sleep with you tonight, little brother.” She smiles. Bran smiles back, but it’s small and sad. “Everything will be fine.”
Bran shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Robb’s been gone a while. Who knows when he’ll be back. It could be years. He could be too late, by the time he comes to save us.”
“You mustn’t think like that.” she admonishes. “Everything will be alright, I promise. We know Theon. We may not know if we can trust him anymore, but we know him. It’s important to know people, regardless of whether they’re your friend or your enemy.”
“You sound like Father.”
Sansa smiles, that’s quite the compliment. She takes the book from him and sets it on his bedside. “Let’s go to sleep,” she says, climbing under the furs beside him. They snuggle close and soon drift off.
—
The wedding day arrived before Sansa knew it. With the help of several handmaidens she made a simple, modest white dress. It had a high cowl neckline, juliet sleeves with white wolf fur cuffs, and a billowy skirt with an overskirt of white and golden brown wolf fur to match. For her married cloak, she made it of black velvet and used more golden brown fur at the collar. In gold thread she embroidered the greyjoy sigil at the back. For her maiden cloak, she chose to wear her mother’s married one, both to save time in making one and also because she felt it gave her strength. It was a deep grey velvet lined with silver wolf fur and the Stark direwolf embroidered in silver at the back.
She would have wanted her mother to help her get ready for the ceremony, but without her here, she didn’t want anyone, she’d rather get ready alone. She put on her dress and braided her hair out of her face in a style her mother always liked to wear. When Sansa was younger, she had wanted to wear her hair in the same style, but her mother told her it was a style meant for a woman. Sansa may not have flowered yet, but she was about to be married, and she figured that made her woman enough.
For a final touch, she put on her direwolf locket, smiling at the pictures of her parents and then pressing it closed.
She smiled at her reflection in the looking glass, she thought she looked just like her mother. And that thought made her happy. Osha and Rickon stop by, Rickon with wildflowers he had picked for her, and they wish her luck, saying that Ser Rodrik will be there in five to escort her to the Godswood. She forces a smile as she accepts her brother’s flowers. She’s been telling herself she’d be married nonstop, but she guesses she didn’t really understand what that meant until now. Theon will bed her, she’ll be his to own, from then on until forever, or, at least, until Robb is home. She takes as many deep breaths as she can manage until Ser Rodrik comes.
The entire walk to the Godswood, Ser Rodrik tries to talk her out of it. Saying it’s not too late to put a stop to it. Sansa listens to him, careful to not interrupt, but when they reach the Godswood, she tells him she’s made up her mind.
“You’ll walk me down the aisle, right?” She asks, slightly worried he’ll say no. “Since my father can’t.”
Ser Rodrik’s eyes soften for the first time in three days. “Of course, dear.”
Sansa thinks she dissociates during the ceremony, for she doesn’t really remember it. But before she knows it, Theon takes her hand and the Maester Luwin is tying their hands together. They say the words and their union is sealed with a kiss. It’s official, she’s married now. Lady Sansa Greyjoy. The Princess of Winterfell. It doesn’t feel much different, she was already a princess in the North.
The feast, for what it’s worth, is a lively affair, and lemon cakes are served, which provokes a genuine smile from her. So genuine that Theon keeps filling her plate with them.
She’s surprised when the bedding comes. She’d forgotten all about that. But once one Ironborn shouts for it the rest join in and it doesn’t matter that she can hear her brothers’ protest, she’s thankful she sees Osha shield their eyes as the Ironborn pull at her dress, rather harshly she might add.
Sansa’s carried by the tall soldier who had lingered around her like no one else since they met. Her dress, that she worked so hard on, is torn in too many places to ever be salvageable, though she was lucky it was still partially covering her. It’s more than she could have hoped for, given the circumstances.
They’re in the lord’s chambers, and as Sansa looks around she’s happy to see it’s how her parents left it. Her eyes study the room and then land on Theon. He’s as bare as his nameday, and Sansa’s embarrassed that she lets her gaze fall. She can’t help the gasp that escapes her lips. He’s well endowed. She heard the servant girls talk about him all throughout her childhood, and now she knows the rumors are true.
Theon smiles at her reaction, but when their eyes meet, she grows afraid, and uses her arms to cover herself. Her eyes scrunch shut but she can feel Theon’s gaze still on her, taking in all of her that he can see.
“Were you telling the truth?” He asks, comfortable in his lack of modesty as he walks to the washbasin and washes his face.
“Ab–abou–t what?” she stutters out.
“About not having bled yet.” He clarifies looking back over at her and patting his face dry.
She nods her head, feeling embarrassed and confused. Why is he asking?
“Alright. Goodnight.” He says, and he strolls on over to the bed, pulling back the furs and crawling under them.
“You’re not…we’re not…you’re not going to…take my maidenhood?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. There’s no sense in doing it while you’re not ready. Besides, I made you a promise.”
“What promise?” She wonders.
“I said I wouldn’t harm anyone, and that includes you. You will be sharing my chambers though. I can’t have anyone think less of me.”
Sansa smiles with relief and reassurance. His promise was technically not to kill anyone, so the fact that he’s adding not harming anyone means something. Plus, she’s heard the Ironborn take what’s theirs. She’s glad he’s not taking her. Or, not yet anyway. That’s what he said. Not yet. She shivers.
“I had a maid bring all your things in here,” Theon tells her. He must have assumed she was shivering from the cold. “Your nightgowns should be in one of the dresser drawers.”
Sansa blushes, and rushes over to the large bureau where her mother’s nightgowns were once kept. She hopes her maid didn’t just throw all of her mother’s things away. She’ll need them when she comes home.
She picks an unbleached muslim nightgown, that’s long in both the length and the sleeves. It will leave her almost entirely covered, and that thought gives her comfort, it’s armor in its own right.
She brings it behind the partition and dresses slowly, carefully, examining the damage on her beloved wedding dress. She worked so hard on it, and was proud of it, given the short time she had to make it. And now it was as good as a pile of scraps. Still, it’s dear to her, so when she’s dressed in her nightgown she hangs her wedding dress in the wardrobe.
She undoes her hair, letting it fall about in loose curls. It’s time for her to go to bed, and while she’s no longer scared that Theon will bed her, she’s still scared to sleep beside him. It’s much different than, say, sleeping with Bran. But she must continue to keep Theon pleased, so she musters the courage and walks over to her side of the feather mattress. She pulls back the furs and cuddles under them, blowing out her candle and closing her eyes. Theon falls asleep quickly, and Sansa’s happy to learn that while he snores, it’s not in an annoying, overbearing, sense. It’s almost soothing, with a calm, steady rhythm to it.
It still takes her a while, but eventually she does drift off. And when she wakes the next morning, the sun is already shining high in the sky. She looks beside her, but the bed is empty. “Theon?” She calls out, suddenly scared to be alone.
“Yeah?” He says, looking up from where he is on the ground, doing push ups quietly in the corner of the room.
“What time is it?” She asks, trying to stifle a yawn. They didn’t get to bed until early morning, so she’s not sure how long she slept.
“Nearly midday. You’ve been sleeping pretty soundly. I’ll order some breakfast.” He says, standing up and ringing the bell for a servant to come.
“Can I eat with my brothers? I’d like to check on them.”
Theon shakes his head. “You can check on them tomorrow. They’re perfectly fine with Osha and Hodor taking care of them.”
“But–but why not? You can eat with us too, if…if…” if it helps.
“It’s our first day of marriage. If our marriage was real and true, we wouldn’t leave the chamber for days. Unfortunately, our marriage is real and untrue, but we still have to keep up the persona that I’m ravaging my pretty wife.”
“Why aren’t you?” She asks before she can stop herself. Theon’s about to answer when two maids come in, pushing a cart full of different foods.
“You can leave it here.” Theon commands, his voice more commanding than it previously was.
“Please!” Sansa adds with a smile. Theon rolls his eyes at her.
He plates up some eggs, meat, and bread for himself, and hands Sansa an empty plate when she comes to stand beside him at the cart. She grabs some eggs and fruit, and a cheese roll, before perching on a chaise so she may eat. Theon’s standing by the cart still, eating slowly, and Sansa remembers her mission to be nice to him, so she pats the space beside her. He raises his brow in question, and then slowly walks over to sit next to her.
They eat in silence for several minutes, until Sansa works up the courage to ask the question that’s been eating her for three days. Or questions, she guesses. She’s just not sure if it’s her place to ask them. Will he get angry like Joffrey did? Theon is known to have a temper. Different than Joffrey’s sure, but a temper all the same. She puts on a pretty smile, and wears her kindest eyes, her figurative armor shielding her skin through her mannerisms.
“My love, might I ask you something?” She asks, before taking a large bite of egg.
Theon swallows his large mouthful and nods his head, his brow full of confusion.
“You said the other day that you sacked Winterfell because you could. Because Robb wanted to take advantage of the Iron Islands resources and so you took advantage of the North, so I assumed you were just embracing your roots, but…you’re not acting very Ironborn. You speak harshly, like the Ironborn do. You did indeed raid the North, but you haven’t really ravaged anything, and you didn’t…” she doesn’t want to say rape, but that is the word one should use. Instead, she uses more decorum and says, “bed me. So I guess, for all my rambling, my question is, why did you do it? Why did you take Winterfell, and betray Robb, if you were only going to do it halfway?”
Theon takes a large bite, and Sansa wonders if he’s not going to provide her an answer. “I thought I might make my father proud.” Theon says, quiet, and dejected, almost.
It’s a silly reason, Sansa would figure his father would be proud of him regardless. “I’m sure you did.” She smiles, trying to be kind.
Theon shakes his head, but he’s not looking at her, so she’s not sure if she was meant to see it. “I think my real father lost his head in King’s Landing.” He whispers. Once again, Sansa’s not sure if that was meant for her, but it touches her all the same. She reaches over and squeezes his hand. It’s only then that he looks over at her. Not at her face, but at her fingers, intertwined with his.
“Why do you call me your love?” He asks. “I know as a fact you don’t love me.”
She can hear it though he doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t love her either. She didn’t think he did, but it’s good to have confirmation. Somehow it appeases her to know that this marriage was entirely political. She doesn’t want feelings beyond kindness and courtesy to get involved. She loved Joffrey, and look where that got her.
She works a blush to her cheeks, praying it doesn’t look too fake. “Because you’re my husband. You’re very dear to me.” She excuses, trying to create a lightness about her.
“This will be much easier if we agree not to lie to each other." He tells her. Sansa can’t help but laugh, does he expect her to believe he’s not planning on lying to her? “I haven’t lied to you yet.” He reminds her. “And I don’t plan to. So why don’t you agree to do the same. They say a marriage is built on trust, Lady Sansa. And despite your belief that Robb will come save you, don’t mistake my refusal to bed a child as weakness. When you bleed, I will bed you, and you will bore me a kraken heir or two. I promise you that is my intention, nothing else.”
Sansa lets go of his hand, abruptly bringing it to her lap, feeling nervous and bashful, and a little angry, too. She’s not a child. She’s the Lady of Winterfell. A Princess in the North. A wife now, too. She’s not a child. Of course, a child wouldn’t react so offended to that. She needs to don her armor better. She smiles at him, but refuses to grab his hand. Maybe she’s still a little childish.
“I’m not lying. You’re my husband. You’re right, I don’t love you. The circumstances didn’t really allow for it, but I hope we’ll have an amiable marriage in time.”
“That’s why you’re being so nice to me?”
She nods her head. In reality, she’s being nice to protect herself and her siblings, her people, and her home, but it’s better he doesn’t know that.
“Then no more lying. You’re my wife now, for better or worse. No more lying.”
“No more lying,” Sansa agrees. She sets her plate aside, having lost her appetite. “Do you know if the maids brought my sewing in? If we’re forced to spend all day in here, I’d like to be productive.”
Theon motions over to another dresser. “Check there, some trinkets of yours should be in it too.”
Sansa nods, and abruptly goes to the dresser. Sure enough, there’s plenty of her fabrics and supplies. She’s filtering through her selection of dull blues and greys, when instead she settles on some black wool. She’s married now, it’s time she starts wearing more of her husband’s colors. She’ll need to get some more gold embellishments. She doesn’t have much because she’s always been more of a silver girl.
She shuffles through her dress patterns to find one she likes. She picks one of her favorite patterns, a dress with a full skirt and butterfly sleeves, but she retraces and alters the bodice to have a boat neckline. She figures it’s kind of fitting, seeing that Theon is of the sea.
Speaking of Theon, her beloved husband, she’s not sure what he’s doing right now. She’s trying to avoid looking in his direction, but it’s hard because he’s barely making a sound, and she’s desperate to know what that means. What is he doing?
She finally works up the courage to sneak a peek, and she sees him sitting by the fireplace, whittling a block of wood. Since when does he whittle? It’s such an odd hobby, not in general, but for him specifically. It seems so out of character. Of course, taking Winterfell seemed out of character too, so she supposes she doesn’t know him as well as she thought. But as his wife it’s her duty to get to know him better, so she best start now.
“What are you carving?” She asks, as she begins to cut the skirt.
Theon looks over at her, surprised that she cares. “I’m not sure yet. I figured some sort of figurine for Rickon. I was going to do Shaggy but the wood’s a lot lighter close to the center, too light for him.”
Sansa nods, and then focuses back on the sheers in her hand. They’re quiet for a long time, if Sansa had to guess, over an hour had passed, but she wasn’t exactly sure how long. She’s finished her skirt, because all she really needed to do was hem it and gather it at the waist. The sleeves will be easy, because she makes them so often, so she decided she’d use some of her gold thread to embroider along the edge of the sleeves. She’s working on the second sleeve when Theon finally breaks the comfortable silence.
“Are you hungry? I think I might call for some food.”
“We ate two hours ago.”
“Three,” Theon corrects. “I’m going to call for some more.” He rings the bell and sends the servant to get more food and that’s how they spend the rest of the day, eating, sewing, whittling, and coexisting in peaceful silence.
The next morning, Sansa wakes early, as Theon scurries to dress for the day. He looks over and sees that Sansa is awake. “I have some matters to attend to, but you can break your fast with Bran and Rickon. I’ll come find you later.”
“Okay,” Sansa says, because she can’t say much else. She waits until Theon leaves before she gets up and ready. Her dress isn’t done yet, so instead she wears one of her old ones. It’s a green velvet with leg of mutton sleeves and forest green and gold ribbon detail, and a square neckline. She twists her hair up into a tight bun and ties it with a matching forest green ribbon. She doesn’t have much gold jewelry but she does have a three pearl necklace strung on a gold chain that is almost perfect. It pains her to take off her direwolf locket, but she feels the need to do so. It doesn’t match, and if she wants to keep up her appearance figuratively, she needs to do so literally as well. She tucks it in her pocket so she still has it nearby. The pearl necklace, paired with pearl earrings, and her golden wedding band, really tie it all together. She looks at her reflection in the mirror and feels proud. She looks perfectly proper and respectable. The perfect wife. The perfect lady.
She’s eager to see her brothers, and luckily Maester Luwin had already arranged for them to eat in Bran’s chambers. Osha and Hodor are there with the boys and the wolves, but Ser Rodrik isn’t. Sansa knows he’s still upset about all of this, for it’s not what her parents would have wanted. It’s not what she wants either, but one must make the best of what they’re given, and Sansa was given a ring and a promise. She made promises of her own. It’s too late to turn back now.
Bran and Rickon both hug her tight, and Sansa must sit with Rickon in her lap and Bran holding one of her hands while they all eat just to soothe them. Bran keeps looking at her strangely, worriedly, and Rickon can’t decide if he wants to cheer or cry, so he does a little of both.
“I’m fine, sweetlings,” she tries to assure them. “Really, I think marriage suits me, and Theon has been nothing but kind. All is well. All is well.”
That only soothes them some, but Sansa’s sure in time their fears will disappear. Just as she’s sure in time, Theon will realize the error of his ways and do the right thing. He said yesterday that Ned Stark was his real father, if he really believes that, then her father must have been able to instill some sense of honor in him.
—
Both Robb and Lady Catelyn had responded to Sansa’s raven announcing her marriage with vehement protest. Supposedly her mother was coming home to settle things, but Sansa was unsure she’d be able to get away in the heat of war. Robb assured her he’d kill ‘Theon the turncloak’ as he phrased it, just as soon as he killed Joffrey. That comforted Sansa for many reasons. Firstly, it meant Robb had his priorities straight and knew that Joffrey was a more important threat than Theon. And if turncloak was as offensive as Robb was going to be in regards to his former best friend, there was hope that death wouldn’t be what was at the end of the road. Robb would be merciful and just. Honorable.
It had been nearly three moons since the wedding, and Bran and Rickon weren’t so mad at Theon anymore. Bran was certainly upset with him still, but Theon, for his part, was doing a good job as the ‘Prince of Winterfell’. The people still despised him, but he was handling everything well. No violence, no major conflicts, just unrest. It was the best possible outcome. Bad things were happening, but nothing truly terrible.
Until the day the Bolton’s try to sack Winterfell. They storm into the castle in the middle of the night, hoping to use the element of surprise, but luckily, Theon’s been assigning 24 hour surveillance due to who he was.
Sansa startles awake to Theon’s hand over her mouth. She tries to squeal but he shakes his head and brings a finger to his lips, signaling her to be quiet. She shivers with fear as Theon pulls her out of the bed, and when he sees her shaking he wraps his cloak around her shoulders. “They’re down the hall,” he whispers.
“Who?” She asks frantically.
“Boltons. Supposedly they’re taking back Winterfell in the Stark name, but I’d reason they’re going to try and claim it for themselves.” He pulls her towards the secret passage in the chambers, and opens up the trapdoor behind the bookshelf. “Follow this to Rickon’s nursery. Osha went to collect him, and then take the passage there to the shelter.” He commands.
“What about you?”
“I need to fend them off. Go! Now!”
“I can’t! I can’t go alone!” She cries out in a whisper, shaking her head violently.
“You can and you will! Ser Rodrik is already fending them off. If he doesn’t trust them, you shouldn’t either. I have to stop them, and you and your brothers need to be safe. Go! Now!” He practically pushes her into the passage and then closes it up, but not before handing her a lantern and a small dagger.
She grips it tightly as she makes her way to the nursery. The passage in the lord's chambers leads to both the nursery and the Lord’s solar, and she can’t remember which way goes where. So of course, she makes a wrong turn and ends up in the solar. Well, not quite in it, she’s on the other side of the wall, but she can hear men in there, men who are neither Ironborn or of Winterfell, further plotting. Sansa fidgets with the end of her braid worriedly. Winterfell was said to be impenetrable, and now Theon’s taken it and The Boltons may soon too. No! She tells herself, Ser Rodrik won’t let that happen. Theon had lured him away before, but he’s here now.
She quickly rushes back the way she came, trying to turn towards Rickon’s nursery, but she must be terrible with direction. She ends up back at the Lord’s chambers. It’s okay, she tells herself. This is my home, I am not lost. She simply needs to go the one way she hasn’t yet and all will be well. She looks through the small peep hole in the wall that looks into the chambers, and she sees her locket, sitting on her bedside table. She wore mostly gold now, and so she’d keep it in her pocket during the day and by her bed at night. She had forgotten to grab it. She’ll be quick. It will take just two seconds to grab it and get back into the passage. Just two quick paces, grab it, and two quick paces back. She emerges from the passage, ready to grab it, letting out a shriek when she realizes she’s not alone.
A man with blue eyes and a sadistic smile grabs her, and holds her close despite her efforts to break free. “Let go of me!” She cries. “Please! Please! I’m the Princess of Winterfell! If you hurt me it won’t end well for you! Please!”
“I’m not going to harm you. Not really. It shouldn’t hurt much since you’ve been married awhile now.” He smiles evilly.
“Who are you?” She begs, still trying to break free. He’s got a tight grip on both her wrists, making it impossible.
“Ramsay Bolton! You’ll be a Bolton soon too, my dear, after I take Winterfell and kill your traitor husband, you and I will wed as well.”
Sansa has to bite back a laugh, never in her life did she think she’d be a marriage pawn twice. Three times if you count Joffrey’s efforts. She thinks on it further, though, and Roose Bolton only had one trueborn son, Domeric. Roose has no living brothers, so it’s not a nephew. He must be a bastard, like Jon. He twists her wrists and she winces. This man is nothing like Jon. If Jon were here, he would save her.
“Help!” She yells, and he covers her mouth harshly. He then pins her to the wall and works to pull away her small clothes from under her dress. She keeps screaming for help but no one comes to her aid. She tries to fight back, but she’s not a match for him. He finally manages to pull her small clothes off her, and she lets out the loudest shriek she can, she’ll surely lose her voice soon, but what else can she do. She screams again, and just as this Bolton bastard is about to forcefully enter her, He’s pulled off her.
She squinches her eyes shut as blood splatters on her face as her savior stabs the man. She hears him wince, and then make no noise at all.
“Sansa, are you alright?” Theon asks. Theon! Her husband, come to save her! She opens her eyes and crashes into him. He hugs her back and then lifts her in his arms, carrying her back towards the passage entrance.
“Are you alright?” He asks, as he carries her down the passage. “What happened? Why didn’t you go to the nursery?”
Words are hard, so she hugs Theon tighter, which causes him to quicken his pace. They reach the nursery, and Sansa wants to cry when she realizes Rickon’s not there. Nor Osha, or Shaggydog, or anyone.
“They’ve probably already gone down! You need to go.” Theon says, setting her down and beginning to open it up.
“Are you coming with me?” She asks.
He doesn’t answer her until the trap door is opened and he begins to help her down. “I have to keep fighting. Ramsay was the leader, and he’s dead now, so I’ll make quick work of it. I’ll come get you when it’s safe to do so.”
Sansa wants to protest, but she knows it’s no use. So she squeezes his hand and takes a step down. “Thank you.” She whispers, and he smiles at her in response.
She’s relieved that it’s a direct path from here on out, and when she reaches the shelter she’s even more relieved that Bran, Rickon, Osha, Hodor, and the direwolves are all here, safe and sound. Bran and Rickon are cuddled on either side of Osha as she tries to reassure them, and Hodor is sitting at the opposite walls with the wolves.
Everyone smiles when they see her, and she pulls Rickon into her lap so she can sit by Osha. She wishes her mother were here. She wishes her mother could play with her hair and sing to her, telling her everything’s alright. It would help, Sansa’s sure it would. She feels so frightened, for herself and her brothers, for Winterfell, for Theon, but if her mother was here, she wouldn’t be afraid. She tried. She tried to be brave like Robb, but she couldn’t. She can’t. She just wants to crawl under her furs and hide, but she can’t do that. She needs to keep it together, for Rickon and Bran.
Osha seems to sense something’s off with her, and so she hugs her tight and absentmindedly, she begins to take her braid out and run her fingers through her hair. Sansa’s never been more grateful.