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Sansa Stark's plainest fault, even at the age of 15, was the stubborn streak of romance that led her into all sorts of naive dreams. She had a head full of songs, her mother had said (not unkindly), but so far as she could tell it, it was a better life to believe in the songs and the tales. She would sing to herself at nights when she couldn't sleep, softly so as not to awaken any of her nearby siblings, though Arya knew of this tendency; she wandered in her restlessness, to no one's surprise.
She was singing a sad song this time, but cut off as Robb and Jon's voices rose in song and chatter in the corridor. Her brow wrinkled; they were clearly in the casks again. She opened her bedroom door when they seemed to have passed by, and drew a cloak around herself to go after them. Instead, she found herself stopping short for none other than Theon. Embarrassed, she drew the cloak more closely around herself and quickly said, politely, "I beg your pardon."
Theon was not quite so drunk as Robb and Jon, who, Seven bless him, was doing his best to please his half-brother in singing. He stopped in his tracks for Sansa, though, and awkwardly dismissed the thought with, "My lady." He paused. "No cause for alarm. Unless they wake your mother with that racket, then there may be alarm."
"I meant to warn them of that," she agreed with a nod, and drew herself up after considering him. "Though I may send the message with their fellow... carouser, if you would be so good?"
The corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk; she was amusing. "And what is that? 'Stop, I'm losing beauty sleep'?"
Sansa sent a glance down the corridor. "They're also quite off-key."
"Oh, quite," he agreed. It had been the main source of his amusement since it had begun, that, and his attempts to get serious Jon Snow to join in. "Although whether a tin ear is to blame or a lack of care, I could not say."
"They'll be missing you," she mentioned.
He shrugged carelessly, but he could take the hint. "Then I'll be on my way," he said. "I'll tell them to mind their pitch."
"And their volume?" She smiled. "Thank you, Theon."
That smile froze him. "Jon will be grateful for the excuse, I'm sure," he replied, dismissing it.
"Their lady sister demands it on behalf of House Stark," she said, nearly seriously. "Just like that, please."
"Which will, undoubtedly, make all the difference."
She fought off another smile. "I do believe you aren't taking me seriously."
He supposed that in the corridor in her nightclothes was one of the more suspect places he could not take Sansa Stark seriously. "And why is that?"
"The wine, I think," she answered without missing a beat.
He gave a short laugh. "Agreed," he said simply.
She didn't want to go back into her bed, now, though this scenario was all sorts of inappropriate, she finally noticed, and her face flushed pink. "I ought to bid you goodnight," she said, and offered a small smile. "A lady needs her beauty sleep, as you say."
"Yes." If for no other reason than between the wine and the skin showing at her neck, he was having thoughts that were normally reserved by him for less well born ladies of Winterfell. "Although you have less need of it than most."
Sansa froze at that, embarrassment flooding her cheeks red now. "I - thank you," she said, speechless otherwise, while a small part of her wondered why she hadn't chided him.
That had been somewhat more... artless than he'd thought it might be, and if he'd been sober he may have even had the grace to at least pretend to be sorry, or embarrassed about it. "Of course," he answered her instead.
What was she meant to do? Her father's ward? Likely stay silent, go back into her room, but something made her stop. "Go on then," she said, cleared her throat, unsure of what she was inviting him to do.
If she were one of the kitchen girls (the pretty one, not the one who looked like her face had made close, sudden friends with a heavy iron pan) her skirts would have been over her head and he would have been in her five minutes ago... but with Ned Stark's daughter that was more trouble than even Theon could bring himself to ask for. "Don't trouble yourself about Robb and Jon," he said, backing away with a slight bow, "and sleep."
She nodded to accept his words, but when he rose from his bow, she found herself stepping forward before he could react to brush a kiss against his cheek. "Goodnight, Theon," she whispered to him while still close, and drew back.
"Good night," he answered. She was close in the darkness, too close to him, but drawing back also drew a smile out of him.
She escaped into her room, red-faced and startled at herself as she closed the door behind her.
As much as her reason wished it would, the thought would not leave her head. Songs have been written for less. A man taken from his home as a boy discovered love in the arms of his captor's daughter... for two weeks she nursed these thoughts, the potential consequences only fueling the misery she now carried with her every day. Lovesickness. There would be only one cure.
It was too late at night, and she knew she ought to be in bed, a maiden with innocent dreams and an arranged engagement awaiting her any day now. But she found herself at Theon's door, her heart light with the madness of infatuation and heavy with the fear of rejection, and a sudden boldness led her to softly knock.
Having sent Robb and Jon off to bed, Theon went to his own bed with the expectation of falling into bed, sleeping, and waking up with a headache. He almost ignored the knock, but it came again, and he pulled the door open. He was more than a little surprised that Sansa was standing there. "Sansa?"
She froze, then. "Did I wake you?" she asked, though she clearly had. "I'm sorry."
"I wasn't asleep." He was, however, standing there stripped to the waist and she was still in night clothes.
What was she doing? She kept her eyes trained on his face, for as embarrassing as it was to meet his gaze, to look elsewhere would be worse. "I wanted to see you. Tonight."
"Well." He cleared his throat. Either bring her in or send her away, but for the sake of the Seven do it before someone sees. He took hold of her arm and pulled her in the door and closed it behind her. "Did it occur to you that coming to my room in the middle of the night was not the way to do it?" He hadn't meant to snap, it had just come out.
"No one saw me," Sansa defended. "And -- " And she was standing with him, alone, in his room. There was a pause, before she refused to reflect on what was happening. "And I won't be spoken to that way."
He straightened; he had her in here and he wasn't sure what to do now. "Apologies."
"What would you have me do?" she answered then. "Ask my father for your attentions, or Robb or Jon?"
"Only if your intention is that none of this should ever come to pass," he said dryly, but what was he thinking?
"That's why I came to you," Sansa said, tucking loose hair behind her ears. "Because whatever happens, it's... our decision."
"I don't see why," he said pointedly.
"I thought your people braver," she retorted, unthinking.
"Did you," he replied, tone clipped and severe. He knew Sansa's pretty head was full of songs and stories, but was it devoid of everything else? "Brave is well and good, I guess, but of much more use to one who is alive than one who is dead and defeated and reminded every day what misguided bravery can do."
"Then I was wrong about you." She tried not to feel injured, pushed aside. "Forgive me. I'll go."
She hadn't moved to go, but he took her arm by just above the elbow. "You know that I'm here as a surety that my father does not rebel again," he checked, "a traitor to King Robert's crown?" Did she understand what attaching to him meant, and until such time as it was "safe" for him to be otherwise, how little that meant he had to offer? "You'll be promised to Prince Joffrey in a matter of no time at all, if any of the talk is meant to be taken seriously."
The rumours of Joffrey again, back to torment her. "It's only talk," she said, determined to not be moved by their closeness or his touch. "There are better matches than a Stark of Winterfell. Me, the future Queen of Westeros -- " She shook her head, dropped her gaze, and attempted to pull out of his reach.
Given the storied history between Ned Stark and King Robert, Theon was only shocked this was only coming to pass now and hadn't been in place since they were both young. "I suppose he could marry his sister, after true Targaryen fashion," he said, although why he couldn't have said.
Sansa was a fool with a head full of songs after all. "Will you bend the knee if I am your Queen, then?" she asked. "If you're fond of pretty northern girls."
He was an idiot, and a right fool. "If that was your command."
We've trained you well. She did support King Robert, she would marry Joffrey if that were her father's command, but it seemed that everyone besides the lords of the North were meant to take orders and little else, from Theon to the ladies like herself. "I know who you are," she said, "and you know who I am. And if that makes this impossible, I..." She put a hand to his chest and looked up at him. "I will accept it."
Just like the good little daughter she was. That was probably better for everyone. But if this was going to be his one chance... He closed the distance and kissed her once, on the mouth, more gently than he'd kissed anyone probably ever.
She clung to the kiss as long as he would have her, her hands on him though how inappropriate and she exhaled upon dropping from her tiptoes, realizing what it was she had done. I don't want Joffrey. This was madness. "Good -- goodnight," she said, in some effort to send herself away, but she kissed him again.
If he didn't stop right then, he was going to have her then and there. He let go of her arm, but hung on to the kiss. "You have to go," he told her finally.
"Yes," she agreed, without hesitation, but drew away slowly. "I won't trouble you again." She could still feel his mouth on hers -- her first kisses.
"Not here. Not -- " Damn it. "Find a place to be alone. I'll find you."
"I will," she promised, and slipped back towards the door before temptation took over again.
~~
Whether he caught himself looking at Sansa because she was looking at him or vice versa, Theon couldn't have said, but it didn't really matter. Or at least it didn't until he was in the yard, sparring with Jon and Robb, Bran and Arya also not too far off, in their own contest with one another. He stood back while Robb and Jon took their turn, only half listening.
"It won't be long now," Robb mentioned to neither one of them in particular. "Riders arrived this morning."
"The whole lot of them then," Jon figured, and took a strike at Robb. "Feasts aplenty. Wine... the like."
"The whole lot and then some," Robb agreed dryly, blocking and striking low at Jon.
"And how long will they stay?" Theon asked. He couldn't say he was looking forward to it for a number of reasons.
"Weeks, maybe," he answered. "They wouldn't come all this way for less."
"Why are they coming?" Bran spoke up from his nearby perch by the archery equipment.
Jon exchanged a look with Robb. "Change of scenery," he cracked.
Robb laughed. "Cooler climate?" he joked in return.
"Jeyne says Sansa is going to be married to Joffrey," Arya said. Not that she'd been listening willingly. "Is that true?"
Robb paused at that. Too long for Theon's liking. "They've been discussing it," he admitted.
"Sansa's going to be princess?" Bran asked, intrigued.
"Queen, actually," Jon said.
"One day," Robb was quick to break in. "Not right away."
Not at all if Theon could help it. He backed away slowly, and disappeared to look for Sansa. To what point and purpose, he didn't quite know, but he had to know what she thought.
It took some time, but eventually Theon found Sansa in the godswood, where she had retreated with a light cloak tightly around her. She didn't look up at the sound of someone approaching, continuing to pray to any gods who would listen.
He sat near her. It would seem respectable if he weren't looking so closely at her, waiting for her to say something, anything. "I guess a congratulations is in order," he finally said.
Her head dropped. "News moves quickly in Winterfell as always."
"Robb seemed to know what's going on," he replied.
"Prince Joffrey is coming here to take me back with him to King's Landing, Theon."
"I know it." He couldn't bring himself to ask the questions he wanted to ask. "You should be glad."
"Yes," Sansa confirmed, softly, mournfully. "I should."
But she was not. "Sansa, Queen of the Andals and First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. Has a certain weight to it." He hated it.
A tear streaked down her cheek, but she ignored it, and those that came after. "I have three days to convince my father... before Joffrey arrives -- "
Three days was not so many, but perhaps enough. "A lot may happen in three days, Sansa," he said.
"Such as miracles," she murmured, wiping her tears away. "Will you mourn for us, my kraken?"
She cried; why did she cry? "There's no cause," he said, looking away from her face to the dirt at his feet. "We were... a kiss in the night. Looking where we shouldn't have."
She drew in a breath. "We were that, once," she agreed slowly. "Now... you're my love."
"Sansa." He didn't know where to start or where it could end, except with, "I have nothing."
"You have me, if you want me," she answered without hesitation.
He put a hand to her face, gently wiping away the tear tracks that had dripped down her cheeks. "If your father knew you were so unhappy, surely he wouldn't..." What, refuse a betrothal to the crown prince? Moreover, Robert Baratheon swung the hammer and Ned Stark came down on the target. He could remember that well enough.
"You think he would hesitate to pull us apart?" He knew better.
"No," he said, but that would have been the intelligent choice. Even without the ability to promise anything or even that he should. "Then let me speak to him."
She turned to him at last. "You would -- tell him," she checked.
"If I have to," he said and knew he may be sorry for it.
There was no other way. She touched his face, moved closer, and nodded. "Please," she whispered, before kissing him.
The kiss tasted like salt, but tears, not sea water. He broke it after a short moment, still nervous they would be caught out here in the godswood. "I can't imagine what difference it will make -- "
"If you - " She cut herself off, embarrassed at interrupting him. "Ask for my hand, Theon."
"With nothing?"
Sansa shook her head. "My father is a fair man. There is a chance."
"Fair, perhaps, but also beholden to politics and not terribly disposed to flights of fancy," he replied dryly.
"It seems our only option," she said after a moment of quiet, "but if this is where it ends, Theon, I - "
"Stop," he said, because this was where it would end, quite likely. "Nothing more, Sansa. Not until..."
She nodded miserably, but forced herself to stand and regain her composure. "Do what you will," she said, then. "I understand, either way."
"Sansa..." he started, but found there was no way to finish that gracefully. Instead he only bent to kiss her hands.
Sansa held onto his hands tightly even after he rose. "I'll be waiting for you tonight," she promised.
It would be better if she didn't -- if they didn't. "Then I will see you."
She went to the pool, then, to clean her face and return to her family as though nothing had transpired, with blatant but unlikely hopes in her heart.
~~~
On several levels of consciousness, Theon had known this was not going to work out as he would have liked. That Ned Stark would agree to let his eldest daughter marry his ward (his hostage, let's not mince words) just because they asked had been ludicrous from the start. All the same, because she had said to, he had -- quite articulately and respectfully, he thought -- let it be known to Ned Stark that he and Sansa wished to marry.
The look he had received in return was not even worth talking about, and the "No" was so humiliatingly simple in it sure finality that Theon could not even find it within himself to argue or protest. He felt his cheeks burn as he left the hall, ignoring as he called after (possibly by Sansa herself, he knew she'd been nearby but he took no notice in the moment) and nearly tripping over Bran as he chased Arya.
Eventually he found isolation in the stables. The horses were better company than his own hurt and didn't seem to mind when he took out the worst of his temper on a post with his dagger, now marked from each slash and thrust that hit home.
"Theon," Sansa repeated, more firmly, and gathered her skirts in order to more quickly follow him. She already felt herself beginning to quiver from despair and fear even though she didn't have confirmation yet that their betrothal was denied, but forced herself into the straight-backed composure of a lady as she entered the stables.
It broke her heart to see him in such distemper, and her lips twitched downward as she stepped carefully closer. "My kraken," she called out to him.
He stopped abusing the post long enough to take a breath, although he found that he didn't feel any less wounded for all that. But he couldn't look at her either, not quite yet. "My lady," he said with a great deal more formality than he'd used in a while.
It was all but an open confirmation of everything she'd suspected. "He said no," she checked, slowly, softly as she came closer. "I'll speak to Mother. She will..."
There were several off-color things that Theon could have responded with, but he bit his tongue until he was sure that they wouldn't fly out. "You didn't see his face," was all he responded with.
"This doesn't change anything," Sansa answered, nearly stern with him.
"No," he replied. It certainly didn't, not his feelings, not hers, but it was certainly an elegant bit of punctuation to the affair thus far.
She dared touch his shoulder then, uncertain in the face of the mad prospects flicking through her mind. You've read too many stories, she told herself, frightened at the defiance starting to overwhelm her. She stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, "I would be your Queen before I would be his, Theon."
He relaxed at her touch but tensed again almost immediately. "We are not Kings on the Isles any longer, Sansa," he said with a hint of dry amusement. "Or did you not listen at your history lesson?"
"You're still my prince," she replied, and she pressed her lips to his cheek to give him some token.
He couldn't imagine not being in trouble for saying such a thing -- but as far as reassurances went, it wasn't bad. He leaned into the chaste kiss, and his hand found the ends of her hair, gently curling the ends of the auburn locks around his fingers.
Her eyes closed gently and she moved closer to him, to offer comfort and find it. By all rights they were already too close, too familiar; she couldn't bring herself to care.
Robb approached the stables carefully at the murmuring sound of voices, and could pick out Theon's, at least; no doubt he'd found another serving girl to entertain himself with. "Theon," he called. "If you aren't too busy, I thought we might... hunt..." Yes, there was a girl, and a familiar one.
By all the gods old and new, did Robb Stark have to be there at right that moment? Apparently so. "Your timing needs work," he answered instead.
"She'll thank me later," Robb answered dryly.
Sansa was tensed to the point of quivering against Theon. Robb and all the others would know soon enough -- secrets weren't kept long in Winterfell, no matter how hard her lord and lady parents tried to keep things civil -- but this was hardly how she wanted him to find out. Hiding away like a common serving wench... "If it please my lord we'll be on our way," she chirped, desperate.
The remark wouldn't have been such a blow if not for the fact that he'd hardly touched Sansa, certainly not in any fashion that would be considered objectionable, save for the fact that it had been done in secret, and that he'd had enough of being made to feel like the outsider he was. "Mind yourself, Stark," he answered coldly.
Robb didn't know who to answer first: the girl with the too-familiar voice or the loud-mouthed ward. "My lord Stark," he corrected, tersely, and looked at the girl clutching herself close to Theon's chest.
"Please, Robb," Sansa pleaded; she could hardly believe the night had managed to get worse. "Just one moment, please."
"Sansa," Robb said slowly, his jaw clenching.
"For your sister, Robb, one moment," she cried, distressed.
Theon had dropped his hand from her hair, but kept it on her back; he was afraid she may fall over otherwise, so shaken was she. "It's all right, Sansa." He'd already fled from one Stark that day, he wouldn't shrink away from a second.
"What are you doing with my sister, Greyjoy?" Robb asked flatly.
"Nothing so terrible as you seem to think," he answered smartly.
"This ends here. Or I'll be forced to bring our lord father into this, Sansa," Robb said pointedly.
"He knows," Sansa said miserably.
"Come here," he ordered her.
She looked up into Theon's face, pleading.
He was only partly paying attention. "He already knows, Robb," he repeated. "He's refused our wishes to marry," he added. It wasn't going to win him any favor, but the look on Robb's face was definitely going to be worth it.
His expression, one of horrified astonishment, didn't disappoint. "To marry?" he repeated. "Sansa, he's a Greyjoy -- "
"And?" he challenged, interrupting. There it was, what his father had thought but refused to speak; he was flushing again, angry and unhappy.
Of all people, Theon Greyjoy... Robb could not have been more furious. "And she's to be Queen, not one of your salt wives."
"That was rather the point of asking," he said shortly.
"Let her go, Theon," Robb retorted. "I need to speak to my sister alone."
"I don't think she wants to speak with you."
Robb's anger flared. "You need to remember your place -- "
Theon advanced, almost literally toe to toe with Robb. "Everyone seems ready to remind me."
"You never did take your lessons well," Robb snapped.
Sansa was only steps behind Theon, ready to stand between the two if need be, and wondered if this was how her lady aunt Lyanna had felt before her death in the rebellion. "Robb -- " She reached for his arm, desperate to stop him.
Robb brushed her off. "Wait for me outside the stables, Sansa."
"Are you planning on teaching me, Stark?" he demanded in return, purposely taunting.
"You've more than earned it," Robb answered, and took a swing at Theon.
"Robb!" Sansa screeched despite herself, and stepped back as quickly as possible, hands clutched to her mouth.
His only regret was that he didn't take the swing first. He barely managed to avoid the hit, ducking and pulling his fist back to land his own punch with knuckle-crushing accuracy.
Sansa tried to breathe through her panic as her brother fell to the ground, barely conscious and bleeding. Every situation that presented itself to her following this was a nightmare in one way or another, except for the very last. She pulled in a breath. "Theon," she said, strained, but drawing herself up.
Theon tended to act first, think later. This had been no different and his heart was ramming against his ribcage like it intended to burst through. "You shouldn't have had to see that," he said numbly.
"We have to leave," she said, and it sounded as mad as she thought it would. "We have to... my father will -- "
He paced away, and back, and away again. His hand was killing him. "How well do you ride?" He'd seen her ride, he must have, at some point in their lives.
"I can ride." Well enough. She stopped him pacing as he came near her, and took his face in her hands, kissing him soundly on the mouth.
He deepened the kiss, and it became a little rougher -- enough to tell her yes, and show his readiness and desire. "Then we will ride." There was precious little enough time; putting as much distance between them and Winterfell would be the priority.
She flushed a becoming pink and followed him to the fastest horse in the stable, sure they were writing a story of their own with every rash action of the night.
~~
Jon Snow might have been a bastard, but he was a useful one, once again proven by his being the first to discover and wake the future Lord of Winterfell where he lay unconscious in the stables. "Robb. Robb," he said urgently, and looked around for signs of any intruders. "I'll -- Arya!" he shouted.
Arya wasn't very interested in doing as her mother had asked to remain near the main hall, and had run off at first opportunity. She frowned -- Jon didn't normally shout, and certainly not at her. "What?" she demanded, almost sulkily before she noticed Robb laid out on the dirt floor of the stables. "Robb!"
"Go get Maester Luwin. Or Father. Or -- both, get them both," Jon said, evenly and calmly as he could manage, which was not much. This had never quite happened, especially not to Robb. He shook Robb's shoulder -- he seemed to be waking. "Robb?"
Arya didn't run quite right away -- she was way more interested in the nasty bruise Robb was sporting on the side of my face. She stood on tiptoe to get a good look from a distance away. "What happened to you?"
Robb was beginning to wake, and immediately wished he hadn't, except he knew that it was Jon standing over him and that had been Arya's voice, not his elder sister and the Greyjoy who had been in there with him previously. "Where are they?" he asked immediately, once he was able to string words into a sentence.
"Who?" Jon asked, suspicious. He helped Robb to sit up, at least. "Who did this to you?"
His face hurt, but it was all there, at least. "Greyjoy," he answered shortly, trying to shake off the remains of the bout of unconsciousness. "Where's Sansa?" he asked, a bit more urgently, looking to Arya where she was hovering. "Did you see her?"
"No," she answered with a frown, unsure of what one had to do with the other.
"There's a horse missing," Jon said slowly. "Did Theon..." There had always been a chance Theon would flee, but what did Sansa have to do with it? There was only one reason...
"I found them..." He wasn't sure he could have put a precise word to what had been happening there, and in any case Arya should not have been present to hear any of them. "We need to alert Father," he told Jon grimly instead, and began to stand.
Jon tensed instantly at the implication. "You tell Father. I'll gather a party to search for them."
"Doing what?" Arya immediately asked, although from the way Robb and Jon were pointedly not talking about it made her think it was not good, and therefore interesting.
"Nothing little girls need to be worrying about, come on," Robb told her.
"Quick. Arya -- " Go inside wasn't going to happen. "Theon took Sansa. We're going after him. We need you to be here for Bran and your mother."
The 'Theon took Sansa' stuck in her brain in the oddest of ways; she wanted to answer good, he can have her, except there was an extreme gravity in the way they were speaking now. All right," she said grudgingly, and let Robb pull her along.
It took a matter of minutes for Jon to raise a number of men to the cause, who rallied once Ned and Robb appeared in the courtyard. Jon immediately went to his father's side. "I wanted you to know. I'm coming with. And not going to the Wall," he added resolutely, though he was meant to leave the next day with his uncle Benjen. "Not until we find her."
"Good," Ned said with a nod, a strong admission of pride at the boy's loyalty. "Robb, you can stay behind, I will lead ten men, Jon and Ser Rodrik can lead the rest."
"I'm able to ride," Robb said quickly. He felt responsible, as though he had failed Sansa spectacularly -- and he had. He covered this show of distress in himself, though, and stood firm. "Please."
Ned considered his son for a brief moment and conceded, "Ser Rodrik will come with me, then. I can trust Jory with you two." It was half a question.
"Of course," Jon said instantly, impatiently, his mind racing with images of Sansa slung over Theon's lap, bound and frightened.
"Yes, of course," Robb agreed quickly, his mind already flying past the gates and after Greyjoy.
"Ser Rodrik, to me," Ned called, and gave a quick nod to his sons, leading a handful of men to the stables, the rest for Jon and Robb.
"No time to waste," Jon murmured, and stepped forward with his brother to gather their men, his hand on his sword.
~~
For all intents and purposes, Sansa Stark was on the run. Sansa and Theon were on their third inn along the road from Winterfell, and had only made it that far by Theon's wits remaining about him despite their sleeping in the same room. Once Stark men had entered the inn, forcing them to escape out the window in a very undignified manner; a second time, Sansa's spotting of her father's men in force on the road led her and Theon to take a very spirited ride in a completely different direction than originally planned.
Now, it was nightfall and though her auburn hair and highborn manner threatened to give them away, she did her best to drop her airs and keep silent, pretending to be Theon's young new wife. Despite its indignity, the openness and the quiet gained by supposedly being an accepted couple made Sansa's heart start in her chest, and she did her best to fight a smile as she went up to their room in this newest inn.
Escaping through Stark lands with Sansa Stark with only blind panic to lead them wasn't the easiest thing Theon had ever done. It would have been easier if Ned Stark weren't a good liege lord, and people were more willing to talk for loyalty than they were to shut up for coin.
Once he had seen to the horse, he followed Sansa up the stairs and closed the door behind him. "Looks clear," he said, pulling his cloak off. "I don't think they figured we'd double back."
"Well. It worked." For now. Sansa paced the room and sent him a hesitant smile as she stopped near enough to him. "It's late. You should sleep."
He put a hand to her arm. "I'll sleep soon enough." Sort of. Between paranoia and trying to maintain some kind of decorum, he'd been sleeping on the floor. For now he dropped onto the edge of the bed and just rested.
She took a seat on the bed silently, a respectable distance from Theon, and couldn't help but reach for his hand. "If they catch us," she began quietly.
"Yes." He'd thought about it, and nothing he came up with was extremely tempting. Most involved him losing body parts, either his head or... other pieces. "Your lord father may just let all his men take turns beating me senseless."
She shook her head. "No. Theon." She held his hand firmly. "I wouldn't let them. Ever."
"From locked inside your bedroom forever?" he joked weakly, his fingers threading through hers.
She flushed as she even thought the words, but spoke them before she lost her nerve. "They could never treat my husband that way."
He'd had the thought, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't. "I wouldn't ask just to save my skin," he said, an unexpected admission.
"I know," she assured him, softening. "You've proven that." She pressed a kiss to his cheek.
He moved to kiss her mouth -- it was the one thing he'd allowed himself since running away together. "And will you be married before the old gods or the new?"
"Both. We can find a septon and a weirwood, and -- if you -- " She fumbled over the next, carried away.
"Even without your family's blessing?" It was too much to believe.
She couldn't bear to think of the look on her parents' faces, but likewise the idea of Theon suffering under the thumb of the North made her stomach roil. She stayed close to him. "Yes," she answered simply.
He felt like he was dying inside, but coming back alive at the same time. He kissed her again, deeper, not as chaste as he had been kissing her previously. He didn't know what to say after that. "I would have married you... wherever, whenever," he said, clumsily.
Robb would be furious -- beyond so. She didn't care. "Would tonight suit you, my kraken?" she asked with a shy smile. "I heard tell of a septon downstairs."
If he were enough in his cups to not ask too many questions, that would suit all the better. "You're a clever wolf," he said, by way of agreement.
She stifled a greater smile and squeezed his hand. "And yours," she answered, gathering her skirts with one hand and rising to stand.
And his. His heart stopped for a second, and he kissed her hands. "Wait here," he said. "I'll -- it shouldn't take long."
She broke out into a smile before she could help herself. "As fast as you can, Theon."
The things he was doing for that smile. "As fast as I can," he promised, and left her to return downstairs to the tavern to look for this septon.
~~
They'd hit a streak of luck. No sign of Stark men in the tavern, and the septon, while on his way to what Theon would have considered drunk, was a romantic at heart, and had apparently been barred from a marriage of his own making some years ago before Theon was even born. He'd stopped listening once he'd agreed, and rushed back to Sansa.
It was a brief affair, but they were out in front of the septon and trees where the old gods were said to live, to say the words.
The marriage bed, to consummate the marriage and bind the contract, was another matter. He tried to be gentle , as she deserved. After, she curled into him and he combed his fingers through her auburn hair, removing the tangles that had either been put there by travel or his own hand, and kissed her gently.
"Theon," she breathed once they broke apart, her hand against his chest to feel his heart still pounding. She kissed him once and again and blushed a brilliant crimson. "Sansa Greyjoy," she murmured to him.
She was brilliant, glowing there beside him, and he put his hand over hers where it rested on his chest. "You're all right?" he checked -- again.
She smiled at that. "I'm so tired," she confessed after a moment. "All that riding..."
"I have thoroughly ruined you," he said, a bit proudly and a bit ruefully.
"First I run away and then I marry ironborn," she contemplated, then glanced into his face. "What about your gods?"
Theon didn't really have gods, but he knew what she meant. "Before the wedding, I would have gifted to you a dagger, iron -- showing I can pay the iron price, and would," he started. "At the shore, we'd wade out into the sea with a priest, and declare ourselves to the Drowned God, that we've pledged ourselves to each other in life, and in death we'd be in his hall together."
Sansa kissed him briefly. "You should take me to the sea, before your god. One day."
"Maybe one day." Assuming they got that far, as they hadn't planned where they wanted to go from there.
"No dark thoughts tonight," she chided him, and kissed him again. "Tomorrow will have time enough to worry."
Each day had had plenty of time for worry. But for now, Theon kissed his new wife, and they were well on their way to making love again when he dimly heard commotion downstairs, dismissed it, and didn't pay attention again until the door burst inward.
Sansa shrieked before she could help herself and buried her face in Theon's shoulder, then realized who exactly she had seen at the door. "Robb -- Jon -- please!"
Theon was reaching for a weapon just a bit too late -- all right, a lot too late, and instead was bodily hauled out of the bed by Robb, naked as the day he'd slipped from his mother's womb. He met the floor very suddenly, knocking the wind from him.
Once Robb saw that Jon was covering Theon, he turned to Sansa. "You're safe now," he told her, relief at finally finding his sister coming through more than anything -- until he looked back to Theon. "One reason we shouldn't skin you where you lay, Greyjoy."
He coughed deeply, partly from the dust on the floor and partly finally catching his breath. "Because you're not Boltons," he wheezed, coming across a deal less smart than he'd wanted to.
Jon buried a boot into Theon's rib without an instant's hesitation.
"Stop it! Both of you!" Sansa demanded instantly, drawing herself up, the blankets of the bed tight around her. "Don't touch him again."
Robb held up a hand for her to stay back, before he crouched down by Theon. "You've stolen and raped my sister. We should drag you outside and put you to the sword."
Theon sort of wished they would if they were going to, and just stop talking about it -- but that was a Stark for you. "It wasn't rape," he gasped. "We've been -- married."
"Before the old gods and the new," Sansa said furiously. "Don't lay another hand on my husband."
"What have you done?" Jon snapped at Theon, beside himself.
"Only as your sister, my wife, has bid," he shot back.
It was only them, and Jon was tempted to draw his sword and put an end to the whole affair, but he could only imagine his father's reaction -- and Sansa's. "Then that's the end of it," he said.
Robb had not quite managed to wrap his brain around "married" and "husband" and "my wife." He settled on a rare show of temper in backhanding Theon. Not quite the hit that had leveled him back in the stables, but enough that Greyjoy bled. "We are going back to Winterfell. All of us," he informed them shortly.
"If we might be allowed to dress," Sansa said coolly.
Robb was ready to march Theon back, naked as he was then. "Fine," he snapped. "Three minutes."
Once Robb and Jon had withdrawn and shut the door behind them, Sansa exhaled and went to the edge of the bed. "Theon -- are you all right?"
He swiped his hand across his face -- the bleeding was not substantial, but it had still hurt. "I'm fine," he said. "Beyond the obvious."
She slid out of bed to find her dress, then changed her mind and met him halfway to place kisses across his aching face.
It wasn't quite as good as the wedding night should have been, but was sweet all the same. His eyes fell closed as each kiss was brushed deliberately from one place to the next. He kept her there, long as he could without thinking Robb and Jon may return to merely haul them out. "You should dress and go wait," he said finally.
She nodded and drew herself away, pulling on her dress without sending a single concerned look her new husband's way -- a great show of restraint. She opened the door then, and shut it behind her. "If you hurt him," she started to her brothers.
"No," Jon said, just astounded. "You would do best to... not talk, Sansa."
As not happy as Robb was, he knew this was only going to get worse. "Save your words for father, Sansa. You'll both have need of them."
"My lord," Sansa said coldly, then, and swept a curtsy in Robb's direction.
Jon barely kept from rolling his eyes, and turned his gaze instead to the door. "Jory is downstairs. You should wait with him," he told Sansa.
“As you will.” Sansa swept down the stairs with as great of dignity as she could manage.
Unbelievable. That was the only thing Robb could think as he watched Sansa go down the stairs. He tried not to become preoccupied with the thought of what came next, beyond the immediate -- take the both of them back to Winterfell, and let Ned Stark decide what would be done.