Work Text:
When Sansa was five years old, her father came back from the islands with a boy. He was barely a year older than Robb and Jon, but he seemed smaller wrapped in a cloak borrowed from one of her father’s men. The boy shivered in spite of the heavy furs, flinching whenever anyone moved in his direction.
Her father explained that the boy would now be living with them, a companion for her brothers. After months of her beloved father away at war, Sansa easily accepted this explanation and didn’t question why the strange new boy would now be living with them. At first, she was excited by the newcomer, eager to learn about his wild ironborn ways and maybe even some of their songs.
Then she realized that Theon Greyjoy was an absolute ass.
He quickly shed his initial timidity, revealing himself to be a callous braggart who boasted about everything from his archery and sailing prowess to his carnal exploits. He was lewd and arrogant, flouted all rules of propriety, and yet for some reason the servant girls swooned if he gave them even a passing glance. Even worse was how Theon’s arrival changed Robb: whereas before he’d always indulged her when she asked for stories or to play with dolls, now he never seemed to have time for her anymore. Instead he was always off somewhere with Theon, doing silly boy things. For all the freedom and privileges Theon had been given, it was easy to forget that he couldn’t actually leave.
Until he did: and Robb died, and Winterfell burned.
When Sansa was sixteen, that same boy came back for her. One moment she had been running with Ser Dontos, her ears still ringing with the sounds of Joffrey’s final gurgling breaths and Cersei’s screams; the next, the old knight was keeled over, unconscious, with the last person she’d ever expected to see again standing over him.
Theon Greyjoy. He looked much as she remembered him, though time had made his handsome features look less boyish and more befitting that of a grown man. It was hard to tell with the cloak pulled close to his body, but Sansa thought she could see the outline of a quiver at his hip. He had always been beautiful but relatable in northern furs and leathers; now, with sleek islander garb and thin gold hoops in his ears, he seemed like the foreign prince he’d always been.
“What did you do?” she demanded, only just barely managing not to scream.
“He was taking you to Littlefinger,” Theon said, as if that explained anything.
“So? How else am I supposed to get out of here?” At least Littlefinger was the devil she knew; and while once she might have thought she knew Theon, that was before everything. The last Sansa had heard of him, he had abandoned her brother’s forces; maybe if he’d stayed, he could have protected Robb when he most needed it.
“Come with me.” She had never heard Theon speak that gently to anyone, except perhaps a spooked horse. Or maybe Robb.
‘Is that how he sees me,’ she wondered, ‘a panicked animal to tame?’
Unfortunately, it worked. She hesitated barely a breath before taking his outstretched hand and letting him pull her away, leaving poor Ser Dontos lying in the street. Instead of heading for the water like she expected, Theon pulled her down an alley leading back towards the Red Keep.
“Aren’t we going to the harbor?” she asked.
“That’s the first place they’ll search, there and the city gates.”
“Then how are we meant to get out of here?” She half-expected him to scold or slap her for her pestering- it was what Joffrey would have done- but instead Theon shot her his characteristic smirk.
“Surely you spent enough time with your nose buried in those history books to know that there are other ways out of this cesspit.”
“Those tunnels are a labyrinth, we’ll be lost!”
“I suppose it’s a good thing that I have a map, then.”
Normally the Red Keep would be surrounded by gold cloaks, but if Theon’s assertion was correct, they had all been sent off to lock down the city, leaving the actual exit route unguarded. Which, as Theon revealed with a wholly unnecessary flourish, turned out to be a sewer grate with a hidden opening. Sansa’s desire to escape won out over her initial disgust and she slipped inside, doing her best not to snag her skirts on the way; she couldn’t care less about preserving the gown itself, but if it were to catch on anything and be left behind, the opulence of the fabric would surely give her trail away. Once they were well and truly free of King’s Landing she’d likely burn it- the thought made her almost giddy.
Freedom; from Cersei’s web, from Joffrey’s brutality, from Lord Tyrion’s lingering gaze. From the constant jeering reminders that her whole family was gone, that she was truly and completely alone in the world.
‘Well, almost alone,’ her thoughts amended, as she looked over at her unexpected rescuer. Already Theon was striding ahead without a glance back: either he was that certain she was following him, or he didn’t care one way or the other.
“Where’s the map?” she asked him, scrambling after him.
Theon tapped a finger to his temple slyly. This did nothing to assure Sansa, as she remembered well what a dreadful student Theon had always been during their shared lessons with Maester Luwin; but, that could have less to do with his actual intellect and more to do with delight in harassing the old maester.
“I know where we’re going,” he assured her. “Trust me, Princess.” Sansa didn’t know what to address first: that he expected her to trust him after all he had done, or that he called her by her title, something only those who recognized Robb’s kingship of the independent North would do.
They kept walking in silence, the dark tunnel quiet bar for the occasional echo of their breaths and the sputter of the torch Theon held aloft. Sansa kept expecting someone to jump out at them from one of the shadowy corners- gold cloaks, or maybe one of Lord Varys’ spiders- but no one came. Gradually she began to let her shoulders relax, though lowering her guard entirely was impossible.
“Why did you come here, Theon?” she asked hesitantly. “After everything that happened?”
“To rescue your ungrateful arse; would’ve thought that was obvious.” As always he tried to maintain his aloof, smirking air, but this time Sansa could tell she’d hit a nerve by the pinch in his brows. Bran had always been able to see through Theon’s jovial façade.
“It’s in his eyes,” he’d said, “sometimes when he smiles, it’s like a mask; like Father’s lord face.”
Sansa’s heart clenched, thinking of her sweet little brother. Of all her brothers, now lost to her; Robb by a knife in the back, Bran and Rickon by the Boltons’ takeover of Winterfell. Her parents… gods only knew if Arya yet lived.
She drew on all her courtesies as she continued, “You didn’t just come here on a whim. And while I’m grateful for your help, I deserve to know what’s going on.”
“Always the proper little princess,” Theon scoffed.
“If you won’t tell me for my own sake, then at least do it in Robb’s memory, and for the love you once shared. You owe him that much.”
That, at last, made Theon pull up short.
“Let me make this quick, because unlike you I doubt the queen and her dogs would hesitate to cut me down if they find us. I don’t owe a fucking thing, not to you or your family, or anyone else in the gods-damned North. I’m here because your Tully uncle will surely pay a fortune for your safe return, and after everything I’ve been through it’s the least I’m owed.”
He forged on ahead, this time his pace fast like he was actively trying to lose her. Sansa quickly made up the distance between them even with her impractical slippers catching in the damp earth.
“Everything you’ve been through?” she spat at the back of his head as they continued through the winding tunnels. “I’ve spent the last few years being beaten, and terrorized, and humiliated, and-” and made to look at her father’s severed head, his hair crusted with dried blood, his kind eyes picked at by carrion eaters, “and they married me to the Imp! So what makes you think I’d be any safer if Cersei caught us, now that Joffrey’s dead; do I have you to thank for that?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Theon insisted. He still wouldn’t so much as look at her. “I came here to kidnap you, not to commit regicide, although I can’t say I’m sorry someone finally decided to off the little prick.”
“I don’t believe you. Even if you had nothing to do with it, why would you take the chance of coming for me? With the war on, any reward can’t possibly be that good, certainly not better than whatever it is you’ve been doing that earned you that finery.” She pointed to the heavy cloak brooch at his throat, the jewels glinting off his many rings in the torchlight.
Theon finally turned around, so quickly Sansa almost collided with him.
“Haven’t you heard?” There was a note of vicious glee in his tone as he leaned in. “There’s a new pirate terrorizing the coast.”
Sansa had not, in fact, heard anything about any pirates, perhaps because of Cersei’s efforts to keep her isolated or because Theon was vastly overestimating his own importance. Either was possible, but to reveal that would be terribly foolish.
“Am I supposed to believe that to be you?”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
He was clearly trying to frighten her- and maybe if she’d had any sense it would have worked. She knew Theon was a dangerous man, but she had spent years surrounded by dangerous men and it had taught her that none of them were as invulnerable as they pretended they were; and when she looked at Theon, all she saw was that scared little boy her father had brought back. Sansa’s means of protection had been cloaking herself in courtesy and meekness: Theon’s armor had been arrogance and smiles.
“Just as long as you are capable of getting us out of this place.”
His eyes narrowed; Sansa held his gaze, refusing to be the first to back down. Eventually he gave a carefully careless shrug as if none of it mattered either way. “As the princess commands.”
True to his word, Theon was able to lead them out; evening had fallen during their journey, so when they reached the exit they were greeted not by light but by fresh air. Sansa smelled the salty tang of the ocean, a far cry from the foul smell of the harbor. This side of the tunnel was not disguised as a drainage ditch, but seemed to disappear into the very rocks unless one knew exactly what to look for.
Theon shifted around some of the smaller boulders by the opening of the tunnel, eventually procuring a knapsack made of the same mottled, waterproof fabric as his cloak. He tossed it to Sansa. Inside, she found a pair of sturdy leather boots and a roughspun overdress; far less conspicuous than the finery she currently wore. The material and style made her suspect they had once belonged to an ironborn woman, probably one of the smallfolk.
“Can’t have you prancing about looking like a lady, can we? Go on, be quick about it.” Theon shooed her back into the tunnel to change.
She fiddled with the cloak tie. “I- I’ll need you to undo the lacing on the back,” she said bashfully. Theon grumbled but did as she asked, quickly turning away once it was done. Some misplaced concern for her modesty, she assumed; Theon didn’t know Joffrey had had her stripped before the entire court, or how the beatings had left scars on her shoulders and back. How Tyrion had looked her body over on their wedding night, and she had known that his promise not to touch her wouldn’t last forever.
She tore off the outer gown, heedless of ripping stitches in her eagerness to have the last traces of King’s Landing off of her, and pulled on the roughspun dress over her simple shift, pinning the straps in place with trembling fingers. Something about exchanging the ornate gown chosen for her by the queen for the garb of an island peasant made a hysterical giggle bubble up in her throat. The other dress got stuffed into the satchel- maybe they could sell it, or cut it up for bandages for all she cared- along with the dainty slippers. The boots were a bit loose but far preferable for travel. She pulled the dozens of fine pins from her tresses, letting out a sigh of relief at the feeling of her hair finally being freed from its elaborate updo.
When she looked back to Theon, he was still pretending to be fascinated staring at one of the many identical dull rocks around them.
“Alright?”
Theon looked her over appraisingly. “It’ll have to do. Just keep your hair covered, that color isn’t exactly common where we’re going.”
He pulled a silk scarf from his own pack and handed it to her; if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was something hesitant in how he tried to help, lifting her hair off her neck so she could better tuck it under the fabric.
“I thought you were taking me to Riverrun?”
“First we have to meet up with my crew, and it’ll take a few days to get to them; we’ll have to stop at some of the fishing villages along the way to rest. There’s one up ahead we should be able to reach before it gets too dark.”
He had already started walking on, clearly expecting her to fall in line behind him, just like he had in the caves. Sansa realized that if she didn’t make a stand now, this would the entirety of their journey; Theon making quips, with smiles that didn’t reach his eyes, all the while dancing around the wound that festered between them. She had had enough falsehoods in King’s Landing to last a lifetime, and she decided then and there that she would not allow this to continue.
“Before we go any farther, I need to know why. Why did you abandon Robb?”
Theon’s steps did not falter. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Yes we are,” she insisted. “I just want to know why. Why, Theon?”
He stopped, and sighed, and turned to look back- not at her, but at the ocean.
“For what it’s worth,” he began, “and I know that’s not much, I wish there’d been another way. But when I got the chance to go home, I had to take it. I never wanted to leave your brother like that. I only wanted to be free to make my own choices.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “But I suppose I made a mess of that, too, huh? The Freys butchered him, and where was I, off playing pirate? Maybe if I’d have been there… well, at least then I could have died with him.”
She felt a sudden anger welling up inside her chest. The anger was familiar, something she’d felt multiple times a day in King’s Landing, but had never been safe to express. Now, she couldn’t suppress it even if she wanted to. Theon looked and sounded so contrite, yet he couldn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t admit that he’d taken the risk of rescuing her for something more than a paltry reward; he couldn’t even say Robb’s name.
“You should have,” she hissed, “you should have died rather than abandon him! He was your brother! You were our family!”
The vehemence in her voice forced him to meet her gaze. His sea-green eyes were filled with a tired sort of acceptance. Looking into them, it surprised her to realize that they were now of a same height.
“Like Cersei was yours?” he said at last.
“That’s not the same.”
The corner of his mouth quirked, like it couldn’t decide whether it was worth the energy to put on another fake smirk. “Isn’t it? I spent ten years of my life held hostage for my father’s good behavior; each time I carried your father’s sword to a beheading, I wondered if finally this would be my turn to feel its sting.”
A sudden chill ran through her, extinguishing the fiery rage as quickly as it had kindled. Theon always carried her father’s sword at executions; she had never thought twice about it. Uncle Brandon had been her grandfather’s swordbearer, as he had been for his father before him. Carrying Ice was meant to be an honor, a symbol of trust. That act was likely the closest her stoic father could manage to actually saying that to Theon. And this entire time, Theon had thought it a cruel reminder that his very life depended on his father’s love. Whatever lingering resentments she still carried towards her father, she never doubted his love for her; something told her Theon could not say the same.
“Growing up, I never thought we had anything in common,” she ventured. “I suppose we do, now.”
Sansa extended her hand. What words could even begin to make up for such a terrible wrong? For now, this was the most she could do. She tried to put everything into the gesture that she felt but couldn’t yet bring herself to say: that she was sorry for all that she’d said; for never realizing the truth of his situation; for assuming he didn’t care. That he didn’t grieve Robb just as deeply as she did. In a way she felt lucky to be able to hate the Lannisters for what they had done to her. Hate was such a less complicated emotion than love.
Theon looked at her outstretched hand, and the shadow of a genuine smile flickered across his face. He took her hand, and the two of them walked on, this time side by side.