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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Loathe though Lord Eddard Stark was to leave his wife and children behind in Winterfell, he made arrangements to journey south in a moon’s time to serve on the King’s Small Council. For years, he politely declined King Robert Baratheon’s repeated offers for a council seat, but a recent letter from his sovereign made him reconsider.

I will come to the North myself and beg if I must.

Despite the fact that Robert had been a dear friend and comrade once, Ned desperately needed to keep the man from the northern seat of the realm. For one, he did not share Robert’s sentiments regarding the joining of their two houses. While no official proposal had yet been made, Robert on several occasions suggested his eldest son, Joffrey, marry Ned’s eldest daughter Sansa. Ned intentionally did not respond to those portions of the King’s letters or mention the matter to Sansa. But that did not prevent the girl from dreaming about marrying the Crown Prince all on her own; that worried him.

Sansa was a bright and dutiful child, but when it came to understanding the ways of the world and its people, she was woefully naive. She also recently espoused a terrible knack for tattling on her younger sister whenever the opportunity presented itself and the viciousness and immaturity of it both deeply baffled and troubled him. Resigned to resolving the matter, Ned summoned Sansa into his study.

“You wished to see me, Father?” She stood smiling in the doorway, hands clasped before her.

“There is a matter I want to discuss with you,” he responded, more gruffly than he intended.

Panic flashed across her face. It wasn’t often that Ned called Sansa into his study for a private audience—not like Theon, Robb, or Jon. His lady wife usually handled the instruction of the girls, but either way, such meetings either entailed high praises and rewards or firm corrections and punishments.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” Ned patted the seat next to him. “But I do want you to consider what I say very seriously.”

She nodded, relaxing. When Sansa sat, she clasped her hands again and kept her back perfectly straight as Septa Mordane taught her.

“Your mother tells me that you want to go to King’s Landing,” he began. Sansa’s eyes brightened with excitement. Ned continued, his tone darkening. “She also tells me that you want to meet Prince Joffrey and his siblings.”

Brows furrowing in confusion, Sansa replied, “Befriending them would be good for our family.”

Ned tapped his finger against the armrest. “There is something you must know, Sansa, something I always want you to consider when extending your trust and friendship.”

She leaned slightly forward in her chair, eager to hear what he had to say. Sansa was a studious girl and always mindful of her lessons, so Ned hoped that quality would be enough to impress the wisdom he imparted today.

“Not all knights are honorable, their ladies courteous,” he said. “And not all princes are good men. In King’s Landing, and in much of the realm outside of Winterfell, I am afraid this is more often the case than not. Lords and ladies play cruel games with one another for power.”

“Father,” Sansa began uneasily. “Are you saying Prince Joffrey is such a man?”

“Many who surround him are. Prince Joffrey’s particular brand of cruelty stems from his lust for violence.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Surely, you are mistaken.”

Ned looked at his daughter squarely. “I am not.” He recounted from Robert’s letters several troubling “accidents” the Prince had caused, including the deaths of his siblings’ pets and the maiming of a servant. The King was painfully and unwisely cavalier about his son’s misbehavior. Ned didn’t think it ever occurred to Robert that by sharing these stories, he ruined any chances he had of uniting the Houses of Baratheon and Stark.

She blanched, horror written across her normally carefree features. Ned spared no detail in the retelling, because now more than ever, he needed Sansa to account for how dangerous the world could be, especially when power is in the hands of dishonorable people. By the end of the telling, her fists were clenched—a better, stronger reaction than he could ever have hoped for.

“That is unforgivable. And the King and Queen allow it?”

Ned nodded. “They spoil the boy, and it has weakened his character and his mind. He does not have the capacity to be a good friend, let alone a husband.”

She looked away to hide her blush and the treasonous thought that crossed her mind. Or King.

“I know you dreamed of one day marrying the Crown Prince,” Ned said gently, “but you deserve someone who is brave, gentle and strong.”***

Smiling weakly, Sansa replied, “Yes, Father. Now that I know his true character, I will think of him no more.”

“Smart girl,” Ned praised, which perked his eldest daughter’s mood. Sansa sought compliments and approval a little too eagerly for his liking, but he thanked the old gods that in this case it would probably help his instruction stick. “Winterfell is the best place for you right now, at your mother’s side and in the company of your siblings. I want you to look after them while I’m gone and keep the pack strong; Arya especially. You should be kinder to her, more accepting of her differences.”

Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but Ned held up his hand to stop her. He’d heard these grievances before. “Sansa,” he said firmly. “Remember how well you played together as children. You were kinder to each other then.”

“She was more agreeable,” Sansa huffed.

“Arya has always loved playing at swords, wrestling in the dirt and riding horseback. She has never enjoyed needlework or lessons. All that has changed is how you treat her and, in response, her readiness to retaliate.”

“We don’t play games of pretend anymore, Father, or at least we are not supposed to, because we are too old. I’m nearly of marrying age, as will Arya be in a few years. Mother has said as much.” Upset, Sansa’s tone took a higher pitch. She paused to compose herself. Ned waited for her to continue. “I miss those games,” she finally said quietly. “But I have a duty to my family to behave as a highborn lady should. And so does Arya.”

“Be that as it may, the tattling, the unkind words and the shaming must stop. Keeping your sister out of trouble and helping her gradually assume her duties is what I ask of you. It’s not whatever it is you are doing now,” he replied more sternly than he meant to. This was supposed to be a constructive conversation, not a reprimand. He pressed forward in a softer tone, but it didn’t make his next words any less harsh. “Did you know, just the other day, I overheard Jeyne call Arya ‘Horseface?’ A steward’s daughter had the audacity to insult a highborn child. You lead by example, Sansa, and this is the example you set. It is intolerable behavior and cannot continue.”

Sansa’s eyes watered. She bowed her head in shame. Ned sighed. “But I am to blame, as well. I have seen this for sometime and said nothing. I should have much sooner. Can you forgive me for this?”

Sansa hastily brushed away her tears. She nodded. “I am sorry, too, Father. Can you forgive me?”

Ned’s expression softened. “Always. But it’s your sister’s forgiveness that you need to earn.”

“I know. I will do better.”

“Good.”

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“How can you still go to King’s Landing after what you have said? It sounds like a terrible place, and we need you here.”

“I must do as the King wishes to keep our family safe.”

“I thought King Robert favors our family.”

“He does, but if he came here—which he will do if I keep refusing him—and learned Jon’s true parentage, the consequences would be devastating.”

To the world, Jon Snow was Ned Stark’s bastard. But to immediate family, Jon was the son of Lyanna Stark, Ned’s sister, and her lover Rhaegar Targaryen, once heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Both of Jon’s true parents were now dead, having lost their lives during the war Robert and Ned started. In the beginning, Ned truly believed Rhaegar had stolen away his sister and raped her, a belief Robert, her betrothed, readily shared. But the truth was more difficult than the fiction they led themselves to believe.

In the Tower of Joy, as his sister lay dying, Ned learned to his great sorrow and shame that she had deeply loved Rhaegar and married him in secret. The little boy in her too pale arms was the product of that love. Gods, Ned silently cursed, remembering how he took his raven-haired nephew from Lyanna’s lifeless arms and held him close to his heart. They began a war because they thought she had been taken against her will, but she had gone with the Prince willingly. All the bloodshed that could have been prevented, if only he had known.

Realization dawned in Sansa’s eyes. “King Robert would hurt him,” she whispered.

Ned shook his head. “King Robert would kill him, Sansa. Best you not forget that. He would kill your cousin without question, without flinching, as he did the other Targaryen children.”

“I will not forget,” Sansa vowed.

“Good. And remember, too, that this conversation stays between us.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And one last thing. While I am gone, I would like you to pay closer attention to your history lessons and what good works would better the lives of our smallfolk. In doing this, and by helping your mother oversee the household, you will learn much about people and fostering relationships with them. These are invaluable skills for a lady.”

“Of course,” she replied, tears returning to her eyes. “I will miss you, Father. We all will.”

Ned hugged his daughter. “I know. And I will miss all of you very dearly.”

“Will you write?”

“As often as I can,” Ned promised.

Their conversation soon ended, and Sansa left.

Not long after, Jon knocked and peeked around the open door.

“Come in, Jon.” His nephew closed the door behind him and locked it to prevent servants from walking in.

“Please do not go to King’s Landing on my account,” he begged. “I will stay with Uncle Benjen at the Wall or take up work as a fisherman in White Harbor. The King will never see me.”

“It is a kind offer, but it does not sway my decision, though I thank you for trying. The King will not take no for an answer for very much longer. It is high time I do my duty. I have put it off for quite a long time.”

“How long must you stay?”

“For however long the King requires,” Ned answered wearily. He really hated having to leave, especially so soon after Catelyn had given birth to their youngest child, Rickon. “When Robb is comfortable with his duties as Warden of the North, and Sansa is married, Catelyn will come to King’s Landing with the youngest three. Robb will need you and Theon for counsel.”

Jon nodded.

“It will be alright. Now, speaking of Theon, has he been staying out of trouble?”

His nephew smirked. “Just a few pranks here and there.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No. It is always in good nature and everyone has a good laugh. He says it’s not worth doing otherwise.”

“Good. And the brothels?” Ned gave Jon a stern look.

The youth blushed. “Occasionally. Not like he used to.”

“How about you? And Robb?” Jon’s blush deepened.

“Learning how to please your future lady wife, too, are you?” Ned sighed. “Just follow the precautions I told you about and comport yourselves with respect and dignity. The time has come for you to be leaders of men in winter, not boys of summer.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Good. Now, unless there is something else, please tell Robb and Theon that I would like to speak to them next. They should hear this from me, as well.”

Jon left his uncle’s study and found Robb and Theon Greyjoy both helping Sir Rodrik in the armory. When Jon said that Lord Stark wished to speak to Theon, too, the young Ironborn man’s brows lifted in surprise. “He wishes to speak to me?” His tone held a note of disbelief.

“You should know by now he considers you a son.” Robb smiled in understanding and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Theon looked down, mumbling something intelligible, but a grin spread across his face.

Jon arched his brow. Robb met his questioning gaze and explained. “Theon is family as much as you or I, though he often forgets and needs reminding. Father would not leave without saying goodbye.”

Jon did not disagree.

On his way to speak to Lord Stark, Theon bumped into Lady Sansa in the hallway while rounding a corner. She stumbled back a step and yelped in surprise. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy as if she had been crying.

“I am so sorry, my Lady. Are you alright?”

She nodded.

“You just frightened me. Are you in a hurry, my Lord?”

Theon’s lips quirked upward. No one but Lady Sansa ever called him that; she thought it proper to acknowledge his birthright on the Iron Islands. Theon did not often interact with Lord Stark’s eldest daughter, but he could not help but be fond of the girl for her attentiveness to courtesy. “No. Just preoccupied with my thoughts.”

“I, as well,” Lady Sansa confessed wearily.

“What troubles you?”

“I will tell you if you allow me to walk with you.”

Theon wordlessly held out his arm which she accepted. She set a slow, meandering pace; Theon figured that meant she had a lot to say.

“Firstly, I have been absolutely horrid to Arya.”

“That’s nothing new,” he smirked. Lady Sansa shot him a dark look.

“Be that as it may,” she continued. “Father commented on it, and I am utterly mortified and ashamed.”

“It’s about time.”

Lady Sansa frowned. He nudged her. “Come now. What’s done is done. There’s no use dwelling on it. Your time can be better spent by making it right.”

“But how? Arya hates me.”

“I would start by saying you’re sorry. And Arya doesn’t hate you,” he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “She’s just a bit of a hellion when she’s angry.”

“She’s always angry.”

“Because you provoke her. So don’t provoke her.”

Lady Sansa sighed. “Unfortunately, being in the same room is enough to provoke her.”

“Forgiveness isn’t going to happen overnight, but if you make a habit of treating her better, she will eventually take notice.”

She nodded, taking his words to heart. “I am also worried for Father and Mother.”

“Because Lord Stark is leaving for King’s Landing soon?” he asked.

“Mother will miss him, as will we all. But I cannot stop thinking about baby Rickon. Why does it have to be so soon after his birth? It could be years before we see Father again. He barely knows his youngest son, and Rickon will not remember his father. And poor Mother. How will she bear it? How could any mother and lady wife bear it?” Before Theon attempted an answer, Sansa continued. “And I am afraid Father will get hurt in the capital city, even with King Robert to watch out for him. I—I want the Prince and all the people at court to be courteous and kind, but they are not, are they?” She whispered the treasonous words so softly Theon almost did not hear them. He had a good guess what else Lord Stark spoke to his daughter about.

“I have not heard many great things about King’s Landing, my Lady, but Lord Stark knows the dangers and, as you said, he will have the King to look after him. He will also have a retinue of some of Winterfell’s finest fighters to accompany him, and he is a fine fighter himself. That is more than most can say.”

Lady Sansa worried her lip—Septa Mordane, ever the diligent watch-woman for unladylike behavior, would have a fit over it if she saw. Noting her uneasiness, Theon squeezed the hand that curled around his arm. “But that does not make you feel better does it?”

The affectionate gesture surprised Lady Sansa, but she did not comment on it and merely shook her head.

“Then allow me to try again. The North is great and powerful; it is the largest seat in Westeros. If something happens, Robb will rally your father’s bannermen, and I will go with him. I have never seen or heard of a Lord to inspire so much respect and loyalty as Ned Stark. The court would be wise to remember that. It will be a grave mistake for them to forget.”

“That does make me feel better for Father’s sake. But what do we do to deal with the heartache?”

Theon knew Sansa’s training to be a lady taught her that she would one day leave her family to start her own, but it seemed she never considered the challenges, uncertainties, dangers and heartache that came with it—something his own family knew all too well.

“My Lady Mother lost three of her children to my Father’s rebellion, myself included. Though I still live, my brothers are all dead. I do not know what my mother does day by day, or if the health of my sister comforts her at all, but I do not think I will ever see her or my father again. It would be cruel if she still held onto the hope of my return. But you will see your Father again. And Rickon will one day have a chance to get to know him. For now, he has you and his family to love him and share stories about the man that sired him.”

Sansa looked down. “You miss them.”

“Always.”

“How do you bear it? Mother and the rest of us will at least will be able to write Father letters.”

Theon winced. Forbidden to write to his Ironborn family, it was the single most glaring reminder that he was brought to Winterfell as a hostage, not a ward. “I focus on what I have, and what I can control. You should, too.”

Realizing her insult, Sansa looked abashed. “I am sorry. That was a rude thing to say.”

He sighed. “I know you did not mean harm by it.”

“I should not have troubled you with these thoughts at all, but I did not know who else to turn to.”

“Not Jeyne?” Sansa shook her head.

“No sooner did I tell her that I was not going to King’s Landing with my father, she begged me to convince him otherwise. If I go, she goes. It is all she can talk about.”

“I suppose she thinks such a trip will be everything she has ever dreamed of.” Theon pressed, knowing that not long ago, it was all Sansa could talk about, too.

Knowing this, as well, Sansa blushed. “Father told me horrible things, but I cannot tell her what he said to me without breaking his trust.”

“My Lady, you are the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North. Just tell Jeyne to stuff it.”

Sansa muffled a giggle and looked around to make sure no one saw her lapse in ladylike behavior. They were in the hallway that led to her father’s study, which was usually frequented by servants. “Ladies do not say such things,” she scolded.

“Of course not. My apologies.”

“But I take your point.”

Hearing their approach, Lord Stark stepped out of his study. Startled, Sansa disengaged and averted her gaze, certain Septa Mordane would hear from her father about the impropriety of walking with Theon unchaperoned. Lord Stark looked between the two of them for a moment—unsure of what to make of the sight.

Not wanting to see Sansa reprimanded, Theon spoke, “My Lord, Sansa was kind enough to accompany me here when we met in the hallway. You wanted to speak with me?”

Lord Stark nodded and returned to his chair. “I wondered what was keeping you.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Three years passed, and King Robert asked Lord Stark to be Hand of the King. He did not want the position but felt honor-bound to stay in King’s Landing and investigate the death of his predecessor, Lord Jon Arryn. The man had been a mentor and close friend, so when his wife, Ned’s good-sister Lady Lysa Arryn, sent word of her suspicions that the Lannisters poisoned him, Ned needed to find out the truth.  

In investigating Lady Lysa’s allegations, Ned learned that Lord Arryn had been in the middle of an investigation himself and one regarding the true paternity of the royal children. The seed is strong , a note written in Lord Arryn’s hand had said. And indeed it was. Robert, a notorious libertine, fathered hundreds of bastards across Westeros and every single one of them had their sire’s dark coloring. The royal children did not.

Ned erred when he confronted Robert’s queen, Cersei Lannister, with his suspicions that her children were bastards and she poisoned Lord Jon Arryn when he learned the truth. Ned realized too late that he had repeated his predecessor’s mistake.

And then, without warning, the king died. And the Lannisters made their move.

They attacked Ned and his men in the streets of King’s Landing and imprisoned them under false accusations of treason. A secret ally dispatched the fastest raven to Winterfell, knowing full well the Wolves of the North would consider this to be an act of war. The unnamed ally also mentioned just why King Joffrey needed to be removed from the Iron Throne.

After reading the letter a second time, Lady Catelyn handed the letter back to Robb. She gripped the edge of the table and mustered all her strength to maintain her composure.

“My Lady, do you need to sit?” Theon offered, pulling out a chair for her.

She shook her head, thoughts in too much of a whir to respond properly.

“I must rally our banner men,” Robb said, sliding several sheets of parchment in front of him. “Maester Luwin, once I have finished with these letters they must be sent by raven immediately, but it will take some time. Can you please tell Sir Rodrik to come see me in the meantime? He will need to be briefed.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Maester Luwin bowed.

“Mother, we should expect these men to arrive in a fortnight, perhaps sooner.”

“Sansa and I will begin household preparations.” Her voice sounded oddly hollow. “But first allow me to write to my kin in the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Her coloring unusually pale, Theon feared Lady Catelyn might keel over, and Robb was too distracted to notice. Theon hovered nearby just in case.

“Alright, good,” Robb replied. “Theon, find Jon and let him know what’s happened. Then alert the fletcher and blacksmith. See to it that they get what they need—supplies, labor, whatever they ask.”

Theon nodded and briefly looked to Lady Catelyn. She seemed steady enough. As he turned to leave, she caught his arm. “I would like to speak to Jon. When you have told him, will you please send him here?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Lady Catelyn patted his shoulder to demonstrate her thanks. Theon ducked out of the room. He hoped she would be alright.

Theon could not immediately find Jon, so by the time he did, Sir Rodrik had already come and gone from the study. Robb and Catelyn were busying themselves with their messages when Jon arrived.

Lady Catelyn glanced up at the sound of his footsteps. “Close the door, Jon.”

He obeyed and locked it for good measure. Lady Catelyn beckoned him over.

“I have a serious question to ask you, and I want you to think it over very carefully. This letter from King’s Landing claims the royal children are bastards born of incest. If that is true, you have a claim to the throne, Jon, as Rhaegar Targaryen’s sole surviving son.”

Robb paused in his writing and looked at his mother as if she had grown three heads. “Are you suggesting we take the Iron Throne?”

“I am merely asking Jon what he thinks of his current situation. I do this out of respect for him, his claim, and a good-sister I never met.”

Jon stood in silence as Catelyn’s eyes bore into him. After mulling it over, he replied, “I thank you for asking, Aunt Catelyn. But my family—our family—has suffered enough. The Seven Kingdoms have suffered enough. I would rather be a bastard than cause more bloodshed. All my life, you have made me feel like a Stark, a true son of the North. I am not some southern dragon lord.”

Lady Catelyn smiled warmly and Robb let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Is that all?” Jon asked.

“That is all,” Lady Catelyn answered. And then to Robb, she instructed him to write to Lord Stannis Baratheon, King Robert’s younger brother and legitimate heir, beseeching him to ride to war against the Bastard King and claim what was his by rights.

Robb nodded. “Draft something for me and I will copy it in my own hand.”

Jon left them to their work and would see if Theon needed any help.

When Jon was gone, Robb turned to his mother and grumbled, “Warn me next time, will you?”

She gave him an apologetic look.

The answers came swiftly. While Lady Lysa of the Eyrie could not be persuaded to join the war effort—as she was plagued by border conflicts with the mountain clans, her husband’s untimely demise and sickly son’s minority—the Tullys and Baratheons swore to march on King’s Landing with the Great Houses of the North, especially Lord Roose Bolton, who seemingly had an itch only a flayed Lannister could scratch.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

When Robb asked Theon to ride beside him and Jon in the march south, he did not hesitate to pledge his sword and bow to the cause. Ever since the Baratheons crushed his father’s rebellion and deposited him with the Starks, Robb was the closest thing Theon had to a brother. Now they stood together before the gates of Winterfell saying their farewells.

Theon noted how Bran sulked, evidently sore at Robb’s kind but firm instruction to “be the Lord of Winterfell.” Little glory to be won in that charge, but Bran was still too young yet to go to war and had to stay behind.

Lady Catelyn hugged Robb and Jon each in turn, tears in her eyes. On the day Theon arrived in Winterfell as a young boy of ten, he had been surprised by Lady Stark’s warmth to him and the boy called “Snow.” Sometimes she reminded him of his own mother—her fierce protectiveness and the joyful pride she took in her children. Now she squeezed Theon’s shoulder. “Bring my boys home,” she bid.

“They are family to me, my Lady.” Glancing over, he could see Lady Sansa hugging and tying favors to the arms of her brother and cousin. “I do so swear.”***

Satisfied with his answer, Lady Catelyn stepped back to wrap an arm around the shoulders of a disgruntled Bran and laid a hand on top of Rickon’s head, who had run over to clutch her skirts, snot-nosed and teary-eyed.

Theon raised his eyebrows when Sansa Stark came to him next holding a grey silk ribbon in her hand. All eyes turned to them, curious and questioning. He must have had a similar look, for Sansa blushed deeply and had a giddy smile on her face as she tied the favor around his arm. Then she placed a peck on his cheek and said rather resolutely, “There. Now you, too, will come back.”

As much as he doubted this slip of fabric would in any way guarantee his safe return, he thought not to disabuse her of the notion. The gesture was very kindly meant, and received.

Remembering his manners, Theon bowed. “My Lady.”

Pleased, Sansa joined her mother and remaining siblings. Many sets of misty eyes fought to hold back tears, but the Stark family smiled bravely, except Rickon, who began to wail. They knew the dangers facing Winterfell’s host. Even Sansa’s eyes, usually bright and carefree, were darkened by the gravity of the situation.

Unwilling to draw out an already difficult goodbye, the young men mounted their horses and turned to begin their journey south. Briefly, Theon looked back to see the family watching them leave. After living in Winterfell for the last twelve years, he came to think of the Starks as his true family, long abandoning the hope of ever returning to his own. He hoped he would live to return.

It wasn’t until the sun began to set, when they all settled down in their camp, that Theon took a closer look at the ribbon Sansa tied around his arm. Grey may have been the color of the ribbon but, upon it, the Stark girl had craftily stitched a kraken with golden thread. Its tentacles coiled around his bicep. Seeing it made him grin.

“Clever, isn’t she?” Robb teased, sprawled out on his bedroll beside him.

“Hmm?” Theon glanced over, tucking his arms over his chest.

Robb pointed at the sea creature adorning his friend’s arm.

“Oh aye.” Theon nodded in agreement, closing his eyes. He couldn’t hide the pleased smirk on his lips. “Never thought she noticed.”

Robb shrugged. “Neither did I.”

“She probably has some romantic notion of you being a rakish pirate,” Jon laughed.

“Aren’t I?” Theon quirked an eyebrow.

Both Robb and Jon replied with an adamant “No.”

Theon grumbled and turned over onto his side, giving himself over to sleep.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

It had been a few months since the men had left Winterfell, and nearly that long since Lady Maege Mormont came with a band of men to take up temporary residence with them at the castle. While a good number of fighting men were left to protect its walls and people, Lady Stark thought it prudent to have some allies closer at hand. Arya followed Lady Mormont wherever she went, completely enamored by the She-Bear, a woman warrior.

One early morning, Sansa stumbled upon one of their secret training sessions when she went to pray in the godswood. Sansa never thought of herself as particularly stealthy, but she supposed her lady’s training in walking daintily leant itself to such.

Sansa quickly hid behind a weirwood tree before they could notice her presence, and she watched for a long time. Her younger sister, quick and energetic, never seemed to stop moving. She darted around the She-Bear—slashing and jabbing—while the older, more experienced woman parried her blows and shouted instructions. Arya’s eyes were so bright, full of mirth, and laughter always seemed to be on the edge of her lips. Sansa never saw her sister happier and longed to be a part of that happiness. Life at the castle had become quite lonely.

Jeyne Poole, still her closest friend, recently married the miller’s son, and without Jon, Robb and Theon, she had no one to keep her company. As much as she loved her mother and younger brothers, she yearned for a peer in whom she could confide. Unfortunately, her relationship with Arya became strained when Sansa flowered, setting in motion an undeserved attitude change towards her little sister.

Jeyne, a little older than Sansa, flowered first and had similarly acted differently towards her —somehow older, wiser, and all grown-up. Jeyne no longer played or spent time with “children,” making Sansa feel rather left out. So when Sansa’s flower finally bloomed, she was all too happy to follow suit in joining the ranks of womanhood and left her poor sister in the past.

Septa Mordane and her Lady mother encouraged this “womanly” behavior and often praised her for behaving as a high-born lady should.

But in the weeks before her father left for King’s Landing, she had several conversations with him about keeping the “pack” strong. During those discussions, she learned that being a good lady had to be tempered with being a good sister. Thinking back on it all, Sansa realized Jeyne’s and her sudden sense of self-importance was rather childish.

Family meant everything and losing a sister to the wounded pride of being wrong was utter folly. Sansa attempted to make amends with Arya, but a lack of similar interests prevented them from forging a close and trusting relationship. But thankfully, they squabbled far less.

Arya was fourteen now—the age Sansa had been then. Surely, some common ground could be found between them. Whatever that might be, Sansa vowed to find it. Sansa’s bit of harmless spying and determination to win over her sister inspired her to try something new.

One early morning, she snuck out into the godswood in search of the She-Bear and her sister. If Septa Mordane and her Lady Mother knew what she was up to, they would be furious, which made the whole endeavor more thrilling. Sansa never broke the rules.

No. That wasn’t exactly true , she thought She did break the rules once, seven years ago and on her tenth name day. After a particularly nasty row with Jeyne, regarding the proper sharing of toys, Sansa got in trouble with the Septa and her Lady Mother for shouting. Indignant at the unfairness of it—after all it was Jeyne who wouldn’t share and on her name day, too—Sansa solicited the help of their resident pirate to exact her revenge.

She remembered his amused look when she asked him to help her come up with a wicked prank to get back at Jeyne. He considered her proposal thoughtfully and replied, “Aye. I think I’ve an idea, but it’ll only work if you’re not squeamish.”

Sansa held herself as tall and confidently as she could. “I will do what needs to be done.”

All afternoon long, they caught mice. When they collected enough, they snuck them into the castle and into Jeyne’s wardrobe. They hid around the corner, waiting for Jeyne to come back. The telltale shrieks and hysterical sobbing told them they had been successful. While she ran off to tattle, Sansa and Theon snuck back into her room to remove all evidence that the mice had been there. Together they released the little creatures into the godswood. None were the wiser and Jeyne was punished for telling tall-tales.

Sansa hoped Theon was alive and well. If he did not return with the rest of her family—well, she could not think of that possibility.

When Sansa came upon Arya and Lady Mormont in a clearing, the former was none too pleased to see her, certain Sansa had come to ruin everything. But when Sansa pulled up the side of her dress and tied the ribbons she’d sewn into the underside to her belt, freeing her legs a bit from her skirts, Arya’s jaw dropped. Underneath her dress, Sansa wore breeches and boots. Hands on hips, Sansa then stated that she’d like to learn how to use a sword. Luckily, Lady Mormont came to her senses before Arya did.

“Lend Lady Sansa your sword, dear,” the She-Bear said. “And then we’ll continue on with the lesson.”

In the weeks that followed, Sansa and Arya enjoyed a newfound respect for one another, having a shared interest and secret. Admittedly, Sansa was soft and rather clumsy with a sword at first, but she worked hard to get better. To her sister’s further surprise, Sansa asked Arya if she would continue their lessons late at night within the confines of their bedchambers.

During their late night sessions, they only went through the motions of swordplay and practiced footwork, not keen to wake up the household with the clashing of iron. It took a while, but everything seemed to click in place once Sansa grew strong enough to wield the weapon and shrug off a blow.

When their Lady Mother left to beg their Aunt Lysa to join their cause, Sansa and Arya had taken to trading their skirts for breeches permanently, much to Septa Mordane’s eternal vexation. She threatened to send word to the Eyrie, but the She-Bear pulled her aside and said something that put an end to that, propriety be damned. Septa Mordane would have to endure her mortification in silence.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

When they rode out of the darkness with sword and lance,*** some of the Lannisters tried to flee, but they had already been surrounded. The battle was lost, but Jaime Lannister gathered a small retinue of his braver men and charged with the sole intent of slaying King Stannis Baratheon.

Seeing this, Theon shouted to Robb in warning. Together they and several others rode to refortify the king’s personal guard.

Using archers to clear a path, Jaime and his retainers made it across the entire length of the field. The men of Dragonstone and the North protecting Stannis Baratheon met the Lions head on.

It was in defending the true king that Theon took an arrow to his side. While he certainly felt it through his leather armor, Theon sat his horse and continued to fight.

With all the excitement from the ensuing victory, Theon as good as forgot about the blasted thing until battle fatigue and blood loss got the better of him. One moment he was cheering and shouting with the rest of the men, the next he was overcome by vertigo and had a vague awareness of sliding off his saddle.

Robb gripped Theon by the elbow before he could topple over and called over one of the men to help the Kraken Lord down from his horse. Theon felt himself lowered to the ground and out of the way of excited, stamping horses. The Young Wolf jumped down after him.

Removing his belt, Robb folded it in half and shoved it into Theon’s mouth, who bit down hard on the leather when one of the men began to dig for the arrowhead buried in his side. As he extracted it from his body, Theon moaned and clutched his arm where the kraken bound it. Trying as Robb commanded to think of something pleasant, he conjured images of Sansa’s fiery red hair, Tully blue eyes and the bright smile she wore so often. When the fingers of the godforsaken sod who insisted on playing maester reentered his wound to prod for shards and splinters, Theon spat out the belt and cursed fiercely in the old language of the Iron Islands.

“This part’s worse than getting shot,” Theon seethed, glowering at the man digging around in his side.

“Easy, mate,” Robb said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t bite the hand that mends you.”

“Tearing me a new one more like,” Theon snapped.

“Here.” Robb uncorked his wineskin and pressed it to Theon’s lips. “Drink this.”

After some grumbling, Theon complied.  

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Sansa sighed with relief and handed Arya a letter from their lord father.

“It is very good news. The best we could hope for,” she said, watching her sister’s smile steadily grow.

“Thank the Gods!” Arya exclaimed, tossing the letter up in the air. Before Sansa could stop her, Arya ran from the room whooping and hollering and proclaiming the good news to the entire castle.

Lord Eddard Stark and his men were smuggled out of King’s Landing by Varys, the Master of Whispers, and Lord Davos Seaworth, Hand of King Stannis.

After Arya made sure everyone in Winterfell knew of their father’s freedom, she and Sansa went out to the godswood to thank the Old Gods for delivering him from immediate danger. They begged for their loved ones’ protection and the swift overthrow of the Lannisters.

As they stood up from the ground and brushed off their clothes, Arya spoke. “Sansa?”

“Yes, Arya?” Sansa replied, casting a glance at her younger sister.

Arya fidgeted and couldn’t meet her eye. “I just want you to know I understand if you have to go back to being a lady when the war is over. I won’t be mad.”  

Sansa considered her words carefully. “Upon Father and Mother’s return, I will have to put on a fair show, but I think we can continue our training if we are discreet.”

Arya’s face lit up. “Really? You mean it?”

Sansa smiled. “I do. Now come on. Bran and Rickon should be back from Winter Town by now. They will want to hear this good news.”

Arya nodded, joining her sister in the walk back to the castle. “Maester Luwin says Bran won’t write to Mother,” she grimaced, pulling a leaf from a low hanging branch. “He’s furious at her for leaving and not taking him to the Vale.”

“I have heard as much.”

“Why is he being such a dolt?” Arya fumed, shredding the undeserving leaf to pieces. “Not everything is about him. Surely he knows mother has enough on her mind.”

“To him, it’s another missed adventure,” Sansa replied. “He does not truly understand the dangers, nor the consequences if we lose. Truth be told, I only know the half of it myself and what I do know terrifies me. Have you noticed that in the letters Robb sends us, there are many things our brother does not say?”

Arya nodded. “It’s like the time Robb, Jon and Theon went with father to execute a deserter from the Wall. No one would talk about what happened.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You knew about that?”

“I overheard Jory talking about it once when I was sneaking to the kitchens.” Arya shrugged.

Sansa shook her head. “Well, it is ugliness like that. We know it happened. We get the facts but not the story . At least not from those who were really there. All the tales about war come from the bards and their pretty songs praising honor, glory and great deeds,” Sansa explained. “That is all Bran knows and it is what he thinks about when he watches our family leave to join the fight. Like they’ve left him out of a grand game.”

“You used to live for the pretty songs. What changed?”

“Before he left, Father instructed me to pay closer attention my history lessons and to listen to the smallfolk. They tell a truer story than the ones found in songs.”

“Maybe Bran should do more of that.”

“He should take it more seriously. Maester Luwin has been weaning him into hearing petitions in father’s stead, but it has not been going well.” Sansa sighed. “I fear I will have to intervene soon—more than I have been.”

“You should be the one in charge. Everyone knows you are the one who is really running the castle.”

“Bran is the Lord of Winterfell in father’s and Robb’s absence, not I. All I can do is offer my counsel.”

“Yeah, well, he should start listening to that, too,” Arya grumbled, kicking a rock across the ground.

Sansa laughed. “I will have to tend to his wounded pride before that happens.”

Arya rolled her eyes and muttered, “Men are idiots.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

A year had passed since Lord Eddard Stark and his men were smuggled out of King’s Landing by the Onion Knight and Spider, and yet the war still waged without any sign of ending. After months of sieging King’s Landing with armies from the North, Riverlands, Vale and Stormlands at his back, King Stannis was close to taking the city – that was, until the disaster at Blackwater Bay. With wildfire blazing out of control, he retreated, devastated at the loss of half his ships and troops.

“I cannot hold a siege and attack Lannister lands with what is left. We are spread too thin,” King Stannis Baratheon said gruffly to the gathered lords comprising his small council.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark spoke up. “I may know a way to get more ships and men to Lannister lands without depleting your forces at King’s Landing.”

“If you are about to suggest Braavosi mercenaries, do not bother. I neither have the coin or the tolerance for men who fight for a price and not duty.”

“No, your Grace. That was not at all what I was going to suggest.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

Ned recommended Theon be sent to rally the Iron Islands to the cause and secure ships from his father’s fleet to replace the ones they lost. Despite Stannis’s skepticism that Balon Greyjoy would ever lift a finger to help someone else onto a throne, much less a Baratheon, he allowed Theon to go as his emissary.

Theon knew the King was taking a calculated risk by entrusting him with such a task, but he vowed not to fail him and Lord Stark, and he was permitted to travel alone. A lone traveler was far less likely to attract their enemies’ attention than a diplomatic party.

Shouldering his sea bag, Theon made his way across the docks to the woman barking orders at Black Wind’s crew. “Are you the captain?” he called.

She gave him an odd look, then eyed him up and down with a smirk. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m looking for passage to the Iron Islands. Do you pass there?”

“Aye,” she said crossing her arms.

“I don’t have much in the way of money,” he continued. “But I can work.”

“You stink of green. Why for fuck’s sake should I help you?”

“I’ll do the tasks no one wants,” Theon bargained. “I’m not particularly picky. I’m sure there’s something I can take off your crew’s backs.”

“Aye. There is.” The sea captain tapped her foot impatiently against the deck. “But before I consider it, you’ll explain to me why you’re so damn eager to go. I’ll not endanger my crew for a land-loving runaway and have some puffed up Lord breathing down my back.”

“I have family there I wish to see,” Theon replied honestly.

“Do you now?” She smirked. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Theon,” he said. He thought about lying but couldn’t think of a good reason to do so other than saving himself the trouble of her not believing him. “Greyjoy,” he finished and left it at that.

“Well, well, well.” She raised an eyebrow, interest piqued. “Lord Theon Greyjoy in the flesh, is it? I expect the Lord Reaper of Pyke will be very interested in seeing you. Escape the Starks, my little grass squid?”

Theon grimaced. “Not exactly.”

“Ha! You’ll be their messenger boy, then.”

He shrugged. “Of a sort.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “Climb aboard. Have one of these sea rats find you something to do.” She then shouted an order to one of the men coiling rope in the old Isle language—something to the effect of “keep an eye on my landlubber brother.”

Shocked at what he had heard, Theon made a point to discreetly get a better look at the captain. Upon closer inspection, he could see it—Asha Greyjoy, his older sister. He decided to keep his recognition secret for now. She clearly didn’t think he remembered the old language, which could prove handy if she or their brethren continued to divulge useful information that way.

He swabbed the decks most days and helped with any cargo loading and unloading. When he could, he observed the crew and pieced together a working understanding of how the ship operated, especially the rigging and sails. It wasn’t a big vessel, so he always saw or heard his sister pacing the decks and shouting commands.

In the evening quiet hours, when he wasn’t standing watch, Theon gathered with the rest of the men to play at dice, tell ribald jokes and swap war stories. The Ironborn crew took to calling him Greenlander. Undoubtedly, they knew who he was, but it was never discussed, and Theon did not volunteer the information. The men seemed to like him well enough, as it were, and he did not want to ruin that.

The morning before reaching shore, Asha approached him to announce that she would personally escort him to see the Lord Reaper.

“Thank you, sister,” he said without breaking stride in his task.

Asha narrowed her eyes at him. “How long have you known, Theon ?”

“Since I came onboard, Asha .”

“Little shit, why didn’t you say something?”

“Maybe for the same reasons you didn’t,” he answered, giving her a sly smile.

“Mmph. Go get us some horses,” she huffed, cuffing his ear.

He turned with a grin and went to do just that.

Balon Greyjoy, to his credit, did not seem surprised to see his only living son. After several long moments of appraising Theon with a skeptical, roving eye, his Lord Father barked, “What does the Wolf want, boy?”

“Ned Stark’s proposing an alliance.” Theon removed a thick letter with the Stark family seal from his pocket and handed it over. “The terms are in your favor.”

Balon scoffed. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He broke the seal and skimmed the document, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What’s really in it for him?”

Theon pinched the bridge of his nose and launched into a half rehearsed explanation. “Lord Stark is an uncomplicated man. If the Lannisters’ effortless overthrow of him as Hand of the King doesn’t show how poorly he plays the game of thrones, I don’t know what does. What he wants from you is simple—seventy of your ships to terrorize Lannister coasts in exchange for any plunder you might take. And as I’m sure you remember, Tywin Lannister shits gold aplenty.”***                    

“Strike the bloody lions where it hurts.” Balon nodded. “That’s all well and good. But what’s this here I see about a marriage contract? And your possible release? Does he think you’re still heir to the Seastone Chair?”

Theon sighed. “It’s a demonstration of goodwill,” he explained patiently. “Asha may be your heir, but I am hers. She has no husband, no children. And seeing as she seems perfectly content captaining her own ship, I’d say she has no notion of pursuing wifely duties anytime soon.”                                                                                

Asha nodded in agreement, twirling her axe.

“So that leaves me to preserve House Greyjoy. While I might be estranged from our family, I have your blood, like it or not. And with four trueborn siblings, Lady Sansa Stark is like to be just as fruitful as her mother. Should we be married, I will be free to return to Pyke to raise any children that we may have on the isles.”

Balon mulled over these words and gave Theon a stern look. “Are you a Greyjoy? Or are you a Stark?"

“I’ve not forgotten the Old Way, Father.”

“Oh no? So where did you get that dirk at your side? And that gold chain about your neck? Did you buy them or did the Wolf give them to you?”

Theon arched his brow. “I took them from a very unlucky Lannister.”

Balon looked at him with newfound interest. “You paid the iron price.”

“Aye, with the iron kiss.”

“What the hell is this?” Asha piped up, roughly jabbing the tattered, bloodstained remains of Sansa’s favor.

“The sigil of House Greyjoy,” he replied smartly.

“A gift from the Lady Sansa?” she viciously teased.

“Aye. What’s it to you?”

“Theon fancies himself in love,” she smirked. “And a greenlander tourney knight, too, perhaps?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for good luck. I’m still alive, aren’t I? So I’m disinclined to take it off.”

“You’re no true Ironborn man,” Balon spat, “but you’re not completely green, either. I’ll give you that. I’ll think over these terms. If I agree to them, it’ll be Asha who takes command of the Iron Fleet, you hear? I’ll not have a landlubber lead a raid against Casterly Rock.”

“I’ve no objections to that.”

“Good. Now leave. I’d like to discuss this with my heir.”  Balon turned away and Asha pushed Theon back with a devilish smile plastered on her face.

Truth be told, Theon’s disinheritance stung. It wasn’t his fault his father gave him up and bent the knee. But then he remembered that they did things differently on the Iron Islands. Primogeniture ruled in some cases, but merit and popular vote held more sway in others. The latter two were definitely on Asha’s side, because she worked hard, could lead men and managed to not be a hostage for fourteen years.

For now, Theon supposed this arrangement was for the best – he had no first-hand knowledge about commanding a realm or a fleet. But he meant to change that. If his father agreed to Lord Stark’s terms and this proposed marriage to Sansa came to fruition, he would have to learn quickly.

He’d never seriously considered marriage. Frankly, he hadn’t been interested before, and the Starks never raised the subject. Sansa’s shy smile and pretty blush as she tied her favor around his arm made him think it possible she’d be receptive to the arrangement her father made with Lord Stannis Baratheon’s blessing. He thought it could be quite good between them once they got to know each other better.

They were fortunate to have history, and he grinned broadly remembering the time they put mice into Jeyne Poole’s wardrobe and hid around the corner while she screamed her bloody head off. If Sansa could still let that side of her out every now and again, things could be very good between them. He enjoyed their shared mischievous camaraderie.

He also recalled the time she quietly watched him practicing archery in the wood. It was not long after he taught her and her siblings how to swim in the hot springs. He did not know why he connected the two events, but in hindsight, it seemed that she sought his sole company more afterwards.

“I find myself in need of peace and quiet, but I also do not want to be alone,” she explained, answering the unspoken question in his eyes. It was just the two of them, save for the squirrels and the birds.

“Is something bothering you, Sansa?” he asked, wondering why she hadn’t gone to Robb or Jon. Perhaps they’d been busy.

She sat down on a nearby log, carefully smoothing out her skirts as she debated whether to confide in him.

“Keep practicing. Please do not stop on my account.”

He reluctantly resumed. Her evasion troubled him.

After he put three arrows into the center of the target, she surprised him by speaking in the soft tones of someone sharing a secret. “Mother has become irksomely insistent that I begin courting my suitors.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, and if I hear more talk of marriage prospects, I think I will scream.”

“I thought that was all you wanted.”

“It is still important, but no one she suggests interests me,” Sansa replied. “No one truly kind, gentle and brave.”

“Who does?” he answered. “Interest you, that is.”

Sansa gazed at him intently. Then she blinked and looked away. “Mother has worn that conversation out. I would prefer not to talk about it.”

Theon nodded in understanding. Lady Catelyn could be very persistent, especially in matters pertaining to duty, family and the proper upbringing of her children. “Would you like to learn?” he asked, extending his bow to her.

She smiled sweetly, all the frustration and exhaustion melting away. “Perhaps another time. But would you mind if I watched?”

“Not at all, my Lady.”

The memory faded. Theon did not know what to make of it.

Even if she warmed to him, he worried the cold, damp gloom of the Isles, hardened people and difficult lifestyle would be more than she could bear. Loathe as he was to admit it, Theon more easily pictured Sansa in a place like Highgarden than these rocks. At the very least, she deserved sunshine. He’d hate to take that away from her, to see her smile dimmed by a rough life.

Best not to worry about that now , he thought. It was out of his hands for the moment. What he could do was re-acquaint himself with the castle and grounds. He struck up conversation whenever and wherever he could, bound and determined to become less a stranger.

While he didn’t flaunt his identity, he didn’t keep it secret either. It made for an intriguing opening to conversations and piqued much interest; most were eager to answer his questions and ask a number of their own. Some of the servants were around when he was a boy and recalled memories from that time, telling him stories. He did his best to make a decent impression. Talk spread amongst the smallfolk as quick as wildfire and would follow them to their villages when they went home. He hoped the general opinion would be fair.

Asha found him later, sitting down along the craggy beach. He heard the crunch of boot heel as she walked across sand and rock. “We agree to the terms,” she said, crouching down next to him. “But there will have to be a moot later this week to see who will follow.”

Theon nodded, but was immensely relieved to overcome his mission’s first hurdle. As soon as this conversation was over, he’d send a raven to Robb with word of his progress. Anyone who was anybody would be at the moot, so he’d have to be sharp of mind. The prospect made him more than a little nervous.

“If the Wolf proves false,” Asha warned, “it’ll be your landlubber head on a pike.”

“Thanks, sis,” he grimaced, chucking a broken shell out into the water for the waves to reclaim.

She grinned, stretching out beside him. “So what was it like?”

“It wasn’t terrible living with the Starks, if that’s what you’re asking. They treated me more like family than hostage.”

“And what of Rodrik and Maron?” she muttered. “Were they not family?”

“Maron was cruel and Rodrik a drunken sod, so I have few fond memories of them, sister. Besides, it was Lord Mallister and the Baratheons that killed them, not the Starks.”

Asha snorted. “Aye. Suppose you’re right there. And I don’t think Maron told a story straight in all his short, sorry life.”

“Is mother still with Uncle Rodrik at Ten Towers?”

“Aye. It would do her good to see you, but only if you return. It’d break her heart twice over if you didn’t.”

“Wouldn’t it break her just as much to learn I was here but didn’t visit?”

“Aye,” she grumbled, resting an arm over her eyes. “I’ll take you to her then.”

“When?”

“Day after next. I’ll come and get you after I told her you’re here. Would not do to shock her into an early grave. She’s suffered enough.”

“Has she been unwell?”

“It’s nigh on 14 years and she still grieves. She does not get any better.”

“You seem to be doing well. No small feat getting Ironborn reavers to follow a woman.”

“Ha! You got that one right, little brother, and don’t you try taking that from me. I will kill you, Theon. Make no mistake.”

“I meant what I said earlier,” Theon pressed. “You can have the fleet and the Seastone Chair. I’ll only rule the rocks while you’re away.”

She laughed. “That’ll do.”

They were silent for a moment, before Asha asked, “Are you keen on marrying this Stark lass?”

“Keen enough, I think,” he replied truthfully, fingering the frayed ends of the grey ribbon. “May even have mused about it once or twice as a young lad, before I knew much what it meant. I cannot say I know her very well, but we’re familiar. We grew up together, after all, and that’s more than what most betrothed have between them.”

“Oi!” She smacked him. “Answer the question straight. Is she bonny or not?”

“Very,” he winced, rubbing his arm gingerly.

“Good. Putting a kraken in her belly should not be too difficult then, should it?” she chuckled.

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Then what?”

“She’s a greenlander, a lady, and as you keep kindly reminding me, I’m not too far off. It would be a hard adjustment for her, and I wouldn’t be much help.”

“Aye. But it would be a lot harder if she married a true reaver. You know her ways. At least you can be landlubbers together.”

“Who would have thought you would be so full of sage wisdom?”

“Mmph. A wee bit of sisterly advice is warranted now and again. Just don’t expect me to go soft on you. If you want that, curl up with your she-wolf.”

“I think I’ll manage; I have thus far.”

Asha gave him a curious look. “So you have.”

“Do you think you’ll get seventy ships worth of men to follow you?” Theon asked, steering the conversation to the main issue at hand.

“Depends on what Nuncle Victarion has to say about it. If he’s keen on getting his hands on Lannister gold, which he’s like to, you will have your seventy ships, perhaps even more. If he rails against it, you will have fifty from Father’s fleet. He’ll not send the whole damn thing – half is mighty generous if you ask me. If you want more, you’ll have to appeal to the others.”

“Don’t tell me Father’s gone sentimental.”

“Ha!” Asha laughed. “Nay. He still smells the green on you, but if he doesn’t show some support, the Ironborn never will and then we’re buggered. Nuncle Euron already threatens to usurp me at the kingsmoot that will take place when Father dies. I tell you, Theon, being a woman can be a real annoyance sometimes. At least for the time being, you are a viable and more favorable male candidate to succeed Father than Nuncle Crow’s Eye.”

“Words that could only make sense on the Iron Islands. I take it Father doesn’t want our uncle to have the Seastone Chair.”

Asha rubbed her face. “I suppose I’ll tell you,” she muttered. The situation seemed to cause her a great deal of stress. “Not like it’s a secret. Father despises Nuncle Euron. He’d turn eternally in his watery grave if Crow’s Eye became Lord Reaper.”

“Yourself aside, who’s your vote?”

“Truth be told, Nuncle Victarion would be a better choice. For fuck’s sake, even you would be. If Nuncle Euron takes control, the Ironborn will never make peace with the greenlanders. We might be a ruthless people, but the man even makes Father’s skin crawl.”

“What’s this bit about making peace? Does Father know his heir is going soft in the Old Way?” Theon ribbed.

Asha rolled her eyes. “Father’s vision is folly. While his nostalgic boyhood memories of rebelling against his own father to bring back the Old Way are charming, they’re also short-sighted. Pillaging and plundering may be fine for some of us, but death is never far here for the fisherfolk who fight the sea, the farmers who scratch a crop from our piss poor soil and the miners who break their backs for iron, lead and tin.*** And for what? What is dead is dead, but our people are very much alive. I don’t care what our crusty Nuncle Aeron says. The Drowned God only bears his love for those who reave, and we only have love for ourselves.”

“I take it then you noticed what’s to be Lady Sansa’s dowry should we marry.”

“Oh aye. I noticed it. The Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point—tall trees and black earth. That was well thought, brother, I’ll give the Wolf that.”

“Did Father have anything to say of it?”

“Nothing I cannot handle,” she winked, picking up a piece of seaweed and flinging it at him. “The trick is to remind him of how much gold Tywin Lannister shits. It tickles his reaving heart.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

“You did what?” Arya exclaimed.

Curled up under the covers with her sister, Sansa bid Arya to keep her voice down lest the whole castle hear them. “Theon and I put mice in Jeyne’s wardrobe,” she repeated.

“You actually touched them?” Arya asked with disbelief.

“Of course, I touched them. I was rather determined.”

Arya pressed the back of her hand to forehead in a mock swoon. “My lady sister? I shall die of shock!”

Sansa tickled her sides. Arya thrashed and rolled away, poorly muffling her laughter. When she regained her breath, Arya revealed, “I’m glad Jeyne left. You stopped being fun when she came around. It was always some god awfully boring battle to see who could be the most womanly. And for some reason, you thought it’d be a good idea to drag me into it, keeping tallies on who could tattle on me the most.”

“I didn’t want you to feel left out,” Sansa joked, half-heartedly.

Arya stuck out her tongue, then said, “You’re alright now,” and snuggled up to her again.

“It wasn’t ladylike, you know,” Sansa confessed. “But I suppose tattling was the most fun a child pretending to be a lady can have.”

“That’s in the past.”

Sansa stroked her sister’s hair. “I think it is good for us to be allies,” she said softly.

“Yes. And good timing, too. Bran is always moody and Rickon still eats his snot.” Arya made a face.

“You miss Jon?”

Arya nodded. “Do you think he’s alright? And Mother and Father and Robb?”

“Yes. We would have heard word if they weren’t.”

“But what if something happened, and they couldn’t send a raven?”

Sansa thought for a moment. “I think,” she said slowly, “I would have felt something.”

Arya was quiet. Then she nodded and returned, “I would have felt something, too. But I worry. Anything could happen.”

“I know, but they have each other. Wolves are formidable when they are in a pack.”

“I hope it’s enough,” Arya mumbled solemnly.

“It will be,” Sansa assured her. “A raven today came from Theon. They held a moot at Pyke several days ago. He has one hundred ships to join the fight against the Lannisters. They’re going to raze the coastline from The Crag to Crakenhall, taking out key strongholds like Casterly Rock and Lannisport along the way.”

“The stupid lions will have no claws to back their roar!” Arya concluded gleefully.

Sansa nodded. “It’s the beginning of the end.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Theon, Robb and Jon rode ahead of the others, eager to surprise the remaining Stark siblings with their early return. When they came upon the stables, a young woman sporting a long braid and breeches busied herself with brushing out one of the old mares. Her back faced the group, and Theon found it hard not to stare at her odd attire.

“Arya, will you make sure Bran and Rickon are cleaned up before supper?” she yelled over her shoulder, mistaking the returned soldiers for her other siblings.

Sansa? Theon raised his brow in disbelief. Sansa was wearing breeches?

“Sister!” Robb called, hopping down from his horse.

Sansa whirled around, eyes round with surprise. “Robb!” she cried, running into her brother’s arms and grabbing him tightly. Although the fire-haired siblings were nearly the same in height, Robb lifted her up off the ground and spun her around in a circle. She laughed in delight. Jon then stepped in to take his turn.

“I thought you weren’t going to be here for another week at the earliest,” she exclaimed, happy tears dampening Jon’s shoulder.

“We wanted to surprise you,” the raven haired man chuckled.

“You certainly did,” she said cheerfully, stepping back and wiping the tears from her eyes.

While this exchange transpired, Theon stayed behind, uncertain of what to say or do. Thankfully, Sansa resolved that issue by awarding him with a bright smile as soon as she saw him. Sidestepping her brother and cousin, she embraced him, as well.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece,” she smiled, arms wrapped around his neck.

Jon and Robb looked startled at Sansa’s boldness. Did she know about their betrothal?

Theon, for all their sakes, but mostly his own, tried desperately not to think about how lovely her ass looked in breeches or how nice it felt to be in her arms.

“Aye,” Theon replied, awkwardly patting her back in what he hoped the men in front of him would consider a chaste, but polite, return of affection. She didn’t see the looks they were giving them, but he did. “Why ye wearing breeches? Was there a famine we didn’t hear about and ye had to eat yer sister Arya?”

Sansa laughed pulling back. Robb and Jon laughed, as well, cutting through the tension.

“What’s that I hear, Theon? Ye and yer? Are you a pirate now?”

Theon reddened and cleared his throat, readjusting after a half a year’s worth of the sailor’s tongue. “Nay. Still a landlubber, my Lady,” he recovered. “Now answer me straight. Did you eat your sister Arya and don her rags?”

Sansa grinned. “No, but I’ll admit she rubbed off on me. Septa Mordane gave up on correcting us ages ago, but I suppose I should go change. Mother and Father are not far behind?”

“An hour perhaps,” he replied.

“Robb,” Sansa half turned to face her brother, “can you go find Arya and the boys? They’ll need to clean up before the Lord and Lady of Winterfell arrive.”

“They went out riding?” Robb asked, mounting his horse.

Sansa nodded. “They’ll not be far. Rickon’s on a pony.”

After Robb rode off and Jon left to water the remaining two horses, Sansa turned back to Theon and lightly touched his arm where the grey ribbon was tied. “You still wear it,” she murmured sweetly, tracing the once golden tentacles.

“Does that surprise you?”

“It does. Robb and Jon weren’t wearing theirs,” she stated, meeting his gaze.

“It brought me good fortune,” he said, folding his hands behind his back so he didn’t grab her and kiss her like he wanted.

“We all have much to be thankful for. My family…” she trailed. “I don’t know what I would have done if one of you hadn’t returned.”

“Don’t dwell on it. All of the Starks have returned to Winterfell.”

She smiled, gently tugging the frayed material of her favor. “I should make you another one. This one’s in a wretched state.”

He clasped his hand over hers to keep her from pulling the ribbon loose. “If it please you, my Lady,” Theon said, falling back on propriety. “But I think I’ll keep this one, too, as a memento at the very least.”

“I didn’t know you were sentimental, my Lord.”

“Superstitious, perhaps,” he deflected. “Not sentimental.”

“Too bad,” she said with a graceful curtsy. “I would have liked that much better, future husband.”  With that she walked back to the castle to prepare for the return of Winterfell’s host. Theon was speechless.

A huge feast, overseen by Sansa and her mother, was held in Winterfell’s hall that night. On short notice, only three simple courses were served, but there were casks of ale and wine aplenty, of which the guests drank more than their fill. Lord Eddard Stark balked at the excess, remembering the old Stark adage about the coming winter, but Lady Catelyn kindly reminded him that they wouldn’t have made it to winter without the help of his bannermen.

When the dancing began, Theon watched Sansa from across the dais, waiting for an opportunity to get up and ask her to dance, as she was currently engaged in conversation with Lady Maege Mormont. Sansa’s fiery hair flowed down her back in the Northern style, and she wore a gown of ice blue, a far cry from her earlier rough spun shirt, leather jerkin and breeches. He broke his gaze when Robb elbowed him roughly in the ribs.

“What?” Theon hissed, setting his tankard of ale down before almost spilling it.

“Court her properly or I’ll geld you,” Robb warned.

“Noted,” he replied tersely, getting up from his seat. He shot Robb a dirty look before making his way over to where Sansa sat. She beamed at the sight of him.

“Lady Stark, Lady Mormont, please pardon my intrusion. I’ve come to claim Lady Stark’s first dance, if that’s alright.”

Lady Mormont gave Sansa a knowing smile. “I don’t mind at all.”

Sansa placed her hand in Theon’s outstretched one and allowed him to lead her into the dance.

“You look lovely, Sansa,” Theon said, dropping all formalities.

“You cut a fine figure yourself.”

“Mmph. So I take it you know.”

“Know what?” she asked coyly.

“That we are to be married.”

Sansa laughed. “Of course, I know! I’m the one who suggested it to Father. I sent him a raven early last year.”

Theon was taken aback. Noting this, Sansa concluded, “Father didn’t tell you.”

“Why?” he blurted out.

To which Sansa replied, “A number of different reasons.”

“Which are?”

“I fancy you, Theon. We grew up together, and I think you’ll be kind to me. Luckily for me, the match also has political advantages, so Father deemed it suitable.”

Theon let out a small laugh. “And here I feared you’d object.”

Sansa pressed a finger lightly to the piece of grey ribbon peeking up over his breast pocket. “You are sentimental after all.”

“Aye, I suppose I am.” Theon felt the sudden urge to kiss her. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as she read his thoughts.

Passionately kissing her in a room full of Lord Eddard Stark’s armed bannermen would not be a prudent decision. As a substitute, Theon raised Sansa’s hand to his lips, kissed the tender skin there and lingered. She let out a ragged breath.

“So you are keen on marrying me, because you fancy me, not because you wish to return to Pyke?” she asked, fighting the dizziness that overcame her.

Theon, feeling a little dizzy himself, did his best to hold them steady. If others spied the moment that passed between them, he hoped it would pass as momentary drunkenness, although perhaps that would not be much better.

“When I returned to Pyke, I was a stranger in my own home. Maybe one day it’ll be nice to truly be Lord Theon Greyjoy again. I’d like to try. The Iron Islands are a hard place, and while I’ll sorely miss Winterfell, I hope to build us a good home there. Doing right by you is important to me, Sansa, because indeed I fancy you quite a bit.”

She squeezed his hand. “Will your people despise me, and you for having me as your wife?”

“They’ll likely have no opinion beyond ‘she’s a greenlander’ and a wolf.”

“I am what I am, but surely there’s something I can do to earn a measure of respect. Perhaps you could teach me how to speak the old language?” she suggested.

“I can do that.” Theon grinned.

When the music changed over to a fast paced, upbeat jig, his eyes lit up at the sound. “Oi! This is my favorite song!” he exclaimed, grabbing Sansa by the waist and twirling her around. She squealed with delight, language lessons temporarily forgotten.

After their third song together, flushed and out of breath, the two returned to the dais for refreshment and respite. Their closeness that night had not gone unnoticed. Numerous guests cast glances at them. Once they had caught their breath, Lord Stark appeared between them.

“Daughter, Theon, will you join me at the head of the dais? I find this an opportune moment to announce your betrothal with all of my bannermen present to hear it.”

“Of course, Father,” Sansa said sweetly, placing her hand in Lord Stark’s proffered one.

“Aye, my Lord.”

The announcement was received as well as could be expected. Many Northmen bewailed the loss of a valuable match to a bloody pirate and rebel’s son, but individually, an encouraging amount of guests approached them throughout the rest of the night to offer their congratulations.

Had not their coupling appeared to be the closest thing to a love match, the outrage of giving a first born daughter over to the Greyjoys would have been tenfold. Theon realized in hindsight that their dancing played well into Lord Stark’s plan. It was further announced that in one month’s time, Sansa and Theon would be wed, and all present were invited to bring their wives and children to the festivities.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Sansa sat opposite of Theon in the library with Maester Luwin dutifully playing chaperone at the far end of the table while he read his scrolls. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she sounded out the syllables to the words Theon wrote down on a scrap of parchment.

“Roll your ‘rs’ more. That’s it and ‘ghs’ come from the back of the throat like a cough.”

Sansa grimaced at the graceless sound that erupted from her throat. Theon smiled proudly. “You’ve got it.”

She gave him a doubtful look.

“Okay. It’s a little exaggerated maybe and a bit forced, but it’s supposed to sound harsh. We don’t speak a pretty language on the Iron Islands.”

“How do I make it sound natural?”

“Try it on your tongue a few more times and say it fast.”

Sansa obliged, but stopped halfway through the fourth try, shaking her head in exasperation. “Can I hear you say it again, please?”

She listened closely and mouthed the words along with him. When he finished, she said, “I can pronounce the words right in my head, but I can’t get them to come out as they should when I try to speak. Do you know any songs that carry a good tune? Maybe it will help if I try to sing it.”

Theon rifled through his memories of a very distant past. “Aye, I think I know a good one.”

Line by line he taught her the song. She had a lovely voice; he didn’t think such a rough language could be sung so beautifully. Finding this approach to be working quite well, Theon and Sansa together made up songs using the words and phrases he wanted to teach her. The afternoon was filled with laughter and giddy smiles, as they leaned toward each other, bent over their work. Even Maester Luwin was thoroughly amused.

Sometimes throughout the day Theon would catch Sansa practicing the words of their previous lesson to herself as she went about her daily tasks. Often she practiced by talking to the Winterfell servants. Since they knew not what she said, she’d follow each instruction with a translation. No one seemed much bothered by it and a few even found it endearing.

Nearly three weeks into her language lessons with Theon, she pulled out a scroll and delicately unraveled it. “I know the wedding will be held here in the godswood,” she began. “But I thought we could renew our vows on the Isles, before your people. I’ve been reading about the Iron Islands lately, and there’s a ritual before the Drowned God that—“

“Sansa,” Theon firmly interrupted her. “That ritual includes drowning. It’s very unpleasant and dangerous.”

Maester Luwin gave them a startled look but said nothing.

“Have you done it?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “It’s a rite of passage. I was not old enough when your father took me. But I’ve seen it done. My Uncle Aeron is a priest of the Drowned God.”

“Is he good at reviving people?”

“He hasn’t lost anyone. Yet.” Theon warned.

“Then why don’t we do it if it earns us a considerable measure of respect?” she pressed on.

“I couldn’t watch you drown, Sansa. And if we survived, your family would have my head for allowing it,” he replied, turning his back to Maester Luwin’s worried glances.

“Theon, I’m a greenlander. I always will be. But I came from a line of kings and queens, as did you. Let us do our ancestors proud.” She reasoned, “You can’t lead a people until they see you respect their ways. No one takes kindly to being ruled by an outsider.”

Theon pinched the bridge of his nose. “But is having ourselves drowned really going to accomplish as much as you think?”

Sansa shook her head. “I think it is the beginning for building a foundation of trust and respect.”

Theon took her hands in his. “Sansa,” he pleaded. “Can you think this over some more? Allow yourself some time to reconsider? If you still want to do the ritual by the time we leave Winterfell, promise me we’ll discuss it with your family first?”

She nodded. “I promise.”

Theon sighed, leaning back. “When did you get so bold?”

“Truly?” she replied seriously. “When I thought I might lose you all.”

He rubbed circles into the back of her hand as she continued. “When my family left for war, all the things I used to enjoy—sewing, singing, playing the harp, listening to romantic fairy tales—no longer held their pleasure. I was scared.”

“So you began dressing in breeches, grooming horses and making your own marriage arrangements?”

She laughed. “And reading. I did a lot of reading.”

“What did you read?”

Sansa blushed. “Histories of Pyke. The Iron Islands. Your family. I wanted to be informed before I made my decision.”

“And what did you learn?”

“You do not sow,” she answered simply.

He snorted. “My father follows the Old Way, which means we’re pirates. Can you live with that?”

Sansa thought for a moment. “I am going to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Once I would have said no. Now I think I understand a lot less than I thought I did. Besides, I hate the Lannisters,” she said icily. “They tried to kill my entire family. The Kraken can have them.”

“Robb told me they sent you death threats.” Theon squeezed her hand.

“Yes,” she said darkly. “They did. But not all were threats. Many were falsehoods about my family’s capture and executions. In one, they said Robb was to marry a Frey but spurned her for another woman. The Freys then beheaded him for it and had a wolf’s head sewn to his body, so they could parade him about the Twins. They also said Roose Bolton betrayed the North and slit my Lady Mother’s throat.”

Theon stood and went to the other side of the table where Sansa sat. Maester Luwin cleared his throat in warning, which Theon ignored. He sat down beside her and she turned so that their knees touched. “Robb sent word frequently back to Winterfell, so you knew the Lannisters were false.”

“And you did the same,” she caressed the side of his cheek, making Maester Luwin shift uncomfortably. “They tried to make me a pawn. I’ll never forgive them for trying to use me against my own family.”

Theon took her hand and kissed it, but chastely, as the Maester looked ready to protest. “You’ll be marrying into my house soon enough. I hope it pleases you to know that we made them pay.”

“It does, which is why I will not be sorry to be going to the Iron Islands.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Theon tossed and turned in bed, hiding his face under the covers from the grey dimness before the sunrise and trying to fall back asleep. But it was of no use. Sleep would not return. After pulling on his boots, Theon crept out of his room and down to the training yard. In an hour or so, Robb and Jon would wake and join him. For now, he practiced his footwork and maneuvering to warm up his muscles and shake off sleep’s residual effects from his limbs. As he fought his invisible opponent, his wartime sixth sense brought his attention to the fact that he no longer had the grounds to himself. Stopping, he turned around to see who watched.

Sansa stood off to the side, practice sword in hand. Her hair flowed freely over her shoulders, the sides braided close to her head to keep it from her face. She wore a plain grey dress, but one side was pulled up and tied to a belt around her waist, revealing the breeches and boots underneath.

“Sansa, what are you doing here?” He lowered his sword.

“I could ask you the same,” she said, coming to stand in front of him. “Arya and I always train early in the morning before anyone wakes.”

Theon couldn’t hide his surprise. “Should I leave?” he asked, looking around for the younger sister.

“I sent Arya away,” Sansa replied. “I thought we could practice together, you and I.”

Heat rose up to Theon’s cheeks. “I, um…”

She ran her hand down his arm and briefly squeezed his hand. “It’s alright, Theon,” she said softly. “I know more than you think. Lady Mormont was my instructor.”

Theon rubbed the stubble on his chin. “How long have you been training?”

“Every day since not long after you left for war.”

Theon gave that some consideration. “And what got you started?”

“I wanted to bond with my sister,” she answered. Then she looked away, biting her lip. “And to feel in control.”

“Did it help?” Theon bent to seek out her eyes.

She nodded. “Very much.”

“Then let’s get started,” Theon encouraged, tapping his practice sword against hers.

Sansa smiled warmly. “This will be a challenge for me.”

“Aye,” Theon grinned. “It will be for me, as well.”

In the beginning, they kept their pace slow. Sansa had good form, and it improved with speed. Skirts and hair billowing about her, Sansa twisted and spun, lunged and deflected with the fluidity and grace of an elaborate dance. At times, Theon forgot that he was supposed to be fighting, too entranced in watching her move.

His mind returned when she shoved him back into a wall, sword edge pressed lightly against the skin of his neck. He flexed his sword hand and found that it had been abandoned. Did she knock it from his grasp? Or did he drop it? He couldn’t remember.

Her flushed cheeks, wild tangled hair and slightly parted lips were inches from his face and he found he desperately wanted to kiss them. With the thought, his loins stirred, something she surely felt, because her blush deepened. But she did not pull away. Instead, she lowered her sword and leaned in. Their lips barely brushed one another when Robb called out teasingly, “Maybe I should have brought Sansa with me on the march south!”

Sansa spun around at his voice. “Why Robb, does that mean you’ll spar with me next?” she beamed.

Robb laughed. “If you throw the gauntlet, for honor’s sake I must!”

Sansa tossed her hair back over her shoulder and said, “Consider it done.”

Theon watched their playful sparring for a time, but the ache in his loins did not dissipate, so he quietly slipped away to the privacy of his chambers.

Early the next morning, Theon caught Sansa just as she snuck out of her room for her secret training session with her sister.

“Theon,” she whispered in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to catch a moment with you alone.”

“Oh,” Sansa smiled, blush visible even in the dim light. “What for?”

He took a step closer to her, trailing a fingertip down the side of her cheek and across her lips. “To see what there is between us,” he murmured huskily.

She briefly closed her eyes, letting out a ragged breath. “I can spare a few moments.”

Theon slid a hand around her waist to the small of her back and the other from her cheek to the back of her head. He pulled her close, pressing his lips to hers. They kissed each other slowly and deliberately, wanting to take their time in exploring one another. Her fingers brushed his jaw, his neck, and then moved under his shirt to touch his collarbone, making his heart pound in his chest. Those fingers proceeded to slide over his shoulder and up to rest at the nape of his neck. Her other hand settled on his chest.

They drew away when the scuff of Arya’s boot echoed down the hall.

“It’s good, what’s between us, dearheart,” she smiled.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Aye. That it is.”

Theon disappeared before Arya could turn the corner.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Towards the end of dinner that evening, Sansa rubbed her knee against his and whispered to him in the old language, “I want you.”

He choked on his wine and gave her a startled look. “Truly?” he asked, using the same language.

“Very much so.”

Theon cursed under his breath and slid further under the table to hide how hard he was becoming. She smiled, lightly blushing. Since everyone else was too busy listening to a story Jon was telling to pay them much mind, Theon leaned over and whispered in her ear, sliding his hand across her inner thigh, “Come to my chambers tonight, and I’ll give you something to tide you over until our wedding night.”

Sansa took a long drink of her wine to hide her reddening cheeks.

When the castle had gone dark and quiet, she slipped silently out of her room. The soft glow of candlelight peeped out from the crack under Theon’s door, so she knew he indeed stayed awake for her. She knocked lightly and moments later he opened the door, ushering her inside.

His strong, bare arms encircled her from behind. Theon gently drew her unbound hair aside to place kisses along her neck and shoulder. She shuddered in response, suddenly feeling weak kneed. He held her up and reached down over her shift to tenderly caress the roundness of her breasts.

“Did I make you wet, future wife, this morning outside your chambers?” his voice was deep and hoarse.

“Almost as much as I am now,” she replied, pressing back into his member. He groaned and rubbed himself against her backside.

“I did not know if you’d come,” he buried his face in her hair, breathing in its sweet scent. “I hoped and feared it.” Theon’s hands slid up and down her curves and belly, memorizing the feel of her.

“Why fear?” she asked, tracing the bulging veins of his forearm.

“Robb will geld me if he finds out,” he chuckled. “And the rest of your family will hold me down while he does it.”

Sansa shook her head. “We’ll be wedded and bedded within the week,” she reasoned. “And I don’t want our wedding night to be the first time you touch me.”

“Why, Sansa?” he squeezed, holding her close.

“I want to see more of what this is, what’s between us,” she smirked, using his own words from the morning. “And I want to know what to do when you take me to our marriage bed.”

Theon bid her to turn around. He wore no shirt, naked except for his breeches, which tented prominently in the front. She ran her hands slowly up his arms and across his chest, acquainting herself with feeling all his muscles.  She had seen him half-naked before, having discarded his shirt during training sessions with Robb and Jon on numerous occasions. But he had never been this close, or aroused.

“If I do something you don’t like, just stop me,” he said, pulling her into a slow, passionate kiss. Theon tugged at her lips and caressed her tongue with his own. She responded in kind, moaning against his mouth when she felt his fingers dip down her neckline to caress a nipple.

“Theon,” she breathed, untying the strings at the front to give him better access.

He took the edges of her shift to draw them over her shoulders and expose her breasts, breath hitching in the back of this throat. His hand brushed over and palmed the one. She quite enjoyed the sensation of him kneading it lightly over and over. When the remaining hand let go of her shift to cup her face and kiss her, it fell to the ground, pooling at her feet. In exploration of his body, she touched his lower back and sides, skin smooth except for a patch of raised skin on his right side, just under his ribs.

Theon withdrew from their kiss to look her over. He smiled warmly and said, “You’re beautiful, Sansa.”

She blushed. In a voice that she didn’t recognize as her own, so low and sultry, she replied, “Let me take off yours, as well. Fair’s fair.”  

His eyes bore into her own. “Aye,” he said. “Fair’s fair.”

After undoing the laces, Sansa pushed his breeches past his hips. Theon kicked away the garment once it fell to his ankles. Tentatively, she touched his abdomen, taking in the sight of his manhood, jutting straight out in front of him.

“So the Kraken does have another tentacle,” she teased shyly.

He grinned, guiding her hand around it. She was surprised at how hard and soft the engorged flesh felt at the same time.

“I have many,” he murmured, slipping his fingers between her thighs.

“Oh!” she gasped, grasping his shoulders to hold herself steady.

He kissed her cheek affectionately. “Why don’t we lay down for this?”

She nodded. “Will you show me what to do?”

He led her over to the bed and eased her onto her back. “Just enjoy yourself. I am going to make this feel good for you.”

She blushed profusely when he spread her legs apart, gazing at what lie in between. “Lovely,” she heard him breathe, as he knelt before her to kiss her inner thighs. She jerked back with surprise when his lips met her there.

He rubbed her stomach and the side of her leg in reassurance. “Relax, dearheart. I promise this will feel good, but if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

When his tongue began to dart in and out of her slit, she murmured with pleasure, “I hadn’t considered that tentacle.”

His shoulders shook with laughter and his next ministrations made her quake. Between his fingers and mouth, he got her to peak. She wanted to cry out, and something told her Theon would like that, but held it back lest someone heard. While she recovered, Theon rubbed down her tingling, languid limbs.

“Did you like that?” he asked her, resting her heel on his shoulder so he could massage the her right leg’s calf.

“Mmm,” she purred. “Could you do that again on our wedding night?”

He chuckled, kissing her ankle. “I’d be glad to.”

“You liked it, as well?” she asked curiously.

“Aye. Very much,” Theon winked.

She gazed at the man kneeling before her for a time. He wasn’t a big man, but he was well-built – broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, with arms and thighs that rippled with muscle when he moved – a warrior’s body. Looking at him like this, and remembering how he usually looked, Sansa thought he somehow seemed bigger without all his clothes.

“Can I tell you something, Theon?”

“We’re to be married. You can tell me whatever you like,” he answered, moving his hands over her knee and down her thigh.

“When you were away fighting, I’d often lay awake at night picturing you in my mind,” she confessed.  “Sometimes I prayed for your safe return. Other times I pleasured myself to the thought of you.”

Theon gently lay her leg down and hovered over her, placing a kiss on her lips. “I did the same, and still do.”

She coaxed him down on top of her. “Did Robb know you felt that way about me?”

“Aye. When he saw how I wore your favor all the time and stopped seeking the company of other women,” he admitted, twirling his finger around a lock of red hair. “He knew. He stopped teasing me about it when your father approached me with a marriage proposal.”

“Neither of you expected it.”

“Nay. Always thought picturing you in my mind, cock in hand, was the furthest it was ever going to go.”

“Yet you forsook all other women.”

“Aye. I did. I wanted you and no one else. I suppose if your father married you to some other Lord, I would have moved on. But for the time being, carrying you in my heart did no one any harm.”

Sansa fingered a strand of his dark hair and swallowed. “Have you lain with a virgin before?”

“No,” he said softly, stroking a finger against her cheek. “It will just be you.”

“Truly?” she quirked her brow in surprise.

He nodded. “I always, uh, paid for company.”

Sansa took his meaning. It wasn’t unusual for young noblemen to visit brothels before they married, and she already knew for a fact that Robb and Jon did on occasion. “I often wondered what it would feel like to be joined in that way. I’ve heard the first time can hurt.”

He nuzzled her neck, then looked her in the eyes. “The trick is to get you ready and wet,” he explained. “And for me to go slow.”

Sansa touched his cheek and wrapped her legs around his hips. “I am both, dearheart,” she whispered, heart pounding in her chest.

Theon kissed her deeply and enveloped her in his arms.

“Are you sure, Sansa? When I asked you here, I did not do it with the intention of bedding you. If we wait a few more days, when my family and your father’s bannermen arrive, we will be married.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But our wedding night will be easier on me if we do this now.”

“Aye.” Theon gulped. “Relax your legs, love,” he said, guiding her. “Prop them up at my sides like this.”

They joined slowly, rocking against one another once Sansa had grown accustomed to his length inside of her.

“That’s it,” he groaned, as she raised her hips up to meet him. “Gods, Sansa. How do you feel so good?”

Her hands ran down his spine and came to rest at the small of his back. As he churned, Theon reached between them to rub his fingers on her pleasure spot. “Let go, love,” he commanded hoarsely, throat raw like a drowned man. “Let go.”

He choked back a groan when her back arched, breasts cresting as the wave of her pleasure crashed over him – water and salt wetting his thighs and the blankets beneath. She bit his shoulder to suppress the moan bubbling at the back of her throat. It was too much for him hold back any longer. He plunged into her depths and went stiff, filling her with his seed.

When he finished, she pulled him down and kissed him hard on the mouth. He grasped her buttocks firmly and laid his damp forehead against her heaving chest, murmuring in his own language the love he felt for her.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Winterfell bustled with preparations for the wedding guests. Since the betrothal announcement, Sansa and her mother had been working on practical wear for the Iron Islands and a dress for her wedding. The former were made of warm materials that would dry quickly even in the damp sea air. Her wedding dress, on the other hand, was greenlander garb to be sure. It beheld the grey and white of her house, but the colors bubbled together like sea foam. Sansa now busied herself with sewing the last of the salt water pearls into its low hanging neck and bodice. They were an early wedding gift from the Manderlys of White Harbor.

Her mother watched her closely, having noted the slight stiffness in her daughter’s movements whenever she sat down. She had her suspicions to be sure. After all, she had seen the way Theon Greyjoy and her girl looked at each other these past weeks – and known how Sansa felt about the Ironborn man before he left with the others for war. But she kept these thoughts to herself, even though she was sure they had consummated their love. It was love, after all, wasn’t it? And they were to be married soon, so any harm done was small and could easily be hidden. She silently thanked the Gods they had enough sense to wait until the week of the nuptials.

Sansa smiled at her mother, proudly holding up the finished dress. The older woman was misty eyed and uttered her praises. Even Arya said, and not unkindly, that it was “a pretty dress for a girl like her.”

Theon had been gone for a few days, and the soreness between Sansa’s legs had lessened considerably in his absence. After they made love for the first time, they had stayed up to talk and caress one another. Yet, when Sansa began to yawn, Theon got them out of his bed and dressed, escorting her to her own chambers. He had waited until she had fallen asleep before leaving. He was there again early in the morning with a brief kiss when she’d snuck out of her room to join Arya. It had made her heart soar.

Later that day, a raven came and Theon rode out with Robb, Jon and a small handful of other Winterfell men to the shore to meet the Greyjoy party who sailed north. They would be back soon and Sansa would meet the notorious Lord Balon Greyjoy and his lady wife Alannys Harlaw, along with Theon’s sister and various members of the Greyjoy household.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Theon’s lady mother rejoiced to see him, hugging him tightly with tears in her eyes. “My boy!” she cried. “My sweet, sweet boy! To see you on your wedding day. The Drowned God has answered my prayers.”

Balon scoffed, muttering a curse. He held himself stiffly, eyes roving about with suspicion, uncomfortable to be in the presence of so many Stark men.

Robb cleared his throat. “Lord Greyjoy. I am Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell. I welcome you and your company to our land and home. I trust we can do this peacefully?”

Balon grunted. “Boy, I understand how a damn alliance works.”

As they rode on, Asha came up beside Theon and whispered, “Mother softened him up quite a bit on the voyage here. You should be thankful for it. His pride was making him right rebellious before he left.”

“It can’t be easy for her,” Theon said. “With Maron and Rodrik…”

Asha sighed. “It was war. Our brothers weren’t killed by malice or the Starks. Although, if you ask Father or I, being friend to the Baratheons is a black mark against them.”

Theon tensed. If there was going to be trouble, he’d be forced to fight his own kin.

“Relax, brother,” Asha smirked. “We want this marriage to happen. If the lass is as bonny and fruitful as they say, the Wolf will be paying back his friend’s debts.”

“What is dead is dead,” he remarked with a snort.

“Aye,” she said, slapping him on the back. “We’ve had enough of all that. The past is in the past, so do us a favor and put a kraken in her belly, will ya brother?”

Jon coughed uncomfortably. “Can you mind your tongue? She’s my sister.”

Asha rolled her eyes. “If the rumors are true, I don’t think she’ll mind.”

“What are you getting at, squid?” Jon growled, then cried ‘ouch’ when Robb sucker punched him in the arm.

“You’re a testy one, aren’t you? All I’m saying is it’s rumored to be a love match. Theon, you can surely settle this matter. Is it a love match, truly?”

He felt the eyes of the Stark men fall on him. “Aye,” he said, pressing his hand against the breast pocket that held Sansa’s favor.

“See?” Asha snickered wickedly. “The lass won’t mind him sticking his cock in her one bit.” She rode off before either Jon or Robb could react. Theon felt rather hot around the collar.

Jon looked just about ready to attack the nearest Greyjoy – Theon – but Robb steadied him. “Her words, not his,” he reminded. “And Theon is soon to be Sansa’s husband and our good-brother. Don’t you want to be an uncle?”

“No,” Jon grumbled.

Robb laughed. “Well, I do. Come on. Let’s leave Theon in peace. He doesn’t need us threatening him for wedding and bedding our Sansa good and proper.”

Theon silently thanked the gods Robb still believed that.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

The entire household, and many of the wedding guests, gathered in the courtyard to welcome the Greyjoy clan. Civil greetings were exchanged, followed by a presentation of the bride-to-be. Sansa wore her hair down and it gleamed in contrast to her pale skin and light blue gown. A wolf-pelt cloak covered her shoulders. She had the look of a Queen of Winter, features composed and poised as she curtsied before Lord Balon Greyjoy, hand held out for a gentleman’s kiss.

Balon looked around helplessly as if trying to find someone else to take the girl’s hand. Sansa flashed Theon a quick smile as his father debated what to do. The small interaction had not gone unnoticed by Lady Alannys, who smiled broadly to herself.

Seeing no one jump in on his behalf, Balon hastily bent over her hand and kissed it.

“It is an honor to meet you, Lord Greyjoy,” Sansa said clearly. “I thank you for accepting me into your House.”

Balon nodded and motioned the woman behind him to step forward. “Let me introduce you to my wife.”

“Lady Alannys,” the woman answered for herself, taking Sansa’s hands into her own. “So you’re the lass my boy loves. Tell me, dear, do you love him in return?”

His mother’s eyes were deeply lined by crows’ feet, but kind and full of hope.

Sansa smiled brightly, allowing her public mask to fall away. “Why yes, Lady Greyjoy. I do a great deal.”

“Bless you, dear,” Lady Alannys said tearfully. Her daughter’s hand appeared on her shoulder, urging her back. “Mother,” she said gently. “Why don’t you go stand with Theon for a bit? Let me have a look at her, my good-sister-to-be?”

Lady Alannys patted Asha’s hand and gratefully took the arm Theon offered her.

When they had stepped off to the side, Asha turned to face Sansa with hands planted firmly on her hips. She squinted at the girl and looked her over critically. “No hiding that you’re a greenlander,” Asha remarked.

“No hiding that you’re a pirate,” Sansa replied evenly.

Asha grinned. “Oh good. And here I thought I was overdressed.”

Sansa grinned back. “Let me introduce you to my sister, Arya,” she said, ignoring the warning looks from her Lady Mother.

The girl in question came forward eagerly and excitedly expressed her interest in one day becoming a pirate or pursuing any similar occupation that involved wearing breeches and carrying a sword. Lady Catelyn gasped in horror, but Lord Eddard shook his head, effectively silencing any protests she was about to make.

Asha laughed and Sansa added, “She’ll be coming to the Isles with me. I thought the two of you might make amiable companions.”

Asha was somewhat impressed. “And you Lady Wolf, under those fancy skirts, is there some kraken in you, too?”

Sansa leaned forward and whispered so that none but her intended’s sister could hear. “No,” she answered with a mischievous glint in eye. “But there will be.”

Asha barked in laughter. “I like you. I did not think I would. But aye. There it is.” Then she stepped back to take a bundle from the back of a pack horse. She nodded to Theon who took it from her arms.

He knelt before Sansa and said, “On behalf of my family and the House Greyjoy, I would like to present this humble gift. It’s a cloak made from the coat of a selkie to keep you dry from the ocean spray.”

Sansa touched the fur, finding it very soft. “Thank you, my Lord. It is a most thoughtful gift.”

A servant was waved over to take the cloak away and have it carefully wrapped. When Theon rose to his feet, Lord Eddard Stark clapped him on the back and then invited their guests inside the castle to partake in bread, salt, and other refreshments.

Everyone behaved cordially under the circumstances. Arya and Asha seemed to get along the best, next to Lady Alannys, Lady Catelyn and Sansa. Theon’s mother, despite her great loss, was very kind and eager to form a good relationship with her good-daughter-to-be. Sansa felt wonderfully relieved to know she would have an ally at Pyke. Wanting to keep up with their show of goodwill, Lady Catelyn invited Lady Alannys to help Sansa get ready on the morrow for the wedding, an invitation to which she wholeheartedly accepted.

When the lady from the Isles finally saw the dress, she gasped in amazement. “You do us a great honor,” she said, touching the pearls and running her hand down the skirt.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Surely Theon was dreaming as he said his vows beneath a weirwood tree before the Old Gods and their two Houses. The woman that stood before him could not be Sansa Stark, but rather a goddess of the sea. But then she smiled at him, and it was the Sansa he had always known. Their hands were bound, and they sealed their marriage with a kiss.

After an evening of feasting and dancing, Theon drew Sansa away from the other guests, who was out of breath from the lively circle dance they just left. “Gods, I want to plunge my cock inside you,” he grinned, kissing her deeply. “I’m going mad from the waiting.”

She laughed, squeezing him discreetly between the legs. “Are you not a pirate, husband? Rob them of a bedding ceremony and take what’s yours.”

“Aye,” he groaned, tucking her arm under his.

They slipped away unseen down the hall and were at the stairs when the drunken shouts for a bedding began. By the time the guests realized the newlyweds had already absconded from the festivities, uproarious laughter and good cheer echoed off the walls.

When Theon and Sansa came to the room that was to be theirs for their remaining time at Winterfell, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll be able to wake up in each other’s arms,” he said, unlacing her dress, “not alone in separate beds.”

“We can make love freely, with no hiding,” Sansa added, unbuckling his belt.

“Make no mistake, wife. I’ll have you calling out my name tonight so the whole castle will know you’re mine.”

After the seafoam dress fell to the ground, she helped him out of his doublet, shirt and breeches. Sansa surprised him by kneeling down before him to kiss his weeping cock.

“You’re making me so hard,” he moaned, cupping her face delicately in his hands.

Once she’d finished, Theon brought her to her feet and kissed her slowly and deliberately. As his kisses traveled lower, he disrobed his wife of her shift and laved her nipples with his tongue.

Sansa guided his hand between her legs. “Do you feel that, husband? How wet you’ve made me?”

“Aye,” he said, getting down on his knees and parting her legs.

She shuddered with pleasure at his fevered, intimate kisses. He grasped her buttocks to hold her steady as his attentions made her sway with dizziness. A hearty moan escaped her lips when Theon added his fingers into the mix.

“I want to see the sea pour out of you when you peak,” Theon said gruffly, making Sansa blush.

Closing her eyes, Sansa dug her fingers into his scalp, feeling him latch onto her sensitive spot and suck. “Theon,” she begged, feeling the rise.

He plunged his fingers inside her hard, hitting an inner sweet spot. He did this rapidly, again and again, the muscles in his shoulder and arm straining from the effort. Suddenly, she clutched him tightly and her tide crashed down, pouring out onto his hand and the stones beneath her feet. Theon wiped off his hand and rose. She gave him a half-smile, eyes glazed over from her climax.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he murmured soberly, kissing her longingly on the mouth.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. He lifted her up by the backs of her legs and carried her to the bed, sitting down so that she could straddle his lap. For several moments, they embraced and kissed, but Sansa then began to rock against him, rubbing her pleasure spot upon his cock.

Theon took her by the hips and added force to her gyrations. “Yes, that’s it, love,” he whispered encouragingly. “Take your pleasure.” Eyes half hooded with desire, Theon watched Sansa move on top of him, breathing heavily, her breasts bouncing slightly beneath her fiery red hair. He pushed the locks over her shoulders so that he could kiss the twin mounds of flesh.

“Theon,” she moaned and peaked again.

He grinned broadly, placing a kiss upon her forehead as he laid her gently onto her back. “It’s time for me to put some iron in you.”

She laughed, spreading her legs for him. “Put a kraken in my belly, Greyjoy.”

He groaned, sinking into her with great ease. “Gods,” he swore, “If I’ve not put one in there already…” He pulled back and then thrust into her.

“…You will soon,” she finished, grasping his buttocks as he surged forward.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Despite Theon’s efforts to convince her otherwise, Sansa remained adamant about the drowning ritual. When he went to his lady mother for advice on the matter, she chuckled.

“Best talk to your good-father about it. It will not bode well for us if the Starks receive word in a month’s time that we’ve drowned their daughter.”

“How do I approach such a subject?” He sat down with a huff, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Asking Lord Stark if I can drown his daughter doesn’t seem so wise either.”

Lady Alannys came over and rested a hand on his shoulder, “Maybe it’s not you that should. You said the idea belongs to your lady wife? Allow her to explain her wishes to her family. It’ll be received more kindly from her.”

Theon nodded, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “She’s the one who arranged our marriage, you know.”

“Oh?” Lady Alannys said with raised interest.

“Months before I arrived in Pyke, she sent a raven to Lord Stark proposing the match. He agreed.”

“It sounds to me as if Lord Stark listens to his daughter. Sansa has valid reasons for wanting to go through with the ritual, so perhaps, it’s not so hard to believe that her father will accept them.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then she’ll have to find another way to endear our people to her. It will not do to start an unnecessary conflict with the Starks, as we have in the past with the Baratheons,” she replied sternly.

“Aye,” Theon inclined his head. “I agree.”

“She has a good head on her shoulders,” Lady Alannys said in a softer tone. “I’d not worry and overthink it much.”

Theon got up and kissed his mother on the cheek. “Thank you, Mother.”

“I am so proud of you, Theon,” she smiled wistfully. “I wish I had gotten to see you grow into the man you’ve become, but I am very grateful for the opportunity to watch you raise your own children.”

“Sansa has promised me many,” Theon replied bashfully.

“Good!” Lady Alannys laughed. “Pyke needs children to liven it up.”

“Are you coming back to Pyke with us?”

She grinned. “Why yes. Someone needs to spare your lady wife from her cantankerous, old good-father. And for you, my sweet boy. I would like to be there for you.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Standing before her father in his study, Sansa carefully explained the significance of drowning in old Isle rite of passage traditions, and why it would improve her standing with the people of the Iron Islands.

“I am happy to give Theon children, but I will not be a silent playing piece. If the Ironborn are to pay any attention to what I have to say, I must pay tribute to the Old Way and recognize their Drowned God. I am in no way changing who I am, or what I stand for, but building a foundation of mutual respect and trust.”

Lord Stark remained stony faced throughout her speech. He shifted slightly and brought his hands together, clasping them in deep thought. “You say Theon’s uncle has never let one of the drowned die?” He asked finally.

“Not one.”

Ned pushed from his chair and joined his daughter, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I do not like it, and I think you’ll regret this decision when the water burns your throat and fills your lungs. But the Greyjoys won us the war and for this fragile alliance to last we both shall have to do things we do not like. You were right to say that the Ironborn will not take kindly to being ruled by an outsider, much less a woman from the mainland. And you mean to rule, my girl, which does me proud, so show them that the Starks are a strong people, too.”

“Thank you, Father,” she curtsied. Then she was pulled into a tight hug by her father.

“Don’t make the same mistakes I did in King’s Landing,” Ned commanded, tears at the corners of his eyes. “You have to be careful about who you let into your inner circle, who you confide in. Before you make a play, you have to consider what people have to gain, what they have to lose and if you have enough power to make sure your decision does not come back to haunt you.”

“I will, Father,” she promised.

“And Sansa, be honorable, be fair, be just. But above all else, be smart. The Ironborn will do whatever it takes to get what they want, and things like honor, fairness and justice sometimes stand in the way. There will be times when all you can do is live to fight another day. You’ll always be a part of our family, but the Stark of Winterfell will not be the same as the Stark of Pyke. Remember that.”

“I will remember,” she said and took her Father’s words to heart.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

It was after a tearful goodbye that Sansa left Winterfell with Arya, Theon and the rest of the Greyjoys. Robb and Jon would be coming, too, but only long enough to see Sansa safely to Pyke and through her ensuing ordeal with the Drowned God. None of the Stark children had ever sailed before and were rather green about the gills their first few days into the journey. Theon dutifully took care of Sansa, daubing her forehead and neck with cold cloth and coaxed water and light broth into her.

When she had gotten stronger, he wrapped her up in her sealskin cloak and took her out onto the deck for fresh air. She held tightly onto his arm as the ship rocked, trying to find her sea legs. Once the seasickness passed, Arya become a permanent fixture in the rigging and their Winterfell escorts joined the crew in day-to-day tasks.

One early morning, after Theon slipped out of bed to find his sister for one of their routine seafaring lessons, Arya came in from standing the night’s watch. Despite protests from Robb, Jon and the crew, Sansa’s fiery spirited younger sister would not take no for an answer. Her hair was wildly tangled from wind off the Sunset Sea and, Sansa’s fared little better, after a night with Theon. Just hours before, she had enjoyed a late night tumble with her husband.

Sansa smoothed over the bedclothes and sat down on top, patting a space beside her. With a barely stifled yawn, Arya joined her and submitted to having the tangles combed out of her hair. They’d been sitting cross-legged a while, taking turns with the combing, when a considerable amount of shouting sounded from above, followed by the clanging of swords. The screams of dying men alerted them to the fact that this was no training exercise.

It all happened so fast. Arya dropped the comb she was holding and scrambled for Needle, the sword Jon gave her, as the door to their cabin was kicked open, slamming against the wall with a bang. The man before them shouted something crude in the language of the Isles and strode in, yanking Sansa back by her hair and lifting up her skirts.

His momentary befuddlement at her breeches and leather boots gave Sansa enough pause to swiftly remove her boot knife and plunge it into his belly. He grunted with surprise, but was far from defeated, when Sansa withdrew her knife and kicked him away from her.

Now with Needle in hand, Arya launched herself at the man, shrieking like a Dothraki screamer, and pierced him through the ribs with her thin blade, puncturing a lung. In a reflexive back arm swing, he smacked Arya across the face and sent her sprawling. Gasping futilely for breath, but determined not to go to the Drowned God alone, the man raised his battle axe, preparing to deal a death blow to Sansa’s little sister.

That is until Sansa grabbed him by his hair and slit his throat from behind. The pirate’s body collapsed to the ground with a thud when Asha charged in, her bloodied axes in hand. Sansa whirled around with a wild look in her eyes, ready for another attack.

“Steady there, She-Wolf,” Asha said, laying her axes aside and raising her hands. “The fight’s over.”

Trembling, Sansa dropped her knife and crouched down beside her sister, who was just coming to. Tenderly she pulled the girl’s head into her lap and murmured soothing words to her while Arya cried terrified, angry tears. When she recovered, Arya took up her bloodied Needle and ran off to tell Jon that she’d stabbed her first man. Previous encounters with Stark’s overprotective bastard told Asha he’d be less thrilled at the news from his feisty, younger half-sister.

Not moving from her spot, Sansa asked in a steady, calm voice, “What happened?”

“A rival House heard you Starks were onboard.” Asha kicked the dead man on the floor. “They thought they’d take you hostage and ransom you off.”

Sansa nodded and rose shakily to her feet. “We should get him out of here,” she said dimly, wringing her hands.

“Oi! Sansa,” Asha shouted, snapping the shocked woman to attention. “Come. Don’t worry about him. I’ll send men to heave his sorry carcass overboard. Let’s go find my brother, hmm?”    

Asha draped her arm about Sansa’s shoulders and led her out. When they came out on deck, Theon ran over and checked her twice over, “Sansa, are you hurt? What happened? Talk to me.”

Asha rolled her eyes. “Quit clucking like an old hen, Theon. She’s alright. Just in shock. She killed her first man today.”

Theon’s eyes widened. He pulled Sansa aside and sat her down on the nearest coil of rope. He took Sansa’s hands, which were ice cold, between his own, rubbing and blowing hot air onto them.

“Sansa,” he said gently. “Can you talk to me?”

She looked at him and nodded slightly. Her words came out all choked, so she cleared her throat and tried again.

“Theon,” she said a little hoarsely. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, love,” he assured her. “Everyone’s alright. Can you tell me what happened?”

Slowly, but surely, Theon was able to coax the full story out of Sansa. Arya came over to hold her sister’s hand, nodding at various points to corroborate the tale. Robb and Jon hung back grimly, silently listening to what happened. Theon held her tightly when she began to cry.

Asha started to mock the tears, but Arya promptly told her to “shut up.” The sea captain rose her hands in surrender and backed away, then set about the task of shouting orders to her men to get them underway again and have the dead tossed overboard.

Sansa pulled back and wiped away her own tears, laughing at herself. “Gods, why am I crying? It’s not like I’m sad to see the man dead.”

“You’re just coming out of shock. It’ll pass. Here, drink this.” Theon handed her a flask, which she readily accepted.

She had taken three swigs when two men hulled her would-be rapist from below decks. Much to everyone’s surprise, she strode over, took a swig from the flask and yanked the dirk from his belt.

“It’s mine,” she announced. “I paid the iron price for it.”

Then she sat back down and finished the flask, dirk laying neatly across her lap. No one thought to try to take it from her. Several moments later, the ship’s normal hustle and bustle resumed, but no one forgot about the She-Wolf who slit a rival reaver’s throat.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Lady Alannys helped Sansa fashion a leather sheath for her newly acquired blade. “Carry this with you always,” she instructed her good-daughter. “Let it not be forgotten what you did here today.”

Sansa took the pieces Alannys had cut to begin sewing them together. “Is this sort of thing usual?”

Lady Alannys gave her a stern look. “You need not expect it, but you should always be prepared for it. The Iron Isles house a rough people.”

Sansa nodded, careful not to prick herself on the dirk’s sharp point when she picked it up for contemplative examination. It appeared this weapon would not be just for show. In time, she would be called upon to use it.

As if reading her thoughts, Lady Alannys added, “I’ll instruct Asha to train with you and your sister. I think you will benefit from her tutelage.”

“Thank you, Good-Mother. We would be most grateful.”

They worked quietly for awhile.

“I haven’t managed my own household in more than fourteen years,” Lady Alannys mused wistfully. “Perhaps it is I who needs lessons.”

“I am sure it will come back to you,” Sansa soothed. “But I would be delighted to help in any way I can.”

“In return, I shall endeavor to teach you the ways of the Isles, and how to bend its rules,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Bend its rules?”

“Our ‘traditional’ way of life will not sustain us much longer. There is only so much we can steal and only so many trees left for us to cut down.”

“You do not share your lord husband’s views.”

“Aye. Nor much of the Ironborn nobility. House Harlaw is not so prideful or stubbornly nostalgic about the Old Way, and the smallfolk are even less so. My recommendation to you would be to start ingratiating yourself with them. They do not have ships. They do not reave, but they most certainly do sow. Or try to. Our soil is not fertile, but they will die if they do not try to scratch something from the ground. I believe they will be more receptive to your greenland sensibilities. Having their goodwill shall help keep the peace -- they have little love for the Greyjoys and the other reaving houses. Let Theon court the nobles and temper their passions for the Old Way.”

Sansa nodded. “I am in agreement. I have thought a lot about what I might do when I arrived at the Isles. For the first several months, I intended to tour the islands, listening and observing.”

“That is wise.”

“There are crates filled with rich soil and glass aboard this ship. If greenhouses can supply Winterfell with food through long, harsh winters, I know they will serve the smallfolk of the Isles well. My concern, however, is how it will be received. I do not wish to undermine my Lord Husband’s efforts to win over the nobility. Is there anywhere my small, fanciful project will be unobtrusive?”

Alannys appeared thoughtful. “How many can you build?”

“I could only bring enough materials to build one,” Sansa answered. “I did not wish to draw attention.”

“Then build it on Harlaw. You will receive no trouble there,” Alannys grinned. “My House bares little love for the Old Way and welcomes such innovations.”

Sansa was pleased. “Is it true Harlaw once had great forests?”

“Yes, but they were all cut down for shipbuilding. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure. It depends on what the land is currently being used for.”

“Mining, farming, but much of it is unused.”

“They cultivate orchards in Highgarden for aesthetics and fruit. Why don’t we cultivate forests for ships? It would take years to see results, of course, but the trees are sorely needed.”

“An idea worthy of consideration. Where will we get the seeds?”

“My dower lands,” Sansa answered, finishing the last of her stitches. She assessed the craftsmanship briefly and sheathed her dirk. “I can send for them when we arrive on Pyke.”

“Good. You should do that, and I’ll converse with my brother Rodrik on both matters. We will need his help organizing the labor.”

“I am very grateful for your confidence, my Lady,” Sansa said softly, securing her dirk to the belt around her waist.

“And I yours,” Lady Alannys returned, just as Asha knocked and opened the door to the cabin.

“My lord father would like to speak with you, Good-Sister. Mother,” Asha inclined her head respectfully.

Sansa excused herself and followed Asha into her good-father’s cabin. Lord Balon Greyjoy eyed the dirk at Sansa’s side before motioning for her to sit down.

“You slew a man today,” he said gruffly.

“Yes, my Lord,” Sansa replied.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He tried to, my Lord.”

“How did you kill him?”

Sansa recounted with as much detail as she could bring herself to share. Balon Greyjoy thought for a moment and then stated, “You wish to validate your marriage before the eyes of the Drowned God.”

“With your leave.”

“Because of your actions today, you shall have it. I will make the arrangements once we reach shore. You and my son will await my summons.”

Sansa bowed her head. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Balon Greyjoy grunted and waved her out.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Even though the Damphair, Aeron Greyjoy, agreed to perform the ritual behind closed doors, he vehemently raged against it when they finally stood on the wet, packed sand, shivering in the salty wind. Theon wore only his shirt and breeches and stood near his father, who clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would break. Sansa’s siblings and cousin waited a little ways back on the dry sand, appearing agitated and displeased.

Theon heard Jon mutter, “I thought he agreed to this.”

“Perhaps he thought he would put a stop to it if he had witnesses,” Robb replied, nodding back to the gathering crowd.

They recognized members of Asha’s crew and smallfolk from the nearby town. Several lesser nobles were joining their company with promises of more to come. Rumors suggested even Victarion Greyjoy and his men would attend.

“I won’t allow it! She’s a woman and a greenlander!” Damphair spat, spittle flecking his chin. “The Drowned God…”

Balon Greyjoy impatiently cut him off. “She belongs to House Greyjoy now. So shut up and get on with it.”

Damphair then indignantly launched into a tirade about thralls and salt wives not being worthy enough. Lord Rodrik and Lady Alannys looked utterly embarrassed. Asha seemed torn between being amused and annoyed; all the arguing made the proceedings much longer than necessary and there were places she’d rather be.

Theon interjected. He spoke calmly but there was a bite in his tone. “You will speak of Lady Sansa with respect, Nuncle. She is my one true rock wife and will be the mother of House Greyjoy’s heirs. Our children will be raised knowing the Old Way, but how can they be seen as legitimate in the eyes of the Drowned God if we do not sanctify this marriage with water and salt?”

There were nods and murmurs all around them. One of Asha’s men shouted in support, “She pays the iron price!”

Damphair glowered. “She’s a greenlander! Will we soften our iron with her blood?”

Sansa whispered something into Lady Alannys’s ear, who in turn whispered something to her husband. Suddenly Balon Greyjoy barked, “My Good-Daughter will speak.”

Sansa wearing only a shift and smallclothes, wrapped her arms around her chest to hide the effects the cold had on her body and stepped forward. But, as a true daughter of the North, she would not shiver. She stood straight and tall with Lady Alannys and Asha flanking her side. The wind loosened strands of her hair from her braid and made them sticky with salt, but she did not move to tidy her appearance. She set her features with a hard, icy look.

“I come from the North where the dirt is frozen solid, the snows pile taller than any man and the people have ice in their veins. There is no green there, only grey and white. My blood will not soften your iron. It will strengthen it,” she said to the gathered crowd, which now was graced by the presence of Lord Victarion and his crew.

Following in a softer but more chilling voice, she said to Damphair, “My most reverent Good-Uncle, you say my husband Theon has taken a greenlander woman to wife. Where is she? I’d like to throw her out of my bed.”

Cowed by the laughter from the crowd, Damphair grumbled and motioned to one of his acolytes to bring Theon forward. He caught his beloved wife’s gleaming eye and smiled reassuringly, but his insides were a mess.

Up past their waists in the water, Aeron recited, “Let Theon of House Greyjoy, your servant, be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel.”

Theon replied, “What is dead may never die.”

“What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.” Damphair’s smirk was the last thing Theon saw before his uncle and the acolyte pushed him below the waves. He did not bother taking a deep breath. This ritual would not go on longer than it needed to be.

Once completely submerged, Theon opened his eyes to the murky water and inhaled. He gagged and gasped on the salty water with no relief as it filled his lungs. Everything burned. His body instinctively thrashed so the grip on his shoulders tightened and held him under. Drowning took much longer than Theon would have liked. But in time everything grew still, peaceful and dark.

When he came to, spitting up water and gasping for air, he felt as if his eyes, nose and throat were on fire. His Lord Father and Nuncle Rodrik immediately pulled him to his feet and pounded him on the back, for which he was grateful. He needed to look strong and lively in front of Sansa, so that she could go through the ritual herself with a brave face.

She wore a worried expression until he managed a weak smile and kissed her cheek.

“It will be over soon, dearheart,” Sansa told him softly before following Damphair into the water.

The knot in his stomach clenched. Watching his Nuncle strain to hold his wife down while she drowned was the hardest thing Theon ever had to do. Even the horrors of war could not compare. His Lady Mother had a blanket ready to cover her soaked form, but would not approach until Damphair brought her back. The drowned priest set Sansa down on the wet sand and pushed up and down on her chest rhythmically.

The Stark siblings stared on, tight lipped and pale. She was too still.

When more time passed without a change, the nervous tension heightened as even the Ironborn saw that something was wrong. Theon was at wits’ end. No one could believe it when the Damphair rose solemnly from the ground, shaking his head. Theon yelled out Sansa’s name and broke free of the hands that grabbed him. He dropped to his knees, rolled her onto her side, and pounded. Although he had only been ten during the last drowning he had witnessed, Theon knew the Damphair had given up too easily.

Suddenly, Sansa lurched and began coughing up water. Cries of relief rang across the shore and Lady Alannys darted forward with the selkie skin blanket she clenched. Theon wrapped his beloved and cradled her in his arms.

“Theon,” she smiled reaching up to touch his face, her voice hoarse and husky. Strands of Sansa’s red, fiery hair stuck to her alabaster skin, and Theon felt his breath catch in his throat when she gazed up at him with her clear blue eyes framed by wet lashes. She was so brave and beautiful.

“I need to have a word with you, brother ,” Theon heard his father say, but paid it little mind. He would address the matter later.

Lacing his fingers with Sansa’s, Theon bent down and kissed her, tears streaming down his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly when they broke the kiss.

“Nothing, dearheart. I am just so very happy,” he smiled, resting his forehead upon hers.

She wrapped her arms about his neck and squeezed. “I love you, Theon.”

“I love you, too, Sansa. But let’s never do that again.”

Gradually, the beach cleared of people, with Asha and Lady Alannys ushering the nobles and Stark siblings towards the Great Hall to give the newlyweds privacy. Although they had already consummated their marriage in the eyes of the northern gods, there was the god of the sea yet to please. Balon, Rodrik and Damphair were nowhere to be seen, but Theon’s Nuncle Victarion remained to offer his congratulations.

“I never thought I would see the day,” Victarion began. “But here you’ve returned, giving up the soft green life for rocks and salt. It appears there is more iron in you than expected.”

Theon grunted in response.

“And you my dear,” Victarion crouched down to speak to Sansa, “do they breed them hard in the North?”

“As hard and as cold as ice,” she replied, brushing her fingers against his hand. He jumped back at her touch.

“Aye. So it would seem,” he affirmed.

Sansa smirked.

“Nuncle, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to make love to my wife.”

The man chuckled, raising back onto his feet. “Eager to have your prick frost bitten, I see.” And then as he strode away, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll see you at the feast, in one piece or in two.”

When Victarion was far enough away, Sansa allowed herself to shiver. Theon wrapped the selkie skin around her more tightly and brought her icy fingers to his lips to warm them with his breath. She murmured her appreciation.

“Perhaps I should bring you inside,” he said wearing a worried expression.

“Theon,” she breathed. “You can warm me here.” She brought his lips down to hers.

Theon kissed her slowly and reached under the flimsy skirt of her shift to ready her. When his fingers slipped past her small clothes, he found her already aroused. She moaned at his touch and Theon felt himself stiffen. He gently laid her back on the sand and removed the material covering her womanhood. Sansa cast aside the selkie blanket -- there was little he couldn’t see through the soaked cloth of her shift-- and pulled him down into her embrace.

The slow pacing of their lovemaking matched the ocean’s languid tide lapping at their entangled legs. No matter how tightly he held her, how passionately he kissed her or deeply he entered her body, he couldn’t be close enough. He had almost lost her, almost watched her die. Theon did not realize there were tears streaking his cheeks until Sansa wordlessly kissed them away, smooth fingers running through his salt encrusted hair and across the scruff on his jaw.

It was quiet on the shore, save for the crashing waves and sounds of her throaty gasps and moans. Theon rubbed her pleasure spot and teetered close to the edge of his release when her walls clamped down around his cock. Movement in and out between her swollen nether lips created a sucking sensation Theon was sure would help her retain his seed. Alluring, primal thoughts of her belly growing with his child made him come hard.

Instinctively she raised her hips and grasped him by the buttocks to leverage the grinding that ensued. The way their bodies were pressed stimulated her pleasure spot and allowed her to follow him in climax. Her completion hit them both forcibly.

Theon did not withdraw, but rather kissed her with a renewed passion and rode out the aftershocks of her pleasure. Something had changed between them. There was a glow to Sansa’s skin and sparkle in her eyes that he had not seen quite like this before. Reluctantly, he began to part, but she wrapped her legs about him so he’d stay nestled firmly inside her.

“Husband,” she whispered, cupping the side of his face.

“Wife,” he returned, settling back down between her flushed, warm thighs.

She sighed, briefly closing her eyes with a beautiful smile playing on her lips. “I think this time your seed will take root,” she began.

Theon kissed her deeply. Normally, he would have softened after so satisfying a release, but the feeling between them kept him hard.

“You do?” he asked, a mixture of hope and joy in his voice.

She nodded. “I cannot explain it…I am just almost certain.”

His cock twitched. Swiftly, he flipped them so that she straddled him from above. Sansa looked down at him questioningly. Theon slid his hands up her bare milky thighs and rested his hands upon the soft curve of belly underneath the wet, clinging fabric of her shift.

“I want to watch you and imagine your belly round,” he explained hoarsely.

She bit her lower lip and nodded, pushing her shift off her shoulders. It fell and pooled about her waist, just below the navel. Her gyrations were slow and measured at first, but with the encouragement of Theon’s hands at her hips and the growing heat between them, Sansa’s movements became hurried and erratic. Completion came quickly for the both of them and the evidence of high tide washed over their thighs.

Rising to their feet, Theon and Sansa shed the rest of their clothes and stepped out into the water, hand in hand. Both braced themselves against a crashing wave and then continued out until they could barely touch the bottom.

Sansa was sixteen when Theon taught her and her younger siblings how to swim in the hot springs of Winterfell. It was through those lessons that romantic feelings for her handsome, older instructor stirred. When she said as much to Theon, he said, “You never acted on it. Not until the day I left.”

Sansa wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her forehead on his. “I was afraid to.”

Theon gently kissed her. “Was it my experience or fear our love would be forbidden?”

“Both. But more the latter,” she admitted. “At the time, there were no political advantages to push the match and the heartbreak...I have never cared for tragic love stories. Yet, when I saw you and Robb and Jon prepare for the march south, I realized I might never see you again. At the very least, I wanted you to know that I thought of you fondly, and I hoped my favor would make you smile and think of Winterfell amidst the horrors of war.”

“When I was not thinking of fighting and battle, I thought of you, Sansa. One gesture, that’s all it took.” He tightened his embrace.

Sansa squeezed back. “I had not dared hope for such, but the letters you sent made me think you felt as I did. Otherwise, I never would have suggested our marriage to my father.”

“Lord Stark is a serious man. Yet I thought he was jesting when he told me he wanted us to wed. Of all the highborn Southern lords you could have been married to...” Theon trailed.

“What we have is unusual, dearheart,” Sansa said softly, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“Aye. That it is.”

“I believe we can do a lot of good here, if we are careful. Your Lady Mother and I spoke at length about the future of the Iron Islands. It eases my mind knowing I have her on my side and all of House Harlaw.”

“She is fond of you, Sansa. We have Asha on our side, as well, as long as I do not make a bid for the Seastone Chair.”

“Do you have any intention to?”

“No. Not unless something were to happen to Asha.”

“And your Uncle Victarion?”

“He took his measure of us. Too soon to tell whether he thinks of us as foes, potential allies or pawns.”

“Mmm. We still have more true allies than most.” Sansa explained the plans she discussed with Lady Alannys.

“Harlaw needs the help you offer less, but I agree you will be met with no resistance there. I would suggest that you bring these ideas to the smallfolk of Pyke afterwards. While my father would never admit it, you have earned a considerable measure of respect from him these past weeks and that makes me believe he will humor this.”

“Are you sure? He does not seem like the kind of man to bend.”

“It is true that he lives and breathes the Old Way, but I had not seen my father in nearly fourteen years when he promised me at least fifty ships to raze the Lannister coastline. Then he pushed for our Drowning Ceremony and gave you leave to speak against his brother, whose passion for the Old Way rivals only his. I know he sees green in us, but by treating us as if we are Ironborn, others will be less likely to regard the Greyjoys as a dying house. And I must remind you that he is especially proud of my sister, his heir. Women do not led men or command ships here, but she does.”

“I am glad your father has such foresight and high regard for your sister,” Sansa replied. “What will happen to your Uncle Aeron?”

Theon gave her a questioning look.

“Do not play me for a fool, Theon. I know what he did. Your father hid his rage from no one and your anguish could mean but one thing.”

Theon sighed. “In truth, I do not know. He is a priest of the Drowned God. If he were anyone else, the punishment would certainly be death.”

“We will find out soon enough.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Theon stared down at the shackled man he once considered family, seeing not a shred of remorse hiding beneath old Damphair’s sneer. Even as a boy, before he became the hostage of Lord Stark, Theon’s relationships with his relatives had never been warm. Still, he would never have guessed that his uncle would try to murder his wife.

How naive I was, he thought bitterly. Sansa almost paid the ultimate price for my ignorant, blind trust.

“Go on. I know you want to say something,” Damphair challenged, locking their gazes.

“Aye, and what would that be?” Theon snapped.

Damphair leaned forward, rattling his chains with his movement. “If you continue down this path, you will kill all hope of resurrecting House Greyjoy to its former glory. You love her too much, nephew. And that is a weakness that can and will be used against you.”

“You are wrong about everything except perhaps the last. I don’t doubt others will seek to use us against one another. It’s to be expected, especially while Nuncle Euron still lives and breathes.”

Damphair’s jaw clenched at the mention of his older brother’s name. “She won’t last the year and neither will you.”

Theon smirked. “Does the Drowned God whisper the future to you now?”

“Kinslayers do not reign long, Theon.” Damphair’s expression hardened. “A death sentence for me is a death sentence for you, or my brother, whoever has the balls to pass the judgement.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Theon replied, “What makes you think we won’t hand you over to the Starks? You’ve wronged them as much as us.”

Damphair sat back, smiling wickedly. “A lot can happen between now and the journey across the Sunset Sea.”

Theon heard hurried footsteps outside the cell. “Oi! Theon!” Asha yelled, bursting inside. After throwing a death glare at her uncle, she gripped her brother by the arm and steered him around. A guard closed the door behind them once they left.  

“What is it, Asha?” Theon asked, following her out into the narrow, dimly lit corridor.

“You shouldn’t have come alone,” she hissed, pressing steel into his palm.

Theon matched his sister’s brisk stride. “What’s wrong?”

“You were followed,” she answered simply, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

“By who?”

“Who do you think, shit-brain?”

“Forgive me for being daft,” he said wryly. “But speak plainly, will you?”

She cast him a brief, but stern look. “Damphair’s men.”

When they approached the stairs to the next level, Asha suddenly stopped and stretched her arm out in front of him to make sure he did, too. Not far ahead, they heard the faint rustling of a robe and the creak of a joint moving after holding a stiff position.

“Shit,” Asha cursed, launching herself against a previously unseen enemy that sprang from one of the recesses in the wall.

Theon saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked just in time to avoid having his skull caved in by a driftwood cudgel. He swung around and buried his blade into the soft underbelly of his attacker, recognizing him to be one of Damphair’s acolytes. The man fell to the floor screaming but made no further attempt to do Theon harm.

Asha fought with another two, swinging and twirling her axes with an uncanny grace. Three more were coming down the stairs, so Theon drew his own sword and strode forward to meet them head on. Unfortunately for him, these men were more wisely armed with bladed weapons.

But before he could reach them, all three were cut down by a volley of arrows from above, sending their bodies tumbling down the stairs. Uncle Victarion and several of his men hurried down after them, bows abandoned in favor of steel. Theon raised his brows in surprise, and they lowered their swords. The wet thunk of metal hitting flesh, and Asha’s triumphant cry signaled that she single-handedly prevailed against her opponents.

Having heard the screams and clash of weapons, the guards posted outside Damphair’s cell came running down the hall to provide aid. Each swore at the sight of the six would-be jailbreakers lying in pools of their own blood.

Asha wiped her brow with her sleeve. “We need to round up his other followers. Can’t have them running around while his fate remains undecided.”

Theon nodded, sheathing his sword. “Can you see it done? I will send more men to stand guard and tell Father what has transpired.”

“Aye,” she said, sweeping past him. “Nuncle, come with me.”

Wordlessly, Victarion and his men followed her out, and Theon ordered the guards back to their posts, promising to send reinforcements.

After making the necessary arrangements with the captain of the guard, Theon sought out his father and sent a servant to bring Sansa and her siblings. Balon was sitting at his desk grumbling and scratching out responses to letters. “What?” he barked, not bothering to look up.

“Six of Nuncle Aeron’s men tried breaking him from his cell,” Theon answered. Balon paused in his work. Theon continued.

“They have been stopped. Asha has gone with Nuncle Victarion to round up the rest, and the captain of the guard has sent more men to watch the dungeons. Would you advise additional action?”

Balon leant back and drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “No, not for the moment, but judgement will need to be passed soon,” he replied gruffly. “The penalty should be death. The trouble is, which one of us will become a kinslayer?”

Before Theon had a chance to reply, the guard posted outside announced the Stark siblings’ arrival. Apparently, they had all been congregating in the chartroom nearby.

“Send them in,” Balon commanded.

Sansa led the pack. “Lord Greyjoy. Lord husband,” she greeted them in turn.

“Tell them.” Balon looked pointedly at his son and Theon complied.

Sansa listened thoughtfully. When Theon finished recounting recent events in the dungeon, she asked, “How large is his following?”

“Nearly three score across the islands. One on Pyke,” Balon replied. “They will be the most loyal.”

“Is there need to double our guard?” she asked.

He shook his head. “But the ones you have will be more vigilant.”

“Lord Greyjoy,” Robb spoke up, stepping forward. “I must insist that you allow Jon and I to stay until this is over.”

“No,” Balon replied bluntly.

Robb opened his mouth to argue but Sansa shot him a look that quieted the protest on his lips. “I am in the care of House Greyjoy now, dear brother,” she gently explained. “There is nothing you can do that they can’t, and Mother and Father need you back in Winterfell.”

Jon clamped down on Robb’s shoulder and pulled him back when the coloring in his complexion rose. Arya took his hand and whispered something into his ear.

“Lord husband,” Sansa turned to Theon. “May I make a suggestion regarding your uncle’s judgement?”

“He wronged you the most,” Theon replied. “You may say whatever you like.”

Sansa then told them of her plan.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Balon silenced the crowd gathered before them to witness the judgement of Aeron Greyjoy. When the last of the mutterings ceased, he said loud enough for all to hear, “Good-daughter, you will decide his fate.”

Sansa nodded and stepped forward, drawing her dirk. She let the blade rest upon the palm of her hand and appeared pensive. Then she spoke to the crowd, “I would seek your counsel in this matter, as I do not know your ways. In the North, it is said, ‘he who passes the sentence swings the sword.’ The mere thought of executing my good-uncle grieves me, but if I honor the ways of my ancestors, I would be duty-bound to do so.”

The room suddenly became quiet.

“ You would cut off Damphair’s head?” A man up front eyed her and then her dirk in disbelief.

“Oh, certainly not with this,” Sansa shook her head, “if death is what you deem to be just punishment, but I will be the one to carry out the sentence.”

The man laughed and not in a kindly manner. “I would like to see you try.”

“Undoubtedly, yet we are not here for your amusement. We are here to decide the fate of a respected servant of the Drowned God and blood of House Greyjoy. What is a just punishment here on the Isles for the crime committed?”

Another man made a crude remark, but before Sansa could comment, Asha punched him in the face and broke his nose.

“Does anyone wish to give counsel?” Sansa called. When no one volunteered a suggestion, she turned to her good-uncle.

“What say you?” Sansa held Damphair’s cold, black gaze.

“Death,” he answered, loud enough for all to hear. “The punishment is death.”

“I am sorry to hear that, good-uncle. That is not what I wanted, but I will heed your counsel.”

“It comforts me to know I will not be alive to watch you tear House Greyjoy to the ground.” He shot his brother a scathing look.

Sansa stepped back when one of Balon’s men brought forth the chopping block. Damphair was forced to his knees and someone hesitantly placed an axe into Sansa’s hands. She looked to her good-father, who nodded grimly.  

Little did they know, Asha honed the axe so sharply that small effort was needed to cut through the thick muscles in a man’s neck with one blow. As long as Sansa could heft the thing over her head and aim true, the downward motion would take care of the rest. Sansa practiced all week in anticipation of this verdict. But the Ironborn would not be satisfied by a simple, clean execution. This had to be a show of Stark strength.

Quietly, so that only Damphair would hear her, she vowed in the old tongue of the Iron Islands, “In your absence, House Greyjoy will rise again, harder and stronger.”

With all her might, Sansa swung the axe upon his neck, and it mercifully went clean through. The crowd looked on with shocked silence when Balon lifted his brother’s head by his hair for all to see, a look of surprise etched on the dead man’s face.

“May this be a lesson to you all,” Lord Balon Greyjoy barked, setting his late brother’s head down on the chopping block. “Come,” he said to Sansa, motioning her to follow.

The axe was swiftly taken from her. Flanked by Asha and her good-father’s men, Sansa walked back to the ship through the parted crowd. There would be much talk amongst the men tonight.

One of the doubters whispered, “She really fucking did it.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

Sansa longed for Theon’s return. He saw her siblings to the coast and made sure they safely got on the first ship back to Winterfell. She had not wanted to send her siblings away, but she knew if they stayed, her overprotective older brother would find yet another reason to never leave. With the exception of perhaps their father, there was no one he trusted more with her safety than himself.

But she belonged to House Greyjoy now, and she and Theon needed space to make their own way in the world. All high born ladies left home for strange, distant lands when they married, and their siblings usually did not come with them.

When Sansa suggested Theon leave with the Starks during his uncle’s trial, he and Robb vehemently spoke out against it, but Balon supported her plan. He liked that it would publicly show House Greyjoy’s support of her, even in Theon’s absence, thus strengthening her position in the eyes of the Ironborn. The plan worked. All of their eyes fixated on her in a mixture of surprise, wariness and respect.

She held her head high and fixed her gaze forward -- she would not let it show how much the beheading had shaken her.

Once they were onboard the ship, Balon said to Sansa, “He underestimated you.”

“I fear I have made enemies today.”

“Not many. My brother counseled death, and you kept your word.”

“Have I made an enemy of you, Lord Greyjoy?”

He shook his head. “Because of you, I am not a kinslayer, and neither is my son.”

“I could not allow that to happen, no matter how just the cause,” Sansa replied.

“My brother told Theon it would have been a death sentence for one of us to pass the judgement.” Balon continued, “In a way, he was right. It would forever taint our rule, but we could not pardon him either without appearing weak.”

“Lord Greyjoy, if I may, I must say I was surprised that you agreed to send Theon with my siblings.”

“I had my reasons. It not only shows that the ruling body of House Greyjoy supports you, it also shows that your husband trusts you to act in his stead and that he trusts his family to protect your interests in his absence. After my brother’s attempt on your life, the Ironborn began to question how dispensable you are to us, as did your brother. Now they know we will not tolerate even the slightest disrespect,” he grinned, looking over at his daughter who was wiping another man’s blood off her knuckles.

Asha, who overheard their conversation, added with a smirk, “You might be a landlubber, but you are our landlubber.”  

“Be sure to remind my son of this upon his return,” Balon instructed. “He’s rightly cross with you for making such a suggestion without consulting him in private first.”

Sansa groaned. The lady in her realized the mistake she had made as soon as the words left her mouth in Lord Greyjoy’s study. Theon contained his emotions far better than Robb, but she could tell that she upset him. The only one in the room who did not seem the slightest bit bothered by her misstep was Arya.   

Theon was indeed angry upon his return late that evening, but he expressed it in a quiet, subtle way. She was sitting in the solar of their shared bedchamber when he came through the door. He wasn’t the kind of man to shout or glare or flat out ignore someone, at least not her. Setting aside her needlework, Sansa stood to greet her husband in a way that befit a lady of her station – graceful, demure and much too formal for a relationship as close as the one they shared. Were it not for the tension in his shoulders when he hugged her and the brevity of his kiss, Sansa might have thought him merely weary from his ride to the coast and back.

Theon sat down on the chair next to hers with a huff. After a moment’s hesitation, Sansa sat down, as well. When Theon said nothing, she picked up her needlework again to keep herself from wringing her hands in the uneasy, palpable silence. She wanted to say something, and ‘I’m sorry’ seemed like a good place to start, but the words froze on her tongue. It wasn’t until Theon reached over to steady her hand that Sansa realized she was trembling.

“Are you alright?” he asked her, eyes lined with concern.

“W-what?” Sansa stared at him, confused by what he meant.

Theon squeezed her hand. “My uncle’s trial...”

“Oh,” she replied, searching her mind for an answer. “I tried to show mercy, but he didn’t want it.”

Theon nodded and patiently waited for her to continue. He didn’t seem surprised.

“It was a quick, clean death,” she went on. “I didn’t want to do it, but it’s the Northern way.”

Theon saw that it disturbed her more than she was saying.

“It’s not the same as killing a man in self defense,” he surmised.

“No, it is not. I now know why my father sat in the godswood alone after an execution. You don’t feel quite like yourself after something like this.”  

“Are you still not feeling like yourself?”

“Truth be told, I have been trying not to think about it. It pains me deeply knowing that I took your uncle’s life. I fear I am too soft-hearted to rule the Iron Islands.”

“You are a strong, brave woman for doing what you did,” he said firmly, “and it needed to be done. It may not feel like it now, but you have what it takes to lead the Ironborn. You are neither hard or soft-hearted. You are gentle, sweet and kind to all by nature, but pragmatic and fierce when provoked. It’s a balance the Isles need.”

Sansa doubted the praises fit, and voiced as much.

“On my way back,” he said with a half-smile. “I kept hearing your name on the lips of others – men, women, reavers and smallfolk alike. And not an ill word accompanied it. They are quite taken by the She-Wolf of Winterfell.”

“Is that what they call me?”

Theon grinned. “Yes, but not as much as ‘Lady of the Isles.’”

Sansa’s eyes widened and wore her shock plainly on her face. “Theon, you jest!”

He shook his head. “No, dearheart. I do not. You fully earned their respect and adoration today.”

“Have I earned yours?” Sansa asked warily.

“You have always had my respect and adoration, Sansa,” he replied, brushing his finger against her cheek.

“You are not angry with me?”

Theon sighed and then leaned forward to take her hands in his. “No. And I wasn’t for long. I understand and appreciate the results of your plan and why I had to leave for it to work. I also realize that I asked you speak your mind in front of the others, so I cannot be upset with you for that. But I had I known the severity of what you were about to suggest, I would have wanted to discuss it privately first. While Damphair proved to be a terrible uncle, he was family, and I feel partly responsible for his actions – in the sense that I should have had the foresight to prevent them, or at the very least, been the one to mete out the punishment due to him. I respect you as my equal, but I cannot help but feel that as your lord and husband it was my duty to dispense justice on your behalf. Perhaps, I am ashamed that the world I brought you into requires us to be hard sometimes. Mayhaps, I want to spare you the burden, and I feel guilty for the times you bare it on your shoulders when I could have taken the yoke myself.”

“You needn’t feel guilty. I came here knowing what dangers and trials I might face, including those from your own family.”

“But passing sentences and carrying out executions?” Theon quirked his eyebrow.

Sansa shuddered. “Not that. Nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms would I ever expect to have that kind of responsibility. Not even in the North. Queens, on occasion, pass sentences, but they never swing the sword. It may have been easier were it not your uncle.”

“Would you do it again if you had to?”

“Without a doubt.” Sansa straightened. “How could I stand idly by and allow my husband and good-father to be labeled kinslayers?”

“Good. You should have no regrets. You did what was necessary. Still, it is my wish going forward that we come to decisions together and execute them as a unified front.”

“I agree that would be best. I am sorry that I hadn’t done that from the outset. It would seem that my time running Winterfell while mother and father were away, and Bran lacked interest, has made me too accustomed to making decisions on my own,” Sansa smiled sheepishly.

“Oi,” Theon said, pulling her onto his lap. “I very much like that you make your own decisions. We’ll just have to work out which ones need to be made together.”

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, but the smell of dust, horse and male sweat made her grimace and pull away. “I’ll have a bath brought up.”

“Hurry,” he said, tugging at the fastenings of his jerkin.

Sansa smirked and left to find a maid. By the time she returned, Theon had removed his boots and jerkin but was otherwise still dressed.

He wore a serious look on his face.

“What is it, dearheart?” she asked worriedly.

“Upon my return, I saw the Silence sailing along the coastline towards the harbor. The fog this time of year usually makes it damn near impossible to see anything out on the water, but it was clear just enough for there to be no mistaking my Uncle Euron’s ship. I suspect he’ll arrive at Pyke by mid-day tomorrow, maybe sooner, depending on how long it takes for news of Uncle Aeron’s death reach him. It may have already for that matter.”

“If someone sent a raven, that is,” Sansa finished.

Theon nodded. “I suspect he will want to gloat.”

“Hardly seems a proper response to a sibling’s death.”

“I doubt a man who’s raped and murdered a number of his brothers can have a proper response to anything.”

“Seven hells!” Sansa swore. “Truly?”

“I never met my Uncles Harlon and Robin for that reason. He raped Uncle Aeron when they were boys, and another uncle I never got a chance to meet,” Theon replied grimly.

“What does this mean for us?”

“It means that while he is here, you must not go anywhere without my father, Asha or myself with you. Uncle Euron is a dangerous man, and he wants the Seastone Chair. He’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

“Asha mentioned he is a notorious libertine.”

“He is the Old Way made flesh, and an unusually cruel man, even by Ironborn standards. I fear that attempts to charm you into warming his bed will be the least of our troubles. He has a knack for mind-games and manipulation that always end in bloodshed.”

Sansa shuddered. “I am glad Arya is on a ship to Winterfell.”

“Agreed. I am meeting with my father, mother and sister in the morning to discuss the situation. I believe Uncles Victarion and Rodrik are coming, too. It would be good if you came, as well.”

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

“ Crow’s Eye as good as killed her when he shoved himself inside her ,”** Victarion began, only to be cut off sharply.

“I forbade to you speak of that!” the Lord Reaper barked.

“Come off it, Balon. It is why you exiled him,” Victarion growled.

“I exiled him to keep you from becoming a kinslayer.”

“Ha! We would be better off if I had.”

Balon glared at his younger brother and an uncomfortable silence fell over the room at the revelation. The rape of Victarion’s wife by Euron had been successfully hushed until now.

Rodrik coughed politely. “Theon, why don’t you tell us what you saw.”

He gave his uncle a grateful nod and leaned forward in his chair to point to a spot on the map before him. “I saw it here. Euron’s bringing the Silence to the islands under cover of the fog. Had it not been a clearer day than usual, and had I not been there to see it, he would have gotten here without our knowing. It is very clear to me that he meant not to be seen.”

“Do you think he saw you?” Lady Alannys asked worriedly.

“I would be dead if he had.”

Rodrik raised his brow in disbelief.

“Unfortunately, my dear brother is not exercising a flare for drama,” Asha spoke firmly, addressing the other incredulous looks in the room. Lord Balon was the only one whose grave expression deepened. “But I fear the Crow’s Eye might be.”

Balon shared a look with his daughter and nodded. “The day I die is the day my brother returns to the Iron Islands.”

Alannys gasped. “You cannot mean...No. I won’t believe it.” She shook her head furiously.

“He means to kill you,” Sansa concluded, meeting the gaze of her good-father. “But why now?”

Rodrik spoke up thoughtfully, “Had he come in a fortnight, I might have said it was news of Damphair’s death and the appeal of one less Greyjoy to oppose his bid for the Seastone Chair. But no, it’s something else.”

“Oh fuck me sideways!” Victarion cried out, slapping his hand down on the table and startling Sansa half out of her seat. “He wants all that damned Lannister gold we plundered!”

“Of course,” Alannys spat, throwing up her hands. “What else?”

Collecting herself from Victarion’s sudden outburst, Sansa sat further back in her chair and smoothed down the front of her skirts. She silently surmised that Lady Greyjoy stomached the Old Way more than she cared to over the course of her life.

“I suspect he’ll want to take his measure of you, nephew,” Victarion cast a pointed look at Theon. “And then make your life a living hell. So be wary and guard your wife. He always takes what’s dear.”

Sansa shivered as a chill ran down her spine. Theon squeezed her hand. “Not this time,” he promised.

Asha rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Let’s move on, shall we? All this talk about Euron’s wife-stealing habits is getting tedious, and we need to figure out what we’re going to do before he gets here.”

“Will he do it himself or send an assassin?” Sansa asked.

“I don’t know,” Asha sighed. “Doing the deed himself seems more Euron’s style, but there’s always the risk of witnesses.”

“We must prepare for both,” Victarion said, scratching the scruff along his jaw. “He will be flexible in his methods.”

“But what is our long game?” Rodrik asked. “We cannot thwart Euron in perpetuity.”

“I say we kill the bastard and be done with it,” Victarion answered. “I would gladly.”

“On what grounds?” Balon interjected.

“I think we can make an exception in the law with him,” Victarion retorted. “If we play his game and lose, he will destroy the Iron Islands and all the people in it. The Crow’s Eye was born to pillage and rape, not rule.”

“I do not disagree with you, brother, but the Iron folk will not see it that way. What they will see is a house of kinslayers that murdered a legend of the Old Way. If we are going to defeat Euron, we must take what’s dearest to him.”

Victarion stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And what would that be? It’s not gold. He can always steal it back, and Euron loves only himself.”

Balon grinned wickedly. “That he does.”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

To all but those who knew better, the untimely death of Balon Greyjoy on the day his legendary brother Euron returned to Pyke appeared not to be the fruition of sinister machinations, or a coincidence, but a demonstration of the Drowned God’s divine providence in the moment of their great loss. The late Lord Reaper attempted to cross the precarious rope bridge slung between the Two Towers during a raging storm, but slipped on the slick wood and plunged to his death.

There were no witnesses, but his lady wife found his battered and broken body the next morning on the rocks below. The piercing sounds of her wailing rung out across the water. Unable to see anything through the fog, superstitious sailors muttered quick prayers to the god of the deep to protect them from water spirits and merfolk.  

Upon arrival, Euron wasted no time in calling a Kingsmoot, claiming that a greenlander and former hostage of the north had no business ruling the Iron Islands.

On the subject of succession, Victarion publically chose to adhere to the law, supporting his nephew over his niece. Theon attempted to dissuade him, but Victarion would have none of it. “Despite everything she’s done, Asha will never curry enough support against Euron. With you, we have a chance.”

Theon sighed in defeat. “I am sorry, sister.”

“You fucking grass squid bastard!” Asha made a lunge for his throat but Victarion held her back. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

“If you aren’t going to support your brother, niece, don’t bother coming to the Kingsmoot,” Victarion cautioned sternly. She shoved him away.

“I’ll not forget this,” Asha hissed venomously and stormed off.

The scene had not gone unobserved by Euron, who chuckled to himself. “My, my. What a feisty one she is. Perhaps a strong-handed husband can rein her in. If she wasn’t my niece, I’d take her myself. I would love to tame a thing like that.” Euron eyed Asha’s retreating backside luridly.

Theon’s stomach curdled in disgust. “She’d kill you first.”

“She’d try. And all the more fun for me for doing so,” Euron said, aiming a knowing look at Victarion. The latter man bristled.

“We’ll see you at the Kingsmoot, Uncle.” Theon tugged Victarion away before he could make an attempt to kill Euron on the spot.

They all met later that day near the bluffs that overlooked the harbor where the ships of every reaver lord present were anchored with their awaiting crew. Common folk congregated around the Ironborn nobles to watch the proceedings.

“It is a fearsome thing to sail beyond Valyria,”*** Euron boomed, signalling the start of the Kingsmoot.

“I could sail the Iron Fleet to hell if need be,”*** Victarion interrupted jokingly.

The crowd chuckled. Euron shot him a death glare but continued touting his prowess as a reaver and keeper of the Old Way. Many in the crowd nodded as he spoke; they’d all heard these tales many times before, and told them themselves. Still, he had their rapt attention, and they hung on every word.

“My brother’s sudden death brings me great sorrow.” Euron bowed his head. “The Drowned God did not deign to let me see him one last time, which grieves me greatly. But what troubles me more is the future of the Isles and the Seastone Chair. It’s bad enough that Balon named his daughter, a mere woman, heir. Believe me, I love my brother, but I don’t think he was quite right in the head.” He mimed the look of an invalid, before facing Theon. “Nephew, I am sure we are all overjoyed at your safe return, and saddened by the loss of your father, but the truth remains: you are not fit to rule the Iron Islands.”

“Of course I am. I am Balon Greyjoy’s only living son.”

Euron sucked in air through his teeth. “Now Nephew, I’m afraid that’s a greenlander way of doing things. Around here a man’s deeds speak louder than fancy titles and the accomplishments of his father. And yours, well. Yours are considerably lacking.” Euron shrugged in mock apology, as if this whole situation was out of his hands.

“Actually, I’d argue your deeds of late have been quite questionable. I don’t think you have been acting in the best interests of the Ironborn at all.”

“Get to your point, Euron,” Victarion growled. “We haven’t got all day.”

“You came for my late brother’s Iron Fleet, and married the Wolf Bitch at the blessing of Stannis Baratheon and won him the fucking Iron Throne with it, did you not?”

“Aye.” Theon wanted to challenge his uncle for insulting his wife, but it would be pointless and likely open the door to further abuse.

“Tell me,” Euron spoke to the crowd. “Did the Baratheons not murder our men, women and children when we sought to take our rightful place in the world? Did they not slay Theon’s very own brothers? And was Theon himself not a captive for fourteen years? The Starks had plenty of time to poison his mind against his own people, and I think his actions are proof of his eagerness to do the enemy’s bidding.”

Shouts of agreement rose from Euron’s followers and looks of doubt mired the faces of the others present. They glanced suspiciously at Theon, muttering to one another.

“Stannis Baratheon is not the same man as his brothers, as I am sure you can appreciate, Uncle. And it’s as you said, a man’s deeds and motivations aren’t defined by his family’s,” Theon answered casually, refusing to let these accusations rile him. “Stannis’s definitely aren’t. If they were, I wouldn’t have forged an alliance with him and he wouldn’t be sitting on the Iron Throne, as we speak.”

“Oh, alright then.” Euron mused, turning towards him with his arms folded across his chest. “And what of your deeds?”

Theon easily spoke of his experiences in war and reaving against the Lannisters, of all the gold he plundered with the help of Asha, Balon’s recognized heir, and Victarion. He talked about the promise of prosperity he secured for the Ironborn through his marriage alliance with the Starks and the goodwill it garnered from the ruling House. He moved the crowd with the sincerity of his efforts for sustainability; they cheered and cried out his name in support, but there was nothing he could have truthfully said that would match Euron’s showmanship and storytelling grandeur.

Euron patted Theon’s back. “I admire your spirit, but it’s not an Ironman’s spirit. And the scope of your vision is very tiny.” Euron pinched his fingers together to show just how small he thought it was. “Which is why I think your own sister calls you a grass squid.”

When Theon did not immediately respond, Euron launched into further self-aggrandizement.

“Crow's Eye, you call me. Well, who has a keener eye than the crow? After every battle the crows come in their hundreds and their thousands to feast upon the fallen. A crow can espy death from afar. And I say that all Westeros is dying. Those who follow me will feast until the end of their days. We are Ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of waves was heard. Theon would have you be content with our measly rocks and the cold and dismal North. But I shall give you Lannisport, Highgarden, The Arbor, Oldtown, the Riverlands and the Reach, the Kingswood and the Rainwood, Dorne and the Marches, the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale of Arryn, Tarth, and The Stepstones. I say we take it all. I say we take Westeros!”***

The raucous cheering of Euron’s followers rose, joined by those of other houses and a large portion of the common folk, regardless of their support for Theon’s claim just moments before. They were wooed by Euron’s tales of illustrious deeds and his promises of more.

Victarion’s crew remained silent, as did some members of Asha’s crew who came despite their captain’s absence. Either they meant to report the Kingsmoot proceedings back to Asha, or seeing her cause futile, support Theon in preference over Euron. Perhaps it was a bit of both. He noticed several nods of approval from that group when he spoke. Victarion walked over to the edge of the bluff, seemingly as if to take a piss.

When the cheers died, Victarion turned and spoke loudly for all to hear. “That’s all well and good, brother, but you and what fleet? For someone that boasts grand feats of conquest in foreign lands, it was sure easy enough for our niece to steal the Silence and the rest of your ships right from underneath your nose.”

Euron laughed, but his eyes were set hard in a murderous glint. “What are you raving about?”

Victarion smirked, nodding behind him. “Go have a look for yourself.”

“If you think to play me for a fool,” Euron began, shaking a finger at his brother. “I’ll tie you to the pier and leave you to drown in high tide.” His tone was light and almost jovial, but the threat was sincere.

Victarion returned to Theon’s side with a gleeful look on his face, as Euron marched over to peer over the edge.

“FUCK!” Euron roared, pulling at his hair.

“Believe me, I love my sister,” Theon grinned as he addressed the crowd, as well as his uncle. “But being outsmarted by a mere woman, as you so put it? My, my. I wonder if all your tales have any merit to them. Perhaps you made them all up?”

Every eye turned to Euron, who was practically frothing at the mouth. Any sense of fear or awe he inspired in them vanished, replaced with hatred and disgust. Even Euron’s own followers, including the ones who likely endured his cruelty and witnessed some of his grand deeds abroad, appeared to have lost faith. Losing his flagship and fleet to a female reaver was damning enough on its own.

The Crow’s Eye saw this when he whirled around. “I am going to kill you, Theon,” he seethed, drawing his sword. “And then I’ll fuck your beloved She-Wolf until she’s nought but a corpse.”

Theon didn’t know who drew their weapons quicker – himself, Victarion or the reavers behind them. All mocking aside, he responded in the old tongue. “The legend you crafted is dead. And it will never rise again. It’s over. Lay down your weapon.”

That won a number of surprised looks and murmurings. Until now, the Ironborn lords did not know, or had forgotten, that he spoke their true tongue. While it took Euron off guard, he did not stay his sword for long.

Euron charged at Theon, a warcry on his lips, blue from the Shade of the Evening he regularly imbibed. Before their swords could clash, Victarion stepped between them and blocked Euron’s attack. Theon withdrew. He would let his Uncle have this one, but stood at the ready to finish the task if he failed.

“ There is no wine so sweet as wine taken from a foe. How does it feel, brother, to lose all that you hold dear?”**

Euron wailed upon Victarion in a blind rage, but even in this brutish manner of fighting, Crow’s Eye would not tire quickly. He was a strong and seasoned fighter. Despite Victarion’s own emotional stake in this duel, he had the cooler head and was set on avenging his wife and brothers with grim determination. Both men drew blood, but a particularly nasty blow to the head brought Victarion to his knees. While he did not cry out in pain, he appeared dazed from the loss of an eye. Theon sprang forward to deflect the fatal blow.

Under normal circumstances, Theon doubted he would have been able to match his uncle blow for blow, stride for stride. He was not a poor fighter by any means. Years of training with skilled swordsmen and his experiences in the war against the Lannisters certainly made sure of that, but Crow’s Eye, even if just by his sheer ruthlessness, was one of the best. As the fight wore on, sweat and blood made his grip on this sword difficult and his arms ached from delivering and parrying blows. However, he could not dwell on his wounds and discomforts, because the moment he thought he could not go on was the moment he would die.

Euron’s back was to Victarion when the man finally composed himself and rose. Since there was no place for honor or chivalry in the Old Way, Victarion did not think twice about slashing his brother’s legs from behind. Euron howled in rage, falling to the ground and unable to get up. In Euron’s writhing, Theon saw that Victarion aimed much lower than he thought. The blow bit cleanly through the leather of Euron’s boots, just above the ankle and savagely severed the tendons there. Victarion kicked away Euron’s sword and ordered his men to tie him to a pier and let high tide drown him and the fish nibble at his soft bits.

Naturally, Euron tried to defend himself, but the men barely flinched at his paltry blows. They bound him and were ready to drag him away to meet his fate when the sound of clapping startled everyone into stillness. Theon turned around to see someone push through the crowd of common folk. The individual’s rough spun hood was drawn up around the face, shielding it from view.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Euron shouted in disbelief when the stranger pushed back the hood.

“It is as the Drowned God promised his chosen, brother.” Balon Greyjoy smiled. “What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. Let’s go see if His favor extends to you, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

The Drowned God apparently did not give a rat’s ass about Euron Greyjoy, and he drowned beneath the waves of that evening’s high tide. As for Balon Greyjoy’s apparent return from the dead, he happily allowed the Ironborn to go on believing that it had been one of the sea god’s miracles. However, Theon, Sansa and the others who planned for Euron’s arrival knew better.

It was not hard acquiring a suitable, unclaimed body from the local caretaker, as Balon was a man of common height and build. All they had to was dress the corpse in the Lord Reaper’s clothes, toss him from the bridge and let the rocks do the rest. Skull burst like an overripe melon, the fall rendered the man utterly unrecognizable but no one thought to question Lady Alannys on the matter. Her grief certainly seemed real.

After overpowering Euron’s crew with the best of her own, Asha sailed to Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point for the cargo that awaited them – timber and crates upon crates of seeds, rich soil and glass. With Rodrik and Alannys’ help, Sansa surveyed Harlaw and Pyke for potential sites to build greenhouses and commissioned the construction of a charity house. There, Sansa would distribute a portion of their crops’ yield to the common folk and introduce the farmers to a practice called “composting”, which she claimed was a way of making fertile soil.  

Sansa’s own fertility was confirmed by the absence of her moonsblood, subsequent morning sickness and a maester.

In the moons that followed, various letters addressed to Sansa arrived from Winterfell with news from her family and congratulations on her pregnancy. In one such letter, Robb and Dacey Mormont announced their betrothal, but promised to wait until the baby arrived before setting a date for the wedding. Not long after, her mother wrote that Bran was similarly blessed with a good marriage match to Princess Shireen Baratheon. Amused by the King’s antics during negotiations, Catelyn described Stannis’ repeated assertions that it was unnecessary to plan a wedding so early, but his council saw it prudent to address the matter immediately. He firmly stated that it was a reasonable request if they waited until the two came of age before commencing with the nuptials, and if Bran would agree to come to King’s Landing post-haste to foster under his tutelage.

Naturally, Bran was over-the-moon pleased, and while it pained Catelyn to send off yet another child, she was overjoyed by their family’s good fortune. Sansa wrote back saying that King Stannis’s temperament and worldviews would do Bran a lot of good, as her brother still held onto his many fanciful notions.

Arya convinced Mother to allow her to accompany Father on his journey south to take Bran to King’s Landing. While they stayed to see him settled in his new home, Arya met an ‘annoyingly handsome blacksmith’ named Gendry. She wrote that he was the son of a whore, and notably older than her, but she didn’t care and to hell with anyone that did . Sansa smiled at the amount of times her sister underlined the last bit. Mother would make a fuss but, in the end, Sansa knew Arya would get her swarthy blacksmith. She also learned from her sister that Rickon finally made the singular accomplishment of ceasing the consumption of his own snot, much to everyone’s great relief.

Eddard’s letter succinctly and plainly summarized all this news with the addition that Jon was accompanying Uncle Benjen and several other Brothers of the Night’s Watch on a ranging expedition north of the Wall. Furthermore, he praised her and Theon for vanquishing their enemies and for their other triumphs since coming to the Island Isles. He couldn’t be more proud of the Stark of Pyke.

Jon’s first letter came after the others had written to Sansa thrice over. He apologized profusely for the delay and jokingly hoped that the ‘lengthy tome’ he wrote about his adventures would make up for it. One such adventure, which he described in a curious amount of detail, involved a fierce encounter with a fiery-haired wildling woman.

By the time Sansa was well into the eighth moon of her pregnancy, the greenhouses and charity house were up and running. She also made arrangements for pine and oak seeds to be planted. Despite the obvious turn from the Old Way, the reavers barely grumbled and the common folk welcomed it with eager and open arms.

One day, after meeting with merchants from Dragonstone in town, Theon found himself within a stone’s throw of his wife’s charity house and heard that she was in the middle of one of her demonstrations. Wanting to watch her at her work, he unobtrusively walked over and leant against the doorframe.

Belly round with his child, Sansa wiped the dew from her forehead with the sleeve of her dress, before resuming the cutting of various vegetables before her. These were among the first of Pyke’s greenhouse yields.

“Once you cut off the bits you don’t want,” Sansa explained in the old tongue to the group standing attentively around the table, “Gather them up and toss them into your designated compost pile, which remember, is preferably kept close to your fields. No use breaking your backs transporting it there.” She smiled winningly at them, which earned her universal nods of agreement and a few faint chuckles.

Dividing the good parts of the vegetables from the tops of turnips, carrots and onion husks, Sansa distributed each separately into the pails she instructed her pupils to bring. “The compost heaps should be turned at least twice a fortnight,” she continued. “The garden masters at Winterfell tell me that it speeds up decomposition. The refuse will eventually rot and turn to soil on its own, of course, but regular watering will also hasten things along if you can spare it.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” a woman dipped gratefully when she received her share.

“It is my pleasure. Now, does anyone have any questions to ask before departing?”

The group of weather-worn men and women shook their heads and murmured their thanks before filing out of the room. Theon stood aside to let them leave and, recognizing him, they each greeted him respectfully. When the room was empty save for his wife, Theon entered. She stood behind the table with her hands pressed into the small of her back and her swollen belly jutting out before her. Ironborn women did not subscribe to the practice of confinement, so neither would she, he remembered her saying.

Sansa beamed at the sight of him and happily accepted a tender kiss. Moving behind her, Theon hands took the place of her own to rub soothing circles across her aching muscles. She closed her eyes, leant back into him for support, and sighed with a mixture of relief and pleasure. Theon affectionately nuzzled the crook of her neck.

“You did well,” Theon praised softly. “I am truly blessed to have such a strong, wise and determined woman.”

Sansa wrapped her arms lovingly around her belly. “We are blessed, as well. You have made a good home for us here, despite the odds.”

“Mmm,” he murmured. “You deserve considerable credit on that front, too, dearheart.”

She simply smiled.

“Come, let’s lock up and get you off your feet.” Theon led her to the carriage waiting for her outside. “You’ve been on them all morning and the babe is due any day now.”

“Oo,” she winced, massaging her belly after suffering a particularly fierce kick. “Yes. I think I would benefit from a laydown. If only our child would deign us with his or her presence. I am about ready to burst!”

Theon chuckled as he helped her inside. “You know, I’ve heard that a bit of lovemaking helps speed things along,” he said suggestively, tucking the hem of her dress inside the carriage.

Sansa laughed. “Husband, if you rub my feet first, I will be most grateful and obliging of your suggestion.”

Theon grinned wolfishly. “I have to fetch my horse, so I will meet you back at the castle.”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” she said sternly.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, dearheart.” Theon closed the carriage door and instructed the driver to take care in delivering her home. With the flick of the reigns and an encouraging cluck, the driver stirred the pair of horses hitched to the front from their idleness.

Sansa waved to him through the window as she passed by. Eager to rejoin his wife, Theon practically ran to the post where he tied his horse.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

After absconding to their bedchambers for a tender bit of lovemaking, Sansa fell asleep with Theon’s arm draped protectively about her protruding middle. He told her later that she was not asleep for very long when the tide that preceded their child’s coming soaked their bedding.

A contraction jolted her awake. Theon could see that Sansa was stricken by a whirlwind of emotions — embarrassment, excitement and sheer panic. Wide-eyed, she looked to him in a silent plea for help. He kissed her forehead, pulled back the covers and helped her out of bed.

“Come love,” he coaxed, holding her underneath her elbow. “Let’s go for a turn around the room and get you into your shift.”

As her feet touched the ground, Sansa glanced back at the soaked bedding and blushed.

“Dearheart, don’t worry about that,” Theon said gently. “Remember, the midwife told us this would happen.”

She nodded and let him guide her around the room. After two full turns, Sansa calmed considerably, even when another contraction hit.

“Hold up your arms,” Theon instructed when the acute pain passed, picking up her shift from where it was draped across a chair. Sansa reached up, and he slipped the garment over.

He then bent to briefly kiss her lips and belly. “I am going to step out of the room for just a moment to send for the midwife. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Sansa smiled bravely. “But I would advise you to put on some breeches.”

Theon chuckled. “Of course.”

His breeches laid in a heap on the floor beside their bed. He’d been eager to get out of them earlier, after riding the entire way back to the castle with a raging cockstand. There was a very wild and primitive allure to bedding his pregnant wife.

He quickly hoisted his breeches over his hips and laced them. Forgoing a shirt for now, he stepped out into the hall and instructed one of the servants to summon the midwife and notify Lady Alannys.

It did not take long for the entourage to arrive, but by that time, Theon was fully dressed. The women tried to usher him out. Custom, general squeamishness, and utter uselessness usually kept husbands out of the birthing chamber, but Sansa wanted him present.

“Theon is my anchor in all things,” Sansa explained, crushing his hand through the duration of another contraction. “Our first born’s birth will be no different.”

Lady Alannys looked to her son and an unspoken question passed between them. “I will stay,” he said firmly.

Uncertainty assuaged, his mother nodded and turned her full, undivided attention to Sansa.

“My Lady,” the midwife curtsied. “Let’s keep you walking, shall we?”

When Sansa’s contractions came closer together and the midwife proposed that Sansa give birth from a standing, squatting or all-fours position, the room erupted in a chorus of protests.

“She’s a highborn lady! How can you even think to suggest something so undignified?” a chambermaid fumed.

Lady Alannys demanded an explanation.

“It will be the most comfortable for her,” the midwife countered. “And it will minimize tearing and other complications.”

Sansa stopped walking and swayed back and forth between Theon and the midwife. “I am not laying down,” she announced. Her tone brooked no argument.

Lady Alannys nodded curtly and sent most of the attending women out of the room. The chambermaid pursed her lips but said nothing as she left. Theon rubbed the small of Sansa’s back in support.

When it was time for Sansa to push, she began in a half squatting position, with those present taking turns supporting her under the arms. Drenched in sweat and tears streaming down her face, she howled with each push. But when her legs quaked from the effort, the midwife shouted for someone to bring pillows and coaxed Sansa down onto them on her hands and knees.

This new position appeared to be much easier on her. She didn’t pant as hard or yell as loud, which was a relief to Theon. As natural as birthing was, he hated seeing Sansa in pain.

“I see the head, my Lady!” the midwife exclaimed. “When you feel burning, stop pushing. Just breathe, relax and let your womb do the rest.”

Sansa nodded. Moments later, she said, “I feel it.”

“Good. No more pushing. Breathe and relax as best you can. Take mi’lord’s hand. Your baby will be here soon.”

Sansa snatched Theon’s hand and screamed.

A shrill wailing filled the room as the newest member of House Greyjoy entered the realm.

Theon’s heart swelled with pride and joy at the sight of their baby girl being placed in Sansa’s outstretched arms.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction inspired by George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire book series/Game of Thrones television series. Asterisks *** are used whenever I'm directly or indirectly quoting something from the books/tv show.

The Lady of the Isles and Kraken Lord named their firstborn “Solvi” — a word meaning ‘from the house of strength’ in the old tongue — to honor the union of their houses and the promise of a more stable future for the Ironborn.

Under the banners of House Greyjoy, and with the spirit of House Stark, Solvi and her siblings united the Iron Isles, raising their people harder and stronger than ever before.

Solvi was the second Ironborn woman to sit the Seastone Chair.

Wolf. Kraken. Iron. Ice.

~The End~

Chapter Text

Hey Theonsa friends!

If you enjoyed this fanfic, and are possibly interested in reading my original work, you can find me in these places: https://linktr.ee/dmniccoli.

It was your beautiful, kind comments that gave me the courage and confidence to pursue publishing my original stories. So thank you, thank you for all your wonderful support!

A quick sum up of what I’ve written since Lady of the Isle, all Romance ;)

-Untethering Dark, Harlequin's first monster romance + a wicked Yuletide romp with Grimms' Fairy Tale vibes.

-Follow Me to the Yew Tree, a woman foretells the doom of the man she's fated to love and must defy death itself to save him.

-Called to the Deep, Song of Lorelei, and Ensnaring the Siren: a paranormal romance + eco-horror series featuring vicious, flesh-craving mermaids.

-Given to the Ghoul, a bite-sized monster romance.

-The Feast of Dead Man’s Hollow, "Sleepy Hollow" meets "The Girl With The Green Ribbon."

Warmest regards,
Rapturousaurora xoxo