Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The ink was slightly smudged, like water had fallen on the paper, written in stormy seas. Sansa had to squint but it was legible.

I accept the position. It would be an honour to keep you safe. Now that the war is over, and my tyrannical uncle is dead, my sister has given me permission to leave. I write this sailing north now, and will likely be arriving in two moons.

She touched the signature with a gentle finger.

Theon Greyjoy

 Her coronation was in a few hours. Although her stomach wanted to twist its way out of her body, she pushed it back, knowing she shouldn’t feel so nervous.

Perched on her bed, her handmaids readied the dress beside her but she couldn’t look at it. Sansa felt ill prepared, like a little girl playing at queen, like little Robb and Jon and Theon smacking wooden swords with Ser Rodrik, shouting out names of knights and heroes and kings of old.

Was she good enough? Being Lady of Winterfell was one thing — but a queen? Robb did it, Jon did, even the short time he’d had it. But Sansa Stark? Little Sansa, who was instructed to be seen and not heard by every captor she was passed around?

Slipping out before her handmaids could see, she escaped to the only place that could give her peace, settle her shaking hands.

The statues in the crypts had been standing in Winterfell for a thousand and more years, her father had told her. They hold every Stark on this earth, my girl. Little Sansa gasped in wonder. Even the ladies, father? The ones who married lords?

Father looked strange for a moment, as if a shadow had passed over his face. But he’d moved a warm hand onto her lap, engulfing both her small knees, and the other around her back. Yes, Sansa. If the house they were wed to permitted it.

She remembered feeling joyful after that, convinced she’d be lain to rest here even after her long and happy marriage to a southron lord. Stupid girl, she thought. The Lannisters would never have allowed it, and certainly not the Boltons. She shivered.

If she ever married again — and truly, it was an if — her husband would respect her wishes and bury her here, or she wouldn’t marry at all. She wanted to marry for love.

As she wandered there was a pitter-patter and the shifting of her dress. At the end of this long cavern stood the Kings of Winter, the first leaders of the North, the source of the old gods' prayers. It occurred to her that she was now one of them, the last in line after Jon, Robb, and Torrhen Stark. Would she have a stone statue of her direwolf Lady at her feet and a sword across her lap, like the kings did? Like Robb did?

Sansa stopped, feet scuffing on the stones. There was a figure a ways in front of her. Someone was at Robb’s grave.

At the sound, they whipped around. Tormented blue eyes stared back at her.

“Theon?” she said, though she was not truly surprised. She had seen him slip into the shadows and disappear down into the crypts often lately, more frequently the nearer it got to her coronation. On the day of, she’d not seen him until now. Had he been here the whole morning?

Theon did not reply, standing there looking like he’d been caught doing something bad, eyes guilty. It was an echo of Reek, she realised, who was punished for drawing attention to himself. He’s learnt to seep in and out of shadows and corners to survive.

“It’s alright,” she said reflexively. “Did you come to see Robb?”

It was obvious that he had, standing directly in front of his statue, but Sansa wanted him to talk to her.

“Yes.”

Theon did not speak often nowadays, but when he did, it was always to the point. He did not do games like he used to. Sansa rather liked that quality in him, vastly preferring silence to meaningless noise.

Although, her dislike of it was less about preference and more being terrified that she’d accidentally let something slip. It was a fear drummed into her at King’s Landing. Theon’s fear was the same type.

“Is it alright if I join you?” she asked. She always asked, trying to give him the freedom of choice he was never allowed with Ramsay.

After a moment’s consideration, he nodded. The shifting of her dress as she walked was the only sound between them, the noise echoing around the crypts. She wondered if all of the dead Starks could hear whatever went on down here.

Robb’s statue was big, intimidating, posed with an arrogant pride so unlike the brother she knew. With Grey Wind at his feet he looked cold, lifeless. As with Father’s, she’d wished his had been done by someone who knew his face. The eyes were wrong — Robb's were kind, where elder brothers usually were not.

How different he was to someone like Joffrey, who never cared and loved for his siblings as Robb did for them. He may have had the colouring of a brave and handsome prince from her childhood stories, but behind his sickly green eyes laid a twisted monster.

The eyes always gave people away, betrayed their true souls. The sculptor had made Robb's eyes round and hard, she supposed like they thought their king ought to be, but she and Theon knew the true gentleness in him.

“I envied him,“ Theon admitted suddenly. “I wanted to be like him. I wanted to be him… at least I can serve House Stark now, to pay for that envy. I should’ve done it a long time ago, with your brother.”

“Your brother,” she corrects, giving him a pointed stare.

Theon looks back, blinking. “Yes.”

They both turn again to Robb. If she closed her eyes, she could convince herself that his ghost stood between them, and it was only another day in their happy childhood. He would smile at her or lift her up onto his lap, or even sit down and read with her. That was rare; Robb often found storybooks tedious, but he'd always do it if she begged.

“How long did you feel that way?” she asked Theon, voice small.

“Only when I began to understand why I was at Winterfell. Father bid me—” he falters. “Ned bid me talk with him when I was old enough and explained that I was there to keep Balon in line. Until then, I had thought I was one of you.”

“You were,” she argued.

“Officially, I was your father’s prisoner, on account of the man who'd helped make me.”

She noticed he would not call Balon Greyjoy father.

“But we treated you—” she began hotly, feeling a tide of anger in her.

But he shook his head roughly, as if he were batting away memories, and her anger faded. “I know. Maester Luwin kept telling me that when I took Winterfell. I hated hearing it, resented completely the idea of being grateful to my captors. It took me far too long to realise he was right.”

He looks up suddenly, directly into Robb’s eyes of stone. She follows his gaze.

“I loved Robb,” he admitted, voice shaky now. "He was my best friend, my brother, and I stabbed him in the back. He could do no wrong in my eyes, where all I could be was a wayward son and a failure. I envied him, envied you all, for that effortless Stark nature you all had. I yearned for the images of the sea I made up in my head, thinking I would be accepted as a true Ironborn if I stayed loyal even in captivity.” He choked and had to pause. "I tried to prove myself to the Ironborn, and to Balon. I was lying to myself that he might love me if I killed enough Northmen, and it didn’t even work. I did not realise at the time there would never be enough dead Northmen in Westeros to make Balon love me.”

Robb's eyes seemed to stare down into Theon, like he could hear him speak of his betrayal. There was hurt there, she thought, even if they were made of stone.

“Drowned god, I will never be able to tell him I would give anything to go back. To undo it all. He died thinking I hated him, that I’d killed his brothers, and he hated me right back.” Theon made a strange moan then, a sound that struck deep in her chest.

“Theon—“ she starts, and stops. She has no idea what to say to comfort him. His sins were ones she had only little knowledge of, and she hadn’t lived them. Only Theon and those who suffered by them knew.

"Robb would have forgiven you, as I have,” she insisted. Robb’s eyes were kind, she still remembered that, despite the cold statue in front of her. The betrayal had hurt, but she knew her brother. “He loved you, Theon.”

"Don't, Sansa," he whimpers, "he hated me as he died and I deserve it all. I was arrogant, hateful—"

"—And desperate to be accepted,” she finished. "We all knew your father never cared about you, Theon. Not the way our father did. Not the way all of us did."

This seemed only to make him snivel harder. The soft sounds echo through the crypts, breaking the holy quiet of the place. Sansa finds she doesn't mind. If there was any sound to be had down here, grief would fit; and it was a kind of mourning in his cries, a bone-deep remorse for what he had done.

It occurs to her that this was the most she’d heard him talk in an age. The last time had been when she’d left Winterfell, the prideful set of his shoulders and the loudness of his voice intact.

Now, there was much crowding his conscience, and a suffering soul that held his lips shut against it all.

Gods, she thought. I know a thing or two about keeping quiet.

Against her better judgement, she dives to embrace him, wraps her arms around his back, presses her chin into his shoulder. It felt just as it had in the snow under a tree, or in Winterfell’s own walls. It was blissful, it was sinful, what she felt then and now. She screwed up her eyes against him.

He doesn't lean in immediately, but he places a hand on her back. She knows it is a silent thanks, even if he feels he can't entirely accept her comfort.

They stand there for a while, an eternity, swaying slightly like they were half-heartedly dancing to a festive tune.

Sansa forgot how much she missed him, between the battle of Winterfell and his decision to leave and help Yara hunt Euron. It was done, and he was back, but her memories would never let her forget.

I would've died to get you there, she remembered.

She could not let the man who'd said those words stay in pain by himself. No one, not anyone, had displayed that kind of loyalty to her in years.

Sansa thought she enjoyed thinking on that moment so much because it filled the hole in her heart that had been aching for so long. But since then she’d gained Jon, Bran and Arya, and still, she thought of it. She didn't entirely understand why, but it brought her immeasurable comfort to know he would've taken her all the way to the wall.

His cries subsided slowly, but still he clung to her. Somehow, in between the moment she’d reached out and now, he had taken her against him in full. It gave her satisfaction to realise he accepted the comfort she gave, the forgiveness embedded in the lines of her stroking hands.

Behind her, Robb stood still, hard and unwavering as stone, as he always did. Theon released her.

"Are you looking forward to your coronation?" he asked, his eyes pleading to move on from his regrets.

"Yes," she replied with cool courtesy, the armour that was hers, for she did not wear plate or chainmail.

Theon's eyes silently pierced into her, and within an instant, all of it disappeared.

"No,” she confessed quickly. Those eyes would not let her lie. “Truthfully... I'm scared."

Sansa thought about leaving her words there, but Theon had been to the bottom of existence and back. He knew what it was like, and she trusted him. “I’m scared I wont be a good ruler, like Robb. He and my mother died for The North… even father was executed for this kingdom in some way. Loyalty, honour… they’re not wise traits to have, especially in The South.”

“But it is in The North,” he pointed out softly. “You never have to go further than The Neck ever again, not if you don’t want to.”

In her head, she knew that, but the heart that remembered Ser Meryn’s beatings struggled with it.

“I’ve tried my best to be faithful, when I was away all those years…” she felt herself begin to shake again, like she had before in her room, staring at the dress that meant so much to her. “But I was forced to pledge to many others since I was taken from Winterfell. I hope… I hope Robb would understand that. I hope he’d be proud of me for setting us free again.”

Her voice was small, still a little girl after all she’d been through. Little Sansa, thirteen and trapped in King's Landing, desperate for her loving family.

Theon’s eyes were intense. "Of course he would be, Sansa,” he said forcefully, trying to convince her. “You've fulfilled everything he fought for."

She pushed back the budding tears, though she knew Theon would not mind if she cried. If she let herself fly away, her handmaids would later despair over her red eyes.

"Thank you, Theon. That means everything to me."

It really did. She suddenly pictured her brother's brown curls — they were not painted on the statue, of course, the carved ringlets remaining a dull grey. These statues were fitting memorials for the Starks of the past, but they were pale comparisons to the living, breathing people that inspired them.

Sansa would never stop the tradition, but she hated it, just a little. It was like looking through murky water, a thick veil over the true being that caught your eye underneath. To look but not really see, a cruel trick or jest, just like the dwarves Joffrey hired at his wedding. One of them claimed to be her brother, brandishing a stuffed direwolf head and crying King in The North, but just like the statue, it was not him. No sordid imitation could compare.

Where Jon was Arya’s, Robb was hers. He was the eldest son, expected to fulfill his role as lord, leader, to continue the family legacy, just as she, as the eldest girl, was expected to marry well and bring fortune with the match. Though it did not feel like a burden at the time, on some level she always understood why Robb sometimes felt crushed by the weight of expectations.

She was always staunchly scorned by her father for playing favourites with her siblings, but Sansa thought it was only human to enjoy some company more than others. Though she would readily admit that she was cruel about it as a girl, shunning Arya and Jon in the wake of being well-mannered. Robb always told her eldest siblings should stick together, Sansa. Then he would gently stroke a hand across her head and down the length of her hair, a gesture so like their father, before running off to chase Theon all around Winterfell.

In front of her, Theon now looked haunted by the same memories. He did not need to speak; Robb was mirrored from her own eyes in his, Robb and the rest of their family grinning, sitting down to supper everyday for years, greeting King Robert with an eagerness, being torn apart. It was all reflected back at her in him and she was suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was the only one in Winterfell who knew what she had suffered, what they all had suffered, how happy they were before the Lannisters came knocking.

Her arms reached out to embrace him once again of their own accord, and this time he sunk in eagerly.

"Stay with me," she breathed, and it shocked her to realise just how lonely she’d been until he returned. A cavern opened in her chest. "Jon and Bran and Arya, they left me here alone. Don't go."

"I wouldn't," he promised quickly, squeezing her tighter. "I would never." She heard their family in his voice, stuck in his mouth and infecting the sound, direwolves clawing at his throat.

“You’re certain you wish to stay here?” she asked tentatively.

Winterfell had become the place of his torture after all, and she would understand if he could not bare living between the same walls Ramsay ripped at his skin. He had called the Iron Islands home, once, with snowflakes in his hair.

“It’s the least I could do, to serve you. To be your sworn shield.”

It should not be only for duty, Sansa thought. She did not know where that wish came from.

“It’s for life,” she warned him.

There was no hesitation in his reply, “I know.”

“You’re the only one who knows...” she choked. “What we went through… you’re the only one left.”

“You’re still here.” He gives her a gentle shake. “You’re still alive. If I were not here, you would still be surviving.”

She held him tighter. He said the same thing before he left her with Brienne. It was true, she knew that now, but she couldn’t bare the thought of being so alone.

Once, she recited their father’s words to Arya. When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. 

There were meant to be many Starks crowding the halls of Winterfell. The wars had ravaged them all, plucked them out of these warm walls and scattered them across the neverending cesspit of Westeros.

Now there were only two. Two Starks who were entirely broken regardless, ravaged by the wars in a different kind of way.

The dress was soft. Softer than she thought it would be. It slid over her like silk, and more than before, she felt ready to stand in front of a room of strangers and look regal. One handmaiden with black hair gave her a smile as she helped her put it on, and the gesture reminded her so much of Shae she felt tears come to the edge of her eyes. 

Both of Sansa’s weddings had everyone staring at her, ghost hands pushing and pulling at the silly Stark girl. The same happened at every summon Joffrey extended, the crowd’s eyes upon her hard and hateful; Robb had won another battle, ripped apart another army with his direwolf teeth, and she was the only one around to pay for each of them. 

Now, everyone would be looking at her, but it would be for no one but herself, no man to be given to or beating to bear. As frightening as the idea of being the focus of the room was, that thought gave her relief.

The walk from her chambers to the great hall was quiet, her shallow breathing the only sound. The rest of the castle was deserted. A boy was waiting by the door, shaggy haired with a sweet face. Upon seeing her turn the corner, he jumped and straightened his back. He reached for the door knocker but she put her hand up.

“Wait,” she told him, and his hand stilled, eyes wide. “What’s your name?”

“L— Lionel,” the boy stammered. His blue eyes reminded her a little of Gendry, Winterfell’s smith during the war with the dead.

“Forgive me for not learning your name before. I don’t want to start off on a bad foot with the person who runs my audience chambers.”

He didn’t, but he had the power to let anyone in or out. That was quite an advantage to have.

The boy blushed. “There’s nothing to forgive, your grace.”

She smiled at him, but it waned a little as she looked at the door. Behind there stood all of her lords, lined and waiting. 

The boy seemed to notice her trepidation. “It’ll be alright, your grace,” he said softly, genuinely, and she was glad she’d asked him his name. 

“Thank you, Lionel. You can open it now.” 

With a smile he did, and she stepped through. 

She began to march slowly, as graceful as she could under her thick clothing. The lords in her vision had hard, curious eyes; raking over her and assessing just how worthwhile the eldest Stark girl was. Did they judge her less than Robb, less than Jon?

She kept her head high. 

To her immense relief, she met a pair of blue eyes that were not demanding and merciless like the Northern lords; Theon stood tall, the first she’d seen in a very long time. His face was relaxed, fixed to her as she walked, a pride so fierce shining out of his eyes she had to stop herself from breaking out into an answering grin. 

The throne was beautiful, but she only loved the direwolves carved into either side of the back. They pointed upward, howling into the air, so emblematic of the pain and suffering her House had bore. But she survived, to be here in this moment for Robb, mother and father, Rickon; Bran, Arya, Jon. For all of them. 

She sat with a shuffle of her dress, and suddenly felt warm. The rest of her family were not present, but they were here, even if they were just ghosts, whispers on the edge of Sansa’s vision. 

The crown was brought out, a shimmering silver symbol of the North she had been fighting tooth and nail for, the kingdom she’d bled and been beaten for. 

Sansa felt like she was on top of Winterfell's parapets again, peeking over the vast drop down. There were dividing lines of fate flickering in front of her, two diverging roads. She would either live and rule a queen of winter, or drown and die beneath the snow, body broken and bleeding. 

The crown felt soft on her head, the weight of a kingdom lighter than she’d imagined it would be. She wondered if Robb ever felt like this with his crown, the mix of fear and elation making her gut churn. 

On her forehead, two direwolves met in the middle. They were not alone. She looked to her right, to Theon. Neither was she. 

“As queen, I will name my sworn protector, a member of my queensguard,” she declared. “I name Lord Theon Greyjoy.” 

Every single head in the room swivelled to him. None of the lords said a word, but there was a tense silence following her words. Theon looked only to her. 

“Will you accept?” she asked. 

“I will,” he answered quickly.

Breaking from the line, he came to her. He knelt in front of her, in front of the direwolf throne. There was a simple poetry in that, Sansa thought. 

His head was bent to the floor, and she gazed at his hair, the soft curls only inches from her. If she wanted to, she could reach out and run a hand through it. 

Having a kingsguard was a southron tradition, and Sansa hated the thought of imitating the order so fully, vows and all, so her Northern guard would only take the same vows any sworn shield would speak. But she’d added her own Northern touch to them. 

Theon starts his oath reverently, “I vow I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be.”

“And I vow,” she begins, “that you shall always have a place at my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and I pledge to ask no service of you that would bring you dishonour.”

Theon raised his head and met her eyes. The intensity in them almost stole her breath away. 

“By the old gods, by hardship and snow, by the Kings of Winter, you are queensguard,” she said.

“By the old gods,” he repeated. “By hardship and snow, by the Kings of Winter. I swear to protect and serve the Queen in the North whose name is Stark. From this day, until my last day.”

As he rose, she saw sea water drowning his face, a fierceness in his eyes. What is dead may never die; but rises again, harder and stronger. 

He moved back into the crowd of lords that lined the hall. There was a heavy moment of silence before Theon pulled his sword from the scabbard. The same hand that had trembled when she gripped it was now steady.

Posed like that, with his sword and chin in the air, he looked like the Starks in the crypts, the powerful stone statues of the Kings of Winter. There was something powerful, prideful, more than human on his face.

“The Queen in the North!” he bellowed. The sound echoed around the hall. 

The lords around him released their swords in tandem. All together with their arms extended, it looked like an odd dance, the kind of dances fairies of the night did in Old Nan’s stories.

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”

Their unified shouting was deafening, rumbling the stone around them. 

“THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!”

 The feast was bare. All of the excess emergency supply they’d already used up — whether it was from the wars, the cold, or feeding more people than she’d planned in the last few months — meant they had little to spare. Sansa put on a feast as best she could, but she did not go all out; she still remembered being chased into an alley and dragged along the cold stone floor, men ripping at her skirts. The people of The North would never want for bread as long as she was alive. 

Maybe one day, when food was in excess and spring melted snow, she would put on a grand event. 

Theon was nowhere to be seen; he had disappeared after her coronation, the pride on his face mingling with something so terribly sad. And guilt, always guilt. 

She sat on her throne as the Northern lords and their sons presented her with gifts — jewellery, fine silks, one even brought her ten horses; well-bred, if he was to be believed. Their sons preened at her, eyes hungry and fingers twitching. 

She knew what they wanted; just what Littlefinger wanted, what Ramsay wanted, what Joffrey and a hundred thousand nobles and the men of King’s Landing wanted. She knew. They would not receive it, but she certainly made it looked like they might; she smiled, she flicked her hair, she leaned in. All the things she’d done as a girl, when she meant them. 

The part of Westeros a man was born in did not entirely determine their disposition. After all, Ramsay had been of The North, and still he was cruel. There was no telling what these men and their boys were like behind closed doors.

It was only when Theon approached that the sick churning in her stomach abated. He would not look at her like he wanted to devour her, like those lords and their sons did.

“Your grace,” he said, kneeling in that way he did before, compliant and sincere, putting his entire body into it. “I bring my gift.”

Something was glinting in the candlelight, sitting on his palm. She reached out and met his hand halfway. 

“ Oh ,” she sighed, bringing it up to her. The bracelet was, under normal circumstances, less fine than all the others she had received tonight. But it was special. 

“It belonged to—” 

“Robb,” she finished, amazed. “I remember.” 

Running a hand around the edge, she thought of the silly face her brother always made when mother scolded him, before she began to carefully inspect the decoration.

The wolves were the same as the ones on her sigil, repeated in a ring, silver and shimmering in the low light. Robb had only worn it on special occasions, a formality and sign of pride when guests visited. He had most certainly had it on when King Robert Baratheon entered their lives. Pressing her thumb into one of the wolves’ metal fur, she concluded resolutely that she had received many gifts today, but this beat them all. 

“You kept it?” she asked Theon, looking up into his eyes, where he’d been watching her inspection. Unwittingly, she felt herself soften under his gaze.

“I did. It was in my room, on Pyke,” he admitted.

Sansa hated the thought of Robb’s bracelet falling into Ramsay’s clutches, like all of her family’s belongings that were left behind before they captured Winterfell. She was glad Theon kept it. 

“When I returned, after… it was still there.” He struggled with his words, now. “Some part of me decided to keep it, even when I was… betraying him. I kept it.” He stood up, back straight, readily admitting to his sins. “It is yours now, as it should be.” 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes were soft. “It belongs to a Stark.”

She kept his eye, and for the first time in many years, he kept it back. 

“Come sit with me, Lord Greyjoy,” she asked, gesturing to the chair beside her. “You are my queensguard now, after all.”

He regarded the chair nervously, like it might come alive and bite him. It was odd, she conceded, that he was now to stay in Winterfell with her for the foreseeable future. The struggle with his identity was his own fight, but it struck her a certain kind of ironic that a Greyjoy was to guard her. Would her father be proud , she wondered, for continuing the peace between their kingdoms? 

While Theon made his way around the table, she let the music echoing around the hall fill her head. Ramsay would only hold feasts on rare occasions, but Joffrey had many, providing Sansa opportunity to shut the world out, listen to the instruments, and pretend none of it was happening to her. The small escapes she managed to wrestle from her captors kept her alive; sweet foods, music, staring into the sea or snow. That, and the thought of Jon and Arya, still alive somewhere in the world, and the thought of surviving to get back to them. Now, just Theon remained. 

“I never imagined I would be here again,” he said softly, settling into the chair. 

No one in the hall was paying attention to the queen and her guard, so she decided it was safe for the formalities to slip.

“Neither did I, not for a long time,” she told him. “I would dream of Winterfell but I never believed I might be back one day.”

That seemed to strike him on old wounds, and his eyes began to dart across the wooden table in front of him, a habit she was familiar with. “The head of the table is not for me, your grace.”

“It is now,” she pointed out plainly. “And I won’t see any argument. You are my sworn shield, Theon, you can’t sit anywhere else.”

He nodded stiffly and choked out, “Yes.”  

During the time between her coronation and the feast, Sansa had taken to thinking about the vow Theon made. She bit her lip, but gathered her courage.

“Your vows,” she began. “I do not mean for you to take the word serve to heart.” 

“What?” he said, giving her an incredulous stare.

“I thought you might have some trouble with that word. To serve with blind obedience… I would not want that for you again.”

There was a long silence where he looked away, thoughtful, and back again. “It’s not the same when it’s with you,” he said finally.

“Still, I would not want you to feel like you could never question me, or my decisions.”

“I don’t feel that way.”

“Promise me,” she urged. 

“I promise, Sansa. I am alright.” He looked seconds away from patting her hand, like she was Old Nan fussing over him. 

With the way he consistently looked like a scared animal, it was hard to resist. 

“And if you wanted to leave…” her throat began to close up. “You would be free to.”

This time, he turned his body to face her, like it would aid in convincing her. “I would not,” he maintained. “I sailed northeast of my own free will, and I kneeled in front of you of my own free will. I am here of my own free will.”

She could not find a reply to that, choosing instead to reach underneath the table and take his hand. It was a bold move, one that he could easily deny and hurt her in the process, though she was confused as to why she felt it so important that he did not.

During those torturous years apart from her home, she wanted to be held by the people she loved so badly she thought might die one day from the sheer aching for it. Of course, it never came, not for many long years.

Theon’s embrace under the overhang of a frozen tree was the first time her begging was answered by the gods. It was so odd, she didn’t know how to react; the warm, safe feeling so bone-deep familiar but far away she could not breach the gap for many moons after. She still struggled with it. Looking to Theon beside her, hunched ever so slightly — only she could tell Reek was hovering above him tonight — but with a renewed light in his eyes, she realised it was the same contrast for him. 

He did not jump at her hand like she expected. Instead, he gently intertwined their fingers. She was so focused on the warmth the gesture gave her she did not hear someone approaching the table until they cleared their throat, impatient and assuming. 

“Lord Glover,” she greeted evenly.

It had been a while since he’d been in the great hall. The last time was when Jon had told all the Northern lords he was bound for Dragonstone. The grey hairs on his head and face had gotten greyer, the lines around his eyes deeper. 

He bowed, quickly, like he was rushing to get it over with. “Your grace.”

“I’m glad you accepted my invitation. I believe we have a matter of allegiance to discuss.”

Glover licked his lips, looking at her and then away. “Indeed, your grace.”

“You did not send men, nor come yourself to fight in the battle of Winterfell, despite my brother, who was king at the time, asking you to do so.”

“I swore to the King in the North, not a Targaryen Queen,” he defended himself, his Northern accent hard and gruff.

Sansa leaned a hand on her nose; she could not fault that publicly, even though it irritated personally. Many lords agreed with him. Bannermen would normally be required to swear loyalty to whatever ruler their great house pledged to, and Jon pledged to Daenerys. But it was understandable, on a principal level, why he distrusted a Targaryen. The North had suffered greatly from rulers with silver hair and purple eyes, and all of these lords had lived longer than Sansa, long enough to remember a mad king with green wildfire.

“Alright,” she allowed. “Will you swear fealty to me, the eldest Stark heir?”

“Without question, your grace,” he said, and for a moment, she heard sincerity in his low voice. No matter how long he’d been gone, the memory of the type of warden her father had been; fair, just, honourable, still blew in the cold wind of The North, and no lord forgot.

Sansa nodded. “That’s settled, then. Thank you, Lord Glover.”

He gave her an apprehensive look, assessing, and that was the look she’d been on the receiving end of a lot today. It did not make her cower. Still, he bowed again and returned to the feasting, to the side of his sons. 

Another man stepped up where Lord Glover left. 

He was tall, with a bald head and crow's eyes; Sansa thought he blended in with all the other Northern lords, featureless and plain. The thick black cloak he wore added to his height, but he hunched like he was shy. 

"My lord,” she greeted. “Thank you for coming tonight. I hope you have enjoyed yourself?"

"I have, your grace," he said, with a voice higher than Glover’s. "I have come to discuss a potential proposition with you, if you would do me the honour?"

"Assuredly, my lord. I understand many of the most Northern bannermen are struggling with the transition to an independent kingdom. Forging a stronger relationship with them, as strong as my father had with the great houses of The North is my priority."

This was true. It worried her that some lords and smaller houses did not take well to her rule, when they would've happily followed Jon and Robb before her. 

He looked surprised, like he expected her to be a blubbering fool or a squealing child. "That is indeed the reason I came to speak with you."

"Very good. What is your proposal?"

He hesitated, but said, "I ask for your hand."

Sansa blinked. 

Theon, who'd been in his own head, turned to stare at the lord. Underneath the table, Sansa's hands on his started to burn.

"I see," she spoke slowly. “Would you elaborate?"

He nodded, not seeming to realise her discomfort, which means she was hiding it well.

"My wife died many moons past, your grace, but together we sired no children. Our house is sorely in need of heirs, and a strong supply of food, repairs, and attention. You see, we were raided by the white walkers on their path south. There is precious little men left to rebuild the house and no materials to do it."

"I understand, but forgive me, how does a marriage solve anything but potential heirs?"

"Well, I presume that if someone held in such high esteem as yourself, your grace, was associated with our name, it would bring much needed attention to us."

Her brow furrowed. "I would assist with your problems regardless of my marital status, my lord. I am the queen of these lands, I will do whatever I can to help you. There is no need to force attentions when I would give it freely, if only asked for, as you have."

"Of course, your grace." His voice got noticeably higher and she narrowed her eyes. 

"Are you alright, my lord?"

He took too long to answer. "Aye. I think I'll be going now, your gra—"

"Please wait," she told him sharply. "Which house did you say you were from, again?"

She knew very well he didn't. She waited.

"Tallhart."

Beside her, Theon cleared his throat. "There's n—"

Sansa quickly squeezed his hands, using slightly more pressure than the usual amount. Let me play the game. 

"Yes, I remember reading about you," she said, faking a smile. "Leobald, is it?"

The man visibly relaxed, letting out a breath. "Aye, your grace."

She didn’t have to look to know Theon bristled. Beneath hers, his hand started to worry the arm of his chair. Theon had been there, he knew as well as her that this man was lying.

"Lord Tallhart," she announced loudly, hoping to gain the hall's attention. “Perhaps you could explain to me how you came back to life after perishing to the Boltons when they took Winterfell?"

As she hoped, everyone paused in their feasting to stare at him. The man turned ghost white and began looking around, turning behind him, as if looking for an exit.

"My lord?" she continued. "Do you know the secret to immortality? Would you care to share it with us?” She folded her hands. Some of the feasters laughed, the low chuckles echoing around the hall. Theon lifted his hand from the arm of his chair to clutch the hilt of his sword, a little paranoid in her opinion, but she did not begrudge him his duty.

“F—Forgive me, I have lied to you,” the man implored, swallowing hard. 

“I should say so,” she replied cuttingly. “And why is that? Who are you, and why shouldn’t I have my sworn sword cut you down for lying to the crown?” 

“No!” he stormed, holding up a hand. “Please, I was — I was forced to come. I am from House Forrester truly. I was pressed into asking for your hand by my men, your grace.” 

“Any men in particular?” Theon interrogated, voice hard. 

The lord look startled, like he hadn’t noticed Theon was there. “Not especially, my lord.”

"Why do such a thing on behalf of your men?" she asked, puzzled. 

“They convinced me it would help repair the house, repair the castle and the town around it.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “That part wasn’t a tale? The white walkers destroyed Ironwrath?” 

“Aye, your grace. There really is little of it left.”

It made more sense than his previous story. There were many settlements further north that she had just begun to make stock of. It was possible one of them had slipped through her fingers. She did not entirely trust him, but on the off chance she was wrong, she would be sending one of her subjects home to starve. 

“Give me details on what exactly you and your land need, and I’ll have it done.”

 As was his duty now, Theon walked her to her chambers. The feast was over, the night casting an eerie cloud over Winterfell. They stopped at her door, halting and awkward, the first time either of them had done this. With Brienne, she was so stalwart to her southron values that she never stepped close, as a friend would, even though Sansa resolutely considered her one. Theon was unpracticed, stopping the same distance away as he normally would. Sansa found she did not mind.

“Send Lord Glover away,” he said suddenly.

Sansa blinked, but it was not at his words; it was the way Theon spoke up, airing his concerns, something he had not done without being asked to since she was a girl. “I’m sorry?”

“He was not pleased at the way you insisted he should’ve been loyal to Jon,” he explained, eyes beseeching her.

“Well, he should’ve,” she said with annoyance. 

“I know, but he doesn’t see it that way. Did you see the look in his eye? It was dislike, and as your guard, I can’t allow anyone who might betray The North into your inner circle.”

“That’s admirable, and fine strategy,” she allowed, trying to show him she appreciated his input. “But I’m not going to go around exiling or executing every lord that looks at me funny. I assure you, I will be keeping a studious eye on Lord Glover and his sons both.” 

One of them had been one of many heirs crowding at her skirts, smirking and fluttering their eyelashes as they presented their new queen with gifts.

Theon’s lips twisted but he stayed silent. With a bow, he began walking the hall, his own chambers only a few doors away. Her eyes followed him.

“Why did you ask Lord Forrester which men it was?” she blurted. Then winced, as he stopped in his tracks.

It was a fair question, but he had asked it oddly, his voice tinged with something other than cool interest. It almost sounded like — 

“If there’s a particular minor house looking for social mobility, I felt we should be aware of it,” he told her. 

Of course, silly Sansa. He only meant politics.

"You think it a trick?" she asked.

Theon then frowned, and walked back to her. He had a way of walking that made him seem perpetually in a hurry. His steps weren't long but they were rapid, like someone was constantly on his heels. 

He spoke low, aware just as she was that the walls had ears. "You're still key to The North, even more so now that it holds its own independence. Whoever married you would be a king. If any usurpers wanted the crown, you are an attractive target for gaining it.”

"But House Forrester has been loyal since the Northern houses begun."

"That may be, but who knows who might be hiding away in their ruined castle? What they've offered them in exchange for tricking you into marriage?" 

He stayed silent then, leaving the rest unsaid, eyes shifting away from her. She knew who he was thinking of, because she was thinking of the same cold-blue eyes. 

"So... the answer is to deny all proposals that come my way?" she asked, almost holding her breath, but she did not know why.

It was a common look for him, but the usual sadness on his face became more pronounced. "I didn't say that. If you truly wanted to be with one of them, you should do it. You deserve to be happy."

There was something he wasn't saying, she was sure of it, the way he kept her eye a little too long, the softness in it. You are not Cersei, Sansa. People may keep their secrets.

"Thank you,” she said instead. “I appreciate your advice. I… I should've realised how complicated being queen would be.” 

“You’re doing well.” He paused, debating his words, and a flash of light flickered in his eyes, an old light, one that had her pulse speeding up. “Robb reacted far worse.”

A wistful smile prodded at her lips. “Really?“

“He hated being king. All the complicated politics, manners, airs and alliances drove him mad. He often insisted to me that his one proficiency was swinging a sword to draw blood and nothing else. At the time... I just laughed and clinked tankards with him.”

Oh, did that sound like Robb. She gripped her doorknob, suddenly hit with a wave of longing for her eldest brother. “You believe him still?”

“No,” Theon was quick to reply. “Robb was too kind to truly enjoy killing. He was doing all of it to free his family.”

The wave increased tenfold, her mind suddenly drowning in wave after wave of grief. Robb smiling, laughing, twisting his sword this way and that. He was never as good as Jon, and she remembered many a brooding — almost as good as Jon in that, though — about it. He had even come to her one day while she was dutifully sewing. In his mind, she would join him in making fun of Jon. 

Surprisingly, she didn’t, perhaps the only time she passed up the opportunity to snub her then so-called half brother. He is a very talented swordsman, Robb. I don't think you have to be the best to be good. After all, there are so many knights. How can they all hope to be the greatest at once? Yet they’re still heroes worthy of their songs. Robb blinked. And when did you inherit such wisdom, little sister? 

She wished he could see her now. 

“Yes, that was Robb,” she said faintly. 

Theon did not reply, eyes blank with memories.

“After the battle with the dead, I meant to give you something,” she told him, shaking herself out of her sullen reverie. “But you recovered and I was still handling the aftermath, and then you left to help your sister…” She reached into her pocket, to the token she’d put there before the feast. “I kept it.”

His breath hitched, eyes glued to the pin she produced. She ran a gentle finger over the silver wolf sigil before handing it over. 

There was a long moment where neither of them spoke. He stared long and hard at the pin, a thousand emotions running across his face at once. It made Sansa’s head hurt, and she dreaded to think how overwhelming it felt for him. 

Then, like he’d been snapped out of a daydream, he was staring a hole into her instead. “Thank you. This means… more to me than you could imagine.”

She watched the way he swallowed and tucked it ever so gently into his shirt. 

“We both are adorned with wolves tonight,” she said, gesturing to her crown and then his pin. There was a power in that idea. 

“Yes,” he replied distantly, staring at the two wolves on her head for a long moment. “I should retire.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Theon.”

“Goodnight, your grace.”

“Sansa. When we are alone, you must call me Sansa.”

His lips twitched sadly. Had her brother said the same once?  

“As you wish. Then goodnight, Lady Sansa.”

The words sounded different in Theon’s voice compared to Joffrey’s. They did not sting. “Very amusing,” she played along.

He was still looking at her as before; he did not smile much, anymore. Something in her craved to reach out and touch him, the slack face or his sandy curls. Instead, she curled her fingers inward. 

“Til tomorrow,” she said, clearing her throat.

He bowed. Then, he reached his hand forward and grasped hers, the one that was holding the doorknob. He looked at her for a moment, like he was checking if he’d scared her, and bent forward to press a kiss on her knuckles, the soft skin above. Unbidden, a shiver of delight shook through her and she stepped forward to mask it. 

Ever the learned lady, she knew how long a hand kiss must be held for, but either Theon did not, ever the rambunctious boy, or he didn’t care; she watched, wide-eyed, as he closed his eyes against the gesture. A tenderness so deep ran through her, the feeling coming upon her suddenly and intensely, and she fought to not grab him back, anywhere and everywhere she could reach. She would pull him against her, breathe in the smell of saltwater, run a hand against his neck...

As quick as he’d grabbed her hand he let go of it, and she had to brace it against the door lest she sent herself careening sideways. 

With a final look he left, and she could not help but watch him go. Her hand tingled. 

It was impossible to imagine how she ever thought Joffrey could be that gentle. His fake niceties had charmed her, the expensive necklace and the glittering golden hair. What did she know of love, then? What did she know of true gentleness?

The chamber she slept in was not mother and father’s room, like Jon had gifted her, like the Lady of Winterfell should possess. 

It wasn’t that she hated the room itself, it was the horrors that had taken place within it. She could hardly bear the sight of the door; the wood she’d stared at for days, dreading and almost wanting Ramsay to enter, so he could end the horrible waiting . There was no telling what it would be like if she stepped inside. In that chamber, she’d been taken every way a woman could be, again and again until she might die from the agony. The bed alone would send her into catatonia. 

The room she stayed in was hers as a girl. Sansa called for a maid to help her remove the coronation dress, but once it was done she shooed her off with thanks.

She had a letter to write before sleep. 

King Brandon,

Sansa hesitated. The ink was still wet. If she wanted to, she could reach out and blur the words. They still did not feel right. 

Bran, her little brother, called by the same title as Aerys, Robert, Joffrey. She held him as a newborn babe. Kissed his chubby face, watched him run around — ever the climber, even if he could only crawl. 

When Rickon was born, he had sobbed into her chest. Momma won’t love me anymore, he cried. She’d brushed the wet hair stuck to his face behind his ears. That’s not true, Bran. Mother loves us all. You will have a little brother to play with, doesn’t that sound good? He sniffled, his blue eyes wide. Can he climb with me? 

Beside her, Robb had laughed. When he’s old enough, he will be following you around so often you’ll be begging to be rid of him. Bran frowned. No, I won’t. I’ll like him. 

Kings did not live long, in her experience. If Aerys, Robert, Joffrey and countless kings before them could be murdered, so could he. It would be as easy as smudging the words in front of her. Another Stark who went to the south and died. The very thought made her want to weep.  

Even though her brother was not really all her brother, anymore.

I hope this letter finds you well.

It felt wrong. To speak to her brother this way, politely, tentatively, as if he were an acquaintance. She sighed. 

I write to you not as a queen, but as your sister. As your powers suggest, you most likely already know this, but Theon suffered greatly at the hands of Ramsay. He struggles to eat, sleep, and ride. The latter is what I am writing to you about. When you fell from that tower, you were distraught because you believed you could never ride again. You told me one day, under the godswood, that Tyrion Lannister developed a modified saddle and gave the blueprints to you. I ask if you could send this diagram to me, so I might fashion one for Theon. I realise you may hate the very idea. After all, he hurt you far more than he did me. But I hope, with your gift of sight, you might see the benefits in it. If not, then I ask as your sister, who still cares greatly for the man who was raised beside us. He is one of our pack. 

With love

Sansa Stark

She stared at the words until the tears blurred them. 

 After her coronation, she had taken to sharing her morning food with Theon. She persuaded him to join her by telling him he might protect her better if they spent more time together.

Though she thought he might suspect the truth, which was that she was so startlingly lonely in Winterfell she was beginning to go mad. She does not know how Theon survived under Ramsay’s thumb for so long — the isolation itself would drive her to ruin within a few moons. Sansa had always thrived on human contact, even as a girl. 

It had been weeks since he agreed to eat with her, during which she began to crave the companionship he brought her. He did not speak at first, but through the weeks he had grown comfortable saying more. 

Today, she was going to ask him something that would be best done in private. 

She noticed the morning after her coronation that Theon wore the wolf pin she’d given him. When she’d first seen it, her stomach gave a flip. He’d pinned it to the left side of his chest. Over his heart. He wore it always now. 

They ate in peaceful silence for a while, before she put her spoon down. 

“I’d like to go on a trip,” she said bluntly. 

Theon looked up from his food, puzzled. “Why?”

 "I want to see how people really are, when their queen is not around."

Still, he was confused. “What good would that do?”

“Lord Forrester reminded me that there are so many things that still need fixing in The North. I’d like to see it, evaluate it myself. Then, when we come back to Winterfell, we’ll know exactly who needs what.” 

"But you don't have to go, your gr— Sansa,” he corrected, shifting a little. “Me and a few men could travel around, listen to rumors, talk in taverns—"

"No, I want to go myself." She did not add that she couldn't bear him leaving her side again. "I want to witness what ails my people."

Theon looked torn between wonder and annoyance, and pointed out, "You could get hurt."

"I could just as well be assassinated here in my chambers in Winterfell, Theon,” she said dismissively. 

Swallowing, he tried again. "You can't leave the castle so soon after your coronation."

“It’s been nearly three moons,” she argued. “I’ve spoken with the maester, and he’s perfectly capable and willing to look after Winterfell while we’re away.” 

Now he frowned. “It’s nothing you would want to see. Just miles and miles of snow and land.” 

She made an impatient sound. "I'm going. I want you to come with me." 

“That’s the voice you used on Robb and I,” he pointed out gently, “when we were teasing you and you ordered us to stop in your best southron queen voice.” He paused for a moment, and a flicker of a smile flashed across his face. “You’ve gotten significantly better at it.” 

“Don’t try to distract me from the point,” she told him, returning the smile a little. 

“I don’t like the idea.” He sighed. “But I’ll be damned to the drowned god if I leave you alone out there, as your sworn sword or as your friend. I’ll accompany you.” 

She patted his arm, a victorious smirk on her face. “Thank you.” It warmed her, suddenly, that he thought her a friend. They had never been close in their childhood; in fact, these weeks she has spent dining with him were the most she’s ever talked to him since she knew him.

He gave her a withering look and shoved bread in his mouth. 

"Where would you want to go first?” he asked her, food in his mouth, no thought to manners. Just as he had as a boy. For some strange reason, the movement of his mouth was hypnotic to her. 

“I didn’t have anywhere specific in mind,” she replied, watching him. She racks her brain. “Torrhen's Square. Father always liked it when he visited."

Theon froze. "He did."

"Forgive me," she said quickly.  "I had forgotten." 

Father had taken Theon with him on one of his visits, she faintly recalled. Torrhen’s Square was also one of the places the Ironborn attacked on their way to Winterfell. 

"It's alright,” he replies, giving her a glance to tell her it really was alright. After all, he could speak untruths as well as her now. “It was a nice place. Friendly."

She studied him for a moment. “Shall I think of somewhere else?”

“No,” he assured. “Torrhen’s Square is a perfect place to start. And then where?” 

 They were ready only a few days later. She’d told the maester they were checking on the bannermen, and this was the official answer to questions of her whereabouts. 

As he told her he would do, Theon knocked on her door when it was time.

“The cart is ready,” he said, when she swung it open. There was a little pause, and he just stared awkwardly.

“What? Is there something on my face?” She self-consciously felt her skin, ran a hand through her hair. It was long and loose, the first time it would be in public. Theon watched the movement. 

“Forgive me, no, I — do you have everything you need?”

 “Yes, but before we go, might we discuss our cover story?”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Right. I’d forgotten about that.” 

“I will be Alayne Stone,” she told him, already prepared. 

He nodded approvingly. “And I will be —“ he stopped. 

“Arthur,” she cut in, seeing the sudden distress on his face, “Snow.“

He nodded again, but it was a completely different gesture, hurried and manic. She watched as he recited the words in his head, not Reek, not Reek, not Reek. 

“Arthur is fine,” he struggled.

“Good,” she replied, relieved. She thought about asking if he was alright, but he would only wave her off. “There is… another part I wanted to add. Only because it might be necessary.”

“What is it?” he asked, picking up on her apprehension. 

She played with her hands. “Alayne and Arthur, I thought they might be... husband and wife.” Before he could reply, she rushed on. “It’s rather improper and unexplainable for a woman to be travelling with a man she’s not married to,” she reasoned. “And we do not look alike enough to be siblings.”

Briefly, she wondered why her mind skipped over the possibility of them being siblings anyway. It’s not like the people they met were likely to care. There was a difference, somehow, in how she saw him; Robb and Jon were brothers through blood, but Theon was not, though he still felt like family. 

He didn’t say anything at first, giving her a long, thoughtful look; but then his hand darted out to clutch at her door frame and she stepped forward, as if she were going to catch him. It was instinct, even though they would most likely tumble to the ground if she tried.

“Theon?” she asked, concerned.

“I’m alright,” he replied, giving a weak smile. “My knees hurt, that’s all. If you think it’s best, that's our story.”

But he averted his gaze, which meant it wasn’t just his knees, Sansa knew.

“If you’re not comfortable with it…” she began, giving him an imploring look.

“No, it’s not that,” he quickly assured. Before she could speak to ask him what it was, he gestured at her head. “Your hair—”

“No,” she stopped him. Instinctively, she put a protective hand on it. “I — I’d like to keep it.”

She had told him of the original black-haired Alayne, chained away in The Eyrie, a sitting duck for Littlefinger’s advances. She hoped he remembered. 

Eyes soft, he pressed his lips together. “Alright. We’ll find some kind of cover.”

Now she pointed at his chest. “The pin.” 

He still wore the wolf pin she gave him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulled it out of his shirt. “Come, your grace.”

He held his gloved hand out. If she didn’t know, she wouldn’t be able to tell he was missing a fourth finger. 

Beneath the gloves, she felt the warmth of his hand. “Sansa,” she corrected. 

A while later, they were both bundled onto a creaky wooden cart, led by two of the horses she’d gotten as a gift at her coronation. Without decorations, they looked like two regular mares.

Theon clapped the reigns, and they were off. As they descended into open sky, Sansa felt herself unwind, for the first time in what felt like a decade.

“We could go anywhere,” she breathed, “even Essos.”

She never had this kind of freedom, always shut away in one castle or another. The stars twinkled where she ogled them. 

Theon blew out a breath; it would’ve been a laugh, years ago. “I think the Northern lords would protest if they found out their queen would be disappearing for a few years.”

Her chest tightened. For a brief moment, she’d forgotten that the entire kingdom was dependent on her now, and that acute disappointment made her turn away from him, to look at the sky from the side.

“I would follow you there, Lady Sansa, if you wanted to go,” he spoke suddenly, like he sensed what she felt.

Staring at the clouds above, a warmth spread through her. At least she had Theon. “We better not,” she said lightly. “Then our cover really would be true, the kingdom would think we eloped.”

He did not reply, but she felt his eyes on the side of her face.

“What if I wanted to go west of Westeros?” she asked. To Arya.

There was a moment of silence. "She's happy, Sansa."

"I know,” she allowed, surprised yet again that he knew exactly what she was thinking. “That does not make it hurt any less."

“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed softly. “I’ve always wondered what's west. Perhaps she’ll come back and tell us.”

Sansa did not think so. Arya’s goodbye had felt final. At least, she did not intend to come back. That hurt all the more. 

“Essos, then,” she said, swallowing. “We shall sail east and forget everything.”

“As you wish,” he affirmed, and the seriousness in his voice sent her head spinning. His sister was here, his homes, everything he’d known. Yet he’d follow her across the narrow sea… for what? Because she wanted it?

Maybe , she thought, he wanted to get away. Everything he’d suffered had been here, too. 

They were both just dreaming, but it was nice to dream anyway.