Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were a great many things Sansa Stark had never told Theon Greyjoy, and the fact that she could not swim was one of them. So, here she was on a rickety dock that was far too crowded with her father's- no, her brother's (she had never quite adjusted to that switch) bannermen. She walked a step or two behind her new husband, who strode over the old dock with all the confidence of a man who had been born on the sea. But then, of course, he practically had been. Theon Greyjoy cut through the crowd amidst cheers from Karstarks and Umbers and Mormonts alike, with the same smirk he had worn since the day Robb took him under his wing as children.

The day Robb had sent Theon to his father, there had been no doubt that Theon and Robb's bond would bring him home victorious. The letter from Baelon Greyjoy announcing that his son Theon was once again under his banner had taken the lords by surprise, and outrage swept through the North. Sansa had once asked Robb whether he knew the betrayal was coming, but he had just smiled at her conspiratorially. She knew then that it had been no surprise to him when Theon's ships had turned on the rest of his father's fleet. Now Northern lords crowded and shoved just to pat him on the back. He was a real Stark now. They had always believed in him. Never doubted him.

The more the brown-nosing lords pushed, the closer Sansa got to the edge of the dock. She forced her breathing to slow, her chest heaving as she eyed the edge of the drop into dark water. She soon found herself toeing the edge of rotting planks, her teeth clenched, until an especially enthusiastic Mormont boy bumped into Theon, who in turn bumped into her. She feels her left foot slip out over open water, and she on instinct reaches out to steady herself, her heart pounding out of her chest. In the blur that is her fall, she feels her fingers wrap into fur. She barely lets out a squeak before an arm wraps around her waist, and she's jerked to the right and pulled against a body. As her vision clears and her heart slows, she looks up and sets it racing again. Theon smirks down at her, glancing between her face and her fingers wrapped into his fur lined cloak in an uncomfortably private way that would have made a younger Sansa blush. That Sansa had believed for most of her childhood that Theon had to have been the most handsome boy in Winterfell. His hair always windswept and dark, his nose charmingly crooked, and that smile. But this Sansa knew better. Too long in Kings Landing had taught her to see through men like him.

She ripped her hand from his cloak and ducked out of his arms, jaw clenched, charging forward to make her own path through the crowd of lords. Theon let her go, but the one glance she spared him confused her. He stood, watching her go, with an uncharacteristically soft expression on his face, his brows knit together and his head slightly tilted. She would have categorized it as concern, had she not known him better than that. She was his latest conquest, and she was sure that despite their new marriage, she wouldn't be his last.

He had made the same face the night before. He had practically glowed as they were carried off to their wedding bed, but the moment they were alone, his expression had changed to the one he wore now.
 
"Let's just get it over with, shall we?" She had sighed. If there was one valuable lesson she had learned in King's Landing, it was how to pretend you weren't about to cry. At the very least, Theon had seemed just as uncomfortable as she had been. It was over quickly, with minimal effort or enjoyment from either party. Well, she thought, feeling her cheeks starting to burn a bit, enjoyment might not have been precisely minimal. He does know what he's doing, she supposed.

Sansa sped to the end of the dock, where her family waited. Bran smiled at her sadly, while Rickon leaned against his brothers wheelchair, beaming at her from under his curly mop of hair. Both brothers would miss her, but each would envy her in their own ways. Next to them stood Arya, recently returned from Braavos, standing straight and tall, her eyes flickering between Sansa and Theon, her smirk as mysterious in meaning as it always had been. All in black beside them, Lord Commander Jon Snow. She wasn't well versed in the laws of the Nights Watch, but she had a feeling he had seriously abused his status to be here. And the last brother, draped in furs and his auburn curls adorned with a simple iron circlet, the King in the North, Robb Stark.

She said goodbye to her siblings one at a time, ruffling her little brothers' hair, planting kisses on heads, hugging her sister. When she came to Jon, he practically folded her into his arms, the warmth of his black cloak melting her against him.

“You were already so far from me." He muttered into her hair. She pressed herself further into him. They hadn't been close as children, but she had been up to the Wall many times since she came home, and she had wondered how she could possibly live without Jon again. He pulled away from her, holding her head in his hands.

"You're not going to make me say it, are you?" She half joked. He laughed his warm laugh.

"No, I know." He patted her cheek and stepped back, letting her move on to Robb.

She loved Robb, she always would. He was her oldest brother, and he was supposed to be her protector. But something had changed. He drew her close.

"I know this isn't what you wanted." He apologized softly. She swallowed hard.

“It's not about what I want." She muttered bitterly. He pulled away.

"What is it?" She hesitated, her eyes darting as she tried to decide whether she wanted to potentially start an argument before she left for an indefinite amount of time. He bent his head to meet her eyes "Sansa..."

"Was I part of the deal?" She burst. "Did he ask for me, or did you offer?"

"Which is worse?"

"I don't know yet." He sighed and looked up to the sky. It was a habit he had picked after their father's execution. Even when father was gone, Robb still looked to him for guidance. His gaze drifted back down to her, apologetic.

"He wanted to be a Stark."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I know." He sighed. Sansa nodded, clenching her jaw and swallowing her rising anger. She reached up to straighten his crown, not making eye contact.

"I hope it was worth it." She muttered. She turned on her heel to head toward the gangplank.

Her mother stood in front of the gangplank, arguing with who Sansa assumed was the captain or some other high ranking sailor on the ship. Her mother's auburn hair and blue eyes, the Tully coloring that had passed so perfectly to her eldest son and daughter, shone in the morning sun. Her eyebrow was arched in the way it did when she scolded her children. A smile flashed across Sansa's face for a moment. For all that had changed, she knew she could at least depend on Catelyn Stark's motherly instincts. Her mother glanced over, and broke off the argument as she saw Sansa moving toward her. She bunched up her skirts and ran towards her daughter, pulling her into her arms. Only then did Sansa begin to cry. Her mother stroked her hair, hushing her softly. When Sansa had cried herself out onto her mother's shoulder, Catelyn stepped back, gripping her daughter's shoulders.

"I didn't love your father when I married him." She tried to comfort.

"You didn't know father when you married him." Sansa countered. "I know Theon. He won't change. I don't think he can." Her mother shook her head with a wry smile.

"Going home with a good woman can do a man wonders." Catelyn counseled. Sansa conceded, though only because she refused to bicker with her mother before she left.

After all the goodbyes and 'I love you's were said, Catelyn wiped her eyes and headed towards her other children. Sansa took a few steps up the gangplank, then turned and waited for Theon. They could at least try to appear happily married in public, she supposed. Theon was talking to Robb, both boys as gentle as she'd ever seen them. They talked quietly, before Robb took Theon's head in his hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. They had never been separated for as long as they were about to be. Her husband nodded at his old friend solemnly and started for the ship before Robb grabbed his arm. The talking to was quiet, but stern. Whatever Robb asked, Sansa could see that he didn't expect Theon to give so agreeable an answer, and so readily. She watched these boys as Robb pulled Theon into a hug. Brothers to each other, and brothers to her. Maybe her and Theon could get along. For Robb's sake, at least.

With a bow to Robb, then a bow to Catelyn, Theon finally headed up the gangplank with his usual swagger, the quiet softness of his moment with Robb gone. He smirked at her again and offered his hand. She looked at the hand, then up at him, and with a lifted eyebrow headed up to the deck of the ship on her own. She wasn't going to let him win that easily.

Chapter Text

Sansa woke the next day from the best sleep she'd had in weeks. It seemed that despite her aversion to water, the motion of the boat had rocked her right to sleep. She shifted to prop herself up on her elbows, yawning. She glanced over at Theon next to her to see only his back. The early morning sun streamed in from a porthole, rosy light falling across his bare shoulders and shining off his hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow. An angel in sleep. She could love him, she thought, if he slept through their entire marriage.

She pulled herself out of bed, and threw on her simplest dress. A light lilac wraparound she could dress herself in in a moment. With one more yawn, she padded barefoot into the hall outside her cabin and towards the deck.

Sailing agreed with her, even if swimming did not. She liked the rock of the boat and the smell of the ocean air, the flapping of sails and the lazy chatter of sailors early in the morning. She smiled at a few sailors she had met before they had set off as she made her way to the railing. She didn't think she'd ever get used to being called "Lady Greyjoy." She was a Stark. Always would be. She leaned against the railing, unsure if she was closer to home or to the place she was being exiled to. The sky was still painted with the pinks and yellows of dawn, though the blues of midday had begun to creep in. The wind blew her hair back behind her, reflecting the morning.

She turned to ask a sailor which way was home, but instead found Theon leaning, arms crossed, against the frame of the doorway to the lower decks. He was smirking, like he always was, dressed in a deep sea blue and the fur cloak Robb gave him as a wedding gift. She huffed and rolled her eyes, trying to smooth her hair down as he sauntered over to stand beside her.

"You know, I thought spending as much time in King's Landing as you did, you'd have learned a bit of subtlety." He teased. He looked natural out here. Like salt water and sea air flowed trough his veins instead of blood, giving him the perpetually disheveled, windswept look that had existed even in the years he spent in Winterfell.

"Why would I make such an effort just to waste it on a man from the North?" She snarked.

"I'm not from the North." He replied, his demeanor shifting into something far more bitter as he leaned his forearms on the railing, faking nonchalance. An answer he had been giving since he could talk.

"Yes you are." She scolded, exasperated. He'd been spouting the same nonsense ever since she'd known him. He's not from the North. He's not a Stark. As if where he was born was more defining than the place he was raised.

"You would have been a Stark whether you married me or not." She reminded him, a little softer. Regardless of her disgust for him, she felt sorry for him on this one account. No one deserves to be torn into two people their whole life.

She wanted to ask the question. Whether he asked for her or if Robb gave her away; but the possibility, the probability, that her brother gave her away to a man like Theon, or a man like Theon asking for her, purposefully ripping her from her family. She still couldn't decide which option hurt more.

"Which way is Winterfell?" She asked instead.

"That way." He answered in a dull tone, jabbing a thumb to point behind him.

"How can you tell?"

"Because we would have had to wade through that-" he pointed ahead of them, to a bank of dark clouds she hadn't noticed before, "on our way out of the North." Her hands fidgeted as he spoke, twisting around each other with nerves. Her first full day out at sea, and she would have to weather a storm.

"It won't hit till tomorrow. Stop your fussing." He scolded gently. He reached out without looking at her, resting a hand on hers to still them. She pulled her hands away quickly. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably as she crossed her arms and leaned against the railing again.

Her gaze swept between the bow and the quickly approaching cloud bank. Somewhere between those points, sat a string of islands where her brother had sentenced her to spend the rest of her life with a man she could never love.

"You've never been to Pyke, have you?" He asked, the bitterness seeming to drop from his voice a bit as he interrupted her thoughts. She shook her head, and he considered her for a moment. "You'll do fine." He decided, gentler than she'd ever heard him when he wasn't talking to Robb. "You belong here on the water. I can tell."
She glanced over at him, searching his face for mockery, but she couldn't find any. He was looking out ahead of them towards Pyke with a peculiar expression. She was starting to suspect he wasn't quite as excited about going home as he pretended to be. Regardless, he was the one out of the two of them that belonged out here. The sun shone off the ocean, then back up, casting lines of light over a more weathered face than the one she had known in her youth, and for a moment Sansa thought that this might be a different man than the boy she knew.

He glanced back at her, and she quickly turned her gaze forward to pretend she hadn't been staring. She watched the oncoming storm creep closer.

"You should get inside soon." He suggested quietly, resting his hand lightly on her arm before quickly bringing it back just outside her field of vision. "I know how you hate the cold." She shivered, and pretended it was because of the wind. A warm weight suddenly settled on her shoulders, she stiffened and looked back to see Theon strolling away, hands in pockets and head drooping slightly, and realized that his now missing cloak is what sat on her shoulders. She felt her cheeks turn crimson as she hesitantly drew the cloak tighter around her.

She watched him go, her heart changing for a moment, until a particularly pretty maid appeared from below decks. Theon, who had been on his way below, slowly turned to follow the maid, eyes fixed much lower than they should be. In a flash, Sansa was reminded of who he was, why they were here, and where they were going. She very unceremoniously dropped the cloak to the deck with a curl of her lip and began to walk towards the lower decks, shoulders held high, ashamed that she would let her guard down, that she would let him break through like that.

She managed to make it a few steps before something got the better of her, and she turned, swept the cloak into her arms, and sped up her pace. If today had proved anything, it was that under the girl of stone Cersei had made her, was the girl of snow she had been before. And somehow, Theon was the only person who could find her. She hated him even more for it.

Chapter Text

The next morning Sansa woke up alone. The light was harsh and blue in contrast to the soft rose of yesterday. The boat rocked nervously beneath her. The slapping of waves against the sides of the boat had woken her. The storm. It must have just begun. She tentatively pressed her toes against the cold floorboards, waiting for the rocking to subside. The comforting lilt of the boat in the days before had quickly turned on her. She pushed herself to her feet, stumbling forward into the wall as the boat tossed. She waited there for a moment, hands trembling, flat against the wall.

She pushed herself off again as the rocking eased for long enough for her to wrap herself in a heavy deep green dress. Her hands shook the whole time. She gripped the side of the wardrobe as the boat began to toss again. As it rocked back the other way, she was thrown to the ground and into a soft pile of fabric. The smell of sea water and fresh snow that was so uniquely Theon enveloped her, and for a moment her hands steadied. The cloak from Robb that her husband had loaned her. Her fingers wrapped into the soft fur lining as she tugged it around her shoulders.

She crawled to the door, unwilling to stand, but driven by a morbid curiosity to see the storm in person. Besides, she'd rather brave the thunder than the ominous creaking and unsettling darkness of the lower decks. She continued to crawl down the hall until she reached the stairs that lead to the deck. She gnashed her teeth as she looked up at the door. Her shoulder is slammed into the wall as the boat rocks her once again. She yelped, but reached for the bannister to hoist herself up. She took a shuddering breath as she got back on her feet. She would not be beaten by the sea. She was expected to rule the Iron Islands, to mother Ironborn heirs. No matter how she felt about the arrangement, she needed to be salt and steel. A low growl escaped her as she held herself steady as the boat bucked again.

With quick, decisive steps, she made it to the top of the stairs. She braced herself in the doorway for a particularly violent throw. She almost headed back down to her room to hide when she heard a sailor call Theon's name on the other side of the door, panicked. She took a final deep breath before she burst out into the cold.

The rain beat against Sansa as she scanned the deck for Theon, pulling the cloak tighter to try to shield her. She spotted a throng of sailers grabbing at something over the edge. Theon. She rushed to them, and found Theon dangling above the trashing sea, pulling himself up by the sailors. She shoved through, more frantic than she expected to be, and reached over the edge to grab him by the collar with both hands.

"San-?" He began as she and the sailors gave one final tug, and he's back on the deck stumbling forward, with Sansa's hands on his chest to steady him as she moved backward. His hands grip her hips, seeking stability, and making her thank the gods old and new that the darkness hid the deep red that painted her cheeks.

"Steady, steady," she muttered as he finally found his footing.

"What are you doing out here? It's dangerous." He scolded.

"What kind of wife of the lord of the Iron Islands would I be if I was scared by a storm?" She said with a hint of a smirk.

The boat pitched violently. She didn't realize how close they had stumbled to the other edge of the boat. The last time she had almost fell into the ocean, it had been fast enough to be a blur, and Theon had just as quickly scooped her into his arms, a warm contrast to the cold she had expected.

This time was different. There was no almost, there was no rescue, and it was so, so, slow. She saw Theon reach for her as she tumbled over the edge, falling backwards into a blue abyss.

There were a great many things Sansa Stark had never told Theon Greyjoy, and the fact that she couldn't swim was one of them.

She had fallen through ice into frozen lakes back home before, but this was nothing like that. This was cold that pierced her bones and stopped her lungs. She could feel a layer of frost creep over her heart. She screamed on instinct as the waves tore at her hair, her clothes, her air, losing her last tie to a world above the water. It seemed like the cold would never end. Like there was nothing before or after the water. Just falling. Just drowning. She prayed to the drowned god for the first time.

Save me.

From nowhere, strong arms wrapped around her middle, pulling her up as she started to fade from consciousness.

She sputtered and gulped air as her head broke the surface. She gripped blindly to the clothes of the body that rescued her as salt water stung her eyes. When her vision cleared, she was looking at her husband. He was shivering, hair plastered to his face, but his eyes were determined. He was a strong swimmer, even when he had to give up the use of one arm to hold her close. He cut through the waves, dragging her to the rungs attached to the side of the boat. As soon as he had a grip, he hoisted her up to the waiting hands of the sailors. They dragged her back onto the deck, and she pressed herself onto the wooden planks, clinging to stability. She wriggled around to see Theon behind her, coughing and heaving salt water onto the deck. He looked up to meet her eyes. She had never seen him make eyes like that at her. Had they always been so blue? They were pale, deep as the sea on a clear summers day. His whole being was a metaphor for the sea it seemed. Both infatuating and dangerous and beautiful. He held her gaze as she drifted into unconsciousness, bringing only the blue of his eyes with her.