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After years of moving around in a war camp, one would think Theon more adept at packing his things than he was. It was one thing to throw clothing and everything else into a few trunks, travel a few hours, and pitch into the same tent for months. It was another entirely to pack for King’s Landing.
He had to travel light— only what he could fit on a horse— and hated to crush his nicer velvets within a riding pack, but it was King’s Landing. He couldn’t short-stock if he wanted to make any sort of presence before the royal court.
‘But I don’t want to. Gods, I don’t!’
Grey Wind watched him from his spot at the fireplace, eyes sad as if he knew Theon was going somewhere he could not follow. He hated to do it— hated leaving the wolf alone after losing Robb’s companionship— but knew King’s Landing was no place for a direwolf. Sansa’s wolf Lady was proof of Cersei’s thoughts on the matter, at the very least.
‘I leave a Starkless wolf for a wolfless Stark…’
Theon sighed and dropped the two doublets he was choosing between onto the table before him.
“Our hero looks uncertain.” A voice reached Theon from the doorway behind him— young and feminine, laced with the exhaustion of the remaining Starks and what Northmen they still ruled.
“Some hero I’ll be,” he snorted, casting a quick look over his shoulder at Arya Stark’s cross-armed stance in his doorway. “Simpering at the Lannisters’ feet for some one-in-a-thousand chance to steal away their crown hostage.”
“Well, with such dour conviction, I don’t expect you to make it through the Trident!” Arya scoffed, her eyes glinting with something that was not humor but neither malice. When Theon had found her— clinging to her little sword and flanked by a limping Grey Wind a week north of The Twins— the girl had been smothered with dirt and bruises. Her hair was still a shorn-up travesty, but the injuries of the road had by now faded away. All that remained was the hard edge to her voice and the gloom that seemed forever welled up behind her eyes.
“They say Starks don’t come back from King’s Landing,” Theon muttered as he picked up the doublets again, sighed, and folded both into his pack.
“I did,” she replied simply. “And so will Sansa, with your help. Two Kings in the North have declared it, and one princess is asking you very nicely to try.”
Theon sighed louder. “I know that, Princess, but… Gods, who knows what they’ve been telling her? For all we know, she’ll hate us and just tell Cersei Lannister to execute me for simply showing my face!”
Gray Wind whined from his spot at the fireplace.
Arya hummed. “I didn’t say it would be easy, Theon— just that you’re the best man for the task.”
“The only man, you mean,” he grumbled. It was either him or a Northern bannerman, after all, and as trepid as Theon was, he knew that Cersei Lannister would sooner heft herself over a spearhead than let a true Northman loose in her court.
Arya hummed, “If so, then you had better succeed.” Theon grimaced, doubting himself even as he silently swore to try with his life.
Theon smelled King’s Landing days before the spires of the Red Keep first speared the horizon. The further south he traveled, the air grew warm and salty— a pleasant cousin to the air he had grown up with on Pyke. However, the stench of life carried its way towards him on even the pleasantest breezes. A man in the small traveling party Theon rode with— a merchant— warned him that the city was unbelievably worse.
Theon had traveled with his little group as far north as Harrenhall, where he joined an ever-growing throng of people trudging south to King’s Landing for the wedding of the boy-king Joffrey. He had not told any of them who he was, and though he got curious looks at his clothes, nobody asked— just gave him a few extra watches each night with pointed looks at his weapons as they settled into their bedrolls.
It was well enough, for they barely spared him a glace when they reached the city and he peeled away as unassumingly as he could while staring in utter bewilderment at the size of the place and the utter amount of castle there was looming up and ahead in the Red Keep. Suddenly, he realized how feeble a boast it was to have claimed Winterfell as the largest castle he knew— for all its comforts, it seemed a peasant’s barn compared to the mountain of turrets, walls, and towers that awaited Theon at the end of the road.
The merchant spoke true— the stench of King’s Landing was nearly enough to do Theon in at the gates. He steeled himself, however, glued his eyes to the Red Keep so far ahead of him, and set off. He wove between carts and peasants, tripped over swarms of cats and escaped chickens, and dodged the knives of at least two pickpocket children as he kept to the largest road, trusting his instincts to lead him to the Keep when the houses and shops grew too tall and dense for him to see above.
Before he knew it, Theon found himself before a pair of armed guards at the gates to the Keep, presenting himself as the son of Balon Greyjoy with demands to speak with the King. The guards nodded, deeming the quality of his attire and the signet he procured suitable confirmation as one stepped out to lead Theon to the throne room.
The place was high-vaulted and swarming with courtiers, all watching as Theon was announced to a sharp old man sitting on the throne whom Theon assumed must be the Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister.
‘Robb would have met with an enemy visitor directly,’ Theon thought as he wondered where the boy-king was. His stomach lurched when a flash of red caught his eye, and he saw Sansa staring at him near the base of the dais that led to the Iron Throne. He tried his best to shoot her a disarming look without telling on himself immediately, but his attention was drawn away by a cough from the Hand.
“Theon Greyjoy,” he stated, more than greeted. “Tell me, has Bran Stark sent you here to deliver news of his surrender, or do you intend to be made a prisoner of my grandson's army?”
“N-neither, Lord Hand,” Theon replied, taking a deep breath and dropping to his knee before the throne. “I come to turn cloak, as it were. I would beg mercy to be in service to the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms once more.”
The court exploded with voices, and Tywin’s steely eyes did not leave him for a moment.
"You were close with the Young Wolf, I recall. Now you wish to turn cloak on those of his family that remain?" Tywin asked, tone wrought with disbelief.
“Robb Stark was my friend,” he admitted. “and that is why I stayed with him. But he was not ready for the burden of a crown, and as you must be aware, could not wrest the lovestruck boy he was for the steadfast king he had to become.”
Lie lie lie lie lie lie……
“And Bran Stark is but a boy of eight!” he added, meeting Tywin Lannister’s eyes and hoping he sounded sincere. “Their rule cannot last. While my fondness for the Stark children leads me to hope that they see sense and bow once more to the rightful king, I will not delude myself. Rather, I would ally myself with the family who can keep a steady hand on their realms and might best see this war through to victory.”
“And why not return to the Iron Islands now?” Tywin shot back, unimpressed.
“I will repeat my desire to come out of this war alive,” Theon replied, truthfully for once. “My lord father made it clear he thought me an unfit heir, and I doubt my sister and uncle will end their feuding upon my return.”
The King’s Hand hummed from his throne. “One would say you act with little honor, to abandon your family’s seat and your sworn lords so easily.”
“And I would say that thinking with tact and for the rightful rulers is more right than blind faith, if that is what you call honor, My Lord,” Theon replied, the words familiar thrifts of old thoughts— doubts he had battled before leaving Pike for the final time and returning to Robb’s side, short as that time had been. He chanced a look to the side and found himself pinned by Sansa’s stormy gaze. He tried not to grimace and hoped she would understand what he was doing. A Sansa convinced that he had betrayed her family would be a Sansa even more difficult to rescue.
Tywin regarded him considerately, eyes boring into him as if to dig up the truth squirming beneath the surface. Whatever showed on Theon’s face must have been a good enough trick, for The Hand just nodded and quirked an eyebrow. "And what, Theon Greyjoy, would you do to prove your newfound fealty to King Joffrey?”
Theon balked, stumbling over his breath as he looked around for something to say. What could he do? Make an oath, when in coming south he was in Tywin’s eyes an oathbreaker? No, it had to be something more concrete than that. But what?
His eyes found Sansa in the crowd again, watching him with a terrible mix of horror, confusion, and suspicion as he floundered before the King’s Hand. His eyes darted the other way, and he saw nothing but silk and brocade as the sea of courtiers swelled around him.
He looked ahead, recognizing the golden hair and careful glare of Cersei Lannister from King Robert’s visit to Winterfell. She stood just askance of the throne, flanked by both brothers though none of them looked like they wanted to be there whatsoever.
Tywin Lannister still glowered down at him, and Theon choked in a breath and shouted out the very first, entirely regrettable, idea he had: "I would ask the marriage hand of your noble daughter, My Lord, to prove my allegiance to your house and cause."
The blood left Theon’s face and he only just resisted hitting himself as the words left his mouth. The throne room was silent, courtiers staring between Theon and the Hand, dumbfounded.
Cersei scoffed beside her father, and Lord Tyrion looked absolutely delighted at her side. Theon feared for a moment that he was about to be executed for his words, but the indignation of his daughter seemed argument enough for Lord Tywin.
He smiled down at Theon- something entirely unpleasant to receive- and spoke over the Queen Mother's defiant shriek.
"Very well."
The first time Theon was truly alone with Sansa was nearly two weeks into his stay in King’s Landing, and on his own wedding night at that. Theon had slipped out of his new wife’s chambers, both still firmly clothed and uncomfortable, claiming the privy. Cersei just hummed from behind her teetering-full goblet.
The hall outside of Cersei’s chambers was cooler than within, though Theon suspected it was just the distance between them that allowed him to breathe more normally. It was dark, the courtiers and servants likely still crammed into the feast hall, celebrating the tense sitting he was just previously engaged in.
Then passed the privy entirely and snuck out of the royal solarium, seeking nothing but to get lost in the castle until he somehow wound up out of King’s Landing. As his luck would have it, that did not happen— instead, he just managed to find himself in a maze of pale-stone hallways and open, breezy windows.
And cats. King’s Landing was rife with cats, the Red Keep no less infested than the rest of the city. They mewed and yowled in the dark between torches, prancing out in front of him and skittering away whenever he got too close.
Theon spotted a gray one ambling down the hall some strides ahead, and as if of their own accord, his feet carried him carefully after it. It was a perceptive little beast— Theon had not made three strides before its ear flicked, and it scampered away impossibly fast.
He sighed, left alone in the hall once again. But then, there was a low mewl just to his left, and he turned to find another cat watching him lazily beneath a sconce. It stretched its orange legs out before it and dipped around a corner, to a new corridor. Theon followed it, letting the cats guide his previously aimless wandering. Anything not to return to Cersei’s terse silence all too soon.
He was lucky not to run into anyone in the halls— Theon was sure he would seem a drunken fool, weaving aimlessly after cats on his own wedding night. He paused, losing his current cat when he remembered that it was, in fact, his wedding night. Cersei must know he was not in the privy by now.
‘How long has it been?’ he wondered before a flash of fur beneath a nearby torch caught his eye, and he took the distraction to wind down a staircase and into a far wider corridor several floors below. If Cersei needed him, she would find him, he was sure. Until then, he did not mind making himself scarce.
Eventually, a mangy orange thing missing an ear hissed at him, warning his tromping feet away as it pranced ahead and leaped through an archway. Eyes glued on its waving tail, Theon turned to follow it and came face-to-back with a shrieking Sansa Stark.
The cat startled at the girl’s shout and leaped into the dark, and Theon stuttered a string of apologies, tripping over Sansa’s slippers as she stumbled forward from the unexpected impact.
Theon caught himself on the wall and straightened back up, opening his mouth to say something, but finding his words caught in his throat as his eyes met Sansa’s. She stared back at him, equally lost for words as her eyes swam with unspoken thoughts.
She still wore the silken gown he had spotted her in at the feast hours before—expensive-looking and lavender, but utterly too plain for the girl it adorned. Her fingers fiddled timidly with the hem of her sleeve, and Theon wanted so badly to talk to her— to reveal to her his intentions at the court and whisk her away to her siblings as soon as possible. But he could not get the words out, something about the anxious thrum of tension shared in their gazes stilling his tongue.
“Lord Theon,” Sansa mumbled eventually, eyes darting away from him and breaking the shocked spell that held them.
“Sansa!” he stuttered out, “I— forgive me. I did not see you in the dark.”
She just nodded, not looking up as she attempted to move around him.
“Where do you wander?” Theon asked, stepping in front of her despite the frustrated noise she made at him in return. It was the first time he had talked to her since arriving, and he found himself desperate not to lose the chance.
“The Godswood,” she muttered, her eyes meeting his briefly before darting away again. “I pray to my father’s gods every night, traitor as he was. Please, let me through.”
“Sansa,” he muttered, leaning in close to her and whispering, “Listen to me. I came here from Winterf-”
Sansa shucked in a sharp breath and jerked away from him. She shook her head, warning and fear both clear in her eyes. Theon closed his mouth with a snap.
“It grows late, and I would not waste time on the walk to the woods,” she all but snapped. “Let me pass.”
Theon nodded and stepped aside. “I could walk you—"
“I would not distract you from your lady wife, my lord,” Sansa interrupted, glancing about as she took another step back. “A less courteous mind would wonder why you were away from her now.”
“I—” Theon paused, failing to find an excuse that didn’t sound like an escape.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sansa said, pulling her cloak further about herself before striding past him. Theon stood in the hall and watched her retreat, no longer distracted by the yowling cats around him.
When Sansa was long fled from his sight, Theon sighed and turned back the way he had come, resolving to visit the Godswood on a more opportune night. When he returned to Cersei’s chambers, he found her gone as well, and he drank the last of her wine in private celebration.
Unexpectedly, Brienne of Tarth proved herself Theon’s secret key to success.
He saw Sansa almost daily— both being married to Lannisters, it was hard to avoid. However, Cersei seemed to hate her brother just as much as she hated living with Theon, and so their interactions were terse, whenever they were. The Queen Mother would not tolerate Theon to seek out their company. Sansa, too, seemed to cow to Cersei and steered far from the court and all who inhabited it as often as she could.
Try as he might to find Sansa in the privacy of the Godswood, Cersei proved just angry enough in her new marriage to sully that plan, too. She would not let Theon leave at night to, as she said, ‘wander to Littlefinger’s whores like the rest of them.’ If she had to suffer, then so did Theon, it seemed.
So, he would lay on the far edge of his side of the bed and wonder how long it would be to be able to speak with Sansa in any sort of privacy.
By day, he saw Sansa most frequently ambling around the halls of the Keep, keeping out of the throne room but within the watchful eyes of the dozens of spies the King’s counselors kept. It was during one of these ventures, nearly a month into his stay, that Theon caught Sansa, both skirting the edge of the castle gardens with a crowd of other courtiers seeking reprieve from the boy-king and his throne of swords.
Sansa stood over a thatch of flowers that stretched as tall as her knee— white-petaled, with little crowns of yellow trumpeting from its center like a cluster of tiny queens. When Theon approached, he saw one caught between Sansa’s fingers, rolling the stem back and forth and making the bud at the end flare out wide.
“Are those daffodils? They’re pretty,” he said lamely. Sansa graced his words with a little flick of her eyes and a sad hum.
“Their other name is Jonquil,” she murmured, bringing the picked flower in her hand up close to her face. “They don’t grow well in The North— Mother said it doesn’t get warm enough there.”
“Is there a Florian flower nearby?” Theon asked, trying to make jest but only putting a deeper gloom over the girl beside him.
“I don’t think there are any Florians,” she sighed. “Not here, especially.”
Theon frowned, hating to see the girl he had known to be so hopeful now utterly bereft of it. “Winterfell has glass gardens, remember,” he said. “I think a Jonquil could just as easily flourish in Winterfell as in a garden in the Crownlands.”
“It is a nice thought,” she replied, granting him the smallest of smiles before it disappeared and the laughter of a nearby courtier shook her out of whatever pensiveness had previously spelled her.
“I must go,” she muttered. “Lord Tyrion must wonder where I am.”
He didn’t. Theon knew she kept to herself more often than not, but he let her turn from him with a little nod and stride away, the daffodil still spinning between her fingers.
‘I am no gardener,’ Theon thought, sighing and turning the other way. ‘And this garden is thick with thorns.’
Back in the throne room, Theon found his lady wife still standing by the throne, speaking to her wretched king-son, though Joffrey seemed intent on ignoring her as he heard the complaints of his kingdom. There was a long line of those attending him, and none of them looked horribly pleased to await their turn. Around the room were even more clusters of courtiers, flocking in swathes of colored silk and lace as they laughed and gossiped between each other before the bored eyes of the crown.
The glaring exception Theon noticed leaned against a column some yards away: Brienne of Tarth. A strange woman who kept to armor as a baby keeps to its mother’s arms, Brienne seemed a courtier more by obligation than true conviction. He remembered as much from her time with Lady Catelyn, as well. In the short time he had been at Riverrun with her, she had kept close to her Lady or her solitude, never quite meshing with the Northmen and Riverlanders sworn to Robb.
The lady-knight similarly slunk around the outskirts of Joffrey’s court, not quite welcome for her past allegiances with Renly, but unable to be ousted as a guest of the Kingslayer. Theon often found himself in similar straights, lingering as far as possible from the commotion but close enough that he would not around suspicion.
Cersei hated her for her friendship with Jaime, which was undeniably a plus in Theon’s books.
Just as he noticed her, Theon’s feet led him toward the woman of Tarth. He tried to ignore the venomous looks of his wife, knowing he could claim boredom and she would just glower at him in response. Brienne had sworn an oath to Lady Catelyn, after all. If she was as solemn and honor-abiding as the courtly mutters claimed, then maybe— maybe— he would at last find a way to free Sansa from the court.
“Lady Brienne,” he greeted when he approached her, finding the woman looking around distractedly, thumbing the golden pommel of the sword at her hip. She startled at his words and took a moment to respond.
“Lord Theon,” she said. “I don’t believe we have spoken this far south of the Trident.”
“No, we haven’t,” he agreed, dropping his voice while trying to keep his casual posture. “I would speak to you of a Northern matter, concerning your oath to Lady Catelyn. Outside, perhaps?”
Brienne shot him a suspicious look but nodded. “Let us walk.”
They walked silently for what felt like ages, winding out of the castle and ambling near the edge of the Godswood before Theon spoke in a low voice, "If my memory does not fail me, you had sworn Lady Stark to protect her daughters. Is that why you are in King's Landing now, an honored guest of the Kingslayer?"
She bristled at the implication, her brow furrowing, "I know not why the husband of the Queen Mother should take interest in old oaths. I would see Lady Sansa unharmed, it is true, but I will say no more to a Lannister and turncloak, besides."
Theon hummed, ignoring the flash of irritation to be called a turncloak. That was his guise here, after all, as much as it stung. "I am no Lannister, and I share your wishes. I would see Sansa restored to her brothers and sister in Winterfell."
Brienne paused, and Theon stopped in his tracks as well. The look she gave him was undeniably suspicious, but there was a tinge of hope there as well that he was glad to see.
"She will not speak to me, for fear of my lady wife's wrath,” Theon explained. “The marriage has kept me at court, but I fear nothing good will come of it as Joffrey's wedding to Lady Margaery draws near."
“I can talk to her,” Brienne said. "Lord Tyrion has no ill will towards me, and if I tell Lady Sansa of my vow to her mother, I am sure she will listen. But how would you escape?"
"Boat," he explained. “The road is too dangerous, but a small fishing vessel leaving the docks would not raise suspicion until we were long gone.”
Brienne nodded, “I will trust your judgment, and you can trust me to make sure Sansa is with us when the boat departs."
Theon nodded back, relieved to see in the woman an ally, at last. “With the time that we have, it seems the best plan.”
“It will be done,” Brienne said, and they shared a brief look before finishing their walk in silence.
Some courtiers shot him suspicious looks when he returned, once again, to the throne room, but Theon just smiled innocently at them and leaned against a column. He was wed to the Queen Mother, and no courtier would say anything without risking Lord Tywin’s ire.
In his first month in King’s Landing, Theon had realized just how desperate the Hand was to see his daughter remarried, and with that, he learned how privileged— and protected— of a position he held for arriving just when he did.
If only any of them were bearable, and he wasn’t dead set on leaving with Sansa at the soonest possible convenience, he would try to enjoy it.
They left on the eve of Joffrey’s wedding.
They rowed as silently as they could on the little boat Theon had secured, pulling carefully to the fisherman who awaited them further from the shore.
Even in the dead black of night, the city rumbled with noise as smallfolk feasted and shouted in merriment and servants toiled to prepare the Red Keep for their king’s wedding. In all the confusion, Theon wondered how long it would take Cersei to realize they were gone— and how long it would take her to realize she couldn’t scour the castle for them while it was crawling to the brim with wedding guests.
Sansa shivered slightly and yawned, half-slumped over Theon as Brienne pulled the oars with startling strength. They kept their hoods up, as even yet ships slunk towards the docks with people and goods prepared to flock into the city with the rising of the day.
They reached White Harbor after a tense week on the little fishing boat, huddled together below decks as the sea tossed them about like leaves in the wind.
Brienne of Tarth looked entirely uncomfortable the whole time, squeezed between Sansa and the wall in her armor, and Theon felt remarkably bad for Sansa, who was sick nearly the whole way there. He realized it may well have been her first time in a boat.
Theon all but cried with relief when the boat hit the wood of a dock, and the old fisherman ferrying them threw open the hatch with ‘White Harbor’ falling like a blessing from his lips.
Sansa fell to the ground as soon as they were off the docks, surrounded by a posse of worried Manderly guards who she waved away with pleas to stay there until the world stopped moving. Theon convinced her up with promises of a better floor to lie on than the dockyard, and she clung to him and Brienne for balance as they followed their retinue to the castle at White Harbor.
Rather than a floor, however, they were led to a long bench in Lord Wyman Manderly’s feast hall, the old man himself greeting them with well-wishes and enough genuflections at Sansa as she hunched over her arms at the table.
They were served hot bowls of stew, and Theon had cleared two of them by the time Sansa pushed herself up and began to gingerly sip at her own.
“Did you kill him, then?” Lord Manderly asked after a lapse of contented silence, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. Theon blinked, and Sansa hummed confusedly beside him.
“Did we kill who?” he asked.
The lord’s eyes widened, “Have you not- well, you’ve been on that boat, haven’t you? The boy-king, Joffrey, was poisoned at his own wedding! Not a week’s passed, and yet we’re felling ravens accusing Your Highness of the deed and demanding your head be shipped back south immediately.”
“Joffrey is dead?” Sansa gasped, never so hopeful a sound passing her lips. She dropped her spoon, hand coming around to squeeze Theon’s arm. Across the table, Brienne stared, alarmed, into her stew, and Theon felt much the same.
“Glad we left when we did, then,” he laughed, unable to think of anything better to say.
Sansa laughed back, the sound half-cracked and burgeoning on a sob of relief.
“Would that you had been sooner, My Lord,” Manderly added. “For I must sully this good news with bad. It appears the second King in the North has run away.”
The hand on Theon’s arm squeezed tighter, and Sansa’s gasp was anything but relieved. “What?”
“I know little of what transpired, but yes,” he nodded. “He left a note about a higher calling for him and disappeared into the night some weeks ago. If this is truly news to you, then it is because we Northmen have done all we can to keep any word of this from reaching anywhere beyond The Neck.”
“Bran is gone beyond the Wall?” Theon asked, dumbfounded. “The one who needs Hodor to move?”
The old lord nodded with a helpless shrug. “That is what the ravens say. He left with Howland Reed’s spawn, and word of mouth is they were running northward, though nobody has seen glimpse nor grace of them since.”
Sansa said nothing— just picked at her food with a million thoughts churning beneath her sad frown. Theon and Brienne shared a look of concern from across the table but did not push the princess for her words.
“So Rickon is king now,” she murmured at last. “He is so young.”
“All of you are, begging your pardon for saying it, My Lady,” Lord Manderly replied, eyes sympathetic. “But yes, your youngest brother anticipates your return from the Northern throne.”
“Oh,” Sansa sighed. “Would that I were rid of thrones! But I would sooner return to my sweet brother and help his crown sit high than languish beneath the nest of swords they call a seat in the south.”
“It will be done, Sansa,” Theon assured her. “In little more than a week’s time, we will have you safely back home.”
That made her smile, at least. Her arm stayed firmly looped through Theon’s for the rest of their meal.
Under the fluttering Manderly mermaid, Theon, Sansa, and Brienne met at last the outer gates of Winterfell.
Sansa had burst into tears hours ago, as soon as the spires and walls of her family’s keep had breached the horizon, and she now sniffled her way to the gates, her and Theon’s horses leading the march side by side. Her hand not holding onto her reigns brushed at the dark blue silk of her skirts and flitted about loose strands of hair that had fallen out of place, and her eyes darted about in anticipation.
The party stopped at the gates to await entry, but their presence was anticipated by the outriders sent a day ahead of them. After a series of shouts, a retinue of guards heaved open the doors and beckoned them through with mouthfuls of hails and countless back-breaking bows.
They stopped in the courtyard, and no sooner was Sansa off the horse when a shout ripped through towards them.
“Sansa!” Across the way stood Arya and Rickon, frozen at the castle entrance with eyes trained wide on their sister.
And then they and Sansa were sprinting for each other, meeting in the middle of the courtyard in a tangle of hugs and shouts for joy. Theon grinned to watch it, and as he dismounted, he caught the amazed looks of the courtiers as they watched the reunion as well.
He strode towards the gaggle of Starks, dropping to one knee when they noticed his approach, muttering “Your Grace,” to Rickon.
“What?” the boy replied, making a confused noise when Sansa sniffled and took a knee as well.
“Lord Manderly told us about Bran,” Theon said, looking up at Rickon’s hesitant expression as the boy shied behind Arya. He was still so young— barely seven— and Theon feared what the weight of a crown would do to him. “If he has abdicated, Rickon, I will swear my fealty to you, my king, this instant.”
Sansa nodded beside him, but Arya snorted and shook her head, “Get up, Sansa.”
“You’re the eldest,” Rickon added. “We want you to rule!”
Theon’s eyes snapped to Sansa just as she gasped and paled with shock.
“We agreed: upon your return, Rickon and I would both abdicate to you,” Arya explained, taking a knee just as Sansa stood up. “Eldest gets the crown— it only makes sense.”
Around them, the yard full of courters kneeled, and Theon found himself grinning wider as he remained among them. Sansa just stared, eyes red with tears as she choked on her own breath and pulled her siblings back up for another hug.
Sansa stood, resplendent before them all in the Godswood in a long silken dress embroidered with pale wolves bounding among a sea of daffodils. Over her shoulders, Arya had tied a cloak adorned with the Stark banner— one Theon guessed must have been made for a marriage, rather than a coronation.
At her right stood her siblings, Arya very patiently swathed in a gray dress just for her sister’s coronation and Rickon bundled in enough furs that his direwolf seemed to sprout from behind him like a second body. Theon stood at her left upon her own insistence, flanking Gray Wind and Maester Luwin, who held a near-replica of Robb’s old crown in his frail hands— a ring of swords cast thinner than its brother to fit the sister’s smaller head.
There was no precedent for Northern coronations— none that they had the time to learn about, at any rate. What they planned seemed far too simple for the occasion, but she would still come out of it a queen under the eyes of the Gods and Northmen, and that was what really mattered.
When Maester Luwin held up a hand, the crown around them still into silence.
“Sansa Stark,” he began, words solemn but eyes warm. “Kneel before the Weirwood. As you would ask us to swear fealty to you, swear to The Gods your fealty to your realm.”
Sansa nodded, and Arya helped her to kneel in her dress before the tree and dip her head in a moment of quiet prayer. When she stood, she turned to face the Maester. “Just as I swore it to The Gods, I swear to you and my bannermen to honor the word of my subjects so long as I remain their most feal and humble queen.”
Maester Luwin nodded and addressed Rickon, “Lord Rickon, do you relinquish the title of King for your sister?”
“Aye,” Rickon nodded readily. “The title is hers.”
Luwin hummed, and with a smile, he held the crown before them, “Lady Sansa, will you accept the Crown of the North?”
“Aye,” she nodded, her voice tight. Her eyes met Theon’s as the crown was placed on her head, the miniature hilts disappearing into her hair as it came to rest around her forehead. Theon grinned at her and, with the rest of them, bowed as she was named at last Queen in The North.
The following feast was a far more practiced ritual, and the bannermen and courtiers took to the festivities with a frivolity Theon and Sansa had only narrowly escaped in King’s Landing.
Theon sat on a bench between Lady Brienne and Lord Manderly, plate piled high and goblet filled yet higher as the old man beside him joked and roared with laughter. Brienne was quieter, seemingly happy yet pensive, not quite at peace in a hall of Northmen. Sansa and her siblings sat at a dais at the head of the hall, regaling each other with stories and receiving a long line of bannermen’s bows and vows of fealty.
Brienne watched the procession with a trepid expression, and Theon guessed at her thoughts. He leaned in towards her and asked, “You were already sworn to Lady Catelyn, and you saved Sansa’s life. You belong in the Queen’s court just as any ally to those before her, you know.”
She startled, the armor she refused to remove clinking with the movement. Looking at Theon, she sighed and nodded, “I know that. I would sooner restate my vows before the court so that they would know it, too.”
"Then do so!" Theon urged, standing and banging his fist on the table until those around him took notice and the hall quieted. He shouted, "The Lady of Tarth would present herself to Her Grace!" Before anyone else could speak, Brienne stood and stepped forward, her face determined as she approached Sansa’s throne.
“My lady— Your Grace,” she said, dropping to her knee before Sansa’s silk-slippered feet. She drew her sword, and Theon shifted uncomfortably as the bannermen around him muttered with distrust.
“I am sure you recognize the blade I carry,” Brienne said. “Its twin lies with Joffrey Baratheon, both forged from your lord father’s Ice.”
Sansa nodded. “Joffrey swung his Widow’s Wail before me as a reminder of his cruelty, yes. I had believed its partner in the possession of Ser Jaime Lannister.”
“Do you taunt our Queen, she-knight?” an Umber shouted from the table next to Theon, a wave of suspicious murmurs following in his wake.
“Grant her the silence to speak!” Theon shouted back at him, ignoring the glares of the Northmen as easily as brushing snow from his cloak. “You distract the Queen.”
Sansa raised her hand, shooting Theon a thankful look but keeping her composure as the room settled down. She nodded at Brienne to continue.
“I mean no disgrace, I swear,” she assured the young queen. “I only mean to explain. I was given the sword by Ser Jaime before he meant to send me off to fulfill the vow I made to your lady mother. It is called Oathkeeper for this reason.”
She held the blade out, hilt to Sansa. “Forged from your father’s steel and named for your mother’s unending love for you, I would return this blade to Winterfell, so that a Stark may wield it in the name of the honor of those that came before it, Your Grace.”
The hall was dead silent, every bannerman, Stark, and servant in attendance staring at Brienne and Sansa, waiting for their new queen’s response. It came as a sharp inhale and a creak of the wooden throne as Sansa stood from her seat, still hovering before Brienne without a word. She took the hilt in both slim hands, Brienne ducking her head and dropping her hands to her knee when Oathkeeper was out of her grasp.
The young queen’s eyes were big, the blade hitting the floor in her unaccustomed grip.
“Lady Brienne…” she began, her voice small but weighted with sincerity. “I accept this half of my father’s blade, but would sooner return it to you, newly tempered by the oath of your allegiance to me.”
“Your Grace?” Brienne gasped, head lifting. Theon could not see her face, but he could see the sincerity in Sansa’s eyes sharpen, as if to convince the woman that she spoke true.
“By taking this… Oathkeeper, you vow your life and allegiance against the Baratheons, Lannisters, and Tyrells, so long as they contest my claim to The North,” she continued, her voice ringing through the hall. “Those are the lands of your father and former brothers-in-arms. Should you choose to leave, you return home with my blessing. Should you stay, however, I cannot promise the same kindness from the Southron lords.”
The hall was silent. Theon felt his chest warm with pride for Sansa’s even words, commanding the attention and devotion of men with twice and even thrice her age and experience.
He could see her years in King’s Landing reflected in her careful gaze— her understanding that the show of knighting Lady Brienne after a reminder of her Southron heritage would remind her bannermen, in turn, just how loyal Brienne truly was to their new queen. It was Cersei’s cunning and Catelyn’s care, boiled into the calm wonder of a queen barely six-and-ten. Robb had been a warrior and strategist— Sansa was yet neither of those, but she stood before her men just as impressive.
“With respect, Your Grace,” Brienne said eventually, her words slow and just as careful, though heady with her usual brusque sincerity. “Even if I had not begun sworn to Renly Baratheon, I allied myself further against the Iron Throne when I swore my old sword to your lady mother. I would keep my oath to her now by swearing myself you, tonight. I will forever love my father, and trust that he will understand my actions just as much as I can hope to see him made our ally before this war sees its end.”
“Very well.” Sansa lifted the blade with both hands, eyes focused and brow furrowed as she tapped each of Brienne’s pauldrons once with the flat of the blade. Sansa’s back straightened when she was done, and her eyes shone with more certainty than Theon had seen in them since returning to Winterfell. “Rise Ser Brienne of Tarth, knight of the Queensguard of The North. May you uphold your vow with dignity and honor.”
Brienne stood, accepting the sword back from Sansa with a bow, “I swear it, my Queen.”
The hall was silent still— no bannerman moved but to breathe, and even that was bated as they watched the exchange. Brienne stood holding the sword before her, turned now to face the rest of the hall, but did not move. Sansa looked about the hall, eyes darting to each of her bannermen, searching for a reaction that did not come. The bannermen began to shuffle slightly around Theon, looking askance at each other with unsure looks back up at Brienne. Clearly, she made the hardened Northman just as uncomfortable as the courtiers at King’s Landing.
Theon snorted at them all, winking with a grin when Sansa confusedly met his eye.
He looked over at a cupbearer and gestured for his goblet to be filled. The boy followed suit, and with his cup filled to spilling over with sweetwine, Theon stood and raised his goblet in the air. “Ser Oathkeeper!” he shouted into the silence.
“Ser Oathkeeper!” Lady Mormont and Lord Manderly called back, the other bannermen repeating suit when their fellows proved unlikely to stop. Brienne blushed and bowed before returning to her seat, and the thankful smile Sansa shot Theon made up for the muttering he knew would be directed his way by the rest of them.
“The Queen in the North!” Theon yelled, the rest of the hall eager to change their chants to that as the drinking and merriment resumed. Arya had joined in, too, chanting into her sister’s ear and earning an annoyed face from the young queen in return. Theon backed half of his goblet in one swig and returned to his meal with a laugh.
Later that night, long after Theon had dragged himself from the feast to sober up in some cold corner of the castle, a guard found him and bade him to meet the Queen in her quarters.
He was halfway to the chambers Sansa had always shared with Arya before he realized she would have her own now. That was something Robb had talked about after becoming King— when they returned to Winterfell, would he not have to share a bed with his brothers anymore? He always frowned when Theon reminded him he would likely be in his late father’s chambers. They never talked of the princess’ chambers, waiting empty and cold for two girls still held hostage in King’s Landing.
It was an odd thing, knocking on Ned Stark’s door and being received by Sansa, eyes bright and smile welcoming as she beckoned him inside. Gray Wind took up most of the floor by the fireplace in the meeting-chamber and Sansa paced to the desk after letting Theon in, still in her coronation dress though her hair lay free from its plaits and pins. She fiddled with something in her hands, and Theon caught little metallic flashes as she turned whatever it was around idly.
“You’ve retired early from your own feast,” Theon said.
Sansa shrugged, “I’ve had enough of feasts for quite a while, I think. This one was admittedly far better as company goes than those I have grown used to, but it’s all just as big and busy.”
Theon hummed, watching Sansa as she looked back at him, a thought churning clearly behind her eyes that Theon could not guess.
“There’s something I would ask of you,” she admitted eventually, “and I ask it with the utmost sincerity.”
“Anything, Your Grace,” he said. “So long as it keeps me out of King’s Landing.”
Sansa laughed, “I would not punish you so! My question concerns who shall make up my small council. As Queen, I must have one of those.”
Theon hummed in thought, “Bran kept most of Robb’s old war council, plus Maester Luwin. Have you different ideas?”
Sansa nodded, not quite looking at Theon and twisting further at the metal piece in her hand. She said, “There is one change I would make, yes.”
“Oh?” Theon asked, curious.
“I— um, here,” Sansa began, holding out her hand to show Theon whatever she had been fiddling with. There, Theon found a metal brooch roughly the size of her palm, shaped to resemble the profile of a wolf’s head and cut with swirling, pearlescent enameling, milky in the light of the chambers.
“What’s that?” Theon asked, looking curiously between Sansa and the brooch and meaning ‘Why do you look like you’re giving it to me?’
“I have not a Hand’s pin to give you, so I thought a wolf could take its place in the meantime,” she explained, picking at the end of one of the wolf’s steely ears as she spoke. Her expression turned sad, and she added, “This was my mother’s. After the feast, I wandered to her chambers and found it in her dresser. Arya’s already rifled through for whatever she wanted, and you can guess she left most everything but a few jewels and blankets. I presume the rest is now mine to do with as I wish.”
“Why would you give me a Hand’s pin?” Theon asked slowly instead of lingering on the memory of Lady Catelyn and her possessions left behind, knowing the answer but wanting the warning in his voice to dissuade Sansa before she could get too excited about the idea.
The queen rolled her eyes— a gesture familiar to her face from days long since flown past. “Because you’re to be my Hand.”
“Me? You joke, Your Grace,” Theon shook his head, trying not to feel bad about the deflated look his words cast upon the girl.
“I assure you, I do not!” she replied. “You’re the best man for the title, and I would have you take it as soon as possible.”
‘I’ve heard that one before…’ Theon’s instant reaction was to shake his head. “No, Your Gr-”
“Sansa,” she interrupted. “Call me Sansa— please. I need a Hand whom I know and can trust. I do trust my bannermen and lords, but I hardly know them! You’ve been at war alongside them. You’ve seen them under Robb’s reign, and they you. Who else would I trust to advise me than you?”
Theon sighed, knowing she spoke with thought and truth to her words. “But Sansa, that makes your first Queen’s Guard and your Hand non-Northern, and children of enemy forces, besides!”
‘Even Robb was not so brazen as to give me a title within his court!’
“Then I will appoint Robb’s former knights to my Queensguard first thing tomorrow, and my bannermen will make up my small council and live as honored members of my court,” she shot back, “But as my Hand, you will be there beside me all the while!”
Her hands had come firmly to her hips in a familiar show of her mother’s inherited stubbornness, and Theon realized that she must have given the idea far more thought than he gave credit for. “I would have my hand be a friend.”
Theon felt something warm in his chest, to be considered her friend despite it all, but he would not yield so easily. “King Robert wanted a friend as his Hand, and your lord father died for it.”
“Well, King Robert never listened to Father, did he? And Father was a stranger to King’s Landing and its venom, besides. You know The North, and I swear I’ll listen to your advice alongside that of my councilmen. Please, Theon!”
Theon did not respond immediately, battling two instincts. He still wanted to resist Sansa’s pleas, sure he was no fit match for the position and frankly tired of courts. However, another side of him— the side that must still secretly yearn for the favor of a Stark— urged him to take the position. To hold it over the Northern lords who glowered at him in Robb’s court and his father’s blithe disinterest in him and over the whole of King’s Landing for making Sansa desperate enough to ask him.
He looked from Sansa’s eager blue eyes to the glimmering wolf in her hands. He stared at it long enough that its presenter began to squirm with barely concealed impatience.
“It would infuriate Cersei to have her own lord husband sworn in servitude to her least favorite hostage…” Theon said eventually.
‘If Cersei even deigned to remember she has a husband,’ he thought. ‘Lord Tywin would likely feel more spurned than she.’
“It would! So, you’ll do it?” Sansa’s face lit up and she pressed the brooch into Theon’s open hand before he could answer her. The jewelry was warm from Sansa’s palm, and the metallic points of the wolf’s ears poked into the flesh of Theon’s thumb as he closed his fingers around it.
With a grin, he nodded. Sansa laughed and pulled him into a hug, thanking him repeatedly even as she began to regal him with plans for the coming day. Theon knew, then, that it had all been worth it.