Chapter Text
Sansa closed the heavy door of the tower room behind her, locking and bolting it securely. The room was practically a vault; the heavy door’s lock had only two iron keys, and there were no windows, only a narrow chimney.
She stripped out of her clothes, leaving them draped over a chair. Theon got cold easily, so she had given him the warmest rooms—including the tower vault-room—but that meant it was nearly unbearable for her to be fully dressed in them.
It was unbearable to be dressed at all for other reasons.
Theon lay sprawled on the bed, fingers driving deep into his soaking wet cunt. He whimpered as she approached, legs spreading wide to display himself. His eyes were dark and glazed with lust, his sweat-slick hair clinging to his face. One of her hair ribbons was wrapped around his wrist, held close to his face. She smiled at the sight.
“I’m here, darling, I’ll take care of you,” she soothed, pushing his hair back from his eyes and kissing his forehead. It was too intimate a gesture for a relationship that was only sex, but Theon didn’t seem to mind, his eyes fluttering shut as he pushed up into her hand, baring his neck for her.
That would definitely be a step too far, so Sansa just kissed him again and let her hands trail downwards, over every ridge and pit of scars, every plane of his beautiful body. Theon whined as she went, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “Shh, I’ve got you. I’m going to fuck you into the sheets, sweetling, I’m going to make you scream for me.” Theon liked it when she talked, but she had been hesitant at the start of their arrangement, her cheeks turning to flame at the thought of what they were doing, let alone saying it, but that embarrassment had faded with practice.
She kissed his cheek and lifted him up so that he was straddling her lap rather than having her braced above him.
“Please,” he gasped, “please, Sansa—”
She knew she would find him soaking wet—his fingers were still working at himself, though slower and gentler than they had been, and she could hear every wet noise—but she still teased at the soft, swollen lips of his entrance with two fingers, pushing his hand out of the way. Theon mewled, spreading his legs wider as she slipped them all the way in, burying them up to the third knuckle.
“Greedy little thing,” she crooned, the way he liked. “Do you want more, my sweet?”
“Yes, yes, please, I need it.” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes closed, but his hips rocked against her hand, driving her fingers into him, rubbing himself against the heel of her palm shamelessly. “Need you inside me so bad, please, need you to fill me.”
“What do you want? I want to hear you say it, darling.” She brushed her thumb against the neat scar, nearly hidden in a nest of dark curls. Theon whined, his thighs trembling around her hips, his nails digging into her shoulders.
“Yes, fuck, I—I want it, I want your cock, please,” he gasped. “I want you to mate me, want you to make me yours, want you to keep me forever, please, please Sansa.” There were tears in his eyes, running down his flushed cheeks, and she kissed them away. Theon was in heat; he’d say anything that would get him fucked. She knew he didn’t mean it, and knew he’d be mortified when the haze had cleared and he remembered what he’d said. He was always embarrassed afterwards, avoiding her for a few days—it went against her need to see him cherished and cared for, especially after his heat, but she knew that he wouldn’t appreciate her fussing and hovering, even if a part of her was eager to put him in her bed and keep him there, safe and sated, maybe with a swell to his belly from their babe.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright, my heart, I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you what you need.”
She wiggled out from under him, leaving him sitting back against the headboard of the large bed while she kissed his lips, then down along the column of his neck—careful to avoid the large bite-mark on the join between his neck and his shoulder—and down to his heat-swollen chest, his stomach, down to the scar where his cock once was. She sucked on it, lightly, running her tongue along the line of it as she followed it down to the pink, swollen folds hidden away between his thighs. She crooked her fingers, lapping and sucking at him, drinking him down, pressing her thighs together to quell the urge to claim him.
Not yet, she told herself. Patience.
Theon was babbling pleas above her, a ragged chorus of please, Sansa, I need, his hips rolling over her tongue and fingers as she worked at him. He tasted so good; she wondered if he would taste so sweet outside of his heats.
“Come for me, sweetling,” she murmured into him, crooking her fingers as she sucked at the scar.
Theon cried out in pleasure, his fingers clenching in her hair, pulling almost painfully as he peaked.
“Good boy,” she said, stroking his thigh. “Very good. I’m proud of you. Do you still want me inside you?”
“Please,” Theon sobbed.
He gave a small sigh of pleasure as she slid inside him, replacing her fingers with her cock. He was warm and slick around her, and it was easy to thrust in, to go deeper and deeper into him, chasing her own peak. Theon’s gasp of pleasure was one of the sweetest sounds she knew, especially with the low moan that followed it as he rolled his hips and took her farther in. They fit together so well, like he’d been made to feel this pleasure and nothing else.
“Gods, Theon, you feel so good,” she said, kissing the unscarred side of his neck. He tasted like salt. “Such a sweet thing you are, so precious. I love you so much.”
“More,” he begged, eyes glazed with pleasure. “Please, please, I need more, I need you, Sansa—“ His voice turned into a moan as she thrust into him again.
“You have me, I’m here,” she said. She knew what he was really asking for, of course: for her to mate him and get him with child, to mark him and keep him, but she also knew that he didn’t really want that. He hardly let her touch him outside of his heats; if she marked him he’d hate her forever for betraying his trust in her.
He tightened around her as he came again, and that was all Sansa needed to push her over the edge as well. She spent inside him with a low moan, half-collapsing onto Theon as she pulled out. She giggled, the rush of sex fading, and nuzzled into the side of his neck, rolling off him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. Thanks.” He was still flushed with heat as he clung to her, body molding against her side. “Can we just stay like this for a while?”
“Of course,” she said. “As long as you want.”
She really couldn’t deny Theon anything, especially not when he gave a contented sigh and cuddled up against her, loose-limbed and affectionate, but her heart ached as she reminded herself that she couldn’t get used to this—that Theon didn’t want her, that he wasn’t hers. This was just his heat; he was clearer, but still craving affection and touch that he didn’t want outside of it.
He mumbled something into her shoulder, half-asleep.
⁂
Theon pulled the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders and tucked his nose into the fur, letting Sansa’s clean scent surround him: lavender and rosemary and a hint of lemon. The lavender and rosemary were just from her soap, the same kind that everyone in the castle used, but the lemons were her own, had been since they were all children together in the summer sun.
His whole body ached from his heat, every part of his body sore, but his heart ached the most. He knew it was stupid. H knew that Sansa didn’t want him. They had agreed that she would help him through his heats and nothing more. It was a favor between friends—Robb had done the same for him a dozen times over.
He’d fallen in love with Robb, too.
His hand crept up to the scar on his neck. Robb had never tried to break the bond, even when he knew what Theon had done, even when he thought that Theon had killed his brothers. Theon had never tried either, and he wondered what Robb had thought of that—of finding out that he had taken Winterfell and killed Robb’s brothers with an unbroken bond still thrumming between them.
His fingertips brushed the edges of the scar, enough to call up the memory of that night—Robb’s body pressed against his, pale, freckled skin marked with red from Theon’s teeth and nails, their chests heaving, their fingers interlocked. There had always been an edge to their fucking, like fighting, but afterwards Robb would hold him tight, kiss his forehead, stroke his hair.
He had forgotten that Robb treated him like that, like something precious and treasured, something prized. If Theon hadn’t left for Pyke on that stupid fucking mission, trying to convince his father, maybe…maybe it would all be different. Maybe they’d have married and had children, heirs to three kingdoms, children with his green eyes and Robb’s red curls…
Theon pressed a hand to his stomach. If there had ever been anything there, it was long gone, bled out before it was anything more than a hope.
But there was that betrothal to the Freys. If it had been Theon that Robb had married instead of the faceless girl he had broken the alliance for, it wouldn’t have made a difference—the Red Wedding would have still happened, and they would all still be dead, and Sansa would still be in Ramsay’s clutches.
He tucked his knees up under the blanket, watching the snow blow around the ramparts. He hated this heartache; not just the memory of Robb’s warmth, but Sansa’s as well. He wanted to go to her, to kneel down by her feet so that she could play with his hair, to bare his neck for her teeth, to wake up in her arms, safe and warm and protected. He wanted to take care of her, to rub the stiffness from her shoulders, to hold her when her nightmares came.
He knew he wasn’t good enough for her, knew she didn’t feel the same way, and he knew that she would, someday, find someone who was worthy of her. He’d have to leave, then—she’d be kind about it, unbearably kind, but he’d have to go back to Pyke and pretend that the pieces of his battered heart weren’t still in Winterfell.
But Yara already knew that.
Someone opened the door leading up to the battlements, heels clicking against the stone. Theon didn’t turn around; he knew who it was.
“I thought I might find you up here,” Sansa said. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just came up here to think.”
“Do you mind if I join you, then?”
“No.” Yes. “Go ahead.”
She sat next to him, not quite touching him. Almost, though; there was maybe a fingersbreadth between them.
A long, quiet moment passed. Theon adjusted his blanket around his knees.
“Are you happy?” Sansa asked.
His brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“In general. Overall.” Her expression was unreadable as she stared out into the snow, watching the flakes falling around them. “Are you happy with your life here?”
“Mostly.”
“What would make you happier?”
“I…” His hand drifted up to his neck, fingers curling protectively around the scar. “It’s nothing, really.”
“If there’s something I can do to help, I want to.”
He wanted to blame the urge to beg her to claim him on the lingering traces of his heat, but he knew it wasn’t just that. Even when his heat was weeks away, he had to avoid her touch or he’d beg for her to fuck him then and there, even on the council table in front of all the gathered lords—
He shifted under the blanket, pressing his heel to his cunt, trying to relieve some of the aching lust at the thought of being claimed so publicly without her noticing. He laughed softly at the irony.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
She laid her hand on his shoulder, and all he could think about was her pushing him down and filling him up, burying herself deep inside him, using him for her pleasure and leaving him aching and sore and full and so, so good.
“Theon,” she said, her brows knitting, “are you feeling well? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” he said, as though he didn’t feel a little bit on fire. “It’s just the end of the heat, nothing to worry about.”
“You’re sure?”
Her hand shifted, just a little, and brushed the edge of the mating scar. For a moment, he was back in the tent with Robb, pinned down under his strong hands, his legs wrapped around Robb’s hips to pull him closer.
“You and Robb?” Sansa asked, blinking in shock. “I thought the scar came from—“
“Ramsay?” Theon laughed, bitter and harsh, looking away. “Mating goes both ways, and Ramsay didn’t want anyone to have a claim on him, I think. He bit me, a lot, but he never tried to claim me for a mate. I think it was the only way he didn’t try to claim me.”
“I would have thought that Robb would sever it. Or that you would.”
Theon shrugged. “He never did. I don’t know why.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His arms tightened around his knees. There were tears in his eyes, he realized; spilling over onto his cheeks and dying on his lips. “I wanted to. My father was furious when he saw it, he said that I was…that I was a traitor.” Sansa didn’t need to know what, exactly, Balon Greyjoy had called his last son. Traitor had been among the kindest of the words he’d used. “But I could never bring myself to do it. I still loved him. Still love him. It would be a lie to break it.”
“Is that why you…why you’ve never sought out another mate?”
Theon hesitated. “A little.” I want you to mate me. She didn’t want that, he reminded himself. She didn’t want him; helping him through his heats was a far cry from actually wanting him by her side for the rest of their lives.
“You know I’d never…I’d never try to take his place with you, right?” He glanced over to her, finding tears in her eyes. “I’m not him. And I can’t replace him for you, I know that.”
“So do I. I…Sansa, I don’t—you’re not a replacement for him. You never have been. You’re your own person, and I lo—I like you for yourself. Not because of who Robb was to me.”
“I know that, too.” She gave him a small smile, and he returned it. “It’s alright, Theon. I just want you to know that I don't expect—that I’ll never try to claim you.”
He had known that she didn’t want him, but hearing her say it so plainly—as though it was a comfort—felt like a blade through his heart, splitting it in two. He knew, he reminded himself. He knew that she didn’t want him, he knew that he wasn’t hers, and he knew that he never would be. She deserved better than him, she deserved someone whole. Someone more like her, someone strong and brave and gentle and kind and good, someone who’d take care of her. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes, and he buried his face in her shoulder.
“Theon? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” he lied, clinging to her. “I’m fine.”
⁂
He sat in a shadowed corner of the tavern, listening. Scraps of a dozen conversations floated by.
some ale, girl
from Winterfell
you met her?
just kill the damned thing
after the King died
that was my goat
she’s a witch
our witch
bunch of lace
Bear Island
aye, that’s true
the blacksmith’s wife
no Queen but
don’t be absurd
killed her husband
saw the blacksmith yesterday
worth it, though
I’d do the same
that thrice-damned bastard
they say she turns into a wolf at night
He stood, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood, and left the tavern, his cloak catching the wind.
He lowered his hood and turned his face north, the clear cold sky above him. He'd been too long away.
Robb was going home.