disclaimer.
All belongs to G.R.R Martin and D&D.
-touch-
For Sansa and Theon, touch is the most important sense; a light brush of fingers, a knocking of elbows, a whisper of a kiss. Touch that isn't used to hurt, that doesn't garner fear, that doesn't induce injury. It's reassurance, a promise that binds them heart and soul; when Sansa looks at him over her bowl of soup and reaches out a gentle hand to flutter over his cheek, he knows it's her silent when of saying the three words that neither of them can say yet.
-sight-
To say that Sansa was pretty is no compliment- it's a fact that was and had been well known, even when she was but the vain, empty-headed girl who'd longed to leave the North for some stupid prince of one kind or another. And when she and Theon- Reek, he reminds himself- had reunited as Ramsay's prisoners, she had still been just as pretty, though she'd been stripped down to her pretty, brittle bones like a wolf skinned; a fragile, hopeless figure. But Theon thinks she has never been more beautiful as she is now- cheeks flushed red with cold, hair in rampant disarray, snorting noisily as she slurps at her soup and laughs at the bad joke he'd told her about a pirate and a princess- because her eyes are alight with something he could almost call happiness.
-hearing-
The two wooden bowls Sansa and Theon had drank their soup from clatter hollowly on the table when the Lady of Winterfell sets them down, the spoons rattling of the sides like bones in a pot. It had been nice soup, Theon reflects contentedly, nicer than he had had in awhile, and, in complete disregard of all the manners Lady Stark had tried to instil in him, he smacks his lips noisily to the censure of Sansa. "Theon," she scolds him- but the admonishment means nothing when he can hear her say his name like that.
-taste-
They're walking the battlements when Sansa stops and turns her face North, the cold Winter winds whipping her hair into a banner of fire and combing light fingers of snow through the strands, leaving them dotted with white. She looks like a goddess standing there, though he doesn't think the word is quite right because gods and goddesses could not suffer the way she had and survive- and because goddesses could not be so warm, so comfortable, so soft to the touch. Sansa is, and she tastes like salt and soup when he kisses her gently, but it's only awhile later when he realises that the taste of salt still lingering on his lips was from their tears, mingling and freezing in the night air.
-smell-
Leaving has never been this hard before, nor as heart-breaking, because Theon has never had anything he's as terrified as losing as he does now. Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, stands tall and proud with her back ramrod straight only a few feet away, face unsmiling and her eyes almost blank- but Theon knows her well enough that he's pretty sure he can see a raging inferno of grief and anger and helpless underneath the cold veneer. It's enough that he doesn't hesitate to sweep her into one last, lingering embrace, curling his arms around her waist so tight that he almost worries about bruising her ribs, and buries his face in her hair; inhaling deeply, she smells like snow and smoke and something floral- but she smells like home too and Theon's thinks that it's his favourite smell in the entire world.