Her father was dead.

Sansa sat staring out the window of her chambers, feeling nothing. Her only important task and she'd failed. Next would be Ser Roderick, Maester Luwin, then Robb, his wife, her mother, Rickon–

When she'd opened her eyes at Winterfell, she'd felt nothing but hope, elation at another chance to save her family. Now she knew this for what it was – torture. The gods had seen fit to punish Sansa for all her past crimes, her prides and slights. I was a girl! she tried pleading with them. A stupid, stupid girl. I've done everything I could. I was nice to Jon this time around, I even kept Arya's wolf. Please, make this stop. Take me back to a world where they're already dead. Where I don't have to watch them suffer a second time.

"Oh, look, my lady!" the serving girl said from the other end of the room. Sansa barely flicked her eyes to the woman, seeing her brandishing a letter. "Your little friend from home wrote you. Her news always cheers you right up."

"Go away," Sansa replied.

"My lady…" the servant continued.

At Sansa's feet, her direwolf reared her head, letting loose a low growl.

With a bow, the servant left.

Sansa kept staring out the window. Everything was meaningless, time an abstract concept. An hour later, or five, or perhaps a minute, Sansa mechanically reached for the letter.

Sansa,

I'm so sorry. Here I've been talking about me all these times when you're the one who needs comforting. How are you? Have you made friends at King's Landing? Is there anything I can do to help?

Winafrid

Sansa closed her eyes, feeling tears spill from them. She'd sworn not to cry this time, sworn it wouldn't affect her – but that would be an injustice to her father. She let her tears fall freely, not caring that they blotted the page.

She had sworn off caring, had sworn off interfering to change her family's fate and one letter from Theon drew it out of her like a habit she couldn't break. Perhaps there was still – hope was too strong a word – a chance that someone, even if not a Stark, could survive their intended doom. If that chance existed, wasn't it Sansa's duty to try?

. . .

Winafrid,

I am as well as can be expected. If you ask how I am, I remember talk of the Umbers, or one of the other Northern families, taking in a ward. I heard he suffered greatly at their hands, with regular beatings and spite from all who surrounded him. How glad I am not to be in his place! The Lannisters treat me like family already – and I have my beloved Joffrey to sustain me.

I'd much rather talk about you. Your ball I used to enjoy so much every year is coming up! That party was always so exquisite and Borris such a fine dancer. I'd be careful, though. If that fine knight we all swooned over last time comes to the ball, be careful not to let your mother send him away! It'd be a fine thing, finally capturing a prize like that for you to flirt with, only for your mother to ruin everything.

She'd do it to protect her girls, of course, but you obviously don't need protecting and your sister is so wild, it's as if no one knows where she is, until she turns up safe and sound!

Tell me all about the knight when he arrives and I shall imagine myself in your happy shoes, dancing the evening away.

Your ever-grateful friend,

Sansa

. . .

Theon read her letter, stilling his shaking hands to keep from crushing it. Her story of the northern ward was so obvious that he worried a spy could have cracked it. He was that ward. The Starks had never beaten him (not when he hadn't deserved it) and the only spite he received was from Lady Catelyn, which was a miracle he'd gotten as little as he had.

Sansa was being beaten regularly. Sansa was surrounded by nothing but spite. Sansa was being treated as an enemy to the Lannister family, and he'd bet his best knife that Joffrey was the worst of all of them. She'd called Ramsay Snow, Theon's own future mutilator, 'the only one more sadistic than Joffrey.' That didn't sound like Joffrey was much beloved.

His hand holding the letter clenched into a fist. Theon had to force his fingers to let go, to keep pouring over her words, gently smoothing out the creases he'd made.

The latter half, the part addressed to his own situation, made less sense. In a cunning victory in their last battle, Robb had captured Jaime Lannister. Was he the knight Sansa to which Sansa referred? Catelyn certainly disliked him well enough and Sansa's use of the word 'captured' seemed too specific. Though Theon wrinkled his nose at the idea that anyone would swoon over the Kingslayer. But what plot from Catelyn was Sansa warning him about?

Regardless, he could only wait. Her other 'morbid ramblings' had made sense in time; this likely would, too.

The rest of the letter had a small morsel of good news he'd been able to draw – Arya was missing, but Sansa thought her sister would turn up safe and sound. Although Sansa's insistence that she herself didn't need protecting was nonsensical. She was suffering as dearly as anyone Theon had ever heard. Of course she needed protecting.

Catelyn's voice, drifting through the walls of the command tent he was standing outside, drew Theon's focus. "I don't trust Lord Greyjoy because he is not trustworthy! Your father had to go to war to end his rebellion!"

Theon grimaced. Catelyn had never liked him, always despised his family, but to outright reject his reasonable proposal to rally support from Balon Greyjoy… it defied sense.

"Yes," Robb replied, ever the reasonable one. "And now I'm the one rebelling against the throne. Before me, it was Father. You married one rebel and mothered another."

"I mothered more than just rebels." Theon could barely hear Catelyn whispering through the walls of the tent. "A fact you seem to have forgotten."

Robb sighed. "If I trade the Kingslayer for two girls, my bannermen will string me up by my feet."

"You want to leave Sansa in the queen's hands? And Arya! I haven't heard a word about Arya. What are we fighting for, if not for them?"

"It's more complicated than that, you know it is!" Robb roared.

Theon had heard enough. He headed to his own tent, readying his bags and planning out the supplies he'd need to take with him for his voyage to the Iron Islands. No matter what Catelyn said, Robb favored his plan, and with good reason.

Suddenly, Theon stopped. Sansa's letters making sense were always bad news. Catelyn would free the Kingslayer. She'd free him on a promise of safety for her girls and steal Robb's most valuable prize. And what could Robb do – punish his own mother? He'd have a mutiny by dawn.

Another, more horrifying realization stabbed Theon deeper than a sword. He dropped to his cot, his body numb. Sansa's first words to him echoed in his head, running through his ears until he thought he'd go crazy with her voice.

Robb sends you to Pyke, to your father, to gather support.

You betray Robb.

And you fail.

Robb stopped by, wishing him luck with the Iron Islanders or some sort, but Theon didn't hear a word. Mutely, he nodded. Robb clapped him on the shoulder and left.

You fail. You fail. You fail.

Theon buried his face in his hands, trying to hide from the truth of it. He hadn't seen his father since he'd been younger than Bran; he barely remembered what the man looked like. Of course he'd fail. He still couldn't believe he'd betray Robb; Theon had sworn to him as a brother. A niggling doubt in the back of his brain said that if that were true, wouldn't Theon's only stronger pull be from his blood relatives, his actual family?

It might.

Theon flinched from the thought, the weakness that he knew he had. It'd been why he'd suggested the plan in the first place, hadn't it? To prove himself loyal to Robb and a true Greyjoy? What would he do if he couldn't have both?

He didn't know. And that was terrifying.

Finally, Theon looked up from his hands. Robb had left a purse behind, for purchasing his passage to Pyke and any supplies he might need. Looking at the sack of gold, an idea started to form. What if he didn't… go to Pyke?

A grin spread across his face, growing more cocky by the second. Grabbing a quill and parchment, he scrawled a quick note.

Robb,

My father can go sod himself. I'm off to King's Landing to rescue your sister. Don't do anything stupid (like letting your mother free the Kingslayer) while I'm gone.

Theon

It wasn't too far a ride to the river, and then a quick jaunt by ship down the east coast to the capital. He'd be back before Robb knew it.

It was a good thing he'd already packed. Slipping out of his tent, Theon passed the note to Robb's squire, saying not to bother His Grace with it until the morning. Saddling his horse, he rode off from camp in quite the wrong direction from Pyke entirely, whistling a happy tune.