I desperately didn't want to split the wedding chapter, so you guys get… this monstrosity. I'm sorry? You're welcome? Take your pick. XD
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."
"I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,"
"I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."
Robb looked incredibly handsome, Margaery stunningly beautiful. His black and grey Northern garb was shot through with gold, her opulent golden gown striking against the thick Stark cloak he draped overtop it. When they bent towards each other, their kiss was poetry. If it lasted longer than expected – Robb's hands buried in her hair, her delicate fingers gripping tightly to his back – no one in the audience complained beyond exchanging knowing smirks with their neighbors.
The Wolf and the Rose together were beautiful, charming, and powerful. Everyone prayed they would remain generous, merciful, and just.
The septon announced to the gathered crowd: "Robb and Margaery Stark! The King and Queen in the North!"
The cheers were thunderous.
Sansa joined in as loudly as any of the rest of them, applauding her joy. For all she didn't want Robb marching on the Iron Throne, she was glad to see him wed. Glad to see Margaery looking so radiant at his side. The elegant golden crowns on the newlyweds' heads suited her brother and new sister as if they'd been born wearing them.
Theon nudged her, gesturing with his chin further down their front row. Mace Tyrell was softly crying, Olenna looking bored as she patted her son's arm. Sansa and Theon exchanged grins.
But behind the Tyrells, Sansa's gaze snagged on Baelish. His dark eyes met her own. Quickly, she turned away.
A rush of partygoers flooded past to start the dancing, thankfully blocking Baelish from her view.
Abruptly, Oberyn was in front of Sansa, offering her his hand. "Princess? Might I have the honor?"
Sansa glanced towards Theon, at her side, but he'd been drawn into conversation with a few ironborn, oblivious to anything beyond their raucous laughter.
Sansa slipped her hand into Oberyn's, meeting his easy smile with one of her own. "The honor is mine, Prince Oberyn."
...
Tyrion enjoyed parties, as a rule. Especially enjoyed weddings, with enough free-flowing drink to drown an elephant. Had always particularly enjoyed lavish parties at Casterly Rock, with the way the halls lit golden, the light sparkling across the tables, the roast boar second-to-none.
But Tyrion had never felt more out of place. Stark allies glared as they danced past, shocked to see a Lannister sitting at a prominent table and not hiding politely in a corner. Even good old King Robb himself had deigned to glare Tyrion's way when Tyrion had sauntered into the festivities, dressed in his finest. Apparently no one had warned their king that his good graces had rescued a Lannister. Yet another interesting fact – one that didn't make a lick of sense.
He poured more wine into his goblet, relishing the one part of the event that had yet to betray him.
"Fancy seeing you at a party like this."
Bronn dropped onto the seat across from Tyrion, stabbing a choice cut of meat off his old employer's plate.
"I could say the same," Tyrion replied. "Starks pay well enough to outbid me? I know the Blackwater didn't turn out quite like we'd planned–"
Bronn shook his head. "The new 'Lord Protector of the Vale,'" he said around a mouthful of meat. "Got deeper pockets than you'd think. Especially when you've been cut off from yours." Bronn gestured at a scar on the side of his face. "Can't imagine all the gold in this bloody Rock could hire me to work for you again, after how well your last plan went. Just glad it wasn't the bloody wildfire that got me."
Tyrion pursed his lips. "Yes, it was a… bit of a poor showing."
Bronn snorted. "A bit? You pulled the fleet out. Lured Stannis in, fully armed. Then he blew up the bloody bay all on his own, sailed right around, and fucked King's Landing up one side and down the other." Bronn stabbed another piece of meat off Tyrion's plate. "'A bit,' you say. I barely got out alive."
Tyrion winced. "I am sorry about that, old friend."
"Sorry?" Suddenly, Bronn didn't look to be in quite so humorous of a mood. "Sorry that you betrayed King's Landing to the Starks and didn't bloody bother to tell any of us out there dying for it?"
"I didn't," Tyrion said, for all the good it would do. "I didn't tell them anything, I was out there fighting with the rest of you, I didn't–"
Abruptly, Bronn stood. He gave a terse nod. "Thought you'd have the decency not to lie to my face. Thought at least I'd earned that."
Before Tyrion could say another word, the sellsword stalked away. Tyrion was left staring after him for long moments without the slightest idea what else he could do. The truth was far too outlandish to be believed: I've no idea why the Starks saved me.
Someone poured more wine into his goblet. Tyrion turned, about to thank the servant – and Varys's skeptical face met his own.
Varys set the pitcher back on the table. "You looked like you could use it."
"Prescient as ever." Tyrion took a long gulp. "Have you come to yell at me, too? Tell me how I nearly got you killed with a hairbrained scheme that could never have worked and then betrayed everyone I cared about for a good laugh?"
Varys gave a non-committal hum, settling in next to him. "I had wondered about that. But no. I cleared out long before Stannis arrived. I invited you to join me in the tunnels, if you'll remember."
"I'll never forget," Tyrion said, with another sip. "What were they like, those tunnels?"
"Dark," Varys replied casually. "Damp. Long. But overall, a far easier path to Casterly Rock than yours, I would imagine."
Tyrion snorted.
Varys leaned closer. "Tell me. What are the tunnels at Casterly Rock like?"
Tyrion froze. "Who said I knew anything about that?"
With a shrug, Varys leaned away. "It's only obvious, seeing how the Starks got inside."
Tyrion's hand tightened on his goblet.
Varys tilted his head, studying him. "But you don't know anything about that, do you?"
"I know a little something," Tyrion replied, trying desperately not to think about the passage he knew they'd used, that he'd built, that he'd sworn no one could have found–
Varys raised an eyebrow. "Poor phrasing on my part. You didn't do anything to help the Starks get inside, did you?"
"I would die first," Tyrion said heatedly. "It's my home, my family, my brother–" He broke off, unable to think on his losses without drowning in them. Cersei. Tommen. Joffrey. Now Jaime. All dead. All blamed on me.
Varys's face softened. "I saw how hard you worked defending King's Landing. I saw how worried you were for your family. You don't have to say a word to convince me."
Tyrion looked up. "I… don't?"
Varys shook his head. "I suspect you were a most convenient scapegoat for Sansa Stark to explain away her knowledge."
Tyrion stared down at his goblet, trying to take in what Varys had said. He failed. "I believe those were all words, but I've never heard them put together in a sentence before."
Varys smiled. The party was loud and their table empty; hardly a more private spot for conversing existed in all of Casterly Rock. "Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf, as she's called, is the North's spymaster."
"Sansa?!" Tyrion said, louder than he'd meant to. The girl had seemed shrewd, negotiating with Davos, but… "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I were," Varys said, swirling his own goblet. "And as I've yet to find any agent of hers, nor any note passed… I'm inclined to believe whatever method she uses is… not entirely natural."
Tyrion could only stare.
Varys tipped his goblet towards him. "Which leads me back to you. She had to pretend to have gotten her knowledge through some more ordinary means. Who better for an excuse than the Lannister who built the defenses she planned to expose? Both in King's Landing and Casterly Rock. Why else would she have picked you?"
Tyrion set his goblet down – hard. Any wine was too much wine to be discussing this. "I've barely even spoken to the girl. I thought she was a simple, frightened thing."
"So does anyone she wants to, I suspect. You've had no secret meetings with her, no planned takeover of the entirety of Westeros?"
Varys's face was entirely too serious to have said that sentence. "No," Tyrion slowly replied. "I believe I'd have remembered that."
Varys gave another hum. "Shame. It would have explained much."
"What, pray tell, would it explain?" Tyrion said, trying not to sound pained.
Leaning closer, Varys gestured towards the guests. "Look around the room. All seven kingdoms, represented here. And what do you see?"
Dornish dancers swirled past in their flowing robes, men of the Reach in their finery, the Vale, the North–
"I see the Stark soldiers that barred me entry to this very hall," Tyrion replied with a wry twist of his lips. "Until the Tyrells corrected them, then they barred Ser Davos, until the Riverlanders showed up and let the lot through. I've never seen a wedding so thoroughly guarded."
"I would appreciate it if you took this seriously," Varys replied.
At that, Tyrion turned to study his old friend. What he found on Varys's face shocked him. "You're worried. A little girl has you worried."
"Her brother has the North," Varys replied, in his usual vague way. "His new wife has the Reach, and the funding for his army. But Sansa Stark secured that betrothal."
Tyrion snorted. "That's conjecture. The girls are friends, who wouldn't be?"
"That's straight from Lord Mace Tyrell," Varys clarified. He turned to a new subject. "And the Dornish. Why are they here?"
Tyrion looked at the dancers, spotting the Red Wolf in question laughing as she twirled in the arms of the Red Viper. Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "I know what you'll say, at least."
Varys nodded. "The Riverlands, of course, belong to her uncle."
"And the Vale, her aunt," Tyrion continued. "But those are just as much her brother's family as hers. Yet Lysa didn't ride when Robb called her to – not even when her sister came with me and begged her."
Varys looked pleased that his puzzle had finally snagged Tyrion's interest. "So, what changed?"
As one, their gazes both fell on their longtime adversary – Petyr Baelish. He sat across the hall, talking freely with the lords of the Vale and Edmure Tully.
"My little birds tell me that when Sansa greeted Littlefinger in the Tyrell camp, she was quite warm," Varys said.
Tyrion raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, I'll be sure to muster an army I don't own to ride to the aid of the next girl who's merely 'quite warm.'"
Varys shrugged. "It is Littlefinger's doing, whether or not we know why. Which leaves the Westerlands, which her brother has conquered, and the Baratheons, who came on behalf of their deal with Sansa for the Blackwater."
But Tyrion wasn't sure he agreed. Robb may have conquered the Westerlands, but if you viewed the kingdoms not as territory, but as families… the representative for the Lannisters was himself. Despite killing every member of his family that she could get her hands on, Sansa had left him alive. She could just as easily have asked Stannis to spare Podrick, instead, and blamed his squire for the leak in information. Once, Tyrion had stopped Joffrey from having her beaten in the middle of the throne room, but that was the sort of thing you sent flowers and a nice letter to repay, not leaked highly secret, unnatural knowledge to an enemy to alter the course of a war.
Why me?
"You forgot the Iron Islands," Tyrion said, nodding towards where Theon stood with his uncle.
"As everyone tends to," Varys replied. "But seeing as he proposed quite some time ago, and was just as thoroughly dismissed, I thought it barely worth discussing."
Tyrion could only gape at his friend. Varys was rarely this forthcoming. "Barely worth...?!"
Varys smiled. "Use that clever mind you're so fond of bragging about. If the Red Wolf is reshaping Westeros, what image is she making it into?"
The answer was so obvious that Varys couldn't have needed his help reaching it. "She's trying to unite it."
Varys drummed his fingers on the table, lost in his own thoughts.
"Though, pieces don't add up," Tyrion continued. "The Vale, the Dornish, are here out of the goodness of their hearts."
"Yes, that sounds like the Baelish we all know and adore," Varys replied. Tyrion chuckled. "And not all the Dornish are here," Varys continued. "Not all the Vale."
Tyrion studied the red-haired girl dancing with the prince of Dorne. "It's a known fact that she tried to stop Robb from declaring for the Iron Throne. If she's trying to unite Westeros, then toward what end?"
"That is the question, isn't it?" Varys said absently. From his tone, Tyrion wondered if his friend didn't already know the answer. Varys turned his gaze on Tyrion. "Has sparing your life recruited you to the Stark cause? Or do you blame her for making you her scapegoat while killing your family?"
Tyrion swallowed. Perhaps that was the real question. "An impertinent dwarf can't enjoy some drunken debauchery without picking a side?"
Varys's raised eyebrow gave a resounding 'no.' "Stannis, then?"
Tyrion sighed. "I believe he may want me dead almost as much as my own father. An accomplishment, truly, as my father holds me responsible for personally destroying everything he holds dear." Starting with killing my mother at my birth, then his royal legacy, and now our ancestral home with his favorite son inside it. If there was anything left to destroy beyond Tywin's life itself, Tyrion couldn't think of it.
"Those are calculations I did for myself, some time ago, and you see in whose camp I ended up," Varys replied.
Tyrion watched the wine slosh in his goblet as he swirled it. It took him a moment to dare to speak. "You and I both know those are not the only sides."
"You speak of whispers, rumors, unsubstantiated–"
"I speak of dragons."
Varys didn't reply. He took a sip of his own wine, letting the silence linger. "Then, to every party here, you speak treason."
Tyrion shrugged. "You and I both know that there are worse things than treason."
"I do," Varys raised an eyebrow. "And I wonder where making an unwilling scapegoat would fall, comparatively."
Tyrion took another sip. "So do I."
...
Sansa took a moment to let herself enjoy the simple fun of the dance. The last time she could remember dancing was what felt like ten years ago, back in Winterfell during the feast in King Robert's honor. Neither of her own two weddings since had been dancing affairs.
Oberyn laughed warmly as she stepped wrong, gracefully guiding her through the turns anyway.
"My apologies," she said, laughing in reply, "I'm afraid it's been some time since I've danced."
"Then you've been spending your time since far too seriously, if a beautiful girl like you has been too busy to dance." Oberyn's dark eyes studied her, as a blush bloomed across Sansa's cheeks. He looked away, over her head. "There is a serious matter I've been meaning to discuss with you, though it is hopefully not without its pleasure."
Sansa smiled up at him. "And what's that, my prince?"
Oberyn smiled down at her. "If you'd marry me."
Sansa missed a step. Only Oberyn's strong arms around her kept her moving onwards through the dance as all other thoughts left her head.
"Ellaria won't bite. Much," Oberyn continued with a teasing glint in his eye. "She likes you quite a bit, Red Wolf. We all do, and my daughters are fond of your sister. It would be an easy life, a good life. No weight of the world keeping you from dancing for so long ever again."
"Prince Oberyn," Sansa finally managed to reply. "You do me a great honor. But I'm still so young, and, and–"
"I have daughters older than you, I know. But Tyene is your age and I would find any king that listened to her advice to be a fool. Yet your brother is one of the cleverest men I know." He pulled her through a turn. "I have seen you act your age, Red Wolf. And it is always when you are pretending. No, Princess, you are not young." His face broke into a roguish grin. "If you find me to be old, tell me plainly."
"I do not," she softly replied, wary of offending one of her closest allies. "And find you an honorable man, in every way that matters. What did my brother say when you asked him?"
"I have not yet asked," Oberyn said, leading her through another turn. "I thought your answer to be the more important one."
Again, an incredible compliment. Again, heat rose in her cheeks. "Oh?" Sansa tried to keep her tone playful. "Then you've yet to discuss those horrid, miserable military details."
Oberyn laughed, seeing through her flimsy pretense. "I like it here, Red Wolf. I would like to stay." He shrugged. "I wrote to my brother and he agrees with me – Dorne would very much like to be married to the sister of our new king. I brought three thousand Dornish spears with me when I came to level your Mountain. With our marriage, Doran would give your brother the rest of our fifteen thousand to take his throne."
Fifteen thousand Dornish spears. That was an idea that Sansa had dismissed as impractical when it had been first suggested. But Dorne was too far from the North; it was not too far from the Iron Throne. With the North's ten thousand, the Riverlands' twenty thousand, and the Reach's fifty thousand, fifteen thousand from Dorne made it almost…
Sansa's breath caught.
One hundred thousand men.
All of them marching for Robb and his Iron Throne. Robb may not have spoken with Oberyn, but surely he had suspected. Small wonder that he had been so eager to take the throne, when an alliance of four kingdoms and one hundred thousand men was this easily within his grasp.
"Fifteen thousand, with our fleet, our resources, and our Dornish passion for fighting. I would challenge anyone in Westeros, even your Greyjoy, to match those numbers," Oberyn said.
Sansa's gaze wrenched back to Oberyn. "I… he, well, we–"
Oberyn tilted his head. "You are not betrothed, I assumed? Only good friends?"
The best of friends, Sansa thought bleakly. "You assumed correctly. Though I am loath to speak on my own behalf towards my betrothal before consulting my family."
Oberyn's smile was fond. "Tell me you need time to think it over, Red Wolf. Do not feed me excuses about a family I have never once seen you consult."
"I… yes." Her cheeks tinged with shamed embarrassment. "You deserve better than that."
His smile grew. Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted it upwards. "Not what I deserve. What I desire. Openness, trust… and you."
Lifting her hand, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. Oberyn said nothing further, simply escorted her back to her table, gave a slight bow, and strode across the hall.
Arya flopped into the seat next to her still-stunned sister, ignoring all of it. "There you are. You've been dancing for ages." She picked irritably at the neckline of her dress. "Mother forced me into this wretched thing. I kept telling her that Robb gave me to you, and that you'd let me wear Dornish robes, with pants, like Nym and Tyene and Obara, but she didn't listen. Could you talk to her? There's still time for me to change if you go right now."
Sansa barely heard a word.
The moment Robb caught wind of Oberyn's proposal, he'd betroth her. There wasn't a single valid reason for her to object to Oberyn, none except that she didn't want to. Didn't want to throw away everything she'd been building – or Theon. Oberyn spoke of shielding her from the cares of the world, which was a pretty way to say locking her away from any responsibilities, anything important. The rest of her family would die while all Sansa could do from the safety of her marriage was scream.
And there wasn't a single thing she could say to dissuade Robb – not without lying to him.
"It's Robb's wedding, Arya," Sansa focused on each word to keep from bursting into tears. "I don't think any force in the world could keep Mother from putting you in a dress."
Arya fell back with an irritable sigh.
...
"What do you think that song is?" Jaime asked, his ear pressed against the stone of the cell. "I can almost make out the words to 'Her Little Flower.'"
"They wouldn't play that at a wedding," Brienne hissed. Her back pressed up against the opposite wall of the cell, her feet stretched out before her, armor clanking when she moved. It was boring work, guarding a prisoner, and sitting out in the hall all the time would have eventually attracted attention. For all Sansa had warned her of Jaime's ruthless savagery, in the early days as his guard, he hadn't even bothered to sit up.
Instead, thanks to Brienne, he looked halfway presentable. His head was still shaved bare but no mud or rot clung to the rags they let him wear. Now, she'd see an escape attempt as progress.
"You have a better guess, then?" Jaime continued, his ear still pressed to the wall. He hummed along, tunelessly, until Brienne couldn't take it any longer.
"It's 'The Flowers of Spring," she snapped. "You heard them sing 'flower' and immediately went to the bawdiest one you know."
He grinned, completely unashamed. "I'd play it at my wedding. Not my fault the Starks don't have a sense of humor."
Your wedding to your sister? But Brienne kept from saying it. Cersei was dead and only after weeks of Brienne yelling at him had Jaime stopped trying to starve himself to death to join her. She could put up with juvenile humor if it meant an end to that.
The latch on the door turned. Brienne rose to her feet, her hand on her sword. She had a key, Theon had a key, but who…?
Lady Catelyn stood on the other side of the door, a plate in hand. Her warm smile was just for Brienne. "I didn't think it right for you to miss all the wedding feast, simply because you've been stuck down here."
An ugly blush stained Brienne's cheeks; the mother of the King, at her son's wedding, had personally brought Brienne food. But mostly, it had been too long since Brienne had had a mother of her own. "Thank you, my lady."
Catelyn peered past Brienne's shoulder. "Is he behaving himself?"
Jaime grinned. "Not as long as I can help it."
Brienne sighed wearily. "He's been fine."
"She calls me 'annoying,' when you're not here to be polite in front of," Jaime continued. "A miserable wretch of a prisoner, a waste of a perfectly good cell–"
Brienne's even wearier sigh cut him off. "He's exhausting, my lady."
Catelyn looked seriously at her sworn sword. "Do you need someone to relieve you? You don't have to be here as often as you are, Brienne."
If anyone else took her shift, they'd risk Jaime being assassinated – or freed. They'd risked a trusted Stark man as a hall guard while she slept and at a few other times, but it never sat well with Brienne. She forced the exhaustion back down. "I'm fine, my lady. Thank you for the food."
Catelyn passed over the plate with another motherly smile. "I'll be down to check on you again later. Let me know if there's anything you need."
"Thank you, my lady," Brienne said as Catelyn left, locking the door behind her.
Brienne settled back against the wall, plate of roast boar on her lap, dripping juices into the gravy and potatoes, the vegetables fresh and marvelous, the rich black cake luxurious and moist.
Jaime studied her – the usual occupation of his days, with nothing better to do. "You don't seem like the sort to care about missing the party upstairs. Especially not the dancing."
"Don't I?" Brienne sneered, cutting savagely into the meat. "Thank you, ser."
"A tournament, perhaps," Jaime continued, as if he hadn't gravely insulted her. "Though with how the last one turned out – getting framed for killing your beloved Renly and all – one could imagine tournaments to be quite low on your list as well."
Brienne ignored him, trying to focus on her food. Why hadn't the Starks just run Jaime through? Better yet, why hadn't she?
"Perhaps a hunt." Jaime needed no help whatsoever to carry on a conversation, Brienne had regrettably learned after all that time spent trying to coax words out of him. "I don't think hunts have yet been ruined for you. Yes, I think you'd like them, with the shooting and riding and all the men whipped into a frenzy. Robert dragged me after him on far too many, but…" Jaime shrugged.
Brienne paused between bites, lowering her fork to stare at him. There hadn't been a single insult in that. "What do you want?"
He smirked. "A captive can't enjoy the scintillating conversation of his captor?"
"That would require me speaking," Brienne replied. "What do you want?"
And suddenly, Jaime, man without honor, without shame, the Kingslayer, looked embarrassed. "I mean, if you're not going to eat it… it would be a shame for all this hard work you've done, yelling an appetite back into me, to go to waste, is all."
Brienne looked down at her plate. She had quite clearly not been wasting it – had almost scraped the plate clean to get the last of the boar. Then, she realized. "The cake? You want the cake?"
Jaime stared her down, his embarrassment locked firmly away. "If you're waiting for me to beg, tell me and I'll do it. I've nothing better to do." Brienne stared at him. After a long moment, he cleared his throat, looking away. "It's the same cake I loved as a boy. Our baker's best."
Without another word, Brienne passed her plate to him.
Jaime stared down at it in shock.
"Only if you use your right hand," she said.
His shock broke off in a glare. "You know I can't, wench."
Brienne shrugged, reaching forward to take the plate back.
He turned, shielding it from her. "Fine," Jaime snapped. "Apparently watching a cripple struggle is what passes for amusing you."
"You would know," Brienne replied evenly.
He glared all the more fiercely. Yet he raised his scarred and trembling misshapen right hand, gingerly picking up the fork.
A spasm of pain shot through his face. He dropped the fork.
"Try again," Brienne said without a hint of pity.
"I've mastered the sword only to be defeated by a fork," Jaime snapped. "It's humiliating. I'll never hold a blade again, I'll–"
"Try again," Brienne said.
Jaime glared. And he tried again.
...
"Everyone's awfully well-armed for a wedding," Rodrik commented, glancing down at the blade on Theon's hip. "Don't you trust your king to protect you at his own ceremony?"
Theon shifted awkwardly. He was just glad to be sitting at a table with his countrymen, his family, no matter Sansa's strange idiosyncrasies. "We're still at war, Uncle. And since these are my halls, shouldn't I be the one protecting him?"
"Yes, you're still at war. That'd be why you have 80,000 soldiers in and around your castle to protect you." Rodrik gave another wry glance down at Theon's sword. "You sure that bit of metal's going to be the one that does the trick?"
No, not even remotely. But when he'd suggested the same to Sansa, she'd gone frantic.
.
"Please, Theon," she'd begged in front of her brother, who shook his head fondly. "Please. I know it's crazy, but it's Robb's wedding, and I…" She winced. "I'm worried."
Robb gestured at his sister. "I already agreed to her request to double the soldiers on duty, but she wants the guests armed. See if you can talk sense into her."
But Sansa hadn't looked away from Theon and he was as useless as ever before her wide-eyed plea. "I'll wear a bloody sword, if it'll make you happy."
She clasped his hand, and if the flood of relief in her face didn't make him feel like a damn hero just for agreeing.
Robb gave a disgusted snort at the both of them.
"Sansa's seen you die at a wedding, Robb," Theon said, the urge to defend her as irrepressible as ever. "I wouldn't ignore her. Not on this."
Robb rolled his eyes. "Fine, Sansa. Convince whomever you will to go armed to a wedding. But you won't see the groom with a sword."
"Keep one near you?" Sansa suggested. "Chain mail, under your tunic? Or–"
"Enough."
.
But it wasn't as if Theon could give Rodrik any good explanation.
"I'll bet you wish it was an axe," Theon said instead.
Rodrik chuckled. "You're not the first ironborn to wield a sword, even if they might act like it."
He indicated another table with his chin, where the four remaining members of Theon's crew laughed and tossed back ales with his uncle's men.
"You'll need new men for your ship," Rodrik continued, still watching them. "Those four hate your guts."
"For wearing a sword? I made them rich, I–"
"You made them rich, but you also got their crewmates killed."
"How else could I have done it?" Theon spat. "They were all I had, I couldn't–"
"Reach out to an uncle?" Rodrik said, with a raised eyebrow. "A sister? Or, perhaps, to your Stark king, there? Surely he had some men lying around?"
"Stark men," Theon replied with a glare. "They'd never follow me – and I wouldn't want them to."
Rodrik shook his head. "Don't be a fool, nephew. Any man who will hold a sword at your side is a good man to have at your side. It keeps more of those ironborn you value alive, too."
"They died heroes," Theon said, growing angry.
"Yes," Rodrik replied. "And they died."
A loud burst of laughter echoed from the head table, pulling Theon's gaze away. Robb had his head tipped back, grinning widely, with an arm slung around his bride. Even as Theon watched, Robb turned to her with stars in his eyes, delighted to grab a quick kiss.
Margaery wasn't about to let that stand for a second. Smirking up at him, she pulled her husband down for a proper kiss. It continued long past propriety, only breaking away at hoots and hollers from his bannermen. Both of the newlyweds could still only laugh, their blushes bold enough to light the room.
"Well, show the good folk!" Umber said, standing before their table and grinning just as broadly. "I think my wedding present deserves to be seen just as much as the others!"
"It will be seen, to be sure," Margaery replied with a smile. "But only by my husband."
"And you can be sure I'll enjoy the sight," Robb continued, his amusement undimmed.
After Umber had finished grinning at them, more guests continued up the steps, laying more presents before their king and queen.
Sansa watched the gifts given with only half an eye. Arya had long left to join the Sand Snakes for some knife game to which Sansa definitely didn't want to know the rules.
Her thoughts were swirling too thickly for conversation or celebration. At least she could track the gifts given through her preoccupation.
One of the Martell generals stepped forward, offering a ceremonial spear that Robb thanked him profusely for.
A lord and lady Sansa had never met stopped by her table, offering their congratulations. Sansa offered her usual polite courtesy, and they thankfully left her alone.
Edmure Tully brought forward a fine set of suits for Robb, cut in a more Southern style. "Better than all those furs for the air at King's Landing," he said with a grin. Robb thanked him just as profusely.
The next wedding guest walked up the steps to the head table. The entire hall fell silent.
Davos Seaworth set a long, cloth-wrapped bundle on the table before Robb. "It's from King Stannis," he said bluntly. "He wanted you to have that. Was most insistent."
Mutters echoed around the room at the 'king' before Stannis's name and the Hand of the King badge still pinned to Davos's tunic. But Robb unwrapped the bundle, his expression as serious as Margaery's watching him.
The cloth fell away. A gasp rose from the room.
And slowly, Robb drew forth his father's sword.
The Valyrian steel blade glittered in his hands. Ice, the ancestral Stark sword, come home at last.
"Thank you," Robb said, fighting not to lose control in front of all his guests. "This means… It means…"
"It's nothing more than what was right and just," Davos replied. "Your father was a good man, and true. It was a shame what the Lannisters did to him."
"Thank you," Robb replied again, unable to form other words. "Thank you."
Before the moment could linger, Margaery stood, clapping her hands together. "Who wants pie?"
Cheers and affirmations drowned out anything else.
Sansa shoved her way through the crowd, uncaring as they crushed against her and unwilling to wait a moment longer.
She grabbed his arm. Davos turned, surprised. "Thank you, Ser Davos," Sansa said emphatically.
He smiled at her. "Your brother already thanked me enough."
"Yes, but…" But Robb had declared for the Iron Throne, and was coming for Stannis's head, and he had no lawful claim, and–
Davos patted Sansa's hand. "King Stannis suspected what your brother would do before I got here. This had nothing to do with him. Stannis said we owed it to your father."
Her lip trembled. One mention of her father, and she was nothing but a little girl again, glad she could act her age with no one the wiser. Tears spilled down her face.
"Sweet thing, there's no need for that," Davos said, hurriedly searching for a handkerchief. "It's a happy day, princess. Your father would be proud."
"I know," Sansa said, blinking upwards to stop the tears.
"Here, let's get you to your family." Davos searched the room. "Your mother, she's–"
She was sitting with Baelish. Lord Royce of the Vale laughed at something she said, Edmure Tully at her side grinning along.
Immediately, Sansa turned away, leading Davos in the opposite direction entirely. Thankfully, Theon's table was near, even if the sight of Oberyn sitting with Theon filled her with a different sort of dread.
"Greyjoy, always a pleasure. Prince Oberyn," Davos said, joining Oberyn across the table as Sansa slid in next to Theon.
Sansa braced herself for some flirtatious comment from Oberyn but his gaze skipped past her entirely to exchange pleasantries with Davos.
Theon caught the tension in her posture, casting her a quick, questioning glance. Minutely, Sansa shook her head.
"I'd like to thank you again for the Battle of the Blackwater, Greyjoy," Davos said to Theon. "Without your information, that much wildfire would have been truly devastating."
Sansa knew full well. She could still hear the explosion, the screams of men burning in her sleep.
"Happy to be of use," Theon said. He raised an eyebrow at Sansa in a silent question of giving her credit.
With a small, pleased smile, she again shook her head.
But across from them, Oberyn laughed. "Ser Davos, it appears you haven't heard. The Red Wolf is the one you have to thank. Unlikely as it seems, she is the North's spymaster."
Startled, Davos turned to her, but the denial was already on her lips. "My lords, I beg you not to exaggerate. I scribed Prince Oberyn's letter and remembered the words, that is all, and–"
Oberyn shook his head, still grinning. "She likes to pretend she's not a cunning little beast underneath all that beauty, but it won't be long before her fangs start to show."
Theon leaned forward, braced to defend her, but Oberyn simply winked and sauntered away from the table.
Davos was still stunned. "Is this true?" he asked Theon.
Sansa was still hesitant, not sure how to play the new revelation, what her options were–
Theon's posture relaxed so suddenly that she knew it to be an act. "Course it's true. You think we stumbled upon information so good men would die for it? The princess, here, is the cleverest person in the room."
The corners of Davos's mouth quirked up. "It's a big room. And I believe the Lords Varys and Baelish over there have a reputation for being slightly clever."
"Baelish is here? Then she's twice as clever as anyone in the room."
"Theon," Sansa said, with no small amount of fondness in the rebuke.
He grinned at her, unabashed.
But if his words had been a tactic, they had worked. Davos chuckled into his ale, distracted from the oddness of Sansa's role by the expected ridiculous praises of someone in love–
Sansa's brain snagged.
The word churned endlessly through her head as she worried it over and over. Love, love, love.
She'd never been in love. She'd never had anyone in love with her (Baelish would never count). She'd been betrothed four times; married twice. And in not a one of them had she known what a fraction of love felt like.
Theon's hand on her wrist pulled her back to the present. He studied her face with concern written on his own. She smiled at him, full of reassurance she wished she felt.
"I had another bit to run past you, and it seems now's as good a time as any," Davos said, with a glance between Sansa and Theon, as if unsure who to address.
"Go on," Theon said. Their table was far from the surrounding ones, the din of the room loud enough to protect their whispers.
The grizzled smuggler leaned closer. "Every time I've met with your king, he's had a Tyrell of some sort at his side and addressed me with an uncommon amount of… distance, considering our shared history."
"Yes, Ser Davos," Sansa replied. "Being a king often puts one in more precarious situations than they'd like."
Davos smiled. "I was hoping you'd say something like that. Stannis sent me with terms to give to your brother. But I hadn't thought he'd want them in front of his other advisors."
Sansa's heart pounded. This was her chance! To dissuade Robb, to do any endless number of things. "I will see he hears your terms."
Theon eyed her warily. But Sansa kept her gaze locked on the smuggler.
"King Stannis can't give the North independence," Davos explained. "The seven kingdoms are his by right and anything less is stealing from him. But he can offer the deal the Targaryens once gave Dorne – you'll be prince and princesses of the North, with your brother Bran married to Princess Shireen, to be her Prince Consort once she ascends the throne."
"Bran cannot produce heirs," Sansa quickly replied. "It would have to be Rickon."
"Aye, then Rickon." Davos studied Sansa, searching for a hint of her feelings on the matter.
They were generous terms from Stannis, indeed. Though, not terms the North would lightly take – not without its independence.
"We have wildlings on our northern border and the Wall that's been undermanned for decades," Sansa replied. "What support could we expect from your king, should we agree to make him ours?"
And white walkers, and undead, and–
Davos raised an eyebrow at Theon. "Do all little girls in the North speak like this?"
Theon grinned. "Only the Stark ones. Challenge Arya to a test of throwing knives and I think you'll enjoy the results."
Davos chuckled, shaking his head. "You can expect King Stannis's support, princess. I can't say as to how much he'll give, as he doesn't have the men your Tyrell friends do. But he'll be there, fighting at your side. Personally. You can count on that."
"And those Tyrell friends?" Theon asked. "What of them? There must be a reason you didn't want to speak in front of them."
Davos hesitated. "Lord Mace Tyrell swore to support Renly against Stannis, and fled rather than accept Stannis's gracious terms of mercy towards all who had supported his younger brother."
"Because Stannis killed Renly," Sansa said, and Davos stopped. "I am a spymaster, Ser Davos. You should not act so surprised."
A shadow, wearing the face of Stannis Baratheon, Brienne had once told Sansa, a lifetime ago.
Davos frowned down at his hands, a strange look of guilt across his face. "No matter who did the deed, Renly was the younger brother and declaring himself king is treachery to his elder brother. The Tyrells share in his treason."
"All the Tyrells?" Sansa asked. She had once told Margaery her worst case scenario, long ago, but hoped it would not come to losing Margaery's father to death or exile.
"Any Tyrell that did not bend the knee."
"Surely you cannot hold a son accountable for his father's crimes?" Nor a daughter, but Sansa hoped she wouldn't have to be that direct.
Davos narrowed his eyes at her. "I'm a plain man, princess. Speak plainly to me."
Oh well. "Lord Mace Tyrell committed treason against Stannis," Sansa admitted. "But if Mace is charged with it and removed from his seat, surely if Loras bent the knee, King Stannis would be satisfied…?"
His brow furrowed, considering. "It's possible. Though 'removed' is too polite a term for traitors."
"Burned alive?" Theon guessed.
With a reluctant glance towards Sansa, Davos nodded.
A long sigh escaped her. The Tyrells would never agree. Which meant Robb would never agree.
"I will bring your terms to my brother," Sansa said.
"Can't expect more than that, princess." Davos had to know what a poor chance his terms stood of being well-received, and left their table with polite farewells.
Theon and Sansa sat in silence for a long moment.
"Robb'll never take those terms," Theon said.
"I know," Sansa replied, weariness and regret in her voice.
Theon looked at her. "If you were Robb, would you?"
It was a good question. Even if the Starks didn't take the Iron Throne, there was a chance the Tyrells would lend men to defend their daughter in the North. Stannis might aid them personally, but with how many men? A marriage to Oberyn could easily lend them more men than Stannis would supply – and without burning alive one of their staunchest allies. Even if Sansa could sneak Mace Tyrell to Essos before Stannis got his hands on him, exiling their lord was a high cost for the Tyrells to pay for a Stark alliance and a mere title of 'princess' in a cold, barren kingdom far from their home. Reinforcements, supplies, funding would all cease to flow to the North from the Reach.
"No," she said softly. "I would not."
Abruptly, Theon nudged her arm, snapping her from her thoughts. "I've heard this is a party. Have you remembered to enjoy yourself, yet?"
Sansa laughed. Not even dancing with Oberyn qualified anymore. "No, I don't think I have."
"Come on, then." Grabbing her hand, Theon hauled her after him. "We're complaining to a king I know."
...
Gods, Sansa was beautiful. Theon enjoyed the simple excuse to touch her skin, her smooth, delicate hand in his own threatening to light his blood on fire. The smile on her face was radiant, happy, and just for him. He couldn't help grinning like an idiot looking back at her.
Robb was busy talking to a terrified-looking Tyrell bannerman, but Theon didn't care about interrupting. Striding up to the table where Robb sat with Margaery, Theon swept a comically deep bow. "My King! My Queen! The Lord of Casterly Rock has yet to congratulate you on your marriage!"
But before Theon could rise from his bow, Robb was already around the table, pulling him into a hug. With his other arm, he swept Sansa into it as well. Robb grinned like a lovestruck fool, squeezing his family tighter before releasing them. "Fancy cloak you've got there, Greyjoy."
Theon grinned back at him, feeling like boys at Winterfell together all over again. "This old thing?" Theon fingered one of the delicate grey kraken tendrils stitched into his cloak. "Did you know that I'm so important now that all my cloaks are stitched by a princess?"
Sansa smacked him on the arm. "Keep talking like that and see if that princess will ever make you another."
The Tyrell bannerman backed slowly away from the table, the look of fear never leaving his eyes. Theon didn't understand. Why…?
The mound by the side of Robb's table shifted. Nymeria raised her head.
The bannerman bolted.
Then Theon spotted the rest. At Margaery's end of the table, Lady lay with her head on her paws. And behind Robb, Grey Wind sat at attention, his lone eye flicking over the crowds. His scarred bad eye, sewn shut, made the direwolf look like the fiercest veteran in the room.
"Sansa," Theon said with exasperation. She turned, looking innocent, and he gestured to the wolves. "What did you do?"
Her innocence dissolved into mischief. "I may have suggested that Robb needed protecting. May."
"This is how you got around him refusing to carry a sword?!" Theon replied.
Sansa's mischievous look only grew.
"And good luck convincing a direwolf you don't need protecting, once they've decided that you do," Robb said dryly.
"They… um… take their job very seriously," Margaery weakly added. She sat still, her eyes flicking down to Lady at her feet. "I would very much like to be able to stand some time soon."
As she spoke, Lady wagged her tail, smacking Margaery in the leg. Margaery flinched.
"Lady!" Theon said. "Stop scaring the bride!"
Lady looked back at Margaery, then at Theon, then lay her head back down on her paws. She gave Theon a huff.
Margaery squeezed her eyes shut.
With a sigh, Sansa walked toward her direwolf. "Alright, come on Lady. Let's go protect Arya for a bit. Your new Queen needs a chance to breathe."
Before Sansa could leave the dais, Grey Wind moved. He stepped up behind Margaery, his nose pressed to her neck. He sniffed, long and deep. Margaery didn't dare move a muscle.
"Grey Wind!" Robb called, racing towards his wolf.
But Grey Wind moved faster. In one motion, his long tongue licked all the way up Margaery's face.
Robb froze in shock. Margaery turned towards the grizzled direwolf but he padded away, finally settling down to sleep behind her chair. Slowly, Margaery stretched out a hand. It sunk deep into his fur. When she stroked the direwolf, his great tail gave a thump.
"Would you look at that," Robb whispered. Margaery turned to her husband, her face filled with triumphant glee.
Sansa noticed a snag in one corner of Margaery's gown and instantly bent to mend it, as the two girls laughed over it together.
Theon watched them, feeling as helpless as if his heart were in his throat. With only a few things changed, this could be Sansa and his wedding. Could be her laughing in the gown as a friend fixed it. Could be Robb at his side, watching Theon drink in the sight of his wife.
Theon turned to his friend and Robb was just as helplessly caught by the sight, the easy smile on his face so overflowing with love and contentment that Theon's longing for it stabbed him through the heart.
"Robb, I…" Theon swallowed and broke off, looking back at the girls.
Robb clapped him on the shoulder. "It's my wedding day. If there's something you'd ask of me, brother, don't hesitate on this of all days."
Theon swallowed again. "Sansa, I'd…"
But it was too much. Theon knew it was too much. Robb had already paid any debt he owed Theon with this castle. With Margaery wed and the Lannisters decimated, the sister of the King in the North would only have Princess Shireen as her rival for the most desirable lady in all of Westeros – even if Sansa were a wretched hag with oatmeal for brains. Which, she most decidedly, was not.
Sansa laughed at something Margaery said – her red hair gleaming in the golden light, her smile radiating joy – and Theon was lost. The words fell from his mouth before his better sense could stop him.
"I'd ask for Sansa's hand," Theon said all at once. "I'd ask for your blessing."
Robb's smile for his brother was fond. He squeezed Theon's shoulder again before removing his hand. "No."
Theon spun in horror. His body felt as cold and numb as if blood spilled from the wound Robb had dealt him. He'd tried to expect rejection, but no preparation could brace him for so callous, so cruel–
Robb raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his wine. "I've heard ironborn aren't given things. So, I absolutely refuse to give you my blessing."
Clenching his jaw, Theon looked away. He couldn't stand to see such a pleased expression on his king's face for a second longer. Only the fact of the wedding itself kept him from marching away in anger yet again, riding from the walls, perhaps hopping onto a ship, and sailing for the farthest horizon he could find.
"However," Robb continued. The word stopped Theon in his tracks. "I've heard ironborn are fond of taking things. So, if you manage to win her over…" Robb shrugged, a delightfully wicked gleam in his eye. "Who am I to stop you?"
Theon crushed Robb to him. Robb could only laugh as the wind was knocked out of him.
Theon broke away, staring the man he'd always hoped to claim as a blood-brother in the face. Any thanks were too paltry. Robb stared back and Theon knew he understood entirely, felt it just as deeply.
But when Theon turned to Sansa, she'd already stepped away, pulled into conversation with her mother.
Robb grinned at him. "Better get used to fighting for her attention."
Theon grinned back. "An Iron Price I'll gladly pay."
...
Sansa couldn't ignore her mother all night – even as much as her mother's dinner companions made her sorely wish to.
"You look lovely, Princess," Lord Royce said, with a kindly smile.
"Thank you, my lord," Sansa replied.
"It's the Tully in her line," Edmure said with a laugh. "Attractive people, the lot of us."
Baelish said nothing. His smile said all he needed, his eyes never leaving her.
Catelyn clasped Sansa's hand, her fondness evident for her eldest daughter. "Have you been enjoying yourself, Sansa?"
But another set of eyes watched her from across the hall – eyes of the only other person she'd convinced to attend the wedding armed. Though, with him, it hadn't taken much convincing.
.
"Watch out for Baelish and Bolton," Sansa had told the Hound before the feast, stepping close to impart her seriousness. "Never trust that they're not up to something – or that anyone is safe around them."
He watched her steadily, the ruined half of his face never wavering. "You want me to watch them? Or you?"
"Them." The word had to be dragged out of her to voluntarily cede his protection. "I'll be safe enough."
He raised an eyebrow. "I should bloody hope you'd be safe at your brother's wedding. And if I can't watch both–"
"Baelish," Sansa said without a second's hesitation. "Always Baelish."
His eyebrow raised higher. "Alright, little wolf."
.
So Sansa sat next to her mother, flashing her politest smile. And, meeting his eyes across the hall, she gave a faint nod.
Immediately, the Hound made his way towards her. A laughing couple didn't move out of his way quickly enough and he shoved them aside. Sansa winced. Subtle, he was not.
Catelyn gave a questioning look to her daughter as the swordsman came up to loom behind her, but Sansa chose to ignore it.
"Oh, I'm enjoying myself very much," she replied instead. "The food has been just divine and everyone looks so lovely, with the dancers so fine! However did you get smiths to make such beautiful crowns for them, Mother?"
As usual, acting her age diverted her mother from inquiring further into any of Sansa's oddnesses. A mischievous little smile twisted Catelyn's lips. "Because we didn't make them. They're from the Lannister's own vaults, from when they used to rule the Kingdom of the Rock. Fitting, don't you think?"
The horrifying irony hit Sansa. Starks crowned and married in the Lannister castle, in the Lannisters' own crowns. On instinct, she couldn't help but search out Tyrion in the crowd, curious as to how he was taking his family's desecration. Predictably, he looked to be halfway drunk, sharing a new bottle between himself, Varys, and Oberyn Martell as girls clustered around them.
Not good. She liked Oberyn well enough, but it would be a snowy day in Dorne before she trusted him. And Tyrion, unfortunately, was walking evidence of her direst secret. Perhaps it would have been far wiser to simply let him die with his family. But for all the Lannisters had done to her own family, Tyrion had never done anything but try to help. She couldn't repay that with death – not when she had the power to do otherwise.
"Isn't that clever, Sansa?" Baelish's friendly voice drew her attention slowly back to their table. "You'd be amazed at secrets one can find in vaults – if one searches hard enough."
Sansa met his gaze evenly, refusing to yield the slightest ground. She turned to smile at Catelyn, instead. "Yes, quite clever, Mother. I bet every Lannister king since the Andals is rolling in his tomb."
Catelyn laughed. "One could only hope."
Lord Royce stood. "Lady Catelyn, it has been too long since I've gotten to enjoy a dance. If you would do me the honors…?"
With a smile, Catelyn took the offered hand. "It would be my pleasure."
Leaning closer to Edmure, Baelish nodded over his shoulder. "That Redwyne girl has been eying you all night. A pretty little thing, wouldn't you say?"
Edmure gave Baelish a disbelieving look, but followed his gaze. The girl giggled, turning away.
Trying to hide his blush, Edmure stood, brushing off his coat. "If you'll excuse me…"
Baelish chuckled as Edmure left, crossing the hall toward the Redwyne girl with quick strides. But before he could move, Sansa was already standing, stepping away from the table.
"Lady Sansa. I would speak with you."
Sansa stopped. Turning around, she spared Baelish her frostiest smile. "I am sure you would. Yet I find I am quite busy, Lord Baelish."
He stepped around the table, towards her. The Hound stepped into his path. Baelish cast a disdainful look up at him. The Hound's stony expression never wavered.
"I will speak with you, Sansa," Baelish continued. He arched an eyebrow. "I figured you would prefer it be here, in view of all your friends, where you can have no cause to be afraid of me."
He spoke loudly to carry across the distance. At nearby tables, heads turned, puzzled by his strange words.
Sansa swallowed, loath to cause a scene – as well he knew. "Who says I'm afraid?"
He spread his hands wide, with a wry glance towards the Hound.
Gathering her nerve, she drew to her full height. "Speak if you must, Lord Baelish." Her tone was imperious, deigning to address him. "Though I shall not grant you long."
"You are too kind, my lady," Baelish sarcastically replied. He waited, but the Hound still hadn't moved. After waiting a moment more, finally the Hound stepped aside. Baelish glared at him as he strode past. Cautiously, he sat, watching Sansa as if wary of his every motion scaring her off.
Even more cautiously, Sansa sat next to him. The Hound stepped further back, out of earshot of their whispers. Sansa flashed him a look of gratitude, as always, for looking after her. Embarrassed, the Hound looked away.
Baelish took a moment to gather his words.
"I have been your friend in sincerity," he slowly replied. "I carried your letters, snuck them past Lannisters, and always treated you fairly. Yet you took me for a fool and now, barely bother to conceal your loathing. Why?"
"You betrayed my father," Sansa snapped, glad to have such an easy answer. "You held a knife to his throat in the throne room as your guards took him. How do you think I should feel towards you, Lord Baelish?"
But Baelish shook his head. "You befriended me falsely long before I held a knife anywhere near your father and you maintained our same friendship for the sake of your letters long after. Perhaps I have not spoken plainly enough." He leaned closer, his arm on the table beside them. Sansa fought the urge to lean away. "In that future that you see, what do I do that makes you hate me so?"
She didn't dare to breathe.
Baelish remained studying her, his blue eyes piercing. "I would sorely like to change it."
Whatever he felt for herself or her mother, Sansa had revealed knowledge of a sort for which Baelish would willingly have sold his soul. She'd known how desperately he'd want her knowledge, known how ruthless he was at getting what he wanted, and seen no other option. Now, it was time to pay the price. Though, perhaps she could leverage some small part to her advantage. If he kept a healthy fear of her, a leash around his neck could be a useful thing. At least, until she slit that neck.
"Ramsay Bolton," Sansa finally said, deciding the information safe enough. "You turn me over to him."
Baelish leaned back, his brow furrowed in thought. "That seems… unlikely."
"Indeed," Sansa imperiously replied. "I have made sure of that."
When he shifted closer again, there was a fervent gleam in his eyes. "Tell me the rest of my mistakes and I will avoid them. Let me help you, Sansa. There is no reason for us to be working against each other!"
"No?" Sansa replied archly. "If only I'd accept Robin Arryn, you'd protect me from Lysa?"
Baelish paused, confusion and wariness warring on his face. "Do I not?"
"You do." Sansa took a long draught of her mother's wine. "I'm not particularly fond of your methods."
"Few are," Baelish replied. "Fewer argue with the results."
Sansa hummed noncommittally. "And what will be the results of your newfound status at the Vale, Lord Baelish? Will I have to guard against such a lovely friendship as yours?"
"I should dearly hope not, Sansa. You shall always be safe with me." He put a hand on her arm, leaning closer to make his point clear. "No matter where I am. Do you understand?"
But her face could have been carved ice. "Remove your hand. Before I have Sandor remove it permanently."
Baelish drew away. Sansa could see as he shoved the fire in his eyes down, his usual detached demeanor covering it over. "That would truly be a shame. I'd hate to see a misunderstanding cause the Greyjoy boy to lose a hand."
Sansa's heart seized. "What did you say?" she breathed.
Baelish turned, studying the room at her side. "It seemed a wise precaution, as I was unsure how successful I would be at restoring your and my friendship. I have standing orders with any number of men that should any misfortune befall me, in any way, the same will be dealt to Theon Greyjoy." He glanced at Sansa with something like regret. "I did so want to be friends."
"Anything that's done to him, I'll do to you double," Sansa spat.
Baelish's smile didn't reach his eyes. He tipped his goblet towards her in a mock toast. "I would expect nothing less."
Blood pounding in her ears, Sansa shoved away from the table and stalked across the hall.
At the edge of the room, a hand snagged her arm.
Sansa spun, biting out a furious, "Leave me–!"
Theon stared back at her, consternation in his eyes. He dropped her hand. "Are you alright?"
The fight drained out of her. "I'm sorry, Theon. I'll be fine. I just…" But there were no easy words for what she 'just.' It felt as if she were balancing a castle of glass on her nose like a trained bear with a ball, and the slightest wrong breath would bring it crashing down – and cut her to ribbons as the shards fell.
Theon stepped closer, with a warm smile just for her. "Anything I can do to help?"
His few words were too much to handle. Sansa sagged against his chest, grateful beyond words for his support. With a chuckle, Theon returned the embrace, one hand smoothing over her back. "Any time," he said, with laughter in his voice.
Reluctantly, Sansa pulled away. Having snared both Oberyn and Baelish's interest meant that any move she made with Theon put a target on his back. One she'd already painted too brightly and one he was already incapable of defending himself against. When Baelish mentioned hiring men to kill him, Sansa hadn't doubted the truth for a second; likely, Baelish hadn't even needed to look beyond the ironborn. They had little love for their lost heir; Theon, little reason to distrust them. He'd never raise a hand to stop the knife before an ironborn slid it between his ribs.
But when she moved to draw away completely, Theon's hand tangled with her own. He studied her with a tilted head. "It still doesn't look like you've had much of a good time."
With a sigh, Sansa looked down. "It's been a long day. I've a lot on my mind."
"You used to share that with me."
Sansa looked up at him, confused.
He smiled again. "Your mind."
She looked away again, unsure how to respond. Baelish wants you dead, I need to kill him first, but if we make a wrong move doing it, he'll get his wish even from beyond the grave. Oh, and Oberyn proposed, and the moment Robb hears of it I'll be betrothed again. I could likely stop it, but not without ending support from Dorne and we'll need them in the war against the undead, so I have to string him along carefully without offending him or ending up married to him.
And if I tell you even a hint, you'll smash my glass castle yourself.
Theon's gentle squeeze of her hand drew her back to the present. "Save the weightier bits for later, then. Dance with me?"
His words – so close to what Oberyn had said and so, immeasurably far – struck a chord deep within her. Theon had shown time and time again that he'd protect her – and that he'd never dismiss her.
It was a gift more precious than gold.
And she hadn't been worthy of it.
"I can't," Sansa said, and felt her voice breaking. "I wish more than anything that I could, but I can't keep stringing you along. Robb'll never give his approval and I'll be forced to marry for an army and you'll have to just watch it all and go quietly insane, or, or…" Betray us all, yet again. But she couldn't say it, not with him looking at her like she held the world in her palm, not with tears for her own future threatening to spill down her face.
But strangely, Theon looked… pleased. He cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, will I?"
"Be serious, Theon!" Sansa begged. He had no right to stand there, so self-assured and handsome, no right to make her ache for those girlish daydreams of love that she thought she'd long since banished.
"I have never been more serious," Theon replied. Slowly, he raised the hand of hers still tangled with his own. Turning it over, he pressed a kiss against her palm. Sansa's breath caught. With a smirk, he murmured, "And I'm not one to stand idly by while some rich ponce steals what I've rightfully stolen."
A laugh burst from her. Shocked by her own actions, Sansa covered her mouth. But Theon grinned, and another giggle from her followed.
"Theon," she said. But the reprimand was gentle, the tears pushed further away. "You can't just…"
"Looks like I can," he smugly replied.
Another giggle burst from her. Warm feelings she'd never felt before threatened to split open her chest. If this was what love felt like, it was no wonder its power had leveled kingdoms, had spun the song of ice and fire of Jon's birthright.
Sansa looked away, knowing she couldn't hold her resolve if she could still see him.
"I want to make you happy, Sansa," Theon said. "If I won't make you happy, I'll never mention it again."
"You would," she softly replied. "More than anything. But I can't…"
"Robb doesn't approve," Theon offered, his tone far too casual for the words it carried. "But said if I could get you to approve, he wouldn't stop us."
Her gaze snapped up to him. "He said that?"
Solemnly, Theon nodded. But he couldn't keep his face straight for long and the mischief of the sea sparkled in his eyes. "So, Sansa. Do you approve? Or do I need to–"
"Yes," Sansa breathed.
Theon crushed her to him, kissing her as if his life depended on it. Sansa melted in his arms. His touch was a welcome fire, the taste of him something she'd never known she'd missed. She kissed him back just as fiercely, desperately, wondering how in the world she thought she could survive without this, without him.
Finally, Theon stepped away. She took a moment to catch her breath… and realized with a dawning horror that the entire time, they'd been in full view of anyone who cared to look.
Over Theon's shoulder, Oberyn smirked at her from one side of the room. On the other, Baelish looked deadly serious. Near him, the Hound turned away from where he'd been watching, striding out of the nearest door. Robb had been caught talking with Loras and hadn't seen, but at his side, Margaery smirked at Sansa all the way across the hall. She raised her goblet in a subtle toast.
In Sansa's mind, the tinkle of the falling shards of her glass castle already filled the air.
But Theon grinned down at her, his face flushed. Here, in his arms, Sansa had never felt so sure that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
To the sounds of even more glass shards falling, Sansa reached up, threading a hand through his hair. She pulled his face down to hers, happy to drown in another of his kisses. His lips were soft, his fingers on her face feather-light. She sighed against him and he chuckled, his hand at her hip pulling her ever closer.
"There will be no bedding ceremony!" Robb's voice echoed across the hall.
Reluctantly, Theon and Sansa broke apart. Though, when she moved to step away, Theon's arm stayed anchored around her waist. Sansa flushed, enjoying the small, possessive action.
At the head of the room, Robb stood proudly, drawing every eye. At his side, Margaery commanded no less attention, her gaze no less queenly for being warm.
Robb grinned. "I don't need any of your help undressing my new wife!" Chuckles echoed from his men, along with whistles and lurid hollers. "So, if you don't mind, Margaery and I ask our leave of all you fine folk."
"Thank you all for celebrating with us!" Margaery declared, her smile perfection. "This has been a wonderful day and I leave it to you to continue the celebration in our absence!"
Umber rose unsteadily. "Robb and Margaery Stark! The King and Queen in the North!"
Cheers replied to his words, the wedding guests instantly on their feet in happy applause.
But Sansa gripped Theon's hand like a lifeline, aborting his applause before it could begin. "Sansa?" He bent closer to hear her over the din. "What's the matter?"
"The bedding," she whispered. "That's when they killed him, at Edmure's wedding."
Theon gripped her hand in reply. "He's fine, Sansa. We've men swarming the castle. There's no enemies anywhere near Robb."
"So many men," she replied. "They could be anyone, could be–"
"Robb is fine."
Robb and Margaery waved to the crowd, all three direwolves following the couple through the doors before they closed behind them.
Slowly, conversation resumed throughout the feast. Laughter, and jokes, and whispered comments and…
Sansa let out a breath. "Robb is fine."
Theon squeezed her hand again.
She squeezed back, thankful as ever for his reassuring presence, for letting her be crazy without passing judgement.
As she watched the doors through which Robb had passed, Theon's hand in her own, Sansa was left wondering just how many things in this new future were truly written in stone.