FIC: None Of Us Are Whole (Theon/Sansa) for snowbryneich
Recipient: snowbryneich
Title: None Of Us Are Whole
Author: shadow_truths
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Theon/Sansa
Word Count: 5,788
Summary: After the war, Sansa faces an arranged marriage with Theon, and the two of them must reach some common ground.
Warnings: Some pregnancy and breast-feeding fantasizing.
Peace is forged with marriages and hostages, and Sansa felt like both. When she'd heard her brother's decision, she had wanted to scream Why him? Anyone but him! But it was already settled, and, as usual, she had to do her duty for her family.
Everyone tried to be comforting. "At least he's not too old," they said, or "At least he's handsome enough." The worst was when they would tell her "Well, at least you know him already!" She always felt like pointing out that her familiarity with Theon Greyjoy was the main reason she didn't want to marry him, but she held her tongue.
"It's the best match you could hope for," was another platitude that was trotted out in an effort to cheer her, but that too failed. Sansa was a widow, used goods, and because of her dubious past, couldn't reasonably expect a match with one of the other great Houses - only the Greyjoys were desperate enough to accept her, it seemed. She had sworn up and down that Tyrion Lannister hadn't so much as touched her, that she was still a maiden, but the septa who had examined her (dry, wrinkled fingers, prying eyes) had said she was not. Sansa didn't know how that could possibly be. At first she had thought someone must have bribed the septa, but she couldn't imagine who would want to do such a thing.
Eventually, faced with everyone else's steadfast belief that she had been deflowered, she had begun to doubt herself. Could she be wrong? Had Tyrion done something after all, and she just couldn't remember? Or had it been Petyr? The time she had spent as his 'daughter' Alayne already seemed like a story she had been told long ago, though not one of Old Nan's with a happy ending. Maybe she had forgotten parts of it, parts too horrible to recall. She wasn't certain. She knew that sometimes her memory played tricks on her (the Hound's cruel mouth on mine) and she wondered if this was one of them. It was unsettling, to say the least.
She crossed the sea to the Iron Islands with a scanty retinue and a sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the choppy waves.
***
"Why the Stark girl, brother dear?" Asha was idly tossing her dagger end over end, catching it alternately by the pommel and the point. "Or Lannister, or whatever she's going by now. If you wanted her so badly, you should have just captured her as a salt wife and saved everyone the trouble."
Theon assumed his sister was joking. "It's an alliance, that's all. They're almost grateful to me for taking her off their hands." He paced the dock, waiting impatiently for the ship to divulge its cargo.
Asha snorted. "They have a funny way of showing gratitude, then. Her dowry…"
"Is enough," Theon said sharply. "And who knows? Her children could still stand to inherit, if the youngest brother doesn't manage to spawn."
"Did you fall in love with her at Winterfell?" Asha asked, in her usual incisive way.
"How could I have?" Theon replied, focusing intently on his gloves. "She was only a little girl then."
"Mm," said Asha, catching her blade and sheathing it at her belt in one smooth move. "I'd say she's grown."
Theon followed her gaze and saw Sansa standing at the top of the gangway, and his breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful, he thought, something like her mother had been (mustn't let Lady Stark catch me watching her) but even more striking. Her auburn hair was tied back with a wide ribbon, showing a pale, lovely face that looked distinctly unimpressed.
***
Theon had come to greet her himself, Sansa realized with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. She had hoped to benefit from the time it would take to ride to the castle in order to compose herself, work the wind-blown tangles out of her hair, and settle her legs from the sea voyage, but it seemed it was not to be. She stifled a sigh and made her way slowly down to the dock.
He was much changed since the last time she'd seen him. His once-black hair was now silver at the temples, though he was still a relatively young man. She had heard only rumours of what had happened to him during the war, but even those few details were awful. He deserved it, she thought bitterly. She risked a brief glance at his hands, but both were covered with black leather gloves.
"My lady," he said, polite and formal. "Welcome to Lordsport."
She made a slight curtsey, just enough for formality's sake. "Thank you," she said coldly.
"We ride for Pyke. Your servants can bring the rest of your belongings by cart. I brought along a mount for you, if you wish, or you can ride with me if you're weary."
She didn't think she could bear being pressed against him for however many hours the last leg of her journey would take. "I will ride for myself, thank you."
Theon nodded, as if he'd expected that answer, and led her to where the horses were tied. He offered her his arm to help her across the muddy ground, but she pretended not to see it, along with the grime that soon stained the hem of her gown.
As they rode through the rough, stony hills, Sansa let herself hang back, never placing herself directly beside Theon, avoiding both his gaze and his conversation. The dark-haired woman she took for a servant or a guard, however, kept close to her, and finally she spoke. "You're not what I expected."
Sansa gave her a sharp look. "Am I not?"
"I thought you'd be softer, but I think you've got a little iron in you after all." She smirked. "And you'll have more, soon enough."
Sansa knew enough to catch her meaning, and bristled. "You will not dare to speak so freely with me when I am your lady." To her surprise, the woman laughed outright. "What is so funny?" she demanded.
"You won't be my lady, dear - you'll be my sister. I'm Asha Greyjoy."
Sansa tried to conceal her embarrassment, but her blush betrayed her. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry."
"No, see, there you go, apologizing. It simply won't do. You'll have to stand up for yourself if you're to be Lady of these isles. People around here respect a good insult."
Sansa didn't reply, but looked for Theon. He was some distance ahead, cresting a hill, and she devoutly hoped he couldn't hear their conversation.
Asha changed the subject. "Are you pleased with this match, Sansa?"
Uncertain how best to reply, Sansa finally settled for "I will have to learn to be."
Asha laughed again. "A fair answer. You don't think highly of my brother, I take it."
Sansa had spent so many years blaming Theon for her little brothers' deaths that even after she learned it was a lie, she hadn't been able to forgive him. And though it hadn't been his forces who'd razed Winterfell, she still believed, perversely, that he should have defended it better once he'd captured it. Even apart from that, though, she remembered how, when they were young, he had often been sour-tempered, sharp-tongued, and prone to petty cruelties. Before she had a chance to formulate an answer, however, Asha continued. "I didn't either, to be honest. But he's improved at least a little since he was nineteen, as men tend to do."
Sansa murmured something noncommittal in response. She would believe that Theon had changed when she saw it, not before.
"Oh, and watch out," said Asha. "Best stock up on moon tea, or he'll have you pregnant before you know it. Unless, of course, you want babies," she added as an afterthought.
You may never love him, Sansa remembered Cersei saying on a very different occasion, but you'll love his children. At least Theon was no Joffrey, and children would surely be a comfort. "I do," she admitted.
"Oh. Well, in that case," said Asha cheerfully, "you and Theon should get along splendidly." And with another throaty chuckle, she kicked her heels against her horse's sides and rode ahead, leaving Sansa to wonder what exactly she'd meant.
***
The wedding was loud and boisterous, if nothing else. The food was simple, and not even especially plentiful, and the entertainment was poor, but nevertheless everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, Sansa thought. Perhaps it was because the drink was flowing so freely. She fingered the black cloak that lay heavy on her shoulders, feeling the soft wool. It was warm, at least. Almost too warm, with the torches burning and the guests packed into the hall like sardines. She felt a rivulet of sweat run down her spine, and it reminded unpleasantly her of the seawater that had been trickled over her head during the ceremony. It would be time for the bedding soon.
Theon sat beside her, a goblet in his right hand. She had not yet seen him remove his gloves. His left hand in particular seemed to be perpetually curled in on itself, and he used it but sparingly. Sansa tried not to think about what must be beneath that glove.
Before she was finished her own drink, the crowd started to call for them to be bedded, banging their fists on the tables and raising their cups with each cheer. Sansa tried to brace herself, tossing down the last of her honey-wine in a single swallow. Men mounted the dais and began to circle around her, almost all of them complete strangers to her. Although Sansa had grown used to seeing scars since the war, many of these ironmen were maimed enough to startle her. One of them hoisted her off the bench and up onto his shoulder before she could object, and paraded her around to the raucous shouts of the audience. "Strip her well," cried one old man with what looked like an ancient axe-wound to the face, "Lord Deadhand might not be able to manage it himself!"
"Good thing he doesn't need his hands for what he'll be doing tonight!" another guest called out.
"That's what you think, Ragnor," Theon replied dryly, raising a laugh from the crowd. "Mayhap you're not doing it right!" The female guests who clustering around him all cheered. His sister was foremost among them. She was helping to disrobe him rather more enthusiastically than Sansa thought was quite proper.
The man who was carrying Sansa crouched to let her down, but the ordeal wasn't over yet. They began to undress her, not taking care to be especially gentle. One ugly fellow, the backs of his hands thick with red hair, tugged at the ribbons of her bodice impatiently, and finally, growing frustrated with the knots, pulled out a huge knife. "Don't worry, little brideling," he said gruffly, "it won't hurt a bit." Sansa stifled a squeak as he sliced through the laces and roughly pulled her gown open. Everyone cheered when her breasts spilled out, and Sansa blushed to her collarbones. She remembered how when she was a girl, beddings had always seemed so exciting, naughty and fun all at once. Now she wondered if every bride secretly felt the same humiliation. And for a brief moment, she felt grateful to her first husband that at least he'd not made her go through this. Then her attention was drawn back to the present, as someone tossed her head-first over his shoulder and at least four other hands tugged at her skirts to haul the remains of her ruined gown off. But it was so pretty, she thought pointlessly as she was carried, bare-arsed, toward the bedchamber.
When they shoved her into the room, the crowd of women who were already there parted to reveal Theon in their midst. They hadn't stripped him as thoroughly as the men had done her, leaving him his shirt at least, though it was untied at the neck and hanging open. And his gloves, she thought, suppressing a shudder.
With a few final shouts of encouragement and calls to "Put some iron in her!," the guests drifted away. Asha Greyjoy was the last to leave. "If she's not screaming with pleasure, I'll be sure to find out and I will mock you mercilessly," she told her brother sternly before she pulled the door tight behind her and left, with a laugh that echoed down the corridor.
Sansa stood naked before her new husband, looking anywhere but at him. They had hardly had two minutes alone together since arriving at Pyke four days before, and she found herself wishing she'd actually spoken to him during their ride. Perhaps it would have made this moment less awkward. Surely it was much the same when Mother married Father, though, she thought, and they came to love one another in time. She wasn't sure if she found that idea comforting or chilling.
***
Theon couldn't take his eyes off her. She was even more beautiful naked than he could have imagined, blushing and shy, holding one arm across her breasts in a futile effort to cover them. He was a little surprised by her embarrassment, as he knew she was no maid. "Sansa," he began, "come here."
She did as she was told, drawing closer to him, still avoiding meeting his gaze. "Put down your arm," he told her. "You don't need to hide from me." Again, she followed his instructions. So obedient, he thought. Her breasts, he saw, were full but still high, her nipples pert and delicate. He hardened just looking at them. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but… I'll try to make it good for you, at least."
"As you please," she said, her voice soft and almost indifferent. She didn't move, so Theon put his leather-clad hands on her shoulders. She twitched slightly at his touch. "What is it?" he asked her.
"It's only… must you always leave your gloves on?"
"Believe me, the gloves are a damn sight better than what's underneath them."
Sansa's curiosity evidently got the better of her. "Do they hurt?"
"No. The left is stiff and mostly useless. The right's better, only two fingers ruined. They don't hurt, not anymore. Took years to heal even this much, though, and I came near to dying of blood fever before they did." He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it. "Any other questions?" he asked, more harshly than he meant to. Sansa just shook her head, so he guided her over to sit on the edge of the bed, then tugged his shirt off, leaving him almost as bare as she was.
***
Sansa would have preferred not to look at his manhood, but he was standing right there in front of her, and it was impossible to avoid seeing it, jutting out stiffly toward her. Please don't let him make me put it in my mouth, she pleaded with any higher powers who might be listening. It was less ugly than she'd thought it might be, and the trail of dark hair leading up to his navel looked soft, but then, she didn't have much to compare him to. In the dark, she vividly remembered Tyrion saying, I am the Knight of Flowers. Ha. Theon was no Knight of Flowers either, but at least he wasn't hideous. She wished it were darker in this room, so that he wouldn't see so much of her, but she supposed it was inevitable that he would want to inspect what his alliance had bought him. He bent over her and kissed her. His lips tasted of honey-wine, but not so much that she thought he was very drunk. She kept still, closed her eyes, and let him continue kissing her, bearing her slowly backwards onto the mattress until her head rested against the soft pillow. Then he stretched out beside her.
His hands felt strange on her. The black gloves were thin enough that she could feel his warmth through them, but the supple, smooth leather against her skin was an unusual sensation. Not entirely unpleasant - she could imagine it put an extra layer of distance between the two of them, as if he wasn't really touching her breast, wasn't really circling his thumb slowly against her nipple until it stiffened. She couldn't pretend that the hard length of him wasn't pressing against her leg, though, or that his mouth wasn't working against her earlobe, her neck, the soft hollow of her throat.
"Open your legs for me, Sansa," he told her shortly, calm and in control. As usual, she did as she was told, parting her thighs a few inches, not very far, but enough to make her realize how damp she was down there. She hadn't expected that, she had never felt that way when Petyr kissed and fondled her - though as far as she remembered, they had never been naked together. The last time she could remember feeling anything like this, so nervous and wet all at once, was with Sandor… When Theon's gloved fingers stroked over her mound and dipped between her legs, she gasped involuntarily, her back and legs tensing, eyes fluttering closed.
***
Theon withdrew his hand, waited for her to settle again. One of the most annoying things about the damned gloves, he had realized long ago, was that it made it much harder to accurately judge how wet a girl was. He'd figured out a little trick early on, however, and discreetly swiped the finger he'd had between her lips against his other wrist. Warm and slick. He smiled to himself. For all her show of quiet indifference, Sansa was awakening to him. When her light, shallow breaths slowed once more, he resumed his attentions, lowering his mouth onto the soft curve of her breast before sliding down to her nipple and suckling it.
A memory came upon him unbidden - Catelyn Stark sitting by the hearth after dinner, nursing…it must have been Bran, for Theon couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms, and she'd stayed there rocking him for what had seemed like a very long time, leaving her milk-full breast hanging out of the front of her gown. Theon had been transfixed by the sight, the thick nipple, dark against her pale skin, glistening in the firelight, the heavy swell of the globe itself. He'd lingered in the hall as long as he could, trying not to be noticed, until finally she handed off the baby to Old Nan and laced up her gown once more. She'd turned then and seen him still there, and though he'd quickly busied himself with the cold remains of his food, he'd caught a glimpse of her frown and felt both ashamed and aroused all at once.
He remembered how badly he'd envied that infant, but moreso Lord Stark, who got to take that magnificent woman to his bed. He'd wondered if he ever supped from his wife's breasts, and, if so, what it tasted like. He imagined it must be like milk and honey. As an adult, Theon rather doubted that upright Ned Stark would have even considered such an act. A shame, really. He imagined how Sansa's pretty breasts would swell once he managed to fill her belly. The thought made him want to mount her then and there, but he restrained himself, for she still seemed tense and nervous. With a whore or some peasant girl he might set to without further preliminaries, but this was his lady wife, and he knew he ought to be more considerate. Better to wait until she's peaked at least once, he told himself, and brought his hand back to her cunt.
***
Sansa was expecting it this time when his fingers slid down between her legs, so she didn't gasp. It was strange how different it felt than when she touched herself there, and not only because of the gloves. On the rare occasions she did it herself, she usually brought herself off as quickly as she could, not wasting any time or thinking about it too much. Theon, on the other hand, seemed inclined to linger over the act, teasing her slowly and methodically. She could keep telling herself that this was nothing more than her duty, but, if she were truthful with herself, she was beginning to enjoy it. She hadn't expected to enjoy it, and it brought a muddle of conflicting emotions to the surface. "Please," she told him anxiously, "you don't have to do that, you can just get it over with."
Theon glanced over at her. "You don't like this?" He swirled one finger around the swollen nub at the top of her slit. The seam of his gloves was finely stitched, but nevertheless noticeably harder, and rubbed against her in a most distracting way.
"N-no," she stammered. "It's not that…" She fumbled about for a reason, and half-remembered something Cersei Lannister had told her long ago. "You must find it dull, though."
He laughed. "Gods, Sansa, having my fingers in your cunt, dull? I must not be doing it right." He let one finger sink slowly into her. "Your face, when I do this, for instance," he said, bringing his thumb up to continue caressing her clit, "is absolutely fascinating."
Sansa shuddered slightly, but opened her thighs a little further. "That's right," he told her, "don't fight it."
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. He didn't really kill Bran and Rickon, she told herself. I'm sure he killed some other people, but that's what happens in wars. The Hound's probably killed hundreds of people, and if he were here, I'd let him touch me like this, if he still wanted to. The thought of the Hound's huge hand between her legs made her cheeks redden. She realized she was rocking her hips steadily back and forth, and heard herself moaning softly. Theon stroked her faster, and soon she was clenching her fists into tight little balls and her legs were stretched out stiff and straight. When she shook and cried out, Theon stroked her hair and told her she was a good girl.
***
As Sansa's trembling slowed, Theon took his hand away, a little reluctantly. She'd come hard, as if releasing a huge amount of pent-up tension, and now lay with her legs splayed across the bed. Not so shy any longer, he thought, pleased with himself. His own need was getting harder and harder to ignore, but he decided he should let her rest for a moment. "That was worth it, wasn't it?" he teased her gently.
She nodded grudgingly, her eyes still closed. He wondered what was going on behind those delicate lids. Was she secretly loathing him? To be honest, it didn't bother him if she was, this first time, though their marriage would quickly become tiresome if she never warmed to him at all. But he liked the challenge she presented, the idea of turning her heart about-face. Already she seemed more at ease than she had been a quarter-hour before - at least she hadn't jumped immediately beneath the blankets after she'd come, but was willingly lying naked with him. The firelight played over her pale skin, warming it to a rich gold, and burnishing her hair nearly copper.
His gloves, especially the right one, were gradually stiffening as her juices soaked in and began to dry on them. He decided to change them - he had dozens of pairs, and he wanted to feel everything as well as he could this night. He rose from the bed and went to the chest at its foot. Sansa's eyes, opened to narrow slits, followed him.
***
She watched as Theon turned his back, took one glove's fingertip between his teeth, and tugged it off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, then did the same with the other. He stood in shadows, and she couldn't catch more than a glimpse of his hands as he drew on a clean pair of gloves. What she did see looked gnarled and red, painful despite his protestation that they didn't hurt. None of us are whole, or ever will be, she thought abruptly, and felt the first hint of sympathy for her new husband stir in her breast.
He returned to the bed without a word, and lay down beside her once more. She could smell the leathery scent of him. He was as hard as ever, but still he made no move to mount her. She was growing antsy, wondering when, or if, he would touch her again. "Have I displeased you somehow?" she asked quietly.
Theon looked surprised. "No, not at all. I just thought I'd wait for you to make the next move."
She wasn't sure if he was joking or not. "Next move?"
"Well, yes, or at least let me know you're ready to go on. Some women, after they've peaked, don't want to be touched again for a while."
She thought of a question, decided not to ask, and then changed her mind. "How many women have you…known?"
He chuckled. "Gods, I don't know. I stopped keeping count when I was about your age, and then it was, oh, twenty or so? And maybe a dozen or fifteen more since then - there were a slow few years in there. I'm only guessing - it's not as if I, ah, knew most of them very long."
"Oh."
"Are you shocked that it's so high, or so low?" he asked.
She suspected he was teasing her again. "Neither, really. I don't know why I asked - it's none of my affair."
"Speaking of affairs, are you going to expect me to keep to your bed alone, now we're wed?"
Sansa frowned. "Properly, of course you should. But it's not as though I could do anything to stop you straying, if you decide to." Not unless I want to become another Cersei, and arrange an 'accident' for you.
"Well, just be so enticing that I won't want to," he told her playfully. "Show me some trick your last husband taught you."
"He didn't teach me anything," she said quietly, rolling over onto her side, away from him. Except that nothing in life is fair, and I shouldn't expect it to be.
"Nothing at all? He just fucked you and got it over with? That's a true shame." He sounded as though he might actually mean it.
"He didn't do…that to me at all."
"You mean, other than on the wedding night…?" She could hear the puzzled frown in his voice.
"I mean ever. Tyrion never laid a hand or…or anything else on me. I didn't want it, and he wouldn't force me, and…" She shrugged.
"Then who was it?"
"No one," she insisted, hating the way her voice quavered. "They say I'm no maid, but I would swear in the sept or before the heart tree or anywhere else that I am."
***
Theon was surprised, to say the least. He'd believed he was getting a woman who'd already been wedded and bedded, to say nothing of the mischief she'd likely gotten up to during the time she'd spent with the late, unlamented Littlefinger. So far he'd chalked up her nervousness to personal dislike of him, and though that was still possible, it seemed there might be another reason for it too. Either she was delusional - had someone raped her, he wondered, and she'd deliberately forgotten it? - or else, however improbable it seemed after everything she'd been through, she truly was still a maiden, and a petrified one at that. The war has scarred all of us, it would seem, he thought.
She'd have no reason to lie about such a thing, he decided. She believed it, at the very least, and so he'd have to tread more gingerly. Some men enjoyed deflowering maids, but Theon had never particularly liked it. It was too often uncomfortable and messy, and he especially hated it if the girl wept. He stifled a sigh.
She was still turned away from him. He laid his gloved hand on the smooth curve of her hip. "Sansa," he began, "I don't want to force you either. I'd much rather you were willing, and it would be better still if you enjoyed it too. But we need to do this. You're my wife, and I'll have you however I must." He felt her tense under his touch, and realized this wasn't coming out quite the way he'd hoped. "I'll do everything in my power to make it pleasant for you - just give yourself over to me." He stroked her hair, slid closer to her until he was pressed up against her back. "It wasn't so bad, what I did for you before, was it?"
"No," she murmured.
"Then trust me. Even if it hurts for a moment, it will feel better soon." He'd heard women say that, at least, so it seemed like it might be true. His cock was achingly hard against one soft cheek of her arse, but he forced himself once again to be patient. Just a little while longer. He knew if he handled this properly, he would have years ahead when he could simply throw her to the bed, fuck her hard, and have her writhing beneath him, squealing and screaming for more.
Slowly, half-reluctantly, she rolled over onto her back. "All right," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Let's get it over with."
***
She braced herself for him to mount her, but instead he smiled and slid down the bed to lie with his head between her bent knees. "What are you doing?" she asked uncertainly.
"I promised I'd make it enjoyable for you, didn't I?" And then his tongue was on her, in her, and she forgot why she'd been dubious a moment ago. All she could do was moan each time he licked her, arch her back, and wait for the next spasm of pleasure to pass through her and wring her out. Shyly, she reached down to run her fingers through his silvered hair, trying to let him know without words that it was good.
Finally, when she thought she couldn't bear it any longer, he lifted his head and slowly crawled up until he lay on top of her. Inside the cage of his arms she felt suddenly trapped, and the weight of his body pressed her down into the soft feather mattress until she felt like she might smother. She started to panic, wanting nothing more than to lash out and get away, but he kept stroking her hair and whispering to her, and gradually she calmed again.
"Draw your legs up more," he told her after a little while. She did as she was told, biting her lip, and jumped when she first felt the tip of his manhood brush against her slick inner folds. "I'll go slowly," he said, and then he was pushing into her.
It didn't hurt as much as she'd imagined it would. It was a little uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. Once she flinched and immediately he paused, but she shook her head and whispered "Keep going." When he was sheathed completely within her, she felt unexpectedly satisfied, whole. She looked up at his face, saw his eyes heavy-lidded and mouth gone slack, and knew that he must feel the same.
***
Her cunt was tight as a vice, but he'd readied her enough that it wasn't too hard to get inside. He hadn't felt her maidenhead give way, but then, that didn't mean much - sometimes you couldn't tell, as he knew well. Pulling back made her whimper, so he went slowly, giving her a few more careful strokes until she'd loosened enough that he could slip in and out of her almost effortlessly. He kissed her sweet mouth, then along her jawline to her ear, sucking its tender lobe between his lips, drawing a soft groan from her. When she started rocking her hips slowly, matching his pace, Theon knew he had her, and he felt a sense of pride and satisfaction swell in his chest.
He'd been holding himself back since she'd been deposited, naked, in his chambers - for that matter, he'd been holding back at least a little since she first stepped off the ship. So when he stopped being cautious, let his self-control fall away, he knew it wouldn't take very long. He gripped one of her legs roughly behind the knee and drew it up closer to her chest, letting him thrust even deeper inside her, and she responded by twining her arms around his shoulders and pulling him down onto her.
"Sansa," he said breathlessly against her rosy cheek, "I'm going to fill you so full of my seed that flat belly of yours will swell in no time… How would you like that, wife?"
***
She blushed more deeply than ever at his whispered words, and wasn't sure what to say in response. Tell him what he wants to hear, she could almost hear Randa advising her. She thought of the words the more worldly woman might have used, and brought them hesitantly to her lips. "I want you to come in my …c-cunt, my lord," she whispered back, stumbling only slightly over the naughty word, "again and again and again, until I'm big with your child."
He gave a long groan, harsh and desperate-sounding, and she wondered if this was it, but he kept going a little longer yet, pounding into her so hard her teeth were almost rattling. She didn't think she was going to peak, not from this, but it was still a good feeling, she decided, to be needed so badly, and to be so full of him. She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and drew him down for a kiss, then felt him stiffen and shudder, grunting deep in his throat three or four times before crumpling onto her, breathing hard.
His weight atop her wasn't too hard to bear, she found. Her urge to flee had passed for now, and even the ache between her thighs was pleasant, in its way. She had become Alayne Stone once, and she could make herself become Sansa Greyjoy too. That night, she slept curled warm against him, listening to the wind and the waves, and dreamt of giving birth to a baby kraken.
Title: None Of Us Are Whole
Author: shadow_truths
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Theon/Sansa
Word Count: 5,788
Summary: After the war, Sansa faces an arranged marriage with Theon, and the two of them must reach some common ground.
Warnings: Some pregnancy and breast-feeding fantasizing.
Peace is forged with marriages and hostages, and Sansa felt like both. When she'd heard her brother's decision, she had wanted to scream Why him? Anyone but him! But it was already settled, and, as usual, she had to do her duty for her family.
Everyone tried to be comforting. "At least he's not too old," they said, or "At least he's handsome enough." The worst was when they would tell her "Well, at least you know him already!" She always felt like pointing out that her familiarity with Theon Greyjoy was the main reason she didn't want to marry him, but she held her tongue.
"It's the best match you could hope for," was another platitude that was trotted out in an effort to cheer her, but that too failed. Sansa was a widow, used goods, and because of her dubious past, couldn't reasonably expect a match with one of the other great Houses - only the Greyjoys were desperate enough to accept her, it seemed. She had sworn up and down that Tyrion Lannister hadn't so much as touched her, that she was still a maiden, but the septa who had examined her (dry, wrinkled fingers, prying eyes) had said she was not. Sansa didn't know how that could possibly be. At first she had thought someone must have bribed the septa, but she couldn't imagine who would want to do such a thing.
Eventually, faced with everyone else's steadfast belief that she had been deflowered, she had begun to doubt herself. Could she be wrong? Had Tyrion done something after all, and she just couldn't remember? Or had it been Petyr? The time she had spent as his 'daughter' Alayne already seemed like a story she had been told long ago, though not one of Old Nan's with a happy ending. Maybe she had forgotten parts of it, parts too horrible to recall. She wasn't certain. She knew that sometimes her memory played tricks on her (the Hound's cruel mouth on mine) and she wondered if this was one of them. It was unsettling, to say the least.
She crossed the sea to the Iron Islands with a scanty retinue and a sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the choppy waves.
***
"Why the Stark girl, brother dear?" Asha was idly tossing her dagger end over end, catching it alternately by the pommel and the point. "Or Lannister, or whatever she's going by now. If you wanted her so badly, you should have just captured her as a salt wife and saved everyone the trouble."
Theon assumed his sister was joking. "It's an alliance, that's all. They're almost grateful to me for taking her off their hands." He paced the dock, waiting impatiently for the ship to divulge its cargo.
Asha snorted. "They have a funny way of showing gratitude, then. Her dowry…"
"Is enough," Theon said sharply. "And who knows? Her children could still stand to inherit, if the youngest brother doesn't manage to spawn."
"Did you fall in love with her at Winterfell?" Asha asked, in her usual incisive way.
"How could I have?" Theon replied, focusing intently on his gloves. "She was only a little girl then."
"Mm," said Asha, catching her blade and sheathing it at her belt in one smooth move. "I'd say she's grown."
Theon followed her gaze and saw Sansa standing at the top of the gangway, and his breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful, he thought, something like her mother had been (mustn't let Lady Stark catch me watching her) but even more striking. Her auburn hair was tied back with a wide ribbon, showing a pale, lovely face that looked distinctly unimpressed.
***
Theon had come to greet her himself, Sansa realized with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. She had hoped to benefit from the time it would take to ride to the castle in order to compose herself, work the wind-blown tangles out of her hair, and settle her legs from the sea voyage, but it seemed it was not to be. She stifled a sigh and made her way slowly down to the dock.
He was much changed since the last time she'd seen him. His once-black hair was now silver at the temples, though he was still a relatively young man. She had heard only rumours of what had happened to him during the war, but even those few details were awful. He deserved it, she thought bitterly. She risked a brief glance at his hands, but both were covered with black leather gloves.
"My lady," he said, polite and formal. "Welcome to Lordsport."
She made a slight curtsey, just enough for formality's sake. "Thank you," she said coldly.
"We ride for Pyke. Your servants can bring the rest of your belongings by cart. I brought along a mount for you, if you wish, or you can ride with me if you're weary."
She didn't think she could bear being pressed against him for however many hours the last leg of her journey would take. "I will ride for myself, thank you."
Theon nodded, as if he'd expected that answer, and led her to where the horses were tied. He offered her his arm to help her across the muddy ground, but she pretended not to see it, along with the grime that soon stained the hem of her gown.
As they rode through the rough, stony hills, Sansa let herself hang back, never placing herself directly beside Theon, avoiding both his gaze and his conversation. The dark-haired woman she took for a servant or a guard, however, kept close to her, and finally she spoke. "You're not what I expected."
Sansa gave her a sharp look. "Am I not?"
"I thought you'd be softer, but I think you've got a little iron in you after all." She smirked. "And you'll have more, soon enough."
Sansa knew enough to catch her meaning, and bristled. "You will not dare to speak so freely with me when I am your lady." To her surprise, the woman laughed outright. "What is so funny?" she demanded.
"You won't be my lady, dear - you'll be my sister. I'm Asha Greyjoy."
Sansa tried to conceal her embarrassment, but her blush betrayed her. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry."
"No, see, there you go, apologizing. It simply won't do. You'll have to stand up for yourself if you're to be Lady of these isles. People around here respect a good insult."
Sansa didn't reply, but looked for Theon. He was some distance ahead, cresting a hill, and she devoutly hoped he couldn't hear their conversation.
Asha changed the subject. "Are you pleased with this match, Sansa?"
Uncertain how best to reply, Sansa finally settled for "I will have to learn to be."
Asha laughed again. "A fair answer. You don't think highly of my brother, I take it."
Sansa had spent so many years blaming Theon for her little brothers' deaths that even after she learned it was a lie, she hadn't been able to forgive him. And though it hadn't been his forces who'd razed Winterfell, she still believed, perversely, that he should have defended it better once he'd captured it. Even apart from that, though, she remembered how, when they were young, he had often been sour-tempered, sharp-tongued, and prone to petty cruelties. Before she had a chance to formulate an answer, however, Asha continued. "I didn't either, to be honest. But he's improved at least a little since he was nineteen, as men tend to do."
Sansa murmured something noncommittal in response. She would believe that Theon had changed when she saw it, not before.
"Oh, and watch out," said Asha. "Best stock up on moon tea, or he'll have you pregnant before you know it. Unless, of course, you want babies," she added as an afterthought.
You may never love him, Sansa remembered Cersei saying on a very different occasion, but you'll love his children. At least Theon was no Joffrey, and children would surely be a comfort. "I do," she admitted.
"Oh. Well, in that case," said Asha cheerfully, "you and Theon should get along splendidly." And with another throaty chuckle, she kicked her heels against her horse's sides and rode ahead, leaving Sansa to wonder what exactly she'd meant.
***
The wedding was loud and boisterous, if nothing else. The food was simple, and not even especially plentiful, and the entertainment was poor, but nevertheless everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, Sansa thought. Perhaps it was because the drink was flowing so freely. She fingered the black cloak that lay heavy on her shoulders, feeling the soft wool. It was warm, at least. Almost too warm, with the torches burning and the guests packed into the hall like sardines. She felt a rivulet of sweat run down her spine, and it reminded unpleasantly her of the seawater that had been trickled over her head during the ceremony. It would be time for the bedding soon.
Theon sat beside her, a goblet in his right hand. She had not yet seen him remove his gloves. His left hand in particular seemed to be perpetually curled in on itself, and he used it but sparingly. Sansa tried not to think about what must be beneath that glove.
Before she was finished her own drink, the crowd started to call for them to be bedded, banging their fists on the tables and raising their cups with each cheer. Sansa tried to brace herself, tossing down the last of her honey-wine in a single swallow. Men mounted the dais and began to circle around her, almost all of them complete strangers to her. Although Sansa had grown used to seeing scars since the war, many of these ironmen were maimed enough to startle her. One of them hoisted her off the bench and up onto his shoulder before she could object, and paraded her around to the raucous shouts of the audience. "Strip her well," cried one old man with what looked like an ancient axe-wound to the face, "Lord Deadhand might not be able to manage it himself!"
"Good thing he doesn't need his hands for what he'll be doing tonight!" another guest called out.
"That's what you think, Ragnor," Theon replied dryly, raising a laugh from the crowd. "Mayhap you're not doing it right!" The female guests who clustering around him all cheered. His sister was foremost among them. She was helping to disrobe him rather more enthusiastically than Sansa thought was quite proper.
The man who was carrying Sansa crouched to let her down, but the ordeal wasn't over yet. They began to undress her, not taking care to be especially gentle. One ugly fellow, the backs of his hands thick with red hair, tugged at the ribbons of her bodice impatiently, and finally, growing frustrated with the knots, pulled out a huge knife. "Don't worry, little brideling," he said gruffly, "it won't hurt a bit." Sansa stifled a squeak as he sliced through the laces and roughly pulled her gown open. Everyone cheered when her breasts spilled out, and Sansa blushed to her collarbones. She remembered how when she was a girl, beddings had always seemed so exciting, naughty and fun all at once. Now she wondered if every bride secretly felt the same humiliation. And for a brief moment, she felt grateful to her first husband that at least he'd not made her go through this. Then her attention was drawn back to the present, as someone tossed her head-first over his shoulder and at least four other hands tugged at her skirts to haul the remains of her ruined gown off. But it was so pretty, she thought pointlessly as she was carried, bare-arsed, toward the bedchamber.
When they shoved her into the room, the crowd of women who were already there parted to reveal Theon in their midst. They hadn't stripped him as thoroughly as the men had done her, leaving him his shirt at least, though it was untied at the neck and hanging open. And his gloves, she thought, suppressing a shudder.
With a few final shouts of encouragement and calls to "Put some iron in her!," the guests drifted away. Asha Greyjoy was the last to leave. "If she's not screaming with pleasure, I'll be sure to find out and I will mock you mercilessly," she told her brother sternly before she pulled the door tight behind her and left, with a laugh that echoed down the corridor.
Sansa stood naked before her new husband, looking anywhere but at him. They had hardly had two minutes alone together since arriving at Pyke four days before, and she found herself wishing she'd actually spoken to him during their ride. Perhaps it would have made this moment less awkward. Surely it was much the same when Mother married Father, though, she thought, and they came to love one another in time. She wasn't sure if she found that idea comforting or chilling.
***
Theon couldn't take his eyes off her. She was even more beautiful naked than he could have imagined, blushing and shy, holding one arm across her breasts in a futile effort to cover them. He was a little surprised by her embarrassment, as he knew she was no maid. "Sansa," he began, "come here."
She did as she was told, drawing closer to him, still avoiding meeting his gaze. "Put down your arm," he told her. "You don't need to hide from me." Again, she followed his instructions. So obedient, he thought. Her breasts, he saw, were full but still high, her nipples pert and delicate. He hardened just looking at them. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but… I'll try to make it good for you, at least."
"As you please," she said, her voice soft and almost indifferent. She didn't move, so Theon put his leather-clad hands on her shoulders. She twitched slightly at his touch. "What is it?" he asked her.
"It's only… must you always leave your gloves on?"
"Believe me, the gloves are a damn sight better than what's underneath them."
Sansa's curiosity evidently got the better of her. "Do they hurt?"
"No. The left is stiff and mostly useless. The right's better, only two fingers ruined. They don't hurt, not anymore. Took years to heal even this much, though, and I came near to dying of blood fever before they did." He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it. "Any other questions?" he asked, more harshly than he meant to. Sansa just shook her head, so he guided her over to sit on the edge of the bed, then tugged his shirt off, leaving him almost as bare as she was.
***
Sansa would have preferred not to look at his manhood, but he was standing right there in front of her, and it was impossible to avoid seeing it, jutting out stiffly toward her. Please don't let him make me put it in my mouth, she pleaded with any higher powers who might be listening. It was less ugly than she'd thought it might be, and the trail of dark hair leading up to his navel looked soft, but then, she didn't have much to compare him to. In the dark, she vividly remembered Tyrion saying, I am the Knight of Flowers. Ha. Theon was no Knight of Flowers either, but at least he wasn't hideous. She wished it were darker in this room, so that he wouldn't see so much of her, but she supposed it was inevitable that he would want to inspect what his alliance had bought him. He bent over her and kissed her. His lips tasted of honey-wine, but not so much that she thought he was very drunk. She kept still, closed her eyes, and let him continue kissing her, bearing her slowly backwards onto the mattress until her head rested against the soft pillow. Then he stretched out beside her.
His hands felt strange on her. The black gloves were thin enough that she could feel his warmth through them, but the supple, smooth leather against her skin was an unusual sensation. Not entirely unpleasant - she could imagine it put an extra layer of distance between the two of them, as if he wasn't really touching her breast, wasn't really circling his thumb slowly against her nipple until it stiffened. She couldn't pretend that the hard length of him wasn't pressing against her leg, though, or that his mouth wasn't working against her earlobe, her neck, the soft hollow of her throat.
"Open your legs for me, Sansa," he told her shortly, calm and in control. As usual, she did as she was told, parting her thighs a few inches, not very far, but enough to make her realize how damp she was down there. She hadn't expected that, she had never felt that way when Petyr kissed and fondled her - though as far as she remembered, they had never been naked together. The last time she could remember feeling anything like this, so nervous and wet all at once, was with Sandor… When Theon's gloved fingers stroked over her mound and dipped between her legs, she gasped involuntarily, her back and legs tensing, eyes fluttering closed.
***
Theon withdrew his hand, waited for her to settle again. One of the most annoying things about the damned gloves, he had realized long ago, was that it made it much harder to accurately judge how wet a girl was. He'd figured out a little trick early on, however, and discreetly swiped the finger he'd had between her lips against his other wrist. Warm and slick. He smiled to himself. For all her show of quiet indifference, Sansa was awakening to him. When her light, shallow breaths slowed once more, he resumed his attentions, lowering his mouth onto the soft curve of her breast before sliding down to her nipple and suckling it.
A memory came upon him unbidden - Catelyn Stark sitting by the hearth after dinner, nursing…it must have been Bran, for Theon couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms, and she'd stayed there rocking him for what had seemed like a very long time, leaving her milk-full breast hanging out of the front of her gown. Theon had been transfixed by the sight, the thick nipple, dark against her pale skin, glistening in the firelight, the heavy swell of the globe itself. He'd lingered in the hall as long as he could, trying not to be noticed, until finally she handed off the baby to Old Nan and laced up her gown once more. She'd turned then and seen him still there, and though he'd quickly busied himself with the cold remains of his food, he'd caught a glimpse of her frown and felt both ashamed and aroused all at once.
He remembered how badly he'd envied that infant, but moreso Lord Stark, who got to take that magnificent woman to his bed. He'd wondered if he ever supped from his wife's breasts, and, if so, what it tasted like. He imagined it must be like milk and honey. As an adult, Theon rather doubted that upright Ned Stark would have even considered such an act. A shame, really. He imagined how Sansa's pretty breasts would swell once he managed to fill her belly. The thought made him want to mount her then and there, but he restrained himself, for she still seemed tense and nervous. With a whore or some peasant girl he might set to without further preliminaries, but this was his lady wife, and he knew he ought to be more considerate. Better to wait until she's peaked at least once, he told himself, and brought his hand back to her cunt.
***
Sansa was expecting it this time when his fingers slid down between her legs, so she didn't gasp. It was strange how different it felt than when she touched herself there, and not only because of the gloves. On the rare occasions she did it herself, she usually brought herself off as quickly as she could, not wasting any time or thinking about it too much. Theon, on the other hand, seemed inclined to linger over the act, teasing her slowly and methodically. She could keep telling herself that this was nothing more than her duty, but, if she were truthful with herself, she was beginning to enjoy it. She hadn't expected to enjoy it, and it brought a muddle of conflicting emotions to the surface. "Please," she told him anxiously, "you don't have to do that, you can just get it over with."
Theon glanced over at her. "You don't like this?" He swirled one finger around the swollen nub at the top of her slit. The seam of his gloves was finely stitched, but nevertheless noticeably harder, and rubbed against her in a most distracting way.
"N-no," she stammered. "It's not that…" She fumbled about for a reason, and half-remembered something Cersei Lannister had told her long ago. "You must find it dull, though."
He laughed. "Gods, Sansa, having my fingers in your cunt, dull? I must not be doing it right." He let one finger sink slowly into her. "Your face, when I do this, for instance," he said, bringing his thumb up to continue caressing her clit, "is absolutely fascinating."
Sansa shuddered slightly, but opened her thighs a little further. "That's right," he told her, "don't fight it."
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. He didn't really kill Bran and Rickon, she told herself. I'm sure he killed some other people, but that's what happens in wars. The Hound's probably killed hundreds of people, and if he were here, I'd let him touch me like this, if he still wanted to. The thought of the Hound's huge hand between her legs made her cheeks redden. She realized she was rocking her hips steadily back and forth, and heard herself moaning softly. Theon stroked her faster, and soon she was clenching her fists into tight little balls and her legs were stretched out stiff and straight. When she shook and cried out, Theon stroked her hair and told her she was a good girl.
***
As Sansa's trembling slowed, Theon took his hand away, a little reluctantly. She'd come hard, as if releasing a huge amount of pent-up tension, and now lay with her legs splayed across the bed. Not so shy any longer, he thought, pleased with himself. His own need was getting harder and harder to ignore, but he decided he should let her rest for a moment. "That was worth it, wasn't it?" he teased her gently.
She nodded grudgingly, her eyes still closed. He wondered what was going on behind those delicate lids. Was she secretly loathing him? To be honest, it didn't bother him if she was, this first time, though their marriage would quickly become tiresome if she never warmed to him at all. But he liked the challenge she presented, the idea of turning her heart about-face. Already she seemed more at ease than she had been a quarter-hour before - at least she hadn't jumped immediately beneath the blankets after she'd come, but was willingly lying naked with him. The firelight played over her pale skin, warming it to a rich gold, and burnishing her hair nearly copper.
His gloves, especially the right one, were gradually stiffening as her juices soaked in and began to dry on them. He decided to change them - he had dozens of pairs, and he wanted to feel everything as well as he could this night. He rose from the bed and went to the chest at its foot. Sansa's eyes, opened to narrow slits, followed him.
***
She watched as Theon turned his back, took one glove's fingertip between his teeth, and tugged it off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, then did the same with the other. He stood in shadows, and she couldn't catch more than a glimpse of his hands as he drew on a clean pair of gloves. What she did see looked gnarled and red, painful despite his protestation that they didn't hurt. None of us are whole, or ever will be, she thought abruptly, and felt the first hint of sympathy for her new husband stir in her breast.
He returned to the bed without a word, and lay down beside her once more. She could smell the leathery scent of him. He was as hard as ever, but still he made no move to mount her. She was growing antsy, wondering when, or if, he would touch her again. "Have I displeased you somehow?" she asked quietly.
Theon looked surprised. "No, not at all. I just thought I'd wait for you to make the next move."
She wasn't sure if he was joking or not. "Next move?"
"Well, yes, or at least let me know you're ready to go on. Some women, after they've peaked, don't want to be touched again for a while."
She thought of a question, decided not to ask, and then changed her mind. "How many women have you…known?"
He chuckled. "Gods, I don't know. I stopped keeping count when I was about your age, and then it was, oh, twenty or so? And maybe a dozen or fifteen more since then - there were a slow few years in there. I'm only guessing - it's not as if I, ah, knew most of them very long."
"Oh."
"Are you shocked that it's so high, or so low?" he asked.
She suspected he was teasing her again. "Neither, really. I don't know why I asked - it's none of my affair."
"Speaking of affairs, are you going to expect me to keep to your bed alone, now we're wed?"
Sansa frowned. "Properly, of course you should. But it's not as though I could do anything to stop you straying, if you decide to." Not unless I want to become another Cersei, and arrange an 'accident' for you.
"Well, just be so enticing that I won't want to," he told her playfully. "Show me some trick your last husband taught you."
"He didn't teach me anything," she said quietly, rolling over onto her side, away from him. Except that nothing in life is fair, and I shouldn't expect it to be.
"Nothing at all? He just fucked you and got it over with? That's a true shame." He sounded as though he might actually mean it.
"He didn't do…that to me at all."
"You mean, other than on the wedding night…?" She could hear the puzzled frown in his voice.
"I mean ever. Tyrion never laid a hand or…or anything else on me. I didn't want it, and he wouldn't force me, and…" She shrugged.
"Then who was it?"
"No one," she insisted, hating the way her voice quavered. "They say I'm no maid, but I would swear in the sept or before the heart tree or anywhere else that I am."
***
Theon was surprised, to say the least. He'd believed he was getting a woman who'd already been wedded and bedded, to say nothing of the mischief she'd likely gotten up to during the time she'd spent with the late, unlamented Littlefinger. So far he'd chalked up her nervousness to personal dislike of him, and though that was still possible, it seemed there might be another reason for it too. Either she was delusional - had someone raped her, he wondered, and she'd deliberately forgotten it? - or else, however improbable it seemed after everything she'd been through, she truly was still a maiden, and a petrified one at that. The war has scarred all of us, it would seem, he thought.
She'd have no reason to lie about such a thing, he decided. She believed it, at the very least, and so he'd have to tread more gingerly. Some men enjoyed deflowering maids, but Theon had never particularly liked it. It was too often uncomfortable and messy, and he especially hated it if the girl wept. He stifled a sigh.
She was still turned away from him. He laid his gloved hand on the smooth curve of her hip. "Sansa," he began, "I don't want to force you either. I'd much rather you were willing, and it would be better still if you enjoyed it too. But we need to do this. You're my wife, and I'll have you however I must." He felt her tense under his touch, and realized this wasn't coming out quite the way he'd hoped. "I'll do everything in my power to make it pleasant for you - just give yourself over to me." He stroked her hair, slid closer to her until he was pressed up against her back. "It wasn't so bad, what I did for you before, was it?"
"No," she murmured.
"Then trust me. Even if it hurts for a moment, it will feel better soon." He'd heard women say that, at least, so it seemed like it might be true. His cock was achingly hard against one soft cheek of her arse, but he forced himself once again to be patient. Just a little while longer. He knew if he handled this properly, he would have years ahead when he could simply throw her to the bed, fuck her hard, and have her writhing beneath him, squealing and screaming for more.
Slowly, half-reluctantly, she rolled over onto her back. "All right," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Let's get it over with."
***
She braced herself for him to mount her, but instead he smiled and slid down the bed to lie with his head between her bent knees. "What are you doing?" she asked uncertainly.
"I promised I'd make it enjoyable for you, didn't I?" And then his tongue was on her, in her, and she forgot why she'd been dubious a moment ago. All she could do was moan each time he licked her, arch her back, and wait for the next spasm of pleasure to pass through her and wring her out. Shyly, she reached down to run her fingers through his silvered hair, trying to let him know without words that it was good.
Finally, when she thought she couldn't bear it any longer, he lifted his head and slowly crawled up until he lay on top of her. Inside the cage of his arms she felt suddenly trapped, and the weight of his body pressed her down into the soft feather mattress until she felt like she might smother. She started to panic, wanting nothing more than to lash out and get away, but he kept stroking her hair and whispering to her, and gradually she calmed again.
"Draw your legs up more," he told her after a little while. She did as she was told, biting her lip, and jumped when she first felt the tip of his manhood brush against her slick inner folds. "I'll go slowly," he said, and then he was pushing into her.
It didn't hurt as much as she'd imagined it would. It was a little uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. Once she flinched and immediately he paused, but she shook her head and whispered "Keep going." When he was sheathed completely within her, she felt unexpectedly satisfied, whole. She looked up at his face, saw his eyes heavy-lidded and mouth gone slack, and knew that he must feel the same.
***
Her cunt was tight as a vice, but he'd readied her enough that it wasn't too hard to get inside. He hadn't felt her maidenhead give way, but then, that didn't mean much - sometimes you couldn't tell, as he knew well. Pulling back made her whimper, so he went slowly, giving her a few more careful strokes until she'd loosened enough that he could slip in and out of her almost effortlessly. He kissed her sweet mouth, then along her jawline to her ear, sucking its tender lobe between his lips, drawing a soft groan from her. When she started rocking her hips slowly, matching his pace, Theon knew he had her, and he felt a sense of pride and satisfaction swell in his chest.
He'd been holding himself back since she'd been deposited, naked, in his chambers - for that matter, he'd been holding back at least a little since she first stepped off the ship. So when he stopped being cautious, let his self-control fall away, he knew it wouldn't take very long. He gripped one of her legs roughly behind the knee and drew it up closer to her chest, letting him thrust even deeper inside her, and she responded by twining her arms around his shoulders and pulling him down onto her.
"Sansa," he said breathlessly against her rosy cheek, "I'm going to fill you so full of my seed that flat belly of yours will swell in no time… How would you like that, wife?"
***
She blushed more deeply than ever at his whispered words, and wasn't sure what to say in response. Tell him what he wants to hear, she could almost hear Randa advising her. She thought of the words the more worldly woman might have used, and brought them hesitantly to her lips. "I want you to come in my …c-cunt, my lord," she whispered back, stumbling only slightly over the naughty word, "again and again and again, until I'm big with your child."
He gave a long groan, harsh and desperate-sounding, and she wondered if this was it, but he kept going a little longer yet, pounding into her so hard her teeth were almost rattling. She didn't think she was going to peak, not from this, but it was still a good feeling, she decided, to be needed so badly, and to be so full of him. She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and drew him down for a kiss, then felt him stiffen and shudder, grunting deep in his throat three or four times before crumpling onto her, breathing hard.
His weight atop her wasn't too hard to bear, she found. Her urge to flee had passed for now, and even the ache between her thighs was pleasant, in its way. She had become Alayne Stone once, and she could make herself become Sansa Greyjoy too. That night, she slept curled warm against him, listening to the wind and the waves, and dreamt of giving birth to a baby kraken.