Chapter Text
Winterfell had been awake since dawn with frost clinging stubbornly to the windows, though inside it was all heat and hurry with maids scurrying carrying armfuls of silk and footmen bearing polished boots while somewhere below a clock chimed the quarter hour with ominous cheer.
In her chamber Sansa Stark stood very still which was difficult considering three separate women were circling her like anxious hawks.
"Turn for me once more my lady" the eldest of them murmured and Sansa turned.
"Lift your chin just so" another instructed and Sansa lifted it until pearls cooled against her throat and her gown settled into place, it was a vision of pure white swan coloured silk that shimmered faintly in the daylight.
She wore an empire-waist gown of ivory satin with delicate gold embroidery snaking across the fabric in patterns of vines and tiny flowers that resembled frozen starlight, and that was catching every ray of sun and the gown trailed behind her in a graceful train that swept across the chamber floor and upon her head her auburn hair had been swept into an elegant bun adorned with a tall headpiece of delicate feathers and a small gold tiara that caught the light and sparkled.
From the corridor outside came the unmistakable sound of small feet pounding against stone.
"I should be the one to fetch her" Rickon's voice rang out fierce and insistent "I am the youngest and she loves me best"
"You are the loudest" Bran corrected with grave seriousness "There is a difference and I am the one who remembers to knock"
"You knocked last time and she screamed at you"
"That was because you were behind me and giggling profusely!"
Another crash followed by the distinct thud of a small body colliding with furniture made Sansa close her eyes briefly as her maids were exchanging knowing glances.
Arya's voice cut through the two, and it was sharp as it was impatient. "Both of you are fools. She will come down and she will when she is ready and not a moment before"
"Then why are you here?" Bran demanded.
Arya did not answer which meant she had no good reason and Sansa smiled despite herself.
The arguing continued outside her door growing louder and more inventive until suddenly there was a thundering of footsteps down the staircase and then silence.
Sansa frowned. "What are they—"
From the bottom of the stairs Arya's voice rang out. "SANSA! MAKE HASTE!"
The maids froze and Sansa stared at her own reflection in the looking glass.
Below she heard Bran's indignant whisper carry up the stairwell. "You cannot simply scream at her"
"I just did" Arya replied with obvious satisfaction.
Another pause and then Arya's voice again this time directed at her brothers. "Do you reckon she heard me?"
Sansa pressed her lips together to keep from laughing and one of the maids handed her a handkerchief quickly lest she spoil her careful work.
"I believe" Sansa said quietly "that I had better go down before they tear Winterfell apart stone by stone"
She gathered her train carefully and stepped toward the door and as she did she caught sight of herself once more in the glass the satin dress with its the feathers and tiara and for a moment she was not simply Sansa Stark of Winterfell but someone else entirely as well as someone beautiful…. someone ready.
The corridor was empty when she emerged though, she could hear her siblings issues continuing below and she placed her hand upon the banister and began her descent.
The staircase curved gracefully and as Sansa descended she saw them all gathered in the great hall below and one by one they noticed her and one by one they fell silent.
Robb stood at the centre of them all nearest the hearth dressed in a fine coat of deep grey wool, with silver buttons marching down the front, his boots polished to a gleam and his brownish-red hair neatly combed. Though a stray curl had already escaped to fall across his brow and he had been pacing as Arya predicted.
Yet now he stood frozen mid-stride, his mouth slightly open as he gazed up at her. And in that moment, he looked so much like their father (the essence of him naturally, even if he physically did not resemble the late Ned Stark, Robb still bore his traits and the look in the man’s eye.) Sansa felt her heart ache but Robb straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back assuming the solemn dignity that now fell to him as the eldest and as the man of the house. His eyes were bright with something fierce and protective.
Beside him Jon leaned against the stone wall looking every inch the brooding statue, he was dressed with care nonetheless in a coat of black wool trimmed with silver that suited him well and made his grey eyes stand out stark against the darkness of his hair as he watched Sansa descend. Something shifted in his expression the usual guarded distance softening into something that might almost have been wonder.
Bran stood near the foot of the stairs in a smart little coat of green velvet with brass buttons and his hair had been tamed for once though his cheeks still held the flush of his earlier adventures and his eyes went wide as saucers as he took in the full vision of his sister descending toward him, Rickon bounced on his heels beside Bran dressed in a miniature version of Robb's coat though his was already rumpled and one button hung by a thread, he had forgotten to close his mouth entirely which made him look rather like a very small fish.
At the bottom of the stairs Arya stood with her hands on her hips wearing a dress of pale grey that she had clearly attempted to escape judging by the way she tugged at the collar. Her hair had been braided with blue ribbon though several strands had already worked themselves free.
Beyond them stood their mother Catelyn dressed in a gown of deep blue silk that brought out the colour of her eyes and she watched Sansa with an expression that held pride and longing and something achingly tender that made Sansa's heart clench in her chest. Beside their mother there was an empty space that once their father would have filled but Catelyn held herself straight and smiled.
Robb found his voice first though it came out uncharacteristically soft. "Sansa" he breathed and then he stepped forward and offered his arm as their father would have done "you look like you walked straight out of a song and into this hall and I do not know how we shall bear to let you go"
Jon inclined his head and murmured "You will put every lady at court to shame before you even open your mouth" and there was no trace of his usual reserve in the words only genuine admiration and perhaps a touch of sadness that he would watch this moment from the edges as he always did but Sansa caught his eye and smiled and for once Jon smiled back.
Bran tugged at Rickon's sleeve urgently. "She looks like a princess" he whispered loudly "like a real princess from the old stories with the golden gown and the feathers and everything"
Rickon nodded vigorously still staring. "She's my favourite sister" he announced "even prettier than Arya"
Arya whirled on him. "I am standing right here and I can hear you"
"I know" Rickon said cheerfully "that is why I said it"
Bran stepped forward and took Sansa's free hand with unexpected solemnity. "When you are at court and everyone is looking at you" he said quietly "you must remember to smile just like that because it is your best smile"
Sansa felt her throat tighten. "I shall remember Bran" she promised "I shall remember everything"
Robb cleared his throat and offered his arm more formally. "Come then sister" he said "the carriage awaits and I believe the whole of the North shall want to see what a Stark looks like when she blooms"
Sansa placed her hand upon his arm and together they moved toward the great doors and behind them came Bran and Rickon arguing quietly about who would sit beside her in the carriage and Arya rolling her eyes but following close and Jon walking a step behind as he always did but with his head held high and his eyes fixed on his sister and Catelyn bringing up the rear with that particular expression of pride and longing that made Sansa's heart ache with love for them all.
The doors opened onto a morning where the frost had burned away to reveal a pale winter sun, bells began to ring and Sansa Stark stepped into her new life with her family behind her.
Two carriages waited in the courtyard, their horses stamping impatiently against the cold. The first was polished black with the Stark direwolf emblazoned on the door. The second, plainer and smaller, sat behind it.
Robb handed Sansa into the first carriage with great care, minding her train. Catelyn followed, settling onto the bench across from them. A footman closed the door, and soon they were rolling through the gates of Winterfell, the ancient stones fading behind them.
Sansa sat very straight, her gloved hands folded in her lap, trying not to jostle her feathers. The gown took up considerable space, its ivory satin spreading around her like a cloud.
"You may breathe now," Catelyn said gently. "The court is not for another hour."
Sansa let out a small laugh and relaxed slightly. "I am simply so excited, Mother. I have dreamed of this day for years."
"I know you have." Catelyn smiled. "And you have prepared well. There is no lady in the Seven Kingdoms more ready than you."
Robb leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You will find a good husband in no time, Sansa, I have no doubt of it. The lords of the south will take one look at you and forget their own names."
Sansa blushed. "It is not only about husbands, Robb, it is about everything. The music and the dancing and the gardens. The king’s court, all of it."
"And Jeyne Poole," Robb said knowingly.
Sansa's face lit up. "Yes! I cannot wait to see Jeyne, we have written to each other every month since her father took her south, but it is not the same as seeing her. She will know everything already, all the gossip, all the important families. She can tell me who is who before I make a fool of myself."
"You will not make a fool of yourself," Catelyn assured her. "You are a Stark. You carry yourself with grace, and that will serve you well."
Sansa looked out the window at the passing fields, still white with frost. "Do you think she will have changed much? Jeyne, I mean?"
"Everyone changes," Catelyn said quietly. "But true friends find each other again all the same."
In the second carriage, the atmosphere was considerably less serene.
Jon sat by the window, gazing out at the landscape with the quiet composure he always wore. Beside him, Arya had her nose pressed to the opposite window, fogging the glass with her breath. Across from them, Bran and Rickon bounced on the seats like small, excited dogs.
"Stop kicking me," Bran said.
"I am not kicking you. The carriage is kicking you."
"The carriage does not have feet, Rickon."
"It might."
Arya turned from the window. "If you two do not cease your squabbling, I will open this door and push you both out."
"You would not," Bran said, though he looked uncertain.
"Try me."
Jon said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Bran shifted his attention to Jon. "Do you think Sansa will marry a prince?"
"I think Sansa will marry whoever she chooses," Jon replied, "provided he is worthy of her."
"She should marry a prince," Rickon announced. "Then I could visit the throne room and sit on the throne when he is not looking."
Arya snorted. "You would fall off."
"I would not."
"You would."
Jon listened to them bicker, his gaze returning to the window. In the distance, he could see the first carriage rolling steadily ahead, carrying Robb and Catelyn and Sansa. He did not resent his place in the second carriage. It was where he belonged, had always belonged. But as he watched his sister ride toward her future, he found himself hoping, fiercely, that the south would be kind to her.
"Jon." Arya's voice was quieter now, meant only for him. "Are you sad?"
He looked at her, this fierce little sister who always saw too much. "No," he said. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated, then said, "About how proud Father would have been today."
Arya was silent for a moment. Then she nodded and turned back to the window, leaving him to his thoughts as the carriage rolled on toward the capital.
Theon Greyjoy sat in the carriage with his knees pressed against the opposite seat and his shoulders hunched to avoid the window frame. The carriage was not built for a man of his height, or perhaps it was built precisely for that reason—to remind him that he was too large for his surroundings, too loud, too much. He had grown accustomed to the feeling.
Across from him, his mother sat ramrod straight, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on some middle distance that held neither him nor his sister in it. Lady Alannys Greyjoy had always possessed the ability to look through her children as though they were made of glass. It was a talent Theon both admired and resented.
Beside him, Yara had claimed the window and showed no signs of relinquishing it. She was pressed against the glass like a child, though she was two years his senior and would have gutted anyone who called her such.
"The season opens today," Yara announced, for perhaps the sixth time since they had left the inn. "Can you imagine it, Mother? All those lords and ladies, all that silk and intrigue. And the girls, Theon." She elbowed him sharply. "All the girls making their debuts, fresh and trembling and looking for husbands."
Theon rubbed his ribs. "I am familiar with the concept of a debut, Yara. I have been to court before."
"Not as a potential husband, you haven't."
He had no answer for that, because she was right. The last time he had been to court, he had been a hostage in all but name, a ward of Lord Stark, a reminder of his father's failed rebellion. Now his father rotted in a dungeon somewhere, his brothers were dead, and Theon was the last Greyjoy son standing. The thought sat in his stomach like a stone.
"Theon." His mother's voice cut through his thoughts. "You will attend the balls."
It was not a question.
"I had considered it," he said carefully.
"You will attend the balls," she repeated, "and you will dance. You will be charming. You will remind these southern lords that the Greyjoys are not finished."
Theon nodded. He had heard this speech before, in various forms, since the moment they had arrived in the capital. His mother saw the season as a campaign, and Theon as her soldier.
"There is a girl," his mother continued, her gaze sharpening. "A Stark girl. The eldest."
Yara turned from the window, her interest clearly piqued. "Sansa Stark? The pretty one?"
"They are all pretty, in their way." Lady Alannys waved a hand. "But this one—she is the jewel of the North, they say. Well-bred, well-mannered, well-connected. Her mother was a Tully of Riverrun. Her father—" She paused, and something flickered across her face. "Her father is gone now. The boy Robb rules in his stead, a girl like that would benefit from a husband with experience. With strength."
"You mean a Greyjoy," Theon said flatly.
"I mean you." His mother's eyes met his, and he saw the calculation there, the cold assessment. "You grew up in their house. You know them. You know their ways. The girl would not find you a stranger."
Theon thought of Sansa Stark. He thought of her auburn hair and her gentle manners and the way she had always looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, as though he were a wolf she had been told might bite but hoped would not. He thought of Robb, who called him brother in all but blood, and Jon, who treated him with the same quiet reserve he treated everyone.
"I am not—" Theon stopped, searching for the right words. "I am not what she is looking for, Mother."
"You are a lord of the Iron Islands. You are the heir to Pyke. You are—"
"I am the son of a man who tried to rebel against the throne and failed." Theon's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "I am a Greyjoy whose father sits in a cell and whose brothers are dead. I am a guest in the North who became a ward who became... whatever I am now. Sansa Stark will marry a southron lord with gold and land and a name that does not make people flinch. She will not marry me."
Lady Alannys stared at him for a long moment. Then she looked away, out the window, and said nothing more.
Yara broke the silence with a snort. "Well, that was cheerful."
Theon leaned back against the worn leather seat. "You asked."
"I did not ask. Mother asked. I am merely observing." Yara stretched her legs out, kicking his shin in the process. "For what it is worth, I think you would suit her. You are both pretty and useless."
"I am not useless."
"You are currently sitting in a carriage, doing nothing, while Mother plans your future. That seems fairly useless to me."
Theon opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She was not wrong.
The carriage lurched over a rut in the road, and Yara grabbed the window frame to steady herself. "I, on the other hand, intend to make the most of this season. There are lords here with ships, Theon. Ships and coin and ambitions. I mean to know every one of them before the month is out."
"Ambitions for what?"
Yara grinned. "Ambitions for me, if I play it right."
Theon shook his head, but he was smiling despite himself. Yara had always been the bold one, the one who looked at the world and saw only opportunities. He envied her that.
The carriage fell into silence for a time, the only sounds the creak of wheels and the distant calls of birds. Theon watched the countryside roll past green fields and stone walls and the occasional village and tried not to think about his father, his brothers, the weight of being the last.
Finally, his mother spoke again, her voice quieter now. "You will attend the balls, then?"
Theon hesitated. He thought of Robb, who would be there, standing tall and solemn in his grey coat, playing the lord. He thought of Jon, lurking in corners with that brooding expression, watching everything. He thought of the three of them, the way they used to sneak out of Winterfell at night to race horses across the moors, the way they had been something like brothers once.
"Yes," he said. "I will attend."
"For the girls?" Yara asked, smirking.
Theon looked out the window, at the road stretching toward the capital, toward bells and music and a future he could not quite picture.
"For Robb and Jon," he said. "The girls are just a bonus."
Yara laughed, loud and sharp, and even Lady Alannys's mouth twitched toward something like a smile. Theon settled deeper into his seat and let the carriage carry him forward, toward whatever waited, toward the Starks and the southrons and the strange, uncertain business of being alive when so many of his name were not.
The throne room of the Red Keep was a study in gold and excess. Sunlight streamed through high windows, catching the dust motes that danced above the assembled crowd and setting the Iron Throne ablaze with distorted light. The great hall buzzed with whispered conversation, the rustle of fine fabrics, the occasional nervous laugh.
Robert Baratheon sat slumped upon the throne, one leg hooked over the armrest in a manner that made his queen's eye twitch every time she looked at him. He had worn his finest coat for the occasion, black velvet with gold stitching, though the buttons strained somewhat over his middle and his beard had been trimmed that morning, which was as close to ceremony as Robert ever cared to get.
Beside him, Cersei Lannister sat in a chair marginally lower than the throne, though her posture suggested she did not acknowledge the difference. Her gown was green silk, her hair a cascade of golden curls, and her expression was one of carefully cultivated boredom.
Along the red carpet that stretched from the great doors to the foot of the throne, the families of the debuting women stood in ordered rows. Fathers and brothers and uncles, all in their finest, all watching as the season's flowers were presented one by one.
The first girl walked past, a mousy thing with frightened eyes and a gown that did not quite fit.
Robert yawned.
Cersei gave a slight shake of her head. The second was prettier, with dark hair and a confident stride, Robert sat up a little, watching her pass, she had hips, this one. Hips that could bear children, he glanced at Cersei, who was staring straight ahead with the expression of someone who smelled something unpleasant.
No, that look said.
Robert slumped back, the third, the fourth. A blonde, a redhead, a girl so pale she looked like she might faint, Robert forgot their names as soon as the herald spoke them, Cersei rejected them all with that same tiny motion, that same cold dismissal.
"Nothing," Robert muttered under his breath. "Is there not a single woman in the Seven Kingdoms worth looking at?"
Cersei did not deign to reply.
The herald's voice rang out again, clear and practiced. "Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and her mother, Dowager Duchess Catelyn Stark!"
Robert sat up so fast he nearly slipped from the throne.
The girl who walked through the doors was not simply pretty. She was not simply beautiful. She was…. Robert searched for the word, the right word, and found it lacking even as it formed in his mind.
She was a vision.
Ivory satin trailed behind her in a graceful sweep, with gold that caught the light like scattered sunlight. Her auburn hair was swept up in a elegant bun, adorned with feathers and a small gold tiara that sat upon her head, she wore the outfit the best is all he could say and she walked with her chin lifted, her gaze straight ahead, her mother a step behind and slightly to the side. And her face, that was Ned's face, Ned's daughter, Ned's blood, and Robert felt something crack open in his chest that he had kept sealed for years.
The girl was beautiful. God, she was beautiful.
Robert was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. He descended the steps of the Iron Throne, Cersei's sharp intake of breath somewhere behind him and strode toward the girl. Toward Sansa Stark.
She stopped when she saw him coming, her eyes widening slightly, but she did not flinch. Brave girl. Ned's girl.
Robert took her hand in both of his, and he smiled, a real smile, the kind he had not worn in years.
"Lady Sansa," he said, his voice rough with something that might have been grief or might have been wonder. "You are your father's daughter. There is no mistaking it."
Sansa dipped into a curtsy, graceful despite the weight of her gown. "Your Grace is too kind."
Robert shook his head. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles, and he heard the murmur run through the crowd like wind through leaves.
"I have seen many beauties in my time," Robert said, loud enough for all to hear. "I have seen the flowers of every kingdom, the daughters of every lord. But you—" He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw Ned staring back at him from those blue eyes. "You are something else entirely."
He released her hand but did not step away. Instead, he turned to the crowd, to the court, to the watching world.
"Let it be known," Robert Baratheon declared, "that from this day forward, Lady Sansa Stark shall be known as the Rose of the Realm. For I have never seen a flower half so fair."
The crowd erupted into applause and murmured approval. Sansa's cheeks flushed pink, but she kept her composure, dipping into another curtsy. Behind her, Catelyn Stark's face was alight with pride.
Cersei watched from her seat, her expression carved from stone. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, knuckles white, and her eyes followed Sansa Stark with an intensity that promised nothing good.
Sansa rose from her curtsy and continued her walk down the red carpet, toward the doors at the far end of the hall. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she kept her chin lifted, her steps measured, her smile exactly as Bran had instructed. She could feel eyes on her, hundreds of eyes, thousands, but she did not waver.
At the back of the hall, near the doors where the families stood, she passed Theon Greyjoy.
He was watching her with an expression she could not quite read, though it was something that made her cheeks warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the king's praise.
Beside him, his sister Yara elbowed him sharply in the ribs.
Theon startled, tearing his gaze away. "What?"
Yara grinned. "Close your mouth, brother. You'll catch flies."
Theon shot her a look, but when he turned back toward the doors, Sansa Stark had already passed through, swallowed by the crowd of well-wishers and debutantes waiting beyond.
He stood there for a long moment, Yara's knowing smirk burning a hole in his peripheral vision, and tried very hard not to think about ivory satin and auburn hair and a girl who looked like she had walked out of a song.
He failed.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed. Where earlier that day the throne room had held the solemn formality of presentations, now it blazed with candlelight and laughter and the heady scent of a thousand flowers. Musicians played from a gallery above, their melodies drifting down upon the dancers who swirled across the marble floor in patterns of silk and satin.
Sansa stood near the edge of the dance floor, her gloved hands clasped before her, watching the couples turn and twirl with barely contained longing. Her gown was pale yellow tonight, a confection of gossamer layers that caught the candlelight and made her look like she was wrapped in sunlight. Gold ribbons threaded through her hair, which had been arranged in soft curls that brushed her shoulders. She had never felt more beautiful. She had never felt more invisible.
A young lord approached, dark hair, pleasant smile, the son of some minor house from the Reach. He bowed.
"Lady Sansa, might I have this dance?"
Sansa's face lit up. "I would be—"
"I think not."
Robb appeared at her elbow like a summoned shadow. He smiled at the young lord, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "My sister is tired. She has had a long day."
The young lord blinked. "I... of course. Another time, perhaps." He bowed again and retreated into the crowd.
Sansa whirled on her brother. "Robb! I was not tired, I was not tired at all."
"You have danced three times already."
"Three times in two hours! That is hardly a scandal."
Robb scanned the crowd, his gaze sharp and assessing. "That one, the dark-haired fellow his family has debts. Significant ones. He would be after your dowry, not your heart."
"You do not know that."
"I know enough." Robb spotted another young man approaching and stepped forward before the fellow could even bow. "My sister is not dancing at present. Thank you for your interest."
The young man looked confused but departed without argument.
Sansa stared at her brother. "You did not even let him speak."
"I knew his house. His father drinks. The son likely does the same."
"You cannot know that."
"I can guess."
From somewhere behind them, Arya's voice cut through the music. "Robb is being an ass again."
Sansa turned to find Arya leaning against a pillar, Bran and Rickon flanking her like mismatched sentinels. Bran wore an expression of scholarly interest, as though he were observing a fascinating specimen. Rickon looked simply bored.
"An ass," Arya repeated, louder this time.
Robb ignored her. Another young lord approached, this one fair-haired, well-dressed, with an easy confidence in his stride, Robb opened his mouth to deliver his customary rejection, but the young man spoke first.
"Lord Stark." He bowed. "I am Ser Horas Redwyne. I would be honored to dance with your sister."
Robb's expression flickered, Redwyne. The Reach. Vineyards, ships, wealth. A good name. A good family.
"Ser Horas." Robb inclined his head. "I regret to inform you that my sister is—"
"Robb Stark."
Catelyn's voice cut through the noise like a blade, she stood behind them, her gown a deep blue that matched her eyes, and her expression was one that Sansa recognised well. It was the look that preceded a very thorough scolding.
Robb turned. "Mother."
"A word." Catelyn took his arm and steered him several paces away, leaving Sansa standing alone with Ser Horas, who looked uncertain whether to stay or flee.
"Mother, I was only—"
"You were only preventing your sister from enjoying her first ball." Catelyn's voice was low but firm. "You have turned away seven young men in the past hour. Seven."
"Eight," Bran supplied helpfully from his position by the pillar.
Catelyn did not acknowledge him. "Robb, I understand your desire to protect her, I share it. But this is not protection. This is suffocation."
"She is my responsibility."
"She is your sister. Your sister, not your daughter. And even if she were your daughter, you would still be wrong." Catelyn's eyes softened slightly. "I know you feel the weight of your father's absence. I know you carry it every day. But Robb, she is allowed to dance. She is allowed to laugh. She is allowed to be young."
Robb's jaw tightened. "I am only trying to—"
"I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to be him. But he would not have done this." Catelyn gestured toward the dance floor. "He would have stood beside her, yes. He would have watched carefully. But he would have let her choose. He would have trusted her."
Robb was silent for a long moment. Then he looked past his mother to where Sansa stood, still waiting, still hopeful, her pale yellow gown shimmering in the candlelight.
"She looks so much like you," he said quietly.
Catelyn smiled. "She looks like herself and she deserves to find out who that is."
Robb exhaled slowly. Then he walked back to Sansa, and Catelyn watched him go with something between pride and sorrow in her eyes.
Sansa looked up at him warily. "If you send away Ser Horas, I shall never forgive you."
Robb looked at the young man, decent enough, as far as he could tell. Then he looked at his sister, at the hope in her eyes, at the woman she was becoming.
"Ser Horas," he said. "My sister would be honoured to dance with you."
Sansa's face transformed. She beamed at Robb, then took Ser Horas's offered arm and let him lead her onto the dance floor.
Robb stood at the edge, watching. Beside him, Arya appeared.
"You are not so bad," she said. "For an ass."
"Thank you. That means a great deal coming from you."
Arya grinned and disappeared back toward the pillars, where Bran and Rickon had begun some sort of argument about the number of candles in the chandelier.
Robb watched Sansa dance, her pale yellow skirts swirling, her laughter carrying above the music. She looked happy. She looked alive. She looked like their father, and like their mother, and like herself.
He let out a long breath.
It was going to be a long season.
Across the hall, Theon Greyjoy leaned against a pillar with a cup of wine in his hand and his eyes fixed on the dance floor. He had been watching Sansa Stark for the better part of an hour watching her dance, watching her laugh, watching the way her pale yellow gown caught the light when she turned.
Yara appeared at his elbow. "You are staring again."
"I am observing."
"Observing with your mouth slightly open."
Theon closed his mouth.
Yara followed his gaze to where Sansa twirled past, her partner's hand at her waist. "She is pretty. I will give you that."
"She is more than pretty."
"Is she?" Yara tilted her head. "Or is she just the first pretty thing you have seen that your mother did not pick out for you?"
Theon shot her a look. "You are insufferable."
"I am correct. There is a difference." Yara took his cup and helped herself to a drink. "If you want to dance with her, dance with her. But stop lurking in the shadows like a lovesick squire. It is embarrassing."
Theon watched Sansa disappear into the crowd of dancers. He thought of the way she had looked at him that morning, when the king had kissed her hand. He thought of the way her cheeks had flushed.
He pushed off from the pillar.
"Where are you going?" Yara called after him.
"To dance," Theon said. "Since you are so determined to be rid of me."
Yara raised the cup in a mock toast. "About damn time."
Theon made his way toward the dance floor, toward the pale yellow gown and the auburn hair and the girl who had somehow become the center of everyone's attention.
He did not look back.
The night air was cool on the terrace, a welcome relief after the heat and press of the ballroom, Sansa leaned against the stone balustrade and stared up at the stars, letting the quiet settle around her like a cloak.
She heard footsteps behind her and tensed, but it was only her mother. Catelyn came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"You danced with Theon Greyjoy tonight," Catelyn said finally.
"Yes."
"And you danced with him well, I watched."
Sansa said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Catelyn sighed softly. "I know what you are feeling, Sansa, I see the way you look at him, I remember what it was like to be your age, to feel your heart pull toward someone who seemed impossible."
Sansa turned to look at her mother. "You married Father, you had a love match, though disguised, and everyone knows it."
"I did." Catelyn's voice was quiet, touched with something old and sad. "And it was the greatest gift of my life. But it was also a gift, Sansa, not something I could have forced."
"Theon said he would come back, he said—"
"I know what he said. I heard." Catelyn reached out and took her daughter's hand. "But Theon Greyjoy has also said he will never marry, he has made that declaration publicly, repeatedly and his own mother despairs of him."
Sansa's chin lifted. "People can change."
"Sometimes." Catelyn squeezed her hand. "Sometimes they can, but change must come from within, Sansa, it cannot be wished into being by someone else's hope. If Theon is to become the man you deserve, he must do that work himself, you cannot do it for him."
Sansa looked down at their joined hands. "Then what am I supposed to do? Wait? Hope? Pretend I feel nothing?"
"You are supposed to live." Catelyn's voice was firm but gentle. "You are supposed to continue being Sansa Stark, daughter of Winterfell, the Rose of the Realm. You are supposed to attend the balls and smile at the dances and let the season unfold as it will. If Theon returns and proves himself worthy, then you will have choices to make. But you cannot put your life on hold for a possibility."
Sansa was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, "Mother, what if Lord Ashford calls again?"
Catelyn's expression hardened. "Lord Ashford will not call again. Not if I have anything to say about it."
"But Robb thinks—"
"Robb is young and foolish and terrified of failing at a role he never asked for." Catelyn's voice was sharper now. "He thinks in terms of politics and alliances and what makes sense on paper. He does not understand what it costs a woman to marry a man she cannot bear. He has never had to learn."
Sansa looked at her mother with something like wonder. "You would stand against him? Against Robb?"
"I would stand for you." Catelyn released her hand and cupped her daughter's face instead, tilting it gently toward the moonlight. "You are my daughter. My firstborn girl, I watched you take your first steps, speak your first words, grow from a babe into the woman standing before me. I will not see you sacrificed to some old lord's greed simply because your brother cannot see past his own fears."
Sansa felt tears prick at her eyes. "I thought… I thought you would side with him. That you would say I must be practical, must think of the family, must—"
"I have been practical my entire life." Catelyn's voice was quiet but fierce. "I was practical when I was betrothed to your father's brother, a man I had never met. I was practical when that brother died and I was given to your father instead. I was practical when I came north to a strange land and a stranger husband and made a life there anyway, I know what practicality costs, Sansa, I know it in my bones."
She paused, her thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down Sansa's cheek.
"Your father gave me love, and respect, and a partnership that made the practicality bearable, but I also know that not every woman is so lucky, I have seen what happens to those who are not & I will not let that happen to you."
Sansa threw her arms around her mother, burying her face in Catelyn's shoulder. The tears came freely now, grateful and relieved.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, Mother."
Catelyn held her close, stroking her hair the way she had when Sansa was small. "You will find your path, my love. I do not know if it leads to Theon Greyjoy or someone else entirely, but I know that you are strong enough to walk it. And I will be beside you every step of the way."
They stood together in the moonlight, mother and daughter, and the night held them close.
The next morning, Robb found himself summoned to his mother's sitting room.
He went with a sense of dread he could not quite explain. The summons had been formal a note delivered by a maid, requesting his presence at his earliest convenience and that formality alone was enough to set his teeth on edge.
Catelyn was waiting by the window when he entered. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and her expression was one he knew well. It was the look she had worn when he was a boy caught in some mischief, when she was about to deliver a lecture he would not soon forget.
"Mother."
"Robb." She gestured to a chair. "Sit."
He sat.
Catelyn did not sit. She stood before him, straight and tall, and looked down at him with those blue eyes that saw everything.
"Lord Ashford called again this morning."
Robb blinked. "He did?"
"He did. I received him myself, since you were not here to play gatekeeper." Catelyn's voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "He wished to speak about his proposal. About the possibility of renewing his suit."
Robb leaned forward. "And what did you tell him?"
"I told him that Sansa was not at home. I told him that she would not be at home to him in the future. I told him, in terms I believe were quite clear, that his suit was unwelcome and would remain so."
Robb stared at his mother. "You did what?"
"I protected my daughter." Catelyn's eyes flashed. "Something you seem to have forgotten how to do."
"I was protecting her! Lord Ashford is wealthy, influential, connected—"
"He is old, Robb. Old and ugly and cold-blooded. He has buried three wives and shows no signs of grief for any of them." Catelyn's voice rose slightly. "You would hand your sister to a man like that? For what? For land? For coin? For a political alliance that might benefit us in some hypothetical future?"
"It is not hypothetical. We need allies. We need—"
"We need nothing that requires sacrificing Sansa's happiness on the altar of your ambition."
Robb shot to his feet. "It is not ambition! It is survival! Father is gone, and the wolves are circling, and I am trying I am trying to hold everything together, and I cannot do it alone, and I thought I thought if Sansa made a good match, a strong match, it would help, it would secure us. It would—"
"It would make you feel less afraid." Catelyn's voice cut through his words like a blade. "That is what this is about, is it not? Not Sansa, not her future. Your fear."
Robb opened his mouth to deny it, but the words would not come.
Catelyn stepped closer to him, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I know you are afraid, Robb. I know you carry a weight no one your age should have to bear. I know you lie awake at night wondering if you are enough, if you can protect us, if you will fail the way you fear you will."
Robb's throat tightened. "Mother—"
"But you cannot let that fear drive you to hurt the very people you are trying to protect." Catelyn reached up and cupped his face, the way she had cupped Sansa's the night before. "Your sister is not a bargaining chip. She is not a political asset. She is a person, with hopes and dreams and a heart that can be broken. And if you break it in the name of protecting her, you will lose her forever."
Robb closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were bright with unshed tears.
"I do not know what I am doing," he whispered. "I do not know how to be him. I do not know how to be anyone. I am just—I am just pretending, every day, and waiting for everyone to realize that I am not enough."
Catelyn pulled him into an embrace, holding him the way she had held all her children when they were small and frightened and in need of comfort.
"You are enough," she murmured against his hair. "You are more than enough. But you must learn that for yourself, Robb. No one can teach it to you."
They stood together in the morning light, mother and son, and the weight between them shifted into something lighter.
The season continued.
Balls and parties and garden gatherings stretched out before them like an endless ribbon of silk and candlelight. Sansa attended them all, smiling and dancing and making conversation, and slowly very slowly she began to enjoy herself again.
Robb had retreated. Not entirely, not obviously, but there was a new carefulness in the way he moved through the world. He still watched over Sansa, still hovered at the edges of her conversations, but he no longer intervened. He no longer sent suitors away. He stood silent and watchful, learning to trust his sister to make her own choices.
And Sansa danced.
She danced with young lords and old, with handsome men and plain, with poets and soldiers and one memorable fellow who could not stop stepping on her toes. She laughed and smiled and made conversation, and if her heart was not entirely in it, no one seemed to notice.
Theon Greyjoy was everywhere and nowhere.
She saw him at balls, across crowded rooms, always at the edges, always watching. He danced with other women beautiful women, eligible women but his eyes always found her across the floor. They never spoke & they never approached, but something passed between them in those glances, something wordless and warm.
His mother, Lady Alannys, made a point of seeking Sansa out at every event. She was a formidable woman, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, but she spoke to Sansa with a gentleness that surprised them both.
"You have done something to my son," she said one evening, watching Theon across the ballroom. "I do not know what it is, but I am grateful for it."
Sansa blushed. "I have done nothing, my lady."
"You have existed." Lady Alannys smiled, and it transformed her severe features. "Sometimes that is enough."
The weeks passed.
Other girls found their matches. Betrothals were announced, contracts signed, futures secured. Lady Marissa married her viscount. Lady Elinor became engaged to her earl's son. Even Arya, to her eternal horror, received three separate inquiries about her availability.
Sansa received none.
It was not for lack of interest. Young men still approached her, still asked her to dance, still lingered at her side during garden parties. But something had shifted. The desperate press of suitors that marked the beginning of the season had faded into something more measured, more cautious. Sansa was the Rose of the Realm, beautiful and well-connected, but she was also the girl whose brother had rejected half the eligible men in the capital. The girl who had refused Lord Ashford publicly, dramatically, with half the ton watching.
She was a risk. And in the marriage market, risks were rarely taken.
Sansa tried not to let it wound her. She smiled and danced and made conversation, and at night she lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake.
On the night of the tenth ball, Theon Greyjoy appeared at her side.
He did not ask her to dance. He simply stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and watched the dancers swirl past.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said quietly.
Sansa glanced at him. He was watching the dancers, not her, but there was a tension in his jaw that had not been there before.
"Thank you."
They stood in silence for a moment. The music swelled and fell.
"I have not spoken to you in weeks," Theon said. "I wanted to. I wanted to every night. But I did not know what to say."
Sansa's heart hammered in her chest. "You could have said hello."
"I could have." He turned to look at her then, and his dark eyes were soft. "Hello, Sansa."
"Hello, Theon."
They smiled at each other, and something fragile bloomed between them.
"I have been thinking," Theon said slowly, "about what you said. In the garden. About people changing."
Sansa waited.
"I have been thinking that perhaps I was wrong. About a lot of things." He looked away, out at the dancers. "I told you I would never marry. I meant it when I said it. I meant it for weeks after. I meant it right up until the moment I saw you refuse Lord Ashford in front of half the ton."
Sansa blinked. "That made you change your mind?"
"It made me realize something." He looked back at her, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes, something she had never seen before. "You are brave, Sansa. Braver than anyone I know. You stood in front of all those people and chose yourself over safety, over practicality, over everything you had been taught to want. And I thought if she can do that, if she can be that brave, then perhaps I can stop hiding behind my father's crimes and my brothers' deaths and my own fear. Perhaps I can try to be the man someone like you deserves."
Sansa's breath caught. "Theon—"
"I am not asking you to wait for me." He said it quickly, as if afraid she would misunderstand. "I am not asking for anything. I only wanted you to know that I am trying. That I am changing. That when I come back if I come back I will be different."
"When you come back," Sansa said softly, "I will be here."
Theon smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. "Then I will come back."
He reached out and took her hand, just for a moment, just long enough for warmth to pass between them. Then he released her and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving her standing alone with her heart in her throat and hope blooming in her chest.
Across the ballroom, Robb watched them.
He had seen the entire exchange the approach, the conversation, the brief touch of hands. He had seen the way his sister's face lit up, the way Theon looked at her like she was the only person in the room.
He should have felt angry. He should have felt protective, possessive, ready to intervene.
Instead, he felt something surprising.
Hope, though Theon Greyjoy was not the man Robb would have chosen for his sister. He was reckless and restless and carried too much of his father's shadow. But he was also brave and clever and capable of loyalty. He had been Robb's friend for years, had stood beside him through grief and uncertainty, had never once wavered in his devotion.
And if Theon could change if he could become the man Sansa deserved, then perhaps there was hope for all of them.
Robb turned away from the dancers and found his mother watching him from across the room, she raised an eyebrow, questioning.
He smiled a small smile, but a real one and nodded so Catelyn smiled back.
The season continued.
Sansa danced and laughed and made conversation, and if her eyes sometimes drifted toward the edges of the room, seeking a familiar face, no one commented on it.
Theon was there, always there, at every ball and party and gathering. He danced with other women, smiled at other ladies, played the charming lord as he always had. But his eyes always found hers across the room, and at the end of every evening, he found a moment to stand beside her, close enough to touch, and simply be present.
They did not speak of the future. They did not make promises but something was growing between them, slow and steady, like a flower pushing through winter soil.
Robb watched and waited and learned to trust. Catelyn watched and hoped and said nothing & Sansa, the Rose of the Realm and of the First Bloom danced through the season with a smile on her face and a secret in her heart, the knowledge that somewhere in the crowd, a young man was changing himself, bit by bit, for her, the season was only beginning and so were they.
The morning sun streamed through the windows of the Stark townhouse, casting warm light across the breakfast table where Sansa sat with Arya, picking at a plate of eggs she had no appetite for.
"You are brooding," Arya observed around a mouthful of toast.
"I am not brooding, I am thinking."
"Same thing, different dress." Arya reached for the honey. "Is it about Theon again? Because if it is, I would rather hear about literally anything else, like the war in Essos, or the price of grain, or how many times Bran has fallen out of a tree this week."
Sansa set down her fork. "It is not about Theon."
"Good."
"It is about Jeyne."
Arya paused mid-reach. "Jeyne Poole, your shadow? What about her?"
Sansa hesitated, unsure how to put words to the unease that had been growing in her chest for weeks. "She has been different lately, since the presentation, since the king named me—"
"The Rose of the Realm." Arya rolled her eyes. "Yes, I remember. Everyone remembers. You have not let us forget."
"I have not—" Sansa stopped, stung. "I do not go about proclaiming it, Arya. It simply happened."
"It happened, and now every time we go anywhere, people stare at you and whisper about you, and Jeyne stands in your shadow like she always has, only now the shadow is bigger." Arya shrugged. "She is your friend, Sansa. She has always been your friend. But she is also a girl whose father is a steward, whose prospects depend entirely on your family's goodwill, and who now watches you become the most talked about debutante in the capital while she stands at the edges, hoping someone remembers her name."
Sansa stared at her sister. "That is remarkably insightful for you."
Arya grinned. "I am full of surprises."
"But Jeyne and I have been friends since we were children. She would not resent me for something I cannot control."
"She might not resent you, but she might feel strange, complicated, like she does not quite know where she fits anymore." Arya shrugged again. "I do not know. I am not good at this feelings business. Ask Mother if you want proper advice."
Sansa was quiet for a moment, then said, "When did you become so wise about people?"
"I am not wise about people. I am wise about how people treat me when they think I am not looking." Arya bit into her toast with satisfaction. "Jeyne looks at you the way the servants look at the lord's table, like she wants to be part of it but does not quite know how."
Sansa thought about this, thinking about the way Jeyne's laugh had seemed forced lately, the way her eyes darted away during conversations, the way she sometimes seemed to be performing friendship rather than simply being friends, and it made her sad and it made her lonely.
"I miss her," Sansa said quietly. "Even when she is right beside me, I miss her."
Arya chewed thoughtfully. "That is because she is not really beside you anymore. She is beside the idea of you, the Rose of the Realm, the king's favorite." She swallowed. "Speaking of which, do you realize what being the Incomparable actually means?"
Sansa blinked. "The what?"
"The Incomparable. That is what they are calling you, the most promising debutante of the season, the one every other girl is measured against." Arya set down her toast. "Mother told me. Said I should understand the stakes."
Sansa felt a flutter of pride mixed with something else, something uneasy. "I did not ask for that title."
"You did not have to. The king gave you the first one, and the ton gave you the second." Arya leaned forward, her grey eyes sharp. "Do you know what happens now, Sansa? Every other girl at every other ball will watch you. They will smile at you and compliment your gown and then go home and whisper about how you do not deserve it, how you are not that pretty, how your family is northern and strange and barely civilized, how your brother is odd and your sister is wild and your mother is cold."
Sansa's throat tightened. "That is not—"
"It is exactly what will happen. It is what always happens." Arya's voice softened, just slightly. "I am not saying this to be cruel. I am saying it so you understand. You are not just Sansa anymore. You are the Rose of the Realm, the Incomparable, and that means two hundred other girls have a common adversary."
Sansa sat back in her chair, the eggs before her suddenly nauseating.
"I did not ask for this," she whispered.
"No, but you have it anyway." Arya reached across the table and took her hand, a rare gesture of affection from her prickly sister. "So you had better be ready for what comes with it."
What came with it, as it turned out, was a great deal of paper.
The first edition of what would become the most talked-about publication in the capital appeared three days after Sansa's presentation, and it was a single sheet, elegantly printed, distributed to every major household in the city, bearing the title The Whispers of Lord Vellmont by A Faithful Observer, which read,
The season has begun with a flourish, and this observer finds herself, forgive the presumption, quite unable to look away. The debutantes this year are a lovely bunch, to be sure, but one stands above the rest like a rose among daisies. Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, lately dubbed the Rose of the Realm by His Majesty himself, has captured the attention of the ton in a manner rarely seen. Her beauty is remarked upon by all, her grace universally admired, and her prospects, well. This observer predicts great things for the northern lady.
But let us not neglect the other dramas unfolding in our midst. Lady Marissa of the Stormlands was observed in rather close conversation with a gentleman not her betrothed, and Lord Harwin of the Reach was seen leaving a certain establishment in the early hours of the morning. The season, it seems, offers entertainment both on and off the dance floor.
More to come, dear readers. Your faithful observer remains ever watchful.
Sansa read the sheet three times, her cheeks warm with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, before looking up at her mother and asking, "Who wrote this?"
Catelyn's expression was carefully neutral as she replied, "No one knows. It arrived this morning, delivered to every house in the capital. The printer claims anonymity."
"But they speak of me. They say such—"
"Kind things, yes." Catelyn's voice was measured. "Which means whoever wrote it has an interest in your success, or an interest in making others think you have advantages you do not."
Sansa frowned. "Why would anyone do that?"
"To raise you up, to tear you down later, to create drama where none existed." Catelyn took the sheet from her daughter's hands. "Be careful, Sansa. Praise from the shadows is still praise from someone who will not show their face, and that should give you pause."
The next week, another sheet appeared, and then another, until The Whispers of Lord Vellmont became a weekly institution, read aloud in drawing rooms and debated in clubs, while its anonymous author, who signed only as A Faithful Observer, had a gift for observation and a sharper gift for turning those observations into gossip that everyone wanted to read, with Lady Sansa Stark appearing in nearly every edition, her gowns described and admired, her dances noted and analysed, her potential suitors listed and ranked.
The Rose of the Realm continues to bloom, one edition read. This observer notes with interest that Lady Sansa has danced with no fewer than seventeen gentlemen in the past fortnight, yet none seem to have captured her particular attention. Is she waiting for someone special, or is someone special waiting for her?
Sansa did not know whether to be flattered or alarmed.
Three weeks after the first edition appeared, Sansa found herself in the park on a gray afternoon, walking alone for once, as Jeyne had claimed a headache and Sansa suspected, sadly, that the headache was named Jealousy, while Arya was off with Bran and Rickon somewhere, probably causing chaos, and Catelyn was receiving callers at home, so Sansa walked alone, her thoughts drifting, her eyes on the path ahead, until she nearly walked past him before she realized who he was.
Theon Greyjoy sat on a bench near the fountain, staring at nothing, and he looked different, thinner perhaps, or just tired, with his coat fine but rumpled and his hair less carefully arranged than usual.
Sansa stopped and Theon looked up.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, then Sansa did something she had not done in weeks, she walked toward him.
"Lord Greyjoy."
"Lady Sansa." He rose automatically, bowing. "Forgive me, I did not see you approach."
"Clearly." She stood before him, close enough to see the shadows under his eyes. "You look terrible."
Theon laughed, a short surprised sound. "Thank you. You look lovely, as always."
"I did not come for compliments." Sansa's voice was steady, though her heart hammered in her chest. "I came for answers. Why have you been avoiding me?"
Theon looked away. "I have not been—"
"Do not." Her voice sharpened. "Do not lie to me, Theon. I have had enough of lies, from you, from everyone. You walk with me in the park and then disappear for weeks. You look at me across ballrooms and then flee the moment I approach. You make me feel—" She stopped, her voice cracking. "You make me feel like I am going mad."
Theon stared at her, in the gray afternoon light, his eyes were dark and unreadable.
"You deserve better than me," he said quietly.
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only answer I have." He sat back down on the bench, heavily, like a man too tired to stand. "Robb saw me. With a woman. A common woman. He told me to stay away from you, and he was right."
Sansa felt the words land like blows. "A woman?"
"It does not matter. It should not matter. I am not—" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "I am not what you need, Sansa. I am not what anyone needs. I am broken, and selfish, and scared, and I will hurt you if I stay near you. It is what I do."
Sansa stood frozen, the words washing over her. She should have been angry. She should have been hurt. She should have turned and walked away and never looked back.
Instead, she sat down beside him.
"Theon."
He would not look at her.
"Theon, look at me."
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned.
Sansa met his eyes. "I know you are broken. I know you are scared. I know you have done things you are not proud of." She paused. "I also know that you are trying. I have seen it. The way you look at me. The way you stay at the edges of rooms, watching. The way you ran from me in the park and then came back to walk with me anyway."
Theon's throat worked. "Sansa—"
"You are not the only one who is struggling." Her voice dropped. "Do you know what it is like to be me right now? To have every eye on you, every whisper about you, every girl in the ton smiling at your face and sharpening knives behind your back? Do you know what it is like to watch your best friend drift away because she does not know how to be near you anymore?"
Theon said nothing.
"I am lonely, Theon." The words came out softer than she intended. "I am surrounded by people every moment of every day, and I have never been more alone."
They sat together on the bench, the fountain murmuring behind them, the gray sky pressing down.
Finally, Theon spoke. "What do you want from me?"
Sansa thought about it, she thought about the balls and the parties and the endless press of people who wanted something from her. She thought about the gossip sheets and the jealous glances and the way her mother looked at her with worried eyes.
Before she could answer, Theon spoke again, his voice thoughtful, almost wondering.
"What if we helped each other?"
Sansa blinked. "What do you mean?"
Theon turned to face her fully, and there was something new in his eyes, something calculating but not cruel. "You need suitors, real suitors, men who will actually propose and not just dance with you and move on. And I need—" He paused, searching for words. "I need the women of the ton to leave me alone. Every ball, every party, every gathering, they swarm me. Their mothers push them at me. I cannot breathe without some eligible lady batting her eyes at me."
Sansa considered this. "That is a problem I would like to have."
"It is not as pleasant as you might think." Theon's mouth twisted. "They do not want me, Sansa. They want my name, my title, my money. They want to be the Lady of Pyke, the wife of the last Greyjoy. They do not see me at all."
Sansa was quiet for a moment. "I know what that feels like."
"I know you do." Theon leaned forward, his voice lowering. "So what if we gave them something else to look at? What if we gave each other what we need?"
Sansa's heart began to beat faster. "Explain."
"What if we pretended to court? Publicly, obviously, for everyone to see." Theon's eyes were bright now, caught up in the idea. "If I am seen paying attention to you, if I am at your side at every ball, dancing with you, walking with you, making it clear that you have my interest, then two things will happen. First, every other man in the ton will suddenly want you because they will think you are taken, and men always want what they cannot have. They will compete for you, fight for you, propose to you just to prove they can win you away from me."
Sansa's mind raced. "And second?"
"Second, every woman who has been pursuing me will see that I am unavailable. They will see me focused on you, devoted to you, and they will look elsewhere for husbands." Theon smiled, a real smile. "I will finally have peace. You will finally have suitors. We both get what we want."
Sansa stared at him. "You want us to pretend."
"I want us to help each other." Theon's voice was earnest. "You help me become invisible to the matchmakers and their daughters. I help you become the most desired woman in the capital. It is perfect."
Sansa thought about it, really thought about it. She thought about the way men looked at her now, admiring but distant. She thought about the way they danced with her and complimented her and then moved on to girls who seemed more attainable. She thought about Jeyne, drifting away, and the other debutantes, sharpening their knives.
She thought about Theon beside her, warm and real and looking at her like she mattered.
"And if it works," she said slowly, "if we succeed, then what?"
Theon's expression flickered, something passing behind his eyes too fast to read. "Then you have your pick of suitors. You choose the one you want, the one who deserves you, and you marry him and are happy. And I—" He shrugged. "I remain unattached, as I always planned."
Sansa felt something twist in her chest, but she pushed it down. "And no one gets hurt."
"No one gets hurt." Theon held out his hand. "Do we have an agreement?"
Sansa looked at his hand, at the long fingers and the warm skin, at the man who had run from her and come back and run again. She thought about what it would mean to spend more time with him, to be seen with him, to pretend that he was hers.
It was dangerous. It was foolish. It was exactly what she needed.
She took his hand.
"We have an agreement."
Theon's smile widened, and for a moment he looked almost like the man she had danced with at the beginning of the season, the man who had made her laugh, the man who had looked at her like she mattered.
"Then let us begin."
They sat together on the bench, the plan taking shape between them, and for the first time in weeks, neither of them felt quite so alone.
The next ball, they put their plan into motion.
Theon arrived early, stationed himself near the refreshment table, and waited. When Sansa entered, gowned in soft green with her hair arranged in elaborate curls, he made his way to her side with deliberate purpose.
"Lady Sansa." He bowed. "You look lovely this evening."
"Lord Greyjoy." She curtsied. "How kind of you to notice."
He offered his arm. "Might I escort you to the dance floor?"
Sansa placed her hand on his arm, and together they walked past the assembled ton. She saw the whispers start immediately, the heads turning, the eyes following.
They danced together twice. They stood together during the intervals. They smiled at each other with calculated warmth.
By the end of the evening, the gossip was already spreading.
The next morning, a new edition of The Whispers of Lord Vellmont appeared.
This observer notes with great interest the developing connection between the Rose of the Realm and the last surviving son of Pyke. Lord Theon Greyjoy, long considered one of the season's most eligible bachelors, was observed in close conversation with Lady Sansa Stark throughout the evening. They danced not once but twice, and their smiles for one another were noted by all present.
Is this the beginning of a romance, or merely the friendship of two young people navigating the treacherous waters of the ton? This observer will continue to watch, and to report.
Sansa read the sheet with satisfaction. Theon, seated across from her in a discreet corner of the park, read over her shoulder.
"It is working," she said.
"It is beginning." Theon folded the paper. "Now we must be seen together regularly, often enough to fuel speculation but not so often that people grow bored."
Sansa raised an eyebrow. "You have thought about this."
"I have had time to think." He looked at her. "Are you certain you are willing? This will attach your name to mine. People will assume we are courting. Your prospects with other men may become complicated."
Sansa shrugged. "My prospects with other men were already complicated. I have spent the season with them avoiding me due to Robb." She paused. "Besides, spending time with you is not exactly a hardship."
Theon replied with a, “Careful, my Lady, people might think you mean that." before he smiled, and for a moment he looked almost like the man she had danced with at the beginning of the season, the man who had made her laugh, the man who had looked at her like she mattered.
"Perhaps I do," she said quietly.
They sat together in the park, the sun breaking through the clouds, and neither of them mentioned that the plan they had made was supposed to be fake, and neither of them mentioned that it did not feel fake at all.
The weeks that followed were a performance.
Theon and Sansa appeared together at every event. They danced, they walked, they sat together during intervals with their heads close and their voices low, and they smiled at each other with a warmth that was entirely real and entirely dangerous.
The ton noticed. The papers noted. The other debutantes watched with a mixture of envy and calculation.
And slowly, surely, the plan began to work.
Young men who had previously admired Sansa from a distance began to approach. They asked her to dance, they lingered at her side, they competed for her attention in ways they had not before.
Theon, for his part, found himself suddenly the most pursued bachelor in the capital. Ladies who had dismissed him as charming but unserious now watched him with new eyes, for if he was good enough for the Rose of the Realm, he was good enough for them.
It was perfect. It was working.
And it was breaking both their hearts.
"You are staring at her again."
Yara appeared at Theon's elbow, as she always did, her voice dripping with amusement. They stood at the edge of another ball, another night, another performance.
Theon did not look away from Sansa, who was dancing with a young lord from the Reach, laughing at something he had said. "I am not staring."
"You are staring with your mouth slightly open and your heart in your eyes." Yara leaned against the pillar beside him. "It is embarrassing, truly."
Theon finally tore his gaze away. "It is part of the plan."
"What plan? The one where you pretend to court her so other men want her, and she pretends to want you so other women want you?" Yara snorted. "That is the stupidest plan I have ever heard, and I once heard a man try to convince a crowd that he could fly."
"It is not stupid. It is working."
"Oh, it is working beautifully. You are both miserable, half the ton thinks you are secretly engaged, and the other half is placing bets on when you will announce it." Yara shook her head. "The only question is whether you will admit how you actually feel before or after you drive each other mad."
Theon said nothing.
Yara sighed. "You love her, you idiot. Everyone can see it except you and possibly her, though I suspect she knows too and is waiting for you to do something about it."
"I cannot do something about it. Robb—"
"Robb is not your father, your king, or your god. Robb is your friend who is scared and making mistakes, just like you." Yara's voice softened. "If you want her, Theon, you have to fight for her. Not with swords or armies, but with honesty, with vulnerability, with the parts of yourself you keep hidden."
Theon looked at Sansa across the ballroom, at her smile and her grace and the way she lit up every room she entered.
He thought about what it would mean to fight for her, to be honest with her, to show her the parts of himself he kept hidden, he realised he did not want any of this but her, and he knew the consequences yet he did not want to lose her.