They had the run of Winterfell, the ancient stones and rustling trees under their command, and the power coursed through Theon, like a wine stronger than he’d ever tasted. The Starks had left the day before; dragging their furs and honor to a Karstark feast. Sansa had been barred from going, Lady Stark’s creasing as Maester Luwin looked at her ankle, twisted from falling off a horse, and declared her unable to travel, and Theon was too much of a Greyjoy, too much of a ward, to be dragged over the North.
Strange how quiet this place is with only a handful of people gone, Theon thought, dropping his bow in the yard and wiping his brow. He’d been left to his own devices since the Starks disappeared from view, and he was sick of it, sick of being left alone, sick of feeling like a hostage, sick of being unwanted. He turned idly, thinking of going into town, of going to Ros, when a flash of red and blue caught his eye in the window above. Sansa. Theon grinned, almost wolfishly, and he tipped his head back and waved at the Stark girl. Why not? I’ve done worse, he told himself, spinning to head back inside the castle.
She was blushing, and he was thinking he should have just gone to Ros. “Ladies don’t-” she started to say, ducking her head down, his hands stilling on her hips, and he thought he caught something like fear in those eyes of hers.
He groaned inwardly, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger. If you like redheads... “Hey,” he said, fingers strong under her chin, forcing her to look up. “Hey, it’ll be fine, don’t worry, I’ll be,” and he paused a moment, searching for the right word. “Gentle.”
“I could be ruined,” she whispered, but she didn’t look away.
His mouth opened, waiting for the words he needed to tumble out, waiting for the words that would convince her, that would let him close his eyes and imagine another, but they wouldn’t come. He kissed her instead, still winding that red hair of hers around his fingers, pulling her closer to him.
She surprised herself by kissing him back, by letting his tongue snake into her mouth, by sighing into him when he pulled her close, her heartbeat on his. His fingers disentangled from her hair and wandered her body, and she shivered under her blue dress, under his touch. Her eyes closed, she ran her tongue over the roof of his mouth, scraped her teeth along his bottom lip, and he groaned, pushing her back onto the bed, sliding the hem of her gown up, up, up until her thighs pricked with the cold.
“Wait,” she tried to say, but she found that she didn’t want to. She lifted her hips slightly, running her hands down his back, gasping into his neck when he shoved his breeches down and pushed into her. After a few strokes, it didn’t hurt that bad, and she closed her eyes tightly, hitching her legs around his waist, careful to keep her ankle from hitting anything. If mother could see me now, she thought suddenly, blushing red and burying her face in that warm space between his shoulder and neck again.
It was over quick enough, but Theon wanted more, more of her tight cunt and breathy gasps, of her tumbling red hair and flushed skin, until he thought he might break apart from desire. He pulled his breeches back up and she smoothed her gown down, her thighs sticking with his release and something else besides, and he clutched her to him, grateful for the warmth, for the beating of another heart. He glanced down at her, red hair and blue eyes so like her brother, and his eyes shut. Close enough, he told himself, drifting off to sleep, Sansa still in his arms.