Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/772376.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Theon_Greyjoy/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Theon_Greyjoy, Sansa_Stark, Robb_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Wildly_AU, Future_AU
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-24 Words: 1960
****** i’ll take those sweet lips and i’ll deliver ******
by blackfyre
Summary
     Sansa grows into a lady at Winterfell. Theon grows into a more sullen
     ward.
Notes
     Written for an asoiaf kink meme over a year ago, originally posted to
     my tumblr. Ages are not mentioned for Sansa or Theon so I marked it
     underage to be safe, can be read as adult.
Sansa grows into a lady in Winterfell, her childhood and dreams never spoiled
by the cruelty of a monstrous boy king. She only awakens to the real world
slowly, as if coming out of a deep, wonderful dream as sunlight edges into the
room. The dreams still curl around her, the fading warmth of a bed and furs,
shifting and reforming into the dresses and furs she drapes around her
shoulders.
Theon grows into a more sullen ward. Hostage, more in truth. He is bitter and
sulky but he keeps up his smiles. The years of living away from Pyke fades his
memory of the Ironborn, washing them away like the waves crashing and ripping
down the rocks and stones of Pyke. The whole of Westeros laughs at him and
Theon laughs back at it, or else he’ll go mad.
===============================================================================
 
Robb becomes more irritated with Theon, wondering how he can laugh, how he can
smile when wildings are sneaking over the Wall more and more, as Robb has to
bear more responsibility as heir. Robb is heir to all the North, Theon will
inherit his father’s bitterness but none of his power or respect.
Robb is short with him one day, anger snapping its jaws, “Why don’t you go to
the brothel to fuck some whores? They’ll all you’ll ever have. You’ll never
have a true lady.”
Theon glowers for a moment before throwing the cup he’d been drinking from
across the table. Theon stalks to the yard, wanting to flush his anger with
swords and shooting. He furrows his brow and shoots arrows, anger directing
them with furious accuracy.
He glances up after shooting off a quiver, sees Sansa and Jeyne Poole looking
onto the practice yard. Jeyne blushes red and hides her face in Sansa’s
shoulder. He smirks up at them, the pair of giggling, twittering girls and
Sansa’s face turns a light shade of pink, but she holds his gaze and a soft,
demure smile grows. He is the one to break it off and when he looks up, Sansa
and Jeyne’s hands are intertwined as they hurry away.
Theon later finds Sansa in the godswood, dipping her feet in the pool with
needlework in her lap. Winter and spring are intermingling – one month is all
snow and ice and cold and another is the melt and mud and sun. They’re on the
cusp of spring – or perhaps a false spring – but the air is warm and stifling.
Theon sits down beside her and she doesn’t look up, focused only on her needle
and thread.
“Lovely day,” he tugs one boot off, then the other, “Fancy a swim?”
Sansa’s mouth purses, “No thank you, my lord.”
Theon smirks, “Your loss on such a hot day,” and he pulls his tunic over his
head. “You’re grown up into a pretty lady, you know.”
“My lord is too kind,” her voice is light and airy and Theon smiles at that, at
the courtesy embedded in her. Sansa continues to ignore him, threading a
pattern of grey thread through the fabric.
He shucks off his breeches, pulling his smallclothes down with it, and Sansa
glances up at him, blue eyes going wide. Her mouth drops open, her tongue a
sliver of glistening wetness between two pink lips. “Theon!” she shrieks,
pulling her feet out of the water, turning away and dashing out of sight. The
needlework flies into the dirt and he chuckles before diving in.
Later that night, Theon knocks on Sansa’s door, her slightly-dirtied needlework
in hand. She opens it, a dressing robe thrown hastily over her nightshift, one
edge slipping off her shoulder. Her hair is unbraided and let down, the red
curls shining bright in the firelight. Her hair is a shade brighter than
Robb’s, than Lady Stark’s, and Theon is struck by how much she’s grown from the
silly girl who only chatted about songs and stories.
“Here,” he holds out the framed needlework. She had been stitching a grey wolf
hunting in some woods – he’d never chanced a look at her stitching before,
never had a thought for girly arts – and now dirt was smudged on the white
thread and fabric.
Sansa reaches forward, her hand grasping the frame. Theon holds onto it for a
moment longer, letting his forefinger stroke the back of her hand. Her skin is
warm and soft, hands unworked and soaked in milk baths. She looks up at him,
face turning that soft pink blush again, and whispers “What are you doing?”
Theon drops his hand, “Good night, my lady,” and walks back to his chamber.
===============================================================================
She looks at him differently now – a slight blush on her cheeks, constantly
staring and looking away quickly, licking her lips and rubbing them together.
The next few weeks are spent in an odd dance between them – a silent one
between them surrounded by her family, because they’ve both shied from private
conversations.
One blustery day, Robb suggests a hunt in the wolfswood, and Theon, bored of
keeping in the walls of Winterfell, agrees. He is surprised when Sansa comes
along; she is not the strongest rider and dislikes the sight of the kill, the
splattered blood, and Theon is amused by her gentle heart. Bran and Arya are a
pair; after Snow’s departure for the Wall, they had been nigh inseparable. They
holler and scream, racing their horses ahead in the woods and Robb curses,
setting off after them.
Theon sets an easy pace for Sansa’s sake and they ride in silence, watchful for
anything worth hunting. He spies a group of wild turkeys and manages to kill
one, sliding off his horse to gather it up. Sansa begins to dismount, her
skirts catching on the saddle, and Theon moves over to help her. He takes her
by the waist and lifts her off. Despite her height, she still has the
slenderness of youth, and she is feather-light in his arms. When her feet touch
the ground, he doesn’t let go of her.
Sansa looks up at him, blue eyes widening, as her hand reaches up and rests on
his chest. Her lips part, as if to say something, as if to say his name, but
Theon doesn’t let her. He leans forward and kisses her.
Her lips are slightly chapped and open with a nudge of his tongue. Sansa is
hesitant, but she doesn’t twist away, her hand gripping his tunic a little
tighter. He runs his tongue across her teeth, pushing forward and strokes her
tongue. At that, Sansa makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. Theon
pulls her closer, one arm around her waist, the hand at the small of her back,
the other brushing at her hair. Abruptly, Sansa breaks the kiss, turning her
head to the side. Her breaths come out rushed, her eyes closed.
She says softly, “We could be seen.”
Theon reaches with his thumb and lifts her chin, meeting her eyes. “Then we
should meet where they can’t.”
Sansa’s breath halts before she speaks, “My bedchamber.”
He collects the turkey, tying it to his horse, and helps Sansa mount. They wind
their way out of the trees, scrambling back to the edge of the woods. They wait
for the others and the two younger Starks burst through the trees, galloping
their way back to Winterfell. Robb halts, grinning at Theon and Sansa, a pair
of turkeys slung over his horse. Sansa turns away, unable to meet Robb’s eyes.
He laughs at that, “What’s the matter, sister?”
Sansa keeps her head facing Winterfell but her eyes flicker over to Theon, “You
know I don’t like the sight of blood.”
===============================================================================
He goes to her bedchamber a fortnight later, having decided it would be best
for wait. Sansa opens the door on his first knock, hair brushed over one
shoulder, and she ushers him in. Theon can feel the nervousness radiating off
her skin as she stands a few feet in front of him. Her hands are clasped in
front of her and he looks at her.
She is a true lady, no doubt. It stings, that realization, but it urges his
feet, crossing the distance between them. With a tilt of his hand, he lifts her
face up. The firelight casts shadows across her face, the auburn hair glowing.
“You want this?” he whispers as he kisses her jawline.
Sansa trembles slightly under his touch, one hand resting on his side and the
other at his neck. “I do,” she says to Theon’s ears as he trails the kisses
down her throat, pushing her nightgown off one shoulder.
Her hands come up to Theon’s chest and pushes him away, gently (gentle is the
word Theon would always use to describe Sansa; even her rebukes and insults are
gentle. She is a Stark, a wolf, but a gentle wolf at that). “But Theon,” and
her voice is full of hesitance and a hint of fear, “I am a maid.”
Theon smiles, “Your maidenhead has nothing to fear from me, my lady.” Although
he wants it, wishes for it, he won’t bed her. The possibility of getting her
with child, the wraths of Lord Stark and Robb, how this game won’t be one once
he takes it, it weighs heavily on him and Theon may treat everything as a jape
but he isn’t stupid.
He continues his kisses, cupping a breast and stroking the nipple through the
fabric. Her reactions are more than enough for him; he suspects she hasn’t
kissed anyone else besides kissing games in her youth. She clings to him
tighter, her kisses more forceful, with teeth (wolfish), and he can also taste
the smile on her lips.
Theon moves them, slowly, step by step to the bed. The back of Sansa’s knees
hit it and she breaks the kiss, wild surprise in her eyes. “Theon, I can’t – “
“Shh.” He places a finger over her lips. “I promised I wouldn’t. But I have
something to show you.”
Sansa sits on the bed and Theon kneels between her legs. He brings Sansa to the
edge, pushing her nightgown up past her knees, up to her waist. She shivers as
a hand caresses her inner thigh and tenses when it reaches her slit. She’s wet
already, and his finger runs across her folds, passing over the nub at the top.
Sansa cries out, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
Theon smiles and continues stroking her, before kneeling before her cunt and
tasting it.
Sansa bucks against him, fingers scratching at his scalp. He reaches up to
steady her hips, tongue lapping at her. He finds pleasure in the thought that
this is the first tongue to touch her cunt, as she squirms and moans beneath
it. Theon moves away from her cunt, to her clit, and he drives circles around
it, and Sansa’s breath hitches as she pushes at his head.
He doesn’t stop his pace, a hand dropping to part her folds even more, her
breaths coming out as gasps, higher and higher pitched. When she climaxes, it’s
with a gasping cry and trembling fingers at his hair, thighs shaking. Theon
looks at her, face flushed and eyelids heavy, and smiles. He sits up
straighter, bringing her down for a kiss, tasting of her.
Sansa pulls away, hand reaching to touch her lips, brows high and eyes wild at
the new flavor. Theon smiles. He’d had a true lady tonight. He would tell Robb,
but then Robb would kill him, and where would that leave Sansa? His lips twist
into a smirk as he hums the bars of a familar, rowdy song, pleased with
himself. But what does it matter, for all men must die,  and I’ve tasted the
Northman’s sister!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!