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Sansa’s playing the girl, acting as though she’s never seen fish before. It would bother him if he didn’t pity her; she’d played bastard daughter to a man obsessed with her mother for the past few years until Robb had sent him to find her. So when she giggles and says, “Theon, Theon, look at them!” for the eight time, he only grunts and keeps rowing.
She leans over too far, though. There’s a splash and then she’s gone. Theon’s not too worried; she’s half trout so he knows she can swim.
His laughter is cut short when she emerges.
Wet, her auburn hair looks almost purple. It’s matted about her face and she’s struggling to push it away. There’s bits of the sea, droplets of water and salt, sliding down her cheeks and her jawline and her throat.
This, he thinks inanely, must be what mermaids look like.
“Help me up,” she sputters.
He reaches a hand out to her but she gives a sharp jerk he hadn’t expected and suddenly he’s overboard too.
He used to sink down into the hot springs at Winterfell. He’d pretend he was home, swimming in the waters around Pyke. It was never quite the same. This is different, though. Maybe it’s because the water’s cold, or that the salt stings Theon’s unhealed wounds. It feels right though. He belongs here.
He can hear her shriek of laughter—it sounds so far away—and he sees she’s scrambling back into the rowboat.
Sansa’s not getting away with this though.
It’s only a few strokes to find her ankle and pull her down to his level. Her hair is red again, under the sea. It’s floating out behind her.
He kisses her, just because he can.
Sansa’s tentative but he’s relentless, prying open her mouth and taking in both her exhalations and sea water.
He needs this, this and more, but she’s pushing him away to break to the surface. His lungs burn a sharp pain behind his ribs but he still wants to pull her back and kiss her again, even if it means giving away his last breath and dying in the sea.
In truth he could be more than happy, with a fate like that.