Part 2; To Sever Right and Wrong.

Mercy has a cost…

Someone must be broken

for someone else to be fed.

Theon

Each day, existing was more difficult than the previous one. Time would slow; then speed. Counting—it was how he remembered. Remembered his name. One. Two. Three. –Theon Greyjoy. Another three. –Ironborn. Another three, yet. –Reek is dead—he died with Ramsey.

And Sansa. If counting failed; Sansa pulled him back. Back to reality. Back to the Earth—the sky. Just back. From darkness. Where he existed as Reek. Where his mind departed.

Fiery, scarlet tresses of hair. Tully-blue eyes. Flush, pink lips. Tempting as the gods to claim—and yet. Always; Always he counted—remembered—One. Two. Three. –No longer a true man. Unworthy of beauty. Of light.

Until, tonight.

Tonight, she ordered him. He obeyed.

Like a moth to a flame—he could not disobey the light when it called. Sansa was the light. And she had called for him.

Now; with pleasure, he long thought lost to him forever (so much so he was even afraid to attempt self-pleasure) passed. With the object of lifelong affections nestled in the crook of his arm—it all hit him.

Returned; ten-fold.

Unworthiness. Less than dirt. Memories of time spent nestled in the kennels with the hounds, returned. In filth, hay, enclosure. Fear struck his heart. Just like that—he was there again. Reek. Helpless. Unable, even to bathe. The reek had never left his scent—not in all that time. Piss. Shit. Hounds. So many mingled stenches. And somehow, Sansa found worthiness in him.

Mercy, and the distinct possibility for redemption.

But, this?

"N-No. I cannot." Marriage? No longer was he a man. Barely human. Barely alive.

He could not refuse her. Not when she required one night of silent, sin. But a lifetime?

The jests that would be thrust upon them if he wed her. If he stood before the old gods—and vowed to cherish her? Be the thing that makes her whole? How could he? When he could never be whole?

Barren, emptiness was all that encompassed the hollow in his chest. Ramsey destroyed any manhood left inside. Yet, still…Still she asked such of him?

"Why not?" Soft, but firm words, carried to his ears. Her voice like that of a hymn. Such beauty he found in her.

"You should wed a proper Lord. Not me." Counting, helped him respond. To speak at all, with his heart pumping faster than the river ran.

Fluid strokes brushed over a scar just underneath, the ridge where his breast, ended. He all-but winced. Images of the blade, flashed in his mind. Quick, surefire cuts had been made, by the straight-edge. Trickles of scarlet had marked his chest. Left him weeping. Unconscious.

"You are a proper Lord." She countered.

"You know what I mean." Quick to respond; sea-green pools dared to meet Tully-blue.

"Either you shall wed me, or I will live out my days as a spinster. Would you condemn me to the life of a spinster, Theon?" Cat-like eyes, taunted his.

"Sansa—" Green eyes, closed.

One. Two. Three.

Then opened. Whilst her eyebrows quirked. "Others will jeer at our union. It is known that I can not give heirs. Jon would never permit a union between us."

"No man shall ever again, decide who I shall marry. Do you understand? I will never be a pawn to another man's game, ever again. Never. Do you hear me?" A curbed edge, caught in her tone.

Theon flinched. Twitched in silent timidity.

"U-Understand." One word. All he could utter, was the one. He slid between, Reek—and Theon. Theon, and Reek. "Take what you will, My L—Sansa." If humiliation was the price—then so he deserved to suffer it.

Imaginings could run wild, at the sheer thought of their wedding day. Stood before the old gods. Bound in lace. Quiet snickers would resound. Perhaps close. Perhaps from afar. But there was no mistake—there would be snickers. What companionship could a traitor's daughter find in a flayed man? Where was the punchline.

Softening, plump things grazed his lips. Kissed. Lusted. Yearned. Was it touch? Warmth she might desire? Or to rut against a cock-less stump? What did she see here? What possibly?

But who was he to refuse a beauty, when she asked him for his hand? He could be a shield. A shield for her to hide behind. Dick-less, so as not to penetrate her, even as her husband. Obedient—because he could view no other way to weather a coming storm. And enraptured—by her beauty since first, he laid scared, newly minted-prisoner eyes upon her.

If she could only perceive the carnality, that suffocated him in his youth. Hormones that drove him to tackle; seek out fine-silk skirts to even touch his swollen cock to her covered apex. If she only knew. How torturous it now was, to hold—rut—kiss, when he would give anything to bury himself inside. And now, never could.

So much—he could never share. Could hardly decipher in the precipice of his own structurally unbalanced mind. Hot tears, burned his cheeks as they fell. The gods were cruel. Others had done, far worse than he—but yet the punishments would never end. Never.

Later. In the night; when insightful optics closed. When Theon was left alone with his thoughts—imbued by the heat from mere warmth of her bodice, hung close; he wept.

Not for sympathy. Nor weakness. Instead, for the absence of his soul.

Nights played out the same. Each night, Jon ordered his presence to guard, Sansa's chambers. And each night; his sword clattered to the stone. Clothes piled into neat little lumps—and he gave to her. Every pitiful moan. Each pulse of burn within his loins. Whatever chipped pieces she could gather with promising kisses, and dancing finger-pads.

He succumbed. And each night—the counting heightened.

More, and more—he separated Reek—from Theon. And Sansa's Theon—from broken Theon.

He gave—even though no strength, remained.

Instead; there was only stifled pleasure, and white-hot severity in their actions.

Finally, the worst of all nightmares—came true.

Caught, in the throes of passionate need. Rutting up—in desperation, seeking what he so prayed he could have—yet was unattainable. Steel hinges creaked; hard-wood of the bedchamber door swung open—and there stood Jon.

Wild, fire in his bastard eyes. Sword drawn from the innards of his sheath. And Theon drawn from atop of his northern beauty. Wrenched into the curve of the stone corner. Cold stone met Theon's back. Shrieks from Sansa were made. And blood pounded in Theon's ears—so loud—he could hardly hear over the pulse of rushing blood.

Sword to his neck, Jon shouted at him. "Is this how you guard, Sansa? How you fulfill your duties, Greyjoy?"

Immediately—the fine tether, snapped. Counting fled; humanity fled. All else—parted. Wide terrified eyes, met Jon's. Panic set in. This is it. This is how he would die. Naked. Shamed. With a sword to his throat. Black eyes the final thing to greet him in this life. Sniveling. His hands curled inward. Nails tore his fleshy palms they dug in so hard.

"Nothing—I'm Reek—Nothing. Unworthy—failed the test—another test. S-Sorry—I w-won't touch h-her. N-Never—Never." Crimson scarlet spread down gouged palms, over thin wrists.

"Jon! Let him alone!" Pushing his face into the corner—inhaling the scent of stone—he felt the cut from the sharp blade that had just touched his throat's flesh. He fell into the corner. Absently cascaded into sobs. Detached—completely. Felt warmth between his legs. Wetness. Then blackness. Then nothing at all.

Sansa

This was her fault. No other.

Theon. Poor, sweet, Theon was encapsulated by darkness. Steadfastly, held by the clench of loyalty in his bones. And when she called—he answered.

Promised to wed her, before gods—before everyone. But her selfishness, willed him as hers for a few more nights, thereafter. Where it could be only them. No jeers. No fun to be made—just purely them. Exploring taut, marked skin. Finding common ground. Understanding in the blackness that had nearly swallowed them whole.

And she had made one promise; that was thus, unkept. To control Jon., Prevent detriment to befall Theon.

However, everything came so fast—and by the time she dealt with Jon—Theon was unconscious. Broken. Fearful.

"Please Jon! I invited him into my bed! All he has done; I have asked for. Please!" Having tugged on his sword arm, she had drawn his blade from the line of Theon's neck.

"What?" Furious, Jon had rounded on her.

"I seduced him—I gave him no choice! Jon, look what you have done!" Jon had stepped back further, to see the weak bundle of destroyed flesh, cowering on the stone. Eyes rolled back, smelling of his own accident—then unconscious.

Jon had left—Sansa cleaned him.

Moved him with her own arms. Hoisted him upon her furs. Cleansed, soiled skin with a rag. Settled, tearfully at his bedside.

"I was selfish, Theon. I will not be selfish again. I promise." Memories of past transgressions came to the forefront. Dalliances with darkness. The fearful glint in Theon's eyes when she all but ordered him to her bed. The wreckage of him; when first she laid eyes upon him after so long in Ramsey's care. How she once believed—they were the same. Parts of them were. Not all.

This is what her happiness wrought. Death. Fear. Rage.

Just as Joffrey had tormented her; so had Ramsey. Now Theon was shattered. And she was to blame. With tearful eyes; soft hands held one calloused one—and her face fell onto his chest—and she wept.

"I will never ask again. Wake for me, Theon. All I ask, is that you wake." Jon could never understand. The glance he gave her. One of sheer disgust at her wicked whims to bed a dick-less man. She knew now—Jon would never grant her freedom to wed, Theon. And if he could not understand, the rest of the seven kingdoms would not either.

Near an hour of dutiful patience at his bedside, finally saw him open his eyes. And her back went rigid.

Tears froze on red-tinged cheeks as she waited with baited breath to see if there would be his recognition, or not.