Part 4; To Fight Among Wolves

If you cannot speak your

brokenness

your brokenness will speak for you.

Sansa

Strips of morning sun poured in through the wide-open window boards. Sansa felt the low-drawn furs tangled around her midriff. Rosy, puckered nipples were on full display upon her chest. Gleaming rays of sunlight illuminated her otherwise pale skin. Birds sang in high-chirps, flittering past the window pane.

None of these woke the red-haired beauty.

Burning aches did.

More pointedly—flutters of pleasure that engulfed her lower-half.

Light noises departed from her throat. Rumbled her lower-folds. Sweet nectar trickled to fill previously dry lower pleats.

She drove her hips up, instinctively. Turned her sleepy head to one side. Shuddered in sensation as haziness faded. Nimble fingers sought out thick curls. Toned thighs spread wider under the assault from his wet muscle.

Awareness, suddenly overcame her—Theon stayed.

He was here.

"Theon…" Simpering little moans parted from the rear of her throat. Arching her spine—she shuddered; then came.

Release surfaced, boiling deep in her belly. Sweltering in every nerve-ending—every piece of her overstimulated bodice. A stray tear discarded down her cheek. And she turned her head as her motions ceased. His motions ceased, too.

Swollen lips dripping from her wetness. Her bedlinens were soiled in her cream. Thighs slick with her release.

A radiant smile spread across her features. "You are still here—"

Theon connected sodden-petals to hers. Claimed her mouth for his own, in one fell swoop. Silencing her.

Tangling their tongues, her fingers dug into the firm skin of broad shoulders. Theon did not even so much as flinch. Pain was nothing—to either of them, now.

Swallowing his taste filled her senses. His scent permeated the air. Sweat. Salt. Muskiness.

No longer—was he forced to smell of hounds, and foul odors. He bathed nightly, now. Prior to guard duty at her door. Or he did.

Now, there would be Jon to contend with on that front.

Finally, they broke apart. Emboldened pools bore deep, within Tully-blues.

"I must go, My Lady." Still, refusing to call her by her name.

She was stung by his refusal, but gave nothing away in those eyes. Instead, soft-padded fingers grazed down his ear, over his jaw. Dragging against his pulse point. Over his Adam's apple. Unwilling, to relinquish him from her bed.

Nor, from the winding comfort, of her embrace.

"Please, stay." Refusing to meet his eye, her pad traced absent circles upon his chest. Instead, focusing on his skin.

"Jon will kill me for this. And I will not continue to shame you, My Lady."

Chivalry laced his voice. However, the insistence that she might be shamed by their time together, was absurd. She found no shame in their shared nights. Nor felt it. Yet, here he was—stating this was not what he wanted. Again.

She might be stubborn—but decidedly, would never order a man (especially one so fractured mentally as Theon) to her bed. She promised—he was free.

And he was.

Swallowing down thickness, she nodded.

"You do not shame me, Theon. You help me…"

She could not finish the sentiment. Recalling the fearful sound of scratching just outside. Night sounds that haunted her. Kept her awake. Her mind's inability to accept that Ramsey was gone. That he could not harm her, further.

Peace had come to Winterfell.

Honor was restored to her family name. Always honor.

His eyes would not meet hers. Instead, he picked at his fingernails. Even as her thumbs brushed down over the scars made by those same nails, the night previous.

Little scabs were still there. A haunting reminder that Theon was not right, mentally. That asking him for intimacies he feared—was improper. Wrong.

"Leave then." She offered permission to him. Realized that it was what he awaited from her. She was not Ramsey—she could never be that.

Without hesitation, he stood. Pulled on discarded clothes. Last of all, his belt—and sword.

Solidly, she straightened her back. "If you were whole—If Ramsey never cut away at you…Would you have truly wed me, then?"

He paused at the door. Sansa witnessed his hesitation. It was slight. Then his back straightened, eyes turned timidly towards her naked form, huddled on the bed.

"I always knew we could never be, My Lady. Even then." And with that, he tugged on the door. And disappeared through it.

It was a long time before Sansa had removed herself from underneath the furs. Found the strength to dress. Run a comb through long tresses. Even if it were not Winter, the sleeves would have been long.

In order to hide away the tattered essence of once porcelain skin. Instead, she was pale. Scars from each deeply performed cut Ramsey had made upon her skin. Along her arms, breasts, stomach, thighs. Everywhere.

Theon still believed—there was honor left in her, to preserve. As though all she was, had not been cut away. Just the same as all he was, had.

Somehow, she could still claim to be a Lady. But he was not a Lord.

Refused to be a Lord.

Finishing up, she gave a final glance at the bedlinens, bunched up furs on top.

She made her way to Jon. Found him settled in his chambers. Silence burning through the room. Ghost nestled at his feet. His massive head poised on his paws.

"Jon." Curtly, she greeted him.

He made no motion (not even a nod) to indicate that he even heard her. Still, she took it upon herself to close the door. Fiddling with her skirts, she drew in closer.

"Are you cross with me?" Nervously, her fingers wound into the fabric. Teetering on the edge of instability, Sansa waited. Listened, for his reaction.

"No." Gruffly, he responded. "But I must say, I do not understand why you would invite him into your bedchambers. I posted him at your door to keep you safe."

She was suddenly reminded of being a chastised child. Their Father lording over her, smelling of Earth, and salt—insisting that she would be a perfect Lady one day. A match for a fine, Lord. So long as she kept her virtue.

"You cannot possibly understand, why." She responded, simply.

"I would like to." Haunting eyes seared right to her core. And she entwined her fingers tighter together.

"Would it bring you joy, if I went into great detail of every bruise, cut, and atrocity that Ramsey inflicted on my body? Would it give you understanding, Brother? If I told you, how I cannot sleep, without the warmth of another at my side? That when I close my eyes, I see Ramsey. Cutting away at every piece of me he dared, so long as I was whole enough to provide him heirs? How he cut away at Theon, Too? How only Theon could possibly understand? And how he is the only bit of comfort, I have selfishly asked for, that you have now deprived me of? What is it I should say to you, Brother? Tell me, and so I shall speak it. You have no idea, what I have endured these past years. How hard it has been, to breathe without fear of death. Without fear of everyone, and everything. And now…Now Theon will not have me either. Now you have taken the one person I loved, that loved me. Tell me. Do you too, find joy in my suffering? Do you, Jon?" She never meant to go on. But once the first word came, the rest came with it.

Every wrong doing that she had overcome. Each emotional pitfall. Until, finally—there was so much inside of her, she feared she might suffocate.

Horror wrote into Jon's features. Stunned silence, perhaps. She promised she would keep her composure, but bit by bit, that composure dwindled.

He came toward her, arms extended, as though to draw her in. "Sansa—"

"No, Jon!" She wrenched a step backward. "I have been raped, cut, beaten, and manipulated by every man that I have known since I departed Winterfell! Theon was the first man to be gentle—kind. And you stole that one bit of happiness from me. You look upon me—your sister—as though I am a whore. I promise you, Brother. I have no intention of being with any other man. If not, Theon. Then, no one. No one at all." This vow was absolute. Even with her eyes streaming—wet with tears. Even as she choked on sobs. Coughed until she choked.

Her belly seared with the shameful look that Theon gave to her, each morning after. And the one this morning, broke her worst of all. Jon had convinced him of his own treachery. Cemented what she had worked so hard to undermine in his mind. Theon was fragile. Ramsey made certain of that.

And Jon unraveled all of her attempts to assuage him.

"You are right, Sansa. I do not presume to understand all you have endured. Nor, do I presume to tell you how your life shall proceed from now on. I am not our father. You are not my property, Sansa. Nor any man's. But I found him on top of you. What could a man without his parts possibly be doing on top of you?"

Red flush spread over her cheeks. Mortification surged underneath her skin. And suddenly, she understood how it must feel, to be Theon. The butt of every bad jest. Seen only as a man without his bits. Not as a man, just as worthy as any other, of pleasure. Of happiness.

"Just because he does not have use of all of his 'parts' as you say, do you believe he can not find pleasure in other manners? Is your mind so narrow, Brother? You would shame, Theon for not being able to find that pleasure the same way as you?" Her tongue lashed out at him. Fingers swiped away tears, furiously.

It was Jon's turn to flush. "I would not shame him for it." Defensive tones were imposed.

"You already have, Jon. You broke his mind. Attacking him for it. Just like Ramsey would have." She wanted Jon to hurt—like she hurt.

"I did not attack him for that—"

"No, you attacked him for me. And I never wish you to do so again. Touch Theon again, and I will leave, Jon. I swear it by the Gods. I will find the tallest part of Winterfell, and throw myself from the roof. And you know why I will do such, Jon? I have nothing left to lose. What is my life, now?"

She did not wait for him to speak again. Instead, she turned, departed from his chambers. Leaving him stunned, the same way that he left her with Theon's crumpled unconscious body the night previous.