Part 6; To Lose all Reason.

Did you see?

I'm still here,

Even if you broke my heart.

Sansa

Nine Years ago.

Summer air whipped across the fields, whilst leaves spiraled down through the air. Tully-blue eyes turned to meet the figure racing just behind her.

Sansa was destined to be a proper Lady, according to her mother. Schooled in the proper manner to stitch together dresses. Learned in reading—writing. Sansa's proprieties laid inside the walls of Winterfell. Not outside.

With Theon. As much a prisoner of these walls—as she. His golden-hair that shimmered in the sunrays, and sea-green eyes that stubbornly found the depths of hers. And a great many rambunctious urges that drove him to chase her through the grass. Along the fronds—sometimes even through the stream.

Water would lick at the hem of long skirts. Later—there would be stern words from her mother.

In this moment—the exhilaration, overrode all else.

Fresh air was thick in her lungs. Cawing ravens swooped high overhead. All that mattered—all that existed—was escape. Fleeing from the older—faster—male.

Suddenly, she overestimated her strides. Ducked around a tree, narrowly missed scratching, soft skin on rough bark—then faltered. Sansa felt the heat of arms encapsulating her as Theon tackled her to the Earth.

The wind knocked from her lungs. Grass stained her sky-blue skirts. And thoughts of escape fled the forefront of scattered thoughts. She was rolled with rough fingers onto her back—pinkness spread across heated cheeks. Pupils dilated—skin burned. Even time ceased to exist.

Theon had her. Right where he claimed to want her. On her back.

Helpless to his whims.

"Told you, I am faster." Triumph glimmered in emerald-optics, rays of sun glittering off sandy-curls. Illuminating his presence.

"Any man could outrun a Lady in heavy skirts. You won nothing. Merely cheated." Unwilling to provide him the satisfaction of her defeat—instead she taunted him.

Curious eyes flickered then changed in the light. As though uncertain as to what words he should next utter. Shock surged into her belly. And lean, strong muscled arms held her fast.

Eight years separated them. There happened to be little chance to none, that she would have harbored the ability to outrun him.

"Is it your skirts, My Lady?" Mischievousness overtook his gaze.

Tully-eyes widened. "You would not dare!"

"Wouldn't I?"

Barely had the words fallen, that nimble fingers were bunching up the fabric. Squealing, she flopped underneath the bulk of his weight. Until, fine-skirts were collected around her middle. Recognition, lit in his eyes.

Her struggle, died. Pinked skin, flamed red. "Where are your underthings, My Lady?" Heated warmth, met with the bulge of Theon's breeches.

Refusing to answer; she shot daggers with her eyes. Death stares.

"Let me up!" Demands soared from rosy-petals.

"No underthings…Knowing I might tackle you? You planned for this. Do you deny it?" Flashing her a devilish smile—he inched nearer to those rosy-things. All-the-while keeping her pinned, without falter.

Sansa felt the growth of his rod. Right where it pressed. Down below—through thin fabric that separated them. She knew a man's arousal well enough.

"T-Theon." Stammering, she suddenly felt vulnerable. Transparency was written all over masculine features—Theon craved this.

Whispers flowed around the castle. Despite the impropriety of young ladies eavesdropping on vulgar conversations—She had.

Her ears had caught more than one instance of men, and women alike speaking of Theon's unhealthy appetite for the weaker sex. Frequenting brothels—pursuing kitchen wenches. Was she a prize to him? Despite her youth? A souvenir—trophy—to brag about? Robb would run him through if ever he heard of this. Yet, here he was. And Robb—well—was off on a hunt with their Father.

"Have you ever been kissed?" Throaty whispers cracked through the air.

Shuddering, Sansa shook her head. Heart pounding in her throat—heat spread everywhere. All conscious thoughts—fled.

Still—she could not respond. Clenched—trapped—in one single moment. Even thoughts to struggle—were lost.

Coarse fingers touched along her jaw. Prodded down her pulse-point. Over silky smooth skin. Still—she was rigid. Blood pulsing to all the most improper areas. As she waited with baited breath.

Slowly, with earnest ease—weathered lips touched down on plush—smooth ones.

He stole her first kiss. Took as she heard Iron-born men always did. And yet—Yet….

She did not feel robbed of it.

Flutters stole through her heart. Expanded to send spiraling chills everywhere.

Fingers began to roam. Lips hesitantly learning from his experienced ones—and skin tingling with unfamiliar sensation. The firm, prod of him through body-warmed fabric no longer felt foreboding. But inviting. All thought of where they were (sprawled carelessly in a grassy area) faded away—and there was just them.

Just this.

Until, the kiss broke apart. Heaving breaths drained from full lungs. Sea-green eyes glowered with something akin to shame. Perhaps, remorse.

Just as quick as it all started—it ended.

Theon sprang to his feet. Straightened his rucked-up clothes. Refusing—all the while—to meet her eye.

"Wear undergarments from now on. Regardless, you have grown too old for chasing games. And I bore of them. And you." Harsh imbued tones slapped her.

All sensation of floating bliss—had long passed.

This was one taste of freedom from Winterfell's walls, she found with no other. Only Theon. And now—he would deprive her of that freedom.

Ten was too old.

"They are scratchy against my skin." Whispers emerged, as tears rimmed her eyes.

"A Lady wears them, regardless of comfort. Whores do not."

Wounded by his unconscionable words—she made to strike back. "You would know."

Fury lined his features. Instead of a response, however. He turned—storming away.

And left her, confused, with her skirts around her middle—and tears flowing down reddened cheeks.

Sansa

The memory tore at her from right within her mind. Long forgotten, as a day to be ashamed of—unspeakably ashamed. But now—Now it returned. An echo of childish transgressions between them.

The very first instance, she had known—Theon felt shame—for what they had done.

It was but a simple kiss. Sweltering with need. Imposed by the forceful nature of a hormone-driven Iron-Born. Yet, even then, he sought to turn the shame around on her.

Force her to feel dirty.

Wrong.

Just as he attempted the same, now.

She felt that same force in his iron-clad grip burned, through every sector of her infrastructure. Felt the loss of control that overpowered conscious thought. Instilled in her bones, was the proper manner to exist as a Lady.

Wear undergarments, tidy otherwise tameless hair-strands, never spread pink-thighs for a man you are unwed to—The list was tireless. Endless.

The first of which, was instilled in her, because of Theon. How he shamed her for it that day—compared her to the whores he bedded. Her jealousy had also been persistent. That he should want a whore, rather than a Lady. That, as much as she deemed to despise chasing games, when asked about them by another—she once had adored them.

When strong, Iron-born arms would wind round her middle. Until she became, a bore.

Robb never knew, by her grace, alone. Not even when she laid pressed-bare to her eldest kin. With complete transparency between them. This one secret, she had never shared. Instead she had tucked it away, even from her own psyche—until now.

She had known—then. That the chasing games were more. But shame, had erased the memory. Instead, she recalled the brazen way he would pull at her skirts. Assuming it was a tease. A game.

It was always more than that.

Now. Sansa let the kiss take on a life all its own. And was wrestled down, into the filth of the hay-filled pen. Felt the tear of her plain-dress. Ripped. Shredded from her pale skin. Undergarments, too. He made ragged.

She in-turn, tore the peasant-rags from muscled skin. Brushed scars galore scattered over his chest. Itched between her thighs—for him. Suddenly, recalling the poke of his length, that day. And wished, he had stayed. Finished what he began. Defiled her.

A Lady.

Theon would have been gentler. Kinder. Incomparable to Ramsey's touch. She might not fear all men, had Theon been her first.

Stripped of all concealment. Their skin met. Parts came together. She felt the prod of his stub, swollen anew. Moaned in depravity as he ruts. Twitched. Dominated. Broke.

They came apart as a sweaty heap—Together.

Breathlessly, she trembled underneath him.

Tears fell. The same as the day he left her. Shamed in the wide-open grasses just outside the walls of their home.

She knew what transpired next.

Listened as his breath shook. Realization hit. Regret came. Finally, shame.

"I-I…have to…I c-cannot…" He stood.

She felt it this time. Truly felt it. The shame. Horror. Filth.

He twitched. Naked as his name day. Tattered remnants of his peasant-clothes slid off, discarded into the hay.

Smelling the repulsive odor of the pen surrounding her; that same filth—now coated her.

Was Jon correct in his assumptions? Was she disgusting? Debauched? Filthy? Ruined now? She had not fought him off, as any Lady would have. Not in the fields; at ten—pinned by a man of eighteen. Nor as a Lady of nineteen; pinned by a man of twenty-seven.

Unable to fight him—Gods help her—Sansa loved him. Meant every spoken utterance made to him. As a Lady; she belonged to no other Lord.

Only her Iron Lord.

One image, branded her memory.

The contemptuous glance he gave that day; just prior to departure.

The tatters of her dress, littered soiled strands of hay. Her repugnant state, symbolized the way the Seven Kingdoms would see their improper proclivities.

"T-Theon." Pleading Tully-hues landed on him. "Please." Her voice cracked.

Shaking his head rapidly. Carefully guarded shells around his psyche—began to break. Witnessing it with her own eyes. Petrified her.

"N-No, My L-Lady! N-No!" Calloused fingers gripped tight to, sturdy pen bars. He turned to flee.

"You would leave me now. As you did, then?"

He froze in place. Twitching. Back rigid. It was painfully clear—even to Theon—which time she spoke of.

"I was just your play thing, then. You discarded me, when you bored of me. Recall? You told me I was like a whore. Because my undergarments were too scratchy. You tell me now, that I am a Lady, that I am so far above you. All because I have my intended parts, in place. Because I can bear a Lord, children. Yet, then. You would call me 'whore'." Her tones rose, nary above a whisper. Her bodice felt boneless, where he discarded her.

Theon—was silent. Twitched at the word 'whore'.

"You stole my first kiss—and I loved you, then. The moment you took it. I would have fought to be your Lady. If only you would have permitted me the chance. And now…" Her skin seared. "Now I plead for our union. So that you might know peace in our shared nights—and you deny me."

She paused, wiped streams of tears.

Shamed expressions, wrote into Theon's eyes. Dirt, coated scarred skin. Mirroring hers. They both—were coated in filth.

"You left me…My skirts around my waist. Your taste on my lips, and held no regard for how you might shame me. And now, you tear off my clothes—have me in the dirt—filth—of this pen. And regard me as a proper Lady. Untouchable to a cock-less man. Sullied only, by any love we might retain. Any affection."

"What is it you wish me to speak, My Lady?" Sorrowful eyes, trained down, upon shoe-less feet caked with dirt.

"How can you see me as a Lady now? When you did not, then? I have been torn apart by Ramsey—as have you—and yet, still, you claim I am whole enough to wed another man. You know what his touch does to a person…You know how it feels—how it felt…to be torn open, by him." Theon flinched.

Rumors were whispered around Winterfell's corridors back when Ramsey held it. Vicious, horrid rumors, she once forsook as lies. That Ramsey used Theon. Used him as more than a victim of torture. Rutted with him—right in this pen.

Tears fell unchecked down, pallid cheeks. The final piece cracked.

"He shaved me. Made me soft, like a woman. Then he pinned me down. Tore me—till I bled. Called me his whore, each night he fancied to. Asked me if I loved him, after. I remember, Sansa. I will never forget." Shaken. Bitter, fear, trilled from him. Almost monotone. Haunted enough to break him in half. Sobs imbued with his words. Along with his uncontrollable, trembling. "He took my manhood—then made sure I felt his pleasure, when he would spend, inside me. Is this what you wish to hear, Sansa? Do you desire to know why my shame, will always be enough to sully you?"

Stunned, by his use of her first name. She gaped.

Wearily—she stood. Inched closer, felt the tug of her shattered heart, as confirmation of every wretched rumor, she ever heard repeated—became truth. He made no move forward, or backward. Stood shaken to his core. Trembling, sobbing. Instead.

Tugged into her embrace. The nakedness, and filth, no longer mattered. All there was; was this moment.

"You can never sully me. Never, Theon. Stop saying that." Tilting her head—warm swollen-lips brushed upon his.

Taut skin, met the firmness of his muscles. "You are a man, Theon. Just a man. You were my brother once. Now my soulmate. I would have you in this pen, a bed of furs, or at the end of the world—but I would have you. Only you."

Theon cupped her cheek. Bit her lower petal, and grunted with frustration. Backing her against the wall.

"I would ask you again, to be my husband." Kisses broke apart, and Sansa uttered broken little words.

Theon held her taut. Hoisted from the hay, thighs widely, spread apart. Their swollen parts clad against one another. Tears mingled, skin seared with fiery burning, heat—and her chest stilled, breath baited.

"Then I would take you, for my wife."