Part 7; To Bend a Wolf.

Remember, for everything

you have lost, you have gained

something else. Without the dark

you would never

see the stars.

Theon

"You promised yourself to him?" Unsuppressed anger, exceedingly raged in Jon's wild-dark eyes. A death-glare flashed in Theon's direction. Immediately, Theon relinquished his grasp on Sansa's hand. Shrinking back several feet to accumulate adequate space between them. Lest he find cause to flee.

If Jon came at him, with the Valyrian-steel blade, latched to his hip—He could not fight him.

Both of them (Sansa and himself) were still caked in filth. Fiery-scarlet tresses were rucked up. Strands of hair spurned in various, different directions.

Counting, began to wreak havoc, in his fractured mindscape.

One. Two. Three.

Sansa begged for this…

Another three.

Once she sets her mind to a task—she never gives in.

Theon knew, he could rage a battle of wills against her—and fail—eternally. Same as he currently, had.

Just the same as when she was little more than ten—and she goaded him into chasing her. Wind whipping his face. Mind praying for just a taste of those plump-pink petals. The fresh maple-scent of Sansa's bodice taunted him.

Especially then.

It was the simple pull of her charisma, that led him to do it. To connect their lips. To steal her first kiss—as she remembered it.

Twitching, Theon knew he was oceans apart from the youthful male that chased after her that day. Emotionally—he would never be structurally whole again.

"I told you. I will have, Theon. Or no man. Ever." Firm, warning vocals, imbued with poisonous-tones, surfaced.

Theon knew she meant every word. As, did Jon.

"You are a Lady! And yet, you were found, rutting with him—naked—in a pen. What am I to make of a man, that would dishonor you, so blatantly? Carelessly? Pray-tell me, Sister!" The hand around the scabbard of his sword, tightened. Theon cowered, until his back found the sanctity of a wall.

Fingers latched tight to the tufts of fur, draped around his frame.

Sansa grasped her own, unashamed. Seemingly unfazed that she stood nearly, entirely naked before her brother, in his own bedchambers. Withstanding his fury.

Theon flinched, in detriment.

"We used to chase each other, once. Do you remember, Jon? The chasing games?" Bewilderment, writ into Jon's eyes.

"What? Yeah…What of it?"

"Whomever found themselves tackled, would lose—then have to submit to the other. Whatever they wished to do with their captured victim. Tickle. Kiss. Hug." Theon knew where this was headed. In anticipation of his impending death—he began inching unnoticed, toward the wooden-door.

"Theon used to play with me. Long after the rest of you quit. I would find reasons to antagonize him. To have him give chase. And he never failed to catch me. My legs were shorter than his." Sansa gave a mischievous smile in his direction. The sentiment clear—she was no longer shorter—They were equals in that regard.

"I reckon this story has a point, Sister. A point that does not end with me, murdering your intended?"

Sansa gave a soft little smile. "The point, Brother. Is that one day, he caught me. Pinned me to the Earth—and he gave me my very first kiss. One I had longed for, from him, specifically—for almost a year. And I knew then, that I would plead with Father to let me wed him. There had to be some way. Some world, in which he would no longer be a prisoner of our home."

Theon held his breath, until his lungs burned with the pressure.

"Then. Just like that, Theon made me believe, that he stole that kiss—rather than gave it—simply, because he could." Jon's eyes hardened. But he remained rooted in place. Sansa balanced her hand, over Jon's heart. Stubborn, Stark-eyes met.

"For years, I believed it. Until I saw what Ramsey had done to him. Until, I looked into his eyes—and I saw what I had always known was there—perhaps—deep down. But there, all the same. Love." Words barely an octave above a whisper, proceeded. Jon's eyebrows drew tight together.

"I knew he had not tricked me. Rather, it was shame that prevented him from chasing me again. From going further than one silly, little kiss. Fear, even. Of you, or Robb if you ever found out." Jon seemed less tense. Muscles relaxed underneath Sansa's touch. Theon knew that touch well. It could make him burn from the inside out. Want, like no man could ever possibly imagine, wanting.

And he remembered.

Remembered his intentions that day. The sheer will it took, to lift himself from atop her, heat-infused bodice. How exceedingly simple it might have been, to steal more than just a kiss. Tortured, thoughts ran amok. Now, he could never know the sensation of her tight heat around the throbbing pulse of his cock. Which, seared the burn deeper into his belly. Until he felt he might go raving-mad with the proof of it.

"He broke under Ramsey's cruel torture. His mind was so lost, that it took a fair bit of coaxing to bring him back to me. But he did. Come back. He has always come back. Do you understand, Jon? If I am not with him, and he is not with me—We would be lost, Brother. Both of us. When I believed myself dead Theon killed for me. He forsook his brokenness, to fight through the persona of Reek—to save my life. And take me, to you. Near the end, when Ramsey would leave me in pieces, Theon came to me. Had Ramsey caught him, he would have taken another finger—or toe—" Theon shuddered. "—But he never found him. He would hold my hand. Just my hand. And though he was often distant, I knew it was what was left of his soul. Comforting mine. Reminding me, who we are." Sansa's sapphire eyes landed on sea-green ones. Bore into his soul. Stripping him bare. All his tremors ceased.

Streaks of tears cascaded down either pale cheek. "You speak of Lords that are worthy of me. But there is only one. There will only ever be, one." Declarations were made. And Theon was stone-silent. Jon, too.

"So, tell me, Brother. Is it only a cock that makes a man? Or is it his soul? Because from what I have borne witness to, Theon is as much a man, as you. Or Bran—Or any other Lord, you might have sought, for me to wed."

Theon was without speech. Conscious thought flimsy. Trapped eternally—between the memory of Reek—and the reality of Theon Greyjoy. So little made sense. Tapped into the incomplete pattern-like swirl of hallowed memories. He faltered.

Now. Theon knew there would be no, having words with her. No speech in this world which would change her mind.

She was determined. And Stark-stubbornness was notorious.

Always.

Jon cleared his throat. Gave one final hard, stare, in Theon's direction, then spoke.

"I can see that your mind is made up. And I will not see you lost. Therefore, I will support your union." Relief coursed throughout Theon. Breath returned to fill his lungs.

"I will have the servants run you a bath, Sister. Both of you." A nod was given in Theon's direction. "And no more rutting in the pens. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Sansa acknowledged.