Part 12; To Bind Iron with Wolf.
Some people come back
to haunt you
no matter how deep
you bury them.
Theon
In the shade of the Winterfell's weirwood tree; they stood. Exchanging the sacred words in slow, careful, precision. Sansa draped in a self-stitched marital dress. The finest fabric the North has to offer. Teal-blue in color, with her hair styled up, off her neck. It was not a day—as she wished it could be; but three.
Theon, stood before her. Hair neatly combed back. Lips drawn into a tight, careful smile. Breeches, and a fine, coat of furs, draped over broad shoulders, (also stitched by Sansa.) and brimming with muted colors.
The light, that surrounded her—refused to touch the surface of slanted-eyes. Although, an act was portrayed for that of Jon, (whom gave her away) and the Maester, (whom proclaimed them man, and wife) something was amiss. However, he cloaked his bride in silent, anticipation, with almost, consistently, tremor-induced, hands.
Theon counted in his mind. A habit, he reckoned he had not done, since he reawakened from the window of time, as Reek.
One. Two. Three.
I just married Sansa Stark.
One. Two. Three.
Our souls are joined as one.
Draped around each of their wrists, was the binding tether. The final piece of the ritual. Their souls would come together in the afterlife. To be viewed among the old Gods. Vaguely he wondered if Sansa held regrets that they wed.
After all, Theon had had words with her, repeatedly in an attempt to dissuade her from this union.
Redness, puffed either of her eyes—However—the sunrays effectively hid them from anyone, not close enough to bear witness to them. Anyone, apart from him.
With the ceremony at an end. Tradition took over, and Theon swooped her into his rose-scented embrace. Carrying her towards Winterfell—and the new life, they would lead.
One promised, was kept.
There was no celebration. Jon went about his duties as Lord, whilst Theon was left alone with his glum wife. Despite a forced smile on her petals—it never quite reached her eyes.
It was troublesome.
Enough for him to plant her on the bed, only to kneel at her feet. Calloused, fingers grasped tight to her soft little things. He felt her tremors. She was clearly, unwell.
Should he permit her time to rest? He pondered the question in his mind. Let his thumbs brush the backs of her hands—soothingly.
"I am your husband, now. Would you prefer that I was not? Have you regrets, now that the deed is done?" Theon had to question her. Despite knowing that the answer he might receive, could detrimentally impact him.
Despite this evening, meant to epitomize the undying love that surfaced between them—he did not sense the calm, resilient vibes coursing off of her. Rather, intense sadness. Regret.
"I fear it is you, that shall regret our marriage, not I." Sansa wiped a few stray tears down her cheeks. Set her jaw, in disdain. "I have been dishonest with you."
Theon's heart sped.
One. Two. Three.
She had good reason.
One. Two Three.
She loves you unconditionally.
Swallowing a heavy lump in his throat, Theon cupped her cheek. Brushed her neck with his opposite thumb.
"Is it, Ramsey? Did our marital vows, bring back memories?" This was the most clear-headed Theon had been in a long while. For the first time in weeks—he was clear-headed. "Do you need to lay, skin to skin?"
Theon knew it helped. From Sansa's own lips, she had sought out comfort in the arms of Robb. Oftentimes he wondered, how they both had managed to keep the secret from him. From all of the curious eyes, at Winterfell.
Sucking her bottom lip, between her teeth, Sansa lowered her head. Shaking it rapidly. Her fingers tangled into her skirts. Theon, rubbed up, and down the span of her arms. He felt powerless, to comfort his wife. Was this how she felt when he succumbed to the darker impulses of his mind?
"Tell me what I might do to calm you." Unabated, he smoothed, rough fingers through her strands of hair. Listened to the raspy shake of her breath. He longed to kiss her. To pull all of the scars that clung hold of her heart—to transfer unto him, instead.
"N-Nothing—"
Right before his eyes; Sansa descended into sobs. Not just soft, hiccupping sobs that he was used to. Heart-wrenching, terror-inducing sobs. Her entire body wracked with them. And he caught her, as she all but fell into his arms.
Hoisting her up; Theon laid her down against the rabbit-pelt that made up her bed. Unpinning her hair, the strands cascaded down her shoulders. Hot tears drenched his neck as she buried her face in. He was petrified with fear. Listening to her distress—hopelessly, praying for this to be enough.
Hours he spent. Sansa draped in the nape of his neck. Sobs dying out with her exhaustion, prior to her descending in sleep.
She would not speak to him. Would not tell him, what had been done.
Had someone spoken to her about their marriage? She rejected his kiss, when it was offered. Had planted her hand, rough, against his chest. As though belaying her intentions of casting him aside.
Theon knew offering his hand in marriage, to a Lady, was unwise. Although, he suspected this was the Gods punishment for his former years of mistreatment of the females he rutted with. Losing the part of him that made him a man, ceased to be enough. He was now wed, to a woman that decidedly could no longer, love him.
She pushed for their union. Fought for it. Vowed that she would desire him, until the end of their days—and now. Now, she could not even kiss him.
Repulsed with his own wretched form, he drew from alongside of her. Stripped from the fine, clothes that Sansa sewed together for him. And replaced them, with the rags he wore as Reek. Found himself unpleasantly, unkempt, in their bedchamber windowpane.
In silence, Theon laid on the bear-fur rug. Let discomfort surge, just underneath his skin. However, Theon made no motion to find, comfort, either. He was an abomination. Just as the Lord's had spewed at him.
And now—Sansa had come to know it, too.
Wedding nights were meant to be romantic. Loving. Not theirs.
In resolute, discontent, Theon drifted to sleep.
Shrieks woke him. Panicked cries. Calling out for him. Blindly, in the haze of his blurred vision. Theon jerked into consciousness. Pulled from unpleasant dreams. Theon stumbled, unsteadily to his feet. Limping, he tumbled to the stone.
"W-Why did you leave me? You promised not to leave me! You promised! You promised!" Hysterical spiels parted, scarlet lips. Soft fingers, gripped so tight to either of his wrists, Theon thought he would bruise. He flinched. Shying from her scolding tone. Still not conscious enough to fully comprehend the situation.
"I did not t-think you wished me, h-here…" Tears cascaded. Matching hers.
Reddened cheeks, and wide-eyes greeted him. Fear was building in the air. He was beginning to unravel. Mentally. Physically. This was far more than he could withstand.
"You are my h-husband…" Sansa squeaked out.
Theon nodded, vigorously. Squeezed, under the frantic arms of his beloved.
She seemed not to notice that he was attired in rags. Only, that he had departed from her immediate, reach.
"I a-am." He managed to whisper.
"You will never want me n-now." She clung tight enough to make him heave for air.
"I will want you, always." The truth of that statement, cut him to the bone. Made his belly sear with need.
She was silent for a long time. He lost track of how long. Half hour? One?
"You cannot, now. I am with, Ramsey's child."
Ice chilled through his veins—and shock branched to every piece of his tormented, broken, frame. And speech—refused to come. Nothing did. Except for the contents of his stomach. Heaved onto the stone.