Part 16; To Measure Strength of Iron and Wolves.

No one you love

is ever truly lost.

Sansa

Without Theon, time became irrelevant. Jon did as he vowed. Provided Theon various inane tasks to keep him busy. She could not bear to let Theon see her in this manner.

To be the cause for his break with reality; a second time. She figured if his mind was preoccupied; with time, that he might come to realize the truth of the matter—He could not possibly handle the existence of Ramsey's child.

She prayed he would choose to save himself. She was unsavable.

Instead, Jon spoke of how Theon always returned from the errands. Always with seeming hope in his eyes.

With no understanding.

This was exceedingly difficult for her. To sleep alone, without the firm press of her husband at her side. But this decision dug deeper than the reason she convinced herself of, as to why she had pushed him away. Much deeper.

It was also her inability to come to terms with Ramsey's violation of her flesh, resulting in this, pregnancy.

Still, she saw her loving husband, stood on the grass before her. Binding their wrists together, speaking those sacred vows. They were still bound. She felt bound to Theon.

And she always would.

Each time she viewed him from the windowpane, riding off at Jon's behest, she regarded him with a solemn ache. Wondered if he might decide, not to return.

Yet, he always did.

Always.

Eating became a chore for her. Nibbling at bits of food, enough to keep herself alive, was all she could manage. Without Theon there, Sansa found all she had was loneliness. And empty chambers to gawk at.

Settled near the fire most days; She listened.

Waited for Jon to bring her news of the Lords, and Ladies. News of the realm in tandem. She was hungry for a distraction, for anything to clear her mind from her husband. From the way her bodice ached for Theon's touch. Burned for his kisses.

Each night, without the warmth of Theon's arms to comfort her; she laid awake. Dark circles penetrated the underside of either eye. When she previously believed herself safely out of reach from Ramsey—She found she was not. Now, each noise petrified her again. Most nights, she would descend into tears.

Mourn for the life she believed—once—that she might lead. That after every atrocious thing that occurred during the war, she might finally find peace with Theon. With herself. Curing what was broken in him, became her quest. Repairing the damage to their relationship, done in the fields as youth—had been everything.

Still, when she closed her eyes, she could recall those memories. Innocent, peaceful, days. When he would give chase, and she taunt him with batting eyelashes.

How she wished she could rewind. Tell herself never to leave him. Never to let him frighten her away.

But the past is the past. And the present was repulsive.

Unkind.

Jon sent him on the longest journey, yet. Nearly a two-week errand toward the wall, and back. It was to check in on multiple farmers, near there. An effort to finally convince Theon that he did not want this life. Not her life. He did not marry her with the knowledge of her pregnancy.

Of the horror that came with it.

She had vowed to provide him love, affection, joy—happiness.

None of that would occur, now. Not possible.

Once, she told Jon that without Theon, there could be no one. And she meant it. Her heart was thoroughly broken. She broke it to save, Theon. And herself.

When two weeks went, without Theon's return, Sansa wondered if the decision was made. The decision to leave—never to return.

It haunted her.

The lengths she went to, in order to ensure, Theon's departure from alongside of her.

Sansa knew Winterfell servants were becoming worried for her immediate health. In fact, Sansa could hear their whispers just outside the door. Hushed tones, spoken to Jon. In the hope he might convince her to eat more.

Her cheeks were slightly sunken in. Arms, bone-thin. Skin pale—sickly. And her eyes nearly, always red from crying. As the roundness of her belly grew with each day that passed, Sansa's spirits only fell farther.

Nearer, and nearer—this spawn came to arriving. Soon, she would have to mother it. Nurse it at her breast. Kiss it—love it. How could she love this thing? How?

She did not wish to be spoken of as though she were no longer alive. As though she were not concerned in the matter of her own health. It irritated her, to know Jon was privy to the servant's comments. Could he not see for himself, what she was now? Pathetic.

Like Theon had been, when first she laid eyes on him.

Hopeless.

Sansa, chewed her nails, down to the quick, lost the light in her scarlet-red hair. Felt all else dwindle. And on the third week of Theon's absence, Jon came to her. Worrisome expression on his face. Hair unkempt, clothes straightened, hastily.

She barely chanced a glance at him.

"Sansa." His voice was soft, but firm.

"What do you want?" Her skin prickled.

"You cannot continue to refuse food, Sansa. Nor refuse to sleep at night."

She wiped a stray tear, absently. "You think I choose this, Jon? It makes me physically ill to be without Theon. To carry, Ramsey's evil, twisted, spawn inside of me! I cannot bear to look at my husband. Do you know that, Jon? That is why I pleaded for you to send him away. He would be disgusted with the sight of me. And he would break, and crack, with guilt for letting Ramsey hurt me in the first place. I know he will. I know it, in my soul. So do not tell me, what I cannot do, Jon. Do not pretend that you care." Her head turned back away, obstinately.

Jon stood before her, still resigned to attempt to dissuade her from this decision.

"You will die, Sansa. You will not survive the birth." He reasoned.

For a moment, she gave a faint, trace of a smile. "Then I shall die. At least it shall not be at the hands of Ramsey's monster."

Jon's face fell. And for the first time, in her presence—She saw him falter with pure emotion. "If you die—If I lose you—" His voice cracked.

Sansa's eyes traveled back to Jon. Sudden sympathy surged a pain into her stomach.

"Sansa—We are all that is left…"

Understanding hit her. Jon was afraid to be alone. Just the same as she was. Just as she had always been. Struggling into a standing position, Sansa crossed the stone, to reach him. And drew him into her embrace.

She felt him nuzzle against her skin. Kiss the nape of her neck, where his mouth touched. And she shivered from the sensation. It had been nearly two months since her wedding night. Two months, since she last felt Theon, in her arms. And now—now she feared, she never would feel him again.

She was meant to be alone, with a psychotic bastard's child in her belly.

This was her fault. Had she made a different decision—not followed Littlefinger blindly into the lion's den—she never would have been bitten.

Never impregnated.

Pulling back from the warmth of Jon's arms, her fingers rested on his chest.

The sleepless nights were dampening her mood. And slowly, edging her toward the brink of death. Helping to deprive her of her appetite, and all her other senses. She felt, ill. All the time.

Faulty, in spirit.

Without words, nimble fingers began to unlace the ties of Jon's leather tunic. Firm, strong hands gripped her wrists, to still them.

"Sansa…?"

She yanked her wrists free, shoving the leather off of his shoulders, down onto the floor. His upper-half was exposed to her eyes. With delicate, tracing fingertips, Sansa glided over the scars, where the blades had pierced rough skin. Feeling the ridges there. The imperfections of his flesh. The knowledge that he had been dead, once—and yanked back from the blackness, where he lingered—caused her distress.

Jon had almost been departed. She had nearly been rendered an orphan, with no ties to her family, left.

Sansa listened, as his breath turned, ragged. Darkened pools, met her Tully-blue ones. Without words, she proceeded to undress him. Unlacing his breeches, next. Letting them pool at his ankles. Her eyes traveled down to his manhood. Jon was pink-cheeked. His flush scattering down to his neck.

In one swift movement, Sansa stripped off her nightdress. Letting the flimsy material cascade to the stone, in billowing movements.

Her nipples grew erected in the night-chill. Her pregnant belly swollen, and breasts enlarged.

Jon's eyes traveled over her form. She watched him turn from pink, to red. Completely, at a loss for words.

Still, without speech, she gripped his hand, guiding him toward the bed their father used to share with her mother. Jon hesitated. As though, suddenly aware of what she was doing.

"I cannot…" Jon all but whispered.

Sansa peeled back the furs. Climbing underneath them, with as much grace as her pregnant belly, permitted. "Please Jon?" Her grip, held tight to his. Her eyes, pleading for him to understand, what she needed.

"Theon loves you. He is your husband…"

Sansa's eyes slanted. Skin, paled. "I told you, once. The comfort I sought in Theon." She admitted.

"I am your brother…" Jon reasoned.

Sansa's eyes saddened. "So was Robb."

Jon's eyes widened, almost speechless. "And he…You would…?"

Jon struggled to speak the words outright, which only made Sansa smile, slightly. Giggle. It was the first time she felt so much joy in making her elder half-brother squirm.

Jon gawked. Perhaps unable to believe that she was genuinely laughing. Smiling, like she would as a young girl.

She could not recall the last time she laughed—at anything.

"You have always been gullible, Jon. Very gullible." She hummed, shifted on the bed, and winced as a pain shot through her side.

"Robb did not bed me, if that is what you are asking." She managed to speak, after the sharp pain subsided. "Lay down with me." She made a low hum in her throat, impatiently.

Finally, Jon complied. He made sure their flesh did not touch. He was far away from her on the sheets. "Robb used to tell me that when we laid together, bare, then there were no secrets between us." She closed her eyes at the memory. Wistfully, longed for her eldest brother's touch. His skin always felt warm, loving, against her own. They shared blood-ties that she never would, to Theon. His breath, full in his lungs. His heart rapid, strong, like a direwolve's "I would lay in his bed, almost every night. Sleep in his arms, and I always felt so safe. Even when he was a man, and I was still so young, he would let me lie with him. I grew to need his strength, to rest. And with all that happened to me—all that Ramsey did—I could not rest, not until I invited Theon into my chambers that first night. And I cannot rest, now. I am afraid, Jon."

He was silent, sympathy wrote onto his features.

He inched toward her, until her belly, met his own.

"If you need me to hold you, I will hold you, Sister." Jon breathed out.

She nodded, "I will get no better, until I have a man's arms, once more. You are the only one, apart from Theon, that can still make me feel safe."

Jon was quiet for a moment. She leaned in, and kissed the corner of his mouth. Letting the softness of the moment, allure her. It was chaste. Innocent. Reassuring.

And Jon, relaxed his taut muscles. "I know not, how I achieve that feat." Jon admitted.

"You are Lord of Winterfell, now. You make everyone feel safe." Sansa reasoned; her eyes gently lingered on his.

Suddenly, Sansa felt it. A flutter. Vicious. Poignant. Harsh. Then another.

Panic settled into her heart.

Before, she could pretend that the swollen bulge of her belly was just that—a swollen bulge—but now…now she felt that thing—move.

Kick.

"What?" Jon's eyes widened. "What is wrong?"

Sansa covered her face with her hands, beginning to sob. It was strong—the child. With kicks that firm—there was no chance it would perish. Some sliver of her, had still hoped it might.

Jon drew her in until she was tight to his front. Crushed into his chest. And still, she sobbed.

"I-It k-kicked…I-It is m-moving…" Hiccupped, explanations came to light. And Jon's eyes fell, to her belly. He must have felt them too. The kicks started—and did not cease.

Not especially as she panicked.

"Shh—calm down, Sansa. Please…The babe will only grow more agitated. You need to calm down." He stroked long fingers through thick tresses of hair. And she heard his soothing words.

By no means—was she soothed.

There was several minutes of her breakdown. It took lots of soothing words for her to finally, dissipate from her distress. And Jon, offered her cheek kisses, and promises that he was 'here' as reassurance.

What he did not understand, was Ramsey was there, too. Ramsey would always be there.

As long as this thing, grew stronger.

She was not safe.

Every night from that first, Sansa spent in Jon's warm embrace. Huddled near for comfort; affection. His direwolf at their feet; And their secrets were shared, in the privacy of her chambers. Jon sent the guards from her door, after the first night. He wished for no one to know of their nighttime comfort. And she readily agreed with him.

It would be devastating were anyone to believe she was spreading her thighs for him.

Even worse if rumors traveled to Theon—wherever he happened to be.

Though as it turned out; She did not have long to wonder.

Theon returned. Half-dead. Shivering. And exhausted. It was Jon she sent to speak with him. She could not face him—his debacle on the road; was her fault. She ordered Jon to keep him from her. What would Theon say if she were to go to him? How could she ever apologize for seeking the warm, nudity of Jon, when she believed he finally, left her?

That night, as Jon recalled to her, Theon's persistence on inquiring about her—she knew. Knew he would never give up. Not until this reality killed him. It was devasting to Sansa.

She resigned to having a conversation with him, the next day.

It was time.

When morning light shone through her chambers, Sansa reached out. Long fingers, met the soft furs—Jon was gone.

Cracking her eyes open, Sansa felt dismayed at his absence, but thought better of complaint.

Jon was needed. And soon—soon he would have to wed a Lady.

There could be no more nights like this one. Especially once she spoke to Theon. Her husband may never forgive her, but she would seek it out, regardless. For her misguided acts. She knew now, Theon would not go.

There was no manner in which she could convince him to leave her.

And when she felt that monstrosity kick inside of her—she recognized just how desperately she wanted it to be Theon's arms comforting her. Not Jon's.

How she ached for her husband. Her Theon. Only he could make her flesh burn, and kindle to life. Make her susceptive to needful moments of passion. And love. Their wedding night was forever seared into her heart. She loved him. Only him, this way. Denying it would do neither of them a bit of good.

She dressed, and tidied her hair. Before stepping out into the hallway. She noticed a few servants hold in shock—none had seen her leave her chambers in months.

Anxiously, she headed toward Theon's chambers. Felt heat in her belly. And the firm, kick of the thing inside of her. She swallowed down bile, and proceeded.

Until, she rounded the corner. Jon was hunkered over, whispering to one of the guards. "—Make sure Sansa does not hear of this—she is very fragile—"

Quirking her eyebrow, Sansa inched nearer. "Hear of what, pray-tell, Brother?" Jon jumped, turning quickly on his heel.

"—Find him—now!" She heard Jon whisper harshly, and the guard nodded, departing with evident relief.

Sansa saw a piece of parchment in his hand. Wrinkled from handling, but newly written.

"What is that?"

"It is nothing, Go back to your chambers, Sister." Jon responded in an even tone.

She was not having his bossiness. Not today.

Surging forward, she snatched the parchment from him. And unfurled it.

She recognized the untidy, shaking scrawl, as what remained of Theon's handwriting, post-Ramsey. Dribbled blood stains, also marked portions of the page. Sansa glanced up to Jon, horrified; guided her eyes back down.

Then read:

'Sansa,

I know now, why you do not wish to see me. I vowed, once, to let you go, if ever you found comfort in another man, that I could not give you. This broken body could never give you what a whole one, must. I meant to give you comfort, not pain, Sansa. So, I understand why you will not see me. I no longer provide you the comfort you once sought. And I can not bear to stay. I never asked you to bear the burden of fixing me. There is not enough of me left to fix. But I tried for you, Sansa. Always for you. You asked me once, if I ever truly believed that we might wed one day—I lied to you, Sansa. When I was whole When I was a man, I believed that I would ask for your hand. And that you would one day become mine. I never foresaw that we would become so distant from who we once were. You saved me, Sansa. For a time. But nothing can last indefinitely. I prayed one day you might seek to forgive that I offered to claim Ramsey's baby, but I recognize now, that no child born to any woman is mine to claim. Not even, yours. I will never be a father, but you will be a mother, Sansa. I pray Jon gives your baby a loving father figure, such as Ned was to me. Do not mourn for me, every day I live, I do so in pain, Sansa. I love you.

-Theon'

She could not breathe. That was the first sensation. She could not bring in air.

Her knees crumbled from underneath her. She felt herself falling, but never met the floor. Arms caught her. Jon's arms. This could not happen.

Not again.

She could not lose another person. Not one more.

She was wretched. Horrid. And she knew that now. She tried to give him an out—but not this. Never this.

She felt her skin crawl from Jon's touch. Theon knew…How did Theon know? Who told him?

It was not what he believed, there was no intimacy. No pleasure. Only the same comfort, Robb offered her. Just warm arms. Body heat. It was not—Jon could never be more…

Sansa felt filthy. Theon could not leave this world, believing she had betrayed him. She would never betray him. Not this way. It was for sleep. So, she might set Jon's mind to rest. Not for the intimacy of it. If Theon was gone…if he already left this world...

She could not—would not believe it.

Not until she saw his body for herself.

"D-Do not touch me!" She shrieked, shoving at Jon's chest. Tears fell unabated down her cheeks.

"You must sit down. You cannot stay standing, Sansa. You have had a shock…"

"Have I, Brother? Have I truly?!" She shouted. "And when were you going to give me this letter? Not at all? A year from now?" She spat, furious. But there was no time.

She had to find Theon. She had to find him!

Shoving Jon out of her path, she stormed from his sight. Seeking out Theon's bedchambers, she found his sword, armor, and few belongings in place. Panic, ensued. Before now, she still held hope he might have simply left Winterfell.

He would never leave her.

Those words that once comforted her, now chilled her to her core.

Rushing from his bedchamber, she ignored the frantic kicks of her child, as she rushed through the castle. Searching every room with abandon. Seeking him out, frantically.

Suddenly, she stopped dead.

No. He could not be.

But she knew where he was. She knew.

Hurrying from the castle, out into the snow; she ignored the baffled stares from Winterfell's people. She stormed into the abandoned pens, straight down until she sought out the very last one. Where Theon, once slept.

There, tears rolling down his cheeks. The tattered cloth he wore at Ramsey's insistence donned his figure. He was crestfallen. Red circles around his eyes, gave way to darker ones. Flushed cheeks, so red they resembled tomatoes. Theon was caked in dirt from the pen, how long had he been down here?

With instant recognition she saw the knife to his neck. A serrated blade, that nicked the skin. Upon seeing her, his right hand began to drag the blade. And she screamed. Lurching forward she wrenched the blade from his hand. And threw it, far away. Clear across the pen, where it clattered onto the stone.

Sansa landed clumsily onto his lap. Witnessed the small trail of blood that fell from the inch-long cut on his neck. It was not deep—he would live.

Still, in her frantic need for him to be okay, she leaned in. Suckling the skin of his neck. Taking in his blood on her tongue. Kissing the skin when the blood was swiped away. She heard a low moan from him. And his shoulders wracked with sobs. "E-Even t-this I c-could not d-do right…" Theon sobbed in defeat.

Sansa thanked the Gods up above for their mercy. For sparing her time to find her beloved, before he took himself from her.

She cupped either cheek with her hands. Tasted the crimson of his blood on her tongue. But she savored that iron-taste. Theon's blood almost ran cold.

His skin would have never warmed again. His heart would have stopped.

These truths chilled her, bodily. "Forgive me, Theon. Will you not forgive me? I did not bed Jon, I promise you, I did not."

He shuddered. "I saw you in bed with him. I saw it. You were bare. Whether he was inside of you, or not, you laid with him…As you laid with me…"

It was her turn to shudder. "It was as I did with Robb, no more. Jon offered body heat so that I might find sleep. Nothing more." Tilting up her chin she kissed him. "You are my husband. I vowed my bodice to you. You alone, Theon. I meant to seek you out this morning. I came to find you." Sansa sniffled.

"W-Why? You d-do not want m-me. You h-have not s-spoken to me since our w-wedding night. You b-betrayed me."

"I do, Theon. I gave you an out. I willed you to depart, before this child destroyed us both, but you never left. You were never going to leave me. I know that now, Theon. I do. And I have not betrayed you. I never betrayed you…" Her skin burned.

His eyebrows furrowed, but he gave no indication that he desired to argue.

"No, Sansa…I will never leave you." He vowed, hopefulness in his tear-filled eyes for the first time.

"You will be a father, Theon. I vow to you." Sansa lifted his hand, guided it to the swollen, space. It still made her ill to know who the child's real father was. But she would see Theon, smile again. She needed to.

Sansa recognized further blood flowing from the cut on his neck. And again, she leaned forward. Lapping the red liquid up. He moaned again.

"S-Sansa…" He whined.

She smiled through the haze of tears.

"Husband. Have you touched there?" He knew where.

His cheeks pinked. And he did not answer.

Suddenly, the need of the last two months collided in on her, all at once. Spoken words could wait. This urge could not. She was swollen in her breasts from carrying a babe. Sensitive, engorged between her thighs, and needy with heat. Being pressed to Theon's lap, only reminded her of what she no longer had, without him for months.

"Do you need to touch?" She knew the answer.

He shuddered.

She inched nearer—then pressed down hard on his stub. Directly through the fabric of his breeches. She felt it. Hard. Already swelling with blood. Needy.

And she too—was needy.

She cared not, that she vowed to Jon that she would not rut with her husband in these pens. She did not care who might find them. So, let them be found—she would have her husband—and she would not wait one instant more.

"How quickly will you come undone, if I touch you?"

He burned in his cheeks.

She tested her theory that he would not last at all. Hand slid just underneath, scratchy fabric, her index finger found his swollen stump. Firmly, Sansa pushed on the delicate, sweet spot. Just at the tip. Theon cried out, in quick succession, he throbbed. It was seconds. And he came. Rutting on her finger. Lust dilated his pupils.

Theon lost control. He tore her dress. Clean off. Tattered it to shreds. Pushed her clear against the pen's filthy hay. Kissed her with vigor. Tweaking her nipples with his thumb, and index, she squealed in pleasant surprise. It stung. Burned. And felt like bliss. Sensations from her nipple, traveled straight to her pleasure pearl.

"F-Fuck…T-Theon…" She was beside herself. She tore his clothes off, impatiently. Shredded them, as he shredded hers.

"Rut against me, Theon, I want to feel my husband." She insisted. Tully-blue eyes mindful of his still throbbing, stub.

He complied. Pushed the throbbing thing just against her pleasure button. And rutted. Working himself with urgency against her. Thrusting. Grunting. Kissing. Dignity was lost on them both, in this moment.

The babe kicked inside of her. Hard enough to heighten the sensation. Theon took a teat between his lips. Suckled, for a long window of time. And moaned.

She twined her fingers in his curls. And tugged. Earning another moan. Sansa felt the build in her abdomen burst. This time, wetness sprayed out. Coated them both in the liquid. It was her turn to flush with color.

Had she just wet herself?

Theon gasped, and moaned.

His stub twitched in release a second time. And he collapsed on top of her.

"What just…" Sansa spoke in hushed tones.

Theon made a low noise in his throat, detaching from her nipple.

A lopsided grin crossed his cheeks, only for a moment, then dissipated. "When I was with other women…at times I could goad them into spraying me. If I took them hard enough. I never thought—I would feel that again." Theon admitted.

"You mean…It is normal?"

He nodded. "Occasionally."

She heaved with breath, feeling lightheaded from their actions.

"Promise you will never leave me a note like that again. Vow to me, Theon."

He nodded; all traces of joy gone. "I vow it, Sansa."

She accepted his words; in sincerity.