Part 20; To Steal Iron Strength.

Sometimes the worst

place you can be

is in your own head.

Theon

There was joy. Pure joy, written into Theon's eyes. Light, engulfed his heart. Sang on the surface of worn-skin.

He felt good.

Listened to the cry from Sansa's mouth. Caught the gush of her juices against his tongue.

She felt moist—like heaven. Tasted of salt—reminded him of home.

"What has come over you?" Sansa panted. Chest heaving.

Sweat stuck tendrils of hair to Theon's forehead. Light-glinted in his hues.

"Can a man not, desire his wife?" Theon retracted his fingers. Scoured up the length of her bodice—And settled.

Hard, aching stub, pushed right to her center. And without warning—He began to rut. Pleasure burst to each nerve-ending. Even the ruined places on his being.

Sansa threw her head back—moaning. And he connected their lips. Biting. Sucking. Kissing. Until they were swollen.

He felt fire in his belly. He felt her skin—so pliant. So warm.

And shuddered. Coming apart on top of her.

It had been this way for several nights now. Countless windows of time, together. Each night, Sansa appeared hungrier than the last. Needier.

She would plead for him. He would barely graze her with a hand—and she would whine.

Resting atop her. Theon grazed her belly. Felt the kick of the babe, strong as ever. He rolled onto his side. The bump had begun to hinder their love-making.

"Yes, you can desire me all you choose." Sansa found his cheek. Brushed the stubble that lined his jaw.

Theon's heart pounded with exhilaration. And exhaustion.

Aches began to settle into his muscles. Expending himself in such a manner, only sought to tucker him out. His skin would always be sensitive. His bones, muscles, back, skin—All permanently seared from torture—ached wretchedly, from the strain.

"Your baby will come soon." Theon recognized the wounded sting in her eye. It darkened her mood.

She pushed his hand off of her belly. And rolled with her back to him.

Undeterred, Theon inched nearer. Draped his arm around her middle. Pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. He would never leave her again. He made a vow.

As her husband, Theon would protect her. Despite the consequences—His own consistently attacking, psyche. He remained; right there.

"It will be a monster. Not a baby." Spoken through gritted teeth; Theon shivered.

"It will be yours." Theon attempted to reassure her. "You will make it your own. Raise it. Teach it."

"Ramsey was unteachable. As will any child of his, be." Sansa was adamant.

Theon flinched.

"You do not know that."

"I do. I absolutely do." She persisted.

He sighed.

"My father is a bitter, cruel, old man. He is Iron-born through, and through. No man would claim he was anything other than a natural leader. Hard, like iron. He used to favor a lashing to punish his children." Theon swallowed at the memory. "My mother, however…She was always soft, warm. I remember her holding me, after. She would tell me that I need not pay him a bit of mind. She was bold, too. Bolder than most women. She was the only one that could stand up to my father. Set him right." He lowered his chin onto Sansa's shoulder. "I favored my mother. I looked up to her. And I wanted to be like her. I was never like my family. Never going to be a decent reaver, or raper. Because of her."

Sansa shuddered in his arms.

"Why are you telling me this?" Cold words uttered from her lips.

"Because, Sansa. You are good. Decent. Loving. You are all of the things I saw in my mother. If my mother could change me, why do you think that you will be unable to change your baby?"

Sansa shuddered. He felt it.

She turned in his embrace. Pressed her the swell of her belly, right up against his, own.

"You were not born a monster, Theon. This child, will be. I can feel it. In every bone of my body! I can feel it! Do you understand that? Ramsey was vile, cruel. No motherly figure could have changed that in him! I do not want this child! I do not want it, Theon! I wish it were your baby! I wish it were anyone else's baby!" Descending into tears. Theon froze.

The shockwaves surged up his spine, as he recalled what he could never give to her.

Children.

Lowering his eyes, he nodded. Decidedly, abandoning any hope of convincing her that her baby was more than just Ramsey's child.

"Do you…want to give the baby away?" His heart rose in his throat.

Her back went rigid. "No." She finally breathed out.

"I would never give a monster to someone else."

The words bit the underside of his skin—but he conceded.

"Rest, My Lady. I did not mean to cause you distress." Theon brushed careful fingers through crimson tendrils. Tears rolled down his cheeks in slow streams.

"I wish it were your baby, Theon. I wish you could give me babies." Voice barely an octave above a whisper. Theon shuddered.

Eyes opening. Cheeks burning with flame.

Each night he burned to feel her. Really feel her. To share the intimacy of her flesh—and not be ashamed. To have babes of his own. Offspring. Something good to come from the darkness, he endured. But all there was; was Sansa.

Hearing her speak this way—did a number on his heart.

"What would you have me do, Sansa? You know I want those things. You know it in your heart." Theon attempted to stay strong. For her.

Alive. Despite his willingness to fade into the next life—He would not take her with him.

"I hate him. I hate him so much!" Sansa admitted, in sobbing-gulps. "This child will murder me. I just know that it will."

"It will not. I would never let it. I would kill it, first." Theon vowed.

The darkness extended—Theon held her all the while. Listened to her sob—Ignored his gut. The sensation that told him, to put stock in her words.

He held her—warmed her—until she found sleep. Until exhausted, Sansa lulled into the crook of his neck—and passed out.

All through the night—Theon held her. Until sleep finally claimed him, for its own.

Sansa

Wetness, coated her skin. The first acknowledgement that she awoke—was that sensation. Being drenched.

Curiously, Sansa reached down between Theon's legs. Believing, he had another accident in his sleep.

He was dry.

Her skin shivered. In horror—She felt between her own thighs. Withdrew her hand—and saw blood. So much blood.

She screamed—Theon jolted awake alongside of her.

Reaching-arms coiled just underneath her breasts. Tears trekked down either cheek.

"What—What is…wrong?" Theon's eyes widened at the sight of crimson-blood. The scent hit her, next. Iron.

"Gods!" He threw back the furs. Panic struck in his eyes. Fear. He froze. She saw it.

His mind was breaking down. He could not handle this.

Sudden pain, jilted through her lower-half. She thought she was dying. "Theon? H-Help…" She made pitiful, whining sounds. Her head felt woozy. Her skin flushed with heat.

Theon gawked—eyes wide in terror—twitching. Blinking. Not communicating.

She could not walk. Could not stand. Every movement garnered excruciating pain.

"T-Theon…I need…help."

Theon

Blood spattered everything. Spilled on her thighs. Over the sheets. Coated—ruined the furs.

Theon could not speak. Words refused to come. Fear, petrified him. This was the end. This is how he would lose her.

She would leave him. Ramsey had done this to her.

Ramsey took the last thing in this life—He loved.

She would not survive this. She could not survive this.

Every bad thought crowded his thoughts. Made him immobile. The strength in him—vanished. All that remained was a shell.

Twitching. Broken. Shattered.

Ramsey's final gift to him.

Invisible vines wound around his heart. Clenching, squeezing. Until he thought he might have a heart attack. Panic ate away at him.

"Theon!" He could hear his name. Her voice was waning. Her skin clammy—sickly pale, on her face. She would die…He was going to be alone…

"H-Help…" He heard the word—but it did not click.

It refused to make sense. He could only stare. Could only feel helpless as she bled. As she cried. Pain encroached on her. He could see it.

Finally, he tumbled off the bed. Forced his legs to obey. Not conscious of the fact that he was nude. And now coated in his wife's blood. He only stood.

Just outside; eyes searching. Ears listening.

A servant—plainly dressed. Skin-peachy like cream. He reached out to her. Gripped her sleeve. As though noticing for the first time, Theon was covered in blood. The servant girl shrieked. Releasing the stack of woolen-blankets in her arms. Wide-eyes found his.

"W-What have you done! Theon! What have you done!" She was screaming at him. Struggling away from him.

But he had done nothing. Guards came. Seized him.

Jon came—running.

"N-Nothing…I s-swear…blood…so…much…b-blood…" Theon shook. Whined. Trembled. Sobbed.

He was lost. His mind—lost.

Theon collapsed to his knees. Shaking his head in constant denial. Glanced at blood-stained hands. Could smell the iron of her blood.

She was going to die…Was she dead, already?

The guards released his arms. He heard Jon's voice, "She is in labor! But something is wrong! Send for the Maester! Now!"

Theon gawked up, with terrified eyes. Sansa! If she was dying—He needed to be there.

With single-mindedness. He began towards the doors from whence, he came. Felt Jon's hands on his shoulders.

"You cannot go back in there. It is not right for men to be in the birthing chamber."

Jon spoke, but Theon did not care.

He needed to be there for her. He would be there for her.

"Get off! L-Let go!" Jon was clutching him. Attempting to drag him away. He went berserk.

Kicked out with his legs. Pushed against Jon's chest, until he was free. And surged back into Sansa's chambers. Climbed upon the blood-stained sheets. And clutched tight to her.

He could hear her breath. It came in shaky pants. She was hurting. He could feel it. And it was too early. The baby was coming too early. By at least a month.

He felt her hand, weak; trembling. He felt her fingers in his hair. He sobbed into her neck.

"S-Sansa…You c-cannot l-leave me…P-Please…P-Please…" Theon could not steady himself. He was wrecked. Sick to his stomach. Fearful.

"I do not…wish to…leave you…" Breath did not come easy to her lungs. He felt the strain of it as his ear pressed over her heart. Listened to uneven palpitations. Her rhythm was out of control.

She was on fire. Heat poured out of her skin. Sweat stuck all of her hair to her forehead—and cheeks. Theon brushed it clear. Kissed her sloppily. Hoping to convey all of his love unto her in this instant. He rested his head against her neck. Let his hand graze her belly. Listened to the rush of her heart. He needed to know she was still breathing—still living.

Still with him.

He heard the sound of speaking. Heard the Maester's distress. Speaking words like, 'breech', 'rupture', and 'blood loss'.

But Theon tuned them out. Focused on Sansa. On what he could focus on. Because he could not lose her. He would not lose her. He watched the Maester, push on her belly. Turn, until she shrieked in so much pain—he feared it might stop her heart. Theon reached for her hand. Held it tight in his own. And she squeezed. Hard enough for him to feel the bones grind together.

"I-I am r-right h-here…W-Will n-never leave y-you." Theon vowed in hushed tones, against the shell of her ear. When the Maester ceased pressing on her belly. Her ear-shattering screams died with it.

Theon heard the shrill screams from her throat, as she began to push. Her grip hurt. His flesh still weak from years of maltreatment. He shuddered. And encouraged. As best he could.

Despite the panic. The fear. He planted soft kisses on her neck. Nuzzled her with his nose. Let her crush his fingers until they ached.

And then…

Piercing cries flooded the air. Not Sansa's.

Theon dared to look.

Pink-squealing flesh, coated in slime, blood—with an umbilical cord attached was yanked out. Held in the Maester's hands in the air. Theon saw the tell-tale dangle of Its penis, and ball-sac.

It was a 'he.'

One quick snip of shears, had the cord detached. And a servant, clutched the child. Washing the newborn's skin. Cleansing him. Before he was bundled in a woolen blanket.

Theon's attention returned to Sansa. Breathing shaky, skin clammy—her heartbeat was lowering. He could hear it.

"S-Sansa?" Fear clutched his stomach. "S-Stay…D-Do not g-go…" Theon kissed her pulse point. Brushed calloused fingers through her scarlet-strands.

Nuzzled her for comfort. Pressed the length of his being—against hers.

She was chilled. And trembling.

"S-Save her!" He shouted at the Maester. As the man pressed cloth towels to her thighs. Attempting to soak up the blood that pooled out of her.

"W-What is…it…the…baby…?" Hazy. Wheezed out words came out.

Theon let hot tears meet her neck. "B-Boy. I-It is a boy…"

He felt her shudder through the encompass of her frame. Head to toe.

"Murderer…It is…a-already…a m-murderer…" Her whispers were faint.

He would not hear it. He could not. "No! F-Fight, Sansa…You s-stay here! I n-need you…h-here!" He broke down at her side. Clutched her hand. Fought to pass her his strength—whatever was left of it.

"S-Stay with me…" He whined.

She lost consciousness. He pushed his ear to her chest. Listened to her pulse. It was faint—barely there. But there.

The Maester worked tirelessly. Staunched the bleeding, and administered milk of the poppy.

"She may live. If she makes it through the night." The Maester declared.

The babe cried out for its mother. It needed milk. The youthful servant he first started half-to-death in the hall, held the wiggling bundle.

"She needs milk." The servant piped up.

Theon felt repulsion in his stomach. Searing hatred for the child. It almost took her away to have him. Another of Ramsey's gifts. Why should this infant prosper off her innards? She was barely alive. Barely breathing. So very, very weak.

She needed her bodice protected from further, ravishing.

And yet—It was innocent. He—was innocent.

Theon nodded to the girl.

And she came forward, tucked the babe just under Sansa's breast, and it latched on. Suckling in seconds. All sounds, aside from its suckling, dissipated.

The servant gave a low, little sigh of relief. Theon watched in contempt for the pink creature.

Now up close, Theon could see the dark tufts of hair. Nearly identical to that of Ramsey's—Theon's stomach lurched. And then he opened his eyes—and hauntingly, familiar, pale-blue optics found Theon's.

Theon barely made it over the bed, before he was sick onto the stone—causing the servant girl to shriek. He curled up. And began rocking, tears took hold—and he could not breathe.

This was not happening.

This could not happen.

It. Could. Not. Happen.