Part 25; To Forge a Path.

Truth is, you're the reason

I do not believe in love anymore.

Sansa

Where had Theon gone off, to?

She searched for him. Down endless, hallways. She peaked in on the chambers she provided him when he first arrived.

They were barren. Cold.

She searched next, in the hound pens. It did not go unnoticed that more than a few guards edged near when she ducked into the pens. Perhaps they sought another peep show, believed (wrongly) that she was heading there to have a go with her husband, again.

Frankly, Sansa could have cared less, who viewed her in the throes of passion with Theon.

But her belly still stirred with regret over Jon's words the night previous. He was correct in his surmises. Their father would not have taken kindly to her behavior as a Lady. If he were up in the Seven Heavens where the Old Gods resided, she assumed he felt shame for what she invoked upon herself.

Her honor.

Unable to find a trace of Theon in the hound pens she resolved to return to her chambers.

He always retreated to one of those two spaces—where else might he go?

Her mind reeled with thoughts, the worst of which, was that he had left Winterfell, altogether.

She had not meant to make him feel unloved. It was never her intention—but she did yearn deeply for his other personalities, not because she loved them more, but because they emerged less. She yearned to know him. All of him.

She knew so much about his protective personality. He was rougher, clearly, more like the Theon she had grown with. She knew him well—better than any other version of the man she loved. She knew how to tease him. Coax him under her spell.

She knew how to love him—despite what he believed.

And she burned for him.

Awoken with her thighs spread, him rutting down into her—had been wondrous. Shocking—but pleasurable, nonetheless.

She had mourned Reek's departure for a few moments. As the sleepiness eviscerated. But it was enough for Theon to take full-offense.

Sansa headed to the nursery; sought out Little Robb. If she could not have her husband—she would spend her time with her child.

He was already so big. Every day he sprouted-up in size. His little cheeks were more pronounced, in the roundness. Eyelashes slightly thicker, than the paper-thin line he was born with. Pouty, thin, lips were a tad plumper, then a few days prior.

She balanced Little Robb, cushioned, in her arms. Carried him all the way back to her chambers. She settled on the bed-furs, let her finger dip, evenly, tracing the line of his cheek. Listening to his subtle, little coos as he pumped his fists in the air.

He was such a happy, child. Always giggling, laughing. Smiling. It made her wonder if Ramsay had been just like this once. Or—if he might have been a horrendous little baby. Always screaming. Fussing—Demanding.

When she pictured him—she pictured the latter—Imagined his poor Mother beside herself, with exhaustion as she tended him.

Little Robb, was Sansa's blessing. She chose to make him one, rather than a burden.

Her son was soft; tender. A low hum vibrated in her throat as she began to rock him, in her arms.

All the while—she wondered where her husband was.

Longed for him to return to her, so that she might apologize. For all of it.

Every step she took with him, seemed a dreadful misstep—and when it did work out, somehow—she could only imagine the next potential fallout to come.

She slipped open the stays on her dress, coaxed her son's mewling lips right up to her teat. Felt him latch on—and suck. Continuing to hum—she patiently waited—permitted her mind; to go blank.

Theon

He spared no moment. Wasted no further breath in attempt to convince, his wife that he was worthy of her affections. Rather, determined that she would never willingly, provide him the love he sought in her.

It was simpler to disappear—at least until one of his other pieces could emerge.

He might be spared the ache in his chest. The drag in his step—if he vanished.

Losing Sansa's trust, did more than simply wound him. It decimated his confidence.

Theon knew how it felt to lay in her arms. Wrapped in her loving touch—even if all-the-while he had pretended to be his weaker-half, he felt the same conscious emotions that Theon did.

He loved the same. His heart beat—the same.

He was trapped within the parameters of this body, whether he longed to be, or not. He would always long to be whole again.

To be able to bed a lass, in the brothels for a night—just one. And have his fears—his insecurities washed clean, by their ridiculous, doting. He still avidly, recollected the way Ros would coo to him.

Soft—sweet—like a flower. Sometimes, his mind wandered to her. Imagined how her life had turned out. Surely, better than this. Any life, was better than that, of a laughable eunuch, without a lick of self-respect.

He always sought out the same woman. Chased after her skirts like a wanton, little boy. To what end? So, she might degrade him some more? Disregard his worth?

He tired of it.

Swiftly, he shoved a few garments into a knapsack—the few objects he possessed—and headed out. Into the thick-dusting of snow. Listened to the crunch, underfoot. Steered clear of the guards (most paid him no mind as it were) and kept a lookout for Jon, or Sansa—in order to avoid either of them.

Once, outside—he made for Winterfell's gates—and did not look back.

He went on foot, for near twenty minutes. Into the village, just alongside Winterfell. He had little coin, perhaps enough from his wages as a protective soldier at Sansa's behest, he was paid for his position. Before, he was her husband. Now he had access to all of the Stark coin. Though, he had not been prepared for a journey.

He planned only to stay within the village, until he felt Reek, or Theon desire to emerge.

Then he would return.

Right, quick he came into bad-luck when a young man recognized him. Theon Greyjoy—the man that terrorized—then burned their little Lords. His straight-backed stance, quickly hunched over. As he was spit on. Pelted with food—and even punched in the face—when he inquired about a room, at two of the inns.

Hopelessly, Theon ventured toward the only other warm-place that would accept anyone—with coin.

The brothel.

He made a silent vow to himself that he would never step foot in another brothel—but it was there, or Winterfell—and he was not yet ready to face Sansa.

He knew the consequences if he did.

She would use his shortcomings against him. Leverage his rowdiness, in order to drive him back between the bedlinens—and it would work. It always did.

Theon felt all of the feminine eyes focused upon him. Could smell the stench of sex, thick in the air. Flames burned—licked in the fireplace, seedy-men piled around. Women slung off several of their laps. Theon's discomfort level, skyrocketed.

Heartbeats heightened. Pulsed in nervousness.

It was a coin to stay a night with one of the ladies. He could spare the coin—but his belly turned over at the thought of a woman, whom would attempt to touch him—there.

Skin crawled. But it was frigid cold, in the snowbanks. Surely, he would freeze to death out there. So, he hunkered down. Settled at one of the lone tables off to the corner. Prayed no one would notice him. Or worse—recognize him.

Though he doubted it would matter. All walks of life were permitted in seedy establishments. It was how they stayed in business. All men—no matter their backstory—were welcome.

Theon kept his eyes down—managed to go unnoticed for a little while—until one of the ladies, caught eyes with him.

Shuffled over.

"Might I be of some service, Milord?" Tender, porcelain skin shone on display. Plump, swollen breasts with puffed-pink nipples. Soft-auburn hair trekked down to her shoulders. If he outright rejected her—it would only draw attention.

Unwanted attention.

So, he extended a coin. Let his eyes travel the length of her skin.

His pulse still heightened. Body still reacted, just as it always had.

His prick-stub, hardened. Thick with blood. Cheeks pinked with color. But he was useless.

No woman—not even a whore—would offer him kindness.

Sansa was special. She only wanted a man who could never hurt her. He figured that out a long while ago. What harm could a cock-less man ever bring to Sansa? He could not take pleasure whilst tearing her open—like Ramsay had.

Ramsay referred to him as a cripple—and he was.

In the eyes of every woman—he most assuredly was.

Subtly, he permitted this stunning, female to guide him into her room.

He purchased her for the night—but the sting in his lower-belly, reminded him he was still a married man. Wed to Sansa—even if she no longer perceived him as someone she could love.

It tore him, internally.

Inside the warmth of this temptress' chambers, Theon let emerald-optics wander. Scan the little wooden box of a room. Drafty. Chilled. He lowered his knapsack to the floorboards.

Before he could speak, lips attached to his.

Somehow, she tasted of strawberries. Sweet, nectar on his tongue. Starved for the taste—he fell in sync—became carried away. Instinct took over, and he had her back against the door-wood. Felt the pulse of his stump, urging him to rut. Instead, his hands brushed down the span of this female's form. His mind noted her crisp, clean skin. Not a scar—nor mark upon her. Unlike Sansa, her skin was littered in Ramsay-inflicted scars. She was coarse—unsmooth.

Felt the prod of her nipples even through, his tunic, and cloak.

He was starved for affection—longed for companionship, that did not twist him up inside.

Suddenly—before he could prevent her—a hand snaked down the front of his breeches. Sought his cock. Found only the scarred-pulse of his stub in its place, and abruptly yanked her hand back.

As though shot.

Disconnected from the kiss.

Horror wrote into her features. Shock? Disgust? Dismay?

He was uncertain which of those emotions he was reading from her—however, none of them were particularly good.

Embarrassment, peppered his cheeks in scarlet.

"Milord…I um…How can I service you…if…well…" She stumbled over the words. Clearly—this had never happened to her before. He doubted it ever would again.

Eunuchs were rare in the North.

Humiliation burned deep in his belly.

Sansa was the only girl that could stomach to even touch him. He had known it. His other halves had seared it into his thoughts. Reminded him whenever he so much as looked at a pretty-flush, female that he could never pursue her. But knowing a thing—and coming face to face with said thing—were wholly different concepts.

Still—he had hoped.

Maybe for a moment.

He reached down for his knapsack. Fighting back tears. He was stronger than Reek—this would have destroyed him—and far better put-together than Theon, but still. He was only human. He hurt, too. His feelings were crushed. All cockiness, erased. He still strutted about the way he had before—when he was whole. He was no longer whole.

Sansa never cringed from his cock-less, stump.

He would do well to remember that.

He made for the door—as though remembering herself—the wench blockaded it—with her form. Halted him in his tracks.

He was prepared to flee. To bury his head in the snow—maybe stay there.

But the girl touched his chest. Put her palm just over his heart.

"Tell me what I can do, Milord? I…I was startled is all. I meant you no jest…" She was a young-thing. Pretty. He could see by the pale-skinned, look, she gave—just how young.

Fourteen? Perhaps.

His best estimate.

He also felt—she was sincere.

"I need rest." Finally, hoarse vocals, piped up.

Perplexed, she gave a nod.

"You can…touch me…Do as you please to my body, milord." She wormed his fingers free of his knapsack, straps. Let the knapsack cascade back to wooden-boards. "I will tell no one, of your…anomaly. I am most discreet, milord. You kissed as though you are still a man of…urges, and the like. Whatever—" She sought the proper, least offensive word. "—satiation you require, I am certain I have known worse."

Theon winced.

He was Iron-Born. Perversions were built into his blood.

Still—to think this woman believed him a man of unthinkable-perversions…was atrocious.

He sympathized. She probably had known worse.

His jaw set—clenched. He made no move to speak. This was humbling enough—without the thought of what she must believe were his 'perversions' and 'appetites' in the bedchamber.

Seeming to sense the tension she crossed the room, lit only by a few stray candle-wicks. Hoisted a wine-decanter from a worn, wooden-table. Poured a clear glass, then turned. Extended it to him. Enticingly.

Then poured a second for herself. Downed it in a flash.

His stomach churned.

But he drank.

Downed the crystal-clear, glass.

"I am still, a man." Green-eyes challenged her. As though daring her to deem him otherwise.

Flustered. The youthful, beauty nodded her head.

"Course you are…I did no mean that you were not…" Regretful eyes, turned down.

He headed toward the mattress. Laid down upon the lump-piled fabric. And sighed.

He had known worse. "Come…" He felt shy—disheartened. "I wish…to be held as I sleep. Your arms are enough. I would not force a perversion on you." Spoken with evident, ire—he witnessed her face drain of color. Head shake.

"I did not mean—"

"I do not wish to speak on it." His voice was small. Wounded. "Please."

With no further ado, she blew out the candlelight, and settled alongside of him.

Her arms wound around his frame. His head nestled to her bosom—and fretfully, Theon descended into nightmarish, sleep.

Sansa

Cold in the empty blankets of her own bed. Little Robb tucked safely in his crib.

Sansa too, felt cold.

And lonely.

Her heart ached for her husband. She longed for him to know she cared.

But she had searched the castle again—and was unable to seek him out.

With fretful thoughts—she dwindled to sleep—To the crackle of the dying embers of the hearth.