Part 31; To Seek Vengeance.
You can't keep dancing
With the devil
And wondering why
You're still in hell.
Sansa
True to her word, Sansa made quick work of seeing to the torment of those that had scarred, Theon. The same as she had Ramsay.
With pertinence, Sansa tucked Reek in—made certain that he had no qualms about her absence, before she gave him the softest of kisses.
Then, set out, down into the dungeon, underneath Winterfell. It was a dark, barely accessible area. Covered in dirt, dust, and shadows.
Ramsay, once used these cruel, sullen-spaces, in order to string up Reek if he stepped a toe out of line. A reminder that wherever Reek went—Ramsay was more than capable of torturing his flesh.
Sansa, shivered at the memory. But she recalled what these men had done to her beloved. Had viewed the aftermath of their cruelty—and felt not a lick of sympathy.
She had Ramsay's saltire dragged from its storage, where it had stood, forebodingly, awaiting its next victim. To imagine the countless men, and women Ramsay had strung up to this instrument of horror, made Sansa's bones chill with ice. Cruelty was bestowed on even the most hapless of individuals, in Westeros. And the least worthy, were presented with the most power.
Sansa learned that, from Joffrey.
With a nod to the Winterfell guards, the first of the men in chains, held-fast within the iron-bars of the jail-cell, was hauled out.
A man, brutish in size, whom towered over Reek's height, easily. When Sansa imagined how scared her husband must have been. Both Theon—and Reek, to be at the complete mercy of even one of these muscled, towering men, her heart ached.
Sansa had felt the blade of Ramsay's knife pierce her skin. Could still remember the cold, steel. The serrated edge as he marked her. Hurt her. Made Reek watched, when it pleased him. She swallowed down the bile.
She would do this. For Reek.
"Do you know what this is?" Sansa gestured to the saltire; the brute was being tied down to. Arms high overhead, legs stretched—taut.
"Do I look like I care, cunt?" Sharp, biting tones met her ear. Instinctively, one of the guards punched the sturdy-man in the jaw.
Sansa's ocean-eyes remained cool. Unaffected by the man's sharp tongue.
"It is where Ramsay Bolton used to string up his victims. He would skin them, carve into them, nice and slow. See just how long it took, before their hearts would give out. Or they would plead for death." Her lips drew into a thin smile, eyes narrowed. "It also happens to be the wooden structure, where my husband was strung up. Mercilessly tortured, cut, brutalized, until his mind broke apart. Until, he was no longer one person, but multiple."
Sansa bent down, lifted a discarded blade from the stone. Dust, and blood tainted the blade. It was a relic from the past. Most likely, thrown down by Ramsay one of the many times he skewered a man. She guessed.
"He was a treacherous cunt, just as you are, for marrying him. After what he did to this castle. Your home. He deserved everything that I did to him. Everything that was done to him by that Bolton bastard, too." The man looked upon her, unaffected. Beady-eyed.
Sansa's jaw set; skin bubbled with anger.
"Theon never touched a hair on either of my brothers' heads. Ramsay killed Rickon. Bran has never been recovered, and I have forgiven him, for any part he played in the seize of my home. He has paid for it. Ten-fold. Not that you, or any of these other men, and woman—" Sansa gave a hard stare at the whore, whom shivered, crying in the cell amongst the men. "—have a right to judge him, nor anyone else. You are not the Lord of Winterfell. That right falls to my brother. Jon."
"Your bastard, brother." He corrected.
Finished restraining him, the guards stepped clear of him. Moved to stand in the far corner, out of sight.
Sansa crept across the stone, until she was right in front of the stinking, ale-breathed, monster.
"My brother." She enunciated. Fire, burning in her eyes. "I made a promise to my husband. You will know pain. All of you will." She eyed the others again, for emphasis. "The same pain that Theon felt. All of it. We will see just how many of you, piss yourselves, lose your minds. Pass out. We will see, what you can endure. Before I am done, you will all be Reek. I will have it no other way."
Time had hardened, Sansa. Burdened her soul—and Ramsay had hurt her in unimaginable ways. This should have triggered her. Sent her back into the petrified rubble she began with, directly after she ran from Ramsay's clutches, with Theon.
But she did not.
For her husband, she could endure anything. Even using a blade to torture another human being.
Without thought, nor care. Sansa began to carve into the man's skin. Watched blood dribble from the wound. Crimson, thick. He was bare from the waist up. Only his breeches, and smallclothes on were permitted to remain on his lower-half.
Sansa had memorized the scars that marred her husband's flesh. Drank them in, when she kissed a pattern down his winding-torso. It never occurred to her, that such intimate knowledge, might come in handy—but it did now.
Despite this man's screams she made cut, after cut. Deep enough to scar. Mark for mark, almost a mirror image of Theon's. Internally, Sansa could feel her gut reel with sadistic pleasure, at making this monster suffer. Every scream, like music to her ears. Knowing that he had pinned her precious Reek down onto a whore's mattress, and taken pride in tearing him open? Only made this easier.
"I have only just begun. Already you squeal like a pig." She taunted him. Carelessly.
For a man whom refused to shut up only a few minutes ago—he now practiced the opposite. He was silent. Except for his screams.
"How disappointing." Amusement breeched her eyes.
She set to work again, reveling in his screams as she pierced through his flesh. Finally, all of the cuts were complete. Although they were hardly the worst of what Reek had endured.
Sansa flicked the man's right nipple, made it hard to the touch. Gripped it tight, and carved it off. He screamed like a little girl. And she felt sick, thrill at the sound.
Chancing a glance over toward the cage of other prisoners, she saw the horror written on their features. Fear struck a dalliance, in their eyes. Especially the female's; she was huddled in the farthest corner. Trembling. Fretfully.
She threw the man's nipple onto the stone, wiped the blood on her dress. Already, her gown was covered in spatters of blood. She cared little, if she ruined the thing. It was her least favorite. Dull-blue. Least appealing on her porcelain, complexion.
With steady fingers, Sansa unlaced the man's breeches. Listened to his pitiful squabble. Pleas for her not to hurt him anymore. Pleas for death.
"My husband begged, too." Her eyes found the man's. Unashamed—unafraid—to look him in the eyes, whilst she emasculated him.
"He begged, Ramsay not to cut off his cock. Begged him to show mercy. But Ramsay never granted mercy. Nor did you. When my husband laid underneath you, pleading for it to stop—terrified, drugged. You climbed on top of him and used your cock to rape him, until he bled. So go on, beg me. Beg me for mercy. See how far it gets you. How much I care to listen." To Ramsay, this had all been merciful. "This is mercy. I have not killed you for what you did, not yet. You will want death, and maybe…I will grant you clemency. When there is nothing left of you to tear apart."
"P-Please…I will n-never do anything like it again…"
She scoffed, "That, we can agree on."
Without further care to hear his appeal, she began to hack at the skin of his cock. Felt the fresh, pink thing twitch in her hand. Glimmered with pride as the man began to scream for his mother. For mercy—for anything. Blood splattered over her gown, gushed every which way. Until she was coated in his blood—his urine, as it sprayed all over her. She hacked until the swollen part fell away from his body. Until he was a blubbering wreck of a man.
Sobbing. Whining.
She turned back toward the other prisoners. With the man's cock in hand. Eyes cold, hard.
"You used your cocks to brutalize my husband. Now you will know what it is like not to have one. My mercy? I am not going to kill you. Not for a long time. You will suffer. Just like Reek. Tied down to a saltire."
With that, she dropped the flaccid, length. Let it thud to the stone. "Guards?" The men approached her; unfazed by the violence. "Bring the other saltires. I want to string them all up. Now."
Reek
Fire crackled in the hearth; Reeks worn-eyes found comfort in the crackle. The embers. It reminded him that warmth was never far from view.
Never.
Sansa might have tucked the bear-furs around the sides of his form, but Reek was lost in his thoughts. Without Sansa—his safety net—there would be no sleep. Her warmth was necessary for him to find peace.
Instead, he found himself engulfed in the fireplace. Uncomfortable against the bandages, the Maester had wrapped over his burns.
He hurt. Everywhere.
Irritation bubbled on his skin, and he sighed into the feel of discomfort.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. It was a maiden, youthful, swollen in the cheeks. Little Robb was cradled in her arms. Her soft-brown eyes landed upon him.
"Oh! Dreadfully sorry, Milord…I finished feeding the wee, babe, and thought he might enjoy a bit of time with his mum." Most of the servants avoided him. Others regarded him with disdain. This was the first time; he was greeted with a title. Most never addressed him at all, if it could be avoided.
Flushed in the face, Reek surveyed the small bundle. Anxiety bubbled in his belly. It was a part of Ramsay. Born of rape—of hurt. Deviance.
For a moment—he wanted to tell Sansa's wet-nurse to take the babe—and leave. But then, he thought of Sansa.
Warm, soft, loving, Sansa.
The babe was part of her too.
"B-Bring him here…" Reek was unused to ordering about, another. Such a deed was foreign, on his tongue.
Hesitantly, she complied. Brought the babe near. His bright eyes wide-open. Peeking around with wonder at everything in sight. Reek opened his arms, and she carefully guided Little Robb into them.
Reek swallowed the knot of fear in his throat. Let his heartbeat slow. He could see the warmth of Robb's smile, it was intoxicating.
Pleasant, in every manner. Instead of anxiety, Reek felt calm.
Ramsay was dead. Gone. He could not spread his poison to another being. Living, or dead. Never again.
He noticed the darkness that shrouded Ramsay, was absent within Little Robb's eyes. He could almost feel Sansa's brother; Robb himself, peering back at him.
"Are you alright to hold him, Milord? Or shall I return him to his nursery?" Startled. Reek had nearly forgotten she was still nearby, awaiting his dismissal.
"You can…l-leave him with m-me." Sansa had been gone an undeterminable window of time already, and Reek could feel the loneliness creeping in.
"If you are certain." She still seemed hesitant to leave him.
Reek was used to the sidelong glances. Distrustful eyes of other servants. What did they believe he might do to a babe? Despite his fear of Little Robb, he could never harm a piece of Sansa. That is what Little Robb was. Sansa's son. If he closed his eyes, Reek could still picture the moment Little Robb was born. Theon had been there. Holding Sansa's hand.
"He is my s-son. Of course, I a-am." Reek stared her down; dared her to challenge his claim.
"Of course, I meant no harm, Milord." She gave a curtsy, then hurried from his chambers. Seemingly unable to be free of his presence, fast enough.
Even though Sansa cleaned his skin. Made him presentable in breeches, and a tunic—it made him feel no different. Those in Winterfell had seen him curled in a heap of rags, and stench. Most had snickered at his appearance at one point, or another. Clean appearances garnered him no respectability.
Little Robb was a quiet presence. Pure. Innocent. He was the one being that had no potential to hurt him. Not with words. Nor actions. Robb was perfect.
Reek took the quiet time, let Robb suck on his finger for comfort.
Low vibrations rumbled in his throat. Even though he must look a fright to the little bundle—Robb did not even flinch at his visage. Rather, cooed, and giggled. His cheeks blossoming into a tender smile.
How could such a tiny, nubile baby, spare a smile for a creature such as him?
Still bruised, and aching from the attack, he felt vulnerable. Tired. But somehow, attached to this child. Protective. Despite his own fear.
Reek could hear his other personalities, vying for attention. Seeking out the little life, he held in his arms. It was the first time he felt either of Theon's personalities close to the surface. Both of them had been silent. Unyielding in their silence.
When he pulled—pushed—he felt them retract again. Burrow deep where he could not seek them.
With a sigh, he refocused his eyes on Robb.
Time seemed to be endless.
Still.
Reek could feel his stomach rumble with hunger pangs, hear the creaks of the floorboards as servants made their way throughout Winterfell's halls. Sun-rays faded from the windowpane. Birds ceased to chirp in the skies. Sunset fell—and Sansa was still gone.
The wet-nurse returned for Little Robb, and Reek handed him over.
Not even aware of just when his arms had begun to cramp from cradling the bundle. His limps popped as he stretched them. Muscles ached with pains, both old, and new in nature.
Left alone, again. Reek hunkered down underneath his bed-furs. Let his skin be warmed by the soft things. Green-eyes drifted to the single, taunting vile of Poppy planted for him to take.
Even the thought made him shudder, but he remembered his promise to Sansa.
Tonight, they would take it together. Share the burden of helplessness, in the midst of dreadful-haze. Reek could still feel the unappealing pull; the panic as those men did as they pleased to his limp body. The pain was severe—but the memories of the tinctures capabilities was far worse.
Suddenly, the door opened with a jerk.
Startled, Reek sat up, bug-eyed. His skin paled at the sight. Sansa—his Sansa, coated in blood.
So much blood…
Red painted her navy-dress. Smeared her cheeks, stained her hands. Even clung strands of her hair together in clumps. Reek's stomach churned.
"S-Sansa…W-W-W-What…?"
He could not find words. Such horror. It was everywhere—everywhere!
Seeming as though she had forgotten entirely, Sansa surveyed her own stained clothes—hands, bodice.
"I dealt with them." Her tone barely wavered. Cold—like ice.
"D-D-Dealt…?"
Bile rose in his throat.
Knowing that she would make them suffer—and viewing the aftermath—were far different concepts to grasp.
"I sent for the servants to run a bath; I need to wash. You like it when I am clean, Reek. I remember." She teased, for a moment—Reek saw a flicker of Ramsay in her. Ramsay would brush off the concept of being covered in another being's blood in much the same way.
Airily, without pause to blink.
She took note of his apparent horror, only to draw close. Until she was inches from his face, and kissed him. He could taste iron-salt—blood on her petals. Smell the stench of piss.
He retracted.
"Did you…kill t-them?" Was it even possible to live after so much blood had been spilt?
"Of course not. I just hurt them a little. You think I am going to let them get away with what they did to you, so easily? I am going to leave them down there for a while." Sadistic words fell from her lips. He barely recognized her as the woman whom talked him down from his worst humiliation just this morning.
Promised to love him. Cherish him.
He trembled. Could not meet her eyes.
"Y-You left them a-alive…?" His heart cinched.
"I took their most prized possessions. Just as Ramsay took yours. Do not fret for them. They did unspeakable things with their cocks. Now they will never harm, another soul. Never again, Reek."
"Y-You…c-cut them…?" His mind reeled, unable to taper-down the constant storm of thoughts, rampaging through focally, within.
"They cried like babies." She admitted, without shame.
Reek shivered.
"Remember what I told you this morning? We can be filthy, both of us. Together. I tire of being so clean, Reek. It felt so good to punish them. All of those monsters. I would do it again, for you, Reek. Anyone that hurts you, my husband. I will make them pay with blood. With suffering. And I will come back to you, covered in their blood. The blood, and piss of those that would hurt you." Her breath tickled his lips. It was wrong that his stomach ceased to churn. Reek knew that it was.
Reprehensible still, that every vessel in his body sang for her. Wanted to agree with her assessment. That those men should have paid—dearly—for their crimes. The truth that he so desired to hide, somewhere in the very depths of his soul, was that he was madly in love with Sansa.
That his heart—his soul—belonged to her—despite the stain that scourged her soul, now. To torture men in such a brutal, unforgiving fashion, could damage a person. Wound their psyche.
He believed that she would have the guards hurt those men—not do it with her own two hands.
"L-Lady S-S-Sansa…" Her hand grazed his cheek, left traces of blood behind.
The scent of blood, and piss was all-relative to him. It did not turn his stomach—he spent so much of his time in filth, and ruin.
"Have you slept, Reek? Even a wink?" He leaned into the thumb that brushed his stubble-laden cheek.
"N-No…"
Her hand suddenly deviated, breeched the waist of his breeches. Brushed him through his smallclothes. He squirmed—air lodged in his throat.
"How about the privy? Have you made it there, alright?" Hot breath grazed his lower lip. Her thumb swirled around his stub, through the fabric. He jittered.
Pinked at the cheeks, he nodded.
"You sure? You feel a bit damp."
He shifted—squirmed as those deft-fingers teased his stump. "I-It leaks s-sometimes…" He admitted to her.
She made a soft sound in her throat. Something between acknowledgement, and a tsk. He could not tell.
"Did you miss me today, Reek? Hm? Are you hungry?" His hunger stabbed again in his lower belly when she brought it up.
"It is l-lonely without you." His lips parted, eyes rolled back as low, throbbing-pulses emanated in his lower-half. "Y-Yes…mm…h-hungry…" His mind was less, and less in control as he shifted around. Squirmed. Needed.
"I will let you bathe with me. And suckle—and rut…" He made whines as she retracted her thumb from his now, throbbing stub. He squeezed his thighs together. Swallowed thickness in his throat. "You just have to take the Poppy with me. Like you promised."
Heavily, his chest rose and fell. His eyes peeked open through the blurring haze—and lust.
He nodded, willing to take it. He made a promise to her. And he was so raw, now. On fire—he would have given her his soul if she just kept stimulating him.
Vaguely, he registered that the servants were preparing the bath, behind her. Neither peeked up from their task, having learned the last time about boundaries—and laughter. Once he refocused on Sansa, she already had the dropper out. Ready to administer. Reek held out his tongue, took the liquid down his throat. Shivered at the radiating feel of it.
Within seconds, he was woozy. Lighter.
He saw Sansa take the liquid as well.
"Come on, Reek. We must undress ourselves." She stood.
He shifted, and wobbled into an upright position of his own. Already, the pain was lessened by the potent drug. He felt lighter than air. Woozy, but somehow it just made him throb worse where she had touched. Made him want to seek the pleasure.
Once undressed, he followed her to the bathing tub. Felt the heat of the water as he climbed in after her. Drew her close, kissed her lips, sloppily. No longer heedful of the blood that smeared them. He felt good.
He felt like a man.
Just this once.
"S-Sansa…mmm...dizzy…" Sloppily, his hand cupped her breast. Sought the milky, pink-teat. Connected his lips—and sucked. Pulled the milk, hungrily into his rumbling stomach. Growled, deep in his throat as he began to wash her skin with a rag. Rinsing clean the blood—and tainted, bits that sullied her. All whilst he suckled.
His spare hand wound down. Circled around her sensitive-pearl. Pressed, pinched, rolled the nub. Until she shrieked. Then moaned.
"R-Reek…" Her voice was low—almost dreamlike.
"You like it…when…I…mmm…tease you…? Maybe…leave you…hungry, wanting…like you…left me…" His words fell, his stutter gone. He felt loose. Greasy. The combative need to have—take—consumed all else.
"T-Theon?" She asked. Let the word hang in the air.
"Mmm…Still…Reek…What? Can I not…want my wife…like they do? Want to...mark you…" Suddenly, feeling bold, Reek dared to bite her neck. Felt his remaining teeth, sink into the swell of her neck. Heard her moans permeate the air. Roughly, he spread her thighs. Tired of touching—and began to rut. Yanked her tight against him. Sighed with loose heat, burning his lower belly, as he did.
"Reek!" Her fingers tethered into his hair. All the horniness that burned in him, took root. He cared little for bathwater. For the heat. He wanted the bed back. The softness of the furs. With strain (he could barely feel) he hoisted her out of the water. Carried her back to the bed.
Crawling on top of it, soaked. Wet. He attacked her lips with his own. Spread her wide—and rutted. Her moans fused with his. Her breath forced against his lips, in-between loud noises from her throat. Her fingers dug into his back, but he was damned if he could feel the sting.
He latched hold of her teat, sucked her again. Moaned with abandon—until the swells of release fluttered through his belly. Until he could not see anything, but haze and stars.
It felt good; to be free. He felt completely free of caring. Of humility.
Of every bad thing that happened to him.
And when blackness called for him—he did not feel fear; but peace. As he fell into the arms of the woman he loved.