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The Starks Can't Save You

Summary:

Canon Divergence AU:

"You think you can save him, but you can't."

"Perhaps. But by the gods, I swear to you if I cannot save him, I will avenge him."

Theon saved Sansa from her wedding night, at great cost to himself. She in turn takes him to the Wall, fearing for his life and his mind, but when she arrives she finds not only one brother back from the dead, but two. No one has escaped the game unscathed, and even family cannot mend everything that's broken.

And nothing may able to mend Theon, but they try.

Notes:

Yes Robb is alive, yes he is pissed at Theon but he loves Theon too. This will be some angsty shit with very dark themes but no further Stark (nor Greyjoy) deaths and all the Starks (sans Catelyn and Ned) will be reunited.

Hello Everyone! I appreciate the feedback and love this story has received and I'm so thankful for all of you. I love my boy Theon and I fully intend to have him appreciated as he deserves, don't worry.

I also have recently posted the first chapter of my own novel for feedback, for any of you who are interested or have some spare time, I always appreciate feedback! https://betabooks.co/signup/book/36j6d5

Chapter 1: Where No Gods Dwell

Chapter Text

Madness has a certain effect on the eyes.

 

Sansa Stark discovered this when engaged to Joffrey Baratheon. In all appearances, he was perfectly suitable, a prince, a perfect match. But she was too young and inexperienced to notice the lapses in his personality, the moments where his mother was absent and bouts of cruel fancy would spring up in his behavior. She had no way of understanding that his too bright eyes were misleading, masking a darkness few anticipated. They dazed and distracted, lulling her into a false sense of security, one she couldn’t see through until she saw the crown upon his head.

 

Now again she can see the fatal gleam, this time in the eyes of Ramsay Bolton, her new husband. And again, she’s too late to recognize it. A cruel fate, to escape one madman only to wed another.

 

He guides her towards his— their room, and she cringes with every step, despising the eager bounce in the bastard’s stride. The moment those cursed vows left her lips his pretenses fell, his harmless, mildly smitten persona crumbling into dust the moment he knew she had nowhere and no one to run to. She is Lady Bolton now, and her new recognition of his unhinged smile and eerily soft voice come too late to do anything but bring her more dread.

 

Theon’s hobbled steps behind them do nothing to ease her fear. If anything, his mere presence only encourages the darkest of her musings, a voice (Cersei Lannister’s voice. It will always be her voice) taunting her with the question she’d been so foolishly avoiding before: what kind of monster could transform Theon—proud, stupid, strong Theon, into nothing more than a shadow?

 

And what will he do to you, stupid girl?

 

Cersei’s spectre hisses the words with such venom, such contempt, Sansa almost believes it is the woman herself and not her figment wreaking chaos in Sansa’s mind. But the feeling of shame the memory of Cersei inflicts, the poisonous tinge to her tone strikes Sansa with a bizarre and deeply disturbed pang of longing.

 

She barely resists the hysterical laughter that stirs as she ponders exactly which of the seven hells one must reside in order to miss Cersei Lannister.

 

Another glance at her husband , and his cold, predatory expression, and she concludes the thought likely isn’t far from the truth. Ramsay’s grip grows more insistent on her hip as they arrive at the threshold, and he simply shoves her through the door, his gentle farce long since ended.

 

He’s speaking to her now, his voice low and confident, but the words are lost on her. A haze has begun to settle around Sansa, muddling reality. She’s unsure whether this is a manifestation of her own fear, attempting to shelter her from what is happening, or if her sanity has actually begun to fracture. Either way, Ramsay continues, Sansa numbly witnessing him push her over the bed, feeling the ghost of his hands tearing at her wedding dress, running down her back. She can hear Ramsay order Theon to stay, and the even the stab of shame and disgust the words trigger can’t quite reach her.

 

She feels mildly betrayed though, at the echo of disappointment that courses through her when Theon obeys. Yet the feeling isn’t directed at him, it's at herself, for apparently she hasn’t completely destroyed her childish notions of protection, of rescue, as she thought she had.

 

She certainly should accept by now that no one can protect her, they never have been able to before and Theon certainly cannot protect her from Ramsay now.

 

Theon couldn’t even protect himself from Ramsay, how could he save her from the same fate? Her only protection is this emptiness, this fog disrupting her consciousness.

 

Until Theon speaks, and rips it away from her.

 

“Please Master, wait.”

 

Three words. Barely audible, but heavy enough to shatter her fragile shield, and tear her ruthlessly and painfully back into reality. Sensation bleeds into her perception with frightening intensity, as if compensating for her previous distance. Ramsay’s touch burns her skin, his wet and weighted breath crawling down her neck, and it's all she can do not to be sick if only because she is sure Ramsay would strangle her for such an action, or worse.

 

Most certainly worse.

 

But Ramsay has lost interest in her. The same words that tore her brutally into awareness have stolen his focus, his hands leaving her body, and his arrogant, pleased demeanor evaporating. He steps away from her without the slightest sign of reluctance, his newfound rage palpable in the air as he directs his full attention towards the toy he’s much more familiar with.

 

“Oh Reek . Stupid, useless Reek.” Ramsay purrs patronizingly, as if scolding a child. But a promise of pain rings in every syllable, and the sound unsettles her deeply—she can only imagine how it affects Theon, considering they are actually directed at him.

 

As if to punctuate her returned cognisance, the thought of Theon crushes in her a wave of guilt and relief.

 

Despite his sins against her and her family, she has known Theon for years, and she’s well aware what his action means. He cannot free her from the situation, cannot help her escape unscathed, but even though he’s arguably in a worse position than she is, he is attempting to buy her some time, at what is almost certainly going to be great expense to his own person. And that is where the relief intermingles with guilt—she feels entitled to his sacrifice in some way. She shouldn't feel guilty for it considering Theon murdered her brothers. She should enjoy his suffering as she’s attempted to do since the moment she returned to Winterfell.

 

But she quickly dismisses that part of her and its reasoning, because it is that very vindictiveness that caused her to miss Theon’s warnings to begin with. Instead, she allows herself to feel grateful for him, to feel pity for the pain he’s already endured and what he will certainly endure for his interference.

 

She’d like to think her mother would be proud of her for it.

 

But even with her acknowledgement of her better angels, she outright refuses to recognize the small sliver of hope still lingering like sickness in her heart. It is the remnants of a childish sense of order, an outdated, naive instinct of a little girl who always felt safe with Theon Greyjoy.  

 

The woman she’s become isn’t even completely sure he still is Theon Greyjoy, underneath all that fear.

 

“Come on Reek, speak up. What is so important that you would have the audacity to address me without permission, like a man? We know better than that, don’t we? You aren’t a man Reek, you aren’t even a bitch. What are you Reek?” Ramsay questions, his tone outwardly indulgent but still impatient.

 

Theon stares resolutely at the floor, his hands glued to his sides, but she can still see them tremble at every one of Ramsay’s words as if he’s being physically struck with every utterance.

 

“Nothing, Master.”

 

Ramsay smiles brightly at that, and Sansa thinks Joffrey's deranged smirks looked downright charming in comparison.

 

“Hmm. Well it seems you remember that, yet you dared to speak as if you thought you were Theon once again. So tell me Reek, what exactly is so important you forgot your place? Did you want to join in?” He steps closer to Theon then, as if he will lunge, but instead stage whispers into Theon’s ear purposely still loud enough so she may hear. “That might be a bit difficult with your... problem.” He chuckles at his own sick humor, before continuing, his tone dripping with malice. “I suppose you could just be jealous. Sansa Stark is a beautiful woman. Tell me, are you jealous of your Master , Reek?”

 

Sansa may not know Ramsay, but she’s been the target of enough of Joffrey's fits to hear the threat in such a question. If Theon answers the wrong way, it will result in a great deal of pain for the both of them, and quite possibly a worse fate then she would have faced should he have not intervened.

 

Sansa wants to scream as she prays that for once, Theon Greyjoy won’t say the wrong thing.

 

Except her prayers seem unnecessary. Though Ramsay towers in front of Theon now, his mere presence demanding a response, Theon doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he turns his eyes towards where she remains cowering by the bed, attempting to hold the pieces of her ruined dress in such a way to preserve at least some of her modesty. Her cheeks stupidly heat at how exposed she feels in front of him, still embarrassed despite the absurdity of that in this situation. But that notion is forgotten the moment she actually meets his gaze because—

 

By the gods, Sansa doesn’t know those eyes.

 

Did you ever? Cersei taunts, but her words are easily drowned out this time, lost in the overwhelming shock and disbelief screaming at Sansa to turn away.

 

Because she knows that gaze cannot belong to Theon Greyjoy, cannot belong to the man Robb once called brother.

 

Hopelessness and pain smother him like shrouds, and should he lie still, she thinks he’d  indeed look the part of a corpse. The brilliant blue of his eyes that once glinted with mischief and pride now appear murky and grey, as if Theon has drowned in the depths of his own mind—a cruel and ironic mimicry of his chosen god. Agony is etched deep into his features, apparent in every inch of his once carefree counternace. She sees no strength in him, no anger, no fragments of faith. At most she sees some sort of acceptance, which makes it all the more tragic. Such eyes don’t belong on a Ironborn heir, they belong on a slave, on a man condemned.

 

She cannot hold back a whimper when she remembers those very eyes staring back at her from her father’s face, just before the executioner's blade fell.

 

She wonders if Robb wore them as well, when the knife pierced his heart.

 

She violently wishes to turn away, to deny the truth, but it is that thought of her family that restrains her. Sansa will not refuse Theon now, not in this miserable moment, not in the face of his desperation. His eyes are frantically searching her, and while she cannot fathom what answers he believes he’ll find in her, when she’s been lost herself since it all began, she won’t scorn him now. She cannot find it anywhere in herself in the face of pain that potent, to be cruel to him.

Her father would want better from her and she certainly wants better from herself.

 

But as she wars with herself, her buried kindness defeating with ease the resentment she’s clung to with such ferocity, something changes in Theon. A calm sweeps over him, stilling his trembling hands and somehow even easing her own shaking a bit. There’s the faintest gleam in his eyes, something odd she doesn’t recognize. Then as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes, and with it, all signs of life in him.

 

The emptiness is even worse than the pain, and Sansa reels. She cannot quite understand how, but she recognizes his sudden shift as a goodbye, and isn’t prepared for the devastation that realization brings.

 

Tears spring to her eyes, and she prays to and curses the gods at once. Damn honor, damn justice, damn betrayal—Sansa has witnessed too many goodbyes in her short life to approve of anything Theon’s could entail. She doesn’t care it he did betray them, or if whatever he’s planning is some attempt on his part to make amends, even if it is for her benefit. She doesn’t want anything that results in her losing him.

 

She’s lost too much already.

 

She desperately tries to catch his attention, but as she suspected he would, Theon ignores her, looking back at the ground. He won’t risk looking any longer and drawing Ramsay’s attention back towards her, and he won’t face her silent pleas. He won’t relent on whatever it is she just watched him resolve, and now she is helpless to intervene.

 

Theon slowly steps towards Ramsay, clasping his hands behind his back. Ramsay watches him warily, obviously curious as to Theon’s actions but still distrustful of the man himself. She wonders briefly, if Theon is going to attempt to attack him while he’s unsuspecting.

But Theon drops to his knees at Ramsay’s feet, his head tilted down submissively, and whispers “Jealous of her, Master.”

 

Sansa’s heart stops.

 

Her thoughts stop.

 

Everything stops because she cannot possibly process the meaning in those words. What Theon is implying, what that would imply. In her wildest nightmares she couldn’t have crafted such an abhorrent punishment, nor could she ever envision Theon asking for it for anyone’s sake, much less her own. She must be misunderstanding, the stress has to be clouding her mind—

 

There’s no misunderstanding the complete and utter delight on Ramsay Bolton’s face.

 

He stares at Theon, shellshocked as Sansa herself for a moment before he almost tentatively tangles a hand in Theon’s hair, gasping gleefully when Theon does not flinch away, but leans into the touch and closes his eyes.

 

Sansa’s legs go weak underneath her and before she can steady herself she crashes to the ground, the pieces of her dress falling apart at the impact.

 

Ramsay doesn’t even register the noise she makes as she falls, nothing existing to him outside the broken man at his feet. His countenance is painted with a disturbing mixture of joy, smugness, and disbelief, as if he has impressed even himself with just how completely he’s destroyed Theon.

 

“Oh pet …” Ramsay drawls, stroking Theon’s cheek in faux affection. Though Sansa can’t even be sure it’s completely false. She can’t be sure Ramsay doesn’t believe himself fond of Theon in some twisted way, a psychotic fantasy amidst his obsession, or if  he’s simply drunk off the power he has over the man.

 

“Reek, you do surprise me,” he whispers. “Here I was beginning to worry this was the one thing I couldn’t get from you, despite my glorious work. I wanted it, but I didn’t quite understand how much more… satisfying it is to have you ask me for this. To want this.”

 

The gravity of those words are almost lost on Sansa in her shock, but once she registers their meaning she can’t fight the sudden, terrifying understanding they bring.

 

Theon knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn’t a gamble, it was calculated.

 

Ramsay has...gods...Ramsay has raped Theon.

 

And Ramsay said that wasn’t enough . He wants, has been waiting for Theon to ask for it. The logic there, it horrifies her, but she cannot stop herself from attempting to track his thoughts. Ramsay wanted this because now, he’ll  own every piece of Theon. Of course Ramsay would see it as the ultimate power trip to have the man whom he has broken in every other way willingly hand Ramsay the last scrap of himself, the only thing he’s managed to protect. It’s the perfect victory in Ramsay’s demented game.

 

And Theon, as lost and weak as he has been, has still resisted giving Ramsay that.

 

Until now. Until her.

 

Ramsay seems to stumble upon this conclusion just as she does, and glances back at her briefly, for the first time in the entire encounter recalling her presence. And if she has read every book in all the kingdoms, in every land, she wouldn’t find a word closer his expression than soulless.

“Perhaps I should have gotten a wife sooner.” He chuckles darkly, and then looks back to Theon, nudging him downwards. “Go on then pet. Ask me.” Theon doesn’t hesitate, shifting from a kneel to a bow with little grace and placing a kiss on Ramsay’s bloodstained boot.

 

“Please Master. I want this. I want you. Anything you wish, I am yours, I beg of you.” There’s nothing left in his voice now, nothing to show her the slightest sign Theon hasn’t left her alone here after all.

 

Ramsay laughs again, his wicked smile slicing across his face as he soaks in his victory, soaks in Sansa’s misery and Theon’s surrender. “Yes pet. Mine. Completely.”

 

He unlaces his breeches, and Sansa finally stops praying.

 

They’re already in hell—no gods can hear her here.