A short Jonsa ficlet inspired by that gif.
“Ramsay made Theon watch.”
Like waves crashing over and over the shore, Jon heard Sansa’s words as soon as he saw Theon Greyjoy. Her words echoed inside the chambers of his heart, growing stronger, louder with every step he took towards Theon.
He remembered the way she had pitifully confessed this awful truth one quiet evening at Winterfell. Everyone had retired to their rooms, except for him and Sansa. They had started sharing a mug of ale every night, the only time they could talk without Northern Lords, Vale Knights and Free Folk demanding and requesting things from them: more grains, armors and weapons that they were still lacking, patches of land they can own.
Sometimes, a mug turns into two or three and tonight, they might have been on to their fourth. Jon had stopped counting. Sansa was sharing things with him. Her protective wall of silence that guarded her secrets had slowly come down and Jon had wished for nothing more, ever since they had retaken Winterfell back.
Her voice had been pained, but so terribly gentle, Jon felt as though he was being eviscerated by mere words. He didn’t think it was possible, but there it was. Her eyes were closed, lashes darkly matted by tears. Her small delicate hands clutching her grey dress into helpless fists, knuckles bone white.
“Ramsay made Theon watch.”
And Theon, damnn him to the deepest depths of hell, Theon just stood there and did nothing.
Jon had stopped mid drink, his blood going cold at the realization of what Sansa had just said. He slowly placed his mug on the table and felt his heart angrily twisting inside his chest.
“I’ll kill him. I swear, I will.” Jon had whispered fervently, his own hands itching for Longclaw. He was filled with the need for justice and sweet revenge, to inflict pain on someone who had sinned one too many times against his family. Theon betrayed Robb. Theon took Winterfell. Theon slaughtered the people of Winterfell. Theon watched as Sansa suffered.
Sansa had taken his hands then, her watery blue eyes beseeching, “But you musn’t, Jon.” He had vehemently shaken his head, this was something Sansa will not be able to talk him out of. He had decided. He will hunt down Theon. Whatever it takes, he will find him. He will make him suffer the way he had wanted Ramsay to suffer. Theon will die. His blood will be spilled over Winterfell. Jon will do it with his bare hands.
Sansa pulled him closer, too close, her hands cupping his jaw. “Ramsay had utterly, completely unmade Theon. He broke him, Jon. He turned him into Reek. He was Ramsay’s plaything and all the terrible things he did to me, he did it to Theon too. Theon suffered so much, he had forgotten who he was. He wasn’t himself anymore. And Ramsay kept him close, not just because he enjoyed tormenting him, but it was to remind me of what he can do to me. What he will do to me once I’ve given him heirs. I’ll be reduced to nothing but flesh that he could slowly cut away until there was nothing left of me. Do you think I couldn’t endure the pain and the humiliation? I could, Jon. I could close my eyes and disappear. Ramsay hated that, but he couldn’t control my mind. Not yet anyway. What scared me was Reek. I couldn’t imagine not being me anymore. I would rather die…”
He couldn’t bear the thought of any harm coming to Sansa. Not after everything that she had suffered already. His reaction to any threat, real or imagined, against Sansa was primal and raw and it had surprised him the first time, but now, he had learned to accept it as something that he will always feel. This need to protect her was the sole reason why he was still fighting. “Don’t ever say that.” Sansa opened her mouth but Jon grabbed her shoulders, “You will not die.”
“Of course I won’t.” Somehow, the pads of her fingers had started to run along his skin. Jon had to close his eyes and sigh at her touch. “As long as we’re in Winterfell, I’m safe. We’re both safe. But Theon will never have that. He doesn’t have a home. Not anymore. And he risked his life to get me to you.”
Jon hadn’t realized that they have drifted so painfully close to each other until he felt Sansa’s warm breath against his lips, that if he moved a fraction of an inch more, he would be able to kiss her cheeks or her jaw or the corner of her mouth. Jon swallowed hard, knowing he needed to pull away, but unable to. He let his head dip forward, so that their foreheads were touching.
“Promise me, Jon.” Sansa had entreated, flicking up her eyes at him, “promise me that we will never be anyone but who we are.”
And suddenly, Jon knew that they were no longer talking about Theon. “And who are we, Sansa?”
“We are…” Sansa paused to think, licking and then biting her lips, as though struggling to understand his question, as though trying to find an answer that will not condemn them. “We are the blood of father. And father killed because it was necessary, not because he can. We are not like our enemies, Jon.”
“Aye. We are not them.” And Jon understood.
And that is why Jon looked that way when he saw Theon and very nearly killed him on the spot with his bare hads.
But he didn’t because: Sansa.
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