Tales from the Crypt: Ghosts (Explicit)

Originally posted on FF.net under my original penname Taney, Ghosts, which focuses on Theon Greyjoy post-Ramsay, is admittedly pretty effed up. Read at your own risk…

Ghosts

Theon, Jeyne, and the problem of existence. (Post ADWD)

Crouched behind the blasted stump of a fir tree, the hunter waited still as stone. His breath rose before him in a fine mist as he held the arrow steady, grey eyes trained on the snowbank some yards ahead. Minutes passed before a small fragment of the snow began to flicker, two ruby eyes appearing suddenly in the middle of the stark white world.

The hunter tensed, his fingers beginning to tremble under the strain. His shoulders ached even more than his empty stomach, but he could not let the arrow fly. Not with those eyes fixed upon him. Red like the blood that welled up from Jeyne’s fair skin. Red like the garnets that gleamed from Ramsay’s ears as he took up his flaying knife.

The trembling grew more violent, and the hunter could feel his wasted arms start to buckle. Theon Greyjoy had been one of the most skilled huntsmen in Winterfell, unafraid of the beasts that stalked the darkest corners of the old forest. But that man had died in Ramsay’s dungeons, and what remained was a creature who quaked in fear at the sight of a snow hare.

Turn your eyes away, he pleaded silently to the rabbit. Just for a moment.

Soon after the hare did shift its gaze—only to bound off from the snowbank. Cursing, Theon leapt to his feet, instinct taking hold of him as he jerked the bow hard to the right, releasing the arrow at last.

There was a pitiful squeak as the quarrel shot through one of the rabbit’s red eyes, spraying the snow with a mix of water and blood. Scarcely able to believe his luck, Theon hobbled towards the hare as swiftly as his maimed feet would allow. As he prodded the still twitching animal, he was pleased to find that while so many northmen were starving, the rabbits appeared to have no trouble putting on fat.

After wrenching out the arrow, Theon tied the hind legs of the hare together and, slinging his prize over his shoulder, began the slow trek back to the cave. Snow was falling heavier now. Flakes froze to Theon’s lashes and to the tip of his nose. Though the cold wind pierced through his rags, Theon hardly felt its chill. He trudged awkwardly on, warmed by the success of his hunt.

Night had fallen when at last he reached his destination—a small cleft in the face of a boulder, obscured from view by a wolfskin hanging. The discovery of the cave had been a happy accident. Three days after their flight from Winterfell, Theon had leaned against the boulder to catch his breath, only to find himself falling through the rock.

The cave within appeared to have been the hideaway of a deserter from one of the northern armies. Theon had found the dead man’s body sprawled across the floor, unmarred save for a foul-smelling gash between his shoulder blades. The man had been a peasant from the looks of his leathers, no doubt skilled with the hunting knife and bow he carried. He had probably been a skilled woodsman as well, confident that he would be able to survive if he slipped off into the wilderness. What he had not accounted for, it seemed, was that one of his fellow archers would plant a quarrel in his craven back. The wound, though small, had festered, and death had followed shortly thereafter.

Jeyne had wanted to bury the body, but the ground was far too hard. Theon had placated her by covering the corpse in a mound of snow a short distance away, at the base of a towering pine. The dead man had been well provisioned for his flight. They had found a kettle, along with two sacks full of salt beef, potatoes, and neeps. In the back of the cave there had been more furs like the one that covered the entrance. To Theon and Jeyne, who had been starved and exhausted, the discovery of the cave had been a blessing from the Mother herself.

With stiff fingers, Theon pushed aside the hanging and ambled into the cave. The fire had burned low, and he found Jeyne asleep and shivering under the pile of furs. He set the hare down gingerly on the floor and nursed the flames back to life with a few dead branches. When the fire was finally burning hot, Theon set to work cleaning his prey with the dead man’s hunting knife. Skinning the rabbit proved a long and difficult task, not merely because of a few missing fingers. Frequently Theon had to stop, close his eyes, and wait for the nausea and shuddering to subside before he could continue.

He didn’t realize he’d been muttering to himself until the pile of furs started to shift. Jeyne sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with one hand while the other held one of the furs to her chest. When Theon saw that she was naked, he lowered his gaze to the floor.

“Go back to sleep, Jeyne. Supper won’t be ready for a while yet.”

He felt her eyes upon him, taking in the blood that smeared his hands, the slight trembling that wracked his frame. His face flamed in embarrassment. He wished she would stop looking at him and do as he asked. When the furs began to rustle, he let out a shaky breath, thinking that she had indeed gone back to sleep—until the sound of padding footsteps reached his ears.

He looked over to find Jeyne kneeling at his side, now clothed in the same simple dress she’d worn since their escape from Winterfell. Silently, she reached for the knife he held, prizing it from the ruin of his hand with ease.

She smiled softly at him. “Let me finish this, Theon. Could you take the kettle and fill it with snow?”

He looked at her uncertainly as she bent to the rabbit but did as she asked. By the time he returned to the cave, after dropping the kettle several times due to his awkward grip, the rabbit had been reduced to a lump of skin, guts, and bones. All the meat lay off to the side, and Jeyne was chopping it into neat little squares.

Theon could not hold back his astonishment. “Jeyne, who taught you to clean a kill?”

She paused in her task to look up at him. Again she smiled, though there was sadness in her eyes.

“Father enjoyed hunting on occasion and used to take me with him after Mother died. I never killed the animals myself, but I helped him clean them afterwards.” Jeyne’s smile faltered as she turned away. “When Septa Mordane found out about my going hunting, she scolded Father. She told him that hunting was a man’s sport and that a proper lady should not partake in it. But now Septa Mordane is dead, and I’m not a proper lady after all.”

Theon frowned, setting the kettle aside before he joined her on the bloody floor.

“Jeyne…” he began, not at all certain what he should say, if anything. Theon Greyjoy’s knowledge of women had been limited almost exclusively to the subject of fucking.

Her brown eyes were impossibly wide as she looked up at him. “How did this happen to us, Theon?”

He opened his mouth to reply that the Boltons were to blame, but perhaps that was not the truth of it. Perhaps he was the one at fault for sacking Winterfell, or Eddard Stark for acting on his suspicions, or the Lannisters for their treachery. The realm might yet be at peace had Robert Baratheon not usurped the Iron Throne. But Aerys Targaryen had been mad, a tyrant…

“…I don’t know.”

Together they set about fixing rabbit stew, glad for the few vegetables the deserter had managed to bring with him in his flight. As the contents of the kettle simmered above the fire, Jeyne mopped the floor with a rag, and Theon disposed of the carcass, scrubbing his hands with snow before he returned to the cave. Hunting and butchering the hare had been more of an ordeal than he’d anticipated, but it was important that they conserve the supply of salt beef in case game became scarce.

The stew turned out to be surprisingly good, the meat tender enough that even Theon had little trouble in chewing it. He watched Jeyne as she ate and took a small measure of pride in the fact that he had been able to provide for her as a man should. But then he remembered that he was not a man—not really, not anymore.

“Theon, where will we go?”

Her bowl was empty, and she was looking at him imploringly. As if he had all the answers in the world, as if he wasn’t every bit as lost as she was. Since leaving Winterfell, he had been consumed by the fear that they would be found. Ramsay had his girls, didn’t he? Hadn’t they found him before when he and Kyra had attempted to flee? But days had passed without even the barest hint of pursuit. The fear had begun to ebb—he realized it now as he looked at her. So, what would they do? Where could they go? It didn’t take him long to arrive at the answer.

“We’ll go north. To the Wall.”

“The Wall?” Jeyne echoed uncertainly.

“Jon is Lord Commander now. Surely he can aid us in some way. Besides, Ramsay will be less like to send his hounds in that direction.”

Because winter has come, Theon thought. And the north is fast becoming a frozen waste.

“But, Theon, why would Jon help us? I am an acquaintance at best—the friend of a sister he barely knew, who oft called him bastard to his face. And you…well, they say…”

“That I killed Bran and Rickon, his own blood, and young boys at that? Yes, I know what is said of me. Theon Turncloak they call me—butcher of children, a wretch undeserving of the Mother’s mercy. Well, it is as they say.”

Jeyne raised a trembling hand to her lips. “No, it—it can’t be true. You wouldn’t do that, Theon.”

What fingers he had left balled into fists. “How can you say what I would or would not do? You’re just a stupid little girl, and you don’t know a damned thing about me.”

Small pale hands settled onto his own. Ten perfect fingers, two slender wrists. Gently, she slid her fingertips down his palms, breaking apart his fists.

“I know that you loved Robb like a brother,” she said, cradling his mangled hands. “You wouldn’t have killed him, nor the ones he loved.”

With a pang, Theon remembered Robb. The brothers of his own blood were vague shadows in his memories, but he and Robb had been inseparable for the majority of his life. Never again would they hunt together, or spar, or even quarrel. Robb had died at the hands of dishonorable men, men who had desecrated his body by sewing Grey Wind’s head onto his shoulders. Theon should have died with him that day, yet here he was.

“Bran and Rickon live,” he confessed. “But the rest of it is true. At my order, two boys were slain in their place, the sons of a miller. Most of Winterfell died believing I had murdered their young lords—only Maester Luwin realized the truth. I will tell Jon that his brothers are alive and place myself at his mercy. I care not whether I live or die at any rate. But he will help you, Jeyne. We will tell the men at the Wall that you are his sister Arya. Once you’re safely inside, and Jon discovers the truth, he will not turn you away.”

The hands beneath his vanished. “Very well, Theon. I pray you are right.”

Feeling strangely bereft, Theon clasped his left hand in his right, his eyes following Jeyne as she pulled off her clothes and burrowed beneath the furs. There was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the winds of winter. He’d upset her, but he couldn’t fathom how.

And he couldn’t look away.

“Theon…”

Someone was shaking him. It was probably Kyra, begging for another bone. He rolled over, but the bitch didn’t relent. And he was cold. So very, very cold.

He shivered. A man was laughing, sharpening his knife, and he remembered that his name was Reek and that Kyra was dead. If she was lucky, she’d be reborn as one of his dogs.

“Theon, wake up.”

He woke. The voice belonged to Jeyne—not to Kyra and not to Ramsay Bolton. And he was not Theon any more than he was Reek.

He pushed himself up from the cold stone floor, wincing. Annoyance surged through him as he noticed that the fire had been reduced to embers. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

“You were having a nightmare,” Jeyne said softly.

In the dying light he could see that she was barefoot, huddling beneath a fur she’d draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were gleaming in the darkness, the corners of her lips turned downward in concern. He couldn’t remember having any nightmares, but as he opened his mouth to tell her so, he finally felt the damp trails his tears had left in sliding down his cheeks, the welts his nails had raised from digging into his palms.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” he muttered stiffly, swiping at his face.

Theon jumped when her fingertips brushed his skin, light as the fluttering of a moth’s wing. Wordlessly, she traced his brow, smoothing out the furrows with the pad of her thumb. His eyes slid shut as her fingers trailed down his temple, cradling his cheek in the warmth of her palm.

“You’re shivering.”

“I let the fire die,” Theon mumbled, leaning into her touch.

Hours seemed to pass before she finally withdrew her hand. At the sudden loss of warmth he woke, dimly aware that her fingers were now curled against his own.

“Come to bed, Theon,” she whispered, pulling him to his feet and leading him towards the pile of furs.

He realized he should probably stop her now, remove his hand from hers and save himself the embarrassment that was sure to follow. But he let her guide him to the back of the cave, let the fur she wore fall from her shoulders, let her bring him to his knees in the mound of skins. Her pale skin glowed in the darkness, silvered with scars. And he wanted her, wretched creature that he was.

“Jeyne, we shouldn’t do this,” he protested weakly. “You don’t want this—look at me.”

“I see you,” she said evenly, holding his gaze. “You are the man who rescued me from that beast I call husband. You are the man who has cared for me, protected me.”

“You’re wrong,” he choked out, backing away. “I’m nothing, Jeyne. Least of all a man.”

She reached after him, taking him by the arm. “Theon, please…”

“He took that—with his knife—he took it from me, Jeyne,” he stammered somewhat hysterically, his face burning with humiliation.

Please, Jeyne, please don’t make me say it plain, he begged her silently.

But she understood. Her grip on him loosened, and Theon looked away, unable to face whatever blend of pity and revulsion would surely be reflected in her eyes.

“Kiss me, Theon.”

Her soft command shocked him to the marrow, yet her eyes were earnest in their regard, shimmering with an undercurrent of desire.

Hesitantly, he moved forward, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. She was so small and yet a woman flowered. He lowered his face to hers, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips.

“There, Jeyne. I’ve kissed you,” he said sulkily.

She laughed, and soon Theon was laughing too. It was so strange, so surreal. And then it was over, and his mouth was on hers again. Her lips were velvet against his, pliant and yielding. When he broke their seal with the tip of his tongue, she sighed, winding her arms around his neck as he took his time exploring her.

He twined his tongue with hers again and again, drunk on the sweet taste of her, terrified that at any moment she would feel the barrenness of his mouth and reel away in disgust. But she only pulled him closer, her small firm breasts pressing against him through his threadbare tunic. His hands roamed over her shoulders, down her spine. When he kneaded the small of her back, she moaned and arched into him further.

He could feel her trembling now, her knees beginning to buckle beneath her. Finally tearing his mouth from hers, Theon lowered them both to the furs. He let Jeyne tug his tunic over his head, but when she reached for the laces of his breeches, he grabbed her wrists.

“No, Jeyne,” he rasped. “I don’t want you to see.”

“I won’t look then,” she said, staring up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Just let me feel you.”

Suppressing his misgivings with difficulty, Theon acquiesced to her demands, his jaw clenching as she undid the laces and pushed his breeches down over his hips. While Theon finished disrobing, Jeyne averted her eyes, turning her attention back to him only when he slid his hands between her knees, coaxing her legs apart so that he could kneel between them.

Her hand traveled slowly up his thigh, turning his skin into a mass of gooseflesh. Without breaking his gaze, she cupped him, squeezing his balls gently as she rolled them against her palm. As her ministrations continued, Theon’s breathing became a series of ragged groans. Desire coiled like a serpent in his gut, and he gripped Jeyne’s shoulder hard with his right hand, bracing himself as best he could with his left.

Then suddenly her fingers were traveling up, grazing against the base of his shaft. Heart pounding in anxiety, he felt her glide over what remained of his manhood—a mere two inches or so of hardened flesh. She curled her fingers around his stump, brushing her thumb lightly over the end.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” he breathed in surprise, thrusting unconsciously into her palm.

She tightened her hold on him slightly, eliciting a low moan of pleasure. But when she began to pump him, he seized her wrist and pinned it to the floor. Breathing heavily, he bent his face to her throat, kissing and sucking at every inch of her skin on his way to her breast.

Sing for me, Jeyne, he thought, drawing her perfect pink nipple into his mouth.

He suckled her gently at first, letting his tongue sweep over her captured nipple in broad, lazy strokes. Her back arched, her breathing quickened, but she remained far too quiet for Theon’s liking. He began to suck harder, his tongue now flicking rapidly over her tightened bead of flesh. She had just started to whimper when her left breast fell from his mouth with a slick pop. He glanced up at her face, amused by her look of innocent confusion, before taking her right nipple between his lips. As he licked and suckled at one breast, he raised his right hand to the other, kneading the mound with his palm as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Jeyne was moaning now, her fingers buried in his hair.

Without relinquishing the breast in his mouth, Theon moved his right hand down past her ribs and flat belly and into the soft thatch of curls at the junction of her thighs. Already he could feel the dampness of her sex, but when his fingers cupped her at last, she was so impossibly wet that he nearly moaned along with her. He used two fingers to push apart her folds and explored her with a third. With the barest touch he entered her, dipping only briefly into her womanhood—to Jeyne’s obvious frustration. As she raised her hips, his finger fled upwards, finding her most sensitive spot. She moaned louder than before as he teased her little nub with flicks and circular motions, still lapping at her imprisoned breast.

“Theon…” she whimpered, bucking against his invading finger.

Releasing her breast, Theon kissed Jeyne down to her navel, his finger now tracing over her entrance once again. As he crouched between her legs, he breathed in her earthy scent and plunged one finger deep into her womanhood. When a second finger joined the first, Jeyne cried out, thrusting feebly against the intrusion. He moved his fingers in and out of her, establishing a steady rhythm, while he gave her nub the occasional stroke of his thumb. But he could tell from Jeyne’s frustrated whimpers that she needed more.

Excitement and doubt warred within him, yet at last he bent his face to her curls, his tongue flicking out over her tiny bud of skin. Jeyne froze instantly at the contact, and Theon feared that he had gone too far, had reminded her of her wedding night and the pleasuring he had been forced to give her. But after a few moments, she relaxed.

“Theon…please don’t stop,” she said, opening her legs to him even more.

He started pumping her again, curling his fingers slightly upward to stroke relentlessly at that sensitive spot in her womanhood. Then, resting his chin in his palm, he resumed pleasuring her with his mouth. His tongue danced in circles around her bud, his lips kissed and teased it along with the tender folds of her woman’s flower. He suckled her, lapped at her, and thrust into her until at last she came with a cry, clenching and unclenching about his fingers as her pleasure washed over her in waves.

After a while, Theon withdrew, kneeling above her. As he bent to kiss her, Jeyne’s arms encircled his neck, drawing his chest and hips to hers. With deliberate care, Theon kept his mutilation from touching her, despite the way she writhed against him.

“Take me,” she murmured into his lips.

He broke away, resting his brow against hers. “No. I can’t.”

“Are you really so certain?” she said, trailing her fingertips down his stomach.

Was he? Theon’s muscles clenched under her caress, the remnants of his manhood stiffening. Slowly, he lowered himself, easing into the cradle of her hips. When his blunted shaft touched below her curls, Jeyne gasped, hooking her heels into the backs of his thighs.

At her entrance, Theon hesitated, breathing heavily. He knew he could not hope to please her, doubted whether he could even please himself. But then Jeyne’s hips rolled up, and he was within her.

Theon inhaled sharply at the flood of sensation. Her dripping warmth beckoned him farther in, and he delved into her as deeply as he could, crushing his lips to her throat. He moved frantically against her, groaning as she somehow managed to match his erratic pace.

His muscles were cramping, but every stroke increased the pressure that was building within him. He continued doggedly onward despite the aching in his thighs, grabbing Jeyne’s backside with one hand and lifting her from the floor. Then suddenly he was past the threshold, moaning her name as every muscle in his body tensed for release.

He looked into her eyes as he came, awed by their intensity. Where was the insipid little girl he had once considered an afterthought at best? Where was Ramsay Bolton’s broken doll of a wife? The woman beneath him was neither, just as he was neither Theon Greyjoy nor Ramsay’s Reek.

For a while after he simply held her, stroking her soft brown hair and shivering beneath the furs. His breath misted in the icy air, decorating Jeyne’s lashes with dozens of sparkling diamonds.

“Theon?” she whispered, her lips so very cold as they glided over his skin. “Will the war be over soon?”

“Yes, Jeyne,” he replied, the words tripping easily off his tongue. “Very soon.”

He felt her mouth curve into a smile. “I’m glad. I want the world to be as it once was.”

And so it will be, Theon thought as he pulled her closer. But not us, Jeyne. You and I can never return to what we were before.

Snow was spilling in past the wolfskin hanging, spreading in a glittering wave across the floor. Theon noticed that Jeyne’s trembling had ceased.

“Sleep now,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her icy brow as he drifted away.

Outside the cave, the blizzard raged, encasing the boulder in a thick wall of snow and ice. Thirty years would pass before another wandering soul would stumble through the thawing wolfskin to find them there still sleeping. Two relics of a war that had long since ended, forever frozen in time.