Theon is a vile cannibal >:0

The evening in the Dreadfort was steeped in cold and boredom. Jaime Lannister, lounging in his chair, twirled a wine goblet within his golden fingers. Ramsay had headed to the kennels, leaving only Jaime, the icy and haggard Sansa, and Theon in the hall—the latter sitting at the Lannister’s feet, habitually twitching his eyebrows. Seized by a cynical thrill, Jaime decided to test just how deep Pastajoy’s madness truly ran. He glanced at Sansa, whose skin appeared translucent in the moonlight. — Listen, Pastajoy, — Jaime drawled lazily. — Don’t you think Lady Stark looks… appetizing today? She is so sweet that, were I in your shoes, I wouldn’t be able to contain myself. This is an order from the Lion, Theon. Eat her. Every last bit, down to the last drop. Alive. Show me what kind of kraken-predator you are…! — Jaime smirked, expecting Theon to start his absurd shuffling or blurt out another idiotic compliment. But he failed to consider one thing: Theon’s brain had long ago lost the ability to distinguish irony. The word “order,” coming from a man in golden armor, flipped a switch in his mind like a mechanical lever. Theon rose slowly. His eyes, stripped of any spark of humanity, locked onto Sansa. — An order… — he whispered. — The Lion has ordered - Pastajoy will obey. — Sansa Stark, sensing the impending horror, recoiled into her chair. — Theon? — her voice was trembling. — Theon, this isn’t funny. Enough. Get away from me! — But Theon was no longer listening. He drew close, reeking of old coal, wet dog, and madness. A moment later, he lunged at her with the savagery of a starving beast. The first sound rang out, unbearably loud - the tearing of her dress fabric followed by Sansa’s sharp, piercing scream. Pastajoy sank his teeth into her shoulder. — O-OH NO-O-O-O! THEON, N-O-O-O-O! — she shrieked, trying to push him away with her weak hands. — STOP! GODS, HELP! JAIME, TELL HIM! — As Pastajoy’s teeth first sank into Sansa’s shoulder at that moment, something inside his PTSD-clouded brain snapped with a loud crack. For a long time, his diet had consisted of dry pasta, worms, and suspicious carrion; thus, the taste of living, warm flesh struck him like a bolt of lightning. The first thing he felt was warmth. Real, living warmth, which he had missed so desperately on the frozen roof of the Dreadfort. Sansa’s blood, thick and salty, surged into his mouth, washing away the taste of coal dust and rust. It was unimaginably delicious. To his starving, tormented body, this wasn’t just a feast - it was the ultimate ecstasy. The meat was tender, succulent; it practically melted on his tongue, filling Theon with primal strength. Squelch… Gulp… Every piece he tore away echoed in his head with a strange rapture. He felt the texture of the muscles, the crunch of small cartilage beneath his teeth. It was like returning home, back to the days when he was a great hunter. A wild symphony played in his mind: Sansa’s screams blended with the rhythmic smacking of his lips, creating the haunting music of his obedience. Yet, somewhere at the very bottom of his broken soul, beneath layers of madness and animal hunger, a quiet pity stirred, like the rustle of dry leaves. “She is so soft…” Theon thought, chewing another juicy piece of her forearm. “Like a wild bird, a songbird from Winterfell.” He looked into her eyes, wide with horror, which reflected his own blood-stained face, and he felt a pang of sadness. He remembered her embroidering in the solar, smelling of lemons. He felt sorry that this beautiful “little bird” had to end her journey in his stomach. — Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me… — he muffled with a full mouth, his voice drowning in the gurgling sound of blood. — But the Lion ordered it… And the meat is so warm… You are so delicious… better than pasta… much better… — He felt a fleeting urge to stroke her head, to comfort her, to say that it would all be over soon. But the hunger and the slave instinct were stronger. His teeth continued their work, tearing tendons and prying open joints. Jaime Lannister leapt up, his face turning deathly white. He wanted to shout that it was a joke, but the words stuck in his throat. What he was witnessing was beyond the reaches of any nightmare. Theon wasn’t just biting - he was ripping flesh with his teeth, making sickening, squelching sounds like a wild animal over its prey. Squelch… Munch… Crunch…! Sansa felt the hot pain spreading through her body. Every move Theon made brought a new flare of agony. She felt his teeth closing on her skin, felt the cold air touching open wounds. Her consciousness began to blur from the sheer shock of the pain. — Please… — her voice turned into a hoarse whisper. — Theon… we were together… we played… in Winterfell… — Reek-Pastajoy is eating… it is a feast, an order from Ser Jaime Lannister. Forgive me, — Theon growled, his face already completely masked in red. —Pastajoy fulfills the will… — He moved to her neck. The sound of tearing skin and tendons filled the hall. Sansa felt her life slipping away along with the torrents of hot blood. When he reached her chest, he felt the last, convulsive beat of her heart. It was like a defenseless small animal going still in the closed jaws of a predator. Theon froze for a second; his “bald hedgehogs” on his forehead twitched sympathetically. He felt a brief prick of longing, realizing that no one would ever look at him again with such pure, human compassion. “A pity…” flashed through his mind as he swallowed the last warm shred of her skin. “Now I’ll be bored again. And there will be no one left to give awkward compliments to.” But this sadness quickly dissolved into a sense of fullness and duty fulfilled. Theon licked his fingers, savoring the metallic aftertaste. He felt good. For the first time in a long while, his stomach didn’t ache from radiation or ice; it was full of noble northern blood. He had destroyed his sister-in-spirit, and this sacrifice seemed to him the ultimate act of love and devotion to a new master. Sitting in a pool of blood, Theon Pastajoy - now truly a cannibal - whimpered softly, not from pain, but from a strange mixture of satisfaction and melancholy. He was full, he was obedient, and he was only a tiny bit sorry that the “little bird” would sing no more. Jaime stood there, unable to move. He watched as Theon methodically, with a kind of mechanical diligence, destroyed what had once been Lady Sansa. Bones broke with a dry snap; flesh vanished into his blood-stained mouth. It was long. Unbearably long. Half an hour later, it was over. On the floor, amidst overturned goblets, lay only scraps of embroidered northern cloth soaked in blood and a few bones gnawed to a shine. Sansa Stark no longer existed. There was only Theon Pastajoy, sitting in the middle of a bloody puddle, breathing heavily and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. At that moment, the doors swung open. Ramsay Bolton walked into the hall, whistling a cheerful tune. He stopped, his gaze falling upon the bloody mess in the center of the hall. — What the... — Ramsay’s eyes slowly moved to Theon, then to Jaime, who was as pale as chalk. — Where is Sansa? Where is my bride, Lannister? — Jaime swallowed with difficulty, his hand trembling. — I… I was just joking… I told him to eat her… I didn’t think… — Ramsay Bolton froze. His face slowly began to flush with a deep, angry crimson. He walked up to Theon and kicked him in the chest with all his might, throwing him against the wall. — YOU! — Ramsay roared. — You piece of shit! You ate my key to the North! You ate my toy! — He turned back to Jaime, a madness flashing in his eyes that frightened even the Kingslayer. — You commanded my dog, Lannister? You decided you had the right to give orders to Reek?! Only I tell him whom to tear apart and whom to lick! You’ve ruined everything! — Ramsay snatched a knife from the table and flung it into the wall right next to Jaime’s head. — Get out of here before I order him to finish off what’s left of your family! You golden-haired moron! You turned my strategy into a dinner for this degenerate! — Ramsay wasn’t furious because of Sansa’s death; he didn’t care about her life. He was enraged because his absolute authority over Theon had been violated, and a vital political tool had been literally digested in Pastajoy’s stomach. Theon sat by the wall, staring at his bloodied hands. He felt no guilt. He only felt a strange heaviness in his belly. — I fulfilled the order… — he whispered, looking at the livid Ramsay. — The Lion said… — THE LION IS NOBODY HERE! — Ramsay screamed, grabbing Theon by the hair and slamming his head against the stone. — You are Pastajoy-Cannibal! From now on, you’ll sit in a cage on a chain, because you’re a rabid beast that doesn’t understand jokes! — Jaime Lannister, without saying a word, hurried out of the hall. He felt sick. He realized that in the North, jokes end where the madness of Pastajoy begins. And Theon, having now consumed the last symbol of his past, had finally ceased to be human, turning into a bloody shadow that didn’t even understand why the master was so angry at a job well done.