Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1730561.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Theon_Greyjoy/Robb_Stark
  Character:
      Theon_Greyjoy, Robb_Stark, Jeyne_Westerling
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Explicit_Sexual_Content, First
      Time
  Collections:
      Smutty_Westeros, Faves
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-02 Words: 6040
****** Babel ******
by mautadite
Summary
     During the storm of the Crag, Theon takes an arrow that was meant for
     Robb.
     Days later, ravens start arriving from the north.
Notes
     Written for round 2 of the Smutty Westeros Exchange on LJ, for Kyn.
     Prompt: Theon gets seriously injured. Cue intense relief sex that
     Theon isn't going to die. I veered from the prompt slightly but this
     should still fit the bill. :) Warning for underage; Robb's about 16,
     Theon's about 20.
Dead in defence of a Stark.
Theon is too weak to laugh, but he feels a bitter one scratching at the back of
his throat, copulating with the blood coated there. His head feels too heavy to
even think about wresting his eyes open, but he is almost certain that it is
the Smalljon who has him by the legs, and Dacey with her strong hands beneath
his armpits. They’d both been nearby when the bolt whizzed past, when instinct
had overtaken sense and Theon’s body moved in ways he probably won’t live to
curse.
“A room! Get him to a room, and bring me your maester! Now!”
Ah, there it is. Regal and young, urgent and fierce, laced with panic. The
voice of his king. Robb has been growing into his crown these past few months,
becoming more and more at ease with his title, but in this moment, he sounds
fourteen and scared. Theon doesn’t need to be told why. The bolt had found the
weakest spot in his chest plate and crashed into a spot that is too close to
his heart. Theon can feel his life slipping out of him, and Robb can probably
see it.
“This way, Your Grace, he can have my chambers,” a soft voice is saying.
“Hurry!”
Robb’s voice is fading, and Theon does not have the wherewithal to catch it
before it slips away. He coughs, and blood gurgles at his mouth. Dead in
defence of a fucking Stark, those who had the power to kill him in any other
way. If only his father could see him now.
                                      ~~~
He opens his eyes to screaming pain.
There are strangers at his bedside, faces that he thinks he might know but
cannot place. One of them, thick-muscled and huge, is pressing him down into
the sheets, calming his movements. A pretty brown-skinned girl with curls down
to her waist is standing on his other side, wearing a blood-stained apron and
an anxious expression. A wizened old man hovers near his torso, peering down
with a grim face.
“Can you do it?” says a voice that Theon’s memory tells him that he should
know. It shakes. “Can you take it out?”
“I can, Your Grace.” The old man’s voice is cautious. “But it will go hard on
him. There is a large chance that the bolt will do more damage coming out than
it did going in.”
“But it cannot…”
“No, Your Grace. We cannot leave it be.”
Theon lurches, and his mind suddenly homes in on the source of his pain: the
bolt in his chest and the wound that gapes and bleeds. His body writhes again,
without asking leave of his brain, but the burly arms hold him steadily in
place. The owner of the second voice comes into view, pale faced and auburn
haired. He looks grim and sick as he nods at the old man.
“Do it. But by all the gods you hold dear, preserve his life.”
“I will try, Your Grace. Lady Jeyne, the milk of the poppy, if you would.”
The girl moves forward, and cradles his chin with a gentleness that feels
foreign across all the agony in his skin. The milky substances slides down his
throat, sip after sip, and Theon wants to fight it, but his body is giving up
on even that. The dark awaits, and outside, a wolf howls.
                                      ~~~
He doesn’t expect to open his eyes another time. When he does, it takes a full
few minutes for Theon to fight through the fragments of memories, the haze of
his latest recollections.
The Crag. They’d been planning the taking of the keep for days on the march,
and it was meant to go smoothly. Robb had Theon as ever at his side, slightly
strained though things had been between them, ever since Robb changed his royal
mind at the last moment, and had Stevron Frey sent in his place to parley with
his lord father on Pyke. Siding with Lady Stark, over him. It smarted, and
smarts still, but Theon had swallowed his hurts and produced a smile. After
more than eleven years, he is well practiced in the procedure.
Being at the king’s side was still a position of honour. He delivered Robb’s
orders, got his own directly from the lips of his king, fought alongside him.
And when the time came, he was appropriately placed to push the king to the
side and catch the bolt that had been flying to tear through him.
Theon winces, coughs, and is unpleasantly surprised to find that even doing
that much hurts. But the pain comes dully, not with the fresh agony that had
pierced him from the time of his wounding. He sits up as much as he can,
looking down at his chest. It is bare, save for the bandages that wrap thickly
around it. A hand reaches for the point of impact before he can stop himself.
The pain throbs across his flesh in a dull ache, but it comes as a relief. Pain
means that he is alive, that this is no death dream beneath the sea.
The thought makes him snort, and that hurts too. He cleaves no more to the
Drowned God than he does to the memory of his family. The salty ocean air
slipping in through the window left ajar is the closest he’s come to the sea in
many a year.
His room belongs to a maiden; that much is apparent from all the frills and
frippery. Theon spends a few moments trying to decide how to best manoeuvre his
way out of the bed and to his feet before the door edges open, and the former
occupant shows her face.
“I… oh!” Jeyne, if his cottony memory serves him well, dips into a curtsey, her
mouth a little rounded ‘o’. She had been there at his bedside, alongside Robb
and the Smalljon and the castle’s maester. “You’re awake! Please excuse me, he
asked to be fetched as soon as you came to.”
And she disappears out the door, curls flying behind her. When the door opens
again, minutes later, Theon has only managed to push himself into a more
upright position, and sweats with it. Looking out through the fall of his hair,
he sees his foster brother and his king framed in the doorway, one hand
clutching the wood, looking as if he’s had a sleepless walk through all seven
hells.
Theon fights for a smile.
“Seen a ghost, Your Grace?”
Robb’s laugh sounds breathless, and he approaches.
“I thought I told you that you didn’t have to call me that when we’re alone,”
he says. A hand finds anchor on the headrest, just left of Theon’s nape.
“But we aren’t alone,” Theon points out. Jeyne is hovering near the door, a
tray laden with food clasped in her hands. Robb beckons her in, smiles his
thanks warmly if shakily as she deposits the tray on the bed, and asks her if
she could please send for the maester. She obeys with a bob of her head,
slipping out.
“A pretty little thing,” Theon remarks when she is gone. He tugs the tray
closer, closes his palm around a heel of bread. “Tits are on the small side,
but with hips and an arse like that…”
“Enough,” says Robb, but there’s no bite behind it. Just exasperation, and the
fondness he’d always been quick to notice, coming from the only Stark who felt
anything for him. “I worried that you might not recover to be the same as you’d
always been, but I can see now that those doubts were unfounded.”
The hand near his neck rises and hovers, and part of Theon expects to be
embraced. It does not come, but Robb’s hand finds a new home on his shoulder,
skin calling to skin.
Theon doesn’t acknowledge it, as much as he might want to.
“How long has it been?”
“Two days, approaching three.”
Theon’s eyebrows arch on his forehead. “It was bad, then.”
“Very.” Robb’s voice is low. “We feared for your life. Just a bit further to
the left and the bolt would have taken your heart. Even after the maester
managed to remove it without damaging you further, it began to fester, and you
had a fearsome fever… it wasn’t sure whether you’d ever wake up again.”
He can remember, if he tries very hard, a snippet of a conversation like that,
heard through a haze of pain. He tells Robb as much.
“Can you also recollect, then, what you did for me?” Robb’s voice pitches even
lower, and yet he sounds even younger for it, fourteen all over again. “That
bolt was meant for me; you pushed me to safety and it took you instead.”
“Aye, I can remember something like that.” Theon grins, because it is all he
knows. “Your kingly instinct proved right, to keep me by your side.”
Robb doesn’t return his smile; he looks down at him seriously. His fingers
tighten on Theon’s shoulder.
“I am ever grateful, Theon. I want you to know that. You have fought bravely
and loyally, beyond the measure of most, and it will not soon be forgotten.”
Theon glances up. Robb’s eyes are shadowed with the royal mien that he’s had to
adopt since the Whispering Wood, but beneath it is the earnest sheen of the boy
who’s always looked up to him, in everything. Theon has longed to hear those
words from his mouth, longed to hear them and have them propel him to his
father’s side, where even more glory and recognition would await him as a
prince in his own right. That was not to be, but, as foolish as it is, when
looking at Robb’s eyes he can understand a little better the impulse that
turned him from sworn guard to human shield.
He flicks his eyes down.
“Your Grace,” he murmurs.
Robb fills him in on the taking of the castle as he eats, slowly and careful,
as every swallow seems to stab at him. His own injury and a few others aside,
it had all gone in accordance with their plans. Ser Rolph yielded the keep
earlier than expected, just after the bolt had sent Theon to his knees. They
are to remain in the west for some time longer, at least until most of the
injured can move once again. There are only so many castles to take, and Robb
and the Blackfish’s plan to lure Tywin Lannister west must come to fruition
soon, or be abandoned. And there is no word yet from Stevron Frey, and the
ravens that Robb sent towards Pyke have all been unanswered. Theon wonders what
his father is thinking, holed up on his slab of rock.
The maester, a stooping old man named Shaydon that he remembers mostly by his
voice, arrives with Jeyne. Theon’s bandages are changed and the wound cleaned,
and Robb remains throughout it, holding fast to his shoulder, even when Theon
insists he doesn’t need to stay.
“Everything seems to be in order,” Shaydon says as he finishes up. “The gods
have blessed you greatly, young ser. The wound will always pain you, like as
not, but once you give yourself time to heal and make certain not to put the
area under any extra duress, you should be able to move normally again in the
future.”
Robb’s relief is thick, and cuts through the air like a blade. Theon catches
him looking at him as the maester gathers his things. It hadn’t been an unusual
experience for him to find Robb gazing at him curiously when they were younger.
But it’s different this time; upon being discovered, Robb doesn’t look away.
Theon feels his own relief being compounded by something else, something
unnameable.
“Thank you, Maester Shaydon,” Robb says, and the words seem to order him from
the room twice as fast. Despite Theon’s protests that he would rather have a
pretty chambermaid for the job, Robb then helps him down the last of his wine,
and settles him back down on the mattress. The duvet is adjusted, his pillows
are fluffed, and he shuts the open window.
“Well,” Theon quips, “it’s good to know that if being king ever stops suiting
you, you have the position of nursemaid to fall back on.” His eyes are getting
heavy, from a combination of his weakness and the wine and the milk of the
poppy that had surely been in it, but he can still see when Robb smiles.
“Rest,” he says, and makes it sound a command. Like most things that have
fallen from Robb’s mouth since he put up his lordship and donned an iron and
bronze crown, it is an easy order to follow.
Theon’s eyes dip closed, but sleep does not take him yet. He breathes and
listens to Robb breathe for minutes on end. There is silence between them, but
it is of an amicable sort, heavy with things that do not need to be said.
Just before Theon drifts off into sleep, Robb kisses him.
Twice; once pressing on his forehead, once grazing across his lips. The gesture
is brotherly and nothing more. Theon has seen Robb offer it many a time to his
younger brothers; usually when they are half asleep like he is, and do not care
to protest that they are too old for kisses.
At his side, his fingers twitch. Robb must know that he is awake, he must;
Theon’s breathing had changed audibly before going still altogether. But he
says nothing. He only lingers for a moment, and then leaves with a rustle at
the door.
                                      ~~~
The days pass slowly. Theon is impatient to be rid of this bed and the room
that it lies in, but even without the maester telling him otherwise, his own
body is treacherous, and will not support him for long. He spends his days with
Jeyne and the maester, poor companions more often than not. Sometimes, the
northern soldiers find time from their duties to stop in for a word, but the
only visits he truly relishes are Robb’s.
Today, when he enters the room, Theon sits up immediately. Robb closes the door
behind him, but not before Theon sees the Blackfish and the Greatjon, looking
grave as they walk away. He furrows his brows, but says nothing on it yet.
“Where is that wolf of yours?” he asks instead, as a greeting. “I haven’t seen
him since the battle.”
“Grey Wind is fine,” Robb says, taking up his usual chair by the bed. He is
without his crown, looks pale, and something about his voice is wooden. “Jeyne
is frightened of him, and I try not to bring him this way. I try not to bring
him into the castle at all. It’s the least I can do. She’s been staying with
her sister since giving up her room.”
“Oh, that can be rectified. I’m well enough to move about a bit on my own now,
I—”
“Theon,” Robb interrupts. “I’m sorry, but there’s been some news.”
At once, he can tell from Robb’s tone that it does not brook well. He lifts
himself up again, moving until his back is against the headrest and ignoring
the now ubiquitous pain in his chest. It is as dignified as he can get.
“Go on.”
The words come haltingly, as if locked in a cage that Robb is loath to see open
to the light.
“We’ve had a raven from the north. Several of them, actually. They tell of
raiders, killing and pillaging and looting along the Stony Shore, more of them
at Deepwood Motte, and more still at Moat Cailin.” He takes a deep breath.
“Ironborn raiders.”
Ice forms in Theon’s chest, and drops to his stomach like a stone. He clenches
his jaw tight.
“My father…” He grits his teeth. “My father has rebelled,” he finishes, not
bothering to phrase it as a question.
“Yes.” Robb sounds miserable. “I thought at first that he might have had word
of your injury, and thought you dead, but the timing isn’t right. The raids
would have started even before we mounted the attack on the Crag.”
Of course Robb had considered that; it is a kind, honourable thing to think.
Theon wants to believe it too, even while his heart is constricting bitterly.
It would be far better than being stared in the face with a truth that is worse
than ten bolts to the chest: Balon Greyjoy had weighed his options, and not
found the life of his son worth the wait.
“Now we know the fate of Stevron Frey,” Theon hears himself say. Imprisoned, if
Balon has any small bit of regard left for his son’s life; dead if not. Anger
is easing all throughout his body, anger at the injustice and folly of it all,
his life thrown away for his father’s ambitions. The fury builds behind his
eyes, alongside a curious sense of finality. A little boy inside of him started
fearing this day when he was ten years old, and had never stopped. And now it
is here.
“That does explain his silence,” Robb is saying. He places his hand on the bed,
close to Theon’s wrist. “Theon…”
“A pity the Lannisters haven’t returned your father’s sword,” Theon interrupts
in a sardonic tone. “Nothing holds an edge like Valyrian steel.”
“Theon,” Robb snaps again, louder this time. He grips Theon’s wrist. “Nothing
is going to happen to you. I won’t allow it.”
Theon hears what he is not saying.
“Who are the biggest dissenters?” Karstark, he would imagine; the old man had
always seemed to think that Theon should have fallen in place of one of his
sons at the Wood. Ryman Frey perhaps, for if his father isn’t already dead,
Theon’s beheading might well see to it, and assure his place as heir to the
Twins.
“That doesn’t matter—”
“But there are dissenters, aren’t there?” Theon presses. He needs to hear it.
“Those who want me dead.”
Robb’s knuckles are turning white around his wrist; he doesn’t think his king
notices, but the discomfort is a welcome sort of pain, a distraction from all
the other kinds of hurt he is experiencing.
“They think that not executing you will show weakness, send a message to… to
your father that he can do as he likes without consequence. An agreement was
made, and it must be honoured.”
“Mayhaps he thinks that that agreement died with your father and Robert
Baratheon.” For the second time in days, Theon wonders what his father was
indeed thinking.
“We all know oaths do not work that way. He bent the knee, he swore...” A flash
of fury strikes Robb’s eyes. “Damn him. Gods damn him! I would have given him
his blasted crown if he wanted it so badly. Did he not read the bloody letter?”
It weighs on Theon’s mind as well. Would the offer have seemed sweeter coming
from his own lips, or Robb’s? The Ironborn are a prickly, easily insulted folk,
as he remembers.
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever have the chance to ask him, now.”
His king turns his gaze straight on him, blue eyes ablaze.
“I won’t allow it, Theon,” he repeats. There is frustration mingling with his
anger. “You have proven yourself, fought by my side. You saved Bran’s life. You
may have saved my life by taking that arrow. You certainly protect it every
time you ride with me in battle. The gods almost took you, a few days ago, but
they saw fit to preserve your life in the end. I will not take it away.”
The passion in his voice swells hard, accompanied by the blood rising fiercely
in his cheeks. He always flushes when hot-tempered or worried; Theon would
tease him mercilessly about it when they were younger. It is on the tip of his
tongue to do so now, cut through the tension with a grin and some stupid jape.
Instead, he looks Robb in the eyes. Comfort isn’t exactly what he needs, but
still, there is something comforting about Robb’s outburst, and his storm-like
pupils in the aftermath of it.
“You have my thanks,” he says, because he should.
Robb presses his lips together, and stands.
“You have gotten better but… you’ll remain here for now. Not everyone feels the
same, but I think I can get them all to agree on something. They made me their
king; they’ll have to stand by it. In the meantime, I’ll make my apologies to
Jeyne and send Grey Wind to stand outside your door.”
Theon nods. Robb stands at his side for a long moment before he finally
releases Theon’s wrist, as if only just realising that he held it. The skin
that he’d gripped is stark white, and blood pounds around the perimeter of the
mark. Robb looks at it for a moment more before glancing up to meet Theon’s
eyes. They aren’t closed this time, but he still folds at the waist and deepens
a kiss onto his forehead. Theon feels the mark of his lips, warm and hard.
When he turns to leave, it is Theon’s turn to grab Robb by the wrist, halting
him.
“What about the other one?” he asks. He feels reckless, miles beyond his usual
measure of boldness. There is nothing to lose for it now.
“The other…?” Robb looks confused for a moment before his eyes flick back to a
memory, and then to Theon’s lips. His face starts to redden again. “Theon, I…”
“I don’t mind,” he says. He sits up straighter, as much as he can, but doesn’t
release Robb’s hand. “Go on, do it. Wouldn’t be complete otherwise.”
Robb wets his bottom lip slowly, chews on it. Theon watches the gesture; he
knows it well, from the nights he’d tried and succeeded in making Robb squirm,
telling him about the tavern wenches and serving girls he’d charmed and fucked.
There is little of the king in that movement.
“Theon, I can’t…”
“You’re the king,” Theon snorts. He might be going too far, but he ploughs on
recklessly anyway. “You’re about to save my life, or try to. Surely you can
give me a little kiss.”
The word seems to make Robb’s cheeks burn more. Theon hungers after that look,
and perhaps it’s the blood pounding in his head that makes him tug Robb down by
his wrist, and cup him at the back of his neck.
There is nothing brotherly about this kiss; Theon makes sure of that. Robb
starts against his lips, gasping, and he seizes the opportunity to slide his
tongue out, lick the boy’s lips and tongue. A moan comes back in answer, and
Robb dips forward, leaning into his mouth. Theon slants his head and takes the
kiss deeper, scraping his teeth across his bottom lip, sucking it red. Robb
whimpers a little, and it’s nothing like Theon could have ever imagined. It’s
better.
It goes on for longer than he’d strictly planned, and when it ends, it’s Robb
pulling away. Theon looks up at his king. His eyes are blown, pupils dark and
huge with desire. He is panting slightly, and Theon thinks he might be as well.
Robb straightens, and heads for the door. Theon doesn’t even have time to
curse, or think on what this might mean for him now; Robb only locks it, and
makes his way back to his side.
The king comes upon him like his wolf upon an enemy, kissing him hard and with
intent. Theon leans up into it hungrily, only to hiss when the pain in his
side, which had been fading into the background, comes back with a sharp stab.
Robb’s kisses move to his cheek and jaw, and his hands are gentle as he coaxes
Theon down onto the pillows.
“Lie back,” he says, his voice as rough as the seas. His hand fumbles down to
Theon’s side to hold his hand; Theon grips it back without thinking.
Robb’s beard tickles against his throat as he kisses his way down there, and
then back up, teeth scraping with gentle strokes. The rough scratch of stubble
is not unfamiliar to him, but it’s been years since he felt it. He doesn’t fuck
men often; doesn’t much like them at all. But this isn’t just some man. It’s
Robb, with his auburn hair tangling Theon’s fingers when he runs his hand
through it, with his soft tongue and hard little noises. Theon knows his friend
doesn’t have much experience; he’d been all but untouched when he called the
banners. But his kisses now tell that he’d gotten some practise, somewhere
along the way.
The thought makes him possessive, and he breaks away from Robb’s mouth to
nuzzle along his throat, kiss bruises into the spot where his pulse runs hot.
Were he at full strength, he would pull Robb down, flip him onto the mattress
and learn all the things that make him moan. As it is, he can only grip tightly
at his hair, run a hand over his chest and back, and shift as his cock grows
hotter and harder by the second.
“I can’t lose you now,” Robb is whispering against his lips, tight and urgent.
Theon feels his prick throb, squeezing out a drop of moisture. “I can’t lose
you.”
If Theon had any sense, he’d stop this thing he’d started before it can go into
irreversible places. He’s been more selfish than he can afford to be for years,
though, and when one of Robb’s hands cups his cheek, rubbing there with a
softness that belies the raw hunger of his kiss, he only lets it remain there
for a few moments. Soon, he’s taking the hand, and pushing it below his waist.
Robb’s breathing speeds up to a short pant, and he pulls away, watching Theon
with a flushed face and dark eyes. His lips are red and swollen, perfect for
slipping a cock between them. Theon’s already ragged breathing gets shaky.
“Go on,” he says. He glances down at his body, at the protruding hardness that
is obvious beneath the cover. “Touch it if you’d like to.”
Theon very much hopes he’d like to. It takes Robb less than a second to decide;
after that moment he’s throwing the covers aside and moving so that he can undo
Theon’s breeches. He hisses when his cock bounces free, dark red with arousal
and leaking little drops of fluid. The sea air seems to caress it like silk.
Robb stares at his prick for a good minute, face red. Then, he seems on a
mission to rid Theon of every article of clothing that he can; first to go are
the trousers, then the smallclothes. He tries for his shirt, but Theon knows
that it will be too complicated, and waves him away from the area. Instead, he
brings Robb in for another kiss, moaning when Robb finally closes a fist around
his cock. The wetness of his pre-come is not long in spreading all over his
prick as Robb jerks him, slow and unpractised.
“Is that… is that alright?” Robb asks, breath hot against Theon’s mouth. Theon
nods, rolling his hips as much as he can, feeling his cock slide within Robb’s
hold, sending pulses of pleasure from his centre outward.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning his head back as Robb kisses his way down his throat
and along his sternum, going lower to gently caress the bandages beneath his
shirt. He can come like this, he thinks, breath shuddering as Robb strokes him,
sometimes tickling at the head, sometimes teasing at his bollocks. But Robb
doesn’t stop moving, kissing down his ribcage and covered stomach until he’s
pressing a little kiss to the tip of his cock. Theon gasps, lips and toes
curling in pleasure.
“Is that…” Robb starts again, and Theon buries a hand in his hair.
“It’s better than alright,” he whispers, and watches as Robb gives the barest
hint of a smile.
His wound twinges painfully as he levers himself up, but it would be murder not
to watch as Robb licks a line unsurely up his cock, then spreads his lips to
take him in. Theon gasps, trembling as the head and a few inches disappears
into the wet heat. With difficulty, he controls the urge to thrust, and instead
lets Robb set the pace. He switches between licking and sucking at him, and
just the sight of him down there intoxicates Theon. He’s imagined this before,
what it would be like to have a Stark sucking on his cock, a king in his power
for once. But what he sees now is neither Stark nor king; it’s only Robb.
Robb pulls off, panting a little, but moves back in at once, pressing kisses
all along Theon’s length. A kiss on the underside near his crown makes his hips
jump, and Robb does it again, sucking at the spot until Theon groans. Then he
takes him into his mouth again, sucking so hard Theon can’t help but thrust his
hips a little.
“Fuck,” he bites out, not willing to take his eyes off of the sight in front of
him for even a moment. It’s obvious that Robb doesn’t have much experience with
this, but still every touch sends shivers shooting up Theon’s body. He feels
the familiar pressure building in his balls, and rocks with it. Robb is using a
hand to lightly stroke his length while his lips stay fastened on the crown,
licking away every drop that he produces. When he looks up, blue eyes blown and
staring straight into his own, Theon feels the pleasure roiling in him thunder
to its peak.
“Robb, I—” is all he manages to gasp in warning. Robb pulls away, but doesn’t
stop stroking him as he comes, spattering the bed and his stomach and Robb’s
hand with it. It drains him, making dull lights explode behind his eyes, and a
minute later, he twitches still in the loose-limbed ecstasy of it.
Robb is wiping his mouth, looking as if he can’t believe he just did what he
did. The moment passes; Theon beckons to him, and the king slips his tunic over
his head in one smooth movement before joining Theon on the bed, lying on his
side to face him.
“Get that off, Your Grace,” he says, shuffling until he’s lying on his good
side and nodding to Robb’s trousers. In lieu of waiting to see it done, he
leans forward, kissing those red lips. The taste of his come is bitter and
salty in his mouth, but he sucks Robb’s tongue between his lips anyway, hearing
how it makes him pant, makes him squirm. He trails a hand down Robb’s chest,
finding his nipples hidden amidst the auburn curls. They’re already hard, pink
tips peeking out, and Theon licks two of his fingers so that he can rub them
even harder.
“Oh, gods.” Robb’s eyes are closed, but only for a moment; he can’t seem to
stop himself from looking. His cock is out and grasped in his hand, stiff and
wet, and he already seems close. Theon shifts as much as he can, replacing the
fingers on Robb’s nipples with his mouth, and replacing Robb’s hand on his
prick with his own. Robb bucks in his hand immediately, holding on to his good
shoulder. “Theon, please…”
“Shhh,” he says, and bends his head again to suck on Robb’s nipples. The king
breathes heavily, flexing his hips and pushing his cock into Theon’s fist. The
noises he makes are very soft and earnest, and they all shoot straight to
Theon’s head. He recoils by a fraction to see Robb flutter his lashes, bite his
lip. Theon imagines fucking him; imagines, with a jolt, being fucked by him,
and whispers as much in Robb’s ear as he continues to stroke him. Robb’s eyes
blaze, and he makes an abrupt, breathy sound as he climaxes, coming in the
twist of Theon’s fist.
Theon kisses him through it, on his lips and his stubbly jaw. When his little
gasps peter out, Theon lies back, fixing himself against the headboard and
easing the ache that had been building up near his wound. He finds a layer of
bedding to wipe his hand on, and then cleans up his stomach and cock. Robb sits
up, doing the same with slightly shaky hands. Theon observes him for a moment
as he rights himself and dons his clothes.
“Not to worry, Your Grace,” he can’t help saying. “I drank my moon tea; you
won’t have gotten me with child.”
That coaxes a small smile to his lips. Robb walks round the bed, coming to sit
again on the chair.
“That was…” He runs pale fingers through his hair. “That probably should not
have happened.”
“But it did. And it was good,” Theon adds, daring Robb to disagree. The look on
his face says that he can’t. He nods.
“Aye, it did. And it was. And… we’ll be alright. You’ll be alright. I swear
it.”
He looks directly into Theon’s eyes as he says it, and everything that he has
been endeavouring to forget for the past twenty minutes comes back to him with
a slam. Balon’s rebelling, the death that might await him. But he holds on to
the conviction in Robb’s eyes rather than dwell on it, holds on to the fierce
certainty that his king seeks to provide.
“Do you believe me?” Robb asks, looking hard at Theon as if he needs to hear
it, as if being sure of it will make it quicker come true. Theon’s blood is
still hot, but it settles at that look, cooling into something constant and
sure. Robb had been the only Stark to treat him as more ward than hostage, as
more brother than outsider. He kept him by his side when it mattered. Theon
isn’t ready to die this day, or any day soon, but perhaps dying for Robb’s sake
and by his side would be meet after all. They are brothers.
“I believe you,” Theon says, and answers Robb’s grim smile with one of his own.
                                      ~~~
The pain in his chest is a constant, but after Robb leaves that afternoon he
starts learning to live with it, walk through it without having to pause too
often for breath. He itches for a sword in hand, a bow to stretch with his
fingers, but there are, of course, none readily available, and the maester
would raise a fuss if Theon tried. So instead, as he occupies his limbs, he
occupies his mind.
Robb returns the next day with news of a council to be held. As in battle,
Theon wants to go where the fighting is thickest.
“I should be there,” he insists. “It’s me they’ll be discussing.” It doesn’t
take long for Robb to consent.
He has his young squire sent up to help dress Theon, and when Olyvar leaves,
Robb slips in, Grey Wind a hulking shadow next to him. He closes the door
behind them, barring the guards outside from view. Theon stands ready at his
bedside, and walks to meet Robb halfway across the room. His friend looks tired
but determined; an old look on him now, after being king for more than a year.
Theon wonders what things he’s had to do and say between this moment and the
day before.
Grey Wind slips between them, prepared to support Theon should he stumble. No
man should have to lean on his king, but Theon feels as if the direwolf is a
direct conduit to Robb nonetheless.
“Are you ready?” Robb asks, nodding at the door. Theon feels a myriad of
answers bubble up in him — of course, no, foolish question Your Grace — but
goes with the one that first reaches his tongue.
“Not yet.”
Robb smiles, and Theon knows he won’t have to explain. Before he leads the way
to the door, the king leans over to kiss Theon twice. Once on his forehead,
once across his lips.
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