Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1659713.
  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, Rickon_Stark, Grey_Wind_(ASoIaF)
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon, Canon_Compliant, Seduction, Scary_Tales, First_Time, Rutting,
      Hand_Jobs, Blow_Jobs, Somnophilia, Angry_Sex, Iron_Islands_Angst,
      Delusions, Mad_Dreams, And_Lots_of_Empty_Promises
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-20 Completed: 2014-06-11 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 11513
****** Blow Up ******
by Rovardotter
Summary
     Lord Stark had never taken him on rides to the seaside, as if afraid
     the salty winds would needlessly remind Theon of his home. The only
     sea his warden should've kept hidden was the burning blue of his
     son's eyes.
     [1] Theon tells Robb a bedtime story.
     [2] Robb and Theon play house.
     [3] Theon would rather take freedom than smoking arenas.
Notes
     Dedicated to the loveliest girl of them all, Heloisa. Happy birthday,
     my dear, and may your year be filled with much Throbb, smut and joy.
     Love you!
     So many thanks that I can't even to SharpestKnife for his wonderful
     beta. Let's raise a cup to our mutual distrust of decent!Theon <3
***** L'Avventura *****
Chapter Summary
     In which Theon tells Robb a bedtime story.
Robb laughed a lot.
It was never malicious, never mocking. His lips curled, his blue eyes lit up,
as if he'd just glimpsed the world for the first time and found it to be
beautiful. Mayhaps that was why Theon liked him so, liked him more than he
should have, all things considered. But now was hardly the time for hesitation
or second thoughts. Not when he sat on the floor with his back against the
stone wall, the little Stark securely nudged between his knees, his cheeks
flushed red with all that wine Theon had fed to him.
"I should probably go," Robb said.
"Should you?" Theon arched a brow, because his actions spoke quite differently;
the boy stretched his legs, sank his head deeper into the nook of Theon's
shoulder.
"My lady mother says," Robb coughed, then lazily picked up his words. "My lady
mother says I should not be – sharing beds. You know."
Theon snorted, as though the very idea was ridiculous, even while his arms
moved from his sides to loosely drape around Robb. That ought to put the boy at
ease, he thought, and sure enough, Robb chuckled and nestled closer to his
chest. Theon could almost envision her, haughty Lady Stark with her perpetual
frown, arms crossed sternly over her chest, explaining the rules of lordly
conduct to her eldest son (Honour, duty, no siblings in bed.)
Robb was treading over a misted boundary; he was no longer a young boy, but not
yet a man grown. Theon had only just begun to notice it: Robb's broadening
chest, a new thickness to his voice, and yet, still as happy and trusting as a
small child. That was when his new plans (disgraceful plans) had started to set
sail, and he'd be loath to admit it, but mayhaps this incongruity was precisely
what made him find the little Stark so appealing. Appealing enough, as it
happens, to have him here in his bedchamber at this late hour, to put him in
his cups, then between his knees. And to be planning to do much, much more.
"Shouldn't be sharing beds, well," Theon said. "And what do you think?"
"Uh." The wine had made Robb slower. He pondered over the question much longer
than necessary, and his deliberation set Theon astir. Soon, soon enough, he's
almost there. He knew he should feel ashamed for his intentions, but he just
wanted to, wanted so badly–and he wasn't going to hurt the boy. It'll be nice,
he'll like that. I'll be gentle. "I think she meant Snow," Robb finally said.
"She doesn't like – you know. Besides, she's not here, is she?"
"Quite so," Theon said.
He couldn't suppress a chortle himself. It always made him peculiarly giddy
when Robb called his insufferable half-brother by his surname – his bastard
name – but never did the same with Theon. And to feel giddy by a fourteen year-
old's favours, well, it was almost as stupid as craving to press his lips to
that boy's skin, to find out if it was really as soft as it seemed, to discover
just what the little Stark looked like when he drowned in pleasure. Appalling
thoughts, all of those, but Theon was past denying at this point, past caring,
even.It's not that bad, honestly. Someone has to show him, and who better than
me?
He didn't know what had made him decide this was the time to act. It could've
been a certain gleam in Robb's eyes, or how the boy responded so willingly when
he'd pulled him to lean against his chest. It could've been the simple fact
that he could bear to fight it no more. He knew exactly when it'd happened,
though: Robb'd been merrily chattering (wasn't really listening, truth be
told), shifted between his legs to reach the wine cup on the nightstand. He
then gently brushed against Theon's crotch (must've already been half-hard),
let out a sharp breath, dropped back, wine in hand, and kept on talking. And
that was it. Theon's mind was set, he just wanted, so, so badly – undress him,
get him on the bed, he'll love that, I'll have to cover his mouth to keep him
quiet – and a wave of guilt threatened to sink his every action. Because while
Robb would undoubtedly grow as tall and strong as his lord father, tonight he
was a laughing boy with his head a whirlwind of too much liquor, a boy who'd
never done any of this before, and had no idea just what Theon meant to teach
him.
"Tell me something," said Robb.
"What?"
"Just." Robb sipped the last drops from his cup. "Something."
"As you will, lad," Theon said. He smoothly moved his hand to rest over Robb's
shoulder, fingers splayed over his grey tunic. "Ever told you about my uncle
Euron?"
"The one they call Crow's Eye?" Robb placed the empty cup on the stone floor;
he didn't seem to mind the hand, or the fingers gently running over the wool.
Good lad. It'll be nice, you'll see.
"Right," Theon said. "That's because he wears a patch over his left eye."
"Did he lose it in battle?"
"Hells, I'm not sure if he lost an eye at all." Theon anchored a finger under
the hem of the boy's tunic, absently toying with it while forming his tale. "He
probably just likes the look of it." He'd never cared to talk about his (true)
family, or about the Iron Islands for that matter. Those lost memories seemed
so faded, carried an almost ethereal quality, as though they'd happened to
someone else, or never at all. Robb was oddly captivated by them, however, and
that was the main goal. Keep him interested, keep him distracted. By the time
he notices, he'll be too far gone. "Makes him look fierce. That, and his blue
lips, from all the shade-of-the-evening he drinks. You know what that is?"
"Uh." Robb frowned. "No."
"That's a wizards' drink, from Qarth. My uncle found a cask while sailing to
the Jade Sea. More precious than gold, he said. It gives the wizards their
powers, he claimed it'd given him – well, unearthly power." Robb's head now
lulled heavily against his shoulder, and Theon wondered if that'd be the
opportune time to steer the course of his fingers from the boy's tunic to his
neck.
He was an expert in seduction – of course. He knew how to get the most hardened
whore in Winter Town to lower her guard; how to cajole the tavern wenches until
they were generous with their bodies; how to loosen the castle's scullery maids
with sweet words and embraces so they dropped to their knees. Theon had also
tried other boys in the past, when he was too drunk to care (You don't look a
gift horse in the mouth when it sucks your cock.) But Robb, even while dipping
into wine and tales with glossy eyes and tousled curls, was still a highborn
boy, a little lord, a friend, or as close as Theon had ever arrived to having
one. The thought of how different it'd be to make him yield to his advances was
both thrilling and terrifying.
"And does he?" Robb asked. "Have unearthly powers?"
"Some swear he does," Theon said. "That he controls the actions of animals,
hells, even of men. Gets inside their skin, like those wargs of your Old Nan's
tales." And it must've been the time, the perfect time, because Theon could
wait no longer. He freed his fingers, and slowly, so very slowly, moved them
from the tunic's hem to Robb's shoulder, over the jut of his collarbone, up the
soft skin of his neck, coming to rest under his earlobe. "He could make you do
whatever he wanted you to, and you'd be helpless to stop him." Robb softly
sighed, but made no other sound. This encouraged Theon to slide his fingers
down again. Just so. Let me, gods, Robb, let me. "He's made men kneel and serve
him. He's made women lie and spread their legs before him. Look Euron in the
eye, his right blue eye, and you'd be his slave until the Long Night comes
again. His ship is called Silence. Do you know why?"
Robb shook his head, then chanced a guess: "Because no man dares disobey him?"
"Close, but not quite." His hand now picked up its pace, circled the boy's
neck, fluttered under his chin, feeling soft wisps of adolescent beard. "His
crew is made of mutes. He cut off their tongues, see, with his own dagger.
While they were bound and screaming their last on this earth." Robb shivered in
his arms, and Theon could not say if it was for the tale, or because his
fingers now slowly unlaced the ties of his tunic.
"That's monstrous." Robb swallowed. "Even for an Ironborn."
"No worse than you northerners flaying men alive." Theon's voice was harsher
than he'd intended. After all, he had wanted to frighten the boy with all those
dark images, just a little bit, wanted to avert his attention from how his
fingers were now gliding beneath the half-undone laces. And if that was so,
there was no reason for Robb's judgement to feel like a slap in his face.
"It doesn't happen anymore," Robb sombrely stated. "My lord father would have
never allowed such crimes to go unpunished."
Oh, he wouldn't. The sudden bitter taste in his mouth startled him. Your
honourable lord father punishes all transgressors, doesn't he?Giving up the
slow advance of his fingers, he sharply thrust his hand under Robb's tunic.Even
boys. Even small boys. His palm pushed on this boy's chest, and his thumb found
his nipple, rubbed over it. Robb stilled; his lips were parted, wobbling, his
eyes locked on Theon's, wide and clear blue. You get it now, Stark, don't you?
And Theon carried on: "My lord father did not let him go unpunished, either. I
haven't told you what happened next."
Robb's voice was but a whisper. "What."
"Just before I was sent here." A captive, a hostage. He pinched the boy's
nipple, not hard enough to hurt him. He'd never wished to hurt him, gods, he
just wanted, so badly – and he touched his lips to his shoulder; Robb was
flushed, fiery warm, tasted sweet as wine. "Euron was exiled from the Isles. No
one should've known the reason for it, see, but I heard my lord father. He
thought I was too young to understand." Or just invisible. Invisible by the
bridges of Pyke, by the towers of Winterfell. What's the difference, really.He
felt the body between his knees tremble, the nipple between his fingers harden.
His tongue floated over the line his hand had earlier been stroking, until his
mouth stood just behind the boy's ear, his breath sifting through the reddish
curls. "Euron thought he could pillage all he wanted. So he did. With my other
uncle's salt wife. Do you know what a salt wife is?"
"I – I've heard."
"He raped her. Filled her with his seed." And he hadn't meant to, had never
intended this to be cruel, he just wanted, fuck, just wanted to make the boy
feel good. But all Robb had to do was mention his father, and there.In
retrospect, a tale of the Iron Islands had been an unusually poor choice. The
sea-washed memories gave rise to the resentment buried within him, to a tide of
sentiments he was used to drowning with smirks and japes. The next words he
bitterly murmured in the little Stark's ear: "That's what Ironborn do, Robb. We
plunder. We take what we want."
"Theon." Robb moved aside to face him; his brows were furrowed, the expression
on his face grave, almost reminiscent of his lady mother. That's when he tells
me to stop, Theon thought, stop me, gods, please, and he really couldn't help
himself anymore. He'd steered it wrong, botched it completely. The only way
he'd ever learnt to proceed was to sink it all to the bottom of the sea. His
fingers pinched the boy's nipple again, harder this time, and his other hand
moved between his legs, felt for the laces of his breeches.
"I could take you right now, Robb," he whispered. Such cruel words, he'd never
wanted that. He'd wanted it to be nice for the boy, wanted to wrench desperate
moans from his sweetly laughing mouth, to watch him plummet into waves of
bliss. But when have I ever got what I wanted? "I could take you, and you'd be
helpless to stop me."
"No," Robb quietly said. "You wouldn't."
"No?" He snorted derisively, and this time with no intention to put the boy at
ease. His fingers tugged hard on the ties of the breeches, but he couldn't make
himself lower them just yet to fondle Robb's cock. There was a line there, he
knew, a line more tangible than intimidating tales and words, and if he
breached it, there would be no turning back. He would truly be his father's
son. "And why's that, Robb?"
"Because you're not like them. You're a good person." Robb's eyes were a
serious, candid blue. "And besides," he added softly and placed his hand over
Theon's, between his legs. "You wouldn't have to take."
In the silence which fell on the bedchamber, the crackle of the hearth seemed
intolerably loud, almost too much to bear. The boy's fingers tightened with a
slight tremor around his hand, nudged it to rest on his cock; he was hard, warm
even through the wool of his breeches. And that was it, the barrier had been
wordlessly crossed, and Theon could hardly find his breath until Robb spoke
again.
"What –" His teeth bit over his lower lip, a childhood habit which still
persisted despite all of his lady mother's scolds. "Theon, what did you want to
do to me?"
And Theon might have sunk it all under the surf, wished to see the only good
thing he'd ever had shatter and break, but this boy – this sweet laughing boy –
carefully picked it up again, and mayhaps this was why Theon liked him so.
"Touch you," he said, past denying, past caring. "Have you."
"Fuck me?"
"Yes." Theon's hand moved farther down, his fingers slipping through the
loosened ties, slowly coiling around the boy's hardness. "Yes."
"How?"
"Only one way it goes, lad." He'd meant to sneer, chortle at that naive
question, but the sound escaping his mouth was a strained huff. Because how?
had endless answers. First time with Robb on his back, easy and gentle, kissing
his parted lips as he moans in initial pain, then unimagined pleasure. Second
time with Robb on his knees, opening up his little red mouth, his eyes
trembling shut as Theon feeds him his cock. And third time – countless times:
push him up against the wall, overpower him on the floor, grab his auburn curls
in the stables, when all the Starks are looking elsewhere. Mayhaps it hadn't
been such a silly question after all.
Robb just laughed softly, asked again: "But how?"
"On the bed," Theon murmured. "Have you on your back. Wanted to kiss you and
touch you until you agreed. Wanted to –" And his fingers found a steady, sure
pace around the boy's cock, so warm, silkily soft, just the way he'd imagined
it. But how Robb's hand was still weighing down on his, how the boy delved his
teeth into his own lips, swallowing on his soft whimpers, and how his eyes were
a sea of serene blue – it was something Theon had never dared imagine. "Wanted
to show you how nice it feels."
"Show me," said Robb.
Theon scarcely needed more encouragement. He rose up on his legs, yanking Robb
after him, his right hand clenching his chest, the other one still curled
around his cock. He led the boy to the bed, but couldn't find the patience to
climb onto it. Instead he pushed him to rest stomach down by the edge of the
bed, his legs still on the floor – but it's wrong, should be able to kiss him,
but don't care, don't care anymore. He moved his right hand to pull down the
boy's breeches, then his smallclothes, which gave away so easily. He lowered
himself over Robb's back, hand squeezing harder on his cock.
"Thought," Robb mumbled, his head buried into the furs on the bed. "On my
back."
"Later," Theon rasped and freed his own cock swiftly. He was used to that,
quick humps in the kitchens or behind the glass gardens, but never quite like
that, never with a boy, never with his own warden's little heir. It's so wrong,
have to prepare him first. Can't take him like that. But no need to take, he'll
give, gods, he'll give. Robb squirmed underneath him, and he clamped his right
hand over the boy's hip in an almost bruising force to keep him in place.
"Later, later, Robb," he kept on promising as he rubbed his cock over the boy's
skin.
"Later." Robb buckled under him, thrusting himself into Theon's fingers. "Tell
me what comes later."
"I'll fuck you, gods be good, I will." He used his hand to part the boy's ass
cheeks, pushed his cock to nestle between them. "You'll be so fucking tight.
You've never been fucked before."
"No," Robb moaned softly, shook his head. "You'll be the first."
"Gods, I'll fuck you good. Going to shove my cock right into your ass." He
brushed faster on his skin. "I'll shove it deep. You'll feel all of me, every
inch."
"That'll hurt."
"It won't, I swear," Theon grunted, pressed the head of his cock against the
boy's entrance. "I'll make it nice for you, I'll prepare you."
"How?"
"Going to play with you, loosen you up. You'll love it. Gods, I'll make you
scream."
"Tell me." Robb lifted himself from the furs; his eyes were impossibly close,
his little mouth slack, loose in ragged pants. "What I'll scream."
"For more, more." He rutted into him in a firm, punishing speed. "Harder,
faster, and me, and my name." His hand seized the wool of the boy's tunic,
leashed him back and forth against his cock. "You'll scream my name."
"You'll have to keep me quiet."
"Hells, I'll gag your fucking mouth, I'll hold you down."
Robb almost hissed at that. "Then? Tell me what then."
"Going to fuck you harder, you won't be able to move, to scream anymore." Theon
bore down on him with all his weight, all his possible force. "Won't think of
anything but my cock deep in your ass." His lips latched on the boy's shoulder,
bruising into the soft skin as hard as he could. "Gods, Robb, I'll fuck you
good."
And he knew he should feel ashamed for how those empty promises and the
intoxicating warmth of skin were enough to send him over. Or it might have been
Robb's wide blue eyes, drinking in his every dirty word. He gave a deep,
throaty moan and spent himself, tightly squeezed against Robb's asshole.
Shameful, no doubt, but he was past caring, and mayhaps so was the boy, because
he shuddered and convulsed under his weight, under the seed trickling over his
ass, down his legs, until he too spilled into Theon's hand.
Theon released the tunic and turned to his side, panting hard, the bedchamber's
arched stone ceiling spinning around him. He shut his eyes, still sinking under
the sprays of his conjured words and images, and those trusting bright eyes. He
felt the boy edging closer; their sweaty brows pressed together, then warm lips
fleetingly touched his mouth.
"Later, huh?" Robb murmured, let out a laugh.
With any other person – a whore, a wench – it would have been humiliating,
unthinkably humiliating, to be simply laughed at like that. But this was
different. Robb's laughter was never malicious, never mocking. And when he said
'later', that was all he meant. Later. They would have nights upon nights to
make good on his promises.
"Later," Theon groaned.
He lazily wrapped his arm around Robb, pulled him closer against his chest, and
joined their lips again. For too long he'd wished for warmth in this lonely
northern castle, that place where he'd never truly belong, and while their
mouths slowly brushed together, as long as they were breathing softly into each
other in that languid afterglow of complete release, he could almost delude
himself into thinking he still had a chance. Theon heard himself laughing,
laughing loudly, easy and free, right along with Robb.
He embraced the boy tighter, a carnal replacement for words he couldn't say,
kissed him until their skin was sore and bruised, until they floated to sleep,
lying huddled under his furs on a once again shared bed. And he'd kiss him for
as long as he'd be able to, Theon realised just before his eyes closed. Because
this boy thought he was not like them. This laughing boy thought he was a good
person.
Because Robb had no idea who Theon really was.
***** La Notte *****
Chapter Summary
     In which Robb and Theon play house.
Chapter Notes
     So many thanks to SharpestKnife for being a splendid beta and most
     importantly a wonderful person. Ti amo <3
Robb laughed little nowadays.
His stance was rigid, wooden; his eyes drifted, as if the glare of the world
was too much to bear. He'd just returned to the castle, still wore his riding
clothes and his sword in a scabbard tied around his waist. Theon had been
waiting for that, waiting all day for the boy lord to arrive into his
bedchamber pleading, seeking comfort in his arms, as he had every night. But
now he found himself irritated by Robb's dull eyes, the tired lines of his
face, and most of all, by the little whelp clutching tightly to his legs.
"He won't leave," Robb said.
The babe's dirtied face contorted, his lips trembled, tears still streamed down
his muddy cheeks. He let out a deep sob, and proceeded to unceremoniously wipe
his runny nose on Robb's breeches.
"I can see that." Theon crept closer behind him, deeply inhaling his smell of
leather and horses, with still (despite it all) a faint trace so fresh, so
essentially Robb, that made his skin prickle. He hooked his arm around his
waist, pulled him nearer against his hips so Robb could feel just how hard he
already was, but the boy lord only stiffened.
"Not now," he mumbled.
"Been long enough." Theon kissed him under his curls, his warm breath gathered
on the soft skin behind his ear.
"Theon." Robb turned his head, shot him a warning look. "My brother."
Because, of course, there was still the little runt by their feet, and
whichever plans Theon had for Robb (he had a great many, and more with each
passing, colder day) would have to wait a while longer. The necessity of
dealing with the crying whelp was also becoming a nightly occurrence, quite
like his brother's desperate moans, only not half as enjoyable. That the babe
bore Theon no love didn't help matters. In all truth, Robb would've been wiser
to handle this by himself, but while he bravely carried the burden of his new
duties, he broke apart at those howls (I was raised to be a lord, he'd told
Theon. Not a mother. It isn't me he needs.) He'd come to Theon plainly because
he had no one else to turn to, not anymore.
"Just put him back in bed." Theon himself knew close to nothing about little
children, misliked them even, their snot and soiled clothes, and this new
caregiving task was more daunting than horns of war. He groaned, circled the
brothers to usher them towards the door, but the babe recoiled and clung harder
to Robb with his little fists.
"Not you," he wailed. "Father. Where's Father?"
"He rode south with the king," Robb said. "You know that, Rickon."
"Your mother?" Theon asked, though he already knew the answer.
"There's still no talking to her," Robb stiffly said. "I've tried to get her to
eat, she nearly slapped me." And he added in a small voice: "I don't think she
even recognises me."
Theon nodded. Lady Stark, once so meticulously held together, would now spend
the entire day seated blankly by little Bran's sickbed, her fingers a mad spin
of needlework the significance of which neither of them could begin to guess.
He'd taken to accompanying Robb when he made his visits to his lady mother
(unpleasant affair, gods, but who else has he got?), but he couldn't bring
himself to enter that bedchamber; it reeked inside, a pungent scent of loss and
lunacy. And so he would stand by the door and play with the dagger he kept by
his hip, conjuring up all the things he'd later do to make Robb forget (and
other, madder plans, of the Titan of Braavos and white-masted ships) while the
boy lord attempted to coax his mother into a coherent response.
"Right, listen to your brother," he sternly told the whelp. "Time for bed now."
"No!" Rickon howled between his sobs. "No bed."
"It's very late," Robb said, crouching until he was level with his brother.
"Theon and me, we're tired. We need to sleep, too."
"But I had a dream," the babe whined, rubbed his nose again.
"Did you?" Robb asked gently. He laid his palm on the babe's head, brushing
through unruly locks of light auburn hair. "Tell us all about it on the way."
"It was an animal dream." Rickon sounded angry, but he let Robb (finally) lead
him out to the corridor. "Was a dream that wasn't a dream."
Theon snorted; he hadn't meant it to be loud enough to hear, but the boy lord
still glared at him. "Was it now," he told his little brother, his brow
furrowed, as they climbed up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the
Great Keep, where the children's bedchambers now grew empty with the ghosts of
past laugher.
"Animal dreams are never really dreams," Rickon said.
"I didn't know that," Robb said as he opened the door to Rickon's room. "What
was it about?"
"I was in bed," the babe said. "And I wasn't."
Theon propped himself against the wall. His fingers found the dagger, started
tracing the engraving on the handle. I'll make him forget, gods, I'll give him
what he needs, he thought as Robb lifted his little brother and for a moment
held him tightly in his arms. Until his voice's gone, until he's gagging for
breath. And later, we'd get away, we truly could. Rickon threw his tiny hands
around Robb, smeared a healthy dose of snot over his tunic, then allowed his
brother to lay him in bed as he were, filthy clothes, muddy face and all.
"What happened then?" Robb asked and sat by the bed. He pulled the furs to
cover the babe up to his chin, his palm slowly stroking his long knotted curls.
"Can't remember." Rickon yawned. "Bran's still asleep?"
"Afraid so," Robb said; there was a slight tremor to his voice. "I bet he'd
wake up soon, then we could all play together." Theon lifted himself off the
wall and joined the brothers on the bed. He sat behind Robb, started rubbing
his shoulders gently, thumbs drawing circles on his neck. The whelp wouldn't
understand, and even if he does, who would he tell? And this time Robb gave in,
leant back against Theon's chest.
"Mother too?" Rickon's eyes fluttered, started to close.
"Of course," Robb said. "She'd play with us too."
"No." The babe's voice was barely audible. "In dreams she didn't."
"It's only dreams."
Rickon's lips quivered, his eyes slowly shut. "Never really dreams," he mumbled
and the bedchamber fell silent.
Theon planted a kiss on Robb's hair, his hands moved to his back. It reminded
him of the very first time he'd had him, a pained boy soothed by his touch,
trusting him completely, and Theon had never felt less worthy of that trust.
For all his words, he knew it would hurt, had hurt Robb. That was why he had
waited for so long. After that night he'd spent himself with a string of empty
promises on Robb's skin, the boy would come into his bedchamber at night-time
with the sweetest questions requesting the dirtiest deeds.
And gods, Theon wanted to, wanted so badly, but to fuck a whore or a wench was
one thing – to fuck the little Stark was something entirely different. And so
he'd put it off, night after night, taught Robb enough new things to keep him
enticed: how to touch him, how to get on his knees and take his cock into his
mouth, how to kiss, lick and swallow. And when he'd finally found the courage,
couldn't deny himself any longer, the boy was in pain; his tears welled and his
teeth dug into his lips. "Go on," he urged Theon, wiping his eyes. "Doing
fine." He put on his brave face, as though he'd just sprained his ankle on a
hunting ride. And Theon (gods help me, still a reaver, a plunderer) carried on,
harder yet, and his last thoughts as he spent his seed inside his warden's
firstborn were, Look at him now, Lord Stark, watch him well. I took your little
boy.
The following times were better, though, and soon he had Robb trembling and
moaning, rolling his hips in such a lewd way Theon almost wanted to scold him,
remind him that he was still a lordling. And yet it was naught more than a few
nights a week, a pleasant distraction after a long day at the training yard.
That'd changed, too, after Lord Stark rode south with Robb's sisters, after
little Bran's fall and Lady Stark's own descent into insanity, especially after
the bastard left for the Wall, which was mayhaps (but Theon misliked dwelling
on it) the biggest betrayal in Robb's eyes. The others couldn't help it; they
were victims to events beyond their control. But Snow, he chose to leave. And I
hope Robb never, ever forgives him.
Seated in the darkness of Rickon's bedchamber, his fingers curled in the
sleeping babe's hair, Robb laid his head back on Theon's shoulder. "Here we
are, then," he softly said. "My father's gone. My mother's half mad. My
brother's half dead." He sighed. "Doesn't matter. I do what I have to. Right?"
And Theon murmured in his ear: "No."
"What?" Robb narrowed his eyes.
"Not tonight," Theon said. "Tonight you are not the Stark in Winterfell." He
wrapped his arms around Robb's neck, held him firmly against him. "Tonight
you're just a boy." And with a squeeze on his shoulder, he added: "Understand
me?"
Robb was silent for a few moments, then he nodded. "As you say."
"Kiss your brother goodnight, then."
He did, tucked the filthy curls away from the babe's brow, gave him the
lightest kiss to avoid disturbing his slumber. "Sweet dreams, Rickon," he
whispered.
"Oh, didn't you hear?" Theon said and pulled him up. "They're never really
dreams."
Robb frowned. "I've been having some strange ones myself."
"Have you? Tell me about it on the way."
"Just – very lucid, that's all." His eyes drifted again, as if he was trying
hard to grasp a memory that was just beyond his reach, and he hadn't yet
noticed Theon was leading him up another flight of stairs, away from their own
bedchambers. It was a moonless night, dark as sin; the wind blew harshly though
the narrow slits in the stone walls. "It's this feeling when you're awake but
you're not certain if you truly are."
"Too much Arbor gold?" Now that there was no one to supervise or scold him,
Robb had taken a few liberties he hadn't allowed himself before. Back to his
old habit of chewing his lip, for one, or to a new habit of treating himself to
more wine than Lady Stark would have ever approved, had she been in the right
mind to think of her firstborn at all. Theon didn't mind; he certainly liked it
when Robb finally let the lordly mask fall, and beneath it remerged the
laughing, carefree boy he'd once known, if only for a few hours.
"No more than usual," Robb said, then halted his steps. "Theon." He turned
back, face solemn. "That's my lord father's bedchamber."
"So?" Theon shrugged. "He's not using it, is he?" He pried a torch off one of
the sconces on the wall, and then pushed the heavy oaken door open. He could
feel Robb planted in place behind him, his silent hesitation, then his
footsteps following him inside that (no longer) forbidden bedchamber.
Truth be told, it was nothing impressive. Lord Stark's bedchamber was as
austere and plain as the man himself. A large bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe
and a grim, large carpet covering most of the cold stone floor. The castle
servants took care to clean and air the room even in their lord's absence, but
the place still felt dusty, neglected. Befitting, since lately the entire
castle feels this way. Theon doubted anyone would bother them here, but he
bolted the door, just to be safe, and placed the torch beside it. Robb stood
next to him, his expression still grave, mouth drawn into a thin line. He'll
soon forget about that. Once I have my way with him, he'll forget about
everything. And we'd get away, we really could.
"Take off your breeches," he told Robb.
The boy complied, though his movements were still slow. He placed his sword on
the nightstand, unlaced his breeches, pulled them off his legs, and after a
slight deliberation, tugged his smallclothes down as well. Theon hadn't told
him to, but by now they were both used to the pace of this nocturnal ritual: a
quick, hard fuck as the castle drowned in its nightly loneliness, Robb pressed
up against the wall or bent over a desk, his urgent pleads, and a release so
intense it was almost painful. Then: embraces and soft caresses, lying side by
side on the bed, between wine and idle chatter, until they were ready to start
anew, this time unhurriedly, gently, tongues fluttering over skin, bodies
tangled close together.
But not tonight. Tonight Theon had other plans (and even madder dreams: the
bells of Norvos, the elephants of Old Volantis, white-masted ships.)
"Come here," he said, and when Robb did, he took the breeches from his hand,
folded them in half, and wrapped them around the boy's brow and eyes, tying the
ends in a tight knot at the back of his head. Robb stayed limp and silent,
though Theon could see how his cock had started to harden. Blindfolded, well,
it was something new. Theon had never done this to him before, liked gazing
into his eyes too much (when the masks fall, when he's fucked hard, then that
calm blue becomes almost searing.) He hadn't been sure how Robb would react,
but the boy seemed to accept it just fine.
He led him towards the bed, step after step, then pushed down on his shoulder.
"On your knees," he said. Robb did as he was told, dropped down to kneel on the
grey carpet; his backside rested on his riding boots' heavy heels, and Theon
was not sure if it was this vulnerable sight or the boy lord's quiet obedience
which tantalised him so.
He turned towards the wardrobe and quickly found what he was looking for. Most
of the clothes had been packed, naturally, but some outfits still remained,
ones deemed too heavy for the warmer south, and a lighter one which by the
looks of it hadn't been washed yet. It sat loosely on his skin; he was almost
as tall as his warden, but Lord Stark was a much heavier, wider man. No matter,
Robb doesn't need to see, just needs to let go.He sat on the bed, legs slightly
spread inside that unfamiliar wrapping of another man's wool. Robb knelt
motionlessly, as if deep in prayer, the lines of his half-visible face still
taut. Theon cupped his cheek gently, and the boy startled.
"Didn't hear you coming," he said.
"You're tired," Theon told him, his thumb brushing the side of his lips. "You
should rest." He pulled him closer, laid his head between his knees, his nose
almost touching his cock through the foreign wool. Robb sighed, his tired lines
slightly loosened. He took a deep breath, then froze again.
"What is it, lad?" Theon asked him, twisted his fingers in his reddish curls.
"Father," Robb whispered.
"Yes. His clothes."
"You can't –" Robb started, that new lordly voice of his, but then he inhaled
deeply again. "Gods, I wish he were here."
"Pretend that he is."
For Theon, even the slightest smell reminiscent of his childhood was interwoven
with a piercing anxiety. Back home it was better to be ignored, since Lord
Greyjoy's attentions usually meant humiliation, or worse, a thrashing. He
couldn't quite comprehend how the scent of his lord father's clothes had such a
soothing effect on Robb, but soothed him it did. The boy moved his cheek on the
wool, his tight mouth slackened, and Theon thought of him as he first saw him
at five years old, a loud and cheerful child, clashing wooden swords with his
bastard brother, climbing onto his father's knees at the dinner table. Robb
respected his father greatly, admired him even, but he'd never, not for once,
feared him, and Theon would've been envious if he were capable to even
understand that.
And mayhaps Robb was pretending, deceiving himself into thinking he was on his
knees, half-nude and blindfolded, with his face buried in his lord father's
lap. A jarring thought, no doubt, but if the Starks saw it fit to let Robb play
as his brother's mother, then surely Theon could play as his father for one
night (And any nights to come. I'll be anything he needs, here in Winterfell
and anywhere else he'd agree to follow.)
Robb's breath grew steadier, his face calmer. "Feels like home," he eventually
mumbled.
Never for me. But tonight, we both pretend. "Give me your hand," he told Robb.
He did, ever so compliant, and Theon kissed each finger before he took the
middle one into his mouth, gave it such a deep suck that the boy shuddered on
his knees. He added another finger and tried to imagine what Robb's eyes looked
like under the cover of his breeches, have they yet reached that deep shade of
moist blue, that ocean Theon hadn't seen for almost ten years? Lord Stark had
never taken him on rides to the seaside, as if afraid the salty winds would
needlessly remind Theon of his home. His warden hadn't known the only sea he
should've kept hidden was the burning blue of his son's eyes.
When both fingers were well wet, he released them, tousled Robb's curls. "Put
them inside you," he told him. Robb twitched, slightly whimpered, but his hand
moved down. Obediently, so obediently. A little boy following his father's
orders. He could see Robb's hand over his ass, bending between his boots, and
felt the exact moment he slipped one of his fingers inside him. His body rocked
forward, his blindfolded brow pushed against Theon's cock, now pulsing and so
stiff just from the thought of the little Stark slowly fingering himself.
"Both of them, Robb," he told him, and the boy nodded, let out a hiss as his
arm, twisted over his back, moved down. His other hand rose from the floor,
grasped Theon's knee to better support himself, and that closeness almost
pushed Theon much farther than he was willing to go just yet. He unlaced Lord
Stark's breeches, pulled his cock out and rubbed it over Robb's lips. The boy
moaned, surprised, and spread his mouth to take him in.
"No, not yet," Theon told him. "I want to see you fucked first."
And he couldn't see it all from where he was seated, but it didn't matter, not
really; he saw all he needed to by Robb's reddened cheeks, his teeth over his
bottom lip, his huffed breath. His head bobbed, grinding harder against Theon's
cock, his mouth stroking it each time he swayed forward. Theon imagined how his
fingers were buried inside him, curling, sinking deeper, and he couldn't bear
to wait any longer.
"Open up," he rasped, "right now." And Robb (so fucking obediently) did. He
wrapped his mouth over his cock, took him almost halfway in before he gagged,
his fingers tightened over Theon's knee; he pulled back, dove in again. "Just
like that," Theon muttered. "Good little boy." Robb's hair fell in sweaty,
unruly curls over his blindfold, and Theon gathered those messy locks in his
hands, used them to pull Robb's head up, then to slide him back down, until the
boy coughed, gasped for breath. And if there were tears in his eyes, well,
Theon couldn't see it, and if he was pleading for him to slow down, well, Theon
couldn't hear it (It's all for Robb, that's what he needs. Let go, lose
control, just be a boy, my boy.) And that feeling, sitting on his warden's bed,
wearing his clothes, fucking his firstborn's mouth, it was a pleasure he wanted
to last forever.
And we could, truly could. So fucking obedient, wouldn't he go one step
further?
"Robb, Robb." He thrust into his mouth. "It doesn't have to be like this. This
castle, your half-dead family, this snow and cold." He gripped his hair harder,
drew him down until his lips dragged near the base of his length. "We could get
away. Do you hear me? Far away. Where it's sunny and warm and you don't have to
worry anymore."
Robb's hand dropped from his knee in that maddened pace set for him, and now he
was entirely guided by Theon's hands in his hair. "Understand? They've left
you. Why should you care?" And he couldn't see the little Stark's reaction,
couldn't see that searing blue, but Robb wriggled his hand to his front to
touch himself, and his mouth was so pliant, so soft. "Don't you want to see the
Titan of Braavos? To walk the streets of Old Volantis?" His next shove brought
Robb's nose against his navel. "We could sail to the Jade Sea. Just like my
uncle. Don't you want to? Robb?" And he knew how desperate he sounded, those
pleas, those words, but they could, truly could, just walk up and leave this
drearily cold castle, up on their horses and never, ever look back… No Starks,
no Greyjoys, just us…
He held Robb firmly pressed against his stomach, yanked hard on his hair as he
spent himself inside his mouth. "We could," he told him, voice hoarse. "Even
tonight." The boy squirmed, nearly choked, but his hand was still a tight
circle around his own cock. Theon felt the quiver of Robb's moan as hot seed
filled his mouth, as he convulsed around his own fingers deep in his ass, as
his cheeks flushed brighter and his body sagged down.
"Don't you want to?" Theon whispered. Robb's head slumped on his knees, and he
had to look in his eyes, to finally see that blue, to make sure that this
wasn't just another stolen, sweet moment in an endless winter. He tugged on the
blindfold, untied the knot in one pull, and the breeches fell down to the
carpet. Robb's eyes were wet where his tears hadn't soaked into fabric, and the
blue – no, not that burning storm of late, not that tranquil sea of a simpler
time – it was an ice sheet, grave and solemn, enough to make Theon's blood
freeze. Not mine, never was. His father's son. Family, honour. And duty. The
boy was silent as they stared at each other for a long moment.
"Gods," Robb finally mumbled. "You're serious."
"What if I am?" Theon asked. He pulled Robb up into his arms, cradled him in
his lap, still wiped his tears as they lay back on the mattress between the
dusty furs.
But the boy lord just shook his head. "Let us never speak of it again," he
said.
And Theon had exposed too much, couldn't deny his carelessly suppliant words,
couldn't jape his way out of this. Nor could he dream of white-masted ships and
distant free cities when this cage (these frozen walls, this empty castle, Lady
Stark's madness, little Rickon's wails) was all that they would ever have. Robb
would allow himself to forget for a night, would drown his abandonment in sweet
words and rough fucks, but he couldn't leave, would never leave. And when their
lips touched, lying embraced in Lord Stark's deserted bed, his kiss was
shallow, almost hesitant. Because he now knew duty meant naught to Theon.
Because he knew Theon would gladly throw all honour into the wind.
Because Robb was starting to suspect who Theon really was.
***** L'Eclisse *****
Chapter Summary
     In which Theon would rather take freedom than smoking arenas.
Chapter Notes
     Major cheers to SharpestKnife for a once again wonderful beta, and
     for bearing so bravely with the darkness and total delusion of this
     all. Love you! <3
Robb barely laughed anymore.
He sat cross-legged by the bonfire, his thick fur cloak wound tightly about
him. His eyes darkened, as if the world reflected was as black as the night
skies above. Theon poured them more wine, making certain to add those drops
into Robb's cup while the boy averted his gaze to the burning logs. Deep in the
woods, nearly half a day's ride from Winterfell, they were hidden from any
prying eyes, and so he let his hand glide around Robb's back as he handed him
his drink.
"Tomorrow," Robb said. "Overmorrow the latest. They'll all come."
"Do you worry?" Theon asked.
Robb shrugged. It'd been a good hunting day, their bounty had been plentiful,
but now his face grew troubled yet again. "I'd be a fool not to." He swished
the wine to and fro inside his cup. Come on, lad, drink. "These are grown men,
lords of the North. Would they even listen to me?"
Theon could not blame him for his doubts. Calling the banners was easy,too
easy. They'd leant by the solar window and watched the ravens fly over the
ramparts of Winterfell, bearing Robb's commands and the horns of war to the
four corners of the North. It was a beautiful sight, tinted even more striking
by the colours of sunset, and Theon touched his lips to Robb's, tasting his
fear, his heart surging for that brave boy who'd become a lord almost
overnight.
He'd thought the prospect of war would thrill him. After all, he loved nothing
better than a daring conquest and he'd been prodding Robb for retribution ever
since the Kingslayer raised his sword against Lord Stark. But war, he'd soon
discovered, was quite a different affair than cajoling a timid maiden to submit
to his will. As the lords started trickling into the castle, rugged men and
women thirsty for Lannister blood, he'd found nothing but dread inside him.
This was real, all too real: the bannermen's arguments, their loud shouts,
Robb's hard glares as his fingers tensed through his direwolf's fur, and how
he'd drifted further away each day. Theon hadn't seen him happy, not once,
since little Bran rode his horse for the first time after his fall (Then: the
wildlings, my lucky arrow. He had tucked the memory deep away. Because gods, I
deserved some gratitude. Or at least a smile.)
"Aye, they'll listen," Theon said softly. "They are sworn to protect your house
and your father. You'll do fine. You're a Stark."
Robb frowned. "I'm a fifteen-year-old Stark." He dipped his finger into the
wine, put it to his mouth and sucked on it slowly, his lips closing over skin
and liquor. The gesture was hardly teasing; it was more like a child slyly
tasting from his father's cup at dinner, and yet Theon found himself mesmerised
by that tight red mouth, those lips chapped by biting cold and absentminded
teeth. Drink, Robb, drink already.
"You're a man grown," he said. "How old was your own father when he rose
against the Targaryens? And King Robert? Not much older than you." They were
still young at the Greyjoy Rebellion, when they'd squashed Theon's house to
ashes. And now the King was dead, Lord Stark in chains, but it was better not
to mention all that. Robb had enough to worry about as it was. He had even been
disinclined to go on this hunting ride; he kept spewing words of his duties,
his bannermen, stock lists. And when he finally conceded that the castle could
endure without him for one night, he dared to suggest that they would ride
through the villages, check their defences (Theon cut his words short, almost
too harshly. No, he said. Just us. No villages, no defence lines, no fucking
inventories. For one night, you'll be just mine.)
"I suppose," Robb sighed and finally raised the cup to his lips, took a hefty
sip. Theon observed him silently as he drained the wine. He'd put just enough
milk of the poppy, he was sure. Maester Luwin had applied the same dosage for
Lady Stark, back in the days of her delirium. Theon watched him do it a hundred
times, stood at the doorsill as Robb fed the white concoction to his lady
mother; her eyes would then reluctantly flutter into a dreamless sleep, away
from her broken son. Robb was by now taller than his mother, far wider, but
Theon dared not increase the dose. It'll be fine, he told himself. All I need
is an hour or two, nothing more.
The effect was immediate, almost alarmingly so. Robb yawned, laid his head on
Theon's shoulder. The cup fell from his hand, some leftover wine spilling on
the cold earth. "I'm so tired," he said.
"It's been a long day," Theon said, his heart beating faster as the moment
approached. "Let us go inside." He draped his arm around Robb, pulled him up
and led him into the small, makeshift tent they'd built when they'd made their
camp. The boy dropped, heavy as stone, over the bedroll and the furs.
"Want to –" he mumbled. "With me, first?" And usually Theon wouldn't have
passed on an opportunity to take his pleasure with Robb, to anchor him firmly
under the cover of stars and plunge into him. But tonight was different. And
after tonight, everything will be different.
"Later," he said, knelt by the tent's entrance. "Just rest for now."
Robb gave him a smile then, a wan little smile. "Theon, I don't –" he
whispered. "Don't want to fall asleep alone."
Theon nodded, crawled behind Robb and tucked the drowsy boy under the furs,
against his chest. He wrapped his arms tenderly around him, touched his lips to
his cheek. "You never will," he promised him quietly. "Not as long as I'm
here."
But Robb was already out cold.
That must have been the most peaceful Theon had seen him for too long a time.
His face calmed, cleared of trouble, with eyes shut tight and breath steady.
Theon would've liked to stay and watch him, wanted to slowly stroke his hair,
to scatter kisses on his neck, but he had much to organise and precious little
time to do so. With a sigh he released Robb from his embrace and went back into
the cold night.
He'd decided to leave the camp mostly as it was, to let the fire burn itself
out, the tent fall under the harsh wind. It was better; their pursuers would
imagine a wildling attack, perhaps wild beasts. Theon felt pride swelling
inside of him as he readied the horses, secured the travelling supplies to the
back of Robb's palfrey, then tied its leash to his own brown gelding. It was
truly a flawless plan. Robb would have to be subdued at first, there was no way
around it, but that's where the milk of the poppy would come in handy, and
while the boy might (surely will) be angry, he would soon see the sense of
Theon's plan. Just like that lucky arrow. I was right, I was. I saved the
whelp's life. I deserved a smile. He'll come around to see that, he must.
He was somewhat concerned about the direwolf, who had skulked off to his hunt
earlier. Drugging him was out of question, the beast was too heavy to be
carried. It didn’t really matter, Theon finally decided. Grey Wind was fiercely
protective of Robb, but always docile towards Theon (Quite like his master.) As
long as Theon wasn't aggressive – and he had no intention of hurting the boy,
never – he expected the direwolf would cause no trouble. The beast would follow
us, that's all. It'll be fine.When all was ready, he checked again on Robb. It
was time to tie him up and mount him on the horse, but everything had been
going so smoothly, Theon figured he was entitled to a rest before the entire
ordeal began. He knew he was doing what must be done, but he craved a few soft
kisses while Robb still bore him no ill thoughts.
"Robb?" he whispered, lay on the furs beside the boy, so close that Robb's
tousled curls tickled his skin. He sniffed the wine on his breath when he
touched his lips. This kiss felt quite different than kissing him in his sleep;
Robb was entirely irresponsive, as lifeless as a ragdoll, so heavily he was
drugged. He was warm enough, however. Theon pressed their bodies together, and
when his cock brushed on the boy's leg, it stiffened at once.
Well, he did offer, didn't he? He shouldn't feel guilty for it, Robb had always
let him do as he pleased, awake or asleep. At times he'd leave his bedchamber's
door unbarred for Theon to take him by surprise in the dark of night. Surely
sedated wasn't much worse than asleep, and he'd be so soft, so loose, the
thought itself was stirring. Later, in Braavos or Lys, I can confess to him
about it. And we'll laugh, how we'll laugh.
"Truly helpless to stop me now, aren't you?" Theon mumbled in his ear. He
kissed him again, his palm cupping his chin, his other hand slithering under
his tunic, through ties and fabric, to cling to his feverishly warm skin. "I'm
going to touch you." He unlaced the little Stark's breeches in one hard pull,
then his own. "Wherever I wish." He planned to turn him around, but the heat of
his flaccid body was so intoxicating against his cock. "Hells, I'll fuck you,
just like this. You wouldn't even notice." His hand slipped down to his waist,
clutched it as he rubbed faster against him. "Or maybe I'll just spend my seed
all over you," he panted, fingers tightening around Robb's jaw. "Make you taste
it. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Milk of the poppy, ah, Robb –?"
But then his words shattered in his mouth, he halted on spot. Robb's eyes were
opened, staring at him, a murky blue of alarm and distress, and this was not
supposed to happen.
Robb heaved, broke into a fit of coughs, then shakily crawled out of the tent.
By the time Theon regained control of his senses, the boy was already halfway
outside. He gagged, fell down on the cold earth. "Theon –" he uttered a choked
sob. "I feel sick, I feel sick."
Theon put his arms back on Robb's waist to steady him. "What's the matter?" he
asked. Mayhaps I've put too much, gods help me, I've poisoned him.
"Feel sick –" And Robb heaved again, retched on the frozen ground between
coughs and sniffs. His limbs trembled madly, his unlaced breeches slid down to
his knees, and he dropped on his elbows, vomited again. His bile was thin, pale
red in colour, with bits of undigested food, but it smelled of poppies. He's
poisoned, he's dying, he'll die on me, it's on me. Theon nearly lost himself to
a sweltering panic clouding his thoughts. He had every little detail planned,
everything but this; his hands felt weak and useless holding on to Robb while
his vomit ran down his chin. Poisoned. Dying. A flash of memory resurfaced:
Maester Luwin, his wrinkled old face, tedious lessons in his tower. Theon
hadn't been listening, been wistfully watching the archery range below. What
was it the Maester had said?Poison, it spreads faster when you move.
"Lie down," Theon said.
"Sick – so sick." The boy's cheeks were wet with tears, his coughs wouldn't
stop.
"Hush now." Theon rolled him flat on his back, pinned him down with firm hands
on his shoulders. "Don't move. It's important that you don't move. Understand?"
Robb's eyes were hazy, wide with incomprehension. "What – what's wrong with
me?" he whispered.
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong." Theon said. Gods, please, don't make this a lie. He
moved to straddle the boy, careful not to apply too much pressure, just enough
to ease the spasms of his legs. "You shouldn't move, that's all. I've put milk
of the poppy in your wine."
"You – what?"
"Milk of the poppy," he repeated, but the boy still blearily gaped at him, his
body jittering under his weight. "Drugged you. Put you to sleep. When you feel
better, we shall leave."
"You. Are you," Robb mumbled. "Taking me a hostage. To Pyke?"
"What? No." Theon found himself perplexed. Throughout his plans, even the
maddest of them (Qarth, the city of wizards, and the jungles of Sothoryos), he
had never considered whisking the little Stark as spoils of war back to the
Iron Islands. It hurt that Robb would even think that of him. Doesn't he know
I'm doing it all for him? Never for me, never for my family. Just him. "We'll
get away, both of us. Far across the sea."
"You can't –" Robb coughed yet again, his chest jerking so violently Theon
almost tipped over. "Can't do that."
"I can," he said, lifted the boy's head a bit upwards to help his breathing.
"And I will." He kept gently caressing Robb's curls until the coughing fit
faded and the body underneath him calmed. "It'll all be fine, trust me."
"Please," Robb said quietly. "Let us go back to Winterfell. I won't punish you,
I swear."
"Punish me?" Theon asked, incredulous. "You're in no position to even do that."
While it was well within his rights as the lord of Winterfell, Robb had never
dared to, not even after that lucky arrow, when he'd threatened to use him as a
practice target for little Bran. At least Robb was able to form a complete
sentence; his breath wasn't as shallow, the colour returned to his cheeks. He's
fine, won't die. I'll save him just like I've saved his brother. "You'll see,"
he said. "It's for the best."
"Stop this now and I'll forgive you, I promise," Robb kept on. "We'll forget
all about this madness. Theon, please."
"Enough, lad, don't tire yourself," Theon told him. "We've got a long ride
ahead of us." He reached for the backpack by the tent, felt Robb's dazed eyes
following his movements. He pulled out the rope he'd left inside it. He'd
planned to do that while Robb was still sedated, didn't like the thought of
tying up the boy while he was begging and pleading, but he had to, it needed to
be done, it was important that he incapacitated him while he was yet weak. Only
when he looked back, he felt his stomach churn; Robb was utterly still, eyes
scrunched as if in deep concentration, but his limbs were slack and motionless.
Theon crouched closer, but couldn't feel his breath, couldn't sense the beat of
his heart.
"Robb?" He shook the limp body once, then again, harder. "What happened?" His
mind was again flooded with overwhelming panic; he thought of slapping him,
splashing him with water, anything just to wake him up. "Answer me, gods, Robb
–"
The beast took him by surprise.
Grey Wind pounced on him from the shadows of the thick woods, rammed onto his
back and threw him off Robb. Theon's back thumped on the frozen earth, the air
knocked out of him, his brow crashing on a jagged rock in his fall, and for a
moment he saw nothing but darkness. Then, slowly, the world began to clear:
black skies, night stars above, the giant direwolf unbearably heavy on his
chest, and his sharp fangs, the stench of his mouth just inches away.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see Robb slowly rising up to sit, wiping
his face with his shaking hands. His gaze wandered down; he dazedly passed his
fingers over his body, most likely only now realising that he was half
undressed. He panted heavily, eyes aghast, then reached to stroke the beast's
fur. "Good boy," he mumbled. "You came." And Theon had never felt so helpless,
pinned down by that direwolf's huge paws, watching Robb as he gradually
collected himself, wordlessly awaiting the boy lord's judgement.
It seemed to last a lifetime: that silence, the beast's muzzle at his face, and
the crushing weight of failure. When Robb finally spoke, his voice was flat.
"You're an idiot, Greyjoy," he said. "Milk of the poppy should never be mixed
with liquor. Didn't you know that?" Without waiting for an answer, he
continued: "You drugged me. Planned to abduct me. Gods, tried to fuck me while
I was passed out. Just dare to deny it."
Theon shook his head. He was past denying, and his resentment and despair
choked him even worse than the direwolf's weight. "You're hardly a maiden,
Stark," he spat.
Robb chewed on his lips, hard; his eyes narrowed, his composed face now burned
with fury. "Aren't I?" he quietly asked. "Grey Wind, release him." The beast
left his chest and moved to crouch beside his master, and Theon could at last
find his breath, felt sudden relief wash over him. Is that all? Does he finally
get it? Does he understand it's all for him? But then Robb added: "If he moves,
tear his throat out."
Grey Wind yowled softly, putting away any doubt of his understanding of the
command, and Theon recalled with a shudder those wildlings, arms chewed off
their bodies, the horror on their faces, and how they'd screamed. And so when
Robb came to him, knelt between his legs, ordered him – "breeches down,
Greyjoy, spread your legs" – he obeyed without protest.
Theon had never let Robb do that, hadn't even considered it; he was the
Ironborn, meant to seize the whimpering little Stark. Part of the intense
pleasure of it all was asserting his possession over the boy lord of
Winterfell. But now it was Robb who bent over him, his furious face so close.
It was Robb who placed one hand on his shoulder, his eyes fiery with rage, and
put the other by Theon's mouth.
"Spit," he commanded.
Theon tried to jerk away, but the beast stirred and laid his paw over his
chest, holding him down. I won't beg. He spat into Robb's palm. An Ironborn
doesn't beg.Robb reached between his own legs, hand still shaky, and rubbed the
spittle on his cock, stroking his length until it began to harden. Let him do
that, but I won't beg. Then Robb's hand was on his ass, spreading him in one
harsh movement; his cock, slick with saliva, poked against his entrance.
"That'll hurt," Robb said.
At the first shove, Theon kept his resolution. He didn't beg, but he almost
screamed. He coiled his hands into tight fists, nails digging into flesh. The
pain was nearly blinding. He let out another stifled moan as he felt Robb
slowly pushing into him.
"Yes, hurts, doesn't it?" Robb panted, his hand burrowing into Theon's
shoulder. "You've never told me how badly it'd hurt. I was just a child, you
sick fuck."
"You liked that well enough," Theon hissed through gritted teeth. "Little
whore."
Robb pushed harder. "Who's the whore now, Greyjoy?"
"At least I'm not a deviant," Theon said, struggling to lace as much poison in
his words, so he wouldn't feel that agony tearing him apart with each thrust.
"I've been with girls. Many girls. You –" He grunted with pain as the head of
Robb's cock finally breached in. "You've only ever been with me. That's sick."
Robb pulled out, almost completely, thrust inside again, and Theon's eyes
gushed with tears. "You pretended to suck your own father, Stark. And how you
enjoyed that. Did your daddy –"
"Don't dare to talk of my lord father." Both boy and wolf growled, and Robb
slammed into him forcefully, buried himself whole inside of him in one hard
shove. "Never."
And Theon cried earnestly now, he must have. He lurched and writhed; pine
needles and rocks cut into his back, and the beast's paw bore heavier on him.
"Robb –" he mumbled, turned his face to the cold earth. I won't beg.
"Look at me," Robb ordered, his left hand settled on Theon's cheek, tilted it
towards him, fingers wiping the tears off his eyes. "What was your clever plan,
Greyjoy? Tell me."
"Take you away."
"Where?"
"The seaside, a harbour. Sail off to Braavos at first." His words were broken,
interwoven with pitiful moans. "Be free. Never look back. Robb –" No, no
pleading.
"How did you intend to pay for passage?" Robb's moves grew faster, a terrible,
furious pace. "With what coin?"
"Our jewellery, clothes, horses. Whatever it took."
"And you thought I'd just agree?"
"Milk of the poppy," Theon grunted. "Keep you sedated, tied under your cloak.
I'd have made you happy, Robb. You're just a boy. You said so, a fifteen-year-
old Stark. You should not be waging war, you should be happy –"
"What about my father?" Robb snarled, the beast right along with him. "My
family?"
"Fuck your father, fuck your family." Theon looked him in the eye. And somehow
Robb seemed more handsome than ever like this, with his face flushed with
effort, slamming roughly into him, his ruffled hair glowing red by the
bonfire's dying embers, moonbeams shadowing the searing blue of his eyes. Theon
sent his hand to stroke Robb's cheek. "It was all for you," he said.
"Don't touch me." Robb edged even deeper, but his voice broke, his lips
wobbled. "Don't you dare touch me."
Theon did nonetheless, and now they were both holding each other's faces. "All
for you," he repeated.
"For me? You've truly lost your mind," Robb hissed. "I'm going to fuck you
until you scream, Greyjoy, until they hear you in Winterfell. I'll spend myself
all over you. So you remember your place. I am your lord." Grey Wind howled
along with Robb's thrusts, rapidly growing frantic as his eyes lost focus, as
he drew nearer. "Say it," he commanded. "Say it!"
"My lord," Theon whispered back.
"I am. Never forget that." Robb pulled out, his moan hoarse and desperate; his
seed spurted pearly white all over Theon's skin and tunic, a last gush right on
his mouth and on Robb's fingers clamping his chin. For a long moment they
stayed like this, frozen in place, muscles taut and eyes locked on one another,
and then Robb collapsed, buckled to Theon's chest, began to cough.
Grey Wind scuttled to his master and licked his face, slowly and gently, while
Theon still lay dazed, pulled on the sleeve of his tunic to clean his face of
tears and semen. He could feel every jerk of Robb's body, every pained sob he
was trying to swallow.
"Robb," he said, laid his hand on the boy's curls.
Robb didn't push him away; he lifted his head, his skin gleaming wet with his
direwolf's drool and hot tears. "Why, Theon? Why?" he wept. "You were the only
good thing I had."
"I wanted to save you," Theon quietly said.
"You can't," Robb mumbled. "Don't you see? No one can."
At the break of dawn they dismantled their camp, mounted their horses and set
for the long journey to Winterfell. They chattered, raced each other down the
rolling green hills, and neither of them mentioned what'd happened under the
blanket of night stars. Back at the castle, more lords would await them, with
revenge smouldering in their wild eyes. And Robb would do fine. He was a Stark,
after all. At midday they stopped at a stream to strip and wash their dirtied
clothes, and Theon wrestled Robb down by the tall grass, tickled him until he
laughed. The boy let him slide his mouth between his legs and suck him until he
spilled into his mouth, but when Theon rose to kiss him, Robb turned his head
aside. Because he now knew Theon was as bad as any Ironborn, a true reaver.
Because he knew Theon would seize what he wanted regardless of the
consequences.
Because now Robb knew exactly who Theon was. 
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