Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/835395.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Robb_Stark, Robb_Stark/Jon_Snow
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Robb_Stark
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-09 Words: 6337
****** To Drive the Cold Winter Away ******
by inseparable
Summary
     One man is dead and direwolves travel south of the Wall. By firelight
     and furs, Robb and Jon rendezvous.
Notes
     Robb and Jon are approximately 14 years old.
"Do you think it's true, then? What the man executed today said about the White
Walkers?"
Stripping off leather tunic and heavy woolen trews, chill-cramped fingers only
getting caught up in the fiddly laces of his undershirt once instead of the
usual half dozen or so, Robb dropped everything in a neglectful pile beside the
bed. Stone less inviting than the grave greeted his feet and wriggling toes
once thick hose were removed, causing goosebumps to rise up on pale, freckly
skin.
Getting no immediate response, only silence that bumped against the very walls
around them, Robb paused undressing and spared a glance over his shoulder.
Seated at the little writing table that comprised exactly half of the furniture
in the sparse living quarters was Jon Snow. Brooding again, no doubt. Like a
swordmaster slicing the air with the dancing force of his swings, an archer
skillfully drawing a bow or a bronzesmith sweating in front of a forge as
hammer connected over and over, Jon made mental anguish a true artform.
Something Robb - himself bright and lively as Jon was dark and serious - could
hardly understand.
Situated at the far end of the castle, away from the main hub of operations,
Jon's room was seldom anything but a dim, shadowy place. The sun hardly visited
this side of the world, except on the rare times at midsummer, when bright
yellow striations gaily painted the floor. Oak logs burning in the hearth
coupled with Robb's presence were the only things that ever truly seemed to cut
the gloom. Robb didn’t mind it all that much; he cared little for the
surroundings, only the person that occupied the small space. So long as Jon
allowed him in, he would continue sneaking over under the cover of darkness
until the fateful day finally arrived when he became lord and master. Warden of
the North, many would argue his choice, but none would be able to sway him.
As far as he was concerned Jon was staying put.
Forever.
Smallclothes the very last thing to go, Robb took a moment to stretch. Barely
more than a boy, his lean, coltish muscles and tendons popped with the effort
of rotating neck and shoulders gone all stiff from too many hours spent in the
saddle. The day had been a long, eventful one, to be sure. Hunting down and
delivering swift, northern justice to a bedraggled deserter from the Night’s
Watch had started it off. Then they’d come across that dead direwolf bitch and
her litter. Six healthy pups in all.
Incredible, he thought as he slid under a mountain of furs, a soft grunt of
contentment escaping his lips as he burrowed and snuggled his way into the
exact spot on the feather tick that he always claimed as his own. Direwolves
this far south of the Wall. I still can’t believe it.
Now if only Jon would join him things would be infinitely better all round.
Often, Robb talked and blathered through elongated silences while Jon quietly
listened and mulled over his response. Thinking served a sturdy tool; never
saying anything he'd later regret, he took lesson born of all the times he'd
thought too little, opening pouty lips and expressing unfiltered words which
came prematurely to palate. Too many people functioned forgetting to apply mind
to voice and he held himself to a higher standard, determined not to repeat
mistakes time and again.
Jon mostly balanced the act well enough and in Robb's presence his prolonged
silence was often accepted. Two young lads understanding one another in every
aspect, down to definition of callouses hard won from swinging sword now
applied to exploring each other’s bodies, young men matured from boyhood. Other
times, like tonight, Jon recognised when he'd completely forgotten to respond.
Lost in thought, the quiet stretched beyond measure until not even Robb could
think of anything to say, patiently waiting for Jon to pick up slacked ends of
conversation.
For a time, Jon continued to sit at his desk and stare mutely down at the two
fluff balls curled nose to tail by the hearth.
Light and dark smoky grey furs covered Robb’s pup, colours varied as the
granite stones upon which both direwolves slept. Brothers nestled in tight and
warm, Jon’s own pup was white, albino runt of the litter with haunting eyes
eerily reminiscent of the sacred weirwoods worshipped prominently by their
pledged bannermen.
The wee pup had made exactly one tiny squeak since their execution party first
discovered the litter that afternoon. All five of its brothers and sisters
already bundled safely into human arms ready for the trek back to Winterfell,
Jon stopped dead in his tracks. A single, shrill yap pleading Take me too, Jon
Snow. Runted white pup stuck in the twisted bramble, he plucked the poor beast
up by the scruff.
Ghost, Jon named him then, claiming the pup as his own, For that is what he is.
The ghost of a direwolf, so very small, so very quiet.
The wild beasts seemed to understand their situation on a level which made Jon
sit slightly stiffer in the saddle during their ride back to the Great Keep.
Their mother was dead, a stag's antler driven through her heart as an archer's
arrow playing at bionic buck. The significance of which Jon refused to touch
with a nine foot spear, too concerned already with the symbolism of five
coloured and whimpering pups followed by one silent as the grave. That pup, his
familiar, belonged much further north than the others where a pure coat was
prized amongst the ice and ageless snowbanks present through winter, spring,
summer and autumn.
In Winterfell, Ghost was as much the wandering outcast as Jon. Such a
frightening coincidence could not by definition be; there was simply more to it
than that, though Jon had not yet put his stubby finger on a summary of
concerns.
"What if yours cries out?" he replied suddenly, voice almost too quiet to hear
above the crackling of last year's firewood. "Someone could hear and come
looking. White Walkers real or not will be the least of our troubles then."
Eyes still locked on bonded littermates, Jon avoided Robb’s, knowing they would
be latched to the back of his head from beneath piles of soft pelts. Those were
eyes he could not look into without caving. Even watching the two impossibly
small wolf pups, chests rising and falling rapidly all budged up together the
way he wanted to be budged up to Robb was easier temptation to behold than face
his lover’s lordly gaze.
Like it or not, they played a dangerous game; highborn yet powerless, not a
single soul in the whole of the castle would take kindly to discovering the
heir to Winterfell in his chambers.
"Grey Wind knows better," was Robb's all-knowing, all-seeing reply only a
cocksure teenager would give and actually believe to be absolutely, unfailingly
true.
Grey Wind. Already quite the title to live up to, much like the title its
auburn-haired owner possesed. Fleet of foot, strong and unforgiving as the
winter gales, the name conjured up from out of nowhere it seemed. No rhyme or
reason behind how Robb had come by it, only that when he'd held the squirming
bundle in his arms, and their matching light eyes caught and held, Robb simply
knew.
The direwolf told me so.
"Besides," he added, curling an arm under his head to prop himself up and to
better view Jon's silhouette against the golden firelight. "He's got a fully
belly and warm place to nap. Ghost will keep him company..."
Growing more and more impatient the longer Jon sat and stewed, Robb twiddled
his fingers amongst the short, plush strands of fur. Twisting and threading
elk, wolf and reindeer pelts until that got boring and his hand delved under
the covers. Typical of his age, Robb was always randy, always ready to go, and
it only took a few lazy pulls to get his prick standing at attention.
"Are you just going to sit there all night and freeze or are you coming to
bed?"
They'd gone over this at least a hundred times already, and Robb had a
completely justifiable excuse why he would be locked in Jon's quarters after
hours. Well, two, really.
The cold was the first. Often on chillier evenings - those were coming more and
more frequently of late - the boys would sleep two, sometimes three a-bed to
keep warm. Usually Theon ended up being the odd fellow with Robb situated in
the middle. Giving off much-coveted extra warmth in slow, rolling waves, Robb
was the prize heated bedstone to snuggle up against in the castle. Those were
the nights he hated the most, though. Father's ward snored too damn loud and
Jon always ended up even more tight-lipped and mopey than usual.
Why? Because they really couldn't get away with much. So close and yet so far.
A few stolen kisses and, if the gods happened to be listening to their silent
plea, palming each other through sex damp smallclothes to a quick release.
Hearts thumped wildly in their chests at the thrill of possibly getting caught
on those long, agonizing nights. Any moment the snoring might stop and all
would be lost. Theon dearly loved holding information over people - especially
Jon Snow. His most favorite target of all.
The second was a bit more far-fetched but still entirely plausible.
Alcohol. And imbibing too much of it.
Verbal whipping delivered, Jon stirred from his reverie. Let go of it all he
told himself, Forget the world outside these walls because he's righthere,
inyourbed.
All day long, anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms, Robb belonged to duty. Heir
to the Warden of the North, a treasured little lord by family and subjects.
Son, brother, student, master; so many roles Robb fulfilled for all of
Winterfell but there alone in Jon's chambers they belonged wholly to one
another. Curious lovers, mine and yours; the way Jon wanted things to stay with
every last childish hope of a summer grown boy.
Of any lesson learned from the day’s events it was that the future held
uncertainty. A madman might see White Walkers and trade his life for proof.
Direwolves could wander too far south and be brought down by fate. Neither the
old gods nor the Seven knew what tomorrow would bring - and if they did they
played a cruel game keeping mum - but tonight by firelight and furs the world
belonged to young lovers.
Standing and tucking oaken chair beneath writing desk, Jon crossed his chambers
to perch on the edge of the feathered bed, back to Robb straight and stiff.
"Unloose me," he instructed, the one and only time Jon ever gave Robb a
command. Squires turned away on nights when boys would pretend to be men
beneath the sheets, helping hands required to peel away thick leather, wool and
linen to expose appetizing flesh below.
When Jon felt the laces of his jerkin give he helped to shed dusty leather
outerwear, revealing a ladder of buckles and straps to be worked through next.
Neck to waist, Robb’s fingers flew expertly, now warmed by body and bed. Off
came the quilted linen gambeson, then wool cotte tugged over unkempt curls
leaving Jon in a simple linen shirt and joined woolen hose. Layers, the key to
survival this far north of the Trident.
Much as Robb was always eager to help, particularly with gusset fastenings, Jon
was fully able to attend matters alone from here on.
"I can do this part," he insisted, gripping Robb by the wrist and uncurling too
bold fingers.
Standing again Jon unlaced, moving quickly to gather all exterior garments and
lay them neatly over the back of the oak chair. Priceless clothes demanded
proper treatment, especially in the absence of tidy attendants. The only set he
owned - with exception of finer garments for feasts and ceremonies - unlike
Robb, Jon could not simply order more made because he'd been childish and left
his clothing to spoil on icy stone floors.
Neat and tidy back to bed, off came shirt and thigh-length braise, the only two
items unceremoniously shucked to the floor knowing in a few hours he'd reach
from beneath the furs to retrieve his modesty. Just in case Robb was wrong and
Grey Wind did howl in the night.
Shifting onto his side beneath a mound of pelts already made warm by the
occupying body, Jon reached forward and dutifully wrapped his hand around
Robb’s stiff cock, brown eyes finally locking on blue. Familiar rhythm
established immediately, no pretense, just exactly what each was there to
accomplish.
"Do you think Theon is jealous?" he wondered aloud, still squirming to get
comfortable. "Of the pups."
Sensing the uneasiness as well as he could read the myriad of other emotions
Jon hid so very thoroughly from everyone else, Robb slipped a leg over narrow
hip, inviting Jon further into the heated, welcoming space he'd created.
"He's a kraken, Jon," Robb gently reminded his ever-fretful bedmate. Alone and
finally naked as the day they were born - Robb down in Riverrun and Jon
somewhere in parts unknown - he could now shed the heavy mantle of highborn,
firstborn son and speak directly from the heart instead of his head. Calling
him Jon instead of Snow, denouncing shameful status with an easy fingertip
flick and replacing it with a far more important label.
Soulmate.
"The Ironborn have no love for things from the North. Salt brine and seawater
flow in their veins; not blood. You know it as well as I."
Jon and Theon mixed about as well as a jar of wildfire and a hot day in Dorne,
with equally as disastrous effects. The two often clashed over the most
piddling, insignificant things. Always the instigator, Theon knew exactly what
set Jon off, made him feel slighted and degraded him in ways that were truly
malicious. Relentless in his taunting, oftentimes Robb had to step in and break
them up. Play the role of the sensible mediator because that's what he'd been
told to do. 'Befriend Theon,' Father had commanded soon after his arrival.
'Make him feel welcome and show him the ways of the North.'
It had been that way from the very beginning. Sent to Winterfell as a
begrudging promise the Iron Islands would never attempt another uprising, House
Greyjoy had offered up a reedy, meddlesome boy as their pledge.
One rung further down the ladder went Jon. Another insult added to an already
long list.
"He's not one of us." Reassuring Jon at times like this had become as natural
as walking, breathing or wielding a sword at full gallop. As did the way their
bodies immediately synced; greedy fingers latching onto flesh and bone.
"He will never be one of us."
And neither will I...
They would pretend. Deny the truth until the very stones of Winterfell crumbled
away and hidden hot springs heating ancient walls flooded the inner courtyard.
Till White Walkers, giants and the Children of the Forest returned to living
memory; heart trees began speaking with voices of gods, the Wall melted and
winter ceased to come again. Ignoring truths to the ends of the Seven Kingdoms
and beyond the Narrow Sea would change exactly nothing.
Jon was as much one of them as Ghost was pigmented. A bastard of the North,
neither wolf nor kraken. Just ice and stone.
Legs tangled together in bed, Jon would argue nothing Robb proclaimed to be
fact. Glad to cling to the last vestiges of youth and procrastinate a finality
that would, despite stubborn insistence, eventually come to pass. Childish
games turned intimate and serious with only broken hearts and torn souls as
consolation prizes for a try well done.
Just one more night, he always chanted. After that you can turn him away but
one more night won't stop the sun from rising.
One turned to a week into months and years. Robb always asking for more and Jon
never finding the courage to turn him down because he wanted it too! Robb's
lips against his own, the splintery scratch of stable bedding or tree bark
slicing up tender skin as impatient hands and bodies fumbled, learned,
understood. To wake up not alone and feel for the only time in his short life
as if he truly belonged to something.
Jon may not have been nor ever could be one of them, but he was Robb's. Always,
forever and beyond. That much was fact. Dragons themselves could not char
Robb's name off his heart.
"Do you want just this tonight or that other thing?" Jon asked when Robb's
stormy eyes indicated he'd been too silent for too long yet again.
No further encouragement needed, Robb set about burying his fingers in midnight
black curls that were softer than goose down the same way he would soon bury
his cock deep inside Jon. That other thing as Jon called it, was exactly what
had him grinning from ear to ear. A bright, impish flash of teeth, reserved
only for the more tender moments that occurred between the two best friends and
now bonded lovers.
Time well spent discovering each other in the sacred godswood, down in the
crypts, the stables, up against the wall in a dusty, unused portion of
corridor, and more recently, Jon's chambers. Always in Jon's bed, never his
own. Jon never came to him, it was always the other way around. Robb was
forever chasing Jon, the ever-elusive stag bounding through the mists, always
just out of bowshot.
The hunt was what made it all the more enticing, though. A quick tumble with
one of the scullery maids or tagging along with Theon to the brothels never
interested him in the slightest. It was Jon's plump, inviting mouth Robb had
wanted to kiss from the very beginning - all tongues and teeth and completely
wanton - over and over again, knowing full well no mere touch from a woman
could ever elicit the same sort of reaction deep in his belly and beyond.
This is why he made the trek across the length of the castle at all speed night
after night, dressed in clothing hardly fitting for extreme temperatures.
Comfortable, less cumbersome attire free of any buckles and straps and
infinitely easier to get out of (and back into if the need arose). His cloak
had covered him, of course; warded off the dampness inherent in the ancient
stones. The heavy, voluminous folds made him near invisible. Only the oversized
fur collar - the one bit of show allowed in such harsh country - tawny and
absorbing the light until it matched his coppery locks singled Robb out in a
crowd.
"Did you find the present I left in your pocket?" his question a whispered sigh
against sparse stubble. Still grinning, Robb latched those strong teeth at the
base of Jon's throat, to worry and suck the flesh until a mark appeared.
Before the night was through he vowed to lay claim to every inch of Jon's body.
The sound of Jon whimpering and mewling as a young lamb might pure music to his
soul as he reveled in the hard, muscular angles and jutting hip bones more
inviting than any painted whore, serving wench or bannerman's doe-eyed
daughter.
Anxious as a trapped rabbit under best circumstances, Jon felt surprisingly at
ease bearing Robb’s dark welts. Even high underneath his chin where adolescent
stubble had yet to fill patches of baby flesh still resisting puberty,
intimate, dangerous secrets bonding them closer than any sibling or ward of
Father’s. Jon was proud to be claimed by Little Lord Winterfell and infinitely
grateful for the high collared fashion prevalent in the north which hid
evidence so effectively. Long as snow stuck to the ground and cold drove
necessity for layers of thick wool and lanolin soaked leathers, Robb was free
as a king to do as he pleased, encouraged the whole while by Jon’s muffled
grunts and legs willingly spread like one of Theon’s gold-hungry whores.
"I did," he replied, head tilted back to obey the tug at his scalp.
Dark eyes drifted shut, Jon’s world narrowing further, down from caring about
everything within his chamber walls to only the occupants of feather bed. Grey
Wind and Ghost, the roaring fire, his clothes neatly folded and Robb’s an
untidy pile on cracking stones all forgotten beneath the scrape and tug of
sharp teeth gnawing at his throat the way Robb often gnawed on steaks of
venison in the Great Hall.
He was never gentle. A true son of the north, harsh and rigid and demanding,
always taking but never more than he was willing to return because Robb was
noble like his Lord Father, a good man. The best man.
Jon never asked for repayment.
Simply grateful for the opportunity to give Robb everything, he was always on
the receiving end of tender scalps, weals that lasted days and bitten bruises
which faded long after those received in the training yard. Most recently, he’d
started to experience sore bottoms felt while riding his horse, every hooved
step a bittersweet reminder of the night before and Robb’s systematic, thorough
claiming over his body.
Jon loved every last purpling mark. To feel controlled and kept and not have to
struggle with thinking anymore because that was the one thing he certainly
needn’t devote any further time. Nights like this when there was no doubt in
either lad’s mind what lay in the other’s heart no matter that words were never
exchanged in confirmation.
Shifting up against Robb’s subtle protests - fingers tightening in black locks,
teeth biting hard until skin began to peel - Jon rolled onto his side and
propped against an elbow, reached over to the nightstand and plucked up a small
bit of folded linen. Inside lay several strips of dried summer apple, red skin
bright against golden meat.
"I saved it to share with you," he explained, hunkering back down into bed with
their prize between them, a holy and revered dessert filched from the pantries.
Beneath the furs, Jon’s ankles locked with Robb’s, forever seeking his
comforting warmth. "I know they’re your favourite."
Any protest would fall on deaf ears as Jon was stubborn as a mule and twice as
likely to dig in stiff heels once he'd made up his mind on something. Robb was
touched by the gesture, the once lascivious look he wore quickly turning all
boyish at the unexpected treat. A playful cuff to Jon's shoulder - rock hard
from so much practice in the training yard and now broader than his own; when
had that come about? - before he snagged with glee a slice from outstretched
hand. Unlike Jon, who still fancied the heavier, gooey sweet honey cakes of
their childhood, Robb's tastebuds had matured the last little while, driving
him toward more delicate flavors and textures. Dried fruits of any kind:
apples, pears, berries and apricots were his best-loved sweet now. Especially
apricots, those Robb would greedily hoard, smacking away pilfering fingers that
got a bit too close for his liking.
"They are," he agreed, smiling around his bite and immensely happy that Jon was
always willing to share, despite life often treating him to the contrary.
It had begun as a prank when they were still barely out of the nursery. A tiny,
smelly brown toad deposited into the pocket of the unsuspecting victim (Jon, of
course. He was never one to initiate such mischief) in hopes it might start a
ruckus while breaking their fast. It hadn't, surprisingly enough; Jon was
always the more steady, unflappable of the two boys. But the next morning when
Robb reached into his pocket and came up with a handful of wet, squirming
salamanders, the game was on.
Evolving at a slow, steady pace as things often do, toads and slimy things
became acorns, a precious scarlet leaf from the weirwood or a pretty stone. Any
tiny bauble or trifle that one thought the other might like. Robb and Jon's
treasured way of continuing their relationship outside cold granite chambers
and right under everyone's nose.
Secreted away, but with absolutely no secrets kept between them.
Swallowing the last of his apple, Robb shifted until their cocks met, the
movement drawing out a small, shuddering moan. Not that he wished to hurry
things up a tad - well, he did which was nothing new - but Robb really wanted
Jon tonight. More than usual, in fact. He wasn't exactly sure why, except that
he instinctively knew things were beginning to change. He could feel it in the
way the wind blew; and it made him restless.
“I’d quite like to fuck you now,” Robb freely admitted. Latching onto Jon’s
wrists, he pivoted them upward, until arms rested akimbo above that riotous mop
of hair. Always the instigator, the one who moved ornately carved wooden sigil
heads across a map, Robb had absolutely no reservations speaking his thoughts
aloud.
Nose to nose and breathing the same air, the frisson grew and expanded between
them. A long, very long moment passed, eyes as blue as a robin’s egg locked and
held its darker partner. Robb could drown in Jon’s soulful stare if he let
himself, a fact that sometimes overwhelmed him; sucked the breath from his
lungs and set the heart hammering a loud, steady tattoo.
The only remedy he’d found to truly cure the condition was to bite at those
lips in a way too harsh to be properly termed a kiss, the act coaxing a low
groan from Jon. Eager tongue probing, searching, tasting what was left behind
from their late night snack, and Jon allowed him in, pliant and giving as
always.
Overpowering Robb would have been easy now that a man's body stood in place of
a boy's. Sudden bucking hips upsetting tender balances, brick layered abdomen
working in conjunction with fast reflexes to toss off the tall, wiry frame
currently pinning Jon's much broader, heavier one to the tick. His hands taking
control around Robb's wrists and sealing reversal the way physical attributes
truly connoted their roles. The larger, calculating brute covering and taking
to heel his antsy, fiery-haired partner.
Only their roles were so very convoluted. The Lord and the Knight, the leader
and the follower. Bodies mixed with opposing personalities rendering Jon all
too happy languidly grinding stiff prick against stiff prick instead of
wrestling for dominance. Arms relaxed above dark curls while teeth clacked and
tongues did all the battling.
Jon the thinker, Robb the heart.
Though by every definition and every song brought to Winterfell's halls by
wandering minstrels, the warrior should have been driven by love and emotion
while the man sitting the highborn chair wielded power with logic and firm
sensibilities. Somehow, by some twisted mistake, Robb and Jon were a piecemeal
of all attributes, completely entangled in every facet as a single fate plaited
from two strands; remove one and the other's structure crumbled completely.
One could not thrive without the other.
"Do it, then," Jon gave his permission, squirming beneath body and furs to
spread his legs, allow Robb to sink further against him. Groins began to act
independently from the rest, rutting in ways only young men still learning
instinct could achieve. Half awkward and overeager, but so very perfect.
"It's why you came here. And I want you to," he expanded, latching ankles
around Robb's and sucking hard on a bottom lip larger than a mouthful. "I've
wanted you since the moment we broke our fast."
"I know," Robb grinned, canines flashing in the firelight. "You couldn't take
your eyes off me the entire time..."
Jon Snow knew how to be very discreet; how to keep his voice low and movements
sparse and penny-pinching as a peddler. A lifetime of silently tiptoeing along
the peripheral of everyone's vision assured it. But sometimes he forgot
himself; forgot his station when Robb insisted he sit a meal at his right side
instead of Theon. Elevating Jon back up to prized companion. Not that he wasn't
already, but best to keep up appearances to family and household anyway.
Robb would always trust his opinion over everyone else's because Jon had no
hidden agenda; no political axes to grind. A crucial trait for a future advisor
in Robb's small council.
"Or during archery practice," he added, a bit smug as he gave one last nip to
scruffy chin before he sat up. Robb had felt the hot prickle at the nape of the
neck that afternoon, signalling he was being watched beyond the steely gaze of
Ser Rodrik.
Jon kept a tiny, corked glass phial under one of his pillows. Scrabbling for
oil from the bedside table or tucked away in a pouch that hung from a peg by
the fireplace had just become far too tedious for impatient young men so very
hungry for each other. Neither wanted to break away from often frantic rutting
so they'd found keeping a bit close at hand - not enough to make a huge mess if
it leaked, but more than enough for Robb to drizzle into his palm and rub
against blushing cockhead.
"Belly or back or astride a horse tonight?" Without fail, Robb always gave Jon
the final say in their coupling. Depending on how his day unfolded generally
dictated how Jon wanted to be treated. And while Robb should have insisted on
always putting Jon in position of lower standing - it was his right by birth
and unwritten Westeros bedchamber law - he chose otherwise.
Eyes locked on Robb's hand openly oiling in preparation, each self pleasuring
stroke tying knots in Jon's vocal cords. Silence of a new sort made worse at
every attempt to swallow down the obstruction.
How easily Robb commanded conversation or silence from him without ever
speaking a word. A guiding touch to his elbow, carefully selected items
smuggled into pockets, a twitch of upper lip while being scolded or a thwap
with the flat of foible in the yard was all it took for Robb to bend Jon
beneath unyielding northern will. Nothing the little lord had learned from
years of study with Maester Luwin nor lessons sung from Mother's lips or
Father's hand. Robb's penchant for wielding people easily as he did blade a
born attribute, stunning as his Tully red hair and Sapphire Isle blue eyes.
"I've ridden enough for one day," came Jon's reply at last, words raked over
ice and stone as he tore his gaze from between Robb's legs.
Rolling onto belly, Jon lay down right in the middle of the mattress, prime
real estate for the night's activity. A position where fingers could still lace
intimately together while Robb's body lay full against every curve of Jon's,
avoiding tangled legs and hips aching from unnatural and awkward bending.
Panted gasps coming in at the back of Jon's neck which would undoubtedly be
ringed in black and red by morning.
This was his favourite. Firmly held in place between lover and bed while the
rest of the day Jon floated unsure of where he truly belonged. Robb knew, of
course, overconfident in his birthright and natural personality. Jon's place
would always be right beside him, beneath him. Where one went the other was
born to follow.
Clamping teeth against full bottom lip, Robb stifled a sigh that always wanted
to make itself known whenever he saw the pale, bare-bottomed outline of Jon
Snow. If he were a poet or painter, he would try and capture the sight of light
against dark. A delicate shadowplay for his and his eyes only; to hold onto it
forever more. Spinning words into romantic tales or images dabbed on canvas,
delighting in his creation. Robb had no such inborn talents, though. Youth and
emotional inexperience kept him from voicing what he truly felt in his heart
about Jon, the only way he knew to express it was in tiny acts kept well hidden
from view around the Great Keep and countryside.
Wishes and dreams left unspoken or not, Robb knew he had to concentrate on the
now and not waste precious seconds fantasizing like some lovestruck farmer's
whelp over a flaxen-haired milkmaid.
He did allow himself a single small frivolity: A long moment to run the knife
edge of his hand beginning at the nape, down knobbly spine to twin dimples that
resided above a curving backside that was just as round and ripe as those
apricots Robb so favored. Two oil-slicked fingers breached Jon's entrance,
welcoming him with a warm, soft pulse of muscles well accustomed by now to such
ministrations. A staggering heartbeat plus one was all Robb waited - all he
could stand to wait - before slow, practiced stretching began.
This was where and when true intimacy occurred. Cradled against each other,
Robb could let nearly his full weight rest upon Jon, knowing well the other
young man would gladly bear the burden.
They carried one another, you see, but in very different ways.
Biting a shoulder none too gently, Robb breathed in the scent of woodsmoke,
leather and the pungent smell of the lye and rosemary soap his bedmate used
that always clung to shiny curls and skin and was so specifically Jon that Robb
knew he could pick him out of a hundred men while blindfolded.
"Don't ever let anyone else do this to you. This is mine and mine alone. I
command it."
Because you belong to me.
Robb's words sunk deeper than the fingers plying Jon past polite restraint into
breathy appreciation. Two first now three, slipping in up to the webbing and
pressing, twisting gasps from stalled lungs and driving impatient hips to grind
his trapped cock against the lovely feather tick. Words that touched
heartstrings no wintertown whore or swooning, mild-mannered maiden had yet
managed to pluck despite fevered attempts.
Jon would never allow it now he'd been given a direct order.
No one else will ever do this to me, I swear it, he repeated the vow in mind,
"Alright" and a nod his single word and action chosen as receipt for Robb's
benefit. A promise easily sworn as sword to service, one life pledged to the
protection of another. On and off the field Jon's body, his very heart,
belonged to Robb, if only boys were worldly and wise enough to recognise and
fully commit beyond playful blood-brother oaths made during sticky summer heat
waves grappling in the Godswood.
Unreciprocated devotion had a single terminus suitable in the long term to
neither man, yet it remained the road traveled hand-in-hand because no other
was fitting for such perfectly matched souls.
What Jon did understand with a slick of rot gumming up grey matter was however
they chose to adjust actions and treatment of the other in intimate quarter,
birthright still lorded over their couplings. Kept Jon from demanding Robb also
never do this to another; he had no right to the claim, shameful bastardly
status insuring Jon was able and willing to make and fulfill every promise
asked of him. Lay with no one else, kiss no one else, devote himself to no one
else; it would not be difficult for there existed no soul in all of Westeros
capable of coming close to the Tully-haired lord leaving yet another cherished
bruise along the curve of developed deltoid.
Robb did not possess that luxury and Jon was not fool enough to request.
One day he would marry. Whom and when instructed to do so Robb would bed her
and breed her. Duty as future Warden in the North to provide issue and Jon's to
stand by and watch, all the while feigning happiness.
Though these were thoughts for another time, pushed stubbornly away as Jon felt
Robb shift above him and angle boyish hips with confidence far above his
experience. Driving royal prick through readied muscles and pulling from bit-
swollen lips a final, unquestionable affirmation, "Only you, Robb..."
Robb would give them what they wanted - a small army of fiery-haired babes
quickening inside the belly of whichever bannerman's broodmare Father deemed
appropriate - with little in the way of protest. The duty instilled in his
psyche almost from birth, he knew any and all resistance would be futile, but a
true love match between houses would never come of it, though. Robb's heart was
already spoken for and locked away, key forged and handed over when he and Jon
were barely out of the nursery. Robb would deftly juggle pesky duties of
bedding his wife (but only to create more heirs; keep her pregnant and their
sleeping chambers separate) and making sure Jon remained close by and content.
A true tightrope act of mummery, to be sure, but he knew of no other clear
solution.
Robb had given it much thought these past few years. When young lord and raven-
haired bastard boy had looked and looked again and found the other to their
liking. Coming full circle in a way; just as they came full circle in Jon's
sleeping quarters night after night.
He simply would not give this up for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms. No
shiny crown or the might of a dozen dragons from times long forgotten could
tempt him so. There was little in the way of real power Robb could wield right
now, but that would all change someday.
He would bend the world around him to suit more comfortably. In the meantime,
he would simply have to remain patient; temper and emotions fully in check.
Become more and more like Jon.
Any remaining worries of winter - both the literal and proverbial - looming on
the horizon were buried just as hilt-deep as he buried himself inside Jon; the
act making him stronger, less afraid of what was coming.
And when they kissed, one heart heard the other speaking loud and clear.
"Only you, Robb..."
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