Chapter Text
Theon was sore all over, and even though Robb kissed at the chafed skin on his wrists where so recently the irons had been rubbing him raw, he couldn’t kiss at the burning ache inside left in the wake of their tryst. Not that Theon regretted anything, but the experience had given him a newfound sympathy for the girls he’d deflowered over the years.
Robb laced their fingers together and planted another kiss on the back of his hand. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Theon said, because it hadn’t been Robb who’d hurt him. It had been his own hurry, his impatience and inability to wait. And even then, it hadn’t been…well, he’d definitely had worse. This was a hurt he could bear easily enough. “But next time, maybe more preparation before you go stuffing that loyalty-switching cock up my ass.”
“Next time?” Robb’s free hand dropped to Theon’s waist, the pad of his thumb working small circles into the jut of his hip. “Did you enjoy it, then?”
“Of course I did.” And that wasn’t a lie either. It had been different, certainly, but he could honestly say it had been intimate and satisfying in ways he hadn’t imagined—sitting atop Robb Stark, feeling the other deep inside him, their eyes meeting as their bodies moved together.
Afterwards, they’d curled up against each other. The pallet wasn’t really big enough for both of them, but they’d tangled their limbs together and made do. Their heads resting on the same pillow, Theon wondered what it all meant. Did he actually enjoy being a “salt wife?” Well, fuck him, it wasn’t like he had any dignity left to lose. He could be Robb’s salt wife.
“What are we doing?” Robb asked suddenly.
Theon chuckled. “You’re asking me?”
“You said next time. But I don’t know what next time is because I don’t know what comes next.” He stopped moving his thumb against Theon’s hip and instead let his entire palm rest there, almost defeated. “We can’t go back to Winterfell. It’s been burned.”
“I didn’t burn it, Robb.”
“And yet it’s been confirmed. Someone set it to the torch.” He breathed out slowly through his nose, considering the possibilities. “There are still Ironborn in the North, though. Bolton says they’ve mostly fled back to the coast. Could some of your men have done it without you knowing?”
“They weren’t my men.” They never had been. Though maybe Theon should be thanking them for dragging him out of Winterfell. Like as not, he’d be dead now otherwise, and while dying while making a final stand was certainly an appropriate fate for any Ironborn worth his salt, he would have never seen Robb again. “They were happy enough to leave it in one piece. And Asha…she didn’t want to risk your wrath over it. She wouldn’t risk it, and they certainly wouldn’t go against her orders.”
It still hurt to think they’d accepted her over him. He was supposed to be the heir to the Iron Islands. Wasn’t that worth any of their respect? No? Then fuck it. He didn’t need their respect. Not after all the trouble he’d gone through to get Robb’s back.
He propped himself up on his elbow. “Anyway, you’re not still taking reports from Bolton, are you? Maybe he’s the one who burned Winterfell,” he joked, though Robb’s face grew serious.
“That’s the next thing. We can’t take Casterly Rock and we can’t advance on Kings Landing. We’ve lost a large portion of our army, now that Bolton has defected, to say nothing of the loss of our potential allies in the Freys.” He sighed and leaned heavily against the pillows. “We can’t go forward and we can’t retreat.”
Theon thought for a while. He still wasn’t sure if Robb wanted his opinion or if he was just unburdening himself to someone who would listen.
“You could surrender,” he suggested hesitantly.
“You want me to surrender to the Lannisters?”
“No, of course not. To Stannis Baratheon. Tell him you’re willing to bend the knee and beg forgiveness.” He could see the wound such a suggestion ignited in Robb’s pride, but Theon now knew a thing or two about begging forgiveness. “You won’t be King in the North anymore, but you could join your armies together to unseat that prick Joffrey.”
“What armies? Stannis’s forces were destroyed at the Black Water. Nobody’s heard from him in months.”
“Licking his wounds at Dragonstone, I guess. He won’t give up so easily, though.” He kissed Robb on the end of his nose, just to watch him blush as red as his hair. “And neither should you.”
***
The sun threw beams of light across the floor from the gap in the tent flap. A faint rustling and Grey Wind’s growl were all the warning Robb had before the flap was pulled back. “Your Grace—”
Robb sat up and threw his furs over Theon’s sleeping form. “Did I give you permission to enter?” he snapped at the faceless guard, who froze at the threshold. Had he seen anything? Even if he had, he’d be wise to make no mention of it.
“Sorry, Your Grace. Your lady mother requests your presence. It is a matter of great import.”
“I’ll see to it. Wait outside.”
The guard bowed and left with no indication he’d seen anything questionable.
As Robb swung his legs over the side of the cot, Theon stirred. “Leaving so soon, Your Grace?”
“Duty calls.” Robb pressed a kiss to his forehead before standing and dressing. First he had to untangle his clothes from Theon’s, then try to beat out the wrinkles as best he could. He wouldn’t be looking too kingly this morning, but he doubted his mother would care if this matter was as important as the guard made it out to be. “How are you feeling?”
“Like my arse is killing me,” Theon answered with a sleepy smile.
“Then stay in bed. I’ve got to go deal with something.”
“Go, then. Deal.” He pulled the furs over his head and rolled over. Only a messy mop of dark hair poked out. Robb gave one last kiss to the top of his head before tightening the lacing of his jerkin and following Grey Wind from the tent.
The day was sunny, like no slaughter had happened at all the night before. The camp bore all the signs, though: the groaning of the wounded, the smell of rotting flesh, the occasional body set aside for burial. He wondered if they planned to bury Dacey or return her remains to Bear Island. He wished, as he always did after battle, that there was more time to grieve for fallen friends.
He found his mother’s tent and entered to find a man he had not been expecting. He knew the Lannisters’ Hound immediately from King Robert’s visit to Winterfell—if not by his hideous, half-burned face then by his stature. He towered over everyone there: Catelyn, Edmure, the Greatjon, the young boy at his side.
Upon seeing him enter, the boy detached from the Hound and them himself at Robb. Robb staggered back as arms encircled his waist and an excited voice yelled, “Robb!”
He looked down at the boy—shaggy brown hair, long face, grey eyes. No, it couldn’t be. He glanced to his mother, whose tear-filled eyes and smile told him he was right. It couldn’t be, but it was.
“Arya?”