Archive of Our Own ^beta

Theon cried. Not very much, but still his shoulders shook and salty tears dropped from his eyes.

Robb took care of it all- it was he who’d dug the hole in the fresh earth of his back garden. But it was more than that. When Theon had been instructed to flush the body down the loo Robb had told him it’s alright, we’ll bury him at my house. And under coats and guilty looks, Kraken had been smuggled out, lovingly wrapped in a delicate covering of toilet paper.

On his last birthday his mum had taken him to the petshop and let him pick whichever fish he liked. She’d let him spend well over an hour choosing, until he finally decided on Kraken, and then they’d chosen a bowl and taken him home.

During the months of Kraken’s life, Theon had taken good care of him, just as Robb took care of Grey Wind. He grew attached to it, sitting by the fishbowl every day after school and watching Kraken swim lazy circles around the water. It was endlessly fascinating to Theon, the way Kraken’s gills opened and closed in absolute silence, the seamless way his scales moved when he twisted his small body. And most of all, how this small creature was utterly dependent upon Theon to survive. If  he didn’t tap the proper amount of fish food into the bowl every day, or change the water when it was necessary, Kraken would not survive. Theon had never had that before. Kraken was his to take care of. And he had.

So he didn’t quite understand why his fish had died. He wasn’t stupid, of course, he knew all things must die. But they’d said this particular sort of fish could live up to a year- why hadn’t his? He’d done everything right, everything.

So that was why he cried, as Robb carefully patted down the soil and stood up. Not because he missed the little fish, or because he’d grown to love it, but really because he’d failed.

Robb wrapped an arm around Theon’s shoulders. “You were a good owner.” He said, the cold sunlight lighting up the ends of his curly hair and turning them golden. “I’ve never seen anyone who took that good care of their fish.”

“Thanks.” Theon said, quietly. I’m sorry, he thought.

Theon didn’t cry, although that was not strange.

Robb stood in front of him during the entire service, with the family. The rain beat down upon the family and friends of the departed, who stood, a swirl of black among white-marble-dotted green.

It was hard to believe that each little gravestone stood for what had once been a living, breathing person. In the end, what’s left of everyone is a hunk of rock with meaningless, dull words carved into the sides. Rodrik and Maron had their own gravestones, but not here. This was the graveyard in which all Starks were buried, up in the North where they never saw the sunlight or smelt the sea.

He could see that Robb’s curly hair was plastered down around his face by the endless rain. Theon thought he was probably trying to be strong, for the sake of his siblings. He was the eldest, after all.

An official-looking man stepped forward and said some things, none of which sounded at all like Ned Stark. Theon had never been close to Ned Stark, but even he knew that the words chosen didn’t capture it- the man who’d put honour before everything else, even his own life. The man who had been unfailingly warm to his children, yet always dark and distant to Theon.

To be perfectly honest Theon hadn’t thought he’d be invited to Ned Stark’s funeral at all- it wasn’t, again, as if they’d ever been close. Theon rather thought Ned had disliked him- probably for good reason. The Greyjoy boy from the bad neighbourhood and worse family probably wasn’t the best of people for his eldest to be friends with. And there- that there, Theon realised, was probably why he was here in the first place. It was probably Robb’s fault.

He took his eyes away from the stupid speech man and looked at Robb, who was now stepping up to sprinkle dirt over the casket or something. Theon didn’t really understand this sort of thing- the only funeral (the only real funeral) he could remember was the one held for his brothers, before he’d met Robb, and during that one he’d mainly sobbed into his mother’s skirt. Asha’d hit him- though not nearly as hard as his brothers used to- and told him to shut up, which had only really made him cry harder.

He wasn’t crying now. All the younger Starks were, though, and a great deal of the younger ones. Ned Stark had been well loved. (Theon wondered what that was like.)  Even Jon had shimmery tracks down his pretty little face, although that wasn’t a new development or anything, the tosser was always upset about something. Was Jon even able to smile? Theon shook his head, cursed his insensitivity. He didn’t like Jon, but the guy had just lost his dad.

Robb turned away from the grave, and briefly his eyes met Theon’s- red, watery- and Theon felt immensely guilty. He didn’t belong here, he’d told Robb that. He was an interloper, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or perhaps a sheep in wolf’s clothing, he could never tell. Attending a Stark funeral felt like intruding on something deeply private, being somewhere he had no right to be.

“Don’t be thick.” Robb had said. “You should be there, of course you should.”  But maybe that was just Robb being Robb, maybe he shouldn’t be there at all.

Robb gave him a sad half-smile.

Theon didn’t cry, or at least not that Robb saw.

They stood together, though apart from the knot of Greyjoys. Theon’s uncles hadn’t even looked at their nephew. Asha had exchanged one or two words but on the most part had been silent. They knew, Robb thought, they knew that father and son had been on bad terms. Perhaps they even knew why. To his horror Robb realised that his being here at all could be viewed as an affront to the deceased. Theon had insisted he come, because he didn’t want to be alone. Instinctively, Robb reached for Theon’s hand, trying to ignore any looks of disgust the Greyjoys might send.

I’m here for Theon, not for them and not for Balon. He repeated this in his mind, but it did little to quell the discomfort he felt.

“...Balon was, above all, a loving father...”

Theon’s fingers tightened within Robb’s, fingernails leaving small white marks on his skin. Robb knew why. He had not known Balon well at all, for rather obvious reasons, but even he knew that the man had never qualified as a ‘loving father’ to Theon.

Robb had been face to face with Balon only a few times, and each time he’d been rude and dismissive. It wasn’t good to think ill of the dead, particularly at their funerals, but Robb couldn’t help his anger at the pain Theon had experienced, at the now-cold hands of Balon Greyjoy.

You can’t help who you fall in love with, was the last thing Robb had said to him.

“...he had pride in himself and his family...”

Not all his family, thought Robb, glancing at Theon.

“-loved by all-”

I hated him, Robb realised. He threaded his fingers through Theon’s. More than anything he wanted to kiss him, really, or hug him tightly and run his fingers through his hair, but hand-holding was probably as gay as the Greyjoys could tolerate.

Later, he told himself. Later.

Theon cried, and Robb said nothing.

There had been no dispute, this time, as to whether Theon was allowed to stand in the front with the Starks. Nobody argued when he knelt down in the soggy grass and cried from there, a little closer to the coffin.

And Robb said nothing.

Theon had attended too many funerals in his life, but this was the only one that mattered.

It didn’t rain, like at Ned’s funeral. A bit of sun even showed from behind the clouds, lighting up the white marble of hundreds of gravestones. Red curly hair in the sun, the ends turn golden. A halo, framing that perfect face.

Theon cried, and Robb said nothing, and when it was over and everyone else had left Theon asked to stay, and nobody tried to argue with that, either. So he stayed, and the sun left and darkness swallowed everything up except Theon and Robb Stark’s grave.

“I miss you.” He said, stretching out on his back on the grass, parallel to how Robb lay. “I hope you know that, wherever you are.” Probably hell for all their sinning. Theon could not think of anyone who deserved hell less than Robb, but maybe there was something to this. At least he had a hope of seeing Robb again, even if it was in hell.

He ran his fingers through the grass that now covered Robb. “I wish you could speak.” He said. This was stupid. He was stupid. Everything was stupid.

This wasn’t Robb. He could pretend it was Robb, but it wasn’t.

Robb was gone, and all that was left was a gravestone, words on the wind, a handful of memories and a sad, lost boy lying among the graves.

This was earlier, years earlier, when Theon smiled. It wasn’t his usual smile, a shield purposely put up to guard against the world. This was the sort of smile that can’t be helped, that spreads itself across a face without permission or warning of any kind.

They sat together. Friends and family continually approached to offer congratulations, but for them they were really alone.

“I bet you never thought you’d be married.” Robb said, smiling too. It was difficult not to smile.

“Not really.” Theon replied, clasping Robb’s hand. “It’s all still a bit shocking, to be honest with you.”

“But in a good sense.”

“In a good sense.” Theon confirmed, and kissed him. “Dance?”

“I thought you hated dancing.” Robb said, already getting to his feet.

“I do, but- who cares? Come on, then.” Theon snorted, setting his drink down and extending a hand. “Before I change my mind.”

“Is that likely?” Robb teased, threading his fingers through Theon’s.

Theon thought about it. “No.” He said.