Gray, bleak, and dour, hangs the sky, heavy over the western sea. They are a day out from mainland to the east, two to the west, but through the dense fog slowly encroaching the rickety vessel, only the next ten yards can be seen from all directions.
"We will land a day's walk from Seagard," the sailor announces. "I'd take ye closer, but... meanin' no offense, Milord, but comin' from Pyke and all…"
Who would be able to tell which direction we came from at all? Theon thinks, grateful for the haze in that alone. "Yeah, yeah, none taken," he says instead, waving his hand dismissively. It didn't take a genius to read between the sailor's words. "That's probably better for both of us."
Theon can't imagine anyone confusing this tiny trader with a war vessel of any kind. Only the portly sailor and a handful of young boys crew it, none of them even so threatening as a house cat. But a ship out of the Islands is a ship out of the Islands, and this one is already risking a lot even having him aboard.
He holes up in the small, dank cargo hold Asha had haggled out for him, a last show of kindness to her dear little brother (but too little and too late to really mean anything). It's too cramped to move more than a few feet in any direction, dingy and ripe with mildew, and it reeks of fish and worse things. Theon thinks the worst cell in the Winterfell dungeons would be more comfortable than this (those don't move, at least), maybe that's some intentional payback from his wretched sister.
A month ago would have turned his nose at the mere idea; he'd arrived home in good fashion, after all, with hopes of a princeship, a claim to a throne. Having some unfortunate sailor smuggle him out of his birthplace, scorned and shamed for the crime of not turning cloak? He would have laughed at the man foolish enough to believe such a thing.
The fish-stench stains his clothes, one of the sailor's boys has stolen the last of his stolen wine, and Theon is reminded of how fast luck can turn on a man. Maybe he should have laughed at himself, for all of the stupid things he'd been fool enough to believe.
There is a glimmer of hope, though, through the bleak, foggy day and the salt that stains his fine leathers. He is alive, for one, he has escaped the Islands with his meager honor intact (a first where Ironborn are concerned), and is on his way back to the one man who ever showed him the decency he likely does not deserve. This ship, for all of its smells, thieves, and flaws, is taking him that much closer to Robb.
For that, Theon would take any number of worse things.
So, he huddles up, tries his hardest to channel his sea-faring ancestors and block out the odors, and eventually falls into a restless slumber. He dreams, and the cargo hold melts away, becoming a tent in the midst of a war. His damp, makeshift bedroll dries, now warm with the body-heat of two. He dreams of Robb, of their secret moments, impossible hopes, and of promises yet kept and forsaken.
...(Months Before)...
It had been the night before Whispering Wood, and a damn good night for the eve of a battle, if Theon had to pick any: clear and crisp to satisfy any man who thought this may be his last, but not so cold as to add to any nervous jitters over the same thought.
Robb, shaky and restless, had barged into Theon's tent hours past midnight. Fumbling fingers tied the flaps back together, and when he sighed, it was as heavy as if he'd just escaped some encroaching beast. His own beast (that lapdog he passed off as a wolf) was nowhere in sight.
The young lord was still in his full leathers and furs from their final council that afternoon - he hadn't even bothered to take off his sword belt. Perhaps it made Robb more comfortable to be armored so soon before the battle. That was doubtful, though. Theon wouldn't have described his countenance as anywhere close to comfortable if his life depended on it. No, more likely was that Robb had been avoiding his tent all day.
He still was, it seemed.
"Shouldn't you be asleep by now?" Theon asked. He should have known something serious was amiss when his friend didn't quip the same back at him.
Robb scoffed, a small (nervous) smile playing at his lips. "Oh, not you, too. One anxious mother is already far too many."
He sat up on his poor excuse of a mattress, proffering space for Robb. The gesture went unnoticed, though - whether it was due to his obvious jitters or the way his eyes remained averted to the ground, he could not say. "Clearly not," he challenged, "if even she can't keep our commanding lord well rested. What will we do if you're too tired to lift a sword on the morrow?"
His tone had been in jest, but Robb must have been too wound up to care - a scowl quickly replaced his tentative smile.
"I'm not seven, Theon," he snapped, "and I've beaten you at swords on much less sleep."
Not much of a feat, Theon thought, and he winced internally at the truth of it. "Let's be glad I'm no sworn sword, then. Unless my lord expects me to duel with a bow?"
"Theon."
"Fine, sorry!" He threw his hands up in mock surrender. "That was no slight on your capabilities, Robb. It is quite late. Nearly morning. Everyone benefits from rest."
A huff of breath dispelled his brief anger.
"As if I haven't tried… It's no use. I need your company more."
"You would have had my company in a mere two hours."
The plan, made earlier that evening, was to attack at first light. Theon knew that meant rising well before morning ever threatened at the horizon, and he'd known even before then that it wouldn't matter either way - he'd be awake for both.
Robb wasn't the only one with anxieties potent enough to keep him from sleeping. The rest of them just didn't show it so clearly. The rest of them were far less green of boys.
(Still, it was flattering to hear that it was his company that Robb needed, on this possible last of their days.)
His companion looked even less a lord than usual, still standing at the mouth of Theon's tent, hands trembling in fists at his sides, a whirl of emotions barely kept behind his watery eyes and bitten lip. Despite all of the layers, despite the iron at his hip and the snarling wolf decorating his tunics, he'd never seen Robb more vulnerable. More naked.
"What if I couldn't wait that long?" he pleaded. "We'll be at war so soon… so soon. My war, I know. I called the banners, I led all of you here." Stiff, he took the offered seat next to Theon. His eyes were two blue, terrified mirrors when they met his. "Is it unreasonable for me to fear that all I've led you to is your death?"
Gods, but his hands were trembling. Theon had nothing to say, no reassurances to give (when did he ever?). Without thinking, without even realizing what he was doing, his fingertips brushed Robb's knuckles. What surprised Theon, though, wasn't that his hands had seemingly grown a will of their own, but that Robb's had done the same - no sooner had he made contact than Robb had grabbed the hand, squeezing, and turned into the touch.
Could this really be the comfort Robb needed, something Theon had only dared to tempt in his dreams?
As the distance between them closed, as Theon's nose brushed Robb's freckles and stammered breaths warmed his cheek, the pretense of "needing company" began to show for what it truly was.
Perhaps he had fallen asleep after all - perhaps he would be shaken awake in a mere minute to be dressed for war. Perhaps Robb would give him a nervous smile and a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, and they would part ways (perhaps forever).
A mutter of something incomprehensible, and Theon was pulled into a kiss.
In hindsight, it was pretty bad. Their noses bumped awkwardly, and Robb's lack of experience was painfully evident, especially after Theon managed to nudge between his lips and teeth got involved. None of it mattered in the moment, though, especially when their eyes met afterward and the young lord flushed and smiled. Small, scared, but genuine. Theon kissed him again just the same, the second time of many.
They had never been so tangible in his dreams. So warm.
Once he overlooked Robb's clumsy technique (which quickly grew more endearing than bothersome), it became as tender a moment as any. Curious arms kept the autumn chill at bay, tentative tongues licked and lavished until both were red in the face. With every new way the two explored each other, the cold warded further into the distance.
"Robb," he breathed once he was able to, putting some dreaded space between them. "What was that for?"
Robb somehow blushed further and gave him a small smile, unsure. His hands (still shaky), which had at some point made their home on Theon's shoulders, moved up to fidget with the dark hairs at the base of his skull. "I didn't want to die without ever having kissed someone."
"Going to die, are you?" He ran a hand up Robb's jerkin-clad side. "That's mighty grim. Someone leading an army should be more confident, don't you think?"
"I am confident. But. You know…" Robb shrugged. "Things happen."
That they do, he thought, nudging him down onto the rough, straw mattress. "Better ignore that until the sword's already through your gut. Does nothing good for your bravery, sitting in your thoughts like that."
"Less talk of disembowelment, then, please," Robb said, sitting up on his elbows and giving Theon a dubious glance. It lasted only a moment - Robb smirked into another heated kiss, and when a bite graced Theon's lip this time, it felt intentional. "Less talking in general."
Finally a demand that Theon could meet! As he leaned into his task, though, a sudden (rare) hesitation stopped him.
"How far do you want to take this?"
The lord in his lap gave a particularly tantalizing roll of his hips, grinding the two together. By some trick of the Gods Theon had failed to notice the strain in his breeches. "How far is too far?"
"Ah." He reciprocated the friction. "Another question for after the battle is won, my lord."
That earned him a smirk and a greedy kiss, for nothing else than to keep that 'after' from becoming an 'if.' It undoubtedly would, if he let Robb fester over it much longer. Maybe it was hopelessly optimistic, but they both clung to that 'after' like it would save their lives at daybreak (perhaps, Theon thinks months later, still alive despite himself, it had).
Robb moaned into it, a welcomed side-effect, and dropped his hands from thoroughly disheveled dark locks to work on the tie of Theon's breeches.
One by one, shirts, pants, pretenses and inhibitions all fell to the floor, pushed to some corner only to be remembered come morning, and Robb soon lay stark beneath him.
Oh, but he was beautiful, all toned muscle that rose and fell in waves with his speeding breaths. Like some delicate painting, only that he grew more handsome every time Theon cared to look. He told Robb as much, and watched the already flushed skin go even redder in the dim firelight. The nervous look had returned to his eyes, under the lust that blew them wide and dark.
Though he normally found it insufferably dull, Theon planted his lips, soft and lingering, to Robb's, a silent trust me. He suspected this whole affair was a simple way for Robb to get his mind off the imminence of war - what good did it do if even that became stressful?
He trailed a hand down, past his flushed clavicle, flicking over a hardening nipple, and down some more. Robb's breaths grew a little more erratic with every slow inch of his hand's descent, becoming something between a whisper and a whimper when a mouth joined in the exploration.
Red-raw bruises bloomed where his mouth traveled, little marks to remember him by (things do happen, after all). Pale fingertips and curious lips graced the skin between the jut of hip bones, and the smooth expanse stuttered a little with a hitch in Robb's breath.
With no more warning than an impatient sigh, Robb grabbed the slow hand and pushed it over his cock, holding it there to grind desperately into. His own cock throbbed violently.
Neither of us will last very long . He was sure of it.
This unusual, wanton, needy Robb was like a fantasy on some cold, lonely night - his captor's son rutting mercilessly against him, desperate and screaming his name, a regretful image he'd spilled to and guilted over the next day when he inevitably had to look Robb in the eye.
But this was no dream, and when he looked up into blue eyes he felt no shame.
"Well, go on, finish what you started," Robb urged, breathy and impatient to Theon's inner ramblings. "Before the battle starts, preferably."
"What I started?"
A smirk. "I'm sure this is your fault somehow."
Unbelievable , Theon thought, huffing a small laugh but wasting no more time. And he was right; it didn't last long. Not at all . Only a couple thrusts into his fist and Robb arched up, bent his head back, and cried out. For all that Theon took pride in his endurance, that was enough to bring him over as well.
After that, the two were in no rush to move, lingering in the warmth of their embrace. Even when Theon's arms inevitably gave out and he came crashing down atop his lord, Robb made no effort to worm away. When they moved, this would be over, and war awaited beyond their thin, canvas barrier.
Robb breathed a sigh, then ran a hand through Theon's ink-like hair. "Don't die tomorrow, alright? I'd like to do that again."
"Yes, my lord," he answered, feeling half asleep against the gentle fingers and in no state to question his impossible promise.
...(Now)...
True to his word, the sailor drops Theon off on some rocky shore, too far from any established town to see, but reportedly a manageable walk to the nearest inn (how the man knows this, Theon does not ask).
Manageable, however, is a relative term. Cursably so. Had he known that this sailor considered a week on foot, over rocky terrain and with little previsions, manageable, he may have risked landing closer to Seagard. Perhaps only weeks ago when his own arrogance had been enough to carry him back home, near giddy as a child at the praise he was sure awaited him. Perhaps that man could walk the entire river-side road back to Riverrun, hells, swim the Trident even. That man, with so much confidence in the letter tucked close to his heart, penned in the messy scrawl of a young king and promising impossibilities. Where had he gone?
Now, his feet only carry him so far before the weight of his failure drags him further down than the waterskin that grows lighter by the hour, than Asha's hastily prepared rucksack of commoner's clothes and blankets and his diminishing food supply. He can't have been walking for more than five hours when he finds himself on his knees, leaning his weight against a hardy oak and unable to force his legs another meter forward. From there it's the easiest thing in the world to give up, to let himself slip into the mud and lie there for the night.
Sleep does not come as easily.
He doesn't dream of Robb anymore, not since his feet hit dry land. It makes enough sense. Falling asleep with rocks and roots jabbing at his back, cold and unable to start a fire on account of the rain, these are not the conditions ideal for dreaming of one's lover. 'The Gods pity me not,' he thinks one night, while straining his neck against a scratchy pillow of moss that will stay in his hair for days. 'Is a simple distraction too much to ask for?'
But Robb has never been a simple distraction. It would be cruel, he supposes, to use him as such now.
Somewhere in the distance, he hears the howling of wolves.
Giving up his vain struggle for comfort, Theon flips onto his back. Indeed, if Theon's days are filled with travel, then his nights are for his failures. They're for the letter, Robb's letter, that flickered into ash before his father even read a word. They're for his sister's humiliations, his own stupidity, every little grievance he could no longer rightfully dismiss as the fault of another.
'This boy king,' his father had spat, while the parchment burned, 'is he your little personal whore, or are you his?'
Asha had snorted a laugh behind him, a betrayal in its own right.
And Theon had been a fool, opening his mouth again, snarling through gritted teeth, 'He's a good man - your best chance at recovering that wretched, soggy crown, too!'
(As though he hadn't seen the small army of ships at port. As though Theon hadn't already lived through and suffered from one petty rebellion. As though Balon Greyjoy had the wisdom to learn from his mistakes. As though he wouldn't test his own son's loyalties in his failure to do so.)
Even now, he can hear the miserable man scoff from his precious Seastone chair. His eyes, those bitter dark seas, crushing him under their current, his words a pulling, rampaging riptide. They should have taken him. They should have drawn him away as he threw himself hopelessly adrift. He isn't as strong a swimmer as before - how had he ever escaped?
Dumb luck, most like. Dumb fucking luck.
Theon dwells, he remembers, and he regrets ( oh , how he regrets). But mostly, Theon wishes. The nights are cold and long, without his king to warm them, and wishes for this to change. He wishes, too, that he can reach his king once more, wrap him in his arms and swear his loyalties over and over, that he can swear them both into bed and never see a cold night again.
Theon sees his father's eyes, disapproving and sour, once more. From this distance, from the space between his memory and the islands he's left for good, they don't urge him half so strongly. It's done, he thinks. My choice is made.
Only, a kingdom now sits between him and the one he chose.
