Under torch and candlelight, revelry filled the Great Hall. The dozen or so banquet tables brought out for the feast were bursting with food and drink. Those not partaking in the roasted pork, sweet meat pies, candied figs and dates, danced. High-born and low, gamboled in the narrow spaces between the rows of tables as a bard and musicians strummed, fluted, and drummed a rowdy tune.
Despite his black mood, Theon had been moved by the excitement and joyousness of the feast. It was not often Winterfell celebrated with such excess. The residents of Winterfell tended to mirror their Lord and Lady, and neither were known for their abandon and extravagance.
Theon peered at King Robert as the red-face, big-bellied man roared with laughter and all but had his face buried in a tavern wench's ample bosom, the cup in his hand sloshing ale as they danced. It was likely the king's exuberance that inspired most in the Hall to let loose. Theon had to admit the man had a boisterous, if undignified, charm about him, and Theon was convinced Robert would have been well-loved by the Ironborn under different circumstances.
Theon and Arya sat among the gentry at one of the side tables below the high table where Lord and Lady Stark, as well as the king and queen, were seated. Though at the moment only Catelyn and the queen occupied the table. Queen Cersei sat still as stone as she glared icily at the king who was carelessly snogging the tavern wench for all to see. Lady Stark sat almost as stiffly as she glanced side-ways at Cersei with worry and muted sympathy.
Sansa and her ladies in waiting sat with her at the other side table whispering gossip about Prince Joffrey, who was sat at the table directly below the high table. Robb was seated at the other end of Joffrey's table, his demeanor polite and outwardly pleasant, but Theon could tell he wasn't having a good time.
Robb has grown. He'd been taller than either Jon or Theon for some time, but it was only recently that he'd grown out of his ranginess. Now Robb's shoulders, chest, arms were near as wide and well-formed as his father's, though his Tully features were still boyish, and were even more so after he shaved off his burgeoning rust-hued beard. For now, the ruggedly handsome appearance the war would forge Robb's face into was still just a sweet promise.
Theon dragged his gaze away from Robb, knowing he should not look his way too often. Lady Catelyn's accusations loom large in his mind, and so does the fear they might be true. If he means them to be or not.
Theon takes a long sip of wine. He misses how it used to be before Robb grew so tall and so achingly akin to the king—the friend—the brother—Theon betrayed. Theon took a longer, deeper drink and shook his head. He didn't want to think about such matters tonight. Not after what happened in the godswood with Jon.
Theon had even changed out of Daenerys's royal black garb and into more appropriate attire—a simple green linen gown—because there was no more fight in him. No more furious righteousness to spur him to defy Lady Stark. No more spite to slyly spit in King Robert's face. No more need to make this night more miserable than it had to be.
The music playing turned fast and more people rose from their seats to dance. Arya used the increased activity to try to catapult food at Sansa, but Theon had been waiting for the attempt and calmly plucked the spoon from the girl's hands. Theon knew all too well how hard Sansa had worked on her dress and he wasn't about to sit by and let Arya stain such a well-made garment with candied figs.
"Behave yourself," Theon said before setting the spoon back on Arya's plate.
Arya stuck her tongue out at him and began glumly sliding food around on her plate with the spoon. Theon was smiling at the girl when he felt polite tapping on his shoulder. When he spun around Theon saw Jory standing behind him slightly bowed and with his hand outstretched.
"My I invite the young lady to dance?"
While Theon gaped Arya made a loud noise that sounded partly like mooing and a howl, attracting quite a bit of attention. Soon, the hall was filled with hooting and hollering from some of Jory's guardsmen who were allowed to attend, and many other Winterfell residents.
"My lady?" Jory said smiling brightly, and the braying for Theon to accept his invitation grew even louder.
When Theon rose from his seat and took Jory's hand the hall erupted into cheers and clapping. Blushing, Theon mirrored Jory's bow before they both straightened and began to dance. There wasn't a lot of room, but with what space there was, Jory and Theon managed to perform some of the livelier steps as they kicked their feet and twirled around each other as the music played.
The woman's steps to the dance Jory initiated come to Theon without thought. He remembered when once, in another life, he'd be performing Jory's moves. One of his hands would be above the lass's hip, and the fingers of his other hand would be entwined with hers as he twirled her around him, then he around her. In this life, Jory leads, and Theon is the lass, and all he's learned under Septa's watchful eye guides his every step.
Soon, others joined into couples and began to dance, and the hall was filled with so much merriment Theon's laughter as Jory picked him by the waist and swung him around was lost in the din. When Jory put him down someone grabbed Theon's hand a pulled him away. Before Theon could recognize who'd swept him up, he was spun around again then handed off to another dance partner.
All around him people danced, and not just in pairs, but in groups of three and four locking their arms to spin and revel about the hall, stomping and shuffling their feet to the music. Theon was handed off to another man in a red cloak, a Lannister soldier. The yellow-haired man held Theon a little too closely but kept his hands clear of any indecent areas. After a few spins, the Lannister delivered Theon into the arms of a Winterfell guard. Thankfully it was one of the guards who seemed neutral towards Theon, and he smiled mildly as they danced.
The dancing in the hall sped up as the music did, and it was not long before Theon was breathless and glad he hadn't decided to wear one of his black dresses. He was perspiring as it was, and a heavier gown would have him sweltering and sweating like a workhorse after so much dancing.
The Winterfell guard stilled and stared at something with wide, almost frightened eyes behind Theon. Theon only had a moment to wonder what startled the guard before he was spun about and yanked into King Robert's embrace. The chill that took Theon froze him through and through as if he'd been thrown bare naked into the deepest, cruelest part of winter.
Robert may have gone to fat since the Rebellion, but he was still a large man, and Theon felt dwarfed as Robert's barrel chest and bloated gut pressed against him. One of Robert's massive arms snaked around Theon's waist, while the other slipped past Theon's hip, and his enormous hand cupped and squeeze Theon's buttocks. As Theon's arms hang limply over Robert's, Baratheon smiled gleefully as he peered down at Theon's breasts with unabashed delight.
"Aren't you a sweet little thing!" Robert said still staring lustily at Theon's chest. His breath was hot and fetid from ale. "Really know how to move for a man, too!"
Theon barely registers the man's words, just as he takes little note of Robert's grip when it tightens on his ass. All Theon can think as he looks up at Robert is how he wished he had a dagger. Or even Arya's spoon so he might bury it in the king's eye, dig out the gelatinous ruin, and shove it down the cunt's throat.
"What's your name, girl?"
Theon's upper lip curls—not quite into a snarl, but his teeth showed.
"Quenlyn."
"Ah! Lovely! As are you," Robert said licking his lips before he starts to lean down to bury his face in the nape of Theon's neck.
"Greyjoy," Theon said staring down stonily at the back of the man's head, distantly noting how Robert's shaggy mane of black hair was grayer than Theon's father's had been all those years ago.
Robert's wet lips and bushy beard graze Theon's skin for only a moment before he slowly lifts his head to look at Theon. When their eyes lock, Theon sees Robert's blazing blue eyes dim, and his smile turn thin and uncertain. Theon wanted to spit in Robert's face and tell him all he'd done when he ripped Theon from his home—from his family. The years stolen. A mother gone to him, swallowed into the sea. A sister who will not want to know him if he ever sails back to the Iron Islands. A father who will spurn him and leave him to rot.
Theon wants to scream all of it into Robert's flushed, drunken face. Theon starts to open his mouth to do that… But it's just for an instant, hardly longer than a flash of lightning during a raging storm when Robert averts his eyes and his lecherous grin fades. The look passes in a blink before the king's face beams once more and he laughs, his arms unwinding from around Theon's body.
Damn him.
"Balon's brave little girl! Look at you, so—"
Damn him!
Theon stares silently at the man as tears slide down his face. Robert balks before he hurriedly moves away and yanks a cup of ale from the hand of a serving girl. Then Robert grabs ahold of the girl as well and whispers something into her ear, then throws his head back and roars with laughter. The crowd swallowed the pair, and Theon can only stand motionless where the king parted from him and stare sightlessly at the people that danced joyously to the music playing.
Damn him. Theon rages inwardly. I won't forgive him! I won't—
A hand closed around Theon's arm, and he reflexively resists, but the grip on his wrist is firm.
"I don't want to dance!" Theon said, wiping away tears with his free hand.
"Mother said you are excused from the Hall."
Theon turned and saw Robb looking down at him with a closed-off expression. Theon glanced towards the dais and was not at all surprised by the glacial look on Lady Stark's face. He could have ignored Catelyn's disapproval, let it wash over him like a gentle rain any other time, but not then. Not after looking Robert Baratheon in his eyes only to be confronted with dirty, blue mirrors.
"Let me go," Theon said, his gaze still on Lady Stark. When Robb didn't release him, Theon looked at Robb with a furious glare. "Let me go, Robb."
Robb's stony expression eases. "I'm to escort you from the Hall," he said.
Fighting back more tears, Theon relents and allows Robb to guide him away.
Two Winterfell guards stood outside the Great Hall's doors when Theon and Robb exited the Hall. The sentries wore jealous expressions, clearly upset to be excluded from the festivities they heard rousing within. Several Kingsguard marching the perimeter of the Hall turned their attention to Robb and Theon briefly, then looked away and continued on their circuit.
Theon wanted to curse Robert, to curse Lady Stark. He needed to do something to rid himself of the frustration tying his inside into knots. To scream, to fight, to…
"Where are you taking me?" Theon asked Robb.
"The Keep," Robb answered, his tone flat as he dragged Theon behind him.
"Is Lady Stark so angry she would send you to mind me?"
Robb stopped and turned to Theon. "She's not angry with you, Quinn," he said.
At Theon's incredulous look, Robb sighed and let go of Theon's wrist.
"She wanted to get you away from the king. And the queen."
"The queen? Why?"
"Queen Cersei was… Displeased to watch her husband…" Robb paused, and the muscles in his jaw stood out more prominently as he clenched his teeth. "Paw at you."
"I see," Theon said, though he thought the woman should be well resigned to her husband's tawdry behavior by now.
"Quinn, did you really believe my mother would be angry with you after all that?"
"Why not?" Theon asked. "Everything I do seems to displease your mother."
"How awkward for you. Since everything you do seems an effort to please her."
Now it was Theon's turn to grit his teeth as he shot an angry glare at Robb. "Fuck you," he whispered.
Robb met Theon's glare with one of his own, and shot back, "Am I wrong?"
Theon shook his head when he pushed by Robb and began walking towards the gate in front of the Great Hall's entrance, where more Winterfell guards stood watch. As Theon passed through the gate, he thought to use the training yard to burn off his anger, but as he approached it, he saw a lone figure under torchlight bashing away at a practice dummy.
Jon.
Before Jon could notice him, Theon altered course and headed to Covered Bridge and from there made his way to the Guard Hall. Usually a hub of constant activity, now it was abandoned except for a skeleton crew, while the majority of Winterfell's guards patrolled or stood watch in other vital areas. Nestled between the Guard Hall and the entrance to the First Keep was a small, wrought iron gate that led into the Lichyard—and it was there Theon wanted to go.
There was a time Theon believed, or rather feared, that when he died, he'd be buried in the Lichyard with the smallfolk who died serving Winterfell. He could not make himself trust that his jailers would send his bones home to be given back to the sea. And Theon never dared believe he would be afforded a tomb in the Starks Crypts.
There were no torches in the Lichyard, only the half-moon and stars offered light to see by, and it was cold enough for his breath to fog, making Theon miss his cloak. He walked past the unmarred earth where Lady will soon be buried, not too far from an old gnarled sallow tree. The tree's branches were heavy with browning leaves that hung like tendrils over ground not yet filled with graves. Under there, it's darker than the night—and it's where Theon wants to hide.
It's where he hid from Ramsay Bolton, even though the bastard always knew exactly where he was. But Theon liked to pretend. He'd curl his aching, wreck of a body against the sallow, and count all the bodies he buried.
Theon walked under the tree, sat on the moss-covered ground, and leaned against the trunk. He folded his legs under himself, looked outward, and started counting. To his left, just a few feet away, is where he buried Ser Rodrik. Over there is where Jon, after he and Sansa took back Winterfell, interred Shaggydog's head. To the right is where what was left of Maester Luwin after the animals had been at him, was laid to rest with his chain.
Over there was—
"Quinn, come back with me."
Theon jolted and looked up to see Robb standing near the sallow, not more than six feet away. He hadn't seen nor heard when Robb entered the Lichyard or come so close.
"I'm sorry. I should not have said that to you," Robb said. "Let me take you out of this cold, bleak place. Please."
Theon wanted to hold onto his anger at Robb, but it had already receded before Robb's sweet face and pleading eyes.
"I'm fine, Robb," Theon said. "Leave me here. I—I just want to be alone for a time."
"With so many strangers about Winterfell? It's not safe."
"I don't imagine anyone from King's Landing exploring a graveyard and finding me," Theon said.
"There's no need to take the risk."
"I'm not leaving here, Robb."
The moonlight revealed the mounting frustration on Robb's face, but Theon wouldn't let himself be swayed—he needed to be here. Alone, with all the ghosts he hadn't made yet. With a muttered curse, Robb stomped over and sat beside Theon.
Theon more felt than saw when Robb tried to extend his cloak out to cover him, but Theon leaned away and pushed Robb's arm back.
"Gods be good, will you let me help you? Just this once!" Robb exclaimed.
Taken aback by Robb's outburst, Theon bit his lower lip and let Robb cover him with his cloak. When Robb also tried to keep his arm over Theon's shoulders, Theon moved Robb's arm and held it against his chest instead. The warmth of the cloak and the heat from Robb's body should have felt wonderful and very welcome, but Theon knew it was dangerous pressing his body so close to Robb's.
Dangerous and stupid.
"Again, I'm sorry about what I said before," Robb said.
"You don't have to keep apologizing."
Theon felt Robb turn to look at him in the darkness under the tree. "Still. How are you? After what the king did back there?"
It took a moment for Theon to remember what Robb could've been talking about. Then he smiled, shook his head, and said, "That? That was nothing. If he wanted, Robert could have thrown me over a table and had me."
"I'd have killed him!" Robb's voice burned with raw, tangible rage.
Theon laughed.
"Oh! So, gallant! Saving the fair maiden from the lust-maddened king! My hero. Am I to swoon?" Theon japed.
"Do not mock me," Robb said, and Theon's head snapped around at the growl in Robb's voice.
"I didn't m-mean—" Theon stammered. He truly hadn't meant to sound so unkind, so dismissive.
"You, Mother—Father—you all treat me like I'm still a child. All of you make decisions for me—"
Theon leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Robb's lips. Lips soft, warm, and tasted of honeyed wine. Lips that tasted like everything Theon has ever wanted.
"I know," Theon whispered when he leaned back.
Robb gulped. "Then why do as my mother bid?" he asked, his voice low and husky.
"This," Theon said before he kissed Robb once more.
To stop this.