Theon swung his leg over Robb's thighs, but he didn't sit, instead, he remained on his knees and planted them on either side of Robb's hips. From this vantage, his face hovered above Robb's, which was shrouded in the blackest of shadows. He raised his hand and stroked his thin fingers over Robb's skin, tracing them across his smooth, wide brow. Then he stroked his forefinger along Robb's temple to his cheek then down under his strong, well-defined jaw, where Theon could feel thick, bristly stubble.

"Quinn…" Robb whispered raggedly.

Theon leaned and kissed Robb again. Robb coiled his arms around Theon's waist, clutching Theon with such ferocity his fingers dug into Theon's back painfully. His embrace screamed without words he would never let Theon go. The urgency and passion Robb showed Theon made something inside him explode with joy, and he kissed Robb more deeply, tasting him—relishing him. And as he gorged himself, Theon knew he was no longer willing to deny himself Robb ever again.

Slipping his arms around Robb's neck, Theon lowered himself onto his lap and hooked his legs around Robb's waist. Theon stilled for a moment when he felt Robb was hard and ready—it felt delicious and terrifying. Even through their clothes, Robb felt so much better than when Theon touched himself, and he wanted to feel more. To feel Robb inside him. Yet, Theon was also afraid—not of being filled by a man, but of what taking Robb inside him would mean. What such a carnal act would lead to, and Theon understood it was a thing neither could ever take back. It would be folly. It would be pleasure. It would be the end of everything that came before. The end of everything that comes after.

Robb thrust roughly between Theon's thighs, and then nothing else mattered anymore. Only the feel of Robb's strong arms—the heat of him—the whole of him thrumming with lust. And finally, only the raw, undeniable want crawling through Theon's body, aching to be satiated at last. He knows it can lead nowhere, and will surely end in calamity, but Theon cannot find it within himself to care. He'll be whatever Robb needs him to be. His bed warmer, his whore—it mattered not. Theon would do anything, as long as it meant Robb would keep him, and…

A terrifyingly familiar laughter echoed in Theon's ears. Laughter full of mockery and barely concealed malice.

Forgive you? You deluded fool. He died hating you.

Theon tore his lips away from Robb's, and he saw only a fog of inky blackness surrounding him. The heat and hardness of Robb underneath him were gone. Everything was gone!

"W—What? I—"

Did he expect to see you in hell? The voice asks, whispering venomously in Theon's ear.

"Quinn…?"

Isn't that where all oath breakers go? And surely, he was an oath breaker. It's how a knife landed in his heart.

"Quinn, what's wrong?"

Before he took his last breath did he hope to find you there so he might wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze as you both burned? The voice jeered as its foul humid breath huffed across Theon's cheek.

"Quinn!"

Oh! What a cold comfort it must have been to know who to blame. To be able to put a name to all his ill-fortune. Oathbreaker. Turncloak. Theon Greyjoy.

"Stop."

You. You are to blame. For every horror. Every agony. You know it. I know you do. And your dear friend, he knew it too. And now you seek to destroy it all again. Because you are weak. Pathetic.

"Please."

Lord Bolton said the King in the North laughed when shown your flayed skin in a pretty little box.

"After what I-I did… I d-deserve it," Theon whimpered.

Of course, you do! Of course, you do! Oh, how he hates you for what you've done!

"Yes…"

Say, when His Grace took Karstark's head, do you think after he brought down his sword it was your head he saw roll? Do you think he kicked it and laughed then too? He did! He did!

"Stop. Please."

I can't stop. You know I can't stop. Only I can be so honest with you. Only I will show you the truth. When will you accept that?

"I beg you…"

So blind. So greedy for what you ought not to have. Oh, my Reek, whatever shall I do with you?

Theon screamed and the fog blinding him to his surroundings lifted. He wasn't in Robb's arms, he was out from beneath the sallow, his back pressed against the cold granite barricade of a gravestone. Something moved under the tree's sagging branches—a shadowy figure rising to its feet.

He's coming to take your head, Reek. He's coming!

Theon shook his head as Robb emerged from the canopy of the sallow, his hand already gripped the handle of Ice sheathed at his waist. His blue eyes blazing with righteous fury, his mouth fixed into a vicious snarl. Robb stalked closer, slowly pulling Ice free as he did, its blade scraping loudly against its sheath.

Too bad, I wasn't finished with you yet…

Theon shook his head, tears streaming down his face.

No. No not Robb. Anyone but Robb!

Theon tried to climb to his feet using the gravestone, but his arms were weak, and his hands could find no purchase. When he looked at his hands to understand why they failed him, Theon saw four fingers missing, two gone from each hand, and in their place were wrinkled and scarred nubs. He cried out in dismay, his voice thin and shrill. He glanced back at Robb, and Ice was fully unsheathed now and pointed at him. Robb's eyes glowed like smoldering coals—cold blue surrounded by pitiless, ebony points that beamed nothing but hatred and death at him. And closer and closer did he come, marching forward with purpose, and committed to a single, bloody-minded mission.

Theon turned and dragged himself around the grave, his half hands clawing desperately at the cold earth to escape. His stained skirt and knees scraped against the ground as he crawled. The soles of his slippers slipped over the dewy, moss-covered ground, slowing him down so he could only move by inches.

Not him. I can accept death from any other hand, but please, not his!

Something grabbed his shoulder and Theon rounded and screamed at the monstrous figure looming over him. It had a man's body and was dressed in black armor that blended with the night. But what sat on its neck was a wolf's head. It bared its fangs, fangs that slavered and gleamed in the moonlight. Wild, golden eyes peered down at Theon as the beast raised its sword—Ice—high over Theon's fear-stunned body.

I do hope he has better follow-through than what you had with Ser Rodrik, or this will be very messy indeed…

"My Lord, don't hurt me!" Theon cried out and raised his useless hands in front of his face, and cringed away from the looming swing of Robb's blade.

Hands grabbed Theon's shoulders and shook him, and someone shouted words he couldn't understand.

Robb. The voice shouting was Robb's. Slowly Theon lowered his arms. In the faint moonlight, he could see Robb crouched before him, his clean-shaven, youthful face creased with worry. Theon cautiously reached out and stroked Robb's cheek to be sure what he saw was real. Robb seemed to understand this and grabbed Theon's other hand and squeezed it tightly in his own.

"Quinn! Quinn, please, look at me!

"It's me. It's me," Robb said over and over. "I would never hurt you."

If you knew, Theon thought, if you remembered how I…

Theon stopped touching Robb's face and pulled their hands apart. He knew what he needed to do; what he should have done a long time ago.

"This was wrong. I—I was wrong to entice you as I have," Theon said.

Deluding myself—believing I have any right to you.

"You didn't—"

"No. Stay away from me," Theon said firmly.

He scuttled back from Robb and rose to his feet. Robb stood with him—confusion etched on every inch of his handsome young face. So young. Just a boy, not the man. Theon closed his eyes and shook his head.

What have I done? I would destroy him once more. And why? To pretend.

"Wait!" Robb cried out when Theon turned and walked away from him.

"Leave me be," Theon replied without breaking his stride, though his legs felt enfeebled, as though they could collapse under his weight at any moment.

Theon left the Lichyard and made his way back to the Keep, not knowing, not caring if Jon or anyone else saw him. As he lumbered up to his rooms, Theon had to use the warm, stone walls to remain on his feet while the wretched sobs he held in tore at his insides.

He barely managed to crawl into bed, where he buried himself head to toe under a mountain of furs. And there he stayed all night, and through the following morning, unable to sleep as he wallowed in shame. Soaking his pillows in endless tears.

By noon, he fell into a fitful sleep, believing he'd wrung himself dry. Then, as the sun began to set, even deep within the Keep, and cowering in his room, Lady Stark's wails reached Theon's ears.

Bran has been found. Fallen. Broken.

Theon pressed his hands over his ears. Not to drown out the cries of a heartbroken mother, but to block the voice whispering in his head, accusing him.

That's your fault too.

"It's not! I had no choice!" Theon cried.

You can't fool me. Am I going to have to remind you?

"Sorry! Sorry!"

It's all right. I forgive you. I have always forgiven you, haven't I? The only one who will after what you've done.

Theon nodded. "Yes. Yes."

Good. Now, what could you have done? If you weren't such a coward, that is.

"I-I could have—"

Tell me. Say it.

"I could have ended my life."

Yes. No little boys climbing walls then. But we both know you are too craven to save anyone.

"Sorry, My Lord."

Instead, you spread your legs to make a slut of yourself.

"I'm sorry."

Did you really believe he would have you? That your masters would allow a useless craven cunt like you to have their son? Their future?

"I—I…"

Did you believe he could ever be happy with someone like you? That you even deserve to be happy?

"Please."

Didn't I say, Reek?

"Yes. Yes."

If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention.

Theon, even knowing the man's fate, deeply hated Robert Baratheon.

Almost as much as he hated himself.