![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
our heart burns broken at the ends.
WHO? theon greyjoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ironsalt) & robb stark (carnivora).
WHAT? in the end, the sea spits theon greyjoy back out.
ironsalt) & robb stark (carnivora).WHAT? in the end, the sea spits theon greyjoy back out.
[ in the end, the sea spits theon greyjoy back out.
robb doesn't hear from him for ages, and for weeks he's left wondering whether he even made it to pyke, to the iron islands, or whether his ship is crushed to pieces along some rocky shore or rotting at the bottom of the ocean floor. torturous dreams of theon's face haunt him nearly every night, though some nights are worse than others and robb wakes in a cold sweat, his heart in his throat as a heavy sense of foreboding washes over him.
despite his worries, the war rages on.
with his men at his back, robb rides to the westerlands and smashes through lannister forces near lannisport, then marches further north to sack and hold ashemark. he's onto the crag next, suffering an injury that leaves him temporarily bedridden and at the mercy of a soft, doe-eyed girl with a tempting mouth and a soothing voice.
i am promised to another, he thinks when she wipes his brow with a cool, damp rag, and as he thinks it, he thinks not of a nameless frey girl but of theon greyjoy slipping his hand into his and squeezing.
( he is only a boy. )
robb returns to riverrun exhausted and older, to where he's greeted by his mother who takes him into his arms and runs her fingers through his curls as he presses his face to her breast. once catelyn has seen him fed, she tells him of renly's refusal — and of his death — and of theon's return to the riverlands. he'll only speak with you, she says.
if she says anything else, robb doesn't hear her. he excuses himself from his mother's side and walks until he's out of her sight, then rushes through the castle to theon's room, grey wind padding behind him to snuff curiously at robb's heels.
he's dizzy and breathless by the time he bursts into theon's chambers, red curls in disarray under his heavy crown, and though moments before he had had every intention of gripping him tight and kissing him hard, when he sees him now he hesitates, quiet and uncertain. ]
— Theon. [ gods, he has so much to be concerned with, but all he can think is, please let nothing have changed.
please still want me the way i want you. ]
painfully wordy i'm so sorry
halfway through the journey at sea, he gets violently ill, confined to his cabin with a fever that burns from his hairline to his toes, leaving him gasping, vomiting in a bucket that the captain's daughter carries overboard with a pinched face. he thinks he's going to die one night, trembling and stinking without the energy to turn his nose up at the whispers passing through the crew. theon doesn't have to listen to know what they're saying and he dreams of drowning, the sea swallowing him, rejecting him, and he wakes up thinking this is the wrong way, i am going the wrong way.
his fever breaks the morning before they reach lordsport, waking to a storm and raging seas and he sulks until he can walk on shaky legs, indignant and sore.
when they dock, he is greeted with nothing. it takes him the better part of the morning to wash and dress himself, flexing his hands into fists so his fingers will stop shaking. his knees are weak when they can anchor safely and the harbor town smells like shit and salt, rotting fish. lordsport has been rebuilt but it looks fragile, half there, a busy skeleton of the ashen wasteland he had last seen. it takes speaking to only a few people to feel idiotic, humiliated and red at the neck when he is not recognized, not believed, waved aside like a nuisance instead of their heir.
then there is a girl and a horse and he regains his confidence on the ride to pyke, his chin high, looking down his nose at this woman who finds him more amusing than impressive.
and from there, humiliation so bitter and heavy that it makes his stomach twist, a sweet, revolting sensation that leaves him sick all over again his first night inside the castle. as an envoy, he has failed. as a son, he has done worse, his father's words echoing like the crash of waves against the inside of his skull.
disappointment burns so fiercely in his chest that his insides ache and his throat is rough and dry against the smoke there and his dreams are feverish and cruel again. inside the clammy cold of his barren room he dreams of robb stark, naked and warm against him, murmuring something into his ear, stroking his hair. he's embarrassed in the dream and he's crying, unable to hear him, deaf to his voice and the pathetic squeak of his throat, the rough drag of his own sobbing. he dreams about winterfell, about eddard stark, dreams about drowning, dreams about snow.
the alliance is rejected and the north is to be crushed. he is given a single vessel and that night he paces his room and throws his fists against the wall until his hands are raw and bloody, gritting his teeth until his jaw hurts.
he steals a horse, rides through the night, doesn't look at anyone with a cloak drawn over his face, a needless disguise. no one knows him here and his father does not send men after him until the morning. they find him when he reaches seagard and he shoves a dagger through the belly of the ironborn that slits the throats of the crew of the ship that harbored him, twisting away, escaping by luck.
delirious and woozy from blood loss, he makes it to the riverlands before death can reach him, is told he would not of survived another day, is told he should be dead. he laughs when he's told this, feverish and half unconscious, muttering yes, yes.
he does not know how many days pass but it is only a few, health returning to him reluctantly, more bitter and withdrawn as time passes. he does not speak of the failed alliance, knows it is obvious what the result of his journey must be, knows he can never return to the jagged pile of rock he was born on, knows this must be well known now.
it has threatened to rain all through the evening robb returns and when the door slams open he does not have to look up to know who it is, but he does anyway. his breath does not catch but his mind reels, dizzy and almost confused as if he does not really believe the man in front of him is the boy king who kissed him in front of that ancient portrait, the man he gave up everything for. he looks older than his years and theon feels a phantom pain, some inexplicable sense of dread that he's lost time, lost the days that causes robb to look at him like this now, wiser and still not the right size for his crown.
the silence stretches and he is moving before he remembers standing up, crossing the room without quite reaching him, his mouth curving at one side, a crooked grin not reaching his eyes- his voice is tired, ghosting thinly at smugness like all is well, like maybe he never left at all. ] I said I would see you soon, Stark.
this took forever ugh forgive me i've been so busy
there's a heaviness in his eyes and on his brow that wasn't there before — or if it was, robb failed to notice it until now. he is handsome, strong, tall, lean, still every bit the man that has relentlessly haunted robb's dreams, and yet —
and yet.
theon looks tired.
the silence between them is a wall that keeps robb from moving, and theon's voice is the hammer that breaks through the stone, drawing robb's breath from him. robb swallows, leather cracking as he squeezes his fingers into gloved palms and dares to take a step forward, wanting to rush into theon's arms as much as he selfishly wants theon to rush into his. i shouldn't have let you go, he wants to say. i can't believe i let you go.
as if somehow robb's words would mend the crookedness of his smile. as if theon would not have gone anyway, despite robb's begging, despite robb's orders. as if robb's presence alone is enough to ease the ache of theon's loneliness, and maybe robb thinks that already. ]
I — [ words fail him as he exhales noisily and stares, disbelieving. his brain grasps desperately for something to say, for an appropriate greeting, but for as well-spoken as he can be at times, robb isn't a naturally gifted speaker. he's too genuine for honeyed words, too sincere for false promises that sound more like poetry than lies.
but where his brain betrays him, his body does not.
robb's heavy cloak sweeps behind him as he moves forward, closing the distance between them in three long strides. he crashes into theon without stopping or slowing, propelling them back into the bedpost of theon's bed as he claws his fingers through his hair and kisses him not like he loves him (though he does, absolutely and completely, for now, for always), but like he wants to devour him, all teeth and tongue and desperate whining that's lost to theon's mouth. ]
hdu take forever who takes forever
there are a thousand questions he wants to ask, hundreds answered with just the sound of robb's boots against the flooring and more still with the force of his body against his. for every few doubts eased, a dozen more populate and he finds no breath to voice any of them, his arms lifting to fit around shoulders that seem broader, stronger as he's walked backward, feeling almost disgustingly weak by comparison.
for as long as he's been away, robb has been chipping away at war, evident enough with the haunted look about him and further still against the harder musculature of his body. he prefers the insistent fingers through hair he's just recently been able to wash over whatever measured words he could produce, feeling the awkward shape of the bedpost pressing against him.
it's the reaction he didn't dare to dream about and maybe better still, hissing a breath past cracked lips like he's briefly forgotten how to properly take in air, like he's drowning but not at all in the sea.
he kisses to bruise because he doesn't know how else to, elbows pulling back to drag his hands over the straps of leather holding robb's armor together, knowing how to remove each layer but forcing himself to stop, to tilt his head back and breathe, blinking rapidly to regain his senses. ]
My father- [ his voice is a rasp and the words are wrong, licking over his mouth in some attempt to remember his urgency in what he needs to say. he corrects himself with an odd sort of flinch, something unfamiliar as his hands shift to rest on robb's shoulders in unclenched fists. ] Balon has declared himself King of the North. They will bleed the coastline dry and it will be only a distraction.
[ he does not mention winterfell, not yet, watching robb with an odd sense of patience, a stiffness in either wrist that suggests someone will have to pry him away from robb stark before he ever agrees to be so much as a step away from him again. he has plans to divulge, warnings that need to be made hastily, but he needs this now, fingers flexing into the fur framing his neck to keep him close. ]
meanwhile over a month later
the reveal hits him dully, ringing in his ears and spinning around his head in nonsensical patterns that mean nothing to him. balon greyjoy, the treacher, the rebel, turning his back on the north and on the starks, as defiant now as he'd been ten years ago. he should be more surprised than he is, but theon's mouth is bruised and red and lovely, and all robb can think is i don't care, i don't care, i don't care.
balon greyjoy may have betrayed him, but theon greyjoy has not. and robb knows now that he was right for never once doubting him or his loyalty.
theon stares at him as if he's expecting robb to say something kingly and noble and wise, but robb can think of nothing to say. maybe it's his youth, or his naiveté, or his childish glee at having theon here in his arms after so long, after they've been separated by so much.
he doesn't feel kingly or noble or wise, besides; he feels helplessly lost, gripping theon as though he fears he might glide through his fingers like sand on a beach. ]
None of that matters. [ his words are juvenile and foolishly misplaced, as if a fuck him, then can erase all that balon has done and will do. robb presses on, his trembling fingers tracing the lean, muscled line of theon's arms. ] You're here now. I —
[ the space between them is too wrong, too cold. robb buckles forward and winds his arms around his middle, tucking his face into the smooth curve of theon's throat and pressing his lips to his pulse. ]
— Gods, Theon. I never thought I'd see you again.
pretend this is timely
but this is what he fought to return to, wasn't it? he stares at robb and the brief silence makes him frantic, wanting to yell, wanting to force immediacy into his skull. it's resolve that slips easily at the press of shaky hands against him, warmth flooding him from the belly out, nothing like the sickly ache of the fever that claimed him for so long but thick and familiar.
rational thought had been brief but he'll claim later that an effort was made — and that'll have to be good enough because when robb cuts himself off with that sharp intake of breath, the sound sinks to his cock and he shudders with it, hissing out a low breath. ]
Yes. [ theon manages just this once robb closes the distance between their bodies, tipping his head back to allow that mouth to graze his throat, thinking maybe he wanted to say you need to call your men, you can't waste more time but growling instead, a slow sound catching in the back of his throat. ]
I knew I would. [ it's simple and overconfident, like he's always known something robb hasn't. it's also an obvious lie, a half groan, his hands lifting to lift the crown from robb's mess of curls, pulling it away almost reverently only to dangle it from the fingers of one hand, bold and pointless.
and then it's easy to reason that there will be time for playing war later, chin tilting so he can find robb's mouth with his again, biting kisses and tilting his hips forward, ignoring the odd feeling of being far slighter against the younger man's frame to lick into his mouth — all urgency, teeth hard against teeth when the crown is dropped to work his hands between their chests, thin fingers yanking at the clasp of cloak. ]
no subject
and again, like before, like always, robb will wade into the water until the waves break every foolish fucking bone in his body.
but, gods, how could words or warnings matter when they're together like this, when the tight press of their bodies leaves robb breathless and wanting. his crude crown is discarded, carelessly tossed to the stone floors, and if robb notices, he says nothing, his mouth kept busy by theon's tongue and teeth.
theon is quick with his cloak, but robb is quicker with theon's leathers, clawing fabric from his body like he's starved for him. his mouth finds his neck, and then the narrow line of his collar, teeth dragging down his sternum as his fingers count and feel each rib, pushing between the spaces in his chest like they're his to take and hold. his hands and mouth are bold and quick, rushed by inexperience; robb doesn't know any better, doesn't understand that theon will still be there if he slows down and kisses him how he's always wanted to kiss him — sweetly, deeply.
sweetness has no place here, maybe, in this cold room in riverrun, in the middle of this wretched war. robb wants to map theon's body with bruises and hard kisses and learn him in a newer, better way, until the war is gone and they are as they always were, laughing in winterfell with no talk of crowns or kings or betrayal.
sweetness has no place here. or anywhere.
( and again, like before, like always always always — )
robb squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his face into theon's shoulder with a soft sound, his arms winding around his naked middle as he slots a thigh between his legs and rubs against him. ]