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Feel the Tide Turning

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It had been a blur; a blur of blood-ravaged swords and strangled screams, but a blur nonetheless.

And then it was over, but the steel was still crashing in his ears, the blood still running. It was over, but they had won, he understood, and it had been a great victory. The Young Wolf! he could hear people crying somewhere, and his eyes closed and he imagined the Stark banner raised high, the look Robb might have in his eyes as he stood watching, the twisted iron and bronze of his crown catching the light, the corners of his lips twisting upwards.

He was moving, then, tripping over his boots, stumbling over rocks and branches and bodies, blinking once before he was in Robb’s tent. He was alone, this king of the north, this young wolf, and Theon’s eyes closed and he thought of the Drowned God, of the Old Gods, of any gods that had the power to listen to him. They stood there a minute, these boys, these men, and there was something glinting in Robb’s eyes, in Theon’s eyes, something hard and fast and frenzied, and they were moving towards each other, the crown thrown carelessly in the corner, the bow clattering from Theon’s hands to the ground.

It was almost a bite, almost a growl, and Theon thought of how aptly named Robb was, the young wolf, and he grinned into it, whatever it was, almost biting back, almost growling back, knotting his fingers in his king’s hair. And then their breeches were getting yanked off, and he was pushing his king’s head down, and his head tipped back, and he stared at the crown, the pointed ends peeking out from crumpled piles of clothes. Robb’s hands were ghosting around his hips, nails digging into skin for an anchor, and then it was over and Theon was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, to keep from shouting himself raw.

Robb’s tongue was pushing back into his mouth, and he tasted like the sea, like release, and Theon grabbed at it, grabbed at his king, greedy almost in his motions, but how could it be greedy if it was being given to him, all laid out on a silver platter? They were kissing, but it was desperate, frenzied still, and they fell back onto the ground, a tangle of limbs and half torn-off clothes, fingers drawing bruises where they landed, moans swallowed with a snap of teeth. They fell back and landed on the forgotten crown, on the discarded bow, and they broke apart, breathing heavy, eyes stormy, and something in between them shattered.

“We won,” Robb said, in a daze, his voice dragging, his hands turning the crown over and over in his hands.

“We did,” Theon agreed, his voice careful, thinking of the way he had stumbled here, the way Robb had looked at him before everything, Robb’s words echoing back in his head, until it sounded half a chant, half a prayer. We won we won we won.