Robb dreams of marching south, of marching to war, Grey Wind at his side and his father's bannermen at his back, sees blood in the snow, on Grey Wind's muzzle, on the edge of his sword, but he wakes in his chambers at Winterfell, warm and familiar, Theon's back pressed to his chest and the furs tangled around their legs. The fire has burned low, quiet pops and fractured light and long shadows on the wall; Theon stretches a little, tipping his head back against Robb's shoulder, his hair tickling Robb's jaw, and Robb strokes his hand down Theon's arm, slides it over the curve of Theon's hip.
Theon makes a soft, sleepy sound, arching back against Robb, hooking his foot around Robb's ankle and hiding his face in the pillows, and Robb slips his hand up Theon's side, traces the sharp lines of Theon's chest with his fingers, his thumb just barely brushing a nipple as he flattens his palm over Theon's heart, pulling Theon closer. He kisses the back of Theon's neck, drags his mouth over Theon's skin, sucks a wet, pink mark into the slope of Theon's shoulder. Another noise catches in Theon's throat, louder than the first and curled up at the end, almost a question; Robb starts to pull away, but Theon catches Robb's arm, curves his hand over Robb's wrist, threads their fingers together.