Winter is here, blustery and cold. Snow blankets the ground thickly, and the smell of smoke from the cook-fires is heavy on the air.
It had been yet another long meeting between Robb and his lords, and Theon had grown anxious. This was not his place, despite the fact that he desperately wanted it to be, and he always felt like a useless piece in the meetings. He had nothing to offer Robb, no knights and no ships, nothing at all.
Theon still dreams of the sea, and sometimes he wakes and thinks he can taste salt. He doesn’t tell Robb this, because if he did Robb wouldn’t understand. How could he when he is King of the North? Robb Stark has never been alone.
The hand settles at Theon’s shoulder briefly before the arm slips around his waist, and Robb’s voice is tired in his ear. “That was entirely too long. I can see why you snuck away.”
Theon frowns and briefly entertains the thought of shaking him off, but they were far enough from camp and it was cold enough that people weren’t out this far. “Yes, well, there’s only so much squabbling I can feasibly take.”
Robb makes a quiet noise as he turns his face into the crook of Theon’s neck, and it’s only then that Theon realizes that he’s hard, and the hand at his waist is creeping towards his laces.
His Grace must not be so tired after all, Theon thinks, and he bites back a laugh. How just like Robb, to ambush him like this--he’s never been one for telling Theon what he wants.
Theon sucks in a ragged breath as cold fingers slip in to curl around his cock, the stroking ungainly but altogether welcome. Robb huffs a quiet laugh, his lips pressed to Theon’s ear, always surprised at how responsive Theon is for him.
Theon just wants affection, but affection from Robb holds a particular place of honor. Who else can say they had fucked the King of the North? He writhes in Robb’s arms, hips moving to match Robb’s strokes, and is rewarded with the wet slide of Robb’s lips beneath his ear.
“Robb, don’t be a tease,” Theon pants, breathless, and he can only imagine Robb’s sly grin. The hand on his cock stops entirely, and Theon growls.
The other hand on his neck tightens and Theon goes still. “Is that any way to talk to your king?” Robb’s voice is stern; this is the voice that inspires loyalty in men greater than Theon, that encourages men to fight and die for their cause, and Theon cannot resist it.
The hand on his cock begins to move again, and Theon would have let out a ragged sob of relief if he could breathe. He can barely get in enough air as it is, and the adrenaline that comes from the aching burn in his lungs is what pushes him over the edge. He scrabbles at Robb’s hand, unable to take any more. When Robb lets go and Theon gets that first blessed breath of air, he comes, spurred as much by relief as the sneaky twist Robb adds on the down stroke.
“Robb,” Theon croaks out when he has his breath again, tucking himself back into his clothing. “Do you--”
“No,” Robb admits, and Theon can hear the note of embarrassment. He came in his breeches, Theon realized dimly, and his cock gave a weak twitch. “We should go before the others start to wonder where we went,” Robb whispers in his ear, and there’s the faintest of kisses to Theon’s cheek.
Theon nods and turns to follow. The moon is full, and the snow is falling again, large flakes that settle in Robb’s curly hair.
Theon wonders if he’ll dream of the sea tonight, or if he’ll dream of Robb Stark and falling snow instead.