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Rooted to the spot Jon stood, unable to blink, utter a syllable, or react in any other manner.

Well, the vision to have assaulted his eyes would have shattered the composure of the most unflappable individual. After all, he had never had the occasion to watch his brother engage in quite scandalous acts with another male.

Still more shocking was the revelation that yes, this creature writhing under Robb, and enthusiastically demanding to be buggered harder and faster, was none other than Theon Greyjoy. Famous for their skill at archery, navigation and lovemaking, Ned Stark's ward was wont to boast about his House, and the words were now echoing dumbly in Jon's ears. Apparently, Greyjoy's talents were indeed very extensive.

“Oh, gods, don't stop!”

Robb answered the hoarse plea with a powerful thrust of his hips, tearing a groan from Greyjoy's throat. Belatedly, the ironborn bit at the pillow in order to stifle the mounting cries. A fine time to take care of the racket, Jon thought bitterly, recovering some of his wits. Strange noises coming from Robb's bedchamber - in the middle of the night, no less - had led him to believe something sinister was afoot, and convinced him the matter warranted further investigation.

He should have known better than to enter, since curiosity frequently had disastrous – or even fatal – consequences.

Thankfully, the pair on the bed hadn't detected the intruder, so Jon could yet safely walk away. Why, then, was he tarrying, instead of shaking off the spell? Surely not because he actually found the scene fascinating? Of course not.

His eyes, though, seemed to have a will of their own, and followed every movement, noticing how desperately Robb clutched at Theon's hips, and how Greyjoy, despite being handled so roughly, was evidently enjoying himself. Gleaming with sweat, their bodies strained and rocked together in an impressive display of male strength. And Jon couldn't help but marvel at their intimate joining.

Staring at his brother's prick, as it slid in and out of Greyjoy's muscular arse, or at Robb's hand on the ironborn's cock, had probably earned Jon a place in the deepest of seven hells. Jon, however, didn't care for his fate in the afterlife, too perplexed as he was by the mechanics of this peculiar coupling. It looked painful, brutal even, resembling a fight, rather than a lover's embrace. And, more importantly, how did Greyjoy manage to take all of Robb's substantial length and girth?

Heat crept up his neck, when he realized what exactly he had just contemplated. Worse yet was the discovery that the muffled noises, the smell of sex, and the sight of Robb slamming into Theon, were beginning to affect Jon quite unseemly. But the shameful reaction of his flesh was a blind, instinctual response, which most certainly had nothing to do with the identity of the people behaving so wantonly.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the presence of the mortified trespasser, Robb surged forward, bowing over Greyjoy's prone form. The russet locks clung to his face, the blue eyes were fever-bright, and his lips curled in a wolfish snarl as he growled Theon's name. In response, Greyjoy arched against Robb, his mouth opening on a moan, which was swiftly quietened with a hungry kiss.

It was oddly beautiful, to witness their absolute surrender to pleasure in each other's arms. Nevertheless, before Jon had a chance to steal more glances at the ironborn's long, pale throat, or Robb's slim fingers, lightly caressing Greyjoy's softening cock, Theon gazed straight at him.

The pupils were overblown, nearly eclipsing the irises, yet the lazy satiation reflected therein was gradually replaced with surprise, anger, and, finally, silent mockery. The coolly sardonic look worked better than a slap would have to return Jon to his senses. In a flash, he stumbled out of the room, and leaned against the hastily shut door. Breathing hard, Jon could not shake the impression that a war had just been declared between himself and Greyjoy.

As if in a daze, praying all the while Robb had not been informed about the ill-timed visit, Jon crossed the empty corridor to his own modest quarters. Once inside, he went to the table, grabbed the flagon and proceeded to fill the basin. A poor substitute for a cold bath, but, hopefully, it would quell the unwelcome heat in his blood. Resolutely, Jon stripped to the waist, then splashed some frigid water over his burning cheeks.

The procedure wasn't helping, though, for the images of the two entwined bodies played under Jon's closed lids again and again. Never had he seen Robb and Theon thus, so that was probably the reason for the tenacity with which the sinful visions had taken hold of his mind. Courteous, noble Robb, and the ward, whose tongue was as sharp as his arrows … How long had they been slipping away for the trysts such as the one Jon had happened upon?

Scrubbing at his face, he searched his memory for any instances which might have hinted at the true nature of the relationship between Robb and Greyjoy. None were discovered: during the meals in the great hall, the hunts, the training sessions, his brother and the ironborn were acting with naught but easy camaraderie. Their eyes and hands didn't linger or stray, as they traded good-natured barbs and clapped each other on the shoulders. And what did I expect? That they would kiss in front of Lady Catelyn? Still, Jon felt a prickle of irrational hurt at the thought of Robb keeping him in the dark.

“How did you like the show, bastard?”

Startled from his musings, Jon whipped around to find Greyjoy smirking at him from the doorway. Dishevelled, clad in half-unlaced breeches, the ironborn looked the very picture of salacious debauchery.

Jon set his jaw, striving to imitate the chillingly polite tone of his lord father. “I didn't. And if you wished to avoid being caught, you should have locked the door.”

Which was what Greyjoy promptly did. “Why, thank you for this gem of wisdom, Snow. Now, that the latch is in place, and Robb is slumbering, we can have our own little chat, away from any nosy eavesdroppers that roam the halls at night.”

The barb was ignored and for a lengthy moment they regarded each other in heavy silence.

“What are you going to do, Snow?”

“About you and Robb? Nothing.” Tired with the whole posturing, Jon sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “For gods' sake, who do you take me for, Greyjoy? Some gossiping fishwife?”

Greyjoy's lips were still pleasantly quirked up; his words, however, were devoid of any levity.

“A bastard, whose one well-planted whisper may grant him Winterfell, once the trueborn son is sent away in disgrace.”

“Then you presume wrongly, Greyjoy.” Jon narrowed his eyes, reining in the urge to wipe off the infuriating smile with his fist. Typical Greyjoy – ever to think the worst of him. “I would never do anything to harm Robb. I may be a bastard, as you have so graciously pointed out, but I'm not without honour. Robb's secrets are safe with me.”

The promise rang true, and something akin to reluctant gratitude flickered in Greyjoy's gaze. They were no friends; nonetheless, their shared desire to stand faithfully by Robb's side was enough to lessen the tension between Jon and the ward.

As was the case with uneasy truces, this one was no exception and lasted only till Greyjoy chanced to take a better look at Jon. Perhaps ashamed of what he might have inadvertently revealed about himself, the ward decided to appease his pride by embarrassing Jon in turn.

“Oh, Snow,” he scoffed, pushing himself from the door and stalking over to his wary rival. “So selfless and noble, and yet you did lie to me about one thing.”

His apprehension mercifully not manifesting outwardly, Jon frowned at the ironborn. “Quit this nonsense, Greyjoy. I gave you my word I would not tell anyone. Leave me be and get out.”

When he reached for the discarded shirt, his wrist was unceremoniously pinned to the table. Outraged, Jon swung at Greyjoy; this, though, availed him naught, for his other hand was shortly restrained as well. The precariousness of the situation dawned on him, as soon as Greyjoy insinuated himself between Jon's splayed legs.

Close … too close. Anger, the musky smell of arousal, and the ward's proximity were making Jon dizzy. The confusion deepened further as Greyjoy nudged lightly with his hips.

“So you didn't enjoy what you saw, huh?”

Stubbornly, Jon glared at him. “No - stop it!”

“Do you really want me to stop, though?”

“No … I mean, yes!”

In answer, Greyjoy pressed himself more insistently against Jon. “Yes or no? I believe your prick likes me well enough, Snow.”

The insolence with which the words rolled off Greyjoy's tongue was insufferable, and Jon let his wrath take over, consequences be damned. It was just another of his duels with the ward – only this time they fought with their bodies, not blunted swords. With the rough wood digging into the back of his thighs, there was not much space for movement, but he tried to give as good as he got, meeting Greyjoy's next thrust with his own.

How satisfying it was to observe Greyjoy's eyes widen, then gaze at him with a certain amount of admiration, as if Jon had proved himself a worthy opponent.

“Good,” the ironborn breathed, voice low. “For a green boy, that is.”

And he bent his head, attacking Jon's neck with his teeth, dragging wet tongue over the throbbing pulse. A strangled moan escaped Jon, despite his efforts to contain the noise. Not to be outdone, he quickly shifted his hips, so that his pelvis ground against Theon's.

Something primal and dark unfurled in him upon finding Greyjoy hard. What were they even doing? Animals in heat, that's what they were – rutting and snarling, fangs poised at each other's throats.

“Such yearning was in your eyes, Snow. Did you wish to be in my place? Or Robb's?”

“I didn't ...”

“Sure you did.”

More taunts followed, to which Jon reacted with vicious twists of hips, intent on making the ironborn stammer. Bur rendering Greyjoy speechless was an impossible task, and lewd words were panted hotly against Jon's skin. Out of the throaty sounds, sensual in themselves, vivid images were painted: of Robb and Theon tearing impatiently at each other's clothes, kissing, touching, each caress a testament to this unnamed emotion that transcended lust.

As if those pictures alone weren't torment enough, quickening Jon's heartbeat to a nigh unbearable gallop and rushing his blood to his aching cock, the tenor of the tales was subtly altered. Cunningly, his name was woven into the narrative, and, helpless, Jon could see himself with Robb and Theon, as he let them claim his body in every possible way imaginable.

“This is what we would do to you, wolf.” A sharp bite to his collarbone, pain mixing with pleasure. “Would you like us to?”

“No ...”

And because his weak protest was met with laughter, Jon lunged forward, crushing his mouth against Greyjoy's. A startled gasp greeted the invasion; a brief struggle ensued, during which the ward tried to break free, and, unwittingly, relaxed his hold on his captive. Instantly, Jon's fingers wound themselves into the ironborn's hair, his other hand gripping at Greyjoy's waist hard enough to leave bruises.

The battle was not won, however. The attempts to repel Jon ceased; instead of waging war with his lips, Greyjoy was now kissing slowly, giving Jon an opportunity to taste him properly – and Robb as well. Then he sucked on Jon's tongue, and Jon was shuddering, flexing his hips against Greyjoy's with urgent desperation, as waves of pleasure crashed over him.

Panting, he laid his forehead at the juncture of Greyjoy's neck and shoulder. Strangely, rather than mock him, the ironborn waited patiently for Jon to recover his breath.

“Why …”

“Why not? Consider it my thanks, if you will.” A thumb swept over Jon's lower lip. “For keeping your pretty mouth shut.”

Their eyes locked, blue on slate grey.

“And now,” the ward whispered. “You have a dirty secret of your own.”

First of many such secrets, Jon thought as he watched Greyjoy leave his room, the whole encounter still too fresh in his memory to deem it a bizarre dream.