On the way to Pyke from White Harbour, Theon is sick most of the way. The captain tries to tell her most folks from the green lands get sick in the ships, which makes Theon even angrier. I am from the sea! she thinks, reminds herself. I am ironborn. I am a kraken. But it does little to steel her stomach, and she feels hot and sweaty and trapped below deck.
The morning of their arrival in Pyke, Theon forces herself into a new gown, she brushes her hair until it shines, braids it simply like Catelyn Stark had taught her. Despite having retched for most of the trip, the gown is tight at her waist, and her breasts ache as she fastens the gown over them.
It is that moment that Theon realizes, and the thought along makes her retch harder than the entire time she has been sick. She holds her belly, still flat yet thickening, and she wonders how she could have been so stupid.
"You don't have to call me Your Grace when no one's around," Robb had said, as they stood at the doorway of the tent, the camp slowly settling down for the night around them.
"It's not so bad," she laughed, smiling at him. "Once you get used to it."
She'd sat drinking wine as he wrote the letter to her father, watching as he crumpled one piece of parchment after another until the letter was perfect. He'd sealed it, pressing his ring into it. "You'll leave for White Harbour on the morrow?" he asked, handing her the letter.
"Whatever Your Grace commands," she teased, taking the letter, but Robb's hand had closed over hers, and he'd thrown the letter back onto his desk, pulling her by the hips towards him, until she was flush against him. He was taller than her now, and she remembered when it was she who had been the tallest, newly brought to Winterfell, missing her mother and her sister, and now here she was, a woman grown, pressed against a King who had once been a little boy she had held on her lap. "Robb..."
When she meets his eyes she is startled by the lust in the them, she has seen it in other men, in the men she has taken to her bed. It is strange to see it on Robb's face, he was like a brother to her, but he was not her brother, not now, not in that moment. She touched his face, her fingers running sofly along his brown, cupping his cheek in her palm. His growth of auburn hair on his jaw was soft and springy on her skin.
"Promise me you'll come back." His voice was low and hoarse, and for a moment Theon was reminded so vividly of Ned Stark that it took her breath away.
"Of course I will," she said, her hand still on his cheek, the other clenched into the furs over his chest. "I'm your wisest counsel." He grinned at that, pressed his mouth over hers. His kisses were needy and inexperienced, too rushed and sloppy, but they were honest and Theon kissed him back slowly, sensually, setting a pace that Robb relaxed into easily.
His hands roamed over her back and down to her bottom, lifting her easily into his arms as he walked her back to the bed, dropping her on it. She lay back on her elbows, looking up at him to where he stood, towering above her. He looked nervous, yet the want on his face was so clear, so painfully obvious that Theon had to smile, rising up on her knees to meet him.
"Too many layers," she said, her fingers deft and practiced as she undid the laces and buckles of his clothing, pushing them off him until he stood shirtless in just his breeches and small clothes.
There is no one to greet Theon when she steps down off the Myraham, and she clenches her jaw, determined not to let it get to her. Ravens are not always reliable, she thinks. Perhaps they do not yet know I am even come.
But the reception Theon receives is not one of joy, but one of bitter resentment. Her father barely speaks to her, it is her little sister who has claimed their father's heart and Theon's righful place as heir. Even her lady mother is cold and distant. I am a stranger here, she cries silently, her hands pressed against her belly. But my blood is iron and salt. My blood is iron and salt the same as yours.
"You are his whore, then?" Balon asks, eyes dark with something akin to hatred.
"No! I am his counsel, he trusts me! I have hunted with him, I have shared meat and mead with him..."
"And your bed! Do not lie to me, daughter, your lady mother tells me you are with child. Spare me the lies that it is not a wolf bastard in your belly."
Any argument Theon might have had, any words she might have been able to use to convince her father to join Robb mean nothing now, and her father burns the letter. Theon watches as Robb's careful words and steady hand curl into char, and as her father swears to take back what is his.
She pushed him down onto the bed, her own clothes discarded now, and she climbed onto him, her hair thick and dark, hanging over them like a curtain as she kissed him again, hot and opened mouthed, her tongue dancing along his. "Touch me here," she said, taking his hand and placing it on her breast. He kneaded her flesh in his hand, squeezing, feeling the weight of it in his palm. His thumb rubbed hard over her nipple and Theon groaned, a shot of pleasure coursing through her down to her cunt.
"Did I hurt you?" Robb asked, and Theon shook her head, closing her hand over his.
"No," she said, rocking her hips down against him, the feel of his cock, hot and hard against her. "It is good."
He took both breasts in his hands, squeezing and groping, her nipples sweetly caressed by his fingers as he explored her. Harder, Theon thinks, but she does not say. I will not break. I am ironborn. His mouth was warm and wet as he took a nipple into his mouth.
"Here now," she said, taking his other hand and pressing it between them, pushing his fingers, two of them, up inside her. His mouth fell away from her breast as he thrust his fingers in and out of her, instinctively.
"I need to fuck you," Robb said, his mouth against her ear and he flipped her over onto her back, his hand on her thigh, wet from her cunt as he pulled against him. Her own hand was on her breast now, pulling on her nipple, rolling it between her fingers as Robb pushed himself slowly inside of her.
He was thicker than most men she had been with, and the pleasant aching stretch of her around him was welcome, wanted. Theon pressed her hips up to take him deeper, lifting her leg over one of his arms, and Robb's moan was loud. They would all know now, but she didn't care, her King needed her. Robb needed her.
"Am I yours?" she asked, her hands on his face, pulling him down to kiss her. "Now and always?"
"Now and always," Robb repeated, his hand slipping under the back of her head, bringing his mouth down to kiss her, soft and tender this time, a promise of something more, something they had never spoken of.
"My heart is yours," she whispered against his mouth. "In victory and defeat. From this day, until my last day."
It has been 3 moons since Theon saw Robb when she arrives in Riverrun. It is almost impossible to hide her belly now, and she wears her furs tight around her. She finds him in his chambers, his head bowed as he looks over his maps. At her footsteps he turns, his face brightening as he sees her.
"I have brought no ships," she says, as she moves to stand next to him. "My father plans to move on the North."
Robb's head drops at that, and she can see the weight of her words on his shoulders. Another enemy to meet in battle is something they cannot afford. She wants to touch him, to slip her arms around his neck and press her face to his skin, to tell him that they will survive this, that he is King. "I need to speak with my uncle, this changes things."
"Wait," Theon says, and Robb turns back toward her. "I..." her voice is lost, her mouth frozen. "Now and always?" she asks, and pushes the furs from her shoulders, letting them fall to the floor. Her belly is still small, but round, and there is no mistaking it for anything but mother's stomach.
There is a change in Robb's face then, it is softer, happier, but mostly hopeful. "Now and always," he says, walking back toward her, not stopping until his mouth is on hers, one hand holding her to him, the other spanned over her belly.