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Even though it is for Robb’s sake, Jon finds himself asking what on earth he’s doing here, bothering to look for Theon Greyjoy. Robb had come and recruited his help while Jon was reading in the courtyard. His usual proud posture was sheepish when he asked Jon if he’d seen their father’s ward.
Apparently, Robb had snapped at him, told him something about knowing his place, and while Jon thinks that sort of reminder might do Greyjoy some good, it is Robb’s brokenhearted plea for his help moves Jon to help his brother. Despite himself, he’s never been able to deny Robb much.
While Robb takes to the rookery to search, Jon meanders into the kitchens, asking a few of the scullions there if Greyjoy had come by to lick his wounds.
A blonde one named Meiry makes a face when Jon asks. “He was here,” the girl says awkwardly. Many hands about the castle often don’t know how to address their lord’s bastard, and so she doesn’t at all. Only falters a moment before continuing on. “Gage shooed him out a while back for drinking all the wine. Took a whole wineskin with him.”
“Where has he gone?” Jon asks futilely.
Meiry only shrugs.
Jon huffs. He’d not wanted to spend his day looking for his father’s ward. His muscles are sore from his sword practice earlier this afternoon, and he wants to soak in a warm bath before they’re called to the hall for supper.
It had been a warm summer day but as it comes to an end the wind carries a bite to it, and Jon has to bundle his coat closer around him as he wanders the grounds. Robb must have searched all over the castle for Theon, so Jon reasons he must not be within Winterfell’s walls, if he’s still missing. He wonders if perhaps Robb has found him, and there’s no need to keep looking. He starts back toward the castle before a thought occurs to him.
With a heavy sigh, Jon starts toward the godswood. Theon is not a religious boy, least of all for the gods of northmen, but the godswood springs are warm and satisfying, and would feel lovely in the cooling air.
With a roll of his eyes, Jon decides that’s most likely where he is. Theon does so love to flaunt his body, even if there are no women about to see it. Jon makes his way toward the heart tree, and before long he can see the massive heavy trunk of the heart tree sprawled out from the small clearing by the pools. Squinting, he can see Theon’s figure through the surrounding evergreen trees.
Theon is seated on the forest floor, lazily slumped back against the weirwood trunk with the leather wineskin tipped into his mouth. He doesn’t see Jon at all, but he does cast a glare toward the setting sun before setting the wineskin down to use all four limbs to stumble to his feet. He fails to get upright on his own several times before reaching for a knot in the heart tree to heft himself upward, wobbling.
Watching him struggle is unbearable. Jon clears his throat. “So this is where you’ve gone off to hide and sulk?”
“Oi, what,” Theon slurs, leaning drunkenly against the tree trunk. “Where’d you come from? Sneaky bastard. Gonna tell me they’re not my gods, neither? ‘Ve no right to be here, have I?”
Jon has seen Theon drunk many times. Wine emboldens all of his most vivid qualities. Usually laughing or flirting with girls before sneaking off with them to his chambers. He indulges too much, in all things. But Jon has never seen Theon this way, slurring his words and gripping onto a bowing weirwood branch to keep himself steady on two feet.
“Robb is looking for you,” Jon tells him, hands out, in case Theon may fall. “He wants to see you. To apologize.”
“‘M sure he does,” Theon answers in a tone that might be sharp if he could speak clearly enough, “what with me not — at his side telling ‘im how brilli’nt he is the last few hours, selfish prick.”
Jon’s never heard Theon say anything admonishing about Robb. It’s jarring to hear.
“I’ve been out here since — since midday,” Theon says then, snapping up the heavy leather flagon and waving it toward the setting sun. “How long and hard h’s — the little lord… been looking?”
Jon hadn’t thought to ask that. He wonders how long Robb had searched before finding Jon.
“I could fetch him for you,” Jon mumbles. “He’s sorry, he is.”
“Well I don’t care to see him,” Theon grumbles.
Feet dragging, he loses his footing as he stumbles away from Jon and falls back on his hip into the dirt. There’s an almost comical look of shock on Theon’s face for a moment before he turns his face away. Jon understands, despite himself, that Theon is humiliated. That he cannot bear to have Robb see the effect of his words.
Deliberating whether he should stay or leave Theon to his misery, Jon chews his lip.
“Robb told me what he said to you,” Jon tries, feeling the vaguest pang of sympathy for Greyjoy. “That you’re…”
He’d defended his brother’s statement before, but standing before Theon now, fallen in the dirt and leaves, Jon doesn’t have the heart to repeat it. Robb calling him a bastard when they were children is more comparable than he first thought. It does not matter what is true, if it hurts to be reminded.
Theon turns to face him, and for the first time Jon sees dried tears tracked down his face. “Said that I’m what, Snow?”
He can’t recall ever seeing Theon cry before. Oddly, he has to suppress the urge to wipe the tears from his face.“That you’re not his kin, that you are not part of his house.”
Theon had asked so directly, Jon doesn’t expect him to flinch as he hears it again. Theon reaches for the dropped wineskin, but it’s empty, and he tosses it aside.
“Aye, well, s’only truth he told me, Snow,” he says without sparing a glance, “why should the little lord apologize for honesty?”
Jon frowns. “Lady Catelyn says the same of me,” he admits quietly. “Just because it’s a true thing doesn’t mean it isn’t cruel.”
Theon doesn’t answer, staring blankly at him, eyes glazed and mouth open. It causes a twinge at the back of Jon’s neck, and he snaps, “What?”
“Not defending your brother’s honour, then, Snow?”
“Robb’s not defending himself, either,” Jon says to avoid answering. Even though Theon had not been there to hear Jon insist Robb was right in saying as much, Jon wishes, strangely, that he could take it back. “He knows he’s done you wrong. He wishes to make amends.”
“Well, you’ve no care for wrong done t’ me,” Theon says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the little lord’s dog to a fault. Follow ‘im around wherever he goes. Never seen you two disagree.”
“Aye,” Jon says, feeling uneasy, “and I would have thought the same of the two of you, before today.”
Theon’s eyes fall back to the mulchy ground. “It’s my nameday tomorrow.”
Jon blinks. He hadn’t known. Theon is usually so boisterous about his nameday and the celebration he plans to have in the winter town brothels, buys himself Dornish wine and beautiful women. Without Theon going on about it, it’s slipped Jon’s mind entirely.
All Jon says is, “Oh.”
“I’ve not received any word from the Islands. No letter from my father. Mother’s gone now, and so… Too old to wallow over it, I suppose.”
Jon feels cornered, learning this. As if he were seeing something he should not. Theon would not wish to reveal this — it’s doubtful he’d even admit such things to Robb, at least as anything he deemed worthy of notice.
At a loss, Jon reaches for him. His fingertips brush against Theon’s shoulder. Theon shirks away from the touch.
“I don’... need that, bastard,” Theon snaps bitterly, “your — your pity.”
“I don’t mean to pity you,” he replies. “I’m only… trying to help.”
“Don’t.”
Jon glowers. Usually Theon is much cleverer when he trades barbs with Jon, often to Jon’s shame, so biting is his tongue. But somehow it throws Jon more when he has nothing clever to say at all.
“I should get Robb,” Jon tries after a moment. “He’s looking all over for you.”
“I already told you not to bother,” Theon hisses. “I don’t want him here.”
Falling silent, Jon shrugs. Awkwardly, he starts without knowing how to finish, “Well, I —”
Theon cuts him off, anyway. “I — I don’ want… want you here, either, bastard,” he hiccups. “Why — why are you here?”
“I told you,” Jon says carefully, not looking Theon in the eye. “Robb is —”
“Aye, the little lord is looking for me,” Theon slurs. “And yet it’s you — it’s you that found me?”
Frowning, Jon takes a hesitant step back. He’d almost forgotten, in this strange moment between them, that the two of them are not close. Chewing the inside of his cheek, Jon asks, “Shall I go get him now?”
“No!”
Closing the distance between them, Jon tries again. “He wanted help in finding you.”
“Zat why, then? Only — trying to win th’ lord’s favor?”
Jon sighs, “He’s quite worried.”
“He’s not,” Theon answers, the drunken slur in his voice not enough to bellay his bitterness now. “He’s — he’s jus’ bored.”
Such ice in his words. Jon takes a step back from him. Silence in the wood is broken only by the rustling of leaves as a gust blows through the red canopy of the heart tree.
It’s so quiet that Theon’s sudden gasp sounds like a crash of thunder, and Jon jumps. It’s momentarily disorienting, and takes a moment for Jon to realize Theon is crying.
Jon has never seen Theon cry. Not once. After so many years, Jon had all but convinced himself that he didn’t have the ability. It would mean Theon cared about something, and Jon had spent most of his boyhood convinced that nothing mattered to Theon. Even as a child Theon had seemed more prone to rage than tears. But now there is nothing to hide the wet hitch of his breath, and Jon keeps his focus elsewhere to spare him the shame of being seen in such a state.
“We — we should get back to the castle,” Jon tells him, looking over his shoulder to avoid watching him cry.
“Get yourself there, then,” Theon snaps. “I didn’ ask for your comp’ny.”
“I shouldn't… leave you on your own,” Jon answers him.
The words come slowly, and Jon only begins to realize why he hasn’t left as he says it aloud. It shocks them both, and Jon’s head jerks up to meet Theon’s eyes. Theon stares at him gobsmacked for a moment before looking back down at the mulch at his feet.
“Don’t be a fool.”
“You shouldn’t…” Jon can’t think of why he wants to stay here. “It’s getting quite cold. And you’re not dressed for the outdoors. You’ll freeze out here much longer.”
It’s a weak justification. Theon is not in any danger, and they both know it. Summers in the North are not as warm as they are in the southern countries, but Theon is dressed well enough and it is only just starting to chill. As if reading Jon’s mind, Theon snorts, and nudges at the empty flagon with his hand again, as if planning to drink from it before recalling that it’s empty.
“Gods, your brother has — no trouble leaving me alone. So why won’t you?” Theon says after a moment. “Why won’t you? Hate me more than — the whole lot of them, you do.”
“I don’t,” Jon protests lamely.
“Oh, fuck off with that,” Theon slurs, kicking at Jon’s feet.
He doesn’t connect, but Jon takes a step back anyway. “Robb hadn’t meant it to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” Theon struggles to his feet so he can look Jon in the eye, tears still wet on his face, but he seems to have forgotten them. “I’m not some bloody child, Snow. He said nothing I hadn’t known to be the truth already. The fucking Starks aren’t any damned kin to me. With my mother gone I — might as well not bother at all.”
Jon blinks, struck. It hurts him to hear Theon say it.
“I’m the only son he’s got left,” Theon shouts, voice like a blade, as if Jon was the one who’d murdered his brothers. “I’m — I’m his heir.”
Jon nods. “Perhaps the raven got lost, or shot down,” he offers, “the Islands are far from here.”
“Lost for three years, the lot of them?” Theon snaps, shoving at Jon’s shoulders. “Don’t be a damned fool, Snow. I’ve gotten nothing from him since my — my mother passed.”
Ashamed, Jon flinches back. He’d not known that. Theon hadn’t ever mentioned it, before. At least not to him. It settles like a stone in Jon’s chest, to realize how Robb’s words had wounded Theon. What need had Theon for his father’s love, while he had Robb’s? When they were young, Jon had been envious of Theon. The rakish ironborn boy had been an interloper in Winterfell, stealing Jon’s favourite brother away from him. A lord’s son with a grand holdfast to inherit, a family in his homelands and one as well among Winterfell. Theon used to boast of marrying young Sansa, when they were both of age, the final step in neatly merging his two worlds. But this is the first time Jon realizes how Theon, in truth, is more a stranger to both houses. One he barely remembers, another he has no true claim to.
It may hurt much like being a bastard, feeling that lost.
“I’m sorry,” Jon finally offers.
“Why?” Theon asks bitterly, “your sorrow is no good to me. You’ve no care for me, either. What does it matter, what a loveless sod I am? It’s nothing to you anyway. Not to you, not to your brother, not to your — lord father…”
Theon goes pale as his words trail off, and Jon wonders for a breath if Father has spoken to him at all, but before Jon can ask, Theon doubles over and vomits in the dirt.
Silent, Jon stares impassively as Theon falls to his knees, emptying his belly of wine. Steeling himself, Jon walks over to him, rubbing his hand warm and firm on Theon’s back.
“Don’t touch me,” Theon shouts, throwing Jon’s hand off of him with a shake of his shoulder, pushing off the grass to sit away from his mess. He drops his head into his arms, and his voice comes out muffled and wet when he speaks again. “Gods, just — just leave me be. No one else cares to… why’re you the only one with trouble leaving me alone?”
Knowing Theon cannot see him anyway, Jon shrugs. If it’s pity, he shouldn’t admit such a thing to someone as proud as Theon, even now.
He’s not sure what to say until he realizes finally why it is so hard to take him at his word. “I hate to be alone, after Lady Catelyn is cruel to me.”
When Theon looks up at him, his eyes are red and bleary, and Jon’s nails dig into the flesh of his palm to keep from reaching for him again.
“Never want to worry Robb over it and keep alone to my chambers but — I always wish someone would… would keep me company.”
“No wonder you think me soft as a girl, Snow,” Theon says with a scoff, sitting back as he drags the back of his hand over his mouth. “You’re one yourself, brooding alone in your chambers hoping for someone to rescue you.”
Theon is testing him, he knows. Goading. Hoping Jon will retaliate in kind so that he can claim some modicum of victory out of this embarrassing display. Thinking back, he wonders how often Theon has lashed out to him or any of the others out of something more broken and raw than anger. Jon cannot remember a time Theon spoke of his mother, even as a boy.
Defiantly, Jon sits beside him. “Was your mother kind? You say there are only hard, grim men in the Islands. Was your mother ironborn?”
Theon looks stunned. It takes him a moment to respond. “Aye,” he says flatly, “she was.”
Jon nods, staring back at him. He’s not sure how to further the conversation, but after a moment, Theon adds quietly, “She was ironborn in name, but my father always said she was too soft for the Islands. Her heart was too gentle, and the rebellion turned her mad. Half the letters sent to me she’d addressed to Rodrik or Maron.”
Tears are spilling over Theon’s cheeks again, and Jon feels wrong to see them so clearly. Still, Theon continues, and Jon flinches at the quiver in his voice. “My own mother didn’t miss me, not as she did my brothers. They were strong warriors, all I did was cling to her skirts.”
“You were only a child,” Jon whispers.
“Don’t,” Theon snaps, shoving him, “don’t pity me. I’ll not have pity from — from the likes of you.”
“Aye, you’ve said,” Jon shrugs. “Robb is sorry. He hadn’t meant what he said. You’re his brother same as I am.”
“I’m not!” Theon hollers. “I’m not a fucking Stark, I have no family here. The — the family I do have does not care for me. Does not want me. All off in some faraway place I can barely recall. And I — I don’t know them. I know nothing of them, not really. Memories of my brothers trying to drown me with the priests, thinking it — funny. My sister calling me names and throwing rocks at me. My father taking a strap to me for — for crying.”
Even now, face wet with tears, admitting he cried as a child seems to embarrass him. Foolishly, Jon quashes the impulse to hug him. He clenches his fists into the dirt and nods, silent.
“I didn’t ask to be a Stark. I’ve never wanted to be part of your damned frigid brood. I want to go home.” It sounds to be the truest thing Theon has ever said. After a shuddering breath, he finishes, “Hier to be lord of lands I can’t remember, people I’ve never seen. I don’t even — have a home to go to.”
And after all his overthinking, Jon forgets himself and throws his arms around him, nuzzling his face into Theon’s neck and squeezing, hoping some of the darkness swallowing Theon whole will slip out from the pressure.
Softly, as if admitting a terrible secret, Jon mutters, “I’ve not got one either, not truly.” When he pulls away, Theon doesn’t, his head resting heavy on Jon’s shoulder. “Perhaps we’re more alike than we first thought.”
Theon lets out a loud breath that could be either a laugh or a sob, air tickling against Jon’s skin. “Might as well be a bastard, too, I suppose.”
Jon’s voice doesn’t come out as teasing as he wants it to when he whispers, “I’ll remember you told me that, even if you won’t.”
This time, the noise Theon makes is more obviously a laugh. Dozing, he mumbles, “You’ll — have to be sure to remind me.”
“Don’t think that I won’t,” Jon replies, voice quiet. When Theon hums in half-listening response, it tickles against Jon’s skin and makes his skin warm. “Is that comfortable?”
Instead of answering, Theon only shuffles slightly, head still pillowed on Jon’s shoulder as he rolls closer against Jon’s side. Swallowing, Jon doesn’t ask anything further, afraid that any sort of insistence may cause Theon to move away from him. The air has turned rather bracing by now, and it’s a comfort to feel Theon’s warmth.
Jon is reluctant to move him. He’s never felt another body against him so solidly before. Like a comfort. He’s warm, and his breath is soft on Jon’s throat. Jon has never been one to seek out closeness from others, but as he sits curled beside Theon Greyjoy dozing on his shoulder, he understands why one might. It’s steadying, to listen to Theon’s leveling breath. The weight leaning against his side is soothing, reassuring. Neither of them might belong in Winterfell, not truly, but for now, they have this. Perhaps Theon feels no relief in that, but Jon does.
At least in this moment, Jon does not feel alone. When Theon wakes, surely, he will remember himself and deny the whole pitiful scene of seeking comfort in his lord’s bastard. But Jon will not forget. Theon has a home to go to, they both know it, to one day become a lord and leader of his lands and people.
Jon knows that no matter what his drunkenness says, Theon takes pride in that.
But perhaps not always. Perhaps sometimes, Theon is frightened by the weight of it all. And though Jon feels cruel for it, he revels in knowing as much. That Theon Greyjoy can be as scared and lonely as the bastard of Winterfell.
It’s not much longer before the last of the sunlight has extinguished behind the trees, and the chill in the air becomes unpleasant. A gust of wind causes Theon to shiver and press against Jon in his sleep, and guilt seeps into Jon enough that he reaches over to shake Theon awake.
“C’mon, Greyjoy,” Jon whispers when Theon grunts sleepily, “we should be getting inside. It’s gotten dark.”
“Mm,” Theon answers with a huff, struggling to stand. When he stumbles, he uses Jon’s shoulder to hold himself upright and squints up at the sky. “Gods, when’d it get so late?”
Rolling his eyes, Jon tries a new approach. “I’m going inside. I’ve gotten too cold to dawdle out here any longer.”
“Alright, no need to be such a lady about it,” Theon tells him, still using Jon for balance as they start back toward the castle.
No one they run into bothers them. Robb it seems was not so worried of where Theon had gone that he mentioned it to any of the castle hands. Though a few younger kitchen girls do spare them glances as they walk through the corridor together. It’s never been a secret, how much Theon and Jon dislike each other. Seeing Theon leaning heavily on the lord’s bastard must be as strange an encounter for them to behold as it is for Jon.
He leads them to the kitchens and sets Theon down at a table to fetch him a mug of water. Gage the cook spots them from the other side of the kitchens and storms through the bustle of cleaning scullions, stomping past Jon at the water basin to grab Theon by the arm.
“Haven’t I already sent you away, Greyjoy?” he snaps. “There’s not enough wine in our stores to please you, it seems.”
Gage seems to hesitate when Theon doesn’t respond in the usual way he does, typically such a cheerful and laughing drunk, and instead lurches along in Gage’s grip with a whimper.
Squinting down at him, Gage’s voice holds an air of respect now when he huffs, “Lord Greyjoy? What’s the matter with you, lad?”
“He’s fine,” Jon insists loudly, rushing over with the large mug of water. “Just drank on too empty a stomach, it seems.” He pushes the mug into Theon’s hands and watches him gulp greedily from it, eyeing Jon curiously over its rim.
Placated, Gage huffs. “Well, eating now won’t end well for him,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Get him out of here before he retches on the morning’s meal.”
“Right away,” Jon tells him, taking Theon’s elbow with a gentle squeeze. Water sloshes from the mug in Theon’s hands, and Jon reaches out to hold it steady before they start walking again.
As they leave the kitchens, Theon snorts and puts on a girlish voice, mocking softly, “Oh, right away.”
Flustered, he ignores the twist of embarrassment in his stomach. He wonders if he truly sounds so feminine when he speaks. Shaking the thought from his head he grumbles, “Just drink that, Greyjoy.”
Heavy against Jon’s side as they shuffle down the corridor, Theon drains the mug with a quiet huff of a laugh.
“You’ll make a lovely mother one day, Snow,” Theon chuckles as he leans against Jon to open the door to his chambers. “Such a caring soul.”
Jon grunts, ignoring him as he helps lead Theon inside.
“You must be careful though,” Theon tells him blearily, “you’re a good man, but you’re too soft for your own lands, just as my mother was. It will wither you away to nothing as well.”
The comment turns Jon as transparent as glass, and he says nothing as he pulls the furs on Theon’s bed back one-handed. “The North is not as cruel a place as your fearsome islands,” he mutters.
“Aye, but you’re — tender.” Jon startles when Theon reaches forward and gives one of his curls a gentle tug; playful and teasing. “You must learn to shield that sweet little heart of yours, or it will drive you just as mad.”
Looking at him, Jon sees a fear in Theon’s eyes. He, too, is not as careless as he pretends to be. Tender, perhaps, as his mother had been. Jon wonders if he fears going mad when he returns home, too soft for his own homelands, especially after so long away. He wants desperately to ask Theon how he does it, guards his heart as he urges Jon to do, but he’s afraid asking will sunder this easy peace between them. Theon does not want to know that anyone else can see his softness.
“Well, I suppose I’ll learn to in due time,” Jon says finally.
“Aye, that’s good,” Theon tells him, “but don’t forget yourself when you do. Your kindness in this — frozen wasteland, it’s precious as gold.”
It’s the nicest thing Theon has ever told him, and Jon is caught off-guard when Theon leans forward to press his lips to Jon’s, soft and clean from the water. Theon’s hand releases Jon’s hair to cup his chin, holding him steady as he deepens the kiss.
It sparks something deep in Jon’s stomach, an excited sort of panic. No one has ever kissed him, before. He’d never expected anyone to try, and has never prepared for what it may feel like. The breath is robbed from him, heart quickening in his chest. Theon’s mouth is like warm silk, and Jon does not fight it.
When they pull apart, Jon can only blink, sucking in a ragged, dizzy breath.
He’s not sure what he expected from a first kiss. A gentle girl from the kitchens, perhaps, or maybe someone he has not yet met. If Jon thinks, he realizes he never considered being kissed at all. Men at the Wall are not allowed to take wives, Jon had never assumed he’d bother with courting before riding north to take the black when his father allowed it.
“What —” Jon swallows, throat dry, “what was that?”
Theon smirks drunkenly at him. “Even you must know.”
Flustering, Jon licks his lips. “I — but I’ve never done that before!”
“Were you saving it for someone?” Theon says with a wink. “I could — I could give it back. Come here.”
Stupidly, Jon obeys, letting out a sharp, quiet exhale as Theon slides his hand to cup the back of Jon’s head, leading his mouth open with his sharp, silvered tongue, and Jon lets out a moan he doesn’t mean to.
Perhaps in his drunkenness, Theon is no more skilled than Jon, but Jon cannot tell, the softness of his mouth causing a warm, syrupy sensation to pool in the pit of Jon’s stomach. It’s strange, to be touched in this way after years of only hearing it in songs and stories. Shyness curls tight in Jon’s chest, and before he can think to stop himself, one of his hands move up to rest on Theon’s leg.
It’s soft, when Theon laughs against his mouth. Not teasing or cruel. He pulls back from Jon to break the kiss, and grinning, taps Jon’s cheek with more grace than he should.
“Now I’ve a secret of yours, as well, Snow.”
Jon stares red-faced as Theon drops back into his furs. Finally, he mutters, “You’ll not remember it.”
Theon does not have an answer, already asleep.
A nervous flutter sweeps through Jon’s chest. He wipes his mouth, but the soft pressure against his lips doesn’t relent. He feels different. Changed, now. He’d barely had the time to feel Theon’s mouth against his, but he misses it abruptly, like a limb. His heartbeat is in his throat, and Jon tries to take a steadying breath.
It doesn’t work as it should. It feels like thunder in his chest, a heavy tug at his navel. He stares down at Theon, sprawled over his furs like a lazy cat and watches the deep rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
Jon ignores the trembling of his hands as he grabs the corner of the fur bundled at Theon’s feet and drapes it over him. Swallowing, Jon watches a moment longer, wondering for a moment if Theon is only pretending. Holding his breath, Jon leans close. He’s waiting for something, he realizes, though he can’t be sure as to what.
Shame swallows Jon in an instant, and he turns on his heel and leaves Theon’s chambers, hot with embarrassment.
His heart is still pounding, so heavy in his chest that Jon feels off-kilter as he stumbles down the corridor away from Theon’s chambers. His mind is reeling, skin still buzzing from the way Theon touched him. The kiss still drowns out every other thought in Jon’s head, turning him dizzy and shy. Several times as he makes his way through the corridor, he realizes he’s stopped walking to touch his hand to his mouth. His stomach flips slightly at the memory. He wonders if it always feels that way, to be kissed. As if the world around them ceases to exist, as if all that matters is the sweet taste of another. Surely it must, if even a kiss from Theon Greyjoy feels such a way.
Still distracted, Jon doesn’t notice that Robb is in his open chambers, when Jon passes his door. Something undefinable and sharp twitches low in Jon’s gut at the sight of him, and he glances down the corridor when Robb jumps to his feet to meet him. Immediately, Jon wishes he hadn’t been seen.
Voice rough, Robb asks, “Where have you been?”
Jon shrugs. “I found him in the godswood.”
Robb’s eyes brighten for a moment, but when he glances around, his expression turns confused. “Did you leave him there?”
Humiliated, Jon realizes he cannot bear to meet Robb’s eyes. “No. He’d not wanted to talk to you. Any — anyone.”
He can feel Robb’s eyes on him, scrutinizing. Jon feels as if his lips are burning red from the kiss, something Robb can see. He must know, now. He must know everything.
“He’s in his room now. Sleeping. He’d had quite a lot to drink.”
Even admitting that much feels like too much, exposing Theon’s wounds. Jon’s not sure why he feels suddenly so protective of Theon, especially toward Robb. Theon is his closest friend.
But Robb only frowns, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Is he still angry with me?”
Looking up, Jon feels an odd sort of frustration toward his brother. He seems so naive, suddenly. Why would he have said such a thing to Theon, anyway? Does he not love him as a brother as he’s always claimed? Why would he wish to hurt him? Surely Robb knows more than Jon how hurtful such a thing could sound to him. He wants to ask what Robb was thinking, telling him such a cruel thing with his nameday so near.
“He’s drunk,” Jon says instead. “There’s no telling how he feels.”
It does not work as well as Jon had hoped. Robb tilts his head, eyes knowing. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s upset you.”
“No.”
Jon’s heart clenches at the realization. Theon had not upset him, but Theon’s pain has. Belatedly, Jon realizes he’s angry with Robb for what he’s said. It’s odd. He can’t recall ever being angry with Robb before. Certainly not for the likes of Theon Greyjoy.
Is it changed, now? Has the kiss made Theon someone else for Jon? Just the thought is humiliating.
“It’s best you leave him be until the morning,” Jon says stiffly. “He’ll be in no shape for conversation until the wine has left his head.” He looks uncomfortably at his hands before he admits finally, “He’ll still expect a gift from you, I’m sure.”
“He — what?”
Fury rushes through Jon so suddenly that it shocks him, clenching and unclenching his fist as if to drop the rage from his hand. As the anger dissipates, Jon takes a deep breath. The kiss still seems to burn on Jon’s lips, making the air feel icy as he breathes.
Jon does not get the chance to answer before Robb swears under his breath. Oddly, the shame that weighs suddenly on Robb’s shoulders comforts Jon somewhat.
“Did — what did he say to you?”
Unwilling to answer, Jon just shrugs. He’s humiliated to feel tears sting at the corners of his eyes. Does Robb know? He must, the way Jon is standing, the way he’s speaking, the way he can’t meet Robb’s eyes.
“Forgive me, Stark,” Jon says quietly. “It’s been quite a long day. I feel I should retire to bed.”
“Jon —?” Robb asks, but Jon waves him off with a soft apology as he continues down the corridor.
He’d meant to stop by the kitchens, but the run in with Robb caused a furious roil in Jon’s stomach and left him with no appetite to satisfy. Disoriented, Jon ducks into his own chambers and, after much tossing and turning amongst his furs, falls asleep.
Theon sleeps well into midday. Jon is unsurprised, but takes advantage of the time to find Mikken by his forge and begs a favour of him.
It’s dinner by the time Jon finds him, and there is no feast. He smirks when he sees Theon’s takard filled with water, and creeps up beside him to place the little wooden box in front of his plate.
Both Theon and Robb stop eating to peer down at it, though Robb recovers first, with a quick glance at Jon before going back to his food.
“What’s this?” Theon asks, voice hesitant, as if worried it may be filled with worms or spiders.
“It’s your nameday,” Jon says instead of answering, as if reminding him.
Theon’s eyes widen and he looks back down at the little box as if sure now, that it holds a threat. Jon scoffs and goes back to his seat, just beside Arya, in view of Theon across the hall where he sits staring at the box for some time before Robb gives it a nudge with his fork and mumbles something to him.
When Theon finally opens it, Jon watches from his seat as his eyes light up, a dazed little smile stretching over his face before he can think to stifle it. Robb cranes his neck to see as Theon pulls the little iron kraken pin from the box. He smiles too, says something to Theon, but if Theon hears him, Jon doesn’t see him react.
Their eyes meet across the hall when Theon looks up at him. Jon smiles, and so does Theon, before they both turn back to their meals.