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the archer's bows have broken

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Supper is the same thin stew they've eaten every night since marching from Winterfell, turnips boiled with stale greens and very little salt, and Robb drinks three cups of wine between hurried bites, long swallows that wash out the sour, brackish taste. He isn't drunk as he follows Theon back to his tent, but he feels pleasantly warm, his skin flushed and his limbs a little heavy; he doesn't give it much thought when Theon pushes him back onto the sleeping furs, when Theon's fingers brush lightly over the front of his breeches.

Theon leaves for Pyke at first light, and he's been somewhat strange all day -- laughing too loudly, smiling too often, standing too close to Robb's shoulder, his hand sometimes pausing quickly at the small of Robb's back. He studies Robb for a moment, his mouth pulled into an odd line, then slides down Robb's body, holds one firm hand on Robb's hip. He noses at the crease of Robb's thigh, draws his other hand over Robb's belly, his fingers touching skin where they dip under his doublet, and he touches Robb's cock again, slowly, deliberately, his palm curved over the hard line it makes in Robb's breeches, almost rubbing.

Robb gasps sharply, jerking up against the hand Theon still has at his hip; Theon hums, the noise hidden in the back of his throat, and he bears Robb back onto the furs, his mouth pressed to the inside of Robb's thigh, lazy kisses, the barest flutter of lips. Robb cannot think, cannot breathe. He has wanted this from Theon, has thought of it often, but this sort of thing isn't done between men, and Robb is a king now, cannot afford such indiscretions. He opens his mouth, but Theon hums again, louder, and Robb feels teeth against his skin, blunted by the material of his breeches, and Robb's voice catches, leaves him in a rush.

He wonders if Theon is drunk -- Theon ate with the Greatjon tonight, and the Greatjon often insists that the men who share his plate also match him in drink -- but Theon looks up at Robb, his head tilted slightly, his dark hair a soft shadow between Robb's legs, and his eyes are clear and bright, dangerously intent. He mouths Robb through his breeches, his breath warm and damp, his lips carefully tracing the shape of Robb's cock, and Robb twists under him, swallowing a moan, heat curling in his belly as he digs his fingers into the furs. His legs are shaking and his face is on fire; he will shame himself if Theon doesn't stop, will spend in his breeches like an unseasoned boy.

Theon laughs into the crease of Robb's thigh, running this thumb over the length of Robb's cock. He slips his hand down to Robb's balls, barely cupping, just soft pressure from the weight of his palm, then slides it underneath Robb's arse, lifting Robb's hips long enough to pull his breeches down to his knees. Robb's smallclothes catch on his hips, but Theon leaves them, smoothing his hands over the thin material where they cling to Robb's thighs. He presses his mouth to Robb's skin, just above the swell of his knee, then leans in and mouths at Robb's cock again, his breath closer now, hotter than before.

Robb moans desperately, his hand clamped to his mouth to hide the noise; his smallclothes are dragging against his skin, sticky with Theon's spit, and he can feel the lazy curve of Theon's lips, the wet curl of Theon's tongue. Theon bites Robb's hip, his teeth just creasing Robb's skin, then tugs Robb's smallclothes open, freeing Robb's cock, and he traces his knuckle from base to tip, brushes his thumb over the head.

"Theon," Robb gasps, head tipped back because he can't look, can't look. Theon's tongue is on Robb's skin, and Robb's cock his hard and hot against Theon's cheek. "What -- what?"

"I want to suck your cock," Theon says, his mouth dipping down, too close to Robb's balls. "Would that please you, Your Grace?"

"Fuck," Robb hisses, shuddering sharply, his back arching, snapping taut. The heat in his belly is a desperate, living thing. "I can't -- don't call me that."

Theon slides a wet, open kiss up the length of Robb's cock, pauses with the head resting on the slick well of his lip. "You like it."

Robb does like it -- not the title itself, but the dirty way Theon says it, his voice low and rough, his lips curving wickedly around each word -- it puts an itch under Robb's skin, rubs him completely naked and raw. Theon laughs quietly, sliding his hand back down to Robb's balls, then takes Robb's cock into his mouth all at once, soft and slow and impossibly wet, his cheeks hollow and his tongue curling, too much, too much. Robb's thighs are restless, won't stop shaking. He knots his hand in Theon's hair, twisting and pulling more than he should, but Theon just closes his eyes and makes a low noise around Robb's cock, sucking Robb harder, digging his fingernails into Robb's hip.

Theon pulls off a little, his lips flushed and shiny and red, his tongue flicking and swirling before he sucks Robb back in, hard and fast, his hand stroking up to meet his mouth. A moan catches in the back of Robb's throat, rough and needy and embarrassingly loud, but he can't help it, can't stop. The guards outside his tent are Winterfell men -- his father's men -- and he pulls one of the fur over his face to smother the noise, but Theon digs his fingers into his hip again, reaches up and tugs the furs away.

"Don't," he says, his mouth still touching Robb's cock. "I want to hear you, Your Grace."

"Fuck, Theon, fuck."

Robb spends as Theon draws him back into his mouth, gasping, arching up, one hand twisting in Theon's hair, the other brushing over Theon's cheek and jaw.

Theon sits up, spitting noisily as he shoves his breeches down to his knees, then yanks on the laces of Robb's doublet, pulling it open, running his hand up Robb's chest as he kisses him, pushing his tongue into Robb's mouth. Robb can taste himself a little, bitter and dark, and Theon's cock his hard against his thigh; Robb reaches for it, but Theon catches Robb's wrists, pinning Robb's arms at his sides, and he leans in, closer, rubbing his cock against Robb's hip.

It's almost dirtier this way -- the rough roll of Theon's hips, the slide of skin on skin, Theon's wet mouth panting open against Robb's throat. Robb can't touch him, can't really move, but he can feel the shudders under Theon's skin, the restless, desperate shift of Theon's body. He bites Robb's neck as he spends, spurting warm and white over Robb's belly and chest, and he draws his fingers through it as he sits back and straddles Robb's hips, looks slightly pleased with himself.

Robb reaches for a cloth to wipe himself off, but Theon snorts and bats his hand away.

"I'll clean it up," Theon says.

"With what?"

"I might use my mouth," Theon says, with a slow, filthy smirk, "but only if you ask nicely, Your Grace."