Chapter Text
No one dared say it aloud, but Robb Stark was different since he’d returned from the dead. A Red Priest had kissed him back to life and he slaughtered the Freys, calling forth the banners of those still loyal to the true North. Those who answered the call witnessed the bloody consequences for those who didn’t.
Taking back Winterfell should have made Robb feel something but he had only an aching hole inside of him, the joy and wonder of his soul carved out by death and violence. He barely remembered why he even wanted Winterfell except that it was meant to be his. The memories that should have sustained him were pale and faded, corrupted by whatever mixture of ash and ice had revived him. He at least had prisoners to execute, which would stir whatever was left of his heart with malevolent glee - only blood seemed to awaken any emotion in him.
The Rotting Wolf, men whispered when they hoped he could not hear. The Heartless Wolf, the Stranger’s Wolf.
More and more his own people feared him, mourned the "real" him. But it did not matter what they thought, only that they obeyed. And if they didn't, they could face death and tell it their opinion of his resurrection. Robb knew something had died within him, something he would likely never regain, but what did it matter? He was here, and vengeance was his.
A bannerman approaching him interrupted his thoughts.
“There’s something you should see, Your Grace,” the man said, looking unnerved. Robb followed him to the kennels, where a number of soldiers were looking down at something with a mix of pity and horror. He followed their eyes to a pile of rags and limbs huddled in the corner, cowering and muttering to itself. The stuttering voice was oddly familiar.
“It’s the turncloak, Your Grace,” someone said. Theon. The men in the room looked grim and disgusted, not the way one was disgusted with a traitor but with something ugly they wished they hadn’t seen. “He’s been tortured, badly. He doesn’t seem to remember who he is.”
“Nothing less than he deserves,” someone else muttered, but others looked uneasy at the obvious extent of torture the man had endured. Robb crouched down and grabbed the figure by the hair, lifting their head up. Theon Greyjoy’s filthy, gaunt face was revealed, his once-sparkling eyes dull and hazy. Matted hair felt brittle against Robb’s fingers and there was clear scarring on his body. There was no trace of the arrogant man Robb remembered or the lazy smirk that had sent curls of heat through his stomach, just a hollow and frightened creature shaking like a beaten dog.
“P-please don’t hurt me, I’m good, I can be good…”
“Do you know who I am?” Robb demanded. Theon looked at him blankly, no recognition in his eyes.
“…Your Grace?” he guessed, glancing up at the surrounding men. It was obvious he’d picked it up from their conversation. “Please, where is Master?”
“I’m your master now,” Robb told him. Theon startled and some of the men murmured uneasily. “I’m Robb Stark, King of the North, and your master is of the North. Therefore, you serve me.”
Theon nodded hesitantly, eyes flickering about as if searching for someone. Robb could guess who; the bastard "lord" had laughed as he was dragged to the dungeons, yelling that he had a special gift for the king. A bright, vicious anger burned within him, so much stronger than the dull fury that fueled him these days. How dare someone break Theon, his Theon? How dare they make him forget him before he could wring answers out of him? Before he could hurt him?
Before he could make him his own?
Theon was looking down at the floor pitifully, hugging his knees. Robb felt a howling ache inside him, an anger and desire he hadn’t felt since he’d died. A shivering hunger that made him feel alive.
“Bring him to my chambers and have a bath drawn up.”
Strange men bearing the image of wolves had come to Winterfell, then there were shouts and swords and Master was gone. Reek stayed in the kennels, waiting for Master to return, but it was the strange men that came for him. Reek tried not to go, begging to see his master, but they easily picked him up and dragged him to one of the bedchambers. He scrambled to the corner and hugged his knees, curling into himself as he waited for punishment. No one came for what seemed like hours and Reek nearly drifted off into sleep before the door suddenly opened.
“Master?” Reek called out hopefully, crawling out to greet him. But it was not Master – it was a handsome man with a hard, cold gaze and a crown upon his head. Your Grace, the king, the man who claimed to be Master’s own master. There was something familiar about the man, something that made Reek feel sad and strange. He cringed. “Please, who are you? Where is Master?”
“Theon,” the king said, striding forward with an innate confidence Master tried to fake but could never emulate. The king squatted down to meet Reek’s eye level and held his chin, tilting his face upwards to inspect him. “Do you really not remember me?”
“It’s Reek, Your Grace.” He knew his name. Master beat him if he lied. “Not Theon, he’s dead, the turncloak’s dead. I’m Reek, just Reek.”
“You’re Theon,” the king said coolly. “And you will answer to Theon or I’ll hurt your so-called master.”
Reek met the king’s cold gaze with horror. Hurt his master? No, no, his master was so good to him. His master was the only one who cared for poor, disgusting Reek. Tears came unbidden and he sobbed, grasping weakly at the king’s wrist.
“P-please don’t, not Master, he’s a good master…”
“I won’t have to if you obey.” A hand carded into his hair and he whimpered. “So what’s your name?”
Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak. “T-Theon.”
“Good.” The fingers in his hair stroked softly. Reek couldn’t help leaning into the warm touch, so much gentler than Master’s. “Now get in the tub.”
The water was warm, too warm for a freak like him, it wasn’t right, but Reek knew better than to protest. He sat in the too-warm water and hugged his knees, waiting for instruction. He flinched when a cloth pressed against the back of his neck, firmly scrubbing down his back. Reek wanted to cry out, wanted to say he wasn’t allowed, but something told him it would be wrong so he stayed quiet as he was cleaned.
The king tilted Reek’s head back as he wiped his face, those blue eyes watching impassively. Reek blinked, not moving even as the king drew him to stand and cleaned the rest of his body. Reek didn’t want him to see how ugly he was, how broken and brittle and wrong, but he was Master’s master so he said nothing. The cloth moved to the inside of Reek’s thighs where there were old, hand-shaped bruises pressed in so deep they could have been scars.
“He fucks you?” the king asked quietly. Something in his voice made Reek consider lying, but lying was bad. Lying got punished.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“How often?”
“Most days, Your Grace. And he lets others p-play with me at times.” Reek hated that, when someone other than Master used him. They always made it hurt and Master would remind him of what a useless slut he was. Reek, sobbing, often begged Master to let him prove he belonged to him and Master would graciously allow him to suck his cock in apology.
The king’s cloth pressed hard and Reek shivered. “If anyone but me touches you in that way, you are to tell me at once. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” It wasn’t bad, having the king as a master. He gave clear orders that surely even Reek couldn’t get wrong.
The king dropped the cloth and planted his palms on Reek’s chest. Gentle fingers skimmed along scarred skin, stroking the ridges of old wounds and cuts. Reek trembled, fearing what Master would do if he ever found out someone had touched Reek without permission, but the king was the true master, wasn’t he? Perhaps Reek wouldn’t be punished too harshly.
The king took Reek by his hand and led him out of the bath, drying him carefully. Reek did not think it was the task of kings to towel off loathsome creatures but the king acted as if it was perfectly normal. Once Reek was dry, the king took his ruined hand and examined it carefully.
“I’ll feed his bits to Grey Wind,” the king muttered. Reek tried to pull his hand away but the king yanked him close, smacking their chests together. It wasn’t right, Reek wasn’t supposed to touch people, but when Reek tried to explain that the king kissed him hard.
Reek whimpered, automatically opening his mouth so the kiss could deepen. Master liked that. The king moaned, running his fingers through Reek’s hair and holding him close.
“I imagined this, before,” the king whispered into Reek’s mouth. “When we were boys and you would tell me about the girls you fucked and how they begged for your cock. I imagined you on your knees, in my bed. Begging for mine.”
That wasn’t me, Reek didn’t say. The king stroked Reek’s neck, breathing harshly.
“I wanted you so badly. Any time you put your arm around me or put your hand on my shoulder, I thought I would lose my mind. When we were in the baths, I had to be so careful that you didn’t see me look. And I was stupid enough to send you away when I should have collared and chained you so you could never leave.”
“Master gave me a collar,” Reek offered meekly. “But he took it off.” Master had not liked that he had to constantly adjust to choke Reek or bite at his throat. The king’s eyes narrowed.
“Stop calling him Master.”
“What do I call him then?” Reek whispered, confused. Master was Master.
The king met his gaze and replied, “Bastard.”
Reek jolted, horrified, and tried to jerk away but was caught by strong hands that tightened around his wrists. He pulled uselessly, panic flooding through him like wildfire.
“No!” he cried. “No, you mustn’t say that, he’s not that, he’s never been, he’s a true lord, a true Bolton!”
The king glowered but not like Master – Master’s anger was raging flame, out of control and wasteful. The king’s anger was cold, dead ash.
“He’s a bastard. Say it.”
Reek shook his head frantically, trying to cover his ears so he couldn’t hear such vicious lies. The king’s grip was too strong, transferring Reek’s wrists into one hand so the other hand could grab his hair and force his head up.
“Say it or I’ll hurt him,” the king growled, cold and predatory. Reek gaped in horror. “I’ll cut him up, Theon. And I’ll make you watch. I’ll make you watch him bleed until there’s an ocean of it, and we’ll swim in his blood.”
Why was the king saying this, what did he want? He seemed to want Reek but only Master wanted Reek, only Master cared for Reek. Reek wasn’t something worth stealing. He sobbed, helplessly fluttering his hands.
“I can’t, I can’t –”
“Then I’ll go cut his guts out and Grey Wind can eat them in the morning.”
The king let go of Reek and rose from the bed, striding towards the door. Reek flung himself to the floor, grasping at the king’s feet.
“No, no, please – you can’t, he takes care of me, you can’t –”
“You’re mine now,” the king reminded. Reek whimpered. “And so is he. I’m the king, I can do whatever I want. Now say it.”
Reek sobbed. He knew well what would happen if Master heard him say such a lie, but he couldn’t let Master be harmed. Reek wanted to be good.
“B – b –” he gasped, tears running down his face as he gripped at his hair. He hiccupped and tried again, trembling. “Bastard.”
The king’s expression softened, almost tender, but that predatory look was in his eyes. Reek let himself be placed on the bed, too distraught by his betrayal of the master to react. The king crouched over him and kissed him harshly, biting at Reek’s lips with a strange passion that wasn’t meant to harm, and he slid his hand onto Reek’s thigh.
Reek whimpered, unsure of how to react to this type of want. Mas – Ramsay, he’d call him Ramsay – wanted Reek but it was a cruel, vicious want that left Reek aching and weeping. The king’s want was rough but not painful, ravenous in a way that didn’t hurt. It was all so strange.
The king pushed Reek deeper into the mattress, mouthing down his neck as he undid his breeches. Reek flinched when the king pushed his knees up.
“I won’t hurt you,” the king murmured against Reek’s chest. He pulled his shirt off and clambered over Reek. “Not unless you make me.”
The king kept his promise. He used oil and he made it feel good (and Reek wept because it was supposed to hurt, it wasn’t supposed to be nice unless Ramsay said so) and Reek gasped at every thrust. Hands held Reek’s wrists tight, pinning him down just like Ramsay did. He could almost pretend it was him except Ramsay didn’t kiss so much and Ramsay always said harsh things to make Reek remember his place. The king whispered lies that Reek felt so good, he was made to be fucked by him, he always belonged to him.
“Call my name,” the king growled, nipping at Reek’s ear. “Robb. Say it.”
“R-Robb,” Reek choked, whining when the king thrust even harder. “Robb, Robb…”
Strangely, the name felt so familiar in his mouth. Like it belonged. He tasted something warm and kind when he said it, something good and pure and too clean for Reek.
“Theon,” the king hissed, guttural and possessive. He came with a hard thrust that made Reek’s back arch and he collapsed onto Reek, trapping him beneath his body. Reek felt unbearably safe and wanted under the king’s weight and it wasn’t right, it wasn’t right. He waited for the king to roll off of him and sat up, stumbling to move off the bed. Arms wrapped around his waist, stopping him in place.
“Where are you going?” the king asked coolly. He’d already upset his new master.
“Y-you’re going to sleep, Your – Robb.” The king seemed to like being called by name, for some reason. A strange master.
“So?” The king held him tight against his chest and placed his chin on Reek’s shoulder, licking at the curve of his neck. Reek shivered.
“My place is in the kennels.” The arms tensed against him, fingers gripping into his biceps so hard they felt like they might crack. “O-or, I can sleep on the floor.”
Ramsay liked that sometimes, to keep Reek nearby so he could kick him or use him when he woke. But a hand clasped Reek’s chin and turned him to face the king’s empty blue eyes.
“No. You’ll sleep in the bed with me.”
No, that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. “I can’t, Y – Robb, I’m dirty, I can’t –”
“You would disobey me?”
Reek flinched. Stupid, stupid Reek. Who was he to question orders? “No, never. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He waited to be hit for his stupidity but the fist never came. Instead, the arms around his waist pulled him down to lie on his side and face the king. A possessive hand cupped his cheek.
“Theon,” the king whispered. “My Theon. I’ll keep you in this room like a dog, to use as I please. I’ll feed you till your body is firm again and ply you with wine and fuck you until you remember you love me. I’ll fuck you until I’m the only thing you know.”
Reek, my ugly little Reek. No one will ever want you but me, you stupid thing.
Reek said nothing, trapped against the king’s chest in a tight embrace. He closed his eyes and dreamed of a young boy with a bright laugh and even brighter eyes.