Robb Stark & Aubrey Rois (sonofthenorth) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-10-31 21:10:00 |
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Not for the first time in his short life, Robb contemplated the realization that he might, in fact, be a fool. Somehow it had not occurred him to him to stop the other man - Aubrey - from confessing their arrangement to the one who had Theon. Of course, there was the small matter of not quite being able to exert his influence over his counterpart on the other side of the door. Ser Rois was willful to a fault, there was no doubt - and yet, Robb felt sure that he could have made the other man seen reason, if only it had occurred to him to try. The confession had happened during a mundane conversation between the two men, when they had clearly imbibed too much, and Robb had not been paying close enough attention to realize what was about to happen until it was too late. He had squirmed uncomfortably within the confines of the other’s mind, but his protests were ignored as usual.By the time Aubrey stepped through the door and Robb emerged on the other side into the still air of the godswood, all t houghts of Theon and the man whose mind he shared were gone. Robb closed his eyes and tipped his head back, savouring the cool air and the soft, white flakes of snow that kissed his skin. He was home. For throughout all that had happened in the weeks since his return - traveling the Riverlands with his Northmen, searching for the escaped Jaime Lannister and for his beloved Jeyne -, Winterfell had ever remained his home. Whether he returned to oversee his duties as Lord, or simply to spend a quiet hour in the godswood, Robb made an effort to visit whenever he was not busy leading his Northron bannermen. This afternoon seemed no different. Robb was wrapped in his usual boiled leather and heavy furs, with his sword sheathed at his hip where it comforted him with its familiar weight. The godswood was silent apart from the sound of his boots whispering over the snow-covered ground, almost eerily quiet, and so it was easy to hear the quavering command that cut through the air. The voice was as familiar to Robb as that of his siblings’, perhaps moreso. It was the voice that he had grown up hearing nearly every day, whether it was taunting him from the other end of a wooden sword or sharing Winterfell’s secrets in hushed tones. It was a voice that sent chills down his spine, and filled his head with the warm, static sensation of rage. As soon as the call sounded out, accompanied by the familiar creaking of a bow, his feet would carry him no further. He froze, and suddenly wished that Grey Wind had joined him on this visit to the godswood. With his eyes still closed, Robb felt his gloved hands clench into fists. “I must say, I did not think you would dare to show your face here again. This is most unlike a coward.” Then, if for no other reason than to prove that he was not intimidated by Theon’s presence nor did he take the other man’s threats seriously, Robb slowly turned on the spot until they were facing one another across the godswood. His face was made of cold stone, an angry snarl on his lips. In an act that was nothing less than a dare, he reached one hand to grasp the hilt of his sword and deliberately drew it from its sheath, the sound of cold steel ringing out across the winter air. It was cold. A light snow fell in the godswood, slowly turning the world white, piece by piece. It filled the clearing with the sharp, metallic scent of winter - though the smells of summer and wood still lingered. Theon could feel the bite in the air as it raised gooseflesh along his arms and bare hands, and set his teeth on edge. Still, his lips slowly pulled into their habitual smile as the stocky figure between the trees stopped in its steps. His arrow's point was aimed directly at the swath of deep auburn hair poking above the furs piled high on Robb's shoulders. Unbidden, the memory of the encounter in the wolfswood - so long ago, it seemed these days - with the wildlings and deserters that had held Bran captive swam in the back of the boy's head. So clearly could he recall Robb's words and the fury in his eyes when one of Theon's arrows finally slew the ugly man who dared stick his dagger to Bran's throat, for a moment the boy forgot he was no longer there. The humiliation and anger festered still in his chest, hot and white, and his smile grew cold on his lips. In the present, his old friend's words had much the same effect this time around. Coward. He calls me coward. Me - who fought beside him in the Whispering Wood. Who saved his brother from a pack of fiends. Who has done nothing but stand beside him. His eyes narrowed as Robb Stark, ever the fool, brazenly turned where he stood. Theon ignored the ugly look frozen on the man's face, as if chiseled there in ice; his sights were focused solely on the small movement on the king's hand as it stretched to brandish his sword. Much like his father, Robb had always had more courage than brains. It wasn't wise to challenge an angry man with an arrow nocked and aimed at your head, and it certainly wasn't a good idea to rip your sword from its sheath after hurling an insult at said slighted man. True to his word, Theon inhaled, set his sights, exhaled, and shot. From his small spot in the boy's mind, Lin loudly worried that the Greyjoy kid was going to kill the body that housed Aubrey. But, the loosed arrow, end busy with fluttering grey feathers, hit its target - as arrows always did when shot from Theon's tall yew bow. The thing deflected off of the shining face of the sword and disappeared into the brush somewhere to Theon's right. It would be useless now, but it did its duty well enough. And that was to disarm the Young Wolf, literally and figuratively. "The next one is for the pinch of brains you keep in that skull of yours," barked the boy as he fit another arrow to the curved wood of his bow and pulled his arm back. Honestly, he didn't intend - or truly want - to harm Robb. But, if he had to - for his own safety, or to prove a point - he would. Theon smiled widely, though his teeth began to chatter. "Now stay where you are. I am here to talk. Or is the king so filled with bloodlust that he can't even manage that? If such is the case, tell me so I can kill you now and be done with it." Unbeknownst to his oldest friend and rival, Robb’s scrambled thoughts had also drifted back to that day when they went riding with Bran beyond the walls of Winterfell, when Robb’s brother had been set upon by wildlings and was saved only by Theon’s well-placed arrow. Although he had seen it rather differently at the time - his words coming fast and harsh, scolding Theon for acting rashly because he was jealous that he himself had not been able to save Bran as the young kraken had done - he remembered it clearly now, as a bright flash of terror and a moment of quick action for which he would ever be grateful. Of course, Theon had undone whatever grace he’d gained in Robb’s eyes when he had stormed Winterfell in Robb’s absence and played so callously at executing the two youngest Stark boys. Robb recalled with a painful clarity reading the scroll that brought the fateful news, however false it may have been. He remembered the way that his heart had leapt into his throat and threatened to choke him then and there, and he recalled the way his eyes burned with unshed tears for the young boys that he had been unable to protect. Truly, if Robb Stark could not save his own kin from harm, how could he ever be considered fit to wear a Northron crown? It was a hard and fast memory, like poison and hot lead churning in his belly until he felt he would be sick right there, all over the bright, clean snow. In that instant he had sworn to see Theon Greyjoy’s head on a spike, if it was the very last kill he ever made in his young life. Defiant though his actions may have been against Theon’s tyranny (no matter how convinced Robb may have been that it was false indeed), the young wolf was nonetheless surprised when he drew his sword and Theon actually loosed his arrow. There was a brief flash of panic in his heart as Ser Rois dropped whatever metaphorical drink he had been occupied with and wondered if he would ever make it back through their door, and then there was a sharp, pointed pain in Robb’s hand. Suspended in time like a frozen breath, Robb lowered his gaze to his sword hand. At first he could only register the pain in his fingers, and the slow drip of blood against the white-covered ground. Then he drew a ragged breath into his lungs, clenching and unclenching his hand until the feeling returned to his fingers. They weren’t cut terribly, he saw that now - his fingertips were sliced along the pads, but they would mend soon enough. And yet, they hurt enough that he drew them close to his side and cursed aloud. “A coward’s weapon,” he called out harshly in the autumn air, his voice ringing out hot and hard through the air. “How unsurprising, Greyjoy. That you would cower in the shade rather than face your fate like a man... I am saddened to say that it does not surprise me in the slightest.” The virgin snow near Robb's boots was marred by the red of blood - king’s blood -, drop by precious drop. Theon could almost hear it hitting the ground like a slow rain. The wounds on the king’s hand were superficial - a sliver of a cut, he knew. After all, if the Greyjoy boy had truly meant to hurt Robb, he would have. He would have only had to aim the arrow’s tip a fraction of a degree upward, just ever so slightly, to send it flying into the pink meat of his friend’s throat. It certainly would’ve been easier - and quieter. He wouldn’t have to stand and listen to the vitriol spat at him by the man meant to be his hostage. He wouldn’t have to bother having an arrow at the ready, his elbow pulled back and bowstring taut. It would all already be over. He would be alone. That did sound tempting. But it wasn’t what he wanted. With an arrow still trained on the King in the North, Theon took three long strides forward, walking into the middle of the clearing and the light without a word. At the edges of his vision, he saw trees bending forward under the robin’s-egg blue of the sky - the sky that stretched over Westeros, touching Winterfell, yes, and Pyke as well. He saw the ring of blue-green treetops stabbing upward and the dark silhouette of a hawk silently floating on a breeze that hadn’t reached the ground. Let men say what they like about the bow and about the archer, the Greyjoy heir knew his way around one better than many men knew their way around their own cocks. He was sharp-sighted, deft-fingered, and quick-tongued - all qualities of a good archer - or so he’d decided for himself. Robb could best him in swordplay time and time again, but not even the Young Wolf could hold a candle to Theon and his bow. He knew it angered the other man. He could see it in him. But he didn’t care. (When they were boys growing up, Ser Rodrik had liked exclaiming that it was a rare sight indeed, to see a kraken with a bow. To which Theon had countered that he was just as astonished to see a master-at-arms, a man constantly honing his skill and body, with such a rotund figure.) A sharp, arrogant smile cut across the boy’s face as he circled in front of his old friend. “And that you should stand hostage to a coward - what does that say about you, Your Grace? Hm?” He spoke in a simpering tone, and, though his arm was beginning to ache, Theon never once let his guard down. His smile and easy demeanor vanished, his anger uncoiling further. His voice became hard and stony. “I did not harm your brothers. You know this, yet you still hate me. There is very little honor in that.” With his injured hand clenched in a bloody fist at his side, Robb watched Theon’s silent sneering without a flinch. He was quiet and watchful, a solitary wolf in the wild winter. Waiting for his prey to make that one crucial mistake, the misstep that would send him tumbling. His gaze narrowed and hardened into steel, following Theon’s every step as he crossed the clearing that lay between them. Theon’s arrow was still aimed at his head, and he had no desire to stumble back through his door in Las Vegas with an arrowhead lodged in his throat or his chest. There was a very real part of him that remembered what it felt like to be shot, and it took a great deal of effort to remain still and impassive when he wanted nothing more than to rage and shout. “It means that a coward has used cowardly techniques to get a hand up on a better man,” he bit out stolidly, only the icy tone of his voice revealing his anger. “Because he knows that he would be bested in honourable combat. Because he is afraid.” Despite himself, there was a chill that crept into his tone with each word. Theon had been like a brother to him, and his betrayal had hurt like none other. For days after Robb had received word, he had dared to wonder if it could possibly have been a mistake. The boy who had dined with him, rode and fought and trained with him - there was no way that his best friend could ever commit such an act. And then came the day when Robb could no longer deny the truth or turn a blind eye to his duty as King, and he would never forget what that day felt like until he was no longer. More importantly, he would not allow Theon’s lies to convince him that he should forget. “The only reason that you did not make an attack on my home or my family,” he added, thick auburn eyebrows knitting together as his eyes flashed dark. “Is because your little plan had not yet been enacted when you first stumbled through that door!” Here his voice finally rose again with emotion, and his hand flung in the direction from whence they’d come. Drops of red splattered on the snow at his feet. “Your miraculous change of heart does not mean anything! Not when it was caused by your selfish desire to protect your own hide! That you - or any version of you - would ever be capable of such a betrayal is more than enough to prove that you cannot be trusted.” Unarmed, with a sliced hand, and making no move to grab the dagger that was strapped across his ribs - Robb took a step forward, matching one of Theon’s strides into the clearing. His face showed only pain, though not as result of his bleeding fingers. His own memories were the culprit, and some future version of this man who stood before him. Theon had yet to fully comprehend the extent of unraveling time had undergone to leave him on Pyke, after his meeting with his father, and to bring Robb back from beyond death’s door - a door he had only entered at some point after Theon’s memories ended. So much was wrapped up in the infinite array of possibilities, all spread out in a convoluted tableau at any given moment, that whenever he tried to tease it all apart, he ended up with a cup in his hand - or in Lin’s hand - and a budding headache. Nor did the boy know how he was supposed to feel about it all - about learning he had taken Winterfell, murdering a miller’s two sons and placing their heads atop the walls - learning of the absolute disdain most held for him - learning who he would become, less than a shadow of a man, with broken teeth, gray skin, and not a shred of dignity or pride, a man who felt lucky to be able to find warmth sleeping in a bed of dogs. The single, solitary emotion that came to him from it all was a penetrating sense of disgust. And that the younger Stark boy, standing only a few handspans away in the clearing, with winter all around them, knew him as a different person was all the more confusing. Theon knew he could decry his own potential actions all he wanted, but that Robb was right.The fact that any version of him had done something as terrible as he had was betrayal enough, fair or not. The emotion in the other’s voice was proof enough of that. Allowing the stinging words, the repeated slanderous application of the word ‘coward,’ to roll off his back for once, Theon pulled himself to his full height as Robb came toward him. A small spray of blood reddened more of the white snow between them. Though he could understand, in a sense, why the younger boy would be upset, he’d decided to stand by the belief that he, the current Theon, had yet to do anything to earn the ire he was receiving. He was tired of being hated and disliked. A skeleton of a smile broke across his face, though it lacked any warmth. And with an arrow still notched, Theon moved to continue circling his old friend, not desiring to give the other a chance to rush him (a favorite trick of theirs in the practice yard). He left black footprints in the snow. “You would kill a man for something he has not done? You would kill a man you have no reason not to trust other than some hazy, potential danger that has not yet come to pass, because you believe his future, as-of-yet uncommitted crime is worthy of such a punishment? If such is the case, ought I not kill you as you might very well do something terrible forty years from now? Does that make sense to you? Does it seem an honorable thing to do?” Theon’s lips stretched into an even wider, colder grin. He shook his head and spat. “You Starks are utter fools and even worse hypocrites. I am sorry I ever called you friend.” They made an elegant sight out there in the frigid stillness of the godswood, trapped in their circling dance and drawing lines of black and red in the snow. Harsh colours to match their harsh words, dark and vivid against the white canvas beneath their feet. The cuts on Robb’s fingers were slowly clotting, and red rivulets ran over his wrist to disappear into the thick fur that lined his sleeve. Slowing his pace as Theon’s words washed over him, cold and brittle, Robb brought their dance to a halt and grew still yet again. He was breathing hard through his nose, clouds of frosty vapour creeping upwards on the air around his head, with a ferocity dancing in his eyes that felt like equal parts fire and ice. He wanted to hit Theon, wanted to push him down to the ground and hold a blade to his throat and see the fear in his eyes - but he would not. It was not because Theon still had an arrow notched and ready to fly at his heart, and it was not because Robb accepted the words of a coward. He would not fight this man he used to call his friend a lifetime ago, because fighting him would not reunite his family. Bran and Rickon were missing, along with Jon and his sisters and even his mother now, and it had naught to do with Theon Greyjoy. He prayed to the old gods every day that his family would be returned, and he knew that spilling more blood in this godswood was not the way to go about earning their favour. “You are right,” he conceded after an endless moment, his shoulders slumping slightly as if he was suddenly too weary even to support the weight of his furs, though his gaze remained hard. “I cannot kill you or have you arrested for a crime you have not committed, no matter how much I might long to see your head on a spike.” Robb drew himself up to his full height then, staring down the length of Theon’s arrow. “I will not kill you, Theon Greyjoy, because I am no longer the boy you played at swords with in the practice yard. I am a King, and a protector - and a husband. And I will not bring dishonour on my family with your blood. You may be anything but innocent, Theon - but you are not a criminal, either. Not yet.” A spark of pain blossomed behind his eyes as he thought of Jeyne, and his injured hand clenched into a tight fist without his notice. This was not right. He could not stay. Robb took a step back toward the door, scarlet blood dropping steadily in fat drops against the snow as he made his retreat. This was his world no longer, without his family and without his love. This was not right. He could not stay. |