twisted and broken, but hisbloodofpykeMarch 18 2012, 23:50:05 UTC
He was looking up at him, this broken thing that used to be Theon, a string of apologies falling from his mouth, but the words were garbled from the blood. One of my men got to him first, Robb realized, and he cursed himself for not realizing this would happen. Cursed himself, but stood still for a moment, as if by remaining motionless, he had time enough to figure out what to do with this creature that had once been a man, had once been a brother (had once been more than a brother, a voice inside him whispered, and he rebelled against it, shoved it away until it cracked and splintered).
“Clean him up,” he ordered. “Clean him up and bring him to my chambers. See that no more harm comes to him.” He didn’t stick around for the “yes, Your Grace” that followed, only turned and walked away, mind still spinning, still twisting.
**
“I want the truth,” he said, and he hated how his voice sounded, broken and bruised, more boy than king. Hated how he wanted to strike Theon’s head without a second thought and be done with it, hated how even his empty hand felt too heavy to life.
“Ramsay-he was, he was kind,” Theon answered, and something in Robb broke at that, broke as he glanced over the raw skin, the missing fingers, the shattered mouth. “And Bran and Rickon--the miller’s boys, not Starks, but we needed heads--and Winterfell, I tried, but Ramsay, he-he-” And Theon stopped a moment, drawing in shaking breaths, and Robb found himself reaching a hand out and patting Theon’s shoulder, feeling Theon shudder under the touch.
“I trusted you,” he said, and he hated how that sounded, but fuck, he didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know what else to do.
“I know,” came the response, half a whisper.
“I could have you killed, you’re all but dead anyway.”
“Whatever Your Grace wants.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Something was stinging in Robb’s eyes, and he pushed a mug of ale across to him, this almost brother who’d been lost and found and was maybe still lost. “Drink,” he said, “it’ll warm you up.” And he watched as Theon grabbed at the mug almost greedily, and he sucked in a breath, already regretting this, already welcoming this.
“Clean him up,” he ordered. “Clean him up and bring him to my chambers. See that no more harm comes to him.” He didn’t stick around for the “yes, Your Grace” that followed, only turned and walked away, mind still spinning, still twisting.
**
“I want the truth,” he said, and he hated how his voice sounded, broken and bruised, more boy than king. Hated how he wanted to strike Theon’s head without a second thought and be done with it, hated how even his empty hand felt too heavy to life.
“Ramsay-he was, he was kind,” Theon answered, and something in Robb broke at that, broke as he glanced over the raw skin, the missing fingers, the shattered mouth. “And Bran and Rickon--the miller’s boys, not Starks, but we needed heads--and Winterfell, I tried, but Ramsay, he-he-” And Theon stopped a moment, drawing in shaking breaths, and Robb found himself reaching a hand out and patting Theon’s shoulder, feeling Theon shudder under the touch.
“I trusted you,” he said, and he hated how that sounded, but fuck, he didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know what else to do.
“I know,” came the response, half a whisper.
“I could have you killed, you’re all but dead anyway.”
“Whatever Your Grace wants.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Something was stinging in Robb’s eyes, and he pushed a mug of ale across to him, this almost brother who’d been lost and found and was maybe still lost. “Drink,” he said, “it’ll warm you up.” And he watched as Theon grabbed at the mug almost greedily, and he sucked in a breath, already regretting this, already welcoming this.
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you are wrecking me with this reek!theon/robb nonsense. just absolutely destroying me
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Oh well, not like I needed my heart after all...
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