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The rules were simple enough: for every glimpse of the serving girl's cleavage, a draught of ale for Theon. Each time Snow blushed at the sight, it was Robb's turn to drink. Since the wench had quickly taken a liking to the bastard, Lord Stark's ward had been steadily keeping up with the heir to Winterfell. Whether it was him who was currently in the lead, Theon could not declare with any certainty. A challenge was a challenge, though, and a Greyjoy did not back down. Grim determination spurred him on: if a monstrous headache was to be his punishment on the morrow, so be it, provided he had some fun first.

“Snow!” He shouted to be heard over the din of the crowded inn. “Tell her to be done with teasing.” Snow ignored him, so Theon implored the girl, as she bent to refill their mugs,” Show us your teats, sweetling!”

The barmaid's giggle indicated she was delighting in all the attention she was receiving. Still, not a drop was spilled and the teats stayed firmly covered. The bastard, being the sour ass that he was, only gave the ward one of those long, reproving glares Theon oft suspected must have been bred into him with Eddard Stark's blood. Seven hells, having such a sire, it is no wonder ice flows in his veins. Here was a filly in heat, practically begging to be mounted, but no, Lord Snow had to be acting like a hitherto unknown twin to Baelor the Blessed.

Ungrateful sod. They were celebrating Snow's coming of age, and to make it a truly unforgettable occasion Robb had thought it wise to organize the revelries as far away from his lady mother's earshot as possible. The inn near the castle had been the obvious choice: it served delicious food, potent ale, and its common room was exceptionally clean. The pretty barmaid, said to be quite generous with her charms, had also been a considerable incentive to visit the place.

However, Lord Snow was doing his damnedest to shatter their hopes for getting the wench out of her clothes tonight.

Disgusted, Theon directed his gaze at Robb. Not that he expected much help from that quarter – while less prim and proper than Ser Stick– up– his– arse, the heir was nonetheless a trueborn wolf, which meant that the irritating penchant for gloominess and honourable nonsense was likely to manifest itself at the most inopportune moments. One never knew with the Starks.

Fortunately, the ale was working its jovial magic and an amused smile was tugging at Robb's lips. “You are going about it the wrong way,” he mouthed to Theon, then promptly waved the innkeep over. “Your brew is excellent, yet I would gladly taste something stronger,” he told the man.

“Aye, m'lord, I will have the keg broached right away.” The proprietor bowed and scampered off to do the lord's bidding, almost rubbing his hands together at the prospect of earning himself some extra coin.

Robb, ever the cunning strategist. Theon raised his eyebrow in silent approval and hid his smirk behind the rim of the mug. No sense to alarm the bastard. Up to this point they had been very lenient with Snow, who alone remained fairly sober. Accustomed as the boy was to water rather than spirits, his weak head was about to prove his downfall.

When the dark liquor did arrive on the table, Theon was forced to change his mind. It may well knock us all off our feet. Despite the misgivings, he took a careful sip. Nothing. It was a deceptive calm heralding the storm: the burn started slowly in his throat to rush to his gut lightning– fast. He blinked away the tears and exhaled. Vile stuff indeed.

“Here's to you, Jon.” Robb lifted the mug, waiting for the bastard to comply with the unspoken command. Loath to appear discourteous, Snow drank deeply, and, to his credit, choked but once.

Watching his half-brother swallow, Robb wore an uncharacteristically smug expression. Ah, so it is going to be one of those nights, Theon brightened. Suddenly, the evening was full of promise yet again.

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We should not have gambled on outdrinking the bastard, Theon thought ruefully, as he and Robb were chasing after Snow. Between their wobbly legs and with all the stairs, tables and chairs apparently conspiring to block their path, every step was fraught with danger. Only a few heartbeats ago, the victory – or the barmaid's ample bosom, to be more precise – had been within Theon's grasp. And the subterfuge might have succeeded, had it not had a serious flaw in the first place: the bastard himself.

Nonetheless, their judgement already clouded, they had proceeded with the scheme. For hours Robb had been plying Snow with the innkeep's mysterious concoction, while Theon had concentrated his efforts on wooing the barmaid. The latter had been a pathetically easy conquest, since that particular castle had neither high walls to scale nor a massive gate to break: as soon as her voracious appetite for flattery had been satiated, the lustful wench had been Theon's to do with as he pleased.

Snow, on the other hand, had been tricked into downing many a mug before those dark grey eyes had lost a fraction of the sharp focus. It had been the cue Robb and Theon needed to steer the conversation towards the subject of women and then usher the boy upstairs, into the barmaid's eager arms. Prematurely had the triumph been trumpeted, alas. Hardly had they exchanged a mischievous smile, when the door had burst open to reveal the bastard, pale as if he had just faced the host of Others.

“I cannot,” he had rasped and run for the stairs, heedless of the girl calling after him.

Theon had shrugged and would have finished the dish Snow had left untouched, if stupidity had not infected the other wolf: Robb, concern for his brother erasing any playfulness, had insisted they check whether the bastard's virgin sensibilities had been offended. The decision had not come as much of a surprise, for, offered the choice, the dour Starks invariably prized duty to House and kin over pleasure.

Hence, instead of tumbling with the barmaid amid the rumpled sheets, Theon was now closer to taking a tumble himself – the walls were spinning around, and the floor was as treacherous as the deck of a ship braving the turbulent seas. Damn you, Snow. To add insult to injury, whoops and hollers followed them through the common room. The laughs were good-natured; still, the two scions of the noble families, staggering and clutching at each other's shoulders for support, presented a rather pitiful sight. Why, let us join the mummers' troupe, we seem to be quite adept at making asses of ourselves.

Outside the inn the cold air cooled the flush of shame. Theon squinted in the darkness, illuminated here and there by torches, and nudged Robb in the right direction. They had finally cornered their quarry.

A lantern was hung over the entrance to the stables, and the circle of light flooded the yard. In the centre, on the stump of a tree, Snow was sitting. He did not acknowledge Robb and Theon when they approached him, unsteady on their feet.

Silence stretched, until, at last, words spilled from behind the curtain of unruly black hair.

“Forgive me, Robb. I know you meant well. She was beautiful and kind, yet …"

Ah, the tale of woe, Theon rolled his eyes. Since your prick makes you so miserable, stick it into something or cut it off, I care not, as long as we will be spared this bloody whining!

“... I could not risk begetting a bastard.”

What? His drink-befuddled mind was deciphering the accidentally divulged titbit for a lengthy moment. No. It was simply too ridiculous. Their generous gift spurned, their chances with the lovely wench ruined – all because Lord Snow had feared he might put a whelp in her belly?!

A fitting revenge would be having the bastard relieved of his bothersome virtue tonight. How to bring that about, though? Suddenly, Theon had an inspiration, the liquor, for a change, allowing him to discern new paths leading to a favourable outcome. Honour and duty, hmm ...

“Wait.”

Both wolves turned to look at him questioningly, and the daring plan was set in motion.

“Snow, I presume you intend to take a wife some day?”

“Yes, but what that has to ...”

“Splendid. Usually, a wife comes to her husband a maiden. You do realize that the first coupling is extremely painful for women? Yes? Good. Picture a union in which the groom is equally unsullied as his innocent bride, and you shall have a recipe for disaster. No affection can be engendered in the bower echoing with cries of agony.”

The bastard flinched. You have sealed your fate, Snow. Miraculously, Theon kept a straight face, and did not slur much throughout the whole speech. The pit had been baited, he had only to guide the guileless prey to its doom.

Meanwhile, Snow fixed him with an impressive Stark glare. “Your point, Greyjoy?”

“My point being that a man ought to be experienced, so that his future lady wife will receive due gentleness and deference. Sadly, a sacrifice has to be made. Before lying with a wife, he must bed a whore.”

“Greyjoy ...” Snow started, threat audible in his voice.

“It is the truth, however unsavoury. Whores can teach a man every secret there is to pleasuring a woman. And they have their ways of preventing the seed from taking root in the womb.” Theon nodded sagely. “Ask your brother about Ros.”

A fierce blush detracted significantly from Robb's lordly glower. The lingering doubt in Snow's eyes was almost extinguished by curiosity. Observing the pair, Theon had trouble containing his mirth. I should thank the innkeep for whatever was in that keg. Without it, he was sure, he would never have managed to ensnare the young wolves of Winterfell so thoroughly.

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In some circumstances, gold was vastly mightier than Valyrian steel.

For example, it secured them Ros's company till dawn, which was no mean feat in a brothel under a veritable onslaught of visitors. Thus, while the randy customers swarming over the parlour were gnashing their teeth in frustration, Robb was successfully concluding the bargain with the procuress. Upon the appearance of a fat purse, her fawning smile grew impossibly wider yet, and the esteemed guests from Winterfell were admitted upstairs.

As the trio were climbing the last steps leading up to Ros's room, Theon could feel his pulse quicken in anticipation. Finally, after many trials, his patience was to be rewarded.

“I fail to understand the purpose of having you two there, when I ...” Snow said quietly. Flanked by the ward and the heir, the bastard was reminiscent of a prisoner about to enter the gibbet.

Sure, we can leave you alone with Ros – unconscious and chained to the bed, that is. Such precautions notwithstanding, for the rest of our lives we will still be tormented by the uncertainty whether you have truly done the deed. Apart from provoking irritation, Snow's remark alerted Theon to the fact that the heartening influence of alcohol was waning. The recent stroll from the inn to the bawdy house had restored a measure of gracefulness to the lubberly limbs, which in itself was a change for the better. The steadier the gait, the less dense the fog clouding the mind, alas. Theon did not want to deal with sober wolves.

“Jon is right. I do not recall needing your assistance ...” Robb trailed off abruptly and cleared his throat in an apt imitation of his brother just a moment ago.

The dreaded sobriety. Theon was determined to stave off its arrival for as long as possible. To that end, he produced a wineskin and held it aloft, “The innkeep's stuff.”

Strengthening their resolve took some time. Judging Robb and Snow sufficiently fortified, Theon reclaimed the wineskin, and went on to elucidate. “Lack of assistance was precisely why you performed most abominably, Stark. The bedroom game is no different from swordsmanship, yet in the training yard Ser Rodrik corrects your stance or grip. I shall be your master-at-arms and help you brandish your sword at Ros, Snow.”

The bastard's eyes flashed dangerously, and it seemed Theon would get a fist to the jaw in return. Robb, though, laid a hand on Snow's shoulder. “Indeed? Perhaps you will be the one to learn something new, Greyjoy.” Smarting from the severe blow delivered to his manly pride, the heir issued a challenge.

“That, boys, remains to be seen,” Theon grinned.

The verbal sparring had to be temporarily adjourned, for they had reached their destination. Theon did the honours and opened the door. A stunning sight greeted them: Ros was spread out on the coverlets like a feast before the starving men, with nary a strip to veil her lush curves. She yawned and stretched lazily. “Oh, am I dreaming still? If so, I do not want to wake up ever again,” the melodious sigh beckoned them inside.

To be able to resist this siren's call, any male would have to be not only dead, but also quartered and thrown into a bottomless abyss. Or maybe named Snow, Theon thought uncharitably as he crossed the threshold.

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Surprisingly, rather than prompt a panicked flight, the sultry voice and its voluptuous owner held Snow transfixed – to the point of having him follow Theon and Robb without a protest. Should the maidenly fears plague him … well, the solid oak door, which Theon had surreptitiously locked, was bound to prove a formidable obstacle.

The beginning was promising; what occurred next – not so much: the sensual spell brought Lord Snow to the foot of the bed, but no further. Theon frowned, expecting a repetition of the barmaid debacle. In any case, unless Snow sprouts wings, he cannot escape. These were idle concerns, however, because Snow's chastity was being pitted against the adversary whose wiles were far superior to that of a serving wench. Not deterred in the slightest by her visitor's reluctance, 'the queen among the northern whores,' as she was fondly called by her admirers, rose in all her naked glory. Frozen to the spot, Snow watched her glide languidly towards him.

“Have I displeased m'lord?”

The brazen girl stopped before the bastard and pouted, drawing Snow's attention to her full mouth. The memory of its wicked skill was enough for Theon to instantly feel his breeches become uncomfortably tight. Cursing under his breath, since no relief was forthcoming – at least, not until Ros had her way with the bastard – Theon flopped into a nearby chair. Damn it, if he were to be a spectator, the show had better be outstanding. Apparently having decided not to interfere, Robb leaned against the wall.

Together, they witnessed Snow search for words, and fail miserably. “No, Ros,” he stammered out. “I am not displeased.” The porcelain complexion, red hair and round breasts had achieved a devastating effect. Then, in order to utterly scatter the bastard's wits, the clever strumpet dimpled prettily. “I'm very happy to hear that.” She pressed Snow's hand to her cheek. “Were m'lord to leave, the mistress would beat me with a stick.” Theon almost cheered. Yes, dear, play a damsel to his gallant knight. The sad confession elicited the intended reaction: Snow's face registered horror and his knuckles slid against the satiny skin.

For Theon, the gesture signalled an impending surrender.

Once the chink in the armour had been made, Ros, bless her, was cautious not to frighten the virgin. She calmed Snow with fleeting touches, brushing a lock from his brow, tracing the line of jaw and neck, shyly resting her palms on his shoulders. Each innocent caress pushed Lord Snow closer and closer to the precipice. Eventually, the exquisite torture could not be borne any longer, and, with a groan, Snow pulled Ros to his chest.

“Oh!”

Her cry tore through the haze of passion, and Snow looked at Ros in alarm. “What is wrong?” She rubbed at her bosom. “The leathers, m'lord. Please, get rid of them.” The offending leathers, accompanied shortly by the shirt, hit the floor. “That's better. Much, much better.” The girl ran her eye approvingly over the new territory open for exploration. Even Theon had to admit the diligent exercise with weapons had lent elegance and strength to the bastard's form. Not that Theon was admiring Snow or anything. A wise man should study his opponent's body to discover its defects. Yes. He was merely sizing the bastard up for a potential fight.

It was difficult to picture the training yard and inflicted injuries, however, when Ros's hands were lovingly stroking firm muscles. A sharp intake of breath to his side suggested he was not the only one affected by the image. Robb must be wishing himself in the bastard's position. The other possibility was … preposterous. Theon's mind baulked at venturing in such a queer direction; he hastily focused again on Ros's perfect assets.

Alas, overconfidence was oft the ruin of many would-be champions. The same was true for whores; as Ros's fingers strayed to fumble with the lacings of his breeches, Snow jerked away. Before he had a chance to retreat completely, there was a blur of movement and strong arms embraced him from behind. ”Stop it, Jon.” Robb's voice was level, yet his eyes were so dark not a hint of blue was visible. Trapped, Snow could do naught but slowly relax in his brother's hold.

The hairs on the back of Theon's neck bristled in warning.

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Countless times he had observed Robb and Snow spar, wrestle and engage in horseplay. What had been absent on those occasions, however, was the near-palpable tension, now building between their entwined bodies like a tenebrous storm cloud. And Theon had the sinking feeling the presence of the beautiful woman could not entirely account for the unsettling change in the mood.

Not relinquishing the grip on his captive, Robb reached out to cup Ros's breast. He weighed the creamy globe in his palm, then murmured in the bastard's ear. “See how the nipple hardens? Worship it with your fingers or mouth to fan your lover's ardour.” The exhalation teased the lobe and a fine tremor ran through Snow. Still clinging to the shreds of self-control, the bastard clenched his teeth. “ But it looks so sensitive … I don't want to hurt her ...” The girl forestalled his protests by guiding his hand to the other, neglected rosy tip. “You won't, m'lord.” Snow hesitated, the feather-light touches growing bolder with every contented feminine whimper.

”Your verdict, Greyjoy?”

Theon reined in the urge to squirm under Robb's steady regard. The wolf was on the prowl, the heir's gaze communicated silently, and hungry to settle the score with a certain foolish hunter from the Iron Isles. Braced against Robb, Snow, by contrast, epitomized all that was feral about the Stark sigil. A very fragile line separated him from the absolute abandon, his whole frame rigid with the effort to execute restraint over the newly-awakened need. Suddenly, the bastard's eyes lifted from Ros to lock with Theon's. An odd mixture of arousal and old resentment was swirling in Snow's irises.

The Drowned God help Theon, he had unleashed the beasts.

Confronted by a predator, never betray your disquiet. “Not bad, Stark. Snow, the teats can endure such terrors as suckling whelps. They won't bite you, nor are they made of glass, so squeeze them a bit. She prefers it rough, don't you, Ros?”

Swaying against the bastard, Ros nevertheless managed an insolent smirk and a gasped, ”If you say so, m'lord.”

The curious sense of being adrift intensified. The untried boy in the middle, his brother the lord, the whore – the elements on the display were familiar, but no amount of staring could arrange them into a coherent whole. The reason why became clear and a chill slithered down the ward's spine.

Unbeknownst to Theon, the game had lost the rules.

Head spinning, he could not look away from the bodies that were tangling and shifting in an intricate dance. “Kiss me, m'lord,” Ros pleaded. Snow obliged her eagerly: his lips covered hers, while Robb's hand grazed across his stomach. Theon watched its progress in morbid fascination; only when those questing fingers halted at the bastard's waist, did he sigh in relief.

The traitorous spark of disappointment was ruthlessly quelled.

Relegating the disturbing image to the background, Theon concentrated on a safer tableau, Snow and the girl. Despite the bastard's inexperience, his youthful enthusiasm more than compensated for the lacking skill. Ros evidently did not consider the role of the teacher onerous, and was imparting the knowledge of the erotic art with zeal. Finally, she released her diligent pupil and laughed, “You are doing wonderful, m'lord. Yet we are being selfish misers, for we keep all the sweet kisses to ourselves.“

To remedy the lamentable situation, she promptly kissed Robb over Snow's shoulder.

Auburn, black and red – their heads bent close together … Seven hells. Theon swallowed, his heart racing with renewed foreboding.

For a moment, it was harmless fun. Ros was sharing her favours evenly between the two young men, while Robb and Snow were patiently awaiting their turn. Soon, however, the wolves were pushing against each other, the craving for her taste overriding courtesy. A lesson in good manners was in order. Thus, as the heir and the bastard were launching yet another assault on her mouth, Ros stepped away with an impish grin.

So insignificant a move had disastrous consequences: in a blind pursuit after Ros, Snow found instead his brother's lips.

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Although it was fairly chaste, especially compared to the recently exchanged kisses, the brief salute sufficed to render the pair of wolves motionless. Then, as if scalded by burning coals, Robb and Snow sprang apart.

Grey eyes, wide with shock, met a similarly bewildered blue gaze.

“Robb … Gods, I ...”

“Made a mistake.” Robb's voice was unsteady. “Think nothing of it.”

Whilst they were frantically trying to dismiss what had just transpired as a drunken mishap, Theon well nigh screamed in triumph. Wickedness, thy name is Ros! If only you were a noble lady, I would marry you, dear. Aye, the game might not have specific rules, but, as Ros's little ruse had aptly demonstrated, Snow and Robb were neither better versed in it than Theon, nor had they any insight into its purpose, or potential outcome. Bah! Innocent boys courting trouble. Pups he could handle, it was those ferocious, self-confident creatures from a while ago he had to beware.

Provided the bastard and the heir were not allowed to regain their footing, their ascent to supremacy in the sensual contest was highly improbable. And the accidental intimacy seemed a weakness worth exploiting. It would be interesting to see where this path might take them. Never again will I be prey to the wolves.

Of course, he could count on Ros to act as the irresistible lure in the freshly-hatched intrigue.

“So you like to watch men kiss, naughty girl?”

At Theon's casually asked question Robb and Snow paused in their fretting to train disbelieving stares on Ros. The beautiful schemer had climbed onto the bed, and was now reclining against the pillows, a demure smile on her face.

“Oh, yes.” She peeked at the dumbfounded wolves from under the lowered lashes. ”My lords are both handsome, vigorous ...” A tongue moistened the lower lip. “And virile. Yet together, locked in an embrace, you are ...” Fingers trailed suggestively to the juncture of ivory thighs. “ … a temptation I am unable to withstand.”

Judging from the way Robb's and Snow's pupils expanded, the sorceress had caught them in her spell.

“Please, do it one more time.” Ros's mellifluous whisper encouraged to pick up the chalice and sip at the honeyed poison.

Still, they were fighting the pull of the current, indecision plain writ on their features.

“Go on. Humour her.” Theon played at nonchalance, sitting with his chin propped on his knuckles. “She'll be sopping wet afterwards.”

All those roiling emotions had to be released, and Theon was the most convenient target to vent the frustration on.

“Are you out of your mind, Greyjoy?” Robb positively spat. “What you are suggesting is … is ...”

“A sin? Well, in case you have not noticed, we are not praying at the sept.”

This earned him a withering glare from Snow.

“Would you bed your kin, Greyjoy?”

He leered at the bastard. “If my sister resembled Ros, I would, and gladly at that.” Amusing as the discussion was, dwelling on vice was getting them nowhere. Wolves should be governed solely by instinct, not ponder the possible implications of their deeds. Hence, a different tactic was employed.

“I think I know what their problem is,” Theon addressed Ros. “Our honourable friends fear they may find your proposal too appealing.”

“That is a lie!” It was comical how quick Robb and Snow were to deny the accusation.

To goad them further, Theon let his gaze sweep over their bodies and linger on their groins. “I can tell the idea inspires naught but revulsion.” He smirked. “Courage ebbing away, Stark? Afraid you may inadvertently … ah … stab … your pretty brother?”

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Before Lord Stark's ward could utter one more word, Robb had already closed the distance between them. Grabbing a handful of Theon's doublet and almost overturning the chair in the process, the heir yanked him forward, until they were nose to nose. At least, the whining has stopped. Anything is preferable to Starks droning on about virtue, Theon consoled himself as he faced a very angry wolf. Snow hovered at his brother's side; his murderous glower promised a retribution no less painful than the punishment about to be exacted by Robb.

“Take it back, Greyjoy, or I swear, I'll ...”

“Do what? Stab me, perchance? My, that is a fell sword you have, o mighty warrior.”

The heir's raised fist boded ill; nevertheless, Theon did not resist the brutal grip, countering the threat of violence with a contemptuous sneer. Protest till you are hoarse, Stark, the disparaging smile conveyed most eloquently, strike me, it does not matter a whit. I would have to be blind to miss all those goings-on. Brotherly love indeed! Even in such dire straits, with pummelling inevitable, Theon was confident his victory was imminent; reduced to a mindless rage and forced into a desperate retreat, the poor pups were in no state to contest his claim to glory.

The fury flaring up in Robb's eyes died down. He perused Theon as if the ward were a nasty, crawling bug, then glanced at Ros.

“Men kissing? Is that what you wish to see?”

She nodded, too enthralled to speak.

“And you shall have your entertainment.”

Theon snorted, “ Good luck to you and the basta … “

Alas, it was a grievous miscalculation on his part, to taunt and expect a punch at the worst. Half-inebriated, surrounded by the barely curbed male aggression, Theon had forgotten there were many ways of preventing a sharp tongue from hurling insults; some involved tongs and knives, whereas others kept the body part in question intact, but so busy as to effectively smother any offensive remarks. Theon was no stranger to the latter methods; they were particularly helpful when the feminine prattle in the bedroom was starting to wear his patience thin.

Now, the same medicine was being administered to cure Theon of his impudence.

During this enlightening exercise, Theon was swiftly learning that kisses between men were vastly different from the ones shared with women. In fact, he was not certain whether Robb's mouth on his should be called a 'kiss:' where women's lips were inviting and pliant, Robb's were firm and unyielding; while serving wenches sought to entice and please, Robb was conquering and giving no quarter. However, the above revelations paled in comparison to another discovery Theon had made. For him, kisses had always been nice, yet boring nuisances, necessary to get a girl on her back. With Robb, the kiss was nothing short of an exciting duel.

A match, in which Theon was the one at a serious disadvantage.

Thrust and withdraw, thrust and withdraw … The realization hit him as to what the obscene rhythm was mimicking. Theon blushed hotly, trying to wrench away, but Robb was having none of that. Only when they were both at a risk of suffocating, did the heir pull back. Still, the second wolf took his place.

“Do not get too full of yourself, Greyjoy. I would much rather be doing this to Hodor.”

Snow's hungry mouth belied the statement, as he poured all his ire into the kiss. It was the retaliation for every snide comment about his parentage, every cruel jest he had to endure over the years spent in Theon's company. Teeth, lips and tongue were his instruments of torture, and he applied them with laudable skill.

Thus, the ploy to permanently crush the enemy had brought about Theon's resounding defeat. Dimly, the ward heard a strangled whimper, and was mortified to recognize the faint noise as his own. Theon's hands, the faithless deserters, crept to clutch at the strong shoulders, to relish the feel of smooth skin over the steely muscles … to meet air as he was being unceremoniously shoved away.

He slumped in the chair, panting, his mind a blank.

“How was that, Ros?” Snow enquired, not winded in the slightest from the recent exertions.

The reply was the purr of a contented cat, “Beautiful.”

“And the bargain is made.” Robb looked pointedly at Theon's lap. “It appears you were truly enjoying yourself, Greyjoy. Should I be flattered, or is this for Jon?”

“A terrifying thought,” Snow murmured, but his eyes glinted with glee.

His cheeks aflame, Theon ground out. “I does not mean anything!”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

The chastisement complete, the wolves left Theon and swaggered towards the bed.

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Theon was at a loss. Divested of the witty retorts with which to avert the catastrophe, he stared dumbly after the pair.

The paralysing numbness was gradually subsiding. However, no longer held at bay by this shielding barrier, the fresh waves of shame and outrage immediately descended upon the ward. They washed over him, again and again, tossing about his battered dignity as if it were a shipwrecked sailor on the verge of drowning. “The king of fools” – he could almost imagine the sniggers chasing him for the rest of his life. Not only had he been outmanoeuvred, his own stratagem twisted and used against him – no, to top it all, he had also flown the flag of surrender and welcomed the invaders!

Unbidden, Snow's words about Hodor echoed in his ears. Oh, the bastard had chosen the barb well, for it had pierced the ward's pride to the core. In Winterfell, Theon was ostentatiously ignoring the giant stableboy as the least important member of the household. Predictably, Lord Snow, the noble protector of the weak and the butt of Theon's japes, had not taken kindly to the ward's scornful attitude. Once, they had near come to blows over the issue.

Theon cringed, recalling how a while ago Snow had measured the future ruler of the Iron Islands against Hodor, the simpleton whom Theon considered but a convenient tool for grooming horses, and declared the former wanting. Worse yet, why, despite such an affront, had Theon readily accepted Snow's mocking lips? I am as bright as Hodor. I should have bitten off the bastard's tongue!

Robb's as well, while Theon was on the subject of bemoaning the unforgivable lapses. What had he been thinking back then? Something about Robb, resplendent in a silvery armour, charging into battle … Merciful gods, smite me. Had his lord father witnessed the humiliation, he would have personally gelded Theon. And he would have been right. I behaved like a starry-eyed milkmaid. Even at this very moment, he was achingly hard, his body rebelling against the dictates of reason.

The fault lies with this accursed liquor. As treacherous as a venom, it had spread through his veins, addled his brain and planted there ideas no sane man ought to have ever entertained.

Moreover, the alcohol had given Robb and Snow enough liquid courage to have ruined Theon's plans and struck a bargain with Ros. Now, they were preparing to reap their doubtlessly fabulous rewards: Robb had removed the leathers and shirt, and Theon could not suppress a twinge of interest at the sight of his powerful back illuminated by the candlelight. It is the drink, the Others take the innkeep!

Ros found the torso equally fascinating. She was about to caress it, but Robb turned to Theon.

“Truce, Greyjoy?”

A magnanimous victor. How … quaint. Snow, on the other hand, looked surprised and upset with the decision.

Striving to conceal the rancour, Theon replied. “On the condition you and Snow refrain from sticking tongues down my throat.”

“You'd better remember to shut your smart mouth, then.”

As he got to his feet, he vowed to himself, This is not over, Stark. The wolves were adventurous, aye ... Unless the dormant tension between them could not be ignored or laughed off as the drunken antics any longer. By the end of the night, you will be much closer with your brother, Stark. Who knows, maybe you will thank me later for the nudge? Theon smiled at Ros, and was pleased to receive a frivolous wink in return. Yes, dear. You will see your 'handsome lords' together soon enough.

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His spirits a shade restored, Theon reached the group in a few brisk strides.

Although Ros had slid off the bed to trade kisses with the triumphant wolves, she did not begrudge the ward a bit of solace. After the harrowing ordeal, her kiss was the best antidote to the impotent wrath still blazing in his blood. Theon's palms were reacquainting themselves with Ros's generous curves, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the embrace. No sleek muscles, no prickle of stubble, no dreadful sense of being subdued. All is as it should be, Theon sighed in relief. The earlier incidents had affected him queerly, because he had been denied a woman for far too long.

Aided by Ros's nimble fingers, Theon's doublet and shirt landed in a heap on the floor. It took him a while to note that, for such an innocuous task as assisting in disrobing, Ros's touches had been singularly insistent. He could not help but smile when he had divined why. A sly strumpet, his Ros was. Distracting them in so enjoyable a manner – a kiss here, a tug on the breeches there – she was arraying the trio to her liking, until Theon had a wolf on either side, and the girl was in the centre of their little semi-circle.

Nonplussed, Snow voiced his doubts.

“What is the purpose of this? I ...”

A twinkle in her eye, Ros laid a finger on his mouth.

“Before claiming your prize, you must face the ultimate trial, my lords.”

And she sank to her knees, a graceful supplicant in front of her masters.

Even Snow, green boy though he was, could not have mistaken her intentions. Embarrassment and desire staining his cheeks scarlet, he glanced from Robb to Theon, then focused anew on Ros.

“How are you going to … ? I mean, there are three of us … ”

Are you interested in acquiring the skill, Snow? Having learnt his lesson, Theon guarded his tongue and did not share the joke. Instead, he allayed Lord Snow's concerns as to the girl's welfare. “She will be fine. Believe me, that particular talent of hers is very well-honed.“

Wonder of wonders, the bastard's penetrating stare lacked its usual belligerence. Perhaps he had resigned himself to tolerating Theon's presence, labouring under the misapprehension that the ward had been sufficiently cowed? If so, Theon could scarce wait to disabuse him of the notion.

Robb flashed Ros a grin. “According to the old tales, many a valiant knight was vanquished by a woman's lips. Will we suffer the same dismal fate?”

“Maybe,” Ros answered with an enigmatic smile. “Beware, my lords, and listen well.” She paused for a better effect. “The first one to fall shall forfeit his freedom and indulge my every whim. The draw will turn you all into my slaves.”

However playful her tone, the words had a sinister ring to them. Still, Robb's mouth quirked at her daring, “We tremble, Ros.”

Theon schooled his features into a mask, lest the wolves perceive his joy. Gold and jewels for you, Ros. No, a song to praise your name throughout the realm, so that the whores have an ideal to emulate. Against Theon, who had been regularly on the receiving end of the act, Robb and Snow would not stand a chance … or would they? Was it not too hasty to have the counterattack commence now? In addition, the heir and the bastard had developed this unpleasant habit of catching the ward unawares … And there was also Ros's unusual stipulation about the draw, which, try as he might, Theon could not fathom … Suddenly, he was a trifle apprehensive.

Every single thought and belated misgiving flew from his head once Ros had unlaced his breeches.

Chapter Text

He inhaled sharply as the wet heat engulfed him. For an instant the room – nay, the world – shrank to the glorious sensations Ros's agile tongue was creating, and, under normal circumstances, Theon would have fain lost himself in the bliss. Yet, on the heels of pleasure came the harsh reminder that in the test of prowess his success hinged on the iron self-discipline. Revenge, not ecstasy, was to be won in this peculiar joust: he had to make Robb and Snow partake of the same bitter humiliation they had served him. What better way to avenge his trampled dignity than to present Ros with a collared wolf? Let Snow be the poor wretch to 'fall first.' Ros will surely set him loose on his brother.

A dangerous vision, which sent a spike of lust – battlelust, that is – through his loins and had him bury his fingers in Ros's thick tresses.

I must keep my wits about me, not muse on what Snow will have to do to Robb in order to appease Ros. The dice is still rolling, Greyjoy. He meant to guide the girl's movements and, if need be, put a stop to her more energetic efforts, but, slippery as an eel, she evaded him to practise her art on another victim. Therefore, a brief respite to steel himself against the torment was granted Theon. A couple of deep breaths, and an image of Old Nan in the nude, brought his baser urges under the semblance of control.

Almost of their own volition, his eyes strayed to his companions in misery – to gauge whether their ruination was nigh. A most unwise decision, comparable to the folly of setting a torch to the wildfire, since the paltry defence Theon had managed to muster was shattered to pieces by the sensual sight.

Snow's face was a study in concentration, whereas Robb's reflected undisguised yearning. It was not surprising, given the fact that the bastard was currently at Ros's mercy, and the heir could do naught to alleviate the mounting frustration. Like the two magnificent beasts they were, their chests toned and sweat-slick, the hard lines of their bodies contrasting beguilingly with Ros's softness … Hard and soft ...

Aghast, Theon caught himself up and spent quite a moment on picturing the northern wasteland beyond the Wall. Was it possible that the innkeep's brew had afflicted him with a perpetual proneness to waxing poetical over Stark and the bastard?

The narrow escape should have given him pause, but the stakes were too high, the game far too engrossing to quit. And so, while the passage of time had slowed down to a sluggish trickle, Theon and the wolves fought bravely against the agony Ros was expertly wreaking on their flesh.

The well from which they were drawing their resilience was running dry. Presently, the bastard closed his fingers around his brother's forearm. Yield, Snow, and you may yet be touching Robb to your heart's content. Theon smirked at Ros's perfidy: positioned thus, the wolves had perforce to clasp each other's shoulders to steady themselves.

However, Theon's overly smug smile was espied by Lord Snow, who, having interpreted it correctly, elected to wipe the expression off the ward's countenance.

Reading the grim intent in Snow's eyes, Theon ducked the bastard's mouth. Steeped in depravity, are we, Snow? Anger surged, and Theon's hand shot out to grab at the most vital part of Snow's anatomy. It was a reflexive combat reaction: go for the weakest spot, confuse your foe and then finish him off.

The trick from the training yard worked excellently in this situation.

Had the ward been fully in command of his faculties, he would have howled in horror at the enormity of the transgression. But his reason had migrated to his groin, where Ros was again lavishing Theon with a loving attention. Besides, the single coherent line still resonating in the void his mind had become was the one about Hodor and brandishing swords.

“What now, Snow? It seems I have you … ” A squeeze. “… under my thumb.”

Helplessly, the bastard bucked against Theon's grip, his lips parting on a tortured groan.

“Go … to … hell.”

“After you, Snow.”

Something moist dragged over Theon's shoulder blade. A … tongue?! Robb. So absorbed was he in Snow's futile struggle, that Theon had neglected to tame the other wolf. The sloppiness was to cost the ward dearly, for the deceptively gentle lick was followed by a vicious bite to Theon's nape. A memory sprang up: a stallion preparing a mare to … to …

“No!”

The cry was torn from his throat; the raw pain mingled with a pleasure of such intensity, it had tipped the scales and sent Theon over the edge.

For a few heartbeats, the ominous silence was punctuated by nothing but heavy breaths.

Somehow, entangled as Theon and the wolves were, none of them had collapsed. A small mercy, since it would have been too much, had they prostrated themselves at Ros's feet.

The demoness in the guise of a whore was regarding them with a sultry smile on her red lips.

“A draw.” Ros pronounced. “And, till dawn, you are 'my lords' no longer.”

To seal their entrance into bondage, she offered each of them a kiss. The taste . . . Oh. Theon flushed at the intimate flavour. It was almost as if he had been the one to have performed the indecent act on himself, Snow and Robb.

When Robb's eyes so much as flickered to Theon's mouth, the ward summarily punched the heir in the jaw.

Chapter Text

The offence warranted the extreme retaliation: not only had Robb the gall to look at Theon in a very discomfiting manner, he was also the culprit responsible for landing the ward in the current trouble. Consequently, rather than witness a novel and exotic spectacle staged by the wolves, Theon was to dance meekly to Ros's tune. A slave. Aye, he would honour the arrangement, gritting his teeth against the inflicted debasement, but not before thanking profusely the young lord of Winterfell. Ros's slave I may be. Yours or your brother's, Stark? Never.

A bead of crimson formed on Robb's lower lip. He rubbed at it and examined the smudge on his fingertips critically.

“My compliments, Greyjoy. Mauling Jon has certainly lent strength to your arm.”

With a supreme effort of will, Theon managed not to flinch at the phrasing. If a long-awaited brawl had to be preceded by a detailed account of the regrettable accident involving Snow and himself, so be it, despite Theon's fervent desire to avoid the loathsome subject altogether.

And maybe a protracted conversation would not be necessary: outwardly, the heir was all lordly poise, yet underneath the icy aloofness Theon caught a glimpse of temper. In addition, first blood had been spilled, which deprived Robb of a choice – he had to pick up the gauntlet and respond in kind. Theon bared his teeth, letting another arrow hit the mark.

“Mauling? The bashful virgin got what he deserved, plus a few useful tips on how to amuse himself on a cold and lonely night. However, with such an affectionate, jealous brother, I doubt whether he will ever want for a company in the bedroom.”

Laden with unspoken allegations, the words hung in the air. Then, like a rag-doll, Theon was whipped around and Snow's fist rushed to collide with his chin. The copper tang filled the ward's mouth, swiftly drowning the salty aftertaste of Ros's kiss. In exchange, Theon planted a well-aimed jab to the bastard's ribs.

The straight-forwardness of violence was exhilarating: no unsettling questions, or even more disturbing answers, only knuckles smashing into bones, purging the body of any delightful sensations. Still, Robb would not enter the fray. And Ros was at his side, caressing the heir's arm, whispering something into his ear … Blood for blood. Why are you stalling, Stark?

Taking advantage of Theon's moment of distraction, Snow slammed the ward against the wall and closed the fingers of one hand around his throat. Compliance thus ensured, Snow surveyed his captive. Theon met the blazing grey eyes squarely, refusing to give in.

“Can't keep your hands off me, Snow?”

Although the remark failed to provoke Snow into resuming fisticuffs, it dispelled the strange heat pervading his gaze. The bastard snorted at Theon's sheer effrontery. ”Pathetic, especially coming from you, Greyjoy. Unlike yourself, I have never fondled another man.”

“Very droll, Snow. Had we left you to your own devices tonight, you would never have fondled anything, be it male or female.” The pressure on his windpipe increased infinitesimally in silent warning. “But I digress. Permit me to refresh your memory. What you are painting as an assault on your virtue was, in fact, a drastic bid to repel your unwelcome advances. Pray enlighten me as to why exactly were you trying to lock lips with me? Was it some clever ploy to smother me, perchance?”

“Did you truly imagine I was going to kiss you?” The bastard's voice shook with equal parts anger and mirth. “Must I spell it out again how appalling I consider the mere prospect? No, Greyjoy. Sorry to dash your hopes – a bite was all you were to receive. But then, I suspect you might have found it to your liking.”

Before Theon could retort or head-butt Snow, Ros and Robb rejoined the pair.

“Enough of the lovers' squabble, charming though it is.” Ros tsked in fond exasperation, ignoring the outraged glares from Theon and Snow. ”Since I cherish what is mine, I cannot allow my most prized possessions to come to any harm.”

Harm? Sweetling, we have not even gotten there. Broken lips were the most serious injuries sported by Theon and the wolves.

A steely note, worthy of a serjeant putting new recruits through their paces, crept into Ros's tone. “Now, clean this gory mess.”

“Oh, for gods' sake, provide me with a cloth and some water ...”

Ros wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Perish the thought! No.” She smiled serenely. “Your mouths and tongues shall suffice.”

A bondsman's unruliness was to be nipped in the bud, the decree conveyed subtly. The greater the waywardness, the more severe the punishment to be meted out. Hence, in order not to give their mistress an opportunity to further test the inventive methods of disciplining her subjects, the slaves obeyed without a single murmur.

It was a chore, akin to bedding a toothless crone with sagging teats, or so Theon convinced himself while he licked tentatively at Snow's mouth. The texture was remarkably soft, a facet which had not registered previously, and, had the bastard been a woman, Theon might have been tempted to explore for a second longer … No, better not to dwell on absurd fantasies, lest his brain sustain an irrevocable damage.

Snow returned the favour far more enthusiastically than could have been expected, particularly in the light of the latest vitriolic quarrel. The determination to win back Ros's approval was fierce indeed, for it drove him to chasing after the trail of blood with such vehemence as to breach the barrier of Theon's lips. The ward stiffened at the intrusion, then, recollecting the bastard's professed repugnance for his person, clamped his teeth on Snow's tongue. With a startled yelp, Snow reared back.

Unfocused in one instant, the grey eyes were quick to clear and regain their hostile glint. Tension thrummed through Theon's veins, yet Ros's meaningfully arched brow prevented the situation from escalating into a full-fledged fight.

You are a filthy liar, Snow. Contenting himself with a sardonic sneer at the bastard, Theon moved to Robb. The heir's face was stony, but there was nothing cold about his lips, which were as pleasant to the touch as that of his brother's. Still, Theon did not linger, methodically removing the droplets of red. Once the task was done, he meant to step away. However, Robb's fingers circled his wrist, effectively stopping Theon in his tracks.

“Turn around.”

The mask of feigned indifference slipping, Theon gaped at the heir. “Pardon me?”

“There is blood on your neck.” Robb's eyes bore into Theon's. “Do not fear, Greyjoy. I promise, I will not bite … unless you ask me nicely.”

So that was why the wolf had refrained from hitting back. Ros … She talked him into this. Gathering the tattered remnants of his composure, and wishing they would protect him, since no plate armour could have been conjured out of thin air, Theon did as he was told. The bruise on his nape tingled in anticipation.

True to his word, the heir lapped at the abused skin, mindful of not causing more pain. Wary of Robb's proximity, feeling each brush of tongue so acutely as if a slender blade was being repeatedly plunged into his neck, Theon stood rigid as a statue. Just when he was certain the torture was nearing its end, Robb's hand settled on Theon's hip and the wolf's frame pressed firmly against the ward's back.

Theon's breath caught on a ragged gasp. “Stark ...”

Robb smiled, nuzzling the side of Theon's throat, where the pulse was pounding madly. “How the mighty have crumbled,” he whispered for the ward's ears alone. “Greyjoy, for all your allegedly vast experience, you are shivering like a maid.”

“Stop ...”

“Oh, in due course. You see, Ros was very obliging and helped me understand the reason behind your lashing out, your obsession with Jon and me together, your wandering hands …”

“What are you babbling on about?!”

“Gods, but you are a dunce. Maybe I should have punched you instead – obviously, words are not enough to get through that thick skull of yours.” A playful graze of teeth. “Last warning, Greyjoy. Next time, I will finish what you have started.”

And with this baffling threat, Robb let go of Theon.

“Presentable ...” Ros appraised the trio unashamedly, skimming her fingers over the trim flanks, sculpted chests and wide shoulders. “And all three ready to give me pleasure. Ah, one problem needs to be remedied first, however.” She licked her lips. “You are overdressed.”

Having assumed a comfortable pose on the bed, the queen waited impatiently for her slaves to do her bidding.

Chapter Text

Theon had always prided himself on not being unduly flustered about shedding his garments in front of the fair sex, and his dalliances oft culminated in the ward haphazardly discarding clothes to the accompaniment of awed feminine sighs. Male nudity also did not bother him in the least. Yet, under Ros's scrutiny and with Robb's touch freshly seared into his flesh, Theon's casual attitude to nakedness had been significantly eroded. He began to realize why a haughty knight, stripped of a rich raiment and a sword, would adopt a docile manner befitting a lowly servant. The warrior's invincibility, as proved to be the case, was an illusion, destroyed whenever his unadorned figure was being paraded before his fellow men.

Pondering on these truths and the bizarre confrontation with Robb, Theon reached hesitantly to unfasten his breeches. Fortunately, their mistress had been benevolent enough to have surreptitiously straightened their clothes just prior to the brawl, else her slaves would be now dying of mortification. The awareness of how close Theon and the wolves had been to the utter embarrassment did not make the ward's task any easier: his fingers might as well have been carved from wood, so clumsy were they with the lacings. Suddenly, Theon paused to take a better look at himself. I'm still wearing boots.

He succeeded in removing one – at a price of nearly unbalancing himself. A terrible idea occurred to him whilst he was thus occupied: should Ros grow bored with their ungainliness, she would undoubtedly have her pets assist each other with disrobing. Theon's vivid imagination dutifully supplied an appropriate picture, and he saw himself kneeling, eyes level with Snow's, or, worse yet, Robb's groin … Hell, no. From this point on, as if reinvigorated by some mysterious magic, his hands were hastily divesting him of the rest of his attire.

Finally, neither a piece of fabric, nor a scrap of leather remained to preserve his modesty.

Never in his life had he felt so exposed. Whereas Ros was ogling him quite blatantly, Theon could not shake the inkling that other, furtive glances were being stolen at his body. Setting his jaw, the ward suffered Ros's inspection and studiously paid the wolves no heed.

“How lucky I am that such paragons of manliness are catering to my needs!”

At Ros's joyous exclamation, Theon's curiosity prevailed over discomfiture. He risked a peek at himself, then, to form an unbiased opinion, at his companions. Hmm … Well-endowed, quite harmoniously proportioned, he grudgingly admitted, but to call them 'paragons' was stretching it a bit …

Exaggerated or not, Ros's admiration did bolster Theon's and the wolves' faltering courage. Robb ventured to ask, “What would you have us do?”

“So many interesting options ...” Ros tapped a fingertip against her chin. “All those insults, threats, fists and blood chilled me to the bone.” She parted her legs invitingly. “Warm me up with your lips.”

Snow swallowed, eyes riveted to the alluring display. “You want us to kiss you … down there?”

Ros nodded, “And everywhere else.”

Who were they to gainsay the queen's edict? Vastly relieved, for no outrageous act had been demanded of them, the slaves approached the bed, keen on melting away the ice their mistress had complained about.

Lifting Ros's dainty foot, Theon bestowed kisses on the slender toes and the elegant ankle. Next, his mouth climbed slowly up the slope of the calf, traversed the velvet softness of the inner thigh, until, at last, the tip of his tongue quested across the glistening red curls. Overflowing already, my dear? Smirking at Ros's disappointed mewl, when the sensitive area was denied further caresses, Theon let his lips glide over the planes of flat stomach, above which ripe breasts were rising proudly.

Sadly, the sporadic contact with the male limbs could not be entirely eliminated in such close confines: Robb's fingers slid down Theon's spine, causing the ward to jerk and dig an elbow into Snow's abdomen. Cursing fluently, Theon glowered reproachfully at the wolves. One more disruption in his delightful journey through the exquisite hills and valleys, and he would wind up throttling Lord Eddard's infuriating sons.

However, an outright war was bound to incur the wrath of their lovely lady. Hence, by unspoken accord, Theon was assigned the task of attending to the lush bosom, while Robb was tutoring Snow in the art of working the tender feminine flesh to ecstasy.

“There,” the heir probed gently at the folds guarding the entrance to Ros's body. “So tiny, it can be easily overlooked.”

Though light, as if he were strumming a lute, Robb's touches soon had Ros tossing her head from side to side and moaning low in her throat. Nostrils flaring, eyes darkened to obsidian black, Snow watched the spectacle for a lengthy moment, then, spurred on by Ros's incoherent pleas, put his lips on the little nub Robb had uncovered.

No song had ever sounded sweeter than the shrill cries of a woman in the throes of passion. Enjoying the way Ros writhed under their kisses, Theon and the wolves laboured assiduously to elicit the most enthusiastic reactions. Before long, they were engaged in a competition. Was their queen wailing louder because Theon was suckling at her nipples, or maybe the tremors vibrating through her frame were prompted by Robb's mouth between her splayed thighs? And, the instant the bastard's tongue had dipped into her navel, Theon could have sworn Ros clutched him more tightly to her breast ...

Even as he recognized the signs of Ros's impending release, its force still took Theon by surprise: the mistress strained against her slaves with a strength born out of desperation, screaming at the top of her lungs. Once the roaring firestorm in her blood had died down to the smouldering embers, Ros collapsed upon the coverlets.

“That was ...” Simultaneously, she regained her breath and regal sternness. “... quite impressive performance. Perhaps deserving of a reward, after all.”

Theon had to bite back a frustrated growl as her arms wound around Snow's neck, pulling the bastard down for a kiss. But then, he noted Ros's knees embracing the lean hips, and fierce envy was supplanted by an equally heady arousal: the chaste Lord Snow was about to lose his virginity.

Chapter Text

Had omens, namely a comet in the night sky, earth quaking, or dragons hatching, heralded so momentous an occasion as Snow's honour being toppled from its lofty pedestal, Theon might well have missed them altogether. The ward was blind and deaf to everything else, save the bastard poised uncertainly over their mistress.

Take him, Ros.

A queer idea, since in this encounter Snow was supposed to play the invader and lay siege to the pliant, womanly flesh. Yet being a conqueror did not make him any less of a trapped wolf, struggling in the snares of his doubts, guilt and desire. What a fascinating conundrum he presented: the leashed power of the male body at odds with the glazed, anguished gaze. Mouth dry, Theon could not look away.

Snow's voice choked on an entreaty. “Please ...”

“Shhh ...” Ros cradled his cheek, her hips undulating to guide him inside.

Seeing wonder and profound relief cross Snow's face, as he sank deep into Ros's welcoming heat, kindled two distinct sentiments within Theon. The understandable impulse to rip him off their mistress, so that Theon could spend himself between her thighs, clashed with a fervent craving to witness the complete ruination of Snow's virtue. And why shouldn't Theon exult in the bastard's fall into sin, a perverse demon whispered in the ward's ear, if he did have a hand – quite literally, at that – in debauching Snow?

I groped him.

Panic hit the ward like a bucket of cold water. In its wake, augmenting the confusion, came the echo of Robb's portentous words. What did you mean by 'the reason behind,' Stark? Gods, he could not think straight anymore, his lust for Ros driving him mad, having him discern such inane details as Robb's soft smile or Snow's ridiculously long lashes … Theon's conflicted emotions were twisting into a knot, true, but was Robb correct in implying there was some unnameable abomination lurking amid the coils? Thankfully, anger obliterated the encroaching chaos. Enough. Let us find out whether your relationship with Snow is indeed as innocent as you claim, Stark.

“Is our lady tight, Snow?”

The bastard's eyes snapped open and fixed on Theon. Obviously, Ros had robbed him of his eloquence, because a feral snarl was the sole answer to the polite inquiry.

Theon did not desist.

“I bet nothing has ever gripped you so snugly. Ah, and she must be very wet – from Robb's kisses and yours, right?”

Deliberately, he had framed the question in a suggestive, low-pitched drawl. Were you dreaming of yet another 'mishap,' while feasting on Ros, Snow? Of tasting her on your brother's tongue? In response, a shudder rippled through Snow, his erratic movements and breathing confirming that yes, he was reliving the forbidden, all-too-brief intimacy with Robb. Try to convince me that it was but a figment of my imagination, Stark.

“Did you enjoy her flavour, Snow? All spicy sweetness … with nary a trace of salt or bitterness to mar its perfection.”

The merest reference to that other substance they had all sampled, courtesy of Ros's pretty mouth, had Lord Snow bow his head in shame, a strangled half-sob, half-shout escaping his lips. The rapture contorting his features was well nigh indistinguishable from agony, and Theon greedily drank in the bastard's surrender.

Afterwards, Ros petted Snow's back, murmuring endearments against his hair. Sated, Snow kissed their mistress, then rolled off her, his belly still heaving with the spasms.

“Greyjoy, you bastard ...”

Theon snorted at the weak whisper, “Surely you can do better than that, Snow.” Again, the words had double meaning.

Undaunted, the ward locked gazes with the heir. And who is a dunce now, Stark? Go on, ask Ros why a few bawdy comments have unsaddled your oh-so-manly brother. The staring contest would have probably lasted till dawn, had their mistress not broken the impasse by boldly reaching out for Robb. At her brazen touch, a flame leapt up in the chilly blue eyes, and, from this point on, Robb's entire attention was on the queen.

Unfailingly gentle Robb was, yet, if Ros's nails raking over his shoulders were any indication, his caresses had won her approval. For some inexplicable reason, the sight of Robb teasing Ros's nipple made Theon recall the ruthlessness with which those fingers had been digging into his hip, as though intent on piercing the thin layer of skin. To ... brand it in a similar way as Theon's nape? To remind Theon that 'a ward' was simply a more elegant name for 'a hostage'? And there had been dark amusement in Robb's voice, his teeth all but nipping at Theon's throat ...

A maid, am I? How about I finish what you have started, Stark?

It was high time Robb's delusions of having Theon as a puppet on a string were laid to rest, once and for all. In order to do so in the most spectacular fashion imaginable, the ward took a leaf from Robb's book: he bit down on the heir's temptingly vulnerable neck.

“Gods!”

Astonishment was audible in the hoarse cry. Muscles bunching as if he were waging a battle with some invisible foe, Robb froze above Ros. But, since the dam had already been breached, there was no stemming the flood. With a final, tormented groan, Robb conceded his defeat.

The goal accomplished, Theon graciously granted the heir a moment to compose himself. Then, without further ado, a death blow was delivered.

“How the mighty have crumbled, eh, Stark?”

So potent was the triumph surging in his blood, that Theon did not mind Ros pushing him on his back and straddling his hips. He let her take the reins, luxuriating in the feel of smooth, slick flesh hugging him ever so tightly. Ah, the sublime joy of being sheathed to the hilt inside a beautiful, moaning wench … who had recently been singing for the wolves.

In one fluid motion, Theon reversed their positions.

Alas, before Snow and Robb could be shown how a man ought to take a woman, the queen quashed the rebellion by yanking on her thrall's chains. With a knowing smile, Ros wiggled her hips, clenching down on Theon so hard as to remind him that his pleasure was hers to command. Powerless against such an onslaught, Theon could do naught but throw his head back and growl his release.

As he buried his face in Ros's neck, he heard her mutter something about 'silly, stubborn boys.'

Chapter Text

The words jolted Theon from the blissful languor that was stealing over his limbs. Was that vexation in her voice? He could not pursue the matter further, for Ros had already extricated herself from his embrace and got up from the bed. Once he realized no feminine curves were separating him from the wolves, the ward was immediately alert. In the company of predators, tired and harmless though they might appear, affording himself even the slightest bit of inattention would have been sheer folly.

Not relaxing his vigilance had been a prudent decision: no sooner had the first splash of water carried across the room, announcing that the mistress was performing her ablutions and the slaves were no longer under her supervision, than Snow was proclaiming Theon 'an insufferable ass.'

Having no patience for the childish insults, the ward cut straight to the point. “Snow, you have failed the test of self-control. Do you know why? Or are you still too afraid to confront the truth?”

Incredulous, Snow propped himself up on an elbow. “Whose truth – yours? By the way, Greyjoy, you are rather ill-suited to lecture me on restraint. You should have seen yourself a while ago.” His lip curled. “'Wanton abandon' is the phrase that springs to mind.”

A flush suffused Theon's cheeks. Nevertheless, he smiled coldly at the bastard. “Which also happens to aptly describe your conduct in the bedroom, Snow. What was it that caused you to lose yourself so utterly, I wonder? Were you overwhelmed by Ros's charms or the fond memory of your brother's mouth on yours? Maybe the combination of the two?”

Snow blushed, but did not lower his gaze. “Hold your tongue, Greyjoy.”

Theon glanced at Robb. “A very telling answer, wouldn't you agree, Stark?”

Despite the latest developments in the war between Robb and Theon, the heir was surprisingly collected. Was he biding his time, awaiting an opportunity to exact his revenge? If such was the case, the wolf's cool tone gave nothing away. “Greyjoy, your unusual cravings do blur your vision.”

“My cravings? Care to elaborate?”

Robb's eyes resembled chips of ice. “You want to play dumb? So be it. Yes, the very same cravings which are responsible for your maidenly shivers, for instance. Here's another hint for you: if Jon or I so much as look in your direction, you grow hard. What conclusions should be drawn from that, Greyjoy?”

“My hard prick is your substantial evidence? Yes, that would explain a lot.” Goaded beyond caution, the ward barked a derisive guffaw. “Say, if a vigorous session in the training yard has your noble blood up, Stark, is it because you harbour a secret passion for Ser Rodrik? Ah, lest I forget, your reaction to my teeth on your nape was also quite ... extreme.” Theon shrugged nonchalantly, deriving a malicious satisfaction from watching a muscle ripple in Robb's jaw. “Let me enlighten you, Stark: the male urge to rut does not have a hidden significance. Hell, blindfold any red-blooded man, then have some ogress fondle him – I can assure you he will spend himself no less mightily than were he caressed by the most beautiful woman.”

Robb offered Theon a mocking smile of his own. “But there are exceptions to the rules you have just outlined, right, Greyjoy? Your arousal is ascribed to a random impulse, whereas mine or Jon's can never be accidental.”

“Of course not.” Theon's smirk was a shade crueller. “You have always been so fond of each other, after all. I would not dare to reduce your brotherly bond to something as crude as a fleeting bout of animal lust.”

Snow blinked in bewilderment. “Greyjoy, you are jealous.”

“Don't be ridiculous – why should I be jealous? Of whom? I simply find your relationship with Stark morbidly fascinating.”

Robb arched a brow. ”Fascinating? A very telling turn of phrase, wouldn't you agree, Greyjoy?”

A merry peal of laughter interrupted their discussion. “I leave you alone for a few heartbeats and you are back to bickering!”

Smiling impishly, clad in naught, save the droplets of water still glittering on her ivory skin, their mistress was a most enticing sight to behold.

”Were you to continue along these lines, the fists would be swinging yet again … No, I won't tolerate that. Since you have recovered your strength, I think it best to have your doubts concerning the nature of desire finally dispelled.”

At their alarmed expressions, Ros's eyes twinkled. “Such intriguing titbits I have overheard … But, first I would need a proper vantage point ...”

An imperious flick of the delicate wrist communicated the queen's wish: Theon got up and dragged the chair over to the foot of the bed, so that Ros could comfortably observe the events about to unfold.

“Stay.” Theon obeyed, apprehension slowly unfurling in his gut. Next, the mistress addressed the wolves. “If a kiss is received, the courtesy dictates an identical gift should be given in return, isn't that so?”

As the meaning behind the allusion registered, Robb paled and shook his head.

”No, Ros. Don't ask it of me …”

”Ask? Does a slave have the luxury of refusing his mistress? Is it his place to admonish her? No. She demands, and he fulfils her whims.”

Her words were as severe as the strokes of a whip. Theon could almost sense the wolf's turmoil, the innate Stark integrity neither permitting Robb to renege on his promise to Ros, nor encouraging him to embrace the sin he had been requested to commit at the queen's behest.

It took Snow's softly whispered, “Do it, Robb,” to pull the heir from the quagmire of indecision. With a deep sigh, Robb turned to the bastard, pressing his forehead to Snow's in a silent plea for forgiveness.

Then, tentatively, the heir cupped Snow's face and brushed his lips over his brother's.

Chapter Text

Hesitant, as if they were treading a dangerously narrow ledge, from which a single slip threatened to send the reckless wanderer plummeting down into a yawning chasm, Robb and Snow were striving not to overstep the bounds of propriety. Yet, with the freshly-sated passion warming their blood, even the most innocent touch was suddenly rich with a sensual promise. In such circumstances, straying from the righteous path was inevitable: when Robb's fingertips swept along the arc of Snow's cheekbone, the bastard leaned unconsciously into his brother's palm.

The subtle movement was greeted by Ros with undisguised delight.

“How beautiful they look together!”

Wisely, Theon refrained from uttering a scathing comment or rolling his eyes. Really, must every female in Winterfell simper and gush over Lord Eddard's sons? Still, in order to take his mind off the nervous musings about what Ros had in store for him, the ward surveyed the pair on the bed more closely.

'Beautiful'? Women are beautiful. But then, Snow's overgrown hair is girlish enough to invite such associations. Half-kneeling, with scant inches between them, the heir and the bastard made quite an interesting study in contrasts. Against Snow's black locks, Robb's gleamed dark red in the candlelight. Where Snow's torso was smooth, Robb's was sparsely furred. However, the differences served only to enhance the traits that both wolves had inherited from their noble ancestors: the finely-cut features, broad shoulders and tightly-knit muscles.

Having noted these details, Theon proceeded to examine whether the scene being enacted for the mistress's pleasure struck some odd chord within himself. Maybe … Yet it was but a glimmer of temptation, nothing to worry about. After all, the air in the room was fairly thick with the aroma of Ros's arousal, and, as Theon had bluntly told Robb, a man's flesh was prone to rising blindly at the least provocation.

Presently, the wolves could discover for themselves that the carnal need did not care a whit about the dictates of conscience: seeking more contact, the bastard tangled his hand in Robb's hair. In one respect, I was wrong about you, Snow. Not ice, but molten fire fills your veins. Why else would Snow have kissed Theon – his sworn enemy, the bane of his childhood, if not because of having been carried away by fury? Fury, which was perhaps tinged with a tiny measure of mindless lust, loath though Theon was to admit the fact. As for Robb and Theon, the same ugly instincts had also been at work during all their skirmishes. In the light of these comparisons, it was plain for Theon that the primitive urge was not the sole force currently driving the wolves. The desire was tempered by tenderness; instead of boldness, there was awkwardness to their touches.

Thus far, the ward's suspicions about the heir and the bastard had been proved correct. And I am not jealous. You are welcome to Snow, as he is to you, Stark, provided I am not involved in your … little indiscretions. From a safe distance, Theon watched avidly how the situation was rapidly progressing beyond the confines of honourable conduct. Chafing against the self-imposed constraints, Robb trailed the fingers of one hand down to Snow's collarbone, then lower, across the chest, to pause irresolute at the bastard's navel. Despite being brief, the caress drew a startled gasp from Snow. The result was predictable: unable to withstand the torture, Robb let out a harsh, anguished sound and claimed the tantalizingly parted lips.

So much for your scruples, Stark.

Snow was no better. The moment the kiss ceased to resemble the chaste, brotherly salute, his grip on Robb's hair tightened, while, ever so slowly, the bastard's other hand travelled to the small of the heir's back. Soon, the gap between the two bodies was eliminated, and, with another desperate groan, Robb cradled the base of the bastard's skull so as to devour Snow's mouth.

Equally ravenous, Snow met Robb bravely, parrying the thrusts and sliding his tongue between his brother's lips. This earned him a growl, followed shortly by a veritable flurry of attacks, aimed at rendering both participants of the duel breathless. Limbs intertwining, palms gliding with reverence over the expanses of naked skin, the wolves tumbled heavily down upon the coverlets.

'Doom sealed with a kiss' - what an excellent title for a tearful account of illicit love. Ah, a pity I'm not a bard. Triumphant, Theon glanced down at Ros.

“We can be done with further trials, my sweet mistress. I was right.”

Ros's lips twitched with amusement, yet her gaze never wavered from Robb and Snow. “Are you certain of that?”

Frowning, he looked towards the bed … and almost flinched, as the two smouldering glares were levelled at him. Somehow, the ward's ill-timed boast had cut through the red haze of desire enveloping Lord Eddard's sons.

Mortification and anger were swiftly mingling with the passion burning bright in those eyes, till all three emotions could not be distinguished from one another. Involuntarily, Theon swallowed. Gods … Robb and Snow were hungry for his blood, they were going to rip into him just like the starving wolves were wont to do with a crippled deer …

“Come here, Greyjoy.”

Robb's command sufficed to grind the madly whirling thoughts to a standstill. Issuing orders, are we, Lord Stark? You forget that I am ironborn, with a kraken, and not some cowering beast, for a sigil.

He meant to ignore the summons, but Ros smiled up at him.

“Go. There are two kisses you owe them.”

Theon inhaled deeply, choking back an oath. The queen had to be deferred to, no matter how wicked her decrees. In a flash, however, the ward discerned a way out from the whole wretched mess.

“Oh, never fear. I will pay them back in kind for those two 'kisses.'”

The words, intended for the wolves' ears, rather than Ros's, dripped scorn.

Chapter Text

Once he had devised a brilliant, if hazardous, plan of evading the predators' fangs, a lethal calm descended upon Theon, lending him enough fortitude to cope with the ordeal ahead: unperturbed neither by his nudity, nor the insolent stares sliding over his body, the ward strode determinedly to the bed. Bed? A torture rack, more like, he scoffed inwardly. Alas, for his manoeuvre to be executed flawlessly, Theon had to put his pride aside and initiate two kisses he would much rather avoid bestowing.

Promptly, lest the wolves deem him craven, Theon sat down beside Robb. As he locked gazes with the heir, whose eyes were still ablaze with the barely restrained fury, something prickled along the ward's spine – Unease? Anticipation? Whatever it was, the faint sensation crashed against the formidable walls Theon had erected around himself, and the impassive mask he was wearing stayed firmly in place.

”Let us be done with these tedious games, Stark.”

Not tarrying, he bent forward to cover Robb's lips with his own. It was the lightest of caresses, mouth resting against mouth, with nary a whisper of breath to be shared … completely unlike the recent kiss the wolves had exchanged, to say naught of the punishment they had meted out to Theon.

Since Robb had been steeling himself for a violent conquest, his surprise at the subtle touch was almost palpable. I have scarce started, and you are already nibbling at the bait, Stark. How very disappointing. Actually, Theon was immensely relieved that the shameful affair would not have to be prolonged; the sooner it was over, the better. Thus, to confound Robb further, the ward did not shrink from employing a bolder tactic: delicately, he traced the heir's lips with his tongue.

Adventurous Theon was, yet not to such a degree as to risk being accused later of having designs upon the wolf's body. Nay, his actions were far from lascivious, for they had been engendered by a cold calculation, not lust; moreover, the ward took no pleasure in lavishing attention upon Robb's mouth. And why should he? The so-called 'kiss' was but a ploy to lull the heir into letting down his guard. Yes, Stark, be so good as to reciprocate a little …

However, the initial shock gave way to mistrust, and, smelling a trap, Robb stubbornly kept himself in check. Equally persistent, Theon readily accepted the challenge, electing to patiently wait his opponent out. Pliant, his lips were moving over Robb's in a timid invitation, until at last the wolf's iron self-composure was sundered. A shuddering sigh escaping him, Robb opened his mouth … only to be spurned, as the ward immediately pulled back.

“Wake up, Stark. My, have you mistaken me for Snow?”

With that sneering comment, Theon got up and walked to the other side of the bed, silently congratulating himself on his cunning. Why are you seething, Stark? I have merely carried out Ros's instructions … to the letter. The mistress had demanded that her slaves trade 'identical gifts,' and there had been two courses to which Lord Eddard's sons had generously treated Theon: humiliation and unwanted arousal. Now, courtesy of the ward, Robb had also gotten a taste of both these unique delicacies.

Another long overdue debt remained to be settled, so Theon leaned over the second wolf.

“Close your eyes, Snow, and think of Hodor … or your dear brother.”

Though murmured against the bastard's mouth, the gibe was spoken loud enough to reach Robb's ears. Predictably, the heir's whole frame stiffened. Girding yourself up for battle? An answering tension began to build within Theon. Come, Stark. I will be very happy to oblige you.

Ros's reproachful, “Behave yourselves,” forestalled the impending clash. Swiftly, the ward dismissed Robb from his thoughts and kissed the bastard, mindful of not crossing the line between gentleness and lewdness. I'm curious whether you are made of the sterner stuff than Stark. The same ingenious methods which had brought about the heir's crushing defeat were applied to dismantle Snow's defences: undeterred by the wolf's outrage, Theon pressed his lips against Snow's obstinately unresponsive ones. Simultaneously, so as not to miss the right moment to strike, he was coolly assessing the effect the shy kiss was having on his adversary.

Finally, after a few minutes, the bastard's mouth relaxed a fraction. Time to put you out of your misery, Snow. Rejoicing at the small victory, the ward redoubled his efforts by luring the bastard on with a deliberate lick to the lower lip. Then, as Snow's tongue darted out and his hands climbed up to the ward's shoulders, Theon withdrew abruptly.

“And the score is evened. Go back to playing with your brother, Snow.”

To emphasize the statement, he glared defiantly at the wolves and pointedly wiped at his mouth. Both Robb's and Snow's gazes frosted at the gesture, yet Theon could have sworn something oddly reminiscent of hurt flickered in the blue and grey irises. Hurt? Where did that come from? The idea was absurd. Surely it was just a trick of light.

The oppressive silence did not help Theon in puzzling out the mysterious emotion he had glimpsed in the wolves' eyes. His unflappability fraying, the ward hurled more venomous remarks, if only to banish the unsettling quiet gathering in the room.

“Who would have guessed the Starks to be such a debauched lot? I was just pretending, but you two ...” A chiding shake of head. ”You'd better treasure the memory, then, because there will be no repetition of this mummers' farce.”

Presenting Robb and Snow with his back, he strolled to the queen. A wicked gleam in her eye, she rose from her throne to kiss Theon, and gladly a homage was paid to her red lips. No sooner had the ward claimed his reward, however, than the mistress was burying her fingers in his hair. Enthralled, he leaned into the touch … to freeze as the pitch-black darkness surrounded him. What …

“A blindfold.” Ros purred silkily in his ear. “And your trial is far from over.”

Panic seized him, as he recalled his own mocking words about blindfolds, ogresses and fondling.

“No … I don't want …”

Ros laid a thumb over his lips. “You are in no position to deny me, slave.”

So that was how Robb must have felt, when the queen had ordered him to kiss Snow. A dreadful powerlessness turning the limbs into lead, a dull buzzing filling the head … What a fool Theon had been, to presume an escape was possible from the wolves' lair. There was no way out, only criss-crossing paths winding into a chaotic maze.

“Old debts were paid … while new ones were mounting. He is all yours.”

The rustling, the soft footfalls, and a slight breeze informed Theon that yes, the predators were closing in on their prey.

Chapter Text

The approaching steps halted, but not for a heartbeat had Theon deluded himself into believing that a reprieve was being granted out of kindness. Quite the contrary – waiting for the inevitable was just another form of torment, made all the more excruciating with that accursed strip of fabric obscuring his vision. Naked. Open to attack. His senses were screaming at him to run away as fast as possible. Fleeing, however, was out of the question – the future lord of the Iron Islands had to suffer his grim fate with dignity, otherwise the reputation of his House would be tarnished forever.

How to summon a modicum of poise, though, when the two ferocious wolves were ready to pounce on him?

I am ironborn, with a kraken, and not some cowering beast, for a sigil. The proud declaration seemed now an empty boast, for, engulfed by darkness, Theon had been effectively divested of all his shields. Neither his craftiness, nor his acerbic retorts could avail him in the current predicament. The situation was hopeless. Should he go down on his knees and meekly plead for clemency, then? No. Never. Fear, rage and rebelliousness roared in his blood, the primal instincts irrevocably extinguishing the last vestiges of restraint. Destined to fall Theon might be, but he could still make Robb and Snow rue whatever liberties they had planned to take with him.

Before he had a chance to nurture his fury in the hopes of having it carry him through the ordeal, Ros's lush curves pressed into him, her locks cascading over Theon's fevered skin in a soothing caress. A set of manacles could not have ensnared him more firmly than the mistress's soft touch, and, even though he did his utmost to douse his arousal, the flame nevertheless flared back to life. Was Ros indeed a cruel enchantress, whose arcane spells were able to turn every man into a pathetic, lust-driven creature? Judging from her expert manipulation of Theon's flesh, such a supposition did not appear too far-fetched.

“There is no need to tear yourself apart ...” The queen said in a dulcet whisper, rubbing herself against Theon in a very provocative manner.

“What … what do you mean?”

“Sweetness and spice complement each other wonderfully, do they not? Both can be savoured at the same time … So why not indulge yourself? Breasts are lovely, true, but so are hard muscles …”

A low growl vibrating in his throat, Theon interrupted Ros, lest more disturbing parallels be drawn.

“Nonsense! These are not my … ”

A kiss silenced him. Since words had failed to convince him, Ros resorted to a much more persuasive method, so as to sway him toward adopting her point of view. I cannot … However, the mistress's lips were steadily draining him of his resolve, and his protests scattered like leaves in the wind. Only when he had been well and truly trapped in her arms, did he become conscious of the fact that Robb and Snow had stealthily joined in the sensual dance.

A disoriented animal, Theon could not suppress a convulsive shiver at having two male bodies perilously close to his own. Worse yet - menace was pouring off the wolves in scalding waves, while he himself was unable to counter the threat, distracted as he was by Ros's kisses. Would that he could see, have an anchor! Floating in a black void, where jumbled sensations were assailing him, Theon was once again forcefully reminded of his vulnerable state. Disgust at his weakness welled in him, adding to the turmoil. Was he a warrior, whose forefathers had been the scourge of the Seven Kingdoms, or a star-struck maid?

In a belated attempt to prevent his stance from communicating his confusion to the enemy, the ward straightened his back. Still, its stiff line did not discourage a sword-calloused palm from coming to rest between the shoulder blades, nor another hand from settling on the ridge of his hipbone. A second spasm wracked through Theon, and, flushing scarlet, he berated himself for allowing Robb's and Snow's proximity to affect him thus. As if to ridicule his nervousness, the hands did not wander beyond the places they were currently occupying … and yet there was something vaguely proprietary about the touches, which made Theon's hackles rise anew.

Though the mistress had given Robb and Snow leave to do with the ward as they wished, everything within Theon recoiled at the notion of being the wolves' slave. Quickly, he shrugged their hands off, but Ros chose this moment to cup his chin and gently angle his head to the side. Firm, masculine lips skimmed over his, the fleeting contact enough to send Theon reeling back in shock. A mistake, for, instead of winning him freedom, the retreat brought the ward straight against a muscular chest.

Strong arms snaked about him, a tongue dipped into the shell of his ear. Too much … Summarily, Theon delivered a sharp elbow to his captor's gut, pleased to hear a muffled grunt. Such was the commencement of a ruthless war, in which no deceitful stratagem was banned: every intimacy the wolves foisted upon Theon was met with a violent resistance. However, despite biting at the lips that sought his, and twisting away from the questing fingers, the ward could not fend off the brief caresses. Lust, never entirely quenched, bled into anger, augmenting Theon's frustration.

Finally, his torturers grew bored of the sport: a hand grabbed his hair and tugged, until his neck arched painfully. Hot breath ghosted over his lips … The kiss had to be dodged at all costs, so Theon let out a savage snarl.

“Stop it, Stark!”

“A few touches, and you can tell me apart from Jon. A curious coincidence, or something else, Greyjoy?”

A different set of lips – Snow's lips – latched onto the straining tendon. Theon cursed the wolves, yet Robb's hand held him fast, depriving the ward of a possibility to retaliate.

“Telling people apart is a skill which is sadly lacking in your case, Stark. Where was your honour, not to mention your eyes, when you were ravishing your precious brother?”

More profanities spilled forth, because Snow nipped at his throat, daring him to utter another word. The fingers in Theon's hair tightened, then, surprisingly, relaxed their grip, as the mistress's delicate hand swept over them.

“Such a fiery one he is.” She observed, mischief brimming in her voice. “Imagine how sweet it will be to tame him, hear him groan your name ...”

Cold dread gave Theon strength to wrench away from the wolves' grasp, rip the blindfold off, and punch Robb for good measure. This time, however, the heir did not hold back. Before Theon could contemplate the extent of his blunder, Robb's fist rammed into his jaw.

A couple of blows, a rough shove and somehow they landed on the bed in an ungainly heap of entangled limbs. From there, grappling replaced fisticuffs, as both him and Robb were battling for dominance. Evenly matched they were – Theon's agility, acquired during the long hours of practice with a bow, was pitted against Robb's corded muscles, honed by sword and shield training. Hence, an inopportune mishap determined the winner: a jab to Robb's mouth drew blood, prompting the release of the pent-up aggression.

A feral glint in the blue eyes, Robb hit Theon so hard as to momentarily render the ward dazed. Stunned, Theon shook his head to recover his wits, but it was too late. Unceremoniously, he was flipped on his stomach, a forearm braced against his neck to force him down, his legs kicked apart to accommodate Robb's frame.

At the feel of the wolf's body, draped in such an intimate way over his own, Theon went rigid.

“I believe I made you a promise, Greyjoy. Something about finishing what you have started, if my memory serves.”

Robb's cool tone, implying that his tolerance for Theon's insolence had just taken a considerably marked decline, sent a chill down the ward's spine.

Chapter Text

All at once, Theon began to struggle to get away. Yet, regardless of the ward's frantic efforts, Robb did not budge an inch. Even more disconcerting was the sudden discovery that, rather than deter the wolf, the wild bucking achieved quite the opposite result: inhaling deeply, Robb leaned over and pinned Theon securely against the coverlets. Aligned thus, without a stitch of clothing on himself and the heir, it was impossible for the ward not to notice the hardness prodding insistently against the crease of his buttocks. A stallion and a mare … Gods, no.

As if privy to the images currently spinning in Theon's mind, Robb feathered his mouth over the bruise on the ward's nape. Inexplicably, a frisson of terror and chagrin shot through Theon at the subtle caress, so at odds with the vice-like clasp of the heir's fingers on his hips. Why would Robb toy with him in such a cruel manner? To magnify Theon's debasement tenfold by making him a willing participant in the act, no doubt. Am I to be your whore, Stark? An eager bitch grovelling at the master's feet?

To his everlasting shame, a tiny part of him gloried in the humiliation. He was still aching with the unfulfilled desire and thwarted fury, when Robb's bite to his shoulder had his pulse stumble. The spike of pleasure notwithstanding, the graze of the wolf's teeth was an eloquent reminder that these touches had nothing to do with seduction, and all with asserting power. So Robb intended to teach Theon what being a hostage truly entailed. You will most certainly not hear me beg, Stark. As unexpectedly as they had appeared, Theon's trepidation and arousal evaporated, leaving dull indifference in their wake.

Sighing, he rested his forehead against his folded arms and muttered. “To the victor go the spoils of war. Just get it over with, Stark.”

Instead of sounding nonchalant, the words came out bitter and hollow. Wonderful. Scarcely had he vowed to cloak himself in aloofness, than he was whining like a child. Could Theon sink any lower? Now the heir to Winterfell had all the more pretext to gloat over the vanquished foe.

A shift of Robb's weight, and, in an instant, Theon was pushed on his back, the wolf's lips hovering tantalizingly above his.

“You stubborn idiot.”

The cadence of Robb's voice was a deadly growl, the heir's gaze a molten blue that held Theon transfixed. There it was again … That glimmer in Robb's eyes. What was it?

The answer eluded him anew, for Robb's mouth glided lightly over his, causing the ward to suck in a hissing breath. A fresh wave of irritation coursed through Theon, both at the heir's gall and his own deplorable lapse in self-discipline.

“Spare me this … coddling, Stark! I'm neither a girl, nor your brother. Go on. Do your worst.”

Face unreadable, Robb eased back to study him, and the scrutiny was far more unbearable than the kiss. Thankfully, an excuse to glance away presented itself, as Ros and Snow approached the bed. Smiling, the mistress stretched beside Theon, while the bastard sat down near Robb.

Of course, Snow had to rub salt into Theon's wounded pride.

“You are a coward, Greyjoy.”

“Insult me again when I am armed, Snow, and we shall see whose courage will falter first.”

To the ward's utter amazement, the bastard accorded Theon's body a thorough perusal, bordering on blatant ogling. What had happened to the skittish Lord Snow, his maidenly blush and sullen disposition? Next, those fathomless, dark eyes challenged Theon's. “Why wait, Greyjoy? Are you too craven to resolve the matter here and now?”

“Craven? Impossible,” their mistress interjected musingly, tracing Theon's jawline with her fingers. “The men hailing from the Iron Islands are famed for their daring on the battlefield ... and in the bedroom.”

Up went Snow's brow. “Indeed?”

And he leaned forward to kiss Robb full on the mouth. There was nothing uncertain, nor remotely chaste about the slow, languorous slide of lips and tongues. Speechless, Theon watched the pair, blood pounding loudly in his ears.

Then, the kiss ended, and Snow was looking at the ward expectantly, the air between them fairly sizzling.

“Well, Greyjoy?”

Condescension from Snow, the boy who had been inside a woman but once, snapped Theon's volatile temper in a trice. All his misgivings and disquiet obliterated, the ward pushed himself up and seized the bastard by the hair.

“Our lady did not mention other interesting things about the ironborn. We pillage, reave and bow to no one.”

Suiting actions to words, he proceeded to plunder Snow's mouth with his tongue. How do you like it, Snow? Is that bold enough for you? Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, a faint voice was imploring him to consider the repercussions and terminate this madness, but he was too incensed to pay it any heed. By the Drowned God, having the bastard at his mercy was a balm to his battered self-esteem … Except Snow was not fighting him. At all. Instead, he was … kissing Theon back? Aye, the clash of lips and teeth was raw and urgent, yet what was being unleashed was desire in its purest form, not hate. I don't understand … Hadn't Snow stated on many an occasion his aversion to Theon?

Alarm supplanted wrath, and Theon broke away to stare at Snow in bewilderment.

“Why are you ...”

He trailed off upon beholding a bizarre sight: his wayward fingers were absently petting Snow's curls. Soft as a mink pelt … A blink. No, the nightmarish vision did not vanish, the digits were still sifting through the strands of black hair. With an oath, Theon snatched his hand away.

Gods, what have I done?!

Though a fervent denial was swiftly formulated in order to salvage the ward's dignity, Snow's mouth slanted over Theon's, swallowing the rest of the paltry excuse. From that point on, reality constricted solely to the passionate kiss.

Oh …

Chapter Text

When sanity did resurface, Theon found himself lying supine, with Snow and Robb crouching over him in a disturbingly predatory fashion. How he had come to be in this compromising position, the ward had no recollection. Aghast, Theon lashed out, yet the reckless bid to extricate himself from the trap was immediately foiled.

Panting, he slumped against the pillows, desperately searching for an opening to get him out of these terrible straits. Suddenly, a thigh rubbed against his cock, and, mind in disarray, Theon could not help an involuntary jerk of hips. Robb … No … Merciless, the heir pressed his advantage, brushing his lips over the ward's.

“Kiss me, Theon. No more hiding, no more masks. Kiss me.”

Despite a ragged edge to his voice, Robb was as imperious as a king ordering a haughty lord to bend the knee. The regal tone, along with the suggestion that the ward's mettle was indeed wanting, grated on Theon, bringing his ire and hurt to the fore. I'm not a thrall at your beck and call, Stark! Paradoxically, the prospect of a kiss appeared now more perturbing than the degradation of being another man's whore. In contrast to the brutal simplicity of the latter, the kiss, if unchecked, had a tendency to venture beyond the logic of war, blurring the lines between the captive and the conqueror, transforming antagonism into … Mouth tingling from Snow's recent onslaught, Theon hastily cut off the unsettling string of thoughts.

Alas, with Robb tormenting him so exquisitely, the grim reflections on the risks inherent in locking lips could not be wholly banished. A soul could be stolen through a kiss, if Old Nan's tales were to be believed. No. Defiant to the last – or perhaps not willing to find out whether there was a grain of truth in the story – Theon turned his head away, unwittingly exposing his throat to licks and bites. At the graze of Robb's teeth against a particularly tender spot, a nearly inaudible sigh escaped him – the first of many to be emitted.

However, the wolves were not satisfied with such faint noises. Intent on eliciting a much more vocal response, Lord Snow resorted to a dirty trick and slid his hand down the ward's taut abdomen, unerringly following the line of fine hair below the navel. Outraged, Theon made to imprison the bastard's wrist, all the time reassuring himself that the virtuous Jon Snow would not have the guts to actually … He was proved wrong, as Snow brazenly cupped his groin.

The wickedness of the act, combined with the pressure executed by those deft fingers were almost Theon's undoing. But, even though he did manage to rein in the reaction of his unruly flesh, he could not clench his teeth hard enough to stifle a yelp. The slight parting of the ward's lips, in turn, was all the inducement Robb needed to twine his tongue with Theon's.

Caught between the two flames … Robb's mouth and Snow's touches were scorching Theon, the tendrils of fire, slowly yet inexorably, lapping at him, till both pride and reason were reduced to ashes. Still, mindless with the fright of the unknown, Theon was struggling against the surge of desire, using the only weapons left at his disposal: lips, teeth, tongue and nails.

Eventually, the futility of resistance dawned on him. How could he prevail, if his own body was his greatest enemy, craving release with every shameless flex of hips, every lustful groan? Before long, the hunger was so acute as to make Theon succumb to the temptation. Haltingly, he skimmed his fingertips over the wolves' warm skin, gripping lean muscles, sinew and bone. To his astonishment, twin hums of approval, not a derisive laughter, rewarded his capitulation. Then, Theon's hands encountered soft, feminine curves, drawing a purr of unfeigned delight from Ros.

Any lingering hope for turning back was irrevocably shattered by this intoxicating sound.

All at once, his palms started to roam freely, and, by the minute, Theon was getting progressively drunk on the sensual noises reverberating in the room, the worry about smothering his own gasps and curses a distant nagging in the back of his mind. Next, the expletives falling from his lips were being interspersed with names – the names of the three people who seemed at this very moment as indispensable to the ward's existence as the air itself.

Had Theon not taken leave of his senses, he would have most assuredly cringed in mortification at having given the wolves and Ros such a leverage over himself. However, his own name was being pronounced with an equally breathless fervour, in an unmistakable encouragement for further caresses. Try as he might, Theon could not refuse that invitation.

Soon, Theon's mouth began to trace the routes his hands had already traversed. With a single-minded focus, he laved at the naked skin, revelling in the tang of the fresh, masculine sweat, mingled with Ros's unique flavour. Spice and sweetness … Right the mistress was – once Theon had sampled this alluring blend, the yearning for more was nigh insatiable.

Never had he indulged in such a sumptuous banquet, rife with so many delightful secrets to be uncovered. For instance, bestowing kisses upon a chest – whether a muscular torso or a rounded bosom – created visible, and quite violent reactions in a body being worshipped. The helpless squirms, moans and quivers were pleasantly tickling Theon's vanity. After all, what could possibly compare to the primal satisfaction derived from driving Ros and the wolves desperate with desire?

A dangerous game the ward was playing, since Robb and Snow had already demonstrated they were not the ones to be trifled with. The hour of reckoning came earlier than anticipated, and two restraining hands pushed Theon against the coverlets. Ignoring his angry growls, the wolves proceeded then to lavish attention upon Ros's breasts, pausing from time to time in their feasting, so that kisses could be exchanged between the trio. Being forced to watch and not allowed to participate in this rousing exercise was to be Theon's punishment for his teasing.

Only when his fierce snarls had dissolved into a distressed groan, did they take pity on him.

A thumb, coated in Ros's juices, pressed against his mouth. Obediently, he accepted the tasty treat, swirling his tongue around the proffered finger.

“Gods, Theon ...”

Robb's words were little more than a hoarse rasp, which had Theon very curious as to what other interesting sounds could be coaxed from the heir. Experimentally, he nibbled at the knuckle … and, abruptly, the finger was withdrawn to be replaced with the wolf's lips.

The sensual kiss chased away any plans for putting the heir's endurance to further devious tests. Still, even as he was moaning into Robb's mouth and clutching at the strong shoulders, Theon could not abide being passive. Therefore, to reclaim the upper hand, he straddled the wolf in a quick, lithe move, smirking at the hitch in the heir's breath.

Chapter Text

The smug smile faded as he took in the dance of the candlelight over the chiselled features, the planes of sculpted muscles, the auburn hair … In another lifetime, the above details would have been spared a cursory glance, lest mockery and accusations of harbouring some aberrant inclinations be provoked. Now, in the privacy of Ros's room, Theon could finally acknowledge the beauty of the male form. Hmm, no wonder women were swooning whenever they espied the young lord of Winterfell … or Jon Snow.

Barely had he thought about the second wolf, than Snow was engaging him in a demanding, open-mouthed kiss.

“This … does not change anything between us, Grey … Theon.”

The dark eyes were stormy with passion and wariness. Ah, so Snow … no, it would not do to address him thus, not after the intimacies they had shared … Jon was plagued by the doubts whether the fragile balance between the bastard son, the heir and the ward would be upset beyond recognition due to the strange events of this night.

A moment of charged stillness, and Theon replied, “Of course, it doesn't.”

At least, he sincerely hoped that the unusual behaviour would be blamed on the fog of alcohol and summarily forgotten on the morrow. Nonetheless, to underscore the fact that many hours separated them from dawn, he cemented the truce with Jon by bringing their mouths together.

The amicable conversation, in which more kisses than words were being exchanged, was ended rather rudely, as clever fingers used the purchase on the part of Theon's anatomy that was to sit the Seastone Chair one day to pull the ward's hips into Robb's.

A while ago, the ignominy of being fondled like some serving wench would have instigated a bloody battle, yet the only punishment Theon did administer was a bruising kiss to Robb's lips.

Unrepentant, the heir smiled against his mouth.

“Is that all you've got? Try harder, Theon.”

Spurred on by the gasped taunt, the ward retaliated with an energetic thrust of hips. However, not awed by the feats of manly prowess, Robb matched Theon blow for blow in this peculiar sword fight. But was it indeed so crucial for Theon to triumph, when he had Robb, splendidly naked, underneath him? The mistress aided him in reaching the right conclusion by covering Robb's hands, which were still cradling Theon's backside, with her own.

“I want to see you pleasure each other,” her sultry whisper washed over the ward's skin, “with your lips …”

A kiss was dropped to his shoulder. Next, Ros's arm snaked about his waist, slowing the frenzied movements of his hips till Theon could not bite back an anguished groan. So fierce was his hunger, it had to be assuaged no matter the price, else he would surely go mad.

How to alleviate the ache, though?

Swallowing down the charred remnants of his arrogance, he let out a choked plea.

“Robb … Jon … Gods, I can't … Help me … “

And the blessed relief came: long, elegant fingers wrapped around his shaft, working him with firm, smooth strokes. The bliss kindled by these touches was sublime, and, once Ros had relinquished her hold on him, Theon set to the task of reciprocating the kindness the wolves had shown him.

Vastly intrigued, the queen was watching her slaves with an avid expression on her lovely face.

What elements of the tableau did she consider most riveting? Fingertips, rough with impatience, alternately digging into contracting muscles and sliding across the broad backs? The undercurrent of violence in the ravenous kisses, when finesse had inevitably lost ground to passion? The urge to conquer warring with the impulse to yield?

Perhaps the barbed conflict between these two instincts added a particularly titillating flavour to the spectacle. During the ardent interlude, dominance could not be embraced without submission, so Theon willingly bared his throat to the wolves' fangs. Then, he was the one to assume supremacy, caging Robb and Jon with his body, and letting his lips carry out the mistress's orders.

Contrary to his previous assumptions, tasting Robb and Jon in so intimate a manner was far from being degrading or unpleasant. In truth, their erratic breaths and white-knuckled grips on the coverlets all filled Theon with a heady sense of power, as he licked and sucked, scraping lightly with his teeth against the sensitive flesh to earn himself one of those low, needy moans.

He got more than he bargained for, and, being a novice at the art Ros had mastered to perfection, Theon had no choice but to retreat. However, the daunting challenge was bravely accepted by Robb and Jon. At the first swipe of their tongues, Theon arched off the bed. The second had him gulp a lungful of air, for fear he might not survive another wave of the blinding pleasure. Ultimately, though, it was the sight of the wolves locked in a heated kiss that made Theon cry out his release, the sound breaking on a note suspiciously close to a ragged sob.

Robb and Jon followed him shortly; spent, the three of them lay together, waiting for their shudders and panting to subside.

“I have never seen anything quite so beautiful.”

Impressed by the outstanding performance, Ros tended Theon, Jon and Robb, gliding a damp cloth over their skin, all the while murmuring exuberant praises. Finally, deeming her slaves sufficiently pampered, the mistress nestled herself against Theon's side.

“The best of both worlds … Do you understand now?”

In answer to the question, Theon kissed Ros, then, without thinking, brushed his mouth over Robb's and, after some manoeuvring, against Jon's. At the spark of renewed interest lighting the wolves' eyes, Theon's pulse leaped in delicious anticipation.

His blood warmed further, when Robb glanced at Jon. There was no shame in that gaze, only quiet acceptance of the mutual desire, which, until recently, had been so vehemently denied.

Next, the blue and grey eyes, already darkened with fresh arousal, shifted back to Ros and Theon.

Much later, after the craving for touch and taste had been well and thoroughly sated, they surrendered to exhaustion. While he was drifting off to sleep, Theon pondered Ros's words. Two worlds … He scoffed inwardly at the phrasing. Too maudlin by half.

Maudlin or not, he didn't recoil as one small, delicate hand, and two larger palms crept to rest just over his heart.