Archive of Our Own ^beta

Theon had been far from enthralled at the idea of going on a hunt. He knew he should have been, after all, it was an honour, a rare privilege for a ward to be invited along on such an excursion. Hunts were for men, not for children. For sons and heirs, not for hostages dressed in fine wool and pretending to belong. Still, he could not summon the excitement that the thought was meant to stir. The forests around Winterfell were deep and old, filled with shadows that whispered and branches that reached out like arms. The cold bit at his cheeks as they rode, the air sharp enough to make his breath visible. The horses’ hooves broke the frost beneath them, and the sound echoed through the trees like the heartbeat of the wild.

Robb and Jon would have loved it, he thought. They were still young enough to squeal with delight at the sight of a hare darting through the undergrowth, still foolish enough to scare off every living thing before their father even nocked an arrow. They would have laughed and jostled each other, faces flushed with cold and pride. But they had been left behind this time. In their place, Lord Stark had brought Theon. That alone should have meant something, it did, in a way. He was no longer a child, not like them. He was nearly a man. He told himself he deserved to be there, that it was proof he was trusted. That he was not just the Ironborn hostage in the wolves’ den.

And yet, every time he caught Ned Stark’s gaze, that fragile sense of pride seemed to crumble into ash. Ned’s eyes were cool and heavy, like the grey skies above the pines. They didn’t burn with anger or shine with approval, they only weighed, measured, and judged. Theon always felt smaller beneath that look, as though he were a boy again, standing on the deck of a ship bound for a place he hadn’t chosen. There was a kind of quiet power in Lord Stark’s restraint, a stillness that was more frightening than rage. He never raised his voice, never struck, never even threatened. He didn’t need to. His disappointment was punishment enough, his silence a blade sharper than steel.

Theon had been told once, long ago, that the sword Lord Stark bore was the same one that would take his head if Balon Greyjoy ever turned against the crown again. He tried not to think of that now, though the thought crept in like cold through the seams of his gloves. That same sword, hanging at Ned’s back, gleamed dully in the winter light, its edge catching every breath of sun that slipped through the trees. Theon told himself he was not afraid, he was Ironborn, he was strong, he was proud, but in truth, fear had settled somewhere deep in him, quiet and patient as frost. He wondered if it would ever leave him. He wondered if he would ever stop feeling like a boy in Winterfell, no matter how straight he stood, no matter how many hunts he was allowed to join.

They hadn’t gone alone, of course. Ser Rodrik rode at the head of the column, his greying beard stiff with frost, while Jory Cassel followed close behind, sharp-eyed and steady as ever. A few other men of the household rode with them, quiet and sure in their saddles, their breath misting in the pale northern air. The day was long and cold, the pale sun drifting between clouds as they pressed deeper into the Wolfswood. The trees grew thicker the farther they went, their trunks black with damp and their branches heavy with the weight of lingering snow. It was a place of silence and secrets, where the world felt older than men, and even the hounds kept their voices low.

By the time they made camp that first night, the light had dimmed to the faint blue of twilight. The men worked quickly, used to the rhythm of the wilderness: one set to gathering wood, another to pitching tents, a third to skinning the hares they’d managed to bring down along the way. The catches were meagre, some hares, lean and grey, not nearly enough to satisfy a hunting party, but no one complained. Smoke curled lazily from the small fire they built, carrying the faint scent of roasting meat through the cold. Theon tended to the hounds as he liked to, crouched by their tether, his gloved fingers brushing against coarse fur and warm, panting mouths. The dogs trusted him more than most men did, and there was something soothing in their closeness, the rough press of their bodies against his knees, the low rumble of their contentment as he fed them scraps.

He was still there, bent low in the dimming light, when he felt a presence behind him. Heavy, quiet, unmistakable. The hounds’ ears twitched, and Theon turned before he heard his name.

“Theon,” came the low, gravelled voice. Lord Stark stood there, half-shadowed, the firelight painting the hard lines of his face in amber and smoke. “You’re not to keep your own tent tonight. You’ll share mine.”

It was spoken without question or explanation, his tone leaving no space for argument, as solid and inevitable as the winter itself.

“Yes, my Lord,” Theon replied, his voice steady, though something in his chest tightened. A strange, warm unease crept up the back of his neck, beneath the collar of his cloak. He told himself it was only the chill of the evening, only the weight of Lord Stark’s eyes on him, but the thought did nothing to ease it.

Ned made a quiet sound, something between a grunt and a word of approval, before turning away, his heavy cloak stirring the cold air as he went. Theon watched him for a moment, the tall figure moving back toward the faint circle of firelight, before he lowered his gaze again to the hounds. They pressed closer, seeking his hands, and he let them. Their warmth steadied him, but his thoughts stayed restless, wandering back again and again to the deep voice that had spoken his name and the promise of the long, silent night ahead.

When the men gathered around the fire that night, their laughter rose and fell with the crackle of the flames. The scent of woodsmoke clung to their cloaks and hair, mingling with the faint tang of sweat and roasted hare. Cups passed from hand to hand, sloshing with strong ale that warmed their bellies and loosened their tongues. The night deepened around them, the darkness pressing close beyond the circle of firelight, where only the trees and the distant howl of a wolf bore witness to their rough camaraderie.

As the drink flowed, so too did the stories, coarse, jostling tales of tavern girls and farmers’ daughters, of stolen kisses and hurried trysts in stables and fields. The men roared with laughter, interrupting one another, exaggerating details until the air was thick with the scent of boast and bravado. They spoke of soft skin and the taste of ale on a lover’s mouth, of whispered promises and the sweet ache of being wanted. It was all too loud, too crude, too knowing, and Theon laughed along when they did, though the sound caught awkwardly in his throat.

Then Jory turned to him with a grin that was meant to be kind but wasn’t, and asked about his own conquests. The circle of faces turned toward him, flushed and expectant in the fire’s glow. For a heartbeat, Theon thought of lying, of naming some faceless girl from Pyke or White Harbour, but the words stuck. He could only manage a sheepish expression as he shrugged, feeling heat rise in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire.

“I haven’t—” he began, the words barely audible over the crackle of the flames. “Not yet.”

There was a beat of silence, and then the laughter came, good-natured, maybe, but sharp all the same. Rodrik chuckled into his beard; one of the younger men nudged another and muttered something Theon didn’t catch. They laughed at his youth, his inexperience, the idea that the Ironborn ward of Lord Stark was still untouched. The sound of it pressed against him like a weight, and for a moment he thought he might choke on the bitter taste of shame. He couldn’t tell if he wanted to lash out or vanish entirely, to prove them wrong or to never be seen again.

All the while, across the fire, Lord Stark sat watching him. Ned’s face was unreadable in the shifting light, carved from shadow and smoke. His eyes held none of the others’ laughter, yet there was no comfort there either, only a quiet, impenetrable regard. It wasn’t pity, not exactly. It was something steadier, colder, as though he saw straight through the boy’s bluster to the hollow ache beneath it. Theon dropped his gaze to his cup, the ale trembling faintly in his grip. The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the air, and for a long while after, he couldn’t bring himself to look up again.

When it came time to rest, Theon lingered at the edge of the camp, pretending to busy himself with the hounds though they had long since curled into sleep. The firelight had dwindled to a red glow, the embers pulsing softly beneath a skin of ash. Around him, the men’s laughter had quieted to murmurs, then to the steady rhythm of breath and the occasional shifting of blankets. The night pressed close, vast and cold, the trees swaying gently overhead like watchful sentinels. Still, Theon hesitated. The thought of stepping into Ned Stark’s tent knotted something low in his stomach.

He told himself it was frustration, resentment, even. He had been brought along because he was old enough, because he was supposed to be trusted, yet here he was, treated like a child under his lord’s watchful eye. What was the point of proving himself if every act of obedience only reminded him of his place? He was nearly a man grown; he didn’t need watching, didn’t need protecting. And yet, for all his silent rebellion, he didn’t dare disobey. Defiance against Ned Stark was a thing imagined, never acted upon. The man’s quiet authority cut deeper than any shouted command.

At last, Theon drew in a breath and pulled back the tent flap. The inside was warm from the trapped air and the faint scent of pine smoke and oiled leather lingered. The flickering candle cast a soft gold light over the canvas walls and the man seated within. Ned Stark looked up at his entrance, his eyes steady beneath the furrow of his brow. He sat on his bedroll, bare-chested, the lines of his shoulders strong and solid. A hunting knife gleamed in his hands as he cleaned it with slow, thoughtful precision, the edge flashing each time it caught the flame.

“My lord,” Theon murmured, his voice softer than he meant it to be. He gave a stiff nod and sank down onto his own bedroll. The ground was cold beneath him, the air thick with something unsaid. He pretended to busy himself with his boots, unwilling to meet Ned’s gaze again. The candlelight trembled, and in its glow, every movement, the scrape of steel against cloth, the low breath Ned drew, seemed to echo. Theon could feel the heat rise in his neck, the strange awareness of the older man’s presence settling over him like a weight.

He wanted to change out of his clothes, to shed the chill and the day’s grime, but his fingers felt clumsy. The candle still burned, its flame steady and accusing. He could not bring himself to undress beneath that quiet gaze. Instead, he sat there, tense and silent, the rough wool of his tunic itching against his skin.

Ned said nothing. Only the soft sound of the knife being set aside broke the stillness. Outside, the night deepened, the camp falling away into a hush that seemed almost sacred. One by one, even the hounds stopped stirring. Theon’s heart thudded loud in the quiet, and he wondered if Ned could hear it. The air between them was thick with unsaid things, deference, defiance, a strange and nameless closeness neither could speak of.

When at last the knife lay still and the candle guttered, the silence settled fully around them, heavy and intimate as the dark itself.

In the dark, when the candle had guttered, Theon finally let himself move. The stillness of the tent seemed to press close around him, thick as breath, alive with the faint sounds of fabric shifting and the slow, steady rhythm of another man’s breathing. Without the weight of Ned’s eyes upon him, Theon felt a fragile sort of courage stir, small, trembling, but enough.

He moved carefully, every gesture deliberate, as though the air itself might betray him. The leather of his belt creaked faintly as he loosened it, the soft rustle of fabric loud in the quiet. His riding clothes were stiff with cold, and peeling them away felt almost like shedding a second skin. Beneath them, the air bit at his bare skin, a shiver running through him before the warmth of the tent began to creep back in. He reached for the loose linen shirt he’d packed, thin, soft from many washings, and pulled it over his head. The fabric brushed against his chest and shoulders, whisper-light, carrying the faint scent of clean cloth and smoke.

When he lay down, drawing the heavy furs up to his chin, the world seemed to still. The silence deepened until he could hear only the faint stir of Ned’s breath a few feet away, steady and slow, the sound of a man who carried his own calm even into sleep. Theon tried to match that rhythm, but his chest felt tight, restless. His mind chased thoughts in slow, spiralling circles, of the hunt, of the men’s laughter, of Lord Stark’s eyes on him by firelight.

Then, breaking through the quiet:

“Theon.”

His name, spoken softly but with the weight of command, the sound low and roughened at the edges. It slipped through the dark like a current, and for a heartbeat, Theon thought he might have imagined it.

“Yes?” he answered, his voice hushed, uncertain.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request. Even in the dark, Theon could sense the shift, the faint rustle of furs, the shadow of a gesture as Ned turned on his bedroll and made space beside him. For a moment Theon didn’t move. The air seemed to hold its breath around him. Then, with a swallow that scraped his throat dry, he rose. His legs felt strangely unsteady, the furs falling away from him as the chill of the air kissed his skin.

The few steps between them felt longer than they should have. When he reached Ned’s side, he hesitated, caught between confusion and a deep, aching need he didn’t know how to name. Then, slowly, he lay down.

The moment he did, Ned’s arm came around him, broad and heavy, sure as a weight of stone, and drew him close until his back was pressed against the warmth of the older man’s chest. Theon froze, every muscle taut with awareness. He could feel the roughness of Ned’s breath against his hair, the solid heat of his body radiating through the furs. The man’s scent, leather, smoke, and something faintly metallic, like iron, wrapped around him until he felt swallowed by it.

Ned exhaled, a low, satisfied sound rumbling in his chest, the vibration carrying through Theon’s back. The arm around him tightened, steady and possessive, not cruel, not tender, but something in between.

Theon stared into the darkness, unblinking. He didn’t understand this closeness, didn’t know what to make of it. It was strange and disquieting, but it was also warm—so terribly warm—and there was a comfort in it that made his throat ache. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held him. Not since the day the Northmen had torn him from his mother’s arms on the wind-lashed docks of Pyke.

So he stayed still, his body slowly easing against the weight holding him. The furs were soft against his cheek; the rise and fall of Ned’s chest behind him was a rhythm older than words. His eyelids grew heavy.

He let himself listen to the breathing, to the faint sigh of wind beyond the canvas, to the pulse that was not his own, and for the first time in what felt like years, Theon drifted toward sleep feeling something like safe.

But sleep wasn’t for Theon. His mind drifted restlessly in the half-light, and when his eyes finally opened, it was to the quiet sensation of warmth, a breath, a touch, Ned’s lips tracing a line over the nape of his neck. Theon shivered, not from cold but from the sudden awareness of being so near to another body, so known. The second kiss came softer, deliberate, and it drew a sharp breath from him before he could stop it.

“Keep quiet for me,” Ned murmured, his voice low and roughened with affection. The words sank into Theon’s skin more deeply than the kisses had, and he found himself nodding, obediently, almost dreamily. He pressed himself back into the solid weight of Ned’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of it spreading through him until it was impossible to tell where his own pulse ended and Ned’s began.

Ned made a quiet sound of approval, a hum that vibrated softly against Theon’s ear as he continued to explore the curve of his neck with light, lingering kisses. Each touch seemed to steady Theon even as it unravelled him, the firm, grounding pressure of Ned’s hands at his waist, the gentle brush of his thumb along his ribs, the way he seemed to anchor Theon without holding him still. “Good… you’re alright, being so grown up for me,” Ned whispered, the words half a promise, half a reassurance.

Theon exhaled, a shivering sigh escaping him as he tilted his head to give Ned more space, his eyes slipping shut. The air felt thick between them, quiet but alive with the rhythm of breath and heartbeat. Another sound, too close to a moan, escaped Theon before he could stifle it.

Ned’s lips brushed his ear again, softer this time, the faintest smile in his tone as he hushed him once more. “Easy,” he breathed, and Theon nodded wordlessly, sinking further into the safety of that voice, that warmth, the steady cadence that coaxed him toward calm even as his pulse refused to settle.

Gently, Ned guided Theon onto his front, the movement unhurried, deliberate, as though he were settling him into calm rather than control. The tent was dim around them, the fabric shifting faintly with the night breeze outside, but within, there was only the steady rhythm of their breathing. “Shh…” Ned whispered, his voice close, nearly a vibration against Theon’s skin. “You can stay quiet for me like this, can’t you?” The words were low and warm, brushing against the edge of command and comfort alike.

He leaned in, lips grazing the curve of Theon’s ear in a ghost of a kiss. Theon’s breath hitched, caught between nerves and wanting, before he managed a small nod. “I… y-yes…” The word trembled out of him, barely audible, carried away almost as soon as it left his mouth.

“Mm. Yes, you can,” Ned murmured, approval threading through his tone. He shifted closer until Theon could feel the weight and heat of him through every inch of contact. One of Ned’s hands came to rest against his shoulder, steady and grounding, while the other traced an unhurried path down his back, the touch firm enough to soothe, light enough to make Theon shiver.

Theon turned his face into the pillow, muffling the sound that rose in his throat. The fabric was cool against his cheek, contrasting with the warmth that seemed to bloom beneath his skin. He breathed slowly, trying to keep quiet as Ned’s presence settled around him like a promise, heavy, protective, and patient.

Outside, the faint murmur of the camp continued, the flicker of torches, the distant shuffle of watchmen, but in their small world, everything was still. Theon focused on the feel of Ned’s hands, the rhythm of touch and breath that said more than words could. His muscles softened under the care of it, tension melting away until all that remained was quiet trust.

Another breath escaped him, soft, almost soundless, and Ned’s voice came again, gentle, fond. “That’s it,” he whispered, close enough for the words to brush Theon’s skin. “Just like that.”

“Not had a woman yet, you said.” Ned’s voice was low, almost a rumble, each word spoken with quiet gravity that seemed to fill the dim space between them. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, lad. I’ll teach you. That’s my duty.”

The sound of that, calm, assured, and unyielding, sent a ripple through Theon that he couldn’t contain. The words struck something deep and unspoken, and he felt his body react before his mind caught up, arching slightly into Ned’s touch as though drawn to the warmth of his voice alone. His breath came unevenly, his throat tight as he tried to answer, to say something more than what came out.

“Please,” he murmured, the single word fragile, carried on an unsteady exhale. It wasn’t pleading so much as surrender, an acknowledgement of trust, of wanting, of being seen. His voice faltered on the edge of a whine, but he bit it back, pressing his lips together.

Ned’s hand stilled for a moment, a reassuring weight resting at the small of Theon’s back. Then he leaned in, the brush of his beard rough and familiar against Theon’s temple. “You’re a pretty thing, and so small and young in my arms,” he murmured, his tone gentling, the words wrapped in an affection that felt both grounding and disarming. “Just be good and quiet, alright? Be my good little boy.”

Theon nodded quickly, his breath catching again, too eager, too transparent to hide it. He pressed his face into the pillow, the fabric cool against his skin, trying to muffle the quiet, helpless sounds rising from his throat. His heart thudded unevenly, each beat too loud in the stillness.

Ned’s hand traced down his spine, steady and sure, his touch lingering just long enough to draw another shiver. Theon tried to focus on his breathing, on staying quiet as he’d been told, but each brush of Ned’s fingers threatened to undo him. There was something strangely peaceful in it, too, the steadiness, the rhythm, the sense that in this quiet exchange, everything unspoken between them was being answered without a single word.

The shape of Ned’s arousal pressed against Theon’s rear, warm and steady, as Ned made his desire known. Every movement, every subtle roll of the older man’s hips, carried intention and care, a language that spoke without words. Ned’s hands rested on Theon’s hips, firm but gentle, guiding him, holding him close, while murmured reassurances slipped through the quiet air. Each touch seemed to anchor Theon even as it set him alight, sending a shiver that travelled down his spine and pooled low in his stomach.

”So grown up now, aren’t you? A big boy now, ready to know how a man takes, hm?” Ned murmured in his ear teasingly.

Theon’s teeth sank into his lip, a rough attempt to contain the surge of feeling coursing through him. The press of Ned’s body, the slow, deliberate rhythm as Ned slowly sank his cock into Theon’s tight ring was dizzying, intoxicating, leaving him breathless in ways that had nothing to do with air. His hands twitched, wanting to grasp, to cling, but Ned’s grip at his hips kept him steady, tethered to a world that seemed to shrink until it consisted only of them.

A soft, involuntary sound slipped from Theon, a sigh that was part pleasure, part helpless need. Instantly, Ned’s hand covered his mouth, warm and firm, a grounding presence that both restrained and reassured. Theon’s eyes fluttered closed, and a helpless, breathless sigh slipped against Ned’s palm, the sensation of the touch mingling with everything else, the closeness, the heat, the quiet, intoxicating tension between them.

”Shh… keep quiet, boy,” Ned groaned in his ear. Ned’s thrusts stopped being gentle, tentative strokes and became urgent and desperate.

Theon pressed back instinctively, seeking more contact even as he tried to obey the subtle command to stay quiet. Every brush of Ned’s fingers along his sides, every deliberate, rough drive into his bowels, set him alight again, and Theon’s body trembled in response, lost to the sensation yet completely safe in the rhythm Ned dictated. Ned’s fingers slid into Theon’s mouth, pressing against his tongue. He pulled Theon up like that, so he could fuck the younger boy harder and deeper.

Theon’s breath came in quick, unsteady bursts, his voice breaking into quiet, helpless sounds that filled the small space between them, overlayed with Ned’s gentle shushing. Ned’s touch was everywhere, steady, grounding, guiding him through the overwhelming tide of sensation as Theon took him, his arse aching with the stretch of accommodating his lord’s cock. His mouth found Theon’s skin again and again, pressing kisses that felt half like comfort and half like reverence, each one sending another ripple of heat through him. The low sound Ned made against his ear, a rough, unguarded groan, seemed to vibrate through Theon’s whole body.

“Nearly there… a little longer…” Ned murmured, the words slurred with effort and tenderness alike. His breath was hot and uneven against Theon’s skin, his tone both coaxing and reassuring. The rhythm of Ned’s thrusts slowed, turned languid and heavy, every motion drawn out as though he wanted to stretch the moment past its limit.

Ned’s release built until it was almost unbearable, that fine, trembling line where everything blurred into warmth and relief. When it finally broke, it did so like a wave cresting and falling, all at once, leaving nothing but the sound of their mingled breathing and the thudding of hearts slowly finding their rhythm again. Ned’s seed leaked from Theon’s spread hole, and the older man hummed against his neck in approval as the sticky warmth clung to them.

Ned stayed where he was for a long moment, his body a heavy, comforting weight draped over Theon, his softening cock still felt heavy inside the younger boy. The warmth of him seeped into Theon’s skin until it felt like they shared the same breath, the same heartbeat. A soft hum escaped Ned, low and contented, before he pressed a lingering kiss into Theon’s hair.

“Good lad…” he murmured against him, his voice barely more than a sigh. His hand traced slow circles against Theon’s side, a quiet gesture of care that needed no words. Theon relaxed fully beneath him, boneless and at peace, his earlier trembling replaced by the calm hush that follows something perfectly spent. Ned finally pulled out, making Theon whimper again. Ned ran his thumb over the sore, gaping hole and chuckled as it made Theon squirm. “You did so well. Such a big, grown-up boy, taking me so good.”

Ned moved with an easy, practised tenderness, his touch unhurried as he reached for the rag to tend to them both. The air between them was thick with the fading warmth of what had passed, quiet, steady breaths, the faint scent of sweat and smoke from the campfire beyond the tent. Theon barely stirred as Ned’s hand brushed over him, the simple, careful motion soothing him more deeply than any words could. When Ned was done, he set the cloth aside, his movements soft and deliberate, and slipped back beneath the blankets.

He drew Theon close without a word, his arm looping around him until the younger man was gathered securely against his chest. Theon went willingly, his body limp with exhaustion, his breath already slowing as his cheek came to rest over Ned’s heartbeat. The sound was steady, reassuring, something solid and real to hold on to in the haze of warmth and sleep that followed.

Ned pressed a kiss to Theon’s forehead, the gesture instinctive, fond. “Rest,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with the remnants of both laughter and tenderness. “Get some sleep. Your pretty little arse will be sore in the morning, but I don’t want you slacking on the hunt.” There was a teasing lilt to the last words, but the affection underneath softened them, turning the jest into something almost protective.

Theon made a small, wordless noise in response, half a whine, half a hum, and burrowed closer, his face pressed to the curve of Ned’s throat. His limbs felt heavy, boneless, yet utterly content, lulled by the slow rhythm of Ned’s breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The warmth that surrounded him wasn’t just from the blankets or the fading heat of their bodies; it was the kind that seeped deeper, quiet and safe.

Outside, the night stretched on, wind whispering faintly against the canvas, the distant murmur of the camp settling into silence, but within the small cocoon of the tent, there was nothing but stillness. Ned’s hand traced an idle path along Theon’s arm, the motion slow, almost absent-minded, until the tension left his body entirely. Theon drifted toward sleep like that, held close, the world reduced to the simple, grounding comfort of being kept, warm and seen, beneath the steady weight of Ned’s embrace.