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A swarm of white ravens had been sent from the Citadel out across the realm to warn of autumn's coming, and though their warning had been received at Riverrun, its consequences had not. The evening was temperate and mild, a perfect picture of late summer, dark and peaceful beneath a horned moon, cut like the groove of a fingernail into a velvet canopy of stars. Gentle winds stirred the lush ryegrass and swayed the branches of the bay laurels growing up along the river road.
Theon Greyjoy skirted the northern ramparts of the three-sided keep, balancing on the lip of their raised outer wall. The Red Fork swirled below him, perfectly reflecting the velvet night above, so he pranced surrounded by stars. He wore a leather jerkin over his black tunic, and boots that laced to his knee. The wind pulled at his wide sleeves and his loose dark hair. Theon swayed to and fro, first over the stone to his right, then over the roaring waters to his left. He would lean one way until he could feel his center of gravity threatening to slip out from his control, then he would pull back the other way just as his stomach dropped in queasy terror, laughing at the thrill. It was a childish game, and one that was quickly growing dull. The waters of the Red Fork were fast and deep, and their roar grew louder each time he leaned over them, swelling from a rumble to a roar to match the blood in his ears. While he played at pitch-and-lean, the rush of the river could almost sound like the sea, ebbing and flowing from the shore. Theon shook his head at the thought. No, not like the sea.
The Tumblestone, he knew, bordered the castle to the south, while its third side overlooked a wide dry moat. Deciding that his game would be no less dull on either unexplored side of the ramparts, he made his way down to the three sided keep in search of other amusements. He traced a path along its perimeter, trailing his fingers along its red sandstone walls. Guards in polished silver fish-head helms watched him in pairs from its redwood gates, but his presence didn't interest them enough to turn their heads. They followed him with their eyes as he crossed their field of vision, then turned their gaze back to the horizon. They'd seen much and more of the Greyjoy boy these past weeks. His evening's folly did not hold their interest. Theon smacked a quintain as he passed by, ducking under its weighted end as it spun. He made for the great hall.
The great hall was empty and dark, its tables still arranged as they had been earlier in the evening to host King Robb's war council. Maps and guttered candles covered their lengths from end to end, dotted with emptied cups. Theon picked his way through the mess to drain the dregs from the few that had any left in them. The last cup he raised to his lips made the page beneath it curl when he lifted it. He glanced down and saw it was a map of the Iron Islands. Theon's eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the hall enough to make out the lines of it, if not to read the lettering. He traced the tip of his finger from Seagard to Pyke, across Ironman's Bay in the Sunset Sea. He laughed -- high, sharp, and sudden -- and left again.
The night was growing steadily cooler and darker around Theon as he wandered Riverrun's empty grounds. The wind rose and the roar of the river could now be heard through the castle's outer walls, across its keep and over its many gardens, only halfway dulled by the breathless song of summer crickets. It was faint but needling. And still he thought irritably of the sea. He shook his head, annoyed by the natural majesty of Riverrun's bucolic landscape, so devoid of amusements at the hour of the wolf. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes and set off, determined to craft his own.
Theon crossed the lush, well tended southern gardens, picking his way through their winding quartz gravel paths. Firs rose tall around him, shadowy pillars of needles in the dark. Elms and birchwoods joined them, all home to the choir of insects that fought the river for command of the night. Around him, poppies, pansies, irises and fiddlenecks huddled in their beds, closed against the cool of the evening, all safely dreaming. At the garden's center stood the castle's seven sided sept, a tall sandstone structure with wide redwood doors reinforced with bands of iron. High above Theon's head, seven windows paned in brilliantly colored glass graced its seven sides, each bearing a likeness of the seven faces of god. They shone with the muted light of candles lit in altars many feet below them, glowing soft, faint, and warm. All but one, which bore a shrouded, crouching figure with gnarled, claw-tipped hands. Theon pressed his palm against the Stranger's wall, half expecting the stone to feel icy to the touch, full of corpse breath and crypt air. But it was the same sandstone as its six siblings, rough and still warm from the many hours it had stood beneath the summer sun. He turned away, and was met with exactly the amusement he'd been looking for.
"My Lord Bolton!" he called out to the cloaked figure passing through the shade of a redwood grove. The figure turned at the sound of his voice. Somehow, over the roar of the river and the chorus of insects, he could hear its calfskin boots scrape against the gravel as it moved, stopping short to face him.
Roose Bolton stood half a hand shorter than Theon. He wore a cream tunic with red embroidery along the collar beneath a burgundy half cloak trimmed in silver fox fur, and short brown boots. His dark hair spilled loose over his shoulders, and under the feeble light of the horned moon Theon couldn't see the streaks of grey he knew were at his temples, nor make out the eerie pallor of his ghost grey eyes. The northern lord's stony face was impassive and placid as always, his thin lips set in an inscrutable line. Though he did not return the greeting, he stood still, patiently crossing his arms behind his back as Theon approached.
"You've picked an odd hour to take in the Lady Minisa's gardens," Theon said, sauntering towards him, "they're far more comely in the sunlight. Or at least under enough moonlight to see them by."
"Not so odd nor dark an hour that you would have picked a different one," said Bolton, his soft voice cutting through the droning of the rivers and the insects.
"Ah, but it was not my intention to look at poppies and fiddlenecks," Theon countered, closing the distance between them so they stood abreast. At this distance he could see Roose's eyebrows raise at that, almost imperceptibly.
"No?" he said, continuing on the path he'd been on before Theon's interruption. He walked to the side, with room enough for Theon to walk with him, which he took for as much of an invitation as he was likely to get. Theon fell in step, content to accept as much.
"No," Theon assured, "in fact, I was looking for you."
Roose Bolton stopped at that, turning his head sharply to face him. The sudden silence fell between them like a headsman's blade. Theon could hardly discern his features in the gloom, but reassured himself that Lord Bolton's face would have been just as unreadable to him under the height of the midday sun as it was now. He stood eerily still, his eyes searching Theon's smiling face, the wind blowing through the silver fox fur trim of his cloak.
"Is that so?" he said at last, his voice thick with suspicion, "And to what purpose, Greyjoy?"
Theon shrugged, raising his palms skyward. "I'm to ride north to Seagard at first light, and there's little chance our paths would cross on the morrow."
"Indeed," said Roose, "as little chance as there was for our paths to cross this evening."
"A man may take pains to make his own luck, when his chances are lacking," said Theon flicking the tip of his tongue across the edges of his teeth.
"Might he?" said Roose, his tone cool and measured, "and to what end might a man need to cross his path with mine?"
"For our mutual benefit," Theon said airily, though he misliked the emphasis Roose had put on the word, as if to call it into question. "I've a great many miles to ride come morning, and many more of open sea to cross thereafter." He took half a step forward, so their chests nearly touched, and reached his hands out to Bolton's waist, his outstretched fingers hovering just above his broad silk belt, embroidered with an angular repeating motif of twisting knots. "And I found myself thinking of how lonely those borrowed chambers in the eastern tower must be," he grinned and curled his index and middle fingers under the fabric, pulling himself just close enough that their chests touched as they breathed, "with no one to kiss you but your leeches."
Roose didn't move. He didn't blink. If Theon hadn't felt the shallow rise and fall of his chest against his own, he would have thought he wasn't breathing. Theon did not feel the silence descending this time. Rather, it flew at him, cold and unyielding as a blacksmith's hammer to the face.
"Am I to understand," Roose said finally, "that all of Riverrun has run dry of cup bearers and stable hands? Or that they've all grown tired of your pawing?"
"If Riverrun had any cup bearers or stable hands of note I'm certain his lordship would not himself be confined to the affections of his leeches," Theon said, more sharply and defensively than he'd intended to. He couldn't have been certain of Lord Bolton's reaction, but with how long he'd indulged Theon to walk beside him, he'd expected at least tepid enthusiasm. Before he could scoff and take his leave, Roose had him by the throat. He moved so quickly that Theon could not puzzle out what had happened until he felt the crown of his skull and the length of his spine connect with the broad trunk of a redwood tree. The impact was so forceful that his breath was knocked out of his chest, and he was showered with loose needles. Roose Bolton was not a large man, yet he pinned Theon easily, pushing his full weight into neck.
"You seek me out under cover of night to mock me, boy," he said. There was no anger in his voice, but neither was there jest. His eyes were hard and cold.
"I could mock you in the great hall," Theon croaked, wrapping a hand around Roose's wrist. His fingers bent around his neck like wrought iron. "Where it would be warmer and brighter and I would better enjoy the exercise, for having company to share it with." He felt Bolton's fingers relax slightly around his neck and some of his weight come off of his arm. Theon gasped and brought his other arm up to grip the man's forearm. He ground his heels into the gravel beneath him and swallowed, testing how much room his throat had under Roose's palm. His heart was racing. He was panting. He'd led men in war, hunted with a king, won honor in tourney melees, ridden with Brynden Blackfish and Greatjon Umber, fought in the Whispering Wood, and here Roose Bolton held him in place like an unruly child. Pinned like a kitten hoisted by its scruff. He almost laughed. He thought better of it.
"I do not seek to mock you, my Lord," Theon said, "I've had more and better chances for that." Bolton's colorless eyes betrayed nothing.
Theon relaxed both of his hands, flexing his trembling fingers. He can't kill me, he thought. I'm Robb's -- his mind stuttered to a halt at that. Robb's... ? Brother? Bannerman? Hostage? Now that Ned was dead? Passed on from father to son like a tract of land and a stonewalled keep. Like -- his mind halted again, and threw itself in another direction. Like Lady Catelyn, passed on from one Stark to another. He swallowed again, and smiled.
"Only to know you better," he said, carefully, and his eyes darted to the stone sept some ways behind them, "before I'm to depart."
Roose turned his head slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder. His hand loosened around Theon's throat and his arm relaxed. Theon felt his thumb slide across his throat to find his pulse, pressing lightly into his skin. He cleared his throat, hoping it might go some way to hide the desperate flighty racing of his heart.
"What do you say, my lord Bolton?" Theon said, with a lofty, practiced confidence in his voice that did not match the hollow pit in his stomach. He indicated the sept again with a jerk of his head, gesturing over Roose's shoulder with his chin. "I could spend an evening on my knees."
For the first time that Theon could ever recall seeing, he watched Roose Bolton roll his pale eyes.
Roose rejected the sept for their meeting place with a curt turn of his heels, leaving Theon the choice to follow or be left behind. After a few moments standing against the tree he'd been pinned to, he chose to jog to catch up, stray gravel skittering out from under his boots as he did so. He could see Roose slow his pace at that, whether to let him close the distance or to stop him from making quite so much noise, Theon couldn't tell. It made him look around either way, to ensure they were as alone as he'd hoped they would be. Roose led them through the gardens, past an ivied tower and into the godswood. Theon cursed himself for not being the one to suggest it. It felt obvious.
He hadn't been searching for Lord Bolton, in truth. He hadn't understood what exactly he'd been searching for save distraction. To ward off his sleeplessness. His restlessness. To quicken the coming of the dawn and his journey back to the stoney islands of his youth. To cut a definitive notch into the end of his time on the mainland, for the time being. The end of too long a time. The end of not quite enough.
As their walk along the garden path continued in icy silence, Theon thought that he may have found himself more of a challenge than a diversion. He reached out a hand to touch Roose's arm, which made him turn to face him again. His eyes flicked down to Theon's hand before darting back up to his face. He moved his other hand toward Theon's, who grinned at him eagerly, waiting for him to cover his fingers with his own. Instead, Roose brushed his hand away and turned to head back down the gravel path, through a gap in a thicket of needlegrass that lined the entrance to the godswood. Theon stood for a moment watching his back. The velvet night around him, full of rushing water and insect choirs, felt suddenly cold and empty, as if Autumn had seeped out from its announcement and deep into his bones all at once. He swallowed, and followed him down.
The Riverrun godswood was wide and airy, smaller than the one at Winterfell, but more verdant. They walked past lush and fragrant patches of silver lupine, irises, yarrow, and black sage, Theon trailing after Roose with growing trepidation. The feeble moonlight was extinguished by the thick canopy of trees, leaving Theon to listen after Roose's path forward. He nearly bumped into him, once, the darkness in front of his face suddenly and unexpectedly solidifying into the man's back. He stopped short just in time, his heels skidding against the ground. Roose walked with a casual pace, devoid of any eagerness to reach his destination. Theon prickled at that. He was only half convinced he wasn't being led somewhere from where his corpse would never be recovered. And the deeper into the dark of the godswood they went, the more half a conviction didn't seem like nearly enough to fall back on.
Roose stopped, turned, and walked off the path to their right. He stopped in front of a young elm with long hanging branches that bent down towards the earth like a leaning maiden's tresses. He placed a hand onto its trunk and turned back to Theon, checking, for the first time, whether or not he was behind him. He lowered himself to the ground and sat in the crook of two large roots. Beneath him was a thick carpet of wild mint, now all the more fragrant for having been disturbed by his weight. Theon stood in front of him a moment with a hand on his hip, expecting to be pulled lustily down into his lap. Roose turned his face up at him, his pale eyes brimming with mild irritation. Theon felt his face flush, in anger or embarrassment he could no longer tell. He dropped down in front of the northman, landing on his knees. Roose leaned back to rest his weight against the trunk behind him, and Theon crawled forward, bracing his weight onto his hands. He pulled himself over Roose, planting his arms on either side of him and leaning forward open-mouthed. Roose put his hand out to stop him, planting his palm in the center of his chest. Theon huffed. Roose regarded him coolly. "You'll forgive me, I'm certain," he said at last, "we northmen are not known for our sentimentality."
"Had all the tenderness frozen out of you, have you?" said Theon, smiling.
"Whatever I lack in tenderness I'm making up for in patience," said Roose. Theon sat back on his haunches, sulking. He searched Roose's face, staring at his queer, cold, colorless eyes. His pupils were wide in the near total dark, so the sliver still visible of his irises seemed to blend almost seamlessly into the whites of his eyes. His flat, unreadable expression made Theon think of a lizard-lion poised with its eyes just above the murky waterline, watching his movements on the shore. The night was still warm, yet Theon felt gooseflesh rise up his arms and a shiver trill up his spine. He felt uncertain, off-balance, and strangely unwanted, despite where and with whom he found himself.
"Of course, I wouldn't suffer his lordship to wait," said Theon, putting on his most sultry expression. He crawled forward again, reaching this time for Lord Bolton's waist to unlace his breeches. He was greeted with Roose's soft pale cock. Theon looked up at him with indignation.
"It'll stiffen in your mouth, boy," Roose said flatly, and planted a hand on the back of Theon's neck, pushing his face down into his lap. Theon thought to object, to push back against his hand and protest at his blatant lack of interest. At his cold and disinterested air. His dismissive silence and mistrustful bristling. He thought to change his mind, to cut their triste short with a sharp word and leave the northman to his godswood, alone in his tangle of wild mind. Instead, he opened his mouth obediently, and let himself be pressed down.
The Lord of the Dreadfort had the decency at least to gasp when Theon got his mouth around him. He made good on his promise, his cock twitching quickly to attention against the flat of Theon's tongue. Theon pulled his lips over his teeth, hollowing his cheeks, and felt the hand at the back of his neck slide up to the crown of his head and turn to a fist in his hair. Roose twisted his fingers at the root, tugging at Theon's scalp. It made Theon's own cock twitch how easily he held him down. The dull, steady throb of pain in his head was oddly soothing. He could feel his heartbeat clearly in the tension of his skin, the ache of it radiating down his neck and sending shivers down his spine. He relaxed his jaw, letting Roose direct his head up and down the length of his cock. He was at an odd, unsteady angle, his palms planted too wide to brace his weight comfortably. He moved somewhat hesitantly, awkwardly shifting to rest his palms against Roose's thighs. When he didn't object, Theon braced more of his weight against him, spreading his knees to shift closer to him. It helped the painful angle of his neck, at least.
Theon raised his eyes, breathing hard through his nose, and tried to get a good look at Roose's face through the gloom. It was hard to focus his eyes properly when he wasn't moving his own head. He thought he saw the tip of Roose's tongue between his teeth, but he couldn't swear to it. His stony face was a dark blur above him, irresolute and elusive. He choked when the head of Roose's cock jammed against the back of his throat, and thought he could hear his breath hitch somewhere above him, beneath the wet strangled sounds of his own struggle for air. Finally, he saw his pale eyes close. Felt him sigh and lean his weight back against the elm behind him.
Theon pushed his head up against Roose's fist the next time he pushed down, resisting. He thought again of how easily he had held him against the redwood in front of the sept. One handed, as if he weighed nothing at all. Roose opened his eyes, slowly, as if he was puzzling out what had happened. He tilted his head. The fist in Theon's hair did not relax, but neither did it force his head back down. Theon pulled himself up. The thick, wet sound of Roose's manhood leaving his mouth made his stomach tighten.
Panting, Theon tried to see some expression on Roose's face. Lust, desire, even irritation at the interruption. Some sign that having his stiff cock jammed into Theon's slackjawed face had been in any way different than not. He saw nothing. Cold, unreadable eyes shone in his placid, sharp angled face. Even their widened pupils could be attributed to the darkness around them. The only thing that anything of note had transpired between them was the barely perceptible increase in the rise and fall of his chest, a movement Theon did not think he would have noticed were he not braced against his body. Theon could feel his spit drying across his face and neck as he caught his breath. Roose raised his eyebrows a hair, so slightly that Theon thought he might have imagined it, his eyes giving hopeful suggestions in the dark.
"All well, boy?" he said softly. Always softly. It was odd, hearing that same small voice and measured tone that he'd grown so used to in the past weeks here and now, in the quiet of the godswood, in the middle of this. It was disarming in a way he couldn't quite explain to himself.
"You're hurting my neck," Theon said dumbly. He'd wanted to say something clever, but instead the simple truth had come out, falling from his spit slicked mouth like a tooth after a fist. To his infinite surprise, Roose relaxed the hand he had in his hair. He opened his palm and rubbed his fingers over Theon's scalp, pressing a path firmly from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck like you would soothe an agitated dog. Theon's eyes bulged wide. His cock strained at the laces of his breeches.
"Apologies," said Roose, and finally he smiled. His smile was thin, slight. It ghosted over his face like feeble moonlight over dark water. "I thought you could use the guidance."
"Yes, well," Theon sputtered, feeling the heat rise in his chest and the blush rise over his cheeks and his ears. Everywhere he felt his blood roaring, screaming, and against the drawn bowstring of his spine was Roose's hand, firm and heavy at the back of his neck. "'Would be challenging to get lost. Only... two directions to go..."
Roose gave a short, charitable sigh, one that Theon counted as a laugh when paired with his watery smile. He dragged his hand from Theon's neck to the side of his face, cupping his jaw. Theon lunged at him, desperate to meet his lips before his good humor left him. In his eagerness and in the dark of the godswood he misjudged the distance. Their teeth clacked together. He winced, and felt more than saw Roose grimace before he pulled him back in. He kissed him slowly and in earnest, pressing his mouth over his, tilting his head and bringing his other hand up to his face. Theon opened his mouth for him, eager that he should taste himself there.
Roose was the first to pull away, and Theon tried to follow him, leaning forward with his mouth agape, reaching his arms out towards his neck. Roose put a hand out to stop him, planting his palm in the center of his chest again. "All this about your keen tactician's sense of direction, boy, and you've wandered so far off course."
"You'll forgive me, my lord," said Theon, grinning, "the north is all I've known these past ten years."
"Blessedly, our paths crossed marching south," said Roose. His tone was flat and unamused, but the hint of a smile still pulled at the sharp corners of his mouth. He pushed Theon down again, only this time he left his hand resting on the crown of Theon's head, open palmed. Theon opened his mouth, eager to maintain the northman's tepid and hard won enthusiasm. He reached down to worm his left hand under himself, pulling himself clumsily free from his laces. His right hand he held under his mouth, following its path along Bolton's cock. He heard him sigh contentedly, then felt his body relax under him and lean back again. Theon stifled a moan.
The godswood was still and quiet around them, the rush of the rivers muted by its thick greenery. Even the insects seems muted, as if they sang in hushed tones in a sacred place. By contrast, the slick, wet sound of Theon's mouth sliding up and down the length of Roose's cock seemed almost deafening. Or else the blood pounding in his ears was throwing off all sense of perspective. Bolton made a small sound, low in the back of his throat, and Theon felt his fingers move along his scalp again, flexing gently open and closed. His left hand quickened its pace on his own cock, chasing after the feeling.
Theon's nerves left him, and confidence rose in him in their place. He thought smugly that he had the whole of the Bolton line between his teeth, tucked carefully behind his lips. Roose's only son and heir had died some years past in circumstances Theon could not now recall, and his wife had failed to produce a replacement. Any hope of her doing so could be snuffed out this very night, in this very godswood. He, Theon Greyjoy, could be responsible for the death of one of the North's greathouses. The definitive end to its dwindling line. The Dreadfort could be left empty, ripe for the taking by neighboring lords. Parceled out to loyalists or claimed by distant relations. He felt inordinately powerful. Then Roose ran the pad of his thumb across his temple and his mind went pleasantly blank for the duration of the gesture.
Roose was panting, the muscles in his lower belly tensing. Theon thought he might have felt the hand draped over his forehead tremble for a moment before he spilled down his throat. He held still through the shudder of his orgasm, feeling his thighs tense under him. His eyes burned with tears as Roose bucked his hips into his mouth. He felt them run down his cheeks to mingle with the slick layer of drool over his jaw. After a moment, Roose let out a sigh and pulled back from Theon's face, the tension easing out from his body. Theon let his jaw drop open and watched a long silvery thread of spit and cum draw out from the head of Roose's spent cock to his swollen bottom lip. It caught the feeble moonlight and glistened for a moment before it snapped and fell away from his mouth.
Theon straightened up, sitting back on his haunches and wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. He watched Roose tuck himself away and lace up his open breeches. His own cock stood at attention, pulled halfway from his trousers, but if Roose noticed it in the dark he paid it no mind. He moved to stand, raising himself to his knees, and then, unexpectedly, moved towards Theon again. He leaned forward and kissed him, as if the thought had struck him halfway through his exit. Theon nearly laughed, but brought his hands to cup Roose's jaw instead, holding their faces together.
Roose pulled away from him and stood, and Theon rose with him, draping his arms around his neck. "How do I compare to your leeches, my lord Bolton?" said Theon, feeling emboldened by his brief and unexpected affection. Roose grabbed his chin firmly between his thumb and index finger, his cold, predatory eyes raking across his face.
"You rid me of different humors," he said finally, and took his leave. Theon watched him go, staring at his back until it blended into the indistinct distant black of the night. He flopped down onto the carpet of mint below him. Closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the ground, Theon finished himself off in a few hurried strokes, panting softly as he spilled into his hand. He stayed still for a time, catching his breath and rolling his tongue across his lips, tasting what was left of the spit and semen in his mouth. The excursion didn't feel overtly victorious, but it felt a conquest none the less. He opened his eyes to the canopy of leaves overhead and laughed.