Work Text:
I
"You don't have to do this yourself," said Maester Luwin.
Robb shook his head. No matter how many times he had read it, his lord father's letter refused to make sense. Lord Greyjoy had declared himself king, so the letter started. It was curt and formal and carried with it the scent of King's Landing, where friendship was a summer snow. Below the brisk order of execution and the insufficient fatherly words of comfort – it is never easy, my son, but I trust you to do the right thing in my absence - stood the seal of the golden hand. A royal command.
Robb's hands trembled under the desk. When his lord father had left Winterfell, he had told Robb to take care of his mother and his brothers, to listen to the Maester's counsel, to train diligently and to tread honourably. He had said nothing of hacking Theon's head off. Why isn't Mother here? Mother would know what to do. I am not ready. I cannot do this on my own.
"Do I have to?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord," said Maester Luwin gently. "Unless you would ignore a royal command and your lord father's order, and start a rebellion yourself."
"I understand," Robb said, though he had never felt such lack of understanding in his entire life.
"Your father would not blame you, my lord –" said the Maester.
"No," Robb said and slowly rose from the desk. "My father has taught me that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, and I owe Theon that much."
The old man nodded and smiled softly at him. Are you proud of me? Am I proving to be my father's son, a true blood of the north? Ready to strike down my best friend and take his head, should a royal decree command it?
Robb recalled another royal decree, issued a year before he was born. That decree called the Lord of the Eyrie to send Robb's own father to King's Landing, to join his family in their fiery graves. That decree had ended up in a rebellion, in a war, because someone had loved his father deeply and bravely enough to refuse the king. And yet you ask the same of me, Father. Am I as brave as Jon Arryn was? No. I am not. I am not.
"I will do it myself," he said. He thought of the last execution he had attended. Back then, it was his lord father who had swung the sword over the maddened black brother. Theon had smiled and kicked the head. He kicked the head, gods. What was he thinking? Would someone kick his own head now, in turn? "I will not allow to make a spectacle of it," Robb decided. "I will do it in private. Theon's execution will not turn into a mummer's farce. I also owe him that much."
"The King will demand proof," the Maester said. He does not trust me, Robb realised.
"He will have my word as the Lord of Winterfell," Robb said solemnly. As he had expected, Maester Luwin gave him a distraught look, his eyes darkening. He thinks that I will release Theon, that I will run away, that I will rebel. I should, gods, I should.
"And Theon's head," Robb added feebly. "Would that be enough?"
"Quite enough, my lord," said the Maester.
II
He sat with Theon as night fell through the window. The bedchamber was locked from outside, two guards stood at the door, and it was silent but the sound of their breathing. Robb had thought Theon would ask for a sumptuous last meal, or perhaps for a whore to be sent to his bedchamber. Robb would have granted him that. He would have granted Theon the world and more. Anything you want, brother, but your life. But Theon had asked for nothing, not even for Robb to go away. He had just stared at the fire in the hearth.
"And here we are," Theon said.
Robb did not know how to reply, so he kept his silence, his fingers twisting on the hem of his sleeves.
"When I first met you, you were five, with scraped knees and mud on your face. You fought your bastard brother with stick swords."
Robb smiled. "And you seemed so big. When I saw you shoot an arrow, gods. I've prayed the Warrior to make me as strong as you."
"I remember you used to carry a ragdoll wherever you went. You cried when your mother made you throw it away."
"It was Sansa's," Robb said. "I took it off her room."
"And now you're going to take off my head."
Robb bit on his lip. "Aye," he said. There was no point trying to justify this monstrosity. He also owed Theon that much.
"I have not been to the Isles for ten years," said Theon. "I cannot even recall my father's face. And yet I will die for his choices."
"If it were up to me, Theon –" Robb started.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Theon. "Here I thought I was talking to the Lord of Winterfell. Turns out it's the same weak boy, with scraped knees and a dolly."
"What would you have me do?" asked Robb. "If I refuse, other people would die for my choices."
"At least you would get to choose," Theon said, and they looked at each other for a long time, the silence growing thick between them.
"Aye," Robb finally said. "And choose I will. Sleep well, Greyjoy. I shall come back at dawn." And he bent over and kissed his friend on his brow, tasting the salt of sweat and fear on his skin.
III
"Can I trust you?" he asked Theon, but his friend smiled a thin, resigned smile.
"Don't tempt me, Stark," he replied. "I will try to escape, you'd better believe it." And so Robb kept the ropes on. They rode out of the castle gates together, Robb's breath hot on Theon's back. Thin flakes of summer snow melted on their hair.
"I would've taken you to the sea," Robb said, just for the sake of saying something. "I understand that you need to be at sea to find your Drowned God's… watery halls, is it?"
"I wouldn't know about that, lad," said Theon. "The Drowned God has not been my god for a long time. You can kill me anywhere you'd like."
"There's a stream," Robb said. "It's almost like a river. Well, it pours into a river… so…" He thought of the sword in his scabbard, the sword that he had honed with such great care as dawn was approaching; that was his way of saying all the things he had never and now would never tell Theon. "It'd do. The stream. It's a wide stream. Just to be safe. Right?" He realised he was babbling and ordered himself to keep quiet. He owed Theon that much.
He tied the horse to a slender tree near the stream. It didn't look half as wide as he had remembered it. He helped Theon dismount from the horse. As he supported him down, he could feel his friend's heart beating fast enough to burst. Theon was putting on a brave face. He was also as scared as a child. Robb hugged him, his head on Theon's neck, and he pressed their beating hearts close together.
"Enough," said Theon in a choked voice. "If I didn’t know better, I'd think you're the one who's going to die."
IV
In his dreams, Robb cuts the ropes instead.
"Go," he says. "I have made my choice."
Theon looks up at him, rises from his knees, and pulls him into a tight, desperate hug. Then without another glance he unties the horse, jumps on the saddle, clicks his tongue and breaks into a gallop.
Robb watches him silently as he grows fainter in the horizon. Then he starts following the stream back to the castle.
I did the right thing, Father, he thinks to himself in his dreams. I owed Theon that much.