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sanity is overrated
Fic: Every Road Home is Long 
10th-Mar-2015 05:18 pm
jonsnow
Title: Every Road Home is Long
Author: firetruckyouxx
Rating: R
Word Count: 2085
Pairings, Characters: Jon Snow/Robb Stark
Genre/Warnings: Half-sibling incest, canon divergence
Summary: Robb is the King of the North and Jon is a watcher of the Wall, but first and foremost, he is Robb’s brother and his father’s son.

or, AU where Jon’s brothers from the black never caught him in time and Jon found Robb in Riverrun.
Author's Note: Set during the end of A Game of Thrones, when Jon wants to leave the Wall to go be with Robb.



It’s been days since the proclamation that Robb had never excepted. King of the North, they had called him, bowing to him as if he had any true claim to that title. He is barely a man grown; he is not fool enough to believe that he could take on the responsibility that the crown called for. And yet, when he looked over at his lady mother, her eyes were wet with pride and Robb knew that he could not back down from his duty, his title.

And yet, as Robb watches a forger craft the crown that is meant to lay on top of his head, he cannot help the pride that swells in chest. His men believe in him the way they believed in his late lord father, the man who deserved the royal title and more the most in all the Seven Kingdoms. Whispers of excitement filled the grounds of Riverrun as for the first since the King Who Bowed, the North was ruled by its own, a man who knew the North for truly what it is, not by a southaron who would venture up to the bitter cold of the North a handful of times during his rule.

Still, Robb felt the ache of emptiness inside of them, an emptiness that the perils of war could never harden, nor the companionship of his war council could ever fill. He thinks of the Frey maid he is betrothed to and the prospect of a loveless marriage sends unpleasant shivers down his spine as well as widens the gaping hole in his heart, the hole left by the fragmentation of his family, the death of his father, the keeping of his sisters by the sinister boy king, the lonely and young Bran and Rickon, whose responsibilities were too heavy for their fragile, young bodies, and finally Jon, who was leaving his mark on the Wall, although Robb cannot help but believe that he belongs here, by Robb’s side, whispering council into his ear and warming his bed as they once had when they were mere children of the long summer, no concept of the long and hard winter that lies ahead.

Robb’s musings were cut short by incessant, almost crazed knocking at the door of his chambers. He strides quickly and gracefully to the heavy wooden door and unlocks the bolt lock. When he opens the door, a dirty, unwashed and unbathed man stood before him with a mop of unruly dark hair, matched by dark eyes. His clothing, which at one time looked to have been black, were covered in dust and dirt. A heavy cloak covered his shoulders and scraggly whiskers covered his cheeks and yet, Robb could recognize that face anyway, no matter the state of cleanliness or dress.

“Jon,” espaces him his lips, both a breath and a prayer, and he cannot help but stare at his half-brother, who looked worse than the time that he almost drowned in the godswood when they were small and unable to swim.

“Your Grace,” he replies, his voice sweeter and deeper than Robb remembered it to be, as he falls onto his knees in front of him, head bowed respectfully as if he is bowing to an actual king and not to his brother, and the memory of the time where Jon took Robb’s cock into his mouth for the first time, back when the summer seemed like it was going to last forever, imposed itself on poor Robb, who squirmed uncomfortably as he felt his trousers tighten.

“Jon, what in the seven hells are you doing?” Robb asks fondly as his cheeks burn a bright pink, pulling his brother up by his shoulders and pulled him into a warm, tight embrace, one that resembled the embrace in the yard before Jon left for the Wall. Robb is careful to ignore the way his and Robb’s bodies seem to fit together like puzzle pieces and keep it just an embrace, nothing more, aware of the pretenses of the oath Jon took. “It’s been too long, Snow. Has the Wall sent for you to seek recruits? I’m afraid we have none to spare.”

And just like that, Robb sees the flicker of doubt that passes over Jon’s face, his lips curled down into a frown and his eyes dark as stormy. “Robb…” he says carefully, and that’s when Robb knows.

“Please do not say you deserted, Jon, please,” Robb pleads, thinking of the deserter Father beheaded, the one who claimed to see the Others, the one whose head Theon kicked. He remembered the steely look on Father’s face as he gave Bran the same speech he gave Jon and Robb when he took them to see their first execution. “Jon, you know the consequences of deserting. You know them. We watched the consequences together.”

“I am not afraid of death,” Jon says, his voice unwavering as he stares at Robb’s shaking hands, still perched on his shoulder.

“You are a fool, Jon Snow,” Robb says, his voice shaking as painfully as his hands, barely reaching the volume of a whisper.

“I am not afraid of death if it means I can serve under you for a time, whether short or long.” Jon pries his half-brother’s hands off his shoulders and holds them in his own, squeezing tightly as if they are the only thing that is keeping Jon upright. “I came to serve my duty under you, my lord brother, because I am my brother’s brother and my father’s son before I am a the watcher of the Wall, a brother in black. I may be a bastard and a coward, but I will not desert you in your hour of need, Robb. I will not watch as the Lannisters set light to this world, our world, with injustice and evil. I may not be a true Stark, but as long as I have even just a drop of Stark blood pulsing through my veins, I refuse to stand by and not fight like a Stark.”

In that moment, Robb could not help but think of how gallant and brave a king Jon would have made, had he been of higher birth. Robb feels inadequate as he sees the strength in Jon’s strong body and the determination in his dark eyes. “I am afraid of death, of yours and mine, of my sweet lady mother’s, of our sisters and our brothers, of the men who swore me their loyalty. I am afraid, Jon, just as Father must have been.”

Jon embraced Robb, resting his head on his broad shoulder as Robb’s hand slides a hand up into his hair, stroking gently as he had done when they were younger, their only care being not getting caught sneaking out of their chambers at the dead of night, tiptoeing through the halls to each other’s chambers. They stay like that until Jon pulls back and looks up into Robb’s eyes and then slides his eyes down a little further to his lips.

“You have a beard,” Jon observed.

“You have whiskers,” Robb countered.

Jon chuckled slightly as he rubbed at his hair-covered cheeks. “It suits you,” he comments, still eyeing the fiery hair that surrounded Robb’s pink lips and run over his chin and defined jawline. “Makes you look like a man grown. And a king.”

“How did you manage to sneak your way into my chambers, anyway? I am sure some of the camp would be able to recognize you.” Robb slides his hand down to the stretch of skin left exposed of Jon’s neck. It was warm and slick with perspiration but Robb drew imaginary circles with the pad of his thumb there anyway.

“I am a bastard, Robb. Your lady mother never allowed me to feast at the table with the honored guests. The ones who know me are our own of the Stark house and the other bastards and lower birth, the latter of which are in your camp, and the Starks scarcely recognized me,” Jon reminds him gently, slight discomfort sweeping over his features.

Robb’s thumb trails over the line of cloth that covers Jon’s person. “I recognized you,” he whispers, his breath, which smelled of fresh southern wine, ghosting over Jon’s whiskered cheek.

“Robb…” Jon croaks, staring at his plush pink lips and then back up at his half-brother, eyes questioning.

Robb nods slightly and their lips meet tentatively in the middle, brushing softly against each other. Robb remembers this sensation well, as if he could ever forget it; he remembers the way Jon likes to slide his hands under Robb’s tunic and feel the warm stretch of skin of the small of his back, and how he likes when Robb strokes his cheeks softly as they set a deliberate pace, slow with a desperate undertone.

They kiss for what feels like eternity, hands wandering, trying to learn the new features of each other’s formerly familiar bodies. Robb trials his fingers over Jon’s sharp hipbones and rubs the pad of his thumb over his hard abdomen, new sculpted, a gift from the Wall. When Jon reaches down to pull on Robb’s breaches, Robb breaks from the kiss, an unsure look on his face.

“Jon, your vows…” Robb reminds him. He has already drawn him away from Castle Black, the last thing he should do is break his celibacy vows as well.

“The Others take my vows,” Jon mutters breathlessly, hands still working on undoing the breeches, clearly out of practice as many moons passed since he has laid with another. “I want you, Robb.”

All rational thought flies out the window and Robb allows Jon to undress him completely, allows him to push him onto the rumpled bed. Just as Jon looks at Robb, expecting him to begin preparing him, Robb accidently says, “I am promised.” Their moment of bliss is over then as Jon quickly stands up, away from his half-brother, out of reach.

“To who?” he asks, his whisper barely above a whisper.

“A Frey girl,” Robb replies, his voice strained as he also climbs off the bed so he is eye-to-eye with Jon. “We needed to cross the bridge that Lord Frey controlled in order to charge the Lannisters’ territories and my lady mother was forced to agree to his terms. Arya was also promised to one of the Freys as well.”

“She will not like that,” Jon comments and him and Robb share a quick chuckle before they remember themselves. “We cannot…if you are promised to another, we cannot.”

Robb never regretted a decision as much as he did in that instance. It has been months of dreaming and craving his brother’s sweet touch, months of feeling the ghost of his lips on him. And now it is all taken away by a girl Robb does not even know, a girl that will never be loved the way she should be. “Jon, I want you,” Robb says, even though it’s the dishonorable thing to do, something his father would have damned if he were still alive. “I need you.”

Robb can see Jon being swayed by his sweet words, words that their father would disapproved of. Jon slowly creeps back towards the bed, persuaded more and more with every step he takes. Robb sits back on the back, waiting for his brother to join him next to him.

Jon eventually reaches the bed, the front of his knees hitting the wooden frame. “You are promised,” he murmurs once more, though there is no true fight in his words.

“But my heart belongs to you,” Robb replies softly, moving a hand through his soft, curly hair before moving it down to Jon’s entrance. “It has been yours for all of time. And it will stay that way. No marriage vows will ever change that.”

And that night, as Robb enters his brother, he feels whole for the first time since the embrace under the Winterfell sun, the embrace that Robb was sure was going to be their last. And yet, here they are, Robb cradling his smaller brother in his chest, whispering sweet nothings in his ear and dreaming about a time when the swords they played with were harmless wood, which only left bruises and scrapes in its wake rather than life-threatening wounds or more permanent marks of death, and of the thought of Jon being on his right as they charged toward Tywin Lannister’s camp, defeating the Lannisters once and for all.
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