“I don’t care for that honorifics crap. Well, I guess Ygritte hasn’t told you, did she?” “Told me what?” “What I thought. Just call me Robb. I don’t get off on people calling me titles.” “And what do you get off to then? If I may ask.” “Sure you can. I get off on people trusting me to do right by them. Which means that unless everyone is happy, it doesn’t work for me.” Or: where Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark walk into Ygritte's BDSM club one evening. Calling it good karma is probably an understatement.

At the start, Jon was embarassed by the size differences. He never thought he was scrawny, at least not compared to others at Winterfell, but he knew he could never stand at eye level with Tormund

Jon Snow has been having dreams. Of Old Valyria, of a girl with brown hair and grey eyes, of a silver haired woman with dragons. He spends his waking hours brooding and pretending he is not watching Tormund Giantsbane too closely and that Tormund is not watching back.

Robb is leaving tomorrow, but he's here for tonight. Even if Jon and Theon aren't using him as thoroughly as they could be.

Theon loses a bet that means, for the first time, Jon gets to fuck him, rather than the other way around. He assumes Jon will treat him as roughly as he's always treated Jon. This proves incorrect.

"It's not like he's noticing anything you're doing. Face it Greyjoy: when he's on top like that, you could be anyone in the world and he'd enjoy fucking himself on you just as much.” In which Theon is easily manipulated, Jon is a smug git about it, and Robb would like to get off at some point.

When Jon realises where Theon's looking though, he turns bright red and hurriedly covers himself with his hands. “What are you staring at?!” Theon forces his jaw to close again. Great, now the bastard's going to think I'm some sort of deviant. Well it's his bloody fault; if he's going to show off that monster he should expect the odd glance. “Nothing Snow, just figuring something out,” he says, forcing his usual mocking tone, “I know your heritage is a bit of a mystery, but I think you might be part-centaur.” At Jon's bewildered look, he rolls his eyes. “Because you've got a horse's cock between your legs.”

She has only caught fleeting glances of Margaery today, their future queen being too busy with official matters, but every tiny glimpse of her sweet half-smile or the sunlight glinting on her pale shoulders has only pushed Sansa closer to the brink of madness. She does not know what is wrong with her: she knows she has no good reason to be craving Margaery's attentions so much today of all days, but then again, she has grown to crave it more days than not now.

Jon, Robb and Theon all have a lot in common. But they have their differences too. (Or, that fic where they're all hopeless bottoms, but in very different ways.)

As Theon grows, he begins to question his place in the Stark family. Especially in regards to the heir of Winterfell.

There were a lot of wedding gifts, oddly enough, although they weren't all meant in exactly the same spirit.

Really, Robb doesn't mind that Theon wants everyone to think he tops. He probably should, but he loves Theon too much for it to be a problem. He does have one problem though: That Theon won't.