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Jon doesn’t know when he lusted after Theon for the first time. He doesn’t even know when he realized what he felt for Theon was lust. Contempt, annoyance... Yes, that as well. But lust was the only feeling strong and persistent enough to bother him.
Jon knows it happened at an early age, though, for he has the precise memory of being three and ten and stroking himself at night, under his covers, with Theon’s name unspoken in his mouth. If Jon thinks hard enough, he guesses it began shortly after Theon started filling his and Robb’s ears with his nasty tales.
It wasn’t as if Jon liked Theon or his company back when they grew up in Winterfell. He didn’t. Theon was smug, cocky, and he looked down on Jon for being a bastard. But he was also already a grown man, while Robb and Jon were still green boys. So Jon listened and paid attention to everything Theon said about girls and bedding them, when he was in the mood for sharing. Which he often was, considering how impressionable the boys were to that kind of talk. Almost all the men in the castle talked about women too, but none did it the same way as Theon. The stories of other men in Winterfell were crude, direct, simple. Theon was anything but.
Theon was descriptive. He talked not only of what he did to girls when he bedded them, but of how he did it. He would tell them how he talked a certain tavern wench of Winter Town into getting a room with him in said tavern, and how she gasped when he grabbed her by the hips and pushed her onto the bed, pulling her skirt up and her smallclothes down. How he thrust his manhood—no, not his manhood. His cock. Theon liked nasty words to go along with his nasty stories. How he thrust his cock into her cunt—deep, long shoves that got the wench moaning oh gods, fuck me just like that. But it was Theon’s voice saying the words, and that shouldn’t have been the focus of Jon’s attention at all.
For the whole moment Theon talked, Jon would simply blush and keep his mouth shut tightly. He couldn’t embarrass himself if he didn’t say a word. Unless, of course, he got stiff or something, but thankfully that never happened, at least not to the point it had been noticeable. By the time Theon was done, Robb would eventually dismiss him with a comment of how vulgar he was, but never interrupted him while he was still talking.
Back then, Jon didn’t know why, and still doesn’t know today, but he wanted to hear those stories. He found himself spending a lot of his time with Theon and Robb, even though there was no love lost between him and the ironborn, just in hopes of hearing anything new. It was a strange feeling, really, because the tales mildly disgusted him, but excited him too. He wanted to hear more stories, different ones. Theon supplied them on a regular basis, which always left Jon with a weird, angry feeling in his gut. If Theon had other things to tell, it meant he had bedded someone again. It meant nothing to Jon, why would it?, but it still left him hot and bothered at the same time.
It was in the dead of the night that what he heard used to come back to him, when his hands slid down his stomach and he touched himself. At first, Jon’s mind was hazy with everything he had heard. Words and sounds turned into images—Theon fucking a faceless woman, Theon making a woman take him in her mouth. But, as time passed, those thoughts began to change. The woman in the picture got progressively even more unimportant, to the point she was nothing but a blur. His thoughts, as Jon lay in the dark, breathing heavily through his nose, hand going up and down his cock, were anchored on Theon. The way Theon walked. The way his right arm moved pulling the string on his longbow. How he sounded when he laughed his annoying laughter. That time when they all went swimming in the godswood and Robb and Jon stayed in their smallclothes, but Theon stripped bare, flaunting his nakedness at them. How sinewy was his body and how soft his skin looked. Theon’s voice as he begged to be fucked, quoting some woman. It never took long for Jon to spill in his hand.
Then the stories were no longer enough. Theon’s narratives, as detailed as they were, couldn’t get him off anymore, at least not how they used to. They only enticed him, provoked him, but didn’t deliver. Jon was frustrated and seized by an idea. He had to see Theon do one of those things. Just one time, to get his mind off of it, once and for all.
If he was sneaky enough, mayhaps he could follow Theon around and get his wish. Surely he couldn’t follow him all the way to Winter Town to a brothel or a tavern, but Theon often talked about bedding the serving girls, too, so Jon might get lucky and see him do just that. And he did end up seeing something, but not at all what he had expected to see.
It happened in Theon’s chamber, several fortnights after Jon had begun discreetly following him—and getting nothing so far. When he finally saw it, it happened by chance. At that particular moment, Jon wasn’t sneaking up on him. He was on his way to fetch something in his room; he doesn’t recall what exactly, not now after three or four years since it happened. As he walked by Theon’s chamber, he saw that the door was ajar, and heard muffled voices inside—Theon had company. He stood by the door, feeling coy all of a sudden. It would do him no good to be caught spying. He looked around, his heart racing, but the corridor was empty. So, trying to gather all his courage, he peeked inside.
At first, he saw no one. Theon and whoever was with him were positioned in a corner that hid them from Jon’s view. Then he heard Theon’s voice.
“What’s the matter? I thought you said you wanted me to show you how to properly hold a bow.” His voice was low and he drawled. He had never spoken like that to Jon.
Jon found himself wishing he would.
Jon heard the opening and closing of a latch, followed by a silent moment, probably Theon drawing said bow from his chest. Then the person with him said something too quietly for Jon to hear anything. It must have been some sort of denial, because then Theon was saying, “Of course I have to stand this close to you. How else could I teach you how to feel a bow, how far to pull the string, how firmly you should grip the arc? You have to feel my body move.” A moment, and then Theon said, so low Jon was surprised he even heard it, “Can you feel me moving?”
Jon hated not being able to see anything. The silent moments gave him little clue of what was happening. His imagination had to fill in the gaps. He desperately wanted Theon to start talking again, so he would know what they were doing. The most embarrassing of it all was that, despite hearing only bits and pieces and being unable to see practically anything besides an empty corner of the chamber, Jon was already half hard in his breeches.
After a moment, Theon said, voice hoarse in a fake apologetic tone, “I’m not doing anything. This is all you.”
Jon heard the fumbling of clothes, and the other person gasped, too quickly for Jon to notice anything about their voice.
Then Theon was talking again. “Gods, your cock is so hard right now,” he moaned.
Jon’s heart pounded loudly in his chest. Cock? Theon was in there with a man? Jon’s breeches were tight; he was fully hard as he leaned against the doorframe, and it took all of his willpower not to pull himself out then and there. Instead, he focused on listening.
“Stop worrying,” Theon said, almost annoyed, “it’s just my hand on your cock.” A pause in which Jon tried to imagine exactly how Theon was touching that unknown man, whether he did it fast or slow, gentle or rough. “We talked about this before. We’re just two men doing each other a favor.”
Jon thought he could hear the sound of flesh slapping on flesh as he absent-mindedly palmed his own cock, chewing on his bottom lip. He let his eyes fall shut and concentrated on the sounds, pretending he was in there with Theon, pretending Theon was saying all those things to him.
“Touch me back,” Theon ordered.
I want to so badly, Jon thought, his groin feeling tight.
Theon must have faced some kind of refusal, because soon he was saying, “If you want me to make you come, and I know you do, you’ll touch me back.”
Theon’s hum of approval told Jon the other person had complied. Jon’s face and neck felt on fire. He was so hot and aroused, but so angry at the same time. Jon wondered if they were kissing, if men kissed the way women and men did. Moments passed and Theon didn’t say a word. All Jon could hear was an occasional moan, and that shouldn’t be enough to make his blood boil, but it did. In his mind, he was the one drawing such sounds out of Theon.
“Fuck—oh,” Theon gasped, and Jon ashamedly realized he was pushing into his own palm. “Don’t stop, keep going,” Theon urged the other man in a hurried tone. He wasn’t loud as he moaned, but it was loud enough for Jon to hear, which was a lot more than he could say about Theon’s mysterious partner, who was so quiet Jon was still in the dark about his identity.
Theon’s final moan was long and drawn out. It sounded like Theon had had a great time, and Jon wondered if they had indeed only used their hands. It almost didn’t seem likely. Jon had never moaned like that when using his hands on himself.
“You came all over my shirt,” Theon said, but there was no reproach in his tone.
Jon heard the fumbling of clothes. They were probably getting themselves presentable again. Jon’s fear of being found battled with his acute need of finding out who was there with Theon. He could not stay where he was, but mayhaps he could hide and watch them when they left the room. They were probably going to take the bridge to the armory, for Theon had practice with Ser Rodrik that afternoon, so Jon hid behind a corner in the opposite direction.
“I can’t believe you left the door open,” the other man finally said something loud enough for Jon to hear. “Someone could have walked in on us.”
Jon frowned, startled. There was something wrong there. He knew that voice. For a brief moment, he couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t precisely say where he heard it, but it was a voice he knew well. And then…
“But no one did,” Theon said like it settled the matter and further discussion was just a waste of time. “There is no one here. You can come out.” And then, with an annoyed sigh, “Gods, I wonder if all the Starks were ever as uptight as you are.”
Jon could almost feel the blood leaving his face. Stark? Then he saw Robb leaving Theon’s room, looking uncomfortable and suspicious, his jaw locked tight. As they strolled down the hall, Jon was left feeling bewildered. What had just happened, just standing by Theon’s door and listening to him, had been the most arousing moment in his life so far, but seeing Robb come out of that room made him feel weird, confused, and left out.
Some moments are watersheds in Jon’s life. Holding his first sword. Refusing to behead Ygritte in the Skirling Pass. Finding Ghost. Robb telling him he could never be Lord of Winterfell. The death of his father. His first time with Ygritte under the sleeping furs. Joining the Night’s Watch. The death of his brothers. Becoming Lord Commander. Realizing he wanted Theon.
Jon muses he may not be able to determine exactly when he started lusting after Theon, but hearing him with Robb was an important point. It was the only time he heard it happen. He doesn’t know if that disappointed him or made him glad. After that afternoon, he followed Theon even more closely. To keep him and Robb from doing it again or to make sure he would be there it if they did, Jon did not know. Witnessing Theon and his brother together made him confused. Did Theon bed men regularly or was Robb just an incident motivated by curiosity? Whatever the answer, Jon’s blood boiled with envy. Robb was noble, trueborn, their father’s heir, and a stronger lance. Robb had all the things Jon had ever wanted in his life. And, as it turned out, Robb even had Theon, who Jon was squeamish to admit he even wanted at all. He didn’t like Theon, Jon kept reminding himself, but still wanted him in some way—the way Robb had him. It would have made sense if Jon hated his brother, but he never could. He loved Robb.
At four and ten, Jon was glad to be going to the Wall. He figured he’d have so many things to do and so many new worries in his head that he would be forced to outgrow of his obsession. He would leave Theon and Robb in Winterfell and have a life of his own as a man of the Night’s Watch, one that wasn’t lived under Robb Stark’s shadow.
Indeed, a lot happened after he went to the Wall. After joining the Watch, he had little time to think of Theon Greyjoy. The constant reminder that his life before the Wall was over, and that black brothers were his new family almost made it easy not to think of Theon. The only moments he still came to Jon's mind were before falling asleep. It became rarer, but Jon never stopped thinking of Theon. A feeling kept nagging on him, asking him what if? What if he had been the one to have Theon, and not Robb? What if Jon had never gone to the Wall and stayed in Winterfell with them? What if he had barged inside Theon’s chamber when he heard them together? What if they had caught him spying on them? For countless nights, silent divagations clouded his brain and he could not sleep.
And he still touched himself to thoughts of Theon, even after breaking his vows with Ygritte, even after Theon killed Bran and Rickon and put Winterfell to the torch. In his mind, there were two separate entities. Theon Greyjoy—lean, smug and confident, the one he met as a boy, skilled with a bow, with a mouth full of stories, whose moans Jon could not forget. And this other person the news spoke about—the man who betrayed Robb and attacked Winterfell, who wore Theon’s name but wasn’t him. His boyish memories of Theon were safe, hidden, not to be blemished by the horrors of war.
Until this very morning, Jon had been certain he would never see Theon again. At first, he had believed Theon to be dead, killed after the sack of Winterfell. Learning that he was alive didn’t change that certainty, though. As King Stannis’ prisoner, Jon imagined Theon’s execution was a matter of time.
So, when the new batch of recruits of the Night’s Watch arrives at Castle Black, Jon almost thinks he is seeing a ghost. At first, he’s taken by a feeling of strangeness. But then that cloud dissipates and there is no confusion left in Jon about the identity of the man who stares at him from a distance. His face is hollow, his hair is colorless, and his gauntness makes his skin stretch over his cheekbones; still, Jon doesn’t have a doubt. Jon Snow, still Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, is looking at Theon Greyjoy, new recruit. Or whatever is left of him.