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It feels like his skin is too tight, like his blood has turned to wildfire in his veins and there is no way to quench it. Robb has never understood the term "battle lust" before, never understood why his men take the camp followers into tents and fuck them until they can't move, but he gets it now. He has never shared a bed with a woman before but Robb can only imagine the satisfaction of sinking into a woman, in thrusting himself between soft thighs and finding his pleasure.
But he is Robb Stark, King in the North, and he cannot bed a prostitute. There is no honor in that.
It is pure accident he glimpses Dacey Mormont in that moment. She is as dirty and bloody as he is, sweat having left tracks through the dirt on her face; her dark hair has unraveled from its braid, sticking to her skin, and, for the first time, Robb notices the angle of her cheekbones, the way her lips are the color of pomegranates, the thrust of her breasts beneath her jerkin. Her pants are torn, and he can make out the pale flesh of her thigh; her legs are long, and Robb knows from experience she is precisely his height, the only woman he has ever met who can look him squarely in the eye. Almost as if she can feel his gaze, Dacey turns to face him; he sees a reflection of his own frustration in her dark eyes, and he realizes he's never seen Dacey flirt with any of the men, has never seen Dacey behave as anything other than a soldier, same as Greatjon or Jason Mallister. Fierce with an ax and brave as any man, Robb had forgotten she was a woman underneath her armor.
It is all he can think of now.
"Do you have need of me, Your Grace?" she asks. Her voice is always husky, but it does something to Robb now, makes something low in his stomach coil almost painfully, and he hates the sound of his title on her lips.
"I have need," is all he can manage to choke out. He wonders is he is blushing, if Dacey is going to laugh at him; king or not, he is only five-and-ten, and she is, at least, ten years his senior. The most he has ever done with a girl is a few stolen kisses with one of the kitchen girls until his father caught wind and reprimanded him so severely for taking advantage of his position in power that Robb didn't so much as look at another girl at Winterfell.
Dacey follows him into his tent, and it is only as he closes the flaps, tying them shut, that Robb realizes his hands are shaking. They have done this before after battle; it takes him awhile to unwind from the pure rush of near-death, but Robb thinks it is Dacey's nearness which causes him to quake so. She stands in the center of the tent, and Robb watches as she tugs the leather from her hair, shaking the braid completely free; it is such a mundane gesture, but Robb finds himself reaching out, capturing a strand between two fingers and feeling its texture. Dacey turns, surprise on her face, and Robb instantly steps back, humiliated.
“I am sorry, Lady Mormont - “
She steps into him, her eyes meeting his unwaveringly; Robb wishes to look away but forces himself not to, figuring he owes her at the very least the respect of a gaze. And then Dacey takes hold of his face and presses her mouth to his, her tongue parting his lips with no preamble, her fingers gripping his hair to hold him close. He moans into her mouth, his hands grabbing hold of her hips, pushing his hardening cock against her hips, and Dacey ends the kiss long enough to ask, “Have you bedded a woman before, Your Grace?”
“Robb,” he pants, straining forward to try to capture her mouth again. “My name is Robb.”
Dacey arches her back, keeping her mouth away. “Have you bedded a woman before, Robb?”
If he was Theon, he'd lie, say he bedded every woman who has crossed his path; if he was Jon, he'd be blatantly honest, stressing he would not dare bed a woman who isn't his wife and risk dishonoring her. But he is neither his half-brother or his best friend, and so he answers, “You'd be the first.”
Her face softens with tenderness, such a difference from her usually fierce countenance, and her hands fall to the ties of his jerkin, stripping him of it with ruthless efficiency. Robb lifts his arms like a child as she removes his shirts, shivering as her fingers ghost along the russet hair arrowing down his stomach. His cock strains against his laces, and his moan is loud in the quiet of the tent as she palms him through the material.
“Are you sure this is what you want, you beautiful boy?”
“Not a boy,” he mumbles, pushing against her hand in a desperate bid for friction.
“You're a boy,” she argues, her voice warm with affection as she opens his pants, pushing them down his hips without shyness, ghosting her fingers over the hot skin of his cock. “But you're my boy tonight, aren't you?”
The words do something to him, make him cry out against her mouth before rushing to help her strip of him fully of his pants and boots. Dacey urges him backwards to his large, soft bed, and he sits abruptly as Dacey begins to shed her clothing. The only woman he's ever seen bare was the prostitute in the village called Ros who Theon had paid a silver so Robb could look; Ros had been soft and curvy, had the sort of body Robb expected all women had beneath their gowns.
Dacey doesn't wear gowns. There is no fat to her body; it is all lean muscle, a body built for purpose rather than pleasure. Her apple sized breasts sit high on her chest, her dusky nipples stiff; a patch of dark hair shadows the place between her thighs, and Robb does not realize he's staring until Dacey chuckles.
“If I didn't know you were a maid, I'd know now,” she teases as she climbs onto the bed, urging him onto his back.
“Why?”
Robb forces himself not to groan as she throws a leg over his body, bending to press kisses to his chest. “No man ever looks at a woman like that after the first time.”
As her tongue licks over his nipple, he moans, “I'll always look at you like that.”
She takes his hand, presses it against her breast. His fingers squeeze reflexively, and Dacey makes a noise in her throat which goes straight to his cock. Robb palms both of her breasts, twisting fingers over her nipples, groaning at the warm, wet heat against his stomach; Dacey tosses her head back, hair streaming over her shoulders, and Robb sits up, his mouth gravitating to her shoulder. His cock rubs against her ass, and Robb has never wanted anything more in the world than to be inside Dacey Mormont.
It happens so suddenly, Robb has no time to prepare. He is kissing every inch of skin he can reach, trying desperately to get friction, when Dacey rises on her knees, takes hold of his cock, and sinks down onto him with unerring precision. Robb shouts before Dacey presses a hand over his mouth, hissing, “Do you want all of camp to hear you? Hold still, love, or you'll spend before we've had our fun.”
She is tight and wet around his cock, the very best feeling Robb has ever known. After a few moments of deep, lazy kisses, Dacey cants her lips and Robb struggles to find her rhythm. She whispers instructions and endearments against his ear, and Robb cannot help but tangle his fingers in her hair to keep her close to him; he wants to forget where he ends and she begins, wants to forget that his father is dead and his sisters are captive, wants to forget the fucking Lannisters and everything but the feel of Dacey's cunt squeezing him so wonderfully.
She laces her fingers with his, bringing their hands to the place they are joined; she pushes his fingers against a nub of flesh which makes her pulse around him, and Robb begins to groan against her mouth even as he rubs her cunt quicker, pushing his cock as deep into her as it will go.
“I'm going to spend,” he chokes out, his last remaining shred of sense telling him he should not spill his seed inside of her, but Dacey does not seem to care, pushing her fingers against his until she suddenly goes stiff in his arms as her cunt spasms around him. With a shout, Robb loses control, to all seven hells with responsibility, and, when he returns to his body, Dacey is climbing off of his lap, his soft, slick cock sliding from her body.
For a long while they lay silently beside each other, both breathing hard; Robb's heart thunders beneath his breast bone as his entire body still seems to tingle, and he understands now why Theon spends every coin he has on whores if this is the result it brings. Finally, when he is certain he can speak again, he manages, “Thank you, Lady Mormont.”
She laughs softly. “I insist all men who fuck me call me Dacey.”
He echoes her laugh, realizing how silly he sounds. Using what remains of his energy, Robb rolls up onto his elbow to look at her, still dirty faced from battle, a sheen of sweat over her skin. He rests his hand on her rib cage, and she lolls her head to look at him, her face inscrutable.
“I can call for a tub.”
Dacey's eyebrows rise, and Robb wonders what she was expecting him to say. “A bath would be wonderful.”
They fuck twice more that night, once in the copper tub with water sloshing over the sides and once more in his bed, Dacey on her hands and knees as he takes her from behind. By the time the sky is lightening, Robb is both exhausted and sated, and Dacey is pliant in his arms.
“I must get back to my tent,” she murmurs against his chest.
“Later,” is all he says as they drift off to sleep.
War can wait a few more hours.