isolated system

#char: robb stark #thread: because this is torturous

Theon begins to allow himself to heave a sigh of relief as Robb starts to lift himself off of on top of him – much more of that carry-on and an already awkward situation would have become a whole lot more awkward.

The breath comes rushing out of him in a gasp when Robb’s body weight suddenly comes crashing right back down, forcing the air from his lungs with a whoosh.

Theon’s mind is already foggy with exertion, and so it takes him longer than it should to realise what exactly is happening – that they had pushed one another as far as the other could go, leaving them both crippled with exhaustion, and Robb’s limbs equally as weak as Theon’s own.

He’d groan if he could. Not just to vocalise his discomfort as the pain of his injuries begins to catch up with him now that all the adrenaline’s left his body – but because he has enough bloody difficulty as it is going about each day, pretending he isn’t pathetically in love with the son and heir of the Lord Paramount.

How the fuck is he supposed to disguise it when said son and heir is currently occupying his lap, forehead pressed against his shoulder, a position so intimate that rightfully, it should only belong to lovers?

He lacks the energy for even that, however, and so as it is, he just focuses on catching his breath instead, eyes trained on the ceiling and decidedly not on the burnt-copper curls currently tickling his chin.

It takes him a couple of moments to properly formulate a reply - he tells himself that it’s because he’s all but panting for air and thus unable to conjure up an articulate reply, knowing all the while that it’s really because he wants to soak up as much of this moment as he possibly can.

He’s greedy like that.

“Me? Oh, just dandy,” His eyes slide shut, shielding his retinas from the harsh fluorescent light above. “Could go for another round if I’m honest.” He manages a laugh at his own jape, even though it hurts his bruised ribs. “What do you say?”

tryhardwood-blog

now we're spinning laps around the sun | alys, daryn, robb & theon | during the imperial visit, 6 months ago

On the rare occasions that Alys was not kipping it on Daryn’s stupidly uncomfortable camp bed, or working, or otherwise busy, she had a secret soft spot for the Middle World fashion networks. It was Eddie’s fault, really. When she was younger, he’d the biggest crush on one of their fashion reporters, the one who covered all the Lannister functions, and so Alys had ended up spending more than a few hours in front of the holograph watching the ladies go by in their fussy dresses and great headpieces. To Alys it had all seemed terribly impractical, how did anyone do anything with all those skirts and layers, but she had watched raptly all the same.

The thing that struck her most was the colors. In the North, in the dark winter months the yellow biolights doused them all in pale ambers and watery golds, while the short, bright summer seemed to wash all color away. All else was wiry greys and thick blacks and the blue white ice that stretched out, curling about the land like a top sheet against the dark, distant oceans of the southern hemisphere. Alys liked it that way, it was simpler, cleaner. Even the people looked the same, with their pale skin and dark hair. There were exceptions, of course, Daryn’s gorgeous cousins being the primary example, but Alys, like most northerners, was accustomed to the sameness, to the ability to walk into a room and know who belonged, and Theon Greyjoy certainly did not belong.

Should he mind that he wasn’t a Northerner, Alys couldn’t say. Theon had certainly never discussed it with her, but she could not imagine he enjoyed the disdain it brought him. It was more than unnecessary of Daryn to point it out, even if Theon did spurn him on entry.

(She never did understand why they seemed to hate each other so, or how they could both be so pleasant to her, and so nasty to one another, but nor would she abide their pettiness, not when they were meant to be celebrating.)

Glancing sideways at Daryn, Alys swatted his arm lightly. “Come off it, Daryn, it’s cold in here,” she said without a shiver, despite the thinness of her own pale green sweater and the thick chill in the air. Alys liked the cold, liked the feel of the Northern wind against her bare skin, when she could stand it. Still, she would not begrudge Theon his furs, although he did look a little bit ridiculous all bundled up when they were inside.

“Eddie taped it and we watched it this afternoon; there was a 3 ship pile up at the mines so I had to work a double shift.” Smiling, Alys leaned forward in her seat. “How was it? I saw you on the holo, you and Robb both looked quite dashing.”

#thread: now we're spinning laps around the sun #char: alys karstark #char: daryn hornwood #char: robb stark

You had to give him credit, really – Daryn had a fairly decent talent of hitting where it hurt.

Maybe not physically – Theon had never had the pleasure of taking him on in the sparring ring, Daryn was an engineer, not a soldier, but he was pretty sure he could take him all the same – but drawing attention to Theon’s attire had the undoubtedly intended effect of punching him smack bang in the insecurities.

(Of which Theon has many, but focused a great deal of effort every day on stifling them down, burying them deep beneath a thick layer of bravado.)

He narrows his eyes at the other man, fists tightening beneath the table. It was briefly tempting to submit to his taunt, shrug off his coat defiantly and then spend the rest of the evening trying to repress his shivers. Even in the relative warmth of the pub, Theon still felt the cold acutely – his skin was built for space stations, where the temperature was controlled, heat for the living quarters and cool for the engineering decks, not equipped for the frost and snow the Northmen endured all year long. They were born with that thick skin and it was not something someone could just adjust to, even after over a decade of living on that planet, if Theon was any testament to the fact.

But he doesn’t relent, doesn’t give Daryn the satisfaction of getting to watch his teeth chatter each time he swallows down a gulp of beer. He forces his fingers to unclench, exhaling as he does. Alys does his best to save his pride, but Theon’s learned to fight his own battles by now.

“I’m just fine, cheers. Good to know you’re so concerned about my wellbeing. And take such an interest in what I wear, for that matter.” He raises an inquisitive eyebrow, accompanied by a mocking smirk before turning his attention back on significantly less irritating individuals. Robb was still at the bar, engaged in polite conversation with the barmaid. Judging by the slightly exasperated expression he was wearing, she was interrogating him about the events from the day before and had no intention of serving him his order until she was completely satisfied. He flashes Alys a quick grin.

“Are you saying we don’t always look dashing?” He chuckles a little, leaning back in his seat after another quick glance at the bar. He really wanted that drink. “It was bloody boring, that’s what it was. Shitloads of pomp and ceremony and not much else. Emperor’s a fat fuck and the Heir’s a little prick. I doubt I’ll survive tomorrow without at least a gallon of booze. You going?”

He doesn’t even bother to make it sound like the question is framed at the two of them.

ooc

(hey all! i'll be briefly hiatusing until early september - dissertation to be handed in, london trip, death of a family friend's husband amongst a multitude of other things means my online activity is gonna be pretty sparse for the next two weeks, especially since i can't afford any more distractions! love ya'all!)

#ooc note

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

Now he knows why his father always says that arrogance is a soldier’s bane.

He can merely blink up at Theon in confussion before his head catches up with what just happened; Robb can feel himself blushing furiously, face burning hot in embarrassment in contrast with the cold of the floor tiles under his palms.

But this is also a thing his father always says: that a battle is not over until one of the parts gives up.

Robb might be mortified and pissed off and humilliated, but he has definitely not admitted defeat.

He slaps the weapons away with the back of his hand and stands up, taking some cautious steps back. Theon allows him, either because he thinks Robb’s getting up to surrender with some dignity or because he doesn’t consider him enough of a threat now that he lacks his sword.

"You haven’t won yet," Robb says simply, and when Theon’s eyes narrow in that way that says Seriously? and advances towards him to show him that yes, he has actually won, Robb dodges his attacks and adopts his unarmed fighting stance.

It’s funny, but it’s sort of balanced in a way: Theon can’t move as swiftly while trying to attack with two swords, and Robb’s own moves are way less clunky now that he only has his body to fight with. This is also a carefree practice match between two friends and Theon is not really looking to harm him, so Robb can block his attacks and not break bones in the process.

Not that Theon goes easy on him: Robb’s sweating bullets what seems like only five minutes later, his muscles burning with the strain of being the one at disadvantage.

Theon’s sword hits him on the arm, hard enough to make him cringe in pain.

Robb kicks him in the knee and watches in joy how it bends, Theon’s lips parting in a little ‘o’ of surprise as he loses his balance. Robb’s arm is pretty sore, but he doesn’t waste time in hooking his foot behind Theon’s ankle and sweeping him off his feet, before practically diving to sit on his legs to keep him from getting up. He grabs his wrists and they struggle like children for a bit, until Robb tightens his hold on Theon’s arms so much that he drops the weapons with a hiss.

They’re both panting now, and Robb shifts so as to sit more comfortably on Theon’s lap, legs bracketing his friend’s hips. Their faces are parallel to each other’s, with Theon lying under him and Robb pinning his hands to the floor.

"No, you yield.”

#thread: because this is torturous #char: robb stark

Really, Theon should have known better than to expect Robb to give up that easily.

Maybe he could concede to Theon when it came to the skills that he knew were Theon’s domain – marksmanship, flying, engineering – but hand-to-hand combat was Robb’s department and Theon should have known he wouldn’t go down until he’d given everything he’d got.

He may have the advantage of being in possession of two weapons, but he’s been robbed now of his primary asset, that of speed – one that Robb’s now utilising rather effectively against him. Theon curses as yet another one of his blows falls short of its mark, feeling his limbs practically scream with exertion at the added strain of having to handle two blades. But he’s not admitting defeat either, exhaustion be damned, and he lunges towards Robb again and again.

He finally manages to land a hit, sword cracking against Robb’s arm with a resounding smack. Theon goes so far as to let out a ‘ha’ of triumph, before his world suddenly turns upside down.

Theon doesn’t even have time to process what’s happened before the ground comes rushing up to meet him. The next thing he knows, there’s a heavy weight on top of him – Robb – and his instincts kick him, causes him to surge forwards and grapple against the sudden grip on his wrists. He’s fucked from the start – Robb’s already got his legs pinned to the floor, and he’s by far the stronger of the two of them. It takes him hardly any time at all to force both weapons from his grip, falling to the floor with a clatter, and then Theon is trapped beneath his friend, panting heavily and the other man’s face looming over him in a similar state of breathlessness.

So close.

Too close.

The intimacy of this position hits him harder than any of the blows Robb had scored against him, and he hopes that the flush he can feel beginning to colour his cheeks passes as indignation; after all, he’d seen Robb wear a similar blush only a short while ago when he thought he’d been the one defeated. Robb’s face is literally only inches away, and Theon’s uncomfortably aware of the way his legs straddle his hips, bringing their bodies into closer contact than they’d any right to be.

He should push Robb off, but for the moment, all he can do is stare up at him in a daze as he tries to recover his breath. All the while, Robb does the same, eyes bluer than any sky Theon’s ever seen.

Fuck. He needs to diffuse the situation. Now.

Thankfully, he knows the words to do exactly that.

“I yield, I yield,” he finally manages to gasp out. “Bloody hell, Stark, never had you pegged as the type to fight dirty. Now,” He wriggles his wrists beneath his grip. “Gerroff before you crush me, I’m gonna be sore enough tomorrow as it is.”

He wonders if he’ll still remember by then how it feels, the heavy weight of Robb on top of him, pressing him into the floor.

He’s a funny feeling he won’t be forgetting it any time soon.

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

Sparring with Theon always sends this electric thrill down Robb’s spine. He’s fast, faster than anyone Robb’s ever fought with, and it’s always a challenge to chase after him, following step after step, making the moment when he finally gets him that much more exquisite.

Not that Theon is easy to catch. He’s all long loose limbs moving easy like liquid, eyes that follow each of Robb’s movements without missing a beat; his blade attacks brief and lethal, like a snake dashing out to bite. When Theon hits him on his side, hard enough for Robb’s side to ache with a dull pain even under the armour, he inhales deeply and takes several steps back in an attempt to regain his balance and posture.

"Good job, Greyjoy," he congratulates as he wipes his mouth with his forearm, before grinning. "Now you can almost compare to me."

He’s not usually like this, arrogant and cheeky like a dornishman, but Theon brings out the need to mock him right back. Or maybe Robb is like this, has always been, and Theon just digs deep enough to reveal Robb’s true playful nature. Maybe it’s just with him, and a blade, and a sparring room, that Robb can let go.

He attacks again, and Theon is faster as always, dodging and blocking him, but Robb persists and perseveres - to the right, to the left, at the hip, at the shoulder. When Theon blocks his attack once more but he stumbles back in the process, Robb lets out a quiet cry of triumph and pushes the full weight of his blade against Theon’s chest.

"One - one," he says. "There’s no point if you keep trying to escape, you know? Come on, hit me."

It’s good that he’s distracted enough not to think about what his father and all the northern fleet would say if they saw him encouraging a hostage to harm him.

#thread: because this is torturous #char: robb stark

Theon’s blow had done little to throw Robb off – if anything, he comes at Theon harder now, practice blade swinging viciously and at such a rapid pace that it’s all Theon can do to evade his attacks, let alone attempt another of his own. Theon’s blood feels like it’s practically singing – yes, he felt most at home behind the scope of a sniper rifle, but there’s something to be said about fighting. He’d heard the older soldiers talk about it when they reminisced about the days of Robert’s Rebellion, of that ecstasy that came from crossing blades with a skilled opponent. He supposes sparring in a practice ring is a poor substitute but by the Sea, if it still didn’t fill Theon with a certain kind of bliss.

They should do this more often, he thinks as he ducks and scoots away from yet another one of Robb’s brutal thrusts. He was always so keen to suggest the shooting range that he often forgot just how much he enjoyed this.

Even if he did always end up losing.

He’s holding his own well enough this time at least – that is, until a blocking attempt goes awry, causing him to stumble back and allowing Robb the opportunity to stab his blade against Theon’s chest. He’d be a dead man were this a real fight, but it seems Robb isn’t quite done with him just yet.

“Come on, hit me,” he taunts, and Theon’s eyes dart left and then right, frantically searching for an opportunity – before finally finding one.

Robb’s too caught up in his moment of triumph to see it coming. Theon practically twirls away, sidestepping around him and darts his leg out towards Robb as he does. Theon’s sudden movement throws him enough that his balance gives away almost immediately, flailing slightly before Theon effectively sweeps his legs from beneath him.

Robb’s sword goes flying from his grip as he does, and Theon quickly dashes for it, scooping it up with a grin. He turns then, pointing both swords down towards Robb’s chest with a smirk.

“Yield, Stark.”

tryhardwood-blog

now we're spinning laps around the sun | alys, daryn, robb & theon | during the imperial visit, 6 months ago

It was rare that there was a heavy imperial presence on the planet of winter, and rarer still that the Emperor himself, and the entire Imperial Retinue, lions and all, made their way to the far reaches of the System, and yet here they were, residing at Winterfell. The whole of Wintertown was abuzz with the novelty of their arrival, tickets hiking in price the nearer the date drew.

Rickard had gone, of course. He was seated in a place of some prominence, Harry, the ever dutiful heir, at his side. There was no surplus of tickets for second and third sons, or daughters, and so Alys had been delighted when Eddie had come home with one for her. Nosebleed seats, but seats none the less.

But that was the thing about excitement in Wintertown. Excitement meant alcohol, which meant accident, which meant every medivac unit was on call, hers included. And so it passed that Alys Karstark had to spend the majority of the Imperial proceedings transporting wounded civilians from a rail accident not one mile from the landing site.

#char: alys karstark #char: daryn hornwood #char: robb stark #thread: now we're spinning laps around the sun

All in all, the last two days had left Theon badly in need of a drink.

It surprised him really – he’d been anticipating the Imperial visit ever since he’d first learned of it. Yes, the current Emperor had all but brought his house to ruin, turned the name Greyjoy from one that parents used to scare their children with tales of being whisked away by raiders if they didn’t behave, into one that was that was now usually accompanied by a mocking smile and smart remark about failed rebellions – but he was still the Emperor, and it was rare that anybody got to see their ruler in person, let alone meet the man. And he was bringing the entire Imperial retinue in tow, including the legendary Jaime Lannister, the youngest soldier to join the White Band in history.

Not to mention the fact that for once, Theon had actually felt like Lord Stark’s ward, rather than just his hostage. He had been instructed he would form part of the welcoming party, standing alongside the Lord Paramount’s own children and the highest ranking officers. His face had been flushed with a mixture of pride and excitement, as he watched the great luxe-ship’s doors open and awaited for the Imperial family to disembark.

It had taken several moments for him to realise the hulking fat giant that lumbered off the ship was actually the Emperor. Yes, he was dressed in finery as befit the ruler of the Westerosi systems but – really? Theon had realised then that broadcasts from the WNN rarely showed recent footage of the Emperor, he kept mainly inside the walls of the Red Keep, but instead chose to display recordings of the man in his glory days, such as his coronation or his wedding day.

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

Robb has to resist very hard the urge to grin like a maniac when Theon enters the ring, suited up and looking at him warily despite the bravado of his words.

He fails, of course.

This, he is familiar with; this is what he’s good at, the place where he knows he holds the advantage and where he feels nearly immortal. A shot is easy to miss - there are too many factors, changing and re-arranging, that mark the millimetric difference between hitting your target and missing it entirely. But one-on-one combat is absolute. You can miss too, sure enough, but it all depends on your own senses and the opponent’s, on speed and reflexes, flesh and mind. There’s no more human, alive combat than one-on-one where the only thing that exists is two people and their bodies being pushed to the limit to tear each other apart, and that’s exactly how Robb feels - utterly human, so very alive.

"Rusty or not," Robb taunts back, "I was still the top first on the records for close range combat. I wouldn’t be so sure of myself if I were you, Greyjoy."

He positions himself in his classic sparring posture, the arm with the weapon held high so as to shield his face and his body sideways, so as to give Theon as less target as possible. They nod at each other once and Robb’s smile vanishes, replaced with a look of pure focus.

"I’m ready."

Without pausing to even breathe, he advances towards Theon and attacks, merciless. He’s no Jaime Lannister, rumoured to laugh out loud in joy during fights, but he can definitely relate to the thrill of this particular type of battle.

Theon dodges him, of course, and Robb follows him without missing a beat, cheeks flushed pink with excitement and blood humming in pleasure.

Human. Alive.

#char: robb stark #thread: because this is torturous

Theon mirrors Robb’s starting stance – they received the same training after all, they’re familiar with one another’s basic techniques. It’s their own personal skills they’ve brought to their fighting that makes their individual styles unique: Robb, his overwhelming physical strength, and Theon, his quick reflexes and lightning fast speed.

Not that Robb’s own velocity is anything to be scoffed at – Theon only barely dodges his opening blow, skittering away to his side and dancing back several steps. Robb may usually win these battles, but it doesn’t make Theon any less determined to gain the upper hand for once. Maybe Robb’s right and it’s been a while since Theon’s been in the sparring ring, but he hasn’t let up on his physical training in the meantime. He keeps his strength and endurance up in Winterfell’s gymnasium, and even the space station offered equipment for its soldiers to stay in shape.

Robb comes at him again, blade crashing down this time too fast for Theon to dodge, and it’s all Theon can do to bring his own up to deflect it. There’s a resonating crack in the room as their weapons collide, the force sending a jolt all the way up Theon’s arm and into his shoulder. Robb hesitates a moment – just for a second, as the surprise of Theon’s manoeuvre registers – but it’s all Theon needs, spinning away and to the side, quickly delivering a blow Robb’s exposed right-hand side.

He bites back a smirk.

How’s that for rusty?

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

And he does shoot.

The force of a sniper rifle’s attack has always made him stumble, and this time is no exception; Robb takes a step back, feeling deaf and fragile under the potent sound of his gunshot resonating through the entire room, and he’s aware of Theon’s hand reaching out to steady him, gripping him by the shoulder firmly.

It’s still not good enough. The bullet makes a hole on the target’s chin, rather than the forehead where it was supposed to hit - but he supposes that’s close enough.

"Well," Robb says, getting up not without some difficulty and putting the gun back down on the tripod. "Forehead, chin, it’s all the same - they’d be dead anyway. I’ll count it as victory." He shrugs one shoulder, feeling it stiff even after Theon’s help and advice with his posture, and nudges at Theon’s knee with his leg with a hopeful grin. "Alright, we’ve been playing your game long enough, now it’s time for mine. Sparring room in ten minutes? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you on one-on-one combat, you wouldn’t want to get all rusty."

#char: robb stark #thread: because this is torturous

Theon’s’ smile broadens into a proud grin, and there’s only the slightest trace of mockery there when he brings his palms together in applause.

“Nice job, kiddo,” he tells him approvingly, moving forward to sling an arm around his neck and give him an affectionate squeeze. “Though I wouldn’t count on it as a kill – might’ve just blown the fellah’s jaw off, left him in excruciating agony instead. Nasty way to go, if he ends up bleeding to death.” He flashes him a wink. “We’ll have to work on your aim, if we want to get rid of that sadistic streak of your’s.” There’s no malice in Theon’s teasing, of course – the words ‘sadistic’ and ‘Robb Stark’ went about as well together as ‘Lannister’ and ‘kindly’.

He pulls a face at Robb’s suggestion – he’d much prefer to stay at the range, maybe try out a few of the new customised scopes or concentration mods he’d been working on – but saying no to Robb has always been virtually impossible for Theon. Especially when he’s flashing him such a hopeful grin, and – well, Theon really should give the younger man a chance to redeem himself. And so he sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, wriggling away. “Let’s go suit up. See you in ten.”

Their sparring armour is light – they’re not using actual sabres after all, there’s no real risk of losing a limb or some kind of other extremity during their practice – but the training weapons are still pretty damn heavy, and a well-landed blow can leave a bruise that you’ll be feeling for days. “A reminder not to let your opponent get so close again,” he vaguely recalls one of the instructors telling him – and he winces a little recalling some of the batterings he’d received during his early days, before he’d developed any real skill. He’d learned soon enough how to put his speed to advantage, keep his opponents far enough away whilst they wore themselves down hacking and lunging desperately – but Robb had a stamina few others possessed. And he was bloody good with a blade.

His friend is waiting for him in the middle of the ring by the time Theon enters, rolling his shoulders in preparation. The damn bastard looked almost as good in his sparring armour as he did in his uniform. Theon alerts him of his presence with a low chuckle.

“Ready? Let me show you just how rusty I've become.”

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

It’s strange, in a way. For years, it was Robb the one guiding people, offering his advice; telling them to curve their spine a bit, raise their elbows, no, just a bit higher, now balance your weight on your right foot, there you go. He remembers a thousand faceless, nameless cadets that he helped polish, even when a great part of them were even older than him.

He hasn’t been in the role of the student since the Academy; he almost didn’t remember what it was like to be in a submissive position. There’s a pang of irritation that kicks in immediately when Theon says All wrong like Robb is some kind of inexperienced teenager that’s never held a gun, but he swallows it down and listens and tries to be a good Captain because Theon was definitely right - Robb’s duty is also to listen to his men.

Theon’s hand is warm against his face, grasping him by the chin with a gentler touch than Robb would have imagined for someone so rough and dry.

The silence is positively deafening, ironically enough.

Robb takes a deep breath, suddenly crushed under the pressure of wanting to impress Theon like he hasn’t in ages. Spine too firm, he had said. He tries to relax and rolls his shoulders, feeling his bones creak in protest. Maybe he had been too tense.

"Like that?" he asks, and it comes out like a whisper. When Theon’s reply is pushing his back into a straighter line and gently guiding his fingers into holding the rifle gentler, Robb sighs quietly. He never stood this close to any of the students he was instructing, but perhaps he should have. His posture has definitely improved a lot, putting a lot less weight on his ankles and reducing the tension of his knees. "Can I shoot now? How do you have the patience to do all this?"

#thread: because this is torturous #char: robb stark

This is incredibly dangerous territory, and Theon knows it all too well. This level of closeness, this kind of…intimacy, it’s something he should avoid entirely. The price he might pay for any misstep is too high – losing Robb altogether is a cost he’s not sure he could survive. But the feel of Robb’s stubble grazing his fingers, the soft sigh he lets out in response to Theon’s touch – it’s so intoxicating that Theon feels practically drunk on it. He tries not to let his fingers linger too long, when he adjusts Robb’s grip, but can’t resist letting his other hand remain where it is, resting gently on Robb’s spine. He’s closer than he needs to be, and he’s sure that Robb realises that – but he doesn’t seem to raise any protest.

“Better,” he murmurs, finally taking a step back so that he can run a critical eye over the results. Not perfect – but it’s a pretty damn fine improvement all the same. Robb’s always been a fast learner, always been quick to master any skill he put his mind to learning. No wonder he had been – still was – the pride and joy of the Academy.

Theon wonders sometimes if he’d ever had a hope in hell of resisting him.

A smile tugs at his lips, and he finally – reluctantly – lifts his hand from his spine.

“Patience is the name of the game, Stark. Now shoot.”

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

And Robb watches - stares, as if in a trance.

As a Captain of an entire fleet, as well as a former instructor at the Academy for years, it’s always been his job to make sure that, like he said to Theon, his men are in perfect physical conditions. Handling a gun in the way it should be handled isn’t a one-way street; both weapon and the person wielding it must be at their best, like a well-oiled machine with pieces working and moving together in perfect synchronization. The biggest, most accurate rifle is nothing without a properly trained man to pull its trigger, but a perfectly skilled marksman can do nothing with a rusty, broken gun either.

This sniper rifle is of the highest quality, designed and built for even an Emperor to use.

Theon is even better. A sniper fit to be an Emperor’s personal guard… settling for the role of a common soldier for a common lord.

His posture is flawless, as always - crouching with perfect balance, holding the rifle with firm but serene hands, spine curved just that bit for his back and muscles not to feel the strain of his gun’s weight. With that arrogant grin curving his lips and the visor illuminating part of his smiling face, Theon Greyjoy looks simply breathtaking - he looks right.

Robb doesn’t need to look at the trajectory of Theon’s bullets, either.

He does anyway though, just to tear his gaze away from Theon.

The hologram shatters into pieces once more, but not before Robb can see the three gaping holes in its chest, right inside the O’s of Hornwood’s name.

"That was really good," he says sincerely, beaming with pride. The best damn sniper in the System, and he’s Robb’s. "Alright, Theon, you win - show your Captain how to get better. Give me that thing."

Shooting a sniper rifle without a tripod is not something Robb is used to, hasn’t done it since his days back at the Academy, so even his posture must be rusty and inadequate now. Theon has some hard work ahead of him.

When he feels the full raw weight of the rifle in his arms, Robb can’t help snorting. It’s even heavier than usual, surely thanks to its quality. The weapons back at the Academy could use with an update, but this is a true beast.

"I could make a comment about your preference for this kind of guns and compensating, but I’ll try to be a good student."

#char: robb stark #thread: because this is torturous

It’s odd, really – of anyone he’s ever encountered on this planet, Robb has always been the one who has awarded him praise most freely. Complimentary words had always come rather begrudgingly from the lips of his instructors back in the Academy, forever resentful that an outsider, let alone a Greyjoy, had clawed their way to the top of several leaderboards. Robb, meanwhile, was always quick to commend Theon on his achievements, and always seemed to be genuinely happy to dole them out as well.

And yet it was still Robb’s admiration that meant the most to him, no matter how liberally it was given. It was always Robb’s remarks that made his chest swell with pride, turn his trademark smirk (rather embarrassingly) into a ridiculously goofy grin. This time is no different, and he quickly tries to hide it by pulling himself to his feet, shouldering his rifle with a nonchalant toss of his head.

“Heh. That wasn’t even that difficult. Next time give me an actual challenge, yeah?”

He hands the rifle over, a little hesitantly – it’s one of his favourites, one of the models that he had customised himself, and as such, he feels more than a little protective of it. Still, Robb’s hardly a novice, and Theon had offered to give him some pointers.

He snorts at the remark, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

“Just because she’s too much for you, Stark, doesn’t give you free reins to start doling out the insults. Show a little respect for the lady.”

Theon takes a step back, observing Robb as he drops into a crouch and settles into position, before shaking his head and quickly moving back in beside him.

“No, no. All wrong. Your spine’s too stiff. And your knee – here.” He pauses, adjusting Robb’s arm so that his elbow rests against his knee. “And here –“ He moves again, crouching down beside Robb himself now and gently turning his head by the chin, pressing his cheekbone tighter to the gun’s but. “Keep a good cheek weld – it’ll improve your targeting, and your shoulder will absorb the recoil better.”

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

Robb chuckles, fondly shaking his head as he twists Theon’s arm some more; not enough to hurt, of course not, just enough to remind Theon how powerless he is right now. He’s always loved this push and pull between them, this playful rivalry laced deep with their brotherhood - and he knows Theon does too, especially in the shooting range.

"Helpful advice? I don’t see how ‘facing that me and this particular type of gun are never gonna get along’ and ‘leaving it to the pros’ is gonna help me at all, Greyjoy." He removes the arm blocking Theon’s throat but only so he can press his hand against it, fingers feeling his veins. Everything’s really quiet for a moment. "Your pulse is going fast, have you taken your medical tests this year? Practice and a little manhandling are not supposed to make you feel agitated, I need my snipers in perfect physical conditions."

And now he does release Theon, gently pushing him forward.

"Do show me those secrets of yours, though." A mischievous smile appears on Robb’s face as he approaches the computer to customize the target. He leaves the distance, size and transparency just the same, jumping instead to the ‘advanced options’ section and adding a bright red HORNWOOD on the hologram’s chest. “Forget the head. Hit the center of the three O’s, if you can.”

#char: robb stark #thread: because this is torturous

“It is helpful,” Theon insists, “I’m advising you not to waste your precious time on a weapon that’s too smart for you.”

The laughter dies in his throat when he feels Robb’s fingers press against his pulse. Not because he harbours any doubts about Robb’s playful intent, but because Robb would have to be a fucking idiot not to notice just how much Theon’s heart rate has accelerated. And yes, his best friend can be oblivious at times, but a fool he is not. So, of course he notices, and of course he quizzes Theon about it – and Theon’s only saving grace is that Robb can’t see his face to catch sight of the rising flush he can feel beginning to colour his cheeks.

“My health is just fine, thank you,” he hastily intervenes, “but besting my superiors gets the blood pumping, don’t you know?”

Mercilessly, Robb releases him before they can dwell on the subject much longer, abandoning him to go and fiddle with the hologram settings. It provides Theon with some much needed respite, whereby he can scrub at his face with both hands, trying to force his cheeks to return to normal temperature. It was one thing to find his pulse racing after tousling with Robb, quite another to be fucking blushing.

(He shouldn’t allow these kinds of things to happen, to encounter such risks as readily and as frequently as he does. If he’d a lick of sense, he’d keep his distance more from his Captain so as to lessen the likelihood of being caught out. But it’s futile. He hadn’t been able to do it as a child, even before he’d really known Robb, now that he’d gone and been so stupid as to fall in love with him – it was impossible.

Robb Stark was more intoxicating than any substance Theon had ever enjoyed. And there was no way to quit him.)

By the time he pulls his hands away from his face, Robb’s finished with his tinkering, leaving Theon to admire his handiwork with a chortle. Definitely a worthy target.

“Aye aye, Captain,” He turns back to his gun, unfastens it from its tripod – he prefers to balance it himself when it comes to particularly precise shooting – then settles himself into a crouch, allowing himself to relax into the stance, feel the cool metal of the rifle’s but press into his cheek. His visor whirs softly, measuring the distance of the target and adjusting to its movements, before finally zeroing in the scope. Theon doesn’t bother biting back the smile that splits his lips every time just before he pulls the trigger, that irrepressible smug grin that comes with the complete and utter confidence that he will not miss.

Three cracks of the rifle later, and he lowers the gun, turns to smirk at Robb without even checking the hologram. He doesn’t need to.

“Your turn.”

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

It’s not like he’s absolutely useless at it.

One could not graduate from Wolfswood Academy labelled as one of its brightest students without passing at least each test with a remarkable score, and maybe the sniper rifle was the one that gave Robb the most trouble and the one that required him to practice three weeks instead of one - but at the end of the day he can handle it if he puts his mind into it.

Of course, it’s nowhere near as good as it could be; not impressive enough when Theon Greyjoy is in the same room, owner of several medals and trophies gained one by one at the Academy with nothing but his gun and his unbelievably sharp eyesight. If Robb is just fine then Theon is excellent, and as it happens Robb always does worse when he’s with him, as if his desperate desire to prove himself to his best friend only helped him fail.

"Fuck that," he growls quietly when his bullet hits the hologram’s arm instead of the head, pulling back from the weapon with a heavy frown. The target, pale blue against the black of the walls, shatters into digital pieces that disappear into the air like dust before being replaced by a new entire hologram in an instant.

He shoots Theon an annoyed glare, but his tone is relaxed when he speaks.

It’s only practice for fun, after all.

"Don’t mock me when you’re so close to me," he warns, a predatory smile curving his lips as he crosses the couple of steps separating him and Theon, quick like lightning. He grabs Theon’s arm, twisting it behind him with just enough force for Robb to manipulate him as he pleases, which he does by turning Theon so that his back is pressed to Robb’s chest, his other forearm pressed to Theon’s throat to keep him in place with no real malice. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than three seconds. "I’m the one that always wins in one-on-one combat, remember?"

#thread: because this is torturous #char: robb stark

Were he not so at ease, he might have been able to protect himself from Robb’s sudden manoeuvre, dart out of his reach; Robb is the stronger of the two of them but Theon’s always been faster, possessing what can only be described as cat-like reflexes. So, okay, maybe being caught off-guard didn’t have that much to do with it, he probably could still have managed to twist away at the last second, yeah, maybe a little part of Theon wanted to be caught.

Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone, least of all himself.

It’s only that he’s humiliated Robb enough during today’s round of target practice as it is, he’s got to allow his best friend some small victory.

That’s all it is.

There’s no escaping Robb’s hold once you’re in it, however, no matter how quick he may be; Robb wasn’t making any idle boasts, he really did manage to overpower Theon whenever it came to confrontational battle. He was a warrior made for the frontlines, whilst Theon was better suited to tactical warfare.

He chuckles, reaching up with his free hand to squeeze the arm that’s currently lightly compressing his throat. God, but being this close still gets him every fucking time, much as he likes to pretend that it doesn't.

“I’m only trying to provide some helpful advice,” he teases, “what good is a Captain that doesn’t listen to his men, eh? Let me go and I might even share with you some of my secrets. If you ask me nicely.”

wasrobbstark

#type: pb post #is it a pb party nOW IT IS #jfc look at these two dorks

because this is torturous electricity between the two of us » robb stark | september 3rd

Given the events of his past, it should be strange that Theon Greyjoy can achieve such a sense of inner peace on the grounds of a firing range.

One would think, perhaps, that the gunfire might bring it all back to him, that awful night when his home was destroyed, his brothers killed, and he was spirited away from his mother and sister by the Northmen that frightened his nine-year-old self so.

Strangely, it had never quite had that effect.

Quite the opposite, in fact. The shooting range was one of the very few pieces where Theon could stop thinking. His head was a chaos, more often than not, and being on the surface seemed to accentuate it to the point it was unbearable. Theon’s mind had always been a dark place; it was never healthy getting lost there for too long.

Behind the barrel of a gun, however, everything else disappeared. All that existed was him and the target, along with that feeling of absolute omnipotence that came with resting his finger over the trigger.

That was what he loved most about sniper rifles, if he’s brutally honest with himself, probably what had drawn him to them in the first place. The power of it. A skilled marksman was the deadliest thing there could be.

And Theon was the best this planet had ever known.

Robb, conversely, was not quite so skilled. He preferred close range combat and so favoured guns more along the lines of assault rifles – he was even relatively proficient with a Sabre, as Theon had learned after being on the receiving end of several trashings during sparring sessions back in the Academy. But he lacked the patience that was needed to handle a weapon as precise as the sniper rifle, always grew frustrated and let his aim waver so that they went long of their mark.

As is the case now. Theon’s watching him through the plexiglass from his own booth, his arms folded, relishing a little at the way Robb’s face screws up with concentration, eyes squinted almost to the point of being shut. Too much, Theon sighs to himself, he’s over-thinking it. Focusing too much on the target allows self-doubt to creep in, and that would spoil your aim every single time.

He detects the slight tremble in Robb’s arm, knows before he even pulls the trigger that his friend will miss.

He doesn’t exactly take satisfaction when he’s proved right, but lets out a chuckle when Robb erupts into a string of very un-Lord like curses.

“Face it, Stark,” he teases, “you and that particular type of gun are never gonna get along. Best just leave it to us pro’s.”

#char: robb stark #cold winds threads #thread: because this is torturous

winter stole summer's thrill - {robb & theon, august 29th}

He’s grateful for Theon breaking the silence with a bark of laughter soon after his question; Robb’s never liked being reduced to a fumbling, hesitant fool during conversations, and that’s effectively what would have happened had Theon not provided him with a much needed interruption.

What does he want?

He doesn’t want to marry Margaery Tyrell, that Robb knows.

But he does want to follow his duty as the lord of the planet and the head of house Stark in his father’s absence, and what do his own selfish preferences serve him for anyway? Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully surely never wanted to marry each other, but time proved them wrong and showed them that love didn’t follow rules - Robb knows that his parents love each other fiercely, unconditionally, in ways couples that fell for one another in more natural manners never ended up reaching. Why should he and Margaery be any different? What he’s seen of her has appealed Robb enough, and surely if they make a genuine effort to make their marriage work…

Theon digs his elbow into Robb’s ribs, and Robb finds himself smiling even though the doubts are beginning to consume him like the Targaryens’ fire consumed the System and tainted it in blood. His stomach churns a little but at least he doesn’t have to force himself to eat anymore - the news of Baratheon’s dead has more than killed dinner.

He playfully knocks Theon’s knee with his own under the table.

"Margaery is the one that will have to share me. I’m not going to disappear into my bedroom with her forever, I promise you I’ll still be there for you to kick my ass in the shooting range, if that’s what you’re worried about." Before Theon can insist on his question of what does Robb actually want, he gets up again and pats Theon’s shoulder affectionately. "I should go now, Luwin left me a huge file on my terminal that I should check out, something about how much we’re importing from the other planets this year…"

(I don’t get to see you half as much, Theon had said.)

"…Do you want to give me a hand with that?" Robb rubs at the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed. Is it really proper of a lord to ask for assistance with such a simple but important task to someone with no real ties to the North? Probably not, but only if someone finds out. "I mean, it’ll be boring, but if you have nothing better to do maybe you could try your luck at convincing me to bring more alcohol and tobacco from the Reach."

He can’t help the hopeful grin that curves his mouth.

#char: robb stark #thread: winter stole summer's thrill

It doesn’t go unnoticed, the way Robb artfully dodges Theon’s question, but Theon doesn’t push it. He knows Robb too well by now, knows that no matter what Theon might say, he’ll still put too much stock in what he ought to do rather than what he wants to do. Yes, it’s unfair, but it’s the life Robb’s been born into, the one he’s been preparing for the last twenty-two years.

There’s the nagging question at the back of his mind all the same, the one he really doesn’t want to address because –

He really, really doesn’t want to know the answer.

What will happen to me?

(There had been a time, once, when Theon had hoped that Lord Stark might think to marry him into the family. By the time Sansa turned eighteen, their age gap wouldn’t seem all that big anymore. Maybe he’d trust him enough someday to see him no longer as a hostage, but a son, a true son of the North.

He’d realised long before Sansa’s engagement to Joffrey Baratheon that his hopes had all just been a foolish child’s fantasy. These Northmen would never accept him.

No one but Robb ever would.)

He does his best to hide his disappointment when Robb mentions having to go – they hadn’t even really had a chance to properly enjoy one another’s company, everything had been so soured by the news of Robb’s impending nuptials, as well as the Emperor’s death. He’s regarding the remains of his pulverised dinner gloomily, wondering where he might find Jon or Robin at this hour, and if they might fancy getting blitzed with him, when Robb springs the notion of joining him in his work.

It’s a little bit ridiculous just how much his heart jumps at that. It’s not just the gladness of knowing he’ll get to spend the evening with Robb after all, but the reminder that Robb trusts him implicitly. Lord Stark would chew his son’s ear off, undoubtedly, if he knew of the offer and it’s nice to see that whilst Robb may be taking his father’s place, he’s not fully subscribing to his sense of righteousness.

“You mean your marriage might score the North cheap booze and smokes?” He lets out a low whistle, pushing himself away from the table and getting to his feet. “Shit, you should’ve said so earlier. Wouldn’t have said anything against it then.”

He slaps Robb on the back heartily, feeling his chest warm a little at his friend’s ensuing laughter, the way his smile always seems that little bit more earnest when he was with Theon.

Maybe the Tyrell girl wouldn’t change things so much after all.

Maybe.

FB | bang bang a knock on the door | theon greyjoy | march, four years ago

Her brothers. Shit. Double shit. Alys, in the heat of the moment, in the flush of Jon Umber’s most arduous attentions, forgot her older brothers and the numerous black eyes they handed out to anyone who dared look at her funny.

The last thing she needs is it getting around to her brothers that she was making out with an Umber her first month in school. It’s not fair, not really, no one ever questioned her brothers for their choices, or forced them into betrothals, or told them they weren’t allowed to have a life, but it was just a part of the package, Alys knows. And she isn’t particularly given to meloncholy, she’s always dealt with problems as they arise, batted them away expertly, or found some sort of solution.

But the Umber Karstark rivalry is something, too, she’s forgotten, and on top of her brother’s protectiveness, and her fucking fiance, lies that thread of northern pride, of the histories of their families, of who she is and what it means to be a Karstark of Karhold.

"My brothers, um, yes," Alys says, her cheeks growing pinker by the second, "I guess you might know Eddie, and Torr maybe? Eddie graduated last year and Torr the year before him. Um, please don’t… please don’t tell them about this?"

It’s only after she’s made a fool of herself that it dawns on her, who this boy is. Theon Greyjoy. He’s the Starks’ ward, at least that’s what he is in polite terms, although she’s heard her father say far worse.

Eyeing him, and the way his eyes dart around the room guiltily, Alys can’t help but feel he must have had it far worse than she had. She cried being miles from home, but Theon Greyjoy’s home isn’t even on this planet. Softly, Alys smiles at him. ”Hey, you’re the one who has the highest record in the flight sims, aren’t you? Those numbers are insane. I’m a little jealous.” Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Alys stands. ”Actually, I’m a lot jealous. I’ve been flying my whole life and I don’t think I’ll ever come close to your records. Must be in your blood…” Blushing again, Alys looks at the floor, then back up at Theon, cursing herself for her slip of the tongue. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that in like, a bad way, I just mean, well, you’re a really good pilot.”

#char: alys karstark #thread: bang bang a knock on the door

So this was Eddie’s kid sister. Theon had known him alright – not as well as his other associates in the Academy, but they were the same age even if they weren’t in the same year. Enough to have heard about his younger sister in passing.

Don’t tell them about this, and Theon chuckles, shaking his head.

“Tell ‘em what? That I found you in some stranger’s room alone? Nah, your secret’s safe with me.”

It might have been tempting, just to watch the bollocking Umber would have gotten as a result. But Theon likes to kid himself that he can pass as a gentleman.

He’s considering beating a hasty retreat, but the prospect of returning to an empty bedroom – or, worse, an occupied one – is too depressing for even him to stomach, and there’s no fucking way he’s going back to the party. Besides, at least he can amuse himself by fucking up Jon’s plans for the rest of the night. And so he steps inside, allowing the door to slide shut with a hiss behind him.

He can’t help but puff up a little at the compliment – he craves approval far more than he’d like, and he hates himself for how much it means to him when it comes from the mouth of an occupant of the Winter Planet. But he feels so often that his life has been a constant uphill struggle: even back on Pyke, he’d spent most of his time trying to impress his brothers and his father, only to fail at every given opportunity. And when he had come to the Winter Planet, nearly every Northman had looked at him as if he weren’t worth the spit on their shoe. The Academy had finally given him a chance to prove himself, to show someone other than Robb that he was good at something. He knew most of the instructors hated it: resented his place at the top of the leaderboards in the flight simulations, as well as his skill with a rifle and a wrench. But there was little they could do about it: Theon was damn good, Northern born or not.

The compliment puts him in such a good mood that he even forgives her the fumble. He can’t really hold it against her – he’s used to it by now, and more often than not it’s just plain exhausting trying to skirt around the subject of his heritage. At least he hadn’t witnessed the usual flash of horror on her face that usually appears when he reveals his family name.

“Don’t worry about it.” He leans back against the wall facing her, hooking his ankle over the other. It provides some much needed support, given that he’s still pretty damn drunk. “You’re surface-born. I’d never even set foot on a planet before I came to this one. Nine whole years. We start learning before even you guys do. The Ironborn are the most skilled pilots in the system, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He flashes her a grin. “Maybe I’ll give you a lesson sometime.”

He casts his gaze about the room, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“So, Alys…How’s Wolfswood been treating you so far?”

FB | bang bang a knock on the door | theon greyjoy | march, four years ago

The first party of the year always fell in the first week of march, giving the pups a month to discover the rest of their litter, and the bruisers and flyers a chance to find their marks, pups to court, or play with. To Alys’s surprise, despite her and Daryn’s branding of one another, she was the subject of conversation amongst the flyers, or so the Smalljon told her, his large hand resting against the small of her back, as he guided her towards the Flyer’s dorms. Kissing Daryn in the corridor her first week had only made her more intriguing, and while the bruisers might have been afraid enough of Daryn to hold back, an Umber man never backed down.

Ostensibly, the Smalljon wanted to show her the spot in the Flyers dorms where each of her brothers had carved his name, and yet before such a thing passed through her vision, she found herself in his room, his hand tugging her hard towards his bed. Shaking her head, Alys pulled him close, her back knocking against the metal door as his lips pressed softly against hers.

Alys’s lips were not untried, they kissed before. Once by a mine worker, before Eddie gave him a black eye. Once by Daryn. But never like this. Had it not been for the thought of Daryn, for what she knew she should not do, she might find herself swept up in the romance, in the spontaneity of the moment, of the expert way the Smalljon was kissing her, but her cooler head prevailed. Shaking it, her long dark locks falling in front of her eyes, Alys smiled wryly as the Smalljon tried again to guide her towards his bed.

“I think… I think I would like another refreshment,” she said, “Another beer. Could you…?” Plopping down on the edge of his bed, she fluttered her long dark lashes, relishing the way his eyes followed the lines of her body, as if she was something he wanted to devour. Nodding, he left her there, with the promise of his bed beneath them soon.

Left alone in the Smalljon’s room, Alys stares around. The pups lived in dorms with twelve to a room, but bruisers and flyers had the luxury of doubles, each with a bed of their own, not just a thin bunk. In the Smalljon’s room, there are a few pictures on the wall; she recognizes a few of the cadets as friends of her brothers. Daryn’s face gazes out from one, catching her off guard, and Alys stands suddenly, crossing the room to place the frame photo down against the dresser. Photograph or not, it feels disrespectful to sit on another man’s bed with Daryn watching.

The door slides open, suddenly, much sooner than she expects, and Alys looks up, expecting to see the Smalljon with their beers, but instead another face catches her eye, one oily and foreign, although handsome still. Sheepishly, she blushes, knowing exactly what it looks like, Alys sitting on a flyer’s bed, her hair mussed and her shirt untucked.

“Oh, sorry, are you the Sma—, I mean, Jon… Umber’s roommate? I’m Alys. Alys Karstark. I’m leaving soon, I promise, he’s just getting me a beer.”