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The first time somebody walks up to Robb and says, “Hiring yourself out now, wolf? How long’s this employer goin’ to last?” does not end very well. Theon should know–the guy had sailed past him on the way out and landed right on his ass.
Poking Robb about his past as an assassin, apparently, never ends well for anyone involved. At least, not when they’re aiming to offend him–Jon seems to get away with the occasional question, but then again, they’re brothers, and the way Jon phrases his questions are a lot more sensitive than Theon would’ve thought, from a gladiator. Arya gets away with incessantly needling him for stories, but she's his sister, and Sansa doesn't ask at all, from what Theon's seen.
Theon, usually, doesn’t ask.
Usually.
–
“I hate it,” says Theon, while he and Robb are huddled up in a tiny little cell waiting on some guy Robb knew, trying not to think about how similar it is to–well, some of the stuff the Stone dumped into his head, “when your past comes back to bite us in the ass.”
“Me too,” Robb says. “Should’ve seen that trap coming.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” says Theon, nudging his shoulder. “You said it yourself, you thought that Rickard guy was dead. Something about how you killed him yourself?”
“Apparently not good enough,” Robb mutters, a shadow over his eyes. Theon’s seen that shadow before–or at least, he’s seen it in memories that don’t belong to him, exactly, seen it after Robb’s father’s death. Guilt, he names it.
He bumps his shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “Come on. Wanna talk about it?”
For a moment he’s afraid he’s pushed too far, but then Robb lets out a breath and says, “It was a job. Sometimes I got loaned out to people as a show of good faith, ostensibly, but really to keep an eye on them. Rickard Karstark was one of them–Lannister had two of his sons killed, very discreetly, and he sent me to make sure Karstark didn’t figure it out. By any means necessary.” He breathes out, eyes cast downwards. “So I kept an eye on him, and reported back every so often.”
He pauses for a moment, then says, “I think Karstark knew, though. Or suspected. One day he confronted me, accused me point-blank of murdering his sons.”
“Did you?” Theon asks.
Robb shakes his head. “No, that was Tywin’s actual son, Jaime,” he says. “But I don’t think Karstark cared. He knew where two Lannisters on his planet lived–Martyn and Willem were their names, and I used to come by to talk to them.” He shrugs, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I didn’t hate them.”
“High praise coming from you,” Theon remarks.
“He killed them,” says Robb, simply. “Before he confronted me he had them killed. He would’ve killed me, too.” He looks up at Theon now, and says, “I should’ve known. I’d heard rumors of some kind of–of restoration technology being perfected, nearby, but I always just figured them for rumors. And now," he says, letting out a breath and looking away, "my past’s come back to bite us in the ass.”
“It sounded impossible then,” says Theon, with a shrug, then, quieter, “Look, Robb–if I asked you more about your past as an intergalactic assassin for hire, would you be all right with that?”
“You’re not usually this curious about it,” Robb remarks, and Theon can tell, even in the darkness, that he’s wary.
“I always am,” says Theon, “but hey, let’s make it fair. I’ve got some stories about being a Ravager that would put your shit to shame, I’ll trade you some.”
Robb huffs out a laugh, and it’s easy now, with no trace of the wariness from earlier. “I find that hard to believe,” he remarks.
“Did I ever tell you about the time Gendry Waters and I had to steal the Gem of Keroshek back from some lady named Charade?” Theon says. “It involved a dragon. I’m not kidding you. There was a dragon involved. My jacket was never the same.”
“This,” says Robb, “I have to hear.”
–
When they get rescued, Robb can hardly breathe from how hard he’s laughing, and Theon hasn’t even hit the part with the fireball-happy space witch yet.
That’s fine–he’ll continue with it on the ship, on a softer surface.
Right after they kick Rickard Karstark’s ass.
–
“We should put something up for you,” says Theon, when they’ve limped back to the Space Bitch and Sansa’s seen them all back to their rooms with a stern reminder to please, for gods’ sakes, stop getting kidnapped. “Intergalactic not-assassin, not for hire.”
Robb laughs, and it sounds like a symphony, like the human equivalent of an epic guitar riff. Theon can think of a lot of pleasant things to liken to Robb’s laugh, for how it makes his stomach flip. “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to be introduced that way,” he says. “It’d save me the trouble of being asked if I’m going to stab you in the back any time soon.”
“Well, speaking of stabbing–” Theon begins, waggling his eyebrows.
Robb nearly falls off the bed laughing at him. Theon hears the phrase “you are utterly ridiculous,” at one point in between helpless giggles, but then Robb manages to calm himself down and lean forward and.
Theon doesn’t really hear much of anything at all, outside of their room.
–
The next time somebody publicly rewards the Guardians of the Galaxy for “their heroic efforts in preserving our culture and traditions against those who would wish to subsume us”, Theon cuts in just as they introduce Robb as an assassin, saying, “Intergalactic not-assassin not for hire, can’t you get it right?”
Arya nearly chokes on the edible invertebrate she’s snacking on, and Sansa has to clap her on the back to get her to spit it out.
“You realize we sometimes are for hire, right?” Jon asks.
“Shut up, it’s the thought that counts,” says Theon.
Robb doesn’t interject, mostly because he’s far too busy laughing, a hand on Theon’s shoulder to steady himself, and really–Theon’s okay with that.
--
fin.