House Greyjoy of Pyke

Theon receives messages from several ravens and one crow.

Tree! Tree! Tree! Tree!

Theon had not slept in days since he was unchained from the tower wall.  He almost longed for the solace of his perch, a thought which made him want to laugh. Only dry, heaving sobs came out.  A more sound man might have wondered why he was being stowed amongst loud, querulous ravens, but he had not been sound for some time.  Or a man, to be true…  

The birds chattered amongst themselves day and night.  Stannis would visit him from time to time, and a serving man brought him two thin bowls of gruel each day, but they never stayed long.  Theon could not blame them.  Nothing that they did seemed to calm the ravens.  Even when all but one was separated, it would chatter on, croaking, “Snow! Tree! Sword! Blood! Theon! Dead! Dead! Dead!”

He had gleaned what had happened and even guessed at it before he was moved to the tower cellar.  Stannis needed to kill the traitor Theon Greyjoy, he had mused with his black feathered cellmates, but Theon Greyjoy is a broken creature, no different from a battered old man.  

“You owe me your life now, Greyjoy,” the Baratheon king told him one evening.  “Arnolf Karstark took your place before the weirwood, and the Northern lords were none the wiser.”  Theon had seen the man’s hard, taut face enough to espy the ghost of self-satisfaction.  

“My life,” he had repeated, and smiled his hideous smile.  King Stannis grimaced, but did not look away.  A small part of him wanted to believe that the fiery king was austere enough to weather through both the fury of winter and the cruelty of the Boltons, but he knew that it would take more than an unwavering gaze.  

Perhaps Stannis thought that he was making an investment in the Iron Islands by sparing Theon’s life, but it would be long before the truth of it would come to light.  He knew that Asha did not know he was alive, elsewise he would have been told.  He suspected that he would be sent to his childhood home if the patchwork force of mountain clans and stormlanders defeated the Bolton army.  Uncle Euron has an aura about him, he remembered, as if thinking of someone else’s life.  He makes one feel as though they are bound to his will, even while your skin crawls.  It will take more than a wayward son of Balon to unseat him, let alone one without…  

Tonight, the ravens were murmuring at a fever pitch.  They spoke with such speed and intensity that it he might have comprehended one word in five.  “Tree! Snow! Blood! Wolf! Theon! Tree! Bran! Crow! Theon! Cold! Cold! Cold!”  

“SHUT UP!” he screamed at them, which silenced them for only a moment.  

“Tree! Cold! North! Theon! Leaf! Cave! Bird! Theon! Tree! Tree! White tree!”  

He held his head, which was now throbbing fiercely, in his mangled hands.  Suddenly, an idea dawned on him.  Theon stood up, leaned forward, and allowed the entirety of his spare weight to strike the ground.  Blackness enveloped him as warm as a cloak.

He awoke shortly, face down in the basement.  The broken man curled back to sit up, gazing groggily at his surroundings.  The quiet snuck up on him, and he gasped sharply, only to release a relieved sigh.  “It’s done,” he mouthed, careful to preserve the silence.

Theon glanced at the cages, expecting to find them empty.  Instead, one single bird was peering at him curiously from one eye, reddened by the gloomy shine of the cellar’s one brazier.  It was notably smaller than the ravens he had been accustomed to, and appeared almost drab.  A crow, a voice from somewhere inside him informed.

The winged beast hopped calmly to the other side of its cage and showed its other side to Theon.  Its left eye was an ugly, black socket.  He blinked in surprise and saw that he had merely imagined the deformity.  Then it turned to face him and blinked with two eyes on either side of its head, and a third nestled directly above its spade-shaped beak.  He shook his head and looked at the strange bird again.  It’s covered in eyes, he thought in horror and turned his gaze away.

After a collection of tense heartbeats, he gathered enough courage to view the creature once more.  He was almost relieved to see only three curious eyes, peering at him from a cocked head.  

“I mean you no harm.”

The crow held its beak open when it spoke, making it seem as if it was emitting the words from deep within.  Theon knew that he should be disturbed by the fluency of the sentence, but the feeling was queerly estranged from him.

“What do you want?” he asked.  It was not meant rudely, nor uttered out of fear.  After the vision of the thousand eyes had faded, the Greyjoy actually felt calmer than he had in years.

“To explain,” the crow replied.  “To make sense.  To show you.” 

“I don’t deserve-”  The response passed Theon’s lips before he knew what he was saying.

“All is well,” the bird interrupted.  “Some responses are deeper than thought.  Think not of deserving.  Think not of anything.  Only listen.”

He bit his lip to stop himself, and then a wave of passive acceptance washed over him.  He was surprised to notice that his missing fingers had stopped itching.  The crow hopped on its perch and flapped slowly.  The currents of air felt warm on his face. 

“He is learning,” it continued.  “It is not easy, even for him.  He needs you.  Only you can listen.  Only you know.”  The crow’s three eyes all blinked, reddening again.  

“Do not try to find quiet.  He will learn.  Now, I think, we are done.”  

The crow shrank in its cage then, receding until it was able to slip through the black iron bars.  Then it glided out, landing on the bridge of Theon’s nose.  Ruffling its feathers, the black bird reared back and laid its beak between his eyes, then again.  He squinted in discomfort, but not pain, as the odd creature tapped his skull.  Finally, as he felt the bone start to crack, the world was flooded with shades of midnight and crimson.  

Theon opened his eyes to a savage tapping on his forehead.  He flailed his hand in response, batting away the hand of the man who had been bringing his meals.  Stannis was standing several paces behind the servant, glowering dispassionately.

“I would have lopped off your head in place of Arnolf, had I known you planned to dash it upon the ground,” the king grumbled, stepping aside to allow the other man to exit the cellar.  The ravens were present once more, shifting restively in their confinements.  They occasionally quorked, but the sounds were gentle, almost sympathetic.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Theon replied, wincing through the myriad pains that were returning to him.  “It was… an accident.”  Stannis grimaced, but said nothing. 

“Sorry. King.”  Only one of the ravens had spoken up this time, yet the others nodded in agreement.  “Sorry.  Theon”

‘So they’re Ironborn?’ she thought to herself. ‘Well, that certainly explains why they stand out as they do.’

Viserya didn’t know much about the Ironborn besides the common tales passed around, but she’d heard enough to know that they were nothing like mere sailors. She wasn’t sure if that should comfort her or not. The naval prowess of the Ironborn was impressive, but she knew their boldness was bound to lead to trouble at some point; if the stories were to be believed, that is.

However, the Targaryen was not deterred by the dangers she knew would come.

“I only ask for a skilled captain and crew, and that seems to be what I’ve found. I care not for hospitality or safety. I’m not some childish girl who needs to be pampered like glass lest she fall apart,” Viserya shook her head slightly. “I’ve dealt with all manners of criminals, vagabonds, and strangers with foul intent. I’ve lived among pirates. I’ve taken lives to save my own or that of another. I’ve worked until my hands have bled in order to survive. I think I can handle cutthroats and corsairs, Captain Greyjoy.”

Gesturing to the sword tucked away at her hip, she added,”I know how to handle handsy men as well. Though out of respect for their captain, I’ll see to it that your men keep their fingers.”

“No one can say you want for confidence,” Asha remarked with a chuckle.  She was beginning to like this serendipitous stranger, despite herself.  She has given her mother and father many a grey hair, I am sure, she mused.  Just as I have.  

She could hear her men murmuring to one another as they leaned over the railing.  She could guess at what they thought of this proposition.  Men of the Iron Islands were ever hesitant to take part in activities outside the norm, and though the crew of Black Wind were a more progressive sort, it did not mean that they were always amenable to new experience.  If they can sail with me then they can sail with her, the captain decided.  From the sound of it, she might be singing the old songs and dancing the Finger Dance before they made it south of the Mander.  

“Very well,” the Greyjoy decided, “a place on a ship you shall have.”  Then, to Qarl and Grimtongue, “You two, with me.  You’ll be helping us with the casks.  We leave as soon as we take on the fresh water.”  

She smirked at his laugh, even though she was hardly someone who enjoyed being laughed at. “Oh, I can be quite afraid. But only when I am faced with someone who is genuinely frightful.”

The man’s words set her on edge, she had been tricked before and she would not be tricked again. Although she could not deny that some of them did tempt her slightly.

She reached out and took the goblet he offered, taking a sniff of the ink coloured liquid. The smell of rotting meat assaulted her senses and it took all she had not to gag. “What is this foulness!?”

The king bore the rebuke with silent amusement, but he found himself unaccustomed to the woman’s apparent lack of unease in his presence.  He was certain that it was a facade, but it was a strong and well-kept one nonetheless.  He entertained himself with the thought of making a gift of her to his brother.  I wonder who Victarion would kill first, Cersei or himself...  

The reaction was expected, desired even.  Euron offered her a smarmy grin.  “That, my lady, is truth,” he replied, raising his own cup to his lips.  “Those who are not used to it find the taste unsavory.  After enough draughts, however, truth takes on the sweetest flavors.”  For emphasis, he quaffed his serving in a single gulp.

Euron’s sibling rivalry with Victarion finally comes to a head.

She couldn’t stop the smirk from spreading on her face when she saw the ironborn blanch, who knew that such a fierce man would be as green as a boy asking a maid for her favour.

It would almost be too easy. Almost.

Who knew that Robert would play a part in saving her life one day, the thought made her want to retch. Still, she swallowed the feeling and covered her disgust with a sweet smile.

“My sweet husband was a good man who saw the wisdom of mercy.” Robert was a fool, if it had been her then she would have put the lot of them to the touch. It would save them all some trouble.

“Please, follow me.” She gestured for him to follow, leading him to her chambers. A girl was waiting for them who went wide eyed at the sight of him but Cersei glared at her and she poured them both a cup of wine before she fled.

“Surely, there is an understanding that we can come too?”

 Victarion misliked smiles; a woman’s smiles, most of all.  Behind every upturned lip and honeyed word is poison, he brooded.  He was certain that the queen was harboring fell thoughts, but he could not guess at what they might be.  No sense in wasting a thought on such things...  

”He was not afraid to fight his own battles, to be sure,” he added.  Despite what the dead stag had done to his homeland, he would have jumped at the chance to meet him in a melee.  Before he turned to fat, that is...

As he accompanied Queen Cersei further into the castle, he caught the stares of many of the attendants.  Between their fearful reproach and the oppressive heat of the capital, Victarion was already longing for the grey shores of Pyke.  A few bandied words with this spiteful woman, an agonizing wait for Balon to arrive, and then I can leave this wretched place.  

“I’m sure no one will care if it puts a bit of coin in their pockets,” Viserya shrugged, the grin still spread on her lips. “Coin is loyal to no banner.”

Viserya’s eyes followed the woman’s own as she studied her. She did not mind; it was a good sign to her. It at least showed that the captain was actually considering her offer. She seemed a careful woman, if not bold. ‘She’d have to be to captain a ship full of men,’ Viserya remarked in her mind. She could only wonder what the woman was thinking as she looked her over, but inwardly she pleaded that her thoughts were mostly positive.

“My name is Viserya,” she tipped her head politely. “I’d like passage on your ship.” The ivory-haired woman paused, looking down at the stone beneath her feet. Passage to where? Where did she want to go? She didn’t really know. After a swift moment, she decided she didn’t care, either. “I do not ask that you alter your course. I don’t care for a specific destination. I just need to be somewhere that isn’t here.”

“‘Tis true of most places,” Asha concurred.  The ports of her homeland were a touch less receptive to bribery, but she had no doubt that the working men of Harlaw had few scruples.  No wonder the island has more wealth than Pyke.  Her men might look down upon such things, but they were not the captain, and thus had no say.

“Hail, Viserya,” the Greyjoy responded with the concise courtesy of Ironborn nobility.  The name tasted of Old Valyria as it passed over her tongue.  Between that and the opulent, almost draconic, apparel the woman had on, she seemed to have walked straight out of one of the Reader’s old history tomes.  Queerer and queerer, she pondered, some wayward daughter of Volantis or Lys, I suppose.  

Water? They need water? Viserya could feel the thoughts of strategy begin to waft through her head. Looking further at the crew, she could see the parchedness on some of their faces. I can use this to my advantage.

She thought back to when she passed the port master a day ago. He was rife with anger, grumbling on about how a ship that was supposed to pick up 120 casks of beer was three weeks late. As she recalled, there was a public water well just down the road from the docks as well.

“I can get you water, if that’s what you need. Won’t cost you anything, either,” Viserya raised her brow, flashing a smile as she brought her hands to her hips. “The port master has 120 casks of beer that are far overdue for shipment. I don’t doubt that I can get him to sell them to me; just the portion you need, at the least. There’s a well not too far away, so your crew can take the casks there and replace the contents with water. Though, in exchange, I must ask a favor in return.”

“The well?” Asha had considered the option, but not seriously.  “Is the water of Lannisport freely available to those who fly the golden Kraken on their banners?”  The captain had her doubts on the matter, but perhaps this woman could use a soft word and her well-bred looks to sway the officials of the city.  This coin she hints at would likely not hurt as well, she considered.

There was something a touch strange and convenient about the young lady’s presence.  Asha gave her a more thorough inspection, caring not how obvious she was being.  Such a fine girl ought not to travel this part of a port town without her entourage.  It was, however, hard to be so critical of the situation when she herself had wandered the streets of Oldtown without company.  Despite herself, her curiosity in the stranger was piqued.

From here:

Euron loosed a hearty laugh at the woman’s words.  She reminded him a lot of his niece, with a dash more of the gravity that comes from age.  “You’re a fearless woman, aren’t you?” he responded, clapping his hands in amusement.

“I am sorry to bore you, Lioness,” he continued, placing sardonic emphasis on the title, “but I have no designs on your immediate death.”  He walked over to a table where a decanter of wine and two glasses were left.  The king sniffed at its contents, wrinkled his nose, and spilled them onto the floor.  Reaching into a hidden pocket of his shirt, he produced a silver flask and poured the ink liquid into the empty cups.

i’ll take good care of the Seastone Chair, nuncle. enjoy your early retirement at the greenlands.

also tagging @mybigfatcock​ so he can be proud 

Why did you leave me with them

mybigfatcock replied to your post

If you say mean things to my son, I will spend an entire day cutting you with razor blades and make you take a bath in lemon juice. Don't fucks with us and don't fucks with the baby boy

killthebxy reblogged your post

allow me to point out that, if you ask @mybigfatcock , he will tell you i am Jon Greyjoy, future King of the Isles and the North, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, and Lord Reaper of Pyke.

..........

*gathers Aeron, Victarion and Asha and travels to the Lonely Light*

“Hello, yes, Lord Farwynd, let’s go to those lands out west.  The Isles are lost to us.”