#adwafasots

Asha had lived in the Westerlands for almost ten months, at first with some infertile couple in the Crag who’d decided they hated her after the first week because she had ‘behavioural problems.’ The so-called ‘behavioural problems’ really just boiled down to, of course, a lot of crying and moping and asking to see her mummy and daddy and a few other things Asha doesn’t usually get into. Even now Asha wonders what they were expecting.

She was moved into a group home after that, in Castamere. Her bitch social worker, Maegelle, a young woman who looked like a ferret and always sounded like she had to blow her nose, had informed her there’d be other children living there, which she had figured out herself - it was a ‘group’ home - and Asha had silently hoped that Rod and Maron (and, she supposes now, the other one) would be there. They weren’t. There were five other children there when she first arrived, all around her age, but she didn’t get along with any of them. She remembers pushing some little girl called Bethany down a flight of stairs, and then being hit in the forehead with a toy pony by Bethany’s friend Alys. She celebrated her sixth birthday with Maegelle in her office.

When she’d finally arrived back on Pyke, things were strange. Rod and Maron were already there, and had apparently been there for two months already, and her mother had soaked her shoulder with tears the way Maron used to do to hers within five minutes of being allowed to touch her again. She remembered voicing that the house felt empty, and her father explaining that her uncles Euron and Aeron had both moved out while she’d been gone. No one told her why she’d been gone.

Things were so… different. In some ways ‘different’ was a good thing: no more smacks; her father didn’t shout so much; the house was cleaner; her mother didn’t lock her bedroom door at night - but in some ways ‘different’ was worse: she had to go to school every-single-day unless she was really, really sick; Maegelle visited every few weeks (Asha thought she was rid of her…); and there was just something… off.

She’s brought back to the present when some blond guy with his eyes glued to his phone walks straight into her. He gives her a dirty look, and she tells him to go fuck himself or he’d be sorry. She’s at Banefort Station, one of the busiest stations in Westeros, and she hates it. The Iron Islands had gone through a pretty harsh decline in recent history, with most of Westeros choosing to get supplies like iron and fish, which the Islands used to be the primary suppliers of, from cheaper, ‘better quality,’ suppliers in Braavos and the like. The population’s been decreasing annually, and so the hectic atmosphere of a major Westerosi train station feels foreign and suffocating to Asha, who hasn’t been further from home than Harlaw in well over a decade. But she won’t look back.

The train is loud and hot and makes her feel sick. She’s gripping on to her bag like her life depends on it - it kind of does. She’s heading to White Harbour, which, along with a name that could’ve been changed and a couple of photos of a baby that could really be any baby, is all she has to go on. Well, she supposes, how many Iron Islanders could there be in the North of Westeros? The statistics she’d seen online all said they were more likely to head south. And wouldn’t her brother look like her? She’s always been told that she, Rod, and Maron look alike. She feels nervous. But she won’t look back.

It takes almost twenty hours to arrive in White Harbour, and Asha cannot wait to get off this fucking train, even though she knows this city’s five times the size of Banefort with ten times the population of the Iron Islands - still better than the train.

White Harbour isn’t… so bad, she finds, after a few days of not really leaving the shitty room she’s renting other than to cross the street to an inn for dinner and a drink. She likes the place because it’s closeby, and she won’t get lost if she has a few too many beers (which really are that good, she should take some home for Gwynesse and the boys), but also because one of the bartenders is from Pyke, and it makes her feel like less of an outsider. “Do you get a lot of Ironborn in White Harbour?” She asks the bartender, Harla, after a few days of deliberation. “It’s not uncommon…” she responds, thoughtfully. “Ever meet one by the name of Theon?” “Don’t think so, don’t remember many names.”

Asha sighs as Harla walks away to go pour beers or whatever. She stays at the inn a while longer, drinking beer after beer, watching people come and go. Part of her thinks she’ll get lucky and her brother will walk in and yell out “hello, my name is Theon Greyjoy” if she stays long enough.

Eventually she leaves the inn, not too long before closing, and she crosses the empty street back to her room. It’s small, far smaller than her room at home, but there’s enough room for a double bed, dressed in old lady bedclothes she found at a nearby charity shop for a moon, and a chest of drawers and a desk which is really just there so she doesn’t have to bend over to look through the mini-fridge when she’s hungover. It costs her a dragon every two weeks, which Asha thinks is outrageous for one room and bathroom access, and no TV and no kitchen or utilities access, but it’s fine. Technically, by all means, she has the money - she thanks her grandfather for dying.

She shuts the door to her shitty bedroom and falls back onto the not-that-uncomfortable bed, where she notes a funky smell - probably nothing to do with her spilling half a bowl of cereal over it yesterday and not bothering to clean it. She sighs, ignoring it the way she’s ignored far worse back home.

A week into her White Harbour stay, Asha finds herself at a library. She doesn’t think she’s ever been in a library other than her uncle’s or the shitty one at her high school that only had crumbly outdated textbooks and a few donated copies of popular children’s books. She doesn’t know if Pyke even has a proper public library. She doesn’t know if anyone else on Pyke can read.

The ground floor of the library is for kids, with colourful walls and carpets and coloured-in pictures lining the windows for the public to see. A couple of kids are sat around a little yellow roundtable in pink and green and orange plastic chairs, scribbling over their colouring in sheets while the woman with them looks at her phone. Some lady is reading a story about friendly grumpkins to another group of kids closer to the stairs, narrating in this annoying over-the-top voice - Asha wonders if that’s good for child development and doesn’t think so.

She remembers, suddenly, a time when she was younger, sitting to the left of her mother on a still broken sofa as she read a story in her regular flat tone, stuttering through the longer words. Maron was to her right, now old enough to be too embarrassed to cling onto his mother the way he used to, but not too old to sit gazing up at her from under his blankie. Maegelle had once told Alannys that Maron’s behaviour wasn’t developmentally appropriate for a boy his age in front of Rod, who had immediately burst into mocking laughter, and Maron had tried to hit her with the fire poker.

Asha doesn’t remember what the story was about, but she does remember her mother letting out a loud sob mid-word and sending her and Maron off to bed. She wonders how long after losing Theon that was.

The first floor is more compact than the ground, swapping about colours and bright voices for tall, full bookshelves and very little seating. There are sections for authors from each part of Westeros, excluding the Iron Islands - maybe because the Westerosi hate them, or maybe because none of them have ever cared to write a book. Asha thinks back to TV dinners with her family, and her brothers giggling when Harwyn and Vickon would read in the living room after dinner during their occasional Pyke stays as boys. There are romance books set in Pentoshi coffee shops and horror stories set in Naath; histories of the Night’s Watch and Aegon’s Conquest; Ghiscari and Dothraki phrase books and high school level Valyrian textbooks. Asha goes upstairs.

The second floor has a few bookshelves full of what looks like more textbooks, but it’s mostly used for studying. She walks past a row of desks and students pouring over their textbooks and homeworks and finds her way to one of the few vacant computers. She punches in her uncle’s library card details slowly, unused to it and waits for it to load. It’s an old one, she knows, from the obnoxious noise levels and the boxy monitor, and it takes a frustratingly long while.

When, eventually, it’s ready for her to use, she finds she doesn’t know what she’s doing.

—

SEARCH greyjoy

RESULTS

Wikipedia Greyjoy Corporation

Wikipedia Balon Greyjoy

The King’s Landing Telegraph Greyjoy Corporation Head of Finance arrested on suspicions of embezzlement

The Castamere Courier “I’m an innocent man” says Greyjoy Corp Head of Finance suspected of embezzlement

SEARCH theong reyjot

SEARCH theon greyjoy

RESULTS

Wikipedia Theon Greyjoy (King)

Wikipedia Greyjoy Corporation

SEARCH theon greyjoy adopon

SEARCH theon greyjoy adoption

RESULTS

Wikipedia Theon Greyjoy (King)

Wikipedia Greyjoy Corporation

—

She restrains herself from punching the computer in its stupid face. These things are supposed to be smart. “What’s the matter with you?” says an unfamiliar woman at the computer next to her. Her hair’s too big and she smells of cigarette. Asha doesn’t respond, wanting to be left alone, but the woman leans across the desk to look at her screen. “Is that the embezzler?” “What?” “Thon Greyjoy, is he the embezzler on the news?” “The-on,” she corrects, irritated. “And no.” “Some other Greyjoy crook then.” “That is my family you’re talking about, watch your fucking mouth,” she hisses. The woman looks at her, taking in her features, and then rolls her eyes. Asha should hit her. “You do have the beak nose,” she says, mildly, enraging Asha further. “Do you not have his number?” “What?” “If you’re related, why are you looking his name up?” “How is that your business?” “Fine,” the woman says, narrowing her eyes and turning away.

Asha stares at the uselessness on her screen for a moment. “Are you from here?” The woman turns back to her, slowly. “Barrowton.” “I don’t know where that is,” Asha says. “You’re not an intelligent lot, are you, the Ironborn?” “Excuse m-” “Why do you ask?” “Do you remember anything in the news from… maybe fifteen-twenty years ago about Balon Greyjoy?” “There’s something in the news about Balon Greyjoy every other month,” says the Barrowtonian. “What about his son?” “There are a few, are there not?” “There are,” Asha says, considering her. “The youngest one, Theon, he would’ve been a baby back then - do you remember anything about that in the news?” “I don’t.” “Great.” “What’s there to know?” The woman asks nosily. Asha looks at her. “We haven’t seen him since then,” she says, turning back to her hapless search results.

“There was a dispute, around that time,” the woman says after a while, “over some Ironborn lad - maybe the one you’re looking for, maybe not - between the Tyrells - those cocks - and the Starks - don’t get me started - lasted a good few months. Not sure what happened with it, but…” Asha looks at her, and she doesn’t look back, instead slowly and unskillfully typing out a comment under her friend’s Facescroll post:

white wine weather indeed alys , can’ t wiat for the weekend - regards , barbrey dustin

“Thanks,” says Asha after a few moments. They don’t speak again.

—

SEARCH tyrels an dstarks

SEARCH tyrells and starks

—

She finds herself back at the inn that night, drinking a gingery beer and eating a not-entirely-hot pork pie. “What do you know about the Starks?” she asks Harla through a mouthful of chewy pork. “The Starks? Like, Ned Stark?” “Yeah. Any kids?” “Why? You looking for a rich family to marry into?” Harla asks with a grin. Asha gives her a laugh. They’ve become alright friends over the time Asha’s been in White Harbour. “Absolutely not, thanks.” “There’s a couple of Starklings, I know, twins and then the younger ones.” Harla answers, seriously. Asha considers. “About how old are these twins? Twenties?” “High school I think.” “Shit,” she pauses for a gulp of beer. “What about the Tyrells? They have any kids - other than Margaery?” “Loras Tyrell, the skater, I’m pretty sure he’s one of Margaery’s lot, maybe the uncle’s though. I can’t really say.” “Ah, right,” Asha says, finishing off her drink and pie in a disturbing display of poor table manners. “Them Tyrells have the older lads as well,” says a man a few stools away. “And you know what the cripple and the special needs are?” the man says with disgust before he downs his stout and slams his glass down on the bar. “Adopteds.” Adopted? Asha’s heart pounds. She hopes Theon isn’t the special needs. “Do you know anything else about them? How old are they? Are they Northern? Dornish? Braavosi?” “Must be twenty or so, the both of them-”

That’s enough for Asha. She jumps from her stool and almost falls to the floor, only just catching herself on the bar. She’s drunker than she thought, and it doesn’t matter at all. She stumbles out of the inn and across the street to her shitty room, earning a sharp “shh!” from her landlord as she clambers upstairs.

She has her bag half packed when she stops suddenly.

She thinks. She could go down to the Reach tomorrow, and she could knock on Mace Tyrell’s front door and Theon could answer. What would she say? “Hi, I’m your sister. We haven’t seen each other in almost twenty years and you probably have absolutely no memory of me because you were so young when we were stolen away and separated. You should come home with me, you’ll really like it, trust me. Our mother’s dying of cancer and our brothers don’t care, our father runs a shady business and used to beat us with a gold club, one of our uncles molested one of our other uncles and maybe our brother, and our family home is disgusting and barely liveable. Way better than living in this nice house with your nice rich family. Also I’m a way cooler sister than Margaery Tyrell.”