#krakensofpyke

When Theon was younger he'd dream of the ocean.He'd often awaken from such dreams with the taste of salt still on his lips, and the notion that when he opened his eyes he might spot a seagull wheeling, white and black against the gray of the Islands skies. In reality, however, the only squawking in Winterfell was that of the ravens and the foolish old women. There were no seagulls this far inland, nor osprey, or even the lumbering great albatross that brought with it ill-omens. No, Winterfell belonged to different gods and different men, and here he would live for the rest of his days.The thought weighed heavily upon him, and the older he got the less he spoke of the Islands and the culture that was his very birthright. He'd still speak of it if bidden, or if an ill-word was thrown to his family's name, but in general he hid his own thoughts behind a crooked smile and a cruel word. It was better, by far, to be cruel than to be viewed as weak. Being homesick was weak.It was easy to shut his mouth when Balon never deemed fit to return his letters, in any case.His spirit had flagged deeply when he found the shell at his bedside. It was nothing special, no, simply a plain black ovoid shape, hollowed out and iridescent white within. It was smooth to the touch, almost scaled when one looked at the drab backside. Nevertheless, in a heartbeat Theon recognized the common mussel, and slowly took it up on his hand. How many times had he come across these in his youth? How many times had his thumb fit the hollow, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing the smooth surface as he tried to get himself through another frightful night when the wind howled and footsteps rang throughout the hall of the Sea Tower?He slid it into his pocket without a word.He'd carry it with him, a talisman often fondled, often felt, for the remainder of his life. For the first time in years, he felt close to the sea once more.

Viserya stepped carefully along the docks, cautiously passing sailors and townsfolk alike as she did her best to stay out of their paths. Lannisport was a nice enough place, but she was not content to stay here, let alone anywhere, at the moment. She examined the boats and their captains in her search of passage, but all were either undesirable or were not leaving port for at least another week. The wanderer wasn’t quite sure if she was more annoyed or disappointed at the thought of having to stay for another week. Nonetheless she continued her search.

She was very familiar with pirates; she’d befriended a crew whom she usually travelled with when she decided to take to sea. But there were no familiar faces here. There were certainly pirates around; she saw small things in their behavior that set them apart from the other sailors. However, her attention was drawn instead to one much larger crew. They didn’t seem like the other sailors. They certainly gave a far rougher impression than even the most hardy sea crew there. They didn’t quite seem like pirates either; they didn’t have that scattered, out of place feeling like a miss-matched puzzle. No, every one of them the looked like they belonged.

A caustic reply died on Theon's lips as the full wave of Balon's disdain washed over him. He knew better than to speak ill to his father before the Seastone chair. Standing in the cold of the Bloody Keep, it occurred to him that never in his imaginings had he ever seen it going this way. He should have known better, should have remembered better. Of course Asha would play a cruel trick on him, when did Maron and Rodrik not tease him in as cutting a manner as they could devise? Why would his sister now be different?

Why would Balon take him seriously now, when never before had he had a kind word? He wondered briefly where his mother was now, if she had passed, if she had missed him. Too often he'd been mocked for clinging to her skirts, but she had always treated him with a certain kindness that the Greyjoys had lacked. He breathed in, and wondered what explanation he could offer.

This was no game. It never had been a game.

He had named his ship after the woman who had greeted him on shore, and no finer a wench had he ever met in the whole of his life before this. He named the ship for all that she symbolized, a return to the life of a true Ironborn. He would have taken her, swollen with babe as she was, married as she was. He would have taken her hard for she was what he wanted most, and that was what the Ironborn did. They took what they want. The Sea Bitch symbolized all of these things, and more.

But the woman had been his sister. But the craft was already named.

So he kept the name out of defiance, and as a memory of what he needed to overcome in order to gain his family's trust, his family's respect, his rightful place upon the whole of the Iron Islands. Hangdog, shoulders slumped, he shook his head.

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Mischief sparkled in the Greyjoy’s black eyes. “Is that so, Lady Stark?” he said with a smile, “Afraid that someone might catch you at something ill-befitting of a lady?”