The Iron Islands were exactly how Theon remembered them. A cloudy, wind-swept land with stout keeps surrounded by clusters of fishing villages, where the longships of the Iron Fleet laid at anchor. The land wasn't very fertile, a bit of thin, rocky soil where the people stubbornly tried to grow crops. But the Ironborn wasn't dependent on the land. They made their living on the seas, raiding villages and towns, claiming salt wives and valuables through the 'iron price'.
Theon grinned as he walked through the town of Lordsport, taking in the salt air and the feeling of the wind on his face. He may have grown up in Winterfell, but he knew when he was home. Pyke was his home, and these were his people.
"The Drowned God is calling upon us once more to take up our axe and spear, to take to our waves once more and take what is ours, through iron and blood!" A man preached as Theon reached the outside of the city.
Several people were gathered around a tall, thin man who was standing in an estuary. The man wore a rough, mottled cloak of dull blue, green, and grey. He wore his hair and beard long, the ends of both almost reaching his waist. Intertwined among the hair was seaweed. A waterskin hung at his side.
Theon stood at the back of the group and watched the man preach. He never smiled, his face remaining grim and purposeful. He spoke with passion, however, about his love for the Drowned God and how the Ironborn need to take back their way of life.
"The Stag King is dead! We must take what is ours with the iron price!" He declared.
"And what would you take?" Theon questioned arrogantly, pushing himself to the front of the crowd. When he was facing the man, he spread his feet slightly and hung his hands on his belt, holding his head high.
The man stopped his preaching, looking at Theon. Something flickered in his eyes. "The boy has returned," he said gruffly. "Though he is not the boy I remember."
Theon frowned. "Do you know who I am, old man?" He asked before turning to the crowd. "I am Theon Greyjoy, last remaining son of Balon Greyjoy. I have returned home to usher in a new era for my people. An era in which we shall own the coasts of Westeros!"
The crowd muttered amongst themselves, glancing at Theon. They had a hard time believing the young man in front of them. He was dressed in ornate steel plate armor and a fine cloak, neither of which were stained with salt. Even the sword at his side didn't look like it had been used more than once or twice.
He didn't look like an ironborn, but a mainlander.
"It has been a long time, Nephew." The man grunted. "You have been away for too long."
Theon frowned, turning back to the man. "Uncle?" He asked curiously. He remembered that he had an uncle who died during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and another that was exiled. "Uncle Aeron?"
The man nodded. "I am known as the 'Damphair' now," he said. "I serve the Drowned God."
Theon got down on a knee. "I have been away for a long time, Uncle. I would ask that you bestow a blessing of the Drowned God upon me."
Aeron gazed at the young man in front of him before grabbing the waterskin at his side, raising it towards the sky. "Drowned God, your servant has been away for too long. He has lost his way. With your blessing, I wash him with seawater to bring him back into our way of life." He said before turning the skin over, pouring seawater over Theon, who kept his head bowed while the water washed over him.
When the waterskin was empty, the Damphair returned it to his side. "Stand," he demanded. "You still have much to prove Nephew, but you now fight with the Drowned God by your side. What is dead may never die…."
"But rises again harder and stronger." Theon finished firmly. "Thank you, Uncle."
The Damphair brushed aside Theon's thanks. "I assume you did not come back just to receive a blessing. Go now."
Theon nodded and strode off towards the castle, which loomed in the distance. It had been many years since he had set eyes on the home of his birth, but it was still an impressive sight to behold. Three keeps, each set on a tower of rock that jutted out of the sea. That's what made the seat of House Greyjoy so hard to attack. If one keep were to be attacked, the defenders could fall back to the other two keeps. Of course, because of the location of the keeps, an attacker could simply take the main keep and allow the other two towers to fall to hunger and fatigue.
But the ironborn were fierce fighters who would sell their lives dearly before they would ever retreat.
When Theon entered the castle, he expected someone to notice and remember him, but no one did. Everyone he came across gave him a cold shoulder or a glare that was like a hammer blow to the young man's confidence. The castle staff and guards all looked depressed. Theon was expecting to be welcomed home with smiles and greetings, thinking that his father would be there for him. But no one was.
It wasn't at all what Theon was expecting.
The young man still remembered the way to his father's solar, which was located in the Sea Tower, the oldest of the three keeps that made up Pyke. The bridge that Theon had to cross to get to the tower was made of rope and wood, swinging and swaying as the winds and waves battered it.
Theon did his best to keep his eyes on the door on the other end of the perilous bridge, walking with confidence that was expected of him. He had nothing to fear of the sea, and he would be damned if he allowed it to get to him now.
When Theon made it to the other side of the bridge, it didn't take long for him to find his father's solar, which was protected by guards wearing black iron breastplates and pothelms.
"Hold it, boy." One snapped. "What d'ya want?" He asked, putting a hand on Theon's shoulder.
Theon shrugged the man's hand off, one hand dropping to his sword. "I am Theon Greyjoy, heir to Pyke, and I have come to talk with my father," he growled, walking past the man and throwing the door to the solar open.
His father's solar could only be described by one word: gloom. A brazier sat on one end of the room, but it did little to fight against the darkness that seemed to be lurking in from all around. The fire's only use was providing a modest amount of warmth, but nothing else. The rest of the room was filled with items from past raids that his father had led. Even the furniture had been taken.
Lord Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Islands, stood with two armored individuals looking over a map. When Theon entered, all three looked up.
Theon stood a small distance from his father, standing tall with his head held high and a hand resting on his sword.
"Father," he said proudly. "I have returned."
The Lord Reaper of Pyke was a thin man, with hard black eyes and long grey hair. He had a slight stoop in his shoulder, but that did little to take away from his intimidating glare. His skin was the color and texture of leather from years on the sea exposed to the elements.
Looking at his son, whom he hadn't seen in over a decade, the man didn't show even an ounce of happiness or surprise.
"What in the blazes are you wearing?" He barked, catching his son off guard with the question.
Theon's smirk vanished in an instant. He looked down at himself before looking at his father. "I'm wearing my armor," he answered uncertainly.
Balon's frown deepened. "Did you take it with the iron price? Or did you have some blacksmith make you that pretty armor?" He asked, snapping out the question.
Theon frowned. "The blacksmith at Winterfell made it…." he said before being interrupted.
"Of course some mainlander smith made it. Look at the engraving on the bloody thing. I'm surprised he didn't make it for some southern lady." One of the people in armor joked, leaning against the desk.
Theon looked at the person who spoke, surprised that it was a girl. She had short, black hair with a sly smirk and a beak-like nose that seemed a tad too large for her face. She was lean and long-legged but had an aura of self-assurance around her. She wore a jerkin of overlapping steel plates and had two axes hanging from a studded belt.
"Who are you?" He challenged, his father's comments still ringing in his ears.
The girl looked at Theon with mock sadness. "Come now brother, don't tell me you've forgotten about your sister."
Theon's shock was evident. "Asha?" He asked. It had been years since he had seen his sister, but nothing could have expected him for the person that stood before him. She looked like an ironborn. She looked like a son.
The girl nodded. "Hullo little brother," she said sarcastically. "How wonderful for you to finally join us."
"What are you doing here boy?" Balon snapped, breaking Theon from the shock of seeing his sister.
Theon looked at his father. "I have come with a message from King Robb Stark," he said, trying to recover from all that had happened so far.
Balon raised an eyebrow. "Have you? Has my final son become a mere messenger for the family that took him from his own?"
Theon went red in the face. "I asked Robb to come here to appeal to you. He wants to ally with the Iron Islands."
"Ally?" Asha asked. "What for?"
"Robb is asking for help assaulting the Westerlands," Theon explained. "His only request is that the Iron Fleet attacks the coastline of the Westerlands, and in return, we can become kings of the Iron Islands again."
Balon's eyes lit up with anger. "You think I need some northern pup to tell me that I can put on a damn crown? I am the Lord Reaper of Pyke. I take what I want, and I take it with the iron price!"
Theon took a step forward. "Father, I urge you to accept Robb's request. We can show Westeros the true might of the Iron Fleet once again. The coast of the Westerlands is weak and ripe for the taking."
"We will show the mainlanders that we are strong, but I refuse to come at the behest of some boy king who as green as fucking grass! We are not dogs who come when called!" Balon growled, turning back towards the map. "I have already decided on the target for my raiders."
Theon frowned. "Where?"
"The North." The last person said.
Theon remembered his uncle Victarion on sight. He was a large man, with a broad chest and flat stomach. He wore thick steel plate over chainmail, with a heavy cloak of black and gold hanging over his shoulders. On the table behind him sat a steel helm that was decorated with a Kraken, its steel tentacles wrapping around the headpiece. Leaning against the helm was a double-bladed battleaxe that made Brandon Hawker's look small.
Theon frowned. "The North? To what end?"
"Revenge" Balon answered firmly. "Eddard Stark thought he could take my son away from me without retribution. It has been many years, but I will finally get revenge on the man by ravaging his land and people."
Theon was unable to process what he was hearing. "Eddard Stark is dead!" He said. "Why take it out on his people? They have done nothing to you?"
Balon rounded on his son, striking him across the face. The force of the blow sent Theon staggering. "Your years with the wolves have made you soft, boy," he said, his voice deathly quiet. "Our way of life demands retribution. First, it will come to the North, and then it will spread to all of Westeros. None shall stand before us. Not the Hawkers, not the Redwynes, not Stannis bloody Baratheon. We will take what is ours with the iron price, and kill all who stand before us. What is dead may never die…."
"But rises again harder and stronger." Victarion and Asha finished firmly.
Theon looked at his family, holding his cheek. This is not at all what he expected to come home to. No one, not even his sibling, looked happy to see him again. He had expected a hero's welcome, and instead, he was being treated like an outcast and a stranger.
Balon walked up to his son, looking him in the eye. "We will assemble the Iron Fleet to its full strength before we attack the North. I will give you one chance, and one chance only. Join us. Take a ship and reavers, prove to me you're ironborn. Or go back to your boy king and be stripped of the name 'Greyjoy'. What is your choice?"
Theon glanced towards his sister and Uncle, both of which were gazing at him with different expressions. Victarion simply gazed at him, his eyes emotionless, like Theon meant nothing to him. Asha was different, she looked at him with some degree of intrigue and even a slight bit of sympathy.
Theon looked back at his father, swallowing. "I am ironborn."
Balon stepped back, walking over to his desk. "That remains to be seen," he said, "but you will have ample chances to prove yourself, just as your sister has. Westeros is at a breaking point, the wolves and Lions are at each other's throats. While the realm burns, we shall strike, just like the days of Harren the Black and the Grey King. We will take what we want, and the seas shall turn red with the blood of our enemies."
Theon watched as Balon reached across the table, picking up a rough crown made from driftwood. "This time, there will be no damn Stag King to keep me from my rightful place on the Seastone Chair."