Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire © George R. R. Martin

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Hubris

Chapter 01:

the devil eats flies (in hard times)

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The lonesome figure stands perfectly still in a ditch near a dirt road. Merchants, horsemen and travellers avoid him. He's covered in rags and reeks of something ancient, like Death. However, the crisp morning air will not let him breathe without warning. He is alive, materially, but feels like a ghost.

('What is dead may never die.' Memories, swelling. When he'd taken Winterfell, something had cracked. 'But rises again, harder and stronger.')

Soon, a trail of wagons reveals themselves, pulled by oxen. The smell hits him like a gust of hot wind; thyme and lavender, of myrtle, goldenrod, rosemary; a mixture sweeter than death.

One wagon stops by ghost's side. The rider turns to him, face concealed under a dark hood, rest of him clothed in black and grey wool.

"I need a n—new identity," he stammers, hands rattling with coins and cold. "Please."

The hooded figure turns away. A girl with a dirty, freckled face peeks out instead. "What's your name?"

"Theon Greyjoy," he answers, and the name tastes like ashes.

"No," the girl says, gesturing him to enter the wagon. "Now you're not."

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The Cut Tongued Carriers.

Smugglers infamous for how it isn't mere objects they carry. They remove their tongues to strengthen their reliability, use orphans as speakers, and excel within the herbal arts. Their wagons creak through the forgotten roads of Westeros, picking up strangers. Murderers, fleeing spouses, illegitimate children, turncloaks; people who want to start fresh and have saved up enough gold to do so. You'd recognize them by the fragrance. It is said that the Carriers are descendants of Faceless Men.

Most people grow up believing they are stories told by wet nurses. But a servant had told Theon Greyjoy it wasn't so, and he had jumped on the opportunity.

'But I'm not him anymore. His sorrows aren't mine. As of yet, I am nothing.'

There sleep eight people in each wagon, scanty belongings inside their foot lockers. The children would ask the necessary questions, arrangements would be made, and a ritual would be executed. Some are dropped off in the villages along the way. Others remain longer.

They begun his rebirth the day after he'd arrived, using a citrus scented remedy to bleach his hair ashen. A prickling ointment is smeared on his skin, and he looks like someone had sucked the blood out of him. He's getting thinner. He has a nasty cut bellow his eye from taking an apple not on his plate.

Rebirth is a sacred thing to the Carriers. They chose misty mornings for the final ritual. The Silent gather around a bog hole. Everyone in the company partakes. The rebirthed one stands first, clutching their footlocker. They open it, and take out little pieces of themselves. Sentimental stuff. A letter. A ring. Baby shoes. Dolls. A withered flower. Some have nothing but old rags. The items are passed around to the group, in a circle, while their story is told.

("My name was Walht. I stole a necklace from a highborn lady when I was a wee lad and that sparked an age of thievery for me. And now I am over."

"My name was Maillar. I started selling my body to a noblewoman to afford feeding my family, but they died in a fire and everybody blames me for angering the gods. And now I am over."

"My name was Uelin. I loved another man and had a babe by him, but they came in the night and took my little one away. I had my vengeance. And now I am over.")

When the items reach the owner again, the owner drops it into the bog water. They walk back to the wagons in silence, feeling like they leave something behind.

Not all manage these transitions. Some are left behind, alone on the road. "We deal with life, not death," a girl says when he asks. Scars mar her neck, webbing down her shoulder and back, braided hair drawn aside to exhibit them like high fashion. "You shouldn't look so sad whenever you look at us. We're happier here, and we don't do the cutting until we're older. There's always a choice. Anyone can leave."

"You shouldn't talk to me," Theon says simply. Memories whirl through his head like a storm—a storm underneath his skin—and then, stills. "I've done bad things."

"After spending a lot of time aboard here, you learn to read people. You have kind eyes. And you haven't done anything. Have you picked a name for yourself yet?"

"I'd like to keep my name." He doesn't have anything else. No matter what the answer is, he'll continue to call himself by it, in his head. It'll be his secret. A small rebellion.

"I don't think that'd be possible. You are a hard case, the Silent say. We'll have to alter you a great deal to increase your worth."

That starts the more intense part of his training. The girl shows him (Theon, Theon, he must not forget his name) the "gardens"; the front wagon with a removable cloth on top, allowing sunlight to reach the plants. The Silent trains him in making alcohol and poisons through gestures alone. Some things cannot be learned from books. Theon's hands have bruises and blotches.

"Your father was a merchant, so you have travelled far," a boy declares one morning. "Your mother was a bastard raised among nobles, and therefore taught you subjects unavailable to common folk. You had two older siblings. One girl, one boy. Everyone perished in a fire. You travelled to get away from it all, and you tell curious souls that it pains you to talk about your past."

Theon memorizes it. He's been told to be careful about details, and after receiving the groundwork from the Silent he must build the rest himself.

In the meantime, he starts adapting the scarred girl's reading technique. She is a good teacher. She deals well with volatile individuals—who are committing slow suicides of the self—and she teaches him how to read people. When to avoid them. When to reach out. He learns to see the small twitches a woman does when men come near. He learns to predict actions from one look at the eyes. He learns to thrive in the shadows.

(Theon has a good starting point, after all. He spent years not belonging.)

And one day, he—the dead man, the ghost—is over.

A child wakens him a morning, giving him short instructions. The Silent await him outside. Endless swamp in every direction. He thinks of all the things dropped into bog holes identical to this one. In doing so, he remembers the ones before him. Little by little, others go to see the ritual. All he has to give around is a dagger.

"My name was Theon. I've done plenty wrong, but the worst was betraying friends' to gain acceptance from a stranger. And now I'm over."

The dagger drops into the murky waters.

Everybody leaves except Theon, who is stopped by the same child who'd awoken him. "You'll be a barman in the Toothless Tavern, working for Barkeeper Lye. It's located in King's Landing. Your new name is Th'ei."

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The City of Filth. That is what foreigners call it. King's Landing; the king's lavatory.

It smells like boiled urine, and if you think the suburbs stink, this is the core of it. The streets are thick with smallfolk, bumping into each other without apologizes. Bugs, crawling over a carcass. Dirty naked feet. Flies. "Fresh meat and fresh vegetables!" Fresh, fresh, fresh. That is wrong—everything here is dead, according to the stench.

Theon hides his head under an embrowned patchwork cloak, following the scarred girl through cobblestone allies. A Silent follows them like a shadow.

The Toothless Tavern has mildewed walls. There is a pool of liquid oozing out from under the door. For a moment Theon imagines it to be blood instead of beer. He swallows thickly.

"You will receive no more help than this. This life is yours. Do what you wish with it."

He nods. When they leave, there'll be no trace that they've ever been there. "Thank you," he whispers. He turns towards the tavern, but a hand on his sleeve stops him. It's the girl. "Seek out this man. He'll help." She hands him a piece of paper, containing a name in precise handwriting. He puts it in his pocket.

Theon does not look back. Surprisingly, the tavern is smaller than he'd imagined, darker, cleaner. There's no shit here. Just dust; an ancient cleanliness. Theon predicts that it has its few regulars who keep the silver coming. He heads for the counter, where a bald man refills a cup. "Excuse me, uh, I'm here about the job...?"

The man pauses. Looks around. Regards Theon, studying him. "You must be Th'ei. I'm Barkeeper Lye. The last barman disappeared a month ago, so you'll have his job and his room in the attic. Meals and housing fees will be subtracted from your salary. Do you have the...?" Theon hands him the pouch of silver stags. One of the Carriers' guarantees. "Good. Do as I say and we'll get along fine."

It sparks another learning period for Theon. Barkeeper Lye is a strict teacher, but underneath the patchwork of rough, callused skin is a gentler man, one who loves his daughter, Vinga, more than anything. He fought in a war once, but he will not say which. Theon mostly cleans and dusts until it is clear that he excels in brewing ale, and is allowed behind the counter. That is the least challenging part.

He does not know this city.

Nearly half a million live in here. People reproduce in great numbers because you never know who's going to live. A boy is murdered for writing a dead king's name backwards on a wall. Another has its head crushed with a vase that falls from a roof. This city eats its young. Slurps them up like little worms, little sacrifices, sucking on its fingers. And Theon doesn't know how to avoid its jaws. He doesn't know its streets, its allies, its hidden corners.

(Barkeeper says, "Never talk to people that don't talk to you, or you'll end up facedown in the water."

Seamstress says, "We all know she did it although I can't prove it, and one of these days I'll kill her with my bare fucking hands."

Bastard girl says, "Blood is nothing when in a pool on the ground, I've checked."

Beggar says, "I made all his sons kill themselves and he still hasn't found out why.")

The final fall is when King's Landing notices him, peering with wide eyes and a hungry mouth. Theon feels its stinking breath on his neck. The city moves through its inhabitants like wind, or a god, and suddenly, they're asking questions. Theon struggles with proper etiquette. Barkeeper Lye keeps them at bay—"don't bother the poor boy, he's had enough" and "by the seven, have some respect, we've all lost a loved one"—but cannot conceal the curious stares (the dripping, drooling mouth).

Theon must adapt or die, or he will be eaten. Some things never change.

That night, lying on his windowsill bed in the attic with his belly full of rat soup—it tastes like nothing if you salt it enough—he reaches out to the crumbled note in his pocket.

Acolyte Ramsay.

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Many know him.

They point out directions, begrudgingly, as if the action is a hated chore. The allies thin, and the buildings totter. Used furniture and heaps of garbage fills the area, roamed by stray dogs and cats. Shady people move past him, avoiding eye contact. After a point, they stop being begrudged. The cheap whores and the drunken fools smirk at him. 'You are in trouble,' their eyes say when he asks for Acolyte Ramsay. 'I'm just glad it isn't me.'

A mute old man points him up some stairs. Finally. It is a dead end, small paradises on each side. Trees and green plants hang over the foundation, and Theon realizes that they are poisonous. Do people come here to take their own lives? The house at the left is nicer than most in the area, but its eerie atmosphere makes it less desirable. He enters through a curtain door. There seems to be a waiting room. The wall paint makes Theon think of flesh, as if the house was made of it.

"Yes?"

The voice is harsh, tight; serious. It protrudes through the wooden door like a cold knife sliding across Theon's eyeball.

He goes to meet a devil. There is another room within, complete with a table and chairs on each side. Dark deals are made here. Little things tell of the owner's status; calligraphy scrolls, hand painted lacquerwear, and a huge war horn. Maesters aren't supposed to own things like these. He either has noble blood, or he's well paid.

Acolyte Ramsay sits at the other side of the table, arms crossed. He chews on the inside of his cheek; a bored, but contemplative habit. A chain of links hangs from one of his pockets, sewn into his simple, ashen shirt. He isn't yet a maester. There is nothing particularly eerie about him, except the eyes in the colour of oysters.

They betray what moves within.

"What do you want?"

"Information," Theon answers, a bit chokingly.

"Don't we all." Ramsay draws a cloak of manufactured cool over himself—but the sharpness of his eyes doesn't lessen. Despite having very few maester links, there seems to be invisible ones draped over him. "But wanting and receiving are two different things."

"I have silver."

"We don't trade money here," Ramsay says. "We trade information, and skin, and blood. It runs thick underneath this city, which was built on dead bodies. If you remove the upper layer, you'd find them. But, alas, you're not from here, are you?"

Theon shakes his head. "I work for Barkeeper Lye. My name is Th'ei, and—"

"You reek of perfume. Why is it always liars that smell like perfume?" Then he adds, "You fit right in here."

"I need more. I don't... I don't know the city. Not anyone else, either."

"Adapt or die." He twitches, blinking out of synch. "Listen, I run a business, not a charity. You have nothing to offer me. You are no one; nothing."

Theon can think of multiple responses to that. I am a friend and brother of the Starks (but he is over) I am the last remaining son of Lord Balon Greyjoy (but he is over) I am a conqueror and a turncloak, and I burned my home down (but he is over)—

'Fool!' Theon chides himself. If he wanted to keep his name—even only in his head—he had to let go. 'You are no one.' "I'm sorry. I shall leave at once. Thank you for your time, my lord." Theon heads for the door. 'You must not look back. Never. Remember who you are.'

"Milord, not my lord. Isn't that the very basics on how to disguise yourself?"

Theon dares not turn around.

"Who are you, really?"

"No one. Milord."

He leaves without another word.

The flesh house's curtain blow in the breeze, like a ghost.

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Theon is good at blending in, despite the stares he get from coming from Ramsay's quarters. Sandals click against the stones, but he is silent and grey like the latter. Lanterns are lit along the creased roads. He dwells within his own mind, head hunched, until he bumps into someone.

The person does not flinch.

A screech is heard. Feminine. The person in front of Theon is thrown aside, prompting a domino effect; several others also stumble to the side. A horrified woman runs through the gathering crowd, still screeching. "Move aside!" another voice yells, soldier like. A sword shines in lantern orange and he uses it to make a path. Theon—scrawny, unimportant little Th'ei—squeezes past him. He is confronted with something horrible.

There hangs a corpse on lumbers forming an x, arms and legs erected. Its hands are bound against the lumber. It has been drowned. The skin has a blueish tint, and its mouth is twisted in a final look of panic. It is naked; disclosing its sex as male. Theon prefers to refer to it as an object, not a person. Just a blotchy sack of meat, dripping wet. Small items turn it into an altar. This time it isn't the city demanding sacrifice. Salt is laid in a circle around it, accompanied by scraps of stone and steel. Weapons. Ore. Statues.

"Salt, stone, steel," Theon murmurs, remembering. It is a sacrifice; all ironborn can see that, no matter how many layers hide them. "The Drowned God," he recognizes.

Out of a sudden a hand grabs his shoulder, forcing him forth.

"How the fuck do you know that?"

And suddenly Theon is the centre of attention.