This is my first time doing an english fanfic, so don't be mean. I love ASOIAF and George R.R. Martin is an inspiration for me. I want to write my own original stories, but I needed to get this story out of my system first. This is a massive what if scenario with some lore changes, and I really made my homework on the characters for this. Many people dead in the books will be alive, and some who were alive will appear dead in here. Please enjoy and R&R.

AN: The ages of the characters will be more or so like the show, for dates and timelines sake.

The Kraken's Dream

The weather is changing. The Storm God was fighting the Drowned God, his son Aeron would say. Yet, Lord Quellon Greyjoy was educated enough to know better; the storm was a sign. The long summer will end soon, this storm was just the first of many more to come, each striking harder than the last until winter arrives. The current storm was a God's piss, as Balon used to call it, compared to the ones winter was holding for them. It was clear enough that Quellon could see through the window of his solar a crow feasting in the eye of a hanged corpse. An ill omen, bringing even a more ill memory.

"Seeing your work under the God's piss, father" he heard say by a grim voice, none other than his sixth son.

"Not this again, Victarion. That's not why I asked you to come" said Lord Quellon, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Of his remaining sons Victarion was the only one who followed his rule willingly, although not without question.

"Those were holly men you hanged, just for living up to the Old way. They were loyal men!" yelled Victarion, forgetting himself.

"They were criminals. I forbade raids and pillages along the Seven Kingdoms, and they disobeyed. Those who break my laws should know better than to come back to Pyke and stay unpunished. Your brother Euron did!" answered back Lord Quellon, standing up despite his gout. Rather stand the pain than allowing disobedience from his own son.

"Don't name the Crow's Eye in front of me. You're the only reason he's still alive! What happened to you, father?! You used to be the bravest of all! The oldest among us still sing of your raids all over the Westerlands. The Golden Kraken, they called you for all the gold you took. Now you just stay in your chair, old and crippled, playing your games like a mainlander, even trading Balon's son as stoke and selling his daughter like a common whore!" Victarion went a step too far!

"That's enough, Victarion! I might be your father, but I'm still and above everything else your liege lord. The songs are just that…songs. They sing of Balon and his sons, who are now dead, despite Aeron's foolish claims. The Drowned God's watery halls are just a lie we tell ourselves to not be afraid about our demise! When I raided the Westerlands the realm was at its weakest, there was a war and Tytos Lannister was even weaker. If I hadn't learned to play my games as you call them, we would have been squashed. The Realm is at its strongest, yet there will always be breaking points…You have no idea what I set in motion the day I sent Theon to Winterfell and betrothed Asha to the Tullys. Peace won't last forever, and that's the moment we make our move and not before. Chaos is a ladder, my son, one we will climb when our time comes. The Kraken will rise above all, and only by playing the game of thrones you despise so much we will succeed" said Quellon, leaving no room for complains. The pain was killing him, but he stood his ground nevertheless, as he could not afford to look weak in Victarion's eyes. His respect for Quellon's strength was what kept him in line.

"Then, speak what you will, m'lord. I'll see it done but expect no more. I'm your soldier, father, but not your slave!" argued Victarion, and Quellon knew he had won.

"I heard a whisper from Doran Martell…he assures me an ironborn has conquered the Stepstones and proclaimed himself Pirate King. Some say this man bears a red eye for a sigil…"

"The Crow's Eye…" mumbled Victarion, gritting his teeth. Quellon couldn't help but smile, as he knew his son didn't need any more convincing.

"We need to act before the Silver King learns about this. You will take the Iron Fleet and sail to the Stepstones. Raid them, burn them, bring them to heel…I don't care, but if your brother is there, you shall bring him to me. Alive!"

"No, father…the Crow's Eye is mine! You will not protect him from me this time!"

"Do as you will, my son, but remember this. If I exiled Euron for breaking my laws, what do you think I'll do to you if you return home a kinslayer?"

Victarion did not say more; he listened Quellon's commands and left without another word. Nine sons he fathered, only four reached manhood, and only three were still alive, with Victarion the only one who still respected him, but for how long, Quellon wondered as he sat back in his chair, embracing the pain. He would kill to be drowned in a sea of milk of the poppy, yet he would have to conform with what Maester Wendamyr rationed for him. He opened a drawer in his deck and pulled out a small bottle, half filled with milk of the poppy; he didn't hesitate and empty it in his glass of wine, mixing it and then he drank it all. It tasted weird, like ink. Quellon dropped the glass to the floor, not caring as it shattered in a dozen pieces.

Quellon knew it was unlikely for him to be alive to see his dreams come true. He was seven and sixty, and probably would die before even winter arrived. That's why he sent Theon to Winterfell, so Rickard Stark could teach him how to live with honour and to keep him away from the poison the old way brought to his own children. It was luck that Balon and his older sons died at Braavos, leaving Theon as heir. Balon would have ruined the Iron Islands to no end, and the Ironborn would have cheered him for it.

The head of house Greyjoy let his eyes to close, as the milk of the poppy made its way through his body, and when he opened them again he was no longer in his solar, or in Pyke for that matter. He was in a land as green as jade, and as he walked it he knew he had been there before…wait, walk? His gout was gone and the pain it carried as well. He passed by a river twice as big as a dragon, maybe even bigger, but something was amiss; the waters were as black as a raven and all the fishes were dead, floating above for anyone to see. A feast for crows it was as the birds came to their abundant meal, but queer enough they only took the trout's eyes. A queasy feeling invaded him, and he just ran as far as he could get from there.

Out of nowhere, he found himself in the middle of a battlefield, with grass burnt so black as dragon glass, yet oddly the roses found a way to grow as strong as they could, tangling themselves over the corpses, which belonged to no man at all but to beasts instead; lions and wolves laying in the jaws of each other, counted by the thousands. But Quellon did not care about them, his eyes were in the giant creature in front of him. A three-headed dragon, strangled to death by a kraken, while its heads squabbled among themselves to their dying breaths. That sight filled him up with such excitement, that even his old cock grew hard.

He blinked and was no longer in the field, but in a castle hall, and that's when he saw it. A black monster, ugly and cold, who dared anyone to seat in it. The Iron throne, Quellon knew. He looked around and noticed the banners of the red dragon were gone, and only the yellow kraken of House Greyjoy remained. A shadow sat on the throne, an iron crown in his head.

"Theon?" Quellon asked, without answer. "Victarion?" he asked again but had no luck. He dared to ask again, hoping to be wrong. "Euron?"

The shadow smiled, and a chill crawled through Quellon's skin. His lips were blue and his eyes red as blood. For the first time in his life, the Lord Reaper of Pyke was afraid. The shadows filled the hall, leaving nothing but darkness. Then a light appeared, a torch. Then a man came in his direction, holding the torch. At first, he thought the man to be Euron, but when he looked again saw only a reflection of himself. It was like looking himself in the mirror, but the man had no face. The creature lifted its arm, trying to reach for Quellon's face. But the Lord Reaper stepped back, in fear. "Go away!" he yelled once, not knowing what to do. "Go away!" he yelled once again, preparing to run, but his legs failed him, falling instead. The creature was above him, kneeling as its hand reached Quellon's face.

"Go away!" Quellon yelled with all his strength. His skin burned with the creature's touch. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end to come, yet it never did. When Quellon opened his eyes again, he found himself back in his solar, covered in his own sweat. A dream, only a bad dream. He knew he was awake now as his gout came back to him.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" he whispered, expecting no answer. Except someone did.

"Shade of the Evenings, seaman. Only a drop in the milk was enough to make a seaman dream and see things that may come, as a seaman won't be here to see. A gift from a seaman's son" he heard the voice say close to the window, recognizing the lorathi accent, a man with dyed hair in white and red. Quellon wanted to yell for help, but the words did not come out, as he lost command of his own body, unable to lift a finger or to even move his tongue. "And another gift a man brought, this time from the Many-Faced God" said the lorathi, but Quellon didn't care what he said. It seemed like his gout spread through his body. It ached, but at the same time he felt nothing. The lorathi approached him, with a little bottle in his hand. "And a drop of this for the gift to be received. Worry do not, for a merciful gift a seaman's son have paid. Nothing more, nothing less".

Quellon would have killed to feel the pain of his gout again, but he felt nothing. Soon, even his eyes started to fail him. He knew the moment his eyes closed would be his last. "A farewell, a seaman's son asked for a seaman to hear" the lorathi whispered, but Quellon did not bother to listen. His ears started to fail him as well and knew his heart would follow soon. He remembered his dreams and prayed to the Drowned God, as he never has done before, for House Greyjoy to rise above all others, no matter what. As an act of magic, the Drowned God answered through the lorathi's voice. "What is dead may never die!" the man said, and Quellon knew Westeros would fear the kraken once again.