FanofASOIAF: I won't lie, I've never been a fan of Asha Greyjoy. I really saw her more as the villain of the piece, much more so than Theon. In canon, I feel he was pushed to do what he did out a misplaced desire to please a father who sacrificed him to keep his own hide intact. Asha did nothing to discourage this behavior by becoming the "model heir" and going out of her way to encourage Theon's appearance as weak in Balon's eyes. While that doesn't really excuse his actions in Winterfell prior to its sack, I think we can see a pretty clear inner decency in Theon, even in canon. Plus, there's always the "at least he's not as bad as…" (Ramsay Snow) argument.

That may be profound truth, or the rebuttal of a raving lunatic. Possibly both.

As for the other…Given the distinct lack of information on the number of various Lannister relations, I kinda took it upon myself to create a younger Cersei, minus the incestuous relationship and desire to be a man. Or, my vision of a less crazy version of her, at least. The other clear choice for a romantic relationship with a Lannister relation was Joy Hill, and I don't know how well you all would respond to your hero raping a twelve year-old girl. But thanks for reading!

Wassersaeufer: For comments on Asha, refer to the above. As for the other, well…People do stupid things for love. (I.E., Robb, unless you subscribe to the theory that the Spicer mother was actually a witch who gave him some form of love potion that made him make the beast with two backs with Jeyne Westling. But that's a topic for another time. To answer your actual speculation…

Read on?

Guest: I love the username. Very original. :P

And, Oh yes I did! As for events in the True North, I have always enjoyed the politicking and humbuggery of the South a little more. Still, one cannot have a story including Robb without roping Jon into it somehow. Or maybe you can.

Harrylee94: So many things right there that I can't really address them all without really irritating other readers. So, I'll simply say this: thanks for a raving review! Oh, speaking of Robb and Theon… :D

Chapter Six

Dagmer Cleftjaw cursed as he peered over the battlements. Behind him lay the ruins of the slaughter.

They had held the city, but only just. If Ser Daven had pressed at any other point other than the East Gate…Dagmer feared they might have been overwhelmed. Instead, they left nearly half the Lannister force dead or too wounded to fight. Of the five thousand Ironmen defending the city, perhaps two and a half still lived to fight. Of course, most of those were thralls; Theon had taken most of the useful men back to Pyke with him, and most of his dead were, invariably, trained warriors.

Once the Westermen had forced entry through the ruins of the wooden gate, they were stopped in their tracks by a withering hail of arrows. The ram had been dropped, an obstacle to those who thought to gain passage.

Now, the ram had been moved by the few able-bodied men remaining, and set up so as to serve as a crude barrier. However, Dagmer doubted it would do much good. The Lannisters were, even now, assembling in fresh formations outside the city. Ser Daven knew that they would be unable to withstand another attack, something every man in Dagmer's command knew just as well.

Those too wounded to be able to fight had been carried to the ships, and guided under the careful watch of their captains for the relative safety of the sea. It was hoped that they might return to home in order to fight another day. Every ship and over a thousand of the survivors were sent home. The defenders were, to face a force of eight thousand Westermen, to have perhaps fifteen hundred men. They were entertaining a slaughter. But orders were orders.

A horn sounded, and a great shout went up. Bellows that sounded like challenges, or war shouts, rang out through the air. "Bastards can scent the blood in the air. Got their dandruff up."

Dagmer limped to the gatehouse, a bloody rag around his thigh. When he arrived, an excited watchman called down, "Sir! You've got to damn well see this!"

Grunting and cursing as he humped his way up the stone steps to the battlements, he nearly fainted on the spot when he looked into the field.

Enormous men on huge horses trampled through rank after rank of the Lannister levies and men-at-arms. Barbarians wielding greatswords and wearing the colors of some Northern House or other smashed into the center of Ser Daven's phalanx, and the order of the Westerlander army disintegrated under constant fire of crossbows carried by men in the livery of House Frey.

"Men of Salt and Iron! Now is the time! Let's kill the bastards!" Dagmer roared back at his men, equally baffled but willing to hack off a few limbs and crush a skull or three. The Ironborn poured out of the city, most hopping over the ram of clambering over it, and a few brave souls leapt from the crenellations. Only of few of them would escape without broken legs. But it didn't matter. At the sight of another force rushing towards them, the van of the besieging force broke and fled for the safety of their camp, only to be met by the banner of the Flayed Man coming to finish them. It seemed that, late or no, the Young Wolf had come to save them.


After a bare two hours of fighting, the field was covered with the dead and dying. Dagmer had found Ser Daven's still twitching corpse, the Stark banner driven into his chest. Accompanied by a pair of his crew, he determined it would be time to meet with the King in the North, and thank him appropriately for his assistance.

When he arrived at Robb Stark's hastily constructed war tent, he introduced himself to a young man on guard there. The fellow stiffened, and stepped inside. After a flurry of emphatic, whispered conversation, a voice called out, "Enter."

Dagmer did so, and was greeted with the sight of virtually every noble of the North. He supposed Robb Stark could only be the young man, more of a boy, standing at the far end of a table covered by a map of the continent. Immediately to Dagmer's left stood a man who would have dwarfed Victarion Greyjoy.

Dagmer cleared his throat. "Your Grace. Your arrival was most timely. King Theon will be-"

Stark cut him off, eyes aflame. "Your king is a murderous traitor. We do not suffer murderers to live." What the-

The huge man spat. "Nor the servants of traitors." Dagmer heard the sound of steel sliding against leather. He reached for his own sword, but found he couldn't. He jerked forward slightly, and looked down to see nearly a foot of steel erupting forth from his chest.

As Dagmer Cleftjaw began to feel the darkness of eternity creeping in, the last words he heard were Stark's. "Finish them all. Lannisport's streets will run red with blood once again." It looked like he wouldn't be giving the boy the beating he'd promised. Not in this life, anyway.


It had to be a mistake. It just had to be.

Theon Greyjoy, Iron King and Master of Pyke, stared down incredulously at the letter on his desk, written by a hand so familiar but in a tone so cold.

He was looking down at a declaration of war upon the Kingdom of the Iron Islands, and its promised destruction by the massed armies of the North and the Riverlands, in response to "appalling acts of treachery and sadism with malevolent intent perpetrated by the subjects of the murderer King Theon Turncloak".

Theon really wasn't sure what at least a couple of those words meant.

"Theon Turncloak?" He mused, more hurt than angry. "Robb's gone off his damned rocker, is what's happened."

And so he had. Towards the end of the letter, Theon was informed that every man he had left behind in Lannisport with Cleftjaw that had not sailed home with the wounded had been slain. Dagmer himself had been flayed and his bare corpse nailed to the eastern gatehouse's wall by Roose Bolton, with Stark's special permission. A notice had been issued that, for any captive Ironborn, the same treatment could be expected. It seemed the oldest of the Starks' mandates would be rescinded for the Lord of the Dreadfort.

Theon was just confused. He thought everyone was accounted for. All the religious zealots were fully under Aeron's control, and no one would dare defy Victarion's orders that no longships were to depart for the mainland. With the return of Dagmer's wounded, every vessel in the Islands was accounted for…

No. They weren't. Five ships had gone missing the day the Crow's Eye had returned. Asha had as well. Theon had assumed he had simply had her killed, but there had been no confirmation his sister's fate.

It's possible, Theon pondered, but what could she have damn well done for Stark to dribble hi sensibilities out of his arse?

Deciding that was a question he needed the answer to, a barely mobile Iron King descended from his chambers in the tower, seeking the maester's rookery.

As he limped through a door at the foot of a long stairwell, he almost bowled the poor fellow over.

Pyke's master was a newer fellow, the old one having been slain in one of Balon's rages. He had been reported as having drowned during a storm and the Citadel had duly sent a new one. The man was young, small, and timid; by most estimations, he was a weasel in human form. Theon had never bothered to learn his name. Still, he served his purpose.

The cowering master held a letter in one hand. "Your Grace. This arrived just a few moments ago. It was sent from the Deepwood Motte. I thought, perhaps, that you would like to see it immediately. After all, I-"

Theon silenced him with a sharp look. "That will be all, master."

The man looked as though he was going to protest, by, recalling his predecessor, thought better of it, bowed, and left post-haste.

Nearly crawling by the time he reached the top of the stairs, he heaved himself into a lightly-upholstered chair. Balon Greyjoy had not been a man of very luxurious tastes. Still, it was nice to sit. His side still throbbed, threatening to double him over in pain with every step. "Damned maester," he cursed aloud.

He quickly broke the seal, House Glover's, and scanned the contents. His face broke into an expression of pure fury. "Damn her!"

It read:

Dear Brother,

I hope you are well. It would not do for Uncle Euron to finish you before what I have planned comes to fruition. I trust, by now, your very close friend in Stark (how close is that, anyway? I'm sure he must miss you warming his bed) has reacted in a suitably unpleasant manner to your most recent depredations against his family. Tsk, tsk. Didn't Mother tell you it's impolite to murder your ally's kin, and sack his seat? No matter. Oh, and don't worry. I'm certain we'll see one another again very soon. Oh, and if you were curious, Lady Glover was all too eager to assist me in finding the words for this letter. I'm sure you'll enjoy explaining that to Stark and Lord Glover!

Your loving sister,

-Asha

Theon took a closer look at the parchment. In his shock, he'd failed to notice the ink, normally black, was red. "Oh, balls." It was Lady Glover's blood.

More than a little unmanned at the thought of Asha's savagery, he blankly crumpled the missive and tossed it into the roaring fireplace. He sat there, watching the flames greedily consume the parchment, until there was nothing left save a vague impression of ash. So. He was labeled a traitor, and Robb thought him responsible for killing his bannermen, his family, and burning Winterfell to the ground. "Not a bad day's work, eh?" He laughed darkly. "Though, I might have some awkward explaining to do for Galbart and Robett Glover."

That was how, a week later, he found himself back aboard the Iron Victory and bound for Seagard, where the armies of the Trident and the North were apparently gathering to exterminate the Ironborn from the face of the earth.


Every vessel imaginable, from war galleys to trading cogs and even the tiniest of fishing boats gathered in the harbor, all answering the call of King and Country. Or gold, Theon thought darkly. The Damphair had been left behind at Pyke, named Castellan for the duration of the war. He would see to its defense, should the Iron King fail. Theon stood upon the bow of the Victory, staring out at the walls of Seagard with the Commander of the Iron Fleet, Victarion. The two Greyjoy men remained there for a long time, watching as the wharf drew ever nearer.

His uncle cleared his throat, before asking in that gruff way of his, "You aren't going to keel over on us, are you?" He indicated his side. "You took a good cut there."

His nephew and king shrugged off Victarion's concern. "I'll be fine. There'd best be no damned stairs or a fight, though, or else I might have a little trouble."

"I'm not going to carry you."

Theon laughed, "Aye. I'd expected as much."

The longship thumped into the wooden docks, scraping along the bow. Victarion winced as a furrow appeared in the side of his beloved ship.

Cursing under his breath about the loss of his more competent sailors, he stepped onto the pier, Theon a step behind him. The young king grinned. "Well, Uncle. I suppose we'll see how welcome the kraken is among wolves and fish."

A man bearing the Greyjoy banner followed in their wake, and a pair of guardsmen from Pyke served as the Iron King's only escort. Theon liked to imagine he cut an imposing figure, though. His doublet was black trimmed with grey, the golden kraken upon his chest, with sturdy trousers of the same color. Lionsbane rested on his hip, and the Driftwood Crown, so recently claimed from the Crow's Eye, sat upon his brow. The tall, whipcord lean man had begun the cultivation of his approximation of a dashing goatee and mustache…much Cerenna Lannister's amusement.

Perhaps he did appear a fearsome warrior, or perhaps a fool. Theon had no idea. He hadn't seen himself in a mirror lately. Shipboard travel discouraged fragile and flammable objects being kept in holds or cabins.

His finery aside, Theon Greyjoy was nervous. It had been some time since his last meeting with Stark, and that letter had been so…outrageous? Shocking? Hurtful? All of the above, he thought.

The arrival of an Ironborn raider, particularly one some famous as the Iron Victory, could not go unchallenged for long. A knight wearing the sigil of House Mallister upon his chest approached them, accompanied by a dozen men-at-arms. He bared his blade and seemed ready to order his men to attack when Theon stepped forward, spreading his hands wide. "Is this how you greet a returning hero?"

The knight seemed dumbfounded, and simply spat. Theon saw his eyes flick back and forth between his crown and sword. That pairing could only mean… "Theon Turncloak, the Traitor King!" The knight denounced him. Still, he did not seem eager to stray too near Lionsbane's reach. "A hero? A murderer worse than the Mountain!"

Victarion did not hesitate to draw his steel. "You. You will bow before my nephew, Greenlander, or I will decorate the prow of my ship with your entrails as an offering to the Drowned God!"

With Victarion's admonishment, accompanied by his fearsome visage and reputation, seemed enough to chasten the Riverlander. Despite the advantage of numbers at his back.

The fellow bowed almost imperceptibly, more of a nod than anything, but he still bent. Theon Greyjoy grinned. "Very good. Now. Take me to Robb. It's about time we had a little chat."


The knight, apparently, was none less than Lord Jason Mallister himself. With his name, and his retinue, the Greyjoy party was conducted safely through the streets of Seagard, though great throngs stopped to stare with hate. None voiced any such feelings of ill-will, though, as Victarion's baleful glare seemed to silence even the most intense sense of righteous fury.

They were led to Mallister's keep. Quietly, he instructed a man to open the enormous doors, and he made his way to the great hall in silence. Pausing outside the hall, he turned to the Iron King and his uncle. He seemed ready to say something, but thought better of it after a hard look from the Iron Captain. He pushed open the doors, and called out, "My King. Victarion Greyjoy, Commander of the Iron Fleet, and…and Theon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands."

A cacophony the likes of which had never been heard, even after the announcement of Lord Eddard's execution or the very murder of Lord Rickard Stark at the hands of Mad Aerys II in the days before the Rebellion, broke out and threatened to shake the very foundations of the fortress.

Men leapt up from where they sat, drawing swords, unsheathing belt knives, brandishing battle axes, and even some of the servants went so far as to arm themselves with various kitchen utensils.

Theon's eyes swept across the crowd, picking out familiar faces. He saw lords like Roose Bolton and Jon Umber, men he'd never been less than cordial to, seething with hatred. He saw Daryn Hornwood and Torrhen Karstark, boys who had followed him in adoration, and who now seemed to have nothing but contempt and hate in their eyes. Lords and knights who had clapped him on the back, clasped his arm heartily, and offered to share their ale with him now looked as though they'd sooner lose a limb that touch him with anything other than cold steel. But when his eyes met Stark's, all that seemed to fade away.

That Tully blue gaze fixed on his own. His friend had grown hard since Theon's departure. Whatever horrors had been done in Theon's name…Asha will pay for this. Assuming Stark even listens.

Bellows from lords demanding his head, and the privilege of taking it, soon threatened to drown out his thoughts. He saw Robb murmur something to the Greatjon, as though he'd decided something. The enormous Lord of Last Hearth thundered, "SILENCE!"

The hall grudgingly grew still, though not any few men spat at the Greyjoys' feet, much to Victarion's disgruntlement.

Stark ignored him. Instead, looking directly at Theon, he said, "It's an odd thing to see a traitor bring himself into the hall of his enemy in a time of war."

"War?" So, he would play this game. "A traitor? You're mad, Stark. I killed your enemies, left your side to gather my banners, and took the heart of the West all for you. And then you butchered hundreds of my subjects and murdered one of my most senior commanders." Theon paused for breath. "And you dare name me a traitor? I didn't think Lord Eddard, the man we went to war for, was capable of siring an idiotic and cockless craven!"

The uproar was slightly lessened, that time. A few of the men less dedicated to Robb, and more to their liege lords, clearly had doubts. The conviction of the young Iron King's words, as well as their logic, convinced them that there probably was more to the tale than that which they knew.

But Theon's insult did not win him any friends among the Northmen. Lord Umber demanded the honor of taking the 'Greyjoy whelp's head', and Lord Glover expressed a similar sentiment. Strangely, Rickard Karstark only grinned at him. The man probably still wants to marry me off to his daughter, Theon thought. What an absurd man. I thought he thought me a turncloak.

Robb leapt to his feet, his cheeks the color of the setting sun, and roared, "You murdered Bran and Rickon, you fucking turncloak bastard!"

Theon felt as though he had been struck by some invisible blow. The Stark boys were dead? It was true he'd never been any great friend to them, or honestly paid them any mind, but they were still good boys by most accounts. More importantly, they were the heirs to Robb's throne. "They're dead?" He asked weakly. "How? When?"

"Your men had them…had their heads mounted over the gates of Winterfell a fortnight ago," Robb answered in confusion. Theon's evident sincerity began to nag at faint suspicions growing in the backs of even the Northmen's minds. One Riverlord murmured something about it being impossible for 'that boy to be a traitor'. "What kind of sick game is this, Greyjoy?" He spat.

"Robb, you must understand. I was sailing for Pyke, to confront my uncle Euron and take back the Seastone Chair." He looked into his first friend's eyes. "I would never betray you. You were a brother to me like Rodrik and Marron never were, never could be…" He trailed off, and stood there uncomfortably. "I…I would not do such a thing. I don't know who…" He glanced over at Victarion, who spoke to Robb for the first time. "Stark. My niece, Asha Greyjoy, made an attempt upon the life of His Grace. She fled northward." He paused, and scanned the crowded hall. "Did your people see who seemed to lead the raid?"

"Aye. Ser Rodrik said it was a woman," Robb replied shortly. He affixed Theon with an stare full of pain and loathing. "Why are we talking?" He turned to Lord Bolton. "Why has my sword not been brought to me, that I might dispense my justice?"

Roose Bolton answered coolly, "Your Grace. I do not believe it to be so simple as that. I think that there may be something to what Lord Victarion is saying. Further, the boy seems rather sincere. I do not recall him being a particularly dishonorable person."

Robb fumed silently, but nodded ever so slightly.

Victarion continued, "Asha expressed some willingness to do harm to you and yours, in order to make my nephew suffer for her exile." He nudged Theon, who dug about his doublet for the letter he had gotten. "His Grace received a letter from the Deepwood Motte, before we departed. I believe its contents may be most helpful."

Victarion took it from his nephew, and handed it to a suspicious-looking Robb. He scanned the contents quickly, and without looking up handed it to Lord Glover. The Master of Deepwood Motte stared at the page in a pale-faced fury. He admitted, "Your Grace. It does appear that this was done without the Turncloak's knowledge."

This caused a considerable stirring amongst the gathered lords. A handful of the Riverlords seemed to think it a waste of time already, and that the Iron King was clearly innocent. Only Robb and the Greatjon seemed to remain resolute in the belief that Theon was a traitor.

Robb nodded sourly. "Aye." He turned to Victarion. "What guarantee do I have that this is not some fabrication of yours, Greyjoy?"

The Commander of the Iron Fleet replied, "You have none, boy, save the word of a king. That alone should be enough."

"Your Grace. I believe that it is fairly evident that Greyjoy's guilt is in doubt. Perhaps, to set all suspicion to rest, we should offer him a chance to prove his loyalty?" Roose Bolton interrupted smoothly.

Theon shot him a hard look. What was the Leech-Lord up to now?

Stark nodded slowly. "And what task did you have in mind, Lord Bolton?"

Bolton fixed Theon with a frosty grin. "Why, to treat with Joffrey and Tywin Lannister for the release of Princess Stark, and their surrender."

"Lord Tywin has little love for me, Bolton. I may have committed a crime or three against his family," Theon said with a wry grin. Jon Umber snorted at that. Apparently, the conviction of his guilt was rapidly evaporating.

Robb even seemed to be having trouble suppressing a smile. Did he really believe Theon had murdered his brothers, still?

"Aye. A habit well-established." Perhaps that had not been a grin.

Theon sighed. "Robb. I will only tell you one time more: I did not order the execution of Bran and Rickon." He paused, sweeping his gaze across the room, meeting several of the lords' eyes. "But if you value our brotherhood so little, so be it. But I hold it to have some measure of worth." He glanced over at his uncle, who nodded reluctantly. "My uncle and I will go to King's Landing, then, and bring your request for peace to the Lannisters."

Stark inclined his head slightly, but looked troubled. Theon was sure he was harboring serious doubts. He whispered in Victarion's ear, "Well, Uncle. We're off to the Lion's Den."