Rodrik Greyjoy - Heir to the Heir of Pyke

"Land ahoy!" he called, though he'd spotted the western coast of Pyke a good few minutes ago.

They'd crossed Harlaw about four hours ago and had to switch to the rowers as the wind had died down considerably. He'd spent the past day just working on the timepieces. He had all the parts to make fifty new ones—fifteen sets of Gold and thirty-five sets of silver pieces. He made good progress on them. He'd only stopped when he'd dropped a golden spring somewhere, not before cursing himself for a good few minutes. Still, he thought it was better he had pre-ordered so many extra pieces.

"Good eye, lad! At current pace, we should be making port just after dinner time, then." came Ralf's grumpy voice.

"Double time it then cap'n. Dinner's on me if we make port before nightfall!" Rodrik responded.

"YA HEARD 'IM BOYS! DOUBLE TIME AHEAD, MUTTON STEW AWAITS YA!" A considerably happier Ralf yelled.

It was quite refreshing to be on the sea for Rodrik. Especially with true ironborn sailing the ships. There was something calming about sailing with honest cutthroats. They were simple men who only cared about few things - gold, glory, and gore. And mutton, must not forget that.

He could see in his mind just how sparsely the culture of the Drowned God affected the men. Of course, they still did not sow, so that might be a reason why, but food for their bellies and gold in their pockets made a lot more people happy than they caused discord.

After all, not everyone can be an elite warrior and an elite commander. There's a reason Andrik the Unsmiling was talked about more than Quellon Greyjoy. That man could command a ship with some competence, but he was a nightmare for the common seafarer with his double-headed battle-ax.

This meant that most ironborn would simply follow the man in power as long as he got them their dose of the three G's and kept food in the bellies of their families while they were out on the sea. The politics didn't matter to them, and the religious fervor that the original timeline had mentioned came from wounded pride more than anything else. After all, give a scorned man an excuse to draw revenge, and they'll put all they've got onto it.

They were simple, not very smart men, and that worked very, very much in his favor. However, it did pose its shares of problems. He'd have to take the lead in almost everything and hand them just enough to keep their appetites sated. If he gave them too much, even the smallest setback would cause everyone to lose their minds. The difference between the mainland Westerosi culture and the Ironborn culture was that the Westerosi were either nobles or smallfolk, while the Ironborn had a third category.

The Westerosi nobles were mostly educated enough to control their keeps, and the rest of the armies were controlled either by trusted lords or the lord's family. The Ironborn didn't have that. Nobles were a lot closer to the smallfolk for their insistence on not following mainlander traditions. The absence of maesters did affect their education to a degree. Finally, there were the thralls - the smallfolk of the Ironborn culture. They toiled so that the ironborn could keep their families fed. The ironborn then sent a part of the produce they received from thralls to the High Lords as tax. In essence, the Ironborn didn't have to work for food in their bellies. And that took away pretty much all the good values that would have been ingrained in the culture.

They weren't very hardworking, knew enough about fighting to know when to use an ax and when a knife, and didn't care for much other than the three G's. After all, they were fed without them having to do much other than have a few thralls to their name. And yet, to do that, they had to go out raiding and capture their thralls themselves. Hence, the Ironborn - that made around twenty percent of the population of the Iron Islands were completely dedicated warriors with no other purpose than to raid and reave.

There was a strategy to Quellon's plan of reforming the culture. A quite brilliant one, if Rodrik said so. By making the Ironborn less reliable on the thralls for food, more of them were pushed to the mines. While that allowed their iron production to rise sharply, Quellon recognized that it wouldn't stay the same for much longer. After all, working in mines was a high-risk job, and the life expectancy of the thralls lowered drastically compared to when they were farming. That, combined with the ban on capturing more, ensured that there would be no more thralls in the Isles before long.

Here is where the trade came in. The massive exports of iron brought the ironborn the capital. As usual, two-fifths of the 'capital' was taken by the high lords as tax. Now the lords had more money, as did the ironborn. They just didn't know that they'd traded their assets for it.

In the meantime, Quellon was sailing across all the seas known to people, trading goods and making himself coin to buy more. His skill with trade earned the Greyjoys more than many the Great Houses of Westeros did in the same timeframe.

For one, flooding the market at Barrowtown with cheap seal skin leathers meant that the demand for heavy leathers in the western part of the North dropped quite a bit, and the tanners were forced to look for alternatives. A few hints dropped by Quellon in the taverns about the need for animal skin rugs and other fancy decorative items were enough to push the depressed and drunk tanners to make rugs and other utilities with it instead. Quellon then bought these products for cheap and sold them in the South at high prices. After all, if there was one thing that the North always produced the best quality of - it was the leathers.

There was always a noble or ten looking for a nice warm bearskin rug. So naturally, those rugs fetched an even higher price in Essos. That was just one aspect of his trading strategy.

Oh, Rodrik respected Quellon a lot. If only Balon saw the plan for what it was. After all, not all the noble houses in the Isles would have been able to compete with the level of trade Quellon did. They would rather get expensive armors and repair their keeps. And them having fewer assets would mean that they would have to respect the growing wealth and prestige of the Greyjoys—capitalism at its finest. All part of a grand plan to move an entire culture from militarism to mercantile leanings.

Rodrik brought himself back out of his mind, looking at the quickly approaching docks of Lordsport. Six leagues of well-maintained piers and construction yards. It was massive; it had to be to field hundreds of ships in preparation for Balon's Rebellion.

He hopped out of the crow's nest and quickly scrambled down the mast. Making his way down to his cabin, he washed his face and gulped a few mouthfuls of the freshwater before putting on some of his finer clothes. He was, after all, meeting his family after a long time.

He could feel the ship slowing as he walked back up onto the deck.

"Reverse, full speed!" he heard Ralf shout, followed by, "Starboard oars in!"

"Cap'n," he called, knowing that the rest of the procedure would be the task of the dockhands.

"Aye, little Greyjoy. Talk to the Lord Reaper for me; else my blade gets wet off your neck."

"Careful now, Ralf. I gave my word, but you don't threaten the family of your Lord. Who knows it'd be his blade getting wet of your blood?"

Ralf blanched a bit before composing himself again. "I said what I said. Now get off me ship."

"Gladly," Rodrik responded before throwing a small pouch of gold to the Captain.

"The cap'n has the gold for your mutton, lads! Don't let him eat it all by himself!" Rodrik said, as a last fuck you to the captain, before he disembarked.

He could already see the excitement of the crew and feel the glare Ralf sent his way. Serves him right. He should have known that threatening a noble would have its consequences. Now, none of the gold in that bag would make its way into the captain's pockets.

There was no welcome party waiting for him when he disembarked. But that made sense. Ironborn don't pander. There was no reason for dozens of people to walk to Lordsport, only to walk back to Pyke a few minutes later. So, he prepared himself for a good twenty-minute walk from Lordsport to Pyke.

The five or so mile-long pier was a sight to behold, the first proof of the brilliance of Quellon Greyjoy yet again. The Iron mines of Pyke being overworked produced a ridiculous amount of stone, too, and where better to use the stone than to create a longer pier, harbor, and shipbuilding corridor? It had been the first thing that Quellon had ordered when he'd taken the Seastone Chair. Lordsport had gone from being the third-largest port in Westeros to the largest, and it was bigger than the Purple Harbor and the Ragman's Harbor of Braavos, though both Braavosi harbors combined would still be larger.

He crossed many docked ships to get to one of the six exits to the harbor. The sheer number of people working here to make the docks efficient was ridiculous. It was due to Quellon Greyjoy's efforts that Balon ever managed to raise a fleet of the size he did during his rebellion.

There was so much potential in Quellon's plans, yet the location of the Iron Islands made it impossible to bring to fruition. The Riverlords had access to Seagard, the Saltpans, and Maidenpool for their exports, and the Westerlords would never not use Lannisport for their trading interests. The North was their only source of unique material, and that too only on the Western Coast. Lord Manderly, who he had assumed to be Lord Argent, would be taking care of the exports everywhere else.

Was there a need for a harbor of this scale? Not for trading interests alone. In fact, their location was ideal for the construction and posting of a Navy. If only Aerys weren't obsessed with Valyrian blood, or… completely mad, you know, he could have tried to convince his grandfather to retire from the life of a seaman and take the Master of Ships position with just a few donations to the Royal Navy.

He stayed in his thoughts as he made his way to the Dockmaster's building. It was the only three-storeyed building in Lordsport - thus somewhat easy to spot. Once there, he passed instructions to have his chests in the Sea Farm delivered to Pyke before leaving.

The walk up the hill to Castle Pyke was done mostly in silence. It was just past dusk, and not many people were willing to brave the uneven road without the sun illuminating their path. Unfortunately, there weren't any seal oil lanterns illuminating the path. Quellon Greyjoy wasn't one to burn valuable trading resources just for the luxury of lighting ten thousand braziers through the night for the two miles or so of the path from Lordsport to Castle Pyke.

So all Rodrik had on him was the clear sky to guide him and a replica of a modern M9 Bayonet combat knife for safety as he walked the path. Then, around halfway through, he began to hear the sounds of a scuffle between two people. At least, he assumed it was just two people, as there were only two distinct voices he could identify from his distance.

Around fifty or so yards away from the two men, he stopped to see what was happening. One of the men, the one of smaller stature, was absolutely pissed, trying his best to gut the man across from him. However, the bigger man was deceptively agile for his size and dodged the knife while placating the smaller man.

Rodrik could spot the knife on the taller man's belt, but he didn't draw it. He could have jumped in to stop the scuffle, but from a glance, Chrysaor's memories supplied that the smaller man was of no threat to the bigger man. And so he stood by, just out of sight of the two, as he watched the bigger man with interest.

If he was as good with his weapon as he was without it, then the man could be a valuable addition to his crew when Rodrik eventually got himself a ship to captain. It took less than two minutes of swinging around madly for the smaller man to tire completely and collapse to the ground sobbing.

The taller man went ahead and grabbed the smaller one in his arms and drew him in a fatherly sort of a hug.

It was then that Rodrik decided to walk forward. He cleared the small distance silently, and once in range of the duo on the ground, he called, "Well, this is sweet and all, but…."

That was all it took for the taller man to whip out his blade, something that looked deceptively like a kukri knife, except it was just shy of three feet of steel.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here this time of the day?" The taller man barked.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking the question? I am Rodrik Greyjoy, son of Balon."

The bigger man quirked an eyebrow at that. But, now that Rodrik looked closely, the bigger man was not that big - smaller in stature than his grandfather. The smaller one, though, he couldn't be more than twelve. So he looked closer to a tall ten-year-old. And just like that, it clicked in his mind.

"Nuncle Rodrik, cousin Harras, a pleasure to meet you once again. I'm afraid the moon doesn't shine enough to help me recognize my favorite nuncle, and the same is true in reverse. After all, I never would've thought my beloved nuncle would pull a sword on me." Rodrik feigned a heartbroken look on his face. It looked remarkably like the patented Percy Jackson baby seal look.

"Bah, come here, you little menace!" He grabbed Rodrik and pulled him into a hug. "Bring any books for your nuncle, boy?" He asked, just before he released him enough to hold him at arm's length and stare at his face for the first time after four years.

"Aye, nuncle. I think you'll particularly enjoy A Caution for Young Girls." There was total silence for half a second before Harras from behind let out a choked laugh. Rodrik grimaced. That wasn't the best sound. Making a very emotional eleven-year-old laugh at an inappropriately timed joke was not the worst, though, as both Rodriks joined in the laughter.

"But nuncle, I do have a few books for you. Cannibals and Dragonglass - The Truth Behind the Mysterious Skaagos and a new copy of the Jade Compendium. I remember you telling me that yours had half the pages rot away. Well, fear not, for both are written on waxed parchment."

"Magnificient. Harras, come along; we've been out of the Castle for a while now. It would be best if we don't give my goodbrother any ideas. Come Rodrik, join us on the way back."

He saw the elder Harlaw pick up a lantern from where it was kept on top of a rock. He pulled out something from inside his pockets and exclaimed, "Take a look at this, dear nephew! I am Azor Ahai, and behold the Lightbringer!"

That something turned out to be a matchstick - or some imitation of it. It was a foot-long thin stick - sort of like the Harry Potter wands. He handed the stick to Harras as he unsheathed his sword once again. Grabbing a rather rough whetstone from another pocket, he roughly slid it on one side of the sword, producing a shower of sparks that caused the top quarter of the wandlike stick to burst into flames. Chrysaor's memories provided that it was just pinewood infused with sulfur, but damn it looked cool.

Harras then quickly put the burning stick inside the lantern, which lit up without a fuss. Then, throwing away the stick, Harras stomped roughly on it with his foot, which quickly extinguished the flame.

"My my, nuncle, seems like your voyage to Yi-Ti paid off. I just hope I didn't bring you your tenth copy of the Compendium."

After all, since he had been to the furthest corner of Essos, he surely could have found and bought a copy for himself.

"Nay, dear nephew. Those fools think that they see someone without those tiny eyes and bowl-shaped hats, and it automatically means they landed themselves in a pile of gold. Fuckers tried to get me to pay three hundred gold pieces for a copy of the Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood. Ten years ago, I might have begged my father to get me one, but when ten thousand gold is all I'd earned after seven moons on the sea, I'd be a fool of the heavenly sort."

"Good that you didn't, then, nuncle. I believe I can get you a lot more than just that book for a minimal price. You see, I've made a few friends in Riverrun. The maester has a copy of the book there that I had borrowed for reading. I left it in my room when I left and instructed a ward to return it."

"Ten dragons with the book along with a parchment saying forty more 'if you copy the book and bring it to me by the end of the year?'" He let out a long, hearty laugh. "You're learning from me, nephew! Good. Ingenious, if I say so, but I'd just be praising myself." He poked Rodrik in the side.

"So, cousin Harras, how has your stay in Pyke been. It's just your second time here, is it not?"

"Aye, Roddy. It's been…" he ended with a shrug. But, damn, was he that depressed about something, or was it that phase of his life already?

"It's Euron. He's a monster. Harras was trying to get Urri to stop crying about something, and Euron happened upon him." A dark look crossed Rodrik Harlaw's face. One that he hadn't seen on his face ever before. Rodrik Harlaw was an easygoing man - curious about the mysteries of the world. A blend between Tyrion Lannister and Samwell Tarly, with a love of sailing to top it off.

But one thing could be said about Euron in very simple words. He brought out the darkest sides of everyone he interacted with - one could feel the chaotic evil energy flood them the moment he entered the room. Rodrik looked over to Harras for a moment before a flash of recollection hit him. He remembered reading that Euron sexually abused both Aeron and Urrigon in their childhood.

And suddenly, everything made sense. It took every bit of control Rodrik had not to interrogate Harras in front of his uncle. Rodrik Harlaw would never allow Euron to go unpunished; he would demand justice and restitution from Quellon, and rightfully so. And Quellon couldn't sentence Euron to death, now could he. Sentencing him to exile would be giving him everything he wants on a silver platter. No, Rodrik would have to plan this out. Euron wasn't a monster one should leave for the future. He was a highly contagious unstable element that would very well go nuclear in the coming years.

No. Rodrik Greyjoy had to deal with Euron in a way that didn't allow much room for doubt. Euron would die. He would die soon, and he would die in a matter undignified for a character that took so many chapters in the epic books. But this wasn't a story to him, not anymore. The people whose lives he was ruining weren't characters in a book who popped up once in a while, never to be named again. No, they were family.

Half of Rodrik was a son of Poseidon. Which meant the loyalty factor was deeply ingrained into his very being. Chrysaor - though arrogant, was completely entitled to the opinion he had of himself. He really could take Athena and Ares together in a straight fight without powers and win. His worst mistake was surrounding himself with dumb people for centuries. That kind of company forces one to think the way they do, to make things easier in the long term, and that was what lost him the fight against Percy Jackson in that fateful meeting.

But what Chrysaor was, deep inside, was a son craving for his father's approval. That was all he had wanted from the very beginning. And yet, Poseidon never showed him that love that he showed Percy. And so he turned to a life of debauchery. If he couldn't get a smidge of affection, then he'd make do with a downpour of anger. At least, it would be something. But no, Poseidon had completely ignored his existence while showering his brother - the Pegasus with enough for the both of them. And just like that, they had lost an extremely effective and talented person. One who could easily change the tides for whichever side he fought.

Everything he had against Poseidon, however justifiable, still didn't allow Chrysaor to harm the Gods directly. He didn't kill any demigods in his quest to anger the Gods. He didn't start wars among the Gods. Instead, he did the opposite - picking up the strays that Dionysus left behind on a whim - supporting them, making them his crew. The word Chrysaor translates to he with the golden sword. He might have been denied any opportunity to become a hero in the world he was born in, but the passion remained, engraved into his being.

For the first time in the eight years they'd been one being, Chrysaor made a demand. According to their deal, he would have to push everything to the side and make it his primary goal. Yet, the part of him that was Nicholas didn't mind at all. He welcomed that instead. And so, for the remaining ten minutes of the walk, as two Rodriks and a Harras made their way to Castle Pyke, one Rodrik fumed, trying trying to get a hold on his emotions by the time they went back to Pyke. Harras, lost in his memories, a bitter melancholy encompassing him, tried not to think of what he had seen and then been through. And finally, the second Rodrik - trying to come up with a solution to his dilemma.

Oh, what a trio they made.

Elbert Arryn - Heir to the Vale

He had first thought that Riverrun had taken the death of Lady Minisa hard. Everyone living in the castle was affected by it, and there was an aura of melancholy encompassing everything. But there was a silver lining to it, as some Septons would say.

The birth of a healthy baby boy helped with that a lot. The servants in the castle were quite dedicated to keeping the newborn healthy and safe. If they were not preparing for the send-off of Lady Minisa, they were preparing for the feast before and after. And still, they found time to come and visit baby Edmure. They alternated who fed him his milk and looked after him so that everyone would have a chance to care for the child of the lady who cared for them.

It awed him to see how much a single person can change the lives of so many people around them.

What didn't change immediately were the Tully family themselves. Lord Hoster was just a bit more reserved, and he and Ser Brynden didn't argue as much. Cat and Lysa cried when something reminded them of their mother but were completely the same otherwise. Petyr Baelish still followed them around, asking questions about everything. He himself hadn't changed much if he asked himself.

Now, he was astounded to see just how much the two-day visit from Rodrik Greyjoy had changed them. First, Lord Hoster had a jump in his step and a twinkle in his eye as if he knew something no one else did. Then, Ser Brynden took to actually stepping into the yard to teach him the ways of the sword instead of passing instructions from outside. Cat had become a lot more reserved. He could see her lost in thought for long stretches before she suddenly straightened and started scribbling in that blank book of hers.

As Catelyn withdrew away from everyone, it forced Elbert to spend his time with Lysa. And since Catelyn wasn't always around with that bubbly personality of hers, he felt like he had a much more peaceful time with her. Even Baelish wasn't spared from Rodrik Greyjoy's visit. Elbert had expected Petyr to join him and Lysa when they were in the gardens or in the Sept but instead sat with Catelyn in their small library. It's not like they talked too much; both focused on their work. Cat was thinking and writing down words, and Petyr was reading a book and making a copy on waxed parchment.

And yet, they seemed perfectly content doing so. It astounded Elbert how much they changed in such a short amount of time. But he was also very grateful for that. If not for these changes, he would never have gotten the chance to know Lysa as he had in the past week. To think they had so much in common! He would never have guessed that!

She felt the same about Cat as he felt about Robert. Both were the perfect child - the ones who everyone loved, while Lysa and Elbert were the quiet, shy ones. In a way, he thought, Baelish could have been Ned, but then he dismissed that thought. Elbert had never met anyone who had control over their emotions better than Ned Stark. In Ned's own words, he was a simple man that followed a simple way of life, but Elbert had never met a more complicated man than Ned Stark.

That was until he'd met Rodrik Greyjoy.

Rodrik Greyjoy was scary. He had a hold on his emotions on the level of Ned Stark and a way of speaking with people that dwarfed Robert's charisma. He still shuddered whenever he thought of that conversation in the Godswood. After all, if it were Robert who came to Riverrun chewing on an apple, he'd be the one dipping in the trough, not the Blackfish.

Rodrik Greyjoy terrified him, but Elbert, in his way, admired him the most. It had only been a week, and a messenger had informed him that he'd have his Ironwood shield in two days. He never even knew the Argents could get something like that! How had Rodrik known? The more he thought about his actions, the more questions he had. But none of his questions were bigger than the one that Rodrik himself had left him.

'Was the fate of a man in the hands of a God?'

When he was first asked that question, he did not have an answer to it. He had so much on his mind that he couldn't even think of any sort of response. He had, since then, laid awake in his bed for hours every night, thinking about the entire conversation in the Godswood.

A woman lifting a mast all by herself to save her lover who was trapped underneath? He would have loved to call that a steaming pile of horseshit, as Ser Brynden likes to. But he hesitated. The Septons and Septas had even worse stories. If the miracles performed by the Gods were so great, then could man not perform miracles? The Children of the Forest surely did if one were to believe the accounts of the First Men.

The shattering of the Arm of Dorne and the flooding of the Neck were two of the most well-known feats of magic. Yet, if there was one proof of magic that the believers and the non-believers alike didn't question, it was the Wall. The masterpiece that cemented the name of Brandon Stark in the annals of history as Brandon the Builder. A hundred leagues long and more than seven hundred feet on average. There was no way one could have built that structure without the aid of magic.

But still, the question remained - do the Gods control a man's fate? He didn't have an answer a week ago, but based on what he'd seen since then, no, the Gods didn't. It was people like Rodrik Greyjoy who did. He wasn't Aerys Targaryen, and yet Lord Hoster Tully, a Lord Paramount himself, listened to him speak as if he were an adult. Grand nuncle Jon would scoff at that if he ever told him, but he scoffs at many things.

And yet, the answer his mind seemed to be pushing at him, the one that everything he had experienced pointed to was the most terrifying. He didn't want to accept it, but every fiber of his being already believed it.

He knew Gods didn't control their fate. Because all evidence he had gathered pointed to one thing - Rodrik Greyjoy controlled it. And if the name they gave someone who controlled fates was God, then, well - Rodrik Greyjoy was one.

Aeron Greyjoy - Fifth Son of Quellon Greyjoy

His sixth nameday had come and gone in the same way the fifth one had, held thought sadly. He missed Victarion and Rodrik, though he only remembered their names and not their faces.

He only remembered the face that was wide as a plate - the elder boy who, according to Urri, gave him his first toy - a carved Kraken. While it was undoubtedly a work of art, with thin and delicate tentacles, it hadn't lasted long when pitted against his teeth.

He missed them because from just before his fifth nameday, he was at the mercy of Euron. Tears came to his eyes as he remembered that day. Urri had tried to prevent Euron from doing anything, and what followed… he shuddered.

He could hear his screams when he closed his eyes, how Urri had begged for mercy but hadn't let Euron come near him. And yet, he wished he hadn't done that. Because now he couldn't sleep without having those nightmares with Urri's screams echoing around him.

And yet, as he used his linens to wipe his face, he held onto that glimmer of hope. He knew how his father praised Rodrik. Aeron was supposed to be his nuncle, and yet Rodrik was older than him. It was funny, in a way, but still, from what father thought of him, Rodrik was the smartest person ever born in the halls of Castle Pyke.

So, the day before his sixth nameday, he had prayed. He went down to the coasts of Pyke with his mother and stood in the ocean till his ankles were submerged underneath the waves. He remembered what the Drowned Priest had told him to do, how he'd taught him to pray.

He'd gone down on his knees, head bowed, waiting for the tide to subside. Then, when it was furthest away from him, he started his prayers. First, tell him yer worries. From the moment the water is at its farthest to the moment it touches yer knees. And so he told the Drowned God about Euron. And then about Urri and how he'd saved him from Euron.

And when the tide touched his knees, he bowed down all the way, laying prostrate, his head submerged beneath the waves.

When the waves hit yer knee, ye bow till yer head touches the sand of his divine kingdom. And then ye speak yer prayers. Ye needn't open yer mouth boy; he hears what's in ye mind. Tell him yer worries, and if he judges ye worthy, he'll send you reprieve.

He stayed submerged till his eyes burned and his breath ran out. And then he stayed another moment. His head didn't leave the shifting sands underneath it until all the water had flown back. He coughed then, letting out the small amount of seawater that had gotten into his lungs, but it wasn't too hard.

It burned, but this wasn't bad. Nothing could be as bad as Urri's screams.

He had then walked back to the castle, but Euron still came. And Urri screamed again. And this time, cousin Harras saw him as well. Even he tried to help, but a hard, swift kick between the feet had him at Euron's mercy as well. He threatened him then, saying that he'd kill Harras and everyone he cared for if he ever spoke of this to anyone, and Harras had retreated quietly.

So, Aeron cried again, trying not to blame the Drowned God for not helping the only brother he knew cared for him. Instead, he cursed Euron's name out loud for the first time as he held Urri in his arms in their bed. Still, the words of the Drowned Priest echoed in his head.

Ye needn't open yer mouth boy, for he hears what's in ye mind.

If that were true, then he'd hear this, certainly.

CURSE YOU.

CURSE YOU AND EVERYONE WHO SPREADS YOUR LIES.

YOU'RE NO GOD!

YOU'RE NOT EVEN REAL!

EURON IS REAL…

URRI.

Urri is real.

He fell into a fitful sleep that night. But that was before he found himself standing in the darkness, on a rocky stone path. He could move, but he couldn't touch anything; he couldn't feel anything.

It was eerie, and once he started walking, it felt like a long time before he heard the voices. Then, he saw two people, immediately identifying them by their size and stature. It was Rodrik and Harras Harlaw.

Harras was crying into his shoulder, and Rodrik had a dark look on his face. Then he saw Harras ask Rodrik if he could teach him how to fight. To be strong enough to protect the innocent from evil, he said.

Aeron felt that sinking feeling in him as he saw that interaction. Harras had not hesitated in telling goodbrother Rodrik. And he was terrified. He was terrified that Euron would try to kill Rodrik. He was terrified of what would happen now.

But Rodrik didn't do anything. Instead, he nodded and handed Harras a knife. It was a sharp steel blade, not the one he and Urri used while in the yard with Edon. It was live steel.

"Euron is fast, you said?" Rodrik asked Harras, who nodded. "Well, then I guess we'll have to make you faster than him. Take this. No, wait. Hold it like this. This finger goes here…."

And then, for the next few minutes, Rodrik Harlaw taught his half-brother the basics of how to use a knife. As the minutes progressed, he could see Harras getting increasingly frustrated. No matter how much he tried, he wasn't even able to get close to striking distance with Rodrik. He was just too good.

But Aeron knew better. He'd heard from the other Ironborn on the beach or in Lordsport. Euron was a different breed altogether. However good Rodrik was, they never spoke about him, so Euron must have been better.

He could sympathize with Harras. He had, after all, asked Father if he could teach him the blade. His father had returned the same response whenever he had asked.

"Rodrik will teach you soon enough."

Why did Father love Rodrik more than Urri and him? Why did they not care for two of the youngest sons of Quellon Greyjoy?

He was broken out of his thoughts as Harras lost all pretense of training and just went wild, swinging his knife with reckless abandon as Rodrik continued dancing around his swings. So it went on for a few minutes, and he just looked at Rodrik Harlaw, admiring his dexterity as he barely broke a sweat, while Harras wailed out all his frustration on him.

His focus was on the fight, so much so that when he heard a huff behind his shoulder, he jumped in fright. He looked towards the intruder and saw a familiar face, and for the next ten minutes, he saw him introducing himself to the Harlaws. Soon, they picked up their belongings, and with a clever trick, the elder Rodrik lit the lamp, illuminating the dark as they walked back to the castle.

Aeron tried to follow them. He really did, but he found himself stuck in his spot, unable to move.

His struggles ceased when he heard a whisper of what they were talking about - Rodrik Harlaw had involved who he now knew to be his father's prized grandson in his mess. First Urri, then Harras, and now, Euron would have another target. He wanted to cry, yell at Rodrik the elder and stop him from telling his nephew anything further, but he couldn't.

They had stopped talking. The silence was deafening, and Aeron's panic only added to that. So, when he was pulled away from his spot and zipped away towards Castle Pyke, he only got a passing glimpse of their faces. Rodrik the elder, leading the way, with a discomforted look on his face, Harras, barely holding back tears, but when he looked into Rodrik Greyjoy's eyes, screaming murder, his mind reacted weirdly.

He had flashes of a golden sword, swinging through the air so fast he thought there were more than one. But, then, there was a crack of thunder - as if the Storm God had decided that he had seen enough…

...and Aeron Greyjoy woke up in his bed, gasping for air. Oddly, the air had a funny smell - like he was smelling hot steel in the forges. But that wasn't what mattered.

His dream, if it was true, then Rodrik Greyjoy was coming to Pyke. His heart quickened further as he forewent his boots, just pulling over himself a loose sack of cloth.

Making sure not to make the tiniest bit of noise lest he wake Urri up, he made his way down from his room in the Great Keep to the Great Hall. It was empty after dusk; his father would have retired to his solar in the Sea Tower, and the guards would be in the Kitchen Keep, having their meals for the evening from the leftovers of the feast during midday.

He tiptoed his way till he was hidden behind the Seastone Chair, and sure enough, within moments, his eyes landed on the form of the three figures being let in through the opened gates. The braziers on the walls cast eerie shadows all across the room, and Aeron could swear the Seastone chair glowed as they neared it.

His heart pounded in his chest as he made sure to keep his breathing quiet.

"Nuncle, I believe it is best if you take Harras to his rooms. He could do with a wash and some sleep. I'll have all your gifts delivered in the morn, but I need to meet with my grandfather immediately."

"Very well, young Rodrik. I'll be in the rooms across from the children's pen. You know where to find me if you need to talk. We've both got tales to tell, I know it."

A soft smile graced Rodrik's face then. But Aeron knew better. The others couldn't see his eyes, as he had already turned his back to them, but Aeron saw the look there. Hope flared in his chest, equal to the amount of dread that filled him. He pushed everything to the back of his mind and followed the sound of Rodrik's footsteps on the heavy stone of the Castle floor.

He guessed his nephew would be going to the Sea Tower, but not anytime soon. And he was proven right when he turned into the corridor that led to the rooms of his elder brothers. Balon and Euron stayed here, and no one else roomed on this corridor. Terror crept on him, and he even considered shouting out to Rodrik, telling him not to go to Euron's rooms, for he'd be sleeping off the enormous amounts of drink he'd consumed.

Everyone in the castle, Greyjoy, or Ironborn or thrall, knew not to do that, else they suffer most horribly.

Yet, for all that he wanted to follow his nephew, he couldn't take a step into the corridor. He couldn't find the courage in him to do so.

And so, he calmed himself and rested against the wall, trying to listen for what was happening. He heard the door open, but there was no other sound. It didn't close, and for a full minute, as his heart thumped furiously in his chest, he couldn't make out any sound.

And then, he heard it.

A loud snap, and then nothing.

The next few minutes, oh, he'd never forget them. Footsteps came next, and he pulled everything he had in his well of courage and curiosity and peeped into the corridor.

It seemed like his worst fears had been realized, and all hopes were dashed. It wasn't Rodrik that came out of the chamber, but the horror that was Euron.

His heart in his throat, he ran. He didn't know where he was going, but he just stopped thinking and ran like his life depended on it. The next thing he knew, he was inside his chambers, Urri now wide awake from the loud bang when he threw the door open. Then, before he could do anything other than huff and try and stop the tears flowing down his face, he heard it.

Euron was outside. No, not outside his door, but on the rope walkway between the Great Keep and the Sea Tower. And he was cackling like he was mad.

The clear, windless night suddenly twisted.

Storm clouds just appeared from nothing, and a loud rumble of thunder followed soon after. That would have woken up everyone who wasn't awake, and now that they were up, the mad cackling coming from the rope bridge between the Sea Tower and the Great Keep certainly would have.

Both him and Urri huddled against each other, watching from their barred window as Euron stood on the slightly swaying bridge without care, the winds not affecting him in the slightest.

And then Aeron saw a flash of gold, and the next thing he knew, Urrigon was screaming in his ear.

Yet, he couldn't pull his eyes away from the bridge.

Or rather, the now silenced figure freefalling off it.

All Aeron thought, in his overwhelmed mess of a mind, that he'd seen what he shouldn't have.

All he felt was a crushing wave of awe, hope, and vicious joy.

And all he knew was that from this day to the end of his days, his prayers would be directed to Rodrik Greyjoy.

A/N

Surprise, folks! Hope you like the quick chapter. It's a massive one, by my standards, but I've been too excited to stop myself from just typing it out and having it up for you guys to enjoy. Let us also extend a warm welcome to Rodrik Greyjoy - welcome to the wonderful world GRRM left us. Everything in this chapter is either canon-compliant or reasonable speculation. The rating has been bumped from T to M, for obvious reasons. After all, it's ASoIaF, it only gets worse from here.

For any questions anyone has, you're welcome to drop a comment. It is currently my second most valuable source of motivation to write - the first being my muse. But still, more discussion gives me more ideas of how I could work this story. See you all soon with another chapter (hopefully).