The Ironborn Prisoner
Theon sat on the wooden docks, perched on the chest which contained the few things he was allowed to take with him. He watched the hustle and bustle of the men readying their ships - what was left of the fleets of the great houses of the seven kingdoms, after the uprising. Calloused hands of big men pulled on ropes, unfurling sails and banners. Wine and ale, water and bread, fruit and sweetmeats were carried aboard and taken below deck. There was shouting and cursing; toing and froing; back and forth from dock to deck; servants, Lords and soldiers all preparing to board ship and make sail. No one paid much attention to one lost, lonely, little boy, sitting quite still and watching it all happen.
They were leaving Pyke today. He had never left the Islands before - had not been old enough to raid and reave with his brothers, with his fellow ironborn - taking what was theirs, paying the ironprice. Now his brothers were dead - and he was leaving, all alone, with the mainlanders. Though he was not shackled, he was still their prisoner - their hostage - and he was leaving his home to live amongst the enemies who had vanquished his father. He was to be made to pay the price for his father's defeat.
Far above his head, a gull wheeled high in the sky. It's sudden, harsh cry cut through the noise and confusion, making the little boy jump. He had lived his whole life by the sea. He had spent ten years with the gulls wheeling overhead - knew their cries like he knew his own voice, or the voice of his teasing older sister. Today they made him jump. The sudden scream was unexpected - too loud and too jarring. He felt his gut twist inside of him. Perhaps it was because he was leaving all this behind - perhaps it was because he was being stolen from his people, to live amongst strangers. Perhaps he had become a stranger to Pyke already, if the gulls could sound so discordant. The ironborn did not flinch when the gulls screeched, they did not even notice. But today Theon flinched, today he noticed.
Perhaps it was something else. Maybe it was that the shrill cry of the birds reminded him of his mother's cries. Of her screaming, in the throne room, as the mainlanders had led Theon away. 'Not my son! Not my baby! Balon, don't let them take him away, please, please. Not my son!' But Theon had been marched away, gripped in the rough hands of Lord Eddard Stark - and none of the mainlanders had listened to his mother's desperate pleas. Theon had twisted, beneath his new Lord's grip, and looked back - one final glance - at his family in the throne room. His father was still kneeling - still chained. He had been defeated - named a traitor and forced to swear an oath of loyalty to the King. It was to stop Balon rising again that Theon had been taken: a hostage of their shame and failure. His mother had collapsed, weeping; heartbroken to be losing her final son, her baby boy - and his older sister Yara had stood by her, an arm around her - trying to comfort her. Yara had glanced up, looked across the hall and - for one fleeting moment - her and Theon's eyes had met. She had nodded at him - a stiff, brief, ironborn farewell - and then Theon had been bundled through the doors and that was the last he saw of his family.
"C'mon yer little bastard, move" a gruff voice said, from somewhere above him. His pale eyes wandered from the sights of the fleet making ready, and up to the face of the glowering soldier standing over him. The soldier was a large man, his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing hairy forearms - thicker than Theon's little chest - and gnarly hands, each as large as cartwheels. "Shift yer arse, little lordling," the man said to him. He gave Theon a shove, knocking him from the trunk, which he then picked up and carried onto the little rowing boat headed out to the ships. Theon saw him spit over the side, as he was rowed away, and mutter, "little ironborn bastard," to himself. Theon stood perfectly still - watching - not letting his face betray a tremble of any emotions he might be feeling. I am Prince Theon Greyjoy he thought to himself, only living son of Balon Greyjoy, who is Lord Reaper of Pyke, and I am heir to the Salt Throne. My family have ruled the Iron Islands for three hundred years. There's not a family in the Seven Kingdoms who can look down on us. But these common men, these footsoldiers, these smallfolk from the mainland were looking down on him, and spitting at him, and cursing him. The last living son of a failed and beaten King, a boy of ten - alone in the world, amongst the people the ironborn had spent generations raiding and raping, now vulnerable to their anger - and their sneers. Theon made himself stand straighter, held himself a little taller - and kept his face as hard and as blank as stone. I am Prince Theon Greyjoy.
"Piss on it, Ned! I want you there!" Behind him, Theon heard the booming, raucous voice of King Robert Baratheon. He turned to look - keeping himself as stiff and as strong as the iron he was made of - and saw the two men who had defeated his father making their way towards the docks: King Robert, and Theon's new Lord, his gaoler, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.
"I need to get home," Ned said to the King, "to Cat - to the children. Gods alone knows what has happened at Winterfell whilst we've been fighting this pissing little war, in these pissing little lands because that pissing little traitor can't be trusted."
Theon turned away from them quickly, pretending he'd not heard. But there was no escaping the thunderous voice of the King. 'You can't trust a Greyjoy! Never trust a Greyjoy!'
"Well that's why we've got the little lad."
"Aye - and his little head'll be on a spike in King's Landing if Balon pulls the same shit twice. Gods but we lost good men, in this one, Ned." The King spat on the dock in disgust at the waste - just because one little man had wanted more than the slice given to him by the Old Gods and the New.
"You lose good men in every war, Robert. But we are soldiers - we've been training to die since we were whelped. Die in war to keep the King's peace, that's what we were born to do."
"Shit, you say! Fight to keep the peace. I was born to swing my war hammer, and rut the women and drink until there's no more left to be drunk."
"Well, you've had your chance to swing your war hammer, now," Ned told him, "The walls of Pyke won't ever be the same again."
"Aye they won't" the King laughed, "both a castle and a whore knows when Robert Baratheon has fucked 'em - and they stay fucked. And now we've had the fight, it's time to rut and drink - at Lannisport. So come with me Ned."
"I need to get the little lad home," Lord Stark protested. Theon bit the inside of his lip - only the inside, mind, so no one else would see him react. He wasn't being taken home. Home was where he was being taken from - being stolen from - home and family and all their honour. "Winter is coming" he heard the Lord of Winterfell say. But the King only laughed - that same booming laugh from before - "you always say that - and it never comes. Gods! Or when it does, it goes away again in the end. I'm your King, Ned, and I'm not giving you a choice. You and your ragtag bunch of northern bastards are going to take your ship to Lannisport and be at my tourney."
Lord Stark opened his mouth to object, but Baratheon cut him off. "And if you're not" the King said, a broad grin plastered across his round face, "I'll name you a traitor, Like Balon Bastarding Greyjoy, and have your Robb whipped down to King's Landing as a hostage - same as Greyjoy's whelp. You want that do you, Ned? For you and Cat? For Robb - to be the hostage son of a traitor? Gods, don't be a fool!"
Ned laughed out loud. "You're a bastard, Robert!" he said.
"I might be a bastard, but I'm also the King! And Winterfell will still be there if you get back in three weeks or two. See you in Lannisport."
"Lannisport," Ned nodded. The King clapped Lord Stark on the shoulder and then turned and strode away, headed for his own ship. He hadn't spared a second glance at the little boy standing alone on the dockside, and Theon was now biting the inside of his lip so hard he could taste the iron tang of blood.
"Come on then, Lad," Theon felt a pair of hands clap gently down on his shoulders, "let's get aboard. I'll wager you're a fine sailor, being from the Iron Islands. It's in your blood. You're not afraid are you, lad?" The little boy looked up, into the stern, rugged face of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The great man looked back down at him - not unkindly. Theon shook his head, and followed Ned into the rowing boat, which took them out to where the loyalist fleet was moored, and climbed aboard the Warden of the North's own ship.
#
They had hauled anchor and set sail in a cacophony of noise and commotion; yells, curses, commands barking out from fore and aft - the scrape of the iron anchors on the sides of the ships as they were raised, the creaking of the timbers, the crashing of the waves and - far above them - the endless circling and screeching of the gulls. Theon stood on deck - right at the stern - and held onto the taffrail, looking back across the harbour to Pyke. To his home. Beneath his feet, the ship lurched and rolled with the waves - riding up to the crest of one, before crashing down the other side and rising up again. He stood steady - his little feet planted firmly on the floor. He was ironborn, he was born to sail. The sea was in his blood. He was not going to lose his footing, even if he could tell that - behind him - some of the mainlanders were staggering and lurching, as they went about their business, having trouble finding their sea legs. He didn't turn around to watch these men stumble about like drunken whores in a brothel, though - he kept his eyes firmly fixed landwards - gazing at the Keep of Pyke.
It had been badly damaged in the battle. He already knew that. Eddard Stark, the King and their men had lain siege to the castle. His older brother Maron had been killed when the walls had been pulled down on top of him. Theon could only assume that, at some point, his body would be pulled from the rubble and buried at sea. Though that hadn't happened whilst Theon had still been there; before the mainlanders had left, they had been too concerned with hostage taking and fealty swearing to let the defeated warriors bury their dead.
The first breach had been in the watchtower, but once the combined armies of the loyal kingdoms had got inside, the fighting had been fierce - even if the IronIslanders had been massively outnumbered. He was only young, but Theon had often heard it said that the ironborn had iron balls - that they never surrendered. As he watched the castle shrink with the distance, he promised himself that when he was grown - when he was a man, like his brothers - he would come back here and be given the chance to prove his own iron against the people who took him now: balls, belly and birth.
He had been kept out of the fighting, this time around, of course. He and Yara had been hidden away in a tower, with their mother, a nursemaid, and a warrior to protect them all. But when your home was on fire; when the walls themselves were crumbling; when men slaughtered each other in the hallways - and their hot blood spurted against the flagstones - it was impossible to be kept away from it completely. Theon had heard the battle cries, and then the strangled cries of dying men. He had smelled the smoke. And when the ironborn warriors were defeated - and the mainlanders had pulled him and the women from their tower, and led them as captives through the halls of their own home - he had seen the ruins - and the blood. When they were taken into the throneroom, to kneel before the King, he had seen his father's army defeated, the fat Baratheon King sitting on the Seastone Chair - and his own father chained and cowed, kneeling at the feet of his own throne, whilst someone else sat upon it. Even the memory of it made Theon's gut twist in anger. The Salt Throne belonged to his father, one day it would be his - now Maron was gone. Fat Robert had no right to sit there - and there was nothing that told Theon his home had been crushed, his people defeated, like the sight of his father bowing, in chains, to the man who had taken his throne from him.
But even so - it wasn't until they were out of the harbour - and sailing on the open sea, that Theon was able to look back and understand the full extent of the damage his father's castle - his castle - had sustained. Lord Stark and King Robert had been right, when they said it would never be the same again. The King had fucked Theon's home and now it would stay fucked … until Theon was a man, until he was free again - and then they could rise once more. Until then, the Iron Islands would have to remain raped, beaten and humiliated - unable to rise again and restore their honour, or else Theon would lose his head.
"Get on wi' yer, yer little traitor shit" he was cuffed around the head by a soldier, staggering past - headed for the fore of the ship. "Get out the way. Yer should be below decks where yer can't cause trouble." Theon just stared up at him - saying nothing. I am Prince Theon Greyjoy. Eventually, the soldier tired of the staring match and stumbled his way up the deck. "Fucking Greyjoy bastard" he spat as he walked away. Theon turned back to stare, once more, at the ruins of his home. I am Prince Theon Greyjoy. Only living son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and King of the Iron Islands. I am heir to the Salt Throne. We keep the old way and have ruled the Iron Islands for three hundred years. There's not a family in the Seven Kingdoms can look down on us. One day I will return to my home, and my people will raid and reave and rape - and we will prove to the mainlanders that the ironborn have iron balls. One day, I will come home and take my rightful place.
He stayed at the aft of the ship, staring out towards the diminishing shoreline - staying for hours, as the daylight dwindled and the outline of his castle shrunk in the distance. He stayed there until both the light and the castle had vanished completely - and then he turned and went below deck, to spend his first night amongst strangers. His first night as a prisoner.
#
It took them three days hard sailing, with a fair wind behind them, to reach Lannisport - skirting the western shore of the Fair Isle and then passing the rocky outcrop of Kayce and Feastfires. They made their way into the Lannisport Harbour - and Theon watched from the deck as they scouted a berth and docked their ship. Ropes were flung out, and tied round mooring posts, holding them fast in place. The sails were lowered and the gang plank was dropped into position. And then came the great unpacking. Everything Theon had watched them bundle into the ship, three days before, back on Pyke - was now brought out again, and stored into wagons. Horses were waiting for the Lord of Winterfell and his Bannerman, and after three days on the ocean, many of them climbed thankfully into the saddle. "Can you ride, lad?" Ned asked him, he had hold of the reins of a young gelding and was stroking its nose. It whinnied softly, but stayed still. "This one seems like a good one, for you - if you're used to it."
Theon held himself tall. "I'm the prince of the Iron Islands" he said, "of course I can ride."
Ned tried to hide his smile, but Theon still saw it. "Not much open ground to ride on in Pyke" Lord Stark told him, "I'm glad you learned anyway - you'll need it, we've a long journey north after this damned tournament is over. Here, climb up, lad - lets get you settled." He bent down, intending to give Theon a boost, to help him into the saddle, but Theon didn't let him help. He put his left foot into the stirrup and then scrambled his way up, finally throwing his right leg over the other side. It was ungainly and messy, the way he had done it, but at least he had done it without requiring the help of the man who held him prisoner. Ned watched him, as he struggled to find his seat and then righted himself. Once he was in place the Lord nodded, "good lad" and went to mount his own horse.
Theon followed Lord Stark and his Bannerman - but noticed that they rode away from the wagons, taking a different road from them - as the horsemen took the road directly to the centre of Lannisport, but the caravan took the road which would skirt the city. "Where are they going?" he asked one of the men riding with him. The man had a ferocious looking wound down the side of his face, an inch to the right and he would have lost his eye. The man turned to look, "they're headed for home, little Greyjoy" he told him "it's over 500 leagues to the north, where we're going - and the road is hard. They're setting out now - we don't all have to go to this godsforsaken tournament the King is throwing, to celebrate a pissing little victory over a bunch of pissing little islanders." He glanced at Theon, as if suddenly remembering who - what - he was speaking to. He coughed. "With respect, my Lord. But there's no need for the smallfolk to crow over the defeat of your traitor father when they've homes to get back to. But we can ride quicker than the carts can travel, we'll catch up in a few days."
They rode on, heading for the lodgings which would serve them whilst they stayed for the Tourney. As they rode through the city walls, Theon looked around him - and couldn't help his mouth falling open in surprise and wonder at the things he was seeing. The city was large - far larger than anything the Iron Islands had to offer, and was bustling with more people than Theon had ever seen in his life. The buildings were grand too - made of a beautiful sandy stone. The market sold more varied fruits and wines than the little ironborn boy had ever realised existed. The stalls spread as far as he could see - and the smells of dates, and figs, and cinnamon, and spices he couldn't name, all mingled together in a perfume of intoxicating richness. The stalls were covered by awnings made of bright fabrics in vibrant colours. Everything here was bright and brash and big and rich. And when Theon compared it to the barren, rocky little outcrop he had called home; with it's grey skies, its stink of seaweed and fish - and its meagre little market, selling meagre little wares to poor men who led brutal lives - he felt … guilt. Three days away from the island - and he was already looking around at the rest of the world and thinking it better. Their way was the old way. They paid the ironprice. Here... here they paid the goldprice. This place wasn't better. This place was soft. These people were soft. Theon was ironborn. He lowered his head and rode on, refusing to be swayed by the opulence and excitement around him.
But - even keeping staring directly ahead - he couldn't help but notice that, whichever street they rode down, people's heads would turn. They would all stop what they were doing and watch Lord Stark and his Bannerman ride down the road. He felt their eyes lingering on him, as he travelled in the group. "What are they all staring at?" he asked the same man from before. The man turned to look at him, glancing up and down - taking all of the little boy in, before he answered. "They are looking at the nephew of the men who burned their ships and killed their loved ones" he told him. "They are looking at the son of the traitor who caused their men to have to go to war - and die."
Theon swallowed, hard, and lowered his head even further. You are Prince Theon Greyjoy the voice in his head said. You are ironborn. Don't cower like a dog. Look at them. He took a deep breath - and raised his head - and forced himself to stare right back into the accusing eyes of the people of Lannisport.
#
The warm midday sun beat down on the crowds sitting in the stands, watching the great tournament. Banners from all the great houses fluttered in the breeze; Lords and Ladies, in their finery, sat on their benches - whispering amongst themselves, placing wagers on the outcome. The smallfolk of Lannisport stood down near the edge of the lists and cheered on the knights- as their horses stampeded past in combat.
Even sat amongst Lord Stark's retinue - and in the midst of all this hurly burly - Theon could still feel people's eyes on him, watching him; he could hear their whispers. Theon Greyjoy - the traitors son - the prisoner in their midst. He bit the inside of his lip and tried to blot it out, to ignore it, training his eyes instead on the lists - and the knights thundering down towards each other. I'm Theon of House Greyjoy. My way is the old way. There's not a family in the seven kingdoms can look down on … His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening crack, as Lord Jorah Mormont's lance struck Lord Jason Mallister square in the chest. Mallister was thrown from his horse and landed with another thunderous crash. The crowd hissed a sharp inhalation of breath as he hit the ground, and then began to cheer the winner loudly.
"Here, lad," Theon heard the gruff voice of Ned Stark say, "have you ever tried one of these?" The Warden of the North leaned forward and handed the little boy a candied pear. "Tourneys are a great excuse to indulge a sweet tooth" he said "take a bite." Theon bit into the glazed fruit, it was sweet and sticky and delicious. He took another bite, and could feel the sugar begin to coat his lips. Ned chuckled as he watched him. "You ever seen a jousting tournament before?" he asked. Theon shook his head, his mouth too full of pear for him to answer. "Aye, I guess there's not much room for tilting up on Pyke. Now you just watch this next one, Jorah Mormont of Bear Island is going up against Yohn Royce - one of the Bannerman for House Arryn. Big bastard he is. But Mormont's a tough old bird too. Should be a good match."
The little boy turned to watch, as the two knights took to the field and thundered down towards each other. The first time they met they both broke their lances, but neither of them fell from their horse. They rode on to the opposite end of the field, where they were given fresh lances and then they rode again. This time, Jorah Mormont managed to strike Royce square in the chest and Royce was knocked from his horse. Again the crowd hissed in sympathy for the blow, before cheering wildly.
Next up was a fat man, with a fleshy face and piggy little eyes. Theon, still munching his pear, turned to his new Lord. 'Who's that?' he asked - nodding at the fat man, forgetting that he had never intended to speak to his gaoler any more than was necessary.
"That's Ser Ryman Frey - from House Frey, Mormont will make mincemeat of him - fat cunt."
Theon giggled with delight at the rude word - and Ned looked a little abashed to have cursed so openly in front of the boy. They watched together as the fat Frey waddled to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Theon finished the last bite of his pear and then licked his sticky fingers, greedily. Lord Stark smiled down at him. "My lad Robb will be green with envy when he finds out you came here and saw this. He's about your age, him and his half brother Jon, they like to train at being knights in the Winterfell yard, but they've never had the chance to see something like this. You'll have to watch closely young man - so you can tell 'em all about it."
"Winterfell's a long way away," Theon said - more of a statement than a question.
"Aye - over 500 leagues to the north"
The little boy looked around at the blazing sun and the finely dressed Lords and Ladies in their silks. "So it's not like this?"
Ned looked around as well - seeing the exact same thing: the wealth, the luxury, the decadence of the southerners. "No, lad," he said, "it's not like this."
"Do you have candied pears in the North?"
Ned chuckled, "not every day, lad - you'd get as fat as Ryman Frey." Theon giggled again, and then watched with wide eyes as the two knights charged towards each other. Sure enough, Mormont unseated Frey at the first hit. The fat man flew off the back of his horse, hit the ground and rolled head over heels. The crowd cheered - though no one had won much money on that fixture, the odds on Mormont had been short.
Next up was another Frey, Ser Hosteen - uncle to Ryman, and twice as tall. But he fell to Jorah Mormont's lance, same as the rest of them. He looked to be in a seriously black temper as he stormed off the field. "Isn't Lord Jorah getting tired, now?" Theon asked, watching the Lord ready himself for the next joust. Lord Stark laughed again. 'He's a warrior, lad, prancing around the jousting field is a lot less work than war. A warrior doesn't give in. Doesn't get tired. Doesn't have the luxury to. I'd have thought the ironborn would know that."
Theon stiffened. "Of course the ironborn know that," he said. But Ned only smiled at him. "Takes years of training, lad. But one day you will know it, well enough."
"There's not going to be any more wars," Theon said. "Robert Baratheon is the King and every Lord in Westeros has bent the knee … now."
Lord Stark gave him a swift glance, raking his eyes over the little boy, noting the slight bitterness in his tone - that his own father had been subjugated and the ironborn were no longer their own people. Theon saw the look and dropped his glance, knowing he had given away more than he should. But when he spoke, Ned's voice was still even and not unkind. "Aye, we might be able to keep the King's Peace, this time. But it won't last forever. It never does. So little Lords still have to train and learn the ways of their fathers… and if their father's cannot train them, they learn the way of their new masters."
Theon's face flamed red at Ned's words, he felt the hot stain of his blushes rise on his cheeks - felt the shame of his father's defeat burn inside of him. I am Theon of House Greyjoy. We have ruled Pyke for three hundred years. No family can look down on us. He barely watched as Lord Whent was defeated - and shortly thereafter, Ser Lyle Crakehall. He was too busy trying to swallow down the shame that his father could not train him as a true ironborn, teach him the old ways, because he had been lost as a hostage to the mainlanders.
It was as Ser Boros Blount was getting into his saddle, that Theon became acutely aware of eyes staring at him again. He could feel them boring into the back of his neck. When he couldn't stand the shivers it was sending down his spine any longer, he turned to look. The man staring at him was old - but not elderly. He had grey hair and piercing eyes, his expression was haughty and the impression of power radiated from every line in his face. He was dressed all in black, but his cloak was pinned to him by a badge in the shape of a golden lion. He was sitting a few rows back - in the royal box.
As Theon stared back up at him, the man averted his gaze and turned instead to the King, sat beside him, and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Even without what happened next, Theon knew full well that the man was whispering about him. But there was no need to guess. Robert Baratheon listened to the whispers and then looked around, distracted. "Piss on it!" His voice boomed out, across the stands - so everyone could hear. You could always hear everything the fat King said - he had a voice like thunder. "I wanted Ned here. He had to bring the little lad. What else could he do with him? You can't take a hostage and then let it out of your sight before you've got home, again." The whole crowd around the royal box had gone silent now - and Theon could feel everyone's eyes on him. I'm Theon Greyjoy. From Pyke. And no once can look down on …
Next to him, Lord Stark rose to his feet and clambered across the benches, until he was in front of the royal box. Theon cut off from his mantra to watch him - keeping his eyes on Ned, so he didn't have to look back at the people staring at him. "Your Grace," he nodded to Robert, "Lord Tywin," he turned to the older man.
"Lord Stark" Tywin Lannister nodded back at him.
"I seem to have offended you, Lord Tywin" Ned said, "or perhaps it is the company I keep?"
"You had no business bringing that little Greyjoy piss stain here. His Uncles burned my fleet - I lost good men in that raid, all because that little bastard's father fancied himself a King."
"And you lost good money too, I'd wager. Tell me Lord Tywin, which is the loss that grieves you the most?"
Tywin sniffed down his nose and looked away. Lord Stark smirked. "Theon Greyjoy is my ward," he told the older man.
"He is your prisoner," Tywin corrected.
"He is in my protection, his well being is my responsibility. Where would you have me put him?"
"Well, if you are short of ideas, I can offer you the dungeons of Casterly Rock. They are some of the finest in Westeros."
"A kind offer, I am sure. But the boy bears no guilt for his father's - or his uncles' - crimes. He will grow up at Winterfell, in my care - a brother for my sons - and learn what it is to be a Lord of Westeros."
"Unless his perfidious father takes up arms again," Tywin said, his voice was dry. "Then he can find out what is to be a traitor of Westeros - as we cut his head off and put it on a pike."
Ned gave a curt nod, "we will have to hope that fear for Theon's safety will act as insurance against Balon Greyjoy getting any bright ideas," he said. "His last true heir is here on the mainland - he will not put his son in danger."
"And what about when that son is grown?" Tywin asked him. "Do you ever think you can trust a Kraken among the wolves?"
"It is my hope that in that time we will have bound the heir of the Greyjoys to us - in honour and kinship - so that when he returns to rule his own land, he can lead them to greater integration with the other kingdoms; as his wise grandfather, Quellon Greyjoy, sought to do. It could be a golden age for the Iron Islands - for Westeros, if we can all learn to live in harmony."
"Fine words, Stark, fine words" Lord Tywin sneered, "but only a fool would ever trust a Greyjoy."
"And what kind of man would hold an innocent boy responsible for the crimes of his father?" Ned asked - his voice had become a low, rumbling growl. "I take my leave of you, Lord Tywin, and ask that you no longer trouble yourself with concerns over my ward." He stalked off back to the benches where his men sat - and sat down beside Theon. "Ignore him, lad," he growled, "all Lannisters are bastards. Let's hope we're about to see one get knocked on his arse."
Theon nodded - and turned back to watch the final of the tournament - Lord Jorah Mormont against Ser Jaime Lannister. I am Theon Greyjoy he thought to himself Son of Balon Greyjoy and ward of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, a brother to his sons. I am heir to the Salt Throne - and when I return to my lands I will lead the ironborn into a golden age of prosperity. The thoughts pleased him ... but behind him he could still hear the whispers of the crowd, and feel the way they stared at the little ironborn captive.
#
The tourney was over. Lord Jorah Mormont had won - the King declaring him the winner after he had broken nine lances against Jaime Lannister - and the rumour around Lannisport had it that, the night of his victory, Lord Jorah had proposed marriage to Lynesse Hightower and been accepted. But Ned Stark did not care for rumours - and he and his men were packing up their saddlebags and preparing their horses, ready to start the long ride north to Winterfell. Theon was among them, of course - still riding the gelding he had been given at the Lannisport Harbour. They rode through the city gates and made for the northbound road. "Now we'll see how much of a horseman you really are, little lad," Ned said to him as they cantered along, "it's a month's ride to Winterfell. Gods but I wish Robert had just let us sail there, instead of taking this damned detour."
#
The road was long - and hard. After a few days riding, Theon was so sore that it was taking all his will not to wince, not to cry. A few days later and the inside skin of his thighs, and his arse, were raw and blistering. But he still didn't cry. Still didn't mention it. And when he dismounted at night to make camp, or in the day to take a piss, he forced himself to walk straight - to show no signs of his discomfort. He was ironborn - and he was not going to let these northern men laugh at him for being saddle sore, for not being as hard as them. He would prove he was as hard as them. Harder.
One day, the blister the size of his hand, inside his right thigh, popped - and he felt the liquid from within rush down his leg. For a moment he thought he must have pissed himself - before he realised what it was. When he peeled his breeches down, that night, he found the wound was open, raw and ragged. But he still said nothing.
The next morning, he grit his teeth as he swung up into the saddle, and held his whole body rigid to prevent himself from wincing. But as he lowered himself - and felt his raw, open skin chafe against the horse, once again - he couldn't stop himself from crying out; just a soft, ragged inhalation of pain. He immediately bit his lip and tried to pretend it hadn't happened. But Lord Stark had noticed - and he and his men were grinning. "You've been a brave lad," Ned said to him, chuckling, "I was starting to worry you'd let your wounds get infected before you said anything. A hostage is no good if he's dead of gangrene."
"I'm fine," Theon lied. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Get away with you, lad!" Ned laughed, "You've never spent so long in the saddle and you know it. Your arse is on fire." Theon felt the sudden rush of blood stain his cheeks with a hot humiliation. But Ned wasn't being cruel. "We all had our first long journey, once upon a time. We've all had blisters the size of breastplates. Jory!" he shouted for one of his men at arms, "do you have some of Maester Luwin's special ointment?"
"Aye my lord."
"Give it here then."
Jory handed a tin box over to his Lord - and Ned handed it over to Theon. He took off the lid and showed him the waxy substance inside. "Maester Luwin's speciality," he told him "seals the wound and numbs the … area. Next time you stop for a piss, lad, strip your breeches off and rub some of this on."
Theon took it from, nodding his understanding. "Thank you, my Lord." Ned only smiled, "You'll be thanking me more than that once the numbing takes effect. You'll be bouncing down the road in no time." He then turned and cantered away. "Who was down for a week?" Theon heard him ask Jory, as they headed up the road.
"I believe it was the Greatjon"
"Aye - tell him won the wager on the little lad. He'll be pleased to hear it."
#
The further north they travelled, the colder it became - and it was when they still had a hundred leagues left to go that they encountered their first snow. Theon shivered under the cold and pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. The Lords of the North all wore wolf furs, made specially to keep them warm from the harshness of the elements. But Theon still wore the clothes of the ironborn. His cloak was of woven cloth and had been waxed and painted with fish oil. It had been designed to keep out the winds of the Iron Islands - not the snows of the North - and it was not thick enough to keep him warm in the frozen temperatures.
When they made camp, he sat as close to the fire as he could - trying desperately to get warm again; his arms clamping his cloak tight around his little body. He could feel his ears and fingers almost burning with the cold. He had never realised that when the cold became so intense it would feel like heat - he didn't understand it. He slid his frozen feet closer to the fire, and felt his toes began to itch inside his boots as the heat from the flames restored the circulation to his extremities.
This was miserable. He stared into the crackling heart of the fire and repeated his ever changing mantra inside his head. I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Grejoy and ward of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. I am heir to the Salt Throne, the next Lord Reaver of Pyke - and I must live in the North so that I can learn the ways of the greenlanders and use their knowledge to make my ironborn warriors stronger. I will lead the Iron Islanders into a golden age of strength and prosperity. Everyone will know our name - and no one will look down on us. I am not cold. I am right where I am supposed to be. This is my destiny. I am Theon of House Greyjoy….
He suddenly felt something heavy be placed around his shoulders, itchy - but warm. He looked around. Jory was wrapping a fur around him. "Here you go, lad. Lord Stark's orders. He says a hostage is no good if he's dead of the cold." Theon nodded gratefully, and pulled the fur closer around him.
#
It was as the snows landed thick and heavy on their capes, settling on the ground in a crisp white blanket - and the sun dipped below the horizon, and frosty stars came out to sparkle in the gloaming sky - when they had been on the road for over a month, just as Lord Stark had said - that the band of men and their little hostage finally made their way to Winterfell, right in the heart of the North.
Theon stared up at the great castle - his eyes were large and his mouth hung open, as he stared up. His little chest rose and fell steadily as he kept his breaths shallow to ward against the cold, to stop it reaching his lungs - and he could see his breath in the frozen air, like he was one of the dragons of old. The castle was built from large grey stones, looking like they'd been hewn straight from the face of a cliff and then piled up in the middle of this desolate wasteland. The ramparts and towers rose high and imposing, the walls were thick and sturdy - and the gateway was narrow, and protected by an iron portcullis. Winterfell looked like it had been standing there for a thousand years - and it was so big, and so solidly built, that it looked like it would easily be standing there for a thousand years more. Long after Theon - after all of them - were dead and gone.
As he stared up at his new home - his prison - he felt the sudden crushing realisation of his own father's foolishness. He felt the air leave his body and his chest deflate, his shoulders slump. Of course his father had lost. How could he have ever hoped to win? Of course the IronIslanders had been defeated, had their rebellion crushed, his brothers killed. How could they have ever stood against a man who lived here?
Winterfell was far from the sea. Too far. When the ironborn came to raid and reave in the North, they would stick to the fishing villages along the Stony Shore. The deepest they would ever venture inland was up the river that let out into the Saltspear, and into Torrhen's Square. Theon wondered if he was the first ironborn to travel this far inland, this deep into the North. If he was the first ironborn to ever look upon the walls of Winterfell. He must have been - because no one would ever look at Winterfell and believe for a moment that they stood a chance against its Lord. If Balon Greyjoy had ever seen Winterfell, he might not have rebelled. Theon would not have to be here now - a prisoner. He could still be at home, with his own family, instead of being held captive by Ned. Even if Ned were kind - and so far he had been - Theon realised that he had been given to this particular Lord, and no other, because this castle would act as a prison from which there would be no escape … and no hope of rescue.
The man standing guard on the walls realised that the band of men grew near - and the cry went out amongst the inhabitants of Winterfell. Torches were lit, the gate was raised - and Ned Stark and his men galloped into the courtyard of their castle home, Theon lost amongst them.
As servants came out to meet them: grooms to take the horses, stewards to take their luggage, the little boy felt himself be lifted down from the saddle. Ned stood him down on his feet - and Theon blinked up in the torch light, looking round at the hustle and bustle. "Old Nan" The Lord cried out. An ancient old woman shuffled towards him, "yes, my Lord."
"This is Theon Greyjoy, my new ward. He will be living here with us, he will be a playmate and a brother for Robb and Jon. But he is weary from the road. Take him to the boys' chambers, get him something to eat and drink and see that he is settled to bed before he falls asleep on his feet."
"Yes my Lord," she nodded at her master and then took Theon by the shoulder, steering him towards the Great Keep. "This way, little Lordling, we'll have you in in no time." She led him through the doors and up the winding staircase. He stumbled behind her - exhaustion was crashing in on him, now he was finally out of the saddle. She eased open a door and held a wizened finger to her cracked lips. "We need to be quiet, the young master and his brother are already sleeping, we don't want to wake them." She shuffled him inside and lit one solitary candle, enough for them to see by but not enough to disturb the two slumbering boys. Although the light was dim, Theon got an impression of two boys - about his age - with identical curling, black hair and rounded faces, tangled up with their sheets. "Strip to your small clothes and into the bed with you," Old Nan told him.
With fumbling fingers, made clumsy from the cold - and a little embarrassed to be watched stripping by a complete stranger - he pulled off his ironborn woven linen clothes and then quickly buried himself beneath the furs, before the cold air could reach him. Another serving girl came in; this one was younger - though surely there could be nobody older than Old Nan - and she was carrying a tray, bearing bread, cheese and a tankard of warm milk. Theon ate ravenously and then drained his tankard, swiping away at the milk moustache that he could feel on his upper lip. Then the younger serving girl took the tray away and Old Nan blew out the candle and left; leaving Theon in darkness with his two new, sleeping brothers - to fall asleep in his first soft bed in over a month.
#
Theon woke as the early rays of morning sun crept through the window. The light was as cold as the air, here in the North, and he pulled the furs around him even tighter. The two other boys - the Stark boys - slept on. He lay still and watched them. His bladder was cramping with the need to piss, but he was too cold to get up and find the privvy. He wriggled deeper under the coverings, squeezing his legs together to hold the piss in.
The fingers of dawn crept further and further into the chamber - inching round the room, illuminating Theon's surroundings so he could at last get a clear look at them. He lay still and watched dust motes dance in a pale sunbeam - and wondered about Yara waking up on the IronIslands - alone in the chambers she had once shared with her baby brother. He thought about his mother, and wondered if she had stopped weeping for him yet. He thought about his father and wondered what he was doing, now his kingship had been stolen from him. Was he accepting his fate? Or was he planning to rise again, like a true ironborn? If he did - then Theon's life would be forfeit, here in this strange place - miles from the sea. The first Theon would know about it would be the arrival of a raven, telling Lord Stark to take Theon's head. His insides lurched with dread at the thought - that he would grow to a man, watching every raven, never knowing which carried his death sentence. It made it harder to control his bladder. He squirmed again - feeling the burning between his legs, as the need to piss became desperate. He was going to have to brave the cold. Brave the cold or piss the bed.
He gasped in shock, as his bare feet touched the cold, stone floors - they felt like ice beneath his toes. He stopped to wrap a fur around his shoulders, covering his smallclothes, and then stumbled off in search of the closet.
It was hard work, fumbling around to get his little prick out, whilst trying to keep the furs wrapped around his shoulders. But eventually he managed, and without letting spill any drops on his linen underthings. He sighed with relief, as he allowed his muscles to relax and felt the steady stream flow out of him. He listened to it hit against the stone shaft, falling miles downward to the foot of the Keep. Once he was done, he shook himself - sending the last few drips flying, and then fastened up his smallclothes. Then he headed back to his sleeping chamber.
When he got there, the servants had arrived. A fire had been lit in the grate and Old Nan was rousing the other boys. She glanced round at him, "there you are! I was worried you made off in the night."
"I'm still here."
"Good - there's all kinds of ghouls and goblins can take a little boy in the forest. You don't ever wander off alone, outside the castle walls."
"I won't." He was aware of the two Stark boys staring at him. Now they were awake, he could see just how alike they were - both handsome boys, with curling dark hair - though the elder had eyes that were the brightest blue Theon had ever seen, where as the younger one's eyes were a deep, warm brown. There was less than a year between them and they were practically the same size.
The older one looked Theon up and down. 'Who is that, Old Nan?' he asked. Theon answered for himself. "I am Theon Greyjoy. Last living son of Balon Greyjoy. I was the prince of the Iron Islands."
The boy continued to stare. "My father went to war with the Iron Islands," he said, "they say he crushed the Greyjoy rebellion and Balon Greyjoy now bends the knee to King Robert Baratheon."
Theon stared back at him, refusing to look away. He was older than this boy, though not by much - and wanted to make it clear to him that he was his superior by right of age, if not by rank. "My father is Lord of the Iron Islands. We have ruled Pyke for three hundred years." They continued to stare at each other. The youngest boy, the dark eyed one, looked between them - nervously. Theon kept his face still, he tried to match, perfectly, the expression on the other boy's face. Theon was the third son of Balon, the baby of the family - younger even than Yara. He had not been born to rule, even if he was now the sole surviving heir. His older brothers had beaten him. His older sister had teased him. His mother had babied and cosseted him and his father had ignored him; his least important son. But this Stark boy was the oldest of Ned's brood. He was his son and heir and would be the next Lord of Winterfell, the next Warden of the North - and the knowledge and security of his position, of his place and importance in the world, shone from his eyes; was evident in the determined setting of his jaw. Theon could never match that - but he tried, nevertheless.
"Little Greyjoy is your father's new ward," Old Nan told the boys, "he is here to be a friend to you and to train as a Lord by your side."
"Is he our prisoner?" The elder Stark boy asked. Theon flinched at his words, he couldn't help it. It was one thing to stare, stony faced, into the accusing eyes of adults - but to have a peer, a younger boy, look down on him ...
"He is at that," Old Nan said "he's with us to make sure his father doesn't rebel again. But he is also our guest, Master Robb - and the laws of hospitality still hold in the North. You remember that."
Robb nodded his head at her words, looking grave and sombre; thinking on the reminder of the customs that were important to their people - then he looked back at Theon, ready to do his duty as Lord Stark's heir. "Welcome to Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy, I hope you will be happy in our home."
#
After they were breakfasted and dressed, the boys were turned out into the yard - ready to take their lessons with Ser Rodrik Cassel. Theon was now dressed in some old clothes of Robb's, which Old Nan had found for him, as his ironborn clothing was not warm enough for the North. He felt strange in these new garments - new to him, at least. The men of the Iron Islands dressed differently to the men of the North, North men's tunics were longer - had skirts, which Theon could always feel flapping around his thighs awkwardly; making movement much more difficult for him than it had been in his tighter IronIslander breeches and jerkin. But he felt much warmer in the fashions of the North - and he would learn to move properly, in the tunic, in time.
Ser Rodrik was a gruff, old man - who looked the Greyjoy boy up and down, before handing him a wooden sword to practice with. "Let's see how a Kraken does so far from the sea," he said. Theon took the sword from him, unsure as to whether he liked Ser Rodrik or not - there was something in his eyes, a glint ... the little boy got the unsettling impression that the knight did not trust him, was appraising him as he would an enemy - looking for weakness, looking for treachery. But for all the way he felt the knight's eyes lingering on him - as he swung his sword - Theon could tell that the man was a good teacher. He put the boys through their paces, teaching them footwork, correcting their grip - letting them take swings at each other; praising if they made a hit, praising them if they successfully dodged a blow. It was hard, hot work and soon - despite the cold of the air - Theon was sweating beneath his Northern clothes. But he was delighted to discover that he was more than a match for Robb Stark - able to move quicker, and strike with more precision. He was better than Jon - as well - who it turned out was not a Stark but a Snow. Theon had been called 'bastard' many times since he had been taken from his home - but here was a real one, and it pleased Theon no end to discover that there was someone else in Winterfell whose position was as uncertain as his own.
There were more children at Winterfell than just the boys. There was a little girl, half their age, with flaming red hair - who carried herself like a princess, and a younger girl, again, who was just learning to toddle around. Lady Catelyn Stark was also heavy with child - and Theon understood, from the murmurings of the servants and retainers, that it was believed she was carrying another little Lord of Winterfell.
The family were close knit and loving - always teasing and laughing. They loved each other, they loved their servants - and their servants loved them. The longer he stayed at the castle, the more Theon would watch them, longingly, yearning to join in with the laughter, the joking - but he did not know how. This was not how life was on Pyke. Life was hard. Brutal. And the ironborn were hard to each other, or else they wouldn't survive the harsh conditions. His brothers had always beaten him - rough lashings that would leave him bruised and even bleeding. He was beaten at Winterfell, of course, even as Robb was - when they had done something to earn it - but even the worst beating he received: when he jumped down the stairs of the Keep and landed on Old Nan, knocking her off her feet, had been gentle - tender, even - compared to what he was used to.
Lord Stark was unfailingly kind. He was just and fair - and, when the boys fell out, he never simply sided with Robb, as his trueborn heir, but would listen to what Theon and Jon had to say, as well. Robb soon became a firm friend, delighted to find someone he could be as rough with as he liked, someone who could challenge him with the sword and the bow - make him better by making him work, someone he could get into trouble with. As for the girls - they were so young, it wasn't long before they could not remember a time when Theon hadn't been there, and they accepted his presence without question; accepted him as another older brother - even if he was a brother they loved less than the others.
But not everyone worked as hard to make Theon feel at home. Lady Catelyn was never cruel, but she certainly never loved him. He would catch her watching him, out of the corner of his eye, and noticed that she never spoke as freely, or laughed as much, when he was around. She treated Jon - the bastard boy - the same. Never cruel, but never a mother. He and Jon were always outsiders, always interlopers, in her eyes.
And as for Jon … Theon would roll his eyes just at the thought of him. The younger boy was quieter and gentler in nature than the other two. Whilst Theon and Robb would hare through the castle, upsetting things, getting into trouble, earning themselves beatings - Jon never seemed to put a foot wrong. Always seemed to know - where to draw the line, when to stop. Theon could always feel those dark eyes on him, like they were judging him - for leading Robb astray, blaming him for taking Robb away from him. But this was Jon's home, whilst Theon was a thousand miles from his. This was Jon's family, whilst Theon was a thousand miles from his. Theon needed Robb more… Besides, he and Robb were trueborn, rightful heirs - future Lords. They had more in common with each other than Robb had with his bastard brother, or Theon had with his fellow outsider.
#
The days at Winterfell turned into weeks. Theon settled in, began to learn the ways of the North; took his lessons with Robb, from Ser Rodrick; ate at the Stark's table; slept in the same room as his foster brothers. He was there when Lady Catelyn went into labour, one afternoon out in the yard, and heard Bran Stark's first wailing cries come pouring from the window of Lady Cat's chamber. But the longer he lived with this family, the more he missed his own. Unfortunately, he had no reason to believe that his own family were missing him.
At Robb's suggestion, he had asked Lord Stark's permission to write to his mother - to tell her he was settled and well cared for at Winterfell. He saw a shadow of reluctance on Ned's face, before permission was granted - but he was told that he must show his letter to his new Lord before he sent it - and show him any reply he got. He was still a prisoner - a hostage - he couldn't be allowed to communicate with his family, freely, in case he was plotting to betray his captors. Ned didn't say as much, of course, but Theon knew.
He sent his raven to his mother, but no reply ever came. For days and weeks he scanned the skies, hoping a message would be returned to him. But eventually he had to accept there was no letter coming. He worried that maybe his mother was sick, had taken ill in his absence - and so was unable to write. He wondered why Yara wouldn't write in her place - to let him know.
He realised just how trapped he was, here in the frozen lands of the North, how cut off from the sea - from his home. He had no idea if his family were well, if they lived. No idea what was happening on Pyke. He worried they had forgotten him - but then shook off the thought. I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy - his last living son, and heir to the Salt Throne. I am important to my father. He has no heir but me… but then he remembered he had no more connection with his homeland, no knowledge of events taking place there. Lady Catelyn had just birthed another son - was it so impossible his own mother might do likewise? And then there would be another heir - another ironborn, ironraised boy for House Greyjoy. All it would take would be the birth of another trueborn son, and Theon would fade in importance, into insignificance. With a new heir, Balon could rebel again - and then this kindly family, taking care of him, would take Theon's head. But Balon would already have a son to replace him.
He continued to watch the skies, hoping for news of home - even if it didn't come to him, come from his family - just any scrap of information that would connect him with his real home. But nothing ever came.
The weeks turned to months and Theon learned, more and more, the ways of the north - began to forget the old way, had to work to keep reminding himself of what it was to be ironborn. He got used to walking in the strange skirts of Northern fashion, he got used to fighting that way. He got used to hunting in the forests around Winterfell and eating the game they killed there. He was trained in the greenlanders ways and customs, and was taken to the Godswood to learn of their Old Gods. More and more he had to repeat his mantra to himself, furiously: under his breath; inside his head; before he fell asleep at night - to remind himself who he really was, and how the ironborn were supposed to live.
But it slipped away, further and further - and the silence from his homeland was deafening. He would watch the Stark family and yearn to be one of them, to be part of what they had. To know his true place in the world, and to be right where he belonged. But when he stood on the castle walls and looked out at the miles of forest and moor, he would yearn for the sea - for the freedom of the ironborn, and chafe at the walls of his prison. He yearned for his mother. He even yearned for Yara and her teasing ways. And, most of all, he yearned for the knowledge he once took for granted, the knowledge he saw in Robb's eyes every time he looked at him: that he was the son and heir of the Lord of the Land, that his position was secure and one day he would rule his people.
The months turned to years - and Theon Greyjoy grew to be a man … but he never stopped being a prisoner.
A/N I'm pretty new to GoT (as in ten days ago I had no interest in it and had never seen any of it) so everything I write will mostly be based on the show and not the books - because I haven't had time to read them, or even find a copy of them, yet. So that means, where there was divergence between show and book, I will stick to the show canon: so Yara not Asha, the simplified Reek story line, Sansa being the one who ends up at Winterfell in s5 - and, of course, characters will look like the actor who portrayed them, not the way they were described in the books and their ages will comply with the show more than the book.
Sometimes I will use book information, if there is something on the show that wasn't clear or was glossed over - and google tells me the information I need exists in ASOIAF, and sometimes I will mix the canons up in small ways (like switching between the Salt Throne and the Seastone Chair - because similes are the writer's friend) - so some chapters will read as a combination of the two, but that will be deliberate. And sometimes there will be horrible mistakes made by me - because only ten days ago I had no knowledge beyond what I picked up from 8 years of T.V trailers and the general ether - and even then I didn't care about what I knew. There's a whole world to learn about a lot of information to absorb - but I will always try and be as accurate (to the show) as possible.
I hope to write a chapter for each episode of the show - finishing on episode 3 of season 8 (for obvious reasons), including episodes Theon wasn't in, because he must have been doing something - and I'll have free range to make that something up. i have no idea how long this will take and have no posting schedule in mind. However, I do know that the next chapter will pick up during the events of Season 1 Episode 1 'Winter is Coming'.
Thanks for reading this first chapter - I know it was really long!