White Harbor, a city of bright stone and seawater. The closest Theon Greyjoy had ever been to his memories of Lordsport. The heir to the Iron Islands had arrived in the city six months ago, right before Lord Stark had ridden west to the Stony Shore. His second time away from Winterfell was much more pleasant than the first. Torrhen's Square had been exciting, probably too exciting, Theon could admit.
He had his first lessons in sailing on one of House Tallhart's small cutters. It had opened his eyes. The gentle rocking of the hull, the flutter of the flags, the sheer power he felt tug at the mainsail. It was better than any ale he'd quaffed or any woman he'd taken to bed. Maester Luwin had taught him the mechanics of sailing; even before that, Theon could identify every part of a ship by age ten. It was another matter of actually taking the rudder and riggings in hand. His first few attempts had been embarrassing. Northmen ordered to accompany him by Lord Tallhart had felt no need to disguise their laughter. Theon got roaring drunk at the end of that first week and nearly killed one of them in the ensuing brawl. Ser Rodrik had taken him in hand afterward. Rather than sail, he scrapped hulls by the docks for four days straight. Theon had been so desperate for an end to the chores he'd forewarn ale for the next moon, all just to get back in control of a ship.
Theon preened like some prized mare as his skills grew in leaps and bounds. It was a bit like archery, Theon discovered. You had to keep aware of the environment and your own body simultaneously. The direction of the wind, the tension in the bow, even your own posture could tilt and throw the arrow before it was loose. You had to pay attention, watch the movement of the mainsail and foresail, keep abreast of the swinging rigs and keep a steady hand on the rudder at all times. Theon knew the boat also presented him with a rare gift, more than just the pleasure of navigating from the pier to the mouth of the lake. It gave him freedom. On those waves, even surrounded by men loyal to Winterfell who held their own grudges against his homeland, he could feel the freedom. No walls, no gates, just open water.
Departing Torrhen's Square had been heartbreaking, not because the place itself engendered much love from him, though a few of the lowborn sailors had become friends of a sort, but because the water was once again denied to him. Theon had been all too happy when Lord Stark decreed he'd be put under the care of the Manderlys to continue his tutelage. It also allowed Theon to reunite with Bran. The tyke had become more excitable if that was even possible. Never a dull moment with that boy. His ego was buoyed when Bran bragged about his skills with a bow to his gaggle of squire friends.
White Harbor was a hundred times larger than Torrhen's Square. Living there felt like stepping into a foreign land. Snow Step Market rang clear with a dozen languages and people of all colours and kin. Three separate harbors led into the city proper, each overseen by a separate Dock Master. Ships anchored and set sail every day, sometimes it was every hour. Taverns, storehouses, workshops; they stayed open until the last slivers of daylight fled and re-opened at the first rays of dawn. He'd been awestruck. Even more so when the sheer enormity of the city meant that very few recognized or knew him.
Lord Manderly had received him cordially but quickly handed him off to a trusted man in his service; Ser Bellis Fitt, an older knight sworn to House Manderly. Ser Fitt earned his knighthood as a ship captain, protecting Northern trade interests and fighting pirates in the Narrow Sea. His most distinguishing feature was the bronze, acorn hue of his skin. Theon had seen many Essosi merchants and sailors in his short time at White Harbor. Bran had excitedly explained that many people born across the sea lived here and had for generations. Ser Bellis was the son of a Northern noblewoman and a Braavosi craftsman. His father's line had been sewing sails in the North since the reign of Aegon the Unlikely. His mother was descended from Stormlanders, who left Cape Wrath during the Dance of Dragons.
Ser Bellis was a stoic man, though he had a soft spot for song and dance. Theon was quartered at his modest house near the eastern harbor. Every day Theon would accompany him as he walked the docks and ensured taxes and dues were paid promptly and correctly by new arrivals. Once every week, Theon was brought to a ship that sailed for the Manderlys, and a bosun would teach him the intricacies of the larger cogs and galleys. These vessels carried crews from as little as 50 souls to 300 or even 400. Sailing them required skills similar to a battlefield commander not a cutter's simple rigging and navigation. Dozens of rowers kept in perfect synchronicity, lookouts and cooks scrambled to finish a list of essential tasks while bowmen and soldiers stood ever-ready for a sudden attack. It took little to sow confusion between the decks and throw the entire vessel out of order.
In his fourth month, Theon was accompanied by Ser Bellis for a short trip away from the city. He was to act as an assistant bosun on a midsized galley that was doing the rounds in The Bite, checking for pirate hideaways and smuggler caches. It was thrilling.
Music, Theon thought, the working of a well-crewed ship was like a band of bards singing in concert. He smiled from start to finish and even offered to treat Ser Bellis to dinner in a dockside kitchen when they returned to White Harbor.
"Fine, fine. Only if you hold your ale, Theon, I won't make excuses if you sleep through morning rounds," Bellis told him.
Theon pulled off his thick coat, The Bite was never warm, even during Summer. "One drink, I swear. I just need something warm in my belly right now," Theon said as he led them down the pier.
They nearly stepped back into the busy streets when Bellis stopped and shouted: "Ho there! Captain Shellsign!"
Theon turned back and saw his caretaker trod down to the Dock Master's hut. Theon rolled his eyes and dutifully followed.
He saw a thin man in a thick coat turn around and step entirely out of the hut. Short cut light brown hair laid over thin spindly eyebrows set on an old lean face, and faded patches of scars spread across his wrinkled chin, like he'd fallen into a fire. His hair was a solid colour, but his mustache and sideburns were thick and grey; this man was aged, probably as old as Maester Luwin by his looks. Even from a distance, Theon could see large rings glinting on the man's hands. A short axe hung from his belt, and a dagger stuck out of his boot.
Bellis locked arms with the stranger, though obviously, he was no stranger to the knight himself.
"Shellsign, I thought you were still in Dorne?" Ser Bellis asked.
"You know how things go, Fitt. The tide comes in with one contract, then the tide goes out with another." Shellsign replied. "I had a feeling the man who hired me was in bad favour with some powerful people."
There was a familiar tone to the man's words. A rhythm in his speech rang familiar to Theon's ears.
"I threw his coin back in his face and left Sunspear the same night." Shellsign smirked, "A friend from Wyl says he was brought up on charges by the Martells not two moons later. Found good sport hunting slavers for the Yronwoods in the meantime."
Bellis shook his head, "Where you get your feelings, I'll never know."
Shellsign tapped a fist to his chest, "I've said it before; the Drowned God favours the clever swimmers and drowns the dumb ones."
Theon's eyes grew wide. The voice was familiar because it carried the tones of his home. It had been a point of pride for Theon to never lose his mother tongue. His own voice carried those vowels and rolls.
"Who's your tag-a-long?" The Ironborn Captain asked. "He looks familiar. Don't stand there with your mouth open. You'll catch a tongue of salt."
Shellsign stared hard at Theon, who found words hard to come by. Ser Bellis waited for the young man to introduce himself.
"Do you know your father, boy?" Shellsign questioned.
"Aye," Theon stuttered.
"Was he some poor sellsail in the South?"
Theon frowned, "Why would you think that?"
Shellsign shrugged, "I've killed a lot of piss poor sailors in the South. Sometimes their faces stick in my mind. Thought your father might be one of them."
Theon's pride reared its head, and he stomped forward. He was nearly tall as the old man he was about to threaten.
"I'll have you know, sea dog, that my father is the Lord of the Iron Islands!" Theon grinned toothily, ready for the man to shit his breeches when he realized he'd insulted his liege lord.
Shellsign locked eyes with Theon, "Your Balon Greyjoy's? The idiot's last son?"
Theon stepped back and swallowed, "You'll watch your tongue. I'm the heir to Pyke. Show some proper respect to the Lord Reaper."
"I'll show respect to Balon Greyjoy when he goes to the Drowned God's halls. Him and all his up-jumped fool brothers." Shellsign declared and spit. "Wasting all of what good Lord Quellon gave them. The way I look at it, Balon deserved the sword but got an idiot's mercy instead. You're just lucky the Stag didn't decide your head was a fitting trophy."
Theon's own thoughts were thrown off by the second comment, "Quellon? My grandfather?"
Ser Bessil cut in, eager to avoid a knife fight on the quay, "Theon Greyjoy, this is Captain Harmund Shellsign. He's a frequent visitor in White Harbor, and has more than a few friends here," Bessil warned. "Let's keep things civil. No need for countrymen to shed blood over strong words."
Shellsign had relaxed. His hand fell away from his belt. "I was a bit hasty," he admitted, "It does me no favors to scorn the blood of my late lord for the actions of another." Captain Harmund held out his arm, "Peace, Theon Greyjoy."
Theon bit his cheek. The last year had done wonders for his own self-control. Apart from the occasional embarrassing episode, like what just happened. This was the first Ironborn he'd met in the North. Their trade ships kept to Dorne and the Stormlands, rarely venturing further north than Cape Kraken. Theon was forbidden from writing to the Islands, so this was his first real chance for news from home.
He stepped forward and joined arms with the Captain. "My insults were misplaced," Theon said. "If you agree, Ser Fitt and I are going to sup nearby. Would you join us?"
"Lead the way," the Captain said.
The trio found a comely tavern near the wharf with enough free space for quiet conversation. Shellsign ordered food and ale while Theon asked for watered-down wine alongside his usual fare. Ser Bessil spoke with the tavern owner; apparently, the man had some issue with late shipments and wanted to get Bessil's opinion.
Unsure of how to begin, Theon allowed Harmund to take up the burden of speaking first.
"I heard you were a ward of Lord Stark," Harmund said.
Theon took a bite of bread, "I am. Lord Eddard deemed it time I learn the ways of the sea. He's sent me to the Manderlys for the time being. Ser Fitt has been overseeing me." Honesty seemed the best option for now.
Harmund simply nodded and took a bite of his chicken. "Bessil's a smart man. A good knight, even better Captain. He's seen nearly every port in Westeros more than once."
"And you?" Theon asked.
"Am I a good Captain?"
"No, have you seen every port in Westeros? I thought Ironborn ships kept to the South these days."
Harmund frowned, "These days, I suppose they do. Then again, I have the benefit of a long history with most of the ports on the mainland. I've been sailing them since before Robert's Rebellion. A good reputation opens more doors than you'd think."
"Did you fight for my grandfather?" Theon wondered, "During the King's Rebellion?"
Harmund cleaned his hands and blinked hard. "I did. Longer than just in the Rebellion. I was by your grandfather's side during the War of the Ninepenny Kings too."
Theon leaned forward, "Did you know my grandfather? Truly know him?" There was a tone of true familiarity in Harmund's words.
Harmund downed his ale, "I did, since we were boys. You've given your name Greyjoy. It's only fair I give mine." Harmund toasted, "I am Harmund Merlyn, pleasure to meet you."
"Merlyn?" Theon muttered. "As in Merlyn of Pebbleton?"
"The very same. My fat nephew holds court in Pebbleton Tower as we speak." Harmund confirmed.
"Then what are you doing here?" Theon asked.
"What any smart exile does, keeping my coffers full and my life intact."
"You're an exile!" Theon exclaimed.
Harmund smiled wide, "Have been going on fifteen years."
"If that's true, then you never fought for my father." Theon realized.
"No, but I will say I never raised sail against him. I'm no faithless kinslayer." Harmund informed him.
Theon rubbed his cheek, "If you're Lord Merlyn's kin, then that means you're the son of Sigon Merlyn, my great-grand-uncle."
Harmund chuckled, "You know your lineage. My mother was Quellon's aunt. We were cousins. That makes us kin, Theon, for whatever that's worth."
Theon stared blankly at the old man. The first family he'd spoken to since he was a child… and he was a banished exile. He smiled bitterly, "You can't go home. Guess we have that in common."
Harmund set down his food and examined the boy across from him. "If it's worth anything, in a way, I chose my exile. My brother died in the same battle that took your grandfather's life. When we returned to the Islands, I tried to take control of House Merlyn."
"You tried to usurp your nephew's birthright?" Theon clarified.
"The idiot wasn't half the man his father was. I didn't want to let that oaf take the title, nearly succeeded too. But he was on friendly terms with the new Lord Balon, and he whispered in your father's ears about how I was weak. Pointed out how loyal I'd been to Quellon. As if that was some kind of black mark on my soul." Harmund growled. "Then your uncle Aeron became a priest, he added his voice to my nephew's. I could have stayed and fought."
"Why didn't you?" Theon asked.
Harmund refilled his mug and drank.
"I could see the course of the tide. Quellon's ways were discarded by Balon. I decided I didn't want any part of his obsession with the Old Ways. I took my ship and left, thank the Drowned God. Few years later, I'm docked in Volantis when news about the Greyjoy Rebellion arrives." Harmund shook his head.
Theon looked over and saw Ser Fitt had ordered his meal and sat near the door. The knight was leaving them to their conversation. Very kind of him.
"I don't understand," Theon said, "My father was following the Old Way, just like my grandfather."
Harmund squinted, "What were you told about Quellon?"
Theon toyed with his fork, "Not much. My older brothers mentioned how he was strong and tall. They said he died like a true Ironborn, on the sea with a blade in hand… I don't think Father ever talked about him. At least not to me, but I was a child."
Theon rarely spoke about his oldest memories. He was only ten years old when Pyke was attacked. Before that, he recalled spending his time with Asha and their nursemaid. Father rarely spoke with them. His older brothers, Rodrik and Maron, occasionally visited him, but they spent their time lying and playing tricks. They were cruel, especially to Asha. He remembered that very clearly.
He never said it, but when news came that Rodrik had died at Seagard, he'd been relieved. Theon only learned months after being taken from Pyke that Maron had also died on the battlements. Some said he was crushed by a tower, but Lord Umber claimed one of his men had killed him first. That was all in the past, though. Harmund was right. Lord Quellon was barely mentioned in his memories.
"Of course not. Balon and Victarion thought he was a fool, that he was weakening the Iron Islands," Harmund insisted.
"What did he do?" Theon asked.
Harmund stood up and pulled his stool close to Theon, shoulder to shoulder.
"Quellon had the strength to conquer but the mind to rule," Harmund said. "He looked to history, saw the difference between when the Ironborn were strong and when we were weak. That's why he tried to end the Old Way."
Theon frowned, "End the Old Way? How could that help us? We Do Not Sow. We pay the Iron Price! It's what made the Ironborn a force to be feared."
Harmund kept still, "What is the Old Way, Theon?"
Theon thought back on the earliest of his lessons.
"What you need, you take, with ship and sword. What you want, you take, whether it's coins or women. Ironborn have salt in their blood. We're meant for more than farming and mining. We pay the Iron Price because the Gold Price is paid by lesser men. That's why no one can beat an Ironborn at sea. We are the children of the Drowned God, made fiercer and harder than any other men," Theon recited.
"Did it look that way when King Robert broke through Pyke's walls?" Harmund asked.
Before Theon could respond, Harmund continued: "When were the Iron Islands at their strongest? Who was the last lord to lead our fleet to true glory and bounty?"
"The Red Kraken," Theon responded, "He sacked Lannisport and conquered Kayce and Fair Isle, like the Driftwood Kings of old."
"Dalton Greyjoy ruled for five years before dying in his bed. Then the Lannisters took their vengeance while his salt sons squabbled over his title," Harmund countered.
Theon thought back but could not name anyone outside of folk heroes who made the occasional daring raid.
"When the Targaryens came, they gelded the Ironborn with their claws," Harmund stated.
"The Hoares! They ruled for thousands of years, conquerors who were feared across Westeros, like Harren the Black." Theon pointed out. "Our kingdom stretched from sea to sea."
"The Hoares didn't practice the Old Ways, did they?" Harmund reminded. "They married Andals, lived on the Mainland, forbade reaving, even killed priests."
"Before them, were the Greyirons."
"The Hoares spent their first centuries regaining the power the Greyirons lost. After Torgon Latecomer abolished the Kingsmoot, they couldn't figure out how to overcome Andal castles or beat Andal steel," Harmund lectured. "Even before that, the High Kingship shifted hands like a scalding cup. You can track which Kings tried to build something and which kings wasted those efforts."
Theon felt unbalanced, "I don't understand."
Harmund laid a hand on Theon's shoulder.
"Your father and his brothers, they grew up under Lord Quellon's reign. He made many changes and brought wealth to the islands. He sent reavers away from Westeros, sponsored traders to every port that would take them. With coin and goods flowing back to the islands, he brought Maesters to teach and heal, encouraged his lords to take wives from the mainlands, all to tie us closer to the rest of Westeros. He realized that the wealth of the Hoares was in reach and without having to worry about thrall uprisings or invasions from the Lord Paramounts."
Harmund paused, his eyes downturned.
"In those days, a Lord could take a shipload of iron to the Reach, fight pirates in the Stepstones, come back with enough silver to buy a hull's worth of Northern timber and build another ship! Your father and his brothers grew up with great feasts and riches. Rather than realize how hard your grandfather worked, they listened to old men in the taverns who crowed and cawed about the Old Ways, of the Golden Age of the Ironborn. When men had a hundred salt wives each and took thralls and gold with every tide, when mainlanders quaked in fear at the sight of the Kraken and threw their wives to the waves in tribute. Those old fools spoke of a time that never was, that they'd never seen. Only heard about, from other old men. Balon was all too eager to take Quellon's place and replace the New Ways, to go back to tradition."
"What then?" Theon asked. "How did that lead to his rebellion?"
Harmund sank back, "The wealth drained away. No one wants to trade with a slaver and make no mistake, that's what thralls are to the rest of the world. Why give goods and supplies to a captain who'd just as likely kill you a week later? The Westerlands and the Reach have come to the Islands to burn and sack before. They know what the Old Way means. So when Balon started cutting off trade and Ironborn stopped going to Essos, the Kingdoms shut their doors. Balon panicked. After all, this was not the golden age he was promised. He turned to the Drowned God, hoping for some kind of divine solution, some sign. The priests were all too eager to have his ear. Priests always want for power, for Kings to bow and scrape at their feet. Men like Aeron Damphair have never forgotten that holy men crowned the first High King. Balon convinced himself that if he wore a crown, his problems would disappear."
Theon ran a hand through his hair, "That makes no sense. Without the King's peace, we'd have no protection."
Harmund nodded, "Balon thought that if he severed the ties to the Iron Throne, the sheep of the mainland would shriek in terror. That's the poison of the Old Way. It makes men feel like Gods by virtue of sharing a name with dead heroes."
Theon could only stare off, "I guess he learned his lesson at Fair Isle."
"A man like Balon never learns. The Iron Islands are the weakest they've been in centuries." Harmund said.
Theon swallowed thickly, "The Old Way says that mainlanders are lessers, not worth respect."
Harmund squeezed his shoulder, "That's right."
Theon dared not ask what his father would think of him. A boy raised by the Starks, in a castle, with no crew or wealth of his own. It hadn't seemed strange how he was raised. It was similar to Robb, after all. Perhaps that was the worst part. That Theon was brought up like a Greenland heir and not an Ironborn.
"How can I be Lord of a land I don't understand?" Theon asked himself.
He was so intent on his cup of wine he barely noticed Harmund stand up and walk over to Ser Fitt. Their talk was hushed. Harmund passed over a small sack of coin and clasped hands with his old comrade.
Harmund marched over to Theon, hauled him up by his arm, and hugged him. Theon came out of his fugue long enough to stare at the old man in bewilderment.
"I think you and I have more to talk about. Besides," Harmund laughed as he pulled Theon alongside him out of the tavern. "A Greyjoy should learn to sail from trusted kin, not strangers."
Theon looked back. Ser Fitt was watching them walk away. The knight gave a quick wave and went off toward his home.
"My first mate went and got himself married, and now with his wife expecting he's taken a post in Gulltown, that means I've got a hole in my crew," Harmund explained.
"You want me to be your First Mate?" Theon asked.
Harmund laughed again, his wrinkled cheeks curled. "Maybe not First Mate, apprentice sounds better. Once you've learned your way around the mast, we'll see."
Theon looked down the dock they were on and saw a grand ship swaying in the afternoon breeze. Men swarmed up and off it.
Theon protested: "I can't just go with you! I need Lord Stark's permission."
"Worry not! Ser Fitt will keep his mouth shut, and we'll make port often enough to not raise suspicions. In the meantime, you have a lot to learn." Harmund declared.
He walked up the gangplank, hopped onto the rail of his foredeck, and threw his arms wide.
"Welcome aboard The Host, my kinsman! She'll be glad to have you!"
Theon stared in shock, then smiled wide and took his first steps onboard.
/
A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. I've decided on a course for Theon but I needed an OC to get him started. You might also realise that this chapter is a bit of a rant on my part about the Ironborn, I couldn't help myself.
The next chapter will take us to the start of canon, in 298 AC, with the arrival of King Robert to Winterfell.