8-I

"You seem to be at a loss, Lord Tyrion." The lovely, big breasted, green-haired girl was correct in this. He was at a loss. Not in cyvasse, of course, though she certainly believes that she has him. A notion he will disabuse her of beginning with his next move; five after that, he will have her dragon, and then two more after that, he will have her king.

"Not at all, Lady Wylla," he lies with a grin as he moves his elephant into place. Her eyes grow slightly larger, though how, he does not know, since they appeared to be as wide open as they could be to accentuate their beauty, her innocence, and whatever other traits the girl has wished to convey these last few days. Still, they do go a bit rounder than normal, giving away a flash of...surprise and possibly annoyance that he is about to beat her two games to zero in a best of three. Impressive that the girl sees that far ahead in the game. More importantly to Tyrion, it is a refreshing bit of honesty, something that has been in scarce supply since his arrival less than a week ago.

It started almost immediately after he and his newly acquired squire arrived. In the great hall, he was presented to the young Lords Robb and Brandon. They had gotten word of the young boy's recovery at The Wall, of course, but it was another thing to see it for himself. After offering his best wishes for his recovery, he immediately asked after the conspicuously absent Lady Catelyn, considering the depths of her grief at the boy's accident. The older lord quickly brushed the question off, saying she was off to Karhold to cement negotiations between Lord Karstark's heir and his own sister Arya. "Been in the works a while now, and it was something my father meant to see to before King Robert and you lot descended upon us. Now that Bran's come back, mother volunteered to see it done. Thought a break from these surroundings would do her good."

"I see," Tyrion replied, though he did not. The lady's grief wouldn't see her away from that boy's bedside so soon after he woke. And propriety would dictate the vassal lord come to Winterfell to discuss a betrothal, especially so considering the circumstances. "Well, I certainly hate to have missed out on her warmth and hospitality," Tyrion said as sincerely as he could considering the lady didn't say four words to him for the entirety of his last visit. The young lord seemed satisfied with that answer, however, and soon enough, he and Sam were whisked away to their chambers and dumped in a hot bath before he even had a chance to decline Winterfell's charms in favor of the brothel in the Wintertown.

At dinner, he was seated in a place of honor next to two beautiful young ladies, one the willowy yet full bosomed girl sitting across from him and trying her damndest not to pout at another loss, the other a lovely blonde who said all manner of flattering things to him, and whose hands roamed freely under the table, but whose eyes were devoid of anything but duty and a hint of contempt at having to throw herself at the Imp. Such was a look he had seen too many times before from daughters of his father's lesser bannermen, and it sent even less blood to his cock now than it did back then. Even with the girl's hand nearly at his crotch.

"My dear Lady Whitehill," he whispered, "a hand width to the right, and I feel like I will owe you coin." When she immediately pulled her hand away in confusion, Tyrion continued. "Two gold dragons, at least. A better rate than the girls in the Wintertown, but you are a lord's daughter, after all, so I assume half will go to your father." Her face twisted into one of rage, but she impressively kept her composure and said nothing. The next morning, however, she and her retinue left Winterfell despite the young lord's insistence that she stay.

His other "suitor," however, has proven far more difficult. She had a lower cut gown the first night, one accentuating the tops of her ample breasts, especially when she would lean towards him, which seemed often. Since her rival's fall, though, she has changed her strategy completely, wearing comfortable, modest wool gowns that still manage to accentuate her figure without sacrificing decorum. The first night, she asked him about his travels, about the Wall, the West, and King's Landing. Now, she has been keen on the books he has read, his theories on the fall of Valyria, the subsequent fall of the dragonlords in Westeros, and all manner of other subjects. She proves to be a bright girl, well read and thoughtful, a good conversation partner on any number of subjects, and he would have been delighted by her company if he did not feel as if he was being...steered - and not just towards an obvious betrothal.

He is a Lannister, yes, and he is richer than most of the northern lords combined, also yes, but for one...unfortunate incident, he has never held any illusions about what he is. His father made damn certain of that. Dwarves are not what bright, beautiful, sixteen year old daughters of the Lord of White Harbor conjure when they think of ideal husbands. Nor are they what their fathers conjure when thinking of ideal goodsons. No, he decided there was something else going on by the end of the second day of his stay.

The next morning it was all but confirmed when the young Lord Stark made an appeal to his intellect as blatant as anything the comely daughter of White Harbor had done when he sought counsel on the best places to build sawmills to accommodate the new contract with Braavos. It was a truly flattering gesture and a great mental exercise for him and his fat new squire...but it was also something that would never be shared with a stranger, no matter his academic reputation (which he believes would normally be a hindrance in the north with their hesitance to embrace septons, septas, and even maesters in some castles and holdfasts). Still, the boy asked, and with Luwin's input and the young Lord Stark's knowledge of the rivers and the land, they devised a plan to maximize their economy while efficiently and effectively meeting Braavos' needs. The young lord offered to pay him for his services, but Tyrion waved him off, saying he was delighted to engage in such an endeavor, though he did hint at the possibility of providing for the growing need for millers, carpenters, and skilled woodsmen in the North - he was a Lannister, after all, and the opportunity to slice a portion off this newly baked pie was too much for him to resist. Stark caught on immediately, and agreed, just so long as he had a small stake in the company ("Say, twenty-five percent," the lad said with his utterly charming grin) and just so long as the other three quarters interest was held solely by Tyrion and not his family. The last bit was unexpected, and suggested an insight that Tyrion had not believed the boy was capable of, which only furthered his curiosity as to the purpose of the game they were playing.

The next day, it was a hunt with the young lord to see the growing direwolves in their element. The day after, it was conscripting an admittedly eager young Sam to help recreate the salvageable books and scrolls from the curious library fire that had occurred not a moon past. After that, it was Stark and Luwin seeking his advice on the possibility of ore in the Northern mountains. And in between it all was the young Lady Stark's newest handmaiden, who seemed to hardly ever be in the company of young Lady Stark.

Such as now. The girl plays out the rest of the match with a smile that does not cover the anger in her eyes. She is good at this game, and as he looks back over the last few days, he can tell that she was directing the conversation to cyvasse - talks of strategy and dragons and games of chance, the way she humbly said she was familiar with this game when he finally broached the topic. This is meant to be a hustle, but for what stakes? He moves his elephant and finally takes her king.

He gives her his most winning smile, a hideous leer to the young maiden of White Harbor, no doubt, and decides that it is time to start playing this game he has found himself in. "You are quite skilled at cyvasse, Lady Wylla."

"Thank you, my lord," she replies, all courtesy and charm and innocence, once again.

Now for the dagger. "For a novice player, I mean," he says, easing from his chair as nonchalantly as he could. She blinks once, twice, and then the anger flares. Again, it is quite subtle, a small downturn of her brows, a creeping flush up her neck and into her cheeks, but it is there - as easy to spot as any tell.

"I assure you that I am not a novice, Lord Tyrion."

The truth looks beautiful on her, and he almost wishes...for what? He pushes such thoughts away and continues. "My lady," he says patiently, "there is no shame in your lack of experience. I'm sure that in White Harbor, there are few who can match your skill, but you'll find that the game and its players both prove more challenging the farther you stray from home. In King's Landing especially. Perhaps one day you will allow me to show you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find my squire." He took her hand and gave it a nice, drawn out kiss before bowing and making his exit. The last he saw of her pretty face, the anger and frustration had been replaced with confusion. Good. Let her think on his words. Let the young lord think on them, as well, after she reports the day's events to him.

Outside in the courtyard, he finds his squire easily enough; the massive boy certainly draws the eye, even in a square full of people. From his immense bulk, to the way he awkwardly shifts his weight on the bench, to the fact that he was reading Archmaester Orton's Brief History of Farming in the Seven Kingdoms and Essos, the boy is ever a magnet for the wrong sort of attention. His shortlived and unfortunate stint in the Night's Watch was a testament to that. Fat and martially hopeless, he would have been killed before the year was out, possibly even before he ever got a chance to say his vows. And why? Because martial men like Alliser Thorne and Randyll Tarly cannot fathom a mind like Sam's and are even less able to gauge its worth. Not so for Tyrion. He could see the boy's potential after one conversation. Some gold and the promise of Westerlands criminals, and the Old Bear, obviously not eager to see the boy dead as was Randyll Tarly's apparent wish, was willing enough to rid himself of a problem and put it on Lannister shoulders. Small shoulders, to be sure, but Lannister all the same, and one problem Tyrion was happy to bear.

"Best cut short your visit, Lord Tyrion," the Old Bear said. "Some will not be happy with this development."

"Are you happy with this development?"

"Can't say I'm not. The lad most like would have had his skull split in the yard by some of those rougher boys. Also can't say that I am. The Watch is dwindling, and we need every man. Maybe even frightened fat boys like that one." He drummed his fingers on the table and breathed a deep, raspy breath. "You've given me a third path. For that I thank you. But I think you'd best be gone in the morning."

It was a fair trade. He'd already pissed off the Wall. Losing ten more days of freezing his balls off while gaining a squire with a mind like Sam's may be the greatest bargain a Lannister ever struck.

"Take a walk with me, Sam," Tyrion says as he strolls past the boy.

"Y-yes, my lord Tyrion," Sam replies, awkwardly rising to his feet and falling in step.

A glance at their shadows betrays both of their waddling gaits, and he imagines the comical sight the two of them must make. Tyrion nearly guffaws himself, but holds it in until they are close to the stables. "Tell me, Sam, has anyone explained the origin of the fire in the library tower in more detail?"

"No, my lord," the boy says from behind him. "The Septon echoes the Maester's explanation. A brazier fell into some old scrollwork, and it spread too fast for the old man to contain."

"What do you think of that explanation, Sam?"

"Oh, well, um, I think he's wrong, my lord."

"You think an eyewitness is wrong?"

"I do, my lord."

"Why, Sam?"

The boy's face is flushed red, embarrassed for only hinting that the septon or maester is lying to them, but he presses on. "Well, because most of the damage is on the second floor of the Tower, but the library doesn't start until the third floor. The first foundation of the tower is stone, but every floor after that is wood beams and wood flooring. The stone is burnt black on the east side of the first floor, on the other side from the stone staircase. And the second floor is burnt completely away on that side, but the third floor is partially intact."

"What does that tell you?"

"That the fire started on the first floor. Burnt through the second, and was making its way through the third and the books before they were able to quench it."

"Very good, Sam," Tyrion says and means it. That was his thought on the library tower, as well. "Now tell me, have you managed to befriend anyone this week? Other squires or men-at-arms? Specifically anyone with a desire to hear themselves speak?"

"Oh no, my lord," he says, staring at his feet. "I don't make friends...easily with other boys my age."

"That's a shame, Sam," Tyrion says. "Why not, do you think?"

"My lord?"

"Why do you not get on so well with other lads your age, Sam?

The boy shuffles his weight from foot to foot before looking up. "Because I'm fat. And a coward. I'm not good with a sword or with a bow, and when other boys in Horn Hill would talk of fighting or the hunt, I never had much to say. Unless I read it in a book," he finishes, eyes downcast once again.

Tyrion sighs. "Sam, I'm not fat, but as an avid reader of books and also as someone who does everything in his power to avoid a fight, I am going to tell you a secret. Nearly all men share one thing in common, be they peasant or king, idiot or scholar. Do you know what that is?"

"N-no, my lord," the boy stammers.

Tyrion hands him a small pouch of dragons and asks, "Have you ever been to a brothel, Sam?"

8-II

The deck is slick with blood, but Harras still has his footing among the reavers he has cut down. He recognized some of the faces of the men he killed, but he couldn't recall any names. That is not true for the one facing him now.

Black Lorren spits at Harras's feet. "Turned your cloak, too, eh, Knight? Crow's Eye will hang you and the Reader from the bridges on Pyke."

"Theon is the rightful Lord of Pyke, Lorren, not that madman you serve."

The squat, thick man grunts and clangs his axes together. "Maybe. Don't matter if he's dead." He comes for him.

Harras steps away from the mast to give him room to maneuver Nightfall. Black Lorren lunges, bringing the axe at Harras in an overhand swing. He parries, then pivots and parries the second axe. The shorter man is trying to close the distance, get inside Nightfall's reach, back Harras up to the rail or to the mast to restrict his movement. It is an excellent tactic, but Harlaw grew up on the sea, on ships, and has fought a dozen and more battles on the deck of a ship. He pivots and twists and circles, careful to keep the reaver from getting inside his guard, carefully stepping over the dead bodies that shift with each deep roll of the ship.

Black Lorren tries to close, but Nightfall flashes out at him, parts ringmail and leather and bites deep into his shoulder. The man backs up, spits into the blood and the brine, and rushes forward. Harras sends a cut at him just as he is in reach again, but the man dips and rolls underneath the cut. He sends a backcut at Harras's leg. He moves it just in time for the blade to miss the joint, but it hits the greave square, and Harras feels the buckle and the bite. He swings Nightfall down as the reaver rolls away again, but Harras was expecting it and pivots and thrusts just as Black Lorren is rising. The squat man twists, but the blade cuts deeply into his side. Harlaw twists and yanks, and the reaver falls to the ground as blood spills from beneath the hand covering the wound. "What is dead may never die, Knight," he says. "Crow's Eye will send you to the Drowned God."

"I'm a follower of the Seven, Lorren. False gods do not concern me." He presses the blade against the reaver's chest and then leans forward, his weight easing the Valyrian Steel through the man's mail and leather, bone and heart. He wipes the blade clean on Lorren's pant leg, and looks about the deck. The fight is nearly over. Black Lorren brought his own ship and three others to see to the end of The Sea Wolf - a Goodbrother, a Saltcliffe, an Orkmont. All are known supporters of Euron.

He won't be able to lie about this attack. He expected them to sink Theon and his good uncle this time. He just didn't count on the Braavosi. Two great Triremes sailed with them from Braavos, carrying officials from the Iron Bank to tour the North and meet with the lords who will be providing most of the lumber for the contract. Between those two massive ships and 200 oars each of the Sea Wolf and Ser Wendel's Mermaids Song, the reavers did not have much of a chance. He looks over the deck of the ship and spots Theon cleaning off his blade. The other man notices him and walks over.

"This was the captain of this reaving mission?" He is doused in blood and sweat and brine, but seems no worse for wear.

"Black Lorren. Sworn to one of the Goodbrothers but made his own name apart from them. His Foamsplitter was becoming one of the more feared ships of the Iron Isles."

A young boy hands Theon a rag that he uses to wipe his face clean. "Well, not anymore, eh? Nice fight, Harry," he says as he makes his way to the stern above the cabins.

"Lads!" he shouts, "Come close!" The dispersed crew comes forward, some still stabbing and slitting the throats of the reavers sprawled on the deck. "This is the third time the reavers have come for us, and this is the third time we've sent those bastards to the bottom of the sea!"

"Huzzah!" the men yell in response.

"Kyle!" he shouts. No answer. "Is Kyle dead?"

"No, Ser Theon, I am living still," a tall thin man says after pressing through the other sailors to get to the young Kraken's side. Harry recognizes him as the Sea Wolf's quartermaster. He is the one who arranged his cabin and his passage on the ship in Braavos.

"What's our haul from this battle?"

"Well, Ser Theon, I don't rightly know yet. There looks to be marginal damage to the Sea Wolf and the Mermaids Song. The triremes appear as pristine as ever. One of the ironborn ships is lost, the Mermaid's Song split it in half, one is listing, though it can probably make it to The Sisters. The other two seem to be in good condition."

Theon claps him on the back. "A good haul! More ships to be refitted, more bounty from their holds! Kyle, an extra silver for every man who fought with us today!" He shouts, and the crew responds in kind. "An extra quarter percent from the bounty we take from the three captured Ironborn ships!" Another round of shouting and pounding of weapons. "The Crow's Eye thinks he can drive the Sea Wolf and her sister ships from the Narrow Sea! Thinks he can keep me away from foam and tide! But he cannot, can he?"

A resounding "Nooooo," from the crew.

"This is not the first ironborn ship to fall to the Northern fleet, is it?"

"Noooooo!"

"But it is the best! Black Lorren was one of the greatest fighters, one of the greatest captains of the Ironborn! Yet there he is, dead on our decks!" Shouts and applause. "There is his ship, the Foamsplitter, taken as a prize!" More applause. "The more my uncle sends after us, the more blood we send back to him! Until he chokes on it!" the young Kraken finishes, his bloodied sword raised in the air.

The crew shouts and pounds their weapons. Harras does nothing, only leans against Nightfall, hands on the pommel, letting the Valyrian greatsword hold him up.

"Alright, boys!" he shouts. "Let's scrape this shit off the decks. Except Black Lorren. We'll send his head and axe back to my uncle. We make for The Sisters! Oh, and one extra ration of grog for every man!"

One last round of applause bursts from the crew before they get to work. Harras moves out of their way, finds a crate he can sit on while he removes his greaves and examines his calf where Black Lorren's axe scored a hit.

"We have a couple of healers on board, cousin" Theon says. "Not maesters, but I trust them," he says.

He waves him off. "No, you've got a score of men with more pressing injuries than this." The axe bit, and it bled freely, but it had already slowed to a seep. Theon hands him a rag that Harras uses to bind the wound. "I've got wine and a needle and catgut in my cabin. I can stitch this myself."

"As you say, Harry," Theon says. "Will you dine with Wynafryd and I in my cabin tonight?"

This is the first time he's asked him to his cabin since they've been on the Narrow Sea. The first time he has asked him to a private audience since Harras met him in Braavos. "You don't think we'll reach the Sweet Sister tonight?"

Theon looks at the sun, at his sails. "I don't. Early morning, most like. An hour or two before sunrise."

"Alright, tell your wife that I'll be there," he says before walking off towards his cabin.

In his room, Harras removes his armor and lets the pieces fall to the floor. He strips to his smallclothes before mixing herbs from his pouch into a tin cup of wine. He holds it over his candle until it boils, swirls his needle into it, before pouring it over his wound. His body jerks and his jaw clenches, but he breathes through the pain, and then begins the stitching. It was a long gash, but not as deep as all that, and it closes nicely. He binds it with a fresh piece of cloth from his trunk. Putting his instruments on the table next to his bed, he gets to work on his armor, scouring it as best as can be done while in a cabin on the Narrow Sea. He looks to his pierced greave and taps the steel out. He'll have to take it to a smith, but it will work well enough as is. He hangs each piece on the rack in his room before starting on Nightfall. He washes the blood off with water, dries it, and then starts over it with the oil rag. His eyes settle on the deep ripples as he rhythmically polishes the blade. Soon enough, his eyelids grow heavy and he falls into darkness…

...until a hard knock on his cabin door has him bolting upright from the bed, sending Nightfall clattering to the floor, and nearly tearing his stitches. He limps to the door, annoyed and ready to lash out at whoever is on the other side...before he sees that it is Wynafryd Manderly. Or Greyjoy, rather. He saw her in Braavos and on the ship, but this is the first good look he has gotten of her - tall, lovely, willowy, brown hair, heavy breasts, and a slightly pregnant belly.

"Ser Harras," she says, looking him up and down.

"Lady Greyjoy," he replies, suddenly aware that he is nearly naked. His leg hurts too much to dive behind anything at the moment, so he decides to just act as if nothing is amiss. He is in his cabin, after all. "May I help you?"

"Did you tear your stitches?" she asks, squatting in front of him and looking at his calf.

"No, I do not believe…"

"No, they're only loose. Come," she says, taking him by the hand and leading him to his bed. "On your stomach, I'll tighten them." He does as he is told, and she makes quick work of the stitch with deft fingers. "There," she says when finished. "Good as ever, though we should probably wrap it with something clean." She looks around his room for a moment or two before shrugging and lifting her dress up. Harras turns away quickly, but she only laughs. "Turn around, please." He does as she asks and sees her holding a knife that must have been under her dress and cutting off a strip of cloth from it. "It's the only suitable bit of clean cloth in here, I think," she says, answering his unasked question." With the long strip in hand, she says, "Leg up, please. Just high enough to wrap this bandage." He does, the pain of the cut flares, but it's much less than it was. The girl does her job, wrapping the cloth around his calf three times and tying it off in the back. She inspects it for a moment, gives it a quick pull and nods. "Nice and tight. Excellent. Now we need to get you in some clean pants and a shirt." She opens the chest at the foot of the bed and begins rummaging through. "Theon sent me to fetch you. Dinner is about to be served."

"Have I been asleep all day?" he asks aloud.

"Killing reavers is tiresome work," she says. "My husband and uncle have done it enough times to know. Black hearted bastard, that uncle of his. Westeros will be safer when his head's on a spike." She pulls out his best trousers and shirt and a grey tunic with the peacock and scythe of his house sewn on the front. She eyes the tunic, eyes him. "Lovely. We found two pigs on Black Lorren's ship and have been roasting them all day for everyone on the ship. You simply must have some with us. Now dress." She hands him his clothes and then continues. "Theon says you slew several reavers today, including the captain of the lead ship. What are you waiting for?" she asks as he stands there half naked, clothes in hand.

"For you to leave, my lady?" Harras says weakly.

"Oh, posh," she replies, waving her hand at that notion. "I'm no stranger to sailors or ships, and I've already a good notion as to the length, shape, and girth of your cock, Ser Harras. I think we are past modesty at this point." He smiles, amused. She presses on. "My husband told me to fetch you for dinner, so I have come to fetch you. And you really shouldn't try to make a liar of a pregnant woman, Ser Harras. It's not very knightly of you," she finishes, managing to look pouty and demanding all at once.

He takes a deep breath and begins shrugging on his clothes. "As you say, my lady."

Before he understands what is happening, he has donned breeches and shirt, tunic and boots, and is being led by the hand to Greyjoy's cabin and then plopped into a chair opposite the lord and lady just as a savory fish stew is being served. Lady Wynafryd gives the stew an unimpressed look before turning her gaze on the older man serving them. "Mr. Turner, I've been smelling roast pork for half a day, yet I'm staring at cod stew. You are a wonderful cook, but I would be lying if I said I was not disappointed at this moment."

"Beg pardon, Lady 'Fryd, but it's not quite ready yet," he says in a gruff, weary voice, his frown for the lady over-pronounced..

She gives him a beaming smile in return, and takes his hand, pressing a silver into it. "I understand, Mr. Turner, but please do all you can. My little one has me practically salivating at the thought of that pig."

"You'll get the first slice, m'lady," Mr. Turner says, pocketing the silver and walking away.

"That silver is for your grandchildren, Mr. Turner, not for dice with the lads!" she calls out after him. "I'll be asking your missus about it when next I see her in White Harbor."

Theon, who has been grinning like an idiot at the entire exchange, picks up her hand and gives it a kiss. "You are the most annoying shrew to ever sail the seas."

She turns her smile to him. "That is why you love me, husband."

"It must be," he returns, "because I cannot think of any other reason."

"Can you not?" she asks, leaning in close to her husband, the tops of her breasts fully displayed in her low cut dress.

"Okay, two reasons," Theon says, eyes solely on her chest.

"Cousin," Harras says, "I'm not sure if this display makes me yearn for the day I am wed or fear it."

"Every day after saying my vows has been a struggle between those two notions, Harry."

"Forgive us, Ser Harras," she says to him. "In the haze of our love, we are often not fit for proper company."

Harras clears his throat. "No need to apologize, my lady. And please, we are family. Call me, Harry."

"And you must call me 'Fryd."

"Done," he says. "Tell me, Lady 'Fryd, why are we just now dining together?"

He had a notion that bluntness may throw them off course a bit, but she is unfazed. "Because we didn't know if you were a spy for the Crow's Eye." She takes a bite of the stew, considers it for a moment, and then takes another bite. "You have to admit that with the Ironborn lurking behind every swell of the sea, your appearance in Braavos would seem suspicious."

"I do," he says, "But it had to be attempted nevertheless. That is why our Uncle The Reader sent me and not…"

"A reaver? Or pirate? Or raper?" Theon asks with a grin.

"They are your people, too, Theon," Harras says pointedly.

"Yet we both apparently have eschewed their ways."

"Asha would have been different," Harras answers.

Theon's grin falters just as Lady Wynafryd takes his hand. "Did...did you find anything of her?"

"We did," Harras says. "We found the wreckage of her ship. About fifteen feet below the waves a quarter mile off the Dornish coast. Right where your uncle said we would."

"A quarter mile? Could she have swam to shore?"

"She probably did. That's probably where the Crow's Eye killed her. There were some bodies still there when we arrived, the ones high tide didn't take. Mostly bones, the buzzards and crows and crabs had the rest. Nothing but desert in that part of Dorne. If she wasn't killed she died of thirst most like."

Theon gulps down his wine and refills his goblet. "You supported her claim? When father passed over me?"

"I did," Harras says. No use in lying about it. "We didn't know you, Theon. Lord Stark had you half your life. And your father was...angry and bitter and likely to kill any man who disagreed with him."

Theon looks to his wife, takes her hand in both of his and presses a kiss to her fingers. "My life has turned out better than I ever hoped. I am the adopted son of the Warden of the North. Wed to the heir of White Harbor. I am the captain of the flagship of The North. Soon to be admiral of the Fleet and lord of lands that produce food and bring in revenues, rich lands. Yet here I am upset that I was passed over for the lordship of a pile of useless rocks in the Sunset Sea."

"Not useless. Asha had a good vision for the Islands," Harras counters. "Traders and Shippers, that is what she saw for us. With an occasional bit of piracy and reaving, but a legitimate economy hauling goods from North to South."

"Smart," Wynafryd observes. "The best harbors and shipwrights belong to the Iron Islands. You could have brought in craftsmen and skilled laborers, taking raw materials from the North and West and producing and then shipping goods from there South to Dorne and East up the Mander. And then brought grain and seed and fruit and wine from the South back up to the West and North. Tywin Lannister would have likely paid you a fortune if you had your shipwrights build him a fleet of warships."

Harras sees Theon's wheels turning and could kiss the woman for her remarks. "That was the plan. There was to be a Kingsmoot, to decide between The Crow's Eye and Asha. I was to be one of your sister's champions along with the Cleftjaw and others."

"Until she was slain by my uncle on the way."

"Until then, yes."

"Now he wants me dead."

"You are the only other living Greyjoy."

"Is that why you are here, Harry?" Wynafryd asks in her slightly high pitched voice. "Because Theon is the only other option you have?"

"He is the son of Balon. There is no issue. He is the Lord Reaper of Pyke."

"My husband was disinherited."

"No one would care if we killed Euron."

"Euron will die," Theon says, eyes dark. "For my sister and my mother, who are the only happy memories I have of that place. But I do not want the Islands. My father disinherited me, and I forged a new path, a better one."

Harras takes a bite of his stew, then another. Then another before he breaks. "But?"

Theon grins again. "But we will help you, Harry. Lord Stark is the Hand. We have proof now that Euron's supporters are attacking loyal vassals of the realm. With the Northern Fleet, the Royal Fleet, and maybe even the Redwynes, we will break my Uncle Euron against the rocks of Pyke and raze that bleak place to the ground. Ten Towers will be the new seat of the Isles, and our Uncle Rodrik the new lord."

"With you as his heir, Harry," Wynafryd adds.

The Harlaws as the Lord Reapers of The Iron Isles. Would the other houses follow Uncle Rodrik? I may have to put down a number of minor rebellions if such a thing were to occur, but it could work. Put Asha's plan into effect, bring in a stable revenue, make life better for the people. "You would make me Lord Reaper?"

"No," Theon says. "We would make you Lord of the Iron Islands. Pyke is done. Reaping is done. The Iron Price is done. The Seastone Chair will be broken and flung into the sea. Asha's way is the only way forward for the Islands, but anyone guilty of piracy or reaving will be executed according to the King's law. Anyone who cannot live with that will be considered a pirate and hanged."

"And all this is on your word, Theon?"

"All this is on the word of Lord Manderly, Lord Glover, Lord Ryswell, Lord Tallhart, Lady Mormont, and my adopted father, Lord Stark. We have had extensive discussions about the islands, discussions that Lord Stark said will be brought before the king."

Harras nods. "I can go back to our uncle with this?"

"You can," Lady Wynafryd says, "but there is one more thing."

"Which is?"

She looks to Theon, who nods and smiles at her. "The Iron Islands will no longer be their own domain. You will now be under the rule of the North." Mr. Turner enters and the smell of roasted pork fills the air. Wynafryd claps happily. "Oh yay, the pig is done!"