Yes, the demon… thing, sent him back to the world of the living, but it wasn't the world Theon had lived and died in.

For the first nine years of her life, before she understood the memories she had weren't just dreams, Quenlyn Greyjoy belonged to her mother, and her sister. They were her favorite people in all the world.

Quenlyn embraced her life with them in every way she could, with an urgency she could not explain or quell. The feeling made her smiles too wide, and her hugs too desperate. She was afraid all the time—and she did not know why.

Balon Greyjoy was no kinder than he'd been to her the first time, he had little time, and little love to spare his daughters. And her brothers, emulating their father, ignored their sisters as well. And Quenlyn was relieved—grateful—to be beneath their notice.

Quenlyn sewed with her mother and learned how to curtsy. Then slip away to the deepest, most hidden parts of the Pyke with Yara to clash their stolen practice swords, wearing ill-fitted trousers and leathers. Or, sometimes, they ran along the shore and chased the waves back into the sea until they collapsed on the wet sand. There on the beach, they dreamed of stealing one of their father's ships so they could go where ever they wanted. Yara would be captain and Quenlyn her loyal second.

First, they'd voyage to the great lands in the east, across the narrow sea. From Braavos, to Valyria, they'd explore every city, and when there was nothing more to see, they'd turn around and sail farther west than any Ironborn had ever been. They would bring back treasures to give their mother and tell her about all their adventures.

Until then Quenlyn was content to sit quietly with her mother and learn the myriad duties of women until Yara took her away to learn all the things that a woman shouldn't. She could not imagine a better life. She was happy.

Then the Ironborn rebelled.

She had dreamed it. She dreamed of the war that came to their islands. Visions of blood, and the screams of men dying. She saw Botley castle crumble. Saw men battering Pyke castle until the watchtower was torn from the sky by their siege engines.

Her mother's cries when she learned her oldest child, Rodrik's fell at Seagard.

Finding Maron crushed beneath stone and mortar.

He had seen it all before.

Theon remembered—knew—who he was…

And he wasn't happy anymore.

Ned Stark was young—much younger than Theon remembered the man being the first time Theon, his mother, and sister had been surrounded by a dozen Baratheon soldiers in the Pyke's grand throne room. The king looked the same, perhaps—it was hard to tell what the man really looked like under his wild, bushy beard—but Eddard Stark looked like he could not have been a man older than five and twenty.

Theon did not ponder the change in Stark for long, it was strange how youthful his no-longer-to-be jailer was, but it did not matter now—not while his father knelt before the feet of the king in surrender.

Watching Balon Greyjoy swear an oath to the king once again was less frightening this time. Theon now knew his family would not be made extinct under Baratheon's sword, and he would not be taken from his home. What was left of his family would get to live freely and peacefully for a time, and Theon intended to make the very most of it while it lasted.

All who stood in the throne room watched as the king laid out the terms of the Ironborn's surrender. Theon just wanted it done, and then these invaders could leave drunk on their victory, and never return. He barely listened to Baratheon say Balon would keep all his titles, save king, and all his lands—

Just go away! Leave us be!

Then the king demanded a hostage, and all Theon's foolish notions came crashing down around him.

"No!" Theon's mother cried out as she clutched Theon and Yara to her. "I will not allow you to take another of my children from me!"

"Robert, they are but young girls. What good does it do to remove one from their home? From the arms of their mother?" Ned Stark said.

The king bared his teeth at Balon.

"That he may know I can take even more from him should he feel any urge to rebel against my rule again." The large bearded man lifted his massive war hammer and leveled it over Balon's bowed head with just one arm. "Be grateful that I take only one of your daughters, Balon, and that I do not use her as your kind use innocent women and girls during your savage reaving!"

Theon felt his mother stiffen at the king's threat. Yara reached for the knife that used to be on her waist before one of the soldiers took it from her.

"Robert!"

"Quiet, Ned! I will do no such thing but challenge me again, Greyjoy, and I will show you what plunder truly is!"

Robert lowered his black hammer to the floor and held its handle with both gauntlet-covered hands and spread his legs apart as he glared down at Balon with hate-filled eyes.

"Now chose which girl I take from you."

Confusion spun and whirled in Theon's head. This isn't how it was supposed to happen! Not like this!

It made little sense that Robert wanted to take either Yara or Theon. As far as the man knew, only men could inherit the Seastone Chair. Theon's mother was still of child-bearing age and might easily have born another male Greyjoy to succeed Balon. Stealing away one of the Greyjoy daughters served no purpose except to display dominance and to humiliate—nothing more. That was the only explanation.

And if Robert took Yara she won't be who she's supposed to become. A true Ironman. A warrior! A Queen!

Mistake after mistake.

He can do nothing right—nothing!

Theon squirmed from his mother's embrace and ran forward.

"Me! Take me!"

"Quinn! God, no!"

Theon ran toward Ned before his mother could pull him back to her. Theon stared up into Ned's dark gray eyes and screwed up as much courage as he could gather in his too thin, too small body. A body un-flowered and so shapeless, sometimes Theon could make himself forget he was not a boy, and would never be a man grown.

Theon quickly wiped away the tears trying to escape his eyes and said again, "Take me."

"Well," Robert said still glaring down at Theon's father. "Shall I honor your brave daughter's wish?"

"No! I beg you, Your Grace! I beg you, not my daughter! Mercy!"

Theon swallowed bile—his mother's pleas too closely mirrored the farmer's wife before he slaughtered the two orphan boys. Those children who hadn't been born to her, and still she begged for their lives as passionately as Theon's mother now begged the king to let her keep her youngest child.

"Well, Greyjoy?"

"Take her," Balon said tonelessly.

"No!" Theon's mother screamed.

"Ned, get the girl."

"I won't let you!" his mother wailed.

Theon didn't remember Ned Stark crying when Alannys Greyjoy pleaded the first time they all stood in this room. Theon's young, frightened eyes had been transfixed by the tall man in black armor, who had raised a hammer longer than most men were tall, over Balon Greyjoy's head. Theon had been terrified the man would crush his father's head to a mush of brain and bits of skull.

Theon saw the tears in the man's dark gray eyes this time—and how his hand trembled as he stretched out his hand towards Theon.

Was I wrong all those years?

Theon raised his hands. "Wait. Please wait."

Ned lowered his hand and searched Theon's eyes for a moment before he nodded. Theon turned and saw his mother being restrained by two Baratheon soldiers. Yara stood behind them, her eyes wide and hollow as she looked on.

Theon walked over to his mother as she frantically struggled to free herself from Baratheon's men.

"Mother. Mother, please," Theon said.

She stopped and looked down at him with frenzied, tearful eyes.

"I love you. And I won't forget you, I swear it. So don't be sad. One day, I'll come back and we'll all be together again." With tears burning in his eyes, Theon tried to smile. "Wait for me."

There was so much more Theon wanted to say to his mother, but there was no time left to tell her just how much he would miss her. How much he loved her.

Theon moved to embrace his mother, but the soldiers were crowding her and keeping her arms restrained. Theon glanced back at Ned. Lord Stark waved his hand at the soldiers and they released Lady Greyjoy, allowing Theon to collapse against his mother and hug her as tightly as his little body could manage. And he did not complain when her arms squeezed the air from his lungs.

Theon didn't do this, hold his mother when he was taken away last time. He was a boy who wanted to be like the hard-bitten men of the Iron Islands, who needed no comfort and had no tears to shed. Clinging to his mother like a babe would have gravely shamed Theon and his people. As a girl-child, no one would care if Theon sought one last comfort from his mother's arms, not even his proud, foolish father.

"Let me go, Mother," Theon said.

"No. No. No. Never!" his mother hissed.

"I must say goodbye to my sister," Theon said gently.

His mother sobbed and fell back until she was curled against the throne room wall. Her arms pulled to her chest as if she still held Theon in them. Theon forced himself to look away and met his sister's blank stare. There were no tears in Yara's eyes. Theon could already see the iron behind her soft, green eyes harden into what they would become years from now: fierce, determined, and unbroken.

But before that…

Theon ran and hugged her, tucking his head under her chin the way he used to when they were younger and he would crawl into her bed after his nightmares about glittering moon gray eyes and razor-sharp knives. Theon didn't expect Yara to hug him back. He didn't need her to, he just needed to hold his sister one last time. A memory, a warmth he'd denied himself before. He felt her hand stroke the back of his head once before her hand dropped away.

"Stay strong," Yara whispered.

Theon swallowed and nodded before he let Yara go and walked over to his father—making himself not look back, because if he did he would cry and never stop.

Balon Greyjoy was wrapped in his gray robes and slate gray steel armor—an immovable stone like those on which the Pyke stood. He showed no emotion. Of course, there would be no tears shed from this man's dark green eyes. He would die before showing any weakness such as that in front of his enemies.

Yara had been right, in that time before—they'd loved their mother, but only endured their father. And Theon should hate Balon—for not loving his children as he should have loved them. And for waging his rebellion and spending so many lives for an iron crown, that even now, in all his defeat, Balon still wore on his bowed head.

Theon brushed back strands of Balon's graying black hair, his tiny fingers grazing against cool, dry skin, and he kissed his father's temple.

Then Theon marched into the waiting hands of Lord Stark. His mother's sobs filled the throne room, but Theon would not look back as he was led from the chamber. He didn't want the last words he'd hear before he walked away from his home to be Robert Baratheon threatening to take his head should Balon Greyjoy ever try to rise again.