Disclaimer: ASOIAF, GoT, whatevs, is not mine. I am borrowing the characters and their world.

Summary:

AU. First Part of a Trilogy, telling the story of Cadenzsa Forel, Syrio Forel's only child.

Cadenzsa's mother has decided it is time for her child to marry. Since no man in Braavos would dare touch her for fear of her father's sword - and Cadenzsa's, of course - the clever Syrio has relocated to Westeros in hopes of finding a man deeming worthy of his precious only daughter.

He has gone to King's Landing to find a Lord, or a Prince, or a Knight that will give Cadenzsa the life of adventure that she deserves. Cadenzsa, the clever girl, has decided to sail first to the North, and travel down through Westeros, in order to see the land for herself, and to learn of its people. She finds herself, though, soon stuck in the Hold of Winterfell, prey to the charms of the three young men that live there.

WARNING: Sliiiiiight lemon in this chapter! As well as gut-wrenching feels...

Theon

It was night, tender and bitter at the same time, nearing dawn. Theon's breath steamed in the night air. A light snow had begun to fall, sticking to Robb's cloak and Theon's lashes that was as light as a woman's touch. Clang went the hammer against the anvil.

Robb. The King in the North, who was the only family he'd had in years. They were all shouting 'King in the North! King in the North!' They had raised Robb up, and his crown was being forged that night. It would be ready by the morning. This would make this crown the third he'd ever seen.

The first crown he had ever seen was when he was a child of eight, and he had been summoned to the Great Keep. Well, not him, really, but his brothers had been, and he had simply come along with them. Theon wanted to hold his hand, but Rodrik shooed him away. Maron put his hand on Theon's shoulder and told him to wait in the back behind the candelabras where nobody could see him. When he had come, when he had seen his father, he brought out the ancient Grey King's Drifwood crown, the crown of Vickon Greyjoy, him who they had traced their lineage back to in the Age of Heroes. There was his ancient crypt, below Pyke, flooded and covered with fallen rocks and the sea. They had swam and swam and swam, and they found the crown in a box carved of hard driftwood and boiled leather, preserved by the salt of the sea. Who knew what other ancient treasures had fallen into the sea's waters? They say that there was even still his ancient sword, Dragonsbane, which had slain Nagga the Sea Dragon, somewhere still beneath Pyke. But either way, it was the first crown Theon had ever seen, twisted with wrought iron and driftwood. A crown forged in the Age of Heroes, the most-awesome thing he had ever seen.

The second crown he had ever seen was the one that Robert Baratheon wore, which was a crown of golden antlers, forged around his fat head,sitting half-sideways at Winterfell from laying his fat body all over every maid there. He half-wondered at times how many of those girls that had come to or gone from him were second-in-line to bed His Grace. It was a pretty enough thing, he remembered thinking, but that wasn't a crown in Theon's eyes. That was a few gold bars, molded and forged into golden antlers, forged to be big enough for fat King fat head. A crown was that of a King. Robert Baratheon was no King, and hardly ever was. That crown was no true crown, but a pretty gold thing in the shape of one. He was well enough better than Mad King Aegon, he supposed, but he seldom remembered a life that mattered before he was ripped from his home, away from his King-father, away from his sea.

Theon supposed that it didn't truly matter that his father lost his crown. Theon was third in line, aye, but once Rodrik had children, he would have probably been fourth, then seventh, then ninth, then fifteenth, and what of his children? Twenty-seventh? Thirty-first? It didn't matter at all. The crown was probably never going to be his. Theon was the runt of the litter, and his children would have been runts, too, he sometimes thought. But at least he might have had the freedom. His own ship. Perhaps he could have sailed to Lys, if his father had remained King, with his own ship and crew, and found those famous pleasure-houses there. He could have sailed to the Summer Islands, and found pleasures there, ripe and exotic fruits, colorful fish and coral reefs. He could have sailed to the furthest reaches of the Jade Sea and find where Essos ends. Or, he thought, he could have sailed to Braavos, and have met Cadenzsa, before he knew who she was.

If he had sailed to Braavos at that time, she might have been different. She was still new to the Commontongue, and perhaps if the timing had been right, he would have to find himself a scribe to talk to her for him. She might have laughed at that, and given him a chance to woo her through the scribe's words. But he would have to have been there and seen the Isle of the Flowers for himself, perhaps even tried his hand at dueling her father for Cadenzsa's hand. Or he could just ask her, and she would have said yes.

Of course she would have said yes. She said yes already, didn't she? She would have said yes a thousand times over to him, had things been different. But they weren't. And they never would be. And now Robb's crown was coming fresh from the forge. Theon watched the flames. It was an open circlet of hammered bronze and incised with the runes of the First men, surrounded by nine spikes shaped like swords. Theon watched it dance in the flames. Robb turned away and stopped for a moment, then continued walking. Theon followed. Then stopped, and walked towards his own tent.

There were women for his bed a-plenty in their camps, well enough ready to give their virtues away to him, but it had hit a bit of a rock-bottom the night before. Two women had come to his bed, one with red-brown hair and the other with thick black curls. Her face was pale and pudgy, and the red-headed one was fine enough to turn over and fuck from behind so he could pretend it was a prettier one, but the black-haired girl cried when he snatched up a bit of her curls, and tears ran down her pudgy face when she asked 'why.'

"Why?" he had said. "I hate black hair, that's why. Now out of my sight. Both of you."

"Theon?" Robb appeared at Theon's tent. "Are you alright?"

"The Kingslayer is our prisoner. You're now King of the North. Why shouldn't I be alright?" Robb frowned. "Alright, your Grace, come on in." Theon lit a fire. Robb sat on his bed and watched him. He had taken to drinking much more, now, and had already poured Theon a cup. They drank.

"You looked...rather upset. Your face when you were watching the flames."

"I was thinking." Theon didn't want to talk about it, in truth. Not about his home, nor the crowns.

"We never talked about what happened with you and Cadenzsa," said Robb.

"Because there's nothing to talk about," said Theon. "She's Lady Martell, now. Princess Martell? Well, it doesn't matter. It's close enough to royalty. She's fit to be royalty. Only she had that regal air about her."

"It's a Rhoynish thing. She's not really a Princess."

"She'd have been a queen if she had stayed in Winterfell and wedded you."

"Theon!" said Robb, aghast that he could suggest such a thing. "She and I would have never..."

"She'd be Queen Stark, and they'd be forging her a crown, too. And you'd get to enjoy her in your bed."

"Theon, drink. You're not making any sense. Drink, Theon, it'll make it better."

"And it's never going to happen because your mother hated her. She hated everything about her."

"That's not true," gasped Robb.

"Of course it is," said Theon. "Why else were we so close? It was your mother that made us fall in love, in a way." Robb shook his head in horror. "You're right, Stark. I was already in love with her. I was in love with her the moment she said 'Behold, all the fucks I don't give.' That was the moment I thought it. It was only for a moment, and I denied it to myself since then, but I thought it: I thought to myself "there she is, there's the woman I'm spending the rest of my life with." Gods, I'm stupid to have thought that. I fell in love with her right away... She fell in love with me in all that time. At least that's what she said..."

"Theon, drink..." pleaded young Stark. "I can't stand seeing you hurt like this. Drink til you fall asleep."

"I'm already drunk..." Theon laughed. He shrugged and slugged down another cup of wine. Robb poured. "The Dornish do some wild things down there, you know... Did you know about that oil I have under my bed? It's a Dornish oil...you use it for anything. Gets a woman wet like a shaved baby seal, it does." He laughed. "It'll be warm and sunny all winter long in Dorne, and there are oranges. She likes oranges. She'll be happy there. All I can do is be happy for her. She asked me to be happy for her, didn't she?"

Robb then knelt in front of Theon, putting a hand on his knee. His blue eyes were wet, making the color seem pooled and rounded, a bit like the sky as seen through a Myrish eye.

"She was going to wait for me, Robb," he then suddenly whimpered. "She was going to wait for me in King's Landing. She was going to wait as long as it took for..." He sighed. "It doesn't matter, anymore. She's gone."

The Northern King came up on his haunches and leaned his forehead against Theon's, twining their gloved fingers together. He felt Robb's stubby Tully fingers come through his hair, his breath hot on his lips.

"I miss her so much," he cried in a low whisper. "It was as if I wasn't alive until I knew her..."

"I know, Theon. It's not fair-"

"Fair? What part of my life has been fair. I was ripped from my home when I was ten years old because of something my Father did. My Father raised an army against Robert Baratheon and both of my brother's died, and I watched my castle get torn apart, brick by brick. My brothers, Robb! That's not fair. Even you've had your share of unfairness. Lord Stark is a good, decent man, and an honest and honorable one... Was a good, decent man... And look at what's happened to him. To your sisters. Gods only know what's in store for us next."

"Theon..." whispered Robb. He felt the wine in his belly, and lips brushing against his, full and sweet as his Dancing Master's once were. He touched Robb's curls, thick as they were. If he and Cadenzsa were to ever have children, their hair would be impossibly unmanageable. But she'd never have children with either of them. She would have Dornish sons, dark-skinned like her, black-haired like her. She'd be there in the sun, warm and happy, never thinking of Theon again.

"I'll never see her again." He said. "I suppose I can stop feeling bad about being unfaithful to her."

Robb pulled away and looked at him with pity. "If you felt bad about it," he began, "then why did you do it?"

Theon shrugged and downed his wine. He began to strip off his armor, and then Robb came behind him to help. He slipped Theon's cloak off and laid it gently over his bed. "Because part of me knew, I reckon," he said. "Part of me knew I would never see her again. I shouldn't have written to her so much. Maybe I scared her away? No, that's wrong. She loved attention. Didn't she? Robb, did I just not pay enough attention to what she wanted?"

"Theon, Dorne is the best option for her. You said so yourself."

"Aye, I did. I wish I weren't so clever."

"I love that you're clever. Please, let's not talk about her anymore."

"Of course, your Grace..."

There was a long pause. The tunic slipped off of Theon's body and he felt Robb's hands on his naked back. "You don't have to call me that when nobody's around," he said. His lips smiled, full and wet, they appeared to be.

"It's not so bad, once you get used to it," said the Ironborn.

"I'm glad one of us is..." He felt Robb grow closer, and wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, or if he was naked, too. "But I still like Robb."

"Robb..." he found himself whispering, as he felt his arms wrap around him from behind. He felt his hands around him, hot beneath the skin with his Wolf-blood. He felt a bite on his neck, at the base, and a hot tongue. "Robb..." he said again, his skin growing hot. He found his hand coming up to cup his whiskered cheek, and he turned and kissed him. His tongue was hot, his lips were hot, and his body felt hot behind him. His eyes closed tight, he turned and threw Robb onto his back, on his bed, and covered his body with his.

Absurdly, Theon felt his cock grow hard, and Robb's was throbbing against his trousers.

"Theon...!" whimpered young King Stark. The conscious part of his mind knew this was wrong, yet his body told him to spread the boy open; just turn him over and grab his curly hair, pretend he was fucking someone else. Some part of this seemed familiar, yet it was mostly just some drunken hazy blur. His hand came up to Robb's throat, and squeezed, their tongues dancing sensually against each other's. Robb's hand came to Theon's, and brought it down on his throbbing cock, begging for him to pump it.

Maybe... thought Theon, as his fingers coiled around Robb's turgid cock, and began moving his wrist rhythmically up and down. His free hand came against his own, and began pumping, too. Their lips locked together as best they could against Robb's moaning, desperate and hungry. Before Theon knew what had come over him, he had been thrown onto his back and a pair of hungry lips had sucked him into its mouth. A deep moan escaped from his throat, his thighs clenching in pleasure.

"Ah, yes," he growled, his fingers curling through a mop of curly hair, tightening in it, pumping his head up and down. "Ah, suck my cock..." His vision went a little blurry, and his body grew hotter and hotter. "Watch your teeth... Ah, yes, like that...harder..."

His mind went a little soft then, and drifted on waves of pleasure back to the sea, which he hadn't seen hide nor hair of in ten years. He wanted to go home to the sea, to the creaking ships in the harbor, to the onion pie hot from Pyke's burning driftwood oven. He wanted clams in a seaweed broth. He wanted to see his mother, and her brown-red hair that once was pinned up behind her ears with combs made from coral, her gowns always smelled so good.

Theon, my baby, come to Mother.

She had called him that, once. 'Theon, my baby.' He'd been her baby, once. He'd been many things, once. He'd been somebody's son, somebody's brother, and somebody's nephew. In his bitterness, he thought to himself, I'll never be anybody to anyone, except for Robb. Not at this rate. His only choice was this war, these battles, to become somebody on his own. His sword would go through Lannister mens' hearts, and his arrows would fly with the fury of a God. Theon would rise to power at Robb's side, much like Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. They were brothers bound in blood, were they not? He was his brother, now and always.

Theon came in a rush, grasping the curly-topped head at his cock to swallow his seed. He let out a long sigh, and his hand fell away. He laid there for a long time when he felt Robb lay beside him, his hot, hairy chest against his ribs. The night air felt cold. Unconsciously, he wrapped his cloak over the two of them. It was late. Or was it early? Theon wasn't sure.

"What are you thinking about?"

He sighed. "The war."

Robb's hands came around Theon's waist. "Theon, I want you to know something."

His head hurt, his eyes were blurred. His gut felt heavy, somehow.

"I trust you."

"I know. I trust you, too."

"Do you, Theon? Do you really?"

"Why shouldn't I?" This was wrong. He ran his long fingers through Robb's curls. This was so wrong, but it wasn't because Robb was a man. Being of that perversion wasn't wrong to Theon at all. That kind of thing was practiced by every animal in the world, and only the human animals were the ones that condemned it. It was taught to him that it wasn't about to whom you were attracted, but with whom you fell in love with. Theon wasn't in love with Robb. In truth, it was more because Theon would never love anybody, ever again. Not after Cadenzsa. He couldn't. She had captured him, crawled inside of him, owned him. All he wanted was her, and his castle, and his sea.

"I value you, Theon. I don't think I say that enough to you."

But Robb loved him. It was clear. Theon didn't want to hurt Robb, nor should he have lead him on the way he did. This was wrong. This was so wrong.

"The Lannisters are going to reject your terms, you know," he suddenly heard himself say. He sighed through his nose, and felt Robb lay his head on his chest.

"Of course they are..." sighed Robb. "But what to do about it?"

Theon shrugged his shoulders, then brought a hand up to his chest. Absurdly, he still wore Cadenzsa's pendant, and he still felt the gold against his body. That golden sea turtle was the nicest thing he owned, the most-expensive by far, and it wasn't even his. Nothing was his. But something could be his. "We can fight them in the field as long as you like," said Theon. "but we won't beat them... Not until you take King's Landing." He felt something stir within him as he sat up, like the rumbling of a great wave, like a ferocious gale beginning to blow. A tiny piece of him heart the creaking of a ship in the back of his mind, a gull crying. "We can't take King's Landing without ships." He stood up and pulled his trousers up around his hips, tying the band. "My father has ships, and men who know how to sail them-"

"Men who fought my father," said Robb, who now seemed hurt at the idea of it. Hurt, yet stern. That Stark gaze.

"Men who fought King Robert to free themselves from the yoke of the South," countered Theon, not angrily, but calmly, truthfully. Because it was true. The Ironborn wanted independence, nothing more. "Just like you're doing now."

Robb gulped, then looked away. There was a pregnant pause between them. Theon thumbed Cadenzsa's pendant, the chain so light and so delicate against his throat, he wondered if she had a golden spider spin it for her.

"I'm his only living son, Robb," said Theon. "He'll listen to me. I know he will." He came and sat by Robb, and took his hand. "I'm not a Stark, I know that. But your father raised me to be an honorable man. We can avenge him, together." Robb's brow tilted upward in question. "Two-hundred ships, Robb. Imagine two-hundred ships, and then imagine that each ship can house a crew of fifty, or a hundred, or a hundred-fifty. An Ironborn warrior is worth ten greenlanders. It's a simple number's game. Combine that with the men you already have, we can take them from all sides. They'll have no choice but to bow."

Robb shook his head. "I don't know, Theon... I'll have to think about it."

"I understand."

It wasn't a lie. He did understand. Theon was the son of a traitor, a dangerous man. The Ironborn were dangerous men, ferocious men. He was an Ironborn, a Greyjoy. He wasn't a Stark, but he was raised to have that honor. He was raised to become the heir to the Iron Islands in the North, in hopes that Theon would grow to be a better man than his father was. He was different from his father; he was like his mother, his jolly uncle Aeron had once said. He even looked like her.

That night, he stared at a scrap of parchment, thinking of writing one last letter. But what would he say? She told him to forget him. But how could he? How could he forget Cadenzsa, his Cadenzsa? How could he ever forget her pretty laugh, her quick wrist, her tight cunt, or the sweetness of her voice and hair? It wasn't just her looks. She was different than any woman he had ever met, bold and ferocious, quick and unafraid of anything. And yet, and yet, and yet...she was so afraid of everything around her, and Theon was the only one who had known it.

Thunder, of all things, was one of the things she was most-afraid of. Thunder scared her into a cave behind a waterfall back near Winterfell, and Theon had followed her in, and they made love, and they laid together and talked and talked for so long. Her long arms wrapped around his waist, the soles of her feet rested sensually on his calves. She was sweet to him, and she was honest to him. He was somebody to her. He wasn't about to let that go.

So he sat at his desk and wrote his last letter to Cadenzsa Forel.

Cadenzsa,

I'm sailing back to the Iron Islands. Stay in Dorne or don't. I'll find you either way.

Theon

"Theon."

He looked up. Theon hadn't even noticed that Robb had gone and come back, fully dressed. He must have been stewing for a long time. "What is it?"

"My crown is ready."

Short chapter this time! But it's okay.

Because I'm REALLY into what's going on in The Grey Lady! It should be updated soon...but, hey, don't read it till I'm done with this. Or do! I don't mind. This story will be coming to an end, soon, anyway.

Read, review, and fave!