The quilled paper fell from his shaking hands. He'd read it what felt four score times just to be sure his eyes were not deceiving him.
Ten years it had been since they had taken his son away from him. Ten years.
And on a whim, the boy king of the north set him free to 'treat' with The Lord Reaper of Pyke.
'As a show of good faith'.
The boy must be *mad*, to give away his only leverage, if he was telling true.
My son is coming home. My last son, freed of his chains.
He could scarcely imagine what they had done to him. Kept him under lock and key deep in the heart of Winterfell, or raised him under lies and half-truths as 'one of their own' to make him soft and weak and unworthy of furthering the Greyjoy line.
"My son is coming home." He spoke aloud, in a soft whisper, to no one in particular. Himself, mayhaps, to even convince himself it was the truth and not some terrible jape at his expense. A boy's idea of some tragic prank.
If that boy is lying, I will scour the north and salt the earth so no man may bear fruit there for a thousand years. I would render it more barren and lifeless than mine own home. I would nail each and every last Stark to the jagged cliffs of Pyke and let the seas wash their rotten bones away.
"But if he's telling the truth…"
He scowled, turning the thought over in his mind.
If he was telling the truth, it changed nothing, he decided. The arrogant boy thought to purchase The Son of the Sea Wind's loyalty like a common whores.
If he thinks he can buy my men and buy my ships by merely returning what was taken from me unjustly all those years ago, he will have a reckoning like no other in store for him.
For all the North's hold over him was gone.
And that made the next step obvious.
Battle of Oxcross or no, the Lannisters, however little threat they now posed, still had an advance force in the Riverlands that could, and under the Moutain's instruction, would, torch and pillage wherefore they went, tying up significant forces.
Fifteen thousand now down south. Less, more like, after the Young Wolf's march, plus the ten thousand Rivermen, plus whatever late lord Walder Frey could scrape up. A force a tenth that size could them all off at Moat Cailin.
The plan formulating in his mind was simplicity itself. Half the Iron Fleet would sail around Westeros to seize the neck. With his brother at the helm, they would make short work of whatever garrison lay in wait. Most ships would then split off to raid the north's eastern shore around Skagos and Widows Watch. With the seas uncontested in his wake, resupply would be simple. Asha would then harry the Stony Shore and sail up the Fever river, seizing whatever coastal towns and keeps lay in quick reach of the shoreline.
And his son…
Balon's frown stretched further, and he looked down upon at the map at the head of his table.
His son would know the north, or Winterfell at the least. He could land upon Deepwood Motte and march south upon the Wolfswood and lay siege to Winterfell.
Mayhaps he would even go with him, though the thought put a sour taste in his mouth. His own lord father had sailed south to harry the reach on the side of Lord Robert, and had died in an ignoble and embarrassing defeat, and left himself to clean up the mess.
But the thought of burning Winterfell to ash was too tempting to let him discount the idea entirely.
He barked Helya's name, and after a few short minutes, she appeared at his doorframe, head lowered in submission. "M'lord?"
"Fetch my daughter and brother. Inform them my son is due home and that they are to appear before me with all due haste."
Helya's eyes blew wide from their perpetual squint. "Theon? Theon is bound for Pyke?"
"In a ship from Seaguard, no less, with a Gilded Kraken flying atop the mast."
Helya bowed. "Your brother is off, I know not where, but your daughter is in her room with a bed warmer. Shall I fetch her now, or wait?"
Balon arched a brow in annoyance. "I said with all due haste, now didn't I? If my daughter wants to cool her blood, she has ten fingers and an axe to do it with. Not a man's cock or a woman's tongue."
Heya nodded her head and waddled off, hissing under her breath as she straightened out her bent back.
Balon paced as he waited, lips pursed. His daughters…peculiar tastes did not always sit right with him. Such habits were well known to develop amongst salt wives, and sometimes were even encouraged, depending on the husband, but as a representative of his house, and potentially the Seastone Chair, she could not do so openly.
She had quite loudly and quite often complained about it, oft mocking his brother Aeron about his disgust with her habits and questioning the apparent double standard that she could claim no salt husbands.
It had never been done before, but neither had there ever been an Iron Queen in the islands's history.
If she ever does become Queen, she can do as she wishes. But while I sit my throne, I'll suffer no whores or laymen to sleep in my rooms and paw at my daughter.
After a few minutes of agitated pacing, Asha burst through his doorframe, breeches unbuttoned and bruises and bite marks marring her throat.
Balon arched an imperious brow. "If you brought a whore into one of my beds, I'll-"
Asha shook her head wildly with a too-quick roll of the eyes, hands shaking. "She was no whore, just a bed servant who fancies herself in love."
Drowned God preserve him. He opened his mouth again, but his daughter cut him off. "My brother is coming home? After all these years?!"
"Aye. At the Young Wolf's behest. He sends him forward to entreat with me."
Asha stilled. "And will you?"
Balon spat. "Did that girl devour your brain alongside your cunt? Why would I ever do that? With my son free, that child has no more hold over me, and The North is ripe for the taking."
His daughter started at him a moment, head tilted, eyes narrowed. Then she laughed. "And I thought Nuncle Vic was the dumb brother."
Balon blinked in disbelief. It took every ounce of self-control he had to not march over and backhand her. "What did you just say to me?"
Asha rolled her eyes at him. "Something you need to hear, no doubt. The boy has won every battle he's ever fought."
"And how many that be, three? Four? He's a boy playing at war."
"And you must be a man playing at one, for what victories have we ever won to compare? Our great blow at Fair Isle? Our great siege of Seaguard? Our ravaging of the shields, led by your father?"
"Those defeats will not be repeated! I'll not have my own daughter think to command or question her lord father!"
"Then you ought to at least listen to her! What happens when we take the north and Lord Tywin, or Tyrell, or Baratheon looks to us, having claimed half their kingdom? Will you merely bend the knee again for some paltry titles, barren wasteland, and the ability to name yourself King?"
"I will never bow to a Greenlander lord again." The idea was inconceivable. He would rather die and take every living man on his islands with him.
"Then hear this: If Lord Stark is willing to give me my brother back, he must willing to let us take our crown, or perhaps even help!"
"At what price, my daughter, at what price? Does he expect me to bend the knee as well? Let him become King of the North, the Rivers, and the Isles? I would not have it!"
"I know not what he would demand. But Theon might."
Balon stilled. Pondered the idea that his son held prisoner would be even remotely privy to the King in the North's battle plans.
Asha pounced on his moment of apparent indecision. "Stark sent Theon to 'entreat' with us, right? Mayhaps he would know what would be expected of us, if anything at all."
"I would not fight the boy's battles for him, least of all for a lark."
"Neither would I. But if the Starks terms are worthwhile..." Asha let her words trail off, giving him room to turn them over in his mind.
Terms and treatises, words and wind. I'd sooner take the measure of the boy myself than trust ink on parchment.
His mind went back to Asha's description of the Whispering Wood. At the lie that his son stood ready to die for the son of his jailor.
Less of a lie than he ever thought possible, mayhaps.
Silence reigned, for a time, as he thought her words over, before Asha spoke again with a sigh."You are right. I shouldn't presume to give you orders or question you. You are my father. I will do as I am bid, a foolish bid it may be. But I implore you to consider the option, as I asked of you before."
He turned away from her then, his fists clenched.
I know not the boy's intentions, his means, or his character. I have nothing but hearsay and speculation to decide the fate of my crown.
But that self-same boy gave himself a crown as well. Took it, more like. And now he's fighting to defend it.
The fact he even entertained the idea of asking for his ships and his help, going so far as to give up his only leverage to do it in the first place, was a slight against him.
But ultimately, he knew nothing of any real substance.
It was as she said. If anyone would know better, it would be his son.
"When my son arrives in Lordsport, in five days' time, I want you to be there to greet him. But not as his sister."
Asha put a hand on her hip. "As what, then?"
"Whatever you wish. A whore, a minstrel, a braggart, a deckhand, it matters not. But I ask that you take his measure. I have no doubt he would act accordingly whilst meeting his erstwhile father. I want to know how he conducts himself alone. I need to know just how deep the Stark rot is within him."
Asha nodded. "As you wish. I was thinking of doing something like that of my own accord, but it is a comfort to know we are of the same mind."
Of course she was. Balon waved a hand. "Return to your 'maid', if you wish. Do not let anyone but Helya see you. I appear weak enough, feigning this indecision. I would not have my lords and ladies whisper astride my back and call you a sapphist, no matter how many swords you may have already swallowed."
Asha nodded her assent and took her leave.
Balon took his own a moment later, and headed towards his balcony to let the smell of the sea salt calm his nerves.
In five days, my son returns to me.
(X)
He spent the first day wandering Pyke, admiring all the hidden nooks and ancient crannies Theon would hide in whilst being chased by his older brothers and basking beneath the sheer cliffs his son would dive from to swim into the sea.
He spent the second day conferring with The Cleftjaw, discussing his battle plans. Lowborn the man may have been, he could think of no high lord save perhaps himself and his brother that had such a mind for battle and strategy.
The third, he spent conferring with Helya and Victarion about the state of the coffers and the Iron Fleet. Steady Reaving off Essos's coast and shipments of iron and steel sent off to the mainland balanced the books, but he was by no means rich. The Iron Fleet, however, lay at its most glorious height, for he and his vassals together could bring five hundred and six longships to bear.
On the fourth day, late at night and unable to sleep, he brought himself down to the rooms of Pyke he had sequestered off. He roamed the bedrooms and halls his dead sons had called their own like a foreign ghost, and when he returned to his own and looked at himself in his chamber's mirror, he had failed to recognize the man he saw.
Shoulders that had one stood proud were stooped an inch or so low. Arms that once brought a long axe to bear were wire thin and withered, and his already gaunt face appeared sunken in and pale, his fingers corpselike and stiff.
Four and twenty he was, with his hair down across the small of his back, and the roots were already drawn white, the black rapidly shifting toward grey.
He looked into that mirror, and saw not a king, but a revenant.
That night, before finally sleeping, he ate a hearty meal, laid his axe by his bedside, and vowed to become the warrior he used to be once more.
And on the fifth day, he watched the docks of Lordsport almost feverishly, awaiting his son, eyeing every ship with barely disguised anticipation.
At last, when he finally saw the Greenlander galley, a queer feeling rose up within him and grasped his heart and wet his eyes.
When the flag it flew came into view, dread replaced it.
For just as the proud kraken of his house lay at the top of the mainmast, just below it lay the striking white wolf of the Starks of Winterfell.
Stark's letter made specific mention that the ship would sail under the Greyjoy banner.
So the fool boy had placed it there himself.