Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Despite everything, it is Pyke they return to.

The voyage is costly. To fund their sailing, Jon sells both their swords, castle-forged and still sharp. Also, they sell the silver cloak pin that Robb had given them the night they fled, with its engraved direwolf head emblazoned on a heavy disc. Neither of them had ever worn it, but both had treasured it throughout their journey, the only true keepsake they had retained of Winterfell. It fetches the bulk of their funds.

Pyke has been rebuilt. Not so tall and grand as Theon remembers, so he claims, but Jon is still impressed. The castle is built high against the ocean out on soaring cliffs and broken, jagged sea stacks, the furthest towers joined by nothing more than swinging rope bridges. Below, the waves pound and batter the cliffs, spraying seafoam high up onto the headland. The seaward side of the towers are crusted in centuries' worth of white-green buildup of salt and lichen.

They are escorted by Theon’s cousin Ser Harras and their Harlaw guard, though Jon does not feel protected by them. If it is decided that they are pretenders, Jon has no doubt their guard will just as soon become their captors.

Mercy is a sin to the ironborn, Theon has said.

They are led into a long, smokey hall, lined on either wall by tall clerestory windows. The floor of the hall is sunken, and Jon and Theon must descend a few steps to approach their host.

At the far end of the hall is a woman seated on a block of glossy black stone. Her throne is carved into the likeness of a kraken, its great mantle and fins aloft over her head, and its long, tentacled arms spiralling and folding to form her seat and armrests. Two great braziers burn bright on either side of her, casting a slick yellow light over the inky throne. The stone of it is unlike any material Jon has ever seen.

The woman upon the throne is not dressed like a woman at all, seated like a man with her legs crossed over her knee. With her dark hair cut short by her ears and dressed in doeskin trousers, Jon is shocked by how much she looks like Theon.

“My Lady Greyjoy,” announces the Harlaw cousin from the top of the steps, “at your request, I bring you the man claiming to be your father’s son, Theon Greyjoy, and his companion, claiming to be the natural son of the Warden of the North, Jon Snow.”

“Is that you, baby brother?” her low voice calls from the gloomy end of the hall.

She rises from her black seat, an axe belted to her hip as if it were a sword. She descends the steps of her throne to the sunken floor of the hall.

Theon halts a few yards from her. Jon does the same, a few steps behind him.

Legs astance, Yara Greyjoy folds her arms across her chest. “Thirteen long years it’s been since I’ve seen my brother.”

“Twelve,” Theon corrects.

She seems pleased with that. “Last I ever saw you was on the wharves at Lordsport, when they sent you away with the mainlanders. Skinny little boy. Never faltered as they carted you off.”

A tendon tenses in Theon’s jaw, and he shifts his weight on his feet. “I cried for my mother as the northerners took me away. My father would not look at me for his shame.”

His sister snorts, “Bawled like a stuck hog.”

“Are you convinced, Yara?”

“I am. Could see it was you from the way you scowled. Same little pinched mouth you’ve always had.” She smiles a bit cruelly. A smile like Theon’s.

Theon does not share in her humour. Says solemnly, “You have my gratitude for receiving me, sister.”

“Gratitude?” repeats Lady Greyjoy. “You have been among the mainlanders too long, baby brother.”

Jon notes how Theon bristles at that.

Yara Greyjoy unfolds her arms and clasps her hands behind her back, considers her brother with an appraising eye. “Last we’d had word, you’d escaped captivity during our uncle's rebellion and were lost in the North. More than a year. Rumours had you being sighted everywhere from brothels in Oldtown to the court of the Prince of Pentos, though it would seem none of them had any truth, after all. But sailors do love their gossip. Where have you found refuge for these last two years?”

“Braavos,” says Theon, “disguised as a commoner.”

“And now you are here, after such a long delay. Come to take your rightful place on our father’s chair?”

Around the grey hall, the ironborn guardsmen, both of Pyke and Harlaw, grip their lances a little more firmly, anticipating Theon’s answer.

To his credit, though, Theon does not hesitate. “No,” he answers, “I have no interest in the Seastone Chair. It was your forces that defeated our uncle, and it was you that was chosen by the kingsmoot to rule. I am not here to contest your claim as Lord of the Iron Islands. You won our father’s seat by the iron price.”

There is open suspicion on Yara’s face. “Then what are you doing here, brother? Grew tired of begging on Braavosi canals?”

“In part.”

The black Seastone Chair looming behind her, Yara awaits his explanation in silence.

Theon continues, “The Starks imprisoned me on the king's order when word of our uncle’s treachery and rebellion came down. The king wouldn’t kill me for fear of turning you and the rest of the loyalist ironborn against the Throne, but neither would he back my claim or risk losing me as a hostage in the case that our uncle prevailed. So rather, he ordered me to take the black in exchange for my life. Once I had renounced my claim as Lord of the Iron Islands, I would no longer be a… a complication no matter who emerged the victor. I escaped to Braavos before being made to take my vows.”

“And you did not return to avenge your father’s murder.”

“I was penniless and without allies. I had no means to reach the Iron Islands, no host or army to bring with me.”

“So now that the war is won and the blood washed away you at last managed to book passage home. Do the ships stop working in Braavos?”

“No ironborn house came for me,” Theon contends in a firm voice, “not one. None contested my sentence to the Night’s Watch. None offered protection or refuge. I was alone, and surrounded by mainlanders sworn to destroy me. I survived the North, I survived the cutthroats of Braavos, with the aid of no one but myself. You paid the iron price for our father’s seat, sister, and I have paid the iron price for my freedom.”

That, at last, seems to win some respect from his sister. Her scowl softens. Yara Greyjoy tilts her chin and regards her brother with a thoughtful gaze.

At that moment, Lady Greyjoy’s gaze slides across to Jon, just over Theon’s shoulder. “No one but yourself, eh, little brother?”

Theon spins to face Jon, as if he’d forgotten he was there at all. They look at one another for a beat, and Jon does not know if he is meant to speak.

“Jon Snow has been my only companion,” Theon turns back to his sister. “It was with his help that I escaped Winterfell and the North.”

Yara comes around her brother and stands in front of Jon, looks him up and down with the same surveying stare. “So you are the bastard of Winterfell, then?”

The bait is obvious and Jon does not stoop to meet it. “Jon Snow, my lady.”

“And so tell me, Jon Snow, why should I not clap you in fetters, throw you in a cell, and ransom you back to your father?”

“Of course, my lady, it would be your right to do so, but I doubt my lord father will offer you anything but curses for my ransom.”

"It is said he favours you as if you were his trueborn son."

"Lord Stark favours honest deeds. I am quite certain, after aiding your brother, that I have lost his favour for good this time."

“You betrayed his order — betrayed the king’s order for an enemy of war. I’d expect your father didn’t like that.”

“Neither do I, my lady.” Her gaze is searing, and Jon tries not to squirm beneath it.

“Jon is here as my guest, sister,” Theon interjects, “I’ll not see him mistreated.”

“Your guest?” scoffs Yara. “Are these your lands, is this your holdfast, to extend such hospitality? You bring a bastard into our father’s house — the son of the man who helped send our brothers to the grave, and demand he be treated as a guest? You have a misplaced entitlement, little brother.”

Theon draws himself up. “If we are unwelcome in your hall, then we will return to Ten Towers.”

“You’ll go nowhere without my leave,” Yara snaps.

“We came unarmed to show our goodwill,” bristles Theon.

“A poor decision if you intend to defy my command.”

“Yara…” he says then, “are we to be your prisoners here?”

“Prisoners? No. But I do not yet permit you to leave. You and I will be speaking further of your journeys here from the Narrow Sea, in the days hence. You are bold to return here now, brother, and perhaps a fool for it, but you have made your case to me. I’ll have Helya see you to comfortable rooms and a warm bath sent to you.”

“And Jon?” presses Theon.

A knowing sort of smirk crosses her face at her brother’s persistence. “Your bastard friend will be shown to a room. At the very least, I owe him the dubious thanks of returning you to us.”

Outside the high windows, the rain batters on the glass, on the roof of the hall. Far below, the churning roar of the sea drones. Even with the iron braziers blazing, the damp is penetrating. Shivering, Theon tucks into the fur collar of his cloak. Yara stands in her quilted doublet and tunic, unbothered.

“You have my thanks for hospitality once again, sister,” offers Theon, hoping that he seems grateful and not grovelling. “We are at your service.”

“My service has not suffered without your favour. We shall speak on it in the coming days, and find some use for you.” Lady Yara inclines her head, addressing the head of their escort party behind them. “And you, cousin Harras, you have my gratitude for seeing my wayward little brother home to me. You and your men shall be put up with comfort as well, before you sail home to Harlaw.”

The young knight in his black enamel plate armour nods. “Well and good to be hosted in your hall once again, Lady Greyjoy.”

“Your southern manners do lighten the gloom.”

He returns her barb gamely, “It must fall to someone to hone and polish this savage island.”

“Ha! Polish Pyke? You'll find true iron never glints, cousin. You lot on Harlaw do enjoy your refinement.”

“No less an ironborn for it.” Ser Harras rests a black gauntlet on the hilt of his sword. A large round moonstone was set within the pommel, milky pale blue. A Valyrian steel blade that had been reaved in a faraway land two hundred years ago by Theon’s Greyjoy ancestors. How it came to be in another house’s possession, Jon does not know.

He and Theon are shown to the Bloody Keep. Large and square, it is the largest structure of the castle, standing atop the islet nearest to the headland. They must cross a short stone arch bridge to reach it. Jon looks over the railing, but the cliffs and foundations are lost in the mist below. As if the castle itself were floating upon the mist. To Theon, a suite of large rooms is furnished, though they are in a sorry state of neglect, dusty and chilly. The braziers and hearth had been lit, but the damp was still noticeable.

The room provided to Jon is little more than a cell. Their cabin on the cog they’d sailed on had been roomier.

The thrall accompanying him lights the coals of the room’s one brazier. Jon sets down his pack on the musty straw bed. The sea chest that contains the rest of their belongings will be sent to Theon, Jon imagines.

“Dinner and a bath will be sent to you, m’lord,” the thrall girl mumbles once her task is done. Jon thanks her and she slips away.

The bathwater is lukewarm and the meal is a thick stew of clams and mussels. Jon is grateful for both. He scrubs the travel and salt from his skin and hair and eats the stew by the brazier as he dries.

There is one small window in the cell, high and small beneath a pointed arch. It is too high to catch a view of the sea, but Jon can hear it, beating endlessly against the cliffs far below. Living a year in Braavos, sailing more than a month at sea, the rhythmic pounding of the waves is as familiar to Jon now as the northland itself.

Eating his meal, Jon considers the dank bed with a little distaste. The mattress is stale and the linens threadbare and moth-eaten. Aboard their ship from Oldtown, he and Theon had worn nothing at all to bed, warm enough sharing each other’s heat at sea. Now, seeing his new sleeping place, Jon regrets not packing nightclothes.

Instead, he dresses in a clean tunic and spreads his fur-lined cloak over the bed. Despite the damp and the cold of the room, laying his head down is a comfort. Both he and Theon had worried themselves sick over going to Pyke, but it would seem their gamble has been rewarded, at least for now, at least for a night’s rest.

Though he longs to, Jon won’t go find Theon, not tonight. It will not do to be seen skulking in and out of one another’s rooms so soon. Better to not give the ironborn further reason to mistrust Theon.

The sound of the rain and sea far below envelopes Jon’s sense as he closes his eyes. He had grown accustomed to the sounds of the tides and shore in Braavos—the cries of the seabirds, the creaking of timber ships—but the rough swells here on the Iron Islands were wild and resounding, a low drone always in the backdrop, no matter where you stood. Despite the roughness of the lands, there was a brutal, devastating sort of beauty to be found here, as there was in a wide northern moor blanketed in new snowfall. And it is clear, the ironborn love their barren, rocky islands just as the northman in Jon loves the cold, snowy wolfswood.

Smiling privately, Jon tucks his face into the wolf fur lining his cloak, the last little bit of the North he still carries. Despite the exhaustion of travel, a quiver of excitement tremors through him. What the Iron Islands hold for them, Jon doesn’t know, but with the promise of it all, he can’t help but allow a little crack of hope to spread in his heart.