"My dear father! I always thought you were biding your time, gathering strength in secret—but who could've imagined that after all these years, your pride and courage have been worn away! You are the King of the Ironborn, the Lord of Pyke! Tell me, Father, after conquering the North, what do you even plan to do with it?"
"The wealthiest lands in the North are White Harbor, Winterfell, and the Dreadfort. Deepwood Motte? That's nothing but a wooden pisspot on a mountain! Torrhen's Square? Just a pile of stone! And the Cape of Karrin, Gods above! Do you have any idea how terrifying those swamp-dwellers are? Marshes and poison arrows—by the Drowned God, that's the one place I never want to see again!"
Theon Greyjoy rubbed his temples helplessly as he tried to reason with his father. His head felt like it was about to explode. He'd come home with confidence, but the theories his father was spouting nearly drove him insane.
The old sea monster, Balon Greyjoy, believed that House Stark was now hollow and weak. He saw this as the perfect time to attack the North—to seize its vast lands, eliminate the Northern threat to the Iron Islands, and then plunder the South without fear of reprisal.
No matter how Theon tried to argue, his stubborn father was completely possessed by the idea of invading the North. He wouldn't listen to a single word Theon said.
Because of the memories of the "Red Sea Monster," Theon hadn't acted like some arrogant noble flaunting his bloodline when he returned to the Iron Islands. He'd blended in, behaving like any other Ironborn.
Although… on the way home, he couldn't resist teasing a woman who came to guide him. Only afterward did he realize—with absolute horror—that this "woman" turned out to be his real sister.
"Sister! Didn't you try to talk him out of it? We're Ironborn! What do we need the North for? The Westerlands and the Reach are the true prizes we should conquer! Haven't you noticed? Attacking the North serves no purpose at all!"
Seeing that his father was too stubborn to reason with, Theon turned his gaze toward his sister, Asha Greyjoy. Asha's eyes flickered between her brother and father, complicated and weary. She finally sighed and said,
"Father is the King of the Iron Islands. He is a wise man. The Ironborn should obey his command."
"Fine then! My respected father, great King of the Ironborn—go ahead and crown yourself King of the Iron Islands and the North! As for me, I've had enough of that frozen wasteland. I'm heading south!"
When he saw there was no convincing either of them, Theon spat his last words and turned to leave. But before he reached the door, two guards stepped in to block his way.
"I am your father! The King of the Ironborn! I command you to obey me. You will stay here today—that is your duty as the heir of House Greyjoy!"
Balon Greyjoy's voice rang behind him, filled with the kind of natural authority that could only belong to a born ruler.
Theon clenched his jaw and turned halfway back, his tone low and bitter.
"I am a Greyjoy. I've always known that. I've always admired you, Father. In the year 289 A.C., the great King of the Iron Islands sent the Iron Fleet to raid Lannisport and burn the Lannister ships. That's the king I wanted to serve. Not the one now who wants to go north and rob beggars! You can do whatever you want to me—but I'm not going to the North."
He spoke with quiet sorrow. Theon had always understood who he was and where he stood. That was why he'd worked so hard to prove himself—to win the recognition of his family.
But now, realizing he would never earn his father's approval, something hardened inside him. He finally understood a truth—if you want respect, you must seize it with your own strength, not beg for it from others.
With that fire in his chest, he stepped forward and glared at the two guards blocking him.
"I am Theon Greyjoy, the Sea Wolf! It was I who captured Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, in the Whispering Woods of the Riverlands! Do you want to test my fury for yourselves?"
The two guards flinched under his sharp gaze, instinctively stepping back. Theon pushed past them and strode toward the castle gates. He planned to visit his mother first, then seek out allies among the other Ironborn families—surely, someone would disagree with Balon's madness.
He already had a faint plan in mind. If he could gather just two hundred loyal Ironborn warriors, he believed he could launch a surprise raid on Casterly Rock—earning fame for himself and indirectly aiding Robb Stark.
No one dared stop him along the way. After all, he was still the heir to the Iron Islands. Down at the docks, he convinced a captain to take him to Harlaw Island, where his uncle Rodrik Harlaw and his mother, Alannys Harlaw, resided in Ten Towers.
"Theon…"
Asha's voice came from behind him. When Theon turned, his expression softened a little.
"I heard Mother's not well," he said quietly. "I want to see her. Sister… I really don't understand Father's decision. This isn't what an Ironborn should do."
Asha sighed. "You know Father. Once he's decided something, there's no changing it. He's the King of the Ironborn—we have to obey. Go see Mother. Maybe seeing you will help her recover a little. I'll handle things with Father. Don't worry."
Her voice carried resignation, and a deep concern for their mother.
Three days later, Theon's ship reached Harlaw Island. The Harlaws ruled the island and were among the most powerful houses of the Iron Islands. Its current lord, Rodrik Harlaw—Theon's uncle—was known among the Ironborn as the Reader.
Thanks to Asha's message in advance, Rodrik personally came to greet Theon at the docks, offering him a warmth Theon hadn't felt in a long time. Since returning to the Iron Islands, he had felt like a stranger—but his uncle's calm and learned demeanor reminded him faintly of the peace he once knew in Winterfell.
After a brief talk, Rodrik brought Theon to one of the towers, where his mother waited.
Years of separation had left Lady Alannys broken and confused, her mind drifting between lucidity and madness. But when she saw Theon, something deep in her blood recognized him. She clung to him tightly, calling him by the name of his dead brother—Rodrik Greyjoy.
Theon had little memory of his siblings; the only thing he recalled about his late brother was being slapped by him as a child.
The maester of Ten Towers explained that Lady Alannys had suffered severe emotional trauma. Her memories were fragmented and unlikely to fully recover—but her son's presence might help.
Watching his once proud mother reduced to this fragile state, Theon swallowed his restlessness and stayed by her side patiently.
He remained at Ten Towers for over a month. During that time, he secretly sent out a raven bearing news of Balon's plans to attack the North—and another letter promising Robb Stark that he would help him in his own way.
When he had left Winterfell, Theon had brought three ravens trained to fly directly back to Robb's camp.
During his stay, he also discussed his father's invasion with his uncle Rodrik—and even shared his own counter-plan. Rodrik, however, offered no opinion and made it clear he would not support such a reckless venture. He warned that any raid on the Westerlands would only provoke a more terrible retaliation.
Rodrik was not a typical Ironborn. He preferred reading to raiding, believing that books could provide more wisdom than plunder ever could.
As word came that the Iron Fleet had set sail, Theon's anxiety grew. After carefully finalizing his own plans, he quietly left Ten Towers one night—his next destination: Lonely Light.
Lonely Light was the seat of House Farwynd—an odd family among the Ironborn, for they still worshipped the Old Gods. Somewhere deep inside, Theon felt that they might help him.
But the day before he was to depart, two longships from House Harlaw found him at the docks. It seemed his uncle had anticipated his decision and had already made preparations.
Each ship carried twenty-five seasoned sailors—Harlaw's finest that could be spared, as most of their fleet had already joined Balon's campaign.
Lonely Light lay far to the northwest of Old Wyk and Great Wyk. After sixteen days at sea, Theon and his two ships finally reached its rugged coast. As soon as he disembarked, before he could even send word, a man came forward to greet him—Gilbert Farwynd, Lord of Lonely Light.
Gilbert was a broad-shouldered man in his forties, with sun-darkened skin, brown curls, and eyes of unsettling green. When he saw Theon, his face lit up with fervent excitement. He grasped Theon's hand and declared:
"Lord Sea Wolf! You have finally come—just as we foresaw! The gods have brought you here. You will lead House Farwynd to rise again. Our time has come!"
He led Theon beneath a massive weirwood tree. Beneath its bloody red leaves lay several corpses—likely the remains of native tribes from the Summer Sea.
Dozens of Farwynds were gathered around the tree, chanting prayers. Theon stopped in his tracks, startled by the sight.
He remembered Maester Luwin once telling him that in certain remote corners of the world, followers of the Old Gods still practiced blood sacrifice—seeking divine guidance through ritual death.
But soon Theon steadied himself. Having grown up in Winterfell, he too believed in the Old Gods, and the sight of a bleeding heart tree instinctively drew him to pray—though, truth be told, he wasn't particularly devout.
Then suddenly—
"Stop... the blood... prayers..."
A faint, echoing voice resonated in everyone's mind. The Farwynds gasped, looking to one another with wild excitement.
Golden light began to shimmer around Theon's body, and within it, faint streaks of blue.
From the distant sea came a hauntingly beautiful song. Theon looked up just as a girl with long blue hair rose slowly from the water—behind her swam a pod of speckled whales, massive sea-beasts resembling orcas, known among the Ironborn as sea wolves.
When Theon opened his eyes, he was stunned. All around him, the Farwynds had fallen to one knee, gazing at him with feverish devotion.
Then he looked toward the sea—and froze. The girl's beauty was otherworldly. He remembered how, during his prayer, a strange voice had whispered to him. Half-jokingly, he'd wished for a mermaid wife.
And now, here she was.
For a moment, Theon could only stare, dumbfounded. Then, at Gilbert's urging, he stepped forward toward the shore.
The blue-haired mermaid held a trident in her hands, her eyes calm and ancient. She glided closer, her voice echoing directly in Theon's mind:
"Are you my destined partner? I am Nisha. By the ancient covenant, I have come to aid my future mate. You carry the blood of my kin. You are the human descendant of our line. Draw your weapon—defeat me, and prove you have the strength to be my companion."
Before Theon could react, she raised her trident and issued her challenge.
Still bewildered, Theon drew his sword. If this was a test, he would meet it head-on.
As he watched, Nisha's tail split into two graceful legs, and she stepped onto the sand—utterly bare. The pale blue of her skin, the curve of her body… Theon's blood surged.
There was no more hesitation. With a shout, he charged.
All thoughts of politics and bloodlines vanished—his mind held only one desire: to win.
He had thought Sansa Stark was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but this mermaid before him was beyond comparison, a creature of pure allure. For the first time, Theon felt his life had found its purpose—to fight, to conquer, to claim the world's treasures for such beauty.
Nisha moved like the tide—graceful but strong. Each strike of her trident sent shocks up Theon's arms.
A moment's distraction cost him a shallow cut across the cheek. Pain seared his face, sharpening his focus.
Though powerful, Nisha lacked true combat training. Theon shifted into a circling rhythm, forcing her to expend energy until her movements slowed.
After ten long minutes, he caught her weapon in a lock, twisted it aside, and stepped in close—pressing his dagger lightly to her throat. His eyes burned with fierce triumph.
"You've lost."