Birdsong mingled with the throaty croaks of frogs in the quiet rainforest, a peaceful counterpoint to the turmoil in Theon Greyjoy's mind. He stared intently at a single point in the void, his expression shifting like storm clouds across the Iron Islands.
This marked the fifth day since their departure from Rain House.
He had just received a message and two royal appointments from the Iron Throne, the God's Grace light screen flickering erratically before him as though disturbed by the weight of its own tidings.
Theon knew with cold certainty that this was no dream: one message, two appointments.
The message made him tremble, his mind emptying like a capsized longship. His father, Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands—whom he hadn't seen in nearly ten years—was dead!
Balon Greyjoy was dead!
Murdered by "Euron Crow's Eye," who was even now returning to the Iron Islands like some vengeful specter from the depths.
Theon's thoughts turned to his uncle Euron's ship, the Silence—that terrifying vessel with its blood-red hull and midnight sails—and to the malicious black eye that gleamed beneath the leather patch. He had no doubt of Euron's madness and ruthlessness.
Patricide? What was that to the Crow's Eye? He was the Crow's Eye, after all, a man who had sailed to places where even the bravest captains dared not venture.
In any case, his father was dead.
Even though Balon had personally sent Theon to the Starks as a hostage, even though they hadn't laid eyes upon each other in ten long years, even though the letters sent to Winterfell had been few and cold as the waters surrounding Pyke...
After all, his father was dead.
Theon felt his heart fill with a confusion of emotions: grief and sorrow intermingled with the hot, quickening pulse of vengeance.
Yes, sorrow and anger.
That was how he explained his uncontrollable trembling and the hands that gripped his sword hilt with white-knuckled intensity.
Certainly not because of those two royal appointments that now demanded his choice.
Theon cycled through the God's Grace light screen, examining first one appointment, then the other, his soul truly caught between two paths.
Both documents bore the seal and signature of the Secretariat, stamped with His Grace King Joffrey's royal mark. Their authenticity and validity stood beyond question.
One appointment named him "Duke of Greyjoy," or "Warden of the Iron Islands."
The other proclaimed him "Guardian of the Sunset Sea," or "Commander-in-Chief of the Sunset Sea Fleet under the Royal Fleet."
Theon could select but one of the two.
Both appointments arrived as lightning from a clear sky, and both presented perplexing dilemmas that offered no easy resolution.
Duke of Greyjoy.
This was a position Theon had dreamed of inheriting since his boyhood days on the windswept islands. He knew well that His Grace the King had redefined the peerage system of the Seven Kingdoms. No longer was status determined merely by strength of arms or the liege lord to whom one swore fealty, as it had been in days of old.
Duke, Marquess, Earl, Viscount, Baron, Baronet, Knight, Citizen.
This was the restructured hierarchy His Grace King Joffrey had established throughout the realm.
Each rank of peerage enjoyed considerable privileges and preferential treatment. The higher one's station, the greater one's honor, the more likely the title would pass to one's children, and the more of the King's favor—his God's Grace—one might share.
To date, only five dukes had been recognized by the Iron Throne:
Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, Eddard Stark, Robert Arryn, and Doran Martell.
The traitors Renly Baratheon and Mace Tyrell had been stripped of their titles and lands, their names all but erased from the chronicles of the noble houses.
And Doran Martell of Dorne had always styled himself "Prince," his current attitude toward the crown ambiguous at best, which clearly displeased King Joffrey.
Which meant...
If he accepted the title of Duke, Theon would become one of merely six such lords in all of Westeros.
Theon Greyjoy, Duke. Eddard Stark, Duke.
Thinking of Lord Stark's stern, unyielding face and that terrifying greatsword Ice that had taken so many lives, and then daring to place his own name alongside that of Duke Eddard as an equal... Theon felt a burst of savage joy rise within his breast.
He nearly pressed his finger to the "Duke of Greyjoy" appointment then and there, ready to fulfill his long-cherished wish and return to the Iron Islands in triumph and glory.
But the words "Warden of the Iron Islands" on the line below gave him pause, a stark reminder that the game had changed.
Theon was no fool.
He could guess the King's true intentions in establishing these Wardens throughout the realm.
At Rain House, Theon had witnessed a power struggle firsthand, had seen King Joffrey tear apart visible and invisible opponents like a summer storm, achieving victory with an ease that bordered on the uncanny.
Who stood as master of Rain House now?
Ser GWilder, the Warden.
And who commanded the Warden's every move?
The King.
Theon's eyes returned to "Duke of Greyjoy," then gradually shifted to the second appointment.
Warden of the Iron Islands. This would prove a demanding position fraught with peril. The ironborn captains would not easily bend the knee, not even to a son of Balon. There would be challenges without end...
"Ser Theon, are you well?"
The voice beside him shattered his contemplation. Theon turned with ill-concealed irritation toward the speaker.
A brown-haired youth with the face of a pretty maid smiled like a practiced courtesan, his beautiful armor so pristine that Theon doubted it could withstand a single blow from a war hammer.
Damn him, Theon thought sourly. He likely doesn't even need to pay for a woman's company.
Seven hells, what does it matter?
Theon curled his lip in naked disdain.
"I fare well enough," he said coldly. "I merely hunger to kill a few hundred men and capture Moat Cailin. It's your survival you should concern yourself with, Adam."
This pretty lordling was the heir to the Weeping Town, Adam Whitehead.
The fleet's operations in the Weeping Town had proceeded with unexpected peace. Earl Whitehead was an old man too frail to walk, and the guards of the Weeping Town had lacked the courage to stand against the might of the royal fleet.
In the aftermath, the old man's eldest son, Adam, had taken the initiative to join their ranks, serving with Theon's Seventh Regiment as though born to the role.
Adam Whitehead appeared deaf to the provocation in Theon's words. His face showed only surprise and what seemed like genuine gratitude.
"I thank you for your concern, Ser Theon," he replied with honeyed courtesy.
"The Ser and the warriors of the Kingsguard possess such might that we took Crow's Nest without a single man falling. I have faith that Moat Cailin will present no greater danger."
Adam's eyes shone with what appeared to be deep trust and awe.
Theon found himself without proper retort. "Let us hope so. Now be silent and await my orders."
Adam nodded with the obedience of a well-trained hound.
Though Theon took a measure of pride in Adam's performance, there were moments when the young lord provoked an inexplicable annoyance in him—a nagging sense that he was being played for a fool.
Perhaps it wasn't mere fancy.
Theon had learned that most nobles of the South behaved thus: full of flowery praise while they sharpened their daggers for your back.
He should have sacked the Weeping Town!
Put a few of their pompous knights to the sword!
Theon could not help but silently curse Barristan Selmy for his leniency toward the traitors.
Greenstone, the Weeping Town, Stonehelm—in each, the army's commander-in-chief, "The Bold" Barristan, had shown nothing of the boldness that earned him his name. He merely waited for the castles to release their ravens with messages of surrender, then sent troops to quietly assume control.
His own men, the enemy—no one's blood stained the ground.
Who could possibly be deterred by such restraint?
How could anyone feel awe for a conqueror who never conquered?
Theon's Seventh Regiment had become utterly redundant. A simple march to the gates proved sufficient; they needed not even display their god-given powers. The mere sight of their numbers was enough to make the guards lay down their weapons and open their gates.
Thankfully, this would not be their fate forever.
The army had divided at the Slayne River.
Ser Barristan led his forces westward into the interior, while Theon's Seventh Regiment advanced northward along the Slayne, planning to seize Crow's Nest before turning east to capture Moat Cailin.
At Crow's Nest, Theon's Seventh Regiment had finally served their purpose.
Steel had flown through the air like flocks of deadly birds. Flames had danced upon the battlements. Steam had erupted from the very earth. Stone had bent and twisted to their will. Men had stood unharmed by blade or arrow, wounds vanishing in the space of a breath. Bright lights and thunderous sounds had filled the air as though the gods themselves had descended to battle.
Mindful of the strict orders and discipline demanded by the Kingsguard, Theon had resisted the urge to reduce Crow's Nest entirely to smoking rubble.
Yet when the fighting ceased, only a handful of distant relatives remained to inherit the Morrigen family's ancestral seat. The original Earl Morrigen and his direct line had perished in the assault.
Was this to be judged good or ill?
Theon knew only that the official evaluation of his mission had not declined. His standing and allocation of points remained unchanged.
Some things required no explicit statement, no official encouragement.
The absence of punishment was answer enough.
Now, as he stood amidst the aftermath...
Theon gazed around at the broken walls, and for an instant, the shadows of Pyke and Winterfell seemed to flicker across his vision. In that moment, he heard the phantom sound of something breaking—like iron shackles, like delicate crystal, like castle-forged steel.
In his trance-like state, he stared at the collapsing castle before him, stones tumbling down like the hopes and dreams of fallen houses.
His heart trembled within his chest, not with fear, but with a strange, terrible anticipation of what was to come.
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