Pyke, the Great Keep.
Smoke hazed the long hall. Balon Greyjoy sat wiry and hard upon the Seastone Chair, carved of black rock. About him stood his captains and chiefs; slaves hurried to pour wine, while fiddle and skin-drum sent their rough music rolling.
Three brawny men were dancing the Ironborn finger-dance, short-handled axes flashing between them in a blur. The rule was simple: catch or dodge—but don't move your feet. It ended when someone lost a finger; on ill-starred nights, two… or all.
King Balon wore a mildewed sealskin surcoat. His uncombed grey-white hair hung past his shoulders. Flint-dark eyes lifted to his son—Theon—whose face had gone iron-blue from being ignored on his way in.
"You are late, Theon."
Theon offered apology with a thread of ire. "Forgive me, Father."
He eyed the high table. His uncles sat to Balon's left; Asha Greyjoy had the place at his right—clear proof of Balon's favor.
Theon dropped into the empty seat by Asha, leaned forward and muttered in her ear, "You said this was my feast—and you stole my seat. That should be mine."
Asha had changed into a plain pale-green woolen jerkin—coarse in make, but it set off her slim lines.
Catching the heat in her brother's eyes, she gave him the look one gives a fool. Theon burned.
She blinked innocently. "Brother, you're mistaken. Your feast and your seat are in Winterfell."
"You're baiting me again?"
Asha studied his reddening face and was merry. "Wine or ale, Theon?"
She leaned in, voice gone soft. "Or… something else?"
Theon straightened and edged away, snorting. "Every word from you is a lie."
He hesitated… then couldn't help himself. "You said you were wed—and with child. A lie as well?"
"That part's true."
Asha sprang to her feet and held out a hand toward one of the finger-dancers. "Ralf—bring it!"
At her shout the big man spun, and an axe left his palm. It flashed past torch after torch, steel rolling end over end. Theon forgot to breathe.
Asha caught it clean in midair and thunk—buried it in the trestle, splitting Theon's trencher, grease spattering.
Her mouth curled. "Little brother—allow me to present my husband."
She drew a dagger from her jerkin. "And this is my babe."
Roars of laughter crashed through the hall. Theon sat frozen while the sound seemed to point and jeer. His best answer was a thin, nervous titter of his own.
"My brother," Asha said, "ten years a little wolf-cub in Winterfell, and he thinks that once he comes back he's Prince of the Iron Islands. You know nothing—you know no one. Why should any man fight for you, or die for you?"
In her eyes, Theon might have seen seven parts mockery—but also a spark for meeting again, a measure of disappointment, and a hard flicker of anger for the Starks. He saw only the mockery.
"By the law," he said stiffly, "I am prince by birth."
Did Asha think ten years in Winterfell had made him a Stark? Eddard had raised him with his children, but he was never one of them. All of Winterfell knew he was a hostage to keep Pyke in check. Even the bastard Jon Snow had fared better.
When Lord Eddard tried the father's role, Theon reminded himself whose sword had brought blood and fire to Pyke and torn him from his home. As a boy he had lived in the shadow of Stark's stern face and that greatsword Ice; Stark's lady had been colder yet.
Blood rose. "Winterfell was my gaol," he spat, "and salt and iron still run in my veins."
Asha leaned back and drank deep from her horn. "In the greenlands you learned the greenlanders' laws. Have you forgotten ours?"
Theon stared at the shattered trencher. Long ago Urron Redhand said: The Drowned God made men, and men made crowns. Every captain is a king upon his own deck; thus the isles of a thousand kings. Let a king be seen shitting by the rail, or sick and green in a storm, and who will bend the knee? You must be hard.
Watching him sit stiff and still, Asha chuckled. "I hear you're here as Winterfell's errand boy, little messenger?"
"I am no errand boy!" Theon flared. "I shaped the terms—they were my proposal!"
She smiled on, which maddened him all the more.
"Sounds like the little wolf is meek before you," she said, too sweetly.
Theon ignored the tone and lifted his chin. "He is. He trusts me. He takes me for his elder brother."
Asha snorted—then laughed and laughed.
"You—!"
The sound was pure mockery to Theon's ears; his face went mottled, green to red, like a chameleon.
Still laughing, she pressed one hand to her belly and clamped the other on his shoulder. He jerked to throw it off; her grip was iron. It did not budge.
King Balon, amused by his daughter near laughing herself breathless, rose from the Seastone Chair.
"I'll speak my plan. When the drinking's done, to my solar."
He turned out with two guards close, and his brothers followed.
Theon made to rise and go, but Asha's hand held him fast. "Let go of me!"
She released him—and patted his shoulder. "Father has waited years. He can wait minutes more. Besides—you've just solved his problem."
Theon didn't want to bite—but curiosity tugged. "What problem?"
Her smile went wicked. "Why, getting that meek little wolf of yours to hand Winterfell over to Father for safekeeping, dear brother."
…
Crab Claw Peninsula, Whispers City.
Today Amparo, captain of the Thorn Legion, was to be knighted. By rite she had kept vigil through the night before the statues of the Seven.
Leaving the sept, she wore a plain white shift and went barefoot to the place of dubbing, as a sign of humility.
The sept was not far from the main keep. Soon she stood before the great doors carved with marsh marigolds.
She remembered the day she first came here to meet the lord; her toes flexed of themselves.
She breathed, lifted her chin, and walked on.
…
In the hall, Gawen Crabb's gaze found Brienne of Tarth (cf. Ch. 88) among the onlookers. He sensed she was only a guest this time, and was quietly sorry.
The maid valued promises—so she had come; but her heart was with Renly. Lord Gawen would not press her.
A stir at the far end. Amparo advanced at a measured pace. Gawen's mouth bent in a faint smile; he remembered the first day, and this forthright woman-at-arms.
When the herald's chant ended, the hall fell still. Amparo went to one knee before Gawen and bowed her head.
Shing—Gawen drew his sword and laid it on her right shoulder.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."
He moved the blade to her left shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
Back to the right. "In the name of the Mother, protect the weak and innocent."
Left again. "In the name of the Maid, protect all women."
Left to right. "In the name of the Smith, be steadfast."
Right to left. "In the name of the Crone, be wise."
Left to right. "In the name of the Stranger, fear not sacrifice."
He lifted the sword. "Rise, Ser Amparo."
Amparo rose as Septon Zari came kindly to anoint her with holy oil.
"Child, my blessing. May the gods keep you."
The witnessing knight, Ser Mason Beck, spoke: "Ser Amparo—you'll want a surname."
She nodded thanks and turned to him with hopeful eyes.
Mason smiled and—stiffening slightly—hurried after the High Septon of the Crab Claw: "Septon Zari, a word on the new sept's site—"
Drawn along, Zari quickened his step. Amparo opened her mouth, then shut it again as the two men left.
Gawen came over, smiling in his eyes. "Amparo—Mason is a busy man. I can help."
He thought a moment. "Thorns. Ser Amparo Thorns."
…
Next day, Gawen rode west with his newly made knight to inspect the peninsula. Under his orders, the elite and stores of the Crab Claw began quietly mustering at the new northern military harbor. Men and materiel would be in place within three months.
…
Red Keep, the Hand's Tower.
In his study, Tyrion Lannister lay sprawled on his desk, worn to the bone.
He had to admit he had underestimated cousin Lancel. With Lancel's "help," Ser Jaselyn Bywater had taken the Gold Cloaks, and Tyrion had "rewarded" Lancel with the post of under-commander—a tidy bargain.
Tyrion chuckled. His sister Cersei was much easier to manage once she'd fixed on the right man… He found himself morbidly curious how exactly Lancel had persuaded her. Poor Jaime.
Did his darling sister truly think Gawen and Lancel were the same sort of sword in hand?
Next steps, besides grain: war-prep and diplomacy.
With Gawen away, Tyrion sometimes missed him—but felt looser in body and mind. The Vale—aye, a decent place to grow old.
Knock, knock, knock.
At his leave, Varys glided in, lavender-scent following, soft in a pale violet robe.
"Good day, Lord Hand."
Tyrion slid off the desk into his chair and grinned. "Sit, Lord Varys."
Varys seated himself and drew a parchment from his sleeve. "First whisper: the captain of the royal warship White Hart means to weigh anchor in three days and take his ship to Stannis."
Tyrion smirked. "Another poor child Stannis forgot in King's Landing?"
He sighed. "We've but a handful of ships. To keep the rest in line, I'll have to be cruel. They need a taste of Joffrey's justice."
His eyes gleamed. "And my dear nephew needs something to do—or the Seven will protest."
Varys nodded and made a neat mark upon the page.
"Second whisper: Ser Horas and Ser Hobber Redwyne have bribed a postern guard. The night after tomorrow they'll slip out—disguised as oarsmen—aboard a Pentoshi ship, the Moonchaser."
Tyrion mused. "The queen's guests mean to flee? If my sweet sister loses her rare specimens, she'll go mad."
He eyed Varys. "I'll see to this myself. Not a word to the Queen Regent."
Varys bowed his head. "As you wish, my lord Hand."
He marked again. "Third whisper…"
"Fourth whisper…"
"Fifth whisper…"
"And the last…"
…
When the litany was done, Tyrion clambered down, fetched a flagon and two cups, and poured for the Master of Whisperers who'd read reports half the day.
"My lord Varys," he said, handing the wine and studying the eunuch, "I cannot help but feel your heart is kind to me. Why be so good to me?"
Varys smiled. "My lord—you are the Hand. The Master of Whisperers serves the realm, the king… and the Hand."
Tyrion bared his teeth. "So attentive, were you, to Jon Arryn—and to Eddard Stark—as well?"
.
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