Chapter 30

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Chapter 30

Theon Greyjoy

The sea water crashed gently with his torso, as he knelt amidst the salty shore of Pyke. The wind was cold, and carried with a salty aftertaste.

A tall, thin man with fierce black eyes and a beak of a nose stood over him, he garbed himself in nothing but a seaskin clout to cover his privates, his uncle, Aero- No, it's apparently Damphair now.

Theon remembers as a child, his youngest uncle was once an amiable man, fond of songs, ale, and women. He once wagered his ship against a flock of goats that he could douse a hearth-fire by urinating on it, and subsequently outraged Theon's father, Lord Balon, by naming the ship Golden Storm.

Admittedly, that ship was split is half by the Fury, Stannis Baratheon's ship, during the rebellion some years ago.

But sometime during his time in Winterfell, his once loud and brash uncle turned into the sour priest that held a waterskin filled with seawater to his side. His overgrown hair and beard whistling with the wind, causing the smell of seaweed woven into it to spread.

"Theon of the House Greyjoy." He began. "You would this day consecrate your faith to the Drowned God?"

"I would." Theon glared fiercely forward, hoping to make for a resolute man in the spectators eyes.

Theon stared back into the island, not many had come to see his blessing ceremony, simply his father, sister, and some sailors who'd gathered if simply to watch the spectacle.

It contrasted heavily with a scene in his mind's eye, the day his brothers received the same blessing. During that day, the beach was filled to the brim with men and women, from lords to warriors to thralls, all came to see the day Balon Greyjoy's sons would receive the Drowned God's favor.

Yet, he was there, a son of Balon Greyjoy, nothing but a joke in their minds.

The Damphair nods regally. "Let Theon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were!" He shouts to the sea. "Bless him with the salt of the ocean! Bless him with stone! Bless him, with steel!"

His uncle makes for the waterskin, but Theon, with a rebellious look. Glares up at him.

"Drown me." He says.

When he was stuck in the North, with nothing but ridicules and reminders of his captivity in sight, Theon always swallowed his anger and pride, swearing to the gods, old and new, that once he'd come back to the Iron Islands, he'd swallow no more.

Now, he was here, his home wasn't as he thought it to be, but that doesn't mean he has to be, so when the anger overflowed his shame and embarrassment, he let it –for once- control his actions.

"Boy." Aeron says. "Drowning is a tradition no longer practiced, and whilst it would please the Drowned God like no other, I'd advise that you-"

Theon glimpsed the ridicule within his uncle's eyes, his gaze was filled with an infuriating mix of pity and doubt.

"Drown me, gods dammit!"

A haunted look appears on his uncle's face before hardening in resolve.

"So be it."

Aeron's thin frame belied his strength, his large hand easily held on the back of his head, and with a mighty, strong push, Theon's face crashes into the seawater.

At first, he resolved himself to tough it out, calmly closing his eyes.

The water felt strikingly cold, but he was a Greyjoy, he wouldn't succumb to the seas, let alone something so minute.

Theon's breath hitched as the icy seawater enveloped his face, stinging his skin and filling his ears with the muffled roar of the tide. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms –drawing blood- as he fought the instinct to thrash against the hand pressing him down. His lungs burned, demanding air, but he held fast.

'I am a Greyjoy.' he thought, clinging to the mantra as if it could tether him to consciousness. 'Ironborn. Born of salt and stone.'

The world above seemed distant—a faint hum of the wind, the rhythmic crash of waves, and the muted murmurs of the onlookers. He imagined their eyes boring into his back, judging, doubting. He refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

But the water pressed harder, colder. Panic gnawed at the edges of his resolve. His chest tightened as his body screamed for air.

Then unbidden memories came to his mind.

"Look, boy, and understand." His father had said to him, hand forcing his eyes to look at the dead boy shipped out by drowned priests. His ten year old mind didn't register their death, not knowing its meaning, but the sight of the boy's grieving mother brought recent happenings to the fore, the silhouette of a frail looking woman with the same expression, his own mother. He never felt such dread as he did that day. "The kiss of life is a miracle, one that doesn't care for pedigree or worship, it is a wasteful gamble, one that takes skilled hands from our lands and reavers off our ships. And of those that come out of the drowning alive, few do so with their minds and bodies intact."

His father kneeled to him, eyes filled with unbidden loss and grief, hidden behind a mask of righteous anger. 'You are heir to these islands now, boy.' His voice bellied his emotions, rough from unspoken emotions. 'My heir cannot afford to be foolish.'

Strange, that this would be the moment he'd remember such a memory. Yet all it did was bring clarity to his mind, striking what remained of his resolve off his head.

He felt the seawater make its way to his lungs, with it came an excruciating burning sensation, worse than any he'd felt in his life.

'At this rate, I'm going to die.' Amidst his silent screams, only that thought came through the pain. 'I'm going to die?'

Oh gods! He didn't wish for death!

He began to trash violently, pushing with his greatest strength against the force that pushed him down.

"Leh... meh... guh!" Theon screamed through the water. "I... d-don'... wah... tuh die!"

He attempts to escape his hold, but the Damphair's thin frame apparently hid his strength well, a single hand was enough to keep him forcefully underwater.

Theon puts his hands to the ground, pushing with them upwards, and it seemed that finally, he'd been able to push against his uncle's hold.

"Nn... ngh... like... thihs!"

For a second, Theon's head rose above the water. His eyes sighted the blaring sun over a dark sea.

To him, that sight was the most beautiful of his life, the relief from that single gasp compounded his feelings of awe, creating within him an undescribable emotion.

It was joy, it was bliss, and it was unfettered ecstasy like no other.

"Theon!"

His eyes turn to the voice, only to find his sister forcefully held by his father, as she attempted to run to him.

"The Drowned God will have his due, boy."

And once again, he was pushed back to the water. Only this time, with both hands to his head and a knee to his back, leaving no hope.

This time Theon was plagued with too much despair to make a significant effort, his strength has suddenly left him, and apart from some idle twitching and trashing, he'd easily succumbed to the depths.

And under the seawater, tears floated upward, and through their translucence, the last thing he glimpsed was his sister's face filled with despair.

'Theon Greyjoy.' He thought. 'Foolish to the end.'

*-*-*

It wasn't the end, apparently.

His uncle performed the kiss of life, bringing him back to life, yet unconscious.

And some days before, he woke with his sister to his bedside, holding his hands in uncharacteristic tenderness.

It wasn't the end, because the drowning wasn't where the misery laid, the suffering would start at night, where he'd started having dark dreams and night terrors.

Sleep was a miserable experience, as every time he'd feel the water gushing through his throat, the grasp of death tightening over his throat, a terrible force pushing him into its cold embrace.

But every now and then, he'd see that same sight, and he'd feel a deep desire in his heart.

Theon looked up to the sky, staring at the sun.

'Even now, I miss that feeling.' He thinks. 'It is what haunts my mind, beyond the nightmares, beyond the jeers. Only that.'

His face no longer sported his smirk, only what his sister called the "expression of an old man longing for his dead wife."

He stood atop his new ship, a longship gifted by his father for the coming battles.

It has a lean, black hull a hundred feet long, a single mast and fifty oars, its deck large enough to hold a hundred men and an iron ram shaped like an arrowhead.

Theon named it the Sea Bitch when his sister called her one. At the time his mind was still lethargic, so he'd just chosen one at random.

He glanced down at the still waters of Lordsport, his shifting reflection would in his eyes morph into another's, one with cold blue eyes and rich red hair.

He couldn't help but notice that his languid stare started sharing a small measure of his foster brother's cold.

'Perhaps… I'm starting to understand what brought such ice to the fore.' He thinks.

He then turns to his back, looking at his assigned men. They looked bored out of their minds, and seemed to ignore him as if he was naught but air.

But Theon couldn't bring himself to care, not about them, the war, anything. He couldn't give a single damn about anything.

He stares at the man he chose for first mate, a surly, rude and brash thin man called Qhoren. But he seemed to gather respect for the men, so Theon made sure to let him handle the general matters.

"Set sail." He orders.

Qhoren grunts. "Can't do that if I can't know where to, do I?" He snipes.

"Faircastle."

[A.N: I've been debating on this for a long time, so here you have it!

Theon's mind changes suddenly, as things tend to happen when you momentarily die and lose oxygen flow to the brain. Some degree of brain damage is involved, but there's a new, strange obsession to the man. One that triumphs over all his previous banal desires and goals.

I don't know why, but I'm strangely proud of this chapter.]