"I am not a Stark."
Theon Greyjoy had repeated those words to himself for years.
Even after spending most of his life in Winterfell, he had never truly belonged there. From the day he arrived as a child hostage after Balon Greyjoy's failed rebellion, he had lived beneath the shadow of House Stark.
Eddard Stark's stern gaze and massive greatsword haunted many of Theon's childhood memories. Lady Catelyn Stark was even colder toward him. Though she treated him politely enough, suspicion always lingered in her eyes.
To the North, he was never truly one of them.
The younger Stark children had been too young to understand politics, but Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and Theon himself had grown up together.
Jon Snow, however, was always gloomy and overly sensitive. Any teasing would provoke him, especially if it touched upon his birth or Robb's closeness to Theon.
Robb was different.
Theon genuinely cared for him.
At times, he had even thought of Robb as a brother.
But no matter how close they became, the truth remained unchanged.
He was a hostage.
Everyone knew it.
The castle servants knew it.
The northern lords knew it.
Even the soldiers who laughed and drank with him understood that if Balon Greyjoy ever rebelled again, Theon Greyjoy would die first.
And beyond that, the North still hated the Ironborn.
"The shadow of the Greyjoy Rebellion still hangs over everyone," Theon thought bitterly. "The young may laugh and forget, but the old never do. They remember every grudge until the day they die."
The old men in the North hated the Iron Islands.
The old men of the Iron Islands hated the North.
And somewhere in between stood Theon Greyjoy, belonging to neither side.
What troubled him most was the rise of the Storm.
Though still young, the Storm had already accomplished things beyond imagination. His victories spread across Westeros like wildfire, shaking kingdoms and terrifying enemies.
Robb followed him loyally.
Even Jon Snow—the bastard whom Theon once mocked—had become one of the Storm's trusted followers.
The Storm rewarded loyalty generously.
Robb would one day become a great lord beneath him.
Jon Snow would likely rise alongside him as well.
But what about Theon?
What future awaited him?
A hostage.
A pawn.
A convenient tool to be used and discarded.
Though he never openly complained when Gendry and the others prevented Robb from traveling to the Iron Islands personally, the incident had wounded his pride deeply.
Soon afterward, a new opportunity appeared.
Since the Iron Islands had not yet committed their forces, Robb sent Theon alongside several Northerners to Seaguard to inspect the harbor and evaluate the available ships.
Without Lady Catelyn or Brynden Blackfish nearby to restrain him, Robb had begun making bolder decisions.
For Theon, the assignment unexpectedly became enjoyable.
At Seaguard, he quickly formed a friendship with Patrek Mallister, the heir of House Mallister.
Patrek was easy company.
He enjoyed women, fine wine, hunting, and falconry—interests Theon appreciated greatly.
Theon had expected suspicion and hostility in Seaguard, considering the city had been built specifically to defend against Ironborn raids.
Especially against House Greyjoy.
The city's massive bell tower stood as a reminder of centuries of conflict. In ancient times, whenever Ironborn longships appeared on the horizon, the great bronze bell would ring throughout the land, warning farmers and villagers to flee inside the walls.
"You need large seaworthy ships," Patrek said one evening over wine. "I don't have many of those. But thanks to the Storm, I have plenty of good wine."
Since Harrenhal's fall, Seaguard's importance had grown tremendously.
Patrek leaned back casually.
"Still no letter from your father?"
Theon shook his head.
"Nothing."
Patrek shrugged.
"It hardly matters now. Once the Vale falls, the Lannisters are finished."
The more they drank, the friendlier the conversation became.
Patrek even shared a recent letter from his father, Lord Jason Mallister, who was helping defend Harrenhal alongside Lord Jack Clegane.
Then Patrek laughed.
"My father warned me not to get too close to you."
Theon stiffened slightly, though he hid it well.
"He says Seaguard was built to resist Ironborn invasions."
Patrek chuckled again.
"And yet the great bell has only rung once in three hundred years."
"That was during my brother's raid," Theon replied calmly.
Rodrik Greyjoy had died beneath Seaguard's walls during that failed attack.
Truthfully, Theon had never cared much for Rodrik. His older brother had once drunkenly slapped him hard across the face when they were children.
Still…
The Iron Islands were home.
No matter how distant or cruel they seemed, they remained his homeland.
"Enough gloomy talk," Patrek declared, lifting another cup. "Drink! Afterward, we'll go have some fun."
The "fun" turned out to be a miller's wife with whom Patrek had become intimately acquainted.
The two young men rode together through the night laughing loudly, drunk and reckless.
Eventually, Patrek collapsed asleep beside the woman inside the mill, too exhausted to continue drinking.
But Theon could not sleep.
He lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling.
Restless.
Uneasy.
"What future do I even have?" he thought bitterly.
Gendry and Robb were already commanding armies while still younger than him.
Jon Snow, once merely a bastard in Winterfell, had risen higher than Theon ever expected.
And him?
He remained trapped between worlds.
Then another thought slowly emerged.
A dangerous thought.
"What if I return home?"
The more he considered it, the more tempting it became.
He was Balon Greyjoy's heir.
Not a servant.
Not a hostage.
Not a forgotten pawn.
If he returned carrying news from Robb and the Storm, perhaps the Iron Islands would finally acknowledge him.
Perhaps his father would respect him.
Perhaps the Ironborn would welcome him home as a true son of Pyke.
"The Storm is winning," Theon told himself. "The lions are weakening. If the Iron Islands raid the Westerlands now, they could gain glory and wealth."
The idea consumed him completely.
If he delayed too long, Lady Catelyn or Brynden Blackfish might return and prevent him from leaving.
Worse, the Storm himself might summon him elsewhere.
This might be his only chance.
Yet doubt still lingered.
"Wouldn't this make me a traitor?"
The word stabbed painfully into his heart.
Oathbreaker.
Turncloak.
Betrayer.
"No," Theon whispered to himself fiercely. "I'm helping them."
"If I convince the Iron Islands to join the war, Robb and the Storm will understand."
"When Ironborn longships begin raiding Lannisport again, they'll see my loyalty."
That was how he justified it.
How he comforted himself.
Finally, after wrestling with his thoughts all night, Theon made his decision.
He left behind a letter and quietly slipped away before dawn.
Patrek was still asleep in the mill, and no guards accompanied him there. The Northern attendants Theon brought understood youthful debauchery well enough not to question his absence.
Everything aligned perfectly.
Almost unbelievably so.
Theon mounted his horse and rode hard toward the docks.
"I'm not betraying them," he muttered nervously. "I'm simply going home."
Still, fear gripped him.
He worried that some Northerner might recognize him and stop him before he could leave.
Fortunately, luck remained on his side.
At the harbor, he found a merchant vessel preparing to sail toward the Iron Islands.
The Myraham.
A broad southern trading ship from Oldtown, loaded with wine, cloth, and seeds meant to be exchanged for iron ore.
The captain welcomed Theon courteously after receiving enough gold.
Only after the ship had sailed far from Seaguard did Theon finally reveal his true identity.
Standing at the rail, he watched the coastline fade into the distance.
"Sorry, Robb," he thought quietly.
"Sorry, Patrek."
"But I'll return with a gift."
Above him burned the Red Comet.
Across Westeros, people whispered endlessly about its meaning.
Many claimed it belonged to the Storm—a sign of destiny illuminating his path to greatness.
But Theon stared at it stubbornly.
"No," he whispered.
"That star belongs to me too."
Out at sea, a strange sense of freedom filled his chest.
The salty wind.
The cries of gulls overhead.
The creaking of wood and rope.
The snapping sails.
All of it felt deeply familiar.
For the people of the Iron Islands, the sea represented freedom itself.
The North had forests, snow, and stone.
But the sea belonged to the Ironborn.
And to Theon.
He realized then how much he had missed it.
"I'll never stay away from the sea again," he vowed silently.
The captain approached him carefully.
"My lord, you must have been gone for many years."
"A very long time," Theon replied with a faint smile.
Truthfully, he found it amusing how quickly gold turned southern merchants obedient.
Ironborn captains would never behave so humbly.
Among the Ironborn, every captain considered himself a king aboard his own ship.
That was why the Iron Islands were sometimes called the Land of a Thousand Kings.
Still, merchant ships had their uses.
Though slower than longships, the Myraham was carrying him home.
For that alone, Theon was grateful.
"You return with the authority of the Storm and the Young Wolf," the captain remarked casually.
Theon's expression darkened immediately.
Those names stirred guilt deep inside him.
Robb had ordered him to inspect Seaguard—not flee home.
And the Storm…
The memory of those piercing blue eyes filled Theon with unease.
For some reason, the captain seemed far sharper than Theon originally assumed.
"Inform me when we're near the islands," Theon said coldly before retreating below deck.
Fortunately, distractions existed aboard the ship.
The captain's daughter had taken considerable interest in the young Ironborn nobleman.
A few compliments.
A little wine.
Several charming smiles.
That was all it took.
Inside the cabin, Theon removed his damp cloak while the girl watched him nervously.
"My lord," she asked softly, "you must be happy to finally return home after so long."
"Almost ten years," Theon replied.
"I was only ten when Eddard Stark took me to Winterfell as his ward."
Ward.
The word almost made him laugh.
In truth, he had spent half his life as a hostage.
But now?
Now he was finally free.
No longer controlled by House Stark.
No longer trapped.
As for the Storm…
Even the Storm could not command someone who had already escaped.
Theon looked at the girl carefully.
She was somewhat plump, with pale skin spotted like oatmeal, but she was still attractive enough.
And innocent.
"Come here," he ordered gently.
Though shy, she obeyed.
"I've never visited the Iron Islands," she admitted. "It must be terribly windy there."
Theon laughed quietly.
"Windy, cold, wet, and miserable."
"The land is harsh. The people are harsher."
"Farmers struggle to grow anything from barren soil. Fishermen fight the sea every day. Miners spend their lives buried underground digging iron and lead."
"No wonder the old Ironborn became raiders."
The girl listened silently as Theon continued.
"My father always said harsh lands create strong people."
Then he smirked.
"But before I rule the world… I'll rule you first."
The foolish girl blushed deeply.
"I could come ashore with you," she whispered hopefully.
"If you wanted…"
Theon rubbed her softly and shook his head.
"You can go ashore."
"But not with me."
Though a small part of him felt guilty, he pushed the feeling aside.
He didn't want to think about Winterfell anymore.
Or Robb.
Or the Storm.
For once in his life, Theon Greyjoy wanted to live for himself alone.
Outside, the waves rolled endlessly across the dark sea.
The ship sailed onward beneath the red comet overhead.
And somewhere ahead waited home.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)