Chapter Text
The sun is warm on Theon's skin, the water pearls down his brown arms, his wet hair curls around his ears. He clambers up the mast, quick like a squirrel, then swings himself back into the sea, shrieking in delight.
Nuncle Aeron joins him with a splash. Theon is most pleased at getting to spend an afternoon playing with his favourite nuncle, and on Aeron's own ship, no less. Aeron is usually drunk, which can be scary in its own right, but he is always, always kind, and he hasn't hit Theon, not ever.
"Race you to the prow," Aeron shouts, then makes a show of getting his feet tangled in seaweed to let Theon win.
Later, they let themselves dry on deck, the sun beating against their bellies. Aeron brushes the water from his short-shorn hair. His smile is bright and mild.
Theon knows part of the reason for this splendid day was to get him out of the way of the tensions mounting within the walls of Pyke.
"Will Father really go to war?" Theon asks.
"You've been listening at doors, nephew."
One doesn't need to press one's ear against any door to hear his parents fight over this. His mother is opposed.
Aeron sighs. "Probably, Theon."
Theon trails the lines of the wooden planks with his fingers. He grew up with songs of raids and glorious battle, still he can't imagine what it would be like, for the iron islands to rise up to war.
"The war will be brought to us, should your Father proclaim himself king," Aeron explains, "though Balon thinks of striking first, to discourage that. Prove ourselves too strong to be controlled."
Theon splays his fingers against the sunlight, creating shadows. "Why would he want to be king, then?"
Theon can't ask his own father that, or he wouldn't dare.
"I'm the worst man to ask about this, nephew," Aeron sighs. "I'm just a merry drunk. Though it's no secret that life on the islands is mean and bleak and meagre."
"And father being king would help against that?"
Aeron stretches his long legs, levers himself into a stand.
"Enough of that, Theon. Ask your nuncle Rodrik, you'll be better served."
Theon frowns, but doesn't push his luck. Nuncle Aeron is always, always kind, but when pressed in ways he mislikes, he's wont to vanish into seaside taverns for days on end, juggling and dancing until he forgot what the last talk was about.
"Whatever the Lord Reaver decides, I'll follow," Aeron says, with a tone of finality. "Look around, though. Only when the longships are assembled will the times be ripe for war."
The port is half-empty. A number of fishing boats, a handful of ships, including Aeron's, which is not yet completed in full. Small huts and cabins line the coast, clinging to the steep slopes that build up into Pyke's wild rocks and exposed hills. The houses are black and grey, made from the islands' dark stone and whitened wood, but decorated in colourful shells from the sea. Women are gutting fish, boys are knotting nets. A drummer is practising, syncopating against the beats of the metalworkers.
"Speaking of!" Aeron smiles. He leans forward conspiratorially. "Do you want to see the last piece missing from this brave ship?"
The missing piece still stands in a seaside hangar, awaiting its final polish. Gerrad, the much complimented artist, is happy to show off his work.
Theon has seen naked men swim and naked men wash and naked men do other things, as such Aeron's figurehead elicits little curiosity, though the tentacles growing and twisting where the balls should be certainly is a novelty.
"It was all your nuncle's idea," Gerrad says. "I like it, it's creative. Everybody with their mermen and naggas and sea monsters and drowned maidens. This is special."
"Your father hates it," Aeron whispers, once Gerrad left to resume his other work. "Thinks it's unserious."
Well, it is somewhat unserious.
"I think it's very serious," Aeron says, "though not all might be wise enough to see. Most of all, though, it commemorates a win."
Theon knows the story, they all do, how Aeron bet his new ship against a herd of goats in a pissing contest, and won.
"We all need to win just the one time, don't we," Aeron says. "And we're all given one gift from the God."
Aye, and Aeron's gift is pissing far and lengthily, they've all heard this song.
Theon tries to think of any one special talent he might posses, but can't think of anything.
"What's my gift?" he asks his nuncle.
Aeron laughs. "Well you tell me, Theon."
Theon swims easily enough, but so does anyone else. He's not too bad with a bow, though Dagmer says he'll need to train much more seriously than that to become great. Can a gift from the God be something you need to train very hard on? Theon is his father's trueborn son, but only a third son, and he isn't so sure being his father's son is such a gift besides.
"I think I don't have any," Theon says.
Aeron lays a hand on Theon's head. "I'm sure you do. Tell me anything special about yourself."
Theon rakes his mind.
"Mother told me I was birthed with the navel string tied thrice around my neck. They thought I'd die but then I didn't."
Aeron laughs. "The gift of survival, then? You better not choose that tale to brag on, the world might take you up on it."
Aeron pats his hand against the side of his wooden ram, like one would a horse. "I think we'll have it painted gold." He winks at Theon, looking over his shoulder, then gently steers him back out into the afternoon sun.
"Enough of all that. This talk of war is making you grim. Are you as worried as all that? Ironborn are made to fight and die fighting, it's our way."
Outside, the wind blows Theon's hair into knots. A string hung with shells jingles with the breeze.
"Worries and prayers never helped any boy, I'll tell you that. Better to dance and to laugh. C'mon, nephew. Would you rather go back home, or do you want us to try and catch ourselves some food?"
"I want to catch some food!" Theon decides.
He doesn't want to go home just yet.