Chapter Text
“Who sends a message to a dead man?” Theon rolled over on the cot as Robb unfolded the letter. With that smile, one could easily think the man had never taken anything seriously in his life.
Robb didn’t feel like being goaded into an argument again. Apparently, the official story coming out of the Twins was that their treason had been successful and the King in the North had lost his head during an ambush at his own wedding. Arya had seen the body. No word on how the Freys had managed to get a wolf’s head, but she’d seen right away that it was too small to be a Grey Wind’s. So, Robb was officially dead in the eyes of the Lannisters, and while Theon favored a show of strength to prove that they was very much alive, Catelyn favored lying low and using this turn of events in their favor.
It was beside the point as Robb unfurled the parchment. It was curious, though, how someone had managed to find him to send a raven. A dead man indeed.
“It’s for you,” he said, turning.
Theon sat up in bed, the furs sliding down to his waist to reveal his bare skin. “Me?”
Robb handed the letter over. Theon read it out loud.
To the King in the North, or whatever rubbish you go by these days.
I trust that you’ve honored your word to not behead my idiot brother, in which case I can also trust you to pass word along to him. Our father is dead. Slipped from the bridge in a storm. His bones are resting in the Drowned God’s domain, if not his Halls.
And while I’m sure the loss is very near to dear Theon’s heart, the reason I’m truly writing is to let you know that, in his absence, a King’s moot has been called. I, myself, have put myself forth as a candidate, and I do not intend to let my uncles wrest the Iron Islands from my grip. I have a bargain for you and for Theon. We might be able to benefit each other.
Asha Greyjoy
Queen of the Iron Islands
“What’s a King’s Moot?” Robb asked.
Theon didn’t answer at first, only stared at the letter. “When did you tell Asha you weren’t going to behead me?”
“When we left Riverrun.”
“You’ve been in contact with her?”
“Just the one letter.” Robb didn’t know why he felt so defensive. “If my brother were alive when I thought him to be dead, I’d like to be told.”
Theon clamped his jaw shut at that and went back to studying the letter.
“What’s a King’s moot?” Robb repeated.
“They’re going to hold a conference to determine who has best claim to the Driftwood Crown.” His fingers dug into the furs. “It’s me. I’m the last surviving son. Asha can’t rip that out from under me. Not this time.”
“Who else has claim?”
“My uncles, I suppose. Aeron won’t be considered. He’s the youngest and a religious fanatic at that. But he’ll try to sway the vote. Euron is the oldest, but I’d heard he’d gone insane. Victarion probably has the best chance, in my absence.” He shook his head, as if he’d become distracted. “Anyway, I’m the rightful heir. When I show up, they’ll have to choose me.”
“When you show up?”
“To the King’s moot. I’ve got to be there, Robb. Imagine if your bannermen chose to give Winterfell to Sansa over you. You wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Theon…” Robb rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to think of a delicate way to put this. “Are you sure they’d choose you?”
“What are you talking about? Of course they would. I’m the heir. That’s why your father took me as a hostage in the first place, isn’t it?”
“But didn’t they…already choose Asha…over you? Isn’t that why you’re here now, with me? Because your own men turned on you?”
He knew realization had set in when Theon became like a kicked dog, like he hadn’t seen the blow coming. But at least he didn’t try to argue it. He sat there, breathing through his nose, fists clenching and unclenching in the furs, for several seconds until at last his shoulders slumped. “Ingrates.”
“Would you like to have a raven sent to Pyke?”
Theon fell back onto the cot and pulled the furs up over his head. “Do whatever you want, Stark.”
“Aren’t you a bit curious to see what her proposition is?”
“I really don’t care what the bitch has to say.”
“I think you’re being a bit harsh on her.” Robb sat down on the pallet and ran his hand over Theon’s form beneath the covers. “She must care for you to have come all the way to Winterfell to bring you back. And if it weren’t for her, I never would have seen you again.”
“Perhaps you’d be better off.”
“We both know that’s not true. I’d be dead. And so would you, like as not. Won’t you at least give her the benefit of the doubt?”
“You seem awfully eager to trust her.”
“Well, I am rather short on allies at the moment. I’ll send a raven telling her I’m willing to hear her conditions, but I’ll need you to advise me. You Ironborn can be an unpredictable lot.”
Theon groaned.