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Theon hadn’t been to the sea in so long, it was reasonable that he wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t just any body of water that called to sirens like him, it was the open sea, it was salt and storms. There wasn’t much of that in Winterfell, it was understandable that he wouldn’t notice that something had changed.
It…It doesn’t call him anymore. At all.
He’s watching the sea, the way it crashes and rises. It’s the first time he’s seen the sea in nine years now. And he feels no draw.
He feels incomplete.
He’s an Iron Islander. He’s a Greyjoy. He should be drawn into the waves, he should feel scales pushing at his flesh, he should know that his neck will open into gills. None of that happens. None of the things that make a Greyjoy a Greyjoy are a part of him now and he doesn’t know how to get them back.
Maybe if he was to stay here, instead of carrying on with Robb and the North. Maybe if he was to go back to Pyke and surround himself with what remains of his family, instead of keeping himself away from the people he should be like. Maybe maybe maybe, so many maybes, but would any of them do anything?
Will he ever be who he should be ever again?
Was he ever?