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Theon entered, but Lord Balon
waved him silent. “I have made my plans. It is time you heard
them.”
    â€œI have some suggestions—”
    â€œWhen I require your counsel I shall ask for it,” his father said. “We have
had a bird from Old Wyk. Dagmer is bringing the Drumms and Stonehouses. If the
god grants us good winds, we will sail when they
arrive . . . or
you
will. I mean for you to strike
the first blow, Theon. You shall take eight longships
north—”
    â€œEight?”
His face reddened. “What can I hope to accomplish with
only eight longships?”
    â€œYou are to harry the Stony Shore, raiding the fishing villages and sinking
any ships you chance to meet. It may be that you will draw some of the northern
lords out from behind their stone walls. Aeron will accompany you, and Dagmer
Cleftjaw.”
    â€œMay the Drowned God bless our swords,” the priest said.
    Theon felt as if he’d been slapped. He was being sent to do reaver’s work,
burning fishermen out of their hovels and raping their ugly daughters, and yet
it seemed Lord Balon did not trust him sufficiently to do even that much. Bad
enough to have to suffer the Damphair’s scowls and chidings. With Dagmer
Cleftjaw along as well, his command would be purely nominal.
    â€œAsha my daughter,” Lord Balon went on, and Theon turned to see that
his sister had slipped in silently, “you shall take thirty longships of picked
men round Sea Dragon Point. Land upon the tidal flats north of Deepwood Motte.
March quickly, and the castle may fall before they even know you are upon
them.”
    Asha smiled like a cat in cream. “I’ve always wanted a castle,” she said
sweetly.
    â€œThen take one.”
    Theon had to bite his tongue. Deepwood Motte was the stronghold of the Glovers.
With both Robett and Galbart warring in the south, it would be lightly held,
and once the castle fell the ironmen would have a secure base in the heart of
the north.
I should be the one sent to take Deepwood.
He
knew
Deepwood Motte, he had visited the Glovers several times with
Eddard Stark.
    â€œVictarion,” Lord Balon said to his brother, “the main thrust shall fall to
you. When my sons have struck their blows, Winterfell must respond. You should
meet small opposition as you sail up Saltspear and the Fever River. At the
headwaters, you will be less than twenty miles from Moat Cailin. The Neck is
the key to the kingdom. Already we command the western seas. Once we hold Moat
Cailin, the pup will not be able to win back to the
north . . . and if he is fool enough to try, his enemies will
seal the south end of the causeway behind him, and Robb the boy will find
himself caught like a rat in a bottle.”
    Theon could keep silent no longer. “A bold plan, Father, but the lords in
their castles—”
    Lord Balon rode over him. “The lords are gone south with the pup. Those
who remained behind are the cravens, old men, and green boys. They will yield
or fall, one by one. Winterfell may defy us for a year, but what of it? The
rest shall be ours, forest and field and hall, and we shall make the folk our
thralls and salt wives.”
    Aeron Damphair raised his arms. “And the waters of wrath will rise high, and
the Drowned God will spread his dominion across the green lands!”
    â€œWhat is dead can never die,” Victarion intoned. Lord Balon and Asha echoed
his words, and Theon had no choice but to mumble along with them. And then it
was done.
    Outside the rain was falling harder than ever. The rope bridge twisted and
writhed under his feet. Theon Greyjoy stopped in the center of the span and
contemplated the rocks below. The sound of the waves was a crashing roar, and
he could taste the salt spray on his lips. A sudden gust of wind made him lose
his footing, and he stumbled to his knees.
    Asha helped him rise. “You can’t hold your wine either, brother.”
    Theon leaned on her shoulder and let her guide him across the rain-slick
boards. “I liked you better when you were Esgred,” he told her
accusingly.
    She laughed. “That’s fair. I liked
you
better when you were
nine.”

TYRION
    T hrough the door came the soft sound of the high harp, mingled with a
trilling of pipes. The singer’s voice was muffled by the thick walls, yet
Tyrion knew the verse.
I loved a maid as fair as