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A
memory
prodded
at
Theon
.
In
one
of
his
rare
curt
letters
,
Lord
Balon
had
written
of
his
youngest
brother
going
down
in
a
storm
,
and
turning
holy
when
he
washed
up
safe
on
shore
.
"
Uncle
Aeron
?
"
he
said
doubtfully
.
"
Nephew
Theon
,
"
the
priest
replied
.
"
Your
lord
father
bid
me
fetch
you
.
Come
.
"
"
In
a
moment
,
Uncle
.
"
He
turned
back
to
the
Myraham
.
"
My
things
,
"
he
commanded
the
captain
.
A
sailor
fetched
him
down
his
tall
yew
bow
and
quiver
of
arrows
,
but
it
was
the
captain
’
s
daughter
who
brought
the
pack
with
his
good
clothing
.
"
Milord
.
"
Her
eyes
were
red
.
When
he
took
the
pack
,
she
made
as
if
to
embrace
him
,
there
in
front
of
her
own
father
and
his
priestly
uncle
and
half
the
island
.
Theon
turned
deftly
aside
.
"
You
have
my
thanks
.
"
"
Please
,
"
she
said
,
"
I
do
love
you
well
,
milord
.
"
"
I
must
go
.
"
He
hurried
after
his
uncle
,
who
was
already
well
down
the
pier
.
Theon
caught
him
with
a
dozen
long
strides
.
"
I
had
not
looked
for
you
,
Uncle
.
After
ten
years
,
I
thought
perhaps
my
lord
father
and
lady
mother
might
come
themselves
,
or
send
Dagmer
with
an
honor
guard
.
"
"
It
is
not
for
you
to
question
the
commands
of
the
Lord
Reaper
of
Pyke
.
"
The
priest
’
s
manner
was
chilly
,
most
unlike
the
man
Theon
remembered
.
Aeron
Greyjoy
had
been
the
most
amiable
of
his
uncles
,
feckless
and
quick
to
laugh
,
fond
of
songs
,
ale
,
and
women
.
"
As
to
Dagmer
,
the
Cleftjaw
is
gone
to
Old
Wyk
at
your
father
’
s
behest
,
to
roust
the
Stonehouses
and
the
Drumms
.
"
"
To
what
purpose
?
Why
are
the
longships
hosting
?
"
