When Greenlanders thought the word "island", inevitably, images of warm sands, cool breezes, and endless sunlight crossed their minds. Such an image was merely a fantasy to the Ironborn. Their island breezes were sharp and biting, smelling of salt, and carrying the furor of the North in their claws; their sands coarse, strewn with pebbles and sharp shards of shells. The sky above was slate gray, moody clouds hung low upon a horizon that darkened to navy in the east, and still burned copper in the west. The young Greyjoy ran long fingers through his unkempt mane of black hair, spilling dark curls from his crown to his collar, mussing them before the wind got her clawed fingers into them, and tangled the silky locks into a coarse mess. Blue-gray eyes mirrored the sea that stretched on endlessly before him; alternately calm and yet stormy, gentle and yet fierce, kind and yet cruel. It had been a habit of many years for the youngest Kraken to find himself upon this rocky point, jettisoned out to sea. Upon low tide, one could walk across slate-gray stones what felt like halfway out to sea, and peer into pools of water collected within divots in the cold, slick stone. At high tide, the stones were of the Drowned God's domain, hidden beneath the cold water.
The tide this evening was low, enabling the young Greyjoy to leave his boots upon the shore and traverse the stones barefoot, arms outstretched for balance's sake, carefully placing one foot before the other, taking special care to not slice himself upon the sharp rocks, nor to slip into the cold, dark waters that rushed to either side. It was a metaphor of sorts, Theon mused to himself, as he stared at the white-lined waters that lapped at the slick stones beneath his bare feet. Balancing between equally dark forces, forces that rushed to either side of him. The Iron Islands were upon a precipice, the whole of the Ironborn people held their arms out for balance as the Krakens wrestled for dominance. His stranger of a father had sailed upon dark tides to return to his roost in the dark towers of Pyke, to sit upon the unsettlingly black Seastone Chair. And his brother, also a stranger, but not quite so strange, eyed that chair with an intensity that made Theon's skin crawl. Sure, as a boy, he'd dreamed of sitting upon it himself (and even had slipped into the throne room when none were looking to sit his boyish frame upon it, short legs dangling over the side), but he'd grown out of such fantasies.
However, those were far from the darkest tidings to have reached his ears. More disturbing, it seems as if his brother and father were either unaware of them, or did not care. Theon wasn't quite sure which would be worse. Because, thanks to Theon's less than savory habits of lurking within sailor's sinks and simply listening to sailors' gossip, he'd heard rumors of the Crow's Eye. Balon was too proud to find himself where his youngest lurked, Rodrik too busy with his own business. But Theon...well, he was just as swiftly forgotten in Lordsport as he was within the battlements of Pyke. All, save one. He awaited her even now, ears sensitive to the sounds of feet upon soft sand, the crunch of boots upon pebbles. There was a strange warmth within his chest as he contemplated her lopsided grin, the slit-lidded glares she leveled upon him when he cracked a particularly distasteful joke, the way her hips swayed to and fro as she walked. Girls came and went for Theon, much like the tides, but she was constant. Much like the rocks he stood upon even now. Sometimes she wasn't there, sometimes he wasn't there, but neither was ever truly far away. The sound of feet drew him from his reverie, and the young Kraken spun around, lopsided smile upon his lips.
"My lady," he greeted, somewhat mockingly.