The Lordsport men gazed on Theon with blank, bovine eyes, and he realized that they did not know who he was. It made him angry. He pressed a golden dragon into the captain’s palm. “Have your men bring my things.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode down the gangplank. “Innkeeper,” he barked, “I require a horse.”  “As you say, m’lord,” the man responded, without so much as a bow. He had forgotten how bold the ironborn could be. “Happens as I have one might do. Where would you be riding, m’lord?”  “Pyke.” The fool still did not know him. He should have worn his good doublet, with the kraken embroidered on the breast.  “You’ll want to be off soon, to reach Pyke afore dark,” the innkeeper said. “My boy will go with you and show you the way.”  “Your boy will not be needed,” a deep voice called, “nor your horse. I shall see my nephew back to his father’s house.”  The speaker was the priest he had seen leading the horses along the shoreline. As the man approached, the smallfolk bent the knee, and Theon heard the innkeeper murmur, “Damphair.”  Tall and thin, with fierce black eyes and a beak of a nose, the priest was garbed in mottled robes of green and grey and blue, the swirling colors of the Drowned God. A waterskin hung under his  arm on a leather strap, and ropes of dried seaweed were braided through his waist-long black hair and untrimmed beard.  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 Cleftiaw 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?”  “Why have longships ever hosted?” His uncle had left the horses tied up in front of the waterside inn. When they reached them, he turned to Theon. “Tell me true, nephew. Do you pray to the wolf gods now?”  Theon seldom prayed at all, but that was not something you confessed to a priest, even your father’s own brother. “Ned Stark prayed to a tree. No, I care nothing for Stark’s gods.”  “Good. Kneel.”  The ground was all stones and mud. “Uncle, I-”  “Kneel. Or are you too proud now, a lordling of the green lands come among us?”  Theon knelt. He had a purpose here, and might need............