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The priest had nothing to say to that.
　　“And what of you, Uncle?” Theon asked. “You were no priest when I was taken from Pyke. I remember how you would sing the old reaving songs standing on the table with a horn of ale in hand.”
　　“Young I was, and vain,” Aeron Greyjoy said, “but the sea washed my follies and my vanities away. That man drowned, nephew. His lungs filled with seawater, and the fish ate the scales off his eyes. When I rose again, I saw clearly.”
　　He is as mad as he is sour. Theon had liked what he remembered of the old Aeron Greyjoy. “Uncle, why has my father called his swords and sails?”
　　“Doubtless he will tell you at Pyke.”
　　“I would know his plans now.”
　　“From me, you shall not. We are commanded not to speak of this to any man.”
　　“Even to me?” Theon’s anger flared. He’d led men in war, hunted with a king, won honor in tourney melees, ridden with Brynden Blackfish and Greatjon Umber, fought in the Whispering Wood, bedded more girls than he could name, and yet this uncle was treating him as though he were still a child of ten. “If my father makes plans for war, I must know of them. I am not ‘any man,’ I am heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands.”
　　“As to that,” his uncle said, “we shall see.”
　　The words were a slap in the face. “We shall see? My brothers are both dead. I am my lord father’s only living son.”
　　“Your sister lives.”
　　Asha, he thought, confounded. She was three years older than Theon, yet still . . . “A woman may inherit only if there is no male heir in the direct line,” he insisted loudly. “I will not be cheated of my rights, I warn you.”

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