“He will give me a crown,” he repeated, his voice growing sharp.  “A poor choice of words, what is meant is-”  “What is meant is what is said. The boy will give me a crown. And what is given can be taken away.” Lord Balon tossed the letter onto the brazier, atop the necklace. The parchment curled, blackened, and took flame.  Theon was aghast. “Have you gone mad?”  His father laid a stinging backhand across his cheek. “Mind your tongue. You are not in Winterfell now, and I am not Robb the Boy, that you should speak to me so. I am the Greyjoy, Lord Reaper¹ of Pyke, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, and no man gives me a crown. I pay the iron price. I will take my crown, as Urron Redhand did five thousand years ago.”  Theon edged backward, away from the sudden fury in his father’s tone. “Take it, then,” he spat², his cheek still tingling³. “Call yourself King of the Iron islands, no one will care... until the wars are over, and the victor looks about and spies the old fool perched off his shore with an iron crown on his head.”  Lord Balon laughed. “Well, at the least you are no craven. No more than I’m a fool. Do you think I gather my ships to watch them rock at anchor? I mean to carve out a kingdom with fire and sword... but not from the west, and not at the bidding of King Robb the Boy. Casterly Rock  is too strong, and Lord Tywin too cunning by half. Aye, we might take Lannisport, but we should never keep it. No. I hunger for a different plum... not so juicy sweet, to be sure, yet it hangs there ripe and undefended.”  Where? Theon might have asked, but by then he knew.

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