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Here's what Daenerys learned of the Iron Islands:
A place bleak and brutal, home to a seafaring people of reavers, rovers and rapists - men so proud of their parasitic life that they'd brag about their inability to harvest their own grain. The Ironborn, so she read, are prideful and violent, and when the Greyjoy heirs request an audience, Daenerys braces herself for an encounter with that particular type of man she unfortunately grew to know so well.
But it's Yara, the woman, who is the leader and the speaker of the two, muscular and leather-clad and unafraid to look the Dragon Queen in the eyes as equals. Here's a woman certain of her right to power. Here's a woman accustomed to respect. Daenerys likes her instantly.
Then, there's the brother, Theon. Tyrion's distaste of the man is palpable, but the younger Greyjoy looks respectful enough, and Daenerys has learned to pass her own judgements. There's a man willing to follow a Queen, at the very least. Something in the haze of his gaze, in the tension of his neck might bother her, just a bit, but what with Yara commanding her full attention, she files it away for later.
Yara's eyes twinkle and her hand is warm and calloused against her skin and Daenerys allows herself the luxury of being easily enthralled, just the once.
Theon seems grateful enough to recede into the background.
--
They eat supper together and Theon barely eats anything, nor does he talk.
Daenerys wouldn't have paid much mind - her back and forth with Yara is captivating enough and they have much to discuss - if not for Tyrion's increasingly furious glares. Dany swallows a smile as she sees her advisor stew and could have guessed the exact moment where he can't quite hold it in any longer.
"Meereen cuisine not up to the Lord's standards?" Tyrion starts, setting down his wine goblet a bit more forcefully than necessary.
Theon's eyes twitch down and to the side.
"The food is fine, but I can't eat much right now," he answers quietly, tone perfectly polite.
Tyrion narrows his eyes. He angrily downs his cup of wine and fills himself another.
"It is guilt that is sapping your appetite?"
Yara raises her chin, just a bit, while keeping her posture carefully relaxed.
Theon slowly looks up, as if in a deliberate effort not to avoid Tyrion's eyes, but remains silent.
"That would be entirely appropriate, mind you," continues Tyrion, pouring himself yet more wine. "Or is it shame? The Prince of Winterfell. What must it be like to not only turn your cloak but to also fail so catastrophically. Why anyone would have trusted you in the first place, I can't quite imagine--"
Theon doesn't raise a word to defend himself and if there's something in the Greyjoy's gaze that unsettles Tyrion, it only redoubles his anger.
"--sitting there with your furs and baubles, fucking your way through town, so insecure, so full of yourself. You really thought you were entitled to power, didn't you, your name trumping your incompetence? And when proven unworthy, you reckoned you'd just murder your way into it--"
Daenerys watches the scene unfold with guarded interest. She exchanges a glance with Missandei. There are lessons to learn, here.
The Greyjoy still makes no move to protest Tyrion's words.
It's Yara's loud slap against the table and roaring laughter that finally interrupts the diatribe.
"You sure it's my brother's shame you're talking about, dwarf, or is it yourself?" she mocks. "You did quite a bit of fucking up and around yourself, as I recall, and some murdering as well?"
Tyrion scoffs. He grasps for the wine but Daenerys removed the carafe out of his reach.
"Look," says Yara, voice low but uncompromising. "My brother was a stupid cunt, I'm fully aware of that. I told him as much. But he's not that man any more. I chose him to be at my side. You work with me, you work with him. That's the deal."
The challenge hangs in the air.
"As it is your right to chose your own associates," Daenerys agrees. "You both are welcome at my table."
She glances over to Tyrion who nods minutely, taking the hint.
Theon remains silent still, head lowered in acceptance of whatever judgement might have been passed onto him.
They resume their talk about resource management and sea routes.
--
The next morning, during breakfast, Daenerys notices Theon's still wearing his gloves and remains clad in leather from neck to toe, in spite of the early heat.
Yara, on the other hand, has shed half of her clothing, revealing the lean muscle on her naked arms, the golden hue of her seafarer's skin. Drops of sweat gather near her hairline. She eats with gleeful abandon, undeterred, and is equally unabashed in her flirtations.
Tyrion looks sullen and quiet, but Dany takes note that he entirely avoids the wine. Good. She needs him sharp.
There is something off about the posture of Theon's hands, something wrong about at the entire way he holds himself, and as much as Dany would love to wrestle wits with Yara, would love to just enjoy this moment, if she is to trust the Greyjoy siblings, she needs to know.
"Theon Greyjoy," she says.
He looks up from his plate and she is stricken by the look of barely suppressed panic in his eyes.
"You told me you are not fit to rule."
"Yes," he agrees.
"Why?"
She asks in earnest, with true curiosity.
She thinks he might not reply, or that he might faint or vomit right here at her table, such is the look on his face.
But he swallows and complies with an answer. "I lack the strength and the judgement to be a leader," he explains.
Tyrion is looking at the young man, expression indecipherable.
"Elaborate," prompts Daenerys.
Yara opens her mouth as if to protest, but Daenerys shoots her a glance.
Under daylight, it's hard to miss the the tremor in Theon's limbs. His breathing is uneven.
"I did terrible things. I've been damaged," is all he says, finally, with visible effort.
Tyrion raises an eyebrow.
"The Starks haven't been cruel to you..." he says.
"Oh, no, the Starks were very kind to me," Theon hastens to agree.
"He was their hostage, though," adds Yara, jaw tense.
"What things? Damaged how?" asks Daenerys, relentless.
But Theon has sunk into himself and it is clear he won't give another answer. His eyes have lost their focus and he's muttering something under his trembling breath.
"Gods! He's been fucking tortured, all right?" snaps Yara. "Not by the Starks," she adds, in Tyrion's direction. "Now leave it be."
She clasps a hand at the back of Theon's neck and whispers softly into his ear. "Focus, Theon. Theon. I got you. I need you here, Theon." Theon seems to quiet under her attention. They've done this before, Dany realises. He's done this before. With a few shuddering breaths, Theon raises his head to meet Yara's eyes. The siblings exchange a silent communication and finally share an imperceptible nod.
Tyrion reaches for the wine. "No," says Daenerys, and removes the bottle from his reach. She will have to talk to him about this.
"I understand," she says in the direction of Yara and Theon. "And I apologise, Lord Greyjoy, for the suffering my questioning might have caused you."
Theon's look is one of pure surprise.
"Thank you," he finally says.
Daenerys sighs. So much horror, everywhere you look. Such broken a world, so much work to be done.
They finish their breakfast and then they get right to it.
--
"Did you know of this?" she later asks Tyrion.
"No," he admits, subdued and pensive. "Well, maybe I might have, if I had put one and one together, but I didn't care to."
This answer right here is the reason she trusts him.
--
Daenerys spends some of her nights with Yara.
She learns a few things, about Balon Greyjoy, and the Iron Islands, and a certain way to move her tongue just so.
Some nights she spends with her children, riding through the warmth of the night, laughing into the wind.
Her wishes will come true, she knows.
--
"The world we want to create shall be just. We will see an end to senseless cruelty. No man shall possess the power to enslave another."
Daenerys was talking about a particularly nasty bit of Meereen politics, but she makes sure to look at Theon when she says it, so that he might understand she includes him in her words, as well.
The younger Greyjoy has finally yielded to the heat and sits gloveless in a light tunic. He still doesn't speak in meetings, often he won't even sit. She can see his missing fingers and maimed skin, can see the edges of twisted scar tissue that just so shows at the hem of the neck and sleeves.
Fury has been dancing in her belly.
Sometimes she wants to incinerate the whole world and build it anew, wash it clean of all horror.
Sometimes she wants to ride away on Drogon's back and never stop howling at all the atrocities she's witnessed.
But she is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains. She proudly commands an implacable army of broken women and men, all of whom once were defiled and enslaved, rejected and discarded, vilified and meant to die.
They will save the world, all of them together.
--
Yara laughs at her seriousness, but she knows it's with respect.
She knows, in a way, she agrees.
--
It is Varys who finally tells her, and she has known Theon for a whole while, then, has accepted him at her table, has allowed her fondness of him to grow, has smiled when she saw him eat.
He inquires, softly, if she is well aware of what it is that the Greyjoy boy did, precisely.
--
"Is it true?" she asks. "Did you murder children?"
Theon looks up and makes no move to escape the fury of her judgement, not ever.
"I did," he says.
"Why?" Her voice is strangled.
Theon stares down at his ruined hands and answers in a monotone: "Because I wanted to make my father proud. Because I wanted to not look weak. Because they were readily available."
"How could murdering children possibly make one not look weak?" Dany inquires, incredulous.
His gaze is so forlorn and she'd want to burn him to the ground right here and now, because how dare he look so broken when he is the one who was monstrous.
"I captured Winterfell and the two youngest Stark boys escaped. I murdered and burned two farmer's boys to make it look like I found and punished the Stark boys."
Burned.
A vision of a dead child deposited in front of her throne spreads behind her eyes, unbidden.
Daenerys can't bear to look at Theon Greyjoy, not now, not any more.
But she must know.
"How did you chose your victims?" she asks.
"They were readily available," Theon repeats. "And defenceless."
He looks up again, and it is the first time, maybe, that she saw such open supplication on his face.
"Please, your Grace, I know I cannot be forgiven. I know I must be punished... But I promised Yara I'd help her."
Fire roars through her veins, but she lets him speak.
"I promised I'd stay alive, for her... for now."
He sinks his head. Tears stream down his face.
"But if you must kill me now, I'd accept it."
Daenerys scoffs.
"Get out of my sight," she commands.
He hastens out of the room.
--
"He wants to die," she tells Missandei.
"He committed these atrocities and he wants to die, as if death could ever be a redemption."
She paces her room, furious.
"How dare he."
She stops in front of Missandei, her companion, her friend. "Missandei," she says. "You know horror, you've known horror done to children. What would you have me do?"
Missandei's smile is small but fond.
"I believe, my Grace, that you already know what you want to do."
Dany smiles back at her and just like that, her tension lifts. It's true, she does.
--
There are more important things to care about than the child murderer called Theon Greyjoy and more important tasks to oversee and he has been following her command well: She hasn't set sight on him again. She refuses to make this a priority.
But she will have to settle the matter eventually. It doesn't do good to let these issues fester for too long.
--
They find him wandering the ramparts, Drogon and her.
He wanders, she knows, with that unsteady, injured gait of his. Night terrors keep him awake and he avoids sleep. She knows because so does she, often enough.
Drogon hovers over at her behest, lets his enormous shadow fall over the Greyjoy, heat radiating, breath thunderous, then folds himself against the floor with a heavy rumble.
Few are the men that are not intimidated by Drogon's sight, dark and sharp and huge, claws and teeth and all, with wings wide enough to blacken the sky. But for a man who so often looks scared of his own shadow, Greyjoy is eerily calm, as he stares up at both of them.
Daenerys thinks she knows why.
"Theon Greyjoy, do you want to die?" she asks.
He looks up at Drogon's maw with something like longing and she thought she knew his answer, but he surprises her by saying: "I don't know."
Drogon lowers himself to sniff at him and Theon makes no move to run.
"I want--" he pauses to think and time just so stretches while he struggles his way through his thoughts, eyes twitching, lungs trembling. "I mustn't," he decides, finally, and there's a clarity in his eyes she hasn't seen in him, before. "Not yet."
"I agree," says Daenerys.
It's his turn to look surprised.
"But--" he starts.
"Not what you expected?" she asks.
"But, I also don't deserve to live--"
"I will not murder you, " she says, interrupting him.
The wind tugs at her hair and Drogon's breath rumbles through her bones and Theon looks utterly exhausted and aren't they all.
"After what I've done?" he asks softly.
What a fool. As if Danaerys Targaryen could simply pass death sentence on Yara Greyjoy's brother, her ally. A broken fool, but not quite entirely too broken to understand what's at stakes here.
"You know it is not my sentence to pass," she says.
He nods in agreement and understanding.
"But, Theon Greyjoy, if it was mine to decide, for your crimes, I'd sentence you to live."