Part 1; Broken Innocence of Youth
Chaos, leave me never.
keep me wild
And keep me free
so that my brokenness will be,
the only beauty
the world will see.
Yara
Screams tore through wind-whipped air. Loudness. Disruption of sleep.
Pudgy brunette, rolled onto her stomach. Attempted to withstand the cries. Still—they came.
Loud—obnoxious.
Eardrum-shattering.
Finally, awakened—completely. Icy feet, met frigid stone. Padding across in quiet discontent. Small, stubby arms reached into the bassinet.
Drew the warm bundle of pink-flesh, and hard-bone into the stability of patient-arms.
Patience, was all their mother would speak. Patience; for the little, squealing bundle.
Patience. Restraint.
It took fair amounts of both not to smother the screaming little babe. Theon; it was named.
Her, baby brother.
They were youngest. Their brothers—much older.
Three years separated her, from him. He was teething. Swollen pink gums, were inflamed when she tilted his upper-lip, over. It was no wonder—this pink-fleshed babe, wailed.
Cooing down to the bundle. One stubby finger dipped in the dram of whiskey, propped nearby. Careful, gentle brushes of that stubby finger, grazed swollen gums.
Strained lungs, ceased screaming.
Wide green eyes, that matched green-speckled surface, of the sea-waves—met hers.
"That better, baby brother?" Piping, high-pitched words parted her lips.
Nearly four years of age—Yara felt drawn to little Theon.
His bassinet resided in her chambers. Their brothers wanted no part in the newest born. Yara carried him to her bed. Settled just on the edge.
Cuddled him; rubbed her fingers over the wool-lined blanket. Wind-blew at the stone-ledged window. Rain splattered the night in heavy droplets.
In low, breathy tones, Yara began to sing. Lullabies; in hopes that he might re-drift to sleep. So that she might sleep. Theon gave a wide smile.
Cooed in babyish tones.
She returned his smile. All whilst singing. Listening. Dreaming.
Stubby little legs, hurried after her.
Hers had grown—and Theon was still, her responsibility.
Youngest siblings—They were each other's problem. Yara hardened with age. Though six years was not very old—She toughened.
Her eldest brothers would roughhouse. Tackle each other. Her. And would pin her underneath, their forms. Take pride in hurting her.
Theon was different. Youthful. Looked up to her.
Chased her—but not to wound her. Rather, to play with her.
"You have to do better, if you want to keep up, baby brother!" High-pitched shouts came from her. Mischievous smile thrown over her shoulder.
Determination lit behind, sea-green eyes.
"I…catch…you!" Babbling, Theon pushed harder. Pumping his little arms. She finally, took pity on him.
Slowed her pace, and spun around.
Swept him up, and into her embrace.
"I caught you!" Yara teased. And Theon's eyes widened. Then he clapped.
He was slowest. Slower than most Iron-Born toddlers.
Refused to speak, before his third name day. Instead—Theon had been quiet. Giggled often, cried a lot. But refused speech.
Most thought he was a mute—or dumb. Yara knew better. When he desired to speak—He would. And he had.
Now, his speech was clumsy, however. Slow.
"I love…you...Ya—aa!" Despite his attempts, Theon could not quite pronounce her name. His 'R' sound refused to define itself.
She bit back laughter.
"I love you, too. Baby brother."
He huffed. "No…a baby…"
"Mmm, I believe you are. Those little legs-" Playful fingers tugged on his left ankle, "—just refuse to catch up to me. That makes you my baby, brother."
He made a face. Folded his arms, just so. Drew his eyebrows together in a pout.
"Enough of that, now." She coaxed.
Her hand dragged over his back, through his thick, sandy curls. Brushed his cheek. He made heavy little breath sounds through his mouth, in contentment. Settling for her.
Heavy boot-steps sounded off the stone-walls. Yara turned, Theon still balanced precariously on her hip. Towering over her; Maron stood. Thirteen years—and already adept at lording himself over her as though he were full-grown.
"You coddle him, too much. How will he ever learn to be a man, with you, rubbing him like that?" Bolstering tones resounded.
Yara stilled her hand, eyes slitting into a glare.
"I do not, coddle him!" Yara defended. "What would you have me do? He is still a toddler."
Maron scoffed, "I already had a dagger in hand, at his age!"
Maron was cruel, like Rodrik. Found unique pleasure in torturing those, misfortunate enough, to be underneath him. Maron, already reeved and raped with the best of them. Unapologetically.
"Yeah? Well unless you want one in your belly, I suggest you leave us in peace!" Yara planted Theon on his feet. With quick precision, she drew her own concealed dagger. Expertly primed it at his abdomen. Though she barely reached his middle in height—she made up for her physical disadvantages—in agility.
Seemingly, impressed Maron let out a roaring laugh. "You going to stab me, Little Sister?" She miscalculated as Maron reached out, gripped her wrist—and twisted. She screeched in crippling pain. Her bone cracked.
"Leave Ya-aa be!" Theon stamped forward, kicking at Maron's shin with his little booted foot. Swinging as hard as his muscles would allow.
Finally, Maron released her wrist. The pressure reduced, and he let out gut-busting laughs. And kicked Theon over. He tumbled. But refused to stay down. Came right back up—returning to kick at Maron's shin. "Stay down, runt!" Maron spat in annoyance. Yara fought back tears, with determined eyes.
"That brave enough for you, Brother?" Yara pointed down at little Theon. That same look of determination in his eyes. As he got up, each time he was kicked down. "Now, let him alone!" Yara hoisted Theon up with her unhurt arm. And backed away.
"Threaten me again, and I will do more than break your wrist." With that, Maron continued on his way. Making no comment on Theon's actions.
Yara watched him go; disdain in her eyes.
Settling onto the hard stone, Yara planted Theon on her lap. "That was very brave, Theon. But you should never provoke our brothers. Understand?"
"I unda-stand, Ya-aa. But he…hu-ut you." Stubby fingers vaguely brushed her swollen limb. She sucked in air. Still, refused to cry. Even though it hurt like the seven-hells. "I wanna…pra-tect…you."
Her lips brushed his forehead, "I know you do. You are my, baby brother. But I have to protect you. And I will not see you hurt for me, understand?"
Theon seemed displeased. But nodded all the same.
With that, Yara retrieved her dagger. Rejoined it, to its holster—shuffled Theon off her lap; and stood. Guiding them both toward the Maester.
Rodrik was adamant that Theon learn a skill. Any skill would suffice. So long as a skill was taken up. It was his seventh name day, after all. A skill should already have been formed.
Yara took it upon herself to engage the weapons forger. Theon had a steady arm; precision of upper body. Perhaps his lower-half would catch up.
Someday.
A week hence, she had given the instructions for the new weapon to be built. Wrapped in cloth, Yara went in search of little Theon.
It was rare for him to be out of her reach. So, used to the patter of his footfalls behind her. Yara found herself misguided, without them.
With a hint of where he might be; Yara slinked past a few servants. Directly into their mother's chambers.
Sure enough, Theon was draped on their mother's lap. Her shining-brown hair, let-down about her shoulders. Beautiful trills of song, echoed throughout the stone-walled, chambers. Theon, nestled in her arms. Listening to her in soundless, joy.
"Yara!" Theon's pronunciation of her name had evened itself out, by his fifth name day. His speech only remained inhibited by his crooked teeth. Rodrik, and Maron often made unkind-jests at Theon's expense due to his mildly-muffled speech impediment. Due to his teeth. It was a rarity, when Theon gave a toothy smile.
Their brothers decimated his self-confidence.
Now; Theon smiled. Crooked teeth—and all. For her.
Only for her.
"I wondered where you had run off to!" Eyes maneuvered, toward their Mother. Whom had Theon balanced now on her knee.
"I called for my baby boy." Their mother mused in contentment. Gentle-fingers swept through tight curls. Theon blushed.
"I am not a baby!" Folding his arms, he scrunched up his face.
Both Yara, and their mother descended into laughter.
"Of course, you are." Their mother spoke in gentle tones.
"I have a gift for you." Yara drew forward, held out the wrapped present.
Theon leaped down from his position on their mother's lap. With wide, bulging-eyes, unwrapped the cloth.
Hand-crafted, from sturdy wood of a weirwood tree; laid a bow. Smoothed out, for a gentle grip. The bowstring taut, firm.
Theon gaped at the presented gift. Tears came to his eyes.
"I am going to teach you how to use it, Theon. You have very strong arms. You will be an excellent archer." She promised.
Unexpectedly, his arms wound round her middle, head draped into her chest. "I love it, Yara. Thank you. I will cherish it, always!"
Her heart fluttered; arms encompassed his small frame.
"Can we go now?! I want to start, now!" Anxious-eyes turned to their mother.
"It is your name-day little one, of course you may!" Giving immediate permission, Theon scurried off. Hand in hers—dragging her along after him.
Minutes later, Theon stood. Arm balanced. Bow drawn. Yara behind him.
She guided him. Drew back his arm. And steadied it.
"You can do this. Now, Release." Whispers of encouragement were given.
He missed the target.
Howls of laughter came from the sidelines as Rodrik, and Maron beat the weathered table with their fists. Word had gotten around to them, that Theon got a bow for his name day. They would not miss a chance to further humiliate the youngest. Drunk. With overflowing cups of ale in their hands, they chugged.
Chortling.
Yara gave them each a death glare.
"How about you two, fuck off?!" Sharp-tongued, Yara saw the heated-flush coat Theon's cheeks.
"Nah, we are good right here, right Maron?" Maron nodded—they both drank.
"It is okay, Yara…I am rubbish."
Their brothers descended into cackling laughter, nearly choking on their ale in the process.
"No, Theon…You just have to practice. It is your first day, of course you will not hit the mark, every time."
"Hit the mark?! He cannot even hit the target!" Rodrik jeered. Descending into gut-busting laughter.
Frustration, finally took root. Yara grabbed the bow, loaded an arrow; aimed—and shot.
The arrow struck—right through Rodrick's ale. Shattering his goblet.
It was Theon's turn to laugh.
Yara reached for a second arrow, loaded it—and let loose.
This time, right through Maron's goblet.
She loaded again—and held.
"Make one more fucking joke, and I swear to the Drowned God the next one goes through your eye!" Bristling. Hazel-eyes dead-serious. The smiles were wiped right off their faces. Only Theon was snickering behind her.
"Do I have to break your fucking arm again, sister? Do not think I will not do it!" Maron threatened.
"Try it. I will have an arrow through your skull before you can cross the distance. Do not, tempt me. Now leave!"
Muttering—neither used to being told off, (and by their little sister no less), they departed. Leaving them in peace.
"Do you think I will be that good, one day?!" Light, green-eyes bored into hers.
Extending the bow back, toward him, Yara beamed, "No. I think you will be better."
Theon
Thunder banged; lightening lit the corners of shared bedchambers. Wide awake, Theon shifted.
Wide eyes set on Yara.
Skin antsy underneath the woolen blankets. Scratchy upon his skin—Theon made a sound in his throat.
Yara had told him—countless times—it was obscene to share a bed. But, hers was silky-soft, whilst his sheets felt itchy. Even her pillow was fluffier. Fuller with goose-feathers. Theon fidgeted.
He was seven—she was ten. It was improper.
"Just come on."
Theon jolted. Yara's form had not so much as budged. Nor rolled over. Merely knew he was tempted.
Scurrying across the rug-covered stone, Theon climbed underneath woolen-covers. Felt the silky-scratch on sullen-pink skin. Yara turned. Faced him.
Theon's curls stuck up at odd ends, and she flattened them down with her fingers. Drawing him in—warm lips pressed upon his cheek.
"There, There, Baby Brother. It is just a storm. We have them, more than not." It was incredibly rare for an Iron-born to fear a thunder storm.
He did.
He always had.
Something about the lightening that painted the backdrop of clouds, and sky. And the patter of raindrops, loud on the windowsill. It was enough to startle him, when shadows shone upon the walls with a flicker of lightening.
It was more than his fear, though. Yara's presence erupted this need in him. That burned so bright. Radiant. Right in the pit of his belly. She was not soft; Not with anyone else. Just him.
He saw her fears. Her joy. Sadness. Love.
He saw everything.
Another crack of lightening—Theon jolted in her arms.
Trembling like a leaf. Shuddering, Theon's eyes flicked closed. Yara rubbed soothing circles against the small of his back. Just where his spine, met hipbone.
Firm-tissue, quivered under her touch. Little gasps choked forth from pink-lips. Yara touched him often. Amiable, tender little grazes. She always had. Without, hesitation. As though she learned the unique-quips of his being, recording them to memory; just because she could.
Stolen instances that suggested, foreboding-thoughts within the back of his mind, were why, he came to her.
Why he wanted underneath the covers of her bed. Their chambers had been shared, for as long as he could recall. Yara pretended he was a burden—but Theon knew differently.
He felt it—in her touch.
Loving fingers traveled up. Brushed the center of his back. Right up to his shoulder-blades. Rubbing soft circles into the skin. Theon made little whines. Inched in closer, to Yara. Until, their bodies were on top of each other. Flesh warmed through their thin-nightclothes.
The more she touched. Grazed. Stroked—The less fear the storm brought. Rather, the storm faded into hindsight. All Theon could see—was Yara. Her poignant features. Abstractly-curved nose. Wide-set eyes.
A very different reaction came from him. Blood rushed down. Cheeks paled, another part of him, awakened. Firm, needful—erect. Tenting his nightgown, Theon felt heightened confusion.
Tight-pressed to her midriff; Yara seemed to notice. Though offered a comfortable smile.
"Baby Brother, does my touch, excite you? Hm?" Low hums sounded in her throat.
Hot-flushes made themselves known upon warmed cheeks.
Lightening glared for a flash throughout their spacious chambers. He did not so much as flinch.
Yara's hand skimmed down. Around to his front. Brushed the firmness, of his enflamed-rod. He gave an involuntary-rut forward, with set hips. Firmly, Yara grasped him.
"What is it you really want, Baby Brother?" Sultry words, echoed.
Theon's hormone-ridden consciousness, droned the words together. But the Iron-born genes that tainted his blood; guided him. He knew—Always had, really.
Closing the gap, between their lips. Theon united their petals. His brim, grazed hers. Lower, lip guided to suckle on hers. Inexperienced; Theon learned.
Her firm grip, snaked around his girth, providing ample-stimulation where he burned deepest.
Timidly, Theon explored. Skirting the length of her skin. The stroke of her hand—rose in momentum. Panting against her lips. Theon felt the pleasure rise. Until…
White, hot explosions sped behind, his eyes. Sticky, hot-liquid, burst from inside of him. Yara made a low gasp. As though, surprised.
"W-What happened?" Theon, uncertain, looked to Yara for comfort. He never felt anything like this previously. "That…should not have occurred. You are not…old enough." Curiously, she sought out the wet patch. Licked the salty-tang from her finger.
"Why…did it, then?" He inquired.
She only provided a shrug for him. Quizzically, seeking out his emerald-eyes.
Theon hissed from sensitivity, as Yara rubbed the whole of his back. Cuddling him, like she did when he was a true, infant. The stickiness, cooled. But he cared not. He was sated. The need gone.
Yet, he did not want to quit kissing her. Seeking out her petals, Theon connected them. Kissed in warmed expenditure. "I want to…for you…" Consideration lit her hues. Finally, with slight hesitation. Yara complied. Guided his hand down underneath her nightgown—Identical to his—only to permit him access to a warm, moist gash between well-toned thighs.
"The key to a female's pleasure, is here, Baby Brother."
She in-took a suction of air. Directed his tiny fingers to a particular spot. A pearl-sized bulk of flesh. Curiously, Theon brushed with a finger. He was immediately rewarded with a breathy-moan.
"Twirl your finger around it." She could barely talk. Wetness gathered; pooled, down below.
Her words were lost. Theon twirled faster—until, she shook. Vibrated. And finally, removed his hand. "Like that, Theon. Just like that."
Her voice was hoarse.
Theon captured her petals. Fingers wet with her essence brushed her cheek.
Scent of their excitement encompassed their chambers.
"I want to be held by you. Every night—for the rest of my life." Naively, whispered. Yara only gave a small, sympathetic-smile.
And Theon nodded off. Spent from the ups, and downs of the night.
Content, wholly—in Yara's arms.
The storm, long-forgotten, in his mind.
Laughter rang out. Despite the thick mud underfoot. Theon was practically caked in the mucky mixture. Having fallen ungracefully—countless times already. Feet would stick to the ground. And he would topple. Yara would point—laugh. And run away.
He was determined to catch her.
Hours of practice with a bow, and arrow taught Theon precision. Structure. Skill. But his legs were still uncoordinated.
Slower than the rest of him to learn.
By the end—He was determined to have her covered, too.
So far—only her skirts, and boots were coated in muck.
As she scurried—He hauled himself diagonally with one last surge of strength.
And then—They collided.
Thrown off her feet, Yara squealed—and Theon felt the crash of Earth, as they met it.
He did it!
He caught her!
Theon could nary believe it himself. The muscled-warmth. Hard-curves. He savored the feel of her.
Their brothers would taunt him for his petite stature. Small muscles, non-existent height. They boasted of their height at his age. They were towering monstrosities now.
Theon would never be their size.
Yara appeared stunned.
Their mother would not scold them for rucked clothes. It was she that encouraged them to play at will.
"I win, Yara. I finally, win!" Theon squirmed on top of her. Still unwilling to relinquish his dominant place—on top.
She huffed, not fighting him. Instead—peered curiously up at him. The molten feel in his belly—churned. Bubbled. Hazel optics, met sea-green. His chest fluttered. His head spun with wooziness.
"What will you do now? Baby Brother?"
Theon fidgeted.
"I am not a baby!" He hissed.
The compulsion to stay here—right here. On top of her, remained. Sank deep into his lower belly. Made his flesh scream for more. No one saw him as an almost-man. Rodrik was seen as a man, at twelve. Given a ship to rule by their father. He took command. Gave orders. Villages to raid. Countless women to rape. He took what he wanted. Gave nothing. Ever.
Theon wanted the same. Strength. Power.
Empowered by the thrilling rush of adrenaline, Theon acted.
Clutched her pudgy waist. Met his lips forcefully to hers. As they had—many times before. Soft, pink-things. He somehow, always expected them to be rough. Like her temperament. But she was surprisingly smooth underneath his touch—Supple. Hands roamed; sought, round curves to her budding breasts. He felt through rough-fabric of her teal-dress.
She often, would touch him. Rub his back, brush his cheek. Kiss his forehead. His lips. Her actions cemented this closeness between them. He burned with the proof of it. And often; returned those actions in full.
She returned the melding kiss. Pushed her tongue, hard, between his lips. Sought entrance, dominated his tongue—brushed uneven, teeth.
Finally, Theon came up for air. Pupils dilated. Skin bursting with need. Rain showering down from the heavens. It was unlikely—anyone else witnessed their moment. They had never been so obvious. Nor careless.
"Was that your prize? A kiss? We kiss all the time, Baby Brother." Yara was taunting him. He could hear it in her tone.
No one took him seriously. Perhaps, not even Yara.
Blood rushed to fill his lower-half. Bursting, coursing to that one place. And he felt it. Painfully hard—swollen against her middle. Her eyebrow raised.
"No—You are my prize." Theon boasted. The only way he would be taken seriously—was to pay the Iron Price. Yara was several inches taller—and three years older. Never once, did it occur to him—She could easily overpower him. Shove him off—She never did.
Theon bunched up her skirts. Right there—in the mud, and rain. Freed his prick from the constraints of his breeches. Tore at her undergarments—then, pushed up, inside her warm-cunt.
One, swift movement. No hesitance.
Her hymen tore around him—she was virginal? With her rough, tough exterior, he assumed she knew a man. At least once. Her skills in fighting—were legendary. For a female of thirteen. And when they touched—her skilled hands always brought him off.
Her back arced. She made a whine—and he groaned. She was tight around him. Firm—and her muscles squeezed the invading girth of him. Connecting their lips, Theon began to rut. He had spied on their brothers with their own salt-wives. Seen them rape, bruises into pretty-flesh. Bite, ravage. Though he knew roughness—it was never that way with Yara—not in these moments. Theon never committed this act, himself.
Never felt the inside of a cunt. But he knew how to toss himself off. Just a bit of a flick in his wrist. And he would spend.
"Theon…" Never, was she lost for words. Until now.
Nails dug through his shirt, into his biceps. He grunted, groped her ample globes, with excited-fingers.
"You were a maiden?" Theon taunted, exceedingly impressed. Also, rather proud of himself. For bedding her first. As, bedraggled, muck-soaked, and hidden by fog, and rain, as they were. Theon knew there was next to no chance, any could catch them. Rutting in the mud.
"Tell anyone, and I will skin you alive." Sharp-tongued words cut through him.
Theon's belly roared with urgency.
"I am a man, now. You cannot deny it. You have made me a man, Sister. And I paid the Iron Price for it." Cheeks cupped in his palms. Theon gave a final grunt of requisite. Then came apart.
Seed spilled, broiling from his balls. Pulsing thick spurts inside her cunt.
Theon felt her quiver. Squirm. Whine. And lowered a hand. Pushed his thumb-pad, just there. Against her juddering nub.
She came. Back arched, skin fiery-hot.
"No matter, how many girls you fuck—or pay the Iron Price for—You will still be my baby brother." Yara whispered, after some time passed.
Theon did not want any other girl. Only Yara.
"I only want you." Spoken in hushed tones. Theon had ached to be inside of her—for a while now.
She never let him, before.
"You should not—and you know that." Relations between siblings was expressly forbidden. He felt bound to her. By blood—By more. Despite her tough-curves. Bitter-edges. He loved her.
"I care not." Theon bolstered, stubbornly. "It is you, or no one."
Yara only gave a smile. Knowing; however, neither of them could have truly known—what was to come.
Fear clutched his Iron-born heart. Scents of death muddled the air. Screams—cries. Wails loud enough they seemed to rattle halls.
Rodrik was dead. Run through by a sword.
And the castle end, where Maron had been fighting—had collapsed.
Theon huddled in their chambers.
Iron-armor built around his petite body. Skin built with sweat—screamed with savagery.
He was afraid. Petrified. He was Balon's last, surviving son, now. Yara, was all that was left.
No love would be lost between himself, and his elder brothers—but that never meant he willed them dead. With him, left the heir.
And the castle was still under siege. Even fearless, heroic, Yara had a wild look in her eye. Scared, shaking with his bow in hand. He stood before her; prepared to fight for her.
He would protect her—even if he died, too.
Yara had weapons. Her concealed dagger, and a blood-coated sword, they snatched off a dead castle guard, as they fled.
Steady—she held the thing before her.
They were both coated in ash, blood, and filth. With shaking fingers, Theon lowered his bow. Turned to face Yara.
"I-If we die, I want you to know that I regret nothing. None of it." And he did not. How could he?
He balanced on his toes, and kissed her. She returned the kiss. Need pooled in his belly from the adrenaline. But there were not safe yet—this was not over.
"Me neither, Baby Brother." For the first time—He did not correct her. Only gave a frightened glance.
He drew his bow. The crashing grew nearer. Fighting. Dying. Screaming.
Suddenly, the door burst open. But there were too many to fight.
Too many to hope to take down. They were vastly outnumbered. Theon dropped his bow. Turned to Yara, and she surrendered her sword. It too clattered with a tinny sound to the stone.
Their weapons were collected. Bodies were searched. Yara's dagger taken. Theon's arrows confiscated.
But they were prisoners.
Not dead. There was still hope.
In seconds, the men had departed, planted a guard outside their door. Commenting about their only being 'children' after all.
Shaking like a leaf, Theon nuzzled into Yara's embrace. Fearful, for their father—for their mother. Where was their mother? He lost sight of her in the thick of it.
Yara's fingers whisked through strands of his mottled curls. Half-collapsing on her bed. He huddled close to her pudgy-bodice.
She was warmth, comfort. Love. Others saw a hard, impossible female. He saw his strong, competent sister. Yara.
His Yara.
"What will they do to us?" Theon was merely ten. His sister thirteen. She knew more—always had. Would they die? Would they live?
"I do not know, Baby Brother. Come now, let us get you out of this armor? Hm?" Calmly. Patiently. Nimble fingers began to unlatch the hard-iron. Piece by piece, it fell away. Discarded. Forgotten onto the throw-rug. Until only his breeches, and tunic, remained. Sweat had compiled within the trapped-heat of heavy armor. Drenched his clothes, completely. Skin bristled with the feel of being able to breathe again.
Yara wore a plain dress. Coated in filth, there was not a piece of armor provided to her. She was a girl. And their father would not have permitted her to dress any other manner.
Pyke was never meant to be breached, in the first place. It was Iron-clad. Supposedly, impenetrable.
Until, today.
Theon felt the burn of her touch. Stealthy, calculated fingers stirred all of his fear, adrenaline—lust—into one sentient-compulsion.
"Try not to think on it…Any of it…"
Suddenly, all he could think on—was Yara. Physical, resilient, Yara.
And her damned touches that could drive any sane man, stark-raving mad.
He flared to life, captured her lips. Stole from them, needful—kisses. If this was it for them—then so be it.
But he would sate this frustration—He would lose himself to everything.
Careless fingers, shredded her dress. Tore ruined-fabric, clean open. Let her breasts tumble out, free. Raised her skirts; freed the throb of his need—and took her.
Just like their first time. It was wrong. Sick—Compulsive. And theirs.
Purely theirs.
Would there even be anything left of the Iron-Islands to rule? He knew not. He could already, be the King of their Islands—Their father may yet, be dead already.
And he cared not.
Only cared to sate what Yara woke.
Mouths fought for dominance; tongues tangled. Skin collided—and it all felt so exhilarating.
Fear dwindled, care with it. All stressors from battle, forewent his thoughts. And he descended into whinny moans as he spent, on top of her. Seed pooled in her cunt. Warmth fused them together, in sweat—and filth.
Green optics found hazel.
His thumb brushed her cheek. How did he say goodbye? How else could he say; this would be the end of them?
He felt it in his bones. They would execute him. Her. Their father.
The Iron-Islands would be no more.
Hot-tears leaked down onto her skin. Yara brushed back his curly strands of hair.
"I know, Baby Brother. I know." Was all she would relinquish.
Theon had never seen her so frightened.
Not brave. Strong. Yara.
But he saw her fright. Felt it.
He descended into tears. And succumbed to the warmth of her arms. Like he had, since he could recall. This was them. She was everything.
Hauled out, into the midst of countless eyes. Theon felt fear grip his heart.
His father must be dead. So little remained of their precious, Pyke.
Chains clamored up ahead. No one bothered to chain him. He was a lad—barely ten. What harm could he cause them?
Yara was close behind.
He felt her presence.
He caught her eye, then faced ahead.
Halted in front of a great heap of a man, he saw his father. Chained, hands drawn together—He was alive, after all.
Relief strained his chest. But his green-eyes landed on that heaping man with full armor. Brown-hair. Seemingly kind, troubled eyes.
"This is your son? Lord Theon Greyjoy?" Theon's shoulders straightened. Trim frame, bravely prepared to meet his demise.
He would not have those gathered, view him cowering. He would never cower.
His father gave a pointed glance in his direction. Broken eyes landed on his youngest boy. "Aye, It is."
Theon gave a hard-pointed stare at the seemingly innocuous brown-haired man.
"Then he will be the one I take home to Winterfell. Until, he comes of age, and shall return home to rule the Iron Islands." Theon's eyes widened in horror.
Taken? He would not be permitted to stay in his home?
And what of Yara?
"I will not leave! I will not go! Father! Tell them I will not!" Theon knew of the North. It was frigid cold, blustering with snow. Wretched. And the people were a wild breed. He knew now whom stood before him. Ned Stark.
"I will not go!"
"You will do as I bid, boy!" His father snapped.
Theon shivered. Eyes turned to Yara.
"Father he is your only remaining son! He needs to be here! With his people!" Yara too spoke out.
"I will hear no more. Take him, and be gone with you!"
Theon broke into tears. Betrayal stabbed in his heart. How could this man—his Father—do this?!
"Where is Mother? I want to see Mother?!" Theon shouted out as his sister coiled her arms around his middle. And he clung tight to her.
"Your mother is dead. She died in the siege." It was Ned that responded. His father would not look at him.
Wide-eyed, Theon's heart shattered. He lost everyone. Everything. And now…now he would be taken. A month's travel from his sister—His Yara. He would lose Yara, too.
They descended into sobs. His knees gave out, and he dragged Yara down with him to the cold-stone. Rain—thunder—beat in on the stone-walls just outside. As though the skies were crying tears of sorrow for their losses.
Sweet. Caring. Kind.
Their mother had meant everything. To both of them.
And she too, was claimed by this wretched battle.
Nudged into her hair, Theon scented her. Memorized the sweat on her skin, the manner in which she touched his back, neck, hair, chest.
No one touched them. Not for several minutes. Theon felt broken.
Lost.
He was never meant to be an heir. Never. His elder brothers were. Both strong, resilient, fighters. Never gave in—never gave up. And they were cut down like flies.
How could he ever run this place?
Arms were gripping him. Hoisting him from his place, comforting Yara. It was the first time he saw her cry—really cry—and now…now he would not see her. Not for a long time. Perhaps, not ever.
"Father! Please! Do not do this! I want to be here! I need to be here! Father please! Please!" He shouted through tears, to no avail. His father would not look. Would not see.
His Yara was on her knees. Prevented from coming to him by knights. And the last flash of Yara he saw—was the forlorn stare in her eyes.
The brokenness, that could never be repaired.
Yara
Soldiers left. Ships sailed from the shore.
And the rain cleared as though it never came. Sun shone down on the rocks.
Pyke was highlighted in all of its disastrous beauty.
Her father did not speak—descended instead, into his chambers—refusing to emerge.
And Yara.
Yara felt the absence of her baby brother, everywhere she turned.
Their chambers—were now solely, hers.
His bed was removed. His portrait left behind, to remind her of his face. He was young then—perhaps seven when it was painted. But it was his likeness.
Yara's back to the window, she felt how lonely it was. How empty.
Quiet.
No arms to hold her. No promises to be kept in her ears.
Just emptiness.
When thunderstorms erupted—Theon did not come to cower in her bed. There were no more kisses. No more touches.
She was forbidden, even to write to him. And he to her.
It was unfair, to punish them both for their father's crimes. But life was never fair in the Iron Islands.
Their brothers paid the Iron Price to lose their home. And Theon would pay with years of his life—for poor choices of Balon.
Yara listened to the birds sing. And the heavens open up. Each day—She missed Theon.
Possibly, even missed her eldest brothers. Their loud, know-it-all, dispositions. What she would not give—to depart from this emptiness.
Hollowness.
And then—weeks later, the sudden click of her chamber door. A guard stood before her.
"Your father wishes to have words with you, in his chambers." Yara's back straightened, eyebrows knitted together.
"What for?"
"He demands your presence. That is all."
Yara gives one final glance at her chambers—as she walked from inside—Closing the door—with a click.
Theon
The north is precisely as it was described. Cold. Stormy. Temperamental.
And the people—are not his people.
After weeks of being sailing, then riding on land, far inland of the sea—Theon felt the comforts of home, fade from view.
Yara, with it.
Unfamiliar faces gaped in on him.
Winterfell's halls were unwelcoming, dark. Dreary.
He felt the mistrusting eyes on his every move. He could not use the privy without a reproachful stare.
Was it likely that he would run?
He knew not how to make it back to the sea.
And even if he could, it would only put those he loved in danger.
He wept at night. Felt the loneliness of his strange chambers. The shadows on the walls would frighten him. Thunderstorms were less.
He thanked the Gods for that small mercy.
But he missed the warmth of Yara, at his side. Her skin on his skin. Her lips on his lips. Her comforting touches. He received none of that here.
He was belted for disobeying, when he attempted to write to Yara. He felt the sting of the belt for days after. He felt rough fists of other little boys. Their hatred for his family profound, since their fathers had died at his family's hands.
He returned to his chambers with a blackened eye, and sore skin.
Most nights he found solace in the soft memories of his sister's touch. They were all he had.
Though Ned was a kind man, he was strict. Doled out punishments where he felt they were deserved.
Theon lost his various trinkets from home when he outwardly showed defiance, or boastfulness. Catelyn would seize them. Boasting was not tolerated in the North. No man should be so proud of himself that he believes himself better than all the rest.
Catelyn was unlike his mother. She was not soft, and warm. She did not hold him—only chastised him. Belittled him. As she did Jon.
Robb was his age. A youth of honor, respect. Jon was less than a year younger, with a genuine, kindness, considering he was also an outsider there. Theon was unused to these ways. Sansa was cold toward him. Ayra, too. Bran was little. Newly born.
Theon found little comfort anywhere.
His final prized possession was the bow, Yara had, had made for him. She taught him on that bow. Had it crafted specifically for him. And he found it, snapped in half, discarded on his bed. The message was clear.
He was unwanted here. He was not a ward; just a prisoner.
And prisoners—did not get keepsakes.
Theon spent the night in tears. Wept; sheltered underneath the furs that piled his bed. Another commodity unfound in the Iron Islands. Fur blankets.
He mourned his family. His soft mother. And his brave sister. His Yara.
He took his home for granted. And now—He did not know if he could ever hope to see it again.