Zokla | Theon Greyjoy

Chapter 8

"That's her!" shouted one of the men. "The Stark girl– grab her!"

She did the only thing she knew how to do– run back the way she came. She started to sprint, Nana leading the way. An arrow shot out past her shoulder, driving right into the back of Nana's shoulders. The wolf yelped and stumbled over, bringing Lyarra to a halt.

"No!" she pleaded, trying to lift her up with one hand. The four men in the front of the procession were riding toward her at an alarming speed. "Nana, get up, get up, we have to go!"

She stared up with watery eyes, attempting to follow Lyarra. A second arrow landed mere centimeters from where Lyarra's fingertips held her fur, delivered into the back of the wolf's head. The first man on horseback arrived, leaping off of the horse and drawing his sword, that cold slash of metal sounding once before he ripped Lyarra away from the wolf and stabbed his sword into her skull, killing her.

Lyarra covered Minisa's ears, holding back a scream of her own. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to have come here to save at least one of her siblings– where was Robb? Who were these men and why did they bear Stark banners?

"Aren't you a pretty one?" said the man, holding her hair and turning her to face him. "And we thought we'd have to look long and hard to find you."

Another man dismounted behind them, cloak sweeping behind his feet. "Let her be, Steelshanks," he commanded, clearly the one in charge. He stood across from Lyarra, humming as he examined her. "Lyarra Stark. And..." He reached out to lift the blanket off of Minisa's head, "The little Umber girl." He snapped his fingers at another one of the men. "Locke, bring the carriage 'round and tell Lady Walda she is to expect company on the road back to the Dreadfort."

"The Dreadfort?" said Lyarra, shaking with rage. "You're– you're Lord Bolton? But Robb told me you were helpinghim!"

His lips curled. "The Young Wolf ignored my advice at every turn. If he'd been less arrogant, he might have done better in life."

She stared up at him, registering the look of pride and cruel triumph in his eyes. "Where are my brother and mother?"

"Dead," he said flatly. "I am Warden of the North now. And given that you are its key... we will be keeping you veryclose to us. My son could not find you when he sacked Winterfell... but we emerged victorious all the same."

"Your son? He slaughtered the Ironborn after they surrendered on Robb's terms!"

Lord Bolton's lip curled. "If your brother weren't such a weakling, he would've ordered their flaying himself. Don't worry. My son took Theon Greyjoy alive. You'll be able to do all the harm you'd like, once you have him near. He killed your brothers, did he not?"

"And it seems you killed one of mine as well," she said venomously. "And– and my mother– my mother! What did she do to any of you?"

The carriage was drawn up behind Lord Bolton, the man called Locke opening the door from within. "I suggest you get comfortable," said Lord Bolton. "It'll be a long ride to the Dreadfort."

"Up you come, my lady," said Locke quietly, helping her in.

She sat herself down across from the supposed Lady Walda, a short, large girl with watery blue eyes, a huge bosom, and blonde hair. "Hello," she said, her voice fluttering and squeaky. "You must be Lady Umber. Oh! Lady Stark, I mean."

Lyarra could tell she wasn't saying it with malice, but it stung all the same. "Hello," she said quietly, flinching as the door of the carriage was slammed shut. Minisa began to whimper.

"You've a beautiful babe," said Walda. "What's its name?"

"Minisa," said Lyarra. She stared out at the Twins as the curtains flapped, the movement bouncing them along back north. "What... happened here? What happened to my brother and mother?"