Her room had never felt so full.
At the same time, it was the emptiest it had ever been. Her parents should have been there to wipe her forehead and tell her that she was doing just fine. Sansa should have been in the doorway waiting for the babe's arrival with a blanket she made herself, a plush cloak with the emblem of a wolf breaking out of chains. Arya, Bran, and Rickon should've been outside shouting a million questions that were hastily answered by Robb and Jon, who couldn't bring themselves to enter the room but wished for their sister to know that they were present, too, in their own way.
"How long will this take?" she asked, leaning forwards onto her bed as Palla massaged her back. "Gods, it feels as though I've been aching for hours!"
"It's different for every woman, Lyarra," said Maester Luwin, offering Osha another cold rag for her neck and forehead. "You are in the earliest stages, where your body is still preparing for the delivery. It could be hours before you are ready."
She tilted her head back, groaning in agony. "My mother says it is usually longest with the first child. Fuck. Forgive me..." She shook her head, holding the bedposts and breathing heavily as another stab of pain coursed through her. "When... will the men return from Torrhen's Square?"
"They won't return until tomorrow evening, my lady," said Palla, shaking her head. "That's the earliest."
Lyarra slammed her hand into the post, gasping angrily. "Why are there Lannisters so far North in the first place? What does Tywin Lannister stand to gain from sending them to Torrhen's Square? It doesn't sound like the sort of thing he'd do! It sounds like a bloody trap!"
"Hush, now," said Osha, motioning for Palla to take her place. "Come, now, deep breath, I'm going to show you how the wildlings deal with this sort of situation."
She began to knead her hands over Lyarra's lower back, gently palming as she went around her belly but pressing firmly heading up her shoulders and to her neck, sending ripples of pain throughout the entirety of her body. She pressed her palm downwards in circular motions, relieving the tension in her back and letting her breathe without resistance.
"I don't know if I can do this," whispered Lyarra, fingers digging into the wood.
"Yes, you can," said Palla, cleaning her face. "You're a wolf, same as everyone in your family."
Lyarra wondered if wolves faced this much agony in a normal lifespan.
For the entirety of the day she labored, alternating between laying on her face and standing by the window, the discomfort increasing steadily no matter how much she waddled around or massaged her own belly. At nightfall, once the boys had been put to bed, Maester Luwin determined she was ready to begin the delivery.
She held onto Osha and Palla as she pushed past blinding pain and spots dancing in her eyes. By the time the sun was rising, she'd delivered both a babe and the afterbirth, and was bundled up in her bed drinking an herbal mixture Osha prepared.
"There." Maester Luwin lowered the babe into her arms, delicately wrapped in fur. "You've a perfect girl, Lyarra."
"A girl?" She looked down at her, pleased to see a dark head of hair and pouty lips. "Oh, she's as small as Rickon was when he was born. She's beautiful." She held up her little hand, kissing the back of it. "Your Uncle Jon suggested I name you Minisa, for my grandmother, or Lyanna, for my aunt. What do you think of those names, little one?" She smiled, and decided, "Minisa Umber, so I may call you Minnie."
"Your mother will be very pleased to hear it," said Palla. "She's perfect, Lyarra."
She nodded in agreement, bringing the babe beneath her cloak to be fed. "My sweet little girl. My little wolf."
Nana adored her without question. During Lyarra's pregnancy, the wolf had refused to leave her side. Now, she refused to leave Minisa alone. The next day, she sat guard at the foot of her bed the entire time that they both ate and slept, apparently equally exhausted. Palla had insisted on taking her to the kennels in the evening, otherwise Nana probably would've refused to eat all to keep Minisa and Lyarra under a careful watch.
Lyarra had intended to give walking a try the following morning, since Smalljon hadn't yet arrived. But upon waking, she heard shouts, the frantic caws of ravens, and the snarls of men.
Her door burst open, the babe in her arms wailing loud enough to wake the whole castle, if they weren't already roused by the noise. "Theon!" she shrieked, sitting up and covering the babe with her blanket. "What are you doing here?"
"I've taken your castle," he said firmly. "And it's Prince Theon now."
Behind him entered a man she didn't recognize, though of a visible strength and stature that reminded her of the Ironborn she'd seen depicted in books. "Taken the castle?" she demanded, shrinking against the headboard. "But... what?"
"I've taken Winterfell," he repeated. "I'm occupying it. I sent men over the walls with grappling claws and ropes."
"I don't understand," she said, frightened when the other man inched closer to her. "Stay back!" She grabbed a lamp off of her nightstand, holding it threateningly toward him. "Get out of here!"
"Afraid we can't do that," said Theon. "Robb sent me back to Pyke. I'm a Greyjoy. I can't fight for Robb and my father both. My men are bringing your people together in the courtyard. Bran will yield Winterfell to me in front of all of them."
"He's just a boy! What the bloody hell does it matter to you?"
"Come quietly or we'll have to drag you," he warned. "With the babe in tow."
She stood on her own, glaring at him. "I can move without being dragged. Robb said you suggested going to Pyke to recruit your father's help... I didn't think you would betray us. We're your family."
"No, you're not. You all were my captors. That never changed."
The Ironborn followed her the entire way down to the courtyard, unbothered by how she staggered and held onto the wall with one arm, carrying Minisa in the other. She hated how he lingered, how he prodded her through the halls as if she didn't know where she was going.
Palla rushed to support her as she came, barefoot and weak with a screaming babe against her chest. Lyarra did her best to shush Minisa, beckoning Rickon and Ned to come stand with her.
Smalljon would be back soon, wouldn't he?
And then, she realized that it had not been the Lannisters down in Torrhen Square.
The entirety of the household was gathered by the time Hodor was forced to carry Bran down, into the center of the Ironborn group. "I've yielded Winterfell to Theon," said Bran quietly, staring up at Lyarra.
"Louder!" demanded Theon. "Say 'Prince Theon.'"
Bran repeated himself, "I've yielded Winterfell to Prince Theon."
This satisfied him. He spoke as if to address them all, "You all know me!"
"Aye," said Farlen, Palla's father. "We know you for a steaming sack of shit."
"Farlen, you be silent," pleaded Bran.
"Listen to your little Lord, Farlen," advised Theon. "He has more sense than you do."
Bran added nervously, "All of you should do as he commands."
"My father has donned the ancient crown of salt and rock," said Theon, "and declared himself King of the Iron Islands. He claims the North as well by right of conquest."
"What conquest?" sneered Lyarra furiously. "You came and took Winterfell when it was undefended and lorded over by a ten-year-old boy! Your father must think you so brave, Theon."
He stepped closer, shouting, "You are all his subjects. You will–"
"Bugger that!" said Farlen, drawing Theon's attention away from Lyarra. "I serve the Starks. If you think you can hold the North with this–"
One of the Ironborn beat him in the back with a butt of his sword, knocking Farlen down and commanding him to shut up. As he cried out in pain, Theon continued, "If you serve me as loyally as you served Ned Stark–" He smirked as Palla pulled her father to his feet, "I will be as good to you as he ever was. Betray me, and you will wish you hadn't."
He turned, "Maester Luwin, send a raven to Pyke informing my father of my victory here and one to Deepwood Motte to my sister. Inform her that she's to bring five hundred men to Winterfell." When the man did not immediately move, he said, "You are a Maester of the Citadel sworn to serve the lord of Winterfell, are you not?"
"I am," said Maester Luwin quietly.
"I am the Lord of Winterfell, as Bran just informed you. Send the ravens."
Though hesitantly, Maester Luwin left. Osha stepped forward, "My Lord Greyjoy."
Theon huffed, "I see you've finally learned how to address your betters. What do you want?"
She hung her head. "I was brought here a captive. You were here the day I was taken."
He shrugged. "I'm the one who took you. What of it?"
She bent the knee. "Let me serve you."
"Serve me how? I need fighters, not kitchen sluts."
"It was Robb Stark who put me in the kitchens. Put a spear in my hand again."
"So you can bury it in my neck? Do you take me for a fool? Get up." He shoved her toward Bran, who asked indignantly, "Why?"
"It's your dream, Little Lord," said Osha quietly. "The ocean has come to swallow this place. I ain't letting it drown me."
Theon began to speak again, "...and in a few days' time–"
"GREYJOY!"
Lyarra covered Minisa's ears as the gates were thrown open, another horde of Ironborn dragging in two bloodied men– Smalljon and Rodrik. Her heart fluttered with hope, thinking there was a chance they'd be saved.
"We caught these two on their way back from Torrhen Square," said one of the Ironborn. "Took out six of ours before we got their swords."
"And I'll do it again," sneered Smalljon, spitting out a wad of blood. "We don't bow to Ironborn scum in the North."
Theon smiled smugly. "You'd be wise to hold your tongue, Umber. Ser Rodrik, it grieves me that we meet as foes."
"It grieves me you've less honor than a back alley whore," retorted Rodrik. "You were raised here under this roof. These people are your people!"
"They are not my people!"
"King Robb thought of you as a brother."
Theon snapped, "My brothers are dead. They died fighting Stark men, men like you."
"Aye! They died fighting a war your father started. Lord Stark raised you among his own sons–"
"Among them, but not one of them! I was his hostage, taken from my home!"
Rodrik shook his head. "If he were alive to see this..."
"He's not. He's dead. The Seven Kingdoms are at war. And Winterfell is mine."
"I should have put a sword in your belly instead of in your hand."
"You've served this House faithfully, old man. But keep talking, and I'll–" Rodrik spat in his face, the Ironborn beating into him and forcing him to his knees as Theon commanded, "Take him to the cells. Lock him up–"
The Ironborn that'd fetched Lyarra cut in, "My prince. You cannot let that stand. He must pay."
Theon shoved a finger toward Rodrik, "I'll lock him in a cell 'til he rots–"
"No. He has to pay the iron price. They'll never respect you while he lives."
Theon considered it, then nodded his head. "Ser Rodrick, I sentence you to death!"
"No!" screamed Lyarra when the men dragged Ser Rodrik aside.
"You said no harm would come to them if I yielded!" pleaded Bran.
"The old man couldn't keep his mouth shut!"
Maester Luwin tried to plead, "I urge you not to make a hasty decision."
Theon sounded like a child, complaining, "He disrespected me in front of my men. That was his decision, not mine!"
"He is worth more to you alive than dead!" begged the maester. "The Starks will pay. Please, Theon, think what you do."
Theon looked ready to consider it, but instead spoke coldly, "You'll address me as Prince Theon or you'll be next."
The Stark children screamed as the Ironborn tugged Ser Rodrik toward a slab of wood by the kennels, their makeshift execution block. "Theon, please!" cried Lyarra. "Please, we've yielded the castle! Please!"
Ser Rodrik wasn't trying to fight it, even as Smalljon thrashed around in the grip of the four men it took to hold him back. "He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Coward."
They forced him to his knees as Theon brandished his sword. "Stop!" pleaded Bran. "Stop right now!"
"You don't give commands anymore, Little Lord!" spat Theon.
"Please, stop this, please stop him!"
"Theon," said Lyarra, forcing Rickon and Ned to turn away, their little heads buried in her skirt. "Robb will do whatever you ask of him. We won't fight, we'll let the Ironborn hold the castle, you don't need to kill him!"
"Hush now, children," said Rodrik. "I'm off to see your father."
Lyarra looked over at Smalljon, who was shaking his head. What did that mean? That this was hopeless? That she should do something else to distract Theon? That she should simply keep her mouth shut?
"Any last words, old man?" asked Theon as Bran continued to beg, the younger boys crying as rain began pelting over their heads.
"Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy," said Rodrik. "Now you are truly lost."
It took four hacks of the sword to remove Ser Rodrik's head, and even yet a firm kick. Lyarra couldn't tear her eyes away, holding Rickon and Ned's shoulders with one hand, the other against Minisa's head as she wailed.
"All of you, back to your rooms," said Theon, motioning them into the castle. "The giant stays in the cells."
Lyarra met Smalljon's gaze as he was pulled away, her eyes sparkling with tears. Osha took Rickon and Ned's hands, guiding them to give Lyarra room to walk on her own. She stumbled, but denied Palla's help, insisting she stay beside her father, who could barely stand straight after the blow he received.
"I'll find you all a way out of the castle tonight," whispered Osha as they walked to the boys' room. "All five of you."
Lyarra looked down at the babe in her arms, heart sinking into her stomach. "We'll be found immediately. I don't know if I can keep Minisa quiet for so long. I can scarcely walk, Osha. Do you... have a plan?" When she nodded, she spoke hesitantly, "Take the boys. My brothers and Ned. Get Ned to Last Hearth, you'll find friends there. They'll be safe until Robb sends men up here to retake Winterfell... if he even knows about what's happened. I cannot go with you."
Osha scanned her face, as if to make sure Lyarra was certain about this decision. "It must be so," she insisted. "Minisa and I will only slow you down. I cannot leave Smalljon here alone." She pleaded with her eyes, "Theon wouldn't hurt me physically, nor would he hurt Minisa."
(Part of her wasn't sure if those words were true.)
She was alone in her room with her daughter, the direwolves howling away in the kennels. She imagined Osha would have to leave Nana within, if only to have someone howling and not arouse suspicion. She let Minisa cry, as awful as it was, to allow a sound to mask the movement in the halls as Osha snuck the boys out. Hodor would accompany them, to carry Bran.
She heard the commotion in the morning, peering down into the courtyard where a dead Ironborn had been laid out, killed by Osha for the escape. Theon had gone out with a party of men to hunt them down, hounds at the ready. Whatever Osha's plan was, Lyarra prayed that it would work.
She was without news for the entire day, not a single scroll allowed to make its way to her hands. All the ravens had been killed. She could sense guards outside her door; clearly they expected her to disappear in the same way the boys had.
She didn't hear their voices come nightfall, nor did she hear Theon claiming he'd caught them. It probably meant they hadn't been found, and if all the men had returned from their hunt... they'd gotten far enough away. It would be due northeast for them now, straight to Last Hearth.
Smalljon's siblings would take care of them, perhaps be the ones to contact Robb and ask for help. They might even be able to raise a sizable enough host to stop the Ironborn on the Northern end before Yara Greyjoy could bring five hundred men as a reinforcement.
Who even was left with that many men? Who was loyal enough to the Starks to answer their plea without question? Would they make it there before Theon decided he did want to toe the line and hurt Lyarra and Miisa?
"Get up!" A hard knock was delivered to her door. "All the household is gathering in the courtyard."
She took too long, apparently. Two men broke down her door when she was barely lifting herself out of the bed. "Give me a moment!" she demanded, voice wavering. "I was already dragged to the courtyard barely dressed one day, I will not have it occur a second! If Theon wishes me to be rushed, he may come here and tell me himself!"
"Prince Theon," corrected the Ironborn.
"Prick Theon," she snapped. "Leave my chambers at once."
The men refused to leave, only turning around to face the door. Frustrated, she set Minisa onto the bed, the babe wailing in discomfort as Lyarra dressed herself quickly, then swaddled her daughter to exit the room briskly.
"I told you what would happen," said Theon, addressing them only when Lyarra had arrived. He stood on a platform above the rest, the Ironborn surrounding him. "All of you... I told you what would happen if you served me loyally and what would happen if you did not."
Six Ironborn arrived behind them, dragging with them Maester Luwin and Smalljon. They were placed beside Lyarra, Smalljon sporting a new wound over his forehead, blood trickling down the side of his face.
"What's happening?" said Smalljon wearily.
"I don't know," said Lyarra worriedly, reaching her sleeve up to stop the blood. The Ironborn closest to her seized her wrist, eliciting a sharp cry of pain as he forced her hand back down.
"Unhand her," snarled Smalljon. The Ironborn smirked, holding the back of his neck instead and forcing him to look away from Lyarra.
"...if there's any who still question whether your new lord means what he says," Theon was saying, gesturing behind him, "here is the answer to your question."
Dropped from over the wall were two charred corpses held in nooses, belonging to two little boys. Lyarra choked out a gasp as Maester Luwin screamed. "The Umber boy was left to fend for himself," said Theon, as if proud of this. "We'll see if he can make his way to Last Hearth. If his father taught him anything, that is."
Smalljon tore forward with all his might, breaking out of the Ironborn hold. "You heathen iron bastard!" he snarled, leaping onto the stage and tackling Theon onto the wooden boards. He began to beat into him, the Ironborn leaping to action. Seven of them rushed to aid their prince, another two ripping Lyarra and Minisa away from each other.
"Easy there, giant," said one of the Ironborn, sneering in satisfaction as he punched Smalljon twice across the face. He gestured to where one of the other men had a sword to Lyarra's throat, a second holding a knife over a screaming Minisa's forehead. "We don't need any Starks or Umbers left here."
Smalljon panted heavily, shaking his head. "They've done nothing. Let my wife and daughter go."
"Daughter?" Theon looked amused for a second, until he saw Lyarra pleading with her eyes. Perhaps he decided to say nothing because he'd already killed her brothers and left her stepson to survive alone in the wild. "Would you die for them, Umber?"
"No!" screamed Lyarra as the Ironborn shoved Minisa back into her arms. "Please, please no!"
Theon glanced at the Ironborn, who nodded. He wiped the blood off his nose, "Smalljon Umber, I sentence you to death."
"Let him go!" cried Lyarra. "Please, Theon, please, I'll do anything! I'll write to Robb whatever you wish to say, I will make sure he abides by your terms, I swear it! PLEASE!"
The men forced Smalljon to lean over. He met Lyarra's eyes, shaking his head. "There is nothing you can do for me, sweet Lyarra," he said. "Take care of our daughter."
She sank to her knees, unable to watch as Theon withdrew his sword. She begged to all the gods for help, she begged for mercy and peace.
No prayer was answered as her husband's head was cut clean off, a single strike sufficient.