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inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800 · 1 year

Text

GUDRUN (290 DC)

Warnings: Slightly descriptive violence and SA, timeline alterations, and OOC of Yara.

Note: English isn´t my first language, so sorry for the probably mistakes here.

"Come on," her older sister, Yara, with hair as black as the stones of their home, called to her, "father wants to see us at dinner."

No, he doesn't want to see us, she thought sadly.

Only a year had passed…

She was still hearing the screams of her dead family. Her father screaming and cursing the storm when the king left, the heads of her brothers nailed by pikes, both men and women screaming, fire and blood everywhere.

Her father Balon was devastated, not only had he lost the rebellion but his Greyjoy offspring was in danger, for the only male he had left was in Winterfell as a hostage. Theon, his fleet-footed older brother, was his age when he was taken.

She floated out of the sea and looked down at her feet as she walked along the beach. She hated the sand that stuck to her like second skin and how painful it was to move sometimes in the hard clothes and icy water. However, everyone would look down on her if she complained, she was a damned Ironborn, she had to be strong and tough if she wanted the acceptance of the Ironborns. And she needed it, man did she, the place was small and they practically knew each other.

"You've taken a millennium, woman." Yara complained as if she were her progenitor, hands on hips and voice thick. "Next time I'll leave you there and won't let you in the house."

This is not my house, she wanted to say, but she didn't have the guts.

"I'm sorry," she managed to say. Her sister looked at her tenderly and took her hands even though they were frozen.

Yara really was an Ironborn.

She had boots made by her own hands, with the very fox fur she hunted, her steps were determined and she did not flinch from the pain and the combination of wasteland, like a living goat. Her chest had a couple of sharp knives that not only served to cut vegetables but to scratch, hurt, and remove the hand of the bold who dared to touch her, extensive back ready to be filled with oxygen when she threw herself into the frozen ocean, arms strong as a warrior's and more agile than the skin of a living fish. Added to her Greyjoy-like beauty, she looked like she was made of salt and sand.

"What are you thinking of?"

"About our mother."

Yara stopped walking for a second. Gudrun knew she'd messed up, but she continued, the pain in her chest and the tears in the dawn seemed never to end.

"You know we can't talk about it here."

"But at some point we have to, you and me. Father and his people have already complained and gotten used to it. But I don't…"

She felt her voice falter.

"Not now, another day" spoke Yara, jumping up and down as if she were a wildcat "And that's my last word."

"Yara."

"Yes?" she replied a little annoyed, sure she thought he would insist.

"Has father talked to you about being a rock wife? Uncle Victarion mentioned it was something sacred…from the Drowned God," she didn't let fear creep into her voice, the Greyjoy story was extremely macabre.

"Yes, he has, whether I was swayed by it is another thing."

"Aren't you afraid?" Gudrun was small girl, but she was anxious when she turned ten, the age the rock women bled.

"Of what?" Yara looked at her defiantly. "If father threatens to marry me off, I'll run away with the fastest ship, you know, The Pearl and go to Winterfell to retrieve my brother. Or else I'd infiltrate deep into Highgarden, they always need waitresses and I highly doubt there's anything to tease me there, the continentals are very refined."

"And if you don't manage to escape in time?"

"Well, I'd kill fat Krak" she pointed to the blacksmith who was just passing by "because he'd be the first to come to the call and try to pull me away from the knives, I wouldn't allow it. I would take the opportunity to make myself as unrecognizable as possible and annihilate any asshole who wants to catch me. If our family intervenes, I would throw myself into the water and beg until my throat atrophied for the Drowning God to come to my calls, at least I will get enough distraction to swim to some nearby island, if not…, I will cut my future husband's jugular vein when he tries to stick his penis in my vagina."

In the Iron Islands there was no such thing as refined language, both men and women said insults and swear words, spat and treated their wounds with salt to make them burn hotter and stronger.

She jumped up and down to catch up with her older sister.

And she held her breath as she watched the pikes…, there were three reminders of what would happen if another rebellion happened. A damn year passed and they were still there, rotting, because of some stupid morality her uncle and father had.

Yara turned to look at her.

"You know, Rodrik always smelled like firewater, his feet too. He was always head-butting our brothers and me, you were still too little for it. He called it the tradition of the salute. If we had won, the rocks would be more bathed in alcohol than salt. He made scratches on his face after his first fight, saying they would make him more…tough. Maron, the other one, was a liar of the worst kind, once made me kiss a damn goat saying I'd get more heat that way, and all I got was a little flu, plus ugly pimples. Once he made Uncle Aeron believe that the Drowning God would manifest and the poor man almost drowned, again. While Rodrik had his fists as fat as a pig, but accurate as lightning, lies were Maron's weapon. Father gave him a well-deserved slap that day, so much so that it filled his mouth with blood like bitter paste. He deserved it, the slimeball… Then there's our grandfather Quellon, he was well dead when it all happened. They dishonored his marine tomb, extracted him as one does an animal, took his head and left him nailed there too. He was wise, as everyone says…"

They passed the pikes by and by the time Gudrun realized it she was inside the foul-smelling, filthy castle that she had to call home.

A servant appeared and sent them to clean themselves with rags and buckets of cold water that had a smell similar to the sea. Gudrun cursed under her breath. She loved the sea, as long as she was inside, but going out was total hell.

Yara waited for her because she knew that nothing made her more desperate than having sand, pebbles and who knows what on her body. Gudrun rubbed herself with the rock soap: hard, white, scratchy and if not handled well, it would crumble into little pieces or cause ugly wounds on her body. She remembered her first solitary baths, her back was full of blood from the cuts from her mishandling of that stuff, plus it filled the whole shower in bits. Her father sent her almost naked alone with a towel to pick up every little piece and when she did, as a mockery of the Drowned God, it disappeared completely in her little hands. Gudrun had hated him so much, so much that when it was over the next dawn, she silently prayed for her father to die. And then she slept cuddled like a cat in the middle of Yara and Theon, the only siblings she loved.

She got distracted thinking about it and a small piece slipped in, Gudrun cursed under her breath and squeezed her eye, knowing and groping where the piece was. It took a couple of minutes, it had happened before, she pulled it out, but now the little piece wasn't white it was red, causing her eyes to water in pain. She threw the rest over there and put the towel on, ignoring the possible infection in her right eye.

"I'm done, Yara."

Her sister behind the door walked in as soon as she finished the words. A few years ago, when Yara was five years old, she was taking a shower when a drunk came in with the intention of raping her. She screamed and defended herself with a metal bar that formed the precarious shower. She was screaming so loudly that her uncle Victarion immediately entered, pulled the man away from her, called the others and a massacre ensued.

Quickly, Rodrik punched him to knock him out and defend her honor, Maron joined in later, then the men loyal to her father. They beat him to a pulp, stuck him on an iron cross at Uncle Aeron's expense, slowly cut off his fingers and toes, hurled whips and insults into the mouths of women and men.

Don't touch a Greyjoy daughter was the mantra shared by her father's bannermen.

Then Yara herself pulled out a rusty dagger, to make it hurt more, and cut off his limb, lifted it amid screams and threw it into the sea to be swallowed by fish. She vaguely remembered a small shark appearing and jumping up to catch the limb or perhaps it was one of Maron's lies to give it more drama.

From that day on, Theon or Rodrik would stand guard when one of the two took a shower. When they both left, it was just the two of them left to protect themselves.

Her sister looked at her quizzically, she had her sleeves covering her eyes, as if she was crying.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just…" she tried to keep her voice from getting hoarse from the cold "I got a damn chunk in."

"Be careful, sister" Yara teased playfully. "I'll be out in ten minutes, I'm faster than you. Wait, here." She threw a dagger at her, which she managed to catch.

She nodded and stood on the other side of the door. She tied back the brown hair she owned, almost everyone had black hair but her. It was the most precious thing she had because no matter how much salt or light it got, it always stayed moisturized and beautiful. Yara was teaching her to braid her hair so it wouldn't bother her when it was time to shoot arrows or to avoid being caught by one, because her father trained them for stealth and that included attacks with the bow, he had a good aim, but she managed to hide and camouflage herself very well, it was the only talent she possessed.

She looked at the dagger, she was a bit clumsy with weapons, her hands were sweating and she got very nervous thinking about her opponent's next attack. The other iron children teased her and called her "the continental trash". Sometimes she felt she deserved it…what kind of rock woman didn't know how to defend herself? She fixed her gaze on the edge, it showed her the small face of an eight-year-old girl, her soft cheeks and walnut-colored eyes. He felt like crying, it was said that her brown eyes were like those of her mother, who walked barefoot through the corridors calling for her children who would never return.

Except for Theon, every night Gudrun prayed that he would return, that the wretched Eddard Stark would free her brother from the cruelties of Winterfell and that he would come, and it would be the three of them against the world again.

A servant glanced at her as he swept the courtyard.

Gudrun threw a spit on the ground with a defiant look, she was never to show weakness. For better or worse her luck she was a Greyjoy.

"Gudrun?"

"I'm here" she replied instantly, the door opened and Yara stepped out resplendent as a nereid with her clean clothes on.

"What were you thinking of? Because defending myself I doubt it" she pointed out as she awkwardly held the dagger.

"That the continentals don't know the fucking difference between a nereid and a mermaid."

"Continentals are imbeciles by nature" she stated as if she knew the whole world.

"Yara…"

"Yes?"

"Will you tell me something to put me to sleep? Something about Theon, about Mom, about whatever, about pirates, about the sea."

"Sure, little sister" so as not to look so soft in the eyes of the others, meaning Tristifer Botley, she kicked some dust towards the boy "but first we have to give the peeping toms a beating."

"I wasn't looking, I swear. Y-your father is calling both of you for dinner" The boy's tan face was shades of pink, he always got nervous when Yara was around.

"Really?" her sister challenged, stepping in front of the boy. There seemed to be something between them that Gudrun could not understand. "If not, I swear I'll kick your ass in practice tomorrow."

She took her by the hand again and they both walked towards the living room, without waiting for Tristifer's answer.

Before, there were decorations made of sea minerals, beautiful and flooding the place with pleasant sea scent. Now, everything seemed to be dry, dark and odorless. They both trotted to the living room, more to have fun than to anticipate the parental call. Dinner was almost always heard snorts of old gentlemen, stupid drinkers and if they were fortunate, they ate a delicious fish ceviche with seafood. Gudrun's mouth watered, she adored that dish like almost every iron man. Lemon was rare, so the lower people used the cheapest orange they could find. While here, it was made from green lemons, the product of the plundering of the bravest and most experienced pirates. Gudrun wished she was a pirate and in command of her sister Yara instead of cooking ceviche for a husband.

When they entered, the room was half full. They made room for each other by elbowing and squealing, close to their father. Gudrun allowed herself to forget the torment of today and what was to come for some good ceviche and Yara's storytelling.

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